Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion 9783031148651, 3031148657

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Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3

Karen R. Zwier David L. Weddle Timothy D. Knepper   Editors

Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion

Comparative Philosophy of Religion Volume 3

Series Editors Timothy D. Knepper, Drake University, Des Moines, IA, USA Leah E. Kalmanson, Drake University, Des Moines, IA, USA Editorial Board Purushottoma Billimoria, University of California, Berkeley, CA, USA Jay Garfield, Department of Philosophy, Smith College, Northampton, MA, USA Steven Katz, Boston University, Newtown, MA, USA Louis Komjathy, Department of Theology & Religious Studies University of San Diego, San Diego, CA, USA Gereon Kopf, Luther College, Decorah, IA, USA R. Simangaliso Kumalo, University of KwaZulu-Natal PIETERMARITZBURG, South Africa Robert Cummings Neville, School of Theology, Boston University, Boston, MA, USA Mohammed Rustom, Carleton University, Mississauga, ON, Canada Jin Y. Park, American University, Washington, DC, USA Kevin Schilbrack, Appalachian State University, Boone, NC, USA Nikky-Guninder Kaur Singh, Department of Religious Studies Colby College, Waterville, ME, USA Wesley J. Wildman, Boston University, Needham, MA, USA Bin You, Minzu University of China, BEIJING, China

This book series publishes works of comparative philosophy of religion—works that are religiously inclusive or diverse, explicitly comparative, and critically evaluative. It serves as the primary publishing output of The Comparison Project, a speaker series in comparative philosophy of religion at Drake University (Des Moines, Iowa). It also publishes the essay collections generated by the American Academy of Religion’s seminar on “Global-Critical Philosophy of Religion.” The Comparison Project organizes a biennial series of scholar lectures, practitioner dialogues, and philosophical comparisons about core, cross-cultural topics in the philosophy of religion. A variety of scholars of religion are invited to describe and analyse the theologies and rituals of a variety of religious traditions pertinent to the selected topic; philosophers of religion are then asked to raise questions of meaning, truth, and value about this topic in comparative perspective. These specialist descriptions and generalist comparisons are published as focused and cohesive efforts in comparative philosophy of religion. Global-Critical Philosophy of Religion is an American Academy of Religion seminar devoted to researching and writing an undergraduate textbook in philosophy of religion that is religiously inclusive and critically informed. Each year the seminar explores the cross-cultural categories for global-critical philosophy of religion. A religiously diverse array of essays for each seminar are published along with a set of comparative conclusions.

Karen R. Zwier  •  David L. Weddle Timothy D. Knepper Editors

Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion

Editors Karen R. Zwier Independent Scholar Des Moines, IA, USA Timothy D. Knepper Department of Philosophy and Religion Drake University Des Moines, IA, USA

David L. Weddle Professor Emeritus of Religion The Colorado College Colorado Springs, CO, USA

ISSN 2522-0020     ISSN 2522-0039 (electronic) Comparative Philosophy of Religion ISBN 978-3-031-14864-4    ISBN 978-3-031-14865-1 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 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, expressed 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. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Preface

How different the world is on the eve of 2021 (when I first wrote this preface). How different is The Comparison Project (TCP) as well. What began in 2012 as a lecture and dialogue series in comparative philosophy of religion now includes photo-narrative projects about lived religion,1 annual interfaith youth leadership camps, monthly “meet my religious neighbor” open houses, and guides to, resources about, and digital stories by religious communities and practitioners throughout greater Des Moines. Over time, what was once peripheral came to occupy the center, displacing the lecture and dialogues series. In 2019, we decided to pause the series for the sake of programming in interfaith literacy and leadership. In 2020, COVID-19 forced us to pause the rest of it, moving what we could “online.” As the world now begins to glimpse life after COVID-19, so do we foresee a revitalized lecture and dialogue series. In fact, the surprising successes of “ZOOM” programming under COVID-19, alongside the steady growth of a worldwide network of “global-critical philosophers of religion,”2 not to mention Springer’s enduring commitment to a publishing series in comparative philosophy of religion, buoy hope in a reimagined, “hybrid” lecture and dialogue series, with lectures, leadership, and participation from those who cannot attend in person. (In fact, as I now edit this preface some 18 months after first writing it, we are in the thick of planning a resumed lecture and dialogue series for the 2022–2023 and 2023–2024 academic years on transhumanism, immortality, and religion.) This volume is yet another source of hope, the culmination of the series’ programming from 2017 to 2019. As TCP’s director enjoyed a sabbatical year, Karen Zwier took the reins, choosing the topic of miracles and inviting David Weddle to co-direct, together with whom the series was crafted and lecturers were selected.  In 2017, TCP released a photo-narrative about lived religion in Des Moines, Iowa (A Spectrum of Faith: Religions of the World in the Heartland of America, Drake Community Press); in 2020, about lived religion in Beijing in collaboration with Minzu University of China (Religions of Beijing, Bloomsbury). In 2021, TCP began a photo-narrative project about lived religion in the KwaZulu-Natal region of South Africa in collaboration with University of KwaZulu-Natal. 2  For information about this group of scholars, visit https://globalcritical.as.ua.edu. 1

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With Karen’s specialization in the philosophy and history of science and David’s in the history and philosophy of religion, they complemented and contrasted each other well, as is clear in their comparative conclusions to this volume. The design of this series and volume is much like the preceding two.3 Choose a topic that is interesting to our local audiences and important for comparative philosophy of religion, refining that topic through a set of investigative questions. Invite scholars to lecture on the topic from the perspective of different religious traditions, texts, and thinkers. (All the lecturers for the 2017–2019 series contributed essays for this volume.) Arrange for local dialogues and special events as well.4 Finally, compare over the content of the series, raising philosophical questions of meaning, truth, and value about the topic in comparative perspective.5 (I note, therefore, that the “comparative philosophy of religion” aspect of the project in general and this volume in particular usually “comes at the end,” i.e., in the comparative philosophical conclusions.) Little did we know, when the topic of miracles was chosen, how fitting it would end up being for the world of 2020. As is also the case for the preceding series, none of this would have been possible without generous funding, the sources of which I thank here: Drake University’s Center for the Humanities, Drake University’s Principal Center for Global Citizenship, the Medbury Fund, Humanities Iowa, the Des Moines Area Religious Council, Cultivating Compassion: The Dr. Richard Deming Foundation, and the Slay Fund for Social Justice. I am also deeply grateful to those who served TCP during the years of this series, especially associate director Leah Kalmanson, student research assistant Anoushe Seiff, administrative assistant Monique Rodriguez, and advisory board members Bradley Crowell, Dr. Richard Deming, Mary Gottschalk, Annique Kiel, Erin Lain, Ted Lyddon-Hatten, Matthew Mitchell, Sarai Rice, Renee Sedlacek, and Tony Tyler. Finally, I thank the two anonymous reviewers of the volume for their incisive and thorough feedback.  Des Moines, IA, USA Karen R. Zwier Colorado Springs, CO, USA David L. Weddle Des Moines, IA, USA Timothy D. Knepper

 After an exploratory year in 2012–2013, TCP pursued the topic of ineffability from 2013 to 2015 (subsequently published as Ineffability in 2017 Knepper & Kalmanson, 2017]) and the topic of death and dying from 2015–2017 (subsequently published as Death and Dying in 2019 [Knepper et al., 2019]). 4  For the 2017–2019 series, these community events included a workshop on A Course in Miracles, a creative non-fiction reading by cancer survivors from Above+Beyond Cancer, and an interfaith dialogue about “miracles and medicine.” 5  For more detail about these methods, see the Preface to TCP’s first volume, Ineffability (Knepper & Kalmanson, 2017). 3

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References Knepper, T. D., Ed. (2017). A Spectrum of faith: Religions of the world in America’s heartland. Drake Community Press. Knepper, T. D., & Kalmanson, L. E., Eds. (2017). Ineffability: An exercise in comparative philosophy of religion. Springer. Knepper, T.  D., Bregman, L., & Gottschalk, M., Eds. (2019). Death and dying: An exercise in comparative philosophy of religion. Springer. You, B., & Knepper, T. D. (2020). Religions of Beijing. Bloomsbury.

Contents

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Introduction����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������    1 Karen R. Zwier and David L. Weddle

Part I Miracles in Religious Traditions 2

How to Tell a Miracle Story: The Amazing Deeds of Young Krishna��������������������������������������������������������������������������   11 Richard H. Davis

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Inconvenient Wonders: Ambivalence in Hasidism About the Miraculous Powers of the Tsaddik ��������������������������������������   29 Nehemia Polen

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Qur’anic Miracle Stories: Surprising Implications for Theodicy, Transience, and Freedom������������������������������������������������   49 Isra Yazicioglu

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Expecting the Unexpected: Pentecostal Miracles as Performance, Production, and Placeholder��������������������������������������   67 Devaka Premawardhana

Part II Miracles in Polemics 6

On Miracles in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra during the Early Medieval Period of China������������������������������������������������������������������������   87 Jingpeng Shi

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“By Whose Authority?”: Polemical and Political Uses of Miracle Stories ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  111 David L. Weddle

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Part III Miracles of Healing 8

Miracle as Natural: A Contemporary Chinese American Religious Healer ��������������������������������������������������������������������  131 Kin Cheung

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What Miracles in the Global South Contribute to Understanding the Human Condition ����������������������������������������������  155 Bilinda Straight

Part IV Miracles and Morality 10 The  Ethics of Wonder: Miracles, Magic, and Morality in Devotional Hinduism ��������������������������������������������������  177 Patton Burchett 11 Miracles:  Two Lakota Case Studies ������������������������������������������������������  195 Fritz Detwiler Part V Miracles, Logic, and Science 12 Miracles in Philosophical Analysis ��������������������������������������������������������  213 Karen R. Zwier 13 N  on-interventionist Objective Divine Action and Quantum Mechanics������������������������������������������������������������������������  223 Robert John Russell 14 Miracles  and the Uniformity of Nature��������������������������������������������������  247 Mark Harris 15 Investigating Miracles������������������������������������������������������������������������������  265 Joe Nickell Part VI Miracles and Mysticism 16 Changed  in a Flash: How One Woman Was Struck by Lightning, Talked to God, and Came Back to Dream the Future����������������������������������������������������������������������  281 Jeffrey J. Kripal Part VII Comparative Conclusions 17 On  the Epistemic Function of Miracles ������������������������������������������������  299 Karen R. Zwier 18 Miracles: So What?����������������������������������������������������������������������������������  315 David L. Weddle

Chapter 1

Introduction Karen R. Zwier and David L. Weddle

Abstract  This chapter argues for the salience and value of miracles as a comparative religious category. We introduce the central questions probed in this volume and offer a preview of the contribution made by each of its chapters.

What is a miracle? Is it an objective reality, a subjective assessment of meaning, or merely a cognitive category? When we speak of miracles across religions, do we even share the same concept? Does “miracle” necessarily connote a divine origin, or can the term apply simply to rare or extraordinary occurrences? These questions are deeply philosophical ones, with a multiplicity of answers. This volume represents, in written form, some of the perspectives and dialogue achieved in The Comparison Project’s 2017–2019 lecture & dialogue series on miracles. The Comparison Project is an enterprise in comparing a variety of religious voices, allowing them to stand in dialogue. It is also a comparative philosophical effort to analyze a particular concept from a variety of angles—in this case, the concept of “miracle.” Belief in miracles—their possibility, authority, and modes of occurrence— changes how believers perceive what is real and how they decide to conduct themselves within the enlarged limits and wondrous potential of that reality. Introduce miracles into any worldview and ordinary activities become charged with

K. R. Zwier (*) Independent Scholar, Des Moines, IA, USA D. L. Weddle Colorado College, Colorado Springs, CO, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_1

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extraordinary possibilities: formation of religious community, polemical arguments, healing practices, moral ideals, scientific investigation, and mystical experience. That is, miracles affect traditions, politics, medicine, morality, logic, science, and mysticism. Each author offers a detailed case study of how belief in miracles shapes visions of reality and compels forms of action, both private and public. The volume invites readers to compare how beliefs in different varieties of miracles create ­different views of what is real and true and good, the subjects of classic philosophy. To reflect on these essays is to discern the similar function of miracles in diverse social contexts, and thus to engage in the comparative philosophy of religion for oneself. What the essays in our volume have in common is that each of them examines how belief in miracles transforms human thought or action in a specific historical context. That is, each essay shows a difference that miracles make in the practice of cultural activities. The chapters of our volume begin with miracles in various religions, the context in which most readers would expect to encounter miracles. Then we move to the way miracles figure in polemical debates among (and within) traditions, followed by perhaps the most prominent form of modern miracles, healing. Next, we take up the role of miracles in establishing moral ideals and responsibilities. Then, we place the essays that investigate miracles using logic and science, and finish with a speculative work on naturalist mysticism. To be more specific, in Part I we include essays that examine the multiplicity of religious meanings that miracles hold and take on for religious believers in a variety of contexts. Chapter 2. Richard Davis analyzes stories of Krishna’s childhood wonders that reveal the transient character of reality to devout Hindu readers and assure them of forgiveness and a favorable rebirth. With that release from anxiety about material conditions, and the confidence that one’s life with its moral lapses will ultimately be redeemed, Hindu believers may engage the world with hope, based on devotion to Krishna. Davis calls the miracle stories about Krishna a form of “epistemological drama,” in which the people in the stories know and understand less about Krishna’s nature and deeds than the narrator of the story and his interlocutor. Finally, however, the present audience of the stories benefits from what the miracles reveal, perhaps even more than the people in the stories. The veiled stories work at multiple levels and mirror the “paradoxical duality” of Krishna as miracle-worker, who is both immanent and transcendent. Chapter 3. Nehemia Polen explores Hasidic attitudes toward miracles, which he shows to be curiously ambivalent. On the one hand, the Hasidic movement from its origins has involved a robust belief in holy individuals known as tsaddikim who enjoy a mystical communion with the divine and who, by virtue of that communion, have access to the very powers of transformation involved in the creation of the world. Much beloved are stories of Hasidic leaders who were able to channel the blessings of fertility, health, and prosperity. On the other hand, Hasidic sources demonstrate an equally strong attitude of evasiveness toward miracles, along with teachings that downplay their importance. Polen explains that such an attitude,

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although partly a response to the Jewish Enlightenment, also reveals the core spirituality of the Hasidic movement: miracles are but a distraction from the life of contemplation and pious faith. Chapter 4. Isra Yazicioglu notes that Muslims embrace miracles as events that promote the Islamic virtue of gratitude and inspire scientific developments capable of replicating miraculous effects, such as new reproductive technology. She gives us an inside look at the spiritual perspective encouraged by Quranic miracle stories when understood not as a breaking of natural law, but rather as moments in which God chooses to alter the pattern that God customarily sustains. If such patterns can be broken, miracles become an invitation to look beyond the anomalies to God as the true cause of all events. Along the way, Yazicioglu also provides some traditional Islamic responses to questions of theodicy and free will. Chapter 5. Devaka Premawardhana demonstrates, from an anthropological perspective, that Pentecostal Christians in Mozambique pray for miracles of healing and fertility as a routine ritual of devotion. For Pentecostal Christians, miracles are not exceptional, but rather the ordinary and expected working of the Holy Spirit in the world. For this reason, the ritualization and routinization of miracles in Pentecostal worship makes sense. The regularity of miracles attests to “the-rest-of-­ what-is,” and to the inadequacy of words, explanations, and rationality. Throughout his chapter, Premawardhana calls for a “post-secular” mode of analysis that remains near to the lived practices and experiences of Pentecostals themselves. By focusing on miracles as performative acts, Premawardhana concludes that miracles do change the world—even if we bracket the question of whether God is the one doing that changing. In Part II, our authors examine how miracle claims feature in arguments over authority, both within and between religious traditions. Chapter 6. Jingpeng Shi turns our attention to the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, a Buddhist text that “couches its teachings in stories of supernatural powers.” Shi provides us with an exhaustive list of the instances of miraculous power contained in its stories, along with classifications of each according to type and function. His analysis of commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra from members of the early medieval Chinese “Chang’an sangha” reveals three distinct but interrelated functions of miracles recounted in the text: manifesting the truth of emptiness, transforming and liberating the masses, and revealing the superiority of the Mahāyāna enlightened ones over the “Hīnayāna.” Shi further analyzes artistic depictions of Vimalakīrti, which reveal subtle hints about pious emphasis across time, geographical location, and social class. Chapter 7. David L. Weddle focuses on the use of miracles to establish religious authority. He discusses several examples of miracles put to such use, and then argues that there is no direct or certain connection between miraculous power and the truth of the accompanying religious claim. The religious message must be supplied separately by the miracle worker, by narrators, and by later traditions; therefore, the miracle itself cannot establish the truth of its message. In fact, if miracles are allowed to authorize teaching, they can be quite dangerous to religious traditions, as they can lead to unwanted innovations and schism. Miracles have the power to inspire movements, and Weddle further shows that this can be true even for

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political movements in later generations. Through examples, he shows that miracle stories can represent the power to resist destructive or oppressive political regimes and provide the inspiration necessary for revolutionary action. Part III contains two essays on miraculous healing. Chapter 8. Kin Cheung offers his Chinese American father, Seng Kan Cheung, as an example of a healer drawing on the mysterious synergy between body and mind to produce “natural miracles.” He examines the lexical landscape of miracles in Chinese and Buddhist contexts, explaining how miracles are not understood as cases in which a separate “supernatural” force interferes with nature, but rather as instances in which the hidden workings of the natural world are revealed. Cheung then describes his father’s healing practice, which includes an eclectic repertoire of Buddhist chants, qigong, acupuncture, and herbal formulas, all learned through gradual training and practice over the span of about 20 years. Despite the wondrous nature of some of his father’s achievements (the healing of a golf-ball sized cancerous tumor, a case of chronic back pain, a dislocated jaw, and a balance disorder), Cheung argues that such results are to be understood as marvelous natural occurrences that have been brought forth by skilled hands and efficacious spells. Chapter 9. Bilinda Straight reports on the belief among Samburu people of Kenya that some family members return from the dead, their breath restored as a “gift of the cosmos.” Straight brings an ethnographic approach to this volume by discussing Samburu practices surrounding death, which in many cases involve exposed burial that allows for the “contagion of death” to be eaten and carried away by hyenas. Straight then describes cases of resurrection reported by several Samburu respondents, in which a person died—and in some cases, was left exposed for several days—and then had life breathed back into the body by the cosmic divinity Nkai. Samburu regard these cases as astonishing and miraculous phenomena. Straight then reflects on the ambiguity surrounding the line between death and life. She challenges the normative status of biomedical definitions of death, which have changed over time and in response to technological developments, and asks why we should regard Samburu resurrections as any less puzzling or mysterious than the question of why some people can be resuscitated through modern medical techniques and others cannot. In Part IV, our authors turn their attention to the way belief in miracles shapes community values and enforces moral ideals. Chapter 10. Patton Burchett discusses miracle stories from northern India that reflect Hindu and Sufi devotion to the divine. Telling stories of divine generosity and service create shared admiration and strengthen common desire to imitate divine virtues. Burchett shows us that miracle stories can be used as tools for teaching lessons in morality and virtue. He examines miracle stories and attitudes from Abrahamic traditions that emphasize a polemical contrast between the “miracles” of the one true God and the “magic” of sorcery. Underlying these contrasts is an ethical evaluation of those performing the miracles rather than a comparison of the extraordinary works in question. Burchett then turns his attention to several miracle stories in Hindu bhakti hagiographical literature. Here miracles become pedagogical tools that endorse certain moral attitudes (namely, loving devotion and generosity

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without expectation of return) over others (namely, donation intended as a transaction for gaining religious merit). Chapter 11. Fritz Detwiler brings us into the worldview of the Lakota Sioux and describes two case studies which might be labeled as “extraordinary events” within Lakota history and tradition. The Lakota world is a relational web of “persons,” a term that extends beyond humans to almost everything in earth or sky. The world is always in the process of becoming and, due to its relative incomprehensibility to humans, is surprising and mysterious. Although the mysterious world gives rise to extraordinary phenomena—e.g., communication with animals, meaningful visions and dreams, and the intervention and gifts of the powerful figure of White Buffalo Calf Woman—Detwiler concludes that it is the extraordinary resilience of the Lakota against all odds, both in preserving their spiritual identity and in their continued efforts to defend and reassert their political sovereignty, that deserves the label of “miraculous.” Part V contains three essays that frame miracles in relation to scientific theorizing and investigation. Chapter 12. Karen R. Zwier asserts that the modern “miracle dismissal program,” beginning with the skepticism of David Hume, has failed. She challenges Hume’s assertion that evidence for miracles can never be as certain as our confidence in the 100% consistency of laws of nature by noting that confidence itself is not based on empirical evidence and that beliefs based on it can never be 100% certain. Drawing on the work of Hume’s contemporary Thomas Bayes, Zwier argues that the certainty of a belief (considered as a hypothesis) always lies within a range of probability that may be altered as new evidence either for or against the belief presents itself. Hume, however, holds with total certainty the hypothesis that natural laws are inviolable; therefore, no evidence or testimony could warrant belief in a miracle as a violation of natural laws. His view, then, contradicts his empiricism. After discussing the philosophical difficulties with views of natural laws, Zwier concludes that “miracles are not, in principle, impossible.” Chapter 13. Robert John Russell argues that quantum physics discovers indeterminacy in the behavior of subatomic particles, providing a space in which God could act without violating laws of nature since those laws already allow for novel events. Russell urges us to think about divine action as “non-interventionist,” such that the action of God breaks no law of nature. He thus avoids Hume’s insistence that a miracle is a violation of natural law and affirms the idea that some miracles are the effect of God’s working “with nature.” Russell’s proposal is that God acts to influence the natural world while remaining within the scope of quantum mechanical laws. It is unclear whether such influence could bring about specific events that would be recognized as “miraculous” by religious believers. Still, Russell suggests that the evolutionary process could have been affected by God’s action at the quantum level to create genetic variations. Chapter 14. Mark Harris suggests that our view of miracles might change dramatically if we focus on sciences very different from physics in their methodology and focus, specifically, earth sciences. Earth sciences, he argues, have successfully incorporated historical contingency and particularity into our understanding of

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nature. These sciences employ narratives that allow for the contextualization of rare occurrences and invite interpretations of historical and geological significance. Harris shows that, in the context of deep time, exceptionally low probabilities become difficult to distinguish from true impossibilities. He concludes that Christian theology needs an updated concept of miracle, not as a supposedly impossible event, but rather one of extraordinarily low probability that yields meaning in subjective dimensions of sign and significance. Harris criticizes reductive naturalism and applies geological deep time to suggest the possibility of a “science of rare events,” such as miracles. Chapter 15. Joe Nickell offers us a series of examples that lead to reflection on a fundamental question: what happens if we investigate the factual circumstances of specific miracle claims? Are the alleged claims plausible once alternative scientific, psychological, or social explanations are considered? In his essay, Nickell reflects on his years as an investigator of miracle claims (mostly in Christian contexts) and repeatedly provides naturalistic explanations that he considers more plausible than miracle claims. His conclusions cast doubt on the overall believability of many popular Christian miracle claims, both historical ones and ones that continue to attract significant devotional piety today. Part VI concludes our case studies with a provocative examination of miracle stories alongside a broader class of paranormal phenomena and challenges us to consider both as valid data for academic study. Chapter 16. Jeffrey J. Kripal argues that there are patterns and similarities to be found when we compare miracles and paranormal reports across widely varying contexts even when there is little to no chance of direct influence. He suggests that religious beliefs cannot be mere cultural constructions, but rather must arise from a bedrock of paranormal experiences. These experiences produce deep convictions in their subjects, which are then shaped, textualized, and transmitted within explanatory systems of belief (religious or otherwise). Kripal speculates that stories of miracles could be evidence that some extraordinary individuals have evolved advanced states of consciousness that enable them to exercise paranormal powers. Miracle stories could be dispatches from the past that foreshadow future possibilities for humanity. In Part VII we (Karen R. Zwier and David L. Weddle) provide final reflections and comparative conclusions on the series. Chapter 17. Zwier’s conclusion focuses on a recurring theme that captured her attention throughout our lecture series and across the chapters of this book: miracles appear to have an epistemic role, and they are used (often implicitly) as evidence of alleged transcendent realities. Zwier reflects on the ways in which that evidentiary function has played out across the varied contexts that our authors have considered and offers an analysis of how miracles function as evidence, with attention to the other epistemic elements (e.g., assumptions, background beliefs, establishment of authority, etc.) necessary for miracles to play that role. Chapter 18. Weddle focuses on the question that remains after all of the stories and phenomena within the pages of this book have been told and studied: so what? Even if we can agree that miracles are not—in principle—impossible, so what? If a

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person cannot justify belief in the veracity of any specific miracle story, so what? Weddle defends miracle as a valid and meaningful category of religious comparison, and takes the position that miracles are integral to religion as such. Returning to a theme from his earlier chapter in this book, he comments on the way in which similar miracle claims from different religious contexts can take on very different meanings. Background beliefs and community membership appear to determine the meaning of miracles, rather than vice versa. He ends with a warning about accepting miracle claims as a basis for neglecting medical therapies as a proof one one’s faith. The two of us diverge in our conclusions with respect to their verdicts on the validity of miracles (and miracle interpretations) when used as evidence for religious claims. We hope that the tension between our views on this matter proves to be instructive and interesting to the reader. But we also share many points of agreement about the overall lessons to be taken away from this volume. We both acknowledge that belief in miracles can offer benefits (e.g., as sources of hope, as instigators of radical change) as well as pose dangers (e.g., as tools for exploitation of the vulnerable, or as encouragement to take unreasonable risks). We also agree that background beliefs play a very large role in the interpretation of miracles. But our most fundamental point of agreement is the worth of the project encapsulated in this volume; this project testifies to the centrality of miracles to religions as such and shows that miracles are indeed a meaningful and worthwhile topic of comparative study.

Part I

Miracles in Religious Traditions

Chapter 2

How to Tell a Miracle Story: The Amazing Deeds of Young Krishna Richard H. Davis Abstract  In the classical Sanskrit epic poem Harivaṃśa, Vaishampayana tells a “miracle story” concerning the young god Krishna, incarnate form of the Hindu deity Vishnu. The term he uses, āścaryam, is the closest Indic equivalent to the English term “miracle.” Krishna grows up among a tribe of nomadic cowherders, and his extraordinary actions bring amazement, incomprehension, and fear among them. In the course of the tale, they struggle to come to a recognition of his divine nature. The story of Krishna’s childhood among the cowherd tribe is a foundational story for the development of the devotional tradition of bhakti within Hinduism. This essay explores the theological premises and narrative strategies the narrator employs to convey the miraculous nature of the child-god. Using dramatic irony and diaphanous narration, Vaishampayana conveys to his listeners the possibility of divine agency working inside the mundane world and the difficulty of recognizing it.

2.1 Vaishampayana and the Harivaṃśa I have heard the origins of my own lineage and its predecessors. Now I want to hear about Vishnu and the Vrishnis, in due order. The gods and the demons all call Vishnu the greatest miracle. The birth of Vishnu is a miracle. Describe that to me, great sage. Tell me this delightful miracle-story of the brilliant Vishnu, famed for his strength and valor. Let me hear the truth about the worldly actions of Vishnu, the miracle-being. (Harivaṃśa 30.55–57)1

 Harivaṃśa, hereafter abbreviated HV. The critical edition of the text was published in two volumes, edited by Vaidya (1969–1971). Brodbeck (2019) is a recent and excellent translation. For an accessible telling of the cowherd-Krishna portions of the Harivaṃśa, see Hutchins 1980. Translations here are my own. I am grateful to my former Sanskrit teacher R. Morton Smith, with whom I read portions of the text at the University of Toronto in 1976–1977. 1

R. H. Davis (*) Bard College, Annandale-on-Hudson, NY, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_2

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This is the request of Janamejaya, a king descended from the Pandavas, who were victorious in the great 18-day war at Kurukshetra. Vaishampayana, a pupil of Vyasa, has just completed a lengthy narration of that great battle, which we know as the epic poem Mahābhārata. But Janamejaya is still not satisfied. Now he wishes to hear about some of the other groups who were involved, and particularly to hear about Krishna, a mysterious figure who played a key role in the war. Through his conversation with Vaishampayana, Janamejaya has learned that Krishna was in fact an incarnation of Vishnu. Vaishampayana has even proclaimed Vishnu the highest deity of all, superior to all the other gods of the Vedic pantheon. So Janamejaya now asks to hear about Vishnu’s miraculous birth in a human body, and the miraculous deeds of Vishnu in that earthly existence. Vaishampayana observes that the king has asked a weighty question. But he is up to the task. First he outlines a number of Vishnu’s “divine appearances” in manifest form, both in the past and in the future. Then he tells the story of greatest interest to Janamejaya, and to all listeners since, the life and deeds of Vishnu when he was incarnated in human form as Krishna, son of Vasudeva. Vaishampayana’s narration forms the core of the Harivaṃśa (“Lineage of Vishnu”), a 16,000-verse epic in Sanskrit that is considered an “appendix” (khila) to the 100,000 verse Mahābhārata. Scholars date the Harivaṃśa to the first two centuries C.E. It is enormously important in the history of Hinduism for two primary reasons. First, it is one of the first works to articulate a theological account of the god Vishnu as a “miraculous” deity who is simultaneously the transcendent Supreme Deity and yet manifest at times on earth in the form of divine appearances or incarnations. Second, the Harivaṃśa is the first Sanskrit work to narrate the biography of Krishna, particularly his deeds when he lived among a tribe of nomadic cowherds in rural northern India outside the city of Mathura. This story of a charming child god disguised as a cowherd is the starting point for the religious tradition of Krishna devotionalism (bhakti). The story has been retold later, in more sophisticated form and with new details in the Bhāgavata Purāṇa, but Vaishampayana’s telling in the Harivaṃśa is the foundation.2 Janamajaya’s request to Vaishampayana raises the questions I wish to address in this essay. What exactly does Janamejaya mean when he calls Vishnu a “miracle-­ being”? How does this tally with Western ideas about miracles, drawn from Jewish, Christian, and Enlightenment traditions? How will Vaishampayana tell the story of Krishna’s worldly actions as a “miracle story”? What are the theological and rhetorical features involved in narrating miracles?

 Good scholarly analysis of the Harivaṃśa includes Rubin 1941, Ingalls 1968, Brinkhaus 2001, and Coleman 2010. For a general overview of the Krishna tradition, see Bryant 2007. 2

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2.2 Indic Terms for Talking About Miracles In Janamejaya’s request, the word he uses repeatedly is āścaryam. This noun refers to something unusual or striking, a strange appearance. It also conveys the sense that this something is remarkable, a marvel, a wonder. It can be used as a noun, in compounds such as “miracle-story,” or as a simple exclamation. This is the Sanskrit word that most closely parallels in meaning and usage the English word “miracle.” But miracles occur in a world of Christian and Enlightenment presuppositions about how the world operates, while the classical Indic world in which Vaishampayana tells his “miracle-story” about a “miracle-being” differs significantly. We must look beyond simple word-for-word translation here to grasp just what Janamejaya and Vaishampayana have in mind.3 There are two primary points of similarity in the two terms. Both āścaryam and miracle denote an event or phenomenon that is unusual, unexpected, strange. An āścaryam, like a miracle, presumes a culturally constructed set of expectations about what is likely to happen. In English we have a rich vocabulary for conveying this: common, normal, ordinary, everyday. We often use the term “nature,” under the assumption that nature follows a course that is causal or readily comprehensible. Indians in classical times, like most people in most times, also maintained a sense of what could normally be expected to happen. One common term for this is laukika (from the word loka, “world”), which denotes the common or ordinary course of things. Another is prakṛti, usually translated as “nature” or “natural.” Some works speak of events that go “with the current” or “along with the hair” (anuloma), referring to the normal direction that one might stroke hair. (We use “with the grain” in a parallel way.) An āścaryam and a miracle are events that depart from ordinary expectations. They are unworldly (alaukika) or “contrary to nature” (prakṛter anyatvam) or “against the hair” (pratiloma). Of course, expectations about what is normal and what is not normal may differ from culture to culture. Second, the āścaryam, like a miracle, evokes wonder or amazement. Here we are concerned with the reaction or response of an audience. In the Christian tradition, Thomas Aquinas offered an influential definition: “The term miracle is derived from admiration, which arises when an effect is manifest, whereas its cause is hidden; as when a man sees an eclipse without knowing its cause.. . A miracle is so called as being full of wonder, in other words, as having a cause absolutely hidden from all” (Aquinas, 1945: p.  980). The word miracle comes from the Greek meidian, “to smile,” a term of response. Etymologically the Greek term is related to a Sanskrit root smi, also meaning “to smile,” from which comes a common Sanskrit word for something amazing or wondrous, vismaya. In classical Indian literature, one text that discusses the emotional response of amazement or wonder is the Nāṭyaśāstra of Bharata, the foundational treatise on dramaturgy.4 For Bharata, the marvelous (adbhūta) is one of the eight primary  For a more detailed cross-cultural comparison of discourse about miracles, see Davis 1998.  Sivadatta 1894. Translations include Mukherjee 1926 and Ghosh 1967.

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aesthetic emotions (rasa) that drama may evoke in an audience. To convey the sentiment of the marvelous within a play, an actor must enact the emotional state of wonder (vismaya). This emotion arises in situations that transcend or “lie beyond” (atiśaya) the normal. When something extraordinary occurs, it is natural for humans to experience feelings such as stupefaction, agitation, confusion, and fainting. Bharata classifies these as subsidiary emotional components to the prevailing sentiment of wonder. An actor portraying a character’s emotional reaction to the marvelous, Bharata suggests, should simulate some of these physical reactions: “gaping eyes, staring fixedly, hair standing on end, crying, sweating, joy, exclaiming, giving gifts, making involuntary sounds, and uncontrollably moving one’s feet and hands” (Nāṭyaśāstra 6.74). Bharata states that there are two basic types of wonder. He terms one the “joyful.” Something that brings great happiness, such as obtaining a thing one greatly desires, creates a kind of joyful wonder. However, this need not involve an extraordinary or unnatural event. Bharata calls the second type “divine” (daiva). This involves a greater departure from the ordinary. Seeing gods, for example, causes wonder of a different sort, and one closer to the sphere of the miraculous. Not all events that depart from the ordinary evoke a feeling of the marvelous, however. Some may produce a sense of discontentment, anxiety, or even dread. In English, we use terms such as omen, portent, and prodigy to point to events that seem unusual or unnatural, but do not inspire positive feelings of wonder. In classical India, the subject of omens (utpāta) was a matter of serious consideration and inquiry. An especially important treatise on this topic was the Gārgīyajyotiṣa, the astronomical teachings of Garga, composed around the beginning of the Common Era. The full text of Garga is no longer extant, but it was excerpted extensively in later works such as the fifth-century Bṛhatsamhitā of Varahamihira and the seventh-­ century Viṣṇudharmottara Purāṇa. Garga sets out a succinct definition and explanation of omens. An omen is a deviation from nature (prakṛti). The misfortune of men arises from the sins that accumulate by their misdeeds. Omens of the earth, atmosphere, and heavens indicate [these misfortunes]. The gods, displeased by the misdeeds of men, create those [omens]. In order to counterstrike them, the king should practice śānti in his realm.5

According to Garga, omens are signs (nimitta) or warnings (pūrvarūpa). In response to the immoral actions of humans, the gods send unusual phenomena as foreshadowings to warn of more disastrous events to follow. However, it is possible to forestall those disasters. The science of prognostication involves accurate observation of signs, correct interpretation of what those omens portend, and knowledgeable application of ritual actions that can prevent unwanted consequences. Garga set out detailed descriptions of portentous phenomena in the three realms of earth, atmosphere, and heaven. In order to appease the gods and deter misfortune, one must

 Bṛhatsamhitā 45.1–3, in Geslani 2018, p. 164. In addition to Geslani’s detailed exploration of omens, see also Inden 1985. 5

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perform ritual of pacification (śānti). For Garga and his successors, this is particularly the responsibility of kings and their expert advisers. What causes miraculous phenomena? In Christian culture, there is one dominant answer to this question: God. According to Augustine of Hippo, “God, who made the visible heaven and earth, does not disdain to work visible miracles in heaven and earth, that He may thereby awaken the soul which is immersed in things visible to worship Himself, the invisible” (Augustine, 1950, p. 318). And if we continue the definition of Thomas Aquinas quoted earlier, “This cause [of miracles] is God. Therefore those things which God does outside the causes which we know are called miracles” (Aquinas, 1945, p. 980). God has the power to act beyond the realm of nature, which we know, and so the supernatural acts of God constitute miracles. In the classical Indian works of Bharata and Garga, we have also seen references to divine agencies. Gods here are plural, not singular, as befits the polytheistic orientation of Hindu theism. Indic works generally do not seek a single agency to account for all miraculous events, but rather recognize a multiplicity of possible agents: gods, demons, various categories of semi-divine beings, and unusually accomplished humans. Gods are divine due to superior capacities of knowledge and action, and they can use those powers in the human world to achieve effects that would seem miraculous to humans. But those same powers are also available to humans who undergo particularly rigorous religious practices. So in Patanjali’s Yogasūtras, advanced practitioners of yoga gain special powers (siddhi), such as knowledge of the past and future, ability to read minds, capacity to disappear, levitation, and many more.6 Likewise, the early Buddhist texts narrate the miraculous powers available to the Buddha Shakyamuni and some of his advanced followers. Considering the greater range of possible miracle-workers in the religious world of classical India, what does Janamejaya have in mind when he asks about Vishnu as a “miracle-being”? Aren’t there many miracle-beings in India? What makes Vishnu special?

2.3 The Theology of Vishnu, the Miracle-Being In the Harivaṃśa, Vaishampayana sets out a theological description of the god Vishnu as a new kind of Supreme Being. According to Vaishampayana, Vishnu is both the transcendent Absolute and also repeatedly active within the world in manifest forms, including human ones like Krishna. Vishnu’s supremacy does not preclude the other gods, who retain their own spheres of activity, but it does place him above all others, in a divine hierarchy, as the God above gods. Historically this is a new conception of the divine in India. Several other works of the period, including some portions of the epics Mahābhārata (especially its Bhagavad Gītā section) and Rāmāyana, also articulate this new theophany, which is the foundation of the

 Yogasūtra 3.16–44, translated in Miller 1995.

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Bhagavata Vaishanava school of Hindu theism. This transcendent-immanent Vishnu is the miracle-being that Janamejaya wishes to comprehend. Vishnu was not a new god in these epic works of classical India. He had already appeared much earlier in Vedic literature, as one among a large pantheon of Vedic deities. Other Vedic gods, notably their powerful chieftain Indra, played a much larger role in the Vedic mythology and sacrificial practices than did Vishnu. But in the earliest Ṛg Veda, Vishnu was associated with three steps that mysteriously stretched over the entire world. Later Vedic texts related a myth that linked these steps to the Vedic sacrifice. Through temporary control of sacrifice, according to this story, the demons had overcome the gods. Alone among the Vedic deities, Vishnu found a way to recover. He appeared at the demons’ sacrifice in the form of a Dwarf (vāmana), and requested as his portion only as much ground as he could cover in three steps. Looking at the Dwarf’s short legs, the demons foolishly granted this petition. While they performed the sacrifice, the Dwarf grew to an enormous size, as large as the entire world. In three steps he covered the three worlds of heaven, earth, and the netherworld. Once again the gods had regained control over sacrifice, and the world order was restored. For Vaishampayana and the other epic narrators, Vishnu’s religious role had likewise grown from its diminutive appearance in the Ṛg Veda to a position of supremacy over all other gods. Vaishampayana begins his answer to Janamejaya’s inquiry by depicting Vishnu as a being of unimaginable multiplicity: “This unchanging god has a thousand mouths, a thousand eyes, a thousand feet, a thousand heads, and a thousand hands. This lord shines with a thousand tongues and a thousand crowns. The eternal one has a thousand gifts, a thousand beginnings, and a thousand arms” (HV 31.3–4). The repetition of a thousand-parted being alludes back to a well-­ known hymn of the Ṛg Veda (10.90), which describes the Primordial Being (Purusha) as having a thousand heads, eyes, and feet. According to that hymn, the entire manifest cosmos arose from the sacrifice of that Primordial Being. If the Ṛg Veda identified the Purusha as a singular Cosmic Being, then Vaishampayana asserts that this role has now been taken on by Vishnu. If Purusha is associated with sacrifice as the most powerful form of ritual action, creating and maintaining the cosmos in its orderly process, then Vaishampayana immediately asserts that Vishnu is the sacrifice. Vishnu is each of the parts of the sacrifice: the soma-pressing, the fire-offering, the priests, the ladles, the firewood, the fire, and every sacrificial element. “The Brahmins who know the Vedas,” he concludes, “declare Vishnu to be the eternal, all-encompassing sacrifice” (HV 31.9). This is one side of Vishnu’s new theology. He is no longer just one of the Vedic gods, but now the one who encompasses the cosmic source of all creation and the sacrificial means of maintaining it. The other side is that Vishnu also makes himself manifest in physical forms. “There have already been many thousands of manifestations (prādur-bhāva) of Vishnu, the wise Lord of the gods, with the śrīvatsa on his chest, and Brahma says there will be many more in the future” (HV 31.10–11). These direct divine interventions in the world-process, Vaishampayana adds, have a purpose. “For the benefit of gods and humans, and to regenerate the worlds, Vishnu the soul of all beings manifests himself repeatedly to carry out these tasks” (HV

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31.13). Or as Krishna himself puts it, in the Bhagavad Gītā, “Whenever there is a decline in righteousness (dharma) and an increase in unrighteousness, Arjuna, then I emanate myself. For the protection of good people, for the destruction of evil-­ doers, and for the restoration of righteousness, I take birth in age after age” (Bhagavad Gītā 4.7–8). Vishnu is the god of incarnations (avatāra, literally “crossing down”). Vaishampayana goes on to describe nine of Vishnu’s most noteworthy incarnations. (Later Vaishnava texts will give different lists, and eventually coalesce on a standard count of ten incarnations.) These manifestations show Vishnu’s beneficial orientation towards gods and humans. Once when the Goddess Earth had been submerged in the primordial ocean, Vishnu appeared as an enormous Boar (varāha) to lift the earth back up with his tusk. When the demons gained undue power through control of the sacrifice, Vishnu manifested himself as a Dwarf (vāmana) to return the earth to the gods. When Vishnu incarnated himself as Rama, son of Dasharatha, Vaishampayana related, he did so “to bring favor to the world, to defeat demons, and to increase righteousness” (HV 31.112). After defeating the demon Ravana, Rama ruled the kingdom of Ayodhya as a fully righteous king for thousands of years, establishing the exemplary Indic utopia. (The story of Vishnu’s incarnation as Rama is told at full length by Valmiki in the epic Rāmāyaṇa, composed about the same time as the Harivaṃśa.) Through all his manifest appearances, Vishnu acts to protect the earth, to defeat demons and restore power to the gods, and to protect righteousness among humans. But during all this earth-preserving, demon-destroying, righteousness-promoting activity, Vishnu also remains transcendent, somehow aloof and unchanging. Vaishampayana calls this the “inexplicable course” of the Lord’s actions. “The pervasive Lord remains unmanifest [avyakta] even when he is in a manifest form, because Vishnu Narayana is endless, the unchanging source of all” (HV 32.3). This paradoxical quality of being both unmanifest and manifest, inactive and active, transcendent and physically present is one reason that Vishnu is a miracle-being, in the eyes of Janamejaya. As Vaishampayana observes, even the gods cannot comprehend the ways of Vishnu.

2.4 Vishnu’s Incarnation as Krishna Vishnu’s manifestation as Krishna, son of Vasudeva, follows much of this incarnational pattern. Earth herself has appealed to the gods. She has been overrun by overweening burdensome kings. Their armies are ceaselessly trampling the earth underfoot. Earth requests that this burden be removed. Moreover, there is a second problem. A host of demons have established themselves in and around the city of Mathura. Their leader is the very powerful demon Kalanemi, now reincarnated as Kamsa, a demon in human form. Vishnu has previously defeated Kalanemi in a ferocious battle, but the demon has returned to earth. Kamsa has usurped the throne

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in Mathura and is ruling the region as a tyrant, aided by his hench-demons who have taken on the forms of unnaturally powerful animals and humans. They have overturned the proper social order of the kingdom. The tasks of restoration are too great for the other gods; they require the intervention of Vishnu. At Brahma’s request, Vishnu will incarnate himself through his own power as the child of Devaki and Vasudeva. But he will grow up in a tribe of nomadic cowherds. His powers will at first be in some way constrained within his human body. “At first,” says Brahma, “you will be just a child there, with all the characteristics of a cowherd. But then you will grow, just as you did once before when you took those three steps” (HV 45.39). His powers should be concealed. In this incarnation, Krishna will have two main tasks. First, as a young cowherd, he must protect the tribe from demonic threats, and when he comes of age he must defeat Kamsa and restore order to Mathura. This is the story that Vaishampayana will tell Janamejaya in the Harivaṃśa. Then, as an adult prince, Krishna will become involved in the struggles of the Bharata clan as it splits into two warring clans. Allied with the Pandavas, he will participate in the great battle of Kurukshetra that will bring an end to nearly the entire warrior class of India. The war will remove the burden of kings from the earth. That story Vaishampayana has already related to Janamejaya, in the Mahābhārata. Brahma sets out one more task for Vishnu in his manifestation as Krishna, during his early life among the cowherd tribe. In addition to his heroic demon-destroying actions, he will charm the cowherds, and especially the women of the tribe. Roam the lands [Brahma tells Vishnu], bringing delight to thousands of cowherd women. Fortunate indeed are the women who see your body, Vishnu, adorned with garlands of forest flowers, when you run around the woods protecting the cows... When you have gone to live among the cowherds, the world will become young again. When you are driving the cattle to the forest, running around in the cowpens, or bathing in the Yamuna River, your devotees (bhakta) will follow their hearts’ desires and fall in love with you. (HV 45.40–43)

Even while Krishna’s divine identity is concealed from them, the cowherds will form a powerful emotional attachment with this human incarnation. The fervent love of Krishna, as first exemplified by the women of the cowherd tribe, will be a central feature in the later development of Hindu devotional religion known as Bhakti (Hardy, 1983).

2.5 Dramatic Irony and Diaphanous Narration Vaishampayana constructs his narrative of Krishna’s early life around this dual identity. Krishna is simultaneously a human male growing up within a tribe of nomadic cowherds and a divine manifestation of the High God Vishnu. To his audience—Janamejaya and all of us who hear or read the Harivaṃśa—Vaishampayana tells us beforehand and reminds us periodically that Krishna is divine. He observes ironically that Vishnu, “the cowherd of the whole world,” appears here as a human cowherd boy. Both realities are true. In the incarnational theology of the Harivaṃśa

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Krishna is fully Vishnu and fully human. In accord with Brahma’s request, Krishna has the characteristics of a cowherd child, with his supernatural powers largely concealed. Vaishampayana’s story will unfold in two dimensions that share the same space. In one dimension, it is a tale of the human Krishna growing up among the tribe of cowherds, charming them and gradually establishing himself as the tribe’s champion against all the natural forces that threaten them. In the other, it tells the story of a supernatural battle between Vishnu-Krishna and the demonic forces of KalanemiKamsa and his horde of followers. There is a curtain, as it were, between the two dimensions, not for the audience, but for many of the human characters within the story. The gap between what the audience knows of Krishna’s nature and what the characters within the narration are able to perceive, or dramatic irony, is a key part of Vaishampayana’s storytelling. When young Krishna acts in such a way to exhibit some portion of his divine power, this appears totally unexpected to the cowherds who consider him only as a human child. They struggle to comprehend events in which, as Aquinas puts it, “the effect is manifest, whereas the cause is hidden.” This is one way that Vaishampayana’s narrative is a miracle story. He allows us to view, from a position of greater apprehension, that “this cause is God.” The audience is shown both the responses of human characters with limited knowledge and the true nature of the event. The curtain between the two dimensions can be breached. I call this Vaishampayana’s “diaphanous narration.”7 Within the story, the cowherds gradually come to a broader—though never complete—understanding of Krishna’s nature. Other characters within the story display different degrees of apprehension. The god Indra is initially fooled but quickly comes to accept Krishna’s divine status. The demonic king Kamsa, even though fully informed by the gossipy Narada, is prevented from accepting the truth about Krishna by his own arrogance. The knowledgeable courtier Akrura is able to guess at Krishna’s divinity, and receives a vision as confirmation. Vaishampayana sets out an epistemological drama. Who is able to see through to the other side of the curtain, and under what conditions?

2.6 Krishna Among the Cowherds From the beginning of Krishna’s life among the cowherd tribe, strange things happen. Three of them take place before Krishna is able to walk. Once when Krishna is a baby, his foster-mother Yashoda has to leave him to go wash her clothes in the river. She places the infant sleeping in the shade under a big wooden cart, where the cowherds keep their pots and milk-pails. While Yashoda is  I draw this term from a former undergraduate student at Yale University, Pam Renner, who used it in a discussion of other Indian devotional works. In studies of bhakti literature, Kenneth Bryant (1978) and A. K. Ramanujan (1981) have explored similar rhetorical strategies. 7

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away, Krishna wakes up and cries for his mother’s milk. When he kicks up his little feet in frustration, he upends the entire cart. The clay utensils scatter and break on the ground. The pole-shaft is knocked off and the axle splits apart. Yashoda comes rushing back and sees the overturned cart. Soon enough her husband Nanda and the others arrive. They are confused. What could have happened here? Vaishampayana describes their responses. They look for natural causes, but there is not any wind and no signs that bulls have been fighting. Their eyes are wide with wonder (vismaya), and some exclaim, “It’s a miracle [āścaryam]!” For the cowherds, clearly, the effect is manifest but the cause is hidden. While the adults are discussing this, some children speak up and tell them that they happened to see the baby kick over the cart with his feet, but this explanation is too unlikely for the adults to accept. Nanda is frightened by the event, and he pronounces a benediction (svasti-vācana) over and over on his son, “May there be good fortune to my son!” (HV 50.14). Nanda’s fear and his use of a simple verbal rite of pacification indicate that he views the whole event not as a miracle, but as a threatening omen that needs to be counteracted. One of Kamsa’s demonic assistants is an evil child-murdering wet-nurse named Putana. One night she flies to the cowherd camp in the form of a bird, and while others are asleep she gives her poisonous breast to Krishna. The baby sucks that breast with all his might and sucks the life right out of Putana. She falls to the ground with a loud thud, her breast severed. Awakened by the sound, the cowherds come running. Once again they cannot comprehend what has happened. They are bewildered and terrified. Flustered (sambhrama), Nanda asks his wife, “I don’t know what happened here. It’s a wonder [vismaya] to me. I’m anxious and fearful for my son” (HV 50.27). Yashoda does not know either. She was asleep. The cowherds cannot explain the event, but they speculate that it may have something to do with the ruler in Mathura, Kamsa, and that scares them. When Krishna and his brother Balarama begin to crawl around the camp, they get themselves covered in cow manure from head to toe. The women are unable to control the rambunctious infants. So one day a frustrated Yashoda ties Krishna to a heavy wooden mortar with a rope around his belly. “Now see if you can go,” she says (HV 51.14). As soon as Yashoda returns to her household tasks, however, Krishna begins to crawl again, and he drags the heavy mortar behind him. The mortar gets wedged between two large arjuna trees. As Krishna determinedly tugs, the two trees come toppling over with a great crash. Krishna sits in the middle of them, laughing. He does this, Vaishampayana tells his audience, to make his own divine strength visible to the cowherds. But the cowherds are not able to make the cognitive leap. All the cowherd tribe crowds around to see the great marvel (adbhūta). They speak to each other, seeking a natural explanation. “What could have made these two trees fall, the largest trees in the settlement? Without wind, without rain, without a stroke of lightning, without being bashed by an elephant—how could these trees have fallen?” (HV 51.28–29). With no plausible natural cause, the cowherds declare that it looks inauspicious. “This is the third ominous thing [autpātika] that has happened in our camp—the falling of Putana, of the cart, and of these trees. We

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should not be setting our camp in this spot, since we’ve seen these omens [utpāta] here, and this tells us that the location is not auspicious [śobhana]” (HV 51.32–33). The effect is manifest, but the cause is hidden from the cowherds, and their interpretation again leads them to see it not as admirable, but as ominous. They are still unable to see through the curtain, to glimpse Krishna’s divine play at work. For his audience, however, Vaishampayana makes it clear: “So, Janamejaya, Krishna performed these miracles [āścarya] when he lived as a child in the cowherd camp” (HV 51.37). The cowherds begin to gain some inkling of Krishna’s full status a few years later, and his miraculous displays of superhuman power begin to take on a more intentional aspect. One day when Krishna is out grazing the cattle along the banks of the Yamuna River, he comes upon a pool where the waters have been poisoned. Krishna realizes that a snake named Kaliya must be residing there, polluting the environs. He decides that he should subdue the snake and return the river to its pleasant natural state. He reflects, “This must be the reason for me to be born as a cowherd and to live in this tribe—to punish all those bad ones who are on the wrong path” (HV 55.56). So he climbs a tree on the bank and jumps into the blackened waters. Krishna struggles with the powerful snake in the water and the cowherds all come to see the battle. The women of the tribe begin to shriek and howl with distress. They think that the young Krishna will surely be eaten by the snake. Krishna’s brother Balarama, who is himself divine, reminds Krishna that the other members of the tribe have limited human understanding, and they believe that Krishna is also only human. He should defeat the snake quickly, before the cowherd women are overwhelmed with grief. Krishna acts immediately to break the snake’s coils and tramples on its head. Astonished (vismita), the cowherds help Krishna back onto the riverbank and circumambulate him while singing his praises. “From today on,” they declare, “long-eyed Krishna will be the lord of the tribe’s cows and the cowherds, our refuge in times of distress” (HV 56.43). Although they do not fully comprehend his nature, they now recognize that concealed within the human Krishna there is some greater power. “Even though he is manifest [vyakta] among us, like a fire hidden in the camp, we cowherds in the forest fail to recognize Krishna as the great being that he is” (HV 56.45). As champion of the tribe, Krishna goes on to defeat a series of threats to the cattle herd: a wild donkey (Dhenuka), a crazed bull (Arishta), and an out-of-control horse (Keshin). Like the snake in the river, all these are natural threats that might challenge a pastoral tribe and their herds. At the same time, as Vaishampayana tells his audience, they are all demons sent by their demonic leader Kamsa to trouble the tribe. The curtain remains opaque, however, for the human cowherds with their human understanding. One final episode in this epistemological drama brings the cowherds a step closer to recognition. This is a complicated event involving not demons but the leader of the Vedic gods, Indra, who is associated with clouds, thunder, lightning, and the monsoon rains. The tribe’s tradition is to offer an annual celebratory festival for

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Indra, to keep the gods happy and the rains coming on time. Young Krishna proposes a change in the tribe’s religious practice. Rather than honoring the distant Indra, he suggests the tribe hold a festival to honor the cows and a nearby mountain, as more proximate sources of its livelihood. The elders agree and they organize a delightful celebration. But the new ritual insults Indra. The cowherds have failed to honor the chief of the Vedic gods. Furious, he sends a ferocious thunderstorm. The cattle suffer terribly from the onslaught, and they raise their pleading eyes to Krishna for help. Krishna lifts up the entire mountain and holds it like an enormous umbrella to shield the cattle and the whole camp. At first Indra is amazed by this feat, and then with his divine perception he quickly realizes that this must be Vishnu incarnated in human form as Krishna. The Harivaṃśa is putting forth Vishnu as a new High God, supplanting all the old Vedic ones, and in this text Indra is made to recognize his own demotion in favor of the Supreme Vishnu. As for the cowherds, they celebrate Krishna as he returns to camp for his act of saving the cows. They recognize that this act goes beyond any human capability, but they are still perplexed by his exact identity: Lord of the cattle, we saw your superhuman actions. Because of your holding up the mountain, we recognize that you, Krishna, are imperishable. But who are you, strong one? Are you one of the Rudras, the Maruts, the Vasus? What is your aim here? Vasudeva is your father. You play childhood games in the forest, Krishna, and your birth here among us is a lowly one, but your acts are those of a god. We have doubts in our minds. Why are you playing among us in this lowly state, in the guise of a cowherd? Why are you here protecting the cows, though you look like a World-Guardian? But whether you are a god, a demon, a semi-divine Yaksha, or a celestial Gandharva who has been as our relative—no matter who you are, we honor you. (HV 63.4–8)

In their struggle to understand Krishna, they postulate various categories of gods and other superhuman beings, but the possibility that this might be Vishnu, highest of all the gods, living among them, is beyond their ken. And Krishna, in response, does not try to enlighten them. “I am not to be known as you are thinking of me,” he advises them. “I am your relative, born in your tribal group [jāti]. If you need to hear more, you must wait for the right time. Then you will hear and see me as I really am” (HV 63.11–12). That right time never comes for the cowherds, in the narrative of the Harivaṃśa. They never see through the curtain to the full dimensions of Krishna’s divine nature as an incarnation of Vishnu. They never fully comprehend the hidden cause of the miraculous actions they witness. The narrator Vaishampayana places his audience in a privileged position. We see both dimensions of the events throughout, and thus we can witness the efforts of the cowherds with their merely human perception to come to grips with the miracle-being living among them. Despite their cognitive failure, however, the cowherds are validated in another respect. Krishna suggests this in concluding his answer to their query. “If I am your relative, whom you praise like a god, and if this pleases me, then what is the point of complete knowledge?” (HV 63.13) The loving relationship the cowherds form with Krishna, treating him as a human member of their group, albeit with superhuman qualities, is sufficient. Their devotion (bhakti) to Krishna, even without full comprehension of his incarnational nature, makes them exemplary in their own way.

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2.7 Akrura’s Miraculous Vision Vishnu may be concealed in a human body as Krishna, and his divine identity may remain obscure to the rural cowherds. It is possible, however, to see through the curtain of concealment, not just for gods like Indra, but even for humans. Vaishampayana narrates one such human seer. Akrura Danapati, a minister of court under Kamsa, is able to discern Krishna’s identity as Vishnu, and he is given a vision of Krishna in his fuller nature as confirmation. Both Krishna and Akrura label this theophany as a miracle. In the Vaishnava theism of the Mahābhārata and the Harivaṃśa, where Vishnu appears incarnated in human forms, visions are rare events, but highly significant ones.8 At these moments, human visionaries are able to see, directly, with their eyes, broader dimensions of the divine character who is present before them in human form. The best known of these epic visions occurs in Chap. 11 of the Bhagavad Gītā portion of the Mahābhārata. Just as the great battle is about to begin, Arjuna receives from his charioteer Krishna “divine eyes” that enable him to see the full everlasting Self of Krishna as the Supreme Deity in its full and terrifying glory. He sees all other gods contained within Krishna’s encompassing body. He sees the entire universe in that one Being. Krishna’s form radiates brilliant light, more than a thousand suns. And Arjuna also sees signs of what is about to happen in the impending war. He describes what he is seeing: All the sons of Dhritarashtra along with the legions of kings who rule the earth, Bhishma, Drona, that charioteer’s son Karna, and the leaders of our armies too, are rushing into your fearsome mouths gaping with fangs. I see some dangling between your teeth with their heads already crushed. Like a multitude of gushing torrents of rivers rushing headlong to the ocean, those heroes of the human world are flooding into your flaming mouths. As swiftly as moths fly into a blazing fire to die, just as quickly these men are entering your mouths to die. (BhG 11.26–29)

Arjuna becomes so terrified by what he sees of Krishna’s divine form that he asks to see Krishna “just as you were before.” Krishna removes Arjuna’s divine eyes, and again Arjuna looks at his human friend and charioteer, Krishna. This theophany at Kurukshetra points to several important things about classical Vaishnava accounts of visions. Arjuna’s vision reveals a divine reality. It is a visual event that shows something deemed true and real; it is not a hallucination or a dream. Yet it does not negate the reality of the other human dimension existing prior to and after the vision. Both are simultaneously true, though the divine reality is generally hidden from human view. The agent of the theophany is God. Krishna here grants the divine eyes that enable Arjuna to perceive Krishna’s supernal form. But Krishna does not grant visions willy-nilly. He has already explained to Arjuna his own divinity in words, and the vision provides ocular confirmation of what Arjuna already accepts intellectually. What a visionary sees is not necessarily

 On narratives of visions in the Mahābhārata, see Laine 1989.

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benign. In Arjuna’s situation, as a warrior about to enter into a gruesome battle, the divine characteristics he perceives take on a correspondingly fearful complexion. Let us return to Vaishampayana’s telling of Krishna’s early life. Soon after Krishna has raised the mountain to protect his tribe from Indra’s deluge, Kamsa calls together his ministers for a conference in the royal palace. He has received many reports about the deeds of a young cowherd named Krishna. He is struggling to understand. “He was raised in the home of a cowherd named Nanda, but he performs wondrous actions [adbhuta-karman]” (HV 65.24). Judging from his superhuman deeds, perhaps he is the son of a god. Kamsa wonders if perhaps there is something more going on here. “It’s as if the one who killed me previously in my former body stands in front of me now, spoiling for a fight” (HV 65.33). We the audience know that Kamsa’s “as if” is a correct glimpse. Vishnu did indeed kill Kamsa in his previous body as Kalanemi, and now he stands here as Krishna. Kamsa decides that he must put an end to the threatening cowherd. He deputes Akrura to travel to the cowherd camp and inform the tribe that they must come to Mathura to pay their taxes. Akrura should also invite Krishna and his brother Balarama to compete in a public wrestling match at the capital. Akrura is delighted by this mission. As Vaishampayana tells us, Akrura perceives things with divine eyes, and so he travels to the camp with high expectations. When he arrives, he sees Krishna resting on his back in the cowpen, and this gives him a chance to observe the young cowherd carefully. Akrura studies the bodily signs and deduces that Krishna must indeed be a new incarnation of Vishnu, just as Vishnu had previously manifested himself in other forms such as the Boar and the Dwarf. “The slayer of enemies stands here on earth with his two feet,” Akrura reflects to himself, “feet that were once the refuge of the Earth, and that once stepped over all three worlds” (HV 68.25). Akrura is an observant man, and knowledgeable in the theology of Vishnu. This enables him to come quickly to an intellectual recognition of Krishna’s divine identity that the cowherds, for all their proximity, have not been able to achieve. “I can recognize that he is not just human, as can others who have divine sight” (HV 68.37). However, the diplomatic Akrura determines it will be better to keep this knowledge to himself, and confine the honoring of Krishna’s “Vishnu-ness” inside his heart or mind (manas). Externally he treats Krishna as just a human, while among the cowherd tribe. After Akrura has conveyed Kamsa’s orders, the cowherd tribe gathers itself and travels to Mathura. Akrura rides on a chariot with Krishna and Balarama. Along the way, Akrura halts at the Yamuna River, where he wishes to pay homage to the snake-­ lord residing in its waters, and it is there that he receives his remarkable vision. As he submerges himself into the river waters, he first views the snake-lord reigning as a king in his court, honored by other attending snakes. But then he sees the god Vishnu, sitting on the lap of the snake, as Vishnu sits on the cosmic snake Ananta during the world-dissolution. It is Vishnu, after all, that all the snakes are honoring. Amazed, Akrura rises out of the water, looks back to the bank, and sees Krishna and Balarama still lounging on the chariot. Out of curiosity, Akrura dives back down under the water, and now he sees Krishna on the snake’s lap, receiving the homage of all the snakes. Akrura gets out of the water again and returns to the chariot where

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Krishna and Balarama remain. Krishna appears pleased and asks him, “What happened there in the pool of the king of the snake-world? You’ve been delayed for a long time by some distraction. I think you must have seen a miracle [āścaryam], since your heart is pounding” (HV 70.34–35). Akrura is having a somatic response to what he has seen. What he has seen confirms for Akrura what he already believed to be the case. In Hindu visionary accounts, seeing is believing; Krishna is Vishnu. Akrura acknowledges that his visionary experience in the Yamuna has been miraculous, but a greater miracle is simply Krishna’s embodied being. “I did see a miracle down there, Krishna,” he replies, “which is rare on earth. But I see it here too, just as I saw it there, and I rejoice! I’m in the company with the miracle of the worlds, in physical form, right here. Krishna, it’s not possible to see a miracle greater than that” (HV 70.37–38).

2.8 The Theist Semantics of Āścaryam For this cross-cultural comparison, I take the Sanskrit word āścaryam as the closest Indic equivalent to the English term “miracle,” particularly as that term has been defined and used in the Christian tradition. An āścaryam, like a miracle, is an event that is extraordinary and difficult to explain within ordinary frameworks. But not every unusual or inexplicable phenomenon is an āścaryam. It may be unsettling and portentous, and in classical Indian discourse there is a serious discipline of knowledge devoted to the reading of signs and omens, and to the ritual amelioration or pacification of future disasters. An āścaryam, like a miracle, is generally seen as a wonder, a positive or beneficial event. And in a theistic context, as in the Vaishnava Harivaṃśa and in Christian usage, it can lead the one who perceives the unnatural and wondrous event to an appreciation of God’s will active in the world. The Harivaṃśa and other early Vaishnava epics of the classical period present the god Vishnu as an interventionist deity who takes a clear interest in the worldly process. The god manifests himself in physical forms to guide or right this process when it goes astray. Vishnu rescues the earth, he defeats the demons when other gods are unable, and he supports dharma or righteous social order among humans. Vaishampayana’s narrative of Krishna as one among many incarnations of Vishnu, as related in the Harivaṃśa, provides his audience with a clear understanding of this god. In the polytheistic religious environment of Hinduism, Vaishampayana asserts the supremacy of Vishnu over all other gods. He articulates a new theological description of Vishnu: a Supreme Deity who remains transcendent and unmanifest, even as he manifests himself repeatedly in physical, animate, and sometimes human incarnations. This paradoxical duality itself makes Vishnu a miracle-being. In the Harivaṃśa, Vaishampayana relates at length the story of this miracle-­ being. Vishnu incarnated as the human-bodied Krishna lives among a tribe of nomadic cowherds, with his divine identity largely undetected. The dramatic irony within this story allows Vaishampayana to describe the superhuman deeds of young

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Krishna, while also depicting the struggles of the cowherds as they attempt to comprehend the unusual events. Without explanation, Krishna’s divine activities sometimes induce fear and anxiety, and the cowherds interpret them as omens. Over time, the actions of Krishna lead the cowherds to postulate that Krishna may be some kind of god. Krishna himself discourages their speculation. Even without an intellectual apprehension of Krishna as the High God Vishnu incarnate, the cowherds are exalted for their emotional attachment to Krishna as the charming human member of the tribe. This validation of emotional fervor towards Krishna is crucial within the scheme of religious values in bhakti-oriented Bhagavata Vaishnavism. The cowherds, especially the females of the tribe, become exemplary devotees or bhaktas. Some humans are able to recognize God in their midst. Vaishampayana presents Akrura Danapati as the model seer. Through knowledge of Vishnu’s theology and careful scrutiny of signs on Krishna’s body, Akrura becomes convinced that Krishna is indeed a human manifestation of Vishnu. Vishnu-Krishna also allows himself to be known through visions—visual events that reveal fuller aspects of the divine nature inhering in a human incarnation. Akrura receives such a vision in the Yamuna River, and this verifies his hypothesis. As he points out, however, the miracle of the vision is less compelling than the miracle embodied in Krishna’s being. Miracle stories like the one Vaishampayana tells can serve the same purpose. Within theist perspectives, they can reveal the possibility of divine agency working inside the mundane world. Vaishampayana’s narrative of Vishnu’s incarnation as the cowherd boy Krishna illustrates several key elements in miracle storytelling. He provides a detailed account of a paradoxical Vishnu who takes on immanent physical manifestations while also remaining transcendentally beyond. He narrates actions of young Krishna that clearly depart from any expectations of what is ordinary or natural. Using dramatic irony, Vaishampayana juxtaposes the incomprehension of the cowherds in the face of Krishna’s actions with the fuller understanding of them that he reveals to his audience. In this diaphanous narration, though, some characters are able to catch a glimpse of both dimensions of Krishna’s nature. The courtier Akrura gains a miraculous vision that confirms his belief that the human boy Krishna is also the High God Vishnu. Miracle stories seek to do the same thing. Vaishampayana’s miracle-story of Vishnu incarnated as Krishna confirms for his royal listener Janamejaya that Vishnu is indeed the miracle-being.

References Aquinas, T. (1945). Basic writings (Ed. A. C. Pegis). Random House. Augustine, A. (1950). The city of god (Ed. M. Dods). The Modern Library. Brinkhaus, H. (2001). Āścaryakarman and Prādurbhāva in the Harivamśa. Journal of Indian Philosophy, 29(1–2), 25–41. Brodbeck, S. (2019). Krishna’s lineage: The Harivamsha of Vyāsa’s Mahābhārata. Oxford University Press. Bryant, K. E. (1978). Poems to the child-god: Structures and strategies in the poetry of Sūrdās. University of California Press.

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Bryant, E. (2007). Krishna: A sourcebook. Oxford University Press. Coleman, T. (2010). Viraha-Bhakti and Strīdharma: Re-reading the story of Kṛṣṇa and the Gopīs in the Harivamśa and the Bhagavata Purāṇa. Journal of the American Oriental Society, 130(3), 385–412. Davis, R.  H. (Ed.). (1998). Images, miracles, and authority in Asian religious traditions. Westview Press. Geslani, M. (2018). Rites of the god-king: Śānti & ritual change in early Hinduism. Oxford University Press. Ghosh, M. (1967). The Nāṭyaśāstra: A treatise on ancient Indian dramaturgy and histrionics (2 vols). Manisha Granthalaya. Hardy, F. (1983). Viraha-Bhakti: The early history of Krsna devotion in South India. Oxford University Press. Hutchins, F. G. (1980). Young Krishna. Amarta Press. Inden, R. (1985). Kings and omens. In J. B. Carman & F. Marglin (Eds.), Purity and auspiciousness in Indian Society (pp. 30–40). E. J. Brill. Ingalls, D. H. H. (1968). The Harivaṃśa as a Mahākāvya. In Mélanges d’indianisme à la memoire de Louis Renou (pp. 381–394). Editions de Boccard. Laine, J.  W. (1989). Visions of god: Narratives of theophany in the Mahābhārata. Institut fur Indologie der Universitat Wien. Miller, B. S. (1995). Yoga: Discipline of freedom. University of California Press. Mukherjee, S. (1926). The Natyasastra of Bharata, chapter six: Rasadhyayah, with the Abhinavabharati. University of Paris. Ramanujan, A.  K. (Trans.). (1981). Hymns for the drowning: Poems for Viṣṇu by Nammāḷvār. Princeton University Press. Ruben, W. (1941). The Kṛṣṇacarita in the Harivaṃśa and certain Purāṇas. Journal of the American Oriental Society, 61, 115–127. Sivadatta, P. (1894). Nāṭyaśāstra of Bharatamuni. Nirnaya Sagara Press. Vaidya, P. L. (1969–1971). The Harivaṃśa: Being a khila or supplement to the Mahābhārata (2 vols). Poona: Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute.

Chapter 3

Inconvenient Wonders: Ambivalence in Hasidism About the Miraculous Powers of the Tsaddik Nehemia Polen

Abstract  To this day, hasidic communities tell wondrous stories of their leaders, known as Rebbe (Rabbinic Superior) or Tsaddik (saint, righteous person). The figure Hasidism sees as its founder, Israel ben Eliezer (d. 1760), known as the Baal Shem Tov (“Master of the Good Name”), gained his fame as healer, shamanic adept, and charismatic leader. Yet hasidic sources display a curious ambivalence towards the miraculous, often hiding or disavowing the significance of the paranormal in hasidic life and thought. This paper seeks to explore the nature of this ambivalence, and what it may teach us about hasidic theology and social dynamics.

3.1 Introduction: Some Core Features of Hasidism Hasidism traces its origins to Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer (d. 1760), known as the Baal Shem Tov (“Master of the Good Name”), but that uniquely gifted mystical teacher and healer, for all his paranormal abilities, outward acclaim, and inner mystery, never began a movement. The history of the hasidic movement begins with Rabbi Dov Ber, the Maggid (“preacher”) of Mezritch (d. 1772), considered the successor to the Baal Shem Tov. With his combination of dazzling charismatic power, depth of Talmudic learning, proficiency in mentoring disciples, and astute organizational ability, he created a formidable movement that spread rapidly beyond the confines of its Podolian and Ukrainian origins, and left its mark on almost all of the Eastern European Jewish world. It has been said that almost nothing in Hasidism is new. There is hardly a hasidic teaching, term, or theological belief that cannot be traced back to earlier sources in

N. Polen (*) Hebrew College, Newton Center, MA, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_3

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Kabbalah, Midrash, Talmud, and Bible.1 Yet it is equally true that Hasidism breathed new life into the ancient words and traditions of Judaism. Hasidism’s major foci are a passionate love of God and the world, ecstatic fervor in prayer and study, and a theology of divine immanence. The entire universe is permeated with God’s Glory, the indwelling Presence of the Divine. Also important is the doctrine of the Tsaddik, the Righteous One who, like Moses and other biblical prophets, stands in the breach between God and humans, mediating between the two, bringing his followers (known as “hasidim”) closer to the divine by their association with him. The sanctity and sublime elevation of the tsaddik’s soul, the inexhaustible resources of his mind, heart, and spirit, and his ability to perceive and respond to the needs and inner lives of his disciples, all served to foster the perception that the tsaddik is another kind of human, a unique category of being who, if sought out in humble pilgrimage, would confer blessing by his word and holiness by his proximity.2 As a religious movement that privileges intensity of experience over consistency of theory, Hasidism embraces a wide range of different, sometimes conflicting theological positions, yet always with the aim of direct encounter with God. Hasidism inherited the passionate God of the Bible, the caring, loving deity who wishes to dwell among his covenanted people, who gets angry but may be mollified through the intercession of special individuals called prophets, God’s messengers who are able to challenge God to overcome anger and live up to his own higher purposes. In Hasidism these special individuals came to be called tsaddikim. Just as in the Bible prophets could not only transform divine anger into forgiveness and compassion, but also channel deliverance by changing the course of nature, so too, hasidim believe, tsaddikim have that ability. And just as the Bible describes theophanies of divine self-revelation to emphasize the overwhelming enormity of God’s presence, so do hasidim cherish a desire to feel the transforming presence of the divine in their midst, usually in proximity to the tsaddik. With few exceptions, the leaders of Hasidism saw no contradiction between the austere God of Maimonides and the lush, robustly fertile divinity of the Zohar, between the abstractions of the scholarly elite and the avuncular friend of the masses. For the most part members of the scholarly elite themselves, hasidic leaders were genuinely committed to inclusive communities that embraced a wide range of social classes and intellectual abilities (Dynner, 2006). Early Hasidism emphasized devekut, ecstatic communion with God, a contemplative state that sees all reality as suffused with divine presence, or where reality dissolves and individual consciousness returns to the Ayin, the divine No-thing, from which we all came before we were individuated beings. If God’s achievement was to create Yesh me-Ayin—something from nothing—our task is to mirror the process in reverse, taking the Ani of ego, and returning it to Ayin, the No-thing or

 Of special note is the pioneering work of Piekarz 1978, who found extensive precursors for many themes and tropes of Hasidic literature in Jewish homiletical and ethical literature of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 2  See also Green 1977, 1987. 1

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plenitude that precedes being.3 Ayin is the state of awareness that God constantly infuses all creation with vitality, that creation is not a one-time event of the distant past but an ongoing, never-ceasing process. Since creation always happens now, the individual comes to realize that (s)he is always within God, is a part of God. Yet it is neither possible nor desirable to remain forever in the state of Ayin. As individuated beings, we are required to return to the condition of Yesh, the awareness of separate existence. In this modality, it is legitimate and necessary to introspect about the self as a creature of God with personality, desires, yearnings, and aspirations. In the state of Ayin, one’s divine nature is paramount, and the laws of nature, especially the feeling of inertia—the sense that things keep gliding along in the same direction—holds no sway. We are born anew every instant. But in the mode of Yesh, natural law is indeed a central factor in our lives, and we must reckon with the entire universe of cause-and-effect, and with ourselves embedded within it. Can these two disparate states, Yesh and Ayin, relate to each other? Can they interact? The connection is facilitated by mitzvah, sacred action that enables one to shuttle smoothly between the awareness of individuated existence on the one hand, and the sense of total absorption in the divine on the other. Sacred action, directed by Torah wisdom, is the bridge between the Absolute and the individual, enabling the devotee to simultaneously hold the vision of divine omnipresence dissolving all phenomena, together with individuated existence and its call for human agency and activity. This graceful dance between Yesh and Ayin on the human level is a reflection of processes on the divine level. For Hasidism teaches that the Absolute very much wants to be beckoned into specificity and concrete realization. God experiences delight by interaction with holy individuals, in a reciprocal and complementary fashion. Holy people surrender their ego and desires, aligning themselves with the will of God. Correspondingly, the divine leaves Its absolute transcendence and enters the world of temporality for the sake of those human individuals. This reciprocal movement is motivated by love—God’s love for humanity, most especially the holy ones, and their love of the One, expressed in their self-surrender.

3.2 Paranormal Powers and Hasidic Leadership As Moshe Rosman (1996, pp. 173–186) and Emmanuel Etkes (2005) have shown,4 otherworldly gifts were key elements in the Baal Shem Tov’s rise to prominence. These gifts included miraculous cures, clairvoyance, and “path-jumping,” or  This is formulated with crystal clarity in the opening of the first homily on the Torah in the collection of teachings by Rabbi Avraham ha-Malakh, the son of the Maggid of Mezritch (Avraham, 2005, p. 25). See also the exploration of these teachings in the Maggid’s thought in relation to the nature of consciousness and language in Mayse 2020 (especially pp. 71–95). 4  Etkes stresses the Besht’s clairvoyance in addition to, and distinct from, his magical knowledge (p. 47). 3

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traversing long distances in impossibly short times. As to the source of these powers, hasidic legend refers to a certain Rabbi Adam Baal Shem, who had a manuscript of sacred Names that were once in the possession of the biblical patriarch Abraham, and which eventually made their way to Rabbi Adam, who bequeathed them to the Baal Shem Tov. According to the Yiddish version of Shivhei ha-Baal Shem Tov (In Praise of the Baal Shem Tov), the earliest hagiographical source for Baal Shem Tov stories, “all the performances and marvels which the Baal Shem carried out, all were drawn from the writings which came to him from … R[abbi] Adam” (in Etkes, 2005, p. 73). The cycle of Rabbi Adam stories does not specify the content of the “writings,” but we may assume that they are in the tradition of permutations and combinations of divine names with roots in the early texts of Jewish magic and mysticism, including Sefer Yetsirah, “Book of Creation.” This gnomic, enigmatic text introduced the term sefirot, the ten primordial elements of creation, associated with the first ten integers, into the Hebrew lexicon. The twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet are also foundational. The focus on numbers and the Hebrew alphabet leads to a praxis of letter combinatorics that Sefer Yetsirah suggests has magical power. All of reality emerges from the permutation and combination of the Hebrew letters,5 and one who knows how to combine successfully can achieve mastery over creation, indeed undergo a kind of apotheosis. Belief in the power of letter combinations, especially those involving the letters of the Tetragrammaton and other divine names, led to the emergence of “practical Kabbalah” or magic. An adept who claimed special knowledge of the permutations of the divine name and the ability to deploy that knowledge was called a Baal Shem, “Master of the Name.” The very term “Baal Shem Tov” points to the fashioning of protective amulets, containing Kabbalistic sacred names, as a central preoccupation of this leader. He took pride in the efficacy of his amulets. Yet there was more to the ascendancy of the Baal Shem Tov than proficiency in the practical Kabbalah of sacred Names. He was an inspirational guide to intensive Jewish practice, especially in prayer. He was known for mystical ecstasy, shaking and gesturing to the point of bodily collapse, phenomena that both frightened and fascinated his followers. While these manifestations were more for admiration than for emulation, he also gave instructions on intentionality in prayer that were entirely accessible to the wider community, such as focusing on the sonic vibrational qualities of individual letters more than the semantic content of words. He taught that when distracting thoughts enter one’s mind in prayer, one should not attempt to

 Donald Knuth, professor emeritus of computer science at Stanford University and author of an authoritative history of computation theory and algorithms, notes that Sefer Yetsira, which he plausibly dates to around 400 of the Common Era, gives the correct values for the first seven factorials. According to Knuth, “This is one of the first two known enumerations of permutations in history” (Knuth, 1998, p. 23). 5

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suppress or expel them, but should sublimate them by tracking their root in divinity (Jacobs, 1973, pp. 104–120). Focused intentionality and the fusion of mind and body were practices that extended beyond prayer into the entirety of life. The Baal Shem Tov spoke of a state that can be called Enoch-consciousness. By uniting hand and mind, action and intention, and by synchronizing external movement with total inner awareness, one unifies the self—and the cosmos. There is a graded phenomenology of coordination of physical and spiritual: co-incidence—when the corporeal and spiritual levels of the self are addressed at the same time, in parallel; convergence—when physical and mental activities are coupled; and finally, fusion, in Hebrew, yihud. To borrow a concept from physics, yihud may be understood as a coherent superposition of states that fuses energy. Subsequently the energy may be released and directed for beneficial effect, for blessing. Embracing, integrating, and beneficially directing the manifold aspects of the self is a core aspect of the Baal Shem Tov’s path. The Baal Shem Tov was a gifted interpreter of biblical and rabbinic texts. His scriptural readings and rabbinic interpretations come as illuminative flashes, aphoristic bursts typically involving rephrasing, reparsing, and shifting of cadences. Every word of Torah can be taken in a positive or negative aspect, and the interpreter is charged with perceiving the letters and words from the perspective of blessing, in the most beneficent way.6 His interpretation of Deuteronomy 15:8, “you shall surely open your hand,” is an encouragement to proactively seek out needy individuals and ascertain their needs, rather than waiting to be solicited.7 In personal life, his openhearted compassion led him to disregard the prudential limits traditionally placed on charity distributions: minimum tithe of 10%, maximum 20%. When queried, he is said to have responded that the 20% upper limit is for those giving charity as a religious obligation, but for him it is a genuine pleasure, and there are no limits on what one may do with one’s discretionary funds. His disciples reported that he never allowed money to stay in his house overnight. Income from healings was disbursed to the needy immediately, to the dismay of his wife, who needed funds for household expenses, and who was forced to buy supplies on credit (Ben-Amos & Mintz, 1972, pp. 179–180, story # 161.).8 All this indicates that the Baal Shem Tov was much more than a magician employing theurgic techniques but was a genuine mystic who opened hearts and minds to a more compassionate, God-intoxicated way of perceiving Judaism, the  This underlying principle is exhibited in the most dramatic fashion, perhaps, in the genre of homiletic readings of verses from the sections of the Torah termed in the Mishnah (Megillah 3:6) kellalot (“curses”)—Lev. 26:14–46 and Deut. 28:15–69—in which the verses are read and “revealed” as blessings, commonly found in Hasidic literature. 7  As found in the late eighteenth-century work Mevaser Tzedek (Yissachar Dov Ber miGeza Tzvi, 1798). 8  See also story # 160. 6

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human condition, and the cosmos. The dual nature of the Baal Shem Tov’s leadership is reflected in the titles of several important scholarly works on early Hasidism and its founder, Moshe Idel’s Hasidism: Between Ecstasy and Magic (1995), and Immanuel Etkes’s The Besht [Baal Shem Tov]: Magician, Mystic, and Leader (2005). An essay by Avraham Rubinstein, entitled “The Mentor of R[abbi] Israel Ba’al Shem-Tov and the Sources of His Knowledge,” (1978–1979) points out that the Baal Shem Tov spoke of Ahiyah the Shilonite, a First Temple prophet, as his mentor and guide in heavenly matters, while the hagiographic Shivhei ha-Besht attributes his miraculous abilities to Rabbi Adam Baal Shem’s secret manuscript. Rubinstein cogently argues that these parallel traditions reflect the two sides of his leadership: mysticism and magic. On the one hand, he was a “worker of miracles among the general populace, … who employed all sorts of magic formulae, including incantations, amulets and various remedies” (Rubinstein, 1978–1979, viii). This face of his leadership is reflected in the Rabbi Adam Baal Shem stories. At the same time, the Baal Shem Tov’s role as wisdom teacher and mystic guide in the practice of “continuous devotion to God” or devekut, is captured in the parallel tradition that links him with Ahiyah the Shilonite, prophet from the time of Solomon and the secession of the Northern Kingdom, and mentor of Elijah. The sources never suggest a conflict or tension between these two modalities of the Baal Shem Tov’s leadership. Indeed, they appear to have functioned in tandem, mutually reinforcing each other. Yet even at this very early stage in the history of Hasidism, we may discern a tendency to downplay the magical element and to foreground the Baal Shem Tov as charismatic mystic. Abraham Joshua Heschel, in his The Circle of the Baal Shem Tov, presents a story of the interaction between Hasidism’s founder and a prominent rabbi of the time, Rabbi Isaac of Drohobycz, initially an opponent of the Baal Shem Tov. Challenging the Baal Shem Tov’s fashioning of amulets, he said, “It is forbidden to make personal use of Holy Names.” The Baal Shem Tov responded, “But there are no oaths nor any Names in my amulets, save my very own, ‘Israel, son of Sarah, Baal Shem Tov.” Rabbi Isaac inspected several amulets and verified the truth of this assertion (Heschel, 1985, pp. 167–170). According to this story, rather than employing esoteric permutations of divine Names, the Baal Shem Tov’s amulets were effective by the force of his personal charisma, captured in his own name. The basic motif is evident in the earliest story collection, Shivhei ha-Besht (1814). Story # 162 has the Baal Shem Tov banishing a demon by invoking his own name, “Israel ben Eliezer.” An observer to this event is said to have concluded, “Since the name Israel, son of Eliezer, is a name [that is, a sacred Name with numinous power], it means that [the Baal Shem Tov] is a tsaddik” (Ben-Amos & Mintz, 1972, p. 181). The Baal Shem Tov’s successor, Rabbi Dov Ber the Maggid of Mezritch was also reputed to possess paranormal gifts. In 1781 a disciple of Rabbi Dov Ber, Rabbi Shlomo of Lutsk, published a collection of his teacher’s discourses under the title Maggid Devarav le-Ya’akov. In his introduction, Rabbi Shlomo says many things in praise of his teacher, but first and foremost are the miracles and supernatural

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abilities: his prayer was efficacious, he had the power to annul divine decrees, he understood the conversations of birds and trees, and so on (Schatz-Uffenheimer, 1976, pp. 2–4).9 A famous visitor to his court recalled in his memoirs a remarkable demonstration of the Maggid’s clairvoyance (Maimon, 2019, pp.  248–279).10 Furthermore, the Maggid advanced a theory of miracles. As transcribed by a disciple, the Maggid taught that [n]othing can change from one manifestation [toladah] to another [unless it is] like an egg, from which a chick is produced. It must first negate its original manifestation as ‘egg,’ and only subsequently manifest in a different state [as chick]. This is a universal process: there must first be an ascent to Ayin [the supernal No-Thing], after which the object may then become something else. This is [especially] so with miracles that involve a change in the natural order: there must first be an ascent to the sefirah of Ayin [No-Thing, the first divine emanation, often called Keter/Crown]; subsequently there can be a new emanative flow resulting in a miracle. (Schatz-Uffenheimer, 1976, p. 49, # 30)

In a classic essay on this topic Joseph Weiss explains that the transformation is accomplished by contemplation. The place called Ayin is the “treasure-house of all possibilities.” “If a magical change is to be brought about in the material creation, the whole route has to be retraced back to the ontological point of nothingness— ‘Ayin—where it is possible to achieve the mystical annihilation of the thing that requires change or rectification and then, again, it can be made to descend in the desired direction” (Weiss, 1960, p. 142). Just as with the Baal Shem Tov, the Great Maggid conveys bold assurance and confidence in the powers vouchsafed to the adept.

3.3 Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Vitebsk and Miracles Yet shortly after the death of the Maggid in 1772, the new generation of hasidic leaders, conventionally labeled “third generation,” display reluctance to claim paranormal powers.11 A salient example is Menachem Mendel of Vitebsk (c. 1730–1788),

 Compare also the discussion of Rabbi Shlomo of Lutsk’s introduction in Mayse 2020, pp. 28–30.  Maimon himself later came to be skeptical of what he had seen decades earlier, writing that “there were natural explanations for all of their so-called miraculous works. Using physiognomy and cleverly posed questions to get at the secrets of the heart, and drawing on information-­ gatherers, spies, and a certain degree of perceptiveness, they were able to gain a reputation among the common people for prophetic insights” (2019, p. 267). 11  On the changes in Hasidism after the death of the Maggid of Mezritch and the rise of lineages and dynasties, see Rapoport-Albert 1996. Rapaport-Albert suggests that in the earliest period—the era of the Baal Shem Tov (d. 1760) and the Maggid of Mezritch (d. 1772)—there was no dynastic principle at all. Rather, Hasidism began as a “loose association of autonomous units,” and no thought was given to the inheritance of leadership. After 1772, however, the principle of dynastic succession took hold to preserve the distinctive identities of the various schools after the death of the founder. This period after 1772 is what is called the “third generation.” See also Polen 2006b. 9

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one of the foremost disciples of the Maggid of Mezritch.12 In 1777, Rabbi Menachem Mendel, along with fellow disciple Rabbi Abraham Kalisker, emigrated to the Holy Land and settled in Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee, where they established a small, intense community of hasidic devotees. Rabbi Menahem Mendel’s discourses, published posthumously, are among the most incandescently mystical writings in all hasidic literature. In addition, a large body of correspondence between Rabbi Menahem Mendel and his followers who remained in Russia has survived; the letters have been collected and printed many times in various editions. Rabbi Menahem Mendel received a letter from a devotee who had remained in Europe, asking for intercession so that the devotee and his childless wife would be blessed with a son. The rabbi replied, “We are embarrassed by this request. Are we in place of God?13 This divine power [of intercession] was indeed granted to the Baal Shem Tov. He uttered a decree and it came to pass. But he was unique. Among the ancients there was none like him, and none like him shall arise again. It is true that there are a number of great tsaddikim in our generation who make claims and give assurances, but I am not one of them” (Barnai, 1980, pp. 153–155, letter # 35).14 Someone reading the epistle and pausing at this point might be forgiven for assuming that Rabbi Menahem Mendel was disavowing paranormal intercessory gifts in general and was declining his interlocutor’s request in particular. However, the letter continues with the rabbi suggesting that the petitioner motivate his life and his work “for the sake of heaven,” including supporting the hasidic community in the Holy Land. Such support forms an unbreakable bond between benefactor and beneficiary. The spiritual destinies of petitioner and leader are intertwined in this world as well as in the World to Come, and the Talmud says that progeny is a prerequisite for entry into the World to Come. The rabbi concludes, “God will certainly visit you with children” (Barnai, 1980, pp. 153–155, letter #35). While disavowing special powers, Rabbi Menahem Mendel finds a way to assure his petitioner that his request will be fulfilled.  Rabbi Menahem Mendel’s outstanding stature among the Maggid’s disciples is evident in the early hagiographical stories. See Ben-Amos and Mintz 1972, p. 249, story # 240. The Maggid of Mezritch entrusted Rabbi Menahem Mendel with the honor of sounding the shofar on Rosh Hashanah, a role of the highest religious significance. According to this story, Rabbi Menahem Mendel’s efforts were accompanied with powerful heavenly illuminations, yet he was able to retain his balance and equipoise in the face of the visions. One time when Rabbi Menachem Mendel was out of town for Rosh Hashanah, and other disciples struggled to fill his role. Either they saw great flashes of light and were overwhelmed and fainted, or they had no visions at all. As Moshe Hallamish has noted, Rabbi Menahem Mendel’s prominence was noted by the opponents of Hasidism, who referred to him as having “the reputation of being one of the greatest among their company” (Hallamish, 2019, p. 45). In another essay in the same volume, Jonathan Garb writes that in northeastern Europe, Rabbi Menahem Mendel was regarded as the heir of his teacher, Rabbi Dov Ber (Garb, 2019, p.  71). Again, in the same volume, Ron Margolin states, “After the Maggid’s death, R.  Menachem Mendel of Vitebsk was considered to be his leading disciple in Russia.” (Margolin 2019, pp. 88–89). 13  Cf. Genesis 30:2. 14  The letter is from Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Vitebsk and Rabbi Abraham Kalisker to Rabbi Jacob Semolianer, dated Tiberias 1786. 12

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In his collected discourses, published under the title Pri Ha-Aretz, Rabbi Menahem Mendel provides a full-scale theory of miracles, perhaps even bolder than that expressed by his teacher the Great Maggid of Mezritch. His topic is Yire’at Shamayim, the “Fear of Heaven,” a long-standing theme in Jewish ethical literature. The typical sequence in ethical treatises is from “fear” to “awe” or “reverence.” After taking the reader through these rather conventional stages, Rabbi Menahem Mendel describes a third, still higher stage, wherein the mystic, in ecstasy, joins the divine Life and stands anterior to Creation, looking out at the cosmos before its emergence into actuality. This requires complete surrender to the divine Presence, an absorption within the Absolute. One senses infinite possibility, and this evokes a different kind of Yire’ah—a sober awareness of the responsibility that comes with infinite possibility. Deploying the letter mysticism rooted in Sefer Yetsirah mentioned earlier, he portrays the “letters of thought” as constantly combining, shifting form, never ceasing to swirl in endless permutations. When one is absorbed in divinity, one is positioned above this lexical vortex, and can redirect the emergence of the letters and thereby modify the created condition. As he says, “It is in this person’s power to effect any transformation—miracles and wonders. Behold, all the worlds are in this person’s hand since the person is absorbed into the Blessed One” (Menahem Mendel, 1989 [1814], pp.  113–114 [Parashat Ekev—‘Od mi-­ parashah zo]). This is a very robust and fearless mysticism of absorption into the Absolute, ecstatic participation in the divine life anterior to creation, and a strong affirmation of the power to effect miraculous transformation. There is indeed fear and trembling, but the trembling comes from awareness of the depth of one’s powers and the attendant responsibility to choose wisely. Rather than manipulating God and the world from the outside, the mystic participates from within. As Charles Mopsik has written, “Unlike a magician who operates from a distance and thus acts from without, [the mystic] functions here quite evidently as a mediator within the very heart of the divine world. [The mystic] is thus not invested with a power over a God who would be external to him. It is because the divine passes through him, because he is a phase of emanation or stage of existentiation thereof, that he is capable of acting as God, of consolidating his unity” (Mopsik, 2005, p. 128). The question is, given that Rabbi Menahem Mendel had such a daring theory of the miraculous powers of the tsaddik, why the initial disavowal in the letter to his petitioner?

3.4 Rabbi Elimelekh of Lizhensk on Miracles We may gain some insight on this by consulting the writings of a contemporary of Rabbi Menahem Nahum, another prominent disciple of the Maggid of Mezritch. I refer to Rabbi Elimelekh of Lizhensk (1717–1787) and his work No′am Elimelekh, a classic hasidic commentary on Torah (Elimelekh, 1978 [1788]).

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At Exodus 7:9, God prepares Moses for his appearance before Pharaoh, with the goal that Pharaoh grant permission for the children of Israel to leave Egypt. God says, “When Pharaoh speaks to you, saying, ‘Show a miracle for yourselves.’” Many versions, eliding the rather puzzling formulation of the Hebrew tenu lakhem mofet, translate Pharaoh’s words as “Show me a miracle.” This is the point of departure for the homily of No′am Elimelekh. Rabbi Elimelekh writes: The person familiar with miracles, for whom God performs miracles at any time, still finds them nova, marvels [never taking them for granted]. Even though he experiences God performing miracles for him constantly, he retains his amazement, seeing each phenomenon as entirely novel and unexpected. Not so, however, for someone who performs a wonder by sorcery or similar techniques. The first time the effect is achieved it may seem wondrous, but the second time it becomes routine, since he has already done it before. This explains the formulation “When Pharaoh speaks to you, saying, ‘Show a miracle for yourselves.’” Pharaoh would ask for a miracle that would be a wondrous novum for Moses and Aaron as well as for Pharaoh; that would be a genuine divine sign. (Elimelekh, 1978 [1788])

Miracles cannot be reduced to technique. In order to retain the character of the miraculous, they must remain contingent on supernatural intervention, every time as the first time. Channeling the miraculous is not a manipulation of God or the cosmos.

3.5 Rabbi Shneur Zalman and Habad Hasidism There is one third-generation leader who deserves special mention, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, founder of Habad Hasidism. Habad is often portrayed as the branch of Hasidism that eschews miracles and that views the leader as not so much a charismatic wonder worker as a spiritual teacher and guide. This view has been fostered in Habad’s internal self-presentation and has been widely adopted in academic scholarship. Simon Dubnow in Toldot ha-Hasidut [History of Hasidism] writes that in Habad, “the only task assigned to the tsaddik was that of teacher and guide. In the south [Ukraine] Hasidism was consumed by tsaddikism, but in the north [White Russia] it was the opposite: pride of place was removed from worship of the tsaddik toward the hasid’s own faith acquired by contemplation” (1975, p. 241). Dubnow states that the most important improvement which Rabbi Shneur Zalman brought to Hasidism was the rejection of “faith in tsaddikim” in its extreme form. At a time when in Poland and Ukraine the tsaddikim became intermediaries between God and the community of believers, channels of material bounty and blessing, at a time when R. Elimelekh of Lyzhansk, the Besht’s grandson Barukh of Tultchin, the Rabbi of Kozienice and many others were engaged in receiving “pidyonot,” sale of “blessings” to believers, performing miracles, healing the sick and reversing infertility in barren women—by contrast the tsaddik of Liozna [Rabbi Shneur

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Zalman] reprimanded his hasidim who wanted to reduce him to such an intermediary. (Dubnow, 1975, pp. 239–240)15

More recent writers have followed Dubnow. The Encyclopedia Judaica article on Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Lyady asserts that Habad’s interpretation of Hasidism is … clearly an individualist process. Every Hasid is responsible for pursuing, and is obligated to pursue, independent worship activity, while the assistance of the hasidic congregation, and even of the tsaddik himself, is not integral to divine worship. Hence Shneur Zalman does not dwell extensively on the status and nature of the tsaddik. In his view the admor [hasidic leader] was a spiritual leader and guide who assists his Hasidim to find their individual way to God, while the hasidic group, or the isolated Hasid, can and are required to pursue their way by virtue of their independent powers and responsibility. (Stroll, 2007, vol. 18, p. 504)

Similarly, Shmuel Ettinger writes that the Habad system “endeavored to restrict the tsaddik’s role as intermediary between the faithful and God to spiritual matters alone.” (Ettinger, 1976, p. 772). The centerpiece of this view is the Tanya itself, in which Dubnow says “one can find no hint of that tsaddik worship which was a basic principle in the Hasidism of the southern lands [i.e. Ukraine and Podolia]” (Dubnow, 1975, p. 240; cf. Dan, 1996, p. 163 n24). Dubnow points in particular to a letter found in recent editions of Tanya as Iggeret ha-Kodesh 22, and in a longer version in David Zvi Heilman’s Igrot Ba’al ha-Tanya u-Benei Doro (Heilman, 1953, pp. 60–63, # 39). The letter says that, with the exception of the biblical prophets, it is unheard of that Jews come to a leader in search of advice in mundane matters. This view of Habad is also asserted in internal Habad sources and is maintained in recent popular Habad publications. For example, Nissan Mindel in his biographical study entitled Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi quotes from the letter cited above and summarizes, “Clearly, Rabbi Schneur Zalman did not wish to assume the position of intercessor, whose blessings and prayers would bring miraculous help to those who believed in his supernatural powers. He wished to confine his role to that of teacher and spiritual counsellor . . .” (Mindel, 1969, p. 114). In my opinion, however, the portrayal of Rabbi Shneur Zalman as just a teacher and guide is inaccurate and misleading. As I have argued elsewhere, the Tanya, called Sefer shel Beinonim, “the book for intermediate people [i.e., neither righteous (tsaddik, defined in a technical sense) nor wicked (rasha; again a technical term)],” might actually be called “the book of why you will never be a tsaddik” (Polen, 2006a). The whole point of the book is to transform the category of tsaddik into something beyond the reach of even the most sincere and determined pietist. Tanya makes the category of tsaddik virtually impossible to attain by one’s own effort. The stratification of the hasidic world and the emergence of a clear hierarchy, which were ongoing during the closing decades of the eighteenth century, were given a powerful justification by the appearance of Tanya.16 The book makes it clear that the

15 16

 Scare quotes are Dubnow’s.  The first edition was printed in Slavuta in December 1796.

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tsaddik is a different order of being than the hasid. Maximalist demands are placed upon the “intermediate person,” who is expected to behave in thought, word, and deed like a tsaddik, empowering him to become a warrior for hasidism, but essentially precluding any aspiration on the part of the hasid to become a leader himself. Far from having no hint of the elevation of the tsaddik like the other hasidic groups, Tanya’s reconfiguration of religious typology creates a new spiritual landscape that only served to intensify the hasid’s desire for proximity to the tsaddik. In Habad no less than other groups the tsaddik is the hasid’s portal to God and blessing. What then of the letter to the hasidim protesting their making him into a financial advisor? A careful reading of the letter demonstrates that Rabbi Schneur Zalman’s objections are largely motivated by the distractions from spiritual contemplation such a role creates for the leader. The letter comes from the same period as the “Liozna Regulations” which severely restricted access to Rabbi Shneur Zalman (Loewenthal, 1990, p.  44, and sources cited there.) Rabbi Shneur Zalman could hardly have denied the existence of paranormal powers residing in the tsaddik, since these were the foundation of the hasidic movement from its inception. As discussed above, Rabb Shneur Zalman’s senior colleague, R. Menahem Mendel of Vitebsk, writes that the truly God-fearing individual is absorbed into the Divine and can transform physical reality (Menachem Mendel, 1989 [1814], pp.  113–14). Rabbi Schneur Zalman could not have been unaware of these central assertions (Weiss, 1985, pp. 183–193; Idel, 1995). It is hard to take the eschewing of charismatic powers at face value. One might say that, of course, Rabbi Schneur Zalman knew of the miracles but sought to devalue their importance. This view finds expression in the following oft-­ quoted story: Rabbi Schneur Zalman used to say: “What of prophecies! What of miracles! In the house of my teacher, the holy maggid, you drew up the holy spirit by the bucketful, and miracles lay around under the benches, only that no one had the time to pick them up!” (Buber, 1991, bk. 1, p. 102)

Or ha-Ganuz, the Hebrew edition of Buber’s tales, gives the source for this story as Chaim Meir Heilman’s Beit Rebbe (Buber, 1979, p. 110; Heilman, 1902, p. 6). The story does indeed appear there, but Buber has truncated his source. Heilman’s account continues as follows: “But when he (Rabbi Shneur Zalman) assumed his leadership role, he saw that to be a Rebbe one also needed miracles; Rabbi Michel of Zlotchow was still alive at that time, so Rabbi Schneur Zalman received that knowledge from him….” The realization that “to be a Rebbe one also needed miracles” that Heilman attributes to Rabbi Shneur Zalman was undoubtedly consistent with Heilman’s knowledge of Habad life, and it is certainly notable that according to Heilman, Rabbi Schneur Zalman sought out Rabbi Yechiel Michel of Zlotchow, an early master who was reputed to channel healing vitality and spiritual power from the Torah’s letters (Idel, 1995, pp. 77–78; Altshuler, 2004). There is a double message in Habad hasidism: miracles are denigrated, but they are, of course, essential. The charismatic power of the Rebbe is as axiomatic in Habad as in every other lineage. The loud asseverations denigrating miracles are not

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meant to be taken entirely at face value; they are rhetorical statements which serve to cast one’s own movement in a particularly attractive manner in the constellation of hasidism as a whole. Dubnow and the other authors no doubt felt that in Rabbi Shneur Zalman they had found a kindred spirit, a powerful mind and systematic thinker who emphasized the primacy of intellect over emotion and downplayed miracles. That is fine as far as it goes, but if they thought that Rabbi Shneur Zalman shared a common intellectual horizon with them, they were almost entirely wrong. Rabbi Shneur Zalman’s ideas emerged from the rabbinic-kabbalistic corpus and included a robust belief in the miraculous. If there were differences with other hasidic masters, they were differences in emphasis and style, not in fundamentals. Rabbi Shneur Zalman’s effectiveness largely lay in his charisma, understood in the technical sense of extraordinary gifts bestowed by the divine spirit. Even the ideas so cogently and systematically presented in the Tanya gained their power, their ability to motivate individuals and transform lives, by virtue of association with the author, whose irresistible presence pulsated through every word. For Habad as much as for any other hasidic group, it was faith in the tsaddik that buttressed the teachings and spurred the hasid to implement them.

3.6 Habad Leadership in Recent Times Similarly, in assessing the leadership of the seventh Lubavitcher Rebbe Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneersohn and the nature of his power, attention must be paid to the faith held by so many individuals in his paranormal gifts. This surely involved the traditional triad of banei, hayyei, mezonei—the tsaddik’s ability to channel blessing for fertility, health, and prosperity. Even more important was the clairvoyance, about which many stories circulate. But perhaps most significant was Rabbi Menachem Mendel’s endowment for discernment of people, his preternatural ability for penetrating souls, of conveying to veteran followers and one-time visitors alike the feeling that they had been understood, deeply and benevolently. It was of such encounters, repeated on tens of thousands of occasions, that a new phase of the Habad movement was launched.17 A recent Habad publication captures the movement’s presentation of miracles. The Jewish Spark, labeled “Iowa’s Premier Jewish Magazine,” is a local edition of an internationally distributed publication called Soulwise Magazine. A sidebar entitled “How to Perform a Miracle” describes an audience that a group of high-school students had with the Rebbe. One student asked whether it was true, as he had heard, that the Rebbe has the power to perform miracles. The Rebbe did not refute the report but reframed the question by explaining that all people have the miraculous power of transcending the limits of their physical natures. The Rebbe then said

17

 For an excellent overview of the life and leadership of Rabbi Schneersohn, see Telushkin 2014.

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he would demonstrate a miracle. He asked each student to make a commitment to improve in some aspect of their lives, to make progress in a way they had previously felt was beyond their ability. The Rebbe assured them that they would succeed and advanced this as proof that the soul indeed has the power to overcome the seeming limitations of human nature.18 In this vignette, as reported in a popular Habad publication, the Rebbe made no effort to refute the accounts of supernatural powers that surrounded him, but cannily redirected the conversation towards the students’ own abilities to transcend their limitations. Happy to act in the role of motivational leader, he was careful to evade but not deny the reports of his miraculous powers.

3.7 Rabbi Kalonymos Shapiro on Miracles Rabbi Kalonymos Shapiro (1889–1943), known to his hasidim as the Piaseczner Rebbe, was a prominent hasidic leader in Warsaw and the nearby town of Piaseczna during the interwar period. Endeavoring to revive the original vision of the Baal Shem Tov, he taught a developmental approach to hasidic spirituality focusing on the individual, especially the child, as a unique person of infinite potential. He may be currently be best known for his teaching and writing during the Holocaust. The manuscript he wrote in the Warsaw Ghetto, in the darkest days of the catastrophe, was buried in early 1943. Dug up from the rubble and published after the war, it is the last work of Hasidism written in Poland, and has become an inspiring text for readers looking for a heroic model of spiritual resistance, as well an innovative document of theology, transcending traditional theodicy, that has sparked a growing body of scholarly analysis. But his prewar discourses are equally luminous and rewarding of close study; these have been published under the title Derekh ha-­ Melekh [‘Royal Highway’]. A discourse from 1930 addresses the topic of miracles.19 Genesis 28 recounts Jacob’s makeshift encampment at a place where he would dream of the heavenly ladder and that he would soon discover was the “House of God and the Gate of Heaven.” Preparing to rest his head for sleep, he “took of the stones of the place” (Genesis 28.11). Rabbi Shapiro, drawing upon earlier hasidic sources, links these stones with the “stones” of Sefer Yetsirah, where they represent the elements of language, the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet, that permute and combine to form the world. This suggests a correspondence between letters and objects. But in Hebrew the word for “letter” is the same as the word for “sign” or “wonder.” Rabbi Shapiro notes that signs can only be comprehended by those who share a prior horizon of meaning. This in turn suggests a higher correspondence between the signifiers or letters and the pre-conceptual domain from which they emerge. There is the level of supernal light; the level of Torah—the

18 19

 Tauber 2019, p. 15 (note: there is no pagination, but it is the fifteenth page).  Shapiro 1991, pp. 42–50, Parashat Va-Yeshev 5690 [1930].

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l­exical units that convey narrative and law—and finally, the objects of the world. When you truly see all the levels as one—the supernal source, the linguistic signs, and the material world—then all are infused with divine vitality. The letters/signs become supple and pliant in a way that manifests as blessing. Rather than a manipulation of arbitrary letter combinations in magical formulae, the integrated self inhabits all worlds simultaneously and can channel a more beneficent combination of the elements of reality. What is perceived as miracle is an attenuation of the rigidity of being.20

3.8 Conclusion Belief in the supernatural powers of tsaddikim was central to Hasidism from its inception to this day. Then why the tendency to downplay, marginalize or hide this core tenet? In some cases, we can discern an effort to present true Hasidism as rigorously demanding and focused on spiritual aspiration rather than mundane matters. Nearly all hasidic lines were alert to the dangers of vulgarization of the hasidic message. Rabbi Kalonymos Kalman Epstein of Cracow, at the heart of what some rather derisively call “Polish” Hasidism, sharply criticized the tendency to visit the tsaddik merely in search of material blessing rather than intensification of religious practice and moral refinement.21 The search for wonders and miracle workers was seen as a distraction from what really matters: a life of inner piety and unflamboyant virtue that fosters and sustains one’s relationship with God. As is evident from the teaching of No’am Elimelekh discussed above, there was concern that intercessory efforts not be reduced to a formula. According to Rabbi Elimelekh, it was only the genuine surprise, the astonishment that the practitioner shared with his devotees, that distinguished the tsaddik’s efforts from vulgar magic or even witchcraft. This clearly motivated the de-emphasis of amulets and kabbalistic Name-permutations. Knowledge of a set of sacred Names would not be sufficient to produce a desired healing or other effect, certainly not without reference to the spiritual stature of the adept deploying that knowledge. And if the charisma of the saint was what really mattered, then was the amulet necessary at all? There is also discernable a concern to avoid the appearance of compelling God. Rabbi Elimelekh of Grodzisk (c. 1824–1892), a descendent of Rabbi Elimelekh of Lizhensk, once commented on Numbers 12:7, God’s praise of Moses above all other prophets: “[Moses] is trusted in all My house.” The Grodzisker explained that, having access to all God’s heavenly abode, with its secret treasures and hidden  I heard this felicitous phrasing in conversation with Menachem Lorberbaum, whom I thank for his graciousness and wisdom. 21  See Epstein of Cracow 1986 [1842], p. 162 Parashat Re’eh. “The general public, when they hear that someone has performed a wonder or miracle, they rush to travel to that person. But in truth, the real reason to travel to a tsaddik is to learn from his ways [of sacred service], intensifying Torah study and prayer, and cleaving to the ways of God…” 20

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resources, meant that Moses could have accomplished on earth whatever he wanted. He could have deployed supernal tools to effect changes in this world, all for good, of course. Yet he refrained from doing so. He would not abuse his privileged access to heavenly resources, but rather submitted to the will of God even though he might not have found God’s decisions to his liking. This is what it means to be “trusted in all God’s house”—to enjoy unrestricted access but never to overreach, never to violate trust by placing one’s hand in the cookie jar of divine powers. The implication for the hasidic leader is, even though you may have the ability to overturn a divine decree that seems harsh, if you see that such is not the will of God, refrain from attempting to do so (Eleazar Dov ben Aaron of Kozienice, 1998, pp. 6–7). Hasidic leaders were aware that their detractors mocked the claims to miraculous powers. Criticism of Hasidic beliefs as superstition was a core aspect of opposition to the movement, in part influenced by the Jewish Enlightenment (“Haskalah”), and it is understandable that hasidic leaders would shield their claims to paranormal powers from ridicule. This motivation would only intensify as Hasidism moved from rural villages and small towns to large cities where they confronted secularism and the triumphal march of science and technology. Fear of derision certainly played a role in muffling the more extreme hasidic claims regarding the powers of their leaders. Yet the internal belief in the tsaddik’s paranormal abilities never abated. In the post-war period, Hasidism has undergone an extraordinary rebirth, in large measure due to the inspiration of leaders who managed to survive the Holocaust and who were able to rebuild their communities in new geographical and cultural settings. There is no doubt that in this period of hasidic renaissance and robust self-­ confidence, the emphasis on otherworldly charisma of the tsaddikim has returned to full flower.22 Gershom Scholem concluded his great survey Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism with a hasidic story, a tale that he says might be taken to convey “the decay of a great movement” (1971, pp. 349–350). The story outlines successive stages of the hasidic movement and its leaders. In the first stage, the Baal Shem Tov is called upon to save a young man from some unspecified danger. He goes to a tree in the forest, affixes a wax candle to the tree, engages in certain kabbalistic intentions and theurgical practices (kavvanot and yihudim), and succeeds in saving the son. In the second stage of the story, the Great Maggid of Mezritch is called upon to intercede in a similar incident, and states that he does not know the kavvanot and yihudim, but will act by relying upon the Baal Shem Tov’s intention—in Hebrew, al semakh ha-­ kavvanah she-kivven ha-Besht—and this too was accepted by Heaven. In the third stage, Rabbi Moshe Leib of Sassov’s help was also requested in a similar circumstance, and he said, “We do not even have the power to do that, but I will tell the story to God and God will help.” And so, it happened, with God’s help (Zak, 1983, p. 23).

22

 See Mintz 1968 for hasidic oral traditions from the mid-twentieth-century in the United States.

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Recent retellings of this tale generally omit the important detail that the latter-­ day hasidic leaders “act by relying upon the Baal Shem Tov’s intention.” This is crucial, because the concatenation from tsaddik to tsaddik going back to the Baal Shem Tov is key to the efficacy of the rite. It is not the story alone that has power, it is the latter-day saint holding on to what is beyond his personal reach: the contemplations of his uniquely illuminated predecessor, the Baal Shem Tov, known throughout Hasidism as “the Light of the Seven Days of Creation,” that is effective. The tsaddik brings the power of the story to life. The precise talismanic practices and theurgic knowledge of the Baal Shem Tov may have been lost, but their effect can be recovered with storytelling as a channeling of power through the tsaddik who embodies and continues an unbroken chain of charismatic transmission. The manifest wonder—the rationally inexplicable blessed intervention by the tsaddik—is proof of the concept that God is present everywhere. The physical world is real enough, yet it is not frozen. With the ministrations of the tsaddik, reality retains is primordial suppleness. Whether by storytelling, intercessory prayer, illuminated Torah interpretation, or mere charismatic gravitas, the contemporary hasidic leader retains the link with the earliest hasidic masters who were able to unite heaven and earth and transform the way humans perceive both, and everything in between.

References Altshuler, M. (2004). The first Tsaddik of Hasidism: The Zlotchover Maggid and his circle. Jewish Studies Quarterly, 11, 127–193. Avraham, h.-M. b. D. B. o. M. (2005). Hesed le-Avraham. Siftei Tsaddikim. Barnai, Y. (1980). Hasidic letters from Eretz-Israel. Yad Izhak Ben Zvi Publications. Ben-Amos, D., & Mintz, J.  R. (Eds.). (1972). In praise of the Baal Shem Tov. Indiana University Press. Buber, M. (1979). Or ha-Ganuz. Schocken. Buber, M. (1991). Tales of the Hasidim. Schocken. Dan, J. (1996). Jewish mysticism and Jewish ethics. Jason Aronson. Dubnow, S. (1975). Toldot ha-Hasidut. Dvir. Dynner, G. (2006). Men of silk: The Hasidic conquest of Polish Jewish society. Oxford University Press. Eleazar Dov ben Aaron of Kozienice. (1998). Gan Hadasim [Part two of Safran shel Tsaddikim]. Bnei Brak. Elimelekh of Lezhensk. (1978 [1788]). No’am Elimelekh (Ed. G. Nigal). Mossad ha-Rav Kook. Epstein, K. K. (1986 [1842]). Ma’or va-Shemesh. Wagshal. Etkes, I. (2005). The Besht: Magician, mystic, and leader. Brandeis University Press. Ettinger, S. (1976). The modern period. In H. H. Ben-Sasson (Ed.), A history of the Jewish people: 727–1096 (pp. 723–726). Harvard University Press. Garb, J. (2019). Surprised by God: R. Menachem Mendel of Vitebsk’s approach to divine worship and its influence in Tiberias. In A. L. Glazer & N. Polen (Eds.), From Tiberias, with love: A collection of Tiberian Hasidism (pp. 71–83). Fons Vitae. Green, A. (1977). The Zaddik as axis mundi in later Judaism. Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 45(3), 327–347.

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Green, A. (1987). Typologies of leadership and the Hasidic Zaddik. In A.  Green (Ed.), Jewish spirituality vol. 2: From the sixteenth-century revival to the present (pp. 127–156). Routledge & Kegan Paul. Hallamish, M. (2019). The teachings of R.  Menachem Mendel of Vitebsk. In A.  L. Glazer & N.  Polen (Eds.), From Tiberias, with love: A collection of Tiberian Hasidism (pp.  45–70). Fons Vitae. Heilman, C. M. (1902). Beit Rabbi. Hayyim Ya’akov Sheftel. Heilman, D. Z. (1953). Igrot Ba’al ha-Tanya u-Benei Doro. Hamesorah. Heschel, A. J. (1985). The circle of the Baal Shem Tov: Studies in Hasidism (Ed. S. H. Dresner). University of Chicago Press. Idel, M. (1995). Hasidism: Between ecstasy and magic. State University of New York Press. Jacobs, L. (1973). Hasidic prayer. Schocken Books. Knuth, D. E. (1998). The art of computer programming (vol 3: Sorting and searching) (2nd ed.). Addison-Wesley. Loewenthal, N. (1990). Communicating the infinite: The emergence of the Habad School. University of Chicago Press. Maimon, S. (2019). Solomon Maimon’s autobiography (Trans. P. Reitter & Eds. Y. Y. Melamed, A. P. Socher). Princeton University Press. Margolin, R. (2019). On the printing of Hasidic teachings and its definition as “Kabbalah Made Ethos” in the light of the doctrine of R.  Menachem Mendel of Vitebsk and R.  Abraham of Kalisk. In A. L. Glazer & N. Polen (Eds.), From Tiberias, with love: A collection of Tiberian Hasidism (pp. 85–108). Fons Vitae. Mayse, A. E. (2020). Speaking infinities: God and language in the teachings of Rabbi Dov Ber of Mezritsh. University of Pennsylvania Press. Menahem Mendel of Vitebsk. (1989 [1814]). Pri ha-Aretz. Hamesorah. Mindel, N. (1969). Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi. Kehot. Mintz, J. R. (1968). Legends of the Hasidim: An introduction to Hasidic culture and oral tradition in the new world. University of Chicago Press. Mopsik, C. (2005). Sex of the soul: The vicissitudes of sexual difference in Kabbalah. Cherub Press. Piekarz, M. (1978). Be-Yimei Tsmikhat ha-Hasidut. Mossad Bialik. Polen, N. (2006a). Charismatic leader, charismatic book: Rabbi Shneur Zalman’s Tanya and his leadership. In S. L. Stone (Ed.), Rabbinic and lay communal authority (pp. 53–64). Yeshiva University Press. Polen, N. (2006b). Rebbetzins, wonder-children and the emergence of the dynastic principle in Hasidism. In S.  T. Katz (Ed.), The shtetl: New evaluations (pp.  53–84). New  York University Press. Rapoport-Albert, A. (1996). Hasidism after 1772: Structural continuity and change. In A. Rapoport-­ Albert (Ed.), Hasidism reappraised (pp. 76–140). Littman. Rosman, M. (1996). Founder of Hasidism: A quest for the historical Ba’al Shem Tov. University of California Press. Rubinstein, A. (1978–1979). The mentor of R[abbi] Israel Ba’al Shem-Tov and the sources of his knowledge. Tarbiz, 48, 146–158; English summary on vii–viii. Schatz-Uffenheimer, R. (1976). Maggid Devarav Le-Ya’akov of the Maggid Dov Baer of Mezhirech: Critical edition with commentary, introduction and indices. Magnes Press of Hebrew University. Scholem, G. (1971 [1941]). Major trends in Jewish mysticism. Schocken Books. Shapiro, K. (1991). Derekh ha-Melekh. Vaad Hasidei Piaseczna. Stroll, A. (2007). Shneur Zalman of Lyady. In Encyclopedia Judaica (Vol. 18, 2nd ed.). Thomson Gale. Tauber, Y. (2019). How to perform a miracle. The Jewish Spark April/Nissan 2019/5779.

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Telushkin, J. (2014). Rebbe: The life and teachings of Menachem M. Schneerson, the most influential rabbi in modern history. Harper Collins. Weiss, J. (1960). The Great Maggid’s theory of contemplative magic. Hebrew Union College Annual, 31, 137–147. Weiss, J. (1985). The Saddik—Altering the divine will. In J. Weiss & D. Goldstein (Eds.), Studies in Eastern European Jewish mysticism (pp. 183–193). Littman Library/Oxford University Press. Yissachar Dov Ber miGeza Tzvi. (1798). Mevaser Tzedek. Dubno. Zak, R. (1983 [1906]). Kneset Yisrael. Kneset Mordecai.

Chapter 4

Qur’anic Miracle Stories: Surprising Implications for Theodicy, Transience, and Freedom Isra Yazicioglu

Abstract  Qur’anic miracle stories startle us. Being shocked and interrupted can sometimes be a good thing. Read within the larger Qur’anic discourse, miracle narratives turn out to be invitations to clear the blinds of familiarity and discover signs of tawhid (the unity of God) and the Beautiful Names of God in nature. They also invite us to recognize the freedom of the Creator. The existential implications of such shifts in perception can be immense. First, it can heal our wounds of transience by inviting us to see the Enduring Source of this world and revealing life after death. Seeing the world as bearing the signs of the One who sustains the world with both regularity and uniqueness enables us to receive the world as a gift in gratitude. Second, seeing the world as pointing to the source of all power and beauty can help us realize the meaning of evil in the world. Third, miracle stories encourage us to realize that we are directly connected to the One, who enables our freewill and attends to us at all times. Hence, we are not insignificant creatures whose faint attempts of hope are overridden by the impersonal machinery of natural laws. Rather, human being is a dignified guest of the Creator of All and can turn to Him at any time. In unpacking such surprising implications of Qur’anic miracles, the paper makes use of the work of the important Muslim exegete and theologian Bediuzzaman Said Nursi (d. 1960) as well as of the scientist-philosopher Charles S. Peirce (d. 1919).

4.1 Why Do Qur’anic Miracle Stories Matter? The angels said, “Mary, God gives you news of a Word from Him, whose name will be the Messiah, Jesus, son of Mary, who will be held in honor in this world and the next, who will be one of those brought near to God.” . . . She said, “My Lord, how can I have a son when

I. Yazicioglu (*) Saint Joseph’s University, Philadelphia, PA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_4

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I. Yazicioglu no man has touched me?” [The angel] said, “This is how God creates what He will: when He has ordained something, He only says, “Be,” and it is. (Qur’an 3:45–47)1

Like the story of virgin birth, the Qur’an contains many miracle stories about messengers of God, such as Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Solomon, and so on. Can such extraordinary things really happen? This question is not uniquely a modern question. According to the Qur’an, even the ones who receive such miracles from God are surprised. Prophet Zachariah responds with shock to the news of a child as is Blessed Mary taken aback at the Annunciation, and Prophet Moses is scared when he sees his staff moving like a snake. In response, they are reminded of God’s omnipotence. As we will discuss below, despite the widespread skepticism about their possibility, miracles are logically possible. At the heart of this paper is the related and perhaps more important question: why does it matter to us, as readers, that such miracles did/could happen? The Qur’anic miracle stories matter because they offer, among other things, two major existential lessons for an open-minded reader. First, the Qur’anic miracle stories present healing for our wounds of transience. Second, they point us toward affirming divine freedom and thereby affirm human freedom and dignity. Such implications may at first sight seem farfetched, which is quite appropriate for the topic. In unpacking such surprising implications of Qur’anic miracles, I will make use of the work of the important Muslim exegete and theologian Bediuzzaman Said Nursi (d. 1960). Nursi reads Qur’anic miracles in the larger context of the Qur’anic discourse, which emphasizes seeing signs of God in nature.2 In addition to making substantial use of Nursi’s works, I will enlist some help from the American thinker Charles S. Peirce (d. 1919), an impressive scientist and thinker who often insightfully questioned the pitfalls of scientism and dogmatism. In what follows, we will first look at why Qur’anic miracle stories sound impossible and yet are possible. Then, we will turn to existential implications of Qur’anic miracle narratives including theodicy, transience, and human freedom and hope.

4.2 Miracle Stories and Signs of God in the Qur’an Have, then, they [who deny the truth] never considered the birds, enabled [by God] to fly in mid-air, with none but God holding them aloft? In this, behold, there are signs indeed for people who will believe. (Qur’an 16:79)

Familiarity and commonsense are important in everyday life. In fact, getting familiar with the world and being able to better anticipate events seems to be at the heart

 All translations of the Qur’an are from Asad 1984, with my occasional minor modification.  In this paper, I set aside Nursi’s other readings of the Qur’anic miracle stories, such as symbolic reading and technological implications. For a more comprehensive treatment of Nursi on Qur’anic miracles see Yazicioglu 2013a, pp. 123–163. For a discussion of Nursi’s Qur’anic hermeneutics, see Mermer and Yazicioglu 2017. 1 2

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of our growth. We arrive at the world as clueless babies and then astonishingly start becoming familiar with the world. Even as toddlers we reach to the level of anticipating things well, inferring that touching fire will mean burning, grapes will taste sweet, and so on. Science takes this familiarity to a higher scale, with its equations that help us anticipate many phenomena quite precisely. Yet, familiarity so helpful in some ways is also risky in other ways. Familiarity may bring the illusion that we have understood the world around and within us. The predictability and regularity of the world becomes a veil, as it were. We stop asking questions that are essential for understanding the reality. If familiarity brings blindness, modern science, unfortunately, intensifies such blindness (Nursi, 2004, p. 189; also see Needleman, 1976, pp. 13–15; Polkinghorne, 2000, pp. 10–11). By giving a scientific name to the phenomena and predicting them in advance, modern science pretends to have explained them. For instance, we give a name to the incredible and amazing growth of a caterpillar into a butterfly: “this is called metamorphosis, and it happens during such and such season.” It is as if we now understand this incredible event, and it is not awesome any more. Nursi also strongly criticizes such an attitude (Nursi, 2004, p. 189).3 He argues that the Qur’an aims to disabuse us from such illusion and show that what we consider “ordinary” [is] in fact “extraordinary and a miracle of Divine Power” (Nursi, 2004, pp. 150–151). The Qur’an repeatedly talks about natural processes—such as the rain, wind, stars, sun, moon, grains, fruits, growth of an embryo, production of milk and honey, sailing of ships on water, variety of human races, and so on—as signs, āyāt, that disclose a transcendental source of mercy, power, and wisdom. For instance, “In the creation of the heavens and earth; in the alteration of night and day; in the ships that sail the seas with goods for people; in the water which God sends down from the sky to give life to the earth when it has been barren, scattering all kinds of creatures over it; in the changing of the winds and clouds that run their appointed courses between the sky and earth: there are signs [āyāt] in all these for those who use their minds” (Qur’an 2:164, italics added). The presentation of natural phenomena as signs of God is actually a major theme in the Qur’an; nature is “the prime miracle of God, cited untiringly” (Rahman, 1999, p. 70). Interestingly, miracle stories turn out to be another strategy of the Qur’an to interrupt our familiarity with the “ordinary” and enable us to see them as signs of God. When we ask in shock “how is it possible that a virgin conceives? How can a staff become a serpent?” we are often assuming that what happens consistently—a healthy couple having a baby or a dry tree branch coming to life with flowers in the spring—is explained due to natural causes. The Qur’an calls us to reconsider this assumption.

 Nursi offers such criticisms of modern science by referring to it as “naturalist philosophy” rather than simply as “science.” For Nursi’s nuanced engagement with modern science, see Yazicioglu 2013b. 3

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4.3 Think Twice: What Is the Real Cause? Verily, God is the one who cleaves the grain and the fruit-kernel asunder, bringing forth the living out of that which is dead, and He is the One who brings forth the dead out of that which is alive. This, then, is God: and yet, how perverted are your minds! (Qur’an 6:95) The prophets came in order to cut [off] causes: they flung their miracles at Saturn…. Without cause, they clove the sea asunder; without sowing they found heaps of corn…. From its beginning till the end, the Quran is (wholly concerned with) cutting off of (secondary) causes and means. (Rumi, 2013, vol. 4, p. 141)

In addition to labeling and predicting, another component of our illusion of understanding involves the so-called natural causes. Both in everyday life and modern science, we identify certain parts of nature as responsible for other parts, calling them “causes” and their “effects.” For instance, in response to the question “what makes the lilacs flourish in my yard?” I say, “when sunshine along with water and air, etc. are absent lilacs do not flourish, so they cause/create the flowers.” According to Nursi, such reasoning is mistaken because it equates “conjunction” of things with “causation.” Water and life appear and disappear together, but such observation on its own does not prove that it is lifeless water that creates life. Nursi here is in agreement with the mainstream Islamic theology and spirituality, which clearly makes a distinction between the “seeming cause” (sabab; pl. asbāb) and the “real cause” (‘illa). A classical Muslim theologian, al-Ghazālī (d. 1111), is well-known for his defense of miracle stories in the Qur’an through his critical analysis of natural causality.4 Ghazali offers a helpful illustration for making the distinction between conjunction and causation. “(Think of) a person taken to be beheaded, yet when the king sent a decree annulling and dismissing the process, he began to concentrate on the ink, the paper and the pen which were involved in the decree staying [his execution] saying: ‘Were it not for the pen, I would not have been released.’ It is as if he thought his salvation had come from the pen and not from the one moving the pen, yet this would be the height of ignorance” (Ghazālī, 2001, pp. 16–17, italics added). The prisoner’s reasoning is similar to our everyday or scientific reasoning, where we identify A as the cause of B simply because when A is absent B is absent. Ghazālī, as other mainstream Muslim theologians, considered such reasoning as a logical mistake. It is true that the pen and paper preceded the release of the prisoner and if they were not there, the prisoner would not be saved. However, instead of being deluded by the sequence of events, the prisoner should reflect more carefully on the qualities of the pen and the paper. He would then realize that these unconscious, ignorant objects do not even know the prisoner’s plight, let alone have the authority and power to free him. Similarly, the Qur’an invites us to take a closer look at the qualities of “natural causes” and their effects (Nursi, 1995, p. 236). In other words, there is a “mismatch” between the so-called cause and its effect. Going back to the lilac example: lilac’s wise structure, life, beauty, and its  Ghazali was not the first to offer this critique, rather he follows Ash‘arite tradition, one of the two main schools of mainstream Islamic theology. 4

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interconnectedness with the rest of the universe indicates comprehensive knowledge, power, will, and wisdom. Yet the so-called natural causes (combination of sunlight, water, soil, air, etc.) do not have the requisite knowledge, wisdom, power and life.5 It is this mismatch between the natural causes and their effects that signals that an all-knowing, all-powerful, life-giving, transcendent Creator, who is also referred as Musabbib al asbāb “Causer of all Causes” must be creating the lilac. Here, Nursi is taking cues from the Qur’anic verse “Those you call on beside God could not, even if they combined all their forces, create a fly” (22:73) (Nursi, 1995, pp. 308, 340, 435). What we think as the cause is a sign indicating—or in Nursi’s words “declaring”—that the source of power, wisdom, knowledge, and beauty manifested in the world is elsewhere, in a transcendent reality, God. This, in a nutshell, is the central concept of tawhid at the heart of the Qur’an: all power, beauty, and perfection come from one Eternal Absolute Source. Qur’anic miracle stories remind us to notice this and see the wonderfulness of the ordinary. For instance, Nursi considers the Qur’anic miracle story: Abraham said, “How can you worship what can neither benefit nor harm you, instead of God? Shame on you and on the things you worship instead of God. Have you no sense?” They said, “Burn him and avenge your gods, if you are going to do the right thing.” But We [God] said, “Fire, be cool and safe for Abraham.” (Qur’an 21:66–69)

For Nursi, the story suggests that when the fire burns, it burns because of divine will and power: “like other natural causes, fire does not act according to its own wishes and nature, blindly, but performs a duty under a [divine] command. Thus, it did not burn Abraham, peace be upon him, because it was commanded not to burn him” (Nursi, 2004, p. 269, italics added). In other words, the story invites the reader to see how the usual event of fire burning things and transforming them into ashes is worthy of wonder: it is a sign disclosing the agency of the powerful, wise, and merciful One. Qur’anic miracle stories highlight how the natural world is full of “miracles” of divine power—that is, situations that exceed the capacities of the seeming causes and that direct our attention to an all-knowing, wise, and powerful God. Indeed, we witness the reenactment of Abraham’s miracle occurring before our very eyes, in that “delicate green leaves retain their moisture for months in the face of extreme heat.” Such an ordinary event is in fact “reciting” or manifesting the divine command in the Qur’an: Fire, be cool and safe for Abraham (Q. 21:69), “against the heat of the fire, each like the body of Abraham” (Nursi, 2004, p. 17). Now, since natural causes are not real causes of their effects, what do we make of the fact that consistent patterns such as water and life or fire and burning appear and disappear together? These regularities are protocols set by the Causer of all Causes; they are simply conditions under which the Creator chooses to create. In Islamic theology, such conditions or protocols are called sunnatullah or ‘adatullah,

 Using Qur’anic vocabulary, Nursi notes how natural causes are “lifeless, ignorant, aggressive, unconscious, chaotic, blind and deaf,” and they become messier as an “innumerable” quantity of them mix with one another. For a more detailed analysis of Ghazālī and Nursi on natural causality, see Yazicioglu 2013a, pp. 22–42 and 135–147. 5

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God’s custom or habit of creation. A believer then needs to follow these protocols out of his submission to the Creator. I should water my garden, with the awareness that it is God who gives life, not water, and that by watering them I am obeying sunnatullah, or in Nursi’s terms sharia al-kubra, the Greater Laws of God in the universe. A question comes up here is: if God creates everything, what do we make of the creation of evil?

4.4 Theodicy and Tawhid And Lo! Thy Sustainer said unto the angels: “Behold, I am about to establish upon earth a vicegerent.” They said: “Wilt Thou place on it such as will spread corruption thereon and shed blood—whereas it is we who extol Thy limitless glory, and praise Thee, and hallow Thy name?” [God] answered: “Verily, I know that which you do not know.” (Qur’an 2:30)

In response to the Qur’anic notion of tawhid (the unity of God) and that God is the causer of all causes, a question that is often raised is about evil. Indeed, some contemporary philosophers consider evil as a major challenge to monotheism. It seems as if while presence of some evil is understandable, “egregious evil” such as wars, genocide, and earthquakes, is unacceptable. In this account, God seems culpable for creating and allowing horrendous evils. While a detailed discussion about evil is beyond the scope of this essay, let us note some scaffolding for a proper treatment of the question from a Qur’anic perspective. An important starting point in answering this question is to note the source of our frustration and disgust at evil. I am deeply troubled by evil. These feelings in fact come to me and flood me beyond my control and often despite my wishes. If I am not the source, where do they come from? These feelings are not my creation, they are given to me by my Creator. Therefore, I cannot naively accuse the one who gave me this intense compassion for not being compassionate enough. Rather, I should humbly ask about its meaning and the wisdom behind the creation of evil at which I am made to be disgusted.6 Perhaps another point to keep in mind regarding terrible evil is the relativity of evil. To be sure, deaths in horrific wars and earthquakes are—rightly so—much more disturbing than occasional homicides. Nevertheless, if we lived in a world without any of the former, would we not consider occasional homicide as egregious evil since it would be the worst thing we would know? If it were a world without any homicide whatsoever, we would consider illnesses as the greatest evil. And, if this world had no illness, I would find the scratches on my innocent toddler’s knee as terrible. In each case, I would ask the same question: why this most horrible evil rather than something lesser? The “question of evil,” is therefore essentially a question about why anything other than perfect and beautiful is allowed in this creation. Is God evil for creating the evil in the world? Not necessarily.

 I would like to thank Yamina Bougueneya and Ali Mermer for explaining this crucial point.

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Islamic theology offers an insightful distinction between the creation of evil and the earning or acquisition of evil. As an example, let us say I spoke harshly at my elderly mother and broke her heart. This evil event is created by God: God creates my speech and voice and makes the sound waves reach my mother’s ears, enables her to process and understand my insult, and so on. So, God is the creator of this evil situation, yet God is not evil for creating it. Rather, I have earned evil by my choice of action. For God created it for good purposes. That is, God allows me freedom to choose what to say and He sustains laws in nature consistently (in voice production, sound waves, etc.) for overall beautiful results, such as manifestation of goodness through contrast. Besides, depending on how my mom chooses to respond, good can come out of this evil as well. It may be that my mean behaviour becomes a means for spiritual breakthrough where she stops placing her hopes in me and instead turns to the eternal source of love, and so on. Because it is meant to achieve such larger good results, God’s creation of events according to our choices is not evil. However, as someone who chose to treat my mom rudely, I am responsible for my choice.7 I cannot take any credit for good results happening through my wrong choice. Rather, I am at fault for my selfish intention and for refusing to act kindly, thereby going against my God-given nature or fitra, against divine command to honor my parents, and so on. Thus, I am culpable, and what I acquire is evil, even though I did not create the evil event, but God did (Nursi, 2004, p. 487).8 That is why, the Qur’an notes, whenever people commit evil, they are actually only oppressing their own souls (e.g., 3:137). Hence, God’s creation of evil (khalq al-sharr) is not evil, while human acquisition of evil (kasb al-sharr) is evil (Taftazani, 1950, pp. 86–87; Nursi, 2004, pp. 477–478). Furthermore, Islamic theology makes a distinction between God’s will and pleasure. No event takes place without God’s will and power, and yet God does not approve all events (Taftazani, 1950, p. 87). To offer an analogy, a publisher may publish an author’s article without agreeing with all that is expressed therein. Without the publisher’s consent and power, not a single word will be published, and yet that does not mean the publisher is “pleased” with every single word in the article. Rather, they are publishing it for larger purposes of supporting further discussion, and so on.9 Similarly, God creates the results of our evil choices for a larger purpose, and hence while he creates and wills those evil results, He is not “pleased” with them. In the Qur’an, when God announces to the angels that He is about to create a vicegerent on earth, angels ask: “Will thou place therein who will spread corruption thereon and shed blood? Whereas it is we who extol Thy limitless glory,” God says in response, “I know what you don’t know” (Q. 2:30). Note the silence here: angels are not told that human beings will not make mischief on earth. Rather, the text implies that the human being is worth creating despite such evil potential for a  In mainstream Islamic theology, while a human being freely chooses, God creates the consequences of that choice. See Yazicioglu 2017, pp. 129–133. 8  For a detailed discussion of evil and human choices, see Yazicioglu 2017, pp. 137–138. Nursi 2004, 477–495. 9  I am thankful to Dr. Ali Mermer for sharing this analogy. 7

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purpose yet unknown to the angels. The next verse announces, “And God taught Adam all the names” (Q. 2:31). The spiritual tradition consistently read the names as referring to the Beautiful Names of God, such as the All-Merciful, All-Powerful, All-Wise, All-Knowing, Sustainer, Nurturer, Life-giver, and so on (e.g. Rumi, 1961, p.  13; Ibn al-‘Arabi, 1998, pp.  153–154). Humanity has been given the unique capacity to know and represent all the names of God. In the next Qur’anic scene, due to this capacity that even angels lack, angels are told to bow down before Adam, signaling human beings potential to go higher than angels (Q. 2:31). That is why Nursi, like many other Muslim sages and theologians, does not consider Adam’s fall from paradise into a world filled with challenges, contrasts of good and evil, and temptations as bad. Freewill and temptations are so that human potential can flourish. Thus, for Nursi, “Adam’s deployment from Paradise to earth meant that humanity’s spiritual progress could now unfold fully. The exit from Paradise revealed humankind’s potentialities. Through such assignment, human being was given the opportunity to become a comprehensive mirror to all the Beautiful Names of God” (Nursi, 1994, p. 62). In this context, even the creation of Satan is not evil. In fact, the whole universe was created to manifest the Beautiful Names of God, and human beings have the potential to manifest them consciously, or to refuse to do so, to make mischief, and to fall to the “lowest of the low” (Nursi, 2004, p. 133).10 In order for Eternal Beauty to manifest, contrasts and challenges are placed on earth. Sicknesses are there so that beauty of healing, for instance, can manifest; a variety of ugliness is present on earth so that degrees of beauty can be perceived, and so on. The famous classical Muslim sage Mawlana Muhammad Jalaladdin Rumi offers an interesting metaphor here: a baker would not want people to suffer hunger, and yet he wants them to be hungry so that he can feed them his bread. For people to be able to enjoy the baked goods and for the skills of baker to manifest, hunger is needed (Schimmel, 1992, p. 72). Similarly, Nursi notes, “God Almighty, in order to display His infinite power and unlimited mercy, has made inherent in man infinite weakness and unlimited want.” And, “in order to display the endless embroideries of His Names,” such as the Merciful, Helper, Healer, Sustainer, Just, Powerful, Provider, and so on, the Creator has designed human being as “capable of receiving unlimited varieties of pain, as well as infinite varieties of pleasure.” Thus, the human being becomes “a declaration of the Divine Names; and becomes himself an ode to the glory of God” which fulfils his calling in this world and rewarded infinitely in this world and the next (Nursi, 1995, p. 28). Nursi offers another metaphor, that of a great tailor who hires a poor man as his model so as to display on him the wonderful art of dressmaking. The tailor swiftly dresses the model with a beautiful garment and then starts to change the dress to display other beautiful styles. In this situation, asks Nursi, does the model have the right to complain by saying, “why are you changing my beautiful garment and

10

 This idea is also emphasized in Islamic spirituality (Schimmel, 1992, pp. 74–79).

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giving me discomfort by making me stand up and sit down?” (Nursi, 1995, p. 269). Surely, he does not. Similarly, in order to display the embroideries of His Most Beautiful Names, the All-Glorious Maker alters the garment of your body with which He has clothed you, bejewelled as it is with luminous faculties like the eye, the ear, the reason, and the heart. He makes you revolve amid numerous states and changes you in many situations. Like you learn of His Name of Provider through hunger, come to know also His Name of Healer through your illness. Since suffering and calamities show the decrees of some of His Names, within those flashes of wisdom and rays of mercy are many instances of good to be found. If the veil of illness, which you fear and loathe, was to be lifted, behind it you would find many agreeable and beautiful meanings. (Nursi, 1995, p. 269, italics added)

Indeed, Nursi suggests, “since life displays [manifestations] of the Most Beautiful Names, everything that happens to it is good.”11 Another factor to keep in mind regarding evil is that it is partly a result of order that the Creator maintains in the world. Like other Muslim scholars, Nursi regards the “laws of nature” as manifestations of divine will and power (as will be discussed later). This divine blueprint for the world will not be changed according to any individual’s personal requests or whims. Rather, these universal laws are maintained for universal good and overall beautiful results. In Nursi’s words: Whatever good, beauty, and bounty there are, they come directly from the treasury of mercy of that Absolutely Beautiful and Compassionate One, and from His particular bestowal. Evils and calamities, on the other hand, are occasional results out of the many results of the general, universal laws which are called ‘adatullah [God’s habits] and represent His universal will. (Nursi, 2002, p. 40)

That is, as a result of maintaining such order, there will be some harm in particular circumstances and individuals. For instance, law of gravity will be maintained even when I drop my phone from the balcony, the stove on which I cook my food will burn my finger if I put my hand on it, a rain storm will not be “canceled” so that my roof will not leak, and so on. Rather, “in order to preserve and maintain the laws, which are the means to universal benefits,” the Creator creates such particular evils and calamities. Not to have such regularities in nature so as not to have anyone suffer would be a greater harm. It is for divine wisdom, beauty, and goodness to manifest that a stable order is maintained in the universe (Nursi 2002, p. 40). Even things like storms and earthquakes have greater benefits and wise purposes: “Many spiritual flowers blossom secretly under the veil of storms, earthquakes, plagues. Many seeds of potentials flourish through apparently ugly events” (Nursi 2004, p. 241). For instance, due to these calamities, the “seeds” in human beings, such as integrity, courage, compassion, and justice get the opportunity to flourish and become a means of manifesting beautiful names of God. It would be unreasonable to demand

 It is worth noting here that Nursi faced much hardship and persecution in life. He experienced horrors of the World War I, lived much of his life in humble conditions, and was imprisoned under harsh circumstances for decades. Moreover, he was someone who frequently wept about suffering and death of human beings and animals. For an excellent and more detailed treatment of the theodicy in Nursi’s works, see Mermer 2004. See also Yazicioglu 2004. 11

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that these universal laws not be maintained and calamities not occur so that no particular evil takes place. At the same time, Nursi notes, human beings can still seek refuge in God from such, as we shall see in the last section. Perhaps the biggest evil from human perspective is transience. Even if she peacefully dies in her sleep, death of a loved one deeply hurts us. In fact, the death of our loved ones (as well as our own death) disturbs us even before we lose them, because we know that it is imminent. As countless people across cultures and centuries have noted, separation from and death of beloveds are deeply troubling. How to heal our wounds of transience? Interestingly, the Qur’anic miracle stories can also offer cues for them.

4.5 Qur’anic Miracle Stories and Solving Transience As discussed above, Qur’anic miracle stories invite the reader to reinterpret natural order and natural causality as signs of the Transcendent. Now, we may ask, what difference does this shift in perception make? Superficially nothing seems to change: I still need to water my yard regardless of whether I realize that water is merely a means through which God gives life. What difference does the shift from naturalism to tawhid make for me? The difference is between receiving a gift versus stumbling on something. Therein lies the solution to the problem of transience. There is a difference between receiving something—say, a box of chocolate—as a gift as opposed to stumbling upon it. Initially it looks like I end up getting the same item. Yet, when I receive it as a gift from an important person, I gain more than just the chocolate. I also receive honor and compliment. While the chocolate finishes upon consumption, the compliment I received through it remains. In contrast, when I stumble upon it, all I have is a box of chocolate, as soon as I eat it, it is gone (Nursi, 2004, p. 671).12 Similarly, if we go through life benefitting from the world without acknowledging the source of life and power, all we have is some passing benefit. Transience still haunts us. The natural causes and laws of nature that we invoke, being impersonal and ignorant, neither care about nor can solve our problem of transience. Even if all is “well” at the moment, it is not secure; I can be sick or dead at any other moment. In fact, unless we distract ourselves, life becomes a constant reminder of our helplessness before finitude (Nursi, 2004, pp. 27–28). In contrast, the Qur’an invites the reader to see the things as a gift from the Eternal One who brought us to this temporary guesthouse as a precursor to the eternal life. We receive our loved ones (and harvest, health, safety, stability, etc.) from the Creator, with “causes” being merely conduits. Moreover, not only life but also death, withering away, sickness, and sadness all point to the source of power and beauty, the Eternal Life. If things never failed us or departed, we would not be able

 Nursi gives the example of receiving an apple from the king (rather than chocolate from an important person). 12

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to see that the source of power and beauty is elsewhere. In their coming and going, in flourishing and death, the creatures reveal an enduring source beyond them (Nursi, 1995, p. 29). In other words, seeing the signs of a Creator in the so-called “causal world” is not simply discovering that there is some transcendent power out there that makes things happen. Rather, it is about finding that the source of wisdom, life, power, and beauty is an eternal and enduring being. As Nursi puts it, “The beauty, munificence, kindness and perfection that you adore in your beloveds are but faint shadows of the manifestation of the eternal beauty of the Eternal Beloved. So, do not be hurt by their passing. For, they are like mirrors to the One. The changing of mirrors only refreshes and enhances the radiance of the manifestation of His beauty. And since He exists, everything exists” (Nursi, 2021, 61). Similarly, in his commentary on Qur’an 18:7–8 Nursi notes, “The world is a book of the Eternally Besought One [al-ṣamad]. Its letters and words point not to themselves but to the essence, attributes and Names of another. In which case, grasp its meaning and take it, and leave the inscriptions and go [onto the eternal life]!” (Nursi, 1995, p. 221).13 In short, Qur’anic miracle stories, in so far as they interrupt our smug familiarity with the world and call us to see the world as signs pointing to enduring qualities of the One, highlight this solution to transience. Another implication of Qur’anic miracles is to show that the natural order is not absolute. In what follows we look first at how that is so and then at how it can be a realization with precious existential fruits.

4.6 A Flexible Universe: Miracles Stories and Divine Freedom And it is God who has created all animals out of water; and [He has willed that] among them are such as crawl on their bellies, and such as walk on two legs, and such as walk on four. God creates what He will: for, verily, God has the power to will anything. (Qur’an, 24:45)

It is a popular view—both in general public and among some philosophers—that laws of nature explain natural phenomena. It is even said that the laws of nature replace the need to refer to an unseen creator; it rains because of the law of condensation, things fall because of the law of gravity, water moves because of the law of osmosis, and so on. It is also a common contention that these laws of nature cannot be broken. Qur’anic miracle stories challenge such beliefs. Commenting on the Qur’anic story of the virgin birth, Nursi notes that the assumption that natural laws, including the “law of reproduction,” can never be broken is unfounded: “There is no law that has no exceptions and from which no individuals are exempt” (Nursi, 1995, p. 62). What scientists call “laws of nature” are actually “universal manifestations”  The Qur’anic verse reads: “Behold, We have willed that all beauty on earth be a means by which We put men to a test, [showing] which of them are best in conduct; and, verily, [in time] We shall reduce all that is on it to barren dust!” (18:8–9). 13

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of divine will and command, and they may be “breached” in exceptional situations if divine wisdom sees fit (Nursi, 1995, p. 62). In order to understand Nursi’s point here, let us first note why laws of nature do not obviate the need for a creator. Contrary to popular opinion, laws of nature do not have any agency because they are simply theoretical constructs that describe—or attempt to describe—the regularities observed in nature; they do not cause those regularities (Mermer, 1996, p. 244). As an analogy, consider the case of a mother who has a consistent habit of making pancakes every Sunday morning. Her son notices the regularity and aptly describes the situation by coining the “Sunday Pancake Law.” He may say, “There is a ‘Sunday Pancake Law’ in our house, so there will be pancakes for breakfast tomorrow morning.” That is a helpful description, and his prediction is accurate. He cannot, however, talk of a “Sunday Pancake Law” independent of the mother’s agency; such a law has no efficacy on its own. If he were to suggest that the “Sunday Pancake Law” makes the pancakes, it would be illogical. If he claimed that “since I have discovered the ‘Sunday Pancake Law,’ I do not need to thank mom for the pancakes anymore,” it would be ridiculous. Similarly, laws of nature are descriptions of what is consistently happening in the world; they do not cause them. As Peirce puts it, “no law of nature makes a stone fall, or a Leyden jar to discharge, or a steam engine to work” (Peirce, 1965, 5.48, 1903).14 Indeed, “let a law of nature—say the law of gravitation—remain a mere uniformity—a mere formula establishing a relation between terms—and what in the world should induce a stone, which is not a term nor a concept but just a plain thing, to act in conformity to that uniformity?” (Ibid., italics added). Peirce offers another helpful metaphor: “a law of nature left to itself would be quite analogous to a court without a sheriff” (Ibid.). The court may have the best verdict but the verdict will have no outcome unless it is enforced by an agent, such as a sheriff. Similarly, the laws of nature—or laws of physics and chemistry—are our descriptions of the regularities with which the world is governed. Such formulations describe what is expected to happen, and thus may be helpful for us in making predictions, but they do not act as agents that make things happen.15 Rather, the regularity is a sign that things are not happening randomly and that there must be a wise agent sustaining the order. Moreover, laws of nature can have exceptions. Going back to our “Sunday Pancake Law” analogy, simply by looking at her consistent practice, the child may not infer that the mother has to make pancakes every Sunday. Similarly, we cannot

 Unless otherwise noted, all quotations from Peirce are from the online Past Masters text, The Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce, which is drawn from The Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce. Following scholarly convention, I note the volume number and the paragraph number. The dating of the texts is also gathered from this source, and all italics are from the original unless otherwise noted. 15  It is noteworthy that the minority of contemporary scholars who claim that laws of nature do have agency (such as Nancy Cartwright) acknowledge that such a view only makes sense if there is a divine agent. Otherwise, we would have to explain how come “mindless bits of matter behave in a consistent and coordinated way” (Frederick, 2013, p. 269). 14

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infer from the regularities we observe in nature that the one who is responsible for them cannot ever make exceptions to the way he creates. On the contrary, Qur’anic miracle stories invite us to see that laws of nature are not absolute and are instead dependent on divine will and power. On his commentary on the virgin birth of Jesus, Nursi notes that the diversity in nature is an indication that what we consider as immutable law can have exceptions. Many creatures multiply without having two parents. Besides, it must be that “this law of reproduction” was breached at the beginning of each species (Nursi, 1995, p. 63). In order to appreciate Nursi’s point here, it will be helpful to look at Peirce’s criticism of necessitarianism. Peirce argued that given the variety in the world, it is unreasonable to deem any natural law as absolute and without exception. Writing at the end of nineteenth century in America, a time in which determinism was highly popular in intellectual and scientific circles (decades before indeterminism was discovered in quantum physics), Peirce offered strong reasons to reject determinism or necessitarianism. To be clear, like Nursi, Peirce agrees that the regularities we observe in nature are real and very stable. Both agree that it is the very order of nature that enables us to develop science and make predictions (hence neither Nursi nor Peirce are nominalists). At the same time, Peirce recognized that the laws of nature or “uniformities” in nature are “never absolutely exact” (Peirce, 1965 6.91, 1903). By appealing to “the evidence of the actual phenomena in laboratories and fields,” Peirce showed that there was “not the slightest scientific evidence for determinism and that in fact there was considerable scientific evidence against it” (Corrington, 1993, p. 174). The facts of growth, diversity, and consciousness observable in the world show that the regularities in nature cannot be absolute. After all, “mechanical law . . . can never produce diversification. That is a mathematical truth—a proposition of analytical mechanics; and anybody can see without any algebraical apparatus that mechanical law out of like antecedents can only produce like consequents” (Peirce, 1965 1.174, ca. 1897).16 Indeed, “it is not of the nature of uniformity to originate variation, nor of law to beget circumstance. When we gaze upon the multifariousness of nature we are looking straight into the face of a living spontaneity” (Peirce, 1965 6.553, 1893). As an alternative to necessitarianism, Peirce proposes the principle of tychism, according to which there is an element of “real chance” or freedom in nature that makes room for growth, variety, spontaneity of feeling, and freewill (Peirce, 1965 6.64, 1892). That there is room for real chance in the world does not mean that some things happen haphazardly on their own without any cause whatsoever. Rather, real chance means that there are events in nature that simply are not tied to a natural cause or a law, things that are essentially unpredictable from our human perspective (even if we could know all the regularities in nature and add up everything that had happened up to that moment). As Nursi would note, these events are inherently unpredictable for us because it is dependent on the freewill of the Other—the Creator. That is why it makes sense for Peirce to describe these real chance events

 Similarly, necessitarianism cannot account for growth in nature, because growth is an irreversible process (Peirce, 1965 6.72, 1898). 16

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as “a ceaseless torrent of miracles, that is to say, of events absolutely uncaused except by the creative act of God” (Peirce, quoted in Turley, 1975, p. 718, italics added).17 For Nursi, such indeterminism, spontaneity, and inherent unpredictability in creation is an expression of special divine will (irada makhsūsa). It shows that while God creates through natural causes and maintains regular patterns in the universe, He is also not bound by them and has free choice. Peirce is reminiscent of Nursi’s view when he suggests that the diversity in nature indicates God: “The manifold diversity or specificalness, in general, which we see whenever and wherever we open our eyes, constitutes its liveliness, or vivacity. The perception of it is a direct, though darkling, perception of God” (Peirce, 1965 6. 613, 1893). As Nursi puts it: The All-Powerful and All-Knowing One (al-qadīr al-ʿalīm), the All-Wise Maker (al-ṣāni‘al-­ ḥakīm), shows His power and His wisdom and that chance can in no way interfere in His works through the order and regularity with which he governs the world. Such order and regularity manifests in the form of laws [in nature.] At the same time, through exceptions to the laws, the breaks in established patterns [or miracles], changes in appearances, differences in individual characteristics, and changes in the emergence [of blessings], He shows His volition, will, choice, and that He is an agent with choice, and He is under no restrictions whatsoever. (Nursi, 2004, p. 217, italics added)

As examples of such indeterminism in nature (and in light of the Qur’anic verse known as “verse of five unknowns” (31:34)), Nursi reflects on the weather patterns and individuality of human beings, including the uniqueness of their faces. While fundamental features shared across all human faces signify that there is one purposeful and wise maker of them all, the individuality of each face show the will and choice of the maker. The former is regular and predictable; when a fetus is in the womb, we can quite precisely predict its regular features. And yet unique and irregular details remain unpredictable until their symptoms start appearing (Nursi, 1995, pp. 151–154). Qur’anic miracle stories, therefore, invite us to notice the room for spontaneity and flexibility in the world and thereby freedom of the Creator. Now, what difference can that make for a believer’s life? In the next section, we shall see how seeing the signs of Divine will in the world has precious existential implications: it affirms human freedom and personal connection to the One.

4.7 Divine Will, Prayer, and Human Freedom God’s alone is the dominion over the heavens and the earth. He creates whatever He wills: He bestows the gift of female offspring on whomever He wills, and the gift of male offspring on whomever He wills. (Qur’an 42:49)

 As I discussed elsewhere, according to Peirce, miracle stories signify this spontaneity in nature and to be open minded so as to discover new possibilities in nature (Yazicioglu, 2013a, pp. 104–119). 17

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Behold, I am near; I respond to the call of him who calls, whenever he calls unto Me. Let them, then, respond unto Me, and believe in Me, so that they might follow the right way. (Qur’an 2:186)

Imagine you are at a crossroads and nothing at all pushes you toward either path. You pick one of them, without being led by an outside or inner condition, reason or force. This is what it means to have freewill. A contemporary thinker, Ruth Chang, shows that it is the moments of hard choices, where alternatives before us are “on a par” and we run out of reasons to pick one over the other, that we have most opportunity to recognize our freewill. She suggests that “far from being sources of agony and dread, hard choices are precious opportunities for us to celebrate what is special about the human condition,” which is our capacity to choose without reasons and to make up our reasons afterwards (Chang, 2004, italics added). Similarly, in mainstream Islamic theology “choosing without a reason or determinant” (tarjih bilā tarajjuh) is possible and is the very function of the will (Ghazali, 2000, pp. 22–24).18 Qur’anic miracle stories invite us to notice the signs of divine freedom in nature. A precious implication of God’s freedom is our freedom. God is free to give us choice and take into consideration our individual choices in creating the events. In other words, if the laws of nature are not absolute and there is room for spontaneity, it means that our future is not predetermined by what has expired in our past (Peirce, 1965 6.61, 1892). From the perspective of tawhid, human freedom is possible because causes do not create or necessitate their results. It is the Creator that creates results under certain circumstances. Our freewill is possible because the Creator chooses to give human beings free choice and takes their choice into account when creating the result. It is as if God is saying to the human being: “I do not have to create any particular result. I am giving you a choice here. I will create the results according to your choice.” As Nursi puts it, “the Almighty God, the Most Just of All Judges, makes the [limited] will of His utterly weak servant a simple condition for His all-comprehensive will” (Nursi, 2002, p. 206). In addition to the gift of freewill, the good news implicit in miracle stories is that a human being can call upon God in any circumstance. According to Nursi, God’s sustaining of laws in nature does not mean that there is no room for special help or ‘customization.’ As miracle stories remind, God is not restricted by the universal laws that he decreed for this world. Rather, “within those universal and general principles” the Creator has “special favours, special succour, special manifestations, so that everything may seek help from Him and look to Him at all times for

 Here, Ghazali is arguing against Aristotelian Muslim philosophers who thought that it would not be possible to make a choice without any reasons. Ghazali’s view represents the mainstream/ majority view in Islamic theology, according to which ability to choose without reasons is precisely the function of freewill (Ghazali, 2000, pp. 22–24; see also Nursi, 2004, p. 482). Here, the point is not that a free agent acts capriciously or does not display wisdom in their choices. Rather, the point is that will is a function that cannot be reduced to knowledge, wisdom, or power. For a summary of the discussion of God’s will and wisdom in Islamic theology, see Yazicioglu 2021, pp. 234–235. 18

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every need” (Nursi, 2004, pp. 684–685, italics added). A believer, therefore, is to inhabit a space that combines surrender and hope. To surrender to the Creator is to recognize that the regularities in the world and their specific results all happen due to divine will, power, and wisdom, even though their wisdom may at times escape our understanding. Surrender also includes working within the laws God sustains in the universe. When I water my garden with the awareness that it is a means through which the Creator gives life, my act is an act of worship. In contrast, if I were to say “O God, I will skip watering them because I know you do not need anything—not even water—to give life,” I am being disrespectful to God’s wisdom of arranging so-called “causes” and effects in an order. Instead, I should surrender to the fact that God chooses to create life with water in this world. Indeed, as noted earlier, for Nursi complying with the Greater Law with such surrender is an act of worship, just as it is an act of worship to follow the commandments of the sacred law or sharia al-sughra. That is why, Nursi suggests, Prophet Muhammad lived an ordinary life for the most part, because he was to set an example of worshipfully obeying laws of God in the universe (Yazicioglu, 2013a, pp. 144–145). Along with this surrender, there is always room for hope for new possibilities and unique assistance. Since every single event is directly related to the Creator and the Creator has freewill, a believer may ask for (and can receive) special help and “customized” support in any circumstance. As Nursi puts it, “to individuals who are crying out due to the constriction of the universal laws, the Most Merciful and Compassionate can aid with special support and particular help; can rescue each destitute. He offers relief to their plights” (Nursi, 1996, vol. 2, p. 1655). This crying out to God in hope is not an addition to surrender to God, but embedded in it. When a believer cries out and requests a particular outcome, he also surrenders to the Creator, who knows better what is best for him. Thus, Nursi adds, “However, the Most Merciful does not assist them according to their whims but for their genuine help. Sometimes, in response to their request of a glass in this world, [God] grants them a diamond in the next world” (Nursi, 1996, vol. 2, p. 1655). I might be asking for a temporary solution, whereas He may grant me a solution with everlasting blessings. Regardless of what I may get in response to my sincere prayer, what matters is that my prayer is always heard and attended to with compassion and wisdom by the One who has control over everything (Nursi, 1994, p. 357).19

 According to Nursi, obeying God’s laws in nature and bringing together natural causes to obtain a result is also a form of supplication or prayer to God (Nursi, 1994, pp. 353–357). 19

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4.8 Conclusion Qur’anic miracle stories startle us. Being shocked and interrupted can sometimes be a good thing. Read within the larger Qur’anic discourse, miracle narratives turn out to be invitations to clear the blinds of familiarity and discover signs of tawhid and the Beautiful Names of God in the ordinary. They also invite us to recognize the freedom of the Creator. The existential implications of such shifts in perception can be immense. First, it can heal our wounds of transience by inviting us to see the Enduring Source of this world and to reveal life after death. Moreover, seeing the world as bearing the signs of the One who sustains the world in both regularity and uniqueness enables us to receive the world as a gift in gratitude. Second, seeing the world as pointing to the source of all power and beauty can help us realize the meaning of evil in the world. (After all, as Nietzsche noted, what really hurts is not suffering itself but the “meaninglessness” of suffering). Third, miracle stories encourage us to realize that we are directly connected to the One, who enables our freewill and attends to us at all times. Hence, we are not insignificant creatures whose faint attempts of hope are overridden by the impersonal machinery of natural laws. Rather, human beings are the dignified guests of the Creator of All and can turn to Him at any time. Such are some of the potentials lurking in Qur’anic miracle stories. Lest the reader think we have come too far away from their plain sense, let us end with a passage from the Qur’an that invokes hope in the midst of a miracle story. Surprised at the miraculous news that he will have a child in old age, Abraham asks “‘Do you give me this glad tiding despite the fact that old age has overtaken me? Of what [strange thing], then, are you giving me a tiding!’ They [the angels] answered: ‘We have given thee the glad tiding of something that is bound to come true—so be not of those who abandon hope!’ [Abraham] exclaimed: ‘And who—other than those who have utterly lost their way—could ever abandon the hope of his Sustainer’s mercy?’” (Qur’an 15:55–56).

References Al-Ghazālī, A. H. (2000). The incoherence of the philosophers (2nd ed., Trans. M. E. Marmura). Brigham Young University Press. Al-Ghazālī, A. H. (2001). Faith in divine unity and trust in divine providence (= Kitab al-­tawhid waʼl-tawakkul: book XXXV of The revival of the religious sciences = Ihyaʼ ʻulum al-din) (Trans. D. Burrell). Fons Vitae. Asad, M. (Trans.). (1984). The message of the Qur’an. Dar al-Andalus. Chang, R. (2004, May). How to make hard choices [video]. In TED conferences. https://www.ted. com/talks/ruth_chang_how_to_make_hard_choices Corrington, R. S. (1993). An introduction to C. S. Peirce. Rowman & Littlefield. Frederick, D. (2013). A puzzle about natural laws and the existence of god. International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, 73(3), 269–283. Ibn al-‘Arabi. (1998). The self-disclosure of God: Principles of Ibn al-‘Arabi’s cosmology (Trans. W. C. Chittick). State University of New York Press.

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Mermer, Y. B. (1996). Induction, science, and causation: Some critical reflections. Islamic Studies, 35(3), 243–282. Mermer, Y.  B. (2004). Bediuzzaman Said Nursi’s scriptural approach to the problem of evil. The Journal of Scriptural Reasoning, 4(1) http://jsr.shanti. v i r g i n i a . e d u / b a c k -­i s s u e s / v o l -­4 -­n o -­1 -­j u l y -­2 0 0 4 -­t h e -­w i s d o m -­o f -­j o b / bediuzzaman-­said-­nursis-­scriptural-­approach-­to-­the-­problem-­of-­evil/ Mermer, Y.  B., & Yazicioglu, I. (2017). Said Nursi’s Qur’anic hermeneutics. In I.  Markham & Z. Sayilgan (Eds.), The companion to Said Nursi studies (pp. 51–66). Pickwick Publications. Needleman, J. (1976). A sense of the cosmos. E. P. Dutton. Nursi, B.  S. (1994). The letters: From the Risale-i Nur collection (Trans. Ş. Vahide). Sozler Nesriyat. Nursi, B.  S. (1995). The flashes: From the Risale-i Nur collection (Trans. Ş. Vahide). Sözler Nesriyat. Nursi, B. S. (1996). Risale-i Nur Külliyatı (Vols. 1–2). Yeni Asya Yayinlari. Nursi, B. S. (2002). The rays: From the Risale-i Nur collection (Trans. Ş. Vahide). Sozler Nesriyat. Nursi, B.  S. (2004). The words: From the Risale-i Nur collection (Trans. Ş. Vahide). Sözler Neşriyat. Nursi, B.  S. (2021). Living the Qur’an with joy and purpose: Selections on Tawhid from Said Nursi’s epistles of light (Trans. Y. Bouguenaya & I. Yazicioglu). Gorgias Press. Peirce, C. (1965). The collected papers of Charles Sanders Peirce (8 vols, Eds. C. Hartshorne, P. Weiss, & A. W. Burks). Harvard University Press. Online edition available from Intelex Past Masters. Polkinghorne, J. (2000). Faith, science and understanding. Yale University Press. Rahman, F. (1999). Major themes of the Qurʾan (2nd ed.). Islamic Book Trust. Rumi, M. M. J. A. -D. (1961). Discourses of Rumi (Trans. A. J. Arberry). John Murray. Rumi, M. M. J. A.-D. (2013). The Mathnawi of Jalalu’ddin Rumi (4 vols, Trans. R. A. Nicholson). Gibb Memorial Trust. Schimmel, A. (1992). I am wind, you are fire: The life and work of Rumi. Shambala. Taftazani, S. (1950). A commentary on the creed of Islam: Sa‘d al-din al-Taftazani on the creed of Najm al-din al Nasafi (Trans. E. Edgar Elder). Columbia University Press. Turley, P. (1975). Peirce’s cosmic ‘sheriff’. Journal of the History of Ideas, 36(4), 717–720. Yazicioglu, I. (2004). Affliction, patience and prayer: Reading job (p) in the Qur’an. The Journal of Scriptural Reasoning, 4(1) http://jsr.shanti.virginia.edu/back-­issues/vol-­4-­no-­1-­july-­2004-­the-­ wisdom-­of-­job/affliction-­patience-­and-­prayer-­reading-­job-­p-­in-­the-­quran/ Yazicioglu, I. (2013a). Understanding the Qur’anic miracle stories in the modern age. The Pennsylvania State University Press. Yazicioglu, I. (2013b). Perhaps their harmony is not that simple: Said Nursi on the Qur’an and modern science. Theology and Science, 11(4), 339–355. Yazicioglu, I. (2017). A graceful reconciliation: Said Nursi on free will and destiny. In I. Markham & Z. Sayilgan (Eds.), The companion to said Nursi studies (pp. 129–145). Pickwick Publications. Yazicioglu, I. (2021). Wisdom in the Qur’an and the Islamic tradition. In W.  Kynes (Ed.), The Oxford handbook of wisdom and the bible (pp. 221–240). Oxford University Press. https://doi. org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780190661267.013.14

Chapter 5

Expecting the Unexpected: Pentecostal Miracles as Performance, Production, and Placeholder Devaka Premawardhana

Abstract  Pentecostalism is currently the fastest growing segment of Christianity. It is also arguably the one most suffused with the miraculous. Pentecostals speak in tongues, experience divine healings, exorcise demons, pray for material blessings, and prophesy. This chapter introduces the history of Pentecostalism and describes its extraordinary capacity for the extraordinary, its openness to novelty and surprise. It also lays out analytical paths and possibilities for the study of Pentecostal miracles. These have ranged from reductive approaches that dwell on underlying meanings and social forces to more experience-near accounts of the performativity and productivity of material practices. Ultimately, this chapter contends that the most valuable analytical use to which one can put Pentecostal miracles is a negative one—that of exposing the limits of reason, of knowledge, and of analysis itself.

5.1 Introduction The lights were low and the sound system high. Speakers mounted throughout the hall emitted a deep, booming bass tone, somewhat ominous but also enthralling— generative of a sense among the dozens of us gathered that the extraordinary was imminent. Everyone was on their feet, most bodies swaying if not shaking, some on the ground convulsing. Eyes were closed but mouths were open, moaning or shouting demands (“Out, Satan!” “Heal me, Jesus!”). Jumbles of syllables echoed in rapid succession. All the elements of contemporary Pentecostal Christianity— divine blessings, health and wealth, tongue-speaking, deliverance, prophecy—manifested here in the climactic final segment of a two-hour Sunday service. But through it all, tongue-­speaking carried on. God was felt to be intimately present, not just in the hall but on the lips and in the bones of those gathered—bringing healing and D. Premawardhana (*) Emory University, Atlanta, GA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_5

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giving voice to everyone who came for, and knew they were in for, a miracle. The pastor concluded his final prayer, still yelling, “And may the evil spirits leave and never return! Amen!” The lights flipped back on and the noise died down. Awe and wonder gave way to the mundane. As we collected our things to leave, the pastor added a parting reminder: “Don’t forget to come back Wednesday at six.” It was not unusual to hear such a reminder, but it struck me as ironic, humorous even, following so soon on his exhortation that evil spirits leave and never return. Why come back Wednesday if the evil was now and permanently gone? It seemed that, as powerful as the experience of deliverance or exorcism was, no one was under the illusion that the pastor’s prayer would actually be answered, that evil spirits would be banished once and for all. In the Pentecostal outlook, damnation always follows on the heels of salvation; spiritual warfare is an ongoing affair. This could be referred to as Pentecostalism’s charisma paradox. About it anthropologist Mathijs Pelkmans writes: “While essential for generating temporary conviction, charisma is inherently instable. The amazement, the temporary fascination will necessarily wear off. If the charisma is not to evaporate completely, either new miracles need to occur, or the charismatic needs to be connected to more permanent structures” (Pelkmans 2015, p.  188). Such structures as a regular—in many churches, a daily—worship schedule, are precisely what preserve the amazement. Since miracles happen at every gathering, Max Weber’s distinction between the charismatic and the bureaucratic breaks down. The miraculous here is routine but not without routine also including the miraculous. A strong case can be made for defining Pentecostalism in terms of the miraculous. Pentecostals speak in tongues, issue prophecies, testify to the regularity of divine healings, and experience other “supernatural” interventions in their everyday lives. As Pentecostal philosopher James K.A. Smith puts it, “The world of pentecostal worship and spirituality replays what Bultmann dismissed as the ‘mythical’ world of the New Testament: a world of ‘signs and wonders,’ a space where the community expects the unexpected” (Smith 2010, p. 86; emphasis in the original). The reference to Protestant biblical scholar Rudolf Bultmann and his project of demythologization is apposite because even those Protestants who accept that miracles occurred in Biblical times rarely think of them as occurring in the present.1 The doctrine of cessationism is, however, not only absent among Pentecostals; it is also contrary to their most basic understanding—that the very real spiritual manifestations of the early first century became very real again around the late nineteenth (McClymond 2016, pp. 402–403). Of course, the historical record of Christianity is replete with miracle accounts, especially in the Catholic Church, but Pentecostalism  The question of present-day miracles is, in fact, what so much of the anti-Catholic polemics among Protestant reformers was about (Styers, 2004, pp. 36–38). An argument can be made, therefore, that Pentecostalism shares more in common with Catholicism—namely, a sacramental view of the everyday world—than it does with Protestantism; this despite other commonalities with evangelical Protestantism that lead it frequently to be placed within the Protestant fold (see Butticci, 2016, p. 7). 1

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intensified and standardized such manifestations, bringing them sharply into focus. The opportunity to witness, or at least hear people witness to, the kinds of miracles most Christians only read about in the Bible—Jesus healing the sick, exorcising demons, multiplying the staff of life, even raising the dead—is available to everyone within proximity of a Pentecostal church, which, in the contemporary world, means almost everyone. Historian Philip Jenkins attributes Pentecostalism’s exponential rise to Christianity’s revival of “a vision of Jesus as the embodiment of power, who overcomes evil forces that inflict calamity and sickness upon the human race” (Jenkins 2002, p. 54). It stands to reason, and the demographics of Pentecostalism bear this out, that such a view of the divine as ordinarily interventionist—as naturally supernatural—would appeal particularly to the poor, the marginalized, and the disenfranchised. Not unlike in the Gospels. It is also, then, no surprise that Pentecostalism’s expansion is most impressive in the Global South. The vignette with which I began this chapter is set in the southern African country of Mozambique, where I regularly conduct anthropological fieldwork, a country described recently by National Geographic as the planet’s third poorest nation (Bourne 2014, p. 71). But it is reminiscent of scenes scholars and journalists have documented in many of the most poverty-stricken corners of the world, where Pentecostalism has most rapidly been rising.2 And rapid, indeed, has its rise been, with over 600 million people currently associating with Pentecostal and Charismatic movements when the number was just one million in 1900 (Johnson, 2013). As much as anything, Pentecostalism stands as a counterpoint to once dominant assumptions about secularization, as irrefutable evidence for the resurgence of religion in a modernized, science-driven world. With Pentecostalism, writes anthropologist Birgit Meyer, “instead of secularization and disenchantment, we face religionization and reenchantment, suggesting an inversion of the Weber thesis” (Meyer, 2010, p. 115)—again, not just the routinization of charisma but the enchantment of routine. For a tradition so deeply predicated on miracles, the truth question looms large. Evidence from within Pentecostal worship services points to the reality of miracles. People not only testify to having prayers answered, bodies healed, relationships restored. They appear to experience such things; they certainly are moved by what is understood to be the indwelling Holy Spirit every time they speak in tongues. But skeptics abound, perhaps none more critical than other Christians—those of a more sober Bultmannian persuasion—who consider miracle claims not just empirically dubious but also ethically dangerous. But believers persist in testifying that blessings are real and that their lives are transformed. As a non-Pentecostal anthropologist who strives to study sympathetically practices and people deemed retrograde if not repugnant, my strategy over the years has  It would be overly simplistic to attribute Pentecostalism’s spread solely to economic deprivation and social dislocation; in many countries, including in the prosperous West, Pentecostalism attracts members across the socioeconomic spectrum. But it would be hard to overstate the appeal of the solutions—prosperity, health, dignity—that Pentecostal churches offer to life’s most pressing problems. 2

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been to deflect the question of whether miracles are or are not real. I am not the only anthropologist to duck and cover, the consequence being, as Pelkmans notes, that “[d]espite their centrality in Pentecostal churches, miracles have rarely featured as an analytical theme in studies of Pentecostalism” (Pelkmans, 2015, p. 178). This is not to suggest that questions about the reality of miracles cannot be raised; only that it is possible to inquire analytically into miracles without reference to, or resolution of, the ontological question. Much can still be said about Pentecostal miracles, and the intent of this essay is to present those analytical possibilities. Some I consider unhelpful and reductionist—those, in particular, that seek to make sense of Pentecostal miracles in terms of semantic meanings or explain them in terms of social forces. The more promising approaches account for the practices and the pragmatics of miracles—their real effects (Pentecostal miracles as performance) and the cultivation of an openness to them (Pentecostal miracles as production). Following Pelkmans, I argue that while empirical research, at least using currently available tools, cannot determine or decide whether miracles are divinely caused, “studying the production of miracle truth in relation to the effects and affects that miracles produce in the lives of believers is analytically productive” (Pelkmans, 2015, p. 190). Yet I take one step beyond by proposing an additional analytical possibility: one characterized, ironically, by the inadequacies of the analytical register. About Pentecostal miracles, I suggest, scholars working in a secular mode, such as myself, can speak not only positively about how a sense of the miraculous is produced and what effects miracles have in the world but also negatively about the limits of our naturalistic paradigm, the limits of science, even the limits of knowledge itself. The miraculous in Pentecostalism here functions as a placeholder, an indicator of an absence—of the place where (and the fact that) naturalistic and secular paradigms fall short. My call, ultimately, is for a post-secular mode of scholarship that acknowledges the excessive and the elusive, even if it has nothing to say about them.

5.2 Signs, Wonders, and Reductions In Biblical terms, Pentecostalism originates in the event, following Christ’s crucifixion, of the Holy Spirit descending on assembled apostles, bestowing them with heavenly reassurances and the gift of speaking in other tongues (Acts 2:1-13). As a religious movement, the origins are usually traced to outbreaks of glossolalia (speaking in tongues) in early twentieth-century United States, specifically to the ministry of Charles Fox Parham (1873–1929), who first formulated the excited sound and psychological state of tongue-speaking as the marker of Spirit baptism. Beforehand, revivalist fervor had already developed among radical evangelicals in the United States. But it was only with Parham and especially with a student of his, William Seymour (1870–1922), that the movement took shape. Seymour led a multi-racial revival at his Azusa Street congregation in Los Angeles in 1906, which catalyzed Pentecostalism’s international spread. Newspaper coverage of the Azusa

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Street revival confirms the centrality of speaking in tongues, but also expresses how marginal to the mainstream that practice was. “Weird Babel of Tongues. New Sect of Fanatics is Breaking Loose. Wild Scene Last night on Azusa Street. Gurgle of Wordless Talk by a Sister,” read the Los Angeles Times headline of April 18, 1906 (McClymond, 2016, p. 407).3 Yet while tongue-speaking drew the most controversy and most set Pentecostals apart from other Christians, it was not the only supernatural feature of early Pentecostalism. Divine healing was also always part of the movement, perhaps the surest indication of Jesus the healer drawing near and of history drawing to a close. As Daniel Albrecht and Evan Howard put it, “Pentecostals interpret the coming of Christ and the Spirit as an infusion (or perhaps ‘invasion’) of the supernatural kingdom of God into this world. Through the work of Christ and the Holy Spirit, people can be delivered from disease, spiritual oppression, strongholds of sin, and unnecessary suffering” (Albrecht & Howard, 2014, p. 237). Although healing rituals were already there in revival movements prior to Parham’s and Seymour’s standardizing of tongue-speaking, they became especially prominent within Pentecostalism under the next generation of evangelists, people like Aimee Semple McPherson and Oral Roberts. Christian prophecy—a kind of special knowledge inspired by the Holy Spirit—gained significance around mid-century and grew in importance in the 1980s. Finally, the casting out of demons and evil spirits, also known as deliverance or exorcism, along with the prosperity gospel, which shifted the substance of divine blessings from health to wealth, became defining features of so-called neo-­ Pentecostalism beginning around the 1970s.4 Not only time but also place influenced which of the miracles would be most emphasized.5 It is in Africa and Latin America, where Pentecostalism really took off around the 1970s (though it arrived much earlier), that the shift from classical Pentecostalism to neo-Pentecostalism especially took place. Yet while historical changes and cultural contexts reorder the relative prominence of each of the miracles, the unifying thread is clear. Whether one is talking about healing, glossolalia, prophesying, spiritual deliverance, or prosperity, Pentecostalism is about the unceasing outpouring of divine miracles. The question then arises of how analytically to understand them. For Pentecostal insiders, the issue is straightforward: miracles are manifestations of God’s sovereignty and grace, mediated by the Holy Spirit and intensified in the present period  Not only the secular press but also other Christians considered Pentecostals superstitious fanatics. Fundamentalists, in particular, thought that way, a point worth underscoring given the common conflation of Pentecostalism and fundamentalism. Fundamentalists confine miracles to the past and emphasize the written word over the moving Spirit (Cox, 1995, pp. 73–76). 4  For a detailed elaboration of this periodization, see McClymond (2016). 5  On this point, it is worth noting that historians have challenged the U.S.-centric narrative that privileges Parham and Seymour. Allen Anderson in particular has emphasized that parallel and even prior revivals took place in Europe, Asia, Africa, and Latin America, independently of developments within the United States (Anderson, 2013). These also emphasized such spiritual gifts as glossolalia, healing, and prophecy. At the very least, they provided fertile ground for the arrival of Pentecostal mission movements, which is why even those who emphasize U.S. origins for Pentecostalism acknowledge that its centers of activity are now spread throughout the world. 3

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when the last days are upon us. Some scholars, even those writing in a secular mode, embrace this kind of insider assessment—Donald Miller and Tetsunao Yamamori, for example, when they posit an “‘S’-factor” (“S” for Spirit) behind the rise of Pentecostalism and write that “there may be more to Pentecostal experience than most social science interpretations allow” (Miller & Yamamori, 2007, p.  220). Indeed, social scientific as well as humanistic analyses have historically not allowed for much, usually dismissing Pentecostal miracles as lacking credibility, and miracle claims as falsehoods and illusions—or at best metaphors for other, deeper realities accessible through demythologizing or decoding. One might attribute this kind of analysis to the naturalistic and atheistic assumptions of much secular scholarship. One might also point to modern, Protestant-inflected biases in academic scholarship generally, and in scholarship on religion in particular. This is a bias that associates religiosity with texts, beliefs, meanings, and worldviews, as opposed to practices and (divine) presence (Asad, 1993; Orsi, 2005). From this point of view, what Pentecostals themselves acknowledge as the general unintelligibility of tongue-­ speaking—except, in some Pentecostal traditions, to specially gifted interpreters— reveals the illegibility and illegitimacy of the Pentecostal tradition at large. There is little emphasis on the meanings behind utterances of glossolalia. Lacking such an emphasis, and lacking as well the kinds of textual practices that lend themselves to meaning-making, Pentecostalism has come to be associated more with superstitious magic than with modern faith. Its demographic base among non-elite, non-white, and majority female adherents makes such demeaning associations especially quick to gain traction. Yet, argues historian Michael McClymond, “[a] shift took place at the century’s end, as scholars became less focused on the semantic significance of tongue-­ speaking and more interested in its experiential, expressive, and sociological dimensions” (McClymond 2016, p.  407). Later, I explore studies of experience and expression, but it is the sociological and, more generally, the social scientific intervention that I address here. This has certainly helped move scholarship away from a reflexive discrediting of Pentecostal miracle claims, in this case to a concern with explaining them. Such accounts have been mostly functionalist, locating in social forces and historical processes the conditions for the possibility of epiphenomenal miracle beliefs (Goldstone, 2012, pp. 6–8). Consider, for example, the influential assessment of anthropologists Jean and John Comaroff. In an essay on the rise of magical thinking in and through dynamics of modernization—especially through the rise of neoliberal economics—the Comaroffs count Pentecostalism along with sorcery and other occult phenomena as a byproduct of social and political breakdown (Comaroff & Comaroff, 1999). This kind of analysis has the virtue of agnosticism regarding the veracity of miracle claims, yet it also tends toward explanatory reductionism and scientific positivism, failing to account for miracles on terms that would be acceptable or at least recognizable to those who have experienced them. The honored (social) scientific status of such an approach comes not only at the cost of naturalizing the supernatural—in itself, not a problem—but also and, indeed, problematically at the cost of distance and detachment from those most directly involved.

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The flaw in both functionalist and meaning-centered analyses is that they have led scholars to miss the particularities of the phenomena in question, aspects of Pentecostalism most central to Pentecostals themselves: its stress on experience, embodiment, and practice—on precisely those ways of being that are least amenable to conceptual grasp and theoretical systematization (Csordas, 1997).6 This problem has been most directly addressed by historian Robert Orsi in, among other places, an essay titled “Everyday Miracles” (Orsi ,1997). He argues there against the tendency within the modern academy to translate religious experiences into categories other than those used by practitioners and to tame what is perceived as wild and dangerous—practices like tongue-speaking and miracle-performing. Orsi argues for and models a relational mode of scholarship that leaves contradictions and tensions unresolved and eschews the neatness of both functionalist and hermeneutic accounts.7 In an effort to honor such everyday miracles in all their irreducibility, I turn now to more promising, experience-near analytical possibilities for the study of Pentecostal miracles.

5.3 Performative Language in Pentecostal Practice If not underlying symbolic meanings and social forces, on what might analysis of miracles focus? The answer I sketch in this and the next two sections emphasizes such interrelated terms as performance and production, both usefully framed under the category of practice. The “practice turn” in humanistic and social scientific research is part of a larger surge of interest in materiality, embodiment, and lived experience.8 This approach is especially well suited to the study of Pentecostalism, given how undeniably central experiential and ecstatic forms of worship are (Lindhardt, 2011). I recall once, for a college course I was teaching on Christianity, taking my students to a nearby Pentecostal church in Colorado Springs. A friendly man named Earl, whom I had gotten to know on previous visits, was sitting—or, rather, standing (as we did for the most part)—next to me on this particular day. During the opening 30-plus minutes of singing and dancing (and clapping, swaying, and running), one song in particular caught my attention. It included the refrain: What kind of church is this? We’re an apostolic church We are a hand-clapping Foot-stomping

 These hermeneutic accounts also proliferate in biblical research on the miracles reported in the Bible. These too, the influential Rudolf Bultmann would argue, need to be “demythologized”— read not as literal expressions of God’s disruptions of natural laws and processes, but rather as metaphors for underlying meanings and experiences. 7  He expands considerably on this point in Orsi (2005). For a similar critique, see Kapferer (2002). 8  For an overview with respect to theory in the study of religion, see Vasquez (2011). 6

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Tongue-talking Aisle-running Devil-chasing Church of the living God. I know precisely that those are the words because, while we were all singing them, the idea came to me that I should write them down. They perfectly illustrated a point I had been making to my students—that one of Pentecostalism’s distinguishing features is its orientation toward embodied action. I was already planning our next class meeting. But when I pulled out my pen and began to scribble, Earl turned to me and gifted me with even better evidence of the point. “You’re taking notes!” he yelled over the music, laughing so hard he was leaning back and grabbing his belly. Key to applying the lesson of the song—and of Earl’s good-natured ribbing—to Pentecostal studies is attention less to meaning than to actions, less to beliefs than to practices. With respect to the ecstatic speech of glossolalia, the point is neither what it means (the interpretive question) nor whence it comes (the explanatory question), but rather what it does. What causative effect do miracles—or the belief in them, or accounts of them—have on the world? What practical difference do they make to Pentecostal practitioners and the worlds they inhabit? Glossolalia, from the hermeneutic perspective that I am discouraging, can be nothing other than meaningless garble. It is, literally, nonsense. However, from the perspective of practice, referential content matters less than performative outcome. To borrow from John L. Austin’s speech act theory, the “language” of tongue-speaking is a medium of action and not just a representation of abstract thoughts (Austin, 1962). It is akin to the “I do” of a wedding ceremony, an utterance that makes reality more than represents it. Speaking in tongues may not mean much or convey deeply held ideas and beliefs, but it accomplishes quite a bit—connecting the practitioner to what she or he understands to be divine, and building community among those who similarly enact such practices. Pentecostal philosopher James K.A. Smith argues that speech act theory’s virtue for Pentecostal studies is that it “resonates with the elements of a pentecostal worldview that eschew the reductionism of rationalism and affirm the multifaceted aspects of communal embodiment” (Smith, 2010, p.  141). There is something about performative language—not just unintelligible language, but any language in its performative mode—that defies the quest to pin down meanings in the disembodied mind of the solitary thinker. In its resistance to interpretive closure, glossolalia is thus richly embodied, undeniably material, and deeply relational. The efficacy of Pentecostal prayers, confessions, and tongue-speaking is in the bonds they create between the believer and the wider realms of being that may include God, Holy Spirit, and the community of other believers. As anthropologist Simon Coleman puts it in his ethnographic study of Swedish Pentecostals, “to ‘speak out’ sacred words that have been stored in the self is not merely to communicate to others in a semantic sense; it is also to recreate and extend one’s persona in the act of giving an aspect of the self to others” (Coleman, 2006, p. 165). There is, thus, a close link not only between performativity and materiality, but also between performativity and relationality. This is worth

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underscoring given how commonly Christianization is tied to individualization.9 But if understood as performative, then the “language” of glossolalia points to the affirmation of the communal and the corporeal. It creates and recreates the mind in relation to the body and the self in relation to the community. These are some of the things it does, regardless of what it may or may not mean.

5.4 Ritual Effects in Pentecostal Practice Shifting now from glossolalia—most associated with “classical Pentecostalism”— to the prosperity gospel, a defining feature of “neo-Pentecostalism,” the advantage of privileging effects over causes and meanings again becomes clear. The prosperity gospel is the idea that faith is tied to material well-being, with faith more than anything measured by the willingness to give money to the church, and well-being construed in mostly financial terms. It is often preached that the more one gives to God in terms of money, the more God gives back in terms of miracles. Public criticism of the prosperity gospel abounds, especially because of the appearance of crass materialism—the fact that Pentecostals, as anthropologist Martin Lindhardt has put it pointedly, “pray for money a lot” (Lindhardt, 2015, p. 153). But the most vehement opposition comes from other Christians skeptical about the idea that God blesses people in so transactional a fashion, or that God intervenes in any way whatsoever. Especially given the low socioeconomic status of many Pentecostals, some see in Pentecostal prosperity practices a textbook case of religion-as-alienation, the idea promulgated by Karl Marx that religion is or at least can be a tool of domination—in this case one wielded by fraudulent church leaders to manipulate poor people into trading their meager resources for false promises, and simultaneously to distract them from the “real” work required to overturn their oppression. In 2009, I conducted research on a Brazilian neo-Pentecostal congregation located in Boston precisely to investigate these controversies. I wanted to know why people who were likely not deaf to the criticisms made against their church and their pastor nevertheless often gave beyond what seemed financially healthy. In the course of fieldwork, I found myself frequently repelled by the pressure applied by pastors on congregants, and on me, to open and then empty their wallets. Yet through a series of interviews and months of participant-observation, I also came to see that those who were tithing experienced themselves as new people by virtue of their sacrifices to a pastor and even to God in such a way that reversed roles and put them in the morally superior position, a standing that allowed them to not passively expect but fiercely demand recompense (Premawardhana, 2012). Those making offerings reported to me that they felt empowered by doing so—an empowerment that one could easily imagine transfers into other areas of life: empowerment to overcome their addictions, confidence to search for a job, connections to the

 For an overview and a critique, see Bialecki and Daswani (2015).

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community and, indeed, the cosmos. I concluded that even if prayers and offerings did not succeed in delivering the miracles expected, that is, even if they failed to change people’s circumstances, they often succeeding in changing people’s experience of those circumstances. This concrete effect was both real and potentially conducive to the same ends for which appeals to God were made.10 In her research on prayers for divine healing among Pentecostals in multiple countries, religion scholar Candy Gunther Brown argues for studying miracles empirically by drawing on clinical trials as well as observations and interviews to investigate whether or not healing experiences have lasting, measurable effects on the person healed (Brown, 2012). Brown’s conclusion is that, regardless of whether there is a divine or superhuman being out there, the perception that there is and the belief that it interacts lovingly with those who approach it in worship sets off a chain reaction of benevolent acts—with such positive results as bodily healing, known empirically to flow from expressions of love and forgiveness. In other words, whether or not miracles originate with God, they have real world effects and thus can be studied empirically.11

5.5 Sensorial Production in Pentecostal Practice On a separate issue, the institutionally based authorization and authentication of miracle events, analysts have also succeeded in approaching the lived experience of Pentecostal miracles. Anthropologist Tanya Luhrmann does so, for example, in her research on American middle-class congregations of the Vineyard Church, wherein she details the specific techniques by which believers are taught to recognize signs of divine action in their lives (Luhrmann, 2012). Such techniques, which include pouring an extra cup of coffee for God in the morning, train and mentally condition these charismatic Christians to perceive God’s presence even as they partake in a secular society for which the denial of such is normative. In the course of a theoretical argument for studying religion as a material practice, anthropologist Birgit Meyer draws on empirical research she has conducted on Ghanaian Pentecostalism to direct analysts’ attention to “the process of religious fabrication, through which a sense of extraordinary presence is generated by and in people” (Meyer, 2014, p.  216). Meyer notes that these are actual, empirically observable practices that prime believers to direct their attention in specific ways, to tune out certain stimuli, and to develop sensibilities toward others. All this is for the end of generating particular emotions and experiences—that is, for generating a sense of the miraculous.12 For Pentecostals, this sense is physical and sensorial, and thus presents a

 For analyses along similar grounds, see also Coleman (2011) and Haynes (2012).  In this regard, it may be significant that an ethos of pragmatism is there at the origins of American Pentecostalism (Wacker, 2001). 12  For a study of such stimuli in Pentecostal worship settings, see Stolz, 2011. 10 11

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particularly potent challenge to disembodied and dematerialized theories of religion—ones that privilege, for example, symbolic meanings and abstract forces. The centrality of embodiment within Pentecostal practice has also made Pierre Bourdieu’s elaboration of practice theory generative in studies of Pentecostal experience (Bourdieu, 1977). Pentecostalism inscribes particular dispositions that are recognizable in bodily practices—in the habitus. These dispositions enable experiences of the sacred, and the process of their cultivation, to be open to empirical study. Anthropologists inspired by Bourdieu have demonstrated this with respect to the exceptionally embodied nature of Pentecostal and Charismatic Christianity (Csordas, 1997; Lindhardt, 2011). Common to all these threads is attention to the disciplines, institutions, and structures that form Pentecostal subjects as bearers of certain virtues and dispositions—especially that of being available to, and primed for, experiences understood to be miraculous. The advantage, I suggest, of the approaches presented in this and the previous two sections is that they are not nearly as distancing and detached as the hermeneutic and functionalist analyses discussed earlier. They dwell in concrete particularities of practice and experience that are recognizable to Pentecostal practitioners themselves even without going so far as to locate the origin of miracles in the realm of the divine. Pentecostals would be able to see themselves in analyses that stress the role of speech acts such as tongue-speaking in creating and recreating selves and communities. They would agree that miracles are powerful because of their effects, even if they are more certain than analysts need be regarding their causes. And their experience is acknowledged and reflected in analyses that attend to the cultivation of dispositions and techniques conducive to a sense of the miraculous. The truth question is a fraught one, but the argument put forth here is that one need not agree with Pentecostals about the ontological status of miracles to study those miracles seriously and empathetically. The importance of miracles is at least as much in their effects, and the efficacy of miracles depends on the production of particular selves. Both performance and production can be studied empirically in ways that approximate analysts to practitioners, even when metaphysical assumptions diverge.

5.6 Pentecostal Miracles as Placeholder Thus far, my argument has been that embodied practices offer the most valuable entrée into the study of Pentecostal miracles. Be that as it may, there is a limit to even this approach insofar as it remains in the realm of the observable and knowable; it must in order to qualify as social-scientific analysis. There is, however, an alternative. Its point of departure is anthropologist Mattijs van de Port’s instructive definition of miracle as “a phenomenon that questions mundane definitions of the possible, and as such, provides a gateway to the-rest-of-what-is” (van de Port, 2011, pp. 254–255). The-rest-of-what-is refers to those areas, experiences, or elements of excess that constitute the surplus of all culturally informed sense-making. Most social scientists would contend that while they could study the conditions giving

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rise to, and the consequences following from, human engagements with what is held to be beyond the ordinary, there is nothing about the-rest-of-what-is per se for them to weigh in on. There is something positive about this posture of agnosticism, though, for if miracles resist efforts to be known, tamed, or domesticated, that is not all they do. They also bear witness to the fact that not everything can be assimilated to the naturalistic assumptions of the modern, secular, science-driven academy. Miracles are, in this sense, placeholders for the-rest-of-what-is. This point aligns with a recently emerged philosophical paradigm within the Humanities especially—what can be termed a the paradigm of post-secularism. The Humanities are home to this paradigm because they permit a more robust understanding of what it means to be human than social-scientific approaches that tend to view humans as artifacts of their social and historical formations. Scientific reductionism of this sort leaves little space for such bedrock humanistic categories as subjectivity, creativity, and freedom. These, according to philosopher Tyler Roberts, are “not the kinds of things that can be fully theorized or explained: to invoke freedom is not really to explain something—an action or an idea—but to say that explanation has run its course, that something new has happened” (Roberts, 2013, p. 94). In his ethnography of the Afro-Brazilian Candomblé religion, van de Port contends that what makes this tradition worthy of study is that it proposes a road to knowledge that runs counter to the discursive and logocentric traditions of the academy. Such extraordinary phenomena as possession, clairvoyance, and healing, point to realities that cannot be captured or contained. “It is exactly because of its unavailability to full scientific explanation,” writes van de Port, “that Candomblé is such an intriguing object for investigation” (van de Port, 2011, p. 15). The same, I would say, holds true for Pentecostalism, and particularly for Pentecostal miracles. A post-­ secular paradigm for the study of Pentecostal miracles makes space for investigating what van de Port calls “the impossible happening anyway” (van de Port, 2011, p. 165) and happening inexplicably—not, therefore, to be explained but rather to mark the limits of explanation. Though not himself working on Pentecostalism, van de Port calls glossolalia “the paradigmatic case” of the failure of discursive forms of meaning-production (van de Port, 2011, pp. 17–18). Numerous scholars of Pentecostalism have substantiated the point. Anthropologist George Saunders (2010) sees in glossolalia a critique of logocentric reason and anthropologist Thomas Csordas (1990, p.  27) describes it as an expressive act that can never be “subject to codification.” Tongue-­ speaking figures centrally also in theologian Harvey Cox’s survey of Pentecostalism as an indication of the inadequacy of words and rational thought—an awareness akin to the mystics’ “that the reality religious symbols strive to express ultimately defies even the most exalted human language” (Cox, 1995, p. 92). The potency of ecstatic utterance rests not in semantic meaning but in intense, immediate, and miraculous union with God—or at least the constant striving for this. Van de Port writes of the continuous search for the-rest-of-what-is, the search for “that which needs to be excluded as ‘impossible,’ ‘unknown,’ ‘mere fantasy’ or ‘absurd’ for our worldview to make sense” (van de Port, 2011, p. 18).

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“Our” worldview here refers to the naturalistic, disenchanted one of modern science, that which banishes certain ideas and phenomena to the realm of the irrational and the impossible, as a way of securing its own rationality and necessity. This is the worldview most entrenched in the secular academy of the modern West. It would not be a stretch to call Pentecostalism its polar opposite, its obdurate Other. Pentecostal philosopher James K.A.  Smith recognizes this discrepancy and proposes that precisely because of it, Pentecostalism has something distinctive to contribute (2010, pp. 86–105). The contribution for which Smith argues is not one of naïve supernaturalism. He does not advocate simply for thinking of a mechanistic world prone to incursions from the heavenly realm—Hume’s classic definition of miracles as violations of natural law. Pentecostalism, rather, challenges altogether the idea of a fixed, closed, and autonomous natural realm liable (or not) to incursions from a supernatural realm. It is the dualism—what Smith calls an “interventionist dualism”—implied by the prefix “super” of supernaturalism that Pentecostalism challenges. In fact, the operative dualism for Pentecostals is not between the natural and the supernatural, but between cosmic forces of good and cosmic forces of evil, between God and Satan—and, of course, miracles are confirmation of God’s love over Satan’s evil (Wacker, 2001, p. 87). “Part of the genius and uniqueness of pentecostal experience,” Smith writes, “is precisely that one does not see the Spirit’s care and activity as exceptions or interruptions of the ‘normal’ ordering of the universe. A feature of the strange and fantastic world of pentecostal spirituality is a sense that the miraculous is normal” (Smith, 2010, p. 98). The natural world, in other words, is enchanted not by virtue of sporadic divine interventions, but by definition.13 It is essentially open rather than closed, dynamic rather than static, participatory rather than autonomous. This recalls the alternative Pentecostalism presents to the cessationist doctrine— the presumption of a closed universe where nothing is radically new, where nothing happens that is not traceable to preexisting conditions. Pentecostals are delighted by the miraculous, but they are not astonished by it. As Pentecostal theologian Nimi Wariboko writes, “the pentecostal worldview affirms the ‘surprises’ of the Holy Spirit as a central and non-negotiable aspect of the understanding of reality” (Wariboko, 2012, p. 3). As a result, there is, through Pentecostal miracles, an openness to future possibilities and potentials, a space for the flourishing of freedom and novelty. Whether or not one subscribes to Smith’s “enchanted naturalism” (Smith, 2010, p. 97), this aspect of Pentecostal thinking makes two valuable contributions. Negatively, it invites us to diagnose the contours and the limits of secularism. Pentecostal miracles are placeholders for that which exceeds the bounds of what can be predicted, assimilated, and known. Positively, it furnishes a space where creativity and freedom can flourish—where something truly new can come into being. As philosopher Hannah Arendt has it, “the new… always appears in the guise of a miracle” (Arendt, 1971, p. 178).

 Similarly, philosopher David Weddle notes in some Buddhist and Hindu cosmologies a less dualistic view of the natural and supernatural (Weddle, 2010, p. 25) 13

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5.7 Conclusion If there is a lesson for scholars to take from Pentecostalism, it is the value of openness to surprise in the course of our inquiry—a readiness to expect the unexpected. This would require such virtues as humility and vulnerability, a willingness to be wrong and to change course. Procedures for doing so are there in the scientific method, but genuinely open-ended experimentalism may be hard for those steeped in an intellectual culture characterized by what philosopher John Dewey called “the quest for certainty” (Dewey, 1929). Pentecostalism, no less than Dewey’s pragmatism, harbors a deep distrust of the rationalist biases of dominant intellectual traditions. These tend to break reality into isolated concepts, fixed and finished. For William James, Dewey’s fellow pragmatist, “what really exists is not things made but things in the making. Once made, they are dead” (1909: 263; emphasis in the original). Uniquely within Christianity, Pentecostal theology similarly instructs against the completeness, the closure, of God’s revelation. The history of Pentecostalism suggests that speaking in tongues, healing, and prophesying transpire no less today than they were said to transpire in Biblical times. Whether one affirms or denies that miracles are possible, this history invites us to rethink nothing less than the nature of reality itself—to see it as at least potentially more dynamic, elastic, and charged than we would need it to be in order to grasp it with certainty. In his essay “Everyday Miracles,” religious-studies theorist Robert Orsi presents an approach to scholarship that eschews orderliness and coherence, that reckons with the “wildly creative” qualities of lived religion. He urges against seeing religion as “a phenomenon of closure and stasis” (Orsi, 1997, p. 11), reducible by such means as hermeneutic and functionalist analyses to abstract beliefs and social contradictions in need of resolution. In this chapter, I have argued that these approaches tend toward distance and detachment. A far more sensitive and far more empirical approach to the study of miracles would begin with practices—with the performativity of language practices, with the efficacy of ritual practices, and with the productivity of disciplinary practices. Yet even these, I have argued, can be limiting insofar as they still privilege mastery over mystery. Pentecostal miracles’ ultimate value is their service as a placeholder for the-rest-of-what-is, as an invitation to refuse the quest for certainty and accept the limits of knowledge. Prior to embarking on what is now over a decade studying Pentecostalism, I thought I knew two things about it. I mention them here by way of illustrating how thinking through miracles opens space for surprise and radical rethinking on the part of scholars themselves. One regards what is often presumed to be Pentecostalism’s political quietism, if not conservatism. I myself associated it with abstract and alienated thinking that distracted poor people from the real work needed for structural transformation. Yet, as argued above, ritual acts can have real subjective effects even if the anticipated miracles fail to deliver objective changes. Moreover, the miraculous in Pentecostalism operates like the miraculous in other traditions—as an expression, according to philosopher David Weddle, “of our refusal to accept existence in a closed system of material forces and our hope that the future may be

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radically different from the past” (Weddle, 2010, p.  34). Critical theorist Ashon Crawley describes Blackpentecostalism—his term—as a challenge to power structures, particularly racist and white supremacist structures that establish themselves on a foundation of “the known, the normative, the violent world of western thought and material condition” (Crawley, 2017, p. 5). The Pentecostal movement and its roots in blackness—its dancing, singing, whooping, and tongue-talking—resist categories and subvert hierarchies by refusing to operate only in the realm of what has already been secured and certified, by accentuating what Crawley refers to as “otherwise possibilities.” Indeed, Pentecostalism’s eschatological emphasis is not, at least not always, an invitation to complacency. It is also a call to action. Contrary to assumptions about the otherworldliness of Pentecostals, and contrary to the habits of some of them, writes James K.A. Smith, “[t]he ‘latter rain’ of the Spirit translates not into a desire to escape from the world but into a desire to embody and model the coming kingdom, and even to foster the transformation of this world” (Smith, 2010, pp. 44–45).14 My other misconception was about what I thought to be the dogmatism and rigidity of Pentecostal believers. I assumed, and much of the scholarly literature continues to do so, that everyone who partook in Pentecostal practices did so with a stridency and certainty that brooked no space for doubt, dissent, or disaffiliation. Yet what I found during my most extended Pentecostal research project, in Mozambique, is that those participating in the churches brought with them an experimental disposition that moved them to tap into what Pentecostalism had to offer, but also that they maintained that experimentalism even after joining the churches. They embraced Pentecostalism with ease, but they also abandoned it with ease—not in spite but because of some of Pentecostalism’s teachings and practices, such as its stress on the Holy Spirit that blows where it wills (Premawardhana, 2018). There is an inherent instability and effervescence to Pentecostal practice, a point anthropologist Mattijs Pelkmans captures with his term “the charisma paradox.” As discussed in this chapter’s introduction, this is the idea that because charisma is a quality of the here and now, it cannot easily be transposed across time and space. Its effervescence marks a distinction, but also a vulnerability, for the Pentecostal tradition. It is the reason that evil spirits may be expelled violently and apparently definitively, but that worshippers must nevertheless return later to do battle again. My observation is that while the inbuilt instability of Pentecostalism leads some to pursue the Pentecostal path with regularly recharging verve, it also leads some to pursue other paths. Pentecostal practice is a mode of becoming more than a mode of being, marked by shifting intensities and openness to change.15 No doubt, there are conservative strands within Pentecostalism—not just politically, but also institutionally. There are attempts to reign in the charismatic, to ensure continuity and regularity through structures of bureaucratic order  For an additional exploration of how Pentecostal miracles underwrite a critique of politics, specifically in postcolonial Nigeria, see Marshall, 2010. 15  For an extended argument for seeing religion in general, and charismatic evangelicalism in particular, in this way—due in particular to the mutability of the miraculous—see Bialecki, 2017. 14

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(Hefner, 2013, pp. 8–9). The same spirit of rationalism that dominates the modern western academy increasingly finds its way into the Pentecostal movement. Yet this does not diminish the presence of a countermanding impulse at Pentecostalism’s founding, the still distinctive emphasis on “otherwise possibilities” (Crawley, 2017), which carries the potential to ward off the routinizing of charisma by enchanting the routine. There will always be pressure to resolve the charisma paradox and reluctance to dwell within it. Yet as long as Pentecostals in their religious practice continue making space for the miraculous, surprise will always be imminent. If scholars allow it into their intellectual practices, even if only negatively, the possibilities may be just as unexpected.

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Goldstone, Brian. (2012). The miraculous life: Scenes from the charismatic encounter in northern Ghana (Ph.D. diss.). Duke University. Haynes, N. (2012). Pentecostalism and the morality of money: Prosperity, inequality, and religious sociality on the Zambian “Copperbelt”. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 18, 123–139. Hefner, R. W. (2013). The unexpected modern: Gender, piety, and politics in the global Pentecostal surge. In R. W. Hefner (Ed.), Global Pentecostalism in the 21st century (pp. 1–36). Indiana University Press. James, W. (1909). A pluralistic universe. Longmans, Green. Jenkins, P. (2002). The next Christendom. Atlantic Monthly, 290, 53–68. Johnson, T. M. (2013). Global Pentecostal demographics. In D. E. Miller, K. H. Sargeant, & R. Flory (Eds.), Spirit and power: The growth and global impact of Pentecostalism (pp.  319–328). Oxford University Press. Kapferer, B. (2002). Introduction: Outside all reason—Magic, sorcery and epistemology in anthropology. In B. Kapferer (Ed.), Beyond rationalism: Rethinking magic, witchcraft and sorcery (pp. 1–30). Berghahn Books. Lindhardt, M. (Ed.). (2011). Practicing the faith: The ritual life of Pentecostal-charismatic Christians. Berghahn. Lindhardt, M. (2015). Mediating money: Materiality and spiritual warfare in Tanzanian charismatic Christianity. In S.  Coleman & R.  I. J.  Hackett (Eds.), The anthropology of global Pentecostalism and evangelicalism (pp. 147–160). New York University Press. Luhrmann, T. M. (2012). When god talks back: Understanding the American evangelical relationship with god. Alfred A. Knopf. Marshall, R. (2010). The sovereignty of miracles: Pentecostal political theology in Nigeria. Constellations, 17, 197–223. McClymond, M.  J. (2016). Charismatic gifts: Healing, tongue-speaking, prophecy, and exorcism. In L.  Sanneh & M.  J. McClymond (Eds.), The Wiley-Blackwell companion to world Christianity (pp. 399–418). Wiley. Meyer, B. (2010). Pentecostalism and globalization. In A. Anderson, M. Bergunder, A. Droogers, & C. van der Laan (Eds.), Studying global Pentecostalism: Theories and methods (pp. 113–130). University of California Press. Meyer, B. (2014). An author meets her critics: Around Birgit Meyer’s “mediation and the genesis of presence: Toward a material approach to religion”. Religion and Society, 5, 205–230. Miller, D. E., & Yamamori, T. (2007). Global Pentecostalism: The new face of Christian social engagement. University of California Press. Orsi, R. (1997). Everyday miracles: The study of lived religion. In D. D. Hall (Ed.), Lived religion in America: Toward a history of practice (pp. 3–21). Princeton University Press. Orsi, R. (2005). Between heaven and earth: The religious worlds people make and the scholars who study them. Princeton University Press. Pelkmans, M. (2015). Mediating miracle truth: Permanent struggle and fragile conviction in Kyrgyzstan. In S. Coleman & R. I. J. Hackett (Eds.), The anthropology of global Pentecostalism and evangelicalism (pp. 177–193). New York University Press. Premawardhana, D. (2012). Transformational tithing: Sacrifice and reciprocity in a neo-­Pentecostal church. Nova Religio, 15, 85–109. Premawardhana, D. (2018). Faith in flux: Pentecostalism and mobility in rural Mozambique. University of Pennsylvania Press. Roberts, T.  T. (2013). Encountering religion: Responsibility and criticism after secularism. Columbia University Press. Saunders, G. (2010). Il Linguaggio dello Spirito: Il Cuore e la Mente nel Protestantesimo Evangelico. Pacini Editore. Smith, J. K. A. (2010). Thinking in tongues: Pentecostal contributions to Christian philosophy. William B. Eerdmans Pub. Co.

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Stolz, J. (2011). “All things are possible”: Towards a sociological explanation of Pentecostal miracles and healings. Sociology of Religion, 72, 456–482. Styers, R. (2004). Making magic: Religion, magic, and science in the modern world. Oxford University Press. van de Port, M. (2011). Ecstatic encounters: Bahian Candomblé and the quest for the really real. Amsterdam University Press. Vasquez, M. (2011). More than belief: A materialist theory of religion. Oxford University Press. Wacker, G. (2001). Heaven below: Early Pentecostals and American culture. Harvard University Press. Wariboko, N. (2012). The Pentecostal principle: Ethical methodology in new spirit. William B. Eerdmans. Weddle, D. (2010). Miracles: Wonder and meaning in world religions. New York University Press.

Part II

Miracles in Polemics

Chapter 6

On Miracles in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra during the Early Medieval Period of China Jingpeng Shi

Abstract The Vimalakīrti Sūtra occupies an important position in the history of Chinese Buddhism, in part because it does not consist of vacuous doctrinal propagation but instead couches its teachings in stories of supernatural powers and miracles, dressing these with an appealing literary style. This essay takes as its foundation the early medieval Chinese Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, along with other imagistic and textual resources, using these to investigate different understandings of miracles in the sūtra by different social classes in early medieval China, thereby revealing the status and influence of miracles during this period. The essay is divided into three sections. First, drawing on the Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, it analyzes different types of supernatural powers in the sūtra, discussing how Buddhists in the central city of Chang’an identified and classified the supernatural powers in the sūtra. Secondly, it further investigates this understanding of miracles by the Chang’an sangha, exploring the different functions of miracles with respect to how miracles influenced common Buddhist believers. Finally, it looks to other imagistic and textual resources to track the evolution of the image of Vimalakīrti and the miracles of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra in early medieval Chinese society.

6.1 Introduction Not only has the Vimalakīrti Sūtra occupied an important position in the history of Chinese Buddhism; it has also exerted significant impact on many facets of Chinese culture. Although the sūtra contains profound teachings about the Mahāyāna Buddhist doctrine of emptiness (śūnyatā), it couches these teachings in miraculous stories of supernatural powers. Over time, it has therefore captured the attention of many for its literary and doctrinal value, scholars included (Yan, 2016, pp. 95–102). J. Shi (*) Minzu University of China, Beijing, China e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_6

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Nevertheless, there has been a dearth of academic research about its supernatural powers and miracles and their influence on and place within the development of Chinese Buddhism (Oshika, 1988, pp. 356–369). This essay seeks to fill that gap, investigating how different social classes from the early medieval period (220–589) understood the miracles contained in the sūtra, thereby furthering our understanding of this seminal Mahāyāna text. An abundance of miraculous events is used in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra to advance its narrative, many aspects of which could be analyzed. Here, I focus on the following three: (1) the types and instances of supernatural powers in the text, (2) the functions and uses of miracle stories in the text, and (3) the representation of these powers and miracles in other textual and imagistic sources.1 By looking at the early medieval commentaries on the sūtra, as well as mural paintings and figure steles, I will show how each of these aspects has its own expression and development. As for the commentaries, I draw on the Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra (Zhu weimojie jing, 注维摩诘经), the earliest collection of commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra in China, which brought together the commentaries of Kumārajīva (鸠摩罗什, c. 350–411 CE) and his disciples Sengzhao (僧肇, 384–414), Daosheng (道生, 365–434), and Daorong (道融, fourth-fifth centuries). Another disciple of Kumārajīva, Sengrui僧睿 (371–438), also wrote a commentary, but this text has been lost (with only his preface Pimoluojiedijing yishu xu (毗摩罗诘堤经义疏序) still extant).2 All of them lived in a Buddhist sangha in the capital city of Chang’an that actively translated Buddhist scriptures under the leadership of Kumārajīva during Later Qin period (384–417). These commentaries are therefore representative of an understanding of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra in early medieval China. With regard to the text itself, I focus on the translation of Kumārajīva, the Weimojie suoshuo jing (维摩诘所说经), which was widely disseminated and frequently commented on throughout East Asia during the early medieval period.

6.2 Chang’an Sangha’s Focus on the Miracles Within the Vimalakīrti Sūtra Turning first to the types and instances of miracles in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, we begin by noting that “supernatural powers” (abhijñā) are not only an important feature of Indian religio-philosophy in general (Watabe, 1987, pp.  281–285) but also commonly itemized as sixfold in the Pāli Canon: (1) the “power of being

 The use of the concept of “miracles” in this paper is different from Robert Ford Campany. I use “miracles” to express miraculous events initiated only by supernatural powers. However, Campany uses the concept of “miracles” in a broader epistemological sense: “they alert characters in the stories and hearers and readers of the stories to the existence of beings, places, and states of affairs normally hidden from their view” (2012, p. 15). 2  Pimoluojiedijing (毗摩罗诘堤经) utilizes a different translation of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra. 1

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anywhere” (iddhi-vidhā), the ability to transform oneself in any way; (2) the “power to see anything anywhere” (dibba-cakkhu), the ability to see anything in the world; (3) the “power to hear anything anywhere” (dibba-sota), the ability to hear any sound throughout the world; (4) the “power of knowing the thoughts of all other minds” (ceto-pariya-ñāṇa), the ability to know the thoughts of other sentient beings; (5) the “power of knowing past lives” (pubbe-nivāsanussati), the ability to know one’s own and other’s past lives; and (6) the “power of eradicating illusions” (āsavakkhaya), the ability to break free of all disturbances to obtain the highest wisdom.3 Throughout the Vimalakīrti Sūtra—from its very first chapter (“Buddha Lands”) through its fourteenth and last (“Entrustment”)—we see such supernatural powers enacted by figures such as the Buddha, Conch-shaped Tuft Brahma King, Vimalakīrti, Mañjuśrī, and even a Goddess. However, the most important supernatural power of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra and the one that sets the foundation for the others, putting into motion the plot of the entire narrative, is “the power to be anywhere and transform anything,” also called the “power to change as one wishes.” According to Kumārajīva’s understanding in the Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, this power is in fact implied by one of the subtitles of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra— the “unfathomable liberation,” which indicates a “supernatural power of transformation” that is not only the result of “liberation” but also difficult to “fathom” by beings who are not liberated. For this reason, the manifestation of the great supernatural powers in the sūtra is further qualified by expressions like mahābhijñāvikrīḍita (“effortless practice of the great supernatural faculties”) (T14, p. 539, a10; p. 544, b1)4 and ṛddhivaśitā (“unhindered supernatural powers”) (T14, p. 543, b28; p. 553, b26–27; p. 545, c17; p. 556, a4), both underscoring the effortless and unobstructed character of the supernatural powers of buddhas and bodhisattvas. As Table 6.1 reveals, most of the miraculous events of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra that were identified and commented on by the Chang’an sangha are of the transforming-­ into-­anything/being-anywhere type (i.e., the first type above). Table  6.1 itemizes each of these twenty miracles, providing their location in the text, causal agent, type (if classified—more on this below), whether the miracle is addressed in the preface of a commentary, and how the miracle was later classified in the Bodhisattva-bhūmi Sūtra (more also on this below). From this table we can see four key aspects of the focus of the Chang’an sangha on the miracles within the Vimalakīrti Sūtra. The first is that these commentators did not point out all of the miracles or supernatural powers in the sūtra but instead were selective. Of the ten chapters listed above, twenty miracles are identified, most of the transforming-into-anything/being-anywhere type (#1 above). There are instances in the sūtra of the “power to see anything anywhere” (#2 above) and “knowing the thoughts of all other minds” (#4 above) that do not receive any attention, likely  These supernatural powers, as the Yoga Sūtras puts it, can be attained by birth, drugs, incantations, purificatory action, or trance (Pātañjali & Miśra, 1998, p. 267). 4  The citation is abbreviated according to the CBETA digital version of the Taishō-shinshū-­ daizōkyō大昭新修大藏經. T stands for Taishō-shinshū-daizōkyō; a, b and, c respectively stand for the upper, middle, and lower columns on each page. Similarly hereinafter. 3

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Table 6.1  Miracles according to the Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra Textual location Buddha Lands (Chap. 1)

The Bodhisattvas (Chap. 4)

Inquiring about the Illness (Chap. 5) The Unfathomable (Chap. 6)

Causal agent Miracle Śākyamuni 1. Transformation of numerous canopies into one

Vimalakīrti

Vimalakīrti

Vimalakīrti

2. Śāripūtra made by Buddha to ask him about the Pure Land 3. Buddha’s foot touches impure land turning it into pure land 4. The devil that is disturbing the Bodhisattva Upholder of the Age is unable to hide 5. Revealing of the Bright Light land of Tathāgata Rarely Surpassed 6. Vimalakīrti holds reception in an empty room

7. Borrows lion seats from the Lantern King (Borrows lion seats from the Lantern Kinga) 8. Manifests the four continents in his room 9. Bodhisattvas and disciples sit on the lion seats differently Supernatural 10. Sumeru fits into Bodhisattva a mustard seed; the four great seas fit into a hair follicle 11.The bodhisattva manifests as a devil king and a beggar

Type Preface The ability to transform

Bodhisattva-­ bhūmi Sūtra classification To transform things into something different Non-hindrance

To transform things into something different The power of hindering others

The ability to transform The ability to transform

The ability to transform

Hiding and revealing

The ability to transform

Hiding and revealing

The ability to be anywhere

Sengzhao’s Preface, Sengrui’s Preface

Sengzhao’s The ability to Preface transform

Coming and going

Large and small

The power of hindering others

The ability to transform

Large and small

The ability to transform

To transform things into something different (continued)

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6  On Miracles in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra during the Early Medieval Period… Table 6.1 (continued) Textual location Regarding Living Beings (Chap. 7)

Causal agent Miracle Goddess 12. The Goddess scatters flowers

13.The Goddess switches bodies with Śāripūtra The Buddha Way (Chap. 8)

Supernatural 14.Transformation Bodhisattva in earth, wind, fire and water

Fragrance Accumulated (Chap. 10)

Mañjuśrī

Vimalakīrti

Actions of the Bodhisattvas (Chap. 11)

Vimalakīrti

Vimalakīrti Seeing Akṣobhya Buddha (Chap. 12) The Offering of the Law (Chap. 13)

Medicine King Tathāgata

15.Mañjuśrī uses his powers to silence the multitudinous bodhisattvas 16. Hosting a meal from the Fragrance Lands (Bodhisattva brings the meal back from Fragrance Accumulated) 17. The audience is held in the right palm 18. Miracles that surpass Ananda’s understanding 19. Holds the great thousand-fold universe in his palm (Manifesting his world in ours) 20. Medicine King transforms into a heavenly being in the sky to offer the law to Moon Parasol

Type

Preface

The ability to transform The ability to transform

The ability to be anywhere

Sengzhao’s Preface, Sengrui’s Preface

Bodhisattva-­ bhūmi Sūtra classification Hiding and revealing, Transformation of existential state To transform things into something different To transform things into something different Non-hindrance

Coming and going

Sengrui’s The ability to Preface transform Sengrui’s Preface

Large and small, non-hindrance

Sengzhao’s The ability to Preface, transform Sengrui’s Preface

To manifest

The ability to transform

To transform things into something different

When both Sengrui and Sengzhao bring up a miracle in their respective prefaces, I place Sengrui’s description in parenthesis. This applies to miracles 7, 16, and 19

a

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because they are merely plot devices and are therefore not as important to the Chang’an sangha. The second key aspect is that, of the twenty instances of miracles above, half are performed by Vimalakīrti, with the other half divided between Śākyamuni Buddha, the Goddess, Supernatural Bodhisattva, Mañjuśrī, and the Medicine King. Relatedly, the only miracles included in Sengzhao’s and Sengrui’s prefaces are those performed by Vimalakīrti, demonstrating not only the unfathomable power of his liberation but also that he is the main focus of the narrative. These include the miracles of “borrowing lion seats from the Lantern King,” “hosting a meal from Fragrance Accumulated,” and “holding the great thousand-fold universe in his palm,” as well as the associated miracles of “manifesting the four continents in his room,” “holding the audience in the palm of his right hand,” and “miracles that surpass Ananda’s understanding” (with the later three miracles serving as presentations and developments of the prior three). Fourth and finally, it would seem that the categorization scheme of the “power to change as one wishes,” which Kumārajīva developed in an earlier translation of the Mahāprajñāpāramitā Śāstra (Dazhidu lun, 大智度论), a commentary on the Mahāprajñāpāramitā Sūtra (般若经), was insufficient to register the complexity of the miracles listed above from the Vimalakīrti Sūtra. In that translation, Kumārajīva offered the following threefold categorization: “There are three kinds of ‘changing as one wishes’: the ability to be anywhere (gamana), the ability to transform (nirmāṇa) and the noble supernatural power (āryaṛddhi)” (T25, p.  97, c22–23). However, in his and the other commentaries by the Chang’an sangha there are no instances of the third type, “the noble supernatural power,” only two instances of the first type, “the ability to be anywhere,” and quite a few instances that are difficult to categorize at all (which I have left blank in the “type” column above). Also, the many miracles of the second type—“transformation”—are not limited to transformations between “large and small” or “many and one”; instead, the scope of this category is much larger and more heterogenous. This means that Kumārajīva’s definition and categorization from the Mahāprajñāpāramitā Śāstra was insufficient, needing expansion. Indeed, this expansion and development appears in both the Bodhisattva-bhūmi Sūtra (Pusa dichi jing菩萨地持经), which was translated by Dharmakṣema (昙无 谶) in 417 (T30, p. 896, c12–p. 898, a7), and the Pusa Shanjie Jing (Pusa shanjie jing, 菩萨善戒经), which was, translated by Gunavarman (求那跋摩) in 431 (T30, p. 971, b27–p. 972, b21), both of which were translated shortly after Kumārajīva’s translation of the Mahāprajñāpāramitā Śāstra. The categorizations contained in these texts developed over time, all the way up to Xuanzang (玄奘, 602–664), who translated the Yogācāra-bhūmi (Yujiashidi lun瑜伽师地论, T30, p. 491, c3–p. 493, c17), in which a more robust and complex categorization of miracles was completed.5 For Kumārajīva and his disciples, however, it was less important to exhaustively

 In his Shuo wugoucheng jingshu (说无垢称经疏, T38, p. 996, b29–p. 997, b20), Kuiji (窥基, 632–682) interpreted all kinds of miracles according to this categorization. 5

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categorize the types of miracles in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra than to illuminatively interpret the functions of these miracles with respect to Buddhist teachings and practices. To this we now turn.

6.3 Chang’an Sangha’s Interpretation of the Miracles in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra Supernatural powers play a key role in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra in establishing its narrative and conveying its themes, especially its central theme of emptiness (śūnyatā). Various doctrines are articulated and developed in terms of emptiness: the lands of all sentient beings are Buddha-lands; Tathāgata’s gotra (lineage) is not without the troubles of the mundane world; the conditioned and the unconditioned are non-dual, as are saṃsāra and nirvana as well as many other concepts and things. But the doctrine of emptiness has always been mysterious and difficult to understand, even in its Indian beginnings, especially for the laity and the “Hīnayāna.” Ever since the doctrine was introduced to China, there have been many different views of it, as the Pimoluojiedijing yishu xu indicates: “The interpretation method of geyi [格义, “Matching the Meanings”] avoids the point and deviates from the original meaning, the six schools have their prejudices and do not accord with the original meaning, either” (T55, p. 59, a2–3). One of the central concerns of Chinese translators and commentators of Mahāyāna texts featuring emptiness (i.e., prajñā texts) was therefore how make this doctrine easier to understand. In the case of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra and the Chang’an sangha, supernatural powers are seen as one key means by which the doctrine of emptiness is conveyed, as Kumārajīva maintains in his Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra: If the dharma of emptiness is taught directly yet this teaching is not done so in a familiar way, then the people being taught will not believe it. Therefore, in order to show the indeterminacy of things, they are made to manifest along with the changes of the mind. If you become enlightened to the indeterminacy of things, then there you will know their natures are of emptiness. Bodhisattvas obtain this indeterminacy and thus cause things to change with their minds; therefore, the unfathomable is the proof of emptiness. (T38, p. 327, c20–24)

Here, the “unfathomable” is precisely “the power to be anywhere and transform anything,” which Kumārajīva claims is “the proof of emptiness.” Both Sengzhao and Daosheng develop this relationship further. According to Sengzhao’s Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, the doctrine of emptiness and the miracles of sūtra are related as “root” (本, ben) and “traces” (迹, ji)—without the former, the latter cannot be manifested; without the latter, the former cannot be revealed: What this sutra illumines is that the ten-thousand practices take expedient wisdom as their central tenet. Establish the six perfections in the root of virtues, make compassion primary to save those who are confused, use the dharma of non-duality to speak of the originary principle. All of these sayings are the root of the unfathomable. As far as those miracles such as borrowing lion seats from the Lantern King, hosting a meal from the Fragrance

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Here, the wisdom of expediency, the six perfections, compassion, and the dharma of non-duality, all of which are discussed in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, are seen as Mahāyāna virtues and standards for self-cultivation and the liberation of sentient beings. These virtues and standards are the foundations to reach the unfathomable liberation, while the various miracles of the sūtra (such as “borrowing lion seats from the Lantern King”) express the unfathomable supernatural powers manifested by Vimalakīrti. The fact that the “roots” and “traces” are not the same is due to the need to teach the doctrine of emptiness in response to circumstances, using different expedient means for different sentient beings. Nevertheless, the “root” and “traces” are consistent with each other, both leading to unfathomable liberation. Finally, for Daosheng, the “unfathomable liberation” is twofold, including both emptiness and the supernatural, with Vimalakīrti illustrating the latter because he realized the former, liberating himself from confusion of thought: There are generally two kinds of the unfathomable: the first is called the principle of emptiness, which is not something that can be grasped with the confused senses; the second is supernatural, which is not something that shallow thought can measure. Now, if the principle of emptiness is realized, then one will be liberated from confusion of thought. If this liberation from confusion is completed, then nothing that you do will not appear mysterious. Now, in motion and stillness Vimalakīrti is supernatural; therefore he must have liberated himself from the multitudinous confusion. Liberation from confusion is in realizing emptiness. (T38, p. 328, a3–7)

Thus, while Kumārajīva, Sengzhao, and Daosheng agree about the general connection between the doctrine of emptiness and the unfathomability of miracles, they differ in three key respects. First, Kumārajīva understands the unfathomableness of miracles as a means to comprehend emptiness, whereas Sengzhao and Daosheng see unfathomability patterning both emptiness and miracles. Second, in speaking about two kinds of the unfathomability, Daosheng focuses on those miracles that occur after Vimalakīrti becomes enlightened to the truth of emptiness, doing so to demonstrate the superiority of Vimalakīrti. Third, although Sengzhao emphasizes the unity of “root” and “trace,” he nevertheless finds them different, with the traces serving to extend the root to liberate sentient beings. (Kumārajīva also features liberation of the masses, marking a contrast between him and Sengzhao, on the one hand, and Daosheng, on the other, who only emphasizes the superiority of enlightenment.) In light of these differences, we can divide the views of Kumārajīva, Sengzhao, and Daosheng about the function of miracles into three types. Type A: Miracles are used to interpret the principle of emptiness and other Mahāyāna concepts to show their superiority. This is especially emphasized by Daosheng, whose commentary on the chapter “Inquiring about the Illness” (in which Vimalakīrti empties his room to welcome Mañjuśrī) begins: “He who gave rise to this intention emptied his room therewith; this revealed that there is emptiness contained within oneself. Because there is that which leaves there is emptiness;

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the secret is in using an indicator to bring the principle about” (T38, p. 371, b6–7). Daosheng later continues, “The truth of the principle is shown by manifesting supernatural powers. This truth cannot be fathomed; this is why experience is that which can be used in discussing it” (T38, p. 371, b17–19). In other words, Vimalakīrti emptied his room to receive Mañjuśrī in order to explain the truth of emptiness. Type B: Although both Kumārajīva and Sengzhao acknowledge that supernatural powers manifest the truth of emptiness, they also emphasize that supernatural powers have the capacity to transform and guide the masses. For example, Kumārajīva writes, “In liberating people there is nothing greater than supernatural powers; when supernatural powers are brought to fruition then the masses transform” (T38, p. 329, b10–11); “the transformative effect is made broad through supernatural powers” (T38, p. 339, a3); and “the supernatural power of being able to be anywhere and transform anything is the constant way of teaching dharma in transforming the people” (T38, p. 403, c27). And Sengzhao writes, “It is not the case that supernatural powers cannot guide he who sees the form yet does not arrive on the way” (T38, p. 408, a21–22). Type C: As the excerpt above from Daosheng illustrates, miracles sometimes reveal the superiority of the Mahāyāna over the so-called “Hīnayāna.” We can now tabulate these differences (Table 6.2), correlating the three different types of functions of miracles with our enumeration of the miracles in the Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra (Table 6.1 above). Here we see that eleven of the twenty instances of miracles have the purpose of embodying the superiority of Mahāyāna enlightened ones (Type C); ten, of proselytizing Buddhism and liberating the masses (Type B); and six, of embodying the truth of emptiness and other Mahāyāna ideas (Type A). Even so, if we take a comprehensive look at Kumārajīva’s and his students’ commentaries, we see that these three functions are not separate from one another but rather interrelated. After the practitioner of Mahāyāna Buddhism goes through various kinds of cultivation and becomes enlightened to the truth of emptiness, he can use supernatural powers and create miracles. These miracles not only embody the truth of emptiness but also liberate the masses and demonstrate the superiority of Mahāyāna teachings. Thus these three functions compose a complete whole. In addition to this threefold understanding of the function of miracles in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, the Chang’an sangha interprets miracles in innovative ways that arguably go beyond what the text says or how Indian Buddhist philosophers understood it. For example, when Daosheng interprets the fragrance meal from the miracle of “hosting a meal from the Fragrance Lands,” he explains that it conveys the idea of “sudden enlightenment”: [Sūtra:] If those who do not yet have faith in Mahāyāna teachings eat this meal, they will have to have faith in that before they can digest it. If those who do already have faith in Mahāyāna teachings eat this meal, they will have to accept the truth of non-arising before they can digest it. If those who have already accepted the truth of non-arising eat this meal, they will have to advance to the stage where Buddhahood is assured them in their next birth before they can digest it.

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Table 6.2  Functions of Miracles within Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra Miracle number Miracle 1 Transformation of numerous canopies into one

2

3

4

5

6

Śāripūtra made by Buddha to ask him about the Pure Land Buddha’s foot touches impure land turning it into pure land The devil that is disturbing the Bodhisattva Upholder of the Age cannot hide Revealing of the Bright Light land of Tathāgata Rarely Surpassed Vimalakīrti holds reception in an empty room

7

Borrows lion seats from the Lantern King

8

Manifests the four continents in his room

9

Bodhisattvas and disciples sit on the lion seats differently

Selection from Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra Kumārajīva said: The presenting of this miracle of transformation has two main points. The first is that it shows that the unlimited wisdom of Mahāyāna to enlighten one in this miracle of transformation is profound. The second is that in offering that which is valued from Jeweled Accumulation necessarily leads to precious fruits; Jeweled Accumulation must obtain this mysterious effect in the next life. The cause is small but the effect is great. (T38, p. 332, a2–24) Kumārajīva said: This supernatural power can turn those who have no doubts into those who have doubts about the Pure Land. (T38, p. 337, b8–9) Daosheng said: The transformation of pure land via the Buddha’s supernatural power … also reveals in transformation that there is no set form and turns those emotions of impurity into ones of purity. (T38, p. 338, a17–20) Sengzhao said: This is the phenomenon hindered by Vimalakīrti’s supernatural power. Daosheng said: This presents the supernatural power of ending devils. (T38, p. 366, a20–22) Daosheng said: He who divides this into two divisions does so with the desire to explain equality. This manifestation of supernatural power testifies to dharma bestowal. (T38, p. 370, b21–22) Kumārajīva said: In wanting to explain the origin, therefore this miracle presents empty phenomena which lead to begin the teaching of emptiness. (T38, p. 371, b3–4) Sengzhao said: Even though Vimalakīrti goes to borrow lion seats with supernatural power, it still cannot work out without the Buddha’s assent to sending. (T38, p. 382, a9–10) Sengzhao said: That the unfathomable is manifest on the outside in traces means there must be unfathomable virtue within the bodhisattva. Returning in search of its root is no more than expedient wisdom. (T38, p. 382, a29–b1) Kumārajīva said: This is a supernatural power performed by Vimalakīrti. He wanted to make it so the audience knew that there existed a wide abyss between the superiority and inferiority of Mahāyāna and Hīnayāna. Also, the seat of the various deeds of the Buddha’s merits could not be sat upon without virtue. (T38, p. 382, a19–21)

Function C+B

C

A+B

C

A+B

A

C

C

C

(continued)

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6  On Miracles in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra during the Early Medieval Period… Table 6.2 (continued) Miracle number Miracle 10 Sumeru fits into a mustard seed; the four great seas fit into a hair follicle

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Selection from Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra Kumārajīva said: The large and small are contained within each other; things are without fixed existence; this explains indeterminacy. These all break the boundaries of things, pluck sentient beings out of confusion, and get rid of their secular habits causing them to walk the correct path. (T38, p. 382, b21–27) Sengzhao said: … the supernatural power of the The bodhisattva unfathomable bodhisattva is capable of seeing the manifests as a devil inner natures of sentient beings … therefore, this is king and a beggar why the bodhisattva’s trial is spoken of. (T38, p. 383, b5–8) The Goddess scatters Kumārajīva said: the Goddess used this never-­ flowers before-­seen room free of heretical teachings to reduce and eliminate Hīnayāna teachings and promote the Great Way. (T38, p. 387, a14–15) Sengzhao said: In order to establish the significance The Goddess switches bodies with of the indeterminacy of illusions, therefore, the Goddess switched bodies with Śāripūtra to make Śāripūtra him become enlightened. (T38, p. 389, b24–26) Sengzhao said: … in accordance with that which Transformation in earth, wind, fire and was required he [the bodhisattva] transformed his body. (T38, p. 395, c18–19) water Sengzhao said: In order to manifest the virtue of Mañjuśrī uses his powers to silence the Vimalakīrti, Mañjuśrī used his supernatural powers to silence the audience. (T38, p. 400, a21–23) multitudinous bodhisattvas Hosting a meal from Sengzhao said: … therefore, he asked for the the Fragrance Lands remains of the Fragrance meal. He promoted Buddhism therewith. (T38, p. 400, b14–16) The audience is held Kumārajīva said: When welcoming and sending in the right palm someone off in the secular world, there must be four-horse carriages and cavalry; when bodhisattvas welcome and send off others, this is done with supernatural powers. (T38, p. 403, a28–29) Miracles that surpass Kumārajīva said: supernatural powers of transformation … for Ananda’s understanding, the Ananda’s mysteries of Buddhism are fully manifested in this; understanding therefore, the following passage broadly explained Buddhism and widened his mind. (T38, p. 403, c27; p. 404, a2) Sengzhao said: Without the power of Mahāyāna Holds the great samadhi, there is no way to fully manifest thousand-fold universe in his palm supernatural powers. (T38, p. 413, a26–27)

Function A+B

B

C

A+B

B

C

B

C

C+B

A+C

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98 Table 6.2 (continued) Miracle number Miracle 20 Medicine King transforms into a heavenly being in the sky to offer the law to Moon Parasol

Selection from Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra Function Sengzhao said: The Medicine King Tathāgata knows B that Moon Parasol is about to become enlightened; therefore he transforms into a heavenly being in the sky to teach him. (T38, p. 415, a10–11)

Daosheng said: It will necessarily be obtained within seven days. Just like the enlightenment of a single meal, a second step is not present. Why does the description stop at the place where Buddhahood is assured them in their next birth? Because Buddhahood is realized without having external causes. How can the bodhisattvas of non-arising and those arhats of ultimate determination utilize external means in order to advance? Now, the reason why we talk about those external conditions is to illuminate the ultimate truth within this meal. The meaning is complete therein. (T38, p. 403, c16–23)

In Daosheng’s view, the fragrance meal represents, on the one hand, external concrete conditions and, on the other hand, ultimate truth. As soon as one takes a bite of the meal that expresses the “ultimate truth,” according to Daosheng, one attains complete enlightenment, because just as ultimate truth is indivisible, so enlightenment is indivisible and therefore not a gradual, two- or three-stage process. Moreover, the fragrance meal for him is just a metaphor for external, expedient means. In reality, neither arhats, bodhisattvas of non-arising, bodhisattvas at the stage where Buddhahood is assured in the next birth, nor the Buddha require external means for their cultivation. This is especially so for the Buddha, who does not require external causes to arrive at enlightenment. Therefore, the metaphor of a fragrance meal can only take the bodhisattva to the stage where Buddhahood is assured in his next birth as its final limit. Here, Daosheng maintains that in becoming a Buddha there is no need for gradual enlightenment; instead, there is only the coinciding of wisdom and truth of the ultimate. This is the theory of sudden enlightenment. In conclusion, we see that although the early medieval Chang’an sangha understands the miracles of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra to have three different functions, these three are interrelated and compose a whole. We also see that Daosheng uses the miracle of a “fragrance meal” to express his own theory about sudden enlightenment, demonstrating not only the creativity and uniqueness of his thought but also the influence and reach of the miracles of the sūtra.

6.4 Influence of the Miracles in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra on Other Imagery and Textual Resources Having discussed the types of supernatural powers and the functions of miracles in the Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, we now turn to the influence that these powers and miracles had on other imagistic and textual resources.

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First, we see the supernatural powers used to defeat and offer protection from demons.6 One of the miracles mentioned in the Commentaries as demonstrating the superiority of the supernatural powers of Mahāyāna bodhisattvas is Vimalakīrti’s thwarting of the Devil King Papiyas’s scheme to cause trouble for the Bodhisattva “Upholder of the Age” (as recounted in the “Bodhisattva Chapter”). Elsewhere, the Vimalakīrti Sūtra makes claims such as “the bodhisattvas conquered and subdued the ill will of the devils and curbed the non-Buddhist doctrines” (T14, p. 537, a12) and “Vimalakīrti overcame the host of devils and disported himself with supernatural powers” (T14, p.  544, b1). And the “Offering of the Law Chapter” recounts Prince Moon Parasol’s request that the Medicine King Tathāgata use his mighty supernatural powers to liberate him from suffering and make it so that he could defeat demons and practice the cultivation of bodhisattvas (T14, p. 556, c15–19). Such images from the Vimalakīrti Sūtra entered deep into the hearts of the Chinese, having a profound influence. Not only was this noticed by the Chang’an sangha;7 in the prior Former Qin period Dao’an (道安, 312–385) portrayed Vimalakīrti as a great general able to conquer the heavenly demons in the Ximo wen (檄魔文): First Holder of the Royal Tally, Suppressing Great General, Supervisor of the Ninth Heaven’s Capital, and the Great King of the Eighth Stage, Vimalakīrti, is of mysterious and unfathomable thought, has the universal handle of the dharma, appears as if a spirit, and shows expedient means surpassing ten-thousand transformations. He breathes in and out the clouds over the world, he rebukes those in the ten directions, and they submit to him. He takes pity on sentient beings’ innocence and plight. He leads the nine hundred ten thousand million [900 trillion] bodhisattvas like horses to the drinking hole of emptiness. (T52, p. 93, a5–9; Liu, 2010, pp. 93–97)8

This passage was also popular during the time of Dharma Master Yi (懿法师, d. 498) of the Northern Wei (T52, p. 343, a22–b10). Thus we see that by the early medieval period Vimalakīrti had become the image of a bodhisattva with not only a profound understanding of the truth of emptiness and the wisdom of expedient means but also the ability to manifest unfathomable miracles, to save the general masses, and to subdue and tame demons and spirits. A second significant influence of Vimalakīrti and his supernatural powers and miracles during the early medieval period can be found in paintings and sculpture. According to the Lidai minghua ji’s (历代名画记) records, both Zhang Mo (张墨, c. third–fourth-century) of the Western Jin and Gu Kaizhi (顾恺之, 348–409) of the Eastern Jin each painted an image of Vimalakīrti, in the latter case in the northern  The Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra often take non-Buddhist doctrines and devils as objects of criticism. They list 96 different kinds of doctrines and four general kinds of devils, in this latter case, devils of desire, devils of flesh, devils of death, and devils of heaven (T38, p. 329, a9–15). 7  There are many examples in the Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra that deal with subduing demons. We will not discuss them here. 8  Liu Linkui (2010) thinks that the name of the author of this text, Shi Zhijing (释智静), is fabricated because the content is basically the same as that of Dao’an’s Ximo wen from the Guang hongming ji (广弘明集). Therefore, the author should be Dao’an. For passages from the Guang hongming ji similar to this, see T52, p. 344, c13–17. 6

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hall of the Waguan Temple. Gu Kaizhi’s painting was well-known and influential, especially for Lu Tanwei (陆探微, c. fifth century) and Zhang Sengyao (张僧繇, c. sixth century) of the later Southern Dynasties (420–589) (Zhang, 1963, pp. 28–29). Although these early depictions of Vimalakīrti were of a solitary figure and “ideal personality,”9 this model began to undergo transformation in the Song of the Southern Dynasties (420–479 CE) through Yuan Qian (袁倩, dates unknown), who illustrated “one hundred stories from the Vimalakīrti Sūtra,” which likely means that he painted many of the sūtra’s narratives on a long-form scroll (none of which survives). This constitutes an important milestone in the development of depictions of Vimalakīrti from a solitary figure to a complete narrative (Jin, 1959, pp. 3–9), even though most of the wall murals during this time continued to depict Vimalakīrti as a single individual or only through the story where his “illness is inquired upon,” e.g., in cave 169 at the Yongjing Binglingsi (永靖炳灵寺, 420 CE), cave 6 at the Yungang Grottoes (云冈石窟, c. 471–476 CE), and the Binyang cave (宾阳洞) at the Longmen Grottoes (龙门石窟, early sixth century CE) (Xiao, 2011, pp. 131–145; Jin, 1959, pp.3–9; He, 2000, pp. 8–67). (See Figs. 6.1 and 6.2 for the first two.) Over time, however, cave-wall murals and figure steles began to register more complex imagery from the Vimalakīrti Sūtra. For example, cave 127 at Maijishan Grottoes (麦积山石窟) from the Western Wei (535–556 CE) is one of the earliest cave grottoes with a large number of depictions of Vimalakīrti, among which is one with Vimalakīrti and Mañjuśrī sitting across from each other, below them the crowd of people who came to inquire about Vimalakīrti’s illness and hear dharma, and between them a bodhisattva dressed in flowing cloth who appears to have just brought back the fragrance meal from the Fragrance Land, thus representing the miracle of hosting a meal from the Fragrance Lands (Miracle 16 on Table  6.1) (Xiang, 1998, pp. 94–102; Lai, 2016, p. 189).10 See Fig. 6.3. Another example (of the growing complexity of the visual representations of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra), located in one of the niches on the western side of the south wall of cave 1 (471–494 CE) at Yungang Grottoes, is of two carved figures facing one another. The central figure is heavily damaged, with both hands missing. His right leg is crossed in a square seated position, and his left foot hangs down. Sitting opposite him is a brahmin priest. Some scholars think this painting depicts the miracle in the “Buddha lands” chapter where Śākyamuni, while sitting with the Conch-shaped Tuft Brahma King, extends his foot to touch impure land and transform it into pure land (Miracle 3 from Table 6.1) (Cui 2013, p. 50). See Fig. 6.4. Yet another example, located in a niche on the southern side of cave 14 (494–524 CE) on the west wall of the Yungang Grottoes, depicts, between Vimalakīrti on left and Mañjuśrī on right, a bodhisattva holding an alms bowl with his right hand and something resembling a lotus with his left hand, representing the miracle from the  Court officials during the Eastern Jin and Southern Dynasties were familiar with the Vimalakīrti Sūtra and were part of a wave of thought that regarded Vimalakīrti as an ideal personality (Lu, 1991, pp. 661–672). 10  However, Lai Wenying thinks that the figure in between Vimalakīrti and Mañjuśrī is not a bodhisattva holding an alms bowl, but instead is the Goddess scattering flowers (2016, p. 189). 9

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Fig. 6.1  Illustration of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, no. 11, north wall, cave 169. Western Qin Dynasty (385–400, 409–431 CE). The Binglingsi Grottoes. (Archaeological Team of Gansu Province & The Binglingsi Grottoes Depository for Cultural Relics, comp. & ed. 1989, plate. 37. Reproducible via Article 24, Rule 4 of the Copyright Law of the People’s Republic of China (202011.11))

“Fragrance Accumulated Chapter” in which Vimalakīrti treats his guests to a meal from the Fragrance Lands (Miracle 16 in Table 6.1) (Lu, 2013, pp. 70–71).11 See Fig. 6.5. A final example of a cave-wall mural comes from the left corner of the western wall of Yungang cave 5–34,12 which contains a depiction of Vimalakīrti on left, Mañjuśrī on right, with the Goddess in front of the former and Śāripūtra in front of the latter. This represents the narrative from the “Regarding Living Beings Chapter” where the Goddess discourses with Śāripūtra. This story includes the miracle of the Goddess scattering flowers (Miracle 12 in Table 6.1) and the miracle of the goddess switching bodies with Śāripūtra (Miracle 13  in Table  6.1) (Zhang, 2005, pp. 239–250). See Fig. 6.6. In addition to cave murals, a number of Vimalakīrti depictions appear on Buddhist figure steles from the Northern Dynasties. By contrast with cave murals, which require significant time and labor (to excavate the cave) and therefore also significant patronage from aristocrats, Buddhist figure steles were less labor intensive and patronage dependent, not to mention easier for common folks to access, therefore better reflecting their perspectives (Liu, 2004, p. 1). One example is a niche on a Buddhist figure stele (contained in the Osaka City Museum of Fine Arts) from the first reign year of Pu Tai of the Northern Wei (531 CE), which depicts Vimalakīrti on right, Mañjuśrī on left, Śāripūtra in front of Mañjuśrī, a bodhisattva behind Mañjuśrī, two half-bodied goddesses at the top of

 However, Lu Shaoshan thinks that it is the Goddess scattering flowers in between Mañjuśrī and Vimalakīrti (2013, pp. 70–71). 12  In other words, the 34th small cave within the 5th big cave. 11

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Fig. 6.2  Illustration of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, middle layer of south wall, cave 6. Northern Wei Dynasty (386–534 CE). Yungang Grottoes. (Yungang Shiku Wenwu Baoguansuo, ed. 1991. plate 111. Reproducible via Article 24, Rule 4 of the Copyright Law of the People’s Republic of China (202011.11))

the niche, and these engraved words in between Vimalakīrti and Mañjuśrī: “When Vimalakīrti manifests his illness in his ten-foot square room the Lotus Bodhisattva Goddess scatters flowers” (Lai, 2016, p. 180; Wang, 2013, pp. 76–85; Jin, 1994, p. 190). This represents the miracle of the goddess scattering flowers (Miracle 12 in Table 6.1). See Fig. 6.7. Another example from a Buddhist figure stele, one with a relatively complicated depiction of Vimalakīrti, which dates to the fourth month of the Northern Wei (Yongxi Year 2, GuiChou癸丑, 533 CE), is the Zhaojianxi Buddhist Figure Stele (赵 见憘造像碑, contained in the San Francisco East Asian Art Museum, B60S44). Here, there are many narratives from the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, including the chapters “Buddha lands,” “Expedient Means,” “Inquiring about the Illness,” “the Unfathomable,” “Fragrance Accumulated,” and “Regarding the Living Beings.” The miracles depicted include the Buddha turning impure land into pure land (Miracle 3  in Table  6.1), Bodhisattvas and disciples sitting on the lion seats differently (Miracle 9 in Table 6.1), hosting a meal from the Fragrance Lands (Miracle 6 in Table 6.1), and the Goddess scattering flowers (Miracle 12 in Table 6.1) (Jin, 2007, p. 64; Wang, 2013, pp. 76–85). See Figs. 6.8 and 6.9. A final example is the Yiyi Wubaiyu Ren Buddhist Figure Stele (邑义五百余人 造像碑, contained in the Metropolitan Museum of Art), the construction of which began during the second reign year of Yong Xi of the Northern Wei (533 CE) and was

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Fig. 6.3  Scenes from Vimalakīrti Sūtra, area above niche, left wall, cave 127. Western Wei (535–556 CE). Maijishan Grottoes. (The Art Institute of the Maijishan Grottoes in Tianshui, comp. & ed. 1998, plate 160. Reproducible via Article 24, Rule 4 of the Copyright Law of the People’s Republic of China (202011.11))

Fig. 6.4  Illustration of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, Niche on western side of south wall, cave 1. Northern Wei Dynasty (386–534 CE). Yungang Grottoes. (Cui, 2012, p. 50. Reproducible via Article 24, Rule 4 of the Copyright Law of the People’s Republic of China (202011.11))

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Fig. 6.5  Illustration of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, southern side of west wall, Cave 14. Northern Wei Dynasty (386–534 CE). Yungang Grottoes. (From Lu, 2013, p. 71). Reproducible via Article 24, Rule 4 of the Copyright Law of the People’s Republic of China (202011.11))

Fig. 6.6  Illustration of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, left corner of west wall, cave 5–34. Northern Wei Dynasty (386–534 CE). Yungang Grottoes. (From Cui, 2012, p. 50. Reproducible via Article 24, Rule 4 of the Copyright Law of the People’s Republic of China (202011.11))

finished in the first reign year of Wu Ding of the Eastern Wei (543 CE). This stele features Vimalakīrti and Mañjuśrī sitting across from each other in its center, though includes many other narratives as well. Its content comes from five

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Fig. 6.7  Buddhist figure stele. The first year of the reign of Pu Tai of the Northern Wei (531 CE). Osaka City Museum of Fine Arts. (From Jin, 1994, p. 190. Reproducible via Article 24, Rule 4 of the Copyright Law of the People’s Republic of China (202011.11))

chapters—“Expedient Means,” “Inquiring about the Illness,” “the Unfathomable,” “Fragrance Accumulated,” and “Regarding Living Beings”—and its miracles include borrowing lion seats from the Lantern King (Miracle 7 in Table 6.1), hosting

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Fig. 6.8  Zhaojianxi Buddhist Figure Stele. The fourth month of the reign of Yongxi of the Northern Wei (533 CE). San Francisco East Asian Art Museum. (Figure  6.8 is from Jin, 2007, p. 64); Figure 6.9 is from Wang, 2013, p. 78. Reproducible via Article 24, Rule 4 of the Copyright Law of the People’s Republic of China (202011.11))

a meal from the Fragrance Lands (Miracle 16 in Table 6.1), the Goddess scattering flowers (Miracle 12 in Table 6.1), and the Goddess switching bodies with Śāripūtra (Miracle 13 in Table 6.1) (Akiyama, 1936, pp. 595–611; Lai, 2016, pp. 183–185; Jin, 2007, p.85). See Fig. 6.10. We therefore know that during the early medieval period of China, more complex and abundant narrative depictions of Vimalakīrti began to appear in cave grottoes and Buddhist figure steles. Although they manifest many different stories from many different chapters of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, six are most frequent: the Buddha turning impure land into pure land (Miracle 3 in Table 6.1), borrowing lion seats from the Lantern King (Miracle 7 in Table 6.1), bodhisattvas and disciples sitting on

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Fig. 6.9  Zhaojianxi Buddhist Figure Stele. The fourth month of the reign of Yongxi of the Northern Wei (533 CE). San Francisco East Asian Art Museum. (Figure 6.8 is from Jin, 2007, p. 64; Figure 6.9 is from Wang, 2013, p. 78. Reproducible via Article 24, Rule 4 of the Copyright Law of the People’s Republic of China (202011.11))

the lion seats differently (Miracle 9 in Table 6.1), the Goddess scattering flowers (Miracle 12  in Table  6.1), the Goddess switching bodies with Śāripūtra (Miracle 13  in Table  6.1), and hosting a meal from the Fragrance Lands (Miracle 16  in Table 6.1). Thus we can conclude that during the early medieval period, the figure of Vimalakīrti as a subduer of demons through supernatural powers achieved a level of popularity in society. Unlike the emphasis on doctrinal teachings during the Eastern Jin Dynasty and Southern Dynasties, miracle stories were of interest during the Northern Dynasties, especially for the common people, which suggests that belief in the miracles of the sūtra exerted greater influence than its doctrinal teachings.13Among these miracles, those of the Goddess scattering flowers (Miracle 12 in Table 6.1) and of hosting a meal from the Fragrance Lands (Miracle 16 in Table 6.1) deeply penetrated the hearts of the people, becoming a kind of cultural symbol that is repeatedly seen in literary productions and popular beliefs (Zhang, 2011, pp. 40–52).

 This difference is related to the cultural characteristics of the north and the south at that time. Influenced by the metaphysics of the Wei and Jin Dynasties, Buddhism in the Southern Dynasties was keen on the speculation of Buddhist doctrines, while Buddhism in the North was relatively simple and attached great importance to Buddhist practice. 13

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Fig. 6.10 Stele Commissioned by Helian Ziyue (赫蓮子悅) and a Devotional Society of Five Hundred Individuals. Eastern Wei dynasty (534–550 CE). Metropolitan Museum of Art. (From Metropolitan Museum of Art: https://www. metmuseum.org/art/ collection/search/40406)

6.5 Conclusion In the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, supernatural powers and miracles are both very central and significant. By investigating the Commentaries on the Vimalakīrti Sūtra in China during the early medieval period as well as other imagistic and textual resources, we see that although the Chang’an sangha had not fully understood the categories of the supernatural powers in the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, they had already become profoundly aware of the functions of miracles. As an expression of the unfathomable liberation of Vimalakīrti and other enlightened beings, miracles not only embodied

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the profound thought of Mahāyāna Buddhism, manifesting its superiority, but also acted as the dharma of salvation and transformational guidance. Due to his supernatural powers, Vimalakīrti was also given the power to subdue spirits and expel demons. This image of him continued throughout the early medieval period, with depictions of his miracles receiving more and more emphasis. As confirmed by the inscriptions of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra from Dunhuang, popular society during the Northern Dynasties not only regarded Vimalakīrti’s miracles as historical events but also believed that Vimalakīrti could use his supernatural powers to answer their prayers (He, 2015, p.  210). This influenced the spread of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra throughout the world.

References Primary Sources Dao’an道安. Ximo wen檄魔文. In Guang hongming ji广弘明集. T52n2103. Dazhidu lun大智度论, trans. Kumārajīva. T25n1509. Kuiji窥基. Shuo Wugoucheng Jingshu说无垢称经疏. T38n1782. Pimoluojiedijing Yishu Xu毗摩罗诘堤经义疏序. In Chu sangzang jiji出三藏记集. T55n2145. Pusa dichi jing菩萨地持经. trans. Dharmakṣema昙无谶. T30n1581. Pusa shanjie jing菩萨善戒经. trans. Gunavarman求那跋摩. T30n1582. Sengzhao僧肇etc. Zhu weimojie jing注维摩诘经. T38n1775. Zhijing智静. Ximo wen檄魔文. In Hongming ji弘明集. T52n2102. Weimojie suoshuo jing维摩诘所说经, trans. Kumārajīva鸠摩罗什. T14n475. Yi fashi懿法师. Famo zhao伐魔诏. In Guang hongming ji广弘明集. T52n2103. Yujiashidi lun瑜伽师地论. trans. Xuanzang玄奘. T30n1579.

Secondary Sources Akiyama, M. (1936). Houkugi zouhi no yuimahennsouzu nitsuite北魏像碑の維摩變相圖に就い て. Journal of Archeology, 26(10), 595–611. Archaeological Team of Gansu Province & The Binglingsi Grottoes Depository for Cultural Relics, comp. & ed. 1989. The Grotto art of China: The Binglingsi Grottoes. Beijing: Cultural Relics Publishing House. Campany, R. F. (2012). Signs From the Unseen Realm: Buddhist miracle tales from early medieval China: A translation and study. University of Hawai‘i Press. Cui, X. (2012). Yungang Weimojiebianxiang gushi neirong shidu云冈维摩诘变相故事内容释读. World of Antiquity, 2, 49–51. He, J. (2015). Lun weimojiejing zai zhongguo zhonggu shumin jiecengzhong de xinyang tezhi论 《维摩诘经》在中国中古庶民阶层中的信仰特质. Gansu Social Sciences, 6, 209–214. He, Shizhe贺世哲. 2000. Dunhuang bihua zhong de weimojiejingbian敦煌壁画中的维摩诘经 变. In Dunhuang yanjiu wenji-dunhuang shiku jingbianpian敦煌研究文集·敦煌石窟经变篇, ed. Dunhuang yanjiuyuan敦煌研究院 (pp. 8–67). Gansu minzu chubanshe甘肃民族出版社. Jin, S. (1994). Zhongguo lidai jinian foxiang tudian中国历代纪年佛像图典. Wenwu chubanshe文物出版社.

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Jin, S. (2007). Haiwai ji gangtaicang lidai foxiang zhenpin jinian tujian海外及港台藏历代佛像 珍品纪年图鉴. Shanxi renmin chubanshe山西人民出版社. Jin, W. (1959). Dunhuang bihua weimobian de fazhan敦煌壁画维摩变的发展. Cultural Relics, 2, 3–9. Lai, W. (2016). Iconographic evidences related to the Vimalakīrti Sutra in early medieval China. Fo Guang Journal of Buddhist Studies, 3(2), 171–200. Liu, Lili刘莉莉. 2004. Heluo diqu beichao fojiao zaoxiangbei yanjiu河洛地区北朝佛像造像研 究. Master’s thesis from Zhengzhou University. Liu, L. (2010). Identifying the Author of Buddhism Proclamation for the Defeat of Mara. Dunhuang Research, 2, 93–97. Lu, S. (2013). Beichao suidai weimojiejing tuxiang de biaoxian xingshi yu biaoshu sixiang fenxi北 朝隋代维摩诘经图像的表现形式与表述思想分析. Palace Museum Journal, 1, 70–71. Lu, Y. (1991). Lun weimojiejing yu dongjin nanchao wenhua zhi guanxi论《维摩诘经》与东晋 南朝文化之关系. In L. Zheng李铮 (Ed.), Papers in Honour of Prof. Dr. Ji Xianlin on His 80th BirthdayII 季羡林教授八十华诞纪念论文集(下) (pp.  661–672). Jiangxi renmin chubanshe 江西人民出版社. Oshika, Jishu大鹿實秋. 1988. Yuimakyou niokeru shinpi shisou維摩経における神秘思想. In Yuimakyou no kenkyu維摩経の研究, ed. Naritasan bukkyō kenkyūsyo成田山仏教研究所 (pp. 356–369). Heirakuji Shoten平楽寺書店. Pātañjali, Vyāsa, and Vāchaspati Miśra. 1998. Pātañjali’s Yoga Sūtras: With the commentary of Vyāsa and the gloss of Vāchaspati Miśra. Trans. Rāma Prasāda. New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishier Pvt Ltd. The Art Institute of the Maijishan Grottoes in Tianshui comp. & ed. 1998. The Grotto art of China: The Maijishan Grottoes. Beijing: Cultural Relics Publishing House. Wang, H. (2013). The evolution and stylization date of the Western Pure Land illustration. Dunhuang Research, 3, 76–85. Watabe, K. (1987). On supernatural faculties. Japanese Association of Indian and Buddhist Studies, 36(1), 281–285. Xiang, Y. (1998). Weimojiejing yu weimojiejingbian—maijishan127ku weimojiejingbian bihua shitan《维摩诘经》与维摩诘经变──麦积山127窟维摩诘经变壁画试探. Journal of the Dunhuang Studies, 2, 94–102. Xiao, J. (2011). Zhongguo zaoqi weimojiebianxiang de chuangzao yu zhankai中国早期维摩诘变 相的创造与展开. Journal of National Museum of China, 9, 131–145. Yan, S. (2016). A review of studies of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra in a hundred years. Journal of HIT (Social Sciences Edition), 18(2), 95–102. Yungang Shiku Wenwu Baoguansuo云冈石窟文物保管所. (1991). Zhongguo shiku-yungang shiku: 1中国石窟·云冈石窟: 一. Wenwu chubanshe文物出版社. Yungang Shiku Wenwu Baoguansuo云冈石窟文物保管所. (1994). Zhongguo shiku-yungang shiku: 2中国石窟·云冈石窟: 二. Wenwu chubanshe文物出版社. Zhang, H. (2011). Tangdai wenren yu weimojiejing唐代文人与《维摩诘经》. Literary Review, 1, 40–52. Zhang, H. (2005). Yungangshiku zhong weimojie he wenshupusa zaoxiang de tantao云冈石窟中 维摩诘和文殊菩萨造像的探讨. In L. Zhiguo李治国 (Ed.), 2005nian Yungang guoji xueshu yantaohui lunwenji· yanjiujuan2005年云冈国际学术研讨会论文集·研究卷 (pp.  239–250). Wenwu chubanshe文物出版社. Zhang, Y. (1963). Lidai minghua ji历代名画记. Renmin meishu chubanshe人民美术出版社.

Chapter 7

“By Whose Authority?”: Polemical and Political Uses of Miracle Stories David L. Weddle

Abstract  Stories of miracles are found in nearly every religious tradition. Among the many ways religious communities use these stories of transcendent power is as evidence in polemical arguments and as sanction of political authority. This essay challenges David Hume’s skepticism regarding miracles but raises other objections to claims that miraculous power confirms truth and argues that not even supernatural might can make right. Drawing a parallel to the spirituals of African slaves in America, we interpret stories of levitation as coded narratives that support resistance to oppressive governments. We conclude that miracles cannot decide arguments about religious claims, but miracle stories can inspire transformative action within the communities of faith they create and sustain over time.

7.1 Prelude: Miracles as Common Religious Belief Miracle stories are narratives of power. As such, they raise—and purport to answer— questions of authority. To be specific, questions about who has the right to exercise supernatural power and how that power in turn authorizes the one who exercises it. Across religious traditions, miracles signify transcendence, what comes to us from

D. L. Weddle (*) Colorado College, Colorado Springs, CO, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_7

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elsewhere, from reality unconstrained by material forces or human invention.1 So, we begin with this definition: “A miracle is an event of transcendent power that arouses wonder and carries religious significance for those who witness it or hear or read about it” (Weddle, 2010, p. 4). While most religious traditions develop non-­ literal interpretations of miracle stories, reading them as representations of moral virtues or mystical raptures, this essay focuses on stories of miracles understood as tales of transcendent power that signify who has authority to speak truth and to exercise power in this world. In the last generation there has been a resurgence of traditional faith, including belief in miracles as private and public events. After all, if God can heal illness in response to prayer, God can also guarantee victory in an election or an insurgency. People across the globe daily petition divine beings for miraculous intervention in their lives. Consider that among the over 7 billion people on earth there are 1 billion Roman Catholics whose Church teaches that a miracle occurs every time they participate in the ritual of the Mass; one and a half billion Muslims whose tradition teaches that a miracle of divine revelation produced the Qur’an; half billion Pentecostal Christians who believe in miraculous healing; and a billion Hindus, many of whom pray to personal deities for supernatural aid or believe in paranormal powers achieved through yogic discipline. By this rough count, half the world’s population belongs to religious communities which affirm the reality of miracles (Pew Research Center, 2012). Given that belief in miracles is common, however, what difference does it make? How does belief in miracles affect the way people think about reality and act in their relationships with others? Specifically, in this essay we are concerned with the role  Transcendence is a notoriously elusive term that points away from, rather than toward, any definite meaning. It is the apophatic characterization of reality that is not formed by nature or created by humans. It is what is “across from” or “other than” the universe. Religious traditions both affirm transcendent reality and deny that it can be known in the way objects in our world can be named and compared. For ancient Hindus, it was “neti, neti” (not this, not that). For mystics in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic traditions, the ultimate source of all things is not—indeed, cannot be—a thing itself. As “no-thing,” the transcendent is indescribable by human language, uncontrollable by human will, and ineffable to human mind. Yet it is the indispensable referent of religious belief and practice. Thus, while religious traditions have developed a staggering variety of ways to imagine “transcendent reality,” they typically insist that no mediation could fully represent it. Reference to transcendence, then, entails dialectical tension between its reality and the provisional means by which it is conceptualized in theology, acknowledged in ritual, inscribed in scripture, celebrated in dance, imitated in social conduct, and embodied in institutions. The vast array of characterizations of transcendence, some flatly contradicting others, could lead one to conclude that the term is so amorphous as to be meaningless. But we bear in mind Jonathan Z. Smith’s comment that the constellation of definitions of religion simply demonstrates the variety of ways scholars attempt to establish a “disciplinary horizon” as the necessary condition of “disciplined study” (Smith, 1998, p. 281). Similarly, in this essay, I define miracles as signs of transcendence as a horizon within which their function of pointing to what is “other than” material forces and human creativity can be isolated and analyzed. It is impossible to be more specific about what transcendence is without employing a religious discourse shaped by a distinctive history. So, the term remains vague, but indispensable as the general signifier for whatever a religious tradition regards as its primary referent, what is not of our world. 1

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miracles play in arguments between religions and contests over political authority. How do miracle stories figure in debates about who has the moral right to exercise power in a community? These questions can be condensed to the classic poser: Does might make right? Should anyone be believed, obeyed, or worshipped because of the ability to exercise power, even supernatural power? Could miracles count as evidence in an argument about religious beliefs? Could a miracle constitute a reason for believing a religious claim? Could miracle stories support resistance to unjust political power? We will consider these questions in turn.

7.2 Persuasion: Miracles as Evidence A cartoon once pictured three suburban commuters leaving from identical driveways, when one glances up to see a message written in the sky: GOD EXISTS. “Well,” he declares, “That settles that!” But does it? Any event offered as a sign of divine power is open to skepticism because there is no necessary connection between the event—in this case, letter-shaped smoke appearing spontaneously—and the claim, in this case, that God exists. The phenomenon as such cannot provide its own meaning. To offer another example, suppose I were to levitate in your presence, would you fall to your knees to worship me? Certainly not before looking carefully for hidden wires. And even if you found none, would you be disposed to believe me if I told you that I am God and that you should obey my commands? If not, then you have reservations about accepting a religious claim based on the ability to defy gravity. Your skepticism would be justified because power has no necessary relation to truth: might does not make right. Still, could miracles be an exception to that rule? Could a miracle be evidence that the one who performed it should be believed? Let us consider these questions by comparing two stories that reach opposite conclusions about the value of miracles as evidence. We begin with a story from the Gospel of John. When Jesus was asked whether a man with congenital blindness was responsible for his affliction, Jesus said neither he nor his parents were to be blamed. Rather, “he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him” (John 9:3). Without further comment, Jesus made a potion of dirt and spit, applied it to the man’s eyes, and sent him to a pool in Jerusalem to wash. When the man returned, he was able to see. When questioned, he insisted that his healing was genuine. He further declared Jesus to be a prophet, adding, “If this man were not from God, he could do nothing.” When Jesus later asked him whether he had faith, the man answered, “Lord, I believe” and worshiped him (John 9:38). In the aftermath of this incident, Jesus asserted that his miracles are evidence that he is divine. He challenged his opponents: “If I am not doing the works of my Father, then do not believe in me. But if I do them, even though you do not believe me, believe the works, so that you may know and understand that the Father is in me and I am in the Father” (John 10:37–38). Clearly, the man he healed followed that

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directive. But should anyone else believe Jesus is God because of “the works” he performed? After all, Jesus’ opponents acknowledged that the man was healed, but they attributed the miracle to demonic power and challenged Jesus to prove otherwise: “By whose authority do you do these works?” Their question arises precisely because miracles are not self-explanatory; they do not come with certificates of authenticity or labels of origin. A miracle leaves its witnesses agape with blank wonder; but when the initial shock of surprise passes, the mind demands explanation. Thus, every tradition creates meaning for its miracles. In extended discourses peculiar to the Gospel of John, Jesus interprets his own miracles as revealing aspects of his divine nature. He foreshadows the meaning of this story by earlier declaring, “I am the light of the world.” The metaphor recalls the opening of the Hebrew Bible where God begins creation with the words, “Let there be light.” Restoring sight to the blind man was Jesus’s replication on the individual level of what God achieved on the cosmic plane. Whenever the story is retold in Christian circles, it is intended to reinforce belief in Jesus’s identity with God. In the telling of a miracle story, there is always an implicit appeal to believe in what the miracle signifies, but the effectiveness of that appeal depends upon the audience’s recognition that the miracle entails the meaning that the narrator assigns to it. Without that cognitive association, the miracle cannot serve as a “sign” of the claim it is said to confirm, in this case the divine nature of Jesus. The connection between the miracle and the religious claim depends upon what Linda Zagzebski calls shared “background beliefs” (Zagzebski, 2007, pp.  220–222). Such beliefs increase the probability that one may believe in the miracle and accept the religious claim it is said to prove. For example, without prior belief in either God as supernatural agent or in enlightened Mind as transcendent power, one would have no basis for accepting an alleged miracle as proof of either. Thus, there is no straight line between a miracle and its meaning; if there were, any reasonable person should be able to follow it. Jesus’s opponents, however, remained unconvinced of his deity even when the healed man stood before them. In their minds, Jesus’s display of power suggested alliance with demonic forces. Because different cognitive associations lead to different conclusions about the significance of the miracle, the miracle cannot by itself establish its own meaning.2 Our second story also demonstrates that the performance of a miracle carries no decisive authority in religious debate. Faced with wonders performed by one of their own, the first rabbis are represented in the Talmud as rejecting the role of miracles in verifying the miracle worker’s interpretation of Jewish law. Before

 For example, in a Hindu context, Jesus’s feat of levitation could be evidence of his mastery of “marvelous powers” described in Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras, not of his divine nature. In a Buddhist context, Jesus’s levitation might prove that he was an enlightened being, free from the order of the material world. In Islamic interpretation, Jesus is a prophet whom Allah protects by changing water to solid when he steps on it. Thus, the same miracle could act as a reason for accepting widely divergent claims about Jesus. Settling those differences would have nothing to do with the miracle and everything to do with competing “background beliefs.” 2

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considering why they did so, we must first compare the historical contexts of our two stories. The audiences for our two stories were situated in similar conditions. Readers of the Gospel of John, written in the late first century, were part of the developing Christian community under sporadic persecution by Roman rulers in Asia Minor. John’s version of the story of Jesus is designed to elicit belief in Jesus as “the Christ, the Son of God” by recording seven miracles that are “signs” of his divine nature (John 20:30–31). Against alternative interpretations of Jesus, John sought to unite early Christians on what would later become the orthodox understanding of Jesus as “God in the flesh,” a belief confirmed by his power to perform miracles. The central figure in our second story is Rabbi Eliezer ben Hyrcanus (40–120 ce), who lived at roughly the same time as the author of the Gospel of John. Eliezer’s story, however, was recorded several centuries later in the Babylonian Talmud by scholars attempting to establish a normative set of beliefs and practices that would unify the Jewish community against the threat of assimilation. Therefore, they represented the first rabbis, following the destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem in 70 ce, as creating a distinctive form of Jewish identity based on learned interpretation of Torah.3 To defend their authority as teachers of Torah and to prevent schism within the Jewish community the later rabbis rejected claims of miracle workers and cited precedent for their decision from the first century. While readers of the Gospel of John were urged to accept Jesus’s miracles as evidence of his divine authority, readers of the Talmud were instructed to reject miracles as evidence of who speaks for God. The rabbinic exclusion of miracles from disputes over religious law is illustrated in a story known as the “Oven of Akhnai.” The tale recounts an argument over whether a stove of a certain construction was ritually impure. Rabbi Eliezer was convinced of his view that the oven was clean, but the others disagreed. In response Eliezer abandoned the debate and went directly to a display of miraculous power as confirmation of his view. According to the Talmud, Eliezer declared, “If the Halakhah [laws governing daily Jewish practice] agrees with me, let this locust tree prove it.” Immediately, the tree uprooted and replanted at a distant spot. The other rabbis were unimpressed and agreed that “no proof may be brought from a locust tree.” Eliezer persisted. “If I am right, let this stream of water prove it.” The stream, at his word, reversed the direction of its flow. “There is no proof in a stream,” the others responded. “Very well,” said Eliezer, “If the Halakhah agrees with me, let the walls of the schoolhouse prove it.” At once, the walls began to teeter, but Rabbi Joshua admonished the walls,

 In addition to Torah study, Guy Strousma argues that the process also involved substituting animal sacrifices with prayer, fasting, and charity. He attributes this “radical transformation” of Jewish identity precipitated by the loss of the Temple to the “leaven of interiorization” whereby public displays of religious power (by ritual experts or, we might add, miracle workers) were displaced by private devotion (Strousma, 2009, pp. 4, 67–69). Mira Balberg agrees that latter rabbis constructed an ideal of Jewish life “guided by incessant, committed, and meticulous observance of halakah,” but argues that they did so while maintaining a discourse of sacrifice (Balberg, 2017, p. 221). 3

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saying, “What role do you have in settling a dispute about Torah?” Caught between two authorities, the walls did not topple, but neither did they return to their upright position. They stood at an indecisive angle. Eliezer then raised the stakes by calling out, “If I am right, let Heaven confirm my judgment.” Thereupon, a heavenly voice was heard: “Why do you dispute with Rabbi Eliezer? The Halakhah accords with him on every point.” Nevertheless, Rabbi Joshua quoted the Bible: “The Torah is not in heaven” (Deuteronomy 30:21). He added that the Law states, “One must incline after the majority” (Exodus 23:2). The matter was settled. Eliezer not only lost the argument, but also his standing in the community. He was banned from further debates and only later reinstated as a legal scholar.4 Even though Eliezer was an honored rabbi whose piety and insight were legendary, his miraculous might was dismissed as evidence that his reading of Torah was right. The other rabbis insisted that his power could not verify his wisdom; no miracle he performed could substitute for logical reasoning. They were troubled by Eliezer’s attempt to assert divine authority for his interpretation of Torah without engaging in the passionate argument that, for the rabbis, is the only way humans can hope to determine what is true. Calling upon miracles to decide a point of law would make that process, the ferocious matching of wits among scholars, irrelevant. If understanding Torah requires divine revelation in the form of miracles, then its meaning cannot be determined by human minds alone. The rabbinic project of creating a comprehensive system of Jewish belief and practice from reasoned interpretation of Torah would be impossible. Thus, the rabbis exiled Eliezer. When Eliezer received news of his banishment, one authority recorded, “Great was the calamity on that day, for everything at which R. Eliezer cast his eyes was burned up.” The effect was felt even at sea, where one supporter of the ban, Rabbi Gamaliel, found himself about to be drowned by a gigantic wave that he declared to be the judgment of Eliezer. Gamaliel prayed for deliverance while defending his decision: “Sovereign of the Universe! Thou knowest full well that I have not acted for my honor, nor for the honor of my paternal house, but for Thine, so that differences may not multiply in Israel” (Neusner, 1996, pp. 286–287). The ocean calmed. Gamaliel’s prayer may hold the key to understanding why Eliezer’s appeal to supernatural intervention led to the severe punishment of exclusion. The rabbis were concerned to defend the authority of scholars over miracle workers, but they were also profoundly concerned about the integrity of the Jewish community. If Eliezer’s appeal to miracles to authorize a ruling about Jewish practice were to stand, a dangerous precedent would be set for introducing innovations in legal tradition. Other miracle workers could seek to authorize other changes in the laws that define Jewish identity and the resulting competition could splinter the community over ritual variations. For the rabbis, the prospect of fragmentation into sects was a daunting threat to their project of unifying the Jewish people under their system of

 Adapted from Scholem, 1971, pp. 291–292. The original source is Bavli Tractate Baba Mesia, 1.15–16. Commentary on this story is drawn from Weddle, 2010, pp. 71–74. 4

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laws. They feared that acknowledging independent grounds of authority, such as miracles, would lead to schism. They understood that the long-term integrity of any community is always threatened by sporadic appearances of inspiring figures arousing popular support for innovation. On the question of whether miracles provide evidence of the truth claimed by the miracle worker, our two case studies offer contrasting answers. In the Gospel of John, Jesus’s miracle of healing a blind man purports to be proof that he is divine, and that belief is proclaimed as the unifying faith of the early Christian community. In the Talmud, the story of early rabbis rejecting Eliezer’s miracles as evidence that his interpretation of Torah is correct is essential to later rabbis establishing their system of laws as the unifying practice for the Jewish community. This difference indicates a deeper disagreement over how religious truth is known: through wondrous displays of power or through rigorous exercise of human judgment and intuition? It is important to note that the divide is not between Christian and Jewish traditions, but between diverse views of divine presence within each tradition. For example, Hasidic Judaism attributes miracles to its beloved rebbes, and Scholastic Christian theologians interpreted reason as the imago dei in human beings—thus switching sides of the divide.5 If the early rabbis are right, however, that a display of supernatural power is irrelevant to a debate over religious truth, then what role—if any—could miracles play in coherent reflection? That is, what could be deduced from an event of transcendent power? That is the question we next address: could a miracle provide a valid reason for accepting a religious claim to knowledge?

7.3 Polemics: Miracles as Reasons Tales of polemical use of miracles occur in nearly every religious tradition. Consider this example: A tenth-century Sufi master was arguing against a Zoroastrian priest that fire has no inherent, much less sacred, reality because it burns only by divine permission. The Sufi then passed through a blazing pyre unharmed to prove the point that “there is no real causality, but that God gives or withholds the capacities of the elements to which mankind is accustomed: He creates these qualities and capacities anew every moment” (Schimmel, 1975, p.  209). The Zoroastrian was convinced that the Sufi’s version of metaphysics was correct. But did the miracle of a human body being engulfed in flames without injury serve as a valid reason for the Zoroastrian to abandon his belief in the divine nature of fire and thus its sovereign freedom from control by another deity?  The diversity of views within each tradition is further exemplified by the criticism of Hasidism by the Mitnaggedim, opponents who rejected ecstatic prayer and miracle-working as challenges to traditional authority; and the rejection of scholasticism by Christian mystics, who insisted that salvation was achieved not through intellectual reflection but through contemplative prayer and the immediate union with God that made miraculous healings and visions possible. 5

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Further, why should the Sufi’s miracle require the Zoroastrian to accept the belief that every natural process is subject to the will of one God? What is the logical connection between the unsinged Sufi and Islamic belief that Allah creates everything “anew every moment”? How does that specific miracle warrant that specific belief? What is the ground for making that cognitive association? The epistemological problem arises when a miracle is regarded as a mysterious event that disrupts the ordinary course of events and defies customary methods of causal explanation. Just as nothing follows logically from a paradox, so a mystery leads reason nowhere. Thus, a miracle could play no role in debate about the truth of one religious claim over a contradictory one. This conclusion is a logical point to which we will return. For now, we consider David Hume’s well-known criticism of miracles as reasons for belief. Hume rejected miracles because their competing claims seemed to cancel each other—like the gingham dog and calico cat of the old nursery rhyme who, in a horrific spat, ate each other up. In An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Hume writes, “Every miracle, therefore, pretended to have been wrought in any of these religions (and all of them abound in miracles), as its direct scope is to establish the particular system to which it is attributed; so has it the same force, though more indirectly, to overthrow every other system” (Hume, 2007, p. 88). The background for Hume’s skeptical view of miracles is the central premise of eighteenth-century science, inherited from Isaac Newton: that the world is composed of physical objects and forces that operate according to laws that exhaustively explain their motions, the so-called billiard ball universe. On that premise, Hume considered a miracle to be a disruption of the orderly conduct of nature. Hence his definition: A miracle is “a transgression of a law of nature by a particular volition of the Deity, or by the interposition of some invisible agent” (Hume, 2000, p. 87). Hume uses language of transgression, related to violation or forcible and unlawful assault on the integrity of another. For Hume a miracle, were one ever to occur, would be an act of violence committed by God against the body of the world. While Hume was confident in the reliable order of nature, he was also an empiricist and knew there can be no material evidence for laws that regulate matter because the evidence would presuppose the laws. From observation of nature one can only derive laws that are descriptive rather than prescriptive, that is, scientific accounts always trail historical events and never determine them in advance. Contrary to popular usage, laws of nature are not agents; they do not cause or prevent anything. Natural laws are statements of probability with great predictive power, but they are not a fixed body of eternal truths. A miracle, or any novel event that defied the odds, might introduce new data for empirical study, but such events would not “transgress” an immutable world order. Hume’s dramatic rhetoric is the protest “overmuch” that points to an inconsistency in the flat-out denial of miracles, namely, it is impossible on empirical grounds to prove that miracles are impossible. No statistical account of past events could infallibly predict or interdict any future event.6  To be fair, Hume does not rule out miracles a priori, but he insists that no record of a miracle could ever be more likely to be true than our confidence that natural laws have no exceptions (Fogelin, 2003, pp. 17–31). 6

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I propose that Hume recognized this problem and, consequently, shifted his critique of miracles from defending the invariability of nature to attacking the integrity of religious witnesses. He stated the premise with unconditional certainty: “We may establish it as a maxim, that no human testimony can have such force as to prove a miracle, and make it a just foundation for any such system of religion” (Hume, 2007, p. 88). Hume was convinced that testimony to a religious miracle is always tainted because its witnesses are either deceptive or gullible. Hume’s argument works, however, only if we assume that all miracles have equivalent value as evidence. Hume, of course, thought they did: they were all equally bogus. In fact, Hume’s view of religious testimony is so prejudicial that he could never accept a miracle story as credible. Consider his statement that “the violations of truth are more common in the testimony concerning religious miracles, than in that concerning any other matter of fact; this must diminish very much the authority of the former testimony, and make us form a general resolution, never to lend any attention to it” (Hume, 2007, p. 93). Despite Hume’s assumption that all religious witnesses to miracles routinely “violate” the truth, we do in fact distinguish between more and less reliable testimony. J.  L. Mackie argued that the most persuasive testimony is from multiple, independent witnesses to the same event because it is unlikely that all of them would manage “to misobserve to the same effect, or to misremember in the same way, or to hit upon the same lie” (Mackie, 1982, p. 300). Inasmuch as these are also the principles by which we evaluate testimony in courts of law and research laboratories, is it unreasonable to apply them to miracle stories? If so, we may well be able to distinguish miracle claims that are more and less persuasive and spot those that are blatant frauds. If so, Hume is wrong that all miracle stories are discredited to the same degree. Nevertheless, is he right on the main point? Can miracles serve as reasons for preferring one religion over another? Hume does not think so because he asserts that “all the prodigies of different religions are to be regarded as contrary facts; and the evidences of these prodigies, whether weak or strong, as opposite to each other” (Hume, 2007, pp. 87–88). Religious wonders in different traditions, however, are surprisingly similar—one finds healings, levitation, control of weather, provision of food and water nearly everywhere—and that may explain why none can claim superiority to another. It is not because their “prodigies” are “contrary” but because they are similar. No religion could establish its superiority by a miracle that is also performed in another tradition. For example, how could anyone decide whether an ascending messiah or a flying yogi provided more decisive evidence for the metaphysical system each represents? Finally, I think that Hume is right, but for the wrong reasons. Miracles cannot serve to resolve arguments over religious truth if the polemicists claim that acts of transcendent power are signs of what surpasses human knowledge and are exempt from critical comparison. One cannot have it both ways: if what a miracle signifies cannot be known, then there is no way to determine which of two miracles offers a truer demonstration of it. Thus, we cannot decide which miracle constitutes a more valid reason for accepting the metaphysical claim it putatively warrants. The

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problem lies not in the mutual exclusivity of miracles performed in different religions, as Hume thought, but in the impossible task of evaluating which of two seemingly identical miracles more successfully establishes the religious truth it claims to establish.

7.4 Politics: Miracles as Authority If not germane to polemics in religion, though, might miracles still be useful in politics? Here I have in mind both ways Karl Marx thought religion functioned in society: as ideology to sanction the privilege of the wealthy and as narcotic to numb workers to their suffering and to distract them from their exploitation. If religion is the “opium of the people,” then the drug dealers are in alliance with the ruling classes, and “the parson has ever gone hand in hand with the landlord.”7 Accordingly, miracle stories have been used to transfer religious authority to ruling powers and to encourage submission to them. What Marx did not appreciate, however, is that these same stories can also express, in coded language, longings for freedom and justice.8 In antebellum America, for example, the disruptive politics of miracle stories aligned with the covert protest to injustice inscribed in the spirituals of African slaves. Along with the “sweet chariot” coming to return captives to their homeland and the call to “steal away” for secret meetings to plan resistance and escape, stories of miraculous deliverance in the Bible also inspired the belief that God is on the side of the oppressed and will answer their prayers for freedom. As James Cone observes, “blacks reasoned that if God could lock the lion’s jaw for Daniel and could cool the fire for the Hebrew children, then God could certainly deliver black people from slavery” (Cone, 1991, p. 33).9 This hope did not lead to pious submission to cruel captivity while awaiting divine deliverance. On the contrary, many slaves “believed that the only hands God had were their hands and without the hazards of escape or  Marx’s famous epigram appears in the introduction to his Contribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of Right (1844). The cozy image of the parson and the landlord is found in the Manifesto of the Communist Party (1847–1848) co-authored with Frederick Engels (1964, pp. 42, 89). 8  The capacity of “people’s religion” to resist oppressive political order inspired Harvey Cox to temper his praise of secularity in his best-selling book, The Secular City (1965). Seduction of the Spirit, published less than a decade later, marked a turn to appreciation for “religions of the oppressed” as “their guarantors of psychic survival, inner dignity and persistent hope…. The inherited Marxist notion that religion is the tool of the oppressor cannot be sustained by the empirical evidence today. Religious ideas, and persons inspired by religious beliefs, have made a distinctive contribution to the emancipation movements of our time” (Cox, 1973, pp. 115, 130). 9  References are to the stories in the Hebrew Bible of the young Jewish hero Daniel who refused to worship King Darius and was punished by being thrown into a den of lions whose mouths were shut by God. Earlier, his three friends (“the Hebrew children”) had refused to worship a statue set up by King Nebuchadnezzar and were thrown into a furnace from which they emerged unharmed (Daniel 6, 3). These stories encouraged Jewish people in exile to resist assimilation to foreign cultures and their religious practices. The message appropriated by many African slaves was that miracles of divine deliverance await those who remain faithful to their God-given identities. 7

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insurrection slavery would never end” (Cone, 1991, p. 36). Hearing stories of miraculous rescue as assurances of eventual emancipation encouraged risky action to bring the promise to fulfillment in their present. Reading miracle stories to slaves—quite contrary to the intentions of their owners who thought the Bible would persuade captives that their suffering was divinely ordained and their passive obedience would be rewarded in heaven—instead had the effect of subverting official narratives of economic and political status quo for many in the captive audience, inspiring revolutionary actions. In their refusal to accept dehumanization as God’s will and their insistence on release from captivity here and now, not in the “sweet by and by,” they enacted the belief “that transcendence will only be meaningful when it is made real in and through the limits of historical experience” (Cone, 1991, p. 113). Miracle stories signal that the customary order of things is not immutable, and its systemic injustices are neither necessary nor inevitable. Miracle stories, then, are most potent in contests over political authority. The supreme sign of liberation in the catalog of cross-cultural miracles is also the one most outrageous to the modern mind: levitation. We will consider two examples of bodies suspended in defiance of gravity and show how each miracle story carries political undertones. The resistance of Buddha’s family to his teaching called forth his most famous wonder. According to one version, the event occurred on his return to his homeland to share his teaching with his father and the elders of his clan. But they denounced him for becoming a wandering ascetic and demanded that he return to his royal duties. He, in turn, condemned them for their ignorance. The elders turned to leave when, in a final effort to win them over, Buddha performed the “miracle of the pairs.” He rose into the air, and flames shot upward from his body while water poured straight down; then water ascended into the sky while fire went downward toward earth. Next, water came from his right side and fire burst forth from his left; then they reversed direction. After he exhibited 22 variations of pairs, Buddha returned to earth and recounted the story of his previous lives. Then, the king and nobles realized they beheld, not just a man, but the Supreme Enlightened Being (Mitchell, 1989, p. 75).10 Like other miracles in Buddhist tradition this one serves a pedagogical purpose: demonstrating Buddha’s teaching that the order of nature can be altered because it has no enduring essence. The story is also told in the context of a challenge to Buddha’s authority later in his career. Knowing that Buddha prohibited his monks from displaying yogic powers in public, his opponents hoped that he would refuse to perform a miracle so that they could claim he lacked the ability to do so. But on the appointed day Buddha rose into the air before them and fire and water issued from his body. His challengers were forced to accept his superior power and insight. In this version, rather than persuasion of his own family, the main point is Buddha’s authority over rival  Reference to the “Twin Miracle” (Yamaka-pātihāriya) appears in the Pali canon of Buddhist scripture (Patisambhidā-magga, I, 53), with variations cited by G. P. Malalasekera in Dictionary of Pāli Proper Names (1937, 1938). The text is available at http://www.palikanon.com/english/pali_ names/y/yamaka_paatihaariya.htm 10

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teachers. Thus, the story of Buddha’s miracle is celebrated in a Tibetan ritual that represents it, in the words of one scholar, as “an appropriate symbol for the overcoming of evil forces, and of Buddhism’s past victory over Bon,” the indigenous Tibetan religion (Harvey, 1990, p. 194). The story takes on contemporary political significance as it is retold in the context of Tibetan resistance to Chinese hegemony. Buddha’s rising above earthly powers signifies the aspiration to resist Chinese destruction of Tibetan culture and its distinctive form of Buddhist belief and practice, known as Vajrayāna (Diamond or Thunderbolt). The miracle demonstrates Buddha’s liberation from the constraints of the material world and transfers his authority to those who embody his wisdom, specifically the bodhisattva Avalokiteśvara commissioned to bring Buddha’s teachings to Tibet. In turn, the bodhisattva is believed to be reincarnated in the religious leader of Tibet, known as the Dalai Lama. Thus, the authority of Buddha’s miracle “trickles down” to invest the Dalai Lama with political significance.11 In our second example, Jesus walked across the surface of the Sea of Galilee on a dark and stormy night. According to the Gospel of Mark, however, his action did not enlarge the understanding of his bewildered disciples, as Buddha’s miracle did for his audiences, but evoked terror and incomprehension in them. Even after the wind died down and Jesus entered the boat with them, they were “utterly astounded” (Mark 6:51). As is typical in Mark, the disciples were dumbfounded by Jesus’s mysterious powers. Their bewilderment as the original audience of the miracle is part of Mark’s strategy of suspending recognition of Jesus’s divine nature until his crucifixion.12 Unlike the Gospel of John, Jesus’s miracles in Mark are not presented as evidence of his deity, even though the audience to whom Mark directed his gospel might well have read the story in that way, detecting clues in the images and allusions in the text. In religious symbolism water often represents chaos that is always poised to batter the fragile edges of world order like the erosive lapping of waves. The opposition of the restless waters to the creator’s formation of the world suggests intentional resistance to the mythic imagination, for which ocean depths were the abode of dragons or demons. So, some readers of Mark might have interpreted Jesus’s authority over the storm as a victory over demonic power raging in the deadly frenzy of wind and waves. Echoes of earlier stories would have hinted at further interpretation. The psalmist cried to God the Creator, “You divided the sea by your might; you broke the heads of the dragons in the waters” (Psalm 74:13). The psalmist has in mind the Babylonian creation myth in which the hero Marduk killed Tiamat, the water monster, and divided her body to make heaven and earth. He then links that story to the account  The current Dalai Lama, in exile since 1959, has announced his retirement from politics, but many in Tibet still hope for release from Chinese rule and resist attempts to eradicate their culture and language. 12  Scholars refer to this strategy as the “messianic secret” and note that Jesus pledged those he healed to conceal his identity and that it is only at the end of the Gospel that a Roman centurion acknowledged that Jesus was “a son of God” (Mark 15:39). 11

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of parting the Red Sea in the Bible. Aligning Yahweh’s victory over Pharaoh with the slaying of the primeval dragon expressed the psalmist’s hope for divine deliverance in his own situation, probably under persecution by a Syrian ruler in the second century bce. In turn, readers of the Gospel of Mark would know that the psalmist’s prayer was answered when God aided the Jewish patriots known as the Maccabees in their struggle for independence. Those readers might well then have added the story of Jesus’s walking on water as another instance in this intertextual string of divine triumphs (Fig. 7.1). The parallel between Jesus’ power over destructive natural forces and demonic spirits is enforced by Mark, who follows the miracle of calming the sea with the story of Jesus’ arriving on the far shore where he encountered a man possessed by demons. When Jesus called for his name, the man responded, “My name is Legion; for we are many” (Mark 5:9). The demons begged Jesus to allow them to enter a herd of pigs. He granted them permission, and the herd ran into the sea and drowned. In the meanwhile, the possessed man was restored to his “right mind.” Biblical scholar Simon Samuel interprets this narrative sequence as a covert sign of resistance to Roman imperial power. He notes that Jesus “takes the twelve across the sea despite the dangers posed by the storm and the wave (4.35–41) and manifests his power in subduing ‘Legion’ in Decapolis (5.1–2) as though he is the new Caesar who can cross the stormy sea and conquer the enemy” (Samuel, 2007, p. 127). Few in Mark’s audience would have missed the reference to the pitiless and seemingly invincible Roman legions, marching several thousand strong in terrifying battle array. When the demonic legion entered the swine, rushed over a cliff, and drowned in the sea, those readers would have cheered. For them the story was a coded representation of their hope that the soldiers who enforced Roman

Fig. 7.1  Linked texts of divine deliverance

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occupation might be driven into the depths of the Mediterranean and suffocated by divine justice as surely as Pharaoh’s army was drowned in the Red Sea. Samuel’s postcolonial reading extends Jesus’s authority into the political conflicts facing Mark’s later readers and, by extension, Christians under oppressive regimes at any time. This example demonstrates that every miracle story has three audiences: the audience in the story (befuddled disciples), the authorial audience for whom the redactor shapes the narrative (Christians under Roman rule), and contemporary audiences who read the story in later and different contexts. While subsequent reading audiences may only faintly share the same subjectivity with the authorial audience, they may have a common interest in appropriating the narrative for purposes of political liberation. Just as African slaves in America registered their resistance and hope in song lyrics and miracle stories, so persecuted Christians anywhere may read the story of Jesus’s levitation as a promise that divine power will liberate them from tyranny as surely as the disciples were rescued from the storm and the possessed man from his demons. Writers of the New Testament name three demonic powers from which humans can be delivered only by divine intervention: disease, death, and unjust government.13 Against these impersonal and implacable forces of destruction individuals are helpless. Demonic powers are without compassion and immune to moral persuasion. Only superior power can prevail over them, and that is why Jesus confronts demons with violence. Exorcism is a coercive “casting out”—and what applies to madness also applies to totalitarian rulers. In this way, the miracle story sustains yearnings for freedom and justice and inspires forceful action to fulfill them.

7.5 Conclusions Let me draw a few conclusions. First, it is only realistic to admit that the limits of our knowledge are not also the limits of reality. We cannot, in fact, wrap our minds around the universe and hold it tightly within our theoretical bindings or experimental findings. The world will wriggle free, off on its own adventure in the indeterminate matrix of time-space. While our “laws” of nature helpfully predict what is most probably going to happen next, they are powerless to proscribe any future event. Because it is impossible to show that miracles are impossible, miracle claims should not be dismissed out of hand: neither by skeptics who regard them as fantasy or fraud nor by believers who declare miracles as mysteries and, thus, exempt from rational investigation. Rather, the study of miracles should proceed with the  The Book of Revelation, written late in the first century, represents Rome, the city set upon seven hills, as the latter-day replica of ancient Babylon, guided by a political tyrant identified as “the beast” and a religious ally known as the “false prophet.” Together they employ demonic powers to persecute the faithful but the seer prophesies that Christ and his angels will destroy them at the epic battle of Armageddon (Revelation 13–19). Later Christian readers have identified Babylon with political powers opposed to them and have taken hope in the prophecy of their defeat. 13

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intellectual tact that acknowledges their possibility and the critical rigor that regards their occurrence as a hypothesis to be tested. Second, appeal to miracles in polemical disputes cannot settle differences between religions because miracles are signs of transcendence of which we have no independent knowledge by which we could compare how well competing miracles represent it. This fact should defeat any attempt to use miracle stories as trumps in the game of religious competition. Third, as narratives of power, miracle stories identify bases of religious authority and inspire action to subvert oppressive political and social orders in the name of that authority. Stories of violent deliverance, however, such as traumatic exorcisms or drowning enemies in the sea, are not innocent. Every exercise of miraculous power is morally fraught because, in the final analysis, not even supernatural might can make right. Finally, miracle stories enlist their audiences to affirm the beliefs they signify and call believers to heroic action on behalf of their promises. What is truly wondrous is not that anomalies in the order of nature may have occurred in the past— and may occur in the future—but that stories of events of transcendent power move people to acts of sacrifice and compassion that transform human history. These stories are, in Robert Orsi’s evocative phrase, “abundant history,” that is, accounts of divine presence or transcendent reality that create “density of relationships” extending into the present through communities that re-live the original experience through “intersubjective receptivity” (Orsi, 2016, pp. 66, 67). Orsi’s examples are apparitions of the Virgin Mary in Catholic communities, but the category has promise for broader comparative study of religion. In other traditions, the “abundant event” may be an act of deity or the product of enlightened consciousness, but in every case the persistent significance of the event is in its continuing power to sustain its effects within a community that acknowledges its reality. So far, so good from the standpoint of academic study if all Orsi is saying is that Mary “appears” as an epiphenomenon of shared desires and perceptions by like-minded Catholics. But then he makes a leap few can follow. Against all modern skepticism about ontologically separate supernatural beings, Orsi insists that Mary is really there, “independent” of her devotees.14 The problem is that claim emerges from the “intersubjectivity” of the believing community, a site of devotion which Orsi daringly enters but where most scholars fear to tread. Without taking the plunge into the privileged space of religious faith, however, we may follow his track of historical observation: that an “abundant event” with wide-­ ranging effects—including the formation of personal networks that replicate and amplify the event—produces real effects in history. As stories of “abundant events” in that more restricted sense, miracle narratives function as agents of history. When audiences respond to miracle stories by feeding the hungry, healing the sick, and freeing the oppressed, their actions can evoke  “The Blessed Mother comes alive in her connection to her devout; their lives enliven her, but she is also a figure independent of them, as other to them as she is connected to them” (Orsi, 2008, p. 15). 14

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wonder, but they can also be observed and analyzed as other human activities. Miracle stories are narratives of transcendent power that inspire replication of their effects in history, but those replications can never be unambiguous or self-­ authenticating demonstrations of transcendent reality. They remain concrete human gestures. Nevertheless, acts of compassion, sacrifice, healing, and liberation are impelled by abstract ideals of love and justice that cannot be entirely derived from the cultural orders they challenge. Ideals are transcendent in that they are abstract and have no actual existence in the world. They are what John Dewey called “inclusive ideal ends, which imagination presents to us and to which the human will responds as worthy of controlling our desires and choices” (Dewey, 1964, p. 33). Thus, moral reformers make what progress they do by appealing to ideals whose authority their fellow citizens acknowledge in conscience even if they violate them in practice. One way to read miracle stories is as enduring expressions of compelling ideals. Spontaneous healing here, deliverance of captives there: such rare and wondrous events expand our imagination in the present and sustain our enthusiasm for the future. Miracle stories, no matter what metaphysical speculation or theological claims or academic theories weigh them down, are narratives of soaring human aspiration. Perhaps that is why we continue to study these head-shaking tales. Even if not convinced they are true, we seem unable to resist their appeal. Is it because the human spirit requires no nourishment more than hope that the future is not doomed to repeat the past, that novel and creative advances in history are possible? Even if we finally lay these stories aside, perhaps with a sigh of regret for doubt we cannot repress, that hope lingers and, on its promise, we pursue our dreams with eyes wide open.

References Balberg, M. (2017). Blood for thought: The reinvention of sacrifice in early rabbinic literature. University of California Press. Cone, J. H. (1991). The spirituals and the blues: An interpretation (Rev. ed.). Orbis Books. Cox, H. (1973). The seduction of the spirit: The use and misuse of people’s religion. Simon and Schuster. Dewey, J. (1964 [1934]). A common faith. Yale University Press. Fogelin, R. J. (2003). A defense of Hume on miracles. Princeton University Press. Harvey, P. (1990). An introduction to Buddhism: Teachings, history and practices. Cambridge University Press. Hume, D. (2000). Of miracles. In T. L. Beauchamp (Ed.), An enquiry concerning human understanding: A critical edition (pp. 169–186). Oxford University Press. Hume, D. (2007 [1748]). An enquiry concerning human understanding. Edited by Peter Millican. Oxford University Press. Mackie, J. L. (1982). The miracle of theism. Oxford University Press. Marx, K., & Engels, F. (1964). On religion. Introduction by Reinhold Niebuhr. York: Schocken Books. Mitchell, R. A. (1989). The Buddha: His life retold. Paragon House. Neusner, J. (1996). Talmud of Babylonia: An academic commentary (Vol. XXI). Scholars Press.

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Orsi, R.  A. (2008). Abundant history: Marian apparitions as alternative modernity. Historically Speaking, 9, 12–16. Orsi, R. A. (2016). History and presence. Harvard University Press. Pew Research Center. (2012). The global religious landscape. http://www.pewforum. org/2012/12/18/global-­religious-­landscape-­exec/. Accessed 20 July 2020. Samuel, S. (2007). A postcolonial reading of Mark’s story of Jesus. T & T Clark. Schimmel, A. (1975). Mystical dimensions of Islam. University of North Carolina Press. Scholem, G. (1971). The messianic idea in Judaism. Schocken Books. Smith, J. Z. (1998). Religion, religions, religious. In M. C. Taylor (Ed.), Critical terms for religious studies (pp. 269–284). University of Chicago Press. Strousma, G. (2009). The end of sacrifice: Religious transformations in late antiquity. University of Chicago Press. Weddle, D. L. (2010). Miracles: Wonder and meaning in world religions. New York University Press. Zagzebski, L. T. (2007). Philosophy of religion: An historical introduction. Blackwell Publishing.

Part III

Miracles of Healing

Chapter 8

Miracle as Natural: A Contemporary Chinese American Religious Healer Kin Cheung

Abstract  I apply the Buddhist and Chinese religious understandings of miracles as natural events to a contemporary Chinese American religious healer who employs Buddhist spells, qigong, and a range of Chinese medical arts to successfully treat conditions such as a golf-ball-sized cancerous tumor, a balance and memory disorder, and stroke-induced facial hemiparesis. In doing so, I build upon the work of anthropologists and historians to do comparative philosophy on the theoretical categories of and boundaries among miracles, the natural, the supernatural, healing, and religion. I engage with Morton Klass’ point on the ethnocentric presuppositions of such categories; Susan Sered’s attention to the political nature of strict binaries as opposed to more flexible continuums; Robert Campany’s distinction between ontological and epistemological miracles, where the latter uncovers the hidden wonders in the natural world; and Helen Tilley’s polyglot therapeutics, which are marked by oscillation between, and the simultaneous holding of, contradictory or incommensurable ontologies. I argue that the category of natural miracle allows reimagining of the above categories and their neat delineations.

8.1 Introduction I came to this project at the invitation of my colleague Leah Kalmanson, the co-­ editor of the first volume in this publication series and one of the two series editors. She thought my father’s use of qigong (also romanized as chi kung 氣功; Japanese: kikō 気功) and Buddhist chants to heal conditions such as a golf-ball-sized cancerous tumor, chronic back pain, and a dislocated jaw would be a fitting topic for The Comparison Project’s Lecture Series on miracles. Before her framing, my father and I have never thought of his healing as miraculous. Neither would his students K. Cheung (*) Moravian University, Bethlehem, PA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_8

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and patients use the term miracle. However, at the suggestion of this volume’s co-­ editor, Karen Zwier, I now see that a comparative approach examining his healing as a natural miracle is a productive exercise in the philosophy of religion. I begin by providing an overview of the Chinese terms usually translated as “miracle” or “miraculous,” putting it into the context of Chinese religious and Buddhist terminology for miracles. This discussion involves an examination of the appropriateness of the categories of natural and supernatural in these contexts. Then, I provide detail on the type of healing my father performs for his community of family, students, and patients. I end with reflections on what it means for his religious healing to be a natural miracle, and how that is helpful in reconsidering the boundaries between religion and healing.

8.2 Chinese, Chinese Religious, and Buddhist Terminology The Chinese terms for “miracle” include qiji 奇跡, shenji 神跡, and shengji 聖跡. The term ji means “traces”—literally “footprints”—of the strange or uncanny, divine or spiritual, holy or sacred. The adjective “miraculous” is typically translated as shenqi 神奇 (divine and uncanny), shengong 神功 (amazing powers), or miaoshou 妙手 (wondrously-skilled hands, a term used mainly to describe miraculous healers). There are also numerous four-character idioms that are used to describe miracles of healing (lingdanmiaoyao 靈丹妙藥, mianshouhuichun 妙手回春, shengsirougu 生死肉骨, zhuoshouchengchun 著手成春). These overlap in meaning with Chinese terms for wonders, wonder-making, magic, superhuman, and supernatural. However, the distinction between natural and supernatural is problematic in Chinese contexts. In Chinese religions and Chinese cosmology, the term ganying 感應 (sympathetic resonance) is fundamental to explaining how the universe operates. The two words that make up this term, gan (stimulus) and ying (response), indicate an ontology of “continuous flux [that] is conceived in terms of the cyclic progression or interaction of the five phases (wuxing 五行), the yinyang 陰陽 binary (Sharf, 2002, p. 79; Wang, 2000, p. 6), and the primordial vital energy (qi 氣) that constitutes” everything in the universe (Ho, 2017, p. 1126). Therefore, in a world without transcendent divinities outside of or separate from the world, miracles have to be understood as “natural responses in a world of interdependent order” (Ho, 2017, p. 1134). Daoist, Buddhist, and popular or folk religious tales are replete with descriptions of incredible events and feats. Daoist xian 仙 (immortals or transcendents) are able to fly, predict the future, and wield spells and talismans. These are natural insofar as the Daoist program is a way for ordinary human beings to obtain these supernormal or supermundane abilities if they follow the regimen of a special diet, engage in alchemic practices, and receive support from other xian. The most commonly touted supernormal—exceeding the normal—ability is extreme longevity or immortality.

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Supermundane refers to other realms, which xian can travel to and reside in.1 Xian are often presented as engaging with the natural world in a natural way. For instance, the ninth-century Daoist text Shenxian Ganyu Zhuan “offers many variations on the hoary themes of chance encounters with miracle workers and unintended visits to other-worldly paradises” and provides stories of Daoists assisting “those in financial or physical distress” through pedestrian and practical means (Halperin, 2013, p. 21). In his translation and study on Buddhist miracle tales from early medieval China, Robert Campany provides a useful distinction between miracles in an ontological and epistemological sense. The events in these tales are also, from both protagonists’ and implied readers’ points of view, presented as surprising, shocking, paranormal, and strange—as interruptions of the ordinary, normally apparent everyday course of things. As a rough, preliminary characterization we might say that these events as depicted in such texts are “miracles” not in an ontological sense (“nature” does not get “suspended”) but in an epistemological one: they alert characters in the stories and hearers and readers of the stories to the existence of beings, places, and states of affairs normally hidden from their view. (Campany, 2012, p. 15n58, emphasis in the original)

I follow Campany in using this distinction to discuss natural miracles. I will add that these miracles point to events that are normally inaccessible. However, with proper training and practice, miracles, especially the case of miraculous healing, naturally occur. The Gaoseng Zhuan is a sixth-century collection of biographies of eminent Buddhist monks. This text, along with similar collections that followed, classifies the biographies into ten categories, such as translators, exegetes, meditators, fund-­ raisers, and proselytizers (Kieschnick, 1997, p. 8–9). This gives a sense of the various roles that Buddhists played in order to support Buddhist institutions. The editor of the first of these collections had a category reserved for shenyi 神異 (thaumaturges or divine workers). Editors of later collections of biographies renamed this category gantong 感通 (spiritual resonance). John Kieschnick explains that this change stems from the compiler’s turn to Dazhuan, a commentary on the Yijing (I Ching) or The Book of Changes attributed to Confucius. The term gantong is taken from the phrase “when stimulated [gan], it penetrates [tong],” in which sages observed “patterns in natural phenomena that allowed them to understand the workings of the universe” (Kieschnick, 1997, p. 100–101). In other words, these were “monks who evoked spontaneous responses from Nature” (Kieschnick, 1997, p.  100).2 Note the similarity between the aforementioned sympathetic resonance  “Daoism represents the celestial realm as different systems of ‘heavens,’ usually arranged hierarchically. In several cases, these domains are not only the residences of deities, but also correspond to degrees of priestly ordination and to inner spiritual states, and are associated with revelations of teachings and textual corpora” (Pregadio, 2020). 2  Nature here is capitalized to draw attention to the Chinese term ziran 自然, which is also translated as self-so, or what-is-so-of-itself, and in the context of Daoism, spontaneity. This points to the problem of assuming a monolithic conception of both the natural and nature. See Gleason (2017) on “the politics that follow from a theory of Nature that is uniform, homogenous, and unchanging” (Gleason, 2017, p. 573). 1

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and spiritual resonance. Kieschnick follows the work of distinguished scholars of Buddhist history (Étienne Lamotte) and Chinese history (Joseph Needham) in his awareness of the problems with using the term “supernatural” for the Chinese context. “Unlike the Judeo-Christian model of miracles based on the notion of the supernatural, the Chinese model for miracles was based instead on the idea of ‘resonance’” (Kieschnick, 1997, p. 97). I return to this issue at the end of this section. The tales of such wonder-workers or spiritual resonances circulate widely. My father is aware of abilities associated with these eminent monks, such as Fotudeng’s ability to predict outcomes of military battles and bring a dead prince back to life with Buddhist spells.3 Discussion of miracles in the Chinese Buddhist context often include testimony to the efficacy of prayer to the most popular bodhisattva in not only China, but all of East Asia: Guan(shi)yin 觀(世)音 (or Kuan-yin, Japanese: Kannon, Korean: Gwan-­ eum 관음, Vietnamese: Quán Âm, Sanskrit: Avalokiteśvara).4 Known as the goddess of mercy or compassion, her name in Chinese literally means “observer of (worldly) sounds.” Thus, prayers are much more commonly directed to her than any other buddhas or bodhisattvas. Chün-Fang Yü provides examples of miraculous recovery from disease that pilgrims attribute to Guanyin (Yü, 2007, p. 1244). Going outside the Chinese Buddhist context, Japanese Buddhist texts and setsuwa 説話 (explanatory tales) provide not only examples of miracles, but also practices and techniques that facilitate or open oneself to them. For example, “wakefulness, prayer, pilgrimage, training of the memory—all of these are known methods through which a devotee might seek a miraculous sign” (Eubanks, 2011, p.  11). In her work on Buddhist textual and material culture in medieval Japan, Charlotte Eubanks writes, “miracles are not aberrations. They are, rather, instances in which the core workings of the world are revealed in a sudden and (miraculously) observable fashion” (Eubanks, 2011, p. 12). Furthermore, these explanatory tales “relay numerous accounts of miracles associated with the reading, memorization, worship, and circulation of Buddhist scripture, thereby validating the accuracy of the teachings those scriptures contain, displaying the efficacy of the sutras (both as abstract teachings and as concrete objects)” (Eubanks, 2011, p. 12). I will add to this the efficacy of using Buddhist texts for healing, specifically the recitation of dhāraṇī (spells). As will be detailed below, this is a central practice in my father’s religious repertoire. Since Buddhist texts make abundantly clear the power of chanting Buddhist spells and petitions to buddhas and bodhisattvas, it is only natural (in the sense of occurring as a matter of course) for wondrous healing to happen. Miracles in Indian Buddhist texts are categorized in the “standard threefold typology” of “miraculous display of superhuman powers (iddhi-pāṭihāriya), the miraculous display of telepathy (ādesanā-pāṭihāriya), and the miraculous display of instruction [in the dharma] (anusāsanī-pāṭihāriya)” (Fiordalis, 2010, p.  386).  It is no coincidence that religious adepts, Buddhist and Daoist ones (see Halperin, 2013), are depicted in tales interacting with political leadership. This reflects historical reality in how political and religious institutions both vie for power and also support and legitimate each other. 4  See Yü (2007). 3

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David Fiodalis notes that miracles in Buddhist texts are sometimes dismissed by contemporary readers because of two reasons. First, the Buddha himself criticized the display of these powers in order to proselytize, but this dismissal is problematic because he uses these powers in skillful ways.5 Second, by definition of being supernatural, miracles break with natural laws and therefore do not fit into a Buddhist framework, but Fiodalis points out that this ignores the value of studying them to understand Buddhism. Rupert Gethin adds, “[t]he attempt to marginalize the practice of miraculous powers in the earliest Buddhist texts must be considered a feature of Buddhist modernism, and related to the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-­ century preoccupation with recovering a historical Buddha congenial to the rationalist and ethical sensitivities of certain Buddhist apologists” (Gethin, 2011, p. 223). These apologists conveniently ignore both the superhuman aspects of the Buddha mentioned in early Buddhist texts, and inconveniently human aspects, including his displays of rage, illness, aging, and death from eating spoiled pork (Guang, 2005, p. 7–13). Gethin notes, “the ability to perform miracles is an extension of the practice of dhyānas [meditation involving progressive trance states] rather than a consequence of awakening” (Gethin, 2011, p. 219). The abilities to turn oneself or others invisible, walk through walls and mountains, walk on water, fly, read other people’s minds, see into past lives, and heal can all be obtained, by Buddhists and non-­ Buddhists alike, through cultivation practices. Therefore, pāṭihāriya or Buddhist miracles are “natural expressions of the extraordinary power of the mind” (Gethin, 2011, p. 217). Though Fiodalis is correct to translate iddhi as “superhuman powers,” another good translation is simply “accomplishments.” After this brief survey of worldviews in Asian contexts, I will now give more attention to the in/appropriateness of using the term “supernatural” in Asian and Buddhist contexts. Some authors describe “visits from supernatural Buddhist sages, ecumenically minded, gilt Daoist immortals” as “consensual hallucination” (Berger, 2001, p. 161). It is often unclear whether this was done casually or advisedly. Some “scrupulously avoided the word ‘supernatural,’” but may not have given explicit reasons for doing so (Kieschnick, 1997, p.  96). The authors mentioned above explain why it is inappropriate. Luis Gómez finds the term to be an “expedient short hand” and thus need not be excised from the discourse on Buddhist texts (Gómez, 2010, p. 542n39). Nevertheless, he rarely uses “supernatural” and prefers the terms “wonder” and “wonder-making” over “miracles,” “magic,” or “thaumaturgy” in order to highlight the mystery, “awe-inspiring, unusual (though natural) and extraordinary” in Buddhism (Gómez, 2010, p. 513). The anthropologist Morton Klass provides a survey of the term “supernatural” in the context of the “definitional daisy chain” in historical efforts to define the term religion (Klass, 1995, p. 17). Klass explains previous attempts do not define “religion” but merely pass the work on to another term, such as “sacred,” “holy,” “divine,”

 There are monastic regulations against boastful displays. I thank the editors in pointing out that the Buddha’s displays were not boastful. 5

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“culture,” “symbol,” or “supernatural.” The field of religious studies periodically returns to this problem of defining religion because the process of grappling with it is a fruitful one.6 In this essay, I follow the “operational definition” that Klass offers: “Religion in a given society will be that instituted process of interaction among the members of that society—and between them and the universe at large as they conceive it to be constituted—which provides them with meaning, coherence, direction, unity, easement, and whatever degree of control over events they perceive as possible” (Klass, 1995, p. 38). The emphasis is on how religion provides values and meaning, explains what is ontologically real, and offers some sense of agency in an uncertain world. Klass’ operational definition avoids loaded terms mentioned above, especially “supernatural,” which Klass convincingly argues is ethnocentric. He provides a fascinating example from his field work among South Asians in Trinidad. The farmers there rent their land from a landlord and make offerings to a deity of the field. Klass says an outsider (including past influential anthropologists) who employs the term “supernatural” unreflexively would take the deity to be supernatural because it falls outside the modern materialist worldview, whereas this outsider would think of the landlord as perfectly natural. However, some of the farmers whom Klass has encountered have never seen or interacted with the landlord, have only paid rent through an intermediary party, and have vague notions that if rent is not paid, this mysterious force will take away the land. For such farmers, the deity is perfectly natural because they or their neighbors have experienced poor harvests after failing to make adequate or proper offerings. Klass therefore suggests that the farmers would categorize both the deity and the landlord as natural. Perhaps, though, Klass can go even further and posit that the farmer might see the landlord as supernatural. Regardless, Klass then provides a hypothetical. What if the farmer has a son who takes a course on anarchism and is convinced of anarchist tenets that challenge any natural right to land ownership? “In principle, it is therefore a denial of the existence of landlords in a proper (natural) universe. Dare we term the landlord a supernatural entity, from the son’s perspective? Dare we not?” (Klass, 1995, p.  30). Therefore, applying the category of “supernatural” from one person (anthropologists, scholar, etc.) to another already assumes a division that may not apply to the worldviews of the subject. Susan Sered notes that in investigations of the supernatural, anthropologists are more comfortable addressing epistemological questions than ontological ones. She concludes that the natural and supernatural binary is restrictive and not useful, suggesting instead the use of a continuum. She writes, [i]f, however, we reject binary constructions and see the notion of the supernatural as part of a shifting lexicon that helps us to make sense out of the experiences and stories that comprise our work, we can begin to think in terms of a series of continuums. One such continuum might have to do with the extent to which various cultures recognise or acknowledge spheres that are different or distinct from the “natural.” (Sered, 2003, p. 217)

 See Campany (2003), Smith (2004), and Arnal and McCutcheon (2012).

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Sered highlights the political value judgments involved in employing the dichotomous label “natural/supernatural,” which “supports embedded hierarchies found in related dualisms such as West/the rest, Christian/pagan, true/false, and superior/ inferior,” as well as science/religion and modern/pre-modern or primitive, etc. (Dempsey, 2008, p. 4). Sered offers yet another way to think of the “supernatural”: in terms of “enhanced natural” rather than “not natural” (Sered, 2003, p. 218). Sered does not reject the use of supernatural completely, but advises a different way to approach it as a theoretical category. I read Klass not as advocating for the elimination of the term entirely, but as warning users to make explicit the framework that is being imposed on the subject of study when this “expedient shorthand” is employed.

8.3 Case Study of a Contemporary Healer After examining the lexical landscape around miracles in Chinese and Buddhist contexts, providing distinctions between ontological and epistemological miracles, and calling attention to the issues surrounding the category of “supernatural,” I can now give detail on a contemporary religious healer in order to explain how his healings are examples of natural miracles. Seng Kan Cheung is a 66-year-old Chinese American who uses a wide-ranging repertoire of Chinese medical arts and religious healing techniques on his family, students, and patients in the New York metropolitan area. I have mentioned that he is my father and have written elsewhere on the methodological issues of conducting research and producing scholarship on close family members (Cheung, forthcoming).7 This was an unexpected area of research for me and only began when I acted as interpreter and translator for an interview conducted with my father by a colleague. Since my father does not speak English, he does not have direct access to review what I write here, nor does he have much interest in doing so. Cheung completed a grade school education in China before the Chinese Communist Party took most of his generation out of schools in the 1960s. Although he reads at roughly a sixth-grade level, he has been able to teach himself Chinese medical arts because of the abundant books, television shows, and radio programs to which he has access in the Chinatowns of New York City, where he spent three decades of his life. His background in self-cultivation practices started as a child with baguazhang 八卦掌 (Eight Trigram Palm) and Yang style taijiquan 楊氏太極 拳 (also T’ai chi) martial arts instructors in China. At age 43, he learned Zhineng Qigong 智能氣功 (Wisdom Healing Qigong) from his brother-in-law’s brother. He learned to use electric acupuncture machines from a co-worker who used to be a  For a variety of examples of how such academic work could take shape besides ethnography, see the Special Issue “Jewish Feminists and Our Fathers: Reflections across Gender and Generations” in Bridges: A Jewish Feminist Journal, especially Alpert and Levitt (2009). For a transcript of a formal interview I conducted with a colleague on the aspects of his healing most related to Buddhism, see Cheung and Pierce Salguero (2019). 7

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medical doctor in China. Cheung learned herbal formulas from another co-worker who trained in Shaolin Temple, a Chinese Buddhist institution internationally renowned for their martial arts, though also famous for their medical arts throughout Chinese history. He makes his own healing liniment and uses the moxa he gathers from local parks for moxibustion. He pursued healing because he grew up with stomach pains that still bother him today. Carl Jung’s “wounded healer” trope deals specifically with psychological injury, but it is not difficult to extend this to physical injury, especially when emotional and mental wounds can manifest themselves somatically and vice versa (Daneault, 2008; Sedgwick, 1994). Henri Nouwen (1972) argues it is precisely the wounded and the suffering who are able to heal others effectively. It is understandable that someone with health issues would fervently pursue knowledge of healing arts. Cheung’s concern over his reputation as an effective healer leads to minimizing his own health issues in front of students and patients, but not his family. He became a community healer in 2012 when he began to heal not just himself and his relatives, but also students, and later patients. Patients mainly come to his home to receive treatment, while students visit because they are interested in learning religious practices to heal themselves and others. These are not precise categories, as individuals shift roles. Both groups call my father zhanglaoshi 張老師 (teacher Cheung), or more rarely, master Cheung, because the title teacher in Chinese holds significantly more respect and honor than its English equivalent (see Figs. 8.1 and 8.2). His first student experienced a case of miraculous healing. She had suffered from a golf-ball-sized cancerous tumor on the back of her neck that affected her sleep for decades. She had little recourse due to the minute probability of a successful removal given its location near her central nervous system. Cheung used qigong to heal it in

Fig. 8.1  Cheung (front, center) training students at his home. (Photo by author)

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Fig. 8.2  Cheung using qigong to heal a family friend in New Jersey. (Photo by author)

2 weeks. Over a dozen friends of this first student were so impressed by her recovery that they have sought to become Cheung’s patients and students, forming the core of his community of healing. She continues to be his most loyal student and vocal publicist. As mentioned, I have never heard him or any of his students or patients use any of the three main Chinese terms for miracles to describe his practice and results. I have, however, occasionally heard his first student use the term miaoshou (miraculous), literally wondrously-skilled hands—used for physicians, especially surgeons—to describe his wonder-making. Other examples of healing successes include the chronic back-pain of a middle-­ age male truck-driver, the dislocated jaw of a teenage girl, a balance disorder and memory troubles of an elderly woman. Cheung is particularly proud of the last instance. In recounting this episode, he emphasizes how American doctors who examined this patient in the hospital had no clue what was medically wrong with her from the contemporary bio-medical paradigm. He visited her in the hospital to give treatments of qigong and used what he calls his diliugongneng 第六功能 (sixth-­ sense, literally sixth-function). It took control over his hands such that he involuntarily moved his fingers in order to provide acupressure manipulation on her ears. That night she had a dream that a worm came out of her ear. She woke up to a small object falling out of her right ear. Before treatment, she could not walk up stairs on her own and had difficulty remembering things like phone numbers. Doctors posited that some bacteria might be affecting her brain and wanted to do more testing. The day after Cheung’s treatment, her balance and memory issues went away, and she left the hospital. What he calls his “sixth-sense” is an ability developed a few years after he started a Chan (禪, Japanese: zen, Sanskrit: dhyāna) Buddhist sitting-meditation practice.

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It started with the involuntary movement of his hands, by means of which he gave himself acupressure during sitting meditation. Prior to this ability to involuntary move his hands, he used qigong practice for a different type of involuntary movement—that of his hips and the swaying of his arms to cultivate qi, a response that is acknowledged as normal in Wisdom Healing Qigong. Thereafter he experienced involuntarily walking in circles or figure-eight patterns while swinging his torso (sometimes in a bowing motion) when passing by Buddhist temples in Carmel, New York and Kyoto, Japan. Though related to these involuntary movements of his feet and torso, his more recent involuntary hand movements are a separate phenomenon. He describes this sensation as a sixth-sense that perceives where to perform acupressure on himself or patients. In both cases, however, he senses compulsion to move and allows himself to follow through with that sensation. Yet, at any time he can regain control and stop moving if desired. Another way to describe the sensation is as being nudged or pushed, though able to resist or push back. This raises the question of agency in this aspect of his healing. He describes the involuntary movement as his sixth-sense. Does he consider himself healing on the behalf of deities who temporarily occupy his body or hands? Regarding his use of Buddhist spells to heal, my colleague and I asked, “Are you using the buddhas to empower your therapies, or are you teaching people to tap into the buddhas to heal themselves?” (Cheung & Pierce Salguero, 2019, p. 245). We wanted to know if he believes himself to be “an intermediary, or a facilitator,” in other words, to what degree is he either a conduit of healing or the source of healing (Cheung & Pierce Salguero, 2019, p. 246)? In response, he answered both. At first, I thought he did not understand the question or I was unable to translate the question sufficiently to express our desire to get a description of his practice. I recall being frustrated—both at the moment of our interview and later transcribing a recording of it—at how he responded by providing “prescriptive possibilities for practice” (Cheung & Pierce Salguero, 2019, p. 250). Even after I framed the question in another way, he repeated his answer that these were two viable ways to heal. Upon reflection, the academic distinction between the descriptive and prescriptive is one that my colleague and I imposed on our research subject. I still am interested in the distinction between praying to deities, in which it is the buddhas or bodhisattvas performing the miracle, and chanting spells, in which the power comes from the sounds of the spell (that are performed in a ritually proper manner since many of these spells are Chinese transliterations of Sanskrit words that he and other users do not understand and therefore must pronounce correctly). As a healer, Cheung’s concerns are with the various avenues towards and possibilities for healing. He is not concerned with neat and tidy explanations. He is interested in the results. Though his answer may initially be perplexing, it points to other categories

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that are more clearly distinct in theory than in practice, such as the boundaries between religion and healing.8

8.4 Religion and Healing Thus far, I have only mentioned examples of Cheung’s healing successes. During the question and answer segment after my presentation at Drake University on my father, who along with my mother was in attendance, someone asked what his success rate is (see Figs.  8.3, 8.4, and 8.5). His answer was around 80% (Cheung, forthcoming). Among the cases in which he has not been completely successful is an elderly female patient with leukemia. In this case, When the temporary relief provided by qigong was not the result of remission he was looking for, he prescribed to his patient a Buddhist ritual practice of fangsheng 放生. This life release practice is typically performed inside or near a Buddhist temple or monastic complex. Small animals such as fish, turtle, crabs, or birds are bought by the patron in order to release into the “wild.” These animals usually return or are caught to repeat this process. This monetary donation, which then supports the Buddhist institution and the spread of Buddhist teachings, helps generate good karmic returns…. His innovative take on this practice, which he participates in and prescribes to his students and patients, is spurred by his working class material conditions. Instead of paying a few dollars per goldfish, the least expensive live animals typically sold, he advocates a practice of buying brine shrimp eggs to incubate and hatch, then release into a local body of water, not near Buddhist institutions. The cost paid per life released drops significantly to fractions of pennies per brine shrimp. He prescribed the release to take place on the birthday of Guanyin, the Buddhist bodhisattva of compassion, during an auspicious hour. (Cheung, forthcoming)9

This example shows the multiple etiologies of disease in Cheung’s worldview, which includes karmic forces and deities. When he elaborated on his answer to the aforementioned question by my colleague about whether he was using deities to empower his healing practices or teaching his students to heal themselves, he explained,

 See Barnes and Sered (2005) for the landscape of religion and healing in America. See the 2017 special issue on Buddhism and Healing in Asian Medicine 12 (1–2) edited by C. Pierce Salguero and William McGrath. See Lucy Bregman (2019) on the complicated engagement between religion and medicine in a Christian context in an essay from the second volume of the series of publications on comparative philosophy of religion arising from The Comparison Project. See Harrison (2012) on the relationship between science, religion, and healing between Europe and China through an examination of a Catholic nun. 9  These are the two sentences elided from the corresponding extract above: “Superficial criticism of this practice as greedy attempts by monastics to extract money from lay adherents ignores the rich history of Buddhist engagement with economics and business matters (Brox and Williams-­ Oerberg, 2016; Schopen 2004). However, ecological criticisms of this disruption to biodiversity as an act of biological invasion deserve more attention (Everard et al. 2019; Liu et al. 2012)” (Cheung, forthcoming). 8

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Fig. 8.3  The author at Drake University during a presentation on Cheung for The Comparison Project. (Photo by, and with permission from, Leah Kalmanson)

Fig. 8.4  Cheung and his wife at the presentation. (Photo by, and with permission from, Leah Kalmanson)

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Fig. 8.5  Cheung using qigong to heal an audience member after the presentation. (Photo by author)

there are different types of disease. When it’s cold outside, that causes disease. Going outside, falling can cause injury. Bad eating and drinking habits or lack of rest can cause disease. These maladies are easy to heal. But for some diseases, even though America has good scientific knowledge, there is no cure. These are due to karmic causes, perhaps from a previous life or an action earlier in this life, such as murder or unethical behavior. Those need the buddhas’ and bodhisattvas’ help to heal, and so one needs to chant sūtras and dhāraṇī [spells]. (Cheung & Pierce Salguero, 2019, p. 245)

Distinguishing between these explanations of instances of disease is not his intent. Nor may it even be possible to acquire such knowledge. For his own stomach pains, he ascribes the etiology to malnutrition growing up and the imbalance of the five phases in his astrological chart (Hinrichs & Barnes, 2013). Historians of Chinese medicine and African medicine have useful terms I will borrow to describe holding not only multiple explanations of disease but also larger understandings of the body, healing, and the universe. Marta Hanson uses the term “medical bilingualism” to emphasize “the ability not only to read in two different medical languages but to understand their different histories, conceptual differences, and … potential value for therapeutic interventions in the present” (Hanson, 2015; see also Hanson, 2010). I will push her term further to suggest that in instances when the ability to translate across medical languages becomes difficult or near impossible (analogously to translating poetic or comic effect), we have examples of incommensurable paradigms of health, due to their different underlying conceptions of the body and universe. Helen Tilley uses the term “polyglot therapeutics” to challenge simplistic notions of hegemonic scientific progress because such notions “open the door to diagnoses and descriptions that oscillate between worlds of meaning and unsettle sharp boundaries around what is real and unreal, true and false, effective and ineffective” (Tilley, 2020).10

 For examples of such oscillations and the continuum of natural to supernatural (as mentioned by Sered) in the South Indian religious (Hindu) context, see Dempsey and Raj (2008). 10

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Returning to Cheung, I want to make explicit that his prescription for life-release to his patients and students does not indicate an attribution of moral guilt, though it does presuppose karmic etiology. A person’s actions may be the seeds/causes that lead to later fruits/effects of disease (in their current life or future lives), yet that person does not automatically deserve moral blame for such disease. Buddhist moral theory does not aim “to establish a calculus of utility through which to assess actions, nor to assign responsibility, praise or blame”; rather, its purpose is to alleviate suffering (Garfield, 2015, p. 282). Debate on the appropriateness of interpreting karmic forces to justify blaming the victim has engaged Buddhists with other Indian religious-philosophical systems, and there is still ongoing contention among Buddhist traditions. Although some Buddhists have interpreted karma as deterministic fate, others argue against this as a justification of status quo and the continued suppression of marginalized groups—women oppressed by patriarchy, the poor, and the sick or disabled. The latter response understands karma by attending to the present decisions to be made in order to relieve suffering and cultivate compassion (King, 2009, p.162–164). A popular use of the deterministic interpretation by some Chinese Buddhists is to attribute cancer to bad karma (Wu, 2019, p. 127). However, the problem with such simplistic explanations is the difficulty in reconciling this understanding of karma with the central Buddhist tenet of non-self. Such debates on karma within Buddhism and among other religions continue to be productive religious labor (Bronkhorst, 2011). Cheung believes that yuanfen 緣分 (karmic affinity) plays a role in healing. This is not a purely Buddhist notion; it also involves Chinese sympathetic resonances. The efficacy of treatment is influenced by the karmic and astrological five phases relationship between healer and patient. A cynical interpretation sees this as a convenient excuse to explain away instances when Cheung fails to heal: he and his patient simply were not compatible in the relevant cosmological respects. However, Cheung also applies this understanding when he himself seeks treatment, looking for more karmically or astrologically compatible doctors. He also uses healing amulets from Buddhist temples and talismans to compensate for astrological imbalances. The wide range of conditions that Cheung is willing to treat is a sign of his confidence in his repertoire, which is not limited to his own abilities to administer qigong and other Chinese medical arts or to the strength of his meditation practice. He calls on the assistance of the Medicine Buddha, Cundi Buddha Mother, and Guanyin. He also employs the Great Compassion Mantra, which can be chanted or inscribed on cups and vessels for water to be stored, which is a process that transforms it into medicine. By using the Great Compassion Mantra, he shows that he heals not just to feed his own ego (though as his son, I notice an inflation since 2012) but also out of deep awareness and sympathy for other people’s suffering. Returning to the notion of miracles or wonder-making, I note that although Cheung does not use such terms of praise for his own work—even speaking

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publicly about it is boastful behavior that he considers distasteful11—he graciously accepts the adulatory label of miraculous (miaoshou) by his first student. In one Buddhist context, it is a rhetorical move for Chan and Zen masters never to explicitly claim that they are enlightened, though nevertheless to expound profusely on the enlightenment experiences of other masters, thereby implicitly showing their intimate knowledge and level of attainment (McRae, 2003). Is it possible there is a parallel between the (false?) modesty of meditation masters and Cheung? The more likely reason is simply that Cheung does not consider such healing to be miraculous in the supernatural sense. Why label something as uncanny when his goal, especially to his students, is to teach them techniques to heal themselves and others? As mentioned above, such labelling also does not fit with the Chinese religious and Buddhist worldviews in which he operates. Since I choose to call his healing a type of natural miracle (analogously to the arguments of scholars of Chinese religions and Buddhism mentioned above), I wish to address the question of what exactly the category of natural miracle adds to this case in particular and to the comparative philosophy of religion more generally. Above, I highlighted Cheung’s efficacy with regard to the neck tumor and balance disorder, both of which eluded “conventional” western bio-medical experts. However, I do not present Cheung’s healing of his mother-in-law from stroke-­ induced facial hemiparesis as miraculous, though to the medical professional who gave his mother-in-law a poor prognosis, it may be considered as such. He performed this healing with an electric acupuncture machine over the period of a few months, without qigong or spells (the practice of which he developed after this episode). There is something important here to emphasize. There are different consequences to labeling Buddhist chants, qigong, and Chinese medical arts as “miraculous healing” or “religious healing.” I use the latter term, “religious healing,” to stress how religion is intricately interwoven with healing, often spreading through it. Cheung expounds on karma and other Buddhist tenets to his students and patients. To frame qigong “as a healing meditation with unremarkable ontological commitments or an esoteric religious ritual … is a political decision” (Cheung, forthcoming).12 To call the efficacy of Chinese medical arts “miraculous” is extremely problematic because that exemplifies Sered’s point on the hierarchical political and value judgment in binaries. It paints Chinese medical arts as less than or other than some constructed “real” medicine. The typical binaries are traditional/ homeopathic/alternative/complementary medicine versus western/allopathic/bio/“evidence-based” medicine. The problem with “evidence-based” is that precisely at debate is what could and should be considered evidence. Proponents of a monolithic, “real” medicine rule  Nevertheless, he agrees to do so for the sake of knowledge and to spread good karma (Cheung & Pierce Salguero, 2019, p. 242–243, 250). 12  “See Palmer (2007) for a history of qigong, including its modern creation and how the Chinese Communist Party initially presented it as a practice backed by science, then claimed qigong’s later developments—such as Falun Gong—to be a superstitious evil cult” (Cheung, forthcoming). 11

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out data that do not conform to the presupposed paradigm of an ethnocentric,13 “scientific” standard that is produced from oft-touted, double-blind, randomized control trials. A double-blind study would mean the healer does not know whether they are administering healing or not to research subjects. Even if researchers were to have people who were unaware of the difference between Buddhist spells or nonsense chant one or the other, these chanters would have to direct the sounds to subjects who are possibly in need of healing. Without even considering the karmic factors involved in each individual’s healing through spells (which is needed to take into account the Buddhist paradigm of healing), the conscious connection between the chanter and the receiver muddles the double-blind standard. Either it is not double-­ blind, or the trial is conducted without the mechanism of healing (in the Buddhist worldview). Whether this conscious connection or interaction is called karma, qi, intention, compassion, or resonant bond, it cannot be tested by double-blind randomized experiments. William Bengston and David Krinsley tried to do so by injecting mice with cancer and then having skeptical volunteers lay their hands on the mice to heal them. When they initially conducted the experiments four different times in different locations, they found that belief in the power of laying hands was irrelevant to the astoundingly high (87.9%) remission rate. These experiments have been repeated by others with similar results. Write Bengston and Krinsley, “None of the experimental healers were believers, though as the experiments progressed, they clearly hoped that their mice would live. Despite the attachment they felt toward their mice, most could be considered at least fairly strong skeptics” (Bengston & Krinsley, 2000, p. 362). In other words, the attachment that researchers developed towards their research subjects may have influenced the healing of these subjects. Visible markers of cancer developed in the mice after injection, inciting concern by lab assistants who were observing the mice, hence eliminating the double-blind element. Conscious awareness of another sentient being’s disease in the proximity of the diseased may trigger unexplained healing. Rather than deploying “intention,” Bengston and Krinsley prefer to label the mechanism as a “resonant bond” formed between volunteers and mice. This bond is said to be formed from shared experiences by the experimental and control groups and also influenced by the awareness of the experimenters. Amy Vickers interprets this and similar studies as evidence of compassion as the mechanism of healing, using this to explain her reiki 霊気 practice,14 which involves direct touch or simply hovering the hands a few inches

 I use ethnocentric here to emphasize the genealogy of western bio-medicine’s development from Greek medicine. Greek and western bio-medical uses of the pulse in contrast to Chinese medicine is illuminating. Kuriyama (1999) argues the western, bio-medical interest in measuring beats-per-­ minute indicates a Greek obsession with an “objective,” quantitative number. In contrast, Chinese descriptions of the pulse, which use “subjective,” qualitative adjectives such as slippery, rough, hollow, lazy, soft, or flooding, indicate a Chinese worldview in which words and language do not fully capture reality. 14  See Stein (2019) for a genealogy and history of this transnational practice. Note the Japanese ki in reiki is the same Chinese characters as qi. Rei means luminous. 13

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above the body without making physical contact (Vickers, 2014). Attempts to “record” healing information from energy healers show some healing above baseline. However, researchers conclude that “some ‘information’ may be lost in the process of recording and delivering the energy, compared to when it is delivered directly by healers” (Beseme et  al., 2018, p.  6). Ultimately, double-blinding and randomizing removes the mechanism of healing. Using the term “miraculous” as a descriptor for Chinese medical arts may also relegate it to the realm of belief or faith. This is similar to the problem with dismissing Chinese medical arts as a placebo effect. The placebo moniker has especially been applied to acupuncture.15 However, research on placebo effects point to the fault lines and cracks in the paradigm and worldview of “mainstream” medicine. This is precisely the impetus to avoid a quick dismissal of any treatment as placebo. Rather, the unexplainable (only from the western bio-medical paradigm) efficacy of placebo effects (multiple and varied) is exactly what warrants deep investigation (Benedetti, 2014). Fabrizio Benedetti has contributed considerably to the western, bio-medical understanding of placebos by proposing that some placebo effects are the results of expectation, reward, and conditioning responses that release chemicals in the brain and body. Yet, the change in the subtitle of his monograph, Placebo Effects, over three editions is telling. The 2008 first edition’s subtitle “Understanding the Mechanisms in Health and Disease” was dropped for the 2014 second edition, then changed to “Understanding the Other Side of Medical Care” in the 2021 third edition, which has more focus on the therapeutic ritual and social aspects of healing. Although I grant that expectation, reward, and conditioning provide explanatory power, reducing placebo effects to neurological chemicals is inadequate in understanding the mechanisms involved in healing. Benedetti notes that therapeutic ritual interactions lead to psychobiological factors, which in turn cause healing. However, claiming that placebo effects are results of belief or mental states misses the point (pun intended) that acupuncture and acupressure manipulates qi, a psycho-physical force. What needs explanation is precisely the relationship between the mental and the physical.16 Directly addressing the work of Benedetti on placebo and dopamine release, Veronica de Jong and Cory Harris write, “Neither clinical trials nor neurobiology, for example, has managed to explain how and why red placebos stimulate whereas blue ones calm, four placebos work better than two, or sham interventions can perform on par with successful drugs and operations” (Jong and Harris, 2016, p. 4). They make these statements in the introductory chapter of the edited volume Placebo Talks: Modern Perspectives on Placebos in Society, which goes beyond neuroscience to add perspectives from the social sciences and humanities.

 See the debate between Colquhoun and Novella (2013), Wang et al. (2013).  This is not limited within the patient but extends to qi exchange between healer and patient, as acupuncturists literally sense the proper spot for insertion on the patient’s body through their fingers. Qigong employs intra- and inter-personal exchange of qi between individuals and the cosmos. 15 16

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Ted Kaptchuk represents a middle ground between Benedetti’s neurological reductionism and Jong and Harris’s irreducibly social processes. Trained as an acupuncturist, Kaptchuk is a pioneer in placebo research. In his attempt to address the ethical problem of deception in placebo research, his studies found that patients who were told they were taking placebos still reported higher rates of healing (Kaptchuk et al., 2010). In a later comparative analysis of Navajo healing ceremonies and acupuncture, Kaptchuk used the language of the “neurobiological correlates” of ritual interactions and the “environmental cues and learning processes [that] activate psychobiological mechanisms of healing” (Kaptchuk, 2011, p. 1856), thereby appearing to explain away ritual via reductionism. However, in a section on “limitations” at the end of that publication, Kaptchuk admits his “essay is, at least partially, guilty of reductionism,” asking “[b]ut will reductionist neuroscience ever tell us the whole story?” (Kaptchuk, 2011, p. 1856). He ultimately concludes that putting research on placebos and ritual studies into conversation with one another will help both areas. Although Kaptchuk employed randomized control trials, the aforementioned work of Bengston points to the limitations of such standards of bio-medical research. Bengston and Moga write, “even in double-blinded studies, the clinician’s knowledge of the range of possible treatments may be transmitted to the patient and influence placebo efficacy, and even variation in the personality of the investigator can produce variation in the strength of the placebo effect” (Bengston & Moga, 2007, p. 326). One of Kaptchuk’s findings in his comparative analysis relevant to Cheung’s case is that “[d]ifferent healers can have different effects on patients even when they perform an identical prospectively defined precise scripted interaction” (Kaptchuk, 2011, p. 1856). In other words, simply replacing one religious healer with another does not reproduce similar healing results. Cheung’s worldview of karmic affinity in healing explains what Kaptchuk cannot: why different individuals and relationships lead to different healing outcomes. Daniel Moerman applies theory from the anthropology of religion and ritual studies to analyze placebos and medicine not only to point out the incredible findings about placebos (e.g. the doctors’—not patients’—beliefs impact the efficacy of medication), but also to explain the power underlying both the ritual of medical professionals dressed in white uniforms prescribing pills and the ritual of the patient taking this form of medicine deemed effective by their community (Moerman, 2002). He challenges explanations that use conditioning by calling attention to how research on classical conditioning is conducted on dogs and rats, not humans. Moerman argues the mechanism of expectation proposed by Benedetti is better captured by the transfer of knowledge or, better yet, the creation of meaning. Moerman suggests healing happens through a “meaning response” that incorporates psychological, social, and cultural factors. This section’s discussion may seem to have started with the assumption that there are neat delineations among Buddhist chants, qigong, Chinese medical arts, religious healing, and western bio-medicine. The payoff in framing Cheung’s healing as a natural miracle is to reimagine the theoretical categories of and boundaries among miracles, the natural, the supernatural, healing, and religion. I have applied

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Klass’ point on the ethnocentric presuppositions of such categories, Sered’s attention to the political nature of strict binaries as opposed to more flexible continuums, Campany’s distinction between ontological and epistemological miracles in which the latter uncovers the typically hidden wonders in the natural world, and Tilley’s polyglot therapeutics of oscillation between and simultaneous holding of contradictory or incommensurable ontologies17—all to one contemporary healer and his community.

8.5 Conclusion This essay started with a discussion of terminology. It is important to turn attention to the Chinese religious and Buddhist historical context of the miraculous and the natural in order to better explain the case of a contemporary Chinese American religious healer. The authors mentioned above have their respective interests and goals. Kieschnick’s examination of biographies and Campany’s study of miracle tales are directed towards understanding history—not to establish the veracity of the purported miracles but to show how such texts explain the social values and worldviews of specific agents: the authors, editors, circulators, and consumers of these texts. Eubanks is interested in texts as material objects. I am interested in comparative philosophy. How much does the Buddhist textual and Asian context of miracles actually apply to Cheung? I am not making the argument that he necessarily has read those texts, though he has read others influenced by those worldviews. Instead, I argue that understanding would be incomplete and inadequate without taking these contexts into consideration. I also presented here how Asian contexts have an alternative to supernatural miracles. I made the case for natural miracles in religious healing, much of which involved framing qigong as religious. I will repeat again that religious healing is not a complete picture, or a clear and neat container, if Cheung’s use of Chinese medical arts is also considered. Even the adjective “Chinese” does not capture his repertoire completely since he employs spells written in Devanagari, Japanese talismans, and transnational systems of healing such as reiki (see Fig. 8.6). Cheung’s eclectic repertoire does not indicate the integration of competing etiologies. Similarly, hospitals in Shanghai and Beijing employ acupuncture (understood through a paradigm of qi manipulation) and Chinese herbs (understood through a paradigm of the five phases18), in conjunction with western bio-medical interventions. However, the presence of Chinese and western medical wards within the same hospitals does not entail their integration, which is still being argued for,  Plural, including contradictory, narratives are readily found in Buddhist texts and in religion more generally. See Cho and Squier (2016). 18  The shape and color of herbs inform how they are used to generate or control other phases to treat over-active and under-active viscera associated with the phases. 17

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Fig. 8.6  Cheung’s altar in his home in New Jersey. (Photo by author)

especially at the theoretical level (Guo & Han, 2016; Wang & Zhang, 2017). Hanson ascribed medical bilingualism to Youyou Tu after the latter was awarded the 2015 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine. Tu’s attention to herbs mentioned in a fourth-century Daoist text led to the isolation of artemisinin as a novel way to treat malaria. Yet, international recognition only came decades after her successful treatment of malaria when western medical experts finally understood the bio-chemical mechanisms of her treatment and were therefore able to fit it into a western-medical paradigm. This is an imbalance of power in terms of legitimation. Will integration mean subsuming local medical paradigms under the hegemonic western bio-­medical one, or a creation of a new paradigm that does not disregard incommensurable findings or leave out what cannot be translated (e.g., the rest of the medical interventions in that Daoist text)? When Ignaz Semmelweis presented data on how the implementation of hand-washing with strong antiseptics saved a significant number of lives, his medical colleagues in nineteenth-century Europe did not follow his advice. Although they did not doubt the evidence of decreased deaths, they were working within the miasma and contagion theory of disease that could not make sense of the mechanism of hand-washing. It was not until after Semmelweis died that the germ theory of disease was accepted by his medical community and his recommendation practiced. What does the evidence of Cheung’s healing show? Can such healing be explained in the “mainstream” medical paradigm? What is the next paradigm of disease and healing?

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As Campany and Eubanks explain, natural miracles reveal the normally hidden li 理 (principles) or wen 文 (patterns) of the world. Cheung does not consider his abilities supernatural as he is confident his students and anyone else who wishes to learn will be able to heal. Nevertheless, his students continue to learn from him because of his supernormal efficacy. In Cheung’s Chinese religious and Buddhist worldviews, the hidden principles and patterns of the world include the transferability of qi between individuals and the power of buddhas and bodhisattvas to overcome karmic causes of disease. Does this translate into what western bio-­ medicine, especially through recent research on placebo effects, may consider empirically undetectable influences of the mind on the body?19 Tilley writes, “The truth of the matter is that ‘traditional medicine’ sparks the most controversy when its advocates insist on the idea that people can occupy different ‘conceptual realities’ and bodily ‘modes of existence’ at one and the same time” (Tilley, 2020). This is also the case with religious healing and natural miracles. Such polyglot therapeutics serve as an invitation for more critical reflection that looks at the history and anthropology of medicine, science, and religion in order for comparative philosophers to revisit and reimagine theoretical categories.

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Chapter 9

What Miracles in the Global South Contribute to Understanding the Human Condition Bilinda Straight

Abstract  This essay bases its comparative discussion of miracles on events in which individuals resurrect from death, as reported by Samburu livestock herders in northern Kenya. The essay does not represent an attempt to prove or disprove miracles generally, nor Samburu miracles in particular. Rather, the essay considers the import of truth claims about experience through an extended discussion of a social ontology very different from global north ontological assumptions. The essay’s central questions are these: What do miracles mean to those who affirm witnessing or believing them? What can those miracles tell us about the human condition? The conclusion highlights the tendency for global north biomedical definitions to foreclose acceptance of interpretations of experience that are based on other social ontologies, including Samburu understandings of resurrection.

The research on which this paper is based was unsponsored and the majority undertaken during unpaid leave. I am grateful to my former spouse Jon Holtzman, whose National Science Foundation grant made my year-long stay in Kenya from 2001 to 2002 possible. Kenya’s National Commission for Science, Technology and Innovation (formerly Ministry of Education) authorized the research and Western Michigan University Human Subjects Review Board gave ethical approval. I would like to thank Tim Knepper, Director of The Comparison Project, for extending the opportunity to participate in the Miracles series and write this paper, and to the many faculty and community members who attended my talk and offered incisive comments. Additionally, I’d like to extend heartfelt thanks to Karen Zwier, David Weddle, and Tim Knepper for their encouragement during the writing process, as it coincided with COVID-19. Finally, I am thankful as always to the many Samburu who have welcomed me into their homes and hearts over these past 28 years. B. Straight (*) Western Michigan University, Kalamazoo, MI, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_9

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9.1 Introduction This essay bases its comparative discussion on resurrection events that Samburu livestock herders in northern Kenya reported to me, some of which I have previously described in my book, Miracles and Extraordinary Experience in Northern Kenya (2007a). In what follows, I do not attempt to prove or disprove miracles generally, nor Samburu miracles in particular. Rather, I engage dialogically, emotively, and practically with the import of truth claims about experience, including when we consider miracles in the European intellectual and popular tradition. I concern myself with the questions: What do miracles mean to those who affirm witnessing or believing them? What can those miracles tell us about what it means to be human? In the first section of the essay, I provide ethnographic background about Samburu pastoralists and describe their approach to death in brief. In the second section, I provide examples of Samburu resurrection accounts and elements of Samburu philosophical concerns relevant to those accounts. In the third section, I discuss ontology anthropologically, and consider miracles from a scholarly philosophical perspective. In the Conclusion, I contemplate ways in which Samburu understandings might push philosophical thinking by considering ontological understandings that are challenging to contemporary scholarly perspectives. In that context, my description of Samburu understandings of resurrection will contribute to understanding the human condition by introducing readers to unfamiliar considerations of morality, personhood, and the emotionally laden meanings we attach to when and how life ends.

9.2 Samburu Approaches to Death and Divinity Samburu self-identify as a pastoralist ethnic group of Maa-speakers who live primarily in north-central Kenya but also as a diaspora in other parts of Kenya and other countries. Cattle, goats, sheep, donkeys, and in some families also camels continue to be of central importance to most Samburu economically, socially, and ritually. Samburu County and adjacent Laikipia County where many Samburu also live are predominantly semi-arid areas in which agriculture is not practical. However, Laikipia Plateau and Leroghi Plateau in Samburu County (the latter referred to as the Samburu highlands) have higher average rainfall and in some areas, rainfall is sufficient to allow reliable farming. Samburu are polygynous (permitted to marry more than one wife), patrilocal (living with male kin), and patrilineal (lineages traced through fathers), living in fence-enclosed homesteads headed by one to several adult men and their families. Often, fathers and sons, or a group of two or more brothers, might share a homestead, although members of the same clan might also live together. Additionally, sons-in-law and their brides might live for several years with wealthier fathers-in-­ law in order to build up a herd.

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Each wife builds and maintains her own house (pole frame; mud, dried cow dung, and animal hide walls; mud roof with woven sisal mats for rain-proofing) and controls her own cooking fire. Husbands sleep as guests in their wives’ homes. Over the past several decades, men who can afford to do so have begun to hire the construction of modern houses for their own use, while still frequenting their wives’ houses at night. While a woman controls the domestic fire, men build ritual fires in the center of massive homesteads during ceremonial cycles, kindle fire for new generational cohorts of warriors, and kindle a bride’s first fire in her new home. Gender divisions of space and labor are important for understanding the Samburu metaphysical system, as divinity and the cosmos are described through a dual-­ gender pastoralist paradigm (Straight, 2007b). Prior to the late-nineteenth-century onset of sustained British presence in northern Kenya, Samburu moved seasonally with their herds, relying on pastures in higher rainfall areas as needed. British colonial policies and Kenyan post-­ independence policies have reduced Samburu access to grazing and contributed to chronic food insecurity and ethnic marginality. Some families continue to practice nomadic herding, while many others practice transhumant pastoralism instead, maintaining permanent or semi-permanent homesteads, while young people move the herds as necessary and live in livestock camps to do so. Land pressures and the necessity of moving herds away from children and other family members who rely on them have compounded food insecurity and the effects of periodic extreme drought events by which Samburu have understood themselves as survivors of disaster (Straight et al., 2016). Periodic disasters and overall high mortality rates have also contributed to Samburu sensibilities concerning death as a phenomenon that must be “cut”— divided and bounded cleanly from life (Straight, 2007a). Treating death and the threat of death as a form of contagion with intense emotional entailments is no doubt recognizable cross-culturally, whether the mechanism is scientific, metaphysical, or a combination of these. Panicked responses to global pandemics such as the 1918–20 “Spanish” Flu and Covid-19 a century later remind us that high mortality has broad consequences for social practices. Samburu observe a number of practices aimed simultaneously at preventing a series of deaths and managing grief. Among these is moving the homestead (particularly after the premature deaths of unmarried individuals), no longer referring to the deceased by name (lest we summon the dead, and death with them), shaving the heads of all family members (including women, for whom cropped and shaved hairstyles are the norm), removing ornaments given as gifts by the deceased, and, for unmarried deceased, discarding all of their belongings (Straight, 2007a, 2019). Mortuary practices reflect gender and social status norms, although the guiding principle is the hazardousness of death for the living. The majority of deceased Samburu are given exposed burials under an Acacia tortilis (ltepes) tree. The exceptions are grandparents, who are buried within the homestead (grandmothers adjacent to their youngest son’s wife’s house; grandfathers in the cattle enclosure), and infants with umbilical cords still attached, who are buried under their mothers’ cooking fire. Old grandparents, having lived long lives and perpetuated lineages, are

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propitiously “sweet” and therefore not a danger to the living. Infants who have not yet detached fully from their mothers, on the other hand, might take their mothers’ fertility with them unless they are rejoined to the cooking fire that is metaphysically connected to her fertility (Straight, 2007a, b). In between these extremes, married individuals are exposed but given extensive mortuary rites, while unmarried persons and individuals dying violently are given perfunctory rites or even left to decay where they died. Even in these cases, some form of practice is observed and the body is checked on as it decays. Whether exposed under trees or buried with trees growing naturally from the gravesite, trees and the land associated with burials are imbued with ancestral substance that can affect the living. This ancestral substance is both distinct from, and yet connected to, Divinity (Nkai, a feminine noun), which animates the entire world and permeates the cosmos. The most eloquent articulation of Nkai’s presence in relation to life, death, and the universe I have heard was offered during a discussion about the nature of Nkai that took place between two Samburu friends and me in 2002, one in his 70s and the other, my research assistant Musa, then in his 30s.1 Our septuagenarian friend said the following, which I will quote at length: There is no mountain that Nkai is not in, because this air is Nkai and She is the one who brings it and we don’t know what this thing is. Nkai just slaps us with this air…There is no mountain without Nkai because when it rains, She puts down Her little cloth [clouds], that white morole [fecund moisture] of Hers. Why should She put it down? After raining, she gives us this sweet water of Hers and Her frost on top of the mountains…And now She gives us this water that we drink. And there is just this Nkai of the KosiKosi Hills, and that is how that is. And you see now this soil on which we are sitting, elder people say it is the Nkai of Samburu we are stepping on. You look upon it and this soil does not get satisfied from the people buried here. It doesn’t get satisfied. When one just goes through, others are buried and see how it goes, it doesn’t get satisfied. The earth is not satisfied and you are just stepping on it. You see the water – this river normally flows and sweeps away cars and also takes people. And you just drink that water. You don’t say what? [You don’t complain] You just pray to Nkai to leave a leg [leave some livestock to live]. And isn’t that the Nkai of the mountains that comes to rain? Just that one we don’t see, that one that we pray to? And you see that one attached to the hills, we just pray to that one, that one that is cut off [isolated]. And also, these Europeans now who go on planes and the clouds, don’t they go beyond? Can they go through the black one? [No.] That’s it my boy! That is like the uterine membrane [mpareria]. Then, when you see this cloud, it is the one that brings Her leather dress again, cutting it [separating lighter clouds from rain clouds], putting a shadow over us [shadow portending fertile rain, and a shadow generally is assumed

 Musa Letua joined me as my research assistant beginning in 1992 and became a close friend until his premature death from HIV-AIDS in 2009 (Straight, 2019); the other research assistant present for some of the interviews quoted in this essay was Timothy Loishopoko. The Samburu language has three tones and nouns take gender prefixes. My Samburu language skills are good and allow me to participate and understand, but I struggle with tonality. I have conducted some interviews myself over the years, and I hold my own without research assistants for social visits. However, to avoid costly mistakes, I conduct interviews with a research assistant. 1

9  What Miracles in the Global South Contribute to Understanding the Human Condition 159 to protect from the harshness of the sun, from death-bringing drought].2 (Respondent M14-2002)

In this narration, this Samburu elder captured the interconnectedness of life and death, the movement of Nkai through those connections and through the universe generally, while also alluding to the dead and the soil or water that absorbs them as if it were a living substance. There is much to unpack here. I will start with Nkai as Divine presence and then discuss ancestral substance. In a conversational group interview, Musa and I asked for clarification concerning stories we had heard about Nkai appearing on hills and in rocky areas. One respondent explained, It is just Nkai who enters the rocks. If He comes to sit on the plain, He stays and becomes a person. [Musa: Being air or being what?] Just being air, and He just becomes a person. (Respondent FM1-2001)

Samburu perceive Nkai as omnipresent in ways that are somewhat compatible with many religious traditions, including Abrahamic theologies. Although Nkai is described with feminine as well as masculine metaphors, these are heuristic to some extent because Nkai takes all forms. The earliest exposure of Samburu to Christianity was through Anglican missionaries in the 1930s. In interviews conducted in the early 2000s, Samburu reported these missionaries as disparaging of Samburu beliefs to the point of desecrating religious sites (Straight, 2008). As Samburu increased attendance at churches, substantial differences manifested between Samburu Protestants and Catholics, with Catholics typically more tolerant of traditional practices. Moreover, the majority of Samburu who attend Catholic mass simultaneously follow all Samburu cultural practices and beliefs (Straight, 1997, 2007a, 2008).3 Regardless of affiliation, however, many Samburu, particularly women, view Nkai as continuing to appear to individuals, while other Samburu interviewed, usually men, expressed skepticism, calling prophets liars. In describing Nkai’s appearances to people, respondents in the group interview expanded on the uterine example in an intriguing way that illustrates that Samburu understandings can be simultaneously metaphorical and literal. She [Nkai] just takes someone to another place and then brings them back again. It is said that Nkai just puts them in something like a uterine membrane and so you’ll just see someone in a membrane. They just go somewhere else. And then [Nkai] brings another person to that place and takes them all, says what She wants to say, and then returns them all to their homes. [What is mpareria?] When goat kids or a calf are born, isn’t it inside a uterine membrane? [Yes.] So Nkai just drops a person in a thing like that. [Like a stomach?] Like a stomach. And He carries the person and goes to share words with them and then returns them to their house. (Respondents FM1-2001)

 Respondent codes are prefixed with F if the respondent was a woman, M if the respondent was a man, and FM if there were both women and men being interviewed together. One exception is S1, which is a man but coded differently. 3  This is also observed in the author’s unpublished field data. 2

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Later in the interview, Musa asked about the Milky Way in relation to the divine birth membrane: “What do the Samburu say about Nkai’s membrane and the galaxy? Which side of the sky is the galaxy on?” One member of the group answered, “Isn’t that [the galaxy] just a membrane? It’s called a membrane [mpareria].” Another respondent picked up the thread, “Doesn’t it [mpareria] resemble the galaxy?” (Respondents FM1-2001). When Respondent M14 pointed out that airplanes (or spaceships) cannot go through the black of space and referred also to the divine uterine membrane, he was alluding to the cosmos as a divine body with a divine womb. Nkai is the universe and the source of nourishing rain, storms, and wind. If Nkai appears in human form, She carries individuals from one place to another in her womb. As source of the water cycle, describing Nkai as appearing in rivers, on mountains, and as frost makes sense. More is at stake though when discussing the taking of human life. Using the same word as for human appetite, Respondent M14 told us that the soil and the rivers are never satiated, never full.4 On this point, Samburu ontological understandings resonate with sensibilities in other parts of the world in which the earth demands human or animal bodies as nourishment. However, Samburu ontology is not identical to others and the differences are important, particularly when we come to the question of resurrection in this essay’s next section. Many cultural anthropologists have long debated whether comparison between different ontologies and thus very different ways of experiencing the world is possible. In the 1920s, Lucien Lévy-Bruhl (1926) began what eventuated in years of anthropological debate on a question that has yet to be settled, of how we are to make theoretical, analytic, as well as practical sense of different ontological realities. Lévy-Bruhl argued that so-called “primitive belief” is “pre-logical,” by which he did not mean to suggest an evolutionary scale but rather meant to assert a different approach to reality than that achieved by way of European logic. The gauntlet was laid down however, carried out in verbal academic poste and riposte. Anthropologist Evans-Pritchard’s most enduring response to Lévy-Bruhl was published in 1934, where he argued for a relativistic plurality in which different societies started from different premises but nevertheless thought in the same “logical” ways as so-called moderns. He did so of course, while asserting science as the single arbiter of “Truth”—the context-independent truth by which to be certain of reality. Evans-Pritchard’s context-dependent truth is a convenient position that permits examination of a multitude of separate paths to logic without allowing any of them to challenge the supremacy of European notions of the truth. Even if the Abrahamic God disappears, empiricist social science, the anthropological doctrine from Evans-Pritchard forward, preserves the European intellectual tradition’s singular claim upon Truth by other means. Another anthropologist, Paul Radin, provided his own retort to Lévy-Bruhl in 1937, in which he praised Lévy-Bruhl when the latter stated that “We must not try  The word translated as “satisfied” derives from the Samburu verb stem a-imu, to be full, satisfied, satiated. This is the same word used when asking a guest or family member if they have had enough to eat. 4

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to rediscover in the representations’ of the primitives [sic] our distinction between the soul and the body” (Radin, 1937, p. 271; with Radin’s quotations from Lévy-­ Bruhl’s (1927) L’ame primitive). Lévy-Bruhl subsequently went too far for Radin however: “But when he continues and insists that the soul is ‘neither purely material nor purely spiritual’ but that it is both, ‘at the same time, one and the other’, and that it is so because ‘its presence acts as a mystical property’, he is falling into an error of interpretation equally reprehensible” (Radin, 1937, p. 271; with Radin’s quotations from Lévy-Bruhl’s (1927) L’ame primitive). Whereas Lévy-Bruhl found fundamental differences in the substance, or patterns of thought, Radin insisted on a developmental path along which “primitive man” made clear distinctions based on the world around “him,” distinctions that led increasingly to the acceptance of dualism over “matter-of-fact” monism and an attendant, “true concept of immortality” (Radin, 1937, p. 272). Anthropologists like Radin and Evans-Pritchard established the enduring premise that humans in every cultural context drew conclusions based on an empiricism that may differ from “science,” but that nevertheless made sense in context. Thus, in their 1963 introduction to Witchcraft and Sorcery in East Africa, editors John Middleton and E.H.  Winter echo Evans-Pritchard’s and Radin’s indictments of Lévy-Bruhl and clarify precisely how indigenous beliefs are to be understood: “…the failure to understand the roles of these beliefs in the context of the lives of those who hold them, is often at the basis of naïve statements that the ‘African mind’ is different in some fundamental way from the ‘European mind’” (Middleton & Winter, 1963, p. 1). Yet, as Lévy-Bruhl clarified in his 1937 letter to Evans-Pritchard (written two years before his death in 1939), Lévy-Bruhl had not intended to suggest fundamental differences between the potential of humans in different societies to engage in equally complex processes of logical thought. Rather, he was concerned with a more philosophical point, one that bears on ontology. Lévy-Bruhl had deliberately amplified the differences between patterns of thought in European versus smallscale societies in order to demonstrate the radically different categories by and through which people might express their experiences of “being-in-the-world” (see also Tambiah, 1990). He did indeed think, as Radin had surmised and critiqued him for, that in some societies, for example, a mystical both/and, an at-once material and spiritual soul was possible. It is telling that Radin accuses Lévy-Bruhl of being “a closet philosopher” and that Lévy-Bruhl, in his letter to Evans-Pritchard states that indeed he leans towards the philosophy of Hume and Spinoza rather than the anthropology of Bastian and Tylor (Lévy-Bruhl, 1937, p. 123). Nevertheless, Evans-Pritchard’s version of “truth-in-context,” rather than Lévy-­ Bruhl’s notion of radically different ontologies, prevailed in mainstream anthropology for decades. Then, in the 1990s, a trend developed in anthropology towards critiquing the teleological assumption of modernist progress and considering cross-­ cultural ontologies on equal terms with European ones, and thus reconsiderations of

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Lévy-Bruhl became quite in order.5 In a previous work (Straight, 2007a), I have described the embodied process by which humans experience the world, as a basis for understanding radically different ontologies. Contemplating the nature of human experience is at the heart of this perspective, a point to which I will return in a later section of this essay. Human experience is likewise critical to anthropologist Bruce Mannheim’s approach to different social ontologies but he goes further, offering a relational typology for comparing them. His typology is structured through four interrelated fields of culturally specific perception: “properties of the world” (properties of, and relationships between objects), “frames of reference” (relationships between persons and world), “agency” (attribution of agency to objects and places, relevant to a social grammar of personhood), and “causal structures” (concepts emergent from general, shared knowledge in a community) (Mannheim, 2020, p. 373). Among his examples, Mannheim notes that for Quechua speakers in the Peruvian Andes, an irrigation canal guides water under its own agency: “This is not a matter of ‘symbolic richness’ or of ‘figurative language’—these truly form the world in which Quechua speakers and English speakers live” (Mannheim, 2020, p. 373). We experience the world through irreducibly embodied cognitive schema that are more than metaphorical because we embody them from the moment that we take first breath, and even before (Straight, 2007a). For example, it is widely known that developing fetuses can hear outside sounds (though muted). Additionally, culturally influenced and environmentally shaped practices and experiences including what mothers eat or do not eat, food and water deprivation, and even mothers’ emotionally charged experiences, modify genetic expression in their children (Conching & Thayer, 2019). After infants are born, their bodies adapt to the way they are held as caregivers encourage babies and toddlers to dance, sit, stand, or squat in a particular way; infants learn to hear some linguistic sounds and culturally important ambient noises and filter out others; they learn to love the smell and taste of culturally valued foods and dislike the smell and taste of taboo foods; they develop culturally particular disgust—for eating certain foods, smelling certain odors, and so on. Thus, our perceptions—even our ability to perceive certain stimuli—are filtered through cultural practices and beliefs that are often emotionally charged and which form the basis for embodied cognitive schema. For Samburu, certain natural and human-made objects become agentive because connected through substance. Livestock milk joins together the personhood of Nkai, humans, animals, drinking containers, trees, soil, and grass. This is because humans drink the milk that comes from the bodies of their animals, and humans caress their animals while milking them. Moreover, humans squeeze the milk from their animals’ teats into drinking containers purified by charcoal manufactured from aromatic trees, and Nkai likes to smell the charcoal and burning wood of those trees. Animals and humans learn and mutually absorb the smell of one another, and

 See Straight, 2006, where I discuss these debates in more detail and different ways of approaching truth. 5

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animals eat the grass that grows from soil nourished by divine rain, on the one hand, and the lives of all who have died there, on the other hand. There is no separate identity in this ontology, no Cartesian cogito perceiving a world external to the perceiver. While a certain Eurocentric sensibility would like to consider the circle of life and the patterns that connect, these concepts stitch separate objects together based on a separately perceiving self. In contrast, for Samburu, earth and universe as body and human and animal bodies are endlessly reverberating, not only connected but enfolded within one another. Uterine membranes and the glistening white of stomachs and intestines exemplify this. The Milky Way resembles Nkai’s womb, Nkai may carry humans from one place to another in a floating womb, and ritual specialists interpret the auspiciousness of future events by reading the folds of intestines in the animals they ceremonially slaughter. M14 told us that there are two equally valid ways to pray to Nkai, one through the book and the other through the spoken word. This accords well with explanations offered by Gabra and Borana pastoralists, Cushitic-speaking groups with whom Samburu share histories of intermarriage and warfare. Gabra and Borana, like the Samburu, have a story that compares examination of intestinal folds to the reading of a divine text (the Qur’an, in the Gabra and Borana versions). Moreover, some Gabra compare the folds of their turbans to the Qur’an’s sacred text.6 Where a divinely-embodied natural world takes us with respect to death and resurrection however, is an ambivalence in Samburu ways of experiencing the world. Even as the soil and water nourish, they are also ravenous. This ravenousness is human rather than divine, though at the same time not entirely separate from Nkai (and the distinction between Nkai and ancestral substance is often blurred). This is exemplified through mortuary practices as they relate to hyenas, offerings to the dead, and treatment of trees growing from graves. Hyenas are associated with the underworld and considered to be harbingers of death. Although Samburu detest the idea of hyenas eating the dead, they nevertheless consider it necessary in the case of those who are given exposed burials: [Why is it said that it’s bad if a hyena doesn’t eat a person when they die?] What? [Why doesn’t it [a hyena] eat some people?] It doesn’t eat a person who has some thing bad [n’goki, meaning unpropitiousness or sin]. [So, isn’t that deceased person going to be cleansed a bit? Why doesn’t the hyena eat a bad thing?] The thing is bad and maybe it

 Unfortunately, a Christian missionary promulgated a (no doubt unintentionally) racist version of this story among Samburu in which white people are given the Bible and take good care of it while black people are given the Bible and accidentally allow a cow to eat it. Thus they must read cow’s intestines. One of my oldest, now-deceased respondents (born approximately 1910) specifically attributed this version to a missionary in central Kenya. This version made its way into Samburu and subsequently, it was retold to Catholic missionaries, who published it as a Samburu story (Pedenzini, 1996, pp. 10–12, 26–27). In one Gabra story, a traveler brings the Quran but since the Gabra are pre-literate, they are given a turban (Kassam, 2006, p. 181; see also Tablino, 1999 [1980] on meaningfulness of turbans and intestines). The oldest version I have found dates to the sixteenth century, and does involve livestock eating a sacred text but is situated in the context of BoranaOromo resistance to Islamic expansion, not in perceived racial difference (Kidane, 2002, p. 135). 6

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doesn’t eat a bad thing? [laughter] Yes, so it doesn’t eat a thing that’s bad like itself, because it’s nothing itself. [What if a hyena eats a person? Is it said that person is good?] What? [So, if the hyena eats the person?] Yes, that person has no badness [n’goki]. (Respondent M9-2002)

Samburu check on corpses left for exposed burial to be sure that the hyenas are consuming the body. Historically, the most ritually pure (grandparents and babies) have always been buried, not exposed. If a corpse is not eaten, a goat is slaughtered as a ritual cleansing and some of its intestines are smeared on the corpse, to entice the hyena. Samburu view the breaking of taboos as attaching a substantive unpropitiousness to an individual rather than viewing a person as inherently immoral or morally unredeemable. In life, a person experiencing misfortunes may consult a ritual expert to diagnose any “sin” (n’goki) they or their ancestors have committed and suggest a remedy such as a blessing ceremony that might include getting forgiveness from the affronted person, animal, or part of the natural world. Hyenas are sensitive to unresolved n’goki, possibly through communication with Nkai, although Samburu are equivocal on the mechanism and they view hyenas in negative terms, not as divine. Goats, particularly their stomach contents, are considered pure and thus capable of cleansing any ritual impurity still clinging to the corpse. The concern is that if this is not done, then the death itself is not eaten and the death as contagion can continue to claim more lives. Therefore, historically, Samburu have taken measures to ensure that hyenas eat at least a portion of the corpse. When mortuary rites are performed for parents and grandparents, it is absolutely essential to pour animal fat through their lips and to offer them tobacco. Tobacco continues to be offered when passing the gravesite and if bad things start happening, the family slaughters animals to feed their deceased parent or grandparent again. This hunger endures beyond living memory—substantively joining to soil and water that become ravenous. Additionally, trees become agentive from the lives absorbed into them. Remember that individuals who are not buried are placed under trees; the gravesites of those who are buried often have trees growing from them. Indeed, stone cairn burials are visible on the landscape and very frequently, these also have trees growing from them. These trees cannot be cut, not before placing a deceased person there, nor after: “It is not in accordance with our practices to cut a tree under which a person of leaves [deceased person] is laid…and if it is cut, someone must give an offering to appease that thing” (Respondent S1-2008). In sum, individual dead persons eventually become part of ancestral substance rooted in a place; Nkai simultaneously embodies each of these places and all places; and hyenas are uncanny consumers of death with an ambivalent connection to Nkai. With this background in place, I will proceed to discuss Samburu accounts of resurrection.

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9.3 Samburu Understandings of Resurrection On my second extended stay in Samburu in 2001, my scholarly intention had been to find out if it was true that the Samburu traditional belief system lacked an assertion of life after death. Anthropologists had, for decades, described the belief systems of a number of East African pastoralist societies as lacking in ancestor veneration and a belief in immortality (Spencer, 1959, 1965). If this was the case, I wondered why tobacco and other offerings were placed at mortuary sites. From the first interviews I conducted, I learned that there was indeed, a belief that one’s deceased parents and grandparents could influence the fortunes of the living and thus it was important to give offerings and even to venture as far as sacrificing livestock if a particularly bad series of events befell a family, as I noted in the previous section. One day though, the typical leading question—Are you of the opinion that there is life after death?—resulted in a woman’s rather surprising response that yes, she was quite certain of it because she herself had died but was lucky enough to return back to life. She went on to describe a uniquely pastoralist view of the afterlife, in which cattle with udders the size of 20-liter jugs grazed on a verdant landscape. She also described her sensory experiences as she progressed from dying into death, noting that her sense of hearing persisted well after she stopped seeing (Straight, 2007a). Her story led me to add questions to my interviews about similar experiences, which were rare as we would expect but were nevertheless reported by several other respondents. Notably, all Samburu descriptions reflected Samburu cultural priorities; the vision of a light at the end of a tunnel, which reflects European analogies between uterine canal and passage to the afterlife, was absent from all Samburu descriptions. I was surprised yet again, though, when one Samburu respondent went further than an apparent near-death experience to report knowing of someone who had actually died “completely” to the point of being put into their leather burial shroud, having full mortuary rites performed, and left under an Acacia tortilis (ltepes) tree. Subsequent to this, I interviewed Samburu respondents in multiple communities and found that older men and women in communities now living closer to government administration nevertheless reported learning of or remembering resurrection cases from past decades. Meanwhile, in remote areas where exposed burial was still practiced, younger as well as older individuals reported cases. Some cases were secondhand reports while others were eyewitnesses. Several points are important in considering these cases: First, several respondents were uniformly adamant that individuals resurrecting after mortuary rites had been performed had died “completely” and these were considered distinct phenomena from individuals whose hearts were nearly “cut”—as Samburu conceptualize it—but who had not fully died. The distinction was being made, that is, between resurrection from death and near-death experience:

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They’re not breathing, because people make sure that a person is not breathing…they are taken from home when they have died, they’re not half-dead. (Respondent M6-2003)

Nevertheless, the line between death and near-death was not always entirely clear to Samburu respondents nor to me. Has someone whose heart has stopped and who has been resuscitated through medical intervention experienced death—or have they experienced near-death? If the resuscitation occurs spontaneously or is attributed to divine intervention, does this change the nature of how we define the event? I will return to this issue in this essay’s fourth, concluding section. Second, respondents considered resurrection cases to be nking’asia, which can be translated approximately as a wonder, as an astonishing or miraculous phenomenon. However, a phenomenon that is nking’asia does not carry the same symbolic weight as a Christian miracle. There is no Samburu tradition of a singular resurrection that proves divine existence. Rather, there are many resurrections of everyday humans, all of which are understood through a Samburu ontology that considers Divinity to animate life on the one hand, and hyenas as both harbingers and consumers of death on the other. I will offer extended quotations from four cases before examining the philosophical implications of these reports. It is important to note that by the time of most of the interviews, universal burial had been introduced throughout the Samburu highland areas and in some parts of the lowlands, governed by the Ministry of Health for reasons of hygiene without regard to cultural practices prescribing exposure. Nevertheless, exposure burial was still practiced in areas where poor infrastructure reduced governmental intervention. That is, as with many governmental restrictions, Samburu have resisted infringement of their cultural practices when and where possible, and have pragmatically adapted their practices where necessary. As with all cultural traditions, Samburu practices and beliefs are dynamic, not static.7 Several respondents commented that burial precluded resurrection because individuals could not be rescued, with some expressing this concern strongly, noting that a person might resurrect and then die again where they are buried. One respondent reporting in an area where universal burial had already been introduced emphasized the trend towards burial where he lived in discussing the cases of which he was aware: I have seen one but it was these people long ago because what is being done now [burial], there is no way you can see a lopiu [resurrected person] now, someone coming to life again, do you hear? Before, people were thrown in the bush, leaves were placed on them, and the person was just laid there inside the leaves, and they were blown upon by the wind and they

 In contrast to Samburu who lament the loss of exposure practices, others prefer burial because it offers more finality and avoids the occasional extremely traumatic incidents when dogs carry parts of corpses to the homestead. There are also reports of misfortunes occurring well after burial if the burial was not done appropriately. See Straight, 2007a, pp. 149–150. Even where burial is practiced, there are cases of resurrection reported before burial takes place. See Straight, 2007a, pp. 150–151. 7

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came back to life… [Who did you see resurrect?] I saw someone of Lmarikon8 generation from our family. He died and was taken outside the settlement and leaves were put on him but he came back to life. [Was he brought back home?] Yes, he was brought back and he healed and he stayed and died at an old age. [Is there anything being done when (resurrected) people are brought back to the homestead?] There isn’t. [Can’t they be cleansed?] They will not be cleansed but they will be made to vomit and given food. (Respondent M5-2003)9

A quite remarkable case from the 1960s based on respondent reports, is of a man who had been dead four days before he woke to rejoin the living: [Which one? Lmalen?]10 Yes, that one who is called {What?} Yes, that Lkimaniki. Yes, that tall one. {He died and came back to life?} Yes, he slept how many? {How many?} Four with the day he revived. {There is that one this woman [referring to his wife] is talking about of theirs [from her natal family]}. [Yes.] {He slept four in the grave then he revived.} It is said it was his dog that defended him so that the hyenas wouldn’t eat him. Yes, the hyenas came and were chased. [Yes.] The hyenas just came and the dog chased them away. [Mm.] Then, when people went to bring the dog, he was seen doing what? [Living then, rising.] Moving. {Yes.} [Mm.] Then he was brought back home. (Respondent FM2-2001)

The next case, from the 1930s, captures the difficult emotions associated with the resurrection of a child. It calls us to imagine the circumstances of parents losing their little girl, of going through the entirety of the mortuary rites, which includes discarding every single item that had belonged to her, vomiting the shock of their grief whether spontaneously or by inducing because that shock must get out of the grieving body.11 The girl has been laid under an ltepes tree in the bush, well beyond the homestead. It’s only the warriors of the home (lmurran), for whom bravery is a necessity, who were sent to check on her. And then, the miracle. What was that family called? It’s that home of that man who is a ritual specialist [loibon], that one from L___. [Len___?] Len__. But it was a girl, sired by the father of Len___ because it’s not long ago. Lmirisho [warrior cohort of 19 teens]. Who is the father of this one? [Yes.] That one was Lterito [warrior cohort of 1890s]. Lterito was my father’s generation. So she died when those Lterito had become our fathers [c. 1930s]. The girl died. Didn’t she die? [Yes.] Then she was taken for mortuary rites. Wasn’t she taken away for mortuary rites? [Mm.] She was laid. Isn’t it that a person is usually laid? [Yes.] She lay there. The hyenas didn’t eat her. [Mm.] Her father was not at home—that chief—he was not at home. [Yes.] Her brother, a Lkileku warrior, got up. [Mm.] Is it not that people are usually checked to see whether hyenas have eaten them? [Yes.] He went, and as he went [mm] he found her just sitting like this, blinking her eyes. [Blinking her eyes?] Blinking her eyes. She just kept her eyes open like mine now. [Mm.] Don’t the eyes get dry when a person  Lmarikon refers to a male generational cohort. Men are initiated into generational cohorts in their teens or twenties. The respondent was born in 1930s and is reporting on someone born in the 1870s. In the subsequent quotation, a man of a more recent cohort, Lkimaniki, is mentioned. Lkimaniki were initiated during a 15-year period beginning in 1959. 9  Brackets indicate my Samburu research assistant (Musa) or me talking, or my explanatory notes. 10  Respondent husband and wife were both talking. Braces indicate husband; brackets indicate my notes or Musa and me talking; no brackets indicate respondent’s wife, the main storyteller here. 11  The fact that resurrected persons are also induced to vomit suggests a letting go of grief over their own deaths but also points to the metaphysical separation from death and unpropitiousness that vomiting achieves. 8

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dies? [Mm.] So she was just blinking her eyes like this. [Mmm.] The warrior was astonished. [Mmm.] He went back and called another warrior, coming. They came and found her just sitting, staring at people. They went, went to call others. (Respondent F54-2001)

As the respondent went on to explain, the warriors could not bring her home immediately. They feared what the shock would do to her parents. Instead, they nourished her in the bush until they were certain she was healed and even then, they didn’t let her parents see her until they had taken them aside and slowly, gently explained. People met her father to hold him so he didn’t cry. He said to them, “What else? She’s dead.” His warrior son led him and he cried, didn’t he, until he became quiet. (Respondent F54-2001)

About her return from death, our respondent said, “She just went ahead and healed because it has been returned to her, that One who gives us breath has returned it to her” (Respondent F54-2001). The final case I will present in this paper, occurring in the 1990s, offers a detailed account of the collective support Samburu offer when a grandparent is dying. Since the risk of death’s contagion is low for those who have lived a long life and been blessed with children and grandchildren, kin and fellow clan members stay throughout the process. I have seen that one, Le____ {the one who was employed by the Veterinary?12} Yes, that one who was employed by the Veterinary Department. He got sick, very sick for a long time. {The one-eyed man?} Yes, the one-eyed man. He was the one because a cow hit him in the eye in the cattle pen. A cow hit him with its horn, Da! Then he got sick, very sick. He stayed until he died. He was put there and people were guarding him in the house. Isn’t it that if a person dies in the afternoon? [He won’t be taken out.] You know that, don’t you, that he won’t be taken out again? {Yes.} He was laying there on the bed and we came to see him. We were soothing the family in the evening. We were consoling people near evening. Then he said, “Mmmrrrr. Mmmrrrr.” It was evening when he said, “Mmmrrrr.” People said, “What is he doing? Isn’t it like he’s shaking his head?” Then he said, “Go to sleep because I’m finished.” {Was he the one saying that?} Yes. {“I have died.”} Yes. “I am finished,” he said. “Go and sleep. And tell those warriors to go through there and follow those cows. Tell the women to go in that house over there.” {And were there women or just devils?} He was just talking with those devils. He said, “What is that? Yes, yes, oh, stop! Are those our fathers over there? I’m not seeing my father or, is that him, that brown one?” Then his heart stopped beating when he said that, and he was gone. He lay there the entire night, dead. Then we were asking one another, has he gotten cold? We didn’t know what was happening with him because his body wasn’t cold. I wasn’t inside when they were asking that though, I just learned later that they asked that. People kept asking, has he gotten cold? We didn’t know because it’s like he wasn’t. When we touched his body, it’s warm. What about about his heart though? It’s finished [not beating]. So it was said, “Haish! Leave him, he’s gone.” When the morning came, that morning of an elephant [before dawn], the time that women would wake up, his wife told us that when she had awakened—because other men were

 This interview was conducted with two agemates born in the 1920s. The main narrator is not punctuated. Braces indicate the main narrator’s agemate; brackets indicate my research assistant or me speaking, or my notes. 12

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sleeping there, elders guarding him were also sleeping on the bed—she said that he told her to go and milk the cows because it’s morning. She thought at first it was those other men talking to her but then those other men said they hadn’t said it. He was the one who said it. They stayed there in the morning hours and then men started arriving to bury him. Many came until he said, “Boys, what is it?” He tried to get up and they said, “Woi! Hold him because he has returned to life.” He was held and he sat there until he opened his eyes. (Respondent M6-2003)

He was given milk and then a cow was slaughtered for him to eat in order to heal. Asked whether he said anything about the experience, our narrator said, He used to tell us, “Boys, I remember that day I died. I know even when my heart stopped beating. I was there looking at my wife, sitting there, because she was all I could see. I couldn’t see anything else, only her. I could just see her, because she was sitting there, she was sitting there and tears were flowing. I could even see the tears in her eyes.” (Respondent M6-2003)

Asked what he thought people like this man see when talking to their dead fathers just before dying, he said, Maybe that’s death. He was also saying he was seeing hyenas [of the underworld] and those other things other people can’t see. [So, what do you think that thing is?] It’s death because it’s as if he’s no longer with these [living] people; he’s seeing devils. Yes, he’s seeing other things that other people can’t see. Boy, that’s just death. (Respondent M6-2003)

Perhaps the clearest indication of what is occurring in Samburu ontological sensibilities is to be found in Samburu explanations of the reason for slaughtering animals at the gravesite after a resurrection. Woman respondent: An animal is slaughtered there and it’s left for the hyenas and the person is brought back home. [Why is the goat slaughtered?] So that it eats as if it has eaten that [resurrected] person and that the person has come back to life. Then that is a thank you. [Why are the hyenas given that goat to eat?] Male respondent: So that it looks as if that badness has dropped off that person. That person has resurrected. So they [hyenas] eat that goat so that it will look as if they have eaten that person and then that’s over. And then that person lives so as not to die quickly again. We say that Nkai has resurrected that person. That death is left for the hyenas. (Respondent FM3-2001)

Samburu make an important distinction between this act of cleansing the death itself (fooling the hyenas into consuming a goat’s death as a substitute for the resurrected human) versus cleansing the resurrected person. [When a resurrected person comes home, is there anything a Samburu will do for that person?] There is nothing to be done. They just live normally. Yes, and their ornaments are just put back on them. All of their ornaments are taken off [when they die] and when they come back to life, they are given their things back. [So it’s not feared?] It is not feared. [And so that person is just the same person?] Yes. [And is it a completely real person?] Yes. [And it is a person whose heart has stopped beating and was taken and thrown (mortuary rites performed)?] Yes, and they come back to life. [There aren’t rituals to be done for that person?] They will not be cleansed. [What?] They are not going to be cleansed. [They won’t be cleansed?] No, they will just be left alone because it is Nkai who has brought them back to life…Whoever is resurrected by Nkai [isn’t cleansed]…You know a person who is cleansed, is a person who was gored by a rhino. He doesn’t come home uncleansed. Or one who was attacked by an elephant doesn’t come home uncleansed. (Respondent FM1-2001)

Death must be appeased, but life given by Nkai is an unequivocal blessing.

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9.4 Conclusion: A Comparative Approach to Miracles What is the ontological basis upon which we should evaluate Samburu resurrection events as Samburu describe them? Philosophers in the academic tradition contemplating miracles have often considered Hume’s approach, which presumes a particular strand of scholarly empiricist logic. There has been a plethora of critical responses to Hume, which I will not belabor here, insofar as for the most part, they engage Hume’s own cultural biases as well as philosophical logic, one that relies upon mathematical probability to refute, on principle, the possibility of events that contravene the laws of nature.13 More relevant to my approach are critiques of Hume that demonstrate that when Hume’s method for ruling out miracles is applied to other surprising phenomena, including scientific anomalies (Butler, 2019), the possibility for innovative thought is foreclosed. As such, Hume’s method is most suitable to phenomena for which the weighing of mathematic probabilities is appropriate, but it is not productive if applied to surprising phenomena that require a contemplation of multiple varieties of human experience or new ways of thinking. Hume’s method applies a biased perspective to “prove” what one already knows—an exercise that may be consistent with how science is typically undertaken but which is not consistent with the principles of the scientific method. That is, the scientific method is never so certain as is Hume when the latter is refuting miracles. Cathy Legg’s (2001) interpretation of nineteenth-century philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce’s critique of Hume is more productive, in my view, for authentic and respectful engagement with phenomena that astonish those who experience or witness them. As Legg explains—and as will be familiar to those acquainted with Peirce’s broader corpus—Peirce faults Hume for following a logic inappropriate to the circumstances attendant on narrations of astonishing, marvelous, or miraculous events. In his fondness for triads, Peirce suggested that when confronted with baffling phenomena, one should begin with abduction—“searching for the best explanation for all given facts, which includes the testimonies themselves…Abduction… is the only inference form which introduces new ideas into our thinking. Induction only tests a suggestion already made. Deduction merely teases out the necessary consequences of what we already suppose” (Legg, 2001, pp. 304–305). Abduction is particularly well suited to a respectful consideration of how humans make sense of what surprises them. It works quite well when we have a number of witnesses independently reporting events and when they have little to gain from that reporting but are, rather, genuinely puzzling over what they have seen or heard. Nevertheless, even abduction is based on the assumptions shared by a particular community. It cannot necessarily help us when there are radically different worldviews at stake.

13

 See Earman, 2000 for a compelling critique on Hume’s own philosophical terrain.

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One could, as Butler mentions, simply reframe this discussion in the neo-Humean terms of supposed or provisional miracles versus genuine or absolute miracles (Butler, 2019; Mackie, 1982; Corner, n.d.). We could assume that these are all cases of biomedically explainable spontaneous resuscitation. To do so though, misses what, to me, is an opportunity for an engagement of Samburu understandings of these events to push us towards a humble agnosticism that reconsiders what we, in fact, may never explain. What we may never explain is its own bit of miracle, and the very different ontological understanding of the Samburu, using Mannheim’s approach as discussed in the second section, helps us open up our thinking. Here in the conclusion, I would like to consider the cross-culturally resonant phenomenon of resurrection from an academic perspective informed by Samburu explanations. We have at least two ways to consider them and they are not commensurate. A biomedical explanation is this: historically, bodies in the United States and Europe have been exhumed with scratch marks on the insides of their coffins. These occurrences were prevalent enough to install strings within coffins tied to bells, and some were indeed saved by the bell. The witnesses in these cases are telling the truth. Samburu likely have similar cases. When people die, they do not come back to life. Some people therefore, must be misdiagnosed as dead. This explanation presumes that we know with certainty how to diagnose death in every instance with finality. Death is a process however, not a discrete event, and biomedical definitions of death have changed with technology to the point that they have become context driven. If organ donation is in play, a person can be kept alive until the organs are harvested, but organ donation is in conflict with some religious perspectives (Lock, 2002). While some consider biomedical assertions of brain death to be an accurate indicator, there continue to be instances of individuals waking from persistent vegetative states and, moreover, defining death with respect to certain brain functions already presumes a certain definition of personhood. Yet definitions of personhood differ between cultural as well as religious traditions. Agreeing upon when and how life begins and ends can be extremely fraught. Scientific discourse is descriptive: It may inform us that a human fetus can hear at 18 weeks gestation, or may aid with the technically very difficult diagnosis of permanent loss of brain stem function. Yet it cannot tell us what this means with respect to defining personhood. Thus, some individuals do not turn off life support for their loved ones even after a diagnosis of permanent brain stem death. The biomedical explanation that Samburu resurrections are misdiagnosed deaths also presumes, in circular fashion, that death as process, once “truly” begun, is always irreversible. That is, we accept the biomedical assertion of clinical death and mechanical or spontaneous resuscitation as qualitatively distinct from “real” or “permanent” death. We distinguish resuscitation from resurrection and thereby erase miracle with a speech act. This precludes alternative hypotheses just as it precludes miracles by whatever definition, whether divine or scientific anomaly. Even many (though by no means all) Christians, whose faith is founded on miracle, seem to have largely stopped believing in miracles. We have become like Samburu elders in a story about wonder: Several elders climbed down into a pit, choosing to die, because they believed they had seen everything and there was nothing new to know.

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Then a child came to report that a sheep had broken the back of a camel. Astonished at an event they took to be a novel wonder, they climbed out of the pit and chose to live awhile longer. The Samburu explanation for resurrection is this: A person’s living breath comes from the Divinity understood as cosmos. When the heart stops, that living breath returns back to divinity, to the cosmos. Yet there are cases of people who have resumed breathing after as many as four days left out for the hyenas. Thus, divinity, the cosmic breath, must have breathed living breath back into them. Let us consider for a moment what we, in the United States, take for granted: that people do stop breathing, hearts do stop, and some people’s hearts resume, typically with biomedical assistance in wealthy industrial societies. What is the explanation for why some individuals can be resuscitated while others cannot? Why do we need to verify Samburu resurrection events as miraculous according to criteria that have shifted across centuries of European thought and that continue to shift with new biomedical technologies? Are we still seeking proof or disproof of a mystical existence for which there likely is no proof? Are we yet attempting to demonstrate a superior god or perhaps some of us are substituting scientific method for belief in the one and only divinity? Samburu do not make claims to a superior deity nor a unitary truth. Resurrections are obvious miracles for those Samburu who subscribe to a traditional Samburu philosophy. The how of the miracle is a divine cosmos willing to restore breath on occasion. Even the question of why is not of particular concern. It is the human what that matters, the need to nurture this particular fragile miracle, to offer the hyenas a substitute, and to make this resurrected husband, wife, or child vomit their own shock just as their loved ones just yesterday or a few days before vomited the shock of their death. The family too, may need a gentle announcement, before the person returns. These miracles are human events. No angel or god has reawakened here but rather the cosmos has restored a human person with human emotions. This girl, that man, and this one, were left exposed in invitation to predators and yet the nighttime visits of hyenas left them unmarked, awaiting a divine, cosmic quickening. This person has been given back their breath while someone else—all too many other beloved persons—in spite of multitudinous pleading and rounds of CPR, slipped away and remained in that unfathomable elsewhere.

References Butler, J. K. (2019). A Kuhnian critique of Hume on miracles. International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, 86(1), 39–59. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11153-­019-­09699-­x Conching, A.  K. S., & Thayer, Z. (2019). Biological pathways for historical trauma to affect health: A conceptual model focusing on epigenetic modifications. Social Science & Medicine, 230, 74–82. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.socscimed.2019.04.001 Corner, D. (n.d.). Miracles. Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Accessed August 8, 2020. https:// iep.utm.edu/miracles/ Earman, J. (2000). Hume’s abject failure: The argument against miracles. Oxford University Press.

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Evans-Pritchard, E. E. (1934). Lévy-Bruhl’s theory of primitive mentality. Bulletin of the Faculty of Arts [Egyptian University, Cairo], II, 1–41. Le Caire, Impr. de l'Institut français d'archéologie orientale. Kassam, A. (2006). The people of the five “drums”: Gabra ethnohistorical origins. Ethnohistory, 53(1), 173–193. https://doi.org/10.1215/00141801-­53-­1-­173 Kidane, S. (2002). Borana folktales: A contextual study. Haan Publishing. Legg, C. (2001). Naturalism and wonder: Peirce on the logic of Hume’s argument against miracles. Philosophia, 28(1–4), 297–318. Lévy-Bruhl, L. (1926). How natives think. Allen & Unwin. Lévy-Bruhl, L. (1927). L’âme primitive. Felix Alcan. Lévy-Bruhl, L. (1937). A letter to E.E. Evans-Pritchard. The British Journal of Sociology, 3(2), 117–123. Lock, M. (2002). Twice dead: Organ transplants and the reinvention of death. University of California Press. Mackie, J. L. (1982). The miracle of theism. Clarendon Press. Mannheim, B. (2020). Southern Quechua ontology. In S. Kosiba, J. W. Janusek, & T. B. F. Cummins (Eds.), Sacred matter: Animacy and authority in the Americas (pp. 371–398). Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection. Middleton, J., & Winter, E.  H. (1963). Introduction. In J.  Middleton & E.  H. Winter (Eds.), Witchcraft and sorcery in East Africa (pp. 1–26). Routledge. Pedenzini, E. (1996). The Samburu traditional view of God. Mchungaji Press. Radin, P. (1937). Primitive religion: Its nature and origin. Dover. Spencer, P. (1959, July). The dynamics of Samburu religion. Unpublished paper presented at a conference held at the East African Institute of Social Research, Makerere College. Spencer, P. (1965). The Samburu. University of California Press. Straight, B. (1997). Altered landscapes, shifting strategies: The politics of location in the constitution of gender, belief, and identity among Samburu pastoralists in northern Kenya. PhD Dissertation. University of Michigan. Straight, B. (2006). A world-creating approach to belief. In J.  B. White (Ed.), How should we talk about religion: Perspectives, contexts, particularities (pp. 104–122). University of Notre Dame Press. Straight, B. (2007a). Miracles and extraordinary experience in northern Kenya. University of Pennsylvania Press. Straight, B. (2007b). House, fire, gender. Material Religion, 3(1), 48–61. https://doi. org/10.2752/174322007780095645 Straight, B. (2008). Killing God: Extraordinary moments in the colonial mission encounter. Current Anthropology, 49(5), 837–860. https://doi.org/10.1086/591423 Straight, B. (2019). Unanchored deaths: Grieving the unplaceable in Samburu. In A.  Panagiotopoulous & D.  Espirito (Eds.), Articulate necrographies: Comparative perspectives on the voices and silences of the dead (pp. 125–140). Berghahn Books. Straight, B., Lane, P., Hilton, C., & Letua, M. (2016). “Dust people”: Samburu perspectives on disaster, identity, and landscape. Journal of East African Studies, 10(1), 168–188. https://doi. org/10.1080/17531055.2016.1138638 Tablino, P. (1999 [1980]). The Gabra: Camel nomads of northern Kenya (C. Salvadori, Trans.). Paulines Publications and Kolbe Press. Tambiah, S.  J. (1990). Magic, science, religion, and the scope of rationality. Cambridge University Press.

Part IV

Miracles and Morality

Chapter 10

The Ethics of Wonder: Miracles, Magic, and Morality in Devotional Hinduism Patton Burchett Abstract  This essay explores the important connection between the miraculous and the ethical, primarily through a study of early modern Hindu devotional (bhakti) traditions. It investigates the role of ethics in categorizing different forms of wonder (e.g., as “miracle” versus “magic”) and examines the way that the specific narrative form of the miracle story often functions to cultivate virtues and ethical dispositions in its audiences. After illustrating a crucial distinction between the meanings of the term/category “miracle” in modern and pre-modern times, the essay delves into the hagiographical literature of a Mughal-period North Indian bhakti community in order to demonstrate how its miracle tales work as pedagogical devices for cultivating a distinctive social ethic of giving and service.

10.1 Introduction In this essay, I draw attention to the crucial relationship between the miraculous and the ethical—miracles and morals—primarily through a study of miracle stories in the devotional Hindu traditions of early modern North India. At the same time, and more broadly, this essay aims to demonstrate a crucial distinction between modern and pre-modern miracles. While the word “miracle” has a variety of meanings and uses today, we will see that, in general, they depend upon an implicit understanding that the manifest world of daily life is a world of absence; they rely on a basic orientation in which gods, spirits, and wondrous occult forces do not exist in the natural, material world, if they exist at all. In the pre-modern world, however, in both the Abrahamic traditions and in the early modern world of Hindu devotionalism (bhakti) that will be our focus, we will see that the label “miracle” served to distinguish a particular kind of wonder in an enchanted landscape that was filled with the presence of wonders. Specifically, the miracle was a morally valued, ethically approved wonder, contrasted with the morally suspect, ethically inferior wonders of magic and sorcery. In the pages below, we will examine how the concept of the miracle P. Burchett (*) William & Mary, Williamsburg, VA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_10

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emerges from an ethical evaluation of wonders, while also investigating the ethical effect of these community-approved wonders, the crucial ways that stories of miracles function in the ethical cultivation of their audiences. In exploring the link between miracles and ethics, I approach ethical life in the terms of Aristotelian virtue, as highlighted in Alasdair MacIntyre’s After Virtue (1984), wherein ethics is, simply put, the cultivation of a disposition toward the good. To study the ethical from this perspective is to seek an understanding of “the virtues and vices that are central to the ability to thrive and flourish within a socially—and historically—located form of ethical life” (Laidlaw, 2017). This “virtue ethics” approach, in combination with the later writings of Michel Foucault— who conceived ethical life as less about moral codes and social rules than techniques of self-fashioning, i.e., practices for making oneself a certain kind of person (Laidlaw, 2002)1—has informed the trailblazing work on human ethical life of scholars like Talal Asad, Saba Mahmood, Charles Hirschkind, and James Laidlaw. Drawing on the insights of such work, I approach the miracle tales of bhakti hagiography as works intended to facilitate the development and practice of virtues esteemed by and in bhakti communities. As we will see, miracle stories are especially effective tools in the pedagogy of virtue, the inculcation of the community-­ specific values and embodied sensibilities underlying ethical conduct (Hirschkind, 2005).

10.2 What Is a “Miracle” Today? What is a miracle in today’s world? How do we use the word “miracle”? In order to understand pre-modern miracles (and, more specifically in this essay, the pre-­ modern miracles of devotional Hinduism), first we need to be aware of the array of different meanings “miracle” holds in contemporary common parlance. One way that we often use the word “miracle” is as a sort of colloquial hyperbole describing events that evoke wonder. These might be regularly occurring events like “the miracle of childbirth” or more unique historical events whose wonder comes in the very improbability of their occurrence—their “against the odds” defying of probability—like “the Miracle on the Hudson” (the safe, casualty-free landing of Flight 1549, which had lost all engine power, on New  York’s Hudson River in January 2009) or the “Miracle on Ice” (the U.S. defeat of the heavily favored, four-time defending gold-medalist Soviet Union ice hockey team in the 1980 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid, NY). In these cases, the word “miracle” refers to an event or experience so wondrous it is as if divine intervention were required for it to occur. Nearly always implicit is that such language is hyperbole, not a claim of God’s action in the manifest world.  From Foucault’s perspective, ethical life is an arena in which subjects exercise a certain freedom in actively fashioning (constituting) themselves, but they do so in and through practices “proposed, suggested, imposed upon [them]” by culture, society, and community (Foucault, 1997, p. 291). 1

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Another frequent contemporary use of “miracle” is a sarcastic one. “You cleaned your room today? It’s a miracle!” Or, as in a holiday card I recently saw in which one woman says to another: “I told Frank to put the Toilet Seat Down and gosh darn if he didn’t do it!” with a caption below reading, “A REAL Miracle on 34th Street.” These everyday joking uses of the word “miracle” playfully betray a secular skepticism, clearly implying that miracles of the sort described in religious scripture do not really happen, or at least not anymore. Then, there are the “miracles of modern science,” a use of the word that means to replace its original religious meanings entirely. The evolutionary biologist and staunch atheist Richard Dawkins writes, “The truth is more magical—in the best and most exciting sense of the word—than any myth or made-up mystery or miracle. Science has its own magic: the magic of reality” (Dawkins, 2011, p. 216). This usage clearly implies that miracles, as traditionally understood, are “made up,” invented; like myths and magic, they are fictional, fundamentally not real. At the same time, in claiming that the real miracles are those of modern science, this usage of the word subtly attempts to enchant a disenchanted world with science, to make science rather than religion the proper source and object of human wonder (Sideris, 2017), and to turn science into its own kind of religion. But what about all the things science cannot explain? “Miracle” is also sometimes the label we give to those rare occurrences that we simply cannot explain in scientific terms. In this use, the term functions as a kind of gap-filler, bridging the space between the known and the unknown. However, to call a seemingly inexplicable event a “miracle” is not simply to fill the gap—that could be done just as easily using other words like “mystery,” “coincidence,” or even “ignorance”—but to fill that space with a particular, theological kind of meaning. It is to fill that gap, that absence, with a divine presence. In this context, the specific absence that the word “miracle” fills (in a very particular way) is the absence of rational, scientific understanding and explanation of an event or experience. In fact, it is a different sort of absence, one that pervades our modern culture, that actually makes this and all of the different meanings/uses of “miracle” discussed above possible. We live in a world of absence. As Robert Orsi has written, “The divide between presence and absence, the literal and the metaphorical, the real and the symbolic, the natural and the supernatural, defines the modern temperament. … Modernity exists under the sign of absence” (Orsi, 2016, p. 37). The condition of secular scientific modernity’s existence was the banishment of gods, spirits, and divine forces from the natural, material world. Following the Reformation, Scientific Revolution, and Enlightenment, Western elites, by and large, no longer understood deities or occult forces to be concretely present in the world, and today “the gods” live only outside the world; or as simply symbols, metaphors, functions, and abstractions. This, we might say, is the metaphysical baseline, the mainstream worldview, of contemporary Western societies. Orsi emphasizes the massive ontological aftereffects of Protestant attacks on Catholic practices of presence (especially the Eucharist) during the Reformation, attacks which crucially informed colonial criticisms of non-Western cultures and religious traditions as idolatrous and fetishistic, as “less-­ evolved,” superstitious forms of worship. Thus, presence—the holy dwelling in the

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material, the supernatural interpenetrating with the natural—became a sign of backwardness, naivety, and irrationality. In our modern world of absence, instances of presence call for immediate and thorough-going skepticism, empirical investigation, rational explanation, and scientific verification/authorization. Wait, this is too simple, you might (quite reasonably) say. Clearly, there is still divine presence in our modern Western world: Evangelical Christianity, for instance. Roughly 40% of Americans identify as evangelical or born-again and despite great diversity are linked by a personal, intimate relationship with Jesus Christ in which a felt presence of God in one’s daily life is at the very heart of things (Luhrmann, 2012). Nevertheless, the fact is that many Evangelicals are mocked or derided for their backwardness, naivety, and irrationality by the other 60% of Americans. More importantly, the “presence” of Evangelical spirituality breaks no natural laws; it is emotional but domesticated, not too threatening to nor too threatened by science. If this is enchantment, it is a distinctly modern form of enchantment in which presence is a fully psychological thing, not a feature of the shared physical world, the real world. Much the same goes for the popular language of “everyday miracles.” As Marianne Williamson, self-help guru and author of Everyday Grace: Having Hope, Finding Forgiveness, and Making Miracles (2002) and A Year of Miracles (2013), expresses the general sentiment: “Miracles are everywhere, all the time, waiting to be plucked by our awareness into the making of a happy life.”2 In the same vein is this quote from Jon Bon Jovi, which circulates widely on the internet: “Miracles happen everyday [sic], change your perception of what a miracle is and you’ll see them all around you.” For those who seek to utilize such a concept in their lives, it is a “spiritual method” for recognizing wonder or divine presence in ordinary daily life. My point is simply that this concept of “everyday miracles” only makes sense in a world of absence. It gains its logic and appeal from an attempt to re-enchant a disenchanted world, to enliven something deadened, to revitalize and inject with wonder that which seems all too ordinary and humdrum. It is a psychological method by which one can infuse daily life in a material world of absence with some deeper meaning and enchantment. All this is to say that I think Orsi is right. We moderns (the vast majority of us, anyway) do live in a world defined by absence; we approach presence—particularly non-psychological, material presence—with great skepticism. When not used jokingly and sarcastically, we tend to use the word “miracle” as hyperbole for something wondrous, or to infuse a disenchanted daily life with a sense of enchantment. Sometimes, as in cases of “medical miracles,” we use the word as a gap-filler suggesting that our current scientific understandings are incomplete or that reality may be far more mysterious (exceeding our rationalist worldviews) than we have assumed. Even among those relatively rare believers in a modern-day “religious”  This quote, found all over the internet, has been attributed to a post Williamson made on her Facebook page on 6/15/2014. An influential text in spreading such views is Helen Schucman’s A Course in Miracles (1975), which Williamson helped to popularize in a 1992 appearance on The Oprah Winfrey Show. 2

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miracle—for instance, Catholic believers in any of the various Marian apparitions alleged since the nineteenth century—the event is typically understood as a very extraordinary one in which God’s presence has broken into a material world where absence and the mechanism of scientific laws is the rule.3 The crucial point is that the category of “miracle” has generally not been used in these ways for most of its history. If we wish to be true to the historical meaning of the term, none of these modern usages, strictly speaking, are quite accurate. They are new, emerging out of and only making sense within a context in which most understand the Age of Miracles to be over, or to have never actually existed at all.

10.3 Wonders of the Pre-Modern World: Abrahamic Origins of “Miracle” If absence is the basic condition—the ontological assumption—determining the meaning of the concept of “miracle” in the modern world, then to understand the meaning of miracles in the pre-modern world it is crucial to imagine a world in which this condition, this assumption, does not hold. The pre-modern world was understood to operate in customary (if not “scientific”) ways, but marvels of all sorts might violate this custom. This was a world of presence, a world assumed to be full of different sorts of wondrous possibilities. If not presence breaking into a world of absence, what then was a miracle? Etymology may be a good place to begin. The word “miracle” comes from the Latin mirari “to wonder at,” and mirus “wonder-ful.” With this in mind, as we turn in the pages ahead to the Hindu devotional traditions of pre-modern North India, perhaps it may be productive for us to shift from “miracle” to the less historically, culturally, and theologically burdened term “wonder.” If defined as “wonder-­ inspiring events,” miracles are obviously present in the Hindu tradition. Yet, taking such a broad definition of “miracle” occludes key differences between traditions and may distort our understanding of non-Western forms of wonder, for the specific word “miracle” has distinctively Western origins, and meanings distinctive to the Abrahamic religious traditions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. There is another very good reason to go “beyond wonder” in our conception of miracle. As I have said, the pre-modern world was filled with presence, replete with

 Furthermore, particularly in the modern age, “religious communities do not generally recognize the miracles of other, competing religious communities” (Kripal, 2014, p. 227). In other words, even when religious people do believe in modern-day miracles, they do not generally accept that the world is full of presence; e.g., Catholics who accept the Marian apparitions at Lourdes, would nevertheless almost universally reject the authenticity of other modern-day claims of presence whether “religious” (e.g., the 1995 Hindu miracle of Ganesh images in India drinking milk) or paranormal (e.g., poltergeists, UFO abductions, etc.). On the Ganesh milk-drinking miracle: https://www.bbc.com/news/av/magazine-38301718/the-milk-miracle-that-brought-india to-a-standstill 3

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wonders of the type most would scoff at today. These wonders, however, were not all equal; they were assessed and categorized differently by different social groups and traditions. In particular, communities ethically evaluated the various wonders of their pre-modern world. The term “miracle” itself seems to be a product of exactly this sort of moral evaluation of wonders, in a specific historical and cultural context. In the history of the Abrahamic traditions, the term “miracle” has usually distinguished a certain brand of morally approved wonders from other similar but less esteemed ones labelled “magic.” Indeed, we might ask if the pre-modern category of “miracle” actually requires—is dependent on and inseparable from—the category of “magic.” Let us look to an important, classic example of this miracle-­ magic distinction in the Hebrew Bible. In Exodus 7:8–13 (NIV), Moses and Aaron confront the sorcerers and magicians of the Pharaoh, and through the miraculous power of God, easily overcome them. The Lord said to Moses and Aaron, 9 “When Pharaoh says to you, ‘Perform a miracle,’ then say to Aaron, ‘Take your staff and throw it down before Pharaoh,’ and it will become a snake.” 10 So Moses and Aaron went to Pharaoh and did just as the Lord commanded. Aaron threw his staff down in front of Pharaoh and his officials, and it became a snake. 11 Pharaoh then summoned wise men and sorcerers, and the Egyptian magicians also did the same things by their secret arts: 12 Each one threw down his staff and it became a snake. But Aaron’s staff swallowed up their staffs. 13 Yet Pharaoh’s heart became hard and he would not listen to them, just as the Lord had said. 8

For our purposes, what is most interesting in this passage is the fact that the Egyptian sorcerers’ ability to magically turn their staffs into snakes is never in doubt. These magicians’ wonders are presented as entirely authentic, but are less powerful than the wonders of Moses and Aaron, whose source lay in the one true God. As we shall see, when pre-modern religious literature presents one wonder as more powerful than another (our “miracle” versus their “magic”), this distinction is inevitably inseparable from an ethical distinction—and ethical evaluation—of wonders (and their sources and beneficiaries). The famed Christian theologian Augustine of Hippo (354–430), in his City of God, commented on the story of Moses and the Pharaoh’s sorcerers in order to establish a clear-cut boundary between Christian miracle-working and gentile magic. “Whereas Pharaoh’s magicians ‘worked the kind of sorceries and incantations to which evil spirits or demons are addicted,’ declared Augustine, Moses performed his miracles in a state of holiness ‘and helped by the angels’” (Brann, 1999, p. 15). The distinction here is not simply one in absolute power—with God and his angels more powerful than the evil spirits, demons, and human ritual efforts driving sorcery—it is also, crucially, a qualitative distinction in “goodness,” where both the source (God) and recipients (Moses and Aaron) of the wonder are deemed ethically

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virtuous in nature, in contrast to the Pharaoh and his sorcerers.4 Along the same lines, Augustine made it clear that the miracles of Jesus and his apostles had nothing in common with sorcery, writing that “they were wrought by simple faith and pious trust, not by spells and incantations inspired by the sacrilegious curiosity of the art of magic—vulgarly called goetia and, more politely, theurgy” (Brann, 1999, p. 15). This distinction between magic and miracle, the one being the work of the individual, or of evil demons/spirits, and the other being the work of all-powerful God (or humble faith in that God), is not only a Jewish and Christian one, but a larger Abrahamic conception that also includes Islam. In fact, the Qur’an tells the story of Moses and the Pharaoh’s magicians twice (7:104–123, 20:57–71; and references it several other times), altering it in that it is Moses, not Aaron, who casts down the staff and defeats the sorcerers. After the sorcerers cast their staffs, which became serpents, Allah tells Moses: “Cast that which is in thy right hand; it will devour what they have produced. They have produced only a sorcerer’s trick. And the sorcerer prospers not, wheresoever he may go” (20:70). Distinguishing wonders—separating miracle from magic—would remain an important preoccupation of Muslim theologians and philosophers throughout the pre-modern period. The esteemed and influential Sunni theologian, jurist, and logician al-Bāqillānī (940–1013) of Baghdad, in his Treatise on the Nature of the Apologetic Miracle and its Differentiation from Charisms, Trickery, Divination, Magic, and Spells,5 explained that miracles and sorcery are both real and both violate custom, but miracles can be attributed to the power of God alone (they are altogether out of the scope of the agency of creatures), whereas magic relies on a power other than that of God, e.g., conjuring demons or the powers of planets (Asatrian, 2003, pp.  75–76, 103). The Persian Islamic polymath, Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī (1150–1210), known as the “sultan of the theologians,” emphasized the ethical dimension of this distinction between miracle and magic. He voiced the widely shared Islamic perspective that miracles (karāmāt)6 are performed by/through pious saints with whom God is satisfied, whereas magic “betrays moral depravity (or even obedience to the devil) rather than piety and obedience to God” (Jaffer, 2019, p.  356). Similarly, the renowned North African Sunni scholar, Ibn Khaldūn (1332–1406), in his best-known work, the Muqaddimah (1377), explained that the miracle worker “is supported in his activity by the spirit of God,” whereas the  Prior to Augustine, this ethical distinction between “magic” and “miracle” was articulated in the later New Testament writing of 2 Timothy 3:8–9, where Pharaoh’s magicians are identified by name and condemned for their folly. I thank David Weddle for bringing this passage to my attention. 5  The Arabic title of the work is Kitāb al-Bayān ‘an al-firaq bayna al-mu’jizāt wa al-karamāt wa al-ḥiyal wa al-kahānati wa al-si’ḥri wa al-nīranjāt, and the full name of its author is Abū Bakr Muḥammad al-Bāquillānī. 6  Islamic sources maintain separate categories for the miracles of saints (karāmāt) and the miracles of prophets (mu‘jizāt), but both saints and prophets are understood as ethical exemplars and as passive conduits of divine power (i.e., the miracle is not performed by the saint/prophet, but rather through divine grace), in contrast to ethically depraved magicians and sorcerers who actively seek to manipulate powers other than God (though ultimately still in God’s control). 4

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­ agician, “on the other hand, does his work by himself and with the help of his own m psychic power, and, under certain conditions, with the support of devils” (Khaldūn, 1958, p. 167). As Khaldūn goes on to say, “Miracles take place with the support of the spirit of God and the divine powers. Therefore, no piece of sorcery can match them” (Khaldūn, 1958, p. 168). Again, alongside this distinction in power was an ethical distinction. Khaldūn stresses the predisposition of the miracle-worker towards virtue, humility, passive receptivity (before God), and the doing of good, vis-à-vis the predisposition of the magician-sorcerer towards evil, active and selfish manipulation (of occult powers), and harming people (Asatrian, 2003, p.  99; Melvin-Koushki, 2017b, p.  374). These Islamic ethical and theological views on “miracle” and “magic”—which often existed alongside, and in varying degrees of tension with, widely respected practices of the occult sciences (al-ʿulūm al-ġarība (lettrism, astrology, geomancy, alchemy, etc.) among elites of the pre-modern Islamicate world—are particularly relevant to our discussion of miracles in early modern Hindu bhakti communities (Melvin-Koushki, 2017a, pp. 288–292).7 With the influx of Persianate cultural traditions into India in the Sultanate and Mughal periods (circa 1200–1750), Islam—particularly Sufism—and its theological, philosophical, and ethical perspectives would come to have a major influence on Hindu devotional traditions in North India.

10.4 “Miracles” and Miracle Stories in Hindu Bhakti As we have seen, the category of the “miracle” is not South Asian in origin. Furthermore, it seems to have no exact counterpart in early Indian sources. As Richard Davis has pointed out: “[T]here are no precise equivalents in Indic languages for the semantic field occupied by the term ‘miracle’ in the West.” While “[s]ome Sanskrit approximations stress the unusual character (alaukika) of an event, some emphasize the response of wonder and astonishment (adbhuta, ascarya, vismaya) it evokes, and still others might be chosen to point to divine or non-human  The path-breaking work of Matthew Melvin-Koushki has demonstrated the vital importance of occult practices such as lettrism, astrology, geomancy, divination, talismanic magic, alchemy, and spirit communication among elites in the pre-modern Islamicate world, and particularly in the post-Mongol Persianate cosmopolis (spanning from southeastern Europe and the eastern Mediterranean to Central and South Asia) from the fourteenth century onward (Melvin-Koushki, 2017a). It is clear that post-Mongol Persianate rulers often seized upon the occult sciences to harness sacred power for political purposes (Melvin-Koushki, 2016). As I have referenced Ibn Khaldūn here, it is important to point out that his Muqaddimah was, in significant part, reacting to a fourteenth-century upsurge in the practice of, and socio-political respect given to, occult sciences and that his generally anti-occultist position would lose out to an increasing acceptance of occultism (Melvin-Koushki, 2017b). Nonetheless, an Islamic ethical-theological distinction between magic/sorcery and miracle persisted even amidst this renaissance of occultism (especially as a polemical device to mark the superiority of Islam/Sufism over its competitors), as South Asia Sufi literature—particularly hagiographical accounts of encounters with yogis—makes clear (Digby, 1970; Burchett, 2011). 7

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agencies (daiva, apauruseya, amanusya) believed to cause the marvel,” none equate to the meaning inherent in Islamic, Christian, and Judaic conceptions of the miracle (Davis, 1998, p. 8). That being said, in the literature of early modern North India’s devotional (bhakti) communities, we do begin to see an Abrahamic sort of conception of miracle, much like the one articulated by the Christian and Muslim sources just discussed.8 This likely has much to do with the considerable influence Sufism exerted on the theological attitudes and the ethical, aesthetic, and emotional sensibilities of North Indian Hindu bhakti communities in this period (Burchett, 2019). What is bhakti? Most often translated as “devotion,” but etymologically rooted in meanings of “participation” and “sharing,” in the context of early modern North India, we might define bhakti as a devotional religiosity based on an active, participatory, emotional relationship with God.9 Importantly, bhakti is inherently social in nature, generating interactive devotional communities or publics (Novetzke, 2007) and inspiring a “heartfelt, intrinsically social sense of connectedness” among devotees (Hawley, 2015, p. 4). During the Mughal period, bhakti communities and literature rose to new prominence, and Vaishnava bhakti symbols, narratives, and idioms gained widespread status and currency at both popular and elite levels of society. Here I want to focus on the bhakti hagiographical literature of this period, and more specifically, miracle stories in that literature. While miracles play a crucial role in religious life and tradition, in fact, it seems safe to say that religious people very seldom encounter (or are directly affected by) miracles firsthand. What they encounter (and are affected by) are stories about miracles. When it comes to miracles, in fact, we are in the realm of narrative (Kripal, 2014, p. 227). And when one looks at stories of miracles, interestingly enough the miracle’s immediate circle of impact is quite small. Through the miracle itself, an individual or group may be saved from harm, or an enemy bested, or a few lucky observers awed by the limitless power of God. The effects of the story of the miracle, however, go far beyond this limited radius. The story of the miracle can affect thousands, even millions; told over decades and centuries, such stories illustrate messages about the nature of God and reality, and about ethics—the right way to live—that are of fundamental importance in the lives of generations of believers. As David Weddle has observed, miracle tales are central in the formation of religious communities and their particular visions of reality; the miracle story is one of the most powerful tools used in the enterprise of constructing “religious worlds” (Weddle, 2010, p. xi). When we look closely at miracle tales, we usually see that the miracle itself is not actually the point of the story. The miracle signals (and thus confirms belief in) a transcendent power/reality beyond—though active  In previous work (Burchett, 2011), I have speculated that the Abrahamic notion of “miracle,” as a category established in contradistinction to “magic,” as the wondrous act of an all-powerful God wrought through the pious faith of a devotee, is one generally absent in Indian literature prior to Sufi presence in the subcontinent, and one not present in Hindu sources in any significant way until the hagiographies associated with the North India’s (Sufi-influenced) bhakti movement. 9  As I have stressed in other work (Burchett, 2019), bhakti’s specific meanings shift depending on historical and regional contexts, and which community is using the term. 8

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within—this world (Weddle, 2010); but this is very seldom what the miracle story is really about. In other words, miracles tend to appear within larger narratives whose fundamental meanings are not the miracles themselves. Rather, the miracle typically serves to imbue the core message of the story (and the figure/saint performing the miracle) with special authority. And that core message, that pedagogical intent, is often ethical in nature. The narratives of bhakti hagiographies abound in miracles. They are also filled with ethical teachings. In general, Hindus have always learned their morality not so much from codes and prescriptions as from legends and tales; Hindu ethics are encoded in the behaviors of the gods and saints in their relations with others as expressed—performed, told and re-told—in story (Hawley, 1987, p.  52; Dhand, 2002, p.  360). John Stratton Hawley speaks of a “more fundamental morality” found in the bhakti tradition and displayed by the devotee-saints in its hagiographical literature: “a bhakti dharma, an ethics of character that focuses on love” and which, “if manifested with the naturalness that [the bhakti] saints evince, would lead to right living in the absence of all code and precept” (Hawley, 1987, p. 53). In the hagiographical narratives below, we will get a more specific sense of the ethical life and community imagined and promoted in the bhakti traditions. More than this, as we analyze the miracle-laden life stories of bhakti saints, we will come to see how the specific narrative form of the miracle story is able to powerfully cultivate virtues and ethical dispositions in its audiences.

10.5 The Moral Miraculous in Bhakti Hagiography In previous work (Burchett, 2011, 2019, pp. 291–303), I have compared a particular genre of South Asian miracle stories—especially those involving encounters and confrontations with wonder-working yogis—found in the hagiographical literatures of both South Asian Sufi and Hindu bhakti communities. In both Sufi and Hindu bhakti miracle tales of this type, the power of God—and of an ethical disposition congruent with proper (selfless, submissive) devotion to God—is shown to be dramatically superior to the powers of (acquired through) yoga, asceticism, and tantric ritual. These narratives sharply distinguish those wonders “freely gifted” by God to pious devotee-saints from the inferior wonders of haughty yoga-practicing ascetics, a distinction closely linked to differing ethical sensibilities. In both the Sufi and bhakti stories, the “miracles” of devotion to God are contrasted with the “magic” of tantric-yogic religiosity in ways that articulate a shared understanding of God (as the lone source of real power), while valorizing prized ethical virtues like humility, love, and trust. As in the pre-modern materials surveyed briefly above, in these South Asian sources the category of the “miracle” marks a particular kind of morally-­approved wonder (and wonder-worker) and gains its coherence in and through a contrast with other forms of wonder (and wonder-workers) deemed less virtuous and powerful.

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In the remainder of this essay, we shift our focus from the ethical evaluation of wonder (and wonder-workers) in miracle stories to the ethical pedagogy (and related ethical effects) of these miracle tales. Through the lens of Hindu devotional hagiography, we will explore the role that morally approved wonders often play as narrative devices in the ethical formation of particular religious publics. Specifically, I focus on the bhakti miracle stories of Anantadās, a member of the Rāmānandī bhakti monastic community in early modern Rajasthan. Anantadās composed (in the old dialect of Hindi called Brajbhāṣā) a number of parcāīs—separate hagiographical works in praise of individual bhakti saints; namely, Nāmdev, Pīpā, Kabīr, Ravidās, Trilochan, Sen, Dhanā, and Aṅgad—that constitute, along with Nābhādās’s Bhaktamāl (c. 1600), some of our earliest and most significant sources for understanding bhakti in early modern North India.10 For our purposes, what is most interesting is the ways in which Anantadās’s miracle stories aim to teach and cultivate a distinctive ethic of giving and service. In his late sixteenth century Nāmdev parcaī, Anantadās tells the following miraculous tale about the Maharashtrian bhakti saint Nāmdev. An important merchant, known for constantly donating his wealth and giving to people even without their asking, came to town and began distributing his wealth. Everyone came to collect money for themselves; everyone except Nāmdev. The rich merchant asked if anyone was left without a gift and learned that only Nāmdev had not come. A messenger went to summon him, but he refused to come. A second messenger was sent, but once again he refused to come. Only with the third messenger did Nāmdev finally come, whereupon the merchant pleaded for him to accept some of his gold. Nāmdev refused, saying, “I have no desire for money,” but the merchant persisted. “Even if nothing serves your purpose, you will give me religious merit. … Please, do not say you don’t accept, your refusal will cost me my honor.” The merchant begged, “I shall be distressed if you do not accept my gift and my reputation will be damaged, please accept.” At this point, Nāmdev said, “If you really insist, give me something equal in weight to a leaf. Get a leaf of the tulsī plant (sacred to Vishnu)11 and weight it against gold. I will accept that and you will have religious merit.” When the merchant brought the tulsī leaf, Nāmdev wrote “half the Name of Rām [God]” upon it and placed it on a scale. Gold and silver coins were piled on the  Somewhat perplexing is the fact that Anantadās, despite the importance of his parcāīs in bhakti scholarship, does not seem to be remembered by the Rāmānandī tradition today in any significant way, unlike his contemporary Nābhādās, whose trailblazing devotional hagiography, the Bhaktamāl (c. 1600) is far more well-known than Anantadās’s works. In his Pīpā-parcāī 35:25–28, Anantadās traces his genealogy from Rāmānand to Anantānand to Kṛṣṇadās Payahārī to Agradās to his guru, Vinod. Despite this impeccable Rāmānandī lineage, his parcāīs seem to have been influential and remembered only among the Rajasthani religious communities of the Nirañjanīs and Dādū-panth, in whose manuscript collections his parcāīs are most often found, perhaps because they focus on devotee-saints who worshipped the sort of nirguṇ (formless, quality-less) Divine celebrated by these communities (as opposed to the saguṇ Divine, God in form—e.g., Krishna, Rama, etc.—celebrated in other communities). 11  The tulsī, or basil, plant is considered a manifestation of the goddess Tulsi who was a great worshipper of Vishnu, thus it is sacred among Vaishnavas and a common feature of Vaishnava worship. 10

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scale, then pearls and rubies too, but the leaf did not rise. After placing all of his wealth upon the scale, still the leaf had not budged, so all the merchants came and placed their wealth upon it as well, but as the text states, “the side with the leaf would not rise from the ground: the scale ridiculed traditional religion [lok-ved-­ dharma].” With the merchant now flabbergasted and disheartened, Nāmdev said: “Do not lose courage, add the weight of your rituals to the scale as well.” The merchants conducted sacrifices and other Vedic rituals, fed Brahmins, and performed asceticism and vows, but—to the embarrassment of the merchants and anger of the Brahmins—none of this caused the leaf to move. Anantadās at this point in the text states: “There is nothing one can give in exchange for even half Rām’s Name. All rituals, all power and wealth are worthless before it.” The merchants then prostrate themselves before Nāmdev, saying, “Please accept something from us now, Nāmdev. What is offered to you reaches Rām himself.” Nāmdev refused: “You are not giving for the sake of Rām, inflated with your own greatness you do not recognize Rām. If you had given something truly equal to the leaf, I would have gladly accepted your wealth. Why should I accept something worthless. Your wealth you can keep.”12 This story conveys several traditional Indic values regarding the proper nature of giving, or dāna. In pre-modern India, gifts—the donations of goods or valuable objects—to worthy recipients was considered a fundamental social and religious duty. The Laws of Mānu (Mānava-dharma-śāstra) call dāna the supreme duty in the Kali Age (particularly for twice-born householders), and the Bhāgavata Purāṇa lists it as one of the four foundations of dharma (Einicke, 2017, p. 193). Indian texts often trumpet the extraordinary spiritual benefits of giving (especially in terms of destroying sin and accumulating religious merit), and these benefits seem to have constituted a chief motive for religious giving; however, the texts also repeat the refrain that giving should be disinterested, with the best gift being the one given out of joy at the opportunity to give something to a worthy person and without any conscious intention to receive anything in return (Einicke, 2017, p. 231).13 The most worthy recipients, India’s revered spiritual figures—Brahmin priests, Buddhist monks and nuns, Jain renouncers, and liberation-seeking Hindu ascetics and yogis—were traditionally forbidden from earning a living by working themselves and were to receive all their needs from the gifts of other people. As conceived in a great number of Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain texts, giving to such a person should be an entirely one-directional action: the recipient is in no way obliged to the giver, for the gift should be motivated by śraddhā (faith, trust; a spirit of generosity) with the giver expecting nothing in return (Einicke, 2017, pp. 197–198). As our story makes clear, despite the merchant’s apparent generosity, he is actually giving for selfish  Nāmdev parcaī 2.1–27; Callewaert, 2000, pp. 35–38. The composition of this text is dated to 1588 CE and Callewaert’s translation, which I have paraphrased here, relies on four manuscripts dated between 1658 and 1687. 13  Einicke states that “the specific Indian concept of giving rejects the idea of direct reciprocity and thus excludes and forbids mundane rewards connected with the current life”; however, a giver was typically understood to gain a reward, “but an indirect, non-material one brought into effect by the impact of the concept of karman bearing fruition in future existences” (Einicke, 2017, p. 232). 12

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reasons, seeking to inflate his own reputation and status. As Nāmdev tells him: “You are not giving for the sake of Rām, inflated with your own greatness you do not recognize Rām.” The miracle of the tulsī leaf on the scale indicates that whatever the material and financial “weight” of a donor’s generosity, if giving is transactional in nature and done for some sort of worldly “return,” then it has no spiritual “weight” and is essentially worthless. This story not only conveys a traditional South Asian theme about the nature of true, selfless giving; it also presents a particular model of the ideal recipient. Generally speaking, South Asian texts posit that a proper (non-transactional) gift generates spiritual merit for the giver and that the more worthy the recipient, the greater the spiritual benefits accrued by the giver. The ideal recipient is not the one whose socioeconomic situation makes them most in need of assistance, but rather the spiritually accomplished individual who is indifferent to the gift and, as in Nāmdev’s case, actually avoids it.14 In the South Asian context, as Maria Heim has noted, “There is a sense that the worthiest recipient is least eager to receive: the ideal recipient is also the most elusive” (Heim, 2004, p. 58). The merchant realizes this, thus his persistence in seeking out and giving something to Nāmdev, though in the end Nāmdev refuses his impure gift. The miracle of the tulsī leaf shows Nāmdev to be a supreme spiritual exemplar and, in doing so, it specifically marks the ideal recipient of the gift as a Vaishnava bhakta (devotee), over and above the people of other religious communities with whom Vaishnava bhaktas would have been competing for the resources of merchants and other householders.15 I turn now to another of Anantadās’s hagiographies, this one on the devotee-saint Dhanā, a peasant farmer believed to have lived in fifteenth century Rajasthan and remembered as one of the twelve disciples of Rāmānand. Dhanā is described as an ideal devotee, of disciplined mind, always honest, loving God (Hari) alone. One day, on the way to the fields with a bundle of seed in hand, Hari took on the form of an ascetic devotee (vairāgi) and appeared on the road before Dhanā. When this ascetic asked for food, Dhanā explained, “I’m only carrying seed, so you should go to my home where my wife will serve you and give you any food you desire.” The ascetic, however, insisted that Dhanā give him the closed bundle he was carrying. The ascetic took the grain and Dhanā proceeded to his field empty-handed where the ploughman became very irritated at having no seed to sow in the field. Dhanā told him not to worry, that his share would be safe, but at the end of the day the

 The ideal recipients of dāna are not those in need of support or pity but those most highly esteemed who “are given gifts because of the religiosity they represent. The recipient is regarded highly in part because he or she is represented as standing outside of the ordinary bonds of reciprocity that accrue to those participating in social and economic intercourse” (Heim, 2004, p. 58). 15  Relatedly, we should also note that in addition to the combined wealth of the merchants in town, the “weight” (or spiritual value) of the traditional religious practices of the bhaktas’ religious competitors—sacrifices, rituals, ascetic powers (siddhis)—also could not budge Namdev’s tulsī leaf inscribed with half the name of God (Rām). The devotional recitation of the divine Name was perhaps the most characteristic practice of early modern bhakti communities and is explicitly presented here as having more spiritual worth than all rituals, powers, or material gifts. 14

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ploughman came home upset and told his wife, “The master had an idea today and gave away all the grain to a devotee (bhakta)! All day I tramped around without sowing; not a single grain of wheat or gram was sown.” After five  days, wheat miraculously sprouted in the field and in time the field gave an abundant harvest, twice the yield of the neighboring field. The ploughman was at once elated, shocked, and frightened. He went to Dhanā, fell at his feet, and begged forgiveness. Dhanā replied that there was nothing to forgive and said, “Now listen to me. Never have any doubt about serving a devotee. Give everything to Hari’s devotees and attain the fulfillment of this birth.” The doubts of the ploughman vanished and he began to serve the devotees and to spread the miraculous tale of Dhanā, in whose field God brought an abundant harvest without a single seed being sown. Anantadās ends the tale with this remark: “Whatever comes into your hands, first consider it not your own—this attitude is dear to God.”16 In contrast to our earlier story, the miracle here serves not to critique improper giving and religious practices, but to demonstrate a clear bhakti model of proper, selfless giving. Indian texts often discuss the gift in terms of the metaphor of a farmer sowing good seed in a fertile field in order to gain a rich harvest; that is, if one offers good gifts to a worthy recipient—Buddhist saints are often described as “fields of merit” (puṇya-kṣetra)—they reap great reward (Einicke, 2017, p. 211). The miracle of Dhanā’s field plays off this metaphor, suggesting that ordinary giving is like sowing seeds, wherein the motivation—the very point of sowing/giving—is to receive a harvest/return. Dhanā, however, not only sows no seeds, but actually gives away his seeds. In South Asian religious traditions, according to the laws of karma, ego-based actions typically generate (good or bad) karmic “seeds” which at some unknown point in the future, whether in the present life or another, come to fruition. In literally giving away his seeds, Dhanā metaphorically offers a gift free of ego, i.e., an action of giving that generates/plants no karmic seeds. The miracle of Dhanā’s field teaches the spirit of pure giving. In Anantadās’s words: “Whatever comes in your hands, first consider it not your own—this attitude is dear to Hari.” Paradoxically, the selfless gift with no thought of return is what generates the greatest return, not through the mechanistic laws of karma—which operate

 Dhanā parcaī 3.1–5.9; Callewaert, 2000, pp. 103–106. The composition of this text is dated to the late sixteenth century. Callewaert’s translation, which I paraphrase here, relies on a single eighteenth-century manuscript from Bikaner. 16

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according to a reciprocity not unlike the Maussian transactional gift17—but through the endless bounty of a loving, all-powerful God. The same basic point is made repeatedly in the hagiography of another North Indian bhakti saint, Narasī Mehtā, a Gujarati devotee-poet renowned for his selfless, loving, and fearless generosity, even and especially in times of great personal need/ lack. Time and again in his life story—as extolled in the Bhaktamāl of Nābhādās and its accompanying commentary, the Bhaktirasabodhinī of Priyādās (1712)— Narasī offers freely to others though he has nothing for himself, and in every case he is miraculously blessed with abundance. These miracles from God ultimately serve to teach a social ethic: bhaktas can expect to be provided everything they need, on the condition that they are always giving it away (Hawley, 1987, pp. 60–63). In the economy of bhakti envisioned in the lives of Narasī and Dhanā, the logic is, as Anantadās puts it in another of his hagiographies (of the saint Pīpā): “If for the benefit of others, you give all that you have, so will God also give to you.”18 This was no platitude, no abstract ethical hope for humankind, but a pragmatic principle meant to be instantiated specifically within the Vaishnava bhakti community. In the story of Dhanā and his field, the miracle clearly marks Dhanā, a householder (non-ascetic) Vaishnava devotee, as the model giver and, just as in our previous tale, it presents a Vaishnava devotee-ascetic as the ideal recipient. A crucial notion in the bhakti public of early modern North India was that to give to and serve a true devotee is to give to and serve God himself. As Anantadās puts it in his Aṅgad parcaī, “Do not think that Hari and his devotee are different, as gold and a golden jewel are not different. Hari, guru, devotee: we say ‘three’, but they are one.”19 Our story is quite blunt about this point, for the Vaishnava devotee-ascetic who receives Dhanā’s gift is none other than Hari (God) himself in disguise. Still, as Dhanā the married farmer shows, a true devotee—an ideal recipient of gifts and services in bhakti communities—need not be a renouncer or monk. The miracle of Dhanā’s field, like so many of Anantadās’s wonder tales, presents a mode of giving and service meant to bring into being a particular social world, an extended community in  In his influential essay, The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies, Marcel Mauss (1990) argues, most fundamentally, that exchange is part of the essential fabric of human social relations and that the most widespread form of such exchange in human history has been the system of the gift. While often conceived of as a free, generous, and individual act, Mauss argues that the gift is always obligatory, reciprocal, and social in nature. The gift acts to create a relationship between the giver and the receiver, binding them together. Thus, according to Mauss, solidarity, stratification, identity, and material and emotional support are achieved in a society through the social bonds created by gift exchange. Mauss invokes the Hindu case of dāna (to brahmans) to make his point; however, in a well-known essay, Jonathan Parry (1986) disputes Mauss’s reading of dāna-dharma as contractual and reciprocal, arguing that the most essential point of dāna-dharma gifts is that they must not be reciprocated. 18  Pīpā parcaī 15.23; Callewaert, 2000, p. 174. Similarly, in another of Anantadās’s miracle tales, God tells the saint Aṅgad, “If anyone gives something to me, he will receive double that amount every day. Seen or unseen, if you give for my sake, even the smallest thing is counted…. If one does not give for my sake, then the gift is in vain.” Aṅgad parcaī 6.7; 6.8a.1; Callewaert, 2000, pp. 372–373. 19  Aṅgad parcaī 2:6.9–10; Callewaert, 2000, p. 361. 17

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which all bhaktas (householders and renouncers) care for one another without thought for themselves, with gifts not being reciprocated directly but rather constantly “paid forward,” creating an economy in which the circulation of goods and services among one’s fellow devotees is such that notions of “ownership” and “reciprocation” fade away altogether. Such a bhakti economy is one where, as Anantadās says, whatever comes into your hands is, in fact, not your own. These miracle stories seek to inspire an ethical community of fellow bhaktas amongst whom “giving”—defined by Sanskrit texts as “the cessation of one’s own ownership and the production of another’s ownership” (Einicke, 2017, p. 197)—is no longer really giving at all, but sharing. It is, of course, no coincidence that the word bhakti is derived from a verbal root meaning “to share.” Since śraddhā (faith, trust, esteem, a spirit of generosity) is the term traditional Indic sources identify as the proper motivation for giving, it is important to distinguish śraddhā from bhakti, since it is bhakti that is clearly the motivation animating the economy envisioned in Anantadās’s hagiographies (Hara, 1964; Heim, 2004, pp. 44–53). As Minoru Hara observed, while bhakti and śraddhā are often treated as synonymous, there is an important difference in the religious attitudes to which the words refer, with bhakti implying a personally invested and emotional human relationship and śraddhā expressing a more intellectual and impersonal trust in something or someone (Hara, 1964, pp.  124, 142). Heim suggests that śraddhā is the typical basis for dāna in Indic traditions for the very reason that it is impersonal— absent of personal attachment—and requires an immediate, judgement-free trust in and esteem for religious elites (ascetics, monks/nuns, Brahmans) who are the proper recipients of the gift (Heim, 2004, pp.  48–53). The miracle stories of Nāmdev, Dhanā, and Narasī discussed above suggest that bhakti—as active, loving relationship with others—has the potential to dissolve notions of “giving,” “receiving,” and ownership into a social life of abundance grounded in sharing. In a sense, the miracles authenticate the ethical message of the narratives: bhakti (loving devotion, sharing) at the individual level is the means to the end of bhakti (sharing; loving participation) at the social level.

10.6 Conclusions Two brief concluding points, not yet touched upon, are crucial if we are to understand how the miracle stories of bhakti hagiography would have played a role in the ethical formation of bhakti communities; for instance, in the cultivation of a particular understanding and social practice of giving, generosity, and service. First, Anantadās’s stories were not meant to be read, but performed. The wondrous tales discussed above would have been sung and heard in communal settings far more than they would have been read. As performance pieces—narrative songs—these stories would have evoked shared emotions among their audiences, binding them together into a community while imagining a certain social world and promoting particular forms of ethical behavior. My second concluding point is a simple

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reminder. Today when most of us, with our modern sensibilities, hear of the wonders described in these texts, we cannot help but to immediately discount their reality, instead seeking their metaphoric or theological meanings and their narrative or social functions. But crucial to understanding how the miracle story, in particular, would have been such an effective ethical instructor, is to acknowledge that the pre-­ modern audiences hearing about these wonders, by and large, would have accepted (or at least been fully open to) their reality, giving these performed narratives and their ethical messages a significant additional emotional weight and impact. We might imagine a skilled performer singing the tale of a ‘real’ miracle to a participating audience, the awe-evoking emotional power of the miraculous event combining with the aesthetic power of the artfully sung narrative to relay what is an ethical discourse, but in a deep, non-discursive (even trans-rational) bodily fashion, allowing those present not simply to intellectually consider a particular ethical attitude and conduct, but to get a sense of what bhakti ethics feels like in their bones (Meyer, 2009). In the life of religious communities, miracles function almost entirely as elements of narratives, collectively remembered tales that (most often implicitly, but sometimes explicitly) valorize particular forms of wonder over others. As we have seen, in the narratives in which they feature, these morally-approved wonders often play a crucial role in the articulation and cultivation of particular virtues and ethical sensibilities. Miracles, then, because of the divine authority they convey and the emotional weight they possess, hold a special place in the broader use of narrative by religious traditions to bring about particular forms of social life.

References Asatrian, M. (2003). Ibn Khaldūn on magic and the occult. Iran and the Caucasus, 7(1–2), 73–123. Brann, N. L. (1999). Trithemius and magical theology: A chapter in the controversy over occult studies in early modern Europe. State University of New York Press. Burchett, P. (2011). My miracle trumps your magic: Encounters with Yogīs in Sufi and bhakti hagiographical literature. In K.  Jacobsen (Ed.), Yoga powers: Extraordinary capacities attained through meditation and concentration (pp. 345–380). Brill. Burchett, P. (2019). A genealogy of devotion: Bhakti, tantra, yoga, and Sufism in North India. Columbia University Press. Callewaert, W. (2000). The hagiographies of Anantadās: The bhakti poets of North India. Curzon Press. Davis, R. (1998). Introduction: Miracles as social acts. In R. Davis (Ed.), Images, miracles, and authority in Asian religious traditions (pp. 1–22). Westview Press. Dawkins, R. (2011). The magic of reality: How we know what’s really true. Simon and Schuster. Dhand, A. (2002). The dharma of ethics, the ethics of dharma: Quizzing the ideals of Hinduism. Journal of Religious Ethics, 30(3), 347–372. Digby, S. (1970). Encounters with jogis in Indian Sufi hagiography. Unpublished paper presented at the Seminar on Aspects of Religion in South Asia, University of London. Einicke, K. (2017). Giving gifts in pre-modern India: The motivation of the donors. In B.  Schuler (Ed.), Historicizing emotions: Practices and objects in India, China, and Japan (pp. 193–258). Brill.

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Foucault, M. (1997). The ethics of the concern of the self as a practice of freedom. In P. Rabinow (Ed.), Ethics: Subjectivity and truth. The essential works of Foucault 1954–1984: Volume I (pp. 281–301). The New Press. Hara, M. (1964). Note on two Sanskrit religious terms: Bhakti and śraddhā. Indo-Iranian Journal, 7, 124–145. Hawley, J. S. (1987). Morality beyond morality in the lives of three Hindu saints. In J. S. Hawley (Ed.), Saints and virtues (pp. 52–72). University of California Press. Hawley, J.  S. (2015). A storm of songs: India and the idea of the bhakti movement. Harvard University Press. Heim, M. (2004). Theories of the gift in South Asia: Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain reflections on dāna. Routledge. Hirschkind, C. (2005). Cassette ethics: Public piety and popular media in Egypt. In B. Meyer & A. Moors (Eds.), Religion, media, and the public sphere (pp. 29–51). Indiana University Press. Jaffer, T. (2019). Fakhr al-Dīn al-Rāzī’s taxonomy of extraordinary acts. In J. Elias & B. Orfali (Eds.), Light upon light: Essays in Islamic thought and history in honor of Gerhard Bowering (pp. 347–365). Brill. Khaldūn, I. (1958). The Muqaddimah: An introduction to history (Vol. 3) (F. Rosenthal, Trans.). Bollinger Foundation. Kripal, J. J. (2014). Comparing religions: Coming to terms. Wiley-Blackwell. Laidlaw, J. (2002). For an anthropology of ethics and freedom. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 8(2), 311–332. Laidlaw, J. (2017). Ethics/morality. In The Cambridge encyclopedia of anthropology. https://doi. org/10.29164/17ethics Luhrmann, T. (2012). When God talks back: Understanding the American evangelical relationship with God. Vintage Books. MacIntyre, A. (1984). After virtue: A study in moral theory. University of Notre Dame Press. Mauss, M. (1990). The gift: The form and reason for exchange in archaic societies. W.W. Norton. Melvin-Koushki, M. (2016). Astrology, lettrism, geomancy: The occult-scientific methods of post-­ Mongol Islamicate imperialism. The Medieval History Journal, 19(1), 142–150. Melvin-Koushki, M. (2017a). Introduction: De-orienting the study of Islamicate occultism. Arabica, 64, 287–295. Melvin-Koushki, M. (2017b). In defense of geomancy: Sara al-Dīn Yazdī rebuts Ibn Haldūn’s critique of the occult sciences. Arabica, 64, 346–403. Meyer, B. (2009). From imagined communities to aesthetic formations: Religious mediations, sensational forms, and styles of binding. In B. Meyer (Ed.), Aesthetic formations: Media, religion, and the senses (pp. 1–28). Palgrave Macmillan. Novetzke, C.  L. (2007). Bhakti and its public. International Journal of Hindu Studies, 11(3), 255–272. Orsi, R. A. (2016). History and presence. Harvard University Press. Parry, J. (1986). The gift, the Indian gift and the “Indian Gift”. Man, 21(3), 453–473. Schucman, H. (1975). A course in miracles: Text, workbook for students, manual for teachers. Ixia Press. Sideris, L. H. (2017). Consecrating science: Wonder, knowledge, and the natural world. University of California Press. Weddle, D. (2010). Miracles: Wonder and meaning in world religions. New York University Press. Williamson, M. (2002). Everyday grace: Having hope, finding forgiveness, and making miracles. Riverhead Books. Williamson, M. (2013). A year of miracles: Daily devotions and reflections. HarperOne.

Chapter 11

Miracles: Two Lakota Case Studies Fritz Detwiler

Abstract  Using a definition of miracles as extraordinary events, the chapter presents two case studies that function as windows into Lakota worldviews and lifeways. The first case focuses on the Lakota’s remarkable historical rise to a position of political, military, and economic power in the upper Great Plains during the nineteenth century, their subsequent fall from dominance, and their persistent efforts to reassert their sovereignty and control of their lands. It notes the extraordinary leaders who rose to defend the Lakota against concerted efforts by the United States government to destroy their culture and take their lands from them and continued Lakota resilience in the face of those challenges. The second case investigates the extraordinary intervention of Ptesáŋwiŋ or White Buffalo Calf Woman when Lakota survival was threatened by cold and starvation. It connects her protection of the Lakota to the cardinal virtues of Lakota culture. These case studies draw from Indigenous methodologies that emphasize Native perspectives and concerns, particularly as articulated by Eduardo Viveiros de Castro’s perspectivist approach. Viveiros de Castro argues that the study of Indigenous peoples should proceed from a standpoint that privileges Indigenous worldviews, including those of the nonhuman persons with whom they share their neighborhoods. The chapter begins with an exploration of “miracle” as a concept and then moves to a discussion of Viveiros de Castro’s approach. The following two sections present the two case studies—Lakota sovereignty and Lakota identity—after which I provide concluding remarks.

F. Detwiler (*) Adrian College, Adrian, MI, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_11

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11.1 Miracles Lakota writers seldom use the word “miracle” to describe unusual events or extraordinary achievements.1 They prefer to describe their world as wakȟáŋ tȟáŋka or “great mysterious.” While “miracle” and “mysterious” are not necessarily opposed to each other, the Lakota preference for mysterious reveals two significant assumptions grounding Lakota worldviews—one ontological and the other epistemological. Ontologically, the category of “persons” extends to almost everything that comes from the earth or sky. Persons exist on an ontological continuum that draws no essential boundary among beings. This differs from the Abrahamic traditions, which posit an ontological separation between the Creator, the creation (nature), and humanity.2 The epistemological assumption is that humanity cannot fully understand the cosmos because of our inherent limitations. While our understanding can and does increase through our communications with nonhuman persons, the world is ultimately incomprehensible. In this chapter, I will build on Merriam-­ Webster’s definitions of “miracles” to explore how the term can apply to Lakota understandings of events that shape their history and spirituality. Merriam-Webster provides two main definitions, with a third specific to Christian Science. We will not treat the last one because it is out of the purview of this study. The primary definition is: “an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs.” The second is: “an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment” (Merriam-Webster, 2020c). We will discuss these in turn.

11.1.1 Definitions The applicability of the first definition turns on the meaning of “divine.” Merriam-­ Webster defines it as “God”: “the Being perfect in power, wisdom, and goodness who is worshipped as creator and ruler of the universe” (Merriam-Webster, 2020a, b). While “the Creator” does appear in Lakota literature, none of these

 In my research, I have uncovered two sources that employ the term “miracle,” both by non-Lakota scholars. Joseph Bruchac [Abenaki] uses the term in relating the birth of a female white buffalo in Janesville, WI. on August 24, 1994 to a reappearance of White Buffalo Calf Woman (Bruchac, 2009). The second is by David Posthumus, who uses it in passing to describe the germination of seeds in relation to the creative process undertaken by Tákuškaŋškaŋ (Posthumus, 2018). 2  I am contrasting the Lakota perspective with an Abrahamic one, given my assumption that most readers will be familiar with the latter. 1

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characteristics of the “divine” exist in traditional understandings.3 Even if we extend the meaning of “divine” to include a class of persons known to the Lakota as “wakȟáŋ,” the terms are not equivalent. Wakȟáŋ beings are not “perfect in power, wisdom, and goodness” and are not “worshipped” as rulers of the universe. My interpretation of wakȟáŋ follows a typology of persons described by James R. Walker in his classic monograph on the Lakota (Walker, 1917). Walker identifies four types of wakȟáŋ persons in a hierarchy derived from the version of Lakota cosmogony available to him through his Lakota collaborators. Early twentieth-­ century Lakota authors such as Luther Standing Bear (2006), Nicholas Black Elk (with Joseph Epes Brown 1953), and Lame Deer and Erdoes (1976) also identify a class of persons called wakȟáŋ.4 While the creation does proceed from one of the wakȟáŋ persons, Iŋyaŋ, he is neither worshipped nor a ruler of the universe. The universe flows from the actions of a wide variety of persons, including humans, and there is no divine hand directing it or ruling over it. Walker and most other interpreters of Lakota traditions tend to gloss wakȟáŋ as “sacred,” thus drawing Merriam-Webster’s first definition closer to Lakota understandings.5 However, wakȟáŋ is a multivalent term. It, “refers both to the powerful abstract energy that permeates all things in the universe and to a state of being …” (Crawford, 2007, p. 44). In this sense, it is a particular type of potency that exists to some degree in all of creation. To further complicate the issue, Albert White Hat, Sr., writes that there are only two types of beings, those who are “living beings of the earth” and those who are “beings of the universe” (2012, pp. 32–33). With these caveats, the chapter follows the conventional usage of wakȟáŋ to refer to a class of beings who manifest particular types of potencies that distinguish them from other beings who interact with and sometimes intervene in human affairs. The authoritative New Lakota Dictionary (Ullrich, 2008) further complicates the issue. It associates “God” with the Lakota term Wakȟáŋ Tȟaŋka and defines Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka as “the universal spiritual power variably translated as God, Creator, Great Spirit; also used by the missionaries for the Christian concept of God” (p. 953). The same source connects Wakȟáŋ Tȟaŋka to the Lakota term Tȟuŋkášila, “Creator, God, [literally] ‘grandfather’” (p. 953).6  “Traditional” here refers to nineteenth century sources of Lakota knowledge when the Lakota still maintained sovereignty over their lands, culture, and practices and freely roamed the upper Great Plains prior to the impact of Christian missionaries. “Traditional” is not intended to reify this time period. Reflective of their historical circumstances and their belief in a cosmos that is dynamic and constantly changing, the Lakota continually adapt to changing circumstances. The nineteenth century is only one moment in their history. I also refer to worldviews in the plural since there never was, nor is, a single Lakota voice. Knowledge and its application varied from individual to individual and from one Lakota group to another. 4  Although the editions cited here are not from the early nineteenth century, the knowledge contained in them is based on the experiences of these men who still had memories of the older traditions. For example, Joseph M. Marshall III (2001) notes that Standing Bear was first published around 1900. 5  See, for example, William K. Powers (1986), Joseph Epes Brown (1992), and Deloria Jr. (2006). 6  The New Lakota Dictionary privileges contemporary usage over traditional meanings. 3

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The New Lakota Dictionary also identifies Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka as a noun, i.e., Great Spirit or God.7 This is in contrast to more traditional meanings of Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka, which, according to other Lakota sources, are descriptive, not nominative. It better glosses as “great mysterious” and denotes life-force rather than a person. “Great mysterious” means that we may often be surprised by the things that happen.8 The surprise relates to the relative incomprehensibility of things to humans. The world is a mysterious place, continually changing, always in the process of becoming. Merriam-Webster’s second definition of miracle, “an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment,” is closer to the discussion of the two case studies that follow. The first case study shows how extraordinary leaders arose during the last half of the nineteenth century to guide the Lakota through the events that would end their sovereignty over the upper Great Plains and governmental policies designed to destroy their culture and lifeways. The study shows how the Lakota people’s extraordinary resilience has attempted to preserve key elements of their older lifeways and recover some degree of sovereignty over their lives. The second case study describes the intervention of a wakȟáŋ person, Ptesáŋwiŋ or White Buffalo Calf Woman, at a critical point in their lives by gifting them with the means to reconnect to their wakȟáŋ relatives and to recover their spiritual center as a people. Before entering into those discussions, however, the next two sections provide context for understanding the underlying dynamics that characterize Native worldviews in general and the Lakota more specifically.

11.1.2 A World in Process Native languages, in general, support the claim that the world is dynamic and in process. Gregory Cajete (2000), a Santa Clara Pueblo; Lawrence Gross (2014), an Annishinaabeg;9 and Albert White Hat Sr. (1999), a Lakota, each note that his respective language is verb- rather than noun-based. In keeping with this observation, although awkward, discussions of Native traditions should reflect this dynamic quality and express being as being. Thus, it is not an eagle that I see; I am experiencing “eagle-ing.” Gross adds that verbs prevent his tradition from “imposing inherent being or inherent qualities on anything” (2014, p. 113) since I can only say what I am experiencing, not what something is. Thus, verb-based languages contribute to the notion that being is fluid and capable of assuming different forms. It may appear in eagle form, but its potency might be Iktomí-ing (Trickster). Gross describes how verb-based languages contribute to the Anishinaabeg capacity to live in a changing world. He writes that “the Anishinaabeg live in a world in  In Black Elk Speaks, John Neihardt (2008) claims that the term “Great Spirit” refers to Škáŋ or Sky.  The more traditional interpretations of Lakota terms offered here reflect the wisdom and knowledge of the highly respected elders who have memories of the traditional ways. These interpretations may not be consistent with more contemporary and assimilated Lakota. 9  There are variations in the spelling of the term, even among Anishinaabeg writers. 7 8

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which things are in an energetic state; they always and everywhere maintain the ability to undergo change, no matter how they are being described” (2014, p. 113). He also points out the advantage the Anishinaabeg, and by extension, other Natives, have over the broader culture. Most Native Americans who still comprehend their languages and persevere in maintaining traditional ways live in both the modern Western and Native worlds (Gross, 2014). They are thus more able, through their traditions, to show those Newtonian-oriented Euro-Americans the possibilities of seeing fundamentally different worlds and, by extension, new ways of re-­ conceptualizing our shared interests and the problems that we encounter given our shared humanity. We will see this dynamic, changeling view of reality operating in both of the case studies below. In the first case, it appears as the Lakota adapt to the historical forces working on them in the nineteenth century to destroy their traditional way of life. In the source from which most of the historical data of the first case study is taken, Lakota America, Pekka Hämäläinen (2019) notes that their dynamic view of the world was one of the most significant factors for the Lakota as they confronted these challenges. In the second case, the central figure Ptesánwiŋ (White Buffalo Calf Woman), appears as Wóȟpe in the subterranean world before the ancestors emerge on to the earth-surface world as their guardian. As they emerge, she pledges to care for them.

11.2 Perspective Taking “Perspective” is critical for the Lakota as they seek to negotiate the course of their individual and collective lives. They hold the Spotted Eagle to be among the most powerful beings because its flight provides it with the broadest view of things. Ceremonial robes and other accouterments provide dancers with the opportunity to view the world from the perspective of the skins of the beings they are wearing, a vantage point that Dorothy Lee (1959) suggests is essential for the Lakota to be moral persons. Lakota humor is also full of stories that force us to look at things from different perspectives. For example, John (Fire) Lame Deer tells a story about a Santee climbing up Mount Rushmore and peeing down over one of the President’s heads as a protest against white arrogance in desecrating the most sacred place of the Lakotas. The importance the Lakota place on perspective-taking is suggestive of Eduardo Viveiros de Castro’s notion of “thought experiments.” Viveiros de Castro writes that a “thought experiment” explores things from the perspective of different beings in their very practical attempts to solve problems that arise in their lives (2015, p. 29). Thought experiments focus on the conceptualizations of the world that emerge among different beings, given the realities of the environment in which they live and the specific problems those environments present to them. Viveiros de Castro’s method offers a pathway for outsiders to gain entry into Indigenous peoples’ possible worlds.

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Placed within the context of Viveiros de Castro’s perspectivism, one of the most significant conceptual differences between Lakota perspectives and those of the West occurs in the meaning of the category “personhood.” As with nearly all Indigenous peoples, the Lakotas expand “persons” to include what, in the Western mind, are fauna, flora, geography, and natural phenomena such as wind and rain. For Viveiros de Castro, all persons count, and we have an obligation to affirm their worth by respecting their interests and taking their perspectives seriously. This perspective presents a significant challenge to Western ways of thinking. When, for example, I wonder how my dog Pipi sees the world, I am generally assuming she sees the same world I do. Viveiros de Castro turns this assumption on its head. He argues that different types of persons do not share the same conceptual world. It is not that they see the same world differently; it is that it is a different world they see. The world of the eagles is not the same as that of the cottonwood tree. The world of bison is not the same as humans. The world of the Lakotas is not the same as that of “Americans” (white Christians of European heritage). What all persons hold in common is that our perspectives emerge out of the practical problems we face in everyday life in order to sustain, promote, and possibly advance our interests. To elaborate, although humans, beavers, and eagles all have a similar interest in protecting themselves, humans conceptualize a cottonwood tree in terms of firewood. Beavers see it as food. Eagles see it as nesting places for their young. Indeed, the cottonwood tree sees itself differently from all three since its interest is in survival and its kind propagation. The Lakota elder Albert White Hat, Sr., makes the same point regarding the life-giving power that sustains life. Čháŋ Oyaté or Tree Nation sees sap as life-giving power. Humans see it as syrup or tar. For bears, it is food. For Ikčé Oyaté or humans, “blood is the life-giving power” (White Hat Sr., 1999, p.  98). What prevents such observations from being human projections on nonhuman persons is how the Lakota see their interactions with nonhuman persons as dialogical. Animals talk to humans. They also come to humans in dreams and visions. Further, as noted above, humans are capable of seeing the world from the perspective of nonhuman persons. Viveiros de Castro’s “thought experiment,” therefore, calls us to see the world as the beaver or eagle or tree sees it. By carefully observing beavers, eagles, trees, or any other nonhuman persons, humans can learn how they define the problems they face and the unique solutions they develop to protect their interests. By so doing, Lakotas, and other Indigenous peoples, gain an intimate knowledge of their intersubjective environment or neighborhood and the contributions all persons make to protect the sustainability of the overall relational web. Although all persons have moral worth, each type of persons (e.g., eagles and humans) has their particular potency, and some have greater potency than others. Wakȟáŋ or sacred persons have tȟúŋ, the ability to do extraordinary things. Humans are among the weakest and most pitiable of all persons. We lack tȟúŋ and have less powerful šičuŋ or potency than most nonhuman persons (Detwiler, 1992, p. 242), but humans have a greater range of potencies than other nonhuman persons. All persons can impart their šičuŋ to other persons. Nonhuman persons often pity

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humans and appear to humans to establish a relationship with them and share their potency with humans. The Lakota vision quest is one means by which human persons can open themselves to relations with nonhuman persons and be gifted by nonhuman persons with their potency. The critical issue is how persons relate properly with each other. Numerous Native stories tell of humans living with an animal family, thereby gaining insight into the animal’s world and learning behavioral interaction protocols and preferred etiquette. In so doing, humans achieve a much broader perspective on things, particularly in terms of long-term strategies that are mutually beneficial. What is essential about seeing from a beaver’s point of view and recognizing her inherent moral worth is that it enables humans to take respectful actions that are both beneficial and beneficent for the entire neighborhood. As mentioned above, a Lakota maxim holds that one cannot be a moral person without being able to see the world from the perspective of another (Lee, 1959). To be a moral person requires more than recognizing the inherent moral worth of the other. It must also acknowledge that different persons have different protocols and etiquette. We have to know how to interact with them in a respectful manner.

11.3 The Case Studies The two case studies that follow are illustrative of two genres of Lakota narratives, eháŋni wóyakapi (Ullrich, 2008, p. 693) and ohúŋkakaŋ.10 The first genre refers to “history” in the sense that the events are still present in the experienced consciousness of the Lakota. The first case study, Lakota Sovereignty, fits into that category. The second genre, ohúŋkakan, refers to events in the remote past (Ullrich, 2008, p. 409). The second case study, Ptesáŋwiŋ or White Buffalo Calf Woman, represents ohúŋkakaŋ. Neither is less “true” than the other. The case studies also focus on different dimensions of Lakota identity. The first case study, Lakota Sovereignty, emphasizes the recovery of their physical home and way of life—the lands surrounding the Black Hills. It recalls the extraordinary changes in Lakota lifeways from the eighteenth century to the present and the remarkable ability of the Lakota to navigate those changes. The second case study, Ptesáŋwiŋ, calls the Lakota to recover their spiritual center through White Buffalo Calf Woman’s gifts to them of the Sacred Pipe and several ceremonies, by means of which the Lakota could reconnect with the wakȟáŋ persons by employing the proper protocols and etiquette.

 Arthur Amiotte identifies a third category, eháŋni. Eháŋni refers to the earliest events in creation when the first wakȟáŋ beings appeared and, then, the world with “all its plants, creatures, and mankind.” Amiotte argues that eháȟni ohúȟkakaŋ applies to the time when, in Walker’s terms, the associate gods appeared and humans emerged on to newly created earth (Amiotte, 2009, p. 263). 10

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11.3.1 Case Study One: Lakota Sovereignty In the centuries well before the Natives of the Americas discovered Christopher Columbus standing on their shores, Lakota ancestors lived in an underground world under the care and protection of Pté Oyáte (Buffalo Nation). Here they spoke a language common to all beings. Eventually, the Ikčé Oyáte, the progenitors of the Lakotas, emerged at Wašu Niyé (Wind Cave) at Pahá Sápa (the Black Hills). White Hat says that “Wind Cave” translates as “the hole that breathes,” thus suggesting that Wašu Niyé gave life in the earth-surface world to Ikčé Oyáte (White Hat Sr., 2012, p. 36). Pahá Sápa became their physical center. When they emerged, their common tongue was lost, and they could no longer communicate well with nonhuman and spiritual relatives. The Ikčé Oyáte11 spoke a branch of what linguists refer to as the Siouan family (Powell, 1891). Its lineage extends back into the time of the ancient Mississippian cultures. The Lakota’s ancestors probably migrated up the Mississippi Valley to the western Great Lakes in the 1700s. There they organized into seven linguistically and socially related oyátes or nations collectively known as Očhéthi Šakówiŋ, the Seven Council Fires. The seven oyátes are the Lakota, Yanktons, Yanktonais, Mdewakantons, Sissetons, Wahpetons, and Wahpekutes. The oyátes spoke three different Siouan dialects and settled in three different areas. The eastern oyátes, who lived around the Great Lakes, are the Mdewakantons, Sissetons, Wahpetons, and Wahpekutes. They share the Dakota dialect. The western oyátes were the Lakotas (named after their dialect) or Tetons. They migrated to what became North and South Dakota and later into Montana, Wyoming, and Nebraska. The Yankton and Yanktonai, or Nakota (again named after their dialect), occupied a middle ground (Hämäläinen, 2019, p. ix; DeMallie & Parks, 1987, pp. 6–7; Lazarus, 1991, p. 4). Each oyáte was organized independently and was further broken down into several thióšpayes, usually consisting of more than 20 households. Several thióšpayes constitute an oyáte. Each oyáte laid claim to specific territories (Hämäläinen, 2019, p. 17). Oyátes and thióšpayes connect to each other through kinship relationships. These kinship relations are the heart of their social organization. Indeed, to be Lakota means to be related. Outsiders, such as wašičus or whites, could and do become part of the relational matrix through the huŋká or Making a Relative ceremony. Huŋká also provided a path for adopting older Lakota women and men into other families, thus giving the elders protection and security. By the mid-seventeenth century, the Lakota lived in settled riverine villages and assumed a somewhat sedentary life as hunters and gatherers.12 There were, however,  My argument is that the Lakota continued as Ikčé Oyáte and did not gain their true identity as Lakota until they recovered their spiritual center through White Buffalo Calf Woman’s gifts of the Sacred Pipe and other ceremonies. Given the creation narrative, the progenitors of the Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota all emerged at the same time and are all Ikče Oyáte. The historical migration described here relates specifically to the Lakota, so I will use that term here. 12  Most of the historical material in this section comes from Pekka Hämäläinen’s detailed history of the Lakota (2019). 11

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pressures that threatened their collective well-being. The first challenge came from the Crees, Assiniboines, Menominees, Sauteurs, Hurons, and several other peoples who occupied the western Great Lakes region either because it was their traditional homeland or because they moved there to supply the French with beaver pelts. To satisfy their increasing demands for furs, the French provided the hunters with guns and ammunition, and other supplies. This gave the existing groups a strategic advantage over the Ikče Oyáte and gradually forced the Lakota to move farther west. The migration proved to be monumental. Because of their geographical position, the Lakota found themselves living close to an abundant beaver population that produced higher quality pelts. The number and quality of the furs attracted the French traders’ attention, who began to provide the Lakota with guns and ammunition and other European goods. The Lakota were now part of the fur trade network and the market economy through which the fur trade functioned. The fur trade altered every aspect of their social lives as the Lakota transitioned from self-sufficiency into a market economy. The continually increasing French demand for pelts disrupted existing male-female relationships. As male hunters brought back increasing numbers of pelts, their wives who processed the coats were overwhelmed. Yet, status in the community was partially tied to economic productivity. To seek greater economic success, the men took on more wives. This had a two-pronged effect. In some cases, it produced tensions and rivalries among the wives. Second, it expanded the male’s relational network to include the extended families of the new wives and created opportunities for broader alliances. To counterbalance the newly defined men’s roles, the women had two advantages. First, Lakotas are matrilineal. They are also matrilocal. The women control the tipi and the material goods that the family acquired. Women could kick the men out of the tipi if situations warranted it. In a tipi with more than one wife, the power tended to rest more with the first wife than subsequent ones. Second, because kinship rests primarily with the women, they had more extensive networks within oyátes and the larger Očhéthi Šakówiŋ (Seven Council Fires) and could call on those relatives when necessary to protect their interests. This relational web also enhanced the significance of women as one kinship group connected with another in a different location and with additional resources to increase their hunting and trading capacities. The fur trade also gradually transformed the Lakota from semi-sedentary riverine communities into semi-nomadic plains hunters. They moved from one location to another as beaver populations diminished because of overhunting. The move westward set in motion the eventual rise of the Lakota to economic, political, and military dominance of the upper Missouri region. Lakota power also increased with the introduction of horses, which they received from more southern tribes. Two results followed. First, they were more able to hunt bison. Bison robes replaced beaver pelts as the trade commodity with the French and later the British and Americans. Second, they expanded their territory through negotiations and, when necessary, force against the Native peoples such as the Pawnee and Kiowa into whose land they had moved. As the Lakota extended to the northwest, they came into conflict with the Crow and Cheyenne. Because of their numbers, munitions,

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and skill as horsemen, the Lakota eventually dominated the entire upper Great Plains from Canada to the Platte River in Nebraska and from the middle Missouri River basin to the Rocky Mountains. The apex of the Lakota empire came during the 1860s and 1870s. Through the Fort Laramie Treat of 1868, the government established the Great Sioux Reservation. It recognized Lakota control and exclusive access to additional unceded lands to the west as long as the buffalo roamed free. Lakota political, military, and economic hegemony extended to nearly all of the upper Great Plains. The treaty affirmed their political sovereignty. Their leaders evidenced great skill as foreign policy negotiators. Their extensive kinship networks allowed them to develop coordinated political and military strategies to resist the increasing incursion of American settlers, travelers, traders, and soldiers into their territory. Within a decade or more, Lakota control over the unceded parts vanished when the buffalo nearly disappeared due to overhunting by the Lakota and other Native peoples as well as the government’s policies of eradicating the buffalo by sending soldiers to shoot and kill them. The Lakota were left with the lands defined by the government as the Great Sioux Reservation. During the height of their empire, the Lakota faced a public relations paradox as Americans sought to (mis)understand and define the Lakota. Competing forces were at work. On the one hand, a kind of Lakota exceptionalism developed in the popular mind because they were portrayed by American writers of books and articles in newspapers and magazines. Admired by the broader society for their bravado and skill, the fascination produced a stereotype of the “noble savage”—stoic, strong, courageous, and ideal physical specimens. The picture of a Lakota chief holding a pipe, wearing a war bonnet, and standing next to a tipi with a stoic expression became the iconic symbol of the Plains Indians and American Indians in general (Pearce, 1953). This ennobling of the Lakota led some Americans, repulsed by massacres of Indians on the frontier by the military, to urge the government to treat the Lakota, and other Native peoples, humanely. Ironically, their “humanitarian” efforts were based on the paternalistic assumption that the Native peoples should be Christianized and assimilated into the broader culture. A group of these humanitarians, known as the Friends of the Indian, successfully lobbied President Ulysses Grant to develop a peace policy that transferred responsibility for civilizing the Lakota to various Christian denominations (Prusha, 1976). While The Friends of the Indian pushed for paternalistic policies to protect the Lakota, their long-term effect contributed to the cultural genocide that would guide government policy into the last half of the twentieth century. On the other hand, Lakota prowess as negotiators and warriors who fiercely defended their sovereignty challenged the United States government’s power. American military and political leaders in the Lakota territory pressed for a military solution. However, the Lakota were too strong, too mobile to be pinned down by military forces, and had the military advantage of knowing the geography. With The Press abetting their efforts by publishing accounts of Indian attacks on white settlers, the military pushed forward. Conflicts, culminating in the battle of Greasy

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Grass (Little Big Horn), created a dogged determination on the part of the United States military to exact revenge on the Lakota and their allies. It finally came in late December in 1891 at Wounded Knee on the Pine Ridge Reservation. The government’s efforts to eradicate Lakota sovereignty also included stripping the Lakota Nation of their lands in 1877 in the Dawes Act. The Dawes Act transferred land holdings from the Lakota as a collective group to individual Lakota. The act was in response to pressures from settlers, prospectors, and merchants to “open” the frontier. The government then opened the excess land for white settlement. Not only did the act try to force the Lakota into becoming farmers and thereby abandon their free movement, it also significantly altered their extended kinship structure. The government then opened up all undeeded land to white settlers, ranchers, and farmers. The Act broke up the Great Sioux Reservation into smaller reservations and effectively stripped the Lakota of their prior system of self-government. Simultaneously, the government’s policy of assimilation led to the creation of boarding schools where Lakota and other Native children were taken from their parents and forced to live in residential schools far distanced from their families. The schools’ intent and the actual effect was to strip Native children of all vestiges of their cultural traditions—food, clothing, language, ceremonies, hairstyle—to prepare them for assimilation into civilized and Christian American society. Those Lakota who continued to practice their former ways were federally prohibited from doing so in 1883. The Court of Indian Affairs was established by Henry Teller, the Secretary of the Interior, through the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, Hiram Price. One of the court’s purposes “was to end a series of Indian practices that were considered by the whites to be inimical to civilization” (Prusha, 1976, p. 208). The offenses to be adjudicated by the court tore at the heart of Lakota identity. Prohibitions included polygamous marriages, interference by the “medicine men” with civilization programs, and ceremonies such as the Sun Dance (Prusha, 1976). Although the Lakota continued Sun Dancing, out of the sight of government officials, full restoration of their right to practice their ceremonies did not come until 1923 when the government lifted the ban. A decade later, Congress attempted to restore some political power to the tribal governments and ensnare them deeper into the web of assimilation. Iktómi, the trickster, was at work! In 1934, Congress passed the Reorganization Act. The act transferred significant power to tribal governments “in the hope of fostering self-­ sufficiency and self-determination” (Hämäläinen, 2019, p. 383). The model was to promote American style democracy and entrepreneurship. The effect was to continue to disempower Lakota and other Native traditional forms of government and grant authority to those leaders who were recognized as such by the federal government. Despite all these efforts, Lakota culture, language, and ceremonialism still survive. Attempts to reassert Očhéthi Šakówiŋ sovereignty surface in the American Indian Movement (AIM) standoff against the United States government at Wounded Knee in 1973 and the 2016 protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline. Organizations such as the Traditional & Spiritual International Government, which claims to have reestablished Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota sovereignty at Bear Butte on July 14,

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1991, exemplify these efforts (Official Website of the Traditional & Spiritual International Government, 2000). Tribal colleges play a significant role in cultural and linguistic recovery by employing traditional pedagogy to reconnect Lakota students with the land and the proper ways of walking the Red Road of life. This case study demonstrates the Lakota people’s resilience in the face of great odds to maintain their identity and culture. Hämäläinen roots Lakota resurgence in the character of the Lakota themselves; their “shapeshifting” capacity to adjust and adapt without losing wólakȟota, their values, and ways of being. From this perspective, Lakota resurgence is not a miracle. It is a reflection of one of their core values—persistence. Yet, there is an element of incomprehensibility working as well, but not in the way we might typically imagine. Being central to Lakota metaphysics and epistemology, the operations of the universe remain greatly mysterious, Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka. If survival against such odds constitutes a miracle, then the Lakota case study is evidence of one—one of their own making.

11.3.2 Case Study Two: Ptesáŋwiŋ or the Appearance of White Buffalo Calf Woman In the mist of the distant past, as the creation continued to unfold, Škáŋ (Sky) assumed responsibility for overseeing the orderly process of creation. At this time, the Lakota ancestors lived in a subterranean world under the protection and guidance of Pté Oyáte (Buffalo Nation) where the accounts refer to the Lakota ancestors as Buffalo People.13 As the creation becomes more complex, Škáŋ relegates to Wóȟpe (the Feminine) responsibility for overseeing the progenitors of the Lakota when they arrive on the earth-surface world. To aid her, Škáŋ entrusts to her a medicine bundle. The bundle contains the resources she will eventually share with the Lakota. Wóȟpe is a beautiful woman whose potency is mediation. Her power is illustrated in the Lakota story of “The Four Directions,” in which order is established in the earth-surface world. In the narrative, each of the persons of the Four Directions and their little brother Yumní (Whirlwind), seek Woȟpe’s affections. Rivalries emerge, and she mediates the dispute, finally settling with Yumní because of his kind disposition. Before emergence, all was not well in the subterranean world. Íya or Giant Eater, the chief of the wakȟáŋ tȟáŋka síča or destructive beings, and his younger brother Gnaški (Crazy Buffalo) exacerbated existing jealousies among the wakȟáŋ beings to lure the future Lakota to forget their responsibilities and lose their spiritual center. This loss occurred when Gnaški began ridiculing Kša (Wisdom) and made him look foolish in the Buffalo People’s eyes. As Gnaški planned, the Buffalo People turned

 Unless otherwise cited, the material in this section is from D. M. Dooling’s The Sons of the Wind: The Sacred Stories of the Lakota (1992). 13

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toward Kšapela or Little Wisdom and began to live a life of frivolity and licentiousness. They had lost their spiritual center. When Iktomí (Spider, the Trickster) lured the people onto the earth-surface world by promising them a comfortable life, they lost the protection of the Pté Oyáte and had to rely on themselves. Before the Buffalo People emerged, Ptesáŋwiŋ (White Buffalo Calf Woman), a form of Wóȟpe, promised them she would appear from time to time and hold them accountable for remaining on the right path (Dooling, 1992). She would also serve as their mediator with their wakȟáŋ relatives. The last one to enter the earth-surface world was Tȟatȟáŋka, the bison. The bison multiplied and provided everyone with food, clothing, shelter, implements, toys, weapons, ropes, indeed, almost everything they needed (Marshall III, 2001). The Lakota honored the sacrifice of bison in their songs, dances, and prayers. But, they had not rediscovered their spiritual center. Without their spiritual center, the Ikčé Oyáte (Real People, humans), as the Buffalo People came to be known, were able to survive through lessons they had learned from Iktomí. Eventually, the Real People separated into groups, one of which became the Lakota people collectively known as Očhéthi Šakówiŋ (Seven Fireplaces). During a particularly harsh winter, the Lakota were near starvation. In their time of need and fulfilling her previous vow, Ptesáŋwiŋ appeared to two young warriors hunting for food.14 One of them approached her with an impure heart, and in a cloud of dust, he was no more. The other young man, whose heart was pure, took her to the thióšpaye (band). They welcomed her. There she gave them the Sacred Pipe and gifted them with seven rites. Joseph Marshall III recalls the events for us: Long ago, there was a time of great famine among the people. The land had dried up and the animals disappeared, and the people were downhearted, weak in body and spirit. They forgot the ways of the people and became angry and confused. Two young warriors were out hunting without success far away from their village when, on top of the hill, they saw a floating white mist. Out of the mist came a young, beautiful woman, and she was naked. One of the warriors approached her with bad intent, but before he could reach her, the mist rolled down and hit him and the woman. When it was rolled back, the other warrior was shocked to see that nothing of his friend was left but his skeleton. Snakes crawled in and around the bones. The second hunter fell down on the ground, humbling himself. Then the woman spoke and told him to return to his people and prepare a lodge for her, which he did. After the lodge was built, the woman appeared carrying a bundle in her arms. She invited the elders into the lodge and taught them seven ceremonies that they must perform, promising them that if they followed her teachings, they would once again become powerful and strong. She presented them with the sacred pipe from her bundle, taught them how to use it, and then she left. The people watched her as she walked to the top of the hill and disappeared into the mist, emerging from the other side as a female white buffalo. (Marshall III, 2001, pp. 17–18)

 Dating the arrival of White Buffalo Calf Woman in a specific historical time is not important to the Lakota. Only the events themselves are. 14

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Through the Sacred Pipe, they could share one heart and rekindle relationships with the wakȟáŋ or holy persons who emerged during the first phases of creation. Pekka Hämäläinen describes the pipe’s significance: With the pipe they would “walk like a living prayer,” their feet resting on the ground and the pipe stem reaching the sky and their bodies “a living bridge between the Sacred Beneath and the Sacred Above.” The pipe, the woman said, was a gift from Wakȟáŋ Tȟáŋka who smiled upon them because they had become one with the universe: “earth, sky, all living things, the two-legged, the four-legged, the winged ones, the trees, the grasses. Together with the people, they are all related, one family. The pipe holds them together.” (Hämäläinen, 2019, p. 165)

The rites enabled the Lakota to rediscover their spiritual center by reconnecting with the wakȟáŋ persons through the Sacred Pipe and fulfilling their reciprocal, moral obligations to them. Through the gifted ceremonies brought to them by Ptesáŋwiŋ, the Lakota reestablished and repaired their relationships with the sacred powers. At the Lakota Nation’s yearly gathering at Pahá Sápa (the Black Hills), the Lakota renewed the Sacred Hoop, the sacred community of all persons, and brought their spiritual and physical centers together. The courageous men who offered flesh sacrifices during the Sun Dance gave back to the wakȟáŋ persons the only gift that was truly theirs to give. Today, the Sun Dance is still performed on Lakota lands, although in not as magnificent a scale (Hollabaugh, 2017; Amiotte, 1987). Some are open to the public, while others are by invitation only. The Sacred Pipe (Looking Horse, 1987) and other rites, such as the Inípi (Sweat Lodge) and Huŋká (Making Relatives), continue as well, as does Haŋbléčeyapi (Vision Quest). All of these rites sustain Lakota connections to their wakȟáŋ relatives.

11.4 Locating the Extraordinary The two case studies provide windows into Lakota struggles to rediscover and maintain their physical and spiritual centers. Lakota worldviews describe a dynamic and fluid reality that demands that the Lakota pay constant attention to their changing environments and realities. The first case study demonstrates their adaptability through the extraordinary leadership of key figures who were highly respected for their courage, perseverance, and wisdom—all key Lakota virtues. The second case study illustrates other key Lakota virtues through Ptesáŋwiŋ’s compassion and generosity when the Lakota were in a state of dire need. While extraordinary, her appearance was, and is, entirely consistent with Lakota lifeways and their sense of mutual responsibility for their people’s well-being. Finally, we note that the resilience and persistence of the Lakota to continue as a people are grounded in their physical and spiritual centers. It is only in this sense of the “extraordinary” that miracles do exist for the Lakota. Lakota cosmology contributions to our understanding of miracles include their extended notion of personhood, the continuum of being that personhood entails, and the understanding that extraordinary events do happen and that extraordinary people arise to respond to these events.

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References Amiotte, A. (1987). The Lakota Sun Dance: Historical and contemporary perspectives. In R.  J. DeMaille & D.  R. Parks (Eds.), Sioux Indian religion: Tradition and innovation (pp. 75–90). University of Oklahoma Press. Amiotte, A. (2009). The call to remember. In L. Hogan (Ed.), The inner journey: Views from native traditions (pp. 258–264). Morning Light Press. Black Elk, N., & Brown, J. E. (1953). The sacred pipe: Black Elk’s account of the seven rites of the Oglala Sioux. University of Oklahoma Press. Brown, J. E. (1992). Animals of the soul: Sacred animals of the Oglala Sioux. Shaftesbury. Bruchac, J. (2009). Visible breath. In L. Hogan (Ed.), The inner journey: Views from native traditions (pp. 251–257). Morning Light Press. Cajete, G. (2000). Native science: Natural laws of interdependence. Clear Light Publishers. Crawford, S. J. (2007). Native American religious traditions. Prentice Hall. Deloria, V., Jr. (2006). The world we used to live. In Remembering the powers of the medicine men. Fulcrum Pub. DeMallie, R. J., & Parks, D. R. (1987). Sioux Indian religion: Tradition and innovation. University of Oklahoma Press. Detwiler, F. (1992). All my relatives: Persons in Oglala religion. Religion, 22(3), 235–246. Dooling, D. M. (1992). The sons of the wind: The sacred stories of the Lakota. Harper. Gross, L. W. (2014). Anishinaabe ways of knowing and being. Routledge. Hämäläinen, P. (2019). Lakota America: A new history of indigenous power. Yale University Press. Hollabaugh, M. (2017). The Spirit and the sky: Lakota visions of the cosmos. University of Nebraska Press. Lame Deer, J. F., & Erdoes, R. (1976). Lame Deer: Seeker of visions. Washington Square Press. Lazarus, E. (1991). Black Hills white justice: The Sioux Nation versus the United States, 1775 to the present. University of Nebraska Press. Lee, D. (1959). Freedom and culture. Prentice-Hall. Looking Horse, A. (1987). The sacred pipe in modern life. In R. J. DeMaille & D. R. Parks (Eds.), Sioux Indian religion: Tradition and innovation (pp. 67–74). University of Oklahoma Press. Marshall, J. M., III. (2001). The Lakota way: Stories and lessons for living. Viking Compass. Merriam-Webster. (2020a). Divine. https://www.merriam-­webster.com/dictionary/divine. Accessed 7 Oct 2020. Merriam-Webster. (2020b). God. https://www.merriam-­webster.com/dictionary/god#h1. Accessed 7 Oct 2020. Merriam-Webster. (2020c). Miracle. https://www.merriam-­webster.com/dictionary/miracle. Accessed 7 Oct 2020. Neihardt, J. G. (2008). Black Elk speaks: Being the life story of a holy man of the Oglala Sioux. State University of New York Press. Official Web Site of the Traditional & Spiritual International Government. (2000). http://lakotadakotanakotanation.org/. Accessed 8 Mar 2020. Pearce, R. H. (1953). Savagism and civilization. Johns Hopkins Press. Posthumus, D. C. (2018). All my relatives: Exploring Lakota ontology, belief, and ritual. University of Nebraska Press. Powell, J.  W. (1891). Linguistic stocks of American Indians north of Mexico. Sackett & Wihelms Litho. Powers, W. K. (1986). Sacred language: The nature of supernatural discourse in Lakota. University of Oklahoma Press. Prusha, F.  P. (1976). American Indian policy in crisis: Christian reformers and the Indian, 1865–1900. University of Oklahoma Press. Standing Bear, L. (2006). My people the Sioux. Lincoln. Ullrich, J. F. (Ed.). (2008). New Lakota dictionary (2nd ed.). Lakota Language Consortium.

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Viveiros de Castro, E. (2015). The relative native: Essays on indigenous conceptual worlds. Hau Books. Walker, J.  R. (1917). The Sun Dance and other ceremonies of the Oglala division of the Teton Dakota (Anthropological Papers of the American Museum of Natural History, Vol. XVI, Pt. II). American Museum of Natural History. White Hat, A., Sr. (1999). Reading and writing the Lakota language. The University of Utah Press. White Hat, A., Sr. (2012). Life’s journey—Zuya: Oral teachings from Rosebud. The University of Utah Press.

Part V

Miracles, Logic, and Science

Chapter 12

Miracles in Philosophical Analysis Karen R. Zwier

Abstract  This chapter gives an overview and response to a trend in philosophy that dismisses the possibility of miracles. Contrary to that trend, this chapter summarizes the countervailing position, which argues that miracles cannot be philosophically dismissed as a possibility. Indeed, the in-principle possibility of miracles is an important and interesting premise that is built upon and utilized in many religious contexts.

12.1 The Concept of Miracle Miracles are impossible, are they not? The consideration of miracles surely constitutes a fundamentally unscientific approach, does it not? Why should we take such a concept seriously? Why are miracles even worthy of academic discussion? In this brief chapter, I would like to examine a few ways in which philosophers have attempted to formulate the above worries. There is, in fact, a prominent strand of philosophy—let us call it the “miracle dismissal program”—that has attempted to dismiss the concept of miracle as epistemically problematic at best and logically contradictory at worst. Philosophers are quite skeptical by nature, and so it should come as no surprise that many philosophers have articulated objections to the concept. The expectation of the “program” seems to be that epistemology and philosophical analysis, when properly applied, will chisel away at the folk concept and reveal it as nonsense. And if the concept itself is nonsensical, then surely that will constitute proof that any particular referent that goes by the name “miracle” cannot be actual. Surely the question will then be settled. For reasons I will discuss in the next two sections, the “miracle dismissal program” has failed. Instead of disproving the legitimacy of miracles, it has instead uncovered lots of epistemic messiness that leaves room for considering miracles as K. R. Zwier (*) Independent Scholar, Des Moines, IA, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_12

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a real possibility. Furthermore, as I will hint, the philosophical focus on dismissal of miracles tends to miss other important ways of studying and analyzing a diverse set of religious phenomena—attitudes, stories, terms—that stretch and challenge the concept of “miracle” and its significance to the human condition.

12.2 David Hume on Miracles David Hume presented an argument against miracles that has set the tone for all subsequent philosophical discussion. The argument is very influential and is entirely framed around the idea of reasonable belief. It begins with a very simple and plausible epistemic principle. “A wise man…proportions his belief to the evidence” (Hume [1748], 2007, p. 80). Consider a toy example. Suppose that my neighbor regularly walks her dog around 10 in the morning. I notice this, and I decide to record some data. When I happen to be sitting by my office window at 10 in the morning, I make a little note of whether or not she walked by with her dog. And suppose that, after 43 days of taking data, I see her walking her dog on 41 of those mornings. If I am to abide by Hume’s principle of proportioning my belief to the evidence, my expectation that my neighbor will walk by with her dog at 10 am should be 41 out of 43, or 95.3%. Hume also discusses a second epistemic principle. He recommends that we should do a similar type of belief-proportioning with respect to human testimony: …as the evidence, derived from witnesses and human testimony, is founded on past experience, so it varies with the experience, and is regarded either as a proof or a probability, according as the conjunction between any particular kind of report, and any kind of object, has been found to be constant or variable. (Hume [1748], 2007, p. 81)

According to Hume, our experience with people is no different from our sensory experience. We have experience with people, and with people telling us things. We find some people to be quite reliable in their reports to us, and others less so. This too is a kind of evidence. The amount of trust we should put in any kind of testimony should be proportional to the past evidence we have gathered with regard to the testimony’s relation to the facts. Here is an example. I have twin sons who are still young. I would like to claim that I am an amazing mother who has instilled in them such a solid ethical foundation that they would never tell a lie. Alas, that is not the case. But I am a good enough mother to have gathered substantial evidence of their “testimonial habits.” I see more than they know, and I have a pretty good body of evidence. Some of my evidence consists of incidents in which I have witnessed them interacting with each other. That body of evidence (those incidents I have witnessed) comes paired with another body of evidence—the reports about said incidents that I subsequently receive from them. I have noticed certain patterns in the pairing. When one of my sons is telling a lie, he has trouble looking at me, and if I ask him to look at me and tell me again, his face takes on a sheepish quality. With that particular son, there are

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quite strong indications, and I have confidence that I can distinguish between truth-­ telling and lie-telling with, say, 90% accuracy. With regard to my other son, he is better at hiding it when he is lying. That is what makes it a bit harder to distinguish truth-telling from lie-telling in his case; he does not have many obvious guilt-­ markers. If anything, his eyes sometimes give subtle indications of inventiveness when he is lying. But I do not trust my ability to distinguish between truth and lie as much with him. I estimate that I might be 65% accurate with him. Hume’s point is this: we can (and should) proportion our beliefs about human testimony to evidence. In this case, the relevant evidence is our past experiences of having received testimony, and whether or not that testimony matched the facts in question. We can use observations about facial features, body language, prior experience with an individual, etc., to inform our degree of belief in the assertion to which a person has testified. But what happens in the case of conflicting beliefs? For example, what if I were not at home on a particular morning, but my son reported to me that my neighbor did not walk her dog that morning around 10 am? We would have what Hume calls “a contest of two opposite experiences.” On the one hand, if it were not for my son’s testimony, I would be inclined to assign a relatively high probability (recall that it was 95.3%) to the belief that my neighbor did walk her dog at 10 this morning. On the other hand, I did not get any indication that my son was lying, and I have an experiential basis for assessing his testimony as evidence. And he did not seem to have any motivation to lie about the matter at hand. But both of these things cannot be true. It cannot be true both that my neighbor did walk her dog past our window at 10 am and that my son is telling the truth. This is a pretty mundane case; we deal with conflicting evidence like this all the time. We deal with it so often that it is easy to let cases like this roll off our backs; we come up with some explanation to reconcile the conflict in our minds. In this case, we think: “my neighbor might have had reasons for walking her dog at a different hour,” or, “my son might have not been watching out the window very closely,” etc. There are many possible explanations, many ways to get out of this dilemma of evidence. Let us bring this all back to the subject of miracles. Miracles will turn out to be hard cases of conflicting evidence. Suppose I have, on the one side of this “contest of evidence,” an experience that has been consistent 100% of the time. Consider one of Hume’s examples: “that lead cannot, of itself, remain suspended in the air” (Hume [1748], 2007, p.  83). Our experience—including our collective scientific experience—has vouched for this behavior of lead with 100% consistency. Hunks of lead (when near the surface of the earth) sit on solid surfaces; they do not levitate. Then suppose that someone reports to me that they witnessed a hunk of lead suspend itself in mid-air. And suppose that someone were a person I trusted deeply, and that person had no reason to deceive me. What should I make of such a contest of experiences? How should I weigh it? It is here where Hume makes his central argument against miracles:

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Hume directs us to ask ourselves: which scenario is more miraculous? That, on the one hand, a hunk of lead actually did suspend itself in mid-air, contrary to my 100% consistent experience? Or rather that this person is testifying to a falsehood? Hume’s verdict is that we should always consider the first case more miraculous, and we should always trust reliable sensory experience over human testimony. When any one tells me that he saw a dead man restored to life, I immediately consider with myself whether it be more probable that this person should either deceive or be deceived, or that the fact which he relates should really have happened. (Hume [1748], 2007, p. 83)

Hume’s point here is that there is always a variety of explanations for how the fact to which the person is testifying might be false. Maybe they do have some reason to be lying. Or perhaps they believe what they have been saying but have been deceived in some way about the facts. Either way, there are “outs” here, alternative explanations on the testimony side of things. But there are no “outs” on the other side of things. One cannot argue with experiential evidence that is 100% consistent. Thus Hume concludes: A miracle is a violation of the laws of nature; and as a firm and unalterable experience has established these laws, the proof against a miracle, from the very nature of the fact, is as entire as any argument from experience can possibly be imagined. (Hume [1748], 2007, p. 83)

Here is Hume’s argument, in summary: 1. Miracle reports, by definition, contradict laws of nature. 2. Laws of nature are established through experience that is 100% consistent. 3. Nothing can beat 100% consistency. 4. Therefore, miracle reports will always lose in the “contest of two experiences.” Now, what has Hume achieved with this argument? Where has he gotten us? Hume has articulated for us the core difficulty for anyone who would believe in miracles. Miracles are impossible because, by definition, they reportedly violate laws of nature. However, Hume’s recommendation for how to deal with this epistemic conflict is extremely dogmatic. He effectively says that we should take a stance in which we are 100% certain about scientific laws. And that recommendation should trouble us.

12.3 An Empirical Attitude Toward Miracles? Why is Hume’s recommendation troubling? Simply put, it is troubling because science is an empirical endeavor. Any state of 100% certainty is, by necessity, a non-­ empirical attitude.

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There are certain statements that one can regard with 100% certainty. Take, for example, the statement that “all unmarried men are bachelors.” Any English speaker can be 100% certain of this statement because it is a tautology, an analytical truth. The very meaning of the words makes it true, by definition. But it is not an empirical statement. One could, hypothetically, be 100% certain of this statement without ever having met a bachelor in their life. The certainty comes not from evidence or empiricism, but from a facility with the English language, an understanding of its terms. Empirical knowledge, in contrast, deals in matters that are tested and updated against observational evidence. There are things that a person can only know through empirical evidence: that ravens are black, or that the sun rises in the east, or that barometers fall when a storm is imminent. One needs observational evidence to know these things. They are empirical facts. This is where Hume goes wrong. Even if evidence pertaining to a certain assertion has been 100% consistent, beliefs pertaining to that assertion should not be 100% certain. In fact, there is an entire subfield of epistemology built around this assumption. This subfield, “Bayesian epistemology,” is named after Thomas Bayes, a contemporary of Hume.1 Bayesian epistemology uses probabilities to represent degrees of belief in particular propositions. For example, let us consider the statement that “All ravens are black,” and call that statement R.  And let us say that my degree of belief in the proposition that all ravens are black is 90%. We represent this by saying that the probability of R is 90%, or p(R) = .9. Bayesian epistemology also defines rules that rational agents must follow as they update their beliefs in response to evidence. If I encounter a piece of evidence relevant to my proposition R, I must update my degree of belief in R, for better or worse. To do that, I use a Bayesian belief-updating rule. If I have a hypothesis H and I obtain a piece of evidence E that is relevant to that hypothesis, then I should update my beliefs like this:2 PH E 

P E H  P H  P E



The updated probability of my hypothesis, given this new piece of evidence, is equal to the probability that the piece of evidence would have been expected if my hypothesis were true, weighted by multiplying by my degree of belief in the hypothesis and dividing by the likelihood of obtaining this piece of evidence in general. This is, according to Bayesian epistemology, what it is to update beliefs in a rational way, in response to evidence.  We do not have evidence of any direct communication between Hume and Bayes, but they did have a common acquaintance in the philosopher/mathematician Richard Price. See Earman, 2002. 2  In the Bayesian rule given here, P(A|B) is a formulaic expression of conditional probability—i.e., the probability of A given that B obtains. 1

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But what would happen if I were 100% certain of my hypothesis? Two factors in the right-hand expression cancel out. (After all, if I am certain of H, then the probability of E is unaffected by H.)



PH E 

P ( E H )  PH P(E)



Thus, the update rule for a hypothesis with 100% certainty prescribes that the new, updated probability of H will remain just that: 100% certain. Because of my certainty in the hypothesis, the hypothesis is completely insensitive to evidence. It can never be updated. Consider what it would mean to be 100% certain of the hypothesis that all ravens are black (R). What would happen if I encounter a black raven? If I try to update my belief in the hypothesis according to the rule, I will end up with the exact same belief that I began with, that is, 100%. Such a result might not seem all that bad, given that the piece of evidence (a black raven) confirmed the hypothesis. But what if I next encountered a piece of evidence that contradicted my hypothesis—i.e., a white raven? Despite the new evidence to the contrary, the update rule prescribes that my degree of belief that all ravens are black would have to remain at 100%. No evidence can affect my belief in the assertion R, and so my belief is non-empirical, precisely because of my complete certainty.3 How does this analysis apply to miracles? Hume’s assertion about the impossibility of miracles is directly linked to his recommendation that we should regard the laws of nature with 100% certainty. Effectively, this means that no piece of evidence can change our beliefs in the laws of nature, and thus our belief in the laws of nature is non-empirical (i.e., not based on evidence). Miracles are considered impossible, and with them, any evidence that runs contrary to the predictions of the currently-­ accepted laws of nature will be ignored.4

12.4 Miracles as Violations of Laws Even if we set Hume’s dogmatic certainty aside, there are still more problems for his analysis of miracles. Hume defines a miracle as a violation of a law of nature, but the very concept of law of nature introduces problems of its own.  For a more thorough explanation of this critique of Hume’s argument (and several additional critiques), see Earman (2000). 4  The question of what should be done with evidence that runs contrary to theoretical prediction is a nuanced one, and will generally involve error checking and the weighing of new modified hypotheses. But such questions can be set aside for our purposes here. The important point here is that Hume’s critique, in its zeal for dismissing religious hypotheses that invoke the idea of “miracle”, also dismisses the rational consideration of any revised hypothesis whatsoever, thus eliminating the possibility of genuine empirical investigation or future theory change. 3

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What are laws of nature? This question is an incredibly difficult one that philosophers of science have debated at length. Unfortunately, there is no consensus view.5 But I will give a brief overview, simply to provide a sense of the tangled web of difficult issues for Hume’s definition of miracles. One possible way of viewing laws is the so-called “regularity” view. On this view, a law of nature is simply a statement that summarizes all of the relevant facts about some natural regularity. For example, Newton’s second law of motion tells us about the behavior of objects when subject to a total force vector. On the regularity view, the law simply is the statement “F = ma”—the statement that the total force on an object is equal to its mass times the acceleration it experiences. That statement summarizes an enormous set of natural regularities—i.e., the mechanical behavior of all medium-to-large-sized rigid bodies. But if a law is just this—a statement about regularities that exist in the natural world—then there is nothing for a miracle to violate. A statement cannot be “violated”. A statement is either true of the facts it reports, or it is false. If the statement is true, then the facts are as the law says, and there is no miracle. If, on the other hand, the statement is false—i.e., there is some anomalous fact that is not consistent with the statement—then we have reason to believe that the statement in question was simply mistaken. The statement was not a law in the first place, and there might be some other statement that actually is a true law.6 Either way, on the regularity view, laws have no potency. And with no potency, they have no ability to preclude miracles. Therefore, the regularity understanding of laws makes no sense with respect to Hume’s definition of miracles. Let us consider an alternative account of laws: the axiomatic view. According to this account, laws are, by definition, simply the axioms of the best deductive scientific systems that make up our theories. For a theoretical system like Newtonian mechanics, when we say that “F = ma” is a law, we are simply saying that “F = ma” is a powerful axiom from which we can deduce many results. But that still will not help us with respect to Hume’s definition of miracles. Axioms have no more power than regularities; they cannot enforce themselves. Perhaps laws are necessary universal relationships. There are many properties that a physical object can have: for example, the property of mass, the property of acceleration, and the property of having a net force acting upon itself. On a certain understanding, laws are relations between property universals. A law is the necessary mathematical relationship—e.g., F  =  ma—that holds among categories of properties. But if laws are necessary mathematical relationships, what makes them necessary? Is the relationship itself to be understood as some kind of independently  See Carroll (2016) for an introductory summary of various philosophical understandings of laws of nature. 6  In fact, Leibniz held a view along these lines: that “miracles” are actually subsumed by the complicated but unknown laws that humans will never be able to discover. The simple laws that we discover through our humble physics are violated, but that’s because they aren’t the true laws of nature. 5

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existing thing that enforces itself? How are we to understand such a thing, and how can it, of its own accord, prevent miracles from occurring? Laws become just as puzzling as miracles on this view. Let us consider a final option: some philosophers would go so far as to say that there are no such things as laws. (Alternatively, we might say that there are no such things as exceptionless laws.) And if that is the case, there is nothing in place to prevent miracles. Miracles would get a free pass on such a view. What have we arrived at? The philosophical effort to prove that miracles are impossible has failed. Any attempt to preclude miracles from our worldview leads to a non-empirical (and non-scientific) mindset, or it leads to a mess of issues about the nature of laws, with no sufficient answer about how a law might prevent a miracle from occurring. At this point, we can make a very modest claim: Miracles are not, in principle, impossible.

Let us be clear: this claim is a far cry from any positive argument for why someone should believe in miracles. And yet, the in-principle possibility is an interesting starting point. As we see throughout this volume, it is a premise that is built upon and utilized in many religious contexts, from full-fledged traditional theologies, to myths, to folk story-telling. And the fact that reference to and retelling of wondrous events transcends diverse religious contexts renders the study of such events and their retellings supremely interesting and worthwhile.

12.5 Possibility As I mentioned above, the philosopher’s stance is fundamentally a skeptical and analytical one. It analyzes the concept of miracle. It seeks an assessment of possibility and a principled account of how to handle evidence. And in that approach, it tears instances of “miracles” from their native and narrative contexts. It lacks attention to the audience, to the subjective experience being communicated, to the flavor of the narratives that come to surround miracles. But such features and characteristics are not sideshows. They are essential. It is in these features that miracles come to life. It is there that we will truly learn something about religion (in the singular), about religions (in the plural), and about ourselves.

References Carroll, J. W. (2016). Laws of nature. The Stanford encyclopedia of philosophy. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2016/entries/laws-­of-­nature/. Accessed 2021, February 15. Earman, J. (2000). Hume’s abject failure: The argument against miracles. Oxford University Press.

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Earman, J. (2002). Bayes, Hume, Price, and miracles. In R.  Swinburne (Ed.), Bayes’s theorem (pp. 91–109). Oxford University Press. Hume, D. (2007 [1748]). In P.  Millican (Ed.), An enquiry concerning human understanding. Oxford University Press.

Chapter 13

Non-interventionist Objective Divine Action and Quantum Mechanics Robert John Russell

Abstract  Miracle accounts are found in most—if not all—religions, providing a promising topic for a scholarly comparison of religions. My focus is the concept of divine action in Christian theology, in which the idea of miracles is one of the many forms of how Christians such as me think about the diversity of God’s action in creating and redeeming the world. The credibility of miracles was seriously challenged by the rise of the natural sciences and Enlightenment philosophy. This led to a profound split between conservative and liberal Christian theologies in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Conservatives accept miracles as objective events in nature, even if they conflict with science, while liberals seek harmony with science, even if it reduces miracles to subjective interpretations of ordinary natural processes. In this paper I will explore a new approach to divine action based on contemporary quantum mechanics. This approach overcomes the split between conservatives and liberals on divine action. It includes the conservative commitment to viewing miracles as objective events in nature and the liberal commitment to harmony with science. I call this “non-interventionist objective divine action” (NIODA). It depicts God acting objectively in nature to affect the flow of natural processes but in a way that is consistent with the theories of natural science. In this paper I will lay out the arguments in favor of QM-NIODA and respond to a number of important challenges that require further reflection. This paper arose out of my lecture for “The Comparison Project,” a program in comparative philosophy of religion at Drake University directed by Timothy Knepper. The 2017–2019 series, organized and facilitated by Karen Zwier and David Weddle, explored the theme of miracles from the perspective of different religious traditions and sciences. A previous version of this paper was published in Russell 2018 (which I thank Fortress Press for permission to reuse). The present version is highly edited and includes extensive new material. I thank Karen Zwier and David Weddle for their extensive editorial comments on the previous version of this paper, which have been invaluable to me, and for which I am very grateful. R. J. Russell (*) Graduate Theological Union, Berkeley, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_13

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13.1 Introduction Miracle accounts are found in most—if not all—religions, providing a promising topic for a scholarly comparison of religions. Their meaning and importance in the context of various world religions and their comparison, however, is contextualized in important ways by the general worldview and the specific doctrines of each world religion, particularly as they are influenced (or not) by the natural sciences. My focus in this chapter will be the concept of divine action in Christian theology, in which the idea of miracles is only one of the many forms of how Christians such as me think about the diversity of God’s action in creating and redeeming the world. In short, miracles play a crucial role in both the Hebrew and Christian scriptures (roughly, the Old and New Testaments). Here, God’s action in history includes the salvation of the people of Israel from their captivity in Egypt by the exodus, their feeding on manna from heaven prior to their conquest of Canaan, the many nature and healing miracles recorded about Jesus of Nazareth, and the most important miracle to Christian faith, the resurrection of Jesus from the tomb and his ascension to Heaven. Miracles played a crucial role in bringing people to faith in Christ for well over a millennium, until the credibility of miracles was seriously challenged by the rise of the natural sciences and Enlightenment philosophy. The challenge based on science to miracles draws on Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and becomes explicit with the rise of Enlightenment philosophy beginning with Descartes, Hume and Kant in the eighteenth century. According to Christian philosopher of science Nancey Murphy, this led to a profound split between what can be called conservative and liberal Christian theologies which began in the nineteenth century and continues to this day (Murphy, 1996, p.  63). To summarize this split, which we will return to in some detail below, conservatives accept miracles as objective events in nature even if they seem to conflict with science, while liberals seek harmony with science even if it means reducing miracles to merely subjective interpretations of ordinary natural processes. It is my intention to explore a new approach to divine action based on the physics of the twentieth century, specifically quantum mechanics. This new approach overcomes the split between conservatives and liberals on divine action. It includes the conservative commitment to viewing miracles as objective events in nature and the liberal commitment to achieving harmony with science. I call this new view “non-­interventionist objective divine action” (NIODA) and I add “QM” to the acronym (thus “QM-NIODA”) since it is based on quantum mechanics. It depicts God acting objectively in nature to affect and change the flow of natural processes but in a way that is consistent with the theories of natural science. In this paper I will lay out the arguments in favor of QM-NIODA and respond to a number of important challenges that require further reflection. I hope that scholars of other world religions will take on the challenges raised by the natural sciences and Enlightenment philosophy as they reimagine the concept of miracles in their religious traditions.

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13.2 God’s Action as Creator and Redeemer I start this paper by laying out several of my general theological presuppositions about the acts of God as the creator and redeemer of the world. These various modes of understanding the acts of God display the diversity of what the generic term “divine action” means, including the specific form of divine action known as “miracles.” To begin, there are at least four ways in which I refer to the acts of God as Creator. First, according to the traditional doctrine of creation ex nihilo God creates the world as a whole out of nothing, and God holds the world in continued existence at each moment. These are all a part of the “external” acts (opera ad extra) of God as Trinity. Second, often in the theology and science literature, the dynamic, evolutionary, and emergent character of the universe leads scholars to speak in terms of the “continuous creation” (or creatio continua) of the universe to emphasize the temporal sense of creation, from the Big Bang and the expansion of the universe, to the origin of solar systems, and the evolution of life, as complementary to the ontological sense of creation ex nihilo. Third, traditionally God also provides all that is needed for life, such as the seasons of nature, the tides, the abundances of crop, and life’s ordinary, daily events. General providence often refers to God’s governance of the world by acting through natural (secondary) causes such as science studies. Science often describes these processes through mathematics, which represent these regularities as “the laws of nature.” Such general providence is a third part of what can be called divine action as distinct from special providence. Fourth, God provides those special events in life, history, and nature that go beyond general providence as it maintains the natural order, and that give meaning and purpose to individual life, communities and societies, and the evolving world as affirmed by the doctrine of special providence. Events of special providence can include births, weddings, ordinary events that are nevertheless filled with unique significance and beauty (e.g., a solar eclipse), a longed-for reunion, the harvest table surrounded by family and friends, and so on. There are also two ways in which we refer to the acts of God as redeemer. First, divine acts of redemption include ritual sacrifice, the Spirit of God speaking through the prophets, the forgiveness of sins, the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth, and so on. These redemptive acts continue today in the transformation of our societies from institutional sin to justice with mercy. Second, some acts of redemption, however, lead us to use a very specific term for divine action: miracle. Miraculous events in the Hebrew Scriptures include the exodus and God’s revelation of the law to Moses. Those in the New Testament include the incarnation, Jesus healing the leper, his stilling of the storm, the gift of the Holy Spirit to the early Church that continues into the global Christian community today, contemporary healings, and of supreme importance to Christians, the bodily Resurrection of Jesus on Easter. Now miraculous divine action can take on a variety of meanings in both theological and philosophical literature. In traditional theological sources we find a trend to view a miracle as an extraordinary event that reveals normally hidden powers or

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properties in nature. It is a sign, a wonder, a disclosure of Jesus’s power over nature and God’s purposes for humankind and the natural world. It is usually seen as bringing people to faith in Christ. Most importantly, it is an event with a theological meaning that encompasses the overall Biblical teachings on God’s relation to the world as creator and redeemer. For example, according to Augustine in the fifth century CE, a miracle can be understood as the manifestation of an “extraordinary” capacity of a creature, one that is rarely expressed compared with its routine, ordinary capacities but does not go beyond its creaturely capacities as such.1 Eight centuries later, Thomas Aquinas offered a more nuanced understanding of miracles, which distinguishes between three “degrees and orders”: The highest rank among miracles is held by those events in which something is done by God which nature never could do…. Then, the second degree among miracles is held by those events in which God does something which nature can do, but not in this order…. Now, the third degree of miracles occurs when God does what is usually done by the working of nature, but without the operation of the principles of nature. (Aquinas, 1975, book 3, part II, ch. 101)2

Some 500 years after Aquinas, philosophers of the Enlightenment raised a profound challenge to these traditional understandings of miracle. Perhaps the most important contribution to this challenge, and one which continues to be a significant factor in today’s academic and popular venues, including theology and science, came from the writings of the eighteenth-century British philosopher David Hume. In his enormously influential Enquiry of 1748, Hume defined a miracle as “a violation of the laws of nature” (Hume, 2000, p.  120). It is an event that purportedly really happened. It is meant to be objective and factual, and not just a subjective interpretation of an ordinary event (as we will see in discussing Schleiermacher’s subjectivist interpretation of miracle below). Instead a miracle, according to Hume, is an event that nature could never produce on its own powers. Indeed it contradicts those powers. By implication a miracle in Hume’s sense is an event that contradicts science. An event like this, if it were to happen, would presumably require divine intervention: an actual, concrete, objective act of God that violates or at least suspends the causality inherent in nature and the laws of nature that describe natural causality. It is the result of what I will call “interventionist objective divine action.” By the nineteenth century, and in many ways as a direct result of Hume’s and Kant’s writings, liberal Protestant theology had domesticated and “defanged” the concept of miracle, making it entirely consistent with science by reducing it to a merely subjective response to a purely natural event. The fountainhead of this theological movement was Friedrich Schleiermacher. In his now famous 1799 book, On Religion: Speeches to its Cultured Despisers, Schleiermacher writes:

 “A portent (miracle), therefore, happens not contrary to nature, but contrary to what we know as nature” (Augustine, 1887 [426], book XX1, ch. 8). 2  For an interpretation of Aquinas by a leading, contemporary, Dominican scholar, see Dodds, 2012, p. 247–258 (especially p. 253). 1

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Miracle is simply the religious name for event. Every event, even the most natural and usual, becomes a miracle, as soon as the religious view of it can be the dominant. To me all is miracle. (Schleiermacher, 1958, p. 88)3

A solar eclipse, mentioned above, offers us a classic example of Schleiermacher’s understanding of the miraculous. Viewing an eclipse, as I have done on several occasions, one feels caught up in an extraordinary experience, but nothing objectively extraordinary is involved. Instead, two ordinary objects—the sun and moon— with ordinary spatial trajectories, pass into and out of visual conjunction. Events like this are entirely consistent with, and predictable by, science. Their uniqueness as divine acts is strictly in the eyes of the beholder and not in any way involving what might be called an objectively unique event caused by God. I will call this view of miraculous divine action “non-interventionist subjective divine action.” The continuing theological impact of Hume’s discussion of miracles runs from Schleiermacher through much of twentieth-century theology. It not only has had a broad and profound impact on the church, the academy, and popular religion, but also continues to have a major impact on many of the scholars who write on theology and science and is of central importance to this paper. Some of these scholars seem to adopt Hume’s definition. For example, in his 1993 Gifford Lectures, Arthur Peacocke asks whether we can “rule out the possibility that God might ‘intervene’, in the popular senses of that word, to bring about events for which there can never be a naturalistic interpretation” (Peacocke, 1983, p. 183). He refers to miracles as “an ‘intervention’ by God in the natural order of events” (Peacocke, 1983, p. 284). Later, near the end of his life, in defending what he called “a naturalistic faith,” Peacocke explicitly rejected miracles “that break the laws or regularities of nature discovered by science” (Peacocke, 2007, p. 9). Other scholars in theology and science have challenged Hume. In 1988, John Polkinghorne cited Hume’s definition of a miracle as “a violation of the laws of nature” when such laws are established by “firm and unalterable experience.” As Polkinghorne then retorts, “it is rather touching to find the stern critic of induction placing such firm faith in the unalterable character of nature’s laws.” Moreover, science has now discovered “unusual regimes with unusual phenomena.” Such regimes point to “an end of common sense, in order to do justice to the novel nature of that particular aspect of reality” (Polkinghorne, 1989, pp.  54–58). In 1993, Nancey Murphy wrote: “Two vastly important developments in epistemology separate us from Hume. One is the recognition of the role of hypothetico-deductive reasoning; the other is holism—the view that our beliefs face the tribunal of experience not singly but as a body” (Murphy, 1993, p. 408). In 1997 Philip Clayton concluded a long section on “the presumption of naturalism”—that natural causes, not supernatural ones, are the causes of all events in the world—by offering a two-fold claim against this presumption: “against the scientific naturalist or the Humean sceptic,

 Schleiermacher actually gives an extensive and nuanced discussion of miracles in The Christian Faith in which their dependence on God and the whole of nature is clearly construed (Schleiermacher, 1986, pp. 170, 178–184). 3

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we may conclude that there may sometimes be reasons to claim that God has acted; but against advocates of ‘religious perception’ such as William Alston I have argued that these reasons do not justify full claims to knowledge” (Clayton, 1997, p. 183). And very recently, Veli-Matti Kärkkäinen has given a detailed argument for reconceiving miracles: “Rather than denying the possibility of miracles, we just have to do away with the mistaken concept of miracles as ‘arbitrary interferences in an otherwise elegant and lawlike cosmos’—violations of the laws of nature” (Kärkkäinen, 2015, p. 191–192). Before continuing, let me offer three extended comments on the present situation regarding the impact of Hume: powerful criticisms of Hume by several contemporary philosophers of science; my own theological view of miracles that lies at a striking distance from Hume’s reach; and the lingering impact of Hume on contemporary theology, which, together with its impact on theology and science (above), warrant my pursuit of NIODA here. First, Hume’s definition of miracle as a “violation of the laws of nature” has been roundly critiqued by a variety of contemporary philosophers such as Timothy McGrew and Karen Zwier. According to McGrew, “A miracle (from the Latin mirari, to wonder), at a first and very rough approximation, is an event that is not explicable by natural causes alone.” McGrew remarks that “one benefit of defining miracles in terms of violations of natural law is that this definition entails that a miracle is beyond the productive power of nature. But if that is the key idea, then it is hard to see why we should not simply use that as the definition and leave out the problematic talk of laws” (McGrew, 2010).4 Zwier, too, offers a persuasive summary of the critique of Hume’s definition. “We have tried, over the history of philosophy, to disprove miracles…. And we have failed…. Miracles are not, in principle, impossible.” What is lacking in a strictly philosophical analysis of miracles are such wider factors as interpretation, context, significance, human response, and religion. It is there that miracles “come to life” (Zwier, 2022). Philosophers such as these are providing compelling reasons not to take Hume’s arguments as seriously now as they were taken over the past two centuries. It would be entirely reasonable for me, whose expertise lies in theology and science and not in philosophy, to accept them as sufficient reasons to set Hume aside in my research on divine action in light of science. However I will suggest in my third comment below why I chose not to do so. Second, I think it will be helpful to the reader for me to summarize my own theological approach to miracles. I will return to my specific views on the relation between miracles and science near the close of this paper. My approach starts with what I consider to be the normative miracle of the New Testament, the bodily resurrection of Jesus on Easter, and its pivotal interpretation by Paul in 1 Corinthians 15:

 Timothy McGrew describes four types of criticism: why should Hume’s definition be privileged over earlier ones, what kind of “natural laws” are being assumed, do such laws actually exist, and what does their violation mean. 4

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12 But if it is preached that Christ has been raised from the dead, how can some of you say that there is no resurrection of the dead? 13 If there is no resurrection of the dead, then not even Christ has been raised…. 17 And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins. 18 Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ are lost. 19 If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied…. 20 But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. (New International Version)

It was Paul’s core belief in the general resurrection of all those who have died and who will still die that allowed him to interpret the empty tomb and the appearances traditions as the start of the general resurrection that will happen in full at the end of time. Jesus is thus “the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep.” What I mean here is that the resurrection of Jesus, including his many appearances to the disciples leading up to his ascension, take place within a new way for creation to be creation, a manifestation within the world as it is now of the new way for the world what God all along intended it to be—the new creation. It is not a replacement of this present world so much as its complete transformation by God “at the end of the age.” The doctrine which treats this topic is called “eschatology” from the Greek ἔσχατος (éskhatos), meaning “last,” i.e., both the last days and the final purpose and culmination of all that came before it. It will be a world without suffering, sorrow, disease, death, extinction, war, hatred, racism, poverty, and all manner of evil. This in turn allows me to understand the miracles of the New Testament—Jesus turning water into wine, feeding the 5000, calming the storm, healing the demoniac, resuscitating Lazarus, and so on—as partial manifestations of the natural way of the new creation within the existing conditions of the present creation. Wolfhart Pannenberg and Ted Peters use the term “prolepsis” to signify the manifestation of the eschatological New Creation in this present world.5 The miracles of the New Testament are part of the natural way of the new creation manifest within the ordinary ways of the present creation. They are a taste of what is to come to fullness in the “eschatological future” and which is proleptically present already in the ordinary world we know now. The New Testament refers to the new creation through such symbols as the great banquet, the descent of the new Jerusalem, and the sublime visio dei (vision of God) in which we are held in eternal wonder and praise. Although I tend to set aside Hume’s arguments in other writings, here I will deal with it explicitly because it has played such a vocal role in the “theology and science” community, even more so in the wider theological academy. Thus I use the central concept of this paper, “NIODA,” to show that, even if one were to take Hume at his word without philosophical or theological criticism, we need not reject  As Pannenberg writes: “The proleptic character of the Christ event … [signifies that] the resurrection of Jesus is indeed infallibly the dawning of the end of history … the onset of the end had occurred only in a preliminary way, happening in Jesus himself … for the rest of us, the resurrection of the dead, which already happened to Jesus, is still outstanding” (Pannenberg, 1970–1971, vol. 2, p. 24). See also Ted Peters: With the term prolepsis, “the gospel is understood as announcing the preactualization of the future consummation of all things in Jesus Christ…. As prolepsis, he [Jesus Christ] embodies the promise because he anticipates in his person the new life that we humans and all creation are destined to share” (Peters, 2015, p. 608). 5

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objective divine action in nature based on Hume’s arguments. Instead what we need to defeat Hume’s hold on miracles is examples of ontological indeterminism via NIODA, opening for us the new philosophical category of divine action which is both non-interventionist and objective. Third, my final comment is to stress the lingering impact of Hume’s view of miracles throughout contemporary theology. This lingering impact has motivated me to overcome the “forced option” Hume’s view has created in the academy, the church, and public culture. For compelling testimony of this impact, I turn to the writings of both Frank B. Dilley and Nancey Murphy. According to Dilley, writing in 1965: The modern “Biblical Theologian” is in a quandary about what to say. His view of man and of history centers upon his assertion of a “God Who Acts,” yet he seems unable to communicate what it is that he means by the actions of God. Unwilling to endorse the conservative view of a God Who Acts through outright miracles or the liberal doctrine of a God restricted to universal actions, he speaks about a God who acts specially in history, but without giving any concrete content to his assertions, and he seems unable to distinguish his position from that of the liberalism he rejects. In short, though he tries to stake out an alternative to [both] conservatism and liberalism, he does not do so, except verbally…. His plight is not a happy one. If he says that God does interfere in the workings of nature and history, then he violates his understanding of modern science…. If, on the other hand, he maintains that God does not interfere, then he has to give up the biblical notion of a God who acts specially in history…. He refuses to be explicit as to what he means, perhaps because any explication would make clear that there is no alternative to conservatism and liberalism except a merely verbal one. In short, unless he equivocates he is lost. (Dilley, 1965)6

Dilley’s assessment was followed three decades later by that of Nancey Murphy. In her 1996 book Beyond Liberalism & Fundamentalism, Murphy characterized the “forced option” among modern Protestant theologians over divine action as follows: My thesis is that modern theologians have found only two strategies for reconciling their accounts of divine action with the Newtonian-Laplacian [deterministic] worldview. We shall see that liberals and conservatives divide rather neatly into two camps on this issue. Conservatives typically take an interventionist approach to divine action; that is, God is sovereign over the laws of nature and is able to overrule them to produce special divine acts. Liberals generally take an immanentist approach, emphasizing God’s action in and through all natural processes. There may be no other single factor that has such thoroughgoing consequences for theology; thus, the divide between liberals and conservatives on this issue opens a veritable chasm between their theological outlooks. (Murphy, 1996, p. 63)

Murphy cites examples of theological liberals starting with Friedrich Schleiermacher and including Shailer Matthews and Gordon Kaufmann, as well as examples of

 Dilley’s essay was highly formative for me in the years preceding the Center for Theology and the Natural Sciences / Vatican Observatory series on “scientific perspectives on divine action,” in which I was to create my response “QM-NIODA.” 6

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conservatives including Charles Hodge, Donald Bloesch, and Millard Erickson.7 Paraphrasing Murphy we can say that liberals opt for consistency with science at the expense of miraculous divine action while conservatives affirm miracles at the expense of consistency with science. It is my hope to offer a way forward, a “tertium quid,” that leads us out of the “forced option” that Dilley and Murphy so powerfully describe and that has its roots in Hume, a solution that captures what is worth keeping from both liberal and conservative views about miracles while leaving aside that which their views are framed within and limited by—the determinism of classical science, i.e., the mechanistic view of nature.8

13.3 NIODA And so we come to the central question of this essay: is there a new theological category, one lying between non-miraculous/non-interventionist, subjective divine action and miraculous/interventionist, objective divine action? I believe that there is such a theological category, one that combines the best of the preceding two categories while avoiding the problems of each of them. It is more than the subjective interpretation of an ordinary event and less than an objective interpretation of a special event requiring miraculous intervention to bring it about. Here I use the term objective to refer to the idea that God acts to bring about a specific event in the world. God does not stand by and let nature run its course on its own. (However, as we will see below, the mode of God’s action is with nature rather than against nature.) I also use the term non-interventionist to refer to this event being non-­ miraculous in the Humean sense of miracle: the non-interventionist of God does not break a law of nature. My acronym for this concept is NIODA: non-interventionist, objective divine action. NIODA, in turn, requires the possibility that the world of natural processes, at some or many levels of complexity, can be interpreted philosophically as causally incomplete, and this philosophical interpretation is the basis for the theological interpretation regarding non-interventionist, objective divine action. At these levels, God acts together with nature to produce the actual outcome among a set of possible outcomes provided by nature. Thus NIODA in no way runs into conflict with science since it bases its philosophical interpretation of the processes of nature on the

 In her analysis of these theologians (on pages 68–74) Murphy is careful to stress the complexity of their views and the fact that they do not fit neatly into a rigid conservative/liberal typology. Nevertheless a typology such as this is useful to give an overview of the problem and its prevalence in modern theology—and in the church communities. 8  Murphy also offers a way forward using the theology of Wolfhart Pannenberg, the philosophy of science of Imre Lakatos, and post-foundationalist epistemologies. See Murphy, 1990. Also see Murphy’s contributions to the Center for Theology and the Natural Sciences / Vatican Observatory series on “scientific perspectives on divine action” 7

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theories of the natural sciences. It asks whether there are one or several areas in the natural sciences where science leads to a view of nature as indeterministic. Figure 13.1 below is a visual attempt at reflecting the logic of NIODA. On the left half of the figure, nature is interpreted deterministically. This is the standard interpretation of classical physics with theories ranging from Newton’s mechanics and Maxwell’s electromagnetism to Einstein’s general relativity. This deterministic interpretation of nature in turn leads to the historical split between liberal and conservative approaches to divine action. For liberals, the notion of subjectively special divine action reduces special divine action to a verbal redescription of ordinary divine action. For conservatives, objectively special divine action amounts to divine interventionism, i.e., miraculous divine action in the Humean sense. The take-away point here is that determinism, as a philosophical interpretation of classical physics, forces the theological split between these approaches to divine action. On the right half of Fig. 13.1, various levels of complexity in nature, understood through contemporary science, can be interpreted indeterministically. Here we see that, while liberal and conservative approaches to divine action are still options, a third possibility arises for the first time: non-interventionist/non-miraculous but still objective divine action (NIODA). NIODA combines the virtues of the liberal approach and the virtues of the conservative approach without their corresponding disadvantages (the absence of divine action for liberals, conflict with science for conservatives). The crucial point here is that the philosophical interpretation of nature as indeterministic creates a third philosophical option for a theology of divine action, NIODA. This new category of divine action has, I believe, tremendous theological promise. The challenge is to find one or more areas in contemporary science that permit such an indeterministic interpretation of nature. When such areas are actually found, and thus when NIODA is possible, I then import this philosophical interpretation into Christian theology, resulting, hopefully, in a more persuasive and compelling account of God’s action in nature—NIODA—that is consistent with

Fig. 13.1  Options for divine action given ontological determinism or indeterminism in nature. (Taken from Russell, 2008, Fig. 4.2. I thank Fortress Press for the permission to reuse this material)

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science. God’s action in nature can give rise to events that are not miraculous in the Humean sense but that result in something happening in nature that would not have occurred without God acting together with nature in this special way and does not contradict the predictions of science since they are statistical.9 I strongly believe that quantum mechanics (QM) provides one such area in the natural sciences where a NIODA version of divine action can be sustained. Thus my primary focus in this essay will be on explaining a “QM-NIODA” account of divine action and responding to two of its most recent critiques.

13.4 QM-NIODA: A Very Brief Summary From my point of view, theological theories of SDA [special divine action] are as strong as they have been at any time since Hume and Kant, and this is largely because of the contribution of the DAP (divine action project). (Wildman, 2008, p. 173)

In QM, the mathematical wave-function Ψ represents a linear summation (“superposition”) of all possible states of a quantum system. Its square tells us the relative probability that a quantum system will be in a particular state when the system is measured.10 So for two possible states A and B, the wave-function Ψ for the system is Ψ = ΨA + ΨB. The wave-function, Ψ, changes deterministically in time as described by the Schrődinger equation. Upon a measurement, either state A or state B is observed and the original wave-function changes instantaneously to a new wave-­ function, either ΨA or ΨB. This instantaneous change is usually called the “collapse of the wave-function.” The outcome, A or B, is entirely random: the collapse cannot be described by the Schrődinger equation and its outcome, A or B, cannot be predicted by the Schrődinger equation. According to the Copenhagen interpretation of QM, developed originally by Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg in the late 1920s,

 As I discussed above, I fully believe God can also act in truly miraculous ways, but that is not the subject of this chapter. Still my use of both NIODA and miracles can raise some very important “push-back” questions that I must eventually address. For example, as Karen Zwier wrote in a very helpful comment to an earlier draft of this paper: “If a person (such as you) believes in both ‘truly miraculous’ action and NIODA, how do we know which way God is acting for which types of events. Is there some theory about this? For biblical miracles, are we to understand them as ‘truly miraculous’ (i.e. interventionist) or are they instances of NIODA? What about contemporary Christian claims to miracles, such as healings? What about answered prayers? What kinds of events fall into either category? And why do we need two categories at all?” My short response to these excellent questions is that the term miracles was used in the tradition to refer to especially important and revelatory events of divine action without an adequate stress on their eschatological context, leaving unclarified the distinction between the context of eschatology and the context of creation that most contemporary theologians make. I develop this in terms of miracles as the proleptic domain of the new creation within the context of the current creation. I intend to write more fully on this distinction in the future. 10  Technically Ψ is a complex variable (typically Ψ = x + iy, where x and y are real variables, i = √ (− 1), and its “square” is Ψ*Ψ (where Ψ* = x – iy). Thus Ψ*Ψ = x2 + y2. 9

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we can infer that nature at the quantum level is “ontologically indeterministic.”11 While there are several other interpretations, it is generally accepted by physicists and philosophers of physics, and it is commonly called the “orthodox interpretation.”12 It is crucial to note that the “measurement” process that triggers the collapse of the wave function is not limited to laboratory experiments. To avoid what is often taken to be this narrow meaning of the term “measurement” I have frequently used the term “quantum event” instead because the collapse of the wave function can take place throughout the subatomic, atomic, and molecular world, not just when scientists measure quantum systems. For example, the capture of an electron by a dust particle in interstellar space, the radioactive decay of a uranium atom in the core of the earth, the absorption of a photon by water molecules in the air, the making or breaking of molecular bonds involved in genetic mutations, the fusion of hydrogen nuclei in the center of the sun—all these and countless other processes fall within the domain of quantum mechanics and reflect the underlying ontological indeterminism of the atomic realm. In all these processes, the best inference is that there is genuine ontological indeterminism in the quantum domain of nature. Whether there is similar ontological indeterminism at one or many other levels, from those of everyday nature to the universe as a whole, is an open question.13 Nevertheless, my theological proposal is that ontological indeterminism exists at the quantum level and that it provides a basis for a theological account of direct, objective, and non-­ interventionist/non-miraculous divine action. I will refer to this view of divine action as “QM-NIODA.” There are numerous topics, questions and clarifications that are associated with QM-NIODA. I will turn to several of the most important ones in the following section, and I leave the reader to explore the wider set found in the references listed below.14 First, however, I want to offer a basic clarification about two crucial issues: (1) why I sometimes use the term “counterfactual” in the context of QM-NIODA, and (2) why we need to choose between several kinds of accounts of God’s action in relation to the collapse of the wavefunction. (1) By “counterfactual” I do not mean the usual idea that God “makes a difference in the future” in terms of what would have happened had God not acted. This is because in a statistical theory like quantum mechanics, it is not immediately obvious what that “difference” means, or “what would have happened had God not acted” means. Let us imagine a series of quantum events consisting of an electron emitted by a source in the x-direction and whose spin along the z-axis is either “up” or “down” as measured by a suitable instrument.15 Let us denote  This move is typically called “inference to the best explanation.” See Douven, 2011.  For a readable and reliable discussion of eight interpretations of QM, see Herbert, 1985. For a brief discussion, see Polkinghorne, 2011. For a more technical discussion, see Russell, 1988). 13  Such a possibility is explored in detail in Russell & Moritz, 2018. 14  See Russell, 2001, 2008. 15  A simple example is a Stern-Gerlach apparatus. See http://www.quantumphysicslady.org/glossary/stern-gerlach-device/. Last visited on May 6, 2021. 11 12

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“up” by “+” and “down” by “-.” Suppose we perform ten measurements on ten successive electrons. We know from elementary quantum mechanics that the statistical average of “up” and “down” is 50/50.16 Now suppose God acts, together with nature, to produce the following results for ten measurements:

+−++−−+−−+

(a)

Now instead, let us suppose that God acts, together with nature, to produce a different result for the ten measurements:

+−++−+−−−+

(b)

Does the difference between (a) and (b) represent counterfactual divine action? In an important sense it does, since the sixth and seventh outcomes of the measurements in sequence (b) are different from what they are in sequence (a). But suppose further that God is acting in all ten outcomes, whether in the (a) sequence or the (b) sequence. Then in an important sense, God is not acting in a counterfactual sense since God is acting equally in all ten events in each sequence. The bottom line: the difference God makes is counterfactual in a rather new sense—compare (a) to (b)— but not in the usual sense that God acts in only one event counterfactually. Finally, the difference does not contradict what science predicts because both (a) and (b) cohere with the 50/50 predictions of quantum mechanics. In this specific sense, God’s actions can be said to be “hidden” from direct scientific observation even while being consistent with the predictions of scientific law. (2) In a key 2006 essay, Kirk Wegter-McNelly suggested that my term for a measurement in my expanded sense—“quantum event”—actually includes two distinct ideas: the collapse event per se, and the actual outcome of the collapse event which arises out of the many possible outcomes of the event (Wegter-­ McNelly, 2006, p. 100.).17 Recall that, according to the Copenhagen interpretation, the Schrődinger equation does not account for either the occasion of the collapse or the specific outcome of the collapse. That, in fact, is the reference for the term “ontological indeterminism.” Kirk’s crucial insight leads me to suggest four ways to frame the idea of NIODA in light of the Copenhagen interpretation of QM: Option (i) God’s action is related to the collapse but it may or may not be related to the specific outcome. Instead the outcome might be due to natural causes.  Of course in any finite sample such as this, the actual results can vary from the expected, 50/50 result. This complicates the meaning of “counterfactual” but in ways that would take us too far afield for this short chapter. 17  In 2008 Wesley J. Wildman offered a similar analysis of the aspects of a quantum event and the possibilities for divine action they represent but without reference to Wegter-McNelly’s publication (Wildman, 2008, pp. 158–159; see especially fig. 3, option #1 [“God could initiate measurement events”], and option #3 [“God could select an outcome state”]. 16

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Option (ii) God’s action relates to the specific outcome but it may or may not be related to the collapse. Instead the collapse might be due to natural causes. Option (iii) God’s action is related to both the collapse and the specific outcome. Option (iv) God’s action is not related to either the collapse or the specific outcome. In previous writings I intended to defend the second possibility (ii), namely that God’s action relates to the specific outcome, but I occasionally wrote in ways that could be taken to support (iii), that God’s action relates to the collapse and the outcome. I regret this fact and hope now to put it aside. One reason for supporting option (ii) is to avoid opting for what is, in effect, an epistemic gaps argument regarding the outcome.18 Even if a future scientific theory, or one of today’s non-orthodox theories, turns out to offer a natural account of the collapse—but as long as it does not also account for the outcome—option (ii) would not be an epistemic gaps argument. Of course, if such a theory were to offer a natural account of the collapse and the specific outcome, then option (ii) would be ruled out as in “hindsight” an epistemic gaps argument. Note: option (iii) is more vulnerable than option (ii) to such a “hindsight” “gaps” charge since it would then be seen as an epistemic gaps argument if such a future theory were to offer a natural account of either the collapse, the specific outcome, or both. Another reason for supporting option (ii) is that it could serve to motivate a search for a replacement for QM. This is a complicated point. First, suppose that nature, according to QM, does not provide the sufficient reasons for the quantum event. Second, suppose either that, for theological reasons, God is not to be considered as providing the QM-NIODA-type cause of the collapse, or that, for philosophical reasons, “God” is ruled out as an explanation by scientists who follow methodological naturalism. Finally, suppose that the Principle of Sufficient Reason (PSR) is obeyed by nature.19 Then, a natural cause must exist even though it is as-yet unknown. If so, then this cause, although hidden as far as QM goes, is one for which some scientists might find themselves motivated to search. Physicist and cosmologist William Stoeger, S. J., provides an important example of a distinguished scientist taking precisely this position. From his neo-Thomistic perspective, which relies on a radical distinction between God’s primary and nature’s secondary causality, the PSR must be obeyed by nature alone. Accordingly, there must in fact be a new “non-­ local hidden variable” that we have not yet found but that we will find in the future.20 Needless to say, if such a variable were to be found, it would potentially undermine

 I am grateful for private conversations with Wegter-McNelly about this point.  As Karen Zwier pointed out (private communications) there are plenty of theoretical physicists who do not subscribe to PSR. That is precisely why Copenhagen is the mainstream view. While this is a very important point, it does not mean that no theoretical physicists subscribe to PSR. In fact, William Stoeger, S. J., whom I refer to in later in this paragraph, did subscribe to it and therefore expected that a new non-local hidden variable theory would eventually be found to replace current QM (private communications). 20  Private communications. 18 19

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my idea of divine action in terms of QM-NIODA. I have routinely acknowledged the vulnerability of QM-NIODA to both an alternative interpretation of QM taking ascendency over that of ontological indeterminism (in what I have called the problem of “multiple interpretability”) and to QM being eventually replaced by a new theory of subatomic processes (in what I have called the problem of “historical relativity”). I have also developed responses to these problems, suggesting that we take a “what if” approach for the time being, accepting QM and one of the interpretations of it. Then we will see what that interpretation offers to the concept of NIODA, realizing that this interpretation and even QM might one day be set aside in favor of another interpretation or new physics. Thus option (ii) can serve to motivate some scientists, particularly those who have reflected on their own wider philosophical and theological beliefs, towards further scientific exploration into the discovery of sufficient natural explanations lying beyond QM. In this sense it would be an apt example of my “creative mutual interaction” where theological ideas, properly reconstructed in light of science (“theology of nature”), offer ideas about nature that serve as inspiration for future theoretical development in physics or criteria of choice between competing theories in physics.21

13.5 QM-NIODA As I have described in previous writings,22 quantum processes underlie and give rise to the general features of the classical, everyday physical world, as well as specific macroscopic effects in the classical physical world. These facts may be interpreted theologically as follows: (1) divine action at the quantum level results in the general features of the classical world, such as the bonding of atoms into molecules and compounds, chemical reactions, the solidity of wood and rock, the coolness of metal, the tides of the oceans, the weather, and many other features which typically fall within the category of general providence; (2) divine action at the quantum level also results in specific features and events in the classical world, some of which fall within the category of special providence and which can include biological and molecular evolution.23 I focus on the latter here. Quantum processes underlie and give rise to specific effects in the macroscopic world in several ways. One way is through phenomena such as superfluidity and superconductivity, which, although found in the ordinary classical world, are really “bulk” quantum states. Another and quite different way is through specific quantum processes, which, when amplified as in the examples below, result in particular effects  For example, see Russell, 2012.  For details about QM-NIODA, see a longer exposition in Russell, 2001. For an earlier detailed discussion, see Russell, 1988. 23  There is an ongoing debate about the extent to which quantum events are amplified to produce specific effects in the macroscopic world, e.g., Jeffrey Koperski’s work, which I discuss in the next section (13.6). 21 22

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in the classical world. It is the latter that are part of what we call special providence, although as I indicated above, special providence includes many events in nature and history—such as the birth of a child or a wedding celebration—that seem to fall far beyond what the amplification of quantum events can produce. Obvious examples of amplified effects range from such jury-rigged situations as “Schrödinger’s cat”24 to such routine measurement devices as a Geiger counter. But the amplification of specific effects in the macroscopic level from quantum processes includes a whole range of phenomena such as the animal eye responding to a single photon, mental states resulting from quantum events at neural junctions, or the phenotypic expression of a single genetic mutation in an organism. Moreover, the amplification of microscopic to macroscopic states in most of these processes does not rely on chaos theory to amplify these slight quantum differences into specific, bulk effects at the classical level. Thus from a theological perspective, God’s noninterventionist action at the quantum level gives rise to the creation of some of the specific features of the classical world which we would call, to use my terminology, a non-miraculous form of special providence. This will be particularly significant when we inquire into the possibility of God’s action in affecting the biological processes of evolution, as suggested by the generic term “theistic evolution.” I will turn to this topic in Sect. 13.7 below. In sum: the results of God’s action at the quantum level can be seen as bringing about, in a non-interventionist mode, both many of the general features of the world we describe theologically in terms of general providence (or continuous creation) and at least some of those specific events in the world to which a theology of special providence refers.

13.6  Specific Quantum Effects at the Macroscopic Level? Whether specific events of non-interventionist divine action at the quantum level can be amplified even more widely in relation to other domains of special providence in the macroscopic world is an open question. On the one hand, Jeffrey Koperski suggests that most kinds of macroscopic events that lie within emergent, upper-level domains of complexity in nature are surprisingly isolated from any potential amplification of the microscopic effects of quantum mechanics. There are many levels at which phenomena are blind to perturbations at smaller scales. In these instances, changes of state at the more fundamental level have an undetectable effect at higher levels. Nature has, in other words, placed roadblocks between some levels of reality such that small changes, including quantum changes, cannot influence the goings-on at the next level up. These “roadblocks” are what Nobel physicist Robert Laughlin refers to as “protectorates” … [namely] a domain of physics whose behavior is independent of the microdetails found at smaller scales. (Koperski, 2015, pp. 381–382)25

 See “Schrödinger’s cat” on p.  332 of the Glossary in Russell, Clayton, Wegter-McNelly, and Polkinghorne, 2011. 25  On “what Nobel physicist Robert Laughlin refers to as ‘protectorates,’” see Laughlin & Pines, 2000, p. 29 (as references in n.9 of Koperski, 2015). 24

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Thus while Koperski supports the applicability of QM-NIODA to theistic evolution,26 the topic to which I will turn to below, Koperski’s work clearly raises a crucial question about the general applicability of QM in affecting the macroscopic world and therefore also to non-interventionist special divine action in the ordinary world based on QM. On the other hand, QM-NIODA might produce macroscopic effects in the largest possible context, the universe as a whole as described by Big Bang cosmology, and therefore well beyond the regime to which Laughlin’s protectorates argument applies. According to cosmologist George Ellis, quantum fluctuations “have changed the course of structure formation in the universe” (Ellis, 2018, pp. 26–27). It is hard to imagine a more “macroscopic” effect of quantum events than this! Ellis argues that quantum randomness influences the history of the universe as a whole. As a result, the future of the universe cannot be predicted from the past for two reasons. First, inhomogeneities in the very early universe ~300,000 years after the Big Bang were the outcome of quantum fluctuations during inflation, not the initial conditions at the outset of inflation: Hence the existence of our specific Galaxy, and the Sun and Earth in it, is also not so determined. They are the outcome of unpredictable random events…. The specific evolutionary outcomes of life on Earth … cannot even in principle be uniquely determined by causal evolution from conditions in the early universe, or from detailed data at the start of life on Earth. Quantum uncertainty prevents this, because it significantly affected the occurrence of radiation-induced mutations in this evolutionary history. (Ellis, 2018, p. 30)

Second, near the end of his paper Ellis writes that the initial state of the universe effects but not entirely determine the future states of the universe: The initial state of the universe allows all this to happen, but does not dictate the outcome. It cannot do so because of the randomness created by quantum uncertainty, which unfolds over time and creates possibilities out of which complexity can arise. (Ellis, 2018, p. 58)

This might be, in effect, a form of microscopic-macroscopic amplification of universal scale!27

 According to Koperski, “quantum determination does work as a mechanism for theistic evolution. If that’s all one wants from quantum mechanical randomness, I have no objection. There is, however, a large gap between a mechanism-for-theistic-evolution on one hand and a robust-model-­ of-divine-action on the other” (Koperski, 2015, p. 381). 27  Before closing this discussion, I would like to return briefly to Koperski’s challenge to the amplification issue and offer a clarifying terminological distinction. I will refer to the kind of amplification about which Koperski cautions as “immediate,” “sudden,” or “vertical” amplification (think again of the example of the eye registering a single photon) and distinguish it from what I call “temporally long-range” or “lateral” amplification (think of the evolution of species on earth over billions of years). Returning to the theological significance of all this, the instances of special providence resulting from vertical amplification might be limited, as Koperski suggests, but this limitation does not seem to apply to special providence resulting from lateral amplification from genetics/molecular biology to macro evolution/speciation as discussed by theistic evolution and as pertaining to the 3.8-billion-year history of the evolution of life on earth. 26

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13.7 QM-NIODA and Miracles? Can specific quantum events due to non-interventionist, objective divine action lead to miracles at the macroscopic level? This is an enormous, highly significant, and unfortunately mostly untouched question in the scholarly literature in theology and science, including my own. Permit me to offer a few introductory thoughts here as indicating my commitment to pursuing this question further in the future. For brevity, I focus on the types of miracles found in the New Testament (NT) of the Christian Bible. Needless to say, I am not presupposing a Humean interpretation of miracles; far from it. Instead, I employ Aquinas’s three-fold typology described above. More specifically, miracles signify, disclose, and manifest the new creation that began proleptically with the resurrection of Jesus—even though the NT miracles chronologically occurred before the events of Easter Sunday—and points eschatologically towards the future final and total transformation of the universe into that new creation. I will suggest how QM-NIODA might be relevant to these NT miracles, at least in pointing to a way in which some of God’s actions, even when extraordinary, can be accomplished in, with, and through the ordinary processes of nature. Generally speaking, there are at least at least four types of miracles in the NT in addition to the “mega-miracle” of the bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ to eternal life: physical/somatic healing miracles, mental/spiritual healing miracles, nature miracles, and resurrection (resuscitation) as restoration of life. Although the overall purpose of miracles is debated by NT scholars, their purpose in the Gospel of John seems be that of bringing people to faith in Jesus and showing that Jesus possesses God’s power over nature and physical and mental illness (John 20:30–31).28 Can QM-NIODA be relevant to any of these kinds of NT miracles? The scholarship is undecided. On the one hand, as we have seen with Koperski’s argument, most quantum effects seem to average out at the macro level. On the other hand, as we have also seen above, Ellis points to the universal impact of quantum events in considering the early history of the Big Bang universe. In this latter sense, the universe in its actual, specific form, structure, and historical development, including the evolution of life, might be the result of God’s QM-NIODA involvement from the very early universe up to the present. Perhaps the universe itself might be thought of as a macroscopic miraculous reality! Are there other areas in nature where QM-NIODA might be related to the NT miracles? Here, I proffer three. First, quantum events underlying genetic mutations, when expressed in the phenotype of progeny, can contribute to the personalities, physical characteristics, and other personal factors in this progeny, some of which

 However, in the gospel of Mark a miracle can occur regardless of whether those who witness it already have faith in Jesus. Jesus often commands his disciples to keep his divinity a secret (i.e., the “Messianic Secret”). 28

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might seem extraordinarily unusual. When we think of these kinds of quantum effects in terms of QM-NIODA, it is suggestive of the NT category mental/spiritual healings. Second, quantum effects related to the firing of neurons in the brain arguably can affect the mind and mental states. If we consider God having a role in these firings, it might lead to a new theological understanding of divine revelation.29 Third, quantum events can lead to what is often called the “butterfly effect.” Slight changes in the weather over one part of the globe can lead to major changes in the weather at a distant part of the globe. The butterfly effect depends on slight changes in the initial conditions of chaotic systems brought about by underlying quantum events. These changes in the initial conditions can be amplified by the dynamics of chaotic systems. If God is conceived of as acting à la NIODA in these quantum events, the ensuing effects in the macroscopic world could be an example of the amplification of the effects of non-interventionist divine action.30 These in turn might be relevant to the NT category of nature miracles. One final thought about how the NT miracles relate to the resurrection of Jesus and the role of QM-NIODA therein. Following N.T. Wright (2008) and other NT scholars, I view the resurrection of Jesus as a transformation from the Jesus of Nazareth to the risen Christ. As a transformation, there are elements of both continuity and discontinuity between Jesus of Nazareth and risen Christ: the same personal identity and one who bears the scars of the cross (continuity), but also now an eternal person who will never suffer or die (discontinuity), and so on. In my approach to eschatology, the idea of transformation is extended and generalized to the entire cosmos, so that some aspects of the present creation remain (examples might include mathematics, agape love, experiencing the communion of saints), while others dissolve away (such as racism, war, death) and entirely new ones are created by God (such as life without suffering and the eternal banquet with the Lord). Using this idea of transformation, we can conclude that QM-NIODA might be an element of continuity between the miracles of the NT and the miracle of the Resurrection, while the newly created eternal aspects of the resurrection (life without suffering or death) transcend the limits of the NT miracles (such as the resuscitation of Lazarus to earthly life and eventual death). As I suggested above, the resurrection signals the beginning of the new creation manifest within the domain of the present creation. With a nod towards Hume, we could call the processes of the new creation the “first instantiations of new laws of nature” or the “first instantiations of the new laws of the new creation,” where we understand the idea of “laws” to be regulative/descriptive and not normative/prescriptive. Thus NIODA applies to events in which the underlying laws of nature are

29 30

 See Peacocke, 1999.  John Polkinghorne discusses a scenario similar to this in Polkinghorne, 1994, pp. 25–26, 77.

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in place, as with its employment of QM, whereas the miracle of the resurrection signals the presence of new laws that transcend the present ones.31

13.8 QM-NIODA and Theistic Evolution Versus Atheistic Evolution and Intelligent Design One of the most fruitful applications of a theology of QM-NIODA is in the context of evolutionary biology, namely a theistic interpretation of evolution or “theistic evolution” (TE), which broadly speaking claims that God is the creator of the diversity of species that we find spanning the evolutionary history of life on earth. Although there is a spectrum of voices for TE—including such diverse views as those of Ian Barbour, Philip Clayton, Teilhard de Chardin, Denis Edwards, George Ellis, John Haught, Walter Hearn, John Paul II, Ernan McMullin, Jürgen Moltmann, Nancey Murphy, Wolfhart Pannenberg, Arthur Peacocke, Ted Peters, John Polkinghorne, Karl Rahner, Bill Stoeger, and Joseph Zycinski—all seem to agree on at least one point: A very strong theological case can be made that God continuously creates through the processes of biological evolution. It is a case that accepts the “Modern Synthesis” (Darwinian evolutionary biology and Mendelian molecular biology) without needing to expand its explanatory methods to include “agency” (in contrast to Intelligent Design), claiming that evolutionary biology is how God creates the diversity of species on earth (in contrast to atheistic evolution, e.g., Richard Dawkins). According to TE, long before the evolution of humankind and our creation of measuring instruments, nature was replete with quantum amplification of a biological form. Quantum processes were essential to the production of genetic variation, and genetic variation led to phenotypic variation in the populations of living species. I call the genotype-phenotype relation a “biological amplifier.” Here natural selection is at work, favoring those phenotypes with greater fitness in the competition for finite resources in changing environments. This in turn contributes to both microevolution and, even more importantly, macroevolution.32 From a theological perspective, I see this whole evolutionary process as due to God’s non-­interventionist action at the quantum level of genetic variation. In this way I believe the most significant accomplishment of QM-NIODA is in delivering on the “promissory note” of TE by those scholars listed above who support TE but may not be able to fully  Let me close this section by stressing that QM-NIODA—indeed, any serious theory of divine action—leads to the challenge of theodicy: the existence of moral and natural evil in the world in which God acts. There simply is no room to explore this challenge here, but many of us in theology and science have written on it in the past, and I for one intend to continue to pursue it in the future. As the reader might guess, my approach is to turn to eschatology to provide a theological framework in which the challenge of theodicy can be adjudicated. See for example, the essays in Murphy et al., 2007, as well as Russell, 2008. 32  I make this point in a variety of publications. See for example, Russell, 1998, 2008. 31

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articulate just how God’s action in evolution in and through natural processes works such as to bring about events in nature in, with, and through natural processes. With QM-NIODA we can provide a theological account of the diversity of well-adapted species as part of God’s providence for the natural world without challenging the methodology of the natural sciences (methodological naturalism) as Intelligent Design does.

13.9 Conclusions I hope to have shown that God can be understood as acting objectively in nature without violating, interrupting, or overruling routine natural processes. This approach to divine action is meant to transcend the conceptual split seen in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries between conservative and liberal theologies, the first supporting objective divine action even if it requires God to act in miraculous ways in conflict with science, the second supporting a harmony between science and theology at the expense of reducing special divine action to general providence. I have sought to do so by constructing a new account of divine action—non-interventionist objective divine action (NIODA)—that combines the strengths of both conservative and liberal theologies while transcending their difficulties and conflicts. I ground NIODA in the realm of quantum processes, while encouraging other scholars to explore the possibility of NIODA in realms such as chaos and complexity, the mind/ brain problem, whole-part emergence, and the universe as a whole. I also explore whether NIODA at the quantum level can be amplified to lead to special results in the ordinary macroscopic world. I also accept many of the reports of miracles in the NT, as seen through the scholarly lens of biblical criticism that stretches back over two centuries. I interpret these miracles through the lens of eschatology, focusing on the resurrection of Jesus and the miracles he performed, interpreting them as a proleptic manifestation of the patterns of nature and human life that characterize the new creation. I conclude by asking whether QM-NIODA could be relevant to the phenomena of NT miracles, giving a brief argument of how they can be. This area of work has so far been relatively unexplored in the standard literature in theology and science. I hope to pursue it more extensively in the future, and I deeply appreciate the opportunity to begin this exploration though my invitation to participate in The Comparison Project.

References Aquinas, T. (1975 [1265]). Summa contra gentiles, book 3: Providence. Trans. V.J.  Bourke. University of Notre Dame Press. Augustine. (1887 [426]). City of god. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, first series, vol. 2. Trans. Marcus Dods. Ed. Philip Schaff. http://www.newadvent.org/fathers/120121.htm. Accessed 2014, September 3.

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Clayton, P. (1997). God and contemporary science. Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Company. Dilley, F.  B. (1965). Does the “god who acts” really act? The Anglical Theological Review, 47, 66–80. Dodds, M. J. (2012). Unlocking divine action: Contemporary science and Thomas Aquinas. The Catholic University of America Press. Douven, I. (2011). Abduction. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. http://plato.stanford.edu/ entries/abduction/. Accessed 2016, April 25. Ellis, G. F. R. (2018). Necessity, purpose, and chance: The role of randomness and indeterminism in nature from complex macroscopic systems to relativistic cosmology. In R. J. Russell & J. M. Moritz (Eds.), God’s providence and randomness in nature: Scientific and theological perspectives (pp. 21–67). Templeton Press. Herbert, N. (1985). Quantum reality: Beyond the new physics. Anchor Books. Hume, D. (2000 [1748]). In T. L. Beauchamp (Ed.), An enquiry concerning human understanding. Oxford University Press. Kärkkäinen, V.-M. (2015). Creation and humanity: A constructive Christian theology for a pluralistic world (Vol. 3). Eerdmans. Koperski, J. (2015). Divine action and the quantum amplification problem. Theology and Science, 13(4), 379–394. Laughlin, R.  B., & Pines, D. (2000). The theory of everything. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America, 97(1), 28–31. McGrew, T. (2010). Miracles. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. http://plato.stanford.edu/ entries/miracles/. Accessed 2016, July 19. Murphy, N. (1990). Theology in an age of scientific reasoning. Cornell University Press. Murphy, N. (1993). Evidence of design in the fine-tuning of the universe. In R.  J. Russell, N. Murphy, & C. J. Isham (Eds.), Quantum cosmology and the laws of nature: Scientific perspectives on divine action (pp. 407–436). Vatican Observatory Publications. Murphy, N. (1996). Beyond liberalism & fundamentalism: How modern and postmodern philosophy set the theological agenda. Trinity Press International. Murphy, N., Russell, R.  J., & Stoeger, W.  R. (Eds.). (2007). Physics and cosmology; scientific perspectives on the problem of natural evil. Vatican City State. Pannenberg, W. (1970–1971). Basic questions in theology (2 Vols). Trans. George H.  Kehm. Fortress Press. Peacocke, A. (1983). Theology for a scientific age: Being and becoming—Natural, divine, and human. Fortress Press. Peacocke, A. (1999). The sound of sheer silence: How does god communicate with humanity? In R. J. Russell, N. Murphy, T. C. Meyering, & M. A. Arbib (Eds.), Neuroscience and the person: Scientific perspectives on divine action (pp. 215–247). Vatican Observatory Publications. Peacocke, A. (2007). In P. Clayton (Ed.), All that is: A naturalistic faith for the twenty-first century. Fortress Press. Peters, T. (2015). God—The world’s future: Systematic theology for a new era (3rd ed.). Fortress Press. Polkinghorne, J. (1989). Science and providence: God’s interaction with the world. Shambhala. Polkinghorne, J. (1994). The faith of a physicist: Reflections of a bottom-up thinker. Princeton University Press. Polkinghorne, J. (2011). Physical process, quantum events, and divine agency. In R. J. Russell, P. Clayton, K. Wegter-McNelly, & J. Polkinghorne (Eds.), Quantum mechanics: Scientific perspectives on divine action (pp. 181–190). Vatican Observatory Publications. Russell, J. R. (1988). Quantum physics in philosophical and theological perspective. In R. J. Russell, W. R. Stoeger, & G. V. Coyne (Eds.), Physics, philosophy, and theology: A common quest for understanding (pp. 343–374). Vatican Observatory Publications. Russell, J. R. (1998). Special providence and genetic mutation: A new defense of theistic evolution. In R. J. Russell, W. R. Stoeger, & F. J. Ayala (Eds.), Evolutionary and molecular biology: Scientific perspectives on divine action (pp. 191–223). Vatican Observatory Publications.

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Russell, R. J. (2001). Divine action and quantum mechanics: A fresh assessment. In R. J. Russell, P. Clayton, K. Wegter-McNelly, & J. Polkinghorne (Eds.), Quantum mechanics: Scientific perspectives on divine action (pp. 293–328). Vatican Observatory Publications. Russell, R. J. (2008). Cosmology from alpha to omega: The creative mutual interaction of theology and science. Fortress Press. Russell, R. J. (2012). Time in eternity: Pannenberg, physics, and eschatology in creative mutual interaction. University of Notre Dame Press. Russell, J.  R. (2018). What we’ve learned from quantum mechanics about noninterventionist objective divine action in nature—and its remaining challenges. In R. J. Russell & J. M. Moritz (Eds.), God’s providence and randomness in nature: Scientific and theological perspectives (pp. 133–171). Templeton Press. Russell, R.  J., & Moritz, J.  M. (Eds.). (2018). God’s providence and randomness in nature: Scientific and theological perspectives. Templeton Press. Schleiermacher, F. (1958 [1799]). On religion: Speeches to its cultured despisers. Trans. John Oman. Harper & Row. Schleiermacher, F. (1986 [1830–1831]). In H. R. Mackintosh & J. S. Stewart (Eds.), The Christian faith. T & T. Clark. Wegter-McNelly, K. (2006). Atoms may be small, but they’re everywhere: Robert Russell’s theological engagement with the quantum revolution. In T. Peters & N. Hallanger (Eds.), God’s action in nature’s world: Essays in honour of Robert John Russell (pp.  93–111). Ashgate Publishing Company. Wildman, W.  J. (2008). The divine action project, 1988–2003. In R.  J. Russell, N.  Murphy, & W. R. Stoeger (Eds.), Scientific perspectives on divine action: Twenty years of challenge and progress (pp. 133–176). Vatican Observatory Publications. Wright, N. T. (2008). Surprised by hope: Rethinking heaven, the resurrection, and the mission of the church. HarperOne. Zwier, K. R. (2022). Miracles in philosophical analysis. In K. R. Zwier, D. Weddle, & T. D. Knepper (Eds.), Miracles: An exercise in comparative philosophy of religion, 12. Springer.

Chapter 14

Miracles and the Uniformity of Nature Mark Harris

Abstract  This chapter looks critically at the prevailing modern understanding of miracle, adapted from David Hume, where a miracle is a transgression by the Deity of a law of nature. I suggest that this stock understanding informs the widespread secular naturalism of our day, where the metaphysical concept of laws of nature becomes, in effect, the benchmark of reality. I question the utility of this view for establishing a meaningful view of nature and of the natural sciences, and look again at David Hume’s philosophy of induction. This leads me to highlight the ‘uniformity of nature’ as a more flexible concept by which to unify the sciences and to define miracle. I use the example of contemporary earth science to discuss how uniformity has informed scientific practice and scientific unity, and I suggest some ways in which the concept of miracle is both transformed and is transformative in this view.

14.1 Introduction I have long been fascinated by the concept of miracle, especially since it constitutes an unspoken no-go area in my two professional disciplines of physics and theology. For physicists, a miracle is absolutely beyond the pale: a literally impossible event in physical terms (one which breaks the laws of nature, at any rate). And for modern Christian theologians, their deafening silence on the topic suggests “embarrassment” (Larmer, 2011, p.  267), or at least caution. My own reaction has evolved steadily over the years, which is why I have rarely committed to publishing on it, always hoping that my thoughts would settle. But fundamentally, I have never been convinced by the widespread modern conviction which guides much of the reticence alluded to above, namely that miracles are inimical to natural science, and M. Harris (*) University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_14

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vice versa. This chapter represents the closest that I have come to a settled body of thought on the matter, but it is still a work in progress towards a more complete book project, and so only represents a snapshot. The key to my argument is to look critically at arguments for the unity of nature and of the sciences, and to suggest that the concept of uniformity offers a helpful way forward both here and in the Christian theology of miracle. Miracle has long been a traditional topic in philosophy of religion, and it is traditional to focus on David Hume’s (1711–1776) famous definition of a miracle as a transgression of a law of nature by the Deity (or another invisible agent). But this definition has had an impact far beyond philosophy of religion, since it has a crucial role in the secular worldview of our times, establishing the sharp epistemic dualism between the natural world (the domain of science) and the supernatural world (the domain of religious belief). This dualism reinforces (and is reinforced by) the key assumption of secularism that science and religion are incompatible, perhaps even in fundamental conflict with each other. Culturally then, Hume’s definition of miracle carries such a great deal of authority as to be practically unassailable—it just appears “obvious” in our modern secular world—despite the philosophical and theological problems that are routinely identified with it and with the myth of conflict between science and religion. The related popular notion that there is a hierarchy among the natural sciences also reinforces (and is reinforced by) Hume’s definition of miracle. In this hierarchy, the natural sciences are assumed to be related to each other by reduction to basic laws of nature, and that physics offers the most fundamental account of those laws. This assumption of reductionism is so widespread and so rarely questioned that it constitutes a virtual worldview of its own: it is just “obvious” (again). It is inevitable in this worldview that the laws of nature/ physics will form the bedrock of our view of reality—the boundary between nature and supernature—which means that Hume’s definition of miracle will be virtually inescapable. But note that reductionism is a metaphysical assumption, not a scientific result. Reductionism may be consistent with the general scientific practice of tackling a problem by breaking it down into its constituents, but it is not identical with such a practice (since reductionism makes ontological claims), and it cannot be tested empirically by any one science, still less by all. Therefore, my starting point—in common with current trends in the philosophy of science—is to challenge reductionism, not least because the sciences themselves (even physics) cannot demonstrate its truth empirically; reductionism is a metaphysical stance concerning the scientific edifice, which cannot be tested by scientific means. And in any case, reductionism is challenged by many new branches of the natural sciences that deal in complexity and emergence, working largely in the opposite direction to reductionism. Perhaps more importantly, reductionism is challenged by the simple empirical observation that there are many natural sciences—most obviously the biological sciences— that do not reduce straightforwardly to physics, except in trivial ways, such as by saying that gravity acts on all things, or that all physical entities are made of components that are the domain of physics, such as subatomic particles.

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Once we question reductionism as the key to the unity of the sciences and look for alternative unifying motifs, we find that the definition of miracle comes into view, since the natural sciences are united in methodologically denying miracles within their own domains. The natural sciences are united at base level not by the search for monolithic and irreducible physical laws, but by the scientific community’s refusal to accept an occult explanation for any given entity or event in their special spheres of enquiry. Therefore, an empirical account of the whole natural world—defined as the subject of a united scientific edifice—runs up against the question of how to define miracle in the empirical terms recognized by the sciences. Or, to turn this on its head, the study of miracles can benefit from asking what actually needs to happen in concrete terms for a miracle to be acknowledged, a question that leads us into the problem of how the natural sciences might be said to unify study of the natural world, and how the sciences handle unique or unprecedented phenomena. My interests in miracle are precisely of this kind, which is why in this chapter I will question the assumption that physics is the primary science which defines nature and unites all of the other sciences. I will suggest that our view of the sciences, of nature, and also of miracles, changes dramatically, and that a different science—not physics, but earth science/geology—actually has a helpful way of resolving this problem of miracle and the unity of science.

14.2 Naturalism The heart of the issue, I suggest, concerns our inability to find a single comprehensive view of “nature” that works across the various spheres of enquiry that interest us here. It is notoriously difficult to define “nature.” Is it a scientific, metaphysical, spiritual, or aesthetic category? For instance, when we speak of nature, do we really mean “Nature,” a pristine more-or-less personified “Other” over and against the human world? Or are humans included in nature, which then effectively means the entire universe? Some consider the term “nature” to be so problematic— “potentially meaningless” in McGrath’s (2006, p. 86) assessment, for instance—that it is best avoided. Theologians can escape some of the problems by referring to “creation,” i.e. that which is created by the Creator, but this tactic works largely by placing the natural sciences in a metaphysical box that is larger than the sciences. This tactic says nothing to their individual aims and methods, and still less helps them relate to each other and to the natural world on their own terms. For this, I believe that we need to discuss naturalism, an equally-elusive term to “nature” with

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similarly subtle shades of meaning,1 but a term that has tended to indicate a belief in the sheer unparalleled effectiveness of the natural sciences to investigate the natural world. I myself, for instance, am quite happy to be regarded as a naturalist in broad methodological terms such as these, although I am aware that some other theists are not so warmly disposed, believing that all talk of naturalism relies on implicit (if not explicit) metaphysical claims which are inimical to a religious viewpoint.2 For myself, I see no reason why naturalism need be seen automatically as antithetical to theism, nor to belief in miracle: in addition to its strictly methodological form there exist metaphysical formulations of naturalism that do not place God in an “external” or wholly “other” supernatural dimension and that are therefore more open to theistic convictions (Gregersen, 2014, p. 100). In spite of my general sympathy towards naturalism, I am skeptical of its most exclusively-scientific form (what is sometimes called “scientism”). This takes such a high view of the explanatory scope of the natural sciences that they are our primary guide to reality and to all knowledge: the sciences are seen as competent in principle to address every question worth asking. But this raises one question immediately, and another that the sciences cannot address of themselves: whether such a naturalism respects the empirical reality of the natural sciences as they are practiced on the ground (in all their diversity and complexity), or whether it instead relies on a metaphysical agenda of its own, some kind of simplistic “Myth of the Unity of Science” as John Dupré (2004, p. 39–51) puts it. Attempts to unify the natural sciences have often relied upon reductionism as one such agenda, where the laws of fundamental physics are seen to underwrite all other scientific laws, and thereby all of physical reality. This is the tactic espoused by Oppenheim and Putnam (1958) in their influential article “Unity of Science as a Working Hypothesis.” Although these authors argued that their approach was a working hypothesis made on empirical grounds, it is hard to avoid the metaphysical nature of the reductionist assumptions they made to relate the sciences to each other through physics. But it is possible to argue in exactly the opposite direction, by saying that the diversity and individuality of the natural sciences offer thoroughly empirical counter-examples to metaphysical unifying arguments. For that reason, pluralistic approaches to the natural sciences have gained ground in philosophy of science recently over the previous

 Clark (2016, p. 1), for instance, warns, “It is impossible to offer a single precise definition of ‘naturalism.’” Nevertheless, Clark’s ensuing discussion makes it clear that, while there are many kinds of naturalism, they tend to be characterized by a distancing of religious categories such as “supernatural” alongside an embracing of the natural sciences as providing the most secure path to knowledge. Similarly, Flanagan (2006, pp. 430–431) offers 15 meanings of the term “naturalism,” all of which appear to exclude the supernatural (either explicitly or implicitly) and to take a positive stance towards scientific forms of enquiry. And as a final example, Slagle (2016, pp. 31–33) cites the common threads of “any type of naturalism or physicalism or materialism,” all of which work to place the modern natural sciences and their methods at the forefront of our description of reality. 2  For instance, Taliaferro and Evans (2011, p. 4) contest naturalism on the grounds that all of its various forms either assume or assert that theism is false. 1

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emphasis on reductionism,3 and this raises further questions for naturalisms that assume a unity of the natural world in advance of what the natural sciences can demonstrate. To put it bluntly, there are grounds to wonder whether “scientific naturalism is naturalistic enough by its own lights” (De Caro & Macarthur, 2004, p. 15–16). Moreover, the reductionistic physics-centered view of naturalism—what I shall refer to as “physics naturalism”—is unable to make full sense of human experience of the natural world. Physics naturalism downplays contingency, history, uniqueness, and novelty—those things that make our experience of nature so rich—and defines the natural world in terms of impersonal, a-historical, and necessary laws. Hence, not only does physics naturalism rely on an unstable view of the natural sciences, it is also fundamentally unhelpful in making sense of lived human experience of the natural world. Instead, I want to suggest a more “natural” approach to naturalism. I will do this shortly by looking at earth science, that science that has done the most methodologically to incorporate historical contingency (and perhaps even uniqueness) into our understanding of nature. Towards the end of this chapter, I will argue that such a naturalism also introduces a theologically more fertile way of examining miracle. But first, it is worth examining David Hume’s understanding of miracle, where the sharp dualism between nature and supernature (based on the laws of nature) appeared.

14.3 Miracles and Uniformity As mentioned previously, David Hume’s definition of miracle is essential in defining the sharp dualism of our times between the natural and supernatural worlds. Hume’s own discussion of miracle is relatively short,4 but the wider context is crucial. That wider context is Hume’s philosophy of induction, which, coupled with his rigorous empiricism, is central to the general methodology and ethos of the natural sciences as we know them now. Indeed, Hume is often taken as a founding “father of Naturalism” (Stroud, 2004, p. 23; Clark, 2016, p. 6). In his Enquiry concerning Human Understanding, Hume (2007) insists that we cannot make reasonable claims about the world that go beyond our pragmatic familiarity with it: all knowledge of the natural world must be based on observation and experience (i.e. experiment) rather than theorizing from first principles on the nature of things. This point has been so influential in the development of contemporary scientific method that it is  Fodor’s (1974) ironic use of the “disunity of science as a working hypothesis” as a challenge to the dominant Oppenheim and Putnam view is an early example of resistance to reductionism as the unifier of the sciences, although Fodor still wanted to retain a looser sense of unity for the sciences. Dupré’s is probably the best-known voice advocating a fully pluralist approach to the sciences. Other solutions exist, such as those that make a unifying virtue out of pluralism (e.g. Breitenbach & Choi, 2017). A useful review of the area is provided by Cat (2017). 4  Section X, “Of Miracles,” in Enquiry concerning Human Understanding, first published 1748. 3

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u­ niversally taken for granted as scientific “common sense” (Millican, 2007, pp. ix–x.). Hence, it is perhaps no surprise that Hume’s definition of miracles as transgressions of the laws of nature by the Deity (or another invisible agent) is effectively contained within the prevailing physics naturalism of our times, where the supernatural and the natural are so discrete and so mutually exclusive that a miracle can only be a forced disturbance of the natural order, as represented by the laws of nature. Critics of Hume’s definition of miracle (e.g. Ward, 2002, p. 742) often complain that it assumes a very high view of the laws of nature and of our ability to know them, such that the laws effectively become a priori principles stacked up against the miracle-working Deity. I will argue, however, that this criticism says more about the prevailing physics naturalism of our time—which has just such a high view of the laws—than Hume’s own, more subtle and more provisional, view. Hume actually says rather little explicitly about the laws of nature in Enquiry outside his discussion of miracle,5 and even here he does not define his view clearly (Millican, 2011, pp. 169–170). This is perhaps why critics assume that Hume’s view of the laws is the same as theirs, influenced by contemporary physics naturalism. But to see what Hume means we need to look earlier in Enquiry at his development of (what has become known as) “the principle of uniformity,” our assumption that the future will resemble the past. Uniformity is central to Hume’s account of inductive reasoning, since it is uniformity that allows us to interpret our experience of the world and to predict the relationship between cause and effect.6 Physics naturalism, of course, assumes that this relationship is governed by universal and exceptionless laws of nature. Uniformity is closely related to the laws of nature in Hume’s thinking, but uniformity is a wider—and to my mind more fertile—concept than laws, especially for thinking through the problem of miracle. For one thing, physics naturalism might rely on the idea that the laws of nature are wholly external and objective, embedded in nature herself as the bedrock, but Hume’s uniformity has a subjective dimension: uniformity can refer to an individual’s cognitive toolkit, developed and refined through our lifetimes by means of our experience of the world. In fact, Hume’s treatment of uniformity in Enquiry emphasizes this lived human experience, where uniformity is an assumption that we must make in order to go about our daily business: I can never prove a priori that the future will resemble the past, that when I go to bed tonight, for instance, I will wake up tomorrow. I know from wider human experience that it is entirely possible I might not wake up tomorrow, but my own experience so far is consistent with the expectation that I will. And so I can make a working hypothesis of uniformity between my past, present, and future, allowing me to extrapolate from the past in order to infer the future, from the known to the unknown. As Hume says:

 And when I refer to “Enquiry,” I mean the Enquiry concerning Human Understanding.  The interpretation of Hume’s thought on causation has become a complex and controverted area in modern philosophy, but since I am concerned especially with miracle the issues are somewhat simplified by being able to focus on Enquiry alone. This allows me to adopt the “skeptical realist” reading of Hume here (Beebee, 2012, pp. 143–144). 5 6

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For all inferences from experience suppose, as their foundation, that the future will resemble the past…. If there be any suspicion that the course of nature may change, and that the past may be no rule for the future, all experience becomes useless, and can give rise to no inference or conclusion. It is impossible, therefore, that any arguments from experience can prove this resemblance of the past to the future; since all these arguments are founded on the supposition of that resemblance. (Enquiry IV.21)

Uniformity is the inference from the known to the unknown, the assumption that our experience is reliable and uniform, that “the future will resemble the past.” Uniformity is therefore related to our expectation that the behavior of nature is regular and reliable—that it is meaningful to speak of the uniformity of nature-in-­ itself—but it is internal to my reasoning as much as it is external. The uniformity of nature refers to the nature of my own inductive reasoning and subjective experience as much as it does to the uniformity of nature-in-itself. Uniformity is therefore a “supposition,” a working hypothesis. Uniformity can never be confirmed beyond all doubt because we must assume it in order to test it. And insofar as the uniformity of nature is inherently related to the expectation that there might be lawlike behavior in nature, we find that Hume’s comments on laws in relation to miracles are very similar to his wider understanding of uniformity.7 In other words, modern critics of Hume’s view of miracles might complain that he amplifies the status of the laws of nature beyond all reason, but what he says is also consistent with a “softer” and more subjective understanding of the laws (Millican, 2011, pp. 170–171), as in his development of the principle of uniformity elsewhere in Enquiry. The conclusion I want to make at this point is that Hume’s famous definition of miracle as a transgression of the laws of nature is potentially misleading when it is taken out of the context of his wider (and more cautious) account of uniformity and is read instead in terms of modern physics naturalism. Theology has struggled to maintain a reasoned approach to miracles ever since this misreading of Hume became widespread, but I maintain that such a fixation with objective physical law as the most “real” basis to the natural world misunderstands the sciences, and misunderstands Hume. My point here is to suggest that Hume’s definition of miracle is more clearly articulated as a disturbance in the uniformity of nature by a supernatural agent, rather than as a transgression of the laws of nature by the same. Both definitions are compatible with each other, but by highlighting miracle as a disturbance in the uniformity of nature we emphasize that miracle is as much a disturbance in our internal expectation of uniformity as in the external uniformity of the natural world: it includes both subjective and objective elements. When physicists speak of the uniformity of nature, they tend to think of it as an objectively real property of the natural world, manifest in physical laws embedded in nature, but also in mathematical and geometrical properties in nature such as the ubiquity of irrational numbers such as pi, or the golden ratio (1.618). On the other hand, methodological studies of geology (the science which I want to focus on later in this chapter), have been more cautious

 And indeed, in his discussion of miracles, Hume uses the terms “uniform experience” and the “common course of nature” in parallel to his use of the laws of nature. All three kinds of term operate as yardsticks of our common experience, for Hume to stand against miracle (Enquiry X.12). 7

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about the uniformity of nature, realizing, thanks to the uniformitarianism-­ catastrophism debate (next section), that there is an important distinction between claiming that uniformity is a truly real property of nature, and saying that uniformity is our working hypothesis (an “instrument”) in our study of nature. Hume in fact got there before the geologists. Cutting to the chase, my own analysis of his thought on the uniformity of nature divides it up into three categories, which cut across the realist/anti-realist dichotomy: 1. Epistemological uniformity, i.e. our internal (anti-realist) assumption that the future will resemble the past, which gives us hope that we can gain traction on predictive hypotheses. 2. Empirical uniformity, Hume’s “general causes” in nature (Enquiry IV.12), determined by the scientific process of experiment, simplification, and modelling. Newton’s laws of motion are examples of such causes (e.g. Enquiry IV.13), and Hume appears to hold an instrumentalist take on them. But he nevertheless maintains that such laws advance our understanding, in the sense of providing us with improved tools to predict nature’s behavior. 3. Metaphysical uniformity, the realist belief in a uniformity that is embedded in nature and manifest in inbuilt regularities and causative powers, what Hume sometimes refers to as “ultimate springs and principles” (e.g. Enquiry IV.12) or “secret powers” (e.g. Enquiry IV.16). Hume is extraordinarily cautious towards saying anything concrete about this category, although he acknowledges his belief in this kind of uniformity. The weight of Hume’s presentation falls on category 1, the most anti-realist type of uniformity. Physics naturalism, however, in speaking of the laws of nature as open to scientific enquiry, claims to draw from category 2, but in making those laws the bedrock of reality it actually puts its weight on category 3. This simple mismatch between Hume’s view of uniformity and the dominant cultural view of our time explains some of the misunderstandings that arise today around his view of miracle, since many modern interpreters blithely assume that Hume’s view of laws and uniformity is identical to today’s physics naturalism, whereas he in fact has a considerably more sophisticated view. However, I will not investigate this mismatch in detail at this point but will go on to introduce the uniformity debates in geology.

14.4 Uniformity in Earth Science Attempts to generalize the natural sciences by saying that they are ultimately concerned with the determination of law-like properties tend to miss the important distinctions between an experimental science such as particle physics and an “historical” science like stratigraphic geology (Frodeman, 2000; Cleland, 2011; Jeffares, 2008; Inkpen, 2011; Turner, 2013). Two important distinctions can be made between experimental (especially law-determining) sciences and historical sciences. The first concerns method. Particle physics, for instance, can perform experimental tests

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over and over again in real time and in a more-or-less hermetically-sealed environment: varying key parameters and controlling spurious effects and contingencies in order to determine what holds in all times and places. But stratigraphic geology simply cannot replicate in the laboratory the enormous spatial and temporal effects at play in the earth’s crust, which means that these effects must be inferred in the field or examined in computer models. In terms of their concrete evidentiary basis, the historical sciences are all-too often restricted (compared with experimental sciences) to the fixed evidence of the past, which is almost always highly-limited in extent and highly context-dependent, and which in any case must all too-often be interpreted in situ. Indeed, the historical sciences are so different from experimental sciences in this regard that some (young-earth creationists notably, who have a vested interest in discrediting study of the deep past) question even whether the former should count as sciences according to Baconian induction, since the past cannot be observed directly in a laboratory. However, modern discussions of the philosophy of geology have countered this skepticism, showing that scientific study of the past can still be regarded as fully empirical, despite the important methodological contrast with laboratory-based sciences. This brings us to the second distinction that might be made between experimental and historical sciences. For if the former are better-placed to determine law-like behavior on account of the timescales of the processes they study, the latter are often less interested in the determination of general laws anyway, and at least as much concerned with the uniqueness of time and place in unlocking the secrets of earth history.8 Geology is therefore unusual among the sciences in welcoming the scandal of particularity: its focus is at least as much on contingency as regularity, at least as much on how the laws of nature have played out in specific times and places as determination of those laws. For instance, take one of the most impressive geological features of the earth, the Grand Canyon. As Simpson (1975, pp.  299–300) pointed out, in principle it might be possible to derive a general law of canyons, which would tell us everything we needed to know about how all canyons form everywhere in the universe, but this would hardly capture the significance of an individual remarkable canyon such as the Grand Canyon. Likewise, if I were a reductionist, I could (in principle) reduce this law of canyons to yet more fundamental laws of physics. But none of these various laws would tell me much about why the Grand Canyon itself is so uniquely interesting to geologists,9 nor would they tell me what geologists have learned about the earth’s history from the Grand Canyon above all other canyons. In other words, reducing the Grand Canyon to one instance

 It is important to note that the modern earth sciences are a very diverse set of subjects, some of which (e.g., mineral physics) are more like typical laboratory-based sciences. Overall though, the classic core areas of geology, such as petrology, stratigraphy, and palaeontology, are overwhelmingly focused on interpreting evidence of the past, usually gathered in the field, even if analyzed in a laboratory afterwards. 9  The main point is that the Grand Canyon exposes most of the last 2 billion years of North American geological history almost perfectly; it provides one of the earth’s most complete geological columns. 8

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of a general law or laws would tell me absolutely nothing about why this particular canyon is of unique scientific importance in itself. So if I were to claim (along the lines of physics naturalism) that I had captured the entire nature of reality in all times and places with my generalized laws, I would have missed altogether the special significance of how those laws played a part in producing the Grand Canyon in particular times and places. Clearly, the key word here is significance, which introduces a subjective nuance in the historical sciences: some canyons are simply more important to geologists than others. I will have more to say about this subjective angle later when I turn to miracles, because here too we find a subjective element that is inescapable. To emphasize what I have just drawn from Simpson: geology has an intense interest in the uniqueness and contingency of history, a peculiar feature of the science that is highly relevant for my attempts to develop a naturalism that appears more “natural” for situated and historical beings like ourselves. Such a naturalism, I suggest, would also be more productive for a theology of miracle. Uniformity is the key here, and coincidentally, of all the natural sciences, it is geology that has thought most deeply about uniformity. The history of uniformity in geology is complex and controverted, and the controversy continues to this day. Put simply, the controversy has concerned what came to be seen as two methodological schools of thought in the 1830s to 1850s, the “catastrophists” and the “uniformitarians.”10 The school of “catastrophism” is held to have emphasized the action of gigantic cataclysms in the earth’s history (including that of Noah’s flood), with relatively stable, quiet periods in between, so that it was not straightforward to infer from present processes what had always been the case in earth history. The great mountain ranges of the earth, such as the Andes, were cited as prime examples of how the earth must have been wrenched very rapidly by tremendous forces that we simply do not observe today. After all, looking at the jagged and extreme immensities of such mountains, it seems to go against all common sense to say they were formed by the infinitesimally-gentle geological processes we mostly see happening around us today. The parallel with miracle— understood as a suspension of the usual regularities of the world, i.e. the laws of nature—is not difficult to draw here, which is why critics have claimed that catastrophism was guilty of invoking supernatural explanations (e.g., Gould, 1965, p. 224). The school of “uniformitarianism,” on the other hand, insisted that, if we take the idea of deep time seriously—that the earth has been in existence for untold ages compared with our fleeting human experience—then much of the earth’s geological record can be explained in terms of the geological processes going on around us today, many of them slow, inexorable, and almost imperceptible, but having a powerful effect over vast expanses of time. There is no need, therefore, to call upon gigantic cataclysms that have no contemporary parallel; deep time will do the work well enough.  This controversy was an important precursor to the Darwin debates of the second half of the nineteenth century, and, like the Darwin debates, is also susceptible to being represented (inaccurately) as an example of the conflict of science versus religion (Bowler, 1984, pp. 103–104). 10

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Instead, we should assume that the geological processes of the ancient past are uniform with those of the present, unless there is evidence to the contrary. Thanks partly to the later success of Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection, which also emphasized gradual, naturalistic change acting over vast periods of time, uniformitarianism came to dominate over catastrophism. Uniformity was seen as so fundamental to geological method as to form a virtual law of nature itself (captured in the memorable phrase, “the present is the key to the past”), allowing for the evidence of the unexplained past to be interpreted scientifically. Hence, it is no accident that the idea of uniformity came to be applied beyond geology, to problems in philosophy, history and theology by thinkers such as John Stuart Mill (1806–1873), Ernst Troeltsch (1865–1923), and F. H. Bradley (1846–1924). Both Troeltsch and Bradley are of particular interest here, since both of them used the principle of uniformity to investigate the methodology of human history, particularly in the context of miracle claims. But as geology developed through the twentieth century, it slowly became apparent that something had been lost in the rejection of catastrophism. At the same time, the details of uniformity came to be questioned, with particular confusion arising surrounded the question of whether uniformity is largely something which we impose upon the disordered and complex reality of the earth, or a methodological research principle, or a real property of nature-in-itself. (These distinctions are precisely those I outlined above in Hume’s thought on uniformity, but unfortunately Hume’s thinking on uniformity has been largely ignored in the geological controversy.) That there was widespread confusion here became clear in Reijer Hooykaas’ (1959) famously-iconoclastic historical study of the uniformity controversy, Natural Law and Divine Miracle. This precipitated a major wave of questioning by historians and then scientists themselves of the near-unassailable status of uniformitarianism in geology.

14.5 Neocatastrophism Historians since Hooykaas have added a great deal of nuance to our understanding of the uniformitarianism-catastrophism debate. As with the Darwin debates, it is no longer seen as another example of science vanquishing religion, but fundamentally as an argument about how to do science.11 One surprising discovery is that, contrary to what the caricature claims, contemporary geology is in some important respects closer to nineteenth-century catastrophism than to uniformitarianism. For a serious interest in catastrophes—a movement sometimes referred to as “neocatastrophism”—started to appear in geology again from around the 1970s onwards, in tandem with the revisions of the historians studying the nineteenth-century debates.

 Many historians are important here, but the magisterial overviews of Martin Rudwick are particularly notable (Rudwick, 2005, 2008, 2014). 11

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The turning point came in 1980, when an article was published in the high-impact journal Science, which suggested that the mass extinction at the end of the Cretaceous period, 65 million years ago, was precipitated by a massive asteroid collision which caused widespread ecological and climatic disruption (Alvarez et  al., 1980). The popularity of this “extraterrestrial impact” model has gathered momentum, so that, even though there are persistent detractors12 and suggestions that the impact was just one of multiple causes behind the mass extinction (Hallam, 2004, p. 71), it is certainly the leading explanation for what is generally referred to as the K-T (or K-Pg, for “Cretaceous- Palaeogene”) extinction. And of course, this model for “the death of the dinosaurs” has become firmly entrenched in the popular imagination. It is probably no accident that the revival of scientific interest since the 1970s in catastrophes and cataclysms has been played out against a backdrop of growing concern for our own future in light of contemporary (and potentially catastrophic) climate change. There is now a newfound willingness in the contemporary mainstream earth sciences to acknowledge that unique and extreme events can have far-­ reaching consequences, with mass extinctions and their catastrophic causes being some of the prime examples of interest (Hallam, 2004). In effect, geology has been through another wave of debate about the uniformitarianism-catastrophism controversy, this time reaching a kind of via media that accepts elements of catastrophism quite readily.13 This means that there is no longer any real anxiety in mainstream geology about watering down its commitment to uniformity between the past and present, as if this were an abandonment of scientific method in favor of miracles, superstition, and apocalypticism. What modern geology has discovered is that there was never a meaningful gulf between uniformitarianism and catastrophism in the first place: they should belong together to form a complete scientific methodology for the earth’s history. Another way of saying this is that modern geology has begun to appreciate the subtleties in uniformity that Hume clarified centuries earlier, also embracing developments in other sciences as it does so—developments such as emergence, complexity and self-organized criticality, all of which move away from a reliance on uniform regularities and look to episodic and unexpected eventualities. And this is where the Christian theology of miracle potentially needs to receive a major update. Once the natural sciences begin to incorporate catastrophic—that is, highly improbable, extreme, and perhaps even unique—events into their scientific account of history, then our habitual thinking about miracles—that they are impossible events, naturally speaking, transgressions of the laws of nature—becomes largely meaningless.

 The main contender at present incorporates very large-scale volcanic eruptions into the scenario, eruptions that are known to have occurred at the time in India’s Deccan Traps (Keller et al., 2009). 13  It is, for instance, now widely accepted that much of the earth’s geological history is episodic and evolutionary, rather than smooth and cyclical (as Lyell’s original brand of uniformitarianism would have it). 12

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14.6 A Science of Rare Events Another way of talking about the impossible is to ask what it would mean to speak of a science of rare events, a counter-intuitive question raised by Derek Ager’s pioneering work (Ager, 1993a, b). Remember that the natural sciences are usually said to be concerned with patterns and regularities in nature—underwritten by the hope of metaphysical uniformity—so the idea that there might be a scientific description of rareness, perhaps even uniqueness, is counter-intuitive. And of course, such a description is largely meaningless to physics naturalism, which maintains that reality is fundamentally defined by a-historical and universal laws of nature. But, such a description is exactly what the via media of modern geology achieves. We humans have a cognitive disadvantage when it comes to grasping the primary variable in geology, time. If we had 4.5 billion years at our disposal (the age of the earth), then even minute improbabilities could be feasible in that time, but we find it extraordinarily difficult to imagine time beyond just a few thousand years. Uniformitarianism emphasizes the immensity of geological time to argue that even tiny causes can have immense effects. The catastrophism side of that same coin suggests that over the immensity of geological time even highly improbable events can occur. Modern geology has combined these viewpoints in its contemporary via media. Hence, to re-iterate, over the course of deep time, almost anything becomes feasible in the normal run of nature: “[w]hat may seem improbable to a person in his short lifespan of 102 years may well be inevitable in the history of life of 109 years” (Hsü, 1989, p. 749). Is it still meaningful to distinguish between what is possible and what is impossible in the natural scheme of things, as Hume’s definition of miracle is conventionally understood to do? Probably not. As Gretener has pointed out in a brief but profound study of the rare event in geology, when an event is so improbable that the likelihood it might happen in any given year dips below 1 in 10-11, then it is effectively impossible on the timescale defined by the age of the earth’s crust, which is a reasonable geological boundary marker (Gretener, 1967, p. 2206). When we speak of such tiny probabilities, the difference between an impossible event and an extremely unlikely (but still scientifically possible) event becomes increasingly difficult to discern and describe.14 And of course, this difficulty applies directly to miracle claims, insofar as a miracle is defined as an “impossible” event in nature. In the context of deep time it becomes difficult to distinguish between a naturally-improbable event and a naturally- impossible event (i.e. a miracle). This observation is borne out through the many naturalistic interpretations of biblical miracle stories made by scientists: even  Note that this is much the same point as that made by the multiverse riposte to theistic interpretations of fine tuning. The gist here is that when there are many, many universes we do not need to call upon a Creator to explain fine tuning since one of the universes is bound to turn out right for life, even with the tiny probabilities involved. Geology is considerably more secure than cosmology though: the multiverse is (currently) an untestable hypothesis, whereas the immensity of geological time is one of the most secure empirical facts in the whole of science. 14

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such an incredible story as the parting of the Red Sea (Exodus 14) has succumbed to empirical, albeit low probability, scientific models (Harris, 2007).15 Let us look at the other side of that coin, reducing our temporal focus to the collective memory of the human race, roughly about five thousand years, which would take us back to beyond the oldest written texts (Gretener, 1967, p. 2205). We might suppose that an amazing and isolated kind of natural event that happened only once during that time was unique or at best extraordinarily improbable, such that the highest probability we could assign to it would be once every five thousand years at best. And yet, on the timescales reflected in large parts of the geological record, this would be such an inevitable and regular event as to appear almost continuous. Our remarkable one-off event would look like a mundane property of nature to a geologist in the far future. Given time, a rare event becomes a regular event (Ager, 1993a, pp.  75–81). Hence, even the concept of an event—a discernible happening at a moment in our time—is a relative concept in light of the immensity of geological time (Gretener, 1984, pp. 82–85). The almost impossible event (on our timescale) becomes a regularity on nature’s timescale. The point that I am driving towards is that if we insist on defining a miracle in terms of the impossible event in nature (i.e. as the physics naturalism reading of Hume would have it), then, on the scale of deep time, terms such as “impossible” and “event” become subjective at best, meaningless at worst. Our view of miracle fades imperceptibly into the science of the rare event, with the consequence that we can only distinguish between a supposed miracle and a rare naturalistic event by analyzing the significance of the happening in question, that is, by putting all of the emphasis on our subjective interpretation. It is inescapable that in this view a miracle resides largely in our perception of what constitutes an event, and an extraordinarily propitious one at that. There is another way.

14.7 Naturalism, Miracle, and Geology I can only provide the briefest of hints at this point, but the way forward, I suggest, is to replace physics naturalism with a system inspired by the via media of modern geology, which system I will refer to, for the purpose of brevity, as “uniformity naturalism.” My point is to suggest that uniformity naturalism holds Hume’s (2007) thought on the uniformity of nature to the fore. We can see it at work in contemporary earth science, with its assimilation of neocatastrophism and uniformitarianism into a broad range of sub-disciplines which spans most of the diversity and complexity of the wider natural sciences, from physics to the life sciences. Significantly,  While some commentators have concluded that these models “explain away” the miraculousness of the story, others argue that they confirm the historicity of the story and heighten its sense of miracle. Whether a miracle is to be acknowledged or not depends on many more factors—some of them subjective—than whether the event is deemed “impossible” in naturalistic terms or not. This last point is explored in the next section. 15

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earth science combines experimental law-seeking sciences with historical sciences, such that significance and particularity are readily acknowledged as defining the subjects of enquiry. In fact, earth science could be said to represent a working model for the unity of science insofar as the unity is now defined by the particularity and significance of the subject of interest (scientific knowledge of the earth) rather than by any supposed metaphysical universality or objectivity. Uniformity naturalism does not deny the existence of laws of nature, but it sees them through Hume’s more sophisticated and provisional understanding of the uniformity of nature, which is therefore able to respect the diversity of the sciences and to accommodate the particularity of history, including interest in that which is contingent, unusual, and significant. Moreover, uniformity naturalism allows for bridges to be built, not only between the sciences, but also outwards to the humanities and theology. Because of uniformity naturalism’s recognition of history, an element of historical explanation and purpose becomes a natural component of scientific accounts of the world, since narrative description becomes important, not just the determination of laws (Kosso, 2011, p. 24; Cleland, 2011, pp. 53–55). Of course, narrative is already pre-eminent in many humanities subjects, and is our primary means to describe miracles in our Christian theological traditions, such as the miracle stories of Jesus in the New Testament Gospels. If this new naturalism values narrative accounts of reality, even of rare events, and if our miracle traditions also emphasize narrative, then generalized distinctions between rare events and miracles begin to fade, and we find that we must examine each narrative on its own terms. An objective definition of miracle can no longer be held pre-eminent in uniformity naturalism, and we must instead find recourse in pre-modern understandings (i.e. pre-Hume), which invariably prioritize the providential significance of a potential miracle story. In this way, we re-discover a venerable tradition in the Christian theology of miracle—from biblical accounts through to Augustine, and much later to Schleiermacher—that prioritizes the subjective dimension of miracle, as sign over supposedly-impossible event. My earlier revision of Hume’s view of miracle as a disturbance in the uniformity of nature takes on its full significance here, now that we recognize the subjective, contingent, and theological dimensions of uniformity as much as its law-bound dimensions. If David Hume is the source of the problems surrounding the modern understanding of miracle, then I suggest that he is also the solution.

References Ager, D. V. (1993a [1973]). The nature of the stratigraphical record. John Wiley & Sons. Ager, D. (1993b). The new catastrophism: The importance of the rare event in geological history. Cambridge University Press. Alvarez, L.  W., Alvarez, W., Asaro, F., & Michel, H.  V. (1980). Extraterrestrial cause for the cretaceous-­tertiary extinction. Science, 208, 1095–1108.

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Beebee, H. (2012). Causation and necessary connection. In A. Bailey & D. O’Brien (Eds.), The continuum companion to Hume (pp. 131–145). Continuum. Bowler, P. J. (1984). Evolution: The history of an idea. University of California Press. Breitenbach, A., & Choi, Y. (2017). Pluralism and the unity of science. The Monist, 100, 391–405. Cat, J. (2017). The unity of science. In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), The Stanford encyclopedia of philosophy (Fall 2017 Edition), URL = https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2017/entries/scientific-­ unity/. Accessed 2020, May 15. Clark, K. J. (2016). Naturalism and its discontents. In K. J. Clark (Ed.), The Blackwell companion to naturalism (pp. 1–15). Wiley Blackwell. Cleland, C.  E. (2011). Philosophical issues in natural history and its historiography. In A. Tucker (Ed.), A companion to the philosophy of history and historiography (pp. 44–62). Wiley-Blackwell. De Caro, M., & Macarthur, D. (2004). Introduction: The nature of naturalism. In M. De Caro & D. Macarthur (Eds.), Naturalism in question (pp. 1–17). Harvard University Press. Dupré, J. (2004). The miracle of monism. In M. De Caro & D. Macarthur (Eds.), Naturalism in question (pp. 36–58). Harvard University Press. Flanagan, O. (2006). Varieties of naturalism. In P. Clayton & Z. Simpson (Eds.), The Oxford handbook of religion and science (pp. 430–452). Oxford University Press. Fodor, J.  A. (1974). Special sciences (or: The disunity of science as a working hypothesis). Synthese, 28, 97–115. Frodeman, R. (2000). Preface. In Earth matters: The earth sciences, philosophy, and the claims of community (pp. vii–xiii). Prentice Hall. Gould, S. J. (1965). Is uniformitarianism necessary? American Journal of Science, 263, 223–228. Gregersen, N.  H. (2014). Naturalism in the mirror of religion: Three theological options. Philosophy, Theology and the Sciences, 1, 99–129. Gretener, P. E. (1967). Significance of the rare event in geology. American Association of Petroleum Geologists Bulletin, 51, 2197–2206. Gretener, P.  E. (1984). Reflection on the “rare event” and related concepts in geology. In W. A. Berggren & J. A. Van Couvering (Eds.), Catastrophes and earth history: The new uniformitarianism (pp. 77–89). Princeton University Press. Hallam, T. (2004). Catastrophes and lesser calamities: The causes of mass extinctions. Oxford University Press. Harris, M.  J. (2007). How did Moses part the Red Sea? Science as salvation in the Exodus Ttadition. In A. Graupner & M. Wolter (Eds.), Moses in biblical and extra-biblical traditions (pp. 5–31). de Gruyter. Hooykaas, R. (1959). Natural law and divine miracle: A historical-critical study of the principle of uniformity in geology, biology and theology. Brill. Hsü, K. J. (1989). Catastrophic extinctions and the inevitability of the improbable. Journal of the Geological Society, 146, 749–754. Hume, D. (2007 [1748]). In P.  Millican (Ed.), An enquiry concerning human understanding. Oxford University Press. Inkpen, R. (2011). The philosophy of geology. In A. Tucker (Ed.), A companion to the philosophy of history and historiography (pp. 318–329). Wiley-Blackwell. Jeffares, B. (2008). Testing times: Regularities in the historical sciences. Studies in History and Philosophy of Biological and Biomedical Sciences, 39, 469–475. Keller, G., Sahni, A., & Bajpai, S. (2009). Deccan volcanism, the KT extinction and dinosaurs. Journal of Biosciences, 34, 709–728. Kosso, P. (2011). Philosophy of historiography. In A. Tucker (Ed.), A companion to the philosophy of history and historiography (pp. 9–25). Wiley-Blackwell. Larmer, R. (2011). Miracles, divine agency, and the laws of nature. Toronto Journal of Theology, 27, 267–290. McGrath, A. E. (2006 [2002]). A scientific theology. Vol. 1: Nature. T&T Clark.

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Millican, P. (2007). Introduction. In D. Hume (Ed.), An enquiry concerning human understanding (pp. ix–lvi). Oxford University Press. Millican, P. (2011). Twenty questions about Hume’s “Of Miracles”. Royal Institute of Philosophy Supplement, 68, 151–192. Oppenheim, P., & Putnam, H. (1958). Unity of science as a working hypothesis. Minnesota Studies in the Philosophy of Science, 2, 3–36. Rudwick, M. J. S. (2005). Bursting the limits of time: The reconstruction of geohistory in the age of revolution. University of Chicago Press. Rudwick, M. J. S. (2008). Worlds before Adam: The reconstruction of geohistory in the age of reform. University of Chicago Press. Rudwick, M.  J. S. (2014). Earth’s deep history: How it was discovered and why it matters. University of Chicago Press. Simpson, G.  G. (1975). Uniformitarianism. An inquiry into principle, theory, and method in geohistory and biohistory. In C.  C. Albritton (Ed.), Philosophy of geohistory: 1785–1970 (pp. 256–309). Dowden, Hutchinson & Ross. Slagle, J. (2016). The epistemological skyhook: Determinism, naturalism, and self defeat. Routledge. Stroud, B. (2004). The charm of naturalism. In M. De Caro & D. Macarthur (Eds.), Naturalism in question (pp. 21–35). Harvard University Press. Taliaferro, C., & Evans, J. (2011). Introduction. In C. Taliaferro & J. Evans (Eds.), Turning images in philosophy, science, and religion: A new book of nature (pp. 1–4). Oxford University Press. Turner, D. (2013). Historical geology: Methodology and metaphysics. In V.  R. Baker (Ed.), Rethinking the fabric of geology: Geological Society of America Special Paper 502 (pp. 11–18). Geological Society of America. Ward, K. (2002). Believing in miracles. Zygon, 37, 741–750.

Chapter 15

Investigating Miracles Joe Nickell

Abstract  Miracles are claimed everywhere, but the term miracle is problematic, typically defined negatively as an occurrence science cannot explain. In a half-­ century career the author has searched out and investigated specific cases, ancient and modern, using established principles of scientific inquiry. The intent has been to uncover the best evidence and then follow it to the most likely solution. This detective work is divided into five parts as follows: Miraculous Effigies, Magical Relics, Miracle Healings, Visionary Experiences, and Saintly Powers.

15.1 Introduction It is a momentous question: Do miracles really occur? Claims in the affirmative are all around us. Here I focus on Christian examples. Astonishing healings are reported at shrines like Lourdes in France. Some scientists suggest the image on the Turin Shroud was scorched by some unknown resurrection radiance. Here, there, and seemingly everywhere, effigies weep or bleed, potential saints exhibit stigmata or receive prophetic visions, and myriad signs and wonders occur—all of these declared to be miraculous. But what does the term miracle mean? It is most commonly defined as an occurrence science cannot explain, but that is a most unsatisfactory definition. It depends not on positive evidence but on the occurrence being inexplicable. Thus such a claim is based on a logical fallacy called arguing from ignorance—that is, from a lack of knowledge. When Anglican writer C.S.  Lewis (1898–1963) succinctly defined a miracle as “an interference with Nature by supernatural power” (Lewis 1988, p. 15), he begged the question, what supernatural power? One cannot explain one mystery by invoking another. J. Nickell (*) Center for Inquiry, Amherst, NY, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_15

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In contrast, philosopher David Hume (1711–1776) argued in his treatise “Of Miracles,” that miracles did not in fact occur. He stated (1902, pp. 114–116]): “A miracle is a violation of the laws of nature, and as a firm and unalterable experience has established these laws, the proof against a miracle, from the very nature of the fact, is as entire as any argument from experience can possibly be imagined....” Mainstream science has never authenticated a single miracle. However, I have taken a very different approach than these philosophers. Rather than put the proverbial cart before the horse, I have refused to decide, antecedent to inquiry, whether or not a miracle could exist. I have therefore tried to avoid the approach of “believers” and “debunkers,” each of whom starts with the desired or expected answer and works backward to the evidence—picking and choosing, guided by the fallacy called confirmation bias. Rather, in my lengthy career, I have sought to search out and investigate specific cases—trying to uncover the best evidence and then follow it to the most likely solution, using established principles of scientific inquiry. Among such principles is the old skeptical maxim that “extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof”—that is, that there must be evidence equivalent to a given claim. Another principle, established in science as well as in law and scholarship, is that the person asserting a claim has the burden of proof, not someone who challenges it—it being difficult or even impossible to prove a negative. Still another principle is that known as Ockham’s Razor (after the fourteenth-century philosopher, William of Ockham). This holds that the simplest tenable explanation—the one with the fewest assumptions—is to be preferred. I began to take such an approach when I launched my career investigating alleged supernatural and other paranormal claims in 1969 while working as a stage magician. I went on to become a private investigator for a world-famous detective agency, and still later a scholar with a doctorate in English (specializing in literary investigation and folklore). In this role I became, apparently, the world’s only full-time professional paranormal investigator. Much of that work has been as a “Miracle Detective,” as chronicled in my books (Nickell, 1993, 2007, 2013), as well as elsewhere, including numerous television documentaries. The character played by Hilary Swank in the 2007 movie The Reaping was based in part on me and my work. (Warner Brothers even invited me onto the movie set to watch some of the filming and to meet the engaging Hilary.) In this chapter, I select some of the fruits of my half-century of effort. They are grouped into five parts as follows: “Miraculous Effigies,” “Magical Relics,” “Miracle Healings,” “Visionary Experiences,” and “Saintly Powers.” I ask only that the reader keep an open mind, considering the progress of science as a series of solved mysteries.

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15.2 Miraculous Effigies Wonderworking idols are reported from ancient times. Chapter fourteen of the Book of Daniel (in Orthodox and Catholic Bibles) tells how, during the reign of Persian King Cyrus, the Babylonians drew the Persians to worship the idol Bel (or Baal), which was set up in a temple. Each day the priests placed before the figure a large quantity of food—bushels of flour, slaughtered sheep, and much wine—whereupon the temple doors were closed. But when they were opened the following morning, the great meal was found to have been devoured. Daniel, a wise counselor to Cyrus, was skeptical and refused to worship the deity. When Cyrus pressed him on the matter, Daniel observed that the idol was merely a brass-over-clay statue and therefore incapable of eating or drinking anything. An angry Cyrus proposed a test between Daniel and the priests of Bel. A feast was again placed before the statue, but Daniel secretly set a trap, scattering ashes on the floor before seals were placed on the temple doors. The next morning when the doors were opened, Daniel called attention to the unmistakable footprints of men, women, and children preserved in the ashes. Thereupon the priests confessed how they had come and gone through secret panels. Whether or not this legend had a historical basis, it no doubt helped motivate the Jews to resist idolatry. It can also be appreciated as among the earliest stories of miracle investigation, one I have taken to heart. A very real image, among the most celebrated in Catholicism, is the portrait of the Virgin Mary named the Image of Guadalupe. According to a pious legend written in the native language, the Virgin herself miraculously imprinted the picture on the cloak of an Aztec convert, Juan Diego, in 1531. (This was some 10 years after Cortez’s defeat of the Aztec Empire.) The alleged miracle helped graft Catholicism shrewdly onto the Aztec tradition of their own virgin goddess named Tonantzin—a process that folklorists call syncretism. In a quite non-miraculous manner, however, the image actually yields evidence of considerable artistic borrowing with standard motifs clearly derived from earlier Spanish paintings. Indeed, during a formal investigation of the cloth in 1556, it was stated that the image was actually “painted yesteryear by an Indian,” almost certainly Aztec artist and convert Marcos Cipac de Aquino. In 1985 a forensic colleague and I studied available close-up photographs and infrared images of the famous portrait. The infrared photos show that the Virgin’s hands have been modified, while close-up photos reveal that pigment has been applied to the highlight areas of the face heavily enough to obscure the texture of the cloth. There is also obvious cracking and flaking of paint all along a vertical seam, and the infrared photographs show in the robe’s fold what appear to be sketch lines. Later our findings were confirmed when an earlier—secret—study by an art restoration expert was revealed. The picture had been rendered in a water-based paint using sixteenth-century methods (the cloth prepared with a brush coat of white primer, and the picture’s paint including various earth-color pigments).

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In addition, new scholarship suggests that while the painting was done not long after the Spanish conquest and was alleged to have miraculous powers, the pious legend of Mary’s appearance to Juan Diego may actually date from the following century. Some scholars even doubt the convert’s historical existence. Nevertheless, in 2002 the Church canonized “Juan Diego” as a saint—fictitious or not (Nickell, 2013, pp. 31–33). Animated statues represent a frequent class of supposedly miraculous effigies. For example, in 1981, in a church at Thornton, California, a sculpted Virgin Mary not only altered the angle of her eyes and the tilt of her chin, churchgoers reported, but also wept and even strolled about the church at night! Although no one ever actually witnessed the latter, the statue was frequently found several feet from its usual location, standing at the altar. However, a bishop’s investigation failed to support the miracle claims. Investigating clerics determined that the purported movement of the statue’s eyes and chin were simply due to variations in photographic angles. Worse, they branded the weeping and perambulations a probable hoax. Unfortunately, for their efforts the investigators were denounced by some believers (Nickell, 1993, pp. 67–68). Something quite different occurred in 1985 at a grotto at Ballinspittle, Ireland. A figure of the Virgin began to sway gently! Thousands of pilgrims eager to witness the phenomenon flocked to the village, viewing the mysterious statue adorned with a halo of blue lights. It remained for a group of scientists from University College, Cork, to discover the truth about the statue. No hoaxing was involved, as they, too, saw the figure sway. Yet a motion-picture camera revealed that no such movement had actually occurred. The scientists soon determined that the effect was an illusion. According to the science magazine Discover: It is induced when people rock gently back and forth while looking at the statue. At dusk when the sky is grey and landmarks are obscured, the eye has no point of reference except the halo of blue lights. Therefore, say the scientists, the eye is unable to detect the fact that one’s head and body are unconsciously moving. The viewer who sways is likely to get the impression that not he but the statue is moving. (Boxer, 1985, p. 19)

Still other statues have supposedly been even more remarkably alive: they were said to have heartbeats! The statues were at a Marian apparition site in Conyers, Georgia. I was asked by an Atlanta television station to investigate those claims (and others). I found that there were no heartbeats detectable by stethoscope. In fact, people were reaching up to feel the throbbings in question. Interviews with some of the percipients indicated they were either feeling the pulse in their own thumbs or, once again suffering the effects of pious imagination (Nickell, 2013, p. 60). Then there are the many “weeping” statues and icons I have encountered. One in particular comes to mind at a Greek Orthodox Church I investigated in Toronto’s East York district at the request of the Toronto Sun. Although we had been promised we would be allowed to examine the icon at 11:00 that evening (September 3, 1996), when we arrived in the neighborhood it was clear the deal was off: a line of pilgrims extended far into the night. As I nevertheless moved past the line into the church,

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followed by a reporter, I passed a lady who shouted to us the admission price (“two dollars fifty cents”); I shouted back, “Toronto Sun!” and kept going. A hanging lamp partially obscured the face of the Madonna, but by catching the light on the surface of the picture, I made several important discoveries. First, the icon itself was a fake—not an original wood-panel painting at all but merely a color photographic print. Also, the “tears” looked suspiciously oily (especially where one had been smeared) and the image was not actually “weeping” since the “tears” did not emanate from the eyes but from near the top of the Virgin’s head. I knew the old trick of using oil: water applied to a fake weeping icon would evaporate quickly and have to be replenished frequently. Oil, however—that is, a non-drying oil—would remain fresh looking indefinitely. Soon, reporters had learned not only of an earlier controversial icon in the priest’s custody in Queens, New York, but also of the fact that he had been defrocked in 1993 for having worked in a brothel in Athens! At this point the priest went missing—along with a reported $500,000. Subsequently, I was delighted to be invited by the parent church, the Greek Orthodox Church of North America, to the site. I was allowed complete access to examine and even dismantle the entire Shrine and fake “icon,” as well as take samples of the “tears” for the police crime lab. Later I learned that the oil had indeed proved to be of a non-drying variety. However, since there was no one to say who had put it on the picture, the case went nowhere (Nickell, 2013, pp. 65–69). More recently, the popular Travel Channel TV series Mysteries at the Museum did a show on the affair (aired July 13, 2017) in which for a dramatized portion I was played by New York actor Samuel Shurtleff.

15.3 Magical Relics John Calvin’s condemnation of relics is sweeping. In his Treatise on Relics (1543), he observes that “the desire for relics is never without superstition, and what is worse, it is usually the parent of idolatry” (Calvin, 1854, p. 218). Calvin was unrelenting in his withering look at relics, and he had much to say about the pieces of the True Cross—the location of which was supposed to have been revealed to St. Helena in 326 CE. The mother of Constantine the Great, she is credited with divine inspiration—either by heavenly signs, dreams, or the guidance of a prescient Jew named Judas—that purportedly led to the finding of the Holy Sepulchre itself. It proved a veritable treasure trove of relics: not only the True Cross but also holy nails, the crown of thorns, crosses of the “two thieves” crucified with Jesus (Matthew 27:38), etc.—as if it were a combined tomb and holy storeroom. In time this alleged miraculous revelation by Helena provided a convenient attribution site for one fake relic of Jesus after the other. Calvin would later say there were enough pieces of the True Cross (several of which I have encountered over the years) to form “a whole ship’s cargo.” Calvin specifically refers to the alleged fragment known as the Titulus Crucis (cross title-board), bearing the inscription “This is the King of the Jews”; the Titulus—with text in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew—had

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been ordered by Pilate to be placed on the cross (Luke 23:38). Indeed, the alleged relic has a number of anachronisms and other problematic elements that indicate it is a probable forgery. Radiocarbon dating confirms that: a sample of the wood was revealed to have a date range between 980 and 1146 CE—a range incompatible with its alleged first-century origin but consistent with the period when the artifact was apparently acquired (Nickell, 2013, pp. 91–99). Of all the reputed relics of Jesus, that alleged to be his burial cloth—the Shroud of Turin—is surely the best known. It continues to be the subject of media presentations that treat it as being so mysterious as to imply a supernatural origin. There have been numerous “true” shrouds of Jesus, but the Turin cloth uniquely bears the apparent imprints of a crucified man. Unfortunately, the cloth is incompatible with the Gospel of John (19:38–42, 20:5–7) which specifically states that the body was “wound” with “linen clothes” and a large quantity of burial spices (myrrh and aloes). Another cloth called the “napkin” covered his face and head. In contrast, the Shroud of Turin represents a single, draped cloth (laid under and then over the “body”) without any trace of the burial spices. The Turin cloth has no historical record prior to about 1355 when it appeared at a little church in Lirey, in north central France. According to a later bishop’s report, written by Píerre D’Arcis in 1389 to the Avignon pope, Clement VII, the shroud was being used as part of a faith-healing scam. “Pretended miracles were worked,” said the report, “certain men being hired to represent themselves as healed at the moment of the exhibition of the shroud.” D’Arcis continued by noting that the fraud had been uncovered “and how the said cloth had been cunningly painted, the truth being attested by the artist who had painted it” (Thurston, 1908, p. 22). In modern times the shroud’s “blood” failed secret tests by forensic serologists. All of their microscopical, chemical, biological, and instrumental tests revealed that the image is made up of pigment and paint. Famed microanalyst Walter McCrone discovered significant amounts of red ocher on image—but not background—areas. The “blood” proved to be made of red ocher and vermilion pigments in a collagen tempera binder. (My most important investigative work regarding the shroud was discovering how a putative forger could accomplish the “impossible”: making a quasi-photographic negative image using a medieval rubbing technique and powdered pigment.) Finally, radiocarbon tests dated the cloth to 1260–1390 CE, consistent with the time of the confessed forger. Instead of accepting such results, some believers suggested that a burst of radiant energy at the time of Jesus’s resurrection had altered the carbon ratio! (Nickell, 2013, pp. 119–132). Perhaps the most astonishing of relics are the supposedly “incorruptible” bodies of certain mystical persons. For centuries when their exhumed corpses were found relatively well preserved they would potentially be regarded as saints—having miraculous powers. Actually, in some instances, the corpse had been beset by excessive moisture that caused a whitish substance called adipocere (or “grave wax”) to develop in the outer layer of fat and so assist preservation. In other cases, supposedly incorruptible bodies are simply mummified (as from being kept in a closed, dry tomb). In other instances, the preservation may have been effected by the body

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having unknowingly been embalmed: the viscera removed and the corpse treated inside and out with resin. Photos are often shown of a beautifully “incorrupt” corpse of St. Bernadette of Lourdes. However, we do not really know whether or not the body had been injected with embalming fluid. In any event, when first exhumed after 30 years, it was found “emaciated,” and 10 years later the face had to be covered with a wax mask. Ample scientific explanations are available for these supposed cases of incorruptibility, and the Church has largely taken note (Nickell, 1993, pp. 85–93).

15.4 Miracle Healings Among the ancients, the belief that illness could be cured by divine intervention was widespread. In both the Old and New Testaments, healing miracles are reported, and Jesus gave his disciples the power of healing (see Mark 16:15–18). Also around the world are various alleged miracle springs, many promoted by Roman Catholics, the most famous of which is Lourdes in southern France. There, in 1858, 14-year-old Bernadette Soubirous (1844–1879) announced that the Virgin Mary had appeared and directed her to a spring at the back of a grotto. Soon, rumors of the water’s miraculous healings surfaced, along with tales of miracles in Bernadette’s youth. In 1933 the late visionary was canonized a saint. Meanwhile, in 1884, the Lourdes Medical Bureau was founded and has since recognized 70 miracle cures at the site. As with miracle healing claims generally, these are held to be “medically inexplicable” (again, involving the logical fallacy of an argument from ignorance). In fact, some cases appear to be nothing more than the result of poor investigation, while others often have alternate explanations—for instance, illnesses such as multiple sclerosis that are known to show spontaneous remission. Other cures may be attributable to misdiagnosis, psychosomatic conditions, prior medical treatment, the body’s own healing power and other effects. Moreover, some types of potential miracle healings never occur at all at Lourdes, as indicated by the comment of French writer Anatole France. On visiting the shrine and seeing the discarded crutches and canes, he exclaimed, “What, what, no wooden legs???” (France, in Nickell, 1993, pp. 150–151). Still another reason for skepticism is that those who seem eminently to deserve healing may receive no benefits at all. Ironically, Bernadette herself declined to be aided by the spring water’s touted power and, bedridden, died young at 35. The faithful saw her willingness to suffer as further proof of her saintliness (Nickell, 2013, pp. 175, 183–186). In 2008, the secretary of the International Medical Committee of Lourdes announced that the Lourdes medical panel would no longer be in the “miracle” business. In what they called “a sort of rebellion,” the committee determined that the Church would be left to decide on so-called miracles; the panel would only indicate whether cases were “remarkable.” And remarkable healings can happen to anyone, independent of religious shrines and holy water. The approximately $400 million

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that enriches Lourdes annually could be better spent on medical science than on encouraging belief in these alleged healings (Keaten, 2008). A popular faith healer today is Pentecostal minister Peter Popoff. He combines his gift of healing with “a word of knowledge.” That consists, as Pentecostals believe, of receiving supernatural revelation—a sort of holy clairvoyance. Popoff demonstrated his supposed gift by openly “calling out” audience members for healing and telling them their diseases, stating their addresses, and providing other information—all promptly verified by the astonished individuals themselves. Soon, however, Popoff’s apparent gift was exposed as blatant trickery. My colleague, famed magician and paranormal investigator James Randi—wondering at the alleged healer’s wearing an apparent hearing aid—began to suspect that the device might actually be a tiny radio receiver. Randi smuggled into a Popoff service an electronics expert with computerized scanning equipment and so discovered that the words of knowledge came not from heaven but from the ministry’s TV trailer parked outside. Therein, the evangelist’s wife, Elizabeth, was secretly broadcasting the information from so-called prayer cards the attendees had filled out before the service! Subsequently, on Johnny Carson’s The Tonight Show, Randi played a videotape of some of Popoff’s calling-out sessions that had been intercepted. The exposé dealt the evangelist a body blow, but he eventually rebounded and returned to the airways—albeit without the hearing-aid trick. (Instead he relied on the old generalization technique that is a mainstay of fortunetellers and psychics.) In 2002, I attended a Popoff “Miracle Crusade” in Toronto where I witnessed him utilizing the technique of putting people “under the power”—i.e., falling down at his touch. This was accomplished through suggestion—and an occasional push!—whereupon people collapsed accordingly. It is a well-known stunt. Popoff prayed over me (as part of a group), but, like so many, I left the service in the same state in which I arrived. I photographed one woman leaving in the same wheelchair that had carried her inside (Nickell, 2013, pp. 197–204). A Brazilian faith-healer known as John of God shows how depravity can sink to still greater depths. He claims that spirits take control of his body to enable him to perform surgeries (without anesthesia) and other healing procedures. The spiritual center he founded in a little town in Brazil’s remote central highlands has been dubbed “the Lourdes of South America,” while he himself has been called a charlatan and worse. He claims to have discovered his ability at 16, when he suddenly became entranced and performed a miraculous healing. Photographs show John of God working as a so-called psychic surgeon—one who supposedly opens the body paranormally and manipulates vital organs. Such alleged healers typically use sleight of hand techniques to remove “tumors” that have proved to be pieces of chicken intestines and blood of a cow. More often the Brazilian performs dubious “surgeries” that are styled either “visible” or “invisible.” The former may involve twisting forceps up a person’s nostrils (an old sideshow stunt called the “Blockhead” act) or using a knife (a blunt one) to scrape an eyeball. The bottom line regarding such procedures is that they are pseudosurgeries,

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having no objective medical benefit other than the well-known placebo effect or the emotional release of endorphins which could help reduce sensitivity to pain. The supposed miracle-worker came to Atlanta in 2006; I had already obtained a ticket to the event when I was contacted by National Geographic Television. We then worked together on an investigation that shed new light on the Brazilian’s claims. I went undercover and in disguise (in addition to the all-white outfit recommended by John of God to help “maintain a higher vibrational frequency”). As I hobbled up to the alleged mystic with my cane, he chose me and others for one of his “invisible” procedures, during which, following a prayer, thousands of “healing entities” supposedly went to work revitalizing a muscle or operating on an organ. We were also directed to drink water blessed by the entities and to carry out other instructions (Nickell, 2013, pp.  213–218). Obviously the entire procedure relied entirely on suggestion. Since my encounter with John of God, there have been other developments— none of which the channeled spirit entities that allegedly inform him saw coming. In 2019–2020, on the basis of hundreds of complaints against him for rape and other abuses, John of God was sentenced to prison for a total of just over 63 years.

15.5 Visionary Experiences “Visionaries” are those who have a religious experience in which they purportedly “see,” paranormally, some past or future event, or some holy person, or the like. But even an ordinary person may have such an experience. Take, for example, Jesus’ appearances after his death. Are these narratives really more than ghost stories of their day—belief tales intended to convince the hopeful that his death was not an ending? Here I treat the tales as one group having certain identifiable characteristics. In some of the stories Jesus is seen quite clearly, although he is not at first recognized (e.g., Luke 24:15–16). Again, he materializes inside a building with shut doors (John 20:19). In one instance he forbids being touched (John 20:17), while in another (involving doubting Thomas) he invites contact (John 20:27). This is after the disciples “supposed that they saw a spirit,” whereupon Jesus says that “a spirit has not flesh and bones as you see that I have” (Luke 24:37–39). In addition to the Gospel accounts of Jesus’ resurrection apparitions, there were others, including his appearance to John the Seer (Revelation 1:10, 12–20), to Saul (Paul) on the road to Damascus (Acts 9:1–9), “to James, then to all the apostles” (as reported by Paul in 1 Corinthians 15:7), and even “to more than five hundred brethren at one time” (again as reported by Paul in 1 Corinthians 15:6). As well, there have been “visions” of the glorified Christ among Christians in succeeding years and centuries. At least two other miracles invite comparison with resurrection narratives. One is the story of Jesus’ nighttime stroll upon the water of Lake Gennesaret (aka the Sea of Galilee), at which his disciples “thought it was a ghost, and cried out” (Mark 6:49). The other is the account of Jesus’ Transfiguration, in which Peter and those

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with him awakened to have a “vision” of Jesus “transfigured”: “the appearance of his countenance was altered, and his raiment became dazzling white”; and he was seen conversing with the spirits of Moses and Elijah (Matthew 17:1–9; Luke 9:28–36). Given such words as ghost and spirits, Jesus’ otherworldly appearance, and other seemingly corroborative elements (e.g., his being lighter than water and appearing in an apparitional fashion), these miracle stories are remarkably consistent with resurrection folktales. This could suggest they went unrecognized as such and were misplaced into the life story of Jesus (Nickell, 2013, pp. 225–231). If it is true that Jesus’ post-mortem appearances are essentially handed-down folktales, what are we to make of the supposedly supernatural visions of a German nun, Anne Catherine Emmerich (1774–1824)? Her book The Dolorous Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ (2004) became the inspiration for Mel Gibson’s controversial film, The Passion of the Christ (2004). But was she a true visionary or, instead, a fantasizer, or even a pious fraud? Some facts will help us decide. As a child Emmerich had an invisible “guardian angel,” experienced apparitional encounters with Jesus, Mary, and various saints, and displayed a special sensitivity to anything held sacred. In short, she exhibited many of the traits indicative of a “fantasy-prone” personality (Wilson & Barber, 1983). That is not only the personality type of numerous religious visionaries, but also of countless spiritualist mediums, alien abductees, and other fantasizers. They typically believe they have special powers, often including the ability to communicate with higher entities—sort of adult versions of a child’s imaginary playmates. However, as a mystic, Emmerich may also have been a determined pretender. She made a show of being Christ-like (even sleeping on planks placed on the ground in the shape of a cross), exhibited the stigmata (i.e., the wounds of Christ’s crucifixion), and claimed to practice inedia (the alleged ability to forego nourishment), reportedly subsisting on nothing but water. One example of one of Emmerich’s purported visions—concerning the non-­ biblical tale of Veronica and Jesus—is instructive. Representing one of the stations of the cross in Catholic ritual, the medieval story derives from earlier ones (dating from the fourth century) concerning certain reputedly miraculous self-portraits of Jesus. Over the centuries, one type of these came to be known as “Veronica’s Veil.” According to a pious legend, Veronica was a Jerusalem woman who pitied Jesus as he struggled with his cross on the way to Golgotha. In some versions of the tale she gave her kerchief to him so he could wipe the blood and sweat from his face, whereupon he miraculously imprinted the cloth with his holy visage. Now, there were numerous such portrait veils known, not surprisingly, as “Veronicas.” However, that term is a corruption of vera iconica (“true image”), the corruption probably inspiring the Veronica tale itself. No doubt Emmerich knew Veronica was a made-up name, but she claimed it was used to “commemorate” the woman’s brave act of assisting Jesus. Emmerich’s imagination obviously led her to buy into the fictional tale, which she elaborated, adding unlikely details and somehow divining the woman’s “real” name, Seraphia. In contrast to repeated apparitional encounters related to Jesus’ resurrection, or the personal concoctions of a “visionary” like Anne Catherine Emmerich, there are

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the dramatic experiences at Fatima, Portugal, on October 13, 1917, when tens of thousands of eyewitnesses saw the gyrations of the sun now known collectively as the Miracle of Fatima. But was it a miracle indeed? Events leading up to this began on May 13, when three shepherd children were tending their flock about two miles west of Fatima. They were Lucia Santos, age ten, and her two cousins, nine-year-old Francisco Marta and his seven-year-old sister, Jacinta. A sudden flash of lightning sent the children fleeing down a slope, whereupon the two girls beheld the apparition of a beautiful lady in white light. Lucia talked with the figure, thus beginning a pattern that was supposed to be repeated each month for a six-month period. Even though the children agreed to keep the event a secret, once home, little Jacinta blurted out to her parents that she had shared in a vision of the Virgin Mary. The children kept each monthly appointment accompanied by villagers (except for August 13 when secular authorities intervened). When the period ended on a stormy October 13, as many as 70,000 people had gathered at the site anticipating the Virgin’s final visit and expecting a great miracle. As the figure appeared to the children—asking for a chapel to be built at the site and predicting an end to World War I—Lucia suddenly exclaimed, “The sun!” As everyone gazed upward to see that a silvery disc had emerged from behind the clouds, people began to experience various effects. Some described the sun as dancing in the sky, or spinning pinwheel-like with colored streamers, or falling toward the spectators. There were many differently reported phenomena. Likely a combination of factors played a role. People gazing directly at the sun (never a good idea!) may have experienced temporary retinal distortion due to the intense light, and the darting of eyes to and fro to avoid fixed gazing may have caused other effects. The sun being seen through thin clouds probably made it appear as a silver disc, and an alteration in the density of the passing clouds may have caused the sun’s image to alternately brighten and dim and so seem to advance and recede. Moisture droplets in the atmosphere may have refracted the sunlight and thus imparted a variety of colors, and so on. The effects of suggestion were no doubt also present, as people came with the expectation of some miraculous happening. (For more, see Nickell, 2013, pp. 249–55.) One thing is certain: the sun did not behave as described, because it was the very same sun that people elsewhere saw, without any such gyrations. The “miracles” were just in the eyes of the beholders: those of the precocious Lucia, and the credulous folk enticed by her dramatic imaginings.

15.6 Saintly Powers Mystics, martyrs, and other candidates for sainthood are typically supposed to have miraculous powers. Of those, perhaps none is more popularly equated with saintliness than stigmata, the wounds of Christ’s crucifixion allegedly duplicated spontaneously upon the body of a Christian. In fact, one historical survey indicated that

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approximately a fifth of all stigmatics eventually become beatified or canonized (Bíot, 1962, p. 23). From time to time popular media bring renewed interest in the alleged phenomena—none more so than the 1999 movie Stigmata—which to my surprise even contained a brief shot of my book Looking for a Miracle (1993). That year also brought a Fox television pseudodocumentary, Signs from God, which featured a major segment on stigmata (Willesee, 1999), and the Vatican’s beatification of the doubtful Italian stigmatic Padre Pío. Since the death of Jesus in about 29 or 30 CE, almost twelve centuries would pass before an example of stigmata would appear. Credit for being the first “true” stigmatic goes to St. Francis of Assisi (1182–1226). However, he followed by two years a man from Oxford who had exhibited the five crucifixion wounds in 1222. Notoriously, that man claimed to be the Son of God and the redeemer of mankind, but for his efforts he was arrested for imposture, his wounds presumed to have been self-inflicted. Thus from this notorious beginning comes the showy, but always doubtful, phenomenon of stigmata. As to St. Francis, not only do his own wounds suggest pious imitation, but they are doubtful in other ways. First, rather than being realistic wounds that bled, they took the more unlikely symbolic appearance of nail heads—round, black, and standing away from the flesh. (The fifth wound was, of course, a semblance of the lance wound in the side.) Secondly, St. Francis’ stigmata seem unmistakably to have sparked a copycat phenomenon. Publication of his reputed miracle led to imitation upon imitation, and those have continued without cease to this day. Moreover, the several hundred examples that followed represented an evolving phenomenon. The bleeding wounds have been exceedingly varied, showing “no consistency even remotely suggesting them as replications of one single, original pattern” (Wilson, 1988, p. 63). They have ranged from small slits to simple crosses, multiple slash marks, indentations, or whatever the apparent creativity of the mystic produced. In the case of the pious fake Therese Neumann they shifted over time from round to rectangular—presumably as she learned the true shape of Roman nails. Then there was St. Catherine of Siena (1347–1380) who had “invisible” stigmata (Nickell, 2013, pp. 323–325). A special case was that of Padre Pío (canonized as St. Pío of Pietrelcina). One pathologist who examined his stigmata found no sign of any wound under the crusts of blood. Another concluded that the side “wound” likewise had not penetrated the skin at all. Moreover, it was on the mystic’s left side (whereas St. Francis’ was on the right) and was reportedly in the shape of a cross, rather than like that an actual lance would make. Pío also lacked wounds on the forehead (as from a crown of thorns). For years he wore—cleverly I believe—fingerless gloves; the credulous attributed the choice to modesty, but of course it also eliminated the necessity of repeatedly wounding himself! At his death his skin was unblemished, and neither of the miracles Church authorities chose for his canonization involved stigmata—the phenomenon for which he was best known. Although some writers suggest stigmata may be due to the effects of suggestion, that possibility has not been supported by experiments. Again and again, when the

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true cause of stigmata has been known or strongly indicated by the evidence, it has been the result of fakery. For example, Magdalena de la Cruz (1487–1560), fearful of dying a sinner, confessed that her stigmata, inedia, and other phenomena were deliberate deceptions. Another, Maria de la Visitacíon (1556–1598), known as the “holy nun of Lisbon,” was accused of deceit by a sister nun who saw her painting a fake wound onto her hand; that was subsequently scrubbed off, revealing unblemished flesh underneath, and she confessed. I have twice had the very rare opportunity of examining a suspicious stigmatic: One had a long cross scratched on her left arm (she being right-handed); the other had wounds only on the backs of the hands and tops of the feet—that is to say, not penetrating through the appendages and thus consistent with fakery (Nickell, 2013, pp. 329, 341–346). Certainly one of the most outrageous claims of mystical phenomena is inedia, the alleged capacity to forego food or water. It is commonly claimed by India’s religious godmen and fakirs, and it also has a tradition among Catholic mystics. Perhaps the most notorious was St. Catherine of Siena (mentioned earlier) who, being vainglorious, simply starved herself to death: she had restricted herself to trying to survive on the daily Eucharist. A surveillance was conducted on inedia claimant Therese Neumann (1898–1962) who also exhibited stigmata, wept bloody tears, underwent miraculous cures, and more. She too claimed to avoid all food and drink except daily communion. However, suspicious church authorities systematically tested her urine, which gave expected results for the time she was monitored but then returned to normal—consistent with her resuming intake of food and drink. Neumann refused to undergo further surveillance (Nickell, 1993, pp. 233, 227–228).

15.7 Conclusion The miracle claims in this chapter—admittedly only a brief look at some eye-­ catching examples—have been nonetheless eye-opening. Again and again, the most fantastic assertions are boldly made; yet, with careful investigation they often fail to survive the scrutiny they invite. Armed with little more than curiosity, a critical mind, and the principle of Ockham’s Razor, we find that while the claims may speak of otherworldly realms, the best evidence may still return us to a very real and natural world.

References Bíot, R. (1962). The enigma of the stigmata. Hawthorn Books. Boxer, S. (1985). Those who sway together pray together. Discover, 6, 18–19. Calvin, J. (1854 [1543]). Calvin’s treatise on relics. In A treatise on relics, by John Calvin, newly translated from the French original, with an introductory dissertation on the m ­ iraculous images,

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as well as other superstitions of the Roman Catholic and Russo-Greek churches (pp. 217–281), Trans. V. Kransinski. Johnstone and Hunter. Emmerich, A. C. (2004 [1833]). The dolorous passion of our lord Jesus Christ. Dover. Hume, D. (1902 [1777]). Of miracles. In Enquiries concerning the human understanding and concerning the principles of morals (2nd ed., pp. 109–131). Oxford University Press. Keaten, J. (2008, December 04). MDs’ miracle rulings end: Doctors leave it to church to decide on Lourdes events. Chicago Tribune. Lewis, C. S. (1988 [1947]). Miracles: A preliminary study. Macmillan. Nickell, J. (1993). Looking for a miracle. Weeping icons, relics, stigmata, visions and healing cures. Prometheus Books. Nickell, J. (2007). Relics of the Christ. University Press of Kentucky. Nickell, J. (2013). The science of miracles: Investigating the incredible. Prometheus Books. Thurston, H. (1908). The holy shroud and the verdict of history. In The month: A Catholic magazine CI (Vol. 463, pp. 7–29). Willesee, M., (Director). (1999). Signs from God: Miracles and their meaning. You Shall Believe. Wilson, I. (1988). The bleeding mind: An investigation into the mysterious phenomenon of stigmata. Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Wilson, S. C., & Barber, T. X. (1983). The fantasy-prone personality: Implications for understanding imagery, hypnosis, and parapsychological phenomena. In A.  A. Sheikh (Ed.), Imagery: Current theory, research and application (pp. 340–390). Wiley.

Part VI

Miracles and Mysticism

Chapter 16

Changed in a Flash: How One Woman Was Struck by Lightning, Talked to God, and Came Back to Dream the Future Jeffrey J. Kripal

Abstract  In this chapter, I compare some patterns in the history of religions around the miracle story and the paranormal powers of religious prodigies. I show how, although the doctrinal and narrative content of religious traditions are indeed quite different and not at all the same, such miracles stories and paranormal powers are quite similar, even the same, across cultures and times, sometimes down to weird uncanny details. I then ask what this might mean, both for the student or scholar who wants to insist on pure difference and the absoluteness of historical specificity and for the believer who wants to preserve the exclusive efficacy of a single religious tradition.

16.1 Stories to Tell I am going to tell you some stories. They could not have possibly happened. And yet they happened. In academic parlance, they are “historical.” They are a part of history that any historian should want to engage and try to understand. I am not telling you these stories for the heck of it. I am telling you these stories because I think they are intellectually important. Actually, I think they are potentially revolutionary for the work humanist intellectuals do, and this precisely to the extent that they goad us, Content from this chapter was first published on pages 40–44, 87–91, and 147–148 of Changed in a Flash: One Woman’s Near-Death Experience and Why a Scholar Thinks It Empowers Us All by Elizabeth G. Krohn and Jeffrey J. Kripal, published by North Atlantic Books, copyright © 2018 by Elizabeth G. Krohn and Jeffrey J. Kripal. It is used by permission of North Atlantic Books. Select content was also first publised on pages 241–243 and 253–256 of Secret Body: Erotic and Esoteric Currents in the History of Religions by Jeffrey J. Kripal, published by Chicago University Press, copyright @ 2107 by Jeffrey J. Kripal. It is used by permission of University of Chicago Press. J. J. Kripal (*) Rice University, Houston, TX, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_16

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provoke us to re-imagine what we have called “the humanities” by radically re-­ imagining the limits of the human. More specifically, I think that stories like these hold great promise as both inspirations and as guides to our future humanities (take that either way). Let me be very blunt. I am not speaking here within or about the present order of knowledge, be that order of knowledge public or professional. What I will have to say does not fit, and cannot be fit, within the ways that “religion” or “belief” is talked about and understood either within the media and the public institutions of religion or within the regimes of public status, grants, categories, and general materialism of the academy. I am speaking of a set of human futures, of which I catch passing glimpses in my historical and ethnographic sources but cannot establish in any sufficiently clear way.

16.2 The First Step Much of what follows sits comfortably under the sign of the “paranormal.” I have written a book about the intellectual history of the paranormal (Kripal, 2011). It is probably not what you think. For one thing, the paranormal possesses a deep academic lineage. From the very beginning, the paranormal and its precursors were coined and developed by scientists and intellectuals at places like Cambridge, Harvard, Duke and Stanford. The rise of behaviorism in psychology and computer models of the brain in early neuroscience eclipsed its original prominence (like the moon temporarily blacking out the sun). Still, the paranormal and its more traditional framing as “magic” continued to function, often secretly, at the very heart of Western intellectual history, as it always has. Take the French philosopher Jacques Derrida for a moment as a single but iconic example. Put much too simply, Derrida became famous for his deconstructionism, that is, his philosophy that could show how every truth, every word, every text in fact presumed or implied an entire network of other truths and other words and so could be “deconstructed” down or out into that larger linguistic web. There is no single thread that determines the strength and function of the spider’s web. The intricate web of any language, any text, or of any religion is always constituted by multiple, even countless threads, each of which had to be spun and none of which alone can support the spider, much less catch a meal. Deconstructionism has long been used in the academy to take apart and so deny any attempted truth or positive claim. Still, as the philosopher realized at the very end of his life, the ultimate method of deconstruction is not linguistics, literary theory, or history. It is telepathy. It is the hard-to-answer phenomena of literal or symbolic communications between two subjects separated in space and/or time—a kind of deep and largely unconscious telepathic textuality. Every other form of deconstruction is mere child’s play before such well-attested and, frankly, universal phenomena. It is one thing, after all, to

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deconstruct a text, a language or a cultural representation. It is quite another to deconstruct space and time, as telepathic phenomena do over and over again. Derrida was being perfectly serious. In his essay simply entitled “Telapathie,” Derrida turned to his own extensive experience of telepathic and occult phenomena and Freud’s earlier engagement with what he called “thought transference” (Derrida, 2007).1 In particular, Derrida turns to the Master’s invocation of the figure of St. Denis, the early Christian martyr who pious folklore has picking up his own decapitated head and walking away with it. As Freud observed and Derrida now emphasizes again, once we, like St. Denis, take that first step without our heads, that is, once we let go of the notion that the human somehow ends at the skull and skin, that consciousness is the same thing as cognition, that mind is nothing more than brain, then everything changes. Once we let go of these assumed human limits and entertain the notion that the human somehow has access to events and information at distant points of space and time, the human, and so the humanities, become something entirely different. That, anyway, is the proposal that I want to leave you with. I want you to be St. Denis for the space of this essay. I want you to let go of your complete identification with your cognitive computer brain, set your decapitated ego-head down, and just walk away. Just let it go. Just walk away…

16.3 Struck by Comparison In the fall of 2015, I was working on the historian of religions and Romanian literary figure Mircea Eliade, and in particular on his Youth Without Youth, his last paranormal novella, which Francis Ford Coppola made into a film by the same name a few years ago. Allow me a personal context here. Eliade is not a minor figure in the professional study of religion. He founded the comparative discipline, the history of religions, in which I was trained. Eliade’s final published story begins with an aging and depressed academic named Dominic Matei, who is on his way to commit suicide when he is struck by lightning on Easter night behind a church in the rain while he holds an umbrella. As Dominic heals in the hospital, he also mysteriously grows younger. His old teeth fall out and new ones take their place. His skin grows young. The female nurses marvel and giggle at his body’s reaction when they bathe him. But the lightning strike has brought more than youth. It has brought strange new powers. Dominic dreams little snippets that play out the next day. He begins to manifest all sorts of new capacities, including telekinesis and the ability to absorb books by simply passing his hand over them (every aging academic’s dream!). He begins to wonder whether he might be some kind of mystical mutant:  The same essay includes the Freudian references to telepathy, which was by no means a minor or tangential interest. Freud in fact was fascinated by “the occult” and wrote six papers on telepathy, or what he called “thought-transference.” 1

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Some time after he had begun work at the library he experienced a long, dramatic dream … There was one detail in particular he remembered: in the aftermath of his electrocution [by lightning], his mental activity anticipated somewhat the condition men will attain some tens of thousands of years hence. … In short, I’m a mutant, he said to himself on awakening. I anticipate the post-historic existence of man. Like in a science-fiction novel, he added, smiling with amusement. (Eliade, 2007)

About the same time that I was working on this novella, in October of 2015 to be precise, I met Elizabeth Krohn. We met around a symposium on near-death experiences in the Houston Medical Center to which I was asked to respond (at the Institute for Spirituality and Health). Elizabeth’s story beats at the heart of this lecture. Allow me to introduce it with a historical trace, a photograph taken just before she herself was transformed into one of Eliade’s mystical mutants (Fig. 16.1). This photograph was taken, in haste, on September 2, 1988. Elizabeth’s husband was away on business. Immediately after this photograph was snapped by an automatic camera, Elizabeth got her two boys in the car and rushed to her Houston synagogue, Congregation Emanu El, which happens to be just across the street from Rice University, not three blocks from my office. Elizabeth was attending a service in honor of the first anniversary of the death of her beloved paternal grandfather, Jean Albert Duval. Although the sun was shining over Houston, it was raining in this neighborhood. She got out of the car. She was holding an umbrella in one hand and the little hand of her two-year-old son in the other. She was conscious of the rain and her clothes. She had, after all, just spent an inordinate amount of money on new clothes and some very expensive shoes. Indeed, they were so expensive that she hid the bill and the items from her husband. She had no idea why she bought something so extravagant, so beautiful. Then it struck her. Literally. The lightning.

Fig. 16.1  Elizabeth Krohn and her sons on September 2, 1988. (Permission to reprint granted by Elizabeth Krohn by email on June 17, 2022)

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She kept walking anyway, right into the synagogue. She realized, though, that something was not quite right. She looked down and noticed that her feet were floating a few inches off the ground. She looked back into the parking lot and saw her body lying in the rain and her two-year-old screaming his head off. His little eardrums had burst, her beautiful new shoes were fried, their soles blown off, and the umbrella was still on fire in the rain. An extremely elaborate near-death experience followed that involved a moving conscious light, a speechlessly beautiful garden and fantastically colored alien landscape (with multiple moons or planets), a sense of absolute unconditional love, skin grown young and perfect, and a long telepathic conversation with an invisible presence whom she experienced as her grandfather but who she suspected was really God. This loving presence told Elizabeth that, if she chose to go back, she would have a daughter, a future soul who had already chosen her as her mother. Her total experience on that alien planet lasted two weeks. Here on earth it lasted, at most, two minutes. I will not get into all of the details of the NDE, as these are extremely elaborate and possess, as such details often do, deep tap roots into her personal past and childhood. We have recently published a book together about all of this: her childhood and adolescence, her early adult life, her near-death experience and the multiple teachings and occult experiences that emerged from it (Krohn & Kripal, 2018). These teachings include: (1) a firm conviction in the reality of human immortality (“We do not die”); (2) the seeing of glowing colored lights or “auras” around the human body; (3) the presence of a divine double or angelic guide with whom each soul eventually merges after many lives; and (4) the spiritual process of transmigration or reincarnation toward this same angelicization of the human. Each of the teachings of this “garden next door” finds deep precedents in the Kabbalah or Jewish mystical traditions, including the angelic mentor (maggid) and the centrality of transmigration (gilgul). I will return very briefly to some of these phenomena at the end of my essay, but I mostly want to focus on a single bright effect of the lightning strike, namely, the fact that shortly after this lightning strike, Elizabeth’s life was turned inside out by the appearance of new paranormal powers. First, however, I want to tell you another story.…

16.4 … a Phone Call from the Dead As with other paranormal prodigies, the mental and the material realms often mixed or traded places in “impossible” but socially confirmed empirical ways in Elizabeth’s transformed life. On one occasion, not long after the lightning strike, the phone rang at 3:18 am. Never a good sign. Her husband Barry was awakened by the ringing and insisted that she answer it, since the phone was on her side of the bed. Elizabeth wearily picked up the phone. It was her dead grandfather calling about a very practical matter involving his daughter, Elizabeth’s mother, Marianne. Let me intrude into the story at this point and observe that you, the reader, have a rationalist loophole to jump through at this moment, if you so choose. You better

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jump quickly, though, as that loophole will soon shut tight again. Your loophole is this. Only Elizabeth was on the phone with the dead spirit. Barry, although he clearly heard the phone ring, was never on the phone. I have spoken to both Elizabeth and Barry about this. Barry was very clear that he heard the phone ring, but that he was never on the phone, although he kept asking her who it was. Elizabeth is equally clear that she rebuffed Barry’s repeated requests, and that “All I heard were the words, but somehow I knew that Barry (or anyone else) would hear a tone or static.” As she went on to explain at my pressing: “The words were meant for me. I was the decoder.” I recognize that there are other skeptical possibilities here. Perhaps it was simply a random phone call that Elizabeth’s mind “heard” as her grandfather’s voice. That assumes quite a bit, and then leaves the rest unanswered (like how, exactly, she heard her grandfather’s voice). If, on the other hand, we follow Elizabeth’s self-­ understanding, what we seem to have here is some kind of living energy encoded with a personality that is being transmitted into Elizabeth by a piece of human technology and then “decoded,” unconsciously and effortlessly, by her own electromagnetically transformed body-brain. This, of course, is more or less how a television or your smart-phone works—it receives an electromagnetic signal coded with information and then translates this coded energy into voice and/or image. Basically, Elizabeth is functioning as a kind of living occult telephone here. She thinks, I should add, that this is all in fact very important. In her own words, “this is all about energy.” This “energy,” of course, is of a very special kind. We are not talking about the physicist’s photons or the electrician’s amps and voltage. We are talking about some kind of conscious, living, information-rich energy that can be picked up by a human body-brain and decoded into a personality or presence. And then the loophole shuts tight. The spirit explained to Elizabeth how this kind of communication takes a tremendous amount of energy, and that this same energy cannot long be sustained. He hung up. “Who was it? Who was it, Elizabeth?” Barry insisted. As the two argued, something very strange happened. The room filled up with an odd smoke that was not smoke, and a red laser-like light appeared at the end of the hallway that their bedroom door opened out onto. Then it all just disappeared. The couple sat there in temporary silence. Barry said to Elizabeth in a frustrated voice, “I’m going back to sleep.” And then he rolled over. Elizabeth pushed him a bit. “Barry, did you see anything?” Barry replied in a frustrated voice, “No, I didn’t see any smoke.”

16.5 Dreaming the Future Such a phone call from the dead, it turned out, was only the beginning. Elizabeth began to notice that she would sometimes have a crystal clear “nightmare” of an event that would then play out on the next day’s news. But “nightmare” is not the right word. Elizabeth insists that these were not dreams at all. She uses the word

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only because our English language has no other. Some of the most dramatic were extremely specific visions of plane crashes, tsunamis and earthquakes. One of the first was the San Francisco earthquake of 1989, the day before which she dreamt in perfect detail a policeman standing over a cracked highway bridge. The earthquake struck the next day, and the same image appeared in the newspapers. Let me summarize two more in a bit more detail for you to give you a sense of how these work, and continue to work. Consider, for example, the dream-vision that took place on January 15, 2009. Elizabeth and her second husband Matt were vacationing in Jerusalem. They had just returned from a day of touring the city. They were exhausted and laid down to take a nap before dinner. Within a few minutes, Elizabeth was up out of the bed and writing herself a time-stamped e-mail, something she had learned to do to create a digital trail of these precognitive dreams. She had had one of those “nightmares.” Here is the e-mail. I have changed only the e-mail address to protect Elizabeth’s privacy: Elizabeth Krohn [email protected] To: [email protected] 01/15/09 at 2:57 PM mid-size commercial passenger jet (80–150 people) crashes in NYC.  Maybe in River. Not Continental Airlines. Not American Airlines. It is an American carrier like Southwest or US Airways. Note that this e-mail was sent from Jerusalem at 2:57  pm IST (Israel Standard Time). This was 8:57 am EST in New York. The plane went down six and a half hours later, at 3:27 pm EST. The detail is not in the e-mail, but Matt has verified for me that Elizabeth said to him after she awoke that she saw people standing on the wings of the plane. They both remember this detail very clearly, partly because Matt immediately responded that it made no sense. How can people stand on the wing in a plane crash? It sounds like an impossible detail of some crazy dream. But it made perfect sense. This, after all, was the famous Hudson River emergency landing of US Airways Flight 1549 piloted by the now legendary Captain Scully. There were 150 passengers and five crew members aboard the plane, for a total of 155 survivors. There were 100 injuries, five of them serious, but none were fatal. The second such dream I want to relate occurred in the early morning of February 2, 2015. Elizabeth woke up and e-mailed this note to herself: From: Elizabeth [email protected] Date: February 2, 2015 at 5:52:15 AM CST To: [email protected] Subject: Plane Crash Passenger plane with propellers. Plane is white. Foreign airline—maybe Asian. Crashes in a big metropolitan city right after takeoff. Right wing of plane is pointed straight up right before crashing. Most on board killed, but some survivors. Sent from my iPad.

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The dream-vision occurred about a day and a half before the crash. On February 4, 2015, TransAsia Airways Flight 235 crashed soon after takeoff. There were 43 fatalities and 15 survivors. A dashcam video stunningly caught the crash in process. The right wing is pointed straight up as the propeller plane strikes a cab on the highway and crashes into the Keelung River near Taipei, Taiwan. This famous picture of the crash in process is exactly the image Elizabeth saw in her precognitive “dream.”

16.6 Analysis Now there are many things we could say about Elizabeth’s precognitive dreams at this point, including the possibility that, in these two cases at least, what Elizabeth was actually dreaming was not the historical events themselves but her own encounter with the media events in the near future. Her dreams, after all, were virtually identical to the images that appeared on television sets and the Internet all over the world the next day. What exactly was Elizabeth “seeing” here? Was some part of her, her “soul,” for example, at the actual future crash site, witnessing it from above? This is certainly the common religious interpretation of what happens in events like these, but such an interpretation is in fact not necessary and probably goes further than we need to. What I personally think, drawing on the work of the anthropologist, psychoanalytic thinker, and science writer Eric Wargo, is that it is more likely that Elizabeth was precognizing her own brain state a few hours in the future, as it perceived and processed the media images and stories. This is why her nightmarish visions looked so much like the photographs on the Internet that would appear the next day. One could even preserve a certain “physicalist” interpretation here, though this would look nothing like what we think of as materialism. Such an interpretation would require a particular cosmology that is in fact seriously entertained in contemporary physics: the block universe, what Wargo calls the glass block universe, in which all of reality, including the past, present, and future all already exist in one immense cosmic “block.” In this view, there is no time as such. Time is what a human brain constructs as we move through this glass block from the “past” through the “present” and into the “future,” all of which are already spread out in the cosmos. Such a glass block universe would render Elizabeth’s precognitions physically possible, since the past, present, and future are all now literally physically connected, physically identical really. But it would also make all of us not only three-­ dimensional bodies in the present but also four-dimensional “space-time worms” spread out through time and communicating with ourselves through this stretched out temporal worminess.

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16.7 The Two Bars I recognize that this is highly speculative, and weird, and, well, wormy, but at least such a glass block universe, which is to say, such a cosmology, would make sense of Elizabeth’s experiences and not brush them aside in a knee-jerk fashion as impossible or, the favorite lazy intellectualism these days, as “anecdotal.” Indeed, not only would her experiences be possible in such a universe. They would be expected. Whatever universe we choose to live in, I hope it is clear that that what we consider possible or impossible is not necessarily a function of reality or of human nature. It is just as likely, indeed more likely, a function of our own conditioned worldviews and the artificial limits that they impose on reality. The impossible is not always impossible. Sometimes it is simply a function of our own inadequate cosmology. The same is true, of course, of the “miracle” and the “supernatural.” What is natural and supernatural slips and slides, disappears, and returns, as our understanding of the natural morphs over the centuries. Such considerations constitute reflections within what we might call the ontological question: the question of what is real and how our conceptions of the real limit or free our historical and comparative imaginations. Let us call this ontological question the “high bar.” Few if any of us will or can get over the high bar, that is, definitively answer the ontological questions of these impossible stories, although I would propose to you that we should try, and that our very effort will gradually change the forms of consciousness and culture that presently determine what is thinkable in the study of religion and the broader academy. The bar may be high, but we still need to jump, even and especially if we fall back to Earth every time. There are also lower, more humble, and more answerable questions to ask of experiences like those of Elizabeth. For example, I think the most basic and uncontroversial thing we can say about paranormal experiences is that they appear to lie below or behind basic religious ideas and practices, like the separable soul, immortality, reincarnation, transcendence, and divination. Let us call this observation about the reasonableness of religious beliefs after such an experience the “low bar.” The high bar and the low bar are definitely related, but they can be approached separately. We do not need to accept the ontological reality or empirical objective truth of any of these ideas to see that: (1) these types of sincere and honest experiences are as evident, really more evident, in our own present as/than they are in the recoverable past; and (2) they naturally produce in their subjects a deep and abiding conviction in the truth of specific religious ideas. Put a bit differently, we do not need to believe the beliefs to understand and appreciate their basic rationality or reasonableness. People like Elizabeth do not “think” or “believe” x, y, or z. As Elizabeth herself puts it, she “just knows” these things, because she experienced them directly and dramatically. We can disagree with her, mostly, no doubt because we have not experienced these things, but we can hardly call her irrational for claiming x, y, or z. Put in the terms of the contemporary study of religion, we might say that such beliefs are not simply constructions, representations, or products of cultural or

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material transmission of texts and doctrines. Rather, such beliefs appear to arise from universal human capacities or potentials that are then, of course, shaped, constructed, textualized and transmitted by all of the processes we have come to know so well. It is not an either-or. It is a both-and.

16.8 Eyebrow-Raising Moments And it is truly remarkable how similar paranormal or “miraculous” phenomena are across cultures and times. The content of beliefs and the events of religion and mythology change dramatically, of course. All religions are not the same, at all. Not even close. But it does indeed appear that the same basic building blocks are used again and again to construct these different religions and mythologies. There have been many times in my career as a professional student of comparative religion that I affectionately refer to as “eyebrow-raising moments.” These generally occur when I am reading about a particular religious tradition or figure and some little detail of the story eerily resembles some other detail that I have learned about from a completely foreign religious complex, which, to the best of our knowledge, has never interacted with the one I am studying at the moment. My “eyebrows raise” in surprise and suspicion: surprise that the details are so close and precise; suspicious that what we are really seeing here is a common process or shared pattern across widely different cultural and temporal zones. Allow me to describe two of these eyebrow-raising moments to you. One is from ancient China, the other from early modern Portugal. Scene One. I just finished rereading a seventh-century Chinese Buddhist text that I read for the first time in graduate school a quarter of a century ago, The Platform Sutra of Hui-neng. This text is often identified as one important marker of the beginning of Ch’an or Zen Buddhist thought. I will not get into that here. What I will mention is how the patriarch Hui-neng, the protagonist of the text, manifests clairvoyant or telepathic powers that would have sat comfortably in a nineteenth-century British séance or can easily be seen today in any number of contemporary reports.2 Even more remarkable is the traditional appendix about the post-mortem history of Hui-neng’s preserved body. As the story is told, at midnight on a particular date, the sound of chains dragging across the floor are heard in the stupa or sacred structure that contains Hui-neng’s body. A man is seen running away, and it is soon discovered that the neck of the preserved body had been cut, though the head was not removed. It turns out that this was a thief, who was sent by a competitor in Korea who wanted to bring the patriarch’s head to his own land to venerate and no doubt attract pilgrims.

 One popular English translation refers to the partriach’s “psychic power of mind reading” (Price & Mou-lam, 1990, p. 133). 2

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Note the patterns here: It is midnight. Dragging chains are heard. A crime is committed. These, of course, are standard tropes in Gothic novels, horror movies, and haunted house stories of the modern era, where they function in a very similar way—to signal the presence of the dead or as some warning. The specificity of this little detail in an ancient Chinese text is simply remarkable. Scene Two. On October 13, 1917, during the slaughter that was World War I, over 50,000 people (some place the number as high as 70,000) made a pilgrimage to a muddy rocky cove—amidst fog, drizzle, and then heavy rain no less--near a little town in Portugal called Fátima. They had gathered in such numbers to witness what three small peasant children (ages seven, nine, and ten) had prophesized, namely, that the Virgin Mary would appear and grant a dramatic “miracle” to the world. It was a good bet. The small spectral woman (it was not at all clear that she was the Virgin Mary in the early visions) had already appeared to the children in the cove on the thirteenth of each month from May to November, exactly as she had promised, with only one odd exception (when the civil authorities had the children jailed to prevent such religious hokum and the social unrest they feared it would cause). October was up next. She had promised that it would be the most spectacular of her appearances or apparitions. So expectations were high, very high. The details about what happened that day differ with different accounts and different witnesses who saw different things, or nothing at all. Some heard what the journalist Avelino de Almeida of O Seculo, a prominent newspaper, described as “a subterranean groaning which announces the presence of the Lady. They claim that the temperature falls and they compare the impressions of that moment with those they have experienced during an eclipse of the sun” (in Walsh 1954, p. 140).3 Except this wasn’t exactly an eclipse. Many reported that the sun turned into a “great silver disk” that “though bright as any sun they had ever seen, they could look straight at without blinking.” This weird silver disk then “danced,” as the pilgrims commonly put it, then “rotated again, with dizzy, sickening speed.” It then set out a “hellish vortex” that emitted red flames and a kind of rainbow prismatic effect on the landscape (Ibid., p. 146). One witness described the object, in very different terms, as “like a globe of snow revolving on itself” (Ibid., p.  149). Then it did something even stranger. It “fell” to the Earth. Understandably, many of the terrified witnesses thought that the world was ending. They screamed and prayed. Actually, though, the silver disk did not really fall. It rocked back and forth as it descended, and then it went back up in a similar fashion and became the good ol’ sun again. People who were soaked by the rain now found themselves dry. Healings and visions of various kinds were reported throughout the crowd. Eventually, through decades of state and church politics and various careful shapings of the original events that are much too complex to recount here, all of this

 This is a Catholic devotional account that nevertheless includes generous quotations from the journalist, whom I am mostly relying on here as quoted by Walsh. 3

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became “Our Lady of Fátima,” that is, a devotional culture around the Blessed Virgin Mary that has been especially popular and influential, particularly in the Cold War period and the fears and anxieties surrounding Soviet Communism and “Godless” Russia. I prayed to this particular version of the Virgin as a youth. A statue of her hung in my hometown church, although it has since been taken down and moved to a different part of the church building, I assume, to lessen her prominence. (It is all a bit weird.) None of this raised my eyebrows as a pious teenager, because I knew nothing of the comparison of religions. But it all does now. Here is why. This odd back-and-­ forth motion of the spinning silver disk as it “fell” to the earth, what came to be called the “Miracle of the Sun,” is precisely the motion that would be described in many flying saucer encounters later in the same twentieth century, many of which, of course, were also silver disks that rotated and spun in various strange ways and emitted various forms of apparent radiation. Indeed, this particular zig-zag movement is so common that it even has a name in the ufological literature: it is called the falling-leaf motion. And that is just the beginning. There are dozens of other details in the Fátima apparitions that could be explored here: the early apparition of a headless angel and some apparent radiation effects, for example. All three of the children were soon either dead or disappeared. Two died, one from what looks like a cancer shortly after the apparitions. The third, the oldest, was whisked off to a convent and sworn to obedience for the rest of her life. Then there is the odd small size of the spectral woman (the same general size as the modern “alien,” by the way). There was also trance induction (the children would go into trances when “seeing” the lady), the gliding motion of the lady, the “buzzing” sound heard by others when the being spoke to the children, the roaring sound when the being left the children, and so on. All of these bear directly on the modern history of the UFO, which displays each of the same set of phenomena, of course in an entirely different mythical framework. Indeed, the comparisons are so striking and so precise that a group of Portuguese scholars have co-edited a trilogy on the same a few years back (Fernandes and D’Armada 2007a, b; Fernandes et al., 2008).4 Gaudy art aside, please, please be careful what you hear me saying here. I am not arguing that the most famous apparition of the Virgin Mary of the twentieth century was actually a UFO. Nor, to reverse direction, am I arguing that flying saucers are actually encounters with the Virgin Mary. Both conclusions are very good examples of very bad comparisons in my opinion. What I am arguing is that there are clearly patterns or similarities in these two religious complexes that cry out for admission and analysis, and that they have nothing to do with direct historical influence. These two kinds of religious events are obviously related on some level deeper than any culture or religion, a level to which we probably cannot get but that is still worth positing.

 I summarize and engage this literature in the appendix to Authors of the Impossible.

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What I am also arguing or just observing is that none of this is visible if we know only one of the religious complexes, but all of this is obvious if we know both and can rigorously compare them, after grounding them in their respective histories and societies. Comparison is what allows us to see, even if it cannot tell us what exactly we are seeing, that is, what it means. Comparison is what reveals the secret, without ever quite telling us what that secret is. The rest is up to us. What we make of it, how we interpret it, what meanings we derive from such a secret will determine what we become in the future.

16.9 The Comparison of Miracles and the Miracle of Comparison In my conversations with Elizabeth, I could not help but think of Eliade’s Youth Without Youth. It seemed too close to her experiences to be real. I lent her my copy. She went home and read it. The next time we met I asked her what she thought of the book. Her reply was immediate and firm: “That’s not fiction.” It is not difficult to understand her reaction. Like Dominic, Elizabeth had been struck by lightning holding an umbrella behind a religious building. In Dominic’s case, it was a Christian church. In Elizabeth’s case, it was a Jewish synagogue. The burning skeleton of an umbrella is even featured in both stories: both in Elizabeth’s and in Coppola’s cinematic portrayal of Dominic getting struck. Both also subsequently developed various psychical capacities. In both cases, moreover, the cloud or storm was somehow “symbolic,” since it appeared to be restricted to the small space over the individual. Like Dominic again, one of the first powers to emerge were precognitive dreams (Eliade, 2007, p. 36).5 Dominic and Elizabeth also both “grew young.” Both also turned to their skin—Dominic in this world, Elizabeth in the next—to gauge their age. They even came to nearly identical convictions about the presence of the Doppelgänger, angelic guide or “divine double (Stang, 2016). In Dominic’s case, the Doppelgänger is featured throughout the story as the guide and deeper soul of Dominic. Both also come to “believe” in reincarnation, if in complicated ways. It is an odd experience reading about yourself in someone else’s novel. It is an odd experience realizing that some kinds of fiction are not fiction at all, or better, that sometimes the most profound of truths can only be told in a fantastic tale. None of this should surprise us. Eliade revealed in an interview that personal experiences he had in India while studying yoga and Tantra made him realize “the reality of experiences that cause us to ‘step out of time’ and ‘out of space.’” He also explained how he later “camouflaged” these events in his littérature fantastique and, no doubt, in his comparative theorizing about religion as well. Little wonder so many have

 Dominic’s first precognitive dream is of an unknown car he will get into the next day.

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criticized him for his apparent refusal to think that everything about the human is strictly historical and linear. Like the dragging midnight chains of the ancient Chinese Buddhist text or the spinning, zig-zagging silver disk of the Portuguese Marian apparition, the simple truth is that not everything about the world or our experience of it is strictly historical or cultural. Powers and patterns repeat themselves ad infinitum across climes and times, and without any apparent historical influence. Scholars of religion have largely chosen to ignore these over the last 30 years or so. Still, the powers and patterns remain. The historical record is the historical record. At least when it comes to the anomalous, the paranormal, and the miraculous, truly profound historiography, it turns out, witnesses to the relativity of history. If we can speak of the comparison of miracles, then, we can also speak of the miracle of comparison, which is the miracle of realizing that we are not just our histories, not just our cultures, not just our local names and tribes. The implications of this for doing history, for comparing religious experiences and beliefs, and, most of all, for understanding ourselves are fantastic beyond measure. We have barely begun to recognize that measure in the academy, an academy in which the human seems to grow smaller and smaller and more and more insignificant with each passing decade. A few decades ago we were social constructions spread out in society. Now we are selfish genes in the cell or cognitive templates in the skull. Soon we will be nothing more than invisible microtubules in the neurons. We will shrink into nothing. May we not. I sincerely propose to you that a truly robust comparison of miracles could help reverse this depressing trend, but only if we can approach both “bars” and not look away from asking both the psychological and the ontological questions, that is, why and how these religious beliefs came to be, and whether or not such paranormal phenomena are paradoxical manifestations of some vast and complex cosmic reality underlying everything, of which, please note, we ourselves are also expressions or embodiments. I would also venture to guess that the reversal of our materialist shrinking act and the beginning of our expanding cosmic act will depend partly on whether we can compare miracles anew and eventually come to accept our own fantastic natures and impossible powers, wherever and whenever they choose to show themselves in space and time. And why not? If the histories of religion and science mean anything at all, it is that the universe and our place in it are far weirder and much stranger than we ever thought or believed.

References Derrida, J. (2007 [1987]). Telepathy. In P. Kamuf & E. Rottenberg (Eds.), Psyche: Inventions of the other (N. Royle, Trans.) (vol. 1, pp. 226–261). Stanford University Press. Eliade, M. (2007 [1981]). Youth without youth (M. L. Ricketts, Trans.). University of Chicago Press.

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Fernandes, J., & D’Armada, F. (2007a). Celestial secrets: The hidden history of the Fátima incident. Edited by Andrew D. Basiago. Translated by Alexandra Bruce. Anomalist Books. Fernandes, J., & D’Armada, F. (2007b). Heavenly lights: The apparitions of Fátima and the UFO phenomenon. Edited by Andrew D. Basiago. Translated by Eva M. Thompson. Anomalist Books. Fernandes, F., Fernandes, J., & Berenguel, R. (2008). Fátima revisited: The apparition phenomenon in ufology, psychology, and science. Edited by Andrew D. Basiago. Translated by Eva M. Thompson. Anomalist Books. Institute for Spirituality and Health. (2015, October 29). Conference: Changed in the blink of an eye: Near-death experiences and other transformations of consciousness. Kripal, J.  J. (2011). Authors of the impossible: The paranormal and the sacred. University of Chicago Press. Krohn, E. G., & Kripal, J. J. (2018). Changed in a flash: One woman’s near-death experience and why a scholar thinks it empowers us all. North Atlantic Books. Price, A.F., & Mou-lam, W. (Trans.). (1990). The Diamond Sutra & the Sutra of Hui-neng. Shambalah. Stang, C. M. (2016). Our divine double. Harvard University Press. Walsh, W. T. (1954). Our Lady of Fátima. Image Book.

Part VII

Comparative Conclusions

Chapter 17

On the Epistemic Function of Miracles Karen R. Zwier

Abstract  In this chapter, I offer a concluding analysis of a central role of miracles that we have seen recurring throughout the lectures of our series (and chapters of this book). I propose that the primary role of miracles in religious discourse is an epistemic one, to stand as evidence of transcendence. This function is one that has often been downplayed, and it is in need of explicit scrutiny and analysis.

17.1 What Are Miracles For? Stories of miracles exist in every major religious tradition. And as we have seen in many chapters of this book, they exist also in more local, idiosyncratic, and “emerging” religious contexts. There were, of course, a few authors in this volume who needed to stretch the category of “miracle” in order to fit their object of study; for example, Cheung proposed the concept of “natural miracle” to describe his father’s healings, Detwiler used “miracle” as an “outstanding event or accomplishment” rather than as an otherworldly intervention, and Kripal explicitly expanded his dataset to include all paranormal phenomena. And yet I find it striking that the category is suitable and applicable—with relatively little “stretching”—across so many varied contexts. As I attempt to draw comparisons and evaluate this series of lectures, one central thing stands out to me. Miracles are a thing to be explained. By that, I am not saying that we need to seek individual explanations for each and every instance of a miracle story. That may well be an interesting project, but that is not my intention here. What I mean to say, rather, is this: the fact that miracle stories repeatedly arise and K. R. Zwier (*) Independent Scholar, Des Moines, IA, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_17

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have such a prominent place in scriptural texts, pious practices, and folklore across religions is a datum to be explained. In this essay, I intend to approach miracles (collectively speaking) as just that— an explanandum. I will be proposing that the primary role of miracles—the reason that they exist in religious discourse—is their epistemic role. Miracles play an important role in religious reasoning and the building of systems of religious knowledge. I propose that they stand as alleged evidence of transcendence, evidence of something beyond this world or beyond our ability to comprehend. Not everyone thinks of miracles in the way I am proposing. Michael Levine, for example, holds what I would call a “deflationary view” of miracles, and his view is worth examining here. In a 2011 paper, Levine listed some of the traditional questions that philosophers tend to ask when they consider miracles (Levine, 2011). For example, “Are miracles possible?”1 Levine’s remarks on this question are scathing. He ultimately calls it an “uninteresting tautology” that miracles are possible, and he advises philosophers to stop talking about it. A second kind of question that philosophers love to ask, according to Levine, is the question of whether someone could possibly be justified in believing in a miracle. Again, Levine says that the answer to this question is yes; his verdict is that there are easily imaginable circumstances in which someone could be justified in believing that a miracle has occurred. But this too is an uninteresting question, according to Levine. Levine ends up identifying a third question: whether or not anyone actually has, in the course of history, been justified in believing that a miracle has occurred. This, he says, is the interesting question, and this is the one that no one wants to talk about. It is a hard question, and it is a provocative one. To address it would likely end either in an admission of the plausibility of particular miracles or the conclusion that many believers are deluded. By the end of Levine’s paper, however, he ends up concluding that none of these questions matter very much: Some theologians, along with many in the academic study of religion, including philosophy, no longer regard truth-claims of any kind, let alone those about miracles, as central. They have relatively little role in the religious life, or to questions about God and meaning as taken up in philosophical theology. (Levine, 2011, p. 305)

I suspect that Levine speaks for many in the field of religious studies who, because of the nature of their disciplinary training (e.g., anthropology, history, literary studies), would tend to avoid questions of truth.2 After all, we do not always need to assess the truth of miracle stories when they have plenty of other roles and dimensions. Kenneth Woodward, in his comparative book on miracles, said that “miracles are best understood through stories” (Woodward, 2000, p. 22). In their story form, they have meaning, and they “can change the way we see the world”  This question happens to be the central question I address in the twelfth chapter of this volume.  The question of the truth of miracle claims would find its natural home within philosophy of religion, but the discipline of philosophy of religion is currently shrinking and under various interdisciplinary pressures that question its value. Whitney (2018) provides an insightful analysis of the trends in philosophy of religion and pressures upon the discipline. (Thanks to Tim Knepper, who alerted me to this trend and its relevance to my argument here.) 1 2

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(p. 28). David Weddle also emphasizes several non-truth-valent functions of miracles, including their ability to “arouse wonder” and “carry religious significance” and their political power to “call forth official regulation and faithful dissent” (Weddle, 2010, p. 4). Woodward and Weddle are absolutely correct in identifying the many functions of miracles that are independent of their literal truth. Miracles do indeed have all of these religious functions, and this volume is full of evidence of their many functions. However, none of the functions listed above—narrative function, the ability to change the way a person sees the world, the capacity to arouse wonder or carry religious significance, the wielding of political power—are exclusive to miracles. Other religious myths, institutions, and power structures can do all of these jobs just fine. And if that is the case, then there really is no need for miracles. Religion could just as well do without them. But religion does not do without miracles. On the contrary, miracle claims abound across religions. And if miracles are indeed an explanandum, as I have suggested, then a list of their non-truth-valent functions has brought us no closer to meeting the challenge to explain them. Many—perhaps most—scholars of religion would reject my quest for an explanation of the phenomenon of miracles, and cite their duty to merely describe religious phenomena without philosophical evaluation or explanation. But I do happen to be a philosopher, and as I aim to comment on this collection of lectures as a whole, I simply cannot set aside this “explanation problem” that glares at me so defiantly. I can frame this “explanation problem” a bit differently, in the form of a question. Why miracles? Specifically, what can miracles do that other religious stories, practices, and symbols cannot? David Weddle has an interesting comment with respect to this question. It comes at the very end of his book on miracles, in the afterward. [D]oes religious faith require belief in miracles? … I am inclined to answer yes. […] [I]f religion offers human beings anything other than what is already achieved in politics, art, literature, ethics, psychology, and social order, then that added value must somehow derive from the transcendent. Even if all that religion contributes is an interpretive overlay that enables believers to critique other cultural activities, that standard requires a point of view from “elsewhere” to distinguish it from that of astute and morally sensitive humanists. (Weddle, 2010, p. 213)

Weddle’s point here is striking. Without some form of transcendence—an “elsewhere”—religion fails to distinguish itself from the many other human expressions of culture and meaning. And that is why miracles are so essential to the diverse forms and practices of religion. I will restate my proposal. The primary role of miracles—the reason that they exist in religious discourse—is their epistemic role. And what is their epistemic role? Miracles constitute evidence of transcendence. “Transcendence” here is an apophatic concept; it is a negative referent in that it points to whatever subset of reality is beyond direct human experience (at least most of the time, as miracles themselves may be conceived as such direct experience). It is a referent to

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“the-rest-of-what-is.”3 Miracles are out-of-the-ordinary events that cry out for etiological explanation when placed in a background context suggesting that their source is “beyond” our world or “beyond” our ability to comprehend. In our series, we have seen many instances in which authors, editors, and interpreters of religious texts use miracles as evidence that there is a “beyond” worth caring about. Sometimes the miracle workers themselves use miracles as demonstrations of their connectedness to that “beyond,” or as evidence of the superiority of their teaching. And should not a reasonable person need some evidence of this kind before embracing the belief that there is such a “beyond”? Allow me to clarify the concept of evidence, as I will be using it here. When I say that miracles constitute evidence of transcendence, I am not saying that they constitute unproblematic or definitive evidence. I am in no way asserting that miracle claims constitute definitive justification for believing in a transcendent reality. I use “evidence” in its broadest sense. “Evidence” is meant to include anything that makes a difference to whether or not someone is justified in believing something. Here is a quick toy example to illustrate what I mean by evidence in the broad sense. If I notice that my neighbor’s car is gone one morning, the absence of her car can constitute evidence toward the conclusion that she went to the grocery store that morning. But that piece of evidence is by no means definitive. She could have gone elsewhere in her car. She might have lent her car to someone else. There are many possibilities. Still, the fact of her car being absent that morning makes a difference to the degree to which I am justified in believing that she went to the grocery store that morning. In the same way, when I say that a miracle constitutes evidence of transcendence, I am claiming that a miracle makes a difference to the degree to which a would-be believer is justified in believing in a transcendent reality. The epistemic function of miracles is to make a difference to belief in a transcendent reality, and moreover to make a difference to belief in the nature of that transcendent reality. I now return to a point that I hinted at above. In light of my claim about the epistemic function of miracles, there are two different types of questions that arise. The first are descriptive questions. Descriptively speaking, does religious discourse make use of miracles as evidence? Are miracle stories—in point of fact—concerned with the epistemic features of the miracles they recount? When miracle stories are told, do they contain bits of information that try to convince their audience? Or are they, instead, unconcerned with the matter of belief? The second is a normative question: How should miracles function epistemically? Theoretically and

 Anthropologist Mattijs van de Port (2011, pp. 151ff) uses this phrase to indicate that which is beyond human semiotic horizons, and defines “miracle” accordingly, as “a phenomenon that questions mundane definitions of the possible, and as such, provides a gateway to the-rest-of-what-is” (pp. 154–155). Here I will be focusing on the epistemic function of miracles, which is to provide evidence that there even is a “rest-of-what-is”. If it is in fact true that there is a “rest-of-what-is,” miracles could potentially also constitute “gateways” to “the-rest-of-what-is”; but that kind of claim could only be secondary, as it only makes sense if a belief in “the-rest-of-what-is” has already been established. 3

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in-principle, when is a person justified in believing in a miracle? And perhaps even more interestingly, when is a person justified in believing some other claim on the basis of a miracle? The first set of questions is about whether people—alleged miracle-workers, witnesses who provide testimony, authors of religious texts, interpreters who work from such texts to construct and develop religious systems of knowledge—do, as a purely descriptive matter of fact, attempt to use miracles as evidence. The second set of questions is whether the use of miracles in this way—their being employed as evidence—can be rationally justifiable. Can miracles, when used as evidence, be conducive to knowledge? In the sections below, I will address each of these questions in turn, albeit briefly.

17.2 The Descriptive Case In this section, I am going to argue that miracles are in fact used as evidence in a variety of religious knowledge systems. I call this the descriptive case. The purpose of this section is to show that, descriptively, miracle stories are very much concerned with the epistemic features of the miracles they recount. Epistemic points are highlighted and capitalized upon in the way that miracles are recounted.4 We have examples from our lecture series at the ready. A first set of examples was given by Davis (Ch. 2), who discussed several prodigies worked by Krishna in epic stories. At times, certain privileged individuals within the story experience theophanies in which they are permitted a glimpse of Krishna’s divine nature. These miraculous visions stand as evidence of Krishna’s true identity. Other miracle stories presented themselves in a more puzzling fashion, with characters in the story failing to understand the nature of the events happening among them. In these cases, Davis shows that it is the reader of the narrative who gains the insight into Krishna’s true identity as an incarnate form of Vishnu, and the liberating power of devotion to Krishna. The audience of the narrative has been given evidence of a divine being, and evidence of the nature of that divine being. Polen (Ch. 3) discussed the rise of the Baal Shem Tov. His miraculous works (cures, clairvoyance, and path-jumping) were an important part of his rise to prominence. The Baal Shem Tov and some of his successors had miraculous abilities stemming from their mystical connection to the Divine and a mastery over practical Kabbalah. The miraculous powers stand as evidence both of the power of letter combinatorics described in Sefer Yetsirah and also of the kind of mastery over nature that comes from a mystical union with God. Polen also examines the dismissive attitude toward such miracles held by many hasidic leaders. To my eye, this dismissiveness supports the idea that miracles stand as evidence; the concern of such  I have given a version of this lecture (at the annual meeting of the American Academy of Religion in 2018) where I have gone through several miracle examples: the Buddha’s twin miracle at Śrāvastī, Jesus’ healing a paralytic, and Muhammad’s splitting the moon. 4

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writings was that miracles not become the focal point of Hasidism, but that focal point should rather be the inner life of piety and mystical communion with God for which the miracles stand as evidence. Yazicioglu (Ch. 4) explained how Quranic miracles produce a “breakthrough” that leads the witness (or the later reading audience) to question the efficacy of ordinary patterns and instead become aware of the divine will behind them. One example she discussed was the Quranic story of Abraham being thrown into the fire but not being burned. God commanded that the fire “be coolness and safety upon Abraham” (21:69). Twentieth-century theologian Said Nursi provided an interpretation of this event by explaining that the ordinary patterns we see around us (e.g., fire burning) are not actually causal. Rather, ordinary patterns are all manifestations of the will of the creator. By demonstrating the power of divine command to go against the ordinary pattern, this miracle stands as evidence that God’s will is in fact the cause of all things. And of course, it stands as evidence of other messages, like God’s faithfulness to Abraham, God’s omnipotence, and surely others. In his analysis of the Pentecostal outpouring of miracles—healings, prophecy, glossolalia, exorcisms—Premawardhana (Ch. 5) calls miracles “placeholders for the rest-of-what-is.” Pentecostal miracles point in a negative way toward the limits of empiricism, secular reason, and naturalistic assumptions. The very pervasiveness of miracles in Pentecostal experience and practice stands as evidence that the workings of the Holy Spirit are not extraordinary or exceptional, but rather these workings permeate the natural world and everyday life, if one only has eyes to see them. For Pentecostals, miracles attest to the transcendent reality of the Holy Spirit. Shi (Ch. 6) examined in detail the role of various miracles in the Vimalakīrti Sutra. As Shi explained, the central message conveyed in the sutra is the principle of emptiness and indeterminacy. And supernatural powers in the sutra turn out to be a demonstration of the truth of the principle. If it is true that the elements are indeterminate, then a transformation of one thing into another is a material demonstration of that indeterminacy. Moreover, Shi shows that for both the characters within the sutra and for its readers, Vimalakīrti’s miracles provide evidence of the superiority of Mahāyāna teachings over “Hīnayāna” ones. Weddle (Ch. 7) explicitly embraces the view that miracles are used as evidence in polemical and political arguments. Miracles signify “who has authority to speak and exercise power in this world.” Weddle discusses two different attitudes toward the legitimacy of such arguments. One the one hand, sometimes miracle stories are described as definitive evidence for a given claim (as, for example, the gospel of John characterizes Jesus’ healing of the blind man, among several other miracles, as evidence that Jesus is the Christ and is of divine origin). On the other hand, there are times when miracles are dismissed as irrelevant to the determination of truth (for example, as in the Talmudic story of Eliezer’s exile by the other rabbis on account of his attempt to win an argument by miracles). In a way, the rejection of miracles in the latter case is reflective of just how much power and influence miracles can claim: the root of the rejection was a fear of the precedent it would set, and the schisms that might easily follow. Ultimately, Weddle concludes that the use of miracles as evidence is illegitimate. Since miracles cannot by themselves establish their

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own meaning, they cannot logically stand as evidence for any claim. Religious traditions must create meaning for their miracles. In the next section of this chapter, I will disagree with Weddle and take the position that miracles can stand as evidence (with their legitimacy as such depending on certain factors). But I will agree with him on the idea that religious traditions must build up the belief structures that make miracles into evidence of particular claims. Next we come to the healings of Sen Kan Cheung (Cheung, Ch. 8) and the Samburu resurrection cases (Straight, Ch. 9). At first glance, these “miracles,” if they are so categorized, seem to be of little evidentiary import. In fact, these events occur in communities that have little interest in proselytizing, and therefore little need to “use” miracles as evidence of anything. But there is a consistent theme that runs across each of these chapters: the world is mysterious. For Sen Kan Cheung and his students/followers, wondrous healings can be effected by the hands of a person who has mastered various techniques and chants. When asked specifically about the source of the healings (whether they are a result of the buddhas and bodhisattvas performing a miracle, or instead the result of the power of the chant itself), Cheung can only respond ambiguously. The world is mysterious and powerful, and “natural miracles” can emerge from the hidden and mysterious makeup of the world. For the Samburu, the resurrection cases are explained by the assertion that Nkai chose to breathe life back into certain individuals. Why those individuals and not others? It is a mystery—a mystery that is accepted by the Samburu. Still more examples come from Burchett (Ch. 10). In his lecture in our series, he told the story of a “miracle battle” between a Sufi Shaykh and a Yogi. The Yogi was able to levitate—to rise straight up and then descend back down. But the Shaykh invokes the power of God, rises, and flies in all directions. Afterward, the Yogi acknowledges that the Shaykh’s power is true and from God. That’s a miracle standing as evidence if ever there was one. In that instance, the versatility and “multidirectionality” of the Shaykh’s flying also became evidence for the kind of power that the true God has, in contrast to the limited one-directional power that the Yogi was able to display. In his chapter, Burchett showed how, in Sufi and bhakti stories, the moral character of the miracle worker features as an important—if not central—factor in demonstrating the actions and attitudes of which God approves. Miracles thus served as evidence of moral superiority, as the power of God manifests itself through those with genuine faith, devotion, and generosity. For the Lakota, the intervention of White Buffalo Calf Woman and her gifts to them stand as evidence of their identity as a people—evidence which strengthens them in the struggle to maintain that identity and fight for their political sovereignty (Detwiler, Ch. 11). Additionally, the appearance of White Buffalo Calf Woman stands as a demonstration of the Lakota worldview—an example of one of many communications that are possible among the connected web of wakȟáŋ persons. Both Russell (Ch. 13) and Harris (Ch. 14) share a similar project. Each scholar seeks to provide, in their own way, a theoretical background that might allow for miracles to be understood as possible occurrences even within the bounds of scientific theorizing. Russell attempts to do this with his QM-NIODA view, and Harris likewise attempts it as he proposes the geological sciences as a new model for

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thinking about miracles as rare events of particular significance, rendered possible against the backdrop of deep time. It seems to me that such a project would have little motivation if miracles did not stand as evidence within religious belief structures. It is only if miracles are understood as possible occurrences that then they can do evidentiary work. Nickell (Ch. 15) began his chapter by explaining that “miracle” is a negative concept.5 It is an event that cannot be explained. A miraculous event casts doubt on the sufficiency of our naturalistic systems of knowledge, and by that route an alternative explanation can enter in. (I will return to that idea later, in the next section.) But the very effort of miracle investigation proves my point: such investigation would not be important if truth and facticity were beside the point or if miracles were not being used as evidence of other claims. It is also notable that in several of the cases that Nickell describes, religious adherents themselves felt that they had something “at stake” in the investigation—and more specifically, the discrediting— of miracle claims. For example, it was important to John Calvin that alleged relics of Jesus’ cross be discredited, in order to reveal the Catholic practice of honoring relics as foolish. And the Greek Orthodox Church of North America was concerned enough about a claim of an icon shedding tears that they invited Nickell to investigate it. Miracle claims are a tricky affair, especially for those religions with theoretical frameworks that explicitly acknowledge miraculous occurrences in the past or present; novel miracle claims have great power and need to be either controlled or monitored through some sort of authentication/refutation process. Kripal (Ch. 16) himself subscribes to the idea of a mysterious world. He examines how Elizabeth Krohn walked away from her extraordinary experience with a conviction in certain teachings. And after describing other cases of prescience and paranormal phenomena across various contexts, he speculates that these phenomena are signs of human powers that we do not yet understand. Human efforts to know the world and control it are limited, and perhaps even futile at times. There is a transcendence here, but not a “super-natural” kind involving entities and dimensions existing outside of the natural world. Rather, the transcendence in these cases is one of entities and powers within this world that transcend human linguistic capabilities, human understanding, and human prediction. Whether stylized as miracles or not, the “extraordinary events” in these cases still stand as implicit evidence of transcendence.

17.3 The Normative Question Now I turn to the normative question. Can miracles, normatively speaking, act as evidence? Should they? And if so, of what should they be considered evidence?

 I agree with Nickell on this point, and his characterization of miracle as negative concept echoes my own characterization of transcendence as a negative concept (see below). 5

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The first and most obvious way that miracles function as evidence is as negative evidence. Would-be religious believers live and move through a world of ordinary, predictable objects and phenomena. Our common-sense practical knowledge of the world works just fine for us; we know how to do everyday things to get by in everyday life—like communicate with other people, grow food, and build homes. When we need to do things that are not so “everyday”—e.g., building a communication device that allows a voice to travel long distances to a receiver at someone else’s ear—we have other, more specialized sources of theoretical and practical knowledge, like science and engineering. But even so, we are able to live and move about the world in predictable, robust ways. Our common sense and our science and engineering all seem sufficient to the task most of the time. The claim that a transcendent reality exists therefore requires evidence. What does a miracle do to that sense of sufficiency? It shakes our confidence in the sufficiency of our knowledge, and the sufficiency of our assumptions of the world. The ordinary everyday course of events is the expected, and miracles break that expectation. They are the extraordinary, the unexpected. And as such, miracles stand as evidence for the belief that our ordinary understanding of the world does not suffice. In this way, miracles are not positive evidence, but rather negative evidence. They stand as evidence that is inconsistent with our naturalistic assumptions, and so our confidence in those assumptions is shaken. That negative role is only one half of what miracles can do, epistemically speaking.6 They can also play a role as a bridge to positive evidence. In that moment where our confidence is shaken, if the would-be believer also receives a positive explanation of what just occurred, or why it just occurred, or the meaning of the occurrence, then the miracle begins to stand as positive evidence for that given explanation. Such a moment becomes an opportunity for a religious teacher to explain the meaning of the anomalous event, and effectively supply the missing assumptions that suffice to resolve the conflict in a broken system of knowledge. The role of the miracle in this case is to transfer epistemic authority in some way—this could be to the performer of the miracle, or to a spokesperson on behalf of the miracle (such as a prophet), or to a narrator capable of giving an interpretation. But what does that make of the argumentative structure here? What is really going on? Use of a miracle in this way—as positive evidence for some religious claim—is a specific version of an appeal to authority. Caution is obviously needed here. Weddle expressed a valid worry (Ch. 7 of this volume) when he asked, “Does might make right?” Does a demonstration of power necessarily imply that a message is true or believable? What is the connection between power and truth? In order to think about this, let us look for a moment at the structure of a naïve appeal to authority:

 This “negative role” of miracles is what Nickell calls an appeal to ignorance (see Ch. 15). But I will argue here that the argumentative structure of a miracle claim goes beyond an appeal to ignorance. 6

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1. Authority utters claim P. 2. Therefore, P. We can translate this into “miracle versions” of the same argument. Here is a first version, which would apply to a situation in which a person witnesses a miracle firsthand: 1. Bob works a miracle. 2. Bob explains miracle by claiming P. 3. Therefore, P. A second version would apply to a situation where someone is recounting the story of a miracle. 1. Narrator recounts how Sally worked a miracle. 2. Narrator explains the significance of Sally’s miracle by claiming P. 3. Therefore, P. Unfortunately, all three of these arguments are logical fallacies. Logically speaking, one cannot reliably move from the utterance of a claim to a conclusion about the truth of that claim. Moreover, it does not matter who is uttering the claim. It could be an expert or someone who is completely ignorant. Anyone who can string together words has the possibility of uttering truth or uttering falsehood, no matter who they are and what they happen to know. This may sound like very bad news for miracles, if one of their primary functions is to serve as evidence in this way. But it is not as bad as it seems at first glance. Why? Because there is much more to human knowledge than logic. Logic serves as a guarantor of truth-preservation. Logically valid inferences are those that guarantee true conclusions from true premises. But when it comes to human knowledge, the premises are always in question and there are no guarantees. Logical validity is not a helpful standard for truth in the context of most real epistemic work. In fact, throwing out appeals to authority altogether would be a very dangerous thing. Much of our knowledge—perhaps the majority of our knowledge—is gained by appeal to authority. Let’s look at a reasonable appeal to authority as an example. 1. S is a climate scientist with expertise in glacier measurement. 2. S claims that the total surface area of global land ice has been decreasing steadily over the last half century. 3. It is plausible that the total surface area of global land ice has been decreasing over the last half century. The above argument is still fundamentally an appeal to authority. But it is a relatively strong one. What makes it strong? First, the conclusion is not expressed with certainty, but with plausibility. That is the best we can expect from any claim to authority. Furthermore, plausibility can come in degrees; there are various factors that strengthen or weaken the plausibility of an appeal to authority. Below is a

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(non-exhaustive) list of factors that can affect the plausibility of any particular appeal to authority:7 • Expertise. What kind of training and/or expertise does the authority have? And is that expertise relevant to the subject matter of the claim? • Credibility. Is the authority credible, as a person and in the context? Context cues and character judgment are necessarily involved here. What is the tone of voice or writing? What does prior experience reveal about the reliability and trustworthiness of the person? • Implication. Did the authority assert the exact same claim as the one in the conclusion, or did they assert a distinct claim that merely implied the one in the conclusion? • Consistency. Is the claim asserted by the authority consistent with other background knowledge, or what other experts assert? • Reasons/Evidence. Did the authority give evidence or reasons for the claim? Depending on the above factors, the plausibility of a given appeal to authority can be weaker or stronger. But of course, the question that concerns us here is the following: What about appeals to authority on the basis of a miracle? Can these possibly be reasonable or plausible? First, let us flesh out a commonly-occurring form of appeal to authority on the basis of a miracle: 1. Third Party (A) recounts a miracle M performed or occasioned by Fig. B. 2. Ordinary and/or naturalistic explanations are unable to account for the occurrence of M. 3. Either A or B explains the significance of M by claiming C. 4. C is more or less plausible (depending on various factors surrounding A, B, M, and C). As stated above, the plausibility of miracle arguments can vary widely, depending on a number of factors. Many of the factors listed above for general appeals to authority will apply, but there are factors that are particular to miracles. And we have seen some of these factors at play throughout our lecture series and the papers of this volume. • Character. What is the overall character of both A and B? Are both trustworthy? What does B stand to gain by the performance? What does A stand to gain by the retelling? Does A have firsthand experience? [Character affects the plausibility of M and C in premises #1 and #3.] • Repetition and variety. Has B produced miracles on multiple occasions in a variety of settings? Or is B rather a “one-trick wonder”? [Repetition and variety affect the plausibility of the actual occurrence of M referenced in premise #1.] • Lack of contrivance. Are there any suspicious circumstances surrounding M? Did M occur under secret, contrived, or controlled circumstances (e.g., as in a  For an in-depth discussion of appeals to authority and the many factors that influence plausibility, see Walton (1997). 7

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magic trick), where there may have been an illusion or other deceit? Or did M occur more spontaneously, without the appearance of planning or preparation? [Contrivance negatively affects the strength of premise #2.] • Materiality. Is there a material connection between M and the message being communicated, C? (For example, when the Buddha performs the twin miracle at Śrāvastī and issues fire and water from his body, all the while teaching his followers about the mutability of the elements, there is a material connection between the miracle itself and the teaching.) [Materiality affects the strength of premise #3.] • Consistency. On the one hand, miracle arguments are powerful to the extent that the M is inconsistent with naturalistic assumptions and expectations. A miracle serves to break down confidence in naturalistic explanations and leave a void into which alternative (religious, or otherwise supernaturalistic) explanations can enter. [Inconsistency in this sense affects the strength of premise #2.] On the other hand, the consistency of the concluding claim (e.g., C in the argument above) with a framework or system of already-established religious belief can be a positive factor toward plausibility. Then again, the polemical and political scenarios highlighted by Shi, Weddle, and Burchett (see Chs. 6, 7, and 10, respectively) suggest that miracle arguments sometimes utilize inconsistency with accepted doctrine and belief as a tool to differentiate the claims of competing religious sects or establish alternative religious authority. As with any appeal to authority, an argument based on a miracle will never constitute proof. None of the above-listed factors will ever be entirely decisive or determining of belief. And we still have not reached an answer in response to Weddle’s fundamental worry about miracle arguments: regardless of all plausibility factors, a miracle event M will never have a logical connection to any conclusion C it is made to support. Inasmuch as miracles are occurrences rather than propositions, they do not wear their meaning on their face. So how can they possibly stand as evidence? To address this question, I want to look briefly at how evidence connects to its conclusion in scientific reasoning. Let us consider the example of an experiment using simple distillation to determine the boiling point of an unknown liquid: 1. Unknown liquid L is placed in a flask attached to a vertical column and condenser, with a thermometer placed to measure the temperature of the vapor. 2. L is heated in an oil bath until it distills. 3. Temperature T and pressure P are observed as L distills. 4. The boiling point of L is T at P. The above list of statements is not an argument from authority, but they can instead be read as an argument from physical evidence. Like an argument from authority, this list of statements is not a logically valid argument. In fact, “boiling point” suddenly appears in the conclusion without ever having been mentioned in the earlier descriptive statements of the argument. So what is happening here? How and why does this set of statements constitute a solid demonstration of its conclusion?

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The statements above make use of a large body of well-structured concepts and theories. Consider the first statement, which refers to a device called a “thermometer” and an abstract concept called “temperature.” The establishment of a measurement scale for the quantity that we now call “temperature” (and its theoretical distinction from the quantity that we call “heat”) is the product of roughly two centuries of scientific investigation and theoretical work.8 The concept of pressure (referenced in the third statement) and the standardization of its measurement is similarly non-trivial. Moreover, the very idea of a “boiling point” as a desired piece of information about a chemical compound (and the background understanding that this so-called “point” depends on pressure) involves a great deal of theoretical background knowledge. A person can only make sense of the above sequence of statements and understand them as an evidentiary “argument” for the concluding statement if they have the requisite scientific background knowledge. I propose that the situation is similar with miracle arguments. Ultimately, the most influential factor in the judgment of a miracle argument—far more influential than the list of plausibility factors above—is the overall set of background beliefs already held by its audience. Religions supply precisely those background beliefs necessary to make sense of the miracles they respectively deem relevant. For a devotee of a particular religion who already accepts other miracles and certain background beliefs about the transcendent reality that explains those miracles, it will not be a significant adjustment to that person’s accepted body of knowledge to accept yet another miracle that corroborates those beliefs. For a person caught between two distinct but related religious sects, miracles will be evaluated for their plausibility and also for their consistency or inconsistency with the beliefs of either sect. Background beliefs related to the claims of one or the other sect may need to be revised accordingly. Should religious background beliefs be allowed to “fill in the gaps” of an argument in this way? Why should we allow them to supply the meaning that was not there in the miracle itself? The answer (for better or for worse) is that there is no other way. Any epistemic agent confronted with a piece of evidence must allow such “background filling” to some extent. Even scientific evidence, when firmly bolstered by shared practices, concepts, and theories, is subject to the so-called “underdetermination problem.” No single hypothesis or theory can be tested in isolation, but must be tested in conjunction with an entire body of background knowledge.9 Any piece of evidence must always be assessed together with other background beliefs. So when a would-be believer is confronted with an argument that utilizes a miracle to support a claim about some transcendent reality, we have a miracle version of the underdetermination problem. We can only judge between the provided interpretation and other implicit interpretations that come to mind (including

 Chang (2004) provides an in-depth study of historical development of thermometry.  The two main formulations of the underdetermination problem are usually attributed to Duhem (1954 [1914]) and Quine (1951). 8 9

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alternative religious interpretations as well as naturalistic ones). We must consider all interpretations as mutually exclusive wholes and choose which one to embrace. My point is the following: if the confirmation of scientific theories by evidence is underdetermined and epistemically fraught, it should come as no surprise that arguments utilizing miracles as evidence would be so as well. I am not arguing that scientific epistemology and religious epistemology are identical; they are not. My point is, rather that religious arguments that utilize miracles as evidence do not introduce novel epistemic issues to which scientific knowledge is somehow immune. No belief will ever be entirely determinable on a purely rationalist (logic alone) or purely empiricist (evidence alone) basis. That goes for any system of knowledge or belief—whether it be common sense, science, or religion.10 (I expect that Weddle will be less than satisfied with the epistemology of miracles that I have described here, but this is the epistemic situation as I see it.) I will return to my main point, which is the conclusion I draw from this lecture series as a whole. The primary purpose of miracles is their epistemic function. Miracles serve as alleged evidence of transcendent reality, and they alone can play that role. Miracles present themselves as demonstrations of the incompleteness of this reality, of the insufficiency of human understanding. They point to something that must exist beyond. We have seen examples throughout our lecture series of miracles being used in this way. And it should come as no surprise that many of the miracle narratives we have explored throughout the series highlight and emphasize the plausibility factors above and also provide the interpretations necessary to incorporate the extraordinary occurrences in question into a larger body of religious background beliefs.

17.4 Brief Aside About the Dangers of Belief in Miracles Miracle stories turn out to be highly effective tools for producing religious belief, precisely because they leverage certain epistemic features discussed above. Belief in miracles can certainly have many positive effects: such belief brings people together, offers comfort, encourages hope, and can even change people’s attitudes toward and experiences of their own life circumstances.11 However, it is also quite clear that the epistemic features I have highlighted can be abused. We have examples from our series of miracle claims that seem especially suspect due to the personal and institutional benefits accrued by the parties making the claims. Nickell (Ch. 15) described several of these: weeping icons and statues that appear to  Although it is too big a topic for this paper, I personally subscribe to a voluntarist epistemology with respect to both science and religion. It seems to me that an act of the will is unavoidable at some point when an epistemic agent is choosing between alternative explanatory frameworks of belief. van Fraassen (2002) gives an interesting and sophisticated explication of such an epistemology with respect to both science and religion. 11  Premawardhana made this point exceptionally clear in his study of Pentecostal miracles (Ch. 5). 10

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be motivated by a desire for publicity and financial gain; an unregulated economy of relics, most of which are of dubious origin; “healers” who use suggestion and even pseudosurgery to take advantage of sick people; and visionaries who attract frenzied attention and superstition. Premawardhana’s anthropological discussion of Pentecostal miracles (Ch. 5) also included examples of suspect miracle claims. The preaching of a prosperity gospel in neo-Pentecostal churches, for example, could reasonably be seen as a tool of domination, whereby poor and disenfranchised people are manipulated “into trading their meager resources for false promises, and simultaneously [distracted] from the ‘real’ work required to overturn their oppression.” It is notable that we have also encountered cases in which religious leaders themselves attempt to de-emphasize miracles and encourage a certain degree of skepticism in their followers. The Hasidic tendency to downplay or dismiss miracles (see Polen, Ch. 3) is just such a case. Polen explains that the ambivalence is motivated by a desire to maintain a focus on the transcendent reality toward which miracles point, rather than on the miracles themselves. That ambivalence is echoed in other religious contexts, when the Buddha instructs his disciples not to display their powers (see Fiordalis, 2014) or when Jesus scolds followers who will not believe him without seeking signs (John 4:48). Weddle (Ch. 7) discussed a Talmudic story in which miracles are outright rejected as a way to decide interpretations of the law. And the Greek Orthodox Church of North America invited the investigation of suspicious claims about a weeping icon (see Nickell, Ch. 15). Might there be, in all of these cases, an implicit acknowledgement of the ease with which believers can be misled and victimized? Because miracles arguments are so easy to abuse, it is important for scholars to develop explicit reflection on how miracles operate as evidence, beyond what I have provided here. As explained above, an argument based on a miracle will never constitute proof. Miracles may be extremely important for belief in a transcendent reality, but they are not sufficient for that belief, as other background beliefs must be invoked in order to reach such a conclusion. Disbelief in the face of a miracle is a very reasonable response, and often an epistemically healthy one, especially for religious adherents themselves. It is essential for individuals and communities to think critically about what alleged occurrences and what systems of belief are worthy of their faith.

17.5 Conclusion I have proposed in this chapter that miracles (understood collectively as a phenomenon) must be an explanandum of religious studies. And if miracles are taken to be an explanandum, then the explanans is going to be the function that they uniquely play in religious discourse. That function is, I have proposed, an epistemic function—that miracles constitute evidence of a transcendent reality. In saying this, I take myself to be saying something relatively obvious. Miracles point to some kind of transcendent reality. Their very occurrence, and especially their retellings, are designed to ask the would-be believer to believe in those

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realities. But grappling with this (somewhat obvious) epistemic role that miracles play is necessarily provocative. Many scholars of religion tend to avoid acknowledging the epistemic function of miracles. To acknowledge it is an uncomfortable thing. If miracles and miracle stories do indeed have, as their primary function, an epistemic power, then we are forced to confront the question of the veracity of these incidents and stories. The study of just their mythical connotations, their symbolic meanings, and their tendency to enliven and grow communal bonds will not suffice. We miss something central to miracles when we downplay the question of their facticity, and when we downplay their evidentiary role. I can put my concluding point in terms of a dilemma. When we avoid the question of facticity and evidence in our discussion and analysis of miracles as a religious phenomenon, we are making one of two mistakes. Either (1) we are neglecting the rational evaluation of the evidentiary role of miracles out of discomfort, as it would mean explicitly expressing belief or disbelief and possibly offending various parties. We may be implicitly taking the position that actual miracle stories (from whatever religious traditions we choose to care about) fail to meet good evidentiary standards, and we are avoiding saying as much explicitly. Or, (2) we are misrepresenting and mischaracterizing, at a fundamental level, the role that miracles play in religious traditions. Either way it is not good. On the first horn of the dilemma, we are saying something very damning about miracles (i.e., they have one job, and they do it badly); on the second horn of the dilemma, we are failing to do our jobs as scholars of religion (i.e., we are failing to accurately describe religion).

References Chang, H. (2004). Inventing temperature: Measurement and scientific progress. Oxford University Press. Duhem, Pierre. (1954 [1914]). The aim and structure of physical theory (2nd ed., Philip P. Weiner, Trans.). Princeton University Press. Fiordalis, D. (2014). The Buddha’s great miracle at Śrāvastī: A translation from the Tibetan Mūlasarvāstivāda-vinaya. Asian Literature and Translation, 2(3), 1–33. Levine, M. P. (2011). Philosophers on miracles. In G. H. Twelftree (Ed.), The Cambridge companion to miracles (pp. 291–308). Cambridge University Press. Quine, W. V. (1951). Two dogmas of empiricism. The Philosophical Review, 60(1), 20–43. Van Fraassen, B. C. (2002). The empirical stance. Yale University Press. Van de Port, M. (2011). Ecstatic encounters: Bahian Candomblé and the quest for the really real. Amsterdam University Press. Walton, D. (1997). Appeal to expert opinion: Arguments from authority. The Pennsylvania State University Press. Weddle, D. L. (2010). Miracles: Wonder and meaning in world religions. New York University Press. Whitney, L. A. (2018). Institutional dimensions of the future of philosophy of religion. Palgrave Communications, 4, 67. Woodward, K. L. (2000). The book of miracles: The meaning of the miracle stories in Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Islam. Simon & Schuster.

Chapter 18

Miracles: So What? David L. Weddle

Abstract  Miracle stories persist in modern cultures, despite philosophical objections to their claims. They are a promising subject of comparative study because they express common human aspirations and values. Miracles claim to signify transcendent reality and, as such, I propose that they are central to religion as distinct from other cultural institutions. The significance of miracle stories lies in their power to compel believers to act in ways to actualize their ideal outcomes. Whether miracles really happen, and what they mean, however, depends on interpretation, guided by “background beliefs,” often provided by the religious community to which one belongs. Apart from such supportive context, the logical problem remains of how an event in our world could be a veridical sign of what lies beyond our world. Even if no miracle has ever occurred, however, the stories inspire heroic acts of virtue that can transform character and culture. This positive account must be shadowed by the frank recognition that belief in miracles can be exploited, as has happened in the current global pandemic.

18.1 Persistence of Miracle Stories As we come to the end of these reflections on the comparative philosophy of miracles, it is appropriate to face the “so what?” question: What difference does it make whether miracles occur and what people believe about their significance? In nearly every religion and cultural tradition there are stories of miracles. So what? Does the almost universal prevalence of stories about miracles prove that some miracles occurred? There is no logical necessity for that conclusion since every story about a miracle could, in theory, be attributed to some psychological or cultural condition. But can such a reductive analysis be maintained in practice? One D. L. Weddle (*) Colorado College, Colorado Springs, CO, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 K. R. Zwier et al. (eds.), Miracles: An Exercise in Comparative Philosophy of Religion, Comparative Philosophy of Religion 3, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-14865-1_18

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problem is that no single theory could account for the source of every miracle story because no theorist has heard or read every miracle story. The data base for testing reductive theories of miracles will always be incomplete. Even if one contends that no miracle story in human history has been true, there will always be the new story generated tomorrow. One cannot, therefore, make the universal claim that every miracle story is necessarily false. At the very least, one must accept the conclusion that it is impossible to prove that miracles are impossible. That statement, however, is not a satisfying conclusion. Miracles are not impossible, so what? Has any miracle ever occurred? Even if not, would it make a difference to the role miracle stories play in individual experience and societal functions? That is the question of academic interest because it is one that we have relevant data and investigative methods to answer. Accordingly, authors in this volume have offered many theories about why people create and transmit miracles stories, as well as interpretations of the meaning believers give to those stories.

18.2 Comparative Study of Miracles Defended Drawing examples from a range of religious traditions, we have shown that miracles play distinctive roles in different contexts, but also exhibit similar, and thus comparable, features. Across traditions, our variegated case studies demonstrate that miracle stories foster community formation, support individual aspiration and initiative, provide moral guidance, confirm religious teaching, and purport to offer evidence of transcendent reality.1 Miracles also both sanction and challenge established authorities, and so can play a decisive role in the development of political orders and religious institutions. We have found comparable effects of miracle stories operating in different cultural and historical contexts, and in that way, we have demonstrated that miracle is a useful and illuminating category for the comparative philosophy of religion. We should note, however, that any attempt to define a category that applies across religious traditions is open to the charge of intellectual imperialism or of imposing a single normative category on what are distinct and diverse beliefs and practices. One current line of argument attacks the comparative study of religions on the ground that every representation of another is a betrayal, carried out in the interest of mastery. René Magritte titled his famous painting of a briar pipe bearing the caption “Ceci ne’est pas une pipe” with the phrase, La Trahison des Images. Because every representation betrays the singular reality of its subject, we academics read

 Transcendence is a highly contested term. For one explanation of its use in the academic study of religion, see my essay in this volume, footnote 1. 1

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texts warily and interpret data with the “hermeneutic of suspicion.”2 Mark Taylor laid the charge against theoretical constructs, like miracle, in these forceful terms: “That which is effectively subjected to the gaze of theory is supposed to be mastered, controlled, disciplined, dominated, even colonized” (Taylor, 1999, p.  52). Given the use of philosophical and theological theories to sanction authoritarian regimes and racist hierarchies, this is a powerful indictment of the very project undertaken in this volume. In a book of essays by scholars defending “comparative religion in the postmodern age,” Kimberley Patton puts forth a persuasive counter claim. She writes, “It is simply not true that abstraction or comparison, as intellectual processes, lead inevitably to oppression. These processes, on the contrary, are often crucial to culturally nuanced comprehension” (Patton & Ray 2000, p. 167). In support, Wendy Doniger argues that, as a web implies a spider, so parallel patterns of human action imply a universal set of desires spinning their diverse effects in different cultures. If all religious stories, she writes, were “entirely different, incomparably, incommensurably different, not only would there be nothing to compare but we would never be able to understand any story but our own” (Patton & Ray 2000, p. 65).3 The only escape from solipsism and its attendant cultural fragmentation into “identity politics” is through terms that may be used, with appropriate qualifications, to indicate similar phenomena in different cultures. Such terms help us identify resemblances that constitute our shared humanity. Without such terms to express what we have in common, there is little hope we can ever overcome religious divisions. But we are aware that these terms are categories of comparison, not identity. Comparison allows for acknowledgment of the other as similar, without presuming to absorb the other as the same. The essays in this volume demonstrate that miracle is such a category of acknowledgment, comparable across cultures, its instances recognizable as similar and yet not identical. Central among those similar features is the claim that miracles are signs of their transcendent source which authorizes the religions in which they are believed to occur.

18.3 Religious Necessity of Miracle: A Proposal At this point, let me offer a controversial proposal, namely, that miracles as signs of transcendent reality are necessary for any religion to be credible, or even interesting. This conclusion is not inevitable, but I find it irresistible. For me, the central  For a more detailed analysis of this criticism and a defense of the discipline of comparative religion, see my Regional Senior Scholar address to the Rocky Mountain-Great Plains Region of the American Academy of Religion, “Ceci n’est pas une pipe”: The Problem of Representation and the Future of Religious Studies (2009). Posted at: https://www.linkedin.com/in/david-weddle792a894/ 3  For a fuller development of this argument, see Doniger (1998). 2

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question our studies raise is this: Could a religion without miracle stories offer its followers anything distinctive, anything more than what is already available in natural order and human invention? If nature provides all the power we need, art all the beauty we can appreciate, science all the truth we can know, politics all the social order we can manage, and human community all the moral guidance we need— what could religion without signs of transcendence add to that list? If the answer is “nothing,” then we must consider that miracles may be integral to religion as such. But here it is necessary to tread carefully. Following Jonathan Z.  Smith, we might propose merely that miracle is one of a family of distinguishing characteristics of religion, with no one feature necessarily shared by every member.4 That approach allows for a “religion” without transcendence, all its beliefs and practices intelligible through rational analysis—and thus a proper object of academic investigation. As our case studies demonstrate, however, that is not the way most believers describe their view of the world. For them, the discourse of miracle is the native language of religion, so primary that religion without miracles would hardly be worth the bother.5 While showing the nearly universal presence and persistence of belief in miracles, however, most of the authors in this volume have not committed themselves on the question of whether miracles really occur. Yet, as much as we forestall the matter, Karen Zwier reminds us, “We miss something central to miracles when we downplay the question of their facticity …”. Thus, we may be in danger of succeeding in our task as scholars while avoiding the question of greatest importance to our readers—a perhaps not uncommon result of academic writing. I am not prepared, however, to end our study with the cynicism of David Hume, who was convinced that every miracle story is the product of fraud or gullibility, often a combination of the two. There is no denying that there are believers ready to grasp at straws and there are hucksters eager to sell them bales. Still, I am struck by the similar content, multicultural range, and contemporary persistence of miracle stories. Is it plausible that every witness to every miracle in every culture at every point in history is mistaken? To answer “yes” must be an a priori judgment because it cannot be established by a comprehensive study of the ever-expanding database. Thus, there can never be an empirical determination that all miracle stories are false. Granted, the evidence is anecdotal but in the matter of miracles it could not be otherwise since a miracle cannot be replicated under laboratory conditions nor could its transcendent cause be verified by material evidence. Even if we understand miracle stories as plausible

 Smith describes this method as “polythetic classification” and applies it to early Judaism to demonstrate that there is no normative definition of Jewish identity but a “variety of Judaisms,” and extends this finding to the general counsel that “students of religion need to abandon the notion of ‘essence’” (Smith 1982, p. 18). 5  And the bother is considerable since most religions require their adherents to demonstrate devotion to the transcendent by extravagant donations of natural goods and human interests, as I document in my study of sacrifice in religions of Abraham (Weddle 2017). 4

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appeals to the authority of the narrator or miracle worker that lends support to believing their claims, as Zwier suggests, we are left with anecdotes. Consider the rich array of miracle stories discussed in this series: healing, resurrection, knowledge of future events, visions of supernatural beings, translocation, telepathy, and levitation. Many are stories of extraordinary people: messiahs, prophets, yogis, avatars, saints, rabbis, shaykhs, shamans, and enlightened beings. Others are about miracles coming to common folks: children granted a vision of the Virgin Mary, cowherds awed by Krishna’s power, a woman struck by lightning who became a “mystical mutant” capable of foretelling future events. These are ordinary humans whose lives were transformed by encounters with wonders. The miracles entered their bodies and minds as if from “elsewhere,” that is, from other than material forces or human contrivance, and changed their lives in lasting ways. I propose that what it means to call these events “religious” is not primarily that they occur in the context of beliefs and practices of a given tradition, but that people interpret their miracles as signs of transcendent reality that direct believers, in compelling fashion, to new modes of action.

18.4 Reality of Miracles: Interpretation and Background Beliefs Miracles have real effects in the lives of those who experience them, and so they make a difference in the world all of us inhabit. Insofar as these events evoke radical changes in the individuals’ lives, they also change the lives of everyone related to them—even those who do not believe the extraordinary experience was a miracle. One might conclude that if private events cause real effects in our public world, are we not justified in saying they really happened? Perhaps, but whether any of these extraordinary events are miracles or not still depends upon interpretation. Here we enter tricky epistemological (and political) territory. Who has the right to interpret another’s experience? Is not the insider account privileged? Not always. A while back, I found myself seated around a gaming table and, during a break, I asked a fellow player what he did. In the next quarter hour, I learned that he spent most days in front of a computer monitor tracing the activities of our government’s covert operations in space. He claimed to have discovered that the United States established colonies on Mars decades ago and that we currently have the capacity to reach the red planet in a matter of hours through advanced space travel. He was not kidding. Those were his firm convictions about the interpretation of images that had floated before his face, phantasms of the Internet. Granted my social encounters may be more bizarre than yours, the question remains: Did I have the authority to challenge his insider account of his experiences? Of course. I cannot deny what he perceived within his own subjectivity, but once he injected his interpretation of his experience into our shared world, it became

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subject to criteria of truth in that shared world. While I struggled for a genial response, others in the room quietly went to the snack table, already having found my interlocutor thoroughly deluded (but they were hospitable given the fact that he was a spectacularly poor poker player.) Of course, no one can deny another’s experience. The problem arises when the subject projects an interpretation of that experience into our common world. Then it is open to outsider assessment by intersubjective criteria of truth. In the case of someone who interprets an anomalous event as a miracle, others can raise questions about that “reading” based on an alternative view of reality. Clearly, most of us would agree that our hapless card player was not justified in believing that space travel to Mars in a few hours was possible because we believe that material reality does not allow his belief to be true. That is, our “background beliefs” (Zagzebski 2007, p. 221) preclude the conditions that would allow his interpretation to be correct. The same consideration applies to the meanings attached to miracle stories. That those meanings are associated with, and not intrinsic to, miraculous events, is clear when we consider that where background beliefs differ, religious claims drawn from a miracle are also different. For example, in a Hindu context, Jesus’s feat of walking on water is evidence of his mastery of “marvelous powers” through contemplative union with the undifferentiated source of all things described in Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras, not of his divine nature.6 Nehemia Polen demonstrates that mystics in the Jewish tradition also claim that miracles are possible from a state of contemplative unity with the primordial One. On that reading, Jesus’s feat would demonstrate that his consciousness had returned to the origin of all things and allowed him to initiate a new arrangement of the material world in which he was exempt from the force of gravity. In a Buddhist context, Jesus’s levitation might prove that he was an enlightened being, free from limits of the material world. In Islamic interpretation, Jesus would be a prophet whom Allah protects by changing water to solid when he steps on it. Thus, the same miracle could act as a reason for accepting widely divergent claims about Jesus. Whether miracles occur as described, the “so what” question is about their significance. Deciding what the miracle means, however, has more to do with background beliefs than with the miracle itself. For example, if one has independent grounds for believing in God as a personal supernatural agent, that belief would constitute a strong basis for attributing an inexplicable healing to divine compassion and respond with gratitude, as Isra Yazicioglu argues is one role of miracles in Islamic tradition. Similarly, if one has independent grounds for believing that humans can attain transcendent Mind through discipline and concentration, then one would have reason to interpret a flying yogi as drawing on that Mind. Without those background beliefs, however, the character of the transcendent reality remains a mystery and, thus, the anecdotes cited as evidence of its causal presence in our world remain indecisive.

 For an analysis of Patanjali’s claim that unconditioned consciousness allows the yogi control over the natural world see Weddle (2010, pp. 48–49). 6

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The German Enlightenment thinker Gotthold Ephraim Lessing once lamented that between him and the miracles of the New Testament yawned “the ugly, broad ditch” of 700 years of history that he could not leap across to confirm any of the recorded wonders (Lessing 1967, p. 55). That ditch remains unbridgeable, but for me there is yet another gap beyond the one of historical distance, and that is logical dissonance. How could an event in the world of human experience be a veridical sign of what lies beyond human experience? Even if it were, how could we know what it signified? Yet this set of essays demonstrates that we live in a world where many believers regard miracle as valid an explanatory category as gravity is within scientific investigation. Given the cultural construction of knowledge, therefore, how could one deny the reality of miracles within their communities of faith? At least, as Devaka Premawardhana demonstrates among Pentecostal Christians, miracles provide believers with hope for radical change in situations of disease and poverty. That hope rests on the belief that miracles signify a reality beyond the inexorable order of physical forces and social customs. That belief in turn rests upon another reason to think that miracles could provide us with signs of transcendence, namely, a crack in the scientific consensus about the world as a self-contained system of material forces. One wedge in prying open the locked network of physical entities as the standard model of reality has been re-thinking “laws of nature.” As several of our authors have noted, David Hume defined a miracle as “a transgression of a law of nature by a particular volition of the Deity.” He used language of transgression, related to violation of the integrity of another: a rupture of fixed order. But there is no material evidence for an inflexible order that invariably regulates matter, as several authors in this volume have argued. From observation of nature one can only conclude that its laws are descriptive rather than prescriptive. Natural laws are very useful descriptions of probability and have robust predictive power; but they do not act as agents, capable of causing or preventing anything, nor do they constitute a set of immutable truths. That the customary order of nature may have been changed by a transcendent agent or an enlightened mind would not be a catastrophic upsetting of the cosmic applecart, as Hume feared, but only another event to be folded into our ever-­ changing understanding of what nature may include or tolerate. But then how could the event point to what is beyond nature? That is the problem. For reasons detailed in my main essay, I do not find any story of a miracle to succeed in its claim to constitute evidence that the event it relates requires a transcendent cause. Further, to acknowledge an event as a miracle, I would have to believe in transcendent reality, beyond material energy and human potential, capable of producing such an effect in the world—such as, personal deity, enlightened mind, immortal ancestors, or saints. Without such necessary conditions, or background beliefs, for acknowledging an anomalous event as a miracle, I cannot say that any miracle among all the examples cited in this volume really happened. Here I confront a limit, a “no trespassing” sign that allows the passage of authorized personnel only: those willing to believe that miracles occur through the agency of transcendent reality as understood by the religious community to which they

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belong. For better or worse, I am not one of their company, primarily because I cannot muster the belief that I recognize is a necessary condition of membership. Further, to answer the question whether there is transcendent reality capable of providing the necessary condition for miracles to occur is beyond the evidence available to me as a scholar. What is available, however, and in great abundance, is evidence of the profound effects stories of miracles have on those who cherish them. Those effects are the concrete answers to the “so what” question that most interest me. Whether the miracles they narrate happened or not, it is undeniable that stories of miracles inspire hope, faith, and love when times are desperate, when our bodies betray us, when compassion seems foolish and sacrifice pointless. They are narratives of aspiration and, like all expressions of human ambition, they are charged with creative energy, shadowed by moral ambivalence, and tinged by doubt. Nevertheless, that inspiration can be effective even if we glimpse miracles only as dreams whose fulfillment of healing and liberation we accept as our human responsibility to realize.

18.5 Danger of Belief in Miracles As dreams can inspire us to heroic effort to fulfill their promise, however, they can also delude us into false views of reality. For example, dreams of miraculous deliverance from the coronavirus that threatens the world’s population as this book goes to press have led some to reject restrictions on social gathering and personal hygiene (hand washing and wearing masks) recommended by public health experts because, in the words of one woman interviewed in an airport during Thanksgiving, “Jesus Christ will keep me from getting COVID.” Inasmuch as public health guidelines have become sites of political contests over government regulation, belief in miracles as deliverance from disease has become not only a religious conviction but also a political marker. Further, hope for divine intervention in protecting personal health extends into goals for public policy. If God can heal one of COVID-19, the reasoning goes, God can also determine the outcome of an election. In combination with political ambition, then, belief in miracles becomes vulnerable to exploitation by religious and political leaders who promote resistance to state limits on their activities. For example, some evangelical Christians across the country have strenuously insisted that their right to assemble is required by biblical teaching and necessary to such intimate practices as laying on of hands for healing, shouting praises to God in unison, and speaking in angelic tongues (glossolalia). The underlying premise is that those who are faithful in following these practices will be protected from coronavirus by miraculous intervention. The data, unfortunately, do not support the premise. For example, Charis Bible College in Woodland Park, Colorado, founded by the televangelist, Andrew Wommack, held several large gatherings on its campus in the summer of 2020, in defiance of health directives from Teller County in which it is

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located. According to an investigative report in the Colorado Springs Gazette, “Colorado and Teller County officials have blamed Wommack [sponsored] events that violated state guidelines for two major COVID outbreaks, which sickened dozens of people” (Rabey, 2020) and later led to one death. The county issued “cease and desist” orders for other large gatherings on campus planned for the fall and filed a suit against the college for refusing to comply with COVID restrictions mandated by the state. These legal actions, however, were dropped after the United States Supreme Court ruled that New York’s severe limits on attendance of worship services violated the Constitutional right to free exercise of religion. One reason the Court cited for its decision was that public health had not been endangered by those attending the churches of the New  York Diocese or the synagogues of Agudath Israel.7 In contrast to conferences held at Charis Bible College, these religious gatherings observed safety guidelines and did not generate outbreaks of COVID-19. What accounts for the difference? While Catholics and Orthodox Jews in New York followed state requirements to wear masks and maintain social distancing, Andrew Wommack did not require participants in his conferences to wear masks.8 Why not? Because he teaches that COVID-19, like all diseases, has already been defeated through the sacrificial death of Jesus that released the world from sin and sickness: “Physical healing is a part of the atonement of Christ” (Wommack, “Faith for Healing”). In his meetings, he and his associates claim the authority to call that healing into reality by robust verbal command, not whispered prayers or pleas muffled by masks. On the website of Andrew Wommack Ministries, he writes, “In regards to healing, the proper way to do it is to take Proverbs 18:21—“Death and life are in the power of the tongue”— and begin to release this power over sickness and disease: ‘I speak death to this sickness. I curse it and command it to leave’” (Wommack, “You’ve Already Got It!”). Wommack claims that disease is caused by demonic presence in the body of the victim and can, therefore, be “cast out” (exorcised) by divine intervention in the name of Jesus. Citing the New Testament—And when he had called unto him his twelve disciples, he gave them power against unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal all manner of sickness and all manner of disease (Matt. 10:1)—Wommack notes that “Jesus told us to heal the sick not pray for the sick … We need to take the authority He has given us and become commanders instead of beggars. This is a powerful truth that works, and it’s the reason we see so many miraculous healings” (Wommack, “Our Authority”). From this standpoint, not only is every healing a miracle, but faith in divine intervention is a prophylactic against disease. Wommack claims that “if a germ touches  Roman Catholic Diocese of Brooklyn v. Cuomo, No. 20A87 (11/25/2020), https://www.supremecourt.gov/opinions/20pdf/20a87_4g15.pdf. Accessed 11 January 2021. The Court included in this decision injunctive relief from restrictions sought in Agudath Israel of America, et al. v. Cuomo, No. 20A90. 8  Although in a conciliatory gesture to residents of Teller County, Charis Bible College now claims to observe public health guidelines, including masks. 7

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me, it dies” and encourages his followers to believe that they can enjoy the same immunity—but only if they share his faith and demonstrate their sincerity by contributing to his ministry (Rabey, 2020). Thus, the “super-spreader” events at Charis Bible College were also occasions for major fund-raising by Andrew Wommack Ministries. Wommack’s promise of miraculous protection from COVID-19 is conditioned on faith that is, in turn, confirmed by becoming a financial “partner” in his international evangelistic enterprise. Miracle, faith, and sacrifice are placed in a reciprocal relationship with the divine so that donations are part of a quid pro quo arrangement. Believers, then, may regard miracles of healing and financial windfall as returns on their investment. To be fair, Wommack cites the conventional Christian teaching that one’s motive for giving should be pure altruism, without expectation of return, but then repeats the promise: “When you give to a ministry, you not only bless the people that are being touched by that ministry, but you start a supernatural flow of your finances …” (Wommack, “Power of Partnership”). Few could read that claim without understanding it as a guarantee that their donations to Andrew Wommack Ministries will result in their own prosperity. Given the shared background belief that God directly intervenes in human life to heal and enrich, Wommack’s “partners” can be persuaded to drain their finances for his cause and endanger their health by relying on his authority to command sickness to disappear. Finally, there is the danger of believing in miraculous intervention in politics. Wommack asserts that the results of the 2020 elections are evidence of the moral decline of America in that a majority of citizens voted for what he calls “total ungodliness.” He teaches that those who hold liberal social and political opinions are under demonic influence and his allies should seek to repel them by seeking divine help in supplanting them in positions of political, social, and cultural influence.9 Wommack is only one promoter of this aspiration of “dominion theologians.” Their goal is to claim authority over the “seven mountains” of cultural leadership through divine power: Religion, Family, Education, Media, Arts and Entertainment, Government, and Business. The goal is utopian, and like all utopian dreams, it begins with a conviction of inevitability and ends in authoritarian enforcement, as demonstrated by socialist utopias of the twentieth century. The evangelical Christian utopia of the triumph of universal evangelism, guaranteed by divine providence, is but another such darksome dream. While the promotion of this utopian ambition is now limited to persuasive means, as “dominion Christians” gain increasing power in political, judicial, and social circles—interpreted as proof of divine assistance and approval—they would be able to impose their values and cultural practices on the wider society. The potential result would be the elimination of every other religious vision and community in the country. It is a breath-taking ambition that would be unimaginable apart from belief in miraculous intervention in private lives and the body politic. Claiming divine authority over sickness, debt, and political opponents

 “He has described liberals as crazy, malicious, evil and demon-possessed …” (Rabey, 2020).

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is a powerful means of enlisting followers in the project of establishing Christian dominion. The ordinary and limited processes of human negotiation, with their compromises and ambiguities, pale next to dazzling claims of transcendent power and absolute certainty. While belief in miracles can inspire hope for a brighter future of imagined wonders and alluring ideals, we cannot ignore the potential of that belief to lead sincere believers into neglect of their health, squandering of their resources, and succumbing to the claim of divine authority by religious and political leaders. Amidst the current pandemic, we have seen belief in miracles displace the counsel of medical science, thereby endangering public health, and sanction political alliances that foment resistance to established government. While miracle stories relate tales of transcendent power, their effects play out in the arena of earthly hopes and fears where they are as vulnerable to ideological interpretation as any story we tell ourselves.

References Doniger, W. (1998). The implied spider: Politics & theology in myth. Columbia University Press. Lessing, G. (1967). Lessing’s theological writings. Stanford University Press. Patton, K., & Ray, B. (Eds.). (2000). A magic still dwells: Comparative religion in the postmodern age. University of California Press. Rabey, Steve. (2020, November 16). Andrew Wommack’s ministry focuses on healing, prosperity and conservative politics. Colorado Springs Gazette. Smith, J. Z. (1982). Imagining religion: From Babylon to Jonestown. University of Chicago Press. Taylor, M. (1999). About religion: Economies of faith in virtual culture. University of Chicago Press. Weddle, D. L. (2010). Miracles: Wonder and Meaning in World Religions. New York University Press. Weddle, D. L. (2017). Sacrifice in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. New York University Press. Wommack, Andrew. (2020a). Faith for healing is based on knowledge. https://www.awmi.net/ reading/teaching-­articles/healing_knowledge/. Accessed 13 Jan 2021. Wommack, Andrew. (2020b). Our authority releases God’s power. https://www.awmi.net/reading/ teaching-­articles/authority_releases/. Accessed 4 Jan 2021. Wommack, Andrew. (2020c). The power of partnership. https://www.awmi.net/reading/teaching-­ articles/power_partnership/. Accessed 14 Jan 2021. Wommack, Andrew. (2020d). You’ve already got it! https://www.awmi.net/reading/teaching-­ articles/already_got/. Accessed 4 Jan 2021. Zagzebski, L. T. (2007). Philosophy of religion: An historical introduction. Blackwell Publishing.