The Creation of God (Dieux, Hommes et Religions Gods, Humans and Religions) [250th ed.] 9783035260199, 3035260192

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Gods, Hu man s an d R el i gions

The Creation of God

Rik Pinxten

This book develops a scientific approach to the phenomenon of religion. It is the conviction of the author that such an approach can only be comparative in nature, in order to overcome centuries of religiously biased views on religion. From an anthropological point of view the phenomenological school of thought is intrinsically religionistic (i.e., influenced by a particular religious frame of reference). The author formulates a model which seeks to distinguish between three irreducible religious ways (ritualistic, mythagogic and shamanistic), of which religious forms at the object level are composed. The typical characteristics of religion in the theories of the religions of the book then appear as specific (‘local’) formats, next to and at the same level as any other religious manifestation in the world. In a second hypothesis in the book, the primacy of action over language for the human species is argued for. Here again, a local preference for verbal actions is identified in the religions of the book. To develop a more generic view on religion, the author proposes to look at humans first and foremost as acting subjects, with verbal actions as a subcategory.

Rik Pinxten, PhD from Ghent University (Belgium), was Visiting Professor at Northwestern University and Syracuse University (USA) and was Researcher of the Flemish Science Foundation (1972-1983). He has been Professor of Anthropology and Religious Studies at Ghent University since 1983. He has published over a hundred articles and book chapters in several languages on anthropology and religion studies, e.g. Anthropology of Space (1983), When the Day Breaks (1997), Culture and politics (2004).

P.I.E. Peter Lang Brussels

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The Creation of God

P.I.E. Peter Lang Bruxelles · Bern · Berlin · Frankfurt am Main · New York · Oxford · Wien

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Rik PINXTEN

The Creation of God

“Gods, Humans and Religions” No.19

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First edition, fully updated here, appeared as Goddelijke Fantasie, Antwerp, Belgium with Houtekiet Publ. in 2000.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photocopy, microfilm or any other means, without prior written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

© P.I.E. PETER LANG S.A. Éditions scientifiques internationales

Brussels, 2010 1 avenue Maurice, B-1050 Brussels, Belgium [email protected]; www.peterlang.com ISSN 1377-8323 ISBN 978-3-0352-6019-9 D/2010/5678/41 Printed in Germany

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Pinxten, Rik.The creation of God / Rik Pinxten. p. cm. — (Gods, humans, and religions, ISSN 1377-8323 ; no.19) Includes bibliographical references (p.). ISBN 978-3-0352-6019-9 1. Religion. I. Title. BL48.P528 2010 210—dc22 2010029719 CIP also available from the British Library, GB

Bibliographic information published by “Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek”. “Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek” lists this publication in the “Deutsche Nationalbibliografie”; detailed bibliographic data is available on Internet at .

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This book is dedicated to Laura Nader, An ominous intellectual friend with a big heart, Loving a hug any time.

Table of Contents CHAPTER 1 Religion: a First Approach ................................................................. 13 1. Religion, Evolution and Imagination ........................................... 13 2. Religion: a First Attempt at Delineating the Domain ................... 18 CHAPTER 2 Old and New Models ........................................................................... 21 1. Introduction................................................................................. 21 2. The Phenomenology of Religion According to the Founders ..... 21 3. Ninian Smart or a Critical Comparative Phenomenology of Religion .......................................................25 DIFFERENT 0 Science and Religion: Where Do I Stand? ........................................ 35 1. On What Science Is ...................................................................... 35 2. On Science and Religion .............................................................. 37 CHAPTER 3 Religion, Identity and Learning Processes ........................................ 39 1. New Beacons................................................................................ 39 2. Identity Dynamics ........................................................................ 41 3. Identity and Learning ................................................................... 44 4. The Example Once More ............................................................. 46 5. The Root Forms of Religion......................................................... 47 CHAPTER 4 General Concepts and Terms ............................................................. 49 1. Introduction .................................................................................. 49 2. Terminology ................................................................................. 49 3. Theism, Deism, Atheism and Agnosticism .................................. 53 4. Holism, Transcendence and Immanence ...................................... 55 5. Esoterism and Exoterism.............................................................. 58 6. Subdisciplines .............................................................................. 63

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CHAPTER 5 Cosmology and Religion...................................................................... 65 1. Cosmology and Religion: Different, but Related........................ 65 2. Sacred, Profane and Symbolic .................................................... 68 3. Cosmologies ............................................................................... 71 4. A Scientific Study of Religion: a Second Attempt ..................... 78 5. An Anthropological View on Humans: Agents Using Speech Acts .......................................................... 81 CHAPTER 6 Religious Action ................................................................................... 85 1. Introduction .................................................................................. 85 2. Ceremony and Festivity ............................................................... 87 3. Sacred Sociopolitical Actions ...................................................... 91 4. Ritual, Sacred Drama and Shamanistic Actions ........................... 92 5. Rites of Passage............................................................................ 98 6. Religious Action and the Study of Religion ............................... 101 7. Religious Action, Identity and Learning .................................... 102 Different 1 Birth and Baptism. A View of an Anthropologist and Atheist ...... 105 1. Birth and Name-giving ............................................................... 105 2. Baptism: the Christian Feast of Name-giving ............................ 107 3. Beliefs and Ceremonial Elaboration........................................... 108 4. An Atheist Reflection ................................................................. 109 Conclusion ..................................................................................... 112 CHAPTER 7 Religious Language ........................................................................... 113 1. Introduction ................................................................................ 113 2. Symbol ....................................................................................... 114 3. Silence ........................................................................................ 116 4. Direct Communication ............................................................... 116 5. Indirect Communication: the Myth ............................................ 120 6. On the Status and Use of Myths ................................................. 128 7. Religious Language, Learning and Identity ............................... 130 CHAPTER 8 Complex Religious Phenomena ........................................................ 131 1. Sacredness .................................................................................. 131 2. The Holy, the Sacred .................................................................. 133 10

3. Sacralizers .................................................................................. 135 4. Magic ......................................................................................... 139 5. Conclusion and Remarks ............................................................ 144 CHAPTER 9 Religious Ways of Learning .............................................................. 147 1. Initiation ..................................................................................... 147 2. Compassion and Understanding ................................................. 149 3. Sacrifice as a Religious Learning Process.................................. 153 4. Divination as a Religious Learning Process ............................... 157 5. Religious Experience and Mysticism ......................................... 160 6. Learning Traditions .................................................................... 163 7. Education.................................................................................... 165 Different 2 Genesis in the Bible. The Creation of Heaven and Earth .............. 169 The Origin Myth of the Navajo: The Age of Beginning ................ 170 CHAPTER 10 Religious Artifacts ............................................................................. 173 1. Cole’s Theory of Artifacts.......................................................... 173 2. Primary Artifacts: Concrete Objects .......................................... 174 3. Secondary Artifacts .................................................................... 181 4. Tertiary Artifacts ........................................................................ 185 5. Actions of Manipulation of Artifacts ......................................... 197 CHAPTER 11 Politics, Ethics and Fundamentalism ............................................... 203 1. Political and Institutional Context .............................................. 203 2. Moral and Political Aspects and Religious Activities ................ 205 3. Politics and Religious Activity ................................................... 212 4. Fundamentalism ......................................................................... 218 CHAPTER 12 Atheistic Religiosity? ........................................................................ 227 1. Atheistic Religiosity/Religious Atheism .................................... 228 2. Some Former Explorations......................................................... 231 3. Is there a Message? .................................................................... 238 Bibliography....................................................................................... 241

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CHAPTER 1

Religion: a First Approach Do you think you can take over the universe and improve it? I do not believe it can be done. (Lao Tsu: Tao Te Ching)

1. Religion, Evolution and Imagination Human beings are constantly confronted with overwhelming order in the world: the cycle of day and night, the unerring concatenation of the seasons, the processes of birth, growth, adulthood, old age and death in precisely that order. Occasionally something unexpected or “disorderly” happens: someone drifts into a coma, or seems to awaken “out of death”, a storm devastates the meticulous work of generations, or an individual person proves able to predict or foretell what nobody can expect. Religion often deals with the unusual, or it deals with the usual in unexpected ways. For example, “spiritual” dreams or psychic experiences seem to give us access to a world with so-called counter-natural things: one has the feeling that one can fly like a bird, one can change in body and soul, or one can become young again. Different religions focus on the manipulation of dreams. Other religious or spiritual traditions alter one’s heartbeat or one’s body temperature by mere respiration techniques. Poisonous substances are consumed during rituals without fatal effects, and people get visions while in trance. In the western attitude of the past hundred years or so we have learned to draw a sharp line to demarcate so-called dependable knowledge (mostly the modernist instrumental rationality as in science and technology) from belief or religion. Mostly in the wake of Christian dualism, I think, we drew an official and politically sanctioned line between knowledge and religion. However, we sometimes cross the line, and invest in somewhat religious expectations about the dependability and problem solving power of science. In other words, we sometimes project our needs for safety and certainty from the religious way into the fallible endeavor of science and technology. On the other hand, the relative range of one and the other way is debated: e.g., the Christian cosmologist Max Wildiers (1977) stated that religion should be totally separated from cosmology (and 13

The Creation of God

science in general), while present-day colleagues of his start to rediscuss the place of God in a theory of the universe (Hawking, 1992 to name one). Still another line of approach is to invite young social scientific disciplines like psychology, sociology and anthropology to shed their light on the religious complex and describe it as a particular category of psychological, social or cultural phenomena. In that endeavor the insights of the social scientist are assessed by religious people most of the time as dealing only with superficial aspects of religion and passing by the more intrinsic ones. That is to say, one accepts that the form of organization and communication of religion, or even the psychological processes of the believer can be described adequately by the scientist (notably since James’s ominous book of 1902), but that the core or essence of religion is ultimately beyond scientific investigation. This critique is nonsensical if it claims that religion is necessarily or intrinsically beyond research. It is recognizable as stemming from a particular line of philosophy which resorts in the typical essentialistic category (like Heidegger and followers) where the “essence” of religion is claimed to be beyond the reach of science. Whether or not an essence exists is irrelevant for this discussion, but the study of essences is not what science is about. In “Differentia 0” I explain what view of science I defend and how the status and the function of science relates to those of religion for me. The distinction between religion and science does not solve all our problems, however. I already pointed to dreams, but there is more. All knowledge, including scientific knowledge, rests on or is inspired by intuitions. That is to say, prior to discursive knowledge are direct and pre-rational insights about the world. For example, the deep conviction in the western tradition that everything can be seen and thought of as if from the outside, is a very powerful intuition in the West. We share the intuition of the “God’s eye view”, that is to say, we look upon things, people, the earth and indeed the whole universe as if we were able to take the point of view of the only outsider in the western cultural and religious tradition, that is God. We hold the conviction that we can mentally position ourselves alongside Him and “look over his shoulders” to the world and ourselves. Of course, this need not be a universal human intuition. In fact, anthropologists know that this intuition is rather specific for our tradition. Nevertheless, it plays a crucial role in our knowledge system, even though we cannot really grasp it. Similar critical remarks can be made about other such deep or pervasive notions in the knowledge process. Take consciousness, for example. Western psychology distinguishes between the mental and the physiological, even in the organization of research (the first belongs to the social sciences, and the second to the medical or the natural sciences). Within 14

Religion: a First Approach

the realm of the mental a variety of layers is indicated by conscious, preconscious, subconscious, eventually supplemented by the soul or conscience. The Japanese or Hindu seem to reject this complex radically by substituting it with a synthetic notion of “bodymind” (Shaner, 1989; Roland, 1989). In doing so, the very realm of knowledge and that of religion may be subject to radically different organization and functioning. Then what are we discussing when we study “religion” around the world? How are we going to compare what seems incomparable at first sight? My approach will be to study the religious phenomena from the point of view of the study of human beings. In a first step I focus on the human species. 1. Within the frame of evolutionism I claim that the human species is distinct from other species in particular features. What strikes me with regard to religion (as well as knowledge and art) and what I give the status of a postulate in my approach is that, to my knowledge, the human species is the only one which is capable of imagination. In other words: the members of this species can fantasize and represent reality in a way that differs from what is perceived or experienced, and construe action schemes, concepts and values on the basis of that imagining. Some animal species can imitate what they borrow from others (e.g., the parrot can imitate sounds), and some can simulate. But as far as we know only human beings can say or pretend anything at all, deny blatant or inescapable realities, change the view of his past, imagine beings that just cannot exist and organize social life according to that imagining. This peculiar capacity makes the species unique, I think. With the postulate of such a capacity art can be understood as the adding of form beyond graspable reality. But also knowledge needs this capacity to grow into large world views and scientific constructs. In my view religion must be appreciated within that frame too: people act in nonfunctional or non-instrumental ways, beyond direct or foreseeable survival value, for instance. E.g., a catholic priest eats a piece of bread and believes that it is, in a symbolic way, the body of Christ. Of course, this is not anthropophagy, neither is it an ordinary meal. This is a symbolic act, meaning that the ordinary acts of the performance acquire a different function, content or sense through the imagination process. In language too, we are creative in this particular way: e.g., the Navajo Indian performs a ceremony and repeats a particular formula four times. Sometimes four colors are named, sometimes the four cardinal directions are mentioned in the sequel, or sometimes four forces in nature are pointed at. The quadruple form of the verbal message indicates that we are in the symbolic realm here, in the realm of fantasy and imagining. By saying the formula four times, the Navajo uses the words “compulsively”, and tries to manipulate reality in a particular way. 15

The Creation of God

I think that this unique human feature, which I indicate as the faculty of fantasy or creativity, is specific for the species. I will not investigate how it can be explained evolutionarily1, but I postulate that religion in all its forms and appearances can be understood by this faculty. The acceptance of fantasy as an important dimension of the human condition is difficult for some evolutionists to allow for, but quite agreeable for others. In the latter group I especially mention those researchers engaged in the theory of self organizing systems. For example, Kauffman (2008) developed a theory about a second type of order producing processes, complementing the natural selection processes of the Darwinian theory: self-organization in natural and cultural phenomena. In the wake of Prigogine (for thermodynamics), Varela and Maturana (for biological systems) and others a full fledged theory of self-organization was developed, describing and explaining how creative developments shape things and life forms in the margin of Darwinian evolutionary selectionism. A remarkable overview by Weingartner & Chisholm (2009) details how cultural group processes in general and religious cooperation in particular are responsible for the continuation over generations of cultural traditions. The important pint of this type of focus is that it reveals how self-organization processes complement and do not at all contradict with evolution theory in realms of complexity that are relevant to our field of research. The faculty of fantasy is a necessary condition for the emergence of the religious in my approach. Whether it is a sufficient condition, which can allow to distinguish religion from other human products, or that can help to differentiate between different religions, remains to be seen. In my approach, the comparative study of religious phenomena will help us in this respect. Social sciences and philosophy have the audacity to study the most complex phenomena in the world: a human being, a group, let alone a group with its history are much more complex than mere biological matter (like a cell). This may be a main reason why in the past centuries we witnessed a focus on the nearby in these disciplines: psychologists study their own children or their students, sociologists study American or European groups, educationalists speak about THE school and mean 1

I refer to D.T. Campbell’s hierarchy of selectors in this instance (Campbell, 1974). On the other hand, the recent combination of evolutionary psychology and cognitive archeology, like in Mithen (1996) explores a similar line of thought on the nature of religion: at a certain stage in human evolution the imagination and its symbolic expressions are born. Processes of crossing between domains or modules in the brain induce more abstract and distanced thinking and hence allow for religion, art and higher knowledge processes. Finally, work by evolutionary psychologists and anthropologists (like Boyer and others) can be mentioned.

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Religion: a First Approach

the particular institution which was created in just one part of the world, philosophers speak about universal logic and they refer to Ancient Greek and European ways of thinking only, and so on. The comparative approach is at the most peripheral, if not absent in the whole endeavor. From the point of view of scientific knowledge with true universalistic pretensions, this is a severe handicap: we land up with local knowledges, in all likelihood. 2. The only group of researchers with systematic interest in other traditions is the group of anthropologists. Anthropologists have moved to the outskirts of the world to experience and describe how people live and think with different traditions of education and different intuitions about the world. The anthropologists have seen a lot, they have explained very little, and they seem to be plunged now in a deep crisis: they learned they were hardly able to report on their fellow human beings without prejudices, and they were always categorizing others within the western frame they themselves had been reared in. Anthropologists time and again claimed that the only way out of this catch lies in the development of a genuine comparative approach to matters (Nader, 1993). The group of colleagues who specialized in philology and culture history (and who were very active in religious studies) might have been a competitor to anthropologists in this field. However, they are so much focused on texts only, working within a frame of thought that owes so much to 19th century European (and hence colonial) attitudes, that they have been severely and mercilessly criticized for their “orientalism” by the subjects they study (Said, 1979). The move towards comparison is awkward in their disciplines, as will become clear in the next chapter. When I describe any religious practice I will invariably draw on the intuitions, biases and concepts I can master, i.e., primarily those from my own cultural tradition. This is a handicap, which I have to become conscious of (Nader’s comparative consciousness is meant to be an alternative), in order to go beyond it. On the other hand, acquiring knowledge by spending considerable time and energy in another religion or tradition than my own seems to be a necessary way to overcome my initial handicap. Since each tradition has its complexity, it is hardly possible, both physically and mentally, to come to know many, let alone all religious traditions (e.g., reckoning with the 4,000 traditions of anthropological classifications). This is a second handicap: by necessity, any comparative study must be limited to a deeper knowledge of only very few different traditions. To overcome both handicaps and land up with a genuine scientific model or theory my only way is to construct a comparative approach with the following features. It should be self-critical, in that it contextua17

The Creation of God

lizes and screens my own insights and cultural forms as what they are: local imaginings, stemming from just one particular tradition. In the second place, I need to go beyond the boundaries of the religious field in my own tradition and consider that field as just one particular expression or format of the faculty of the religious, at the same level as and yet different from such expressions as American Indian ceremonies, Buddhist meditations or shaman travels. The comparative stance I have to come up with must allow me to produce each of these formats of the religious as ever so many specifications of the same faculty of fantasy.

2. Religion: a First Attempt at Delineating the Domain In order to allow for a relevant approach to the variegated domain of religious phenomena I need to indicate what is understood by “religion” as a domain of study. I am of the conviction that the search for definitions and battles over definitions are basically a waste of time, even if a lot of my colleagues in philosophy and the humanities still prove to think otherwise. A scientific approach, I claim, describes as precisely as possible how things work, by characterizing relevant parameters and their interrelationships, not by aiming for the utter definition of a phenomenon. Still, in order to begin to study parameters it is sensible to advance a working definition, which indicates what is roughly the field of research (and what falls outside of it). The domain of religion covers all human imagining activities which attempt to symbolically fill in the relationships between humans as particular mortal beings, and the imagined reality which transcends them. These relationships are transferred from generation to generation. Phrased differently: religion is a particular way of dealing with wholeness, which transcends the spatiotemporal limitations of each particular human being.

The mention of “symbolic” in this circumscription points to a particularity of the religious phenomena: the result of the imagining process is not testable like in knowledge, nor is it basically a matter of form or style, like in artistic creativity. These features can be claimed by a religious person, but they are not intrinsic, I suggest. The way of dealing with the world in religious matters is symbolic, which first and foremost refers to the plurality in meanings and uses of the language and activities in a religious tradition. In a later section, the notion of “symbol” will be dealt with in detail. The human activities referred to can be diverse: ritual actions, prayers, representations, beliefs, and many others are candidates. The imagination can fill in the symbol in a variety of ways, allowing for such notions or “things” as gods, infinity, a cyclic world, or what have you. The important point is that all of these manifestations or vehicles of the religious have a symbolic appearance. 18

Religion: a First Approach

Secondly, my focus is on human activities: I take the stand that action or activity is the basic form of human-environment relationships. Verbal actions (speech acts) and beliefs or representations are seen as particular subcategories of human action. Especially the study of nonwestern cultural and religious phenomena has taught us that the heavy emphasis on meaning and verbal actions (not to mention texts) is culture specific and largely restricted to the Mediterranean traditions (Hymes, 1981). Thirdly, religion has to do with human imagination. The particular religious forms and moulds of imagination will allow me to delineate the religious from other domains where imagination plays a prominent role, like knowledge and art. Sometimes, these domains will overlap considerably (like in the European Middle Ages), sometimes they will complement each other. A somewhat similar point of view can be seen in the latest book of another anthropologist, Raymond Firth (1996). He calls his theory “humanistic” and encounters a similar uneasiness in the field of religious studies that I do: If one accepts inadequacy, aggression, evil, suffering, as part of the endowment of man, then why should one not regard imagination, creative effort, aesthetic inspiration, love, as also part of human constitution? On such a sceptical foundation, to theo-logy succeeds anthropo-logy-the study of God is included in the study of man. (Firth, 1996, p. 92).

I want to be a bit more specific and say that the study of God or the religious is part of the study of the human capacity of imagination. Fourthly, religious activities of imagination are not invented by each individual. They are transferred through learning processes in groups and communities. Since it is the individual who is learning, it is likely that individual interpretations will alter the tradition to some extent, but the notion of an individual religion remains an oddity to my mind, because the transfer between groups and communities is an intrinsic feature of the religious domain individual learners are always situated in contexts. Finally, religious activities are the human means “par excellence” to reach, express or otherwise fill in “wholeness”. In order to illustrate the pitfalls of this type of endeavor, I will present and criticize a main school of thought in this field, namely the phenomenologists of religion.

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CHAPTER 2

Old and New Models A decent society is based on the principle that it may include encompassing groups which have competing and not merely incompatible forms of life. (Margalit: A decent society. 1996)

1. Introduction Within the large literature on religion, a very substantial amount of work is produced by the active and prolific research school of phenomenology of religion. It is not my intention to devote this study to the output of that school of thought, but rather to highlight the problematic nature of most of the studies on religion by focusing on some examples from them. The protestant minister Gerardus Van der Leeuw was the founding father of the school, which dominated most of the 20th century studies in religion. M. Eliade and A. Hultkrantz have been amongst the most influential thinkers who enlarged the scope to encompass a comparative perspective on religious studies. With the decolonization of the social sciences, with the growing consciousness of western biases in humanistic studies and with the decline of western hegemony in political and cultural matters, the constraints of this type of religious studies are more and more apparent. I reconsider some of the main points of the phenomenological approach, followed by a critical appraisal of Smart’s reorientation of the perspective. The chapter ends with a sketch of lines of my alternative.

2. The Phenomenology of Religion According to the Founders At the dawn of the 20th century Gerardus Van der Leeuw was inspired by the German philosophical school of phenomenologists in order to try and solve a difficult question for all students of religion, as for every Christian: how can I recognize religion as a universal human capacity and yet accept the diversity of its appearances? The question is not neutral, neither is it inspired by humanitarian interests alone. According to Christian doctrine God created the world and humanity, and He reached a compelling covenant with the first human beings. Genesis 21

The Creation of God

has it that humans live estranged from their God by the Original Sin, committed by the first human beings. At the same time all humans still are part of God’s creation, wired to His will and liable to sin at the same time. The “truth” of the existence of God and of His creation manifests itself according to Christian doctrine amongst other things in the human capacity for religion. That is to say, in the capacity to have religious experiences, according to the Christian thinkers. Denying this capacity to creatures makes them fall out of the human species, and would identify them as animals, for instance. The Jewish and the Islamic religions hold basically the same view on these points. From this a priori on human beings” necessary faculty for religion the task then reads how the researcher in religious studies can describe religion and fit it into an anthropology as a theory about human beings. The great amount of manifestations in the world which are called religious, as well as the absence or subordination of god or gods in some traditions (e.g., Buddhism), the apparent contradictions between and even within religions, as well as the denial of the existence of god in other traditions (atheism, but also negative theology) make this into a yeoman’s task. Mere sociological references to temples, sacrifices or external symbols do not suffice. On the other hand, the interpretation of religious expressions and actions is far from simple or straightforward. Nonetheless, Van der Leeuw and his followers claimed to have found an indubitable foundation of the religious in what they called the religious experience. When one accepts that humans are God’s creation, then the gospels foretell us that these humans must be able to experience God’s existence and His rules for humans. Phenomenology would show us how and what, but the mere “fact” that God created humans implies that all humans are equipped with the faculty of religious experience, according to this school of thought. According to phenomenological method each human being is capable of introspection. In a systematic and methodical way one can reach, through consecutive steps of “eidetic reduction” systematic distinction of superficial aspects from the essence of a phenomenon. To illustrate this procedure I use a simple and probably well known type of experience: when I would try to go to the essence of the experience of love, I can make a list of all the things with which I seem to have a similar feeling of attraction, complemented by a fear to loose them. My love can be directed towards a car, a dog, a student, a woman, or a piece of art. The fact that these “things” belong to different categories of reality is irrelevant; hence their categorical differences are superficial or nonessential for the feeling of love itself. When I continue my introspection I will find that my love feeling does have distinct forms: some of the objects of love return the feeling, others do not and cannot (e.g., a car is 22

Old and New Models

only receptive, whereas a woman or a dog can receive and give love). Doing away with superficialities at this point, I can decide that love is in essence interactive or inter-relational. A question which might come up then is whether physical attraction is an intrinsic feature of love. Going on the introspection tour again, it appears that love does have a physical aspect vis-à-vis a woman for me, but not so in “love for my country” for the patriot, of maybe “love for God” for the religious person. Nevertheless, I might feel like risking my life for the woman and for my country (Abicht, 1993). If that holds, then the physical feature of love is, again, not essential, but superficial: it is relevant for some objects of love and not for others. By repeating this reasoning over and over again I will reach a point in introspection where I hit rock bottom, according to the phenomenologist: the pure and indeed essential features of love will remain, stripped from all circumstantial and superficial aspects. This is how the phenomenologist proceeds. When doing this exercise in order to reach the essence of religion, the phenomenologists advanced the notion of “religious experience”. In trying to define this notion the proposal by Rudolf Otto (1963) is generally agreed upon as the best description so far: any religious experience is the experience of mystery that is frightening and attractive at the same time. A religious experience is the experience of “mysterium tremendum et fascinans”. God, according to the (Christian) phenomenologist, is a mystery, that is to say, He is beyond rational human reasoning. This mysterious aspect is manifested in the double and paradoxical nature of God: He makes us tremble with fear and has us feel extremely little (“tremendum”), while at the same time He is so deeply attractive to us that we can not do otherwise than feel love and seek His company (“fascinans”). This contradictory nature of the mystery and the fact that it is in essence a mystery (thus making it a paradox, where reason is not applicable), is what religious experience is all about for Otto. Recapitulating that God created human beings, according to the Christian phenomenologists, they consequently decided that all human beings would be endowed with this category of religious experience. Whatever the differences in style or contents may be, human beings have religious experiences, because they were created human. More than that, according to many phenomenologists the religious experience is what distinguishes human beings ultimately from animals and other beings. From that point on the task of the phenomenologists is rephrased as the description of all religious symbolic activities as ever so much versions of the typical human capacity of religious experience which the scholars claimed as universal. The difficulties with such an approach become clear over time, I think: subjectivism, essentialism, a static approach, and Eurocentrism. 23

The Creation of God

Subjectivism: the phenomenologist seeks to define a basic experience by introspective research. Even if it can be granted that introspection can be methodical or systematic, it has to escape external control, since a third person can never share an experience directly. One can only talk about it, evoke a similar feeling, and so on, which implies that only the contingent forms of the experience can be checked to some extent, but never the experience itself. In a way, I am captured in my subjectivity while having a particular experience. I can only hope, project, or otherwise fantasize that others, with different psychological, historical and cultural make-ups from me, might have a similar, but never the same, experience as me. From the a priori that God has created the human species I may conclude that hence all humans will have the same experience. From the point of view of the scientist this is a step too far: the a priori need not be taken for granted, neither does it follow that therefore all humans would have the same experience. For one thing, the experience and the claims of the atheist are intolerable for these scholars, since the atheist denies the existence of God, and hence the “truth” of the creation story. For another thing, the holistic traditions and the “non-theistic religions” (e.g., certain types of Buddhism) pose a problem to this phenomenological approach. With the subjectivist entry, there is no way to come to a better understanding on these issues. Essentialism: ever since the first versions of the phenomenological theory the essentialism of the approach has been felt by some to pose a problem. Ninian Smart, who sides with the phenomenologists, wants to do away with the essentialist pretension. When taking a comparative perspective he concludes that the characterization of the religious experience in terms of “mysterium tremendum et fascinans” can only be understood as a local, culture specific interpretation. Static view: the phenomenological approach leads to a static model, since the ultimate “mystery” (God) is conceived as an entity surpassing time and place, and hence being invariant or infinite. On the other hand, it is clear that different cultures show different religious practices, and perhaps different experiences: how could the reciting of a text be experienced the same way as the performance of a “rite de passage”? At the least, the similarity (or sameness?) must be describable. Moreover, within the same religious tradition changes are well documented. Dorothea Sölle (1998) describes how Christian religious practices (and experiences?) transformed from the older we-experiences to the I-focus of industrial and postindustrial society. Are these changes superficial, or are they deep and encompassing, as she seems to hold? The question how these dynamic aspects can be scrutinized by means of the phenomenological method is not really dealt with, I claim.

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Old and New Models

Eurocentrism: by applying the introspective method, the phenomenologist can only reach subjective results of analysis, which are then universalized (because of the “truth” of God) to apply to all human beings. This means that the researcher has to project subjective insights onto humanity at large. Every anthropologist knows that field work is a hazardous endeavor precisely because of the fact that one cannot take leave of one’s education, one’s values and categories in order to confront the other culture or religion in an unbiased way. Disregarding this predicament leads to the fallacy of the “colonial attitude” (Pinxten, 1999): one necessarily projects one’s categories upon all other traditions, unless the control by the subjects studied is built into the method in a systematic way. Moreover, E. Said (1979) has taught us that through literature and through philological and cultural historical analyses the image of the other has been corrupted for centuries, while the twisted image posed as science throughout this period. On top of that, the orientalistic perspective on others has been shown to serve as an instrument of domination by the western (Christian) powers over those studied and colonized. This is what I mean by the fallacy of Eurocentrism. In my view the phenomenologists cannot escape this trap, unless they embark on a serious comparative study of the religious phenomena. Ninian Smart understood all that, I think, and his attempt will be the focus of the next section.

3. Ninian Smart or a Critical Comparative Phenomenology of Religion In the context of work by his fellow protestant scholars in religious studies Smart shows his principal disagreement with basic tenets of the school of phenomenology. His personal religious choice may have been of importance here: he declares himself to be a “Buddhist Anglican” believer. Anyway, he criticizes his colleagues for being too parochial or too local in their perspective by remaining too much within the confines of Christian thinking. At the same time he states his loyalty, in a somewhat less doctrinal sense, to the phenomenological approach by keeping the focus on religious experience. In several books he develops a great synthesis, culminating in his “Dimensions of the Sacred. An Anatomy of the World’s Beliefs” (1996). Smart understands that the narrow focus on the word or the doctrine in the older school forbids a good representation of many nonwestern traditions. He accuses Van der Leeuw of developing too cerebral a picture of religion, researched mainly through texts, and understanding too little of the practices in the thousands of oral traditions in the world. At the same time, he decries that Van der Leeuw’s followers tend to be convinced religionists, who thereby block their understanding of secular worldviews as structurally and functional25

The Creation of God

ly semi-religions. Finally, the method of the phenomenologist is too much biased, according to Smart: it depends too narrowly on the traditions of interpretation (hermeneutics) within European languages, leading to misrepresentations of concepts and meanings in foreign languages. Smart pleas for a “cross-cultural phenomenology of religion” which would develop a clearly comparative perspective on religion next to the Eurocentric theory of today. Obviously, these critiques have my sympathy. I will present his proposal in some detail, in order to evaluate its potential. Smart (1996) lists seven important dimensions, constituting together the realm of religious phenomena. By defining particular values on some or on each of the dimensions a particular religion would be characterized. The dimensions are: 1) the ritual or practical dimension 2) the doctrinal or philosophical dimension 3) the mythical or narrative dimension 4) the experiential or emotional dimension 5) the ethical or legal dimension 6) the organizational or social dimension, and 7) the material or artistic dimension. It is Smart’s intention to include secular ideologies and Buddhism in the field of religious phenomena. In order to include them, he dilutes the religious contents so that “non strictly religious” phenomena can be fitted in too. The influential anthropologist of religion M. Spiro (1986) has made the same move before him, also in order to define Buddhism as a religion. To reach their goal both scholars feel the need to address doctrinal or philosophical issues in religion first. By doing that they inadvertently take a Eurocentric stand. I look at Smart’s analysis first.

The Dimension of the Doctrine Smart starts by attacking the identification of religion and theism. As is well known, Theravada Buddhism uses no god figure, nor does it speak of a second or transcendental reality. Otto’s famous definition of the object of religious experience, namely God as “mysterium tremendum et fascinans” is meaningless in such a context: in the Buddhist focus on concentration as purified consciousness no such being or object is given onto which such feelings could be projected. The “nirwana” as the ultimate state of bliss is no being, neither here nor there, but indeed a state of mind which human beings may reach. Smart proposes that Otto’s definition be understood as one particular rendering of religious experience, allowing for alternative ones. The nirwana of the Buddhist 26

Old and New Models

would be another candidate, not geared towards another being, but to itself and “therefore transcendent” (1996, p. 30). With this reasoning Smart draws Theravada Buddhism (as a so-called atheistic form of Buddhism) into the traditional Eurocentric doctrinal discourse. Indeed, lacking a transcendent being the state of mind itself is called transcendent. Why indeed? On what evidence is this move based? The reader gets no answers here. My question is: what do we gain by such an exercise in messy categorization? In what way is Otto’s definition clarified and what can I understand about the Buddhist practice on the basis of this classificatory act of magic? I fail to see the benefits. Smart understands that classifications have been failing. So he wants to account for the incidental character of godlike figures in some forms of modern Buddhism, and their repositioning as mythological subordinate features. He names these schools of Buddhism “transpolytheistic”, meaning that a higher goal “transcends the gods”. An impersonal X transcends the personal Christian god. In Smart’s reasoning this classifies the personal god (of e.g., Christianity) as a “lower” form of transcendence than the impersonal or transpolytheistic X. To my mind we are playing with words here, with the only and debatable outcome that Buddhism is still classified as a religion. But what is gained by that? Are forms of Buddhism doctrines with a clear cosmology? Can the enlightenment of an individual in Buddhist traditions be considered a standard state with a standard structure, captured by a doctrine? Or may each individual reach her or his enlightenment, with diversity over and above uniformity? How would we know? Then, how can we classify them according to doctrinal uniformity? Looking at the classificatory move Smart proposes from this angle, I am tempted to say that he only presents a markedly Christian interpretation of Buddhism here. A doctrine explains the world, defines the religious community and helps to solve contradictions. In modern times only the doctrine becomes dominant and moulds narratives in a uniform way, to create logical coherence in the religious manifestations. To my mind, these are functions of doctrine that are indeed very much apparent in the Christian doctrinal history (Pelikan, 1965), but might be absent or weak in other traditions. Hence, the concepts of the analysis are too parochial to be used as universal categories, I fear.

The Ritual Dimension In Smart’s view ritual is basically a performative use of language. It follows that ritual is meaningful and goal directed. The goal seems to boil down most of the time to the education of lay people to religious subjects. In practice ritual are often restrictive, according to Smart: they induce traditionalism (i.e., the conservation and hiding of sacra, which 27

The Creation of God

can only be reached through ritual practice). Because of the emphasis on exact reproduction the ritual will loose its content or meaning over time. I think this treatment poses problems again. By defining rituals as linguistic performances and not as acts sui generis, the acts are subordinated to language. One indication of the specificity of this perspective on matters is given in the famous discussion of Cicero with the followers of the mystery religious movements in his time (the forerunners of early Christianity). In his “Natura Deorum” Cicero claims that the followers of these movements use the term “religio” in an awkward and corrupted way by precisely pointing to a language message, a word of a higher authority (a god) which is accepted by the adepts as the foundation for religious and profane life. Cicero states that the term in the Latin of the Romans refers to “traditio”, which in fact points to the regular sacrifices, to the keeping up of the temples and the shrines, and so on. By emphasizing the primacy of the word, Cicero states, these religious zealots reject the obligations of “traditio”, thus rejecting the Roman rule. Apart from the political issue, Cicero points to a likely shift in the use of the notion of religion. I think Smart continues this later line of thought on religion (against “traditio”), but on top of that he declares uncritically that this is the universal form of religion with the primacy of the word. With Cicero I can only say that this is a biased approach, embedded in the Christian religious frame, which can not serve as a scientific model of a supposedly universal feature.

The Mythical or Narrative Dimension In Smart’s approach myths are “narratives with a religious character” serving to give the group an identity of its own. Some traditions feel uneasy with the mythical, because the narratives have to carry a “true” message. This is certainly the case in the Mediterranean religions: e.g., in Christianity Jesus appears as a historical figure, who in later gospels (starting with John) was the son of God who died on the cross to save humanity. Smart warns us that this watering down of the mythical aspects (in favor of the historical ones, for instance) may yield intolerance. Again, in the Mediterranean religions we find a history of blasphemy and of heresy accusations against dissidents. I agree with these points in Smart’s treatise.

The Experiential and Emotional Dimension In order to recognize religious experience in all sorts of traditions Smart advances that the description of “religious experience” by such authors as Otto or Schleierrmacher is adequate for only one of the two types of experience he distinguishes: 28

Old and New Models

– Otto’s famous definition of the “religious experience” of “das Ganz Andere” (i.e., God) refers to one particular, often institutionalized type, – the contemplative or mystic experience without an external Other is a second type. In this form the subject-object distinction disappears, which in and by itself underlines the nature of the experience. Smart claims that this form appears in mystical traditions, in strongly ritualistic religions and (for contemplation proper) in traditions where breathing and meditation exercises have an important place (like yoga, Sufism, etc.). By simply adding a second type of religious experience Smart recuperates amongst other things the mystic tradition, precisely because mystics were often rejected or banned by institutionalized forms of the first type of religious experience. On the other hand he places other forms of religious activity (in ritualistic and meditative traditions) plainly within the domain of religion through religious experience writ large. Finally, this move would enable him to include shamanism in the religious domain. I appreciate Smart’s attempt to escape from the reductionist position of the phenomenologists of religion, and to expand the notion of religious experience beyond the merely psychological boundaries. On the other hand, I feel frustrated by his attempt because we simply land up with two unconnected notions of experience: there is no obvious reason.

The Ethical and Legal Dimension It is beyond the shadow of a doubt that a religiously underscored conception of the uniqueness of our life ending in the certainty of our death adds a dramatic sense to the moral and legal prescriptions of a religion. Smart notes that this type of conception of things is typical for the theisms that we know, as well as for a few other traditions. In some cases the ethical dimension is doubled by a metaphysical set of views, which enhances the impact of the ethical rules considerably. For example, Smart points to the category of “living deads” in some Chinese and African traditions, where rituals are performed to keep the deceased “alive” and present as long as they are remembered by the community. I would like to add a European example, to bring the point closer to home: in rural Rumania the dead are fed and given drinks, and comatose persons or people in apparent death are said to communicate with the dead in order to prevent the latter from returning with the living. This tradition, which has a sensational and popular correlate in the romantic figure of the Vampire explains how illness and accidents occur when the funerary prescriptions for the deceased are not fully respected (Bernabé, 1981). 29

The Creation of God

Smart remarks that the demarcation of the ethical from the religious, – as is professed by Enlightenment, for instance –, meets with diverse reactions, depending on the structure of the religiously signified ethical and legal prescriptions. For example, the introduction of modernism in Asia met with no problem at all with the Buddhists, according to him, but encountered a sharp opposition from the Confucians. On the other hand, the introduction of a colonially tinted form of modernism met with fierce opposition by Buddhism (e.g., in Sri Lanka), but was recuperated by Confucians. Whether this sort of reasoning suffices to explain the often confusing issues of Asian modernism, I do not know, but that different reactions pertain is certainly a fact. Although he does not treat the difficult problem of the relationship between ethics and religion in an exhaustive way, I think Smart is able to clearly differentiate the role of a metaphysically founded religious ethics (like in Christian theodicy) in a sensible way from a practice oriented religious ethics (like in some forms of Buddhism). In the former the three main virtues of belief, hope and love are introduced by reference to the central place of love in God’s involvement with the world. Belief then refers to the suffering, the death and the resurrection of Christ, and hope shows the way to Judgment Day. Buddhism, on the other hand, recognized four prime virtues which all deal with the practice of one’s own path and lack any reference to historical-metaphysical notions: friendliness, compassion, joy in other people’s happiness, and equanimity or even-temperedness. The manifest differences in ethical stands at least parallels the diverging metaphysical positions. With them, the types of learning differ: Buddhist practice of abstinence from the worldly needs can be learned through forms of discipleship, while the Christian beliefs about the structure of the universe are taught like other aspects of abstract knowledge. I am well aware that the ethical dimension holds an important place in the Mediterranean traditions. It is not exaggerated to say that it has been responsible to a considerable degree for the production and implementation of moral codes to many generations in the Christianized world. It will not surprise the reader to find that the story of Genesis as a story about obedience which is framed in a covenant, is rephrased in the ethically loaded message of Jesus Christ. It is equally not surprising that the waning or even the disappearance of the impact of these messages in the present generation(s) of common westerners is accompanied by an analysis of loss of moral content and of growing anomy. The latter issues are found overwhelmingly in the wonderful novels of more or less uprooted city Jews (like Bellow, Potok or Oz), but also in the doubtridden Christian literature of today (e.g., Green, Gide, and so many others). Again, the fear for anomy with the loss of an institutional 30

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authority can be recognized, but a serious analysis can help us understand that the foundation of ethics in orthodoxy is not the only, and maybe not the best way. Also, the waning of impact of orthodoxy does not necessarily have to yield forlornness. My suggestion is that a comparative study of these issues in traditions where orthodoxy plays a minimal role, might reveal interesting alternative paths.

The Social Dimension The social and political aspects of religion are abundantly studied by sociologists and anthropologists of religion. However important this dimension is, overemphasizing it will yield a reductionist theory representing religion as a sociopolitical phenomenon only. On the other hand, the refusal to recognize this dimension or the blindness for it in many an adherent of religious traditions will try to have us believe that this dimension points to mere epiphenomena. In his analysis of this dimension Smart points to the communities on the one hand, and to marked personalities and religious specialists on the other hand. The specialists can exhibit a variety of forms and functions. For example, in the Mediterranean traditions we find the prophet, standing out because of his (or her) ecstatic or so-called numinous experience in the course of which God is said to have transferred a message. The prophet reveals and interprets the message to the followers. Moses, Jesus, Paul, Mohammed and Zarathustra belong in this category. All of them are said to have had this personal and extraordinary contact with God, which carried a message of great importance for the followers. It took a specialist like the prophet to accept and translate the message, though; the ordinary mortal is not qualified for that. In my reading the prophets have rather unusual, that is shamanistic features, which are inaccessible or even forbidden territory for the ordinary follower: the prophets “travel” between heaven and earth to get their message, they are profoundly impressed and indeed transformed by the experience (e.g., Saul turns into Paul after his meeting with God, Jesus dies and is rematerialized through resurrection). The great emphasis on charisma in leaders in the West (Weber, but updated by Bourdieu, 1981) may find its origin here, I suspect. The preacher and the catholic priest come close to this category: they share some aspects of the prophet, like being able to speak in the name of God as religious specialists. However, to avoid the sin of blasphemy, they will content with a more modest profile than the prophet. The sage of many eastern traditions has somewhat opposite features: this is a learned person who draws superiority and exemplary status from knowledge and self control. The figure of Jesus in the Quelle (i.e., the reconstruction of the Ur-gospel) carries the features of the Greek 31

The Creation of God

philosopher which coincides with this type of religious specialist (Mack, 1990). The rabbi, the theologian and the religiously inspired political leader (e.g., Gandhi) are classified here by Smart. The guru is an imposing personality who acts as a teacher, but rather appeals to intuitive and existential layers in the followers, and less on rational discourse. According to Smart, the guru often has revelatory capacities which are then based on his personal insights and beliefs, and not on the numinous experience of the god (Smart, 1996, p. 219). Again, it seems appropriate to a western scholar to put Bagwhan, Sri Baba and others in a different category from Moses or Jesus, but the mere reference to the “numinous” character of experience is too vague and onesided to be convincing, I think. In the modern age the sociopolitical dimension of some religions has been drastically altered. During and after the bloodsheds of the religious wars in Europe several protestant churches took on an ideological and political status and function as state religions (e.g., the Anglican and the Scottish Church). On the other hand the separation of religion and politics, proposed by the Enlightenment philosophers, is anchored in several constitutions of the modern liberal states, in view of the avoidance of new religious conflicts. Especially, when several religions are present on the same territory (as in most of Europe and in the United States), this separation is believed to enhance peaceful coexistence. Several modern states however, have only gone half way on this track: e.g., Indonesia decrees religious pluralism, but at the same time it introduces the law that any religion should be monotheistic; Turkey forbids the use of religious symbols in public life, and at the same time organizes religious life for Islam only. In some countries an attitude of religious fundamentalism and exclusivism is politically underscored: Poland for a while reinstated Catholicism as the state religion, and Saudi-Arabia, Pakistan and Afghanistan have taken the shari’a as the basis for their constitutions. These are very delicate issues, for sure, and their treatment will have to wait until the end this book where I return to the issue of politics and religion.

The Material Dimension The last dimension Smart explores concerns the material representation of the holy in statues, pictures, buildings and spaces, and texts. To the extent that such manifestations carry a religious character, this is an important dimension: e.g., the host in the catholic Eucharist “is” the body of Christ and therefore is a sacred thing. Similar remarks can be made about statues and temples in the Hindu traditions. However, not everything is what it seems at first sight: the statement that a statue of the Buddha, let alone of a bodhisattva, has godly or religious status is at 32

Old and New Models

the least simplistic. On the other hand, the representation of the holy being or god in pictures or statues is forbidden in some traditions, whereas the description in words might be permitted. In that sense the taboo on pictorial representation of Allah in Islam has led to the remarkable art of calligraphy.

Evaluation This long presentation of Smart’s theory has a purpose: the synthesis of the religious domain which he means to bring, has to be scrutinized in the context of my own endeavor. Precisely because Smart is so tolerant and inclusive his proposal is worth looking at in detail. Is the author successful in presenting an unbiased and impartial theory? If not, what can we learn from his mistakes? Where does he slip into the position of the religionist, and leave the path of the scientist? I think I was able to show that Smart regularly start from premises which can only be dubbed “Christian” (or, broader: Mediterranean) yielding invariably a biased view on other traditions. This does not render his approach useless, but it strengthens me in my contention that we should take leave from the “religious experience” angle and search for a more neutral entry instead. I propose to safeguard the notion of “wholeness” (as a neutral term for transcending oneself, of going beyond one’s particularity) but to look for mechanisms outside of the classical religious domain wholeness becomes a religious issue when it is the goal of identity learning processes. To develop this point of view I need to explore cultural learning theory and identity studies and apply them to research on religion.

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DIFFERENT 0

Science and Religion: Where do I Stand? The history of the relationship between science and religion in Europe is particularly intriguing. Such theatrical highlights, like the burning of Giordano Bruno or the prosecution of Galileo speak to one’s imagination. However, looking at this history from the perspective of the present era I do not see a need to dwell on this issue. Moreover, in the comparative approach which I advocate, the history of Christianity’s relationship with science appears as merely one particular case which can not be generalized for religion in an easy way. In other words, I should remain cautious for the trap of the “pars pro toto” reasoning: the Christian (or rather the Roman Catholic) case cannot serve as a generic case. So, I will not position myself in the particular debate on the relationship between science and religion in western Christianity, but merely make clear what I mean by the terms. Many discussions with believers convinced me that what is needed is a clear exposition on the nature and status of science in this book. Since I use the concepts of science and of scientific perspective very regularly in this book, and since these concepts caused some uneasiness with believers of different denominations, I feel the need to be as explicit as possible on these issues. To be sure, I have been focusing in depth on these topics elsewhere and have offered detailed arguments which cannot be repeated in the scope of this chapter (Pinxten 1976, 1997; Callebaut & Pinxten, 1987). Still, a few statements are needed to avoid misunderstandings on what the relationship between science and religion can amount to, in my view; and to create clarity on the specific realm of each of them.

1. On What Science Is Within social and human sciences (and within philosophy) a strange and often vicious struggle has been raging between rivaling schools of thought. The struggle has been labeled most often with the German term “Methodenstreit”, that is, the battle between methodological perspectives. Behind it I see a battle between epistemologies. What it amounts to is that two perspectives on the object and the methods of research in the humanities and in social sciences have been opposed to each other, 35

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each claiming the status of unique or exclusive dependable or scientifically justifiable approach (e.g., in anthropology: Service 1993). The first or objectivistic-positivistic view held that a scientific approach stresses the difference or distinctiveness of the observer from the subject studied by objectifying the subject. The subject is looked at “from the outside”, in much the same way that a mineral or an atom would be studied. This implies that such “immeasurable” aspects like meaning or purpose in human beings or groups are beyond the scope of scientific analysis (e.g., in Harris, 1968). In other words, any attempt to study them would be termed subjectivist. Within this perspective, the methodology which is preferred is that of the so-called natural sciences, with an emphasis on quantification, control and repeatability of observations and experiments. On the other hand, the phenomenological perspective on social sciences and the humanities has it that the objects of study are subjects. Hence, a great familiarity between observer and observed is presupposed: they are both subjects. It follows that the methods for study adopted take this fact into account and use this common subjectivity: it is said that one can enter the existential categories of the subjects studied by “einfühlen” and “verstehen”, as is held in such methodologies as participant observation. It is clear that meaning, purpose and symbolic life are a genuine focus of research in this approach. For decades these mutually exclusive views have been fighting each other, and each has been accusing the other of being nonscientific or irrelevant. According to my view the fights are misplaced and misguided. I will not go into the discussion here (Pinxten, 1997), but rather summarize the basic critique: both approaches are guilty of what I call the “colonial attitude”. The colonial attitude implies that the researcher acts as if he is the sole categorizer in the research endeavor: he holds the cards when it comes to observation, tests and interpretations and the subject is either not at all or at best only partially allowed to interact in the research and control and negotiate the results. In their different ways and with opposing methodologies both approaches stay within the colonial attitude. I follow Bourdieu’s analysis on this point and agree with his epistemological standpoint: social and cultural researchers study subjects who interact, speak, lie, and hold biases like the scientist. This is quite different from the situation of the natural scientists where the objects have no subjectivity (I make abstraction of the border cases here, like living beings or maybe elementary particles). It is obvious that the study of “objects” which influence or co-determine the process of research like human subjects do, will have characteristics which differ from what the “traditional” scientific perspectives held. Bourdieu (1981) calls his perspective on the nature of social sciences and the 36

Science and Religion: Where do I Stand?

humanities praxiology: the interaction between observer and observed has to be taken into account and appreciated as the core of the research activity. Along that line, scientific research comes down to a dialectic study involving the subject of study in a systematic way. In practice, this means that every step of analysis, interpretation and representation by the researcher is externalized to be checked and amended by the subjects, in a continuous line of observation and analysis. Hence, when I use the term “scientific” and pose as an advocate for a science of religion, I have this particular understanding of science in mind.

2. On Science and Religion In many talks I have been giving about the subject matter of this book, I often encountered uneasiness in believers and adepts of one or the other religious tradition. When going into the analysis of the cause of uneasiness it proved to be a fear that something important (maybe essential) would be lost by scientific analysis. Sometimes the fear was that a scientific approach would somehow negate or disqualify religion. In view of such reactions, it is important to try and clarify where I stand. In my view, scientific research yields the most dependable kind of knowledge humans have so far produced. At the same time, any scientific analysis can only go that deep. When a scientist studies a mineral she is not reaching any deep insight on “mineralhood” or on the ontology of being a mineral. Whether or not such an insight is possible is not the issue here: that scientific research does not lead to that kind of insight is the focus. The scientific methods yield non-ontological but dependable knowledge about the phenomena under study, which will allow humans to eventually treat or use minerals in a way that is beneficial, controllable and/or predictable. That is what the scientific methods have been known to do: they produce knowledge which is generally understood to be more dependable than other methods of thought have done so far, until their results are disproved. The results do not substitute for the things themselves: at best they give us a good handle on some aspects of the things. Now, the same holds for human “things”, with the understanding that our knowledge of human things is probably much more limited so far than that of molecules or minerals. So, when I study religion in a scientific way, I try to produce dependable knowledge on behaviors, beliefs, and so on, but I will not have the ambition to substitute that knowledge for religion itself. However, since religion is an aspect of human cultural life it can be studied like any other aspect. Conscious objections against such a research come from those who take a religionist stand on the study of religion (Orye, 2001): they would claim that religion can only be studied from the a priori of the particu37

The Creation of God

lar religion one adopts. In my opinion this is more the expression of an attitude of self-fulfilling prophecy than of a scientific approach: if I say I can only study what I am immersed in, then it is hard to see in what way I can pull myself out of the peculiarity and parochialism of my experience in order to achieve more general, viz. universally dependable knowledge about it. In the praxiological approach I adopted, I would remain stuck in the subjectivist methodology. Since moreover many religions exist, if I am not deluding myself about the (partial, but nevertheless real) interaction and communication between people of different cultures and religions, then it follows that I can never reach dependable knowledge about the other traditions, since I will be stuck within the constraints of my own. There is no way I can reach a comparative perspective and thus get out of the casuistic I landed in, except by randomly projecting concepts and models upon phenomena from other religions. This is in fact the tragic situation of the religionist approaches we have known. It is embedded in the orientalist perspective I mentioned before. So, in summary I attempt to develop a scientific approach to religious phenomena, yielding dependable insights which do not substitute for these phenomena themselves. Their scientific status will only be reachable (although, of course not guaranteed) by the comparative nature of the endeavor.

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CHAPTER 3

Religion, Identity and Learning Processes 1. New Beacons My hypothesis proposes to look at religions as part of cultural traditions. Religions are therefore subject of learning processes. More specifically, religions are conceptualized as particular vehicles of identity dynamics. These are taught to the next generation by a community or group. I think we should look for a better understanding of the notion of “tradition” along these lines: it refers to what is passed on and how it is transferred and reinterpreted, rather than to a static set of rules or beliefs. This perspective may be easy to grasp when thinking about the religions of the book. It may be a bit less obvious when referring to oral traditions. Therefore, I will start this exposition with an example from the latter, which will illustrate how the concepts of my hypothesis can be understood in this approach. The Navajo Indians in the Southwest of the United States belong to the larger family of Apache or Athapaskan peoples. For ages they have known two types of religious specialists, namely shamans and medicine persons (Reichard, 1950). I here concentrate on the medicine person (man or woman). The main religious activities of the Navajo (now rephrased in part in the new peyote cult) can be recognized in the group performances known as healing ceremonies. The subject (somewhat one-sidedly named “the patient”) is first cleaned in a sweat lodge ceremony. Consecutively, during a ceremony of several nights, and in the company of as many clan members as possible, the patient is put in the middle of a symbolic representation of the universe materialized in the sandpaintings in the centre of the hooghan. The medicine person applies herbs, manipulates the patient in and out of trance sessions, and sings over him (relating on the adventures of the mythic figures depicted in the sandpainting of the day) thus figuring the subject in the role of the mythological power sung about. Finally, the patient is physically brought into contact with the powers or natural phenomena depicted when the medicine person rubs some of the sandpainting on the body of the subject. The whole purpose is to restore the patient, by having him

39

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“unlearn” what caused disharmony or “illness”. This unlearning or healing process is a way to realize wholeness. The religious specialist has a double role. First of all, he or she knows how the herbs and medicinal plants from the desert soil work, and hence can clean the subjects, as well as having them experience trance or visions when needed. Also, the medicine person performs the endless chants, starting with sundown and ending at sunrise. Finally, the specialist is the director or stage master in the construction of the various complex sandpaintings which are construed and “consumed” each day and night of a ceremony. A ceremony normally takes five or nine nights, which has us appreciate the complexity of the knowledge a medicine person incorporates. However, being a religious specialist has yet another meaning in this tradition. The etiology which lies at the basis of the ceremonial life here distinguishes between some sixty different disharmonies or illnesses (still thirty five of them in the 1970, now dwindling because of the success of the peyote cult), each being treated by a separate ceremony. Because each ceremony had to be learned by heart in this oral culture, each individual medicine person is by necessity a specialist in three or four ceremonies, learned in a long discipleship of six years or more from an older colleague (Frisbie, 1971). Hence, each medicine person “specializes” in only a segment of the whole religious panorama, apart from their common training in the so-called backbone of religious life, called Blessingway (Farella, 1983; Pinxten, 1993j). Occasionally a group of medicine persons will perform a ceremony together, using the occasion to prepare the medicinal specimens they need during other ceremonies (Reichard, 1939). Looking at this short presentation I can discover different learning processes: the medicine person learns his religious knowledge during a long period of apprenticeship; the patient is subjected to a process of ritual “unlearning” by playing the role of the mythical figure in a particular ceremony, seated in the middle of the sandpainting; the group at large participates in the whole process through the chants and through their learning about the meanings of the figures in the sandpaintings. Finally, they share in consuming the sandpainting by rubbing off parts on their body, as happens with the patient. We are confronted with different notions of learning here, all partaking in the general notion of restoring harmony, as expressed in Blessingway (Wyman, 1970). On top of that, I think, these ceremonies can be appreciated as processes of identity formation or continuation. Similar to the Christian reaffirmation of belonging to the community of God, the nomadic Navajo learns in and through the ceremonies about the “Navajo way”. The intriguing book on Navajo language and knowledge by Witherspoon (1977) points out how language, speech, knowledge and ritual, but 40

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also artistic activities can be understood as ever so many sides of the same way of dealing with reality. The Navajo, as sheep herders, lived dispersed on a vast territory, and their main vehicles of coming to know about the “Navajo way” are the occasional ceremonies they participate in and the stories that are told. Other traditions can probably be characterized in a similar way. The great work by G. Samuel (1996) on Lamaist Buddhism in Tibet and Mongolia shows how the identity of the community is shaped over the generations through a set of Buddhist and shamanistic learning processes. Samuel documents how the different foci in the adjacent territories of Tibet and Mongolia produce a continuous reformulation and manifestation of identity, since the Buddhist monasteries tend to combine their apprenticeship in slightly different ways from place to place with the shamanistic traditions, producing ever so many forms of what Samuel calls “civilized shamans”. With these few examples in minds, I will introduce the two main perspectives of my model about the religious phenomena: identity processes and learning.

2. Identity Dynamics My appreciation of the present world makes me more receptive for identity conflicts, and at the same time draws me towards the recognition of the role of religious programs as possibly growing motivating forces in the public arena (in the so-called fundamentalist movements). This forces me to look closer at identity processes. Since identity has to do with one’s belonging to a group or community, thus co-defining one’s self, I want to look at religious traditions as (also, maybe primarily) identity complexes, in the first place as carriers or vehicles of identity. The strife for wholeness can and will be realized by one’s belonging to a group or community using similar means to realize a supposedly similar wholeness, and hence religion can function as an important vehicle in this endeavor. In another study we sketched a model of identity and identity dynamics (Pinxten & Verstraete, 2004), of which I will present the main tenets here. In the book we emphasize that an essentialist view on identity is incorrect, since it is in conflict with historical and socio-cultural realities. Extreme rightist ideologies are hammering on these essentialist interpretations these days, thus negating serious scientific work in this domain and manifesting an unduly rigorous attitude to one’s own past and to possible new, so-called foreign influences. In practice, we see shifting identities, permanent reformulations and the professing of identity structures which are at best temporary and circumstantial in nature. 41

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Hence, we speak about identity dynamics to refer to the field of study, and about identities to name the temporary products of these dynamics. In the second place, we see identity processes situated at three levels of extension, characterized as three functionally different levels of interaction: the individual, the group and the community. The type of interactions which pertains at each level differs: the individual can interact with the self in a reflexive way, which is impossible for the relationship of the individual with the other levels. I can look into myself and build self-knowledge, which will not be feasible for groups or communities. Groups are the structures of face to face interaction or interpersonal contact and communication. I belong to different groups at the same time or over time: a professional group, a family, a hobby group, and so on. Communities are sets of people which are so large or so dispersed in time or space that only indirect or virtual interaction or communication obtains between the members. The Jews and the Christians are different communities, but a particular congregation of Jews today and in a particular neighborhood in Antwerp is a group, which builds part of its present identity by reference to the community of Jews of the past 3000 years throughout the world. In practice, everybody belongs to different groups and communities, while neglecting or ignoring other groups and communities in the world. Each of these three levels of identity is continually formed and reformed by the values on three different dimensions: personality, sociality and culturality. These dimensions do not refer to different extensions, but rather to different functional domains. Personality characteristics deal with these features in individuals, groups or communities, which are usually referred to as character, temperament, nature, make up and the like; in a sense this coincides with the domain of differential psychology, eventually also cultural psychology. It is obvious that individuals have personality characteristics, but groups and communities define their identity by them too. For example, the male macho is clearly a personality value for any member of a hooligan group, whereas “caring” may be a typical feature for the community of women according to some gender-sensitive studies. Some researchers distinguish masculine from feminine communities (Hofstede, 1991), while the study of national characters is certainly widely accepted as a personality-oriented approach in political studies. The distinction between sociality and culturality can best be grasped by making an analogy with the distinction between syntax and semantics, I think. Even though syntax and semantics can never be strictly and totally separated from one another, a functional distinction between both is useful. I use the term syntax of a language to denote the system of 42

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rules of that language which enables one to produce grammatically correct and hence understandable utterances, i.e., to form correct words and sentences. The semantics of a language (including pragmatics in my use) is the system of meaning production and use in that language, i.e., to communicate and understand messages to and from other persons by using the words and sentences which can be formed in a syntactically correct way. Although both are linked, they retain a certain independence from each other. Homonyms, synonyms, and metaphors illustrate this characteristic. My proposal is that sociality is to culturality in the field of interactions what syntax is to semantics in the field of linguistic utterances. Sociality is the set of rules, forms and habits for interaction which are considered to be obvious, or intrinsic. They are not subject to choice or meaning negotiation. An example from the Navajo sociality dimension will make this clear. The group and/or community identity of “clan” is strongly and clearly defined by sociality rules which refer to descent and marriage defining each individual from birth on as a member of one particular clan. In the matrilineal system of the Navajo Indians one is inexorably and automatically classified as belonging to the lineage of the mother and not that of the father, forced to look for eventual sexual and marital partners outside of the clan, and one is getting a name and acquiring heritage rights within the maternal lineage. The identity features attached to clan membership are not in any genuine sense “meaning-laden” or explanatory: they provide a basic frame of social structuring, within which a place, a set of rules, rights and obligations are laid down for each person in his or her quality of social being, that is primarily of member of one clan. That sexual intercourse with other clan members is forbidden could be called a culturality value, since it adds meaning to the “syntactic” rule of exogamy over the clan. Culturality as the set of meaning producing processes in an individual, a group and a community is notably restricted as a dimension in the construing of clan identity: this important type of identity seems to be overwhelmingly constituted in terms of sociality values in the Navajo case. On the fringes of this type of identity I detect meaning producing processes that add on cultural signifiers, but they are relatively secondary: e.g., members of old or traditional clans can get more respect because of the status of their clan, and marriages with members of “lower” clans can be discussed as a disadvantage or an opportunity when matched to financial or economic values, for instance. The famous study of Chinese peasant communities as network communities is another case in point. In sharp contrast with the individualistic focus of late capitalist societies, I interpret Fei’s (1988) description of the traditional Chinese peasant culture as a type which defines its 43

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identity very heavily in terms of sociality. Everybody is born into a network that is already there, acquiring a first and basic identity from one’s place by birth within that network. In the course of a lifetime one can move up or down a few nodes, depending on family conditions (becoming a parent, being the eldest; etc.), but it is inconceivable that one somehow or other would “create” or profoundly re-conceptualize one’s identity. The question of meaning of one’s position in the network is hardly ever raised, and certainly not in a systematic way. In contradistinction, the American individualistic identity expressed in the ideology of the American Dream holds that every individual ultimately structures his identity by giving meaning to the world around his ego. Ego makes the world by making (free) choices. However sketchy they may be, these two examples make clear that the importance of the sociality and the culturality dimensions respectively, can differ widely from one identity tradition to the next. It is clear that neither sociality nor culturality are static: changes occur on both dimensions over time.

3. Identity and Learning Identities are learned by new members of a group or community. They can be taught by means of explicit instruction, as in the bible schools or the catechesis lessons preceding an initiation, or as in the courses of future priests and rabbis. Another way of building up identities is through imitation of others (especially elders), or through story telling. Instruction is less personalized and partly de-contextualized (especially when books are used, which remain authoritative over time), while story telling and imitation are person and context bound forms of learning. Obviously, the contents but also the styles of learning can differ from one tradition to another. In the dominant religious study theories differences of culture, gender or style are underestimated and often indicated as “mere” sociological or historical epiphenomena. Smart’s theory, for one, is not gender sensitive, nor is it appreciative of differences in learning traditions. My suggestion is that the character of revelation doctrines induces this perspective: the scholar, stemming from the context of a revelation religion, simply expects in any religious tradition a basic message or word with a foundational status, which is reproduced in an unaltered way from generation to generation. In practice, this has led to a deeply reductionist approach which looks upon myths as standard texts, with a mother version and “copies”, like we came to know from the religions of the book. Only in the present era did anthropologists begin to counter that approach stressing that myths are social interaction processes in oral traditions, dramatizing themes in genuine performances. It is dawning that myth-as-performance cannot be reduced to an epic text (Hymes, 1981). 44

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In a similar way it took us till the end of the 20th century to witness the development of a truly comparative theory of learning (not disregarding occasional proposals like H. Werner’s). Referring to Wundt’s folk psychology and the Russian school of Vygotsky and Luria, and integrating restricted perspectives on learning from cross-cultural psychology and anthropology, Michael Cole develops a genuinely comparative and culture sensitive theory of learning in his “Cultural psychology” (1996). To be sure, Cole sees himself in the tradition of W. James (James, 1902), in as far as a scientific (and psychological) approach to religion would go (Cole, personal communication). I sketch some outlines of his theory of leaning here. In order to learn we use concepts, words, formulas and rules, but also books, paper, and even furniture and spaces. These “things” are used in the learning processes, and their production and use themselves are the subject of learning. Finally, the ways of learning or learning to learn are part of the processes which turn a biological being into a cultural person. In Cole’s terminology all of these “things” are artifacts. They are elements of the material world which are used in purposeful behavior by means of which human beings develop their own history of formation and adaptation. They are used by the human agent in his interaction with the environment. Cole proposes to distinguish between three types of artifacts: – primary artifacts: they are material objects produced by human beings. E.g., a temple is a material object made out of wood, stones and other material to serve as a built environment for religious practices. The clothing of a priest, but also the bread of the host in the Eucharist are primary artifacts. – secondary artifacts: they are the representations of the action forms in which the primary artifacts are used. For example, the map or the scale model of the temple represents the building itself, and the way we can act in it. Or the representation of a snake in a Navajo sandpainting refers to the actual animal. – tertiary artifacts: they are imagined or symbolic artifacts with only indirect or even without reference to a material phenomenon. For example, the floor plan of a Christian church refers to the general symbol of the cross, which in itself would refer to a historical wooden cross on Golgotha Mountain. The simple cloth of an initiate refers to the symbolic rebirth which is being enacted. The imagined artifacts are what matters most in fantasy, play and myth. A particular set of these are used by each individual, group or community as means to build and express identity. Such a set is called a culture by Cole, and I claim that a subset can be called religion. Paraphrasing Cole’s words one can say that religion “weaves the threads” between subjects and their environment in 45

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endless learning processes. The material, the representational and the purely symbolic artifacts are instruments in the weaving process and its products. An artifact exists in one or more contexts, being a behavior or a situation. In using the Navajo example once more, I will show how I can apply Cole’s learning theory to describe this concrete religious practice.

4. The Example Once More In the case of the Navajo medicine person not only the training of the specialist is a learning process, spanning normally up to six years. The religious ceremony itself is a learning process. The ceremony gathers the patient and as many clan members as possible for a period of five to nine nights. This is exceptional for rather solitary semi-nomads. During these nights herbs, sandpaintings and songs are in use helping the patient as well as all present to “restore” from whatever went wrong and caused illness or disharmony (Farella, 1984). Falling ill means to the Navajo that one deals with the world in a disharmonious and hence harmful way; the forces in the universe strike back, so to speak. The ritual act reverses time and teaches those present to unlearn the insights and action schemes they have grown into. The reversal of time and of the learning process (the “unlearning”) is marked in several ways: the ritual takes place from sundown till sunrise, the movements are in the opposite direction of the diurnal movement of the sun, and the consumption or destruction of the sandpainting during each night runs in the opposite direction of its careful construction. In the approach of Witherspoon (1977) ritual is another way to use words and concepts for the Navajo, with special restorative impact. After the ceremony is completed the patient is deemed to be sufficiently de-built or decomposed to engage in his or her own learning process with the world again. No particular ceremony, nor any aspect of Navajo religion shows the right way or the correct insights: life is full of risks and human beings can only try to learn to use their capacities in an optimal way by living it. All knowledge is provisional, personalized and contextualized. In an important way the Navajo ceremonies are a manifestation of the “Navajo way”. Put differently, they exhibit their identity processes. The set of all healing ceremonies is usually referred as “the Navajo way”, separated from a second and smaller set of “the Enemy way”. The latter group those ceremonies are meant exclusively to protect the Navajo from any contamination, owing to contacts with other traditions. By using their own language and rituals the Navajo is becoming more and more whole, eventually blending with a supposed harmony in nature when dying of old age. The death of an old person (ideally at 46

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102) does not cause fear or disruption of any kind, whereas the death of a young person will invariably urge people to organize protective ceremonies for the living. The ceremonial life is focused on the guidance and the partial remediation of mistakes and misunderstandings about the place of human beings in the unknown order in nature. These mistakes reveal themselves in illness and untimely death. In that sense I understand the ceremonial life as an identity complex teaching the Navajo about wrong interpretations and risky representations of “the Navajo way”. In that sense ceremonies guide people in their individual quest for identity and in their identity as “the Navajo people”. However, no orthodoxy obtains, just as in probably all oral traditions. To the believer from a Mediterranean religion this must be counterintuitive, though.

5. The Root Forms of Religion In contradistinction with several other approaches I refuse to think within the frames of one or two particular, socio-historical religions to try and create a model for understanding the tremendous diversity of religious forms in the world. Even the more classical dichotomy is awkward to my mind: e.g., the religions of the books versus the others, or Europe versus Asia, or world religions versus others, etcetera. Each dichotomy is artificial and liable to be debatable. In the hypothesis that I should try to develop a theory about human beings as (inter)acting persons within contexts, implying that these interactions involve learning processes, I propose to distinguish between three root forms of religious activity. None of these three will probably manifest itself in its pure form (not being mixed with one or both of the other root forms). I advance the hypothesis that all existing and particular religions can be understood as combinations of two or three forms, with eventual emphasis of one root form. The three root forms can be identified as shamanism, ritualism and mythagogic religious activity. In the examples they will illustrated. For now, it suffices to give a broad circumscription of what they stand for. a) shamanism: this old and undoubtedly pre-Christian form of religious activity is found throughout the world. The earlier documented manifestations came from Siberia and the Inuit cultures, but later on similar shamanic practices have been described in the Americas and Australia. Most of the times one finds regionally bound practices picturing a shaman as a religious specialist for a small community. Often the shaman is consulted on matters of life and death, illness or even mundane problems such as loss of goods. The shaman is said to have the gift to “travel” in an immaterial way between the worlds of common experiences and that of the intangible existence. He or she is said to die in a 47

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symbolic way, leaving the body and travel, to materialize again after the journey. Life and death, past and present and virtually any domain of experience are linked through the practices. b) ritualistic activity: in this root form the greater wholeness is reached by performing in set spatiotemporal contexts some stereotyped symbolic actions. Those present undergo these actions or help in their performance, and situate themselves thereby symbolically in a universe which surpasses each person’s world of experience. Because of the stereotypical nature of these actions rituals seem to have an anxiety reducing effect. This may be a reason why many rituals seem to be linked to crisis moments in the life cycle (giving birth to the rite of passage type). c) mythagogic religious activity: wholeness is sought by developing and telling narratives which would explain or link events and thus provide order in a sometimes chaotic or unpredictable universe. Even though the universe is mostly appearing as an overwhelmingly ordered whole, occasional disorder (death, calamities, etc.) can be made acceptable through the narratives. In some types of origin myths (especially creation myths) the world and the place of human beings within it is rendered as a master script. In the religions of the book the text of the myth gains a dominant status, diminishing the role of other religious activity. In my opinion these three types of religious activity can not be reduced to one another, nor can they be explained as emanations of one form. Therefore, I conceptualize them as independent root forms, in the perspective of comparative religious studies.

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CHAPTER 4

General Concepts and Terms The moment a scientific worker begins to reflect upon the nature and the methods of his science, he will find himself involved in its history and philosophy…, from which religious ideas certainly cannot be excluded. (J. Needham, 1965).

1. Introduction In a discipline like religious studies, where theological and political statements abound, clarity of concepts is a high priority in order to escape parochialism and to reach genuine understanding of the phenomena under study. The West has known generations of religious wars, warning us that a scientific and unbiased approach of the apparent diversity of religious phenomena is the only way to study this domain and at the same time avoid new waves of blind fanaticism. In order to reach that level of knowledge, we need to deconstruct first. This implies that terms and concepts are interpreted in their specific contexts and, in particular, that they are matched against the dominant religious and theological background. I am aware that is a tremendous domain, which can neither be covered by one person nor even by one school of thought. Still I can try to point to certain interesting avenues and I will try to do as much by presenting a set of terms and concepts which go beyond the usual parochialism or ambiguity.

2. Terminology Mediterranean Religions: the three religions which originated in the Mediterranean Basin as monotheisms have some remarkable common features, which cannot be found in the same sense in other traditions. Judaism, Christianity and Islam define human beings as bowing before and being subservient to the one god. The term “Gottesdienst” in German or “Godsdienst” in Dutch express this characteristic marvelously, but no English or French equivalent seems to be in use. Therefore I point to the specificity of this notion of religion by calling it “Mediterranean religion”. “Godsdienst” actually says that there is a/one god, to whom humanity is in a relationship of subordination. This very couple 49

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of notions is of course apparent in the Book Genesis, where Yahweh defines the terms of the covenant between His creation and Himself: obedience and servitude by humans towards their Creator. The sense of the notion of Original Sin lies in the human incapacity to respect this relationship. The relationship was elaborated on in the theological terms of immanent and transcendent worlds as the expression of the fundamental difference in the status of the two parties involved. Rather than using these terms as generic terms, I want to emphasize their specificity and their contextuality. The immanent/transcendent dichotomy is a particular way of thinking the religious field, and cannot be used as universal categories. Several researchers have been fighting with this problem and have suggested interpretations or alternatives which would be less particularistic. The anthropologist Spiro (1992) thus tries to characterize Buddhism as a religion-without-god by defining the transcendental dimension in a different way. The way out he advocates is to define religion as a way to phrase the superhuman instead of the supernatural. However, this does not solve the problem in any way, since the implicit dualism (earthly/godly) is safeguarded and a genuine holisticconceptualization of man-in-the-world as a religious focus is still excluded. As we witnessed in the second chapter, Smart (1996) is also conscious of this difficulty and equally refuses to drop the intrinsic dualism of the Mediterranean religions to define the field of religious activities. Religion: to understand the term it is good to look at sound etymological work. Benveniste states (1962, II, p. 265): this concept stems from the Latin verb “religere”, which means “to recollect, to select for a new choice, to draw on a former synthesis in order to recompose it”. Hence, “religio” meant “religious scruple” or a subjective disposition linked to fear. In medieval or “church” Latin the term “religare” was coined, which is mostly translated as “to bind together”, hence the meaning of “religio” as an obligation from the believer towards god. It will be appreciated that these are radically different meanings. Unfortunately most authors in the field of religious studies refer to the Christian etymology, pretending to draw on the classical Latin source, which is called scornfully a “historical mistake” by Benveniste. In any case, it will be clear that the use of the Christian meaning as a universal category in fact turns out to be the projection of one interpretation of religion upon the whole of humanity. This is a politically particularistic move and an unscientific approach. I propose to use the term and notion of “religion” in the broadest possible sense, and to reserve the notion of “religion as obligation” to the Mediterranean area, and more in particular Christianity and Islam.

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In a religion it is my understanding that humans position themselves in a cosmos and in a network of relationships towards one another. This positioning can be emotional in the first place, cognitive primarily or an encompassing complex experience. It can involve interpretations of experiences (as in myths) or prescriptions for action (as in rituals) or symbolic artifacts, places, and what have you. A more precise circumscription has been given earlier and will be turned to later in this book, but it is clear that the term “religion” is used as a generic term, with “Mediterranean religion” (Gottesdienst) as a subcategory with specific connotations. Religiosity: this term points to the cultural (mental, social) form of dealing with the world in a religious way in any person, group or community. It refers primarily to an attitude or a “way of acting”, rather than a specific message or a particular content. Theology: this term refers to the philosophical or scientific discipline in some institutionalized religions, busying itself with historical proofs, philosophical or philological analyses of points of belief, of myths, of liturgical objects, and so on within one particular religion. Some religions (like Catholicism) know great and diversified theological schools which – just like in the sciences – defend different statements and interpretations on relevant matters. Some allow for only one school of thought, restricting all debate. Theologies can have a small or a deep impact on religious forms (and hence on the religiosity of the followers), but they have to be distinguished from religion itself. The history of Christianity illustrates the difference between both in many ways. From the 4th century CE on the influence of certain church fathers kept growing (especially Paul, but also Augustine and others): their doctrinal opinions were taken up by the growing institute of the church to be dogmas for all believers. Over time an orthodoxy was installed, which excluded different forms of religiosity as aberrations and called them heretic (e.g., the many “heresies” in Christianity, but also many individual mystics). In those cases the institute argued that a certain type of religiosity is allowed and other types are heretic, by referring to the theologians to underscore this rule. Here theology indirectly influences the religious experience of the followers. However, theologians differ in opinions and their continuing discussions have been a fascinating aspect of the larger churches. The history of the church councils shows how important disputes have been resolved in history by bringing the diverging standpoints together and opting for one position which carries the authority of orthodoxy for believers and theologians from then on (see e.g., the discussion on Vatican II by Schillebeeckx, 1993). I think the comparison with political institutes (as in Smart, 1996) is not farfetched here, although I see an 51

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analogy rather than an identity: just like the scientific doctrine of Karl Marx has been (ab)used for political purposes by some political parties to promote some action and ban alternatives, so the doctrine of the gospels and of some theologians has been used by church institutes to choose orthodox views and condemn alternatives. In both cases the doctrine can hardly be blamed for the use or abuse made of it by political rulers. It is important not to make the same mistake by turning against the message because of its abuse by an institute. The conceptual frame for religious studies, which has been largely influenced by centuries of theological debates, is most often still tainted by Jewish, Christian or Islamic traditions. As mentioned before, I refer to this particular religious context by the common denominator “Mediterranean religious tradition”, and I identify the following minimal characteristics of this tradition: a) it accepts the existence of one god only, b) this god has revealed himself to humanity by means of one or more prophets, who heard and transcribed the word of god. These words carry an authority of orthodoxy. They were laid down in books, which have authority over and above individual religious experiences. c) God has drawn a covenant with human beings, demanding obedience from humans. they belong to the immanent world, but they eventually ascend to the transcendent world through the grace accorded by god. The obedient following of rules can help to reach the transcendent world. These general opinions on the structure of the universe (and the place of humans within it) take various forms in the different Mediterranean religions, carried by ever so many and differing churches. However different, they all have the subservient position of humans vis-à-vis god in common, as is nicely expressed in the books: Abraham’s submission to god is total, and Job’s protest is futile, while the apostles are obedient beyond their fear. This emphasis is so strong that it tends to occupy scholars who study non-Mediterranean traditions too: they typically look for god(s) who are “served” by human beings. It has taken us till the present era to distance ourselves a bit from this particularistic perspective and open the discussion on the nature of religion. Edward Said’s analysis of orientalism is a case in point, and the postcolonial critique by formerly colonized communities attacks our biasedness in a similar way. For example, a gathering of Navajo medicine people in Arizona, USA in 1987 attacked the linguistic and anthropological reports on Navajo religion. They stated that the translation of bihagha as “religion” is at the least obscure: the term refers to a way of moving about, of acting in a ceremonial context. Hence, ritual might be a candidate for the transla52

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tion. No beliefs are implied, however, neither about gods, transcendence or anything of the Christian doctrine; belief is unimportant to the Navajo. What counts are “ways of doing”. This lengthy explanation should indicate that we still have a long way to go in religious studies. The deconstruction of the theologically tainted concepts should be completed, and an active search for nonparticularistic notions is called for. Church: in the present book this term refers to a sociological phenomenon, namely an institute which carries a religious tradition. Although all cultures know institutions, it is not obvious that all would have religious institutes in that sense. A church in my understanding is an institute which has a primary status as the organizer of religious events and activities for the followers. The institute raises specialists (priests, mullahs, rabbis) who take care of the regular practical organization of a religion, ordaining, organizing rituals, selecting and commenting myths, and so on. It then follows that not all religions will have this kind of institute. Exegesis: exegesis is a discipline within a doctrinal religion which specializes in the interpretation of (parts of) the doctrine by means of philosophical or historical – philological methods. It is especially geared to detecting false interpretations, historical misrepresentations (by copying sources, for example). On the basis of exegetical analysis the doctrine or the practice of the moment can be sanctioned and corrected by a church. In Christian exegesis the discipline of hermeneutics grew out of Bible translations and interpretations, presenting an instrument for text analysis which can be used profitably beyond the original religious contexts.

3. Theism, Deism, Atheism and Agnosticism The theist accepts the existence of one or more gods. Most of the time, these gods have a clear role in the emergence or ordering of the world and hence on the status and the features of human beings. The gods can have a human or an animal appearance, they can eventually live inside a plant or a mountain, but they belong to a different order of things than human beings. They are nonhuman, for example by being immortal or having greater impact on things than human beings can gather. Humans can be dependent on godly creatures to some extent, and this relationship is then shown in prayers, sacrifices and the like. Gods can intervene in human life, in some traditions, e.g., to negotiate between humans and other earthly phenomena (like storms, rain, etc.), or in their attempts to cause wellbeing or rather calamities in exchange for sacrifices, or in a multitude of other ways. The explanation for 53

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suffering and for luck, indeed for the human life itself, can be sought in the projects of the gods by the theist. Deism is a recent and somewhat special way of experiencing religiosity. It originated in Europe. Since the 17th century, the term is reserved to denote a type of faith which is different from established or orthodox Christian religions, but nonetheless borrows many elements from it. Deists reject the belief in a revealed will and aim for a rational and/or scientific foundation of judgments. They reject the belief in miracles and in immortality of the soul, while at the same time they believe in the existence of a higher being with nonhuman characteristics. I think the following minimal features of deism are agreed upon: belief in a supernatural being who is the creator of the universe, but who stopped interfering with his creatures ever since. This implies that Jesus can not be seen as (a) god, by the deist, and that human beings have a very high degree of sovereignty for earthly matters. One of the best known thinkers in this tradition was Voltaire. The atheist does not believe in the existence of a god or of gods. At the least, the atheist rejects God as a principle or foundational concept to explain or make sense of the world and life in it. The atheist deliberately and explicitly strives to understand and explain the order in the world without any appeal to a supernatural instance. Questions of life and death are equally approached without reference to supernatural authority. This does not exclude that an atheist can have religious activities, but it does foreclose that an atheist can be religious in the way of the Mediterranean traditions. However, the atheist can be religiously active by striving for wholeness which transcends his or her own particularity. In this sense Einstein has set a famous example by pointing to the order over and beyond anything human which he experienced in the universe. Relating to this principle of order was his way to experience and express religiosity. In the European context the atheist position has often implied the revolt against clerical institutes and rules of the Mediterranean religions. The atheist thus was and is often an anticlerical person. But of course, both concepts have their respective own meaning and do not pose as synonyms. The theist can be anticlerical as well, but historically it should be granted that atheists have taken a large share in the critique on the churches. The agnostic is in a sense more modest or reticent than the atheist: the agnostic does not claim that reality should be explained without recurrence to a divine principle; rather she or he would neither accept nor refuse the existence of god(s) forthright. The agnostic leaves the question of the existence of (a) god open, without for all that granting the divine the authority it has for theist. As a philosophical quest agnos54

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ticism claims that nothing can be proved about the transcendent instances, and that hence any statement in favor of or against transcendence is unfounded. In the history of Europe agnostics have often had a purifying effect on dogmatic and authoritarian doctrines of churches.

4. Holism, Transcendence and Immanence Religions can be understood as a particular way of dealing with the Whole, or of reaching for a wholeness which transcends any individual in time and space, even in substance. In religious activities and utterances people express their cognitive, emotional and evaluative relations vis-à-vis others, animals, plants, the earth and the celestial phenomena. Sometimes explicit norms for behavior are spelled out (a moral code, a set of laws or rules like the Ten Commandments) like in Christendom. Sometimes the relationship of human beings to specific other phenomena is expressed in a text, which can then function as a source for knowledge and moral guidance. Other traditions focus primarily if not exclusively on practices. These two types of activity will be dealt with in separate chapters. Before I become that specific I need to make further distinctions between general “ways “of living religiosity. The relationships between the Whole and humans in these traditions of wholeness search which I call religions can be captured well by identifying basic intuitions of groups and communities, I claim. Probably the most frequently found basic intuition can be denoted by the term “holism”. A holistic intuition treats reality as fundamentally one and undivided. That is to say, all phenomena exist within one homogeneous reality, which is mostly not thought of as an entity, but rather lived as a habitat. An example will make this clear. Navajo Indians experience an integrated time-space in which all phenomena happen. Moreover, everything interacts with everything else without any conscious or explicit experience of the universe as a whole. The whole is not thought, neither is it represented as such. The human beings (that is, the Navajo) live IN the cosmos in a very deep sense, so that the cosmos is the habitat with humans as one category of inhabitants. The multitude of mutually interrelated phenomena in their particular tension towards each other and the continuous movements between one another constitute what could be called “reality”. Between the phenomena no hierarchical relationships can be distinguished. This is a typically holistic view: everything is connected to everything else, and nothing belongs to “another reality”. Linked to this intuition one finds a typical attitude of respect for everything born from the consciousness that each particular phenomenon has impact on every other one. Human beings are, obviously, just as much phenomena on the same level as 55

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everything else. Likewise, human actions have their direct impact on the rest of the universe, and vice versa. Comparing this intuition with the Christian dualistic intuition has us appreciate how a description of religious traditions in terms of underlying basic intuitions can yield important insights. The holist strives in religious activity towards wholeness WITHIN the one reality, of which the religious person is equally an integral part as any other object of religious reverence. The dualist, on the other hand, tries to reach wholeness by connecting aspects of this particular, finite and fallible world with elements of a second, transcendent reality. The impact of the action of the dualist can be indirect (e.g., god decides, not the human agent), or postponed in time (I pray now for an afterlife situated in a distant future), but never direct or coercive. The intuition of dualism is found in some Mediterranean religions. In these traditions two mutually relatively independent realities are imagined. The “whole” is necessarily heterogeneous: the laws, customs and beliefs of world 1 are negated or thoroughly modified in world 2. For example, the time of existence for a being is finite in the earthly world, but infinite in the heavenly world. Man is mortal, but God is eternal and immortal. The earth will cease to exist at some point in the future, whereas the soul of those who are saved will live on forever in the hereafter. The day of the Last Judgment in the Mediterranean religions will only announce the end of the immanent world, not of the transcendent sphere. The “whole” is a hierarchical structure, with the transcendent world of God as a superior reality. In terms of morals and religious practices and words, the creatures of the immanent world should abide with the rules of the transcendent authority, as they became known to human beings through revelation (i.e., the word of God, in one sense or another, transferred to human beings by means of the prophets and laid down in Holy Books). Disobedience will be judged and punished by God on the day of the Last Judgment. God can be merciful or not, but this is not up to human beings, of course. In Judaism God appears as a rather stern but just judge, while in Christianity the emphasis seems to be more on the loving father. But the final judgment rests with Him, and not with human agents. What I call the dualist intuition in this instance results in the clear and systematic distinction between immanent and transcendent realities, and the organization of behavior and communication in accordance with this distinction. In religious treatises or theological statements the transcendent world and its inhabitants (and more specifically God, of course) is referred to by the phenomenologists as “das ganz Andere” (the totally different reality) to stress the point that human beings belong to a knowable and relatively known reality, while God is of an altogether different order. Religious actions, attitudes and convictions enable humans to 56

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relate to a certain degree with the transcendent reality. A lot of the discussions on morality and religion in this type of traditions will deal with the question of the relative effect of actions and thoughts produced in the immanent world on the transcendent world (with messengers like holy persons, special formulas, and so on), and on the recognizability of inverse flows (God’s grace, for instance). How can one recognize God addressing a human being as a prophet? When is the prophet a fraudulent or deranged person, and when is she or he a real intermediary between God and human beings? The distinction between two realities entails this type of questions. The main distinction between holistic and dualistic basic intuitions may reside in a remarkable product of the latter. In the dualistic traditions God’s will or intentions are often and to varying degrees revealed and laid down in texts, to be contained in a Holy Book. The fact that God decrees a certain behavioral category for humans will impact on human behavior and reasoning: that a godly rule or insight can be used in a process of argumentation, rather than a mere human proposal makes a lot of difference for the believers. Within that context a conflict between profane or secular knowledge and supernatural words, can yield absolutist positions based on God’s words. It is clear that this does not have to be so, but it is made possible by the hierarchy between earthly and heavenly realities. In European history we know a multitude of examples who materialized on this basis: evolutionism was and is fought by Christian churches and by Islamic zealots because it does not comply with a certain interpretation of religious texts, the pragmatic and humanistic attitude towards abortion and sexuality or the choice for secular happiness is sometimes interpreted as a violation of sacred rules laid down in a Holy Book holding the word of God. Complex discussions started on the range and the absolute status of godly rules (the more so when belief substitutes for faith): discussions on blasphemy, the meaning of life, respect for early life, euthanasia, and the like are inspired by religious convictions, based on texts or not. In some religions this whole pattern is further explicitly linked with institutional power: the educational system can be an expression of a religious understanding, leading towards a fight over the “soul of the child” to promote this or that school system, whereas the education has been effective to install feelings of guilt and a mechanism of consciousness in most western subjects for many generations now. Whether this is good or bad, functional or disruptive, and so on, I leave in the middle. My point is that the development of conscious agents in the West is to a large extent a product of this particular configuration of religious convictions, institutions and learning traditions.

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This does not preclude that Mediterranean religions have shown marked forms of pragmatism over the centuries (Amstrong, 1993), but the general pattern is different from the one found in holistic traditions. Typically, for the holist any decision, action or even thought will have impact on reality and hence on the agent and his survival in the whole. An obvious correlate is that the holist chooses and decides on the basis of particular, contextual and often personalized features of the situation at hand, and not on the basis of a so-called higher rule or word. The past (ambiguously called “tradition”) can not dictate a certain choice, since each situation is different and chances are that dependence on former choices may harm in the present context. Tradition can be used as a source of inspiration, but the idea of authority from the past is an odd and rather dangerous concept. An anecdote may illustrate the importance of this point. While doing field work with Navajo Indians I overheard a discussion between two “traditionalists” about the strangeness of a statement by a Christian missionary. They agreed that the oddest thing about the stories of the fathers (who had been preaching for seventy years in the region) remained this figure of Jesus, being a man who was said to be able to “draw a line”. On one side of the line was everything “good”, and to the other side was everything “bad”, Jesus would have declared. The old Navajo men were disturbed about this: they agreed that it is silly to speak that way and look at particular situations and particular persons each time. Investing in unchanged beliefs leads most of the time to disaster, they agreed: what works here and now may be dangerous there and then. To me this illustrates the difference in attitude I was referring to: contextualization and particularity for the holist, and absolute and de-contextualized divine rule for the dualist. Morally the “system” of the holist may present itself as a highly pragmatic behavioral setup, almost by definition not as rules by an internalized system of conscience. This same setup was sometimes called “amoral” by missionaries (Haile, 1947).

5. Esoterism and Exoterism Many religions know closed and/or secret groups. Only certain members are allowed, who are often introduced into the closed circle by means of an initiation ritual. Through such a ritual the novice is shown or explained the particular sacra or the hidden knowledge of the ingroup, and eventually swears an oath of secrecy, after which (s)he is recognized as a member by the group. The activities, the symbols, the customs and/or the beliefs of the in-group are usually only known to the members and are hidden from the non-members. When this situation is in place, we have a differentiation between exoteric and esoteric religious activity. 58

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The esoteric knowledge, symbols or rituals of a group concern internal, hidden phenomena which are only meant for the inner circle of initiated members. Even though the signs or activities can be shown in public, the larger community will not be able to decipher or experience them, because they cannot “decode the message”. The esoteric group makes it a point never to reveal this type of meaning or codes to the larger group. In the next section some examples will show how this operates. An esoteric tradition can exist within an exoteric one. The exoteric tradition comprises all those religious activities, symbols, and the like which are known and practiced by the larger group, eventually by everybody. It is known and understood by everybody. There is no secrecy about it, and in that sense it is common knowledge to the whole community. Both types of traditions can be converting or not: in the Mediterranean tradition religious groups will try to convert other persons or groups, both to the exoteric and (to a lesser extent) to the esoteric tradition. Especially oral religions seem to lack this need for conversion.

Excursion An elaborate example from the Christian tradition will indicate the extent of some esoteric traditions. Christianity knows an old current of esoterism, which may have had a period of glory in the 14th and 15th century in Italy, France and the Low Countries. Today the signs of this sub-tradition of Christianity can still be “read” and understood, once we know how to decipher the codes. A rather simple esoteric symbol in Christian paintings and sculptures is the cross in the form of the Greek tau or T. Several paintings of Memlinc will show this “headless” cross, and not the Roman cross (with a headpiece). The initiated believer knows that the painter is giving an indication here: by recognizing this sign, one can now reinterpret the whole painting and look for more hidden meanings or ambiguous symbols. The common believer will only spot a somewhat extraordinary cross, and will be unable to detect further signs. Thus, the painting carries a double message: an exoteric message for the common believer, and an esoteric one for the members of the in-group. Different sources tell us that Memlinc and Van Eyck were hired as painters by a certain noble family, namely the counts and dukes of Anjou and Burgundy (with the house of Genua in the Adornes family, who were connected with Bruges and the Count of Flanders since the second crusades, and hence later with the lords of Burgundy: M. Martens, 1994). The family of Adornes functioned as a center for esoteric Christian experience at the time. 59

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But before I embark on the remnants of that family in Bruges, I want to draw attention to one of the most famous paintings of that age, namely The Holy Lamb, by Van Eyck (in the cathedral of Ghent, for which it was finished in 1432). The centerpiece of this magnificent work, which ranks among the absolute masterpieces of painting in the world, depicts a great amount of people, who are grouped in clearly distinct sets. The right half of the painting shows two groups, one above the other, paralleled by a similar configuration in the left half. In the background of these groups temples and churches are shown. The left part comprises a definite set of figures from the Old Testament (biblical persons, prophets and ancestors) and the right half shows the apostles, the church fathers, martyrs, and bishops of the New Testament. A vertical axis seems to run through the middle of the painting, from bottom to top, dividing the whole scenery neatly in two worlds, namely before and after Christ’s sacrifice. This central vertical axis has three clear elements, one on top of the other: at the bottom one finds a little fountain or spring, from which water is shown to be allowed into the chapel and towards the believers by way of a small drain. This “spring” is a dominant figure in the whole painting, but will not mean much to the ordinary believer. On the axis above the fountain and right in the center of the construction one perceives an altar on top of which a lamb is standing. From the wounds in the body of the lamb a jet of blood is spurting out, which is captured neatly by a golden chalice positioned on the altar, next to the lamb. No priest, no ritual specialist or any other human figure can be spotted on or in the neighborhood of the altar. Following the axis to the top of the painting one spots an aura of golden beams encircling a white dove. Left and right from the central axis the temples and churches can be recognized as e.g., the Temple of Jerusalem or the Cathedral of Utrecht. The construction of the centerpiece (and of the whole painting) is rigorous, almost geometrical (as the study of Vande Perre, 1996 has shown). It is wellknown that Van Eyck was a very sharp observer, working with geometrical precision (de Patoul & Van Schoute, 1994; De Mey, 1997). In the context of his religiously driven sponsors it is in order to allow for an esoteric reading of Van Eyck’s work: his representation of the Christian world order does not depict any of the three divine “persons”, but pictures them exclusively in symbols. If the spectator is initiated in the esoteric circle he is now invited to look for an interpretation behind the known and visible exoteric story, as depicted on the panels. The painting seems to refer to the task of the esoteric Christian: (s)he should start from knowledge about creation (the Old Testament and its prophets) and pass through the purification of the 60

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creation and of humankind by means of the God’s self-sacrifice and leading near the top edge of the centerpiece to spiritual growth of humans in the New Testament world. The movement is double: from left to right and at the same time from bottom to top. The three figures on the vertical axis point to the three “persons” of God: the tectonic God of Creation is represented by the source, through which baptism and hence salvation will become possible. The little gutter at the bottom of the fountain which pours the water into the chapel symbolizes the promise of human salvation. The common believer will only know this divine person as “God the Father”. The lamb is the symbol of the sacrifice of Christ, son of God, who poses as the typical sacrificial animal from the Mediterranean religions referring to Isaac’s ordeal). The esoteric Christian depicts the lamb and the chalice, without any priest or religious specialist. This attributes to the chalice a force, which can have the esoteric believer speculate about the Holy Grail, which would contain the life giving substance of Christ’s blood. While following the vertical axis upwards the journey can be appreciated fully: through creation and the subsequent self-sacrifice of Christ, it is now within the reach of human beings to realize a higher spiritual existence as symbolized in the third person, namely the Holy Spirit (represented as the dove surrounded by a golden aura of light). Above the centerpiece one perceives now the three monumental figures of Jesus, with Maria and John the Baptist at his sides. Maria is the transitional figure who gave birth “out of the old covenant” to Christ, while John the Baptist is the performer of the rite of passage (baptism) into the new covenant. Christ, in the center, is of course the core of the whole change. An esoteric element which is dominant in my view is water (or the spring or fountain in the painting): God of the Old Testament seems to indicate how humanity can pass through baptism (with water) from the era of the original sin to that of salvation. In the Christian liturgy baptism became the first sacrament for any future member of the religious community. In several painting of Memlinc in Bruges the same element is stressed: John the Baptist (accompanied by his lamb) stands at the edge of an Old Testament group of personalities and thus serves as the guide to allow people to make the transition towards the new era, which is then often typically represented by John the Evangelist (holding a book). It is, of course, impossible to understand or “prove” how important such esoteric messages were in the Renaissance and later, but that they can be found in many important works of art of the time is a fact. This seems to indicate that powerful groups in Europe were having religious activities along these lines. But there is more. 61

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Not only painters were hired by the esoteric Christians of the late Middle Ages and early Renaissance. In Bruges, where the House of Genua had and still has important properties, one finds the so-called “church of Jerusalem”. This building, which remains a private property of the House of Genua, is not a Christian church, but rather a temple. It was erected by the end of the second crusades by the family Adornes (Gaillard, 1843). The heir of the family at the time returned from the crusades and had this temple built at the end of a genuine esoteric Christian path through the city of Bruges. The journey will take the visitor from the blue stone in the hallway of the belfry of Bruges: this stone is known as the “stone of Dante” since it contains an inscription of one of his sayings: “build a dam”. In the latter days of the second crusade (the 13th century) some Christians believed that Jerusalem would be destroyed by the Muslims. They calculated that, by following the line of the setting sun at the winter solstice to the north from the city of Jerusalem, one would land up in Bruges, and going further to the north in Scotland. The House of Genua and some other nobility hence decided that Bruges should thus become the “new Jerusalem”. The Holy Grave of Christ was copied (and can still be visited in the so-called Blood Chapel in Bruges), and the temple of Jerusalem was erected in the city. To reach the temple, one has to follow the path of the bears: starting out from Dante’s stone in the center of town, one follows a path (through Stone street) which runs more or less like the constellation of Ursa Mayor. Along the way, one will find until this day seven bears in blue stone attached to the facade of the first floor of houses. The last point on the path is the temple, which holds a grand picture of the Calvary, and a decorated tombstone of one of the lords of the House. Reaching the foot, which sticks out at the end of the tombstone, one is directed along the line of the solstice towards… Scotland. The symbolic play in all this is simply fascinating. One disturbing element might be the presence of the bears, referring to Ursa Mayor. It certainly is not a Christian feature. Indeed, this is Christian eclectic tradition at work: the patron saint of the city of Bruges is Saint Donatius. This is clearly a local pagan figure which was symbolically connected to Ursa Mayor in pre-Christian time. In the Christian era he appears as the patron saint of the town, with attributes from his former status: he wears the Saint Catherine crown with seven candles (which refer to the seven stars of the ursa Maior).

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An Example from an African Tradition The Dogon in West Africa know a series of signs and speech forms which distinguishes between four levels of esoterism in language: a) vernacular language or “giro so” is known and used by everybody, b) “bene so” or the speech of the sideway is used to speak about religious things in public spaces. These are the decorations and signs in open spaces and on the outside of the houses. Although everybody can see these signs, they will only be understood by a small group who knows. c) “bolo so” or the speech of the backside offers syntheses and interpretations of signs the common member of the society cannot see or know where to find. It is mostly about cosmic phenomena. d) “so dayi” is the most abstract knowledge, using partly the same and overt signs, partly hidden and hence secret signs. It expresses a system of interpretations of the world, and comprises not less than 266 signs spread all over the village, and mostly hidden in backyards or inside the temple. The language and the interpretation system is known to a handful of elder men only. The curious thing about the Dogon tradition is that each subsequent level of language is a reinterpretation and an extension of the previous one. Along the way, abstraction increases. The most secret signs can be found in the backyard of the Hogon (or priest) and can never be seen from the outside. The initiated esoterist has to be invited and introduced to them by the Hogon himself. The famous anthropologist and writer M. Leiris was able to report on this tradition (Leiris, 1948). These are but a few examples of the way esoteric and exoteric traditions appear in the world. The fact that human beings in different parts of the world invest in this kind of “serious play” with a tremendous zeal illustrates to my mind the strength and importance of fantasy.

6. Subdisciplines The several disciplines which emerged over time to study religious phenomena all shed light on some part or other. Gradually some of them developed important tools for research on this multifarious field. – sociology of religion mainly studied social expressions, functions in society and larger social structures for religious activities. Leadership, group cohesion, sectarianism, ordination of specialists, drafting or 63

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training of adepts, and the like are typical issues covered by this subdiscipline. Without question the works of Durkheim and Weber have been major hallmarks here. – psychology of religion studies the mental setup of the religious person, the question of religious need, of the effects of ritual behavior, of trance and so on. Some psychologists have dwelt, in the wake of Freud, on the subconscious to explain religious phenomena, yielding sometimes a psychological reductionist interpretation. – anthropology of religion tries to interpret religious phenomena as part of a cultural setup. The obvious difficulty with such theories is that one vague term is used to explain an equally obscure one, but the detailed and comparative studies of anthropologists have nevertheless opened important lines of thought. The studies of symbolic, mythical and ritual activities have benefited a lot from the confrontation with non-Mediterranean religions, I think. Authors like V. Turner, C. Geertz and M. Spiro have inspired many researchers in the field, far beyond their own discipline. – linguistics of religion analyses the typical use of language in religious contexts. A strong line of research is, obviously, that focusing on the uses of metaphor in religions (Biebuyck et al., 1998). – the philosophy of religion tries to raise the most general questions about the nature of religion. The logic, the epistemology and the phenomenology of religion are among the most developed foci here, I think. The list of thinkers in this sub-discipline is very long and has an ominous history. In recent years philosophers tend to cross the border of their private religious belonging and frankly question matters in a universal spirit. Within churches like the Catholic Church I recognize this trend in thinkers like Schillebeeckx and the Liberation theologians (Boff, and others), or such protestant authors like W.C. Smith or N. Smart. Outside of the churches I think individual “religious atheists” deserve a special mention, as will become clear in the last chapter.

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CHAPTER 5

Cosmology and Religion Nothing seemed to matter to me, I just didn’t care about anything, so long as I kept living. But then when I began to learn the Blessingway, it changed my whole life. I began really thinking about ceremonies. (Frank Mitchell, Navajo Blessingway Singer)

1. Cosmology and Religion: Different, but Related It should be clear to the reader now that the conceptual frame of the Christian researcher (or of the Jewish or Islamic scholar) is far from an ideal starting point for the analysis of religion in my view, since it tends to enclose the researcher inside one particular religious system and hence does not allow for a neutral and scientific approach on the complexities at hand. A few examples may further illustrate this point: throughout recent history a number of descriptions have been produced about Navajo and Apache religion(s). Invariably some of the beings in their myths are called “gods”, since in the Mediterranean tradition the object of reverence, ceremony or prayer is a god. Upon closer examination one should conclude that Navajo and Apache do not revere any god(s), but rather focus on the manipulation of powers in the world in which they themselves can be understood as particular bundles of powers. Nothing of the connotations of “god” in a Mediterranean religion can be recognized here: no anthropomorphic figure, no creator, no supernatural being to whom humans are obedient. Navajo informants tell us that the figures pointed at in their mythology “are to be compared to George Washington, and not to Adam and Eve”. How can this be interpreted? George Washington and his lot were the legislators, the organizers and the socio-cultural pioneers who did not “create” the United States of America (somewhat similar to the way a creator god would do), nor were they placed in a perfectly finished and ordered world (such as Adam and Eve have experienced in Genesis). Rather, they were personalities who organized the things they found in the newly discovered country through legislation, state formation and socio-cultural formatting. They were not creators, nor finished beings, but creative founders. 65

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In that sense they resemble the ancestors of the Navajo in the origin myth, and not the gods or their created beings (like Adam and Eve). A second example stems from the Dogon mythology: the figure who is referred to as “creator” in some reports is nothing else than an abstract sign out of which the real things more or less materialize and descend on earth. Amma is the higher principle who has the Ark of real things of cultivation come down to earth, where human beings interpret the contents and continue its reality by fighting and “cultivating” the wilderness (Griaule & Dieterlen, 1965). Again, the god figure is not anthropomorphic, nor is it a creator in the real sense. Finally, a well known example is that of the Inca tradition. In his influential study T. Zuidema (1992) stresses that heaven and the underneath were not genuine categories of the Inca, whereas planets and stars were. If one can speak of gods in the Mediterranean sense they are at best “relatives” to human beings and not supernatural beings of an altogether different sort than humans. Zuidema feels the urge to warn scholars against a Christian interpretation, including Christian sources of the time of conquest of the Inca empire (in Dover et al., 1992). In my opinion it is undoubtedly so that all peoples in the world ascribe one or the other form of order to the world and reflect this in their knowledge, which is then learned across generations. That part is called cosmology. Cosmologies can take a variety of forms: for one, they can describe the physical, the biological and the social realm. When we look at the Jewish-Christian cosmology in Genesis we see a God who first creates the physical universe (heaven and earth in verse 1, night and water in verse 2, light in verse 3, and so on), later the biological world (plants in verse 11 and beyond, animals in 20), and finally human beings in their social and ecological relationships (starting with verse 27). In Navajo mythology a lot of attention is given to social and ecological relationships (even the relations between the sexes is handled very explicitly in the origin myth, Wyman, 1970), but physical time and the distinction between light and darkness takes a separate myth. In Inca mythology the social order is presented as a founding frame for the physical-biological order in the universe (Zuidema, 1992). Hence, what we call “cosmology” can take a variety of forms, and the cosmos can be primarily a physical whole (like in our mechanistic view, as it is used in scientific cosmology: Koyré, 1957), a biological complex (as in the dissident view of Hoyle, 1983) or a social and cultural order (as is apparently the case with Dogon and Inca). We can now deal with the problem of the relationship between religion and cosmology. Or put differently: why do I feel the need to deal with cosmology in a book about religion? Wildiers made the point, from the Christian perspective of the priest-cosmologist who he was, that 66

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cosmology and religion should be totally and definitively separated from each other (Wildiers, 1977). However, in recent years the view of an ominous cosmologist like Hawking (1988) can be cited here, claiming a space for the divine question in his cosmology. Both authors, to be sure, reason within a western framework on knowledge. In the comparative perspective I want to strive for the relationship between religion and cosmology can be defined in a diversity of ways, I think. For that purpose I use a notion of cosmology that is broader than that of the physicist, and that often involves schemes of action and of ritual prescriptions. My hunch is that there is always some interrelation between cosmology and religion, but that different relationships obtain, depending on the type of religion we are dealing with. In some religions the cosmology will be integrated to form the background of knowledge on nature against which religious activities take place. Something of that sort was the case in the medieval Christian setting, which helps to explain why the early scientific cosmologists had to collide with the world view of Christianity once their scientific models contradicted the “religious” cosmology of that time. Hence the attribution of infinity to the cosmos (and to time and space) by Giordano Bruno was seen as heresy and sufficient reason to burn the author at the stake (Koyré, 1957). In a similar spirit the description of evolution in nature is a sin in the minds of the Islamic believer and of the creationist Christian, because the separation between scientific and religious cosmologies has not been achieved in these traditions. It is clearly against such understanding of science and religion that the neo-thomist Wildiers reacts in his plea to reserve for religion and for science separate domains. When and where cosmology was integrated in religion in the past of Mediterranean traditions (eventually with philosophy and/or science as “ancilla” or maid for religion), they have become independent from each other, claims Wildiers (o.c.). In several other religious traditions cosmology does not seem to be a constituent of religion, but might provide occasional and often indirect points of reference. This is the way I interpret calendars for rituals which are based on cosmological systems in several Indian traditions (Dover et al., 1992 for the Inca, Williamson & Farrer, 1992 for other Indian traditions): the dates for rituals to be performed can be calculated from mythological material in the cosmological frame. Or the movements of planets determine the ritual calendar. Or eclipses occasion particular sacrifices. And so on. However, the discussion on the relationships between cosmology and religion has to be looked into from case to case, or from type to type. I will illustrate some of these ideas with examples from different traditions. Before I embark on this project, it is good to mention a 67

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longstanding conceptual suggestion about origin myths and foundational myths. Long (1972) proposed a still relevant typology of origin myths: he distinguished between religions with a creation myth which integrate cosmology and give a foundational status to myth (e.g., Christendom), from those where the origin of things may be described through emergence or through a process of order out of chaos. In the latter cases, the link between origin myth and cosmology are diverse, and a simple foundational status is absent. Before I present examples of cosmological types, I need to become specific about symbols and symbolic activity.

2. Sacred, Profane and Symbolic In works of the phenomenological school one finds an almost traditional distinction between the sacred or religious and the profane (especially Eliade, 1965). When we widen our horizon and go beyond the Mediterranean basin, it is clear that this distinction is untenable. I use it here to introduce a problem and serve as a source of inspiration; it is often used as if it were a universal fact in the phenomenological literature. It then qualifies some aspects of the world as sacred, holy, or untouchable while others would be prone to manipulation and profane. In a dualistic cosmology one then distinguishes a sacred or supernatural world from a profane or earthly world. From this vantage point one can even plea for re-sacralizing or further sacralizing a formerly profane part of the world, such as can be witnessed even with nonbelievers when they advocate a sacred status for ecological categories in what is sometimes referred to as “deep ecology” (Kruithof, 1985; Naess, 1985). What will be sacred or profane can be very diverse, in fact virtually anything can land in either category: material objects (stones, caves), plants or animals, human beings or so-called supernatural or nonhuman beings (ghosts, gods, demons). The safeguarding of the dichotomy by the ecological thinkers implies that actions, beliefs, or attitudes of the sacred sphere cannot be substituted by those of the profane sphere and vice versa. For example, when I enter a church as a Christian my behavior will be importantly different from that on the outside: I will cease profane conversations, stop daily activities (like selling and buying, making love, eating, and the like), precisely because I am in a sacred place and hence select other registers of behavior. When I am back in the street it will be odd to continue the religious behavior there: I am expected to switch back to profane activities. The bifurcation is very clear in this type of religion. When the religious community wants to claim the profane world for some reason or other, it will be doing this in a clearly marked manner, e.g., through pilgrimage or religious procession.

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The former characterization is purely formal. When I want to go beyond this level of description I again enter into the debate on the nature of the religious phenomena. This is where the symbolic dimension enters into the analysis. The religious way is, in my view, a formatting of behavior, language and thinking in a symbolic way, that is, where symbols help to realize a greater wholeness. For one thing, this means that not the same rules of efficiency (success, survival value) or logical consistency (non-contradiction, logical correctness) seem to be at play. The symbolic dimension points to a particularity in the way language and behavior are used, or the different language or diverging actions that are used, in contradistinction with everyday life. The form of the address can be typical: the religious person addresses the subject/object of reverence through incantations, prayers, maxims or nonsensical and repeated utterances, or one behaves in the presence of such phenomena by performing stereotypic actions or highly formalized patterns which are used in no other context, but which are reputed to survive many generations in exactly the same format (Van Baal, 1967). The so-called “object” of religious language and action can be almost anything. In my view the object is instrumental in reaching a less particularistic experience, and hence can vaguely be called the ALL, or the Whole. It can take the shape of a god-creator, but it can also be nature as an encompassing and quasi-eternal reality, a word or even oneself (as in some forms of Buddhism). With the symbol and the symbolization processes in language, thought and action I once again find myself speaking about the human capacity of fantasy. In my approach the religious way is precisely the particular form of imagination or fantasy which makes use of symbolic artifacts and of symbolization under certain forms and conditions to communicate or interact with a Whole. The different religious forms are primarily identified by different artifacts, and the conditions refer to particular types of learning. Let me explain this further: a) I stress fantasy or imagination: that is to say, a group or a transgenerational community develops questions and answers about the Whole, which situate each individual vis-à-vis Wholeness. In this way, the Christian religion stipulates that the Holy Scripture holds insights and beliefs which God himself has revealed and which should hence be taken for granted by the believer. So, the doctrine of salvation is “knowledge” to a certain extent, since it gives an explanation of some of Gods plans with humanity. Christianity thus offers a series of insights about the structure of the world and presents some answers to the big questions of giving meaning to the life. In Judaism and Islam the situation is somewhat different. A synoptic example will make this clear. The 69

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remarkable Jewish philosopher Y. Leibowitz has repeatedly stated that the Bible most certainly is the word of God for the Jew, but the book can only be experienced and understood through Halakhah or the tradition of “the Laws”. Judaism, which manifests itself in many different forms, using sometimes opposing symbols or beliefs, is not a tradition of knowledge on the basis of the book, but it rather is a way of life and way of behaving which uses the book as a source of inspiration. In short the Bible is not a source of knowledge about the world, but a source of inspiration for the behavior of the religious Jew (Leibowitz, 1992). Even if we grant that the author of this school of thought held a rather unusual position in Jewish tradition, his emphasis on rules of conduct rather than beliefs is shared by many who aim to characterize Judaism (W. Zuidema, 1997). In this way it is made clear how forms and conditions might differ: rules of behavior are learned in another way than beliefs. b) the Whole refers to any real or imagined entity which transcends the particular experience of each human individual. The most recognizable result is that of “placing “at the same time the orderly and the unexpected, and the explainable as well as the unforeseeable for humans. This “placement” can take the form of causal explanation as in the Jewish, Christian and Islamic traditions: the cosmos is presented as an integrated whole with one cause or source, namely a creating God. On top of that, there is a definite end to the cosmos as well, programmed by the same God. Other forms exist of course: e.g., the Navajo religion relates bears to snakes and Navajo people, but is utterly uninterested in the existence of skyscrapers, white people or elephants. The latter need not be explained, since they do not matter to the Navajo. Still, the placement is symbolic, since the Whole (whatever its actual format) is manipulated and experienced in a different way than the rather straightforward way of common sense. The freedom of placing seems to be greater than would be possible within the constraints of common sense knowledge with survival value. c) by means of symbolic language or behavior people are “displaced” or moved in a certain way: the follower will accept an interpretation or representation as obvious or attractive or true, and (s)he might take up procedures to manipulate or know reality. But this is not an automatic process: the potentially religious person is to be invited or seduced to “move” mentally, that is to say, to picture or imagine the world in a way which differs from anything that can be perceived or experienced in common sense knowledge. Examples abound, but a couple will illustrate this point: – in rituals the normal bodily actions are performed but in such a way that a different result obtains: the actions are meaningless, or they imitate an act of god. In Christian liturgy the action of communion is not 70

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an ordinary meal, although something is eaten. In the Sigui ritual of the Dogon, which is performed every sixty years, the whole village dances, dressed as fishes. After a while, the fish masks are donned for the next sixty years: the fish symbolizes the prenatal life in the mother’s womb, and the collective donning of the masks symbolizes the rebirth of nothing less than the Dogon universe. – religious speech: a dove is not a dove, but the Holy Spirit. Making the sign of the cross on the body is not a mere physical movement, but the commemoration and imitation of Christ’s death and of the unification of the three godly persons in the Trinity. Without the symbolic dimension such behavior and belief would be impossible to understand. It is obviously not my intention to utter a negative or disrespectful opinion about any religion or even about a particular belief. My only intention is to understand how individuals and groups give form to their questions and solutions, not whether their filling in is “true” in any sense (even if they claim this truth from time to time). That such symbolic ways of giving form can be existentially powerful and valuable for the mortals we are, can be witnessed regularly. But what catches my interest as a researcher is how such processes work and what structure they have.

3. Cosmologies As mentioned in the beginning chapters of this book, my basic metaframe for the study of the religious phenomena stresses that the human faculty of fantasy serves as a postulate for my approach. As such this is a rather trivial statement. It can become more telling and more powerful by specifying it: communities and groups represent the Whole in a symbolic way. The Whole relates to the cosmology of any group or community in one of a series of ways, and the cosmology and its use by a group or community is learned to each new member, in each new generation. In M. Cole’s theory a cosmology is hence an artifact of the third type, that is to say, an artifact which is based on imagination primarily (Cole, 1996). I propose to adopt the following provisional typology of cosmologies: a) holism The cosmos or nature is a (mostly implicit) whole: everything that exists, including humans, and can be known or felt is somehow related to each other. Schematically, the following two subtypes obtain

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. .

. .

. .

of:

.

.

Figure a.1

.

.

Figure a.2

Figure a.1 shows all existing phenomena within an encompassing frame which defines the boundaries of the cosmos. The universe is everything, including the bounding frame. In figure a.2 a more restricted form of holism is represented: the whole is equal to the phenomena and their interrelationships. Figure a.1 represents absolute holism: the cosmos comprises all phenomena in their interrelationships, and in their relationship to a finite, bounding frame which enables the spatial and/or temporal location and identification of everything in an absolute way. It is clear this type of holism is indebted to Newton’s view on space as a cosmic space held by God in a container which holds everything. When visualizing space this way, it is possible to define absolute spatial coordinates for everything (Smart, 1964). Figure a.2 represents relative holism: the cosmos is nothing else than the phenomena in their interrelationships. Position or time will by necessity be relative, namely defined by the relations between the phenomena only, with no absolute border (like in Leibniz” view on space and time, Smart, 1964). In order to distinguish between types of religions the distinction between types of cosmology is relevant: when cosmological model a.1 is adopted by a religion, it can define a fixed place and eventually a hierarchy of phenomena, with the boundaries of the cosmos as fixed points of reference. Probably the cosmology of Ancient Greece carries this view: Zeus (earth and heaven), Poseidon (the seas) and Hades (the underworld) all have a fixed domain with room and time for definite beings and places within it. It is, as mentioned above, also characteristic of the structure of Newton’s Christian cosmology. For the Christian, however, God is situated outside of the container of the universe, whereas for the holist everything exists within the one universe. Figure a.2 or relative holism pictures all phenomena as related to each other, and that set of relationships (consciously or implicitly) in itself is the cosmos 72

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and the object of religious activities. Suppose the Hindu traditions carry such a cosmology, this would imply that no definite religious frame can be expected in this type of tradition: depending on the position of each human being vis-à-vis each other phenomenon in the universe a particular “truth” may obtain. This point has to be investigated thoroughly, of course, but it can be suggested that the “tolerance” which is traditionally attributed to this tradition would be understandable from this vantage point. Holism can take still separate forms, I claim. Two further examples will illustrate this point. The shamanistic cosmology offers a clear example of what is meant by relative holism. In all descriptions I know of, a basic reference is that to the “axis mundi”, which is used by the shaman to guide his journeys. Such separate places as Siberia (Denaeghel, 1998) and South America (Dobkin de Rios, 1992) show the same cosmological structure, which can be graphically represented as follows: Figure a.3 Zenith

Nadir The shaman is a local seer or healer who has the gift to guide unforeseen or extraordinary aspects of human existence by offering advice when the normal or common procedures fail. A facet of his or her effectiveness lies in the psychological setup of the shaman (who is often a strange, even crazy person, as was exclusively and hence in an exaggerated way focused on by Eliade, 1964), but this cannot explain sufficiently the socio-cultural reality of the worldwide presence of shamanism in numerous small communities (Humphrey, 1996). The shaman as a medium between forces in the world symbolically leaves the body (often in trance) and “travels” between the forces, eventually returning to the body in a process of “re-materialization”. The journey of the shaman follows the axis of the world, that is to say, it goes from the heart of the shaman in a vertical movement upwards or downwards, to the zenith or to the center of the earth (or the underworld). The actual graphical representation may be too Eurocentric (as I was told by Navajo Indians, who have a similar cosmology), since it still presupposes a God’s Eye View as the external position from which the journey and the path can be looked over, as it were. Most certainly in accordance with the fact that shamans are local personalities who perform their practices 73

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for a small community (with often a designated shaman per village), it is in order to try and develop a genuinely holistic characterization: the cosmos is the habitat or the IN-world in which the community exists in close inter-relational networks with surrounding phenomena. It is in this IN-world that the shaman journeys and perceives or experiences the forces of things in a slightly different way from the ordinary member of the society through his or her special gift. It are these experiences which are described as “journeying outside of one’s body” or “trance” or “disintegration and re-materialization” of the person (as in Denaeghel and Humphrey, o.c.). Although the reason why remains until this day a mystery to scholars, this type of religious activity seems to be found all over the world, albeit in different complexes: the North American version may be more ritualized since initiation rituals are sometimes integrated in the shamanistic doings; the Greek Orpheus type may be more “Mediterranean”, since myths are woven into the shaman practices. And so on. But a basic form of shamanism with a more or less uniform cosmology may be characteristic. A remarkable example from an African context shows how mixed forms are continuously emerging, here with Christian aspects added. (A similar case may be made for the eclectic cult of peyotism in the present-day Native American Church, Stewart, 1994). In contemporary healing practices of the Bamileke of Cameroon a cosmology is used which refers explicitly to Christianity (including a dichotomy between immanent and transcendent worlds), but at the same time a profoundly African world is presented. I cite the illustration from H. Mambi-Meido (1999), herself a Bamileke who studies this sort of eclecticism from a therapeutic perspective: Figure a.4 Visible world

Birth

Death

Invisible

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The healer is the one who can visit the “invisible world” through mental illness practices or through coma periods, and come back into the “visible world” afterwards. After his or her own healing after the first journey, the shaman-healer can afterwards “travel” for others and use the “solutions” found in the other world to help sick people here, according to Bamileke lore. All elements of shamanism are present: symbolically dying and being reborn, the axis mundi-structure. They are mixed in this case with Christian elements: the two worlds, and a hint of life and afterlife. For all examples cited it is clear that humans are situated in an INworld and that only an internal perspective obtains. This might be the reason why some of these cosmologies (and the attached religions) have been perceived by westerners to represent an “ecological” perspective on the universe. b) dualism Mediterranean religions are not holistic (and cannot be if we adopt their doctrinal statements), but dualistic. This has been most explicit on the agenda with Manicheism, where the good and the bad reality fight each other eternally. However, I hold the opinion that one form or another of dualism, however nuanced or maybe uncertain, is present in all Mediterranean traditions. It is to the extent that these religions radically distinguish between couples of reality: the here and now versus the hereafter; the earthly life and rules versus the godly; the immanent with mortality versus the transcendent with immortality. Medieval Christian painters have sometimes depicted this cosmology in a very straightforward way: the canvas was divided by a golden line running horizontally through the center of the painting. The bottom part depicted people in sorrow states of illness and pain, poverty and lust, while the top part shows the realm of light which is God’s residence, with happy souls and angels surrounding Him. The golden line between both worlds separates them from each other mercilessly. Figure b

Transcendent

Immanent

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From the transcendent world God (and Satan) can address humans: God puts His creature to the test (as in Job) or gives grace, sends his son, speaks to humans through the prophets, and Satan leads men and women to sin and misery. The separation between soul and body can only be construed along the lines of a dualistic cosmology: the soul will journey to the transcendent world, while the body perishes on the earth. In Judaism and Islam the world of God and angels is equally separated from that of the mortal human beings. In these religions the relationships between God and creation have a slightly different character, but the same structural cosmological features obtain. c) layered cosmos: Several cultures have a cosmological intuition which represents reality as a pluri-form or layered world. The different “worlds” are more than two and they can exist within the same time or spread throughout time. Within the realm of each world a kind of holism can obtain. I give three examples, detailing three different types of layered cosmos: The Dogon of Mali look upon reality as a scaffolding structure of seven worlds, separate from one another, but linked through a central cosmic axis. People live on the fourth world. The central axis holds the structure and at the same time it separates each world from the next one. Human beings cannot move about between the worlds; they are stuck on the fourth one. The deployment of the whole structure (there is no creation) took place in the first time when a set of signs descended out of the collarbones of the primal force Amma upon the world of the human beings. In descending the signs became real phenomena: plants, mountains, people, animals and so on. Religious activities of humans are restricted to the things on the fourth world. Within that world the cosmos has the features of absolute holism, with a clear border at the rim of the flat disk (Griaule & Dieterlen, 1965). – The Hindu tradition on Karma (maybe best translated as life principle or life force) is most of the time associated with the notion of reincarnation (Basham, 1985). The Self or Atman is the realization of Brahman (as the ultimate reality) in one particular individual being. Karma can express itself or take the form of a series of individual atmans in a cycle of birth, death, purification and rebirth (so-called reincarnation). If one lives “in truth”, that is to say according to Brahman, the Karma will be saved finally and the cycle of rebirth will stop. The indivisible (non-dualistic) absolute reality is called Brahman. This reality should be sought and lived in a truthful way. In this endeavor a rather theistic versions can appear when some sort of transcendent deity is recognized, or clearly non-theistic forms can obtain in which 76

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any reference to a deity or transcendence (in the Mediterranean sense) is utterly absent. The question of the deity or transcendence is not important as such, which is why the Hindu traditions cannot be categorized in terms of “religion” the way the Mediterranean religions can. The “living in truth”, i.e., according to the spiritual knowledge one builds about reality, is essential. It will be clear I do not use such terms as “belief” or “unique truth”, since they are substantially grounded in a Christian tradition. Each person in the Hindu traditions has her or his knowledge about Brahman and strives to live according to it in truth. The consecutive cycles of life can be seen as a series of aborted attempts to live one’s personality (atman) in total congruency with Brahman. Once this overlap is complete (by “living in truth”) the coercive cycle of rebirth stops. In view of my model on cosmologies I propose to look at the cycle of birth-death-rebirths as a form of multiple or layered reality, stretched over time. At the same time, the multiplicity is only apparent or unreal, since each attempt is but a failure of the one, real or true identity between atman and Brahman. Technically speaking, the Hindu case presents another version of the combination of multilayered cosmology and holism. The holism resides primarily in the cosmic unity of Brahman and (ideal) atman, which is realized in the one case when it is consciously experienced in the salvaging cycle. Salvation is indicated by the term moksha. A last warning is due: Hindu traditions are estimated to date back some 40 centuries, and to be varied and complex. It is, to be sure, beyond my reach to say anything definitive about them here. The only thing I try to do here is to shed light on one aspect of these traditions of dealing with the world, which then serves as an illustration for my model for comparative study of religion. – A third example of multilayered cosmos as a constituent of some sort for religion is to be found in the Navajo tradition. Navajo Indians refer to their myth of origin and their ceremonial practices as to “the fourth world”. That is the universe in which human beings live. The number four is a recurrent theme, a so-called holy number: there are four seasons, four cardinal directions, incantations are pronounced four times, and so on. In cosmic time the same number is used: before the present world three other ones have been in existence. After the disappearance of the third world (sometimes associated with dinosaurs of which footprints have been found on the reservation) the things of the present world have emerged in this universe through the stem of a corn plant. After their emergence they have been “placed” by the ancestors. This world is finite and will end at some point (Wyman, 1970; Farella, 1984). Here again, I see a multiple cosmos spread in time. It is different from the two preceding ones, since there is a marked discontinuity with 77

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the preceding and the eventual following worlds. The latter may or may not have human beings, we were told. Within the existing or fourth world religious holism is the rule: humans live now, and the cosmos (with humans) can in fact be understood as the whole of interrelationships between phenomena in this world. No absolute boundary can be pointed at: there is nothing but changing interrelationships. Ceremonies and myths focus on these relationships as well. Ceremonies are ways of manipulating these relationships in view of restoring the presupposed (and disturbed) harmony in the universe through that action. The uncertainty about the outcome of ceremonies and the sense of fallibility of humans are integral to the views and practices. Nobody knows what the “good” or harmonious way would be and religious acts and words have to be understood within that uncertain predicament. Tradition, nor myth can be safely depended on. The insights, the sensitivity and the visionary suggestions (of the shamans) for each moment or event are attempts (to use the phrase in a different tradition) to “live in truth” within this cosmology. A posteriori, that is when ceremonial activities have been performed, it will become clear in what sense the insights and acts were correct within the configuration of the moment: life would be more easy or comfortable afterwards, one will heal, or not.

4. A Scientific Study of Religion: a Second Attempt In the preceding sections more questions have been formulated than solved. Yet I need another problem search before I can hope to reach some clarity. Again, this begs a distinction on a meta-theoretical level. In summary I can say I proposed the following conventions so far: – the terms and concepts of religious studies (and theology) are often not useful for my enterprise since they stem from one cultural tradition, and most of the time they are not neutral or technical terms like in the natural sciences. In the “sciences” of religion they stem from basically one religious tradition, namely that of the Mediterranean religions, with its emphasis on the word, on believing, on a theistic concept, and the like. – in order to escape from this cultural straightjacket (which I called elsewhere “the colonial attitude”, Pinxten, 1999) it is necessary to develop a comparative perspective of study. Only that promises to break out of our own cultural biases, which render our “theories” local or parochial. The comparative study should be able to work with a few concepts from a meta-level that is surpassing the local categories of experience of the researcher in the cultural/religious community. My proposal is to look upon human fantasy as a source for such concepts, and a concept 78

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itself. Myths, rituals, beliefs, and god-figures are concrete products of the human faculty of fantasy through the medium of symbolic activities. – a third element in my proposal is the use of symbols to shape the All or the Whole in some way or other; and to manipulate it and change its aspects to some extent. The particular formats here can (an often will) be inspired by particular cosmologies. – fourthly, I distinguish between different attitudes or types of religious activities. The present section is devoted to that point. For this meta-level feature I draw on the work of W.C. Smith (1979). This remarkable scholar was positively surprised by the diversity of religious practices and traditions in the world and puzzled by the apparent similarities between religions and their coeval insurmountable differences. Obviously, when one sees a Buddhist monk pray, live a life of material poverty or watch him clean endlessly the temples, one inadvertently thinks of western religious orders. When one then is reminded that in most Buddhist varieties no notion of god is to be found, and that all the Buddhist traditions can maybe best be understood as philosophies of life, the irritation and dissatisfaction with one “s conceptual tools are near: do they or do they not pray, and how about transcendence without a god, and…? The same experience must strike one when dealing in detail with other traditions: how can somebody be a Hindu and sometimes believe and sometimes not in a supernatural being? What are sacrifices in such a tradition? In the ca 4,000 cultures of the anthropological classification the questions become insurmountable. Should we then reserve the term and the concept of “religion” to the Mediterranean religions only and not apply it to the 4/5 of humanity? What is gained then in our understanding of the “deployment of the faculty of fantasy”? My suggestion is that Smith’s conceptual meta-analysis will offer us an interesting tool to tackle these problems. In his “Faith and belief” (1979) Smith starts with the point that a deep confusion has grown concerning the two attitudes, especially since their late and unwarranted fusion, to such an extent that the first is reduced in some religions to the second over the past centuries. “Faith” refers to an attitude of surrender which has someone integrate himself in a greater whole. One can have faith in god or in the universe, and surrender to this encompassing entity without reserve. The term “surrender” may be in order, since faith is in a particular way absolute, without reserve: one lets go of rational arguments or cultural biases and gives in to the greater reality. Faith presupposes the existence of a greater entity than the mortal human being in the present life or the group or community as it is spatiotemporally specific. The attitude is that of deep trust in that greater entity and of surrender to it. 79

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The second term and concept is that of “belief”, referring to a proposition and to an attitude of unconditional acceptance as true or trustworthy of the proposition. The notion of surrender looms in the background, but the feature of “proposition” draws in language and the (semi-rational rhetoric that accompanies it. With faith, no propositions are recurred to: they may not even be present or relevant. With belief, the propositional aspect is unavoidable. There are certain things I should understand and make my own; with faith I basically have to give in and trust the experience. For example, in a ritual I have faith and undergo the ritual acts in full trust, without any beliefs or contents being used or expressed in some traditions (Humphreys & Laidlaw, 1994 on Mongolian shamanism; Staal, 1980 on Hindu rituals). In his study Smith wants to shed light on the way Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam and early Christianity used both concepts and drew on the attitudes in their religious practices. The Buddhist trusts the way of the Buddha and has faith in that exemplary life, but (s)he need not believe anything nor believe in the Buddha. In the Hindu traditions the most contradictory beliefs can be found, as well as the absence of beliefs and nevertheless the follower will qualify as a Hindu. The faith in a truthful life is paramount, but actual propositional beliefs may be contradicting or irrelevant. As long as one tries to live in truth according to the tradition in which one has faith, the prerequisite for religious Hindu life is fulfilled, according to Smith. For Islam and Christianity Smith’s analysis is similar: it is only through a continuous increase of the impact of the institutes in both religions, according to Smith, that the emphasis on belief supplanted that of faith. The institutes gradually promoted certain texts over others, even sanctified certain interpretations and forbade other versions, which led to a growing doctrine of blasphemy and heresy, and an increase in instruments to combat them (confession, catechesis, excommunication, types of religious courts like the inquisition). Since the Reformation in Christianity and the reform movements in Islam (two to three centuries ago) the shift away from faith and towards belief and orthodoxy has become firm and so far no revolution seems to be emerging in these religions (although the Islamic reorientations could be interpreted in this perspective, maybe). I agree with Smith’s analysis and even with his conclusion that the focus on belief is a stifling one: this reminds us of the critique within Christian circles that the growing impact of the doctrine and of the institute might tax or handicap religiosity within such traditions (Schillebeeckx, 1993).

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5. An Anthropological View on Humans: Agents Using Speech Acts The view on culture and humanity of the European tradition is not only influenced by the religion(s) in this part of the world. In a very broad perspective I advocate that scholars have been viewing the world first and foremost as a set of pictures and picture-like phenomena. This view became dominant from the Renaissance on. Together with this, and strengthened by the Christian religions, the fixation of these pictures in discursive texts became characteristic of this tradition. The tremendous development of literacy (through schooling and through the churches) and of vulgarization in Europe is a unique case, as far as I know, contrasting Europe until very recently with a literate empire like China for example. I illustrate this point by contrasting some phenomena from Europe and some other traditions. Starting from this contrast I can sketch the alternative perspective.

The Picture-like Representation of the Universe In the European tradition we represent the world in terms of “things” and “states”. Concurrently, we developed an emphasis on substances and essences, on invariants and beings (with a tremendous prominence of the verb “to be” in philosophy and the sciences). In the sciences we aim to describe and theorize the law-like regularities in nature by focusing on invariants. Even in the processes of evolution and history we look for the invariant, rather than for a theory of change or process itself. Nobel-prizewinner Prigogine pleas for a fundamental change in mentality in the sciences, precisely on this point. Since the start of the natural sciences (say the 16th century) the focus has been on structure and reversible processes only, with a total blindness or disinterest for irreversible time. The intuitions of the cultural and religious tradition in which these sciences emerged are responsible for this deep focus, according to Prigogine & Stengers (1984). They plea for a genuine scientific interest in irreversible time and change (as in evolution and history), from the elementary particles (in thermodynamics, which is Prigogine’s field) over biological and socio-cultural phenomena right up to the cosmos. This view is felt to be revolutionary precisely because it is in conflict with the deeply felt intuition of the world as a set of things and states, and not primarily as process or change. In the social sciences and the humanities a similar intuition can be found: e.g., psychology has looked upon memory as a sort of library of images, with a catalogue which enables us to retrieve an image as we do with objects of a collection. Knowledge was often seen as a set of representations about the world, rather than a set of procedures to search and create “the world” or interact with it. Language was seen as the set of grammatical structures 81

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which were put to work in order to decode or produce sounds. In the history of art we focused on the pieces of art first, or the script in theater and film, rather than the perishable aspects or the artistic processes themselves. A brief description of some aspects of Navajo culture will suffice to highlight interesting contrasts. Navajo experience the world as processes, events and continuous changes in the first place. The language is an extreme case of a verb-language. Speech, thought, action and ritual are the many processual sides of the way of dealing with reality of human beings. Each particular process of thinking, speaking and acting has direct impact on everything surrounding the Navajo and hence feedbacks on them (Witherspoon, 1977). Works of art in this tradition have a temporary existence (mainly in and through ceremonies: Wyman, 1983), and they are destructed or “consumed” in religious practices of which they are a part. Religion consists in ritual practices and shamanistic acts, while myths are performed. The text is variable and used as a means in elaborate ceremonial practices. The exclusive emphasis on a fixed and invariant text (like the Holy Scriptures) is mainly to be found in Christianity, and even then in its strongest form in Catholicism and some versions of Protestantism (that is to say, mainly since the 16th century). Text is used in a more moderate way in Islam and Judaism, where a doctrine on practices is more dominant (hence orthopraxis rather than orthodoxy most of the time in these two Mediterranean religions). Against the background of this discussion I want to formulate my proposal, which can be read as the final cornerstone of the perspective of religious studies I advocate. From a critical comparative perspective I warn that the emphasis on text, invariance and the generalized picturelike approach to reality is specific for the Christian cultural sphere. Maybe only for that sphere, and most probably only for that one with the exclusivity and thorough emphasis that we witnessed throughout history. The accompanying primacy of language (and of text) over action has left important traces in the older (and sometimes the recent) social sciences and humanities. However, in the present era more and more models and empirical data are presented which show us a way to reason in a more processual frame about language, memory, thought, religion and the like: activity theories (inspired by Vygotsky and others: M. Cole, 1996; Minick, 1992), speech acts theory in linguistics (drawing on Austin and Searle), etc. I generalize this trend and propose to see action as the generic category of human involvement with reality: humans are not passive receptors of stimuli from the outside world, which are then stored as images and mapped into words, and so on, but they are actively searching agents in close interaction with the world by 82

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means of their senses as “perceptual systems” in an environment (in a Gibsonian sense), and producing artifacts such as words, things and thoughts to serve as means of interaction with the world. Concretely, this means that language is not first conceived as a container of grammatical categories, but rather as the set of speech acts in contexts and user’s traditions. In religion one will find particular speech acts more than elsewhere, like the metaphorical evocative type that creates a particular mood (Biebuyck et al., 1998). The descriptive and discursive type will be less used in religious behavior. The picture-like representation of the world is then a particular type, to be found in one religion and absent in the next one. Thinking is a complex of actions like searching, comparing, selecting of information, changing and processing data and impulses, reconstructing representations through learning processes and adaptation procedures, and so on. Concepts and images will become artifacts and tools for thought (again Cole, 1996). From there on one distinguish between types of “thinking acts” such as commonsensical, logical reasoning, and religious symbolic thinking as ever so many different types. Perception is basically a type of action with actively searching and selecting sense organs which are instrumental in that type of (inter)action of the person with the environment. From that stance, specific religious forms of perception could be characterized: trance, meditation, and so on. Some of them will appear in one tradition of religious activities, and not in the next one: e.g., meditation is practiced to some extent in Christianity, while trance is rather tabooed. On the other hand trance is quite common in some versions of Islam like Sufism, but also in the Navajo tradition. Meditation is widespread in Hindu traditions. When I view human beings centrally as an agent and an interacting being religious language is more specific than action. A consequence of this view is that the description of religion while starting with words and texts (e.g., the origin myth) gives a partisan view on matters, according to me, which projects the primacy of language over action on all religious traditions. This projection is unwarranted and scientifically untenable, I claim: action is the basic stuff of human involvement with the world, and language is a subtype of action.

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CHAPTER 6

Religious Action To us the ashes of our ancestors are sacred and their resting place is hallowed ground. (Chief Seattle, 1885).

1. Introduction The logic of this book induces me to look at religious action first, and religious language only in the second place. Under religious action I discuss those verbal and nonverbal actions, and associated attitudes and results of action (constructions, sacred artifacts, and the like), which establish some form of wholeness for individuals, groups and communities and hence can be called religious in nature. Religious actions have most of the time certain formal features which distinguish them from other human actions: in them or through them people show diffidence or respect, sometimes accompanied by an urge to go to extremes. The respectfulness can take diverse forms: submission or subordination in the Greek, the Jewish, the Christian and the Islamic religions, or just a meticulous and careful performance of a series of prescribed actions in the Native American traditions I know of. In a sense people react less spontaneously than usual and seem to perform actions in a more precise and more cautious way, sometimes far from the ordinary patterns. This does not mean that the actions are more difficult or strange, because it may indeed be that they are routine actions. But there seems to be an earnestness involved that marks them as extraordinary. For example, in the Christian tradition the liturgy demands that a certain time should be reserved for the services, and hence a slower, more formal and ceremonial behavior is adequate vis-àvis the object of reverence (i.e., God). The second feature, namely the often marked tendency to go to extremes, again can take different forms. In several traditions a test is in order: several Native American peoples have the initiates undergo heavy physical or mental experiences during initiation processes. The participant is put to the test in sometimes trying and painful procedures. Other traditions prescribe such endurances as piercing of body parts, facing the 85

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sun for hours on end, undergoing substantial fasts, and so forth. The extreme behavior can take still other forms: individuals or groups retire from common life and continue their life in a secluded world, with uncommon daily rhythm (like praying hours on end, or begging instead of working for one’s survival), in separate communities (like monastic order groups), or in patterns which contrast with ordinary life (like celibacy, or living like a hermit). Throughout the world we find such unusual behavior called “religious”. For example, monastic life is not exclusive for Mediterranean religions, but has been documented for Asian traditions as well (Samuel, 1996). The gap with the dominant sociopolitical and economic environment seems to be a very old religious pattern with probably thousands of years of history in India, where in the present postcolonial times and among “successful” businessmen the turn towards life as a monk is still a frequent choice in the second half of life (Roland, 1989). The institutionalization of a life in seclusion outside of mainstream society maybe rather exceptional, that is primarily in those religions where the monk or religious leader has a recognized status for all (Smart, 1996). In contrast the appearance of some sort of “religious specialist”, who takes a separate status on religious grounds, may be a likely universal. The shaman is a characteristic type in the Siberian context: because of a gift which manifests itself sooner or later in the individual, somebody will turn shaman and hence perform religious duties in and for the community. The moment of the shift (I hesitate to use the word “calling” because of its connotations) is clearly recognizable: it is when the shaman has a so-called vision (often induced through procedures of vision quest) or falls ill in a sudden way (often with some sort of coma state or with “crazy” behavior). In a later phase (s)he is then capable of recalling or reliving the vision or the experience through trance or meditation practices which are seen as dangerous or inaccessible for the lay person. By recalling or reliving a particular experience the shaman can search for answers to questions put by the lay person, and which are beyond the reach of those who lack the “gift” of shamanism. The shaman has a definite social position in small cultural communities (often recognizing a shaman for each village, Humphrey, 1996 for Siberia and Mongolia, or each region as with North American Indians, Frisbie, 1971). I recognize a similar, but more exclusive status of shamanism in the prophet of the Mediterranean religions. A similar prominent role for dreams and visions, as well as for death and resurrection can be found there, and the prophet shows parallels with the shaman in his medium function between the ordinary and the extraordinary world. To be sure, the prophet is similar but not identical to the shaman, which allows Smart (1996) to stress the differences between both religious specialists, while omitting to point at likenesses. In my perspective I see clear similarities between all types of religious 86

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specialists within this range which sets them apart in terms of learning processes from the common people, for whom they serve as medium. It would then be interesting to research how artifacts and learning styles allow for a comprehensive analysis of this group of religious specialists. On a spiritual level one can understand the strife for purity and decorporation of the mystic as a different, but nevertheless exclusive means to reach an extreme religious experience. This does not mean that all religious actions show this extreme form, but that it is characteristic of many religious activities can be safely put. Two further examples illustrate this point. A group of Catholics in New Mexico, USA, are known as the Penitentes: each year they celebrate Eastern in their own way. Not only do they commemorate the crucifixion and death of Christ but they do it by actually crucifying a group of religious zealots at the end of the trail of sorrows. After hours the crucified heroes are brought down again and the resurrection miracle is remembered. The extreme experience of crucifixion is a concrete and literal version of the symbolic form which the Catholic Church performs during mass. The content is the same, but the format is different. The Vision Quest of several Californian Indian groups is yet another example of extreme religious actions. The young Indian retires to a mountain in order to survive all by his own for three or four nights. In the course of this seclusion hunger and coldness will be his lot, and the experience of deep anxieties is expected. In his or her training for this ordeal the novice is instructed that a vision will appear to him which will teach him about himself, about his strength and weakness, and about the path of his life. The novice learns how to cope with the extreme experience in such a way that it will stay with him for life. After a successful vision quest the candidate will have had a deep experience, which will serve as a source of strength to cope with difficult ordeals in the rest of his life (Betwixt, 1989).

2. Ceremony and Festivity The literature on religion is characterized by messy terminology and muddled concepts. Thibau (1982) makes an important theoretical distinction on this point. According to him it is often the case in religious studies that diverse forms of religious activity are indiscriminately named “ritual” or “ceremony”. He protests against such lack of discrimination, stating that it yields misconstructions and confusion instead of scientific understanding. I agree that it is important to try to delineate the field of religious phenomena clearly and unambiguously from other fields of social and cultural activities. In the Mediterranean religions the sacred can thus be distinguished from the profane, and in other tradi87

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tions religious acting and learning can be differentiated from other activities. My suggestion is that “ceremony” and “festivity” should be used to describe activities which have no or no intrinsic religious aspect to them. This does not preclude that any religious accent could be discovered in ceremonies or festivities, but they are not religious actions per se. “Ritual” is the term I reserve for typical or intrinsic religion activity. I start with a circumscription and then give some examples. Ceremony refers to a type of standardized social action which allows for a person to become a member of a group by means of a series of typical actions. The term indicates: – that group behavior is involved: individual habits or actions do not qualify as ceremonies, however standardized they may be. If an individual performs a religious action it follows that this will always refer to a group activity. E.g., the priest does not act as an individual but in the name of and as representative of a group or a tradition (and hence a community). It is clear the individual experience is not always shared by the group or community, or that the group may even be excluded from that particular experience. E.g., an individual who is enthroned as a king performs actions that are not shared as such by the bystanders, but the enthronement is only a ceremony when the group or community recognizes it as an appropriate standardized action for itself. In other cases the action and the experience will be largely shared by every individual in the group, as in graduation or in national ceremonies. – the action is standardized. That is to say, the actions of the group or community are fixed or formally prescribed in tradition, thus detailing behavior, clothing and eventual paraphernalia. In all religious and in many mundane activities this is the case: for example, particular types of clothing for professors are prescribed at graduation ceremonies, a specific way of walking and speaking is reserved for officials in court or in political ceremonies, and particular sequences of actions should be followed during a funeral. Such features of formality are recognizable in ceremonial behavior and make it stand out from ordinary or everyday behavior. it is clear the same feature applies to specifically religious actions like rituals, but these alone do not make all standardized actions rituals. Otherwise we use the term “ritual” in such an indiscriminate and trivial sense that we need a new term to denote the religious action we want to distinguish. – the ceremony aims to integrate an individual (or a group) in a social tradition. With this feature I point to the sense or meaning of a ceremony, the ultimate reference of which is the tradition. Marriage is a good example: with alliance or marriage ceremonies each culture performs a type of actions which is “eternal” in a sense and marks and secures the integration of the couple (or small group) in the tradition of 88

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the community. The partners express a bond to each other, but more importantly they do this with witnesses and vis-à-vis the community (and often its tradition). Marriage is then, not a personal or even a couple’s vow, but a public integration in a new role for the community at large. The remaining features of marriage seem to indicate this: marriage is not the same as the right to sexual communion (as some Christian rule would have it), since sexuality and alliance are not necessarily or exclusively linked in all cultures, but the ceremony has a new economic and kin unit recognized by the community. Also, rights of heritage and eventual political privileges are publicly safeguarded by means of the ceremonial announcement of the bond. Such are the social, political and economic aspects marked by the ceremony. Every culture has its own way of formatting here. In the Mediterranean religions marriage has been made sacred, drawing the sociopolitical event into the religious field. This is done by “religionizing” the ceremony and hence marking the bond in a double way: as a sociopolitical unit and as a religious unit; obviously, this allows to extend one’s control over the couple in these traditions. The element that is absent from ceremonies and that is typical for religious action per se, is of course the reference to wholeness. Some ceremonies are very elaborate and imply the effort of a whole people or community. In that case I use the term festivity. This term just refers to a difference of scale, rather than of kind with ceremonies. A well-known example is the harvest festivity which is organized in most agricultural communities. Not just one group is involved here, but the whole community. Preparations can be very substantial, eventually spanning a year cycle. Everybody has a task, and everybody is touched by the festivity. The festivity of the investiture offers an interesting historical example.

Investiture The Medieval period in Western Europe saw the development of a peculiar type of festivity, called investiture. At some point the claims on the organization of this festivity as a political event led to a long and bitter struggle between kings and the pope. In the hierarchically stratified society of that time haves and have-nots were strictly separated from each other by means of titles and privileges: to have meant to own land which was acquired through lineage or was donated (as property or in a sort of loan), whereas most have-nots were owned by those who possessed land and titles. From time to time, mostly because of services rendered to a lord, a person from a lower rank was granted a title and a piece of land while the military and tax obligations of the grantee were simultaneously remembered or stipulated. This “contract” was the 89

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subject of a public activity, called investiture. The candidate-grantee was subjected to a training program in martial techniques prior to the public event, and during a ceremonial activity with all sorts of nobility and plain audience he was to enter into a medieval fight with opponents. After the ordeal he was then knighted by the sovereign who gave him a title and the rights to own or use land (with all workers attached to it for life). The fresh knight openly and officially declared his loyalty to the sovereign with promises to give his dues regularly and to offer military assistance whenever need be. The enthronement of a king followed a similar procedure. The enthronement of an emperor showed a similar, but surely more elaborate pattern and was made sacred from early on. Indeed, from the year 800 C.E., the emperor’s nomination and crowning had a particular character in Western Europe: with the enthronement of Charlemagne as emperor of the Holy Roman Empire the investiture became a clearly religious festivity. The pope was then crowning the future emperor and demanded that he would defend the Church of Rome against any profane enemy. It marked a clear “religionizing” of a political procedure and can be appreciated as political move of the bishop of Rome against the other Christian bishops and against political leaders of the time. To be sure, the bishop of Rome marked his special status in the church by claiming the unique power to elect and enthrone the emperor, and he put his office and the church on the political map at the same time. The emperor gained from this deal in the sense that he had his rule and office justified by the Christian authority and could claim to rest his power on divine grace. The Church of Rome hoped to gain from the agreement since it sought to secure military protection from the emperor appointed. The “contract” gave occasion to bitter fights in later centuries between church and profane power circles. It is clear, indeed, that this purely political institution of investiture of king or emperor was believed to be sacred or “religionized” by this move, although it was of course claimed that the throne of the emperor was a religious matter. Some remnants of this confusion between political matters and religious phenomena still remain, even two centuries after the Enlightenment strive (and its implementation in many modern constitutions): e.g., the famous dictum “in God we trust” is still printed on USA money, and princes and kings of catholic houses are received with special ceremonies by the pope, not granted to other people of the political scene. This little local history can not deceive us, though: the festivity of the investiture was a nonreligious and political ceremony, which was “made religious” in a certain era and in a particular region.

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3. Sacred Sociopolitical Actions Within anthropology a discussion has been going on for decades detailing rather similar phenomena in other parts of the world. They are interesting since there the structure and ambition of Mediterranean religions was absent, and the finding of similar practices could hence shed light on a possibly more general human trait of using religion in politics. A first and rather sensational phenomenon is that of “mana” in Melanesia (not to be confused with Jewish “manna”). At the end of the 19th century Codrington (1920) encountered some religious practices in his field work in Melanesia, which centered on the leader. The population seemed to believe in the existence of a superhuman power, which was called “mana”. This power was attached to persons or to things. The person who possessed “mana” (in an object or as a property of an individual) gained power over others because of that and could hence function as a headman or leader. The possession of “mana” was attested in the behavior of a person: for example, harvest was believed to be good or the military chances changed because of it. The worldly power of the person having the “mana” was legitimate because of his possession of the superhuman power. This “mana” is transferable through ritual action only: a leader can transfer the power to an object (e.g., to a canoe that will become faster in the waters) or to a person. Finally, a person is believed to succeed in certain endeavors through the help of “mana”. Certain rituals are set up to manipulate it in order to achieve extraordinary deeds. The sacred nature of the leader having “mana” is apparent from the succession procedures as well: the leader will explicitly invest some of the power in his potential successor or in objects or relics that will be owned by the latter. For example, the leader can invest some “mana” in a lock of hair or in a weapon and subsequently donate it to his successor. In a certain way we may recognize a similar practice with the status of the Dalai Lama, as the highest religious authority of Tibetan Buddhism. Each individual Dalai Lama is the spiritual and worldly leader of Tibet because he possesses or incorporates a particular state of enlightenment. With the death of the Dalai Lama in power the monks engage in a search for the successor, that is for that Tibetan who is then recognized to be inhabited by the power, which left the dying predecessor. This “moving” superhuman force takes possession of a particular male member of the Tibetan population, according to the Buddhist lore. The will or the free choice of individual persons is totally powerless against this superhuman force (Dalai Lama, 1997). Of course, it remains that the particular combination of political and religious power in the Tibetan case is unique within the group of 91

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Buddhisms: it also is the branch of Buddhism with a clear clergy structure and a church in the sociological sense. Other and rather sensational discoveries in the history of anthropology seemed to point to what was called “divine kingship”. The term is familiar in the Christian tradition (e.g., the emperors of the Holy Roman Empire) and of course the history of France, culminating in Louis XIV who presented himself as a divine king (“le roi soleil”). In the latter case the pretension was that his kingship was absolute because it was God’s correlate on earth, and the king was predestined to serve in this role. In anthropology this idea was fashionable in the description of some royals in Africa. Especially in Central Africa (Rwanda, sometimes Congo) local leaders were discovered who seemed to have the status of “divine king” and ruled apparently as absolute monarchs. In particular Luc de Heusch (1958; also Maquet, 1957) described examples which qualify. The divine status was concluded from the fact that leaders seemed to have an absolute power and were the only ones to deny taboos or, even stronger, seemed to invert taboos. Thus the taboo of incest forbade sexual contact and marriage between kin folk. But anthropologists noted that e.g. the Rwanda king married his sister, thus negating the incest taboo within the tradition. de Heusch inferred from such data the divine status of the king. On closer examination, however, the marriage he witnessed was a symbolic alliance between brother and sister (and not a sexual relationship): it enabled the king to safeguard the uniqueness of his line of descent and at the same time secured his sister (and potential mother of heirs to the throne) a safe economic situation. On top of that the absoluteness of the power of the king was not sustained by later research, since failure in management of the king proved to be sanctioned by ritual removal or even killing of the king. So far, no convincing examples remain of so-called “divine kingship” in nonwestern contexts (Lyle, 1987).

4. Ritual, Sacred Drama and Shamanistic Actions This is a crucial, but also a delicate theme. Whenever I see a shaman, a catholic priest or a Buddhist monk performing certain religious acts I am sure to witness different things, but at the same time something which may be situated within the same realm. The similarity is, – in theology and in common sense perception –, cause for confusion, and it certainly has been so in the past. Toynbee (1957) reminds of the historical mistake of the pope in the 17th century who withdrew and punished Jesuits in China, because they were charmed by the similarity and indeed the high quality of Buddhist temples and rituals in comparison with what they themselves came to offer as “new” religious forms. The Christian lore of the time had people believe that the Devil had created 92

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this civilization of a high level to deceive the Christian: the high quality and the similarity with one’s own religious practices should be seen through as nothing but evil deception. Against this background it is worthwhile to spend some lines on this issue of Mediterranean religious action and ritual. In the contemporary literature on the subject some important proposals are formulated which describe rituals as types of action, clearly distinct from the liturgical actions of the Mediterranean religions. I follow Humphrey & Laidlaw (1994) in this instance, since they have made the most clarifying and the most practical conceptual analysis. Moreover, they distinguish between the three types of religious roots, similar to what I called shamanistic, ritualistic and mythagogic root types. In their study of the Jain tradition in India the authors confront the remark by Jain that their rituals (puja) are meaningless, that is without any content or sense. For the western, Christian educated researchers such a claim was shocking, as Staal (1989) has experienced several times in reactions to his work. The self-reference used by Jain is, to everybody’s satisfaction, “Murti Pujaks” or “those who conduct the ritual to the idol” (1994, p. 2). The reference to an idol urges the westerner to search for meaning, in the sense that a referent seems to be implied. However, the Jain regrets the absence of meaning explicitly and seeks to add external, spiritual connotations to the so-called “empty” ritual: this urge only helps to underline the intrinsic meaninglessness of the ritual. In order to think the meaninglessness “in the eyes of the Jain”, the authors proceed in two steps: a) rituals are not themselves a class or set of actions, but ritual is a property of action. The term refers to the transformation of action through ritualization. The agent knows and recognizes previously performed and standardized actions of which the contemporary human agent is only the performer, whatever his or her opinions, intentions or feelings may be. The identity of the action is thus clearly separated from the features of the performer. This makes for ritualization and implies that intrinsic meaning is absent. The ritual agent may be said to undergo the ritual action, just like many others who came before and who will come later. (S)he takes the role of temporary performer of an action that happens outside of personal or contextual frames of reference. The ritual action is hence substantially formal and meaningless. b) Humphrey & Laidlaw attempt to safeguard the universal use of the term “ritual” and distinguish between what they call “liturgycentered” and “performance-centered” ritual. The first form is found in the religions with an emphasis on doctrine, while the second form is to be found in its purest manifestation in shamanistic rituals. Let me dwell a bit on the latter form: Lévi-Strauss and others have shown how the 93

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shaman performs ritual actions in continuous communication with the group or community. The result is concrete: a healing, a curse, a message, etc. The shaman contextualizes the ritual in performing it (from a concrete question to a concrete answer), and he personalizes it (with the particular audience present). There is no political or institutional apparatus (a clergy, a church) to coerce. The basic question is: does it work? (Humphreys & Laidlaw, 1994, p. 12). In the liturgical form of ritual, on the other hand, traditional prescriptions enforced by an institution turn the question into: “did we perform it the right way?”. Discussions then center on questions such as: which one is the oldest, the real or the orthodox form of action according to the institution? Especially in written religions we will find the liturgical form, according to the authors. I follow Huphreys & Laidlaw’s reasoning a long way, but once again I am unhappy with the dichotomization. I agree that the liturgical form can be found most in written religions (or the religions of the book) and is less (purely) ritualistic while adding doctrinal aspects. I also agree that the shamanistic form is more concrete and hence more ritualistic. But in my view it is defendable to conclude that more than two elements are involved: it is inadequate to structure the field along the axis liturgical/performative, but rather to distinguish between shamanistic ways, mythagogic (and more doctrinal) ways and, thirdly, ritualistic ways. If one thinks along these lines, the notion of ritual is clear and unambiguous (and meaningless in its pure manifestation), and the liturgical traditions can be said to lack rituals, although they do have religious actions. I use the term “ritual” exclusively to refer to a property of those actions which are intrinsically religious. The term refers to the formal or standardized actions which realize or otherwise concern a greater wholeness. Wholeness is intrinsic in ritualization, that is to say that all action which is or becomes ritual carries the performer outside or beyond his concrete, personal and temporary world: the performer undergoes the ritual and hence plays the role of a performer of eternal, invariable actions irrespective of the person’s qualities or the contextual specificities. Moreover, the ritual action is autonomous, and not derived from or subordinate to another religious phenomenon (e.g., a myth). It is an action in itself, and namely a meaningless action. When the non-westerner is asked why (s)he performs a particular ritual, the typical answer is: “because that is the way it is”, or “because it is tradition”. These answers are not a sign of ignorance or forgotten contents, but point to the core of ritual behavior. Ritual behavior is performed in a standardized way over many generations. The experience and/or the performance in themselves are what matters, not the connota94

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tions. Hence, in Mediterranean religions no rituals will be found: there religious actions accompany a myth or an explanation, and they are often justified by a word or message. Thus, religious actions are dramatizations of a belief or a word, which comes first and guides any further action. Therefore, the religious actions in these religions have a different status and a different character than what was agreed upon for rituals. The best known example may be the holy mass in the catholic religion: the story of Jesus on the occasion of the Last Supper and the very words he used then offer the basic script, on the basis of which actions are performed. In the terms of my model I can now propose that a ritual is a transformation of actions into a formal, religious way of acting to which the agents submit. The identity function resides in the performance itself. The learning process will focus on practical knowledge, by means of imitation and participation mainly. Text and explanation are absent or at least secondary. The artifacts are the material and the secondary auxiliary means which are manipulated in the ritual. Finally, the dimension of “sociality” is more prominent in ritual than “culturality”: the grammar of the actions and artifacts is important (e.g., action procedures, calendars, sacrificial rules, etc.), not the meaning or sense of the action. To avoid misunderstandings I will call those religious actions which are clearly linked to or even instrumental to myths or messages “sacred dramas”. The term says what is involved: a content has primary status and it is accompanied, illustrated or “played” by means of religious actions. In this type of religious action meaning (i.e., the culturality dimension) is fundamental and it is combined with the grammar of the action (i.e., the dimension of sociality). The learning process will be double in focus: one learns the meanings from texts and verbal messages, and one learns the practices which express or guide the meaning in a nonverbal way. Artifacts of each level can be found in particular configurations: e.g., material artifacts like a chalice or a book, but also tertiary artifacts like the name of God. In Mediterranean religions I can find sacred dramas and ceremonies, but no rituals in the strict sense used here. A third prototypical form of religious action, then, is the personalized and contextualized performance we witness in shamanistic actions. The standardized actions are performed by local specialists in their interaction with a particular local group or community: the shaman repeats the traditional actions within his group in view of a concrete result. Wholeness is reached by transcending one’s particular world by referring to other/all forces in the world. Because of the focus on concrete results the extremely formalized of the ritualistic traditions is lacking. E.g., the Agni ritual in the Hindu tradition has to be performed 95

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in its complexity every so many years, for “over 4,000 years” (Staal, 1983). Similarly, the doctrinal aspects of the sacred drama are not recognized in shamanistic actions. Learning is through imitation primarily, with some variability in view of different performers and different audiences, since every performance is a personalized and contextualized version of the traditional actions. In my judgment the three forms will be found most often in a mixture in historical and cultural reality. The identification of ideal types should allow me to describe actual religious actions in a more subtle and nuanced way.

Navajo Rituals of Blessing Whenever a Navajo builds a new dwelling (called a hooghan), (s)he will throw some corn pollen in the four cardinal directions while pronouncing a formula. Also, when the first thunder of the year is heard the summer period is said to begin (and the winter is said to come to an end): at that sign form nature one stretches the body elaborately and greets the world in the four cardinal directions. On the other hand still, whenever a five or nine night ceremony is started, the same practice can be witnessed. These small and autonomous actions are small rituals. They are performed in a standardized way by all Navajo, for centuries on end. They are just done, that is to say no one explains why, but only how. The formulas which are used are partly nonsensical: they do not refer to anything in the world, and seem to have an esthetic use first and foremost. They create an atmosphere, also because of the repetition of the same sounds in al directions. In my opinion similar religious actions can not be found in the Mediterranean religions. Rather, I find sacred dramas there: a mythical message offers the basic script. Every action is accompanied by a statement which explains the sense or meaning of what is done. In these religions the text becomes the prime source. The status of some texts is enhanced in these religions by the claim that they hold the revealed word of God himself, mediated by a prophet. The genesis and the structure of the world, the role and place of humans in it, the role of God as a source of justice or love, as a political or moral authority and example for humans, and the basic social and moral codes for humans, …all that is laid down in the revealed words of God. In religious activities the actions of God or of his prophets or messengers are commemorated and dramatized. Without doubt this is typical of religious actions in Christianity, but also (to a lesser extent) in Judaism and Islam.

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I keep emphasizing the importance of the distinctions defended in this chapter because rather fruitless discussions have been raging for decades in this field. Two opposing views have been held, both focusing on the primacy of myth or ritual in religions: – one position holds that myth is fundamental and indeed foundational, and that the meaning of a myth will yield the sense of a ritual. Lévi-Strauss is a notable defendant of this position, as most of the phenomenologists of religion are (Thibau, 1982). The position is clearly indebted to the Mediterranean traditions (and is hence liable of the orientalist fallacy, I think): the Word gives meaning to and explains the actions to be performed. One difficulty with this view is that we know of numerous rituals (or religious actions in general) which stand on their own and have no mythical correlate. The example from the Navajo tradition illustrates this point. These researchers were fascinated by the existence of foundation myths in some traditions (notably Genesis, of course), which led them to believe that any tradition could be expected to have an origin myth, and that origin myths have a foundational character as if by definition. Led by the importance attached to meaning and the foundational status of some texts in the Mediterranean religions, these researchers have concluded that no religious tradition could exist without such a particular configuration of a foundational text and emanating non-religious actions. Of course, this is a clear example of what Said identified as the “textual attitude”, as a stepping stone to orientalism (Said, 1979). Secondly, the theological inspiration is apparent in the views on ritual, I think: e.g., Smart (1996) sounds shocked by Staal’s view that rituals could be understood as meaningless actions, while to me such a hypothesis is as interesting as any other. It is only within the Mediterranean emphasis on the primacy of the word hat Smart’s reaction can be understood at all. – a second position is the opposite of the first one: rituals are the only real religious ways, and myths are just verbal correlates of rituals, which explain after the fact why certain things are done. A defender of this type of view was B. Malinowski: rituals could be thought of as the “charters” which hold the social and political rules and conventions and thus allow a community to perpetuate itself through religious action. Obviously, the mere fact that many myths are found which stand on their own and do not refer to any ritual poses a problem for such an exclusive view. – a third position simply states that ritual is a way of religious action and myth is a type of religious language. Apparently, in some traditions myth can be most prominent and ritual as autonomous actions disappear: that is when I speak about a mythagogic tradition with sacred 97

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dramas instead of rituals. In other traditions different configurations will exist. The relationship between myths and rituals should be studied in each particular configuration.

5. Rites of Passage Ever since the 19th century, anthropologists and phenomenologists of religion alike have been deeply interested in those ceremonies, which are mostly indicated as “rites de passage”. Examples literally abound throughout the world. Transitions between age groups, between social positions or between life and death are subject of an enormous number of rites. Sometimes, the term ritual can be used in its strict sense, and sometimes the ceremony has hardly a religious aspect to it. The example of puberty and marriage ceremonies in the Mediterranean traditions comes to mind. E.g., in puberty ceremonies important biosocial changes and transitions are marked when boys and girls grow into sexual identity and hence become potential sexual partners and marriage candidates. The ceremony refers to a biological change and its social consequences and hence carries a meaning which is not even symbolic, but rather material. In my view it is then inappropriate to use the term “ritual” for such a marker. This does not mean that such transition ceremonies are unimportant. The opposite may be the case: e.g., in her study of the girl’s puberty ceremony of the Mescalero Apache Farrer (1991) shows how this ceremony grew into the most important collective action for the Mescalero people, marking the “birth” of young women who will be able to perpetuate the tradition. The Belgian anthropologist Arnold Van Gennep wrote a seminal work (1911) which promoted the term as a generic term and offered an intriguing analysis of the phenomenon. The English-American anthropologist Victor Turner (1969) reiterated this line of thinking and added some relevant refinements. I think that, on the basis of these two authors, it is generally agreed that “rites of passage” have a universal structure, whatever the religion or the culture where they are found. Moreover they seem to mark transition in the life cycle everywhere. In the course of our life we experience some changes or even shocking transitions, sometimes accompanied with anxiety for the loss of an identity and fear for the new situation. E.g., sexual ripening brings with it such dramatic experiences as the first menstruation in girls and the first ejaculations in boys. The physical changes are moreover underlined by social changes: of a sudden a girl should cover herself and start to take the role of the young woman instead of the child vis-à-vis male members of the community, while the boy may be drawn away from the mother and placed in the company of men. The changes in social status and roles is what rites of passage are marking, while the symbolic or 98

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ceremonial way of dealing with the transition may yield a reduction of anxiety. To illustrate my point I give a list of biological changes (I) in humans, and of the accompanying ceremonies in three different traditions: Christianity (II), Kaiapo (III) and Navajo (IV). This is merely illustrating the point and could most probably be done for all 4,000 cultures of the anthropological classification: I. II. III. IV.

birth baptism name-giving clan name-giving

puberty confirmation age groups puberty rite

death extreme unction funeral rite cleansing rite and funeral

Van Gennep found that all rites of passage have the same basic structure, expressed in three moments: a) separation or decomposition of the person: the subject is isolated from the community and stripped of all worldly particularities. The person may be quite literally put naked and/or dressed in a sort of birth cloth. All persons undergoing the ceremony are treated this way, making all and everybody “the same”. Personal particularities such as descent, physical appearance (beauty or ugliness, for instance), wealth or poverty, and so on are symbolically wiped out in this moment. b) the liminal or border period: having been stripped of personal features the subject is neither here nor there, or “betwixt and between” (Betwixt, 1985). E.g., in the puberty rite, the subject is neither the neutral or asexual child (s)he was, nor the potential sexual partner of the end of the ceremony. This is a crucial phase during which the “sacra” are shown, said or handed which will guide the person in the next period of life. The “sacra” can be words or formulas, knowledge, objects, and so on. In this liminal phase the “nothingness” or “betwixtness” of the person is used to take leave of the customs and the habitus of the former cycle of life and to instruct the subject about characteristics of the coming life period. c) integration or recomposition of the person: in the last phase the subject is accepted as a member of the new group (e.g., in the case of the puberty rite: as a member of the sexually ripe and marriageable people). One is often given a new name then and tasks and rights of the new group are explained. Transitions can be very drastic. For example, a Kaiapo boy lives with his mother from birth till puberty. After the puberty rite he is separated from the mother, never to visit her house again in his life (Verswijver, 1994). On a spiritual level, an equally drastic separation can be identified in Catholicism: at the time of baptism of a baby or young child two 99

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elders take the role of the responsible persons who take a vow before God and promise for the child to follow a catholic lifestyle. With the sacrament of confirmation, the child is actually considered to be a responsible person and thus renews the baptism vow in full consciousness. In the doctrine of Catholicism this is an irreversible step. Victor Turner got fascinated by the phenomenon and investigated the second phase some more, in the broader context of the initiate’s culture. He borrowed the concept of “communitas” from the Jewish philosopher of religion Martin Buber. The model predicts that each society can be seen as a structured whole in which each individual takes a certain place and has certain tasks. On the other hand there are unstructured, rather chaotic aspects of society according to this model. In the latter persons can meet each directly in what Buber called an “I-Thou” contact: this is an existential contact between persons, on a basis of equality (as human beings, so to speak). Turner claims that in the liminal phase of the rite of passage the confrontation between ordered and direct/chaotic contact happens: there each individual comes out of the clearly defined social order (which is deconstructed in the first phase of the rite) and dwells in the “communitas” experience (all sorts of other forms of being). Conflicts and tensions which cannot be dealt with in the order of the society one knew can now be allowed impress themselves on the person during the b-phase in the unstructured contact with “communitas”. There and then elements can be shown or picked up which will co-constitute the new structure of the recomposed person. Thus the “chaos” of the “communitas” is used as a source of inspiration to build the new personality (Verboven, 1986). A last remark is in order: it will be clear that rites of passage can and will have important psychological, social and political functions. The “mentalization” of these moments and ceremonies which I identify in later Christianity is a remarkable phenomenon. I have been saying that these ceremonies mark crises of biological and social transitions in the life cycle; hence the ritualistic approach will allow for the reduction of anxiety. In the Christian tradition (certainly the latest centuries) these biological and/or social crises are not recognized or addressed in the rite, but the mental development of the person is the focus. So, the sacrament of confirmation is organized at the time of a person’s sexual awakening (with the accompanying physical and social changes and anxieties), but it does not refer to this transition at all: the intellectual step of the autonomous renewal of a vow by 12-13 year olds is the focus. The recent experiment in some catholic circles to postpone the sacrament of confirmation till the age of 18 or later is an interesting process: not only is the potential liminal period then expanded to several years (with the possibility to organize a spiritual education of some depth), but also is 100

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the intellectual step severed from the biological transition of the puberty period. It remains to mark the puberty crisis in a sensible way, of course.

6. Religious Action and the Study of Religion The scientific study of religion has to satisfy a certain amount of criteria, I claim. First of all the terms should be clear and usable as technical terms, such that they can serve their function in a nonpartisan theoretical frame. With the term and the concept of religious action I hope to have moved in that direction. In my view religious actions are an expression of the human capacity of fantasy, because human beings thus produce actions which have a symbolic character (and not an economic or otherwise materialistic status). The symbolic way of dealing with the world stand apart (I follow Libbrecht, 1995; and Van Baaln, 1967 in this respect). In ritual the fantasy then reaches its purest or most complete religious form, since any reference to daily life is absent: at the limit, the ritual is meaningless, and just has to be performed. Religious actions all have to do with wholeness, since they manifest aspects of the human world which transcend the individual, particular agent: a ritual is performed in exactly the same way for ages (at least in the conviction of the performers) and each generation submits to the transpersonal and trans-generational event. The rite of passage continues after the initiation and even after the death of the initiate, and that certainly gives it a wholeness aspect. Religious actions involve faith rather than belief. I have tried to show how a pure religious action such as ritual is accepted as such, without meaning or justification. In my view, this involves complete faith. In the mixed form of the sacred drama (in Mediterranean religions) the element of faith is present, – as expressed for example in the dictum “faith in God” – although it seems to be countered by beliefs at times. The primacy of action over language and picture was underlined by the discussion of religious action first, that is before focusing on religious language. In my view it allowed me to state the point that ritual holds an important place in many religious traditions in the world, but is actually absent in Christianity. That is to say, because of the primacy of the word in particularly that religion, ritual as such cannot have a category in experience. The probably unique emphasis on the word, at the detriment of ritual, might induce researchers to qualify Christian religion as a separate type of religious activity. It is good to remind the reader once more of the discussion in Cicero’s “De natura deorum”. Against representatives of the then mystery religions he argues that for the Romans religio = traditio. That is to say, religion is what you do in 101

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terms of building and keeping temples and shrines, making sacrifices, performing public services and the like. Whether or what you believe when doing all that is irrelevant. The mystery religions in his time already claimed that they got a word or message from somebody and that they organize their life according to that word. With that turn they also rejected Roman religious practices (and hence acted politically against the regime), since they were not compatible with the content of the message. All that was then called “religio”, which to Cicero, was just a perverse use of the term. In terms of my model on identity dynamics, I can illustrate the emphasis on the sociality dimension in the Roman tradition: performing religious actions amounted to continuing a cosmic order, reflected in a sociopolitical order which was revitalized or commemorated regularly by maintaining the shrines and temples, observing the sacrifices, and so on. The “grammar” of the action system is focused on and ritually enacted. The mystery religions (and later Christianity) rejected this grammar of interaction, and focused very heavily on the meaning of a message they claimed to have received. This involves a high investment in the culturality dimension to define one’s identity: since God revealed his will in a word or message, the ritual action of Romans appeared as senseless human activity. Moreover, “just performing actions” because that was the tradition is not acceptable for those who receive the word from God himself. Manicheism gives a very strong and clearly dualistic version of this shift (Amstrong, 1990). Since the word of God has to be accepted and believed, this yielded for the first time an attitude of unconditional submission of one’s world of experience to the godly world. The primacy of the word, which is to be believed in, seems to deepen the dualism as well: the meaning of the word stemming from God overpowers all human experience, action or speech, which after all are only human. The political implications are obvious: in their rejection of the religious action tradition of the Romans, the mystery religions rejected the political order which was closely knitted to it as well and thus drifted into a position of political opponents. The Christ-King rhetoric illustrates this theme.

7. Religious Action, Identity and Learning Imitation of behavior is a very strong and efficient form of identity building and transfer. The child learns subconsciously by being in the neighborhood of the adult all sorts of actions and rules of conduct, but the latter can be explicitly and purposefully taught as well. In oral cultures the general observation seems to be that the disciple is not 102

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instructed (as in school learning), but rather learns by means of careful observation and imitation. The insistence on precise observation and detailed perception, often without words of instruction or in utter silence, is very striking to the researcher in spiritualistic traditions. Navajo children are taken to ceremonies in their cradle, and witness the doings from very early on. Typically, the child is placed next to the mother working on a loom and observes mother and work, while keeping eye contact with the mother. After several years it starts imitating the actions. Likewise, boys witness the construction of sandpaintings by medicine men for years, and are invited at a certain point to help in the painting. Hunting, dancing, and so on are learned by observation and imitation. The songs in this story telling tradition are “taught” the same way: the medicine person sings, and one or the other bystander repeats the song at some point, eventually with individual variations. The almost endless comparisons between so-called illiterate Indians of descriptions of a particular rock or canyon, let alone a person or a happening, is most striking to the anthropologist; the syntactic peculiarities of the language add in that numerous variations on a verb stem can yield vast detailed frescoes (Pinxten & Farrer, 1994). In that sense, religious knowledge and practice are “picked up” rather than instructed in these traditions. Instruction as a sort of schooling through texts is reserved for the Mediterranean religions. The artifacts used in the learning processes of religious actions are various. Pictures, actions, tools, attitudes are shown or illustrated and imitated or used. The way of learning is different from religious texts in Christianity, for instance: not through discursive procedures, but almost through visceral adoption, not learning by heart (or rather in the head), but with the whole body. The mechanisms of identity are ill studied in this area, I think; just a few authors seem to be exploring this country. F. Goodman is one such researcher who did path-breaking analyses on general, potentially universal mechanisms of religious action. In her research she found that some bodily attitudes, some nonsensical noises (in glossolally) and particular breathing exercises have precise and profound impact on human ways of experiencing: for example, by the monotonous use of a drum in a particular bodily posture trance can be induced and visions can be produced in an almost effortless way. Applying these techniques under strict conditions of observation and recording she showed that bodily postures on ancient hieroglyphs and those in some present-day Hindu and American Indian rituals yielded the same neuropsychological effects in people. The effects were recognized as covering what was understood as “religious experience” (Goodman, 1988). On the other hand, in their ambitious attempt to capture neuropsychological, psychogenetic and ritual aspects of behavior in one syn103

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thetic theory Laughlin and his collaborators (Laughlin et al., 1992) build a theory about religious action, which is meant to speak about Buddhist learning practices, American Indian rituals and several other religious manifestations adequately. I could go on with other attempts to capture religious action in a more or less synthetic model or theory, but the work is still very much in process as I evaluate it, so any general statement would be presumptuous.

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DIFFERENT 1

Birth and Baptism A View of an Anthropologist and Atheist In this chapter I investigate how anthropological data on social and ritual signifiers of birth can force us to engage on a deeper reflection about the role of ritualizing in the life of possibly any society. Most often birth seems to be underscored ritually or ceremonially by such activities as name-giving or public recognition of the child. In the Christian tradition this type of underscoring has been substituted by the church ceremony of baptism, clearly integrated in a tradition of belief. With the establishment of modern civil society this ceremony finds its parallel in a second social moment with the registration of the child in the official register of a state. The question I want to explore is whether the diverse socio-cultural practices of birth, name-giving, baptism and the like in other traditions can offer us a frame to describe the Christian version in a neutral and scientific way (rather than an internal Christian one). In the second place, and as a consequence of such an approach, I ask whether and how a freethinker or atheist, situated against a Christian background, can deal with birth markers. In particular, my question is geared to the “religious atheist” and his handling of ritual markers by accepting the anthropological data and at the same time refusing any authority of divine origin. If this line of questioning proves sensible, then Christian, atheist and diverse nonwestern formats of birth markers might turn out to be primarily ever so many variations on the socio-cultural theme.

1. Birth and Name-giving Within days after a Kaiapo child is born several persons from the villages of this Brazilian people will turn up to give names to the newborn. The practice of name-giving starts at birth and continues throughout life (Verswijver, 1983). The first names recognize the new human being as a member of the people. When, in the Southwest of the USA, a Navajo child is born a process of name-giving is started up: the clan (as primordial identity) recognizes the newborn and gives a clan name; of course, the baby is provided 105

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with an “American name” and, on top of that, a very private ceremonial name (which, so far, has been hidden for any researcher). The Romans knew the custom of presenting a newborn to the father. Once he clearly and unambiguously recognized the child as his own, it was said to be “born”. This recognition implies that the child is given a name which will identify it within the family and within the society at large. Customs and practices with birth are numerous and varied. The ca. 4,000 cultures of anthropological classifications offer an amazing panorama. An obvious point one has to make is that birth is of course a biological phenomenon, but one which is clearly socio-culturally marked. As an important happening for any community, it serves to perpetuate the group or community over the generations. Hence, it is to be expected that it will be signified someway or other, like most other important transitions in life (death, adulthood, maybe illness). A new member is recognized as such by means of a name-giving procedure, indicating kinship relationships (son or daughter of, member of a clan, etc.) and stressing the membership of the largest setting (people, tribe, community). Diverse forms may obtain, like the public recognition of the Romans or the ceremonial consumption of honey and butter by the newborn in the Hindu tradition, or whatever. In the European profane culture ever since Enlightenment a child is given a name by the parents, which is then entered into the register of the state at the county house by the father, assisted by two witnesses. This substitutes for the former certificate of baptism in the Christian tradition, which acted as the only traceable register of birth and descent since the 9th century, right up to the French Revolution. In the theoretical frame on identity dynamics I use in the present and former publications, this constitutes the attribution of a first “label” of identity to the child: the name identifies it within the groups and the community at large. All this is well-known and documented in our and other traditions. Birth with name-giving can hence be seen as a first “rite of passage” for human beings. Within this context I can now sketch how Christian baptism can be described with reference to these probably universal practices. The marking or signifying of birth by a “rite of passage” has been the object of several important studies by anthropologists. I just mention the most important scholars on this point: A. Van Gennep (1911) and V. Turner (1969).

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2. Baptism: the Christian Feast of Name-giving To my knowledge the liturgical texts of the Roman catholic church does not hold any binding prescriptions about the range of names which might be given to a child. Nevertheless, until very recently only original and derived names of Christian saints were accepted in catholic countries. Such “pagan” names as Odin or June or Ingrid were declared unacceptable by church and city hall. Likewise, newly baptized persons in nonwestern countries were given a “Christian” name to substitute for their pagan name. These are not trivial matters, since the recognition of a new member of “the community of God” by baptism is an essential part of the Christian religious activities. The person being baptized in a Christian tradition is supposed to declare himself or herself as a candidate for membership of the community of believers, and to undergo the prescribed ceremonies. In Patristic times the whole process was consciously experienced by the mostly adult subject. Later on (starting in the 6th century) children and even newborns were baptized, and this necessitated a new procedure: the under-aged subjects were held to be incapable of self-governance and hence adult witnesses had to speak up and make promises in their stead (Davies, 1972). It was a custom until very recently that the child was named during baptism after the adults who represented it in the ceremony. The difference between the Christian baptism and the socio-cultural name-giving festivities resides primarily, I think, in the universalistic ambitions of this religion, and secondly in the particular beliefs and ceremonial elaborations added. The second point will be dealt with sub 3. The universalistic aspirations are discussed here. Baptism is a name-giving ceremony during which the priest calls the initiate by name and subjects him or her to the prescribed doings. The particularity of the Christian baptism is that the community to which the initiate is introduced is the “people of God”, i.e., ideally, the set of all human beings, who are and because they are created by God. The social, ethnic or other cultural boundaries of other name-giving ceremonies is herewith denied in principle. When a Navajo newborn is recognized as a member of a clan and of the people, the community referred to is culturally and socially limited. In the Christian religious tradition the worldwide community of humans is the limit, over and above cultural or social constraints. This type of referent can only be operative provided a universalistic principle is drawn upon, in this case the eternal and omnipresent God. From a structural point of view the same anthropological given can be discerned: a name-giving ceremony marking the entry of a new member in the community. In actual practice 107

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the particular referent with its clearly culturally defined constraints is substituted by an abstract or virtual referent, namely the “people of God”. The latter is virtual, since it can only be understood or defined by reference to a totally nonhuman principle (“das ganz Andere”). The wish and the task of any Christian is to have ultimately the people of God coincide with all humanity. Baptism is then the first step, in that it represents the chosen and willed conversion of a new member through the name-giving ceremony.

3. Beliefs and Ceremonial Elaboration The central authority in the Christian doctrine on baptism is Paul. Especially in his Letter to the Romans (§5 and 6) he laid the foundations for the orthodox Christian interpretation of baptism. From my point of view it is remarkable and anthropologically significant that Paul stresses the “rite de passage” nature of baptism. The passage is not however, or not primarily that between two stages in the biological cycle of human beings, but rather that between a former (status of) humanity and the new humanity in the face of God. In Rom. 5: 18 Paul says: “It follows, then, that as the result of one misdeed was condemnation for all people, so the result of one rightheous act is acquittal and life for all; “The unique reinterpretation of this passage for the whole of humanity and hence introduction of Divine Mercy in the human world is given in the incarnation and the death of Jesus Christ. From then on the interpretation of baptism is unambiguously Christian, drawing on the beliefs which refer to Christ. That is to say, in Paul’s view each baptism as a name-giving ceremony involves a recognition on the part of God of a new member to His people: the community of the “people of God” is virtual in the sense that it comprises all living Christians of the time of baptism, but also those who came before and those who will still come later until the Day of the Judgment. This universalization and “virtualization” is, in my opinion, the core of the Christian version of baptism. In terms of the theoretical frame of this book the reference to Christ’s death and resurrection is a clear narrative for the identity processes by means of which an individual identifies himself as a member of an eternal and global community (God’s people), passing through adherence to a local Christian group. However, Paul’s interpretation does not stop there. In his Letter to the Romans he attaches a strictly religious meaning to baptism. As far as I can see, this meaning is still a part of the orthodoxy of present Christianity. Not only does each baptism refer to the death of Christ, but the rite of passage of baptism is compared to the religious death and resurrection (to eternal life) of Christ: “Or do you not know that so 108

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many of us as are baptized in Jesus Christ, we are baptized in his death?” (Rom. 6: 3). “For if we have become identified with him in his death, we shall also be identified with him in his resurrection” (Rom. 6: 5). In other words, Paul not only states that each Christian becomes a member of a community by baptism, but he specifies that baptism should be interpreted as a symbolic death and resurrection, precisely because of the fact that Christian baptism has as its final referent the death and resurrection of Christ. An important and typically Christian element in these citations, is that the ritual behavior of baptizing is given a very specific meaning. It is precisely this meaning-giving aspect in Christianity (and Islam) which undermines the ritual nature of the activity and testifies of the primacy of the word. In other words, the curious emphasis on the word and (later) on beliefs in these religions is already apparent in the first ceremonial in the life of a follower. This strife to attach meaning, which is so typical of the religions of the book, I think, is certainly a characteristic feature of the Christianization of the baptism/name-giving ceremony: not the ritual actions themselves, but the meaning of the words and hence the world view is focused on. This feature stands out against nonwestern markers of birth. However that may be, I hope to have made clear that Christian baptism is a ceremony to mark the entrance in the community of a new member first. The attachment of beliefs and meanings is a second step. The use of water as a symbolic means to clean (the soul) can be understood in the frame presented: just like water cleans away any filth, so the water during baptism cleans away the remnants of the original sin from the spoilt soul. It is only through this symbolic cleansing that the light aspect of God, represented by the Holy Spirit, can become accessible for humans. In dogmatics one can say that baptism as the commemoration of Christ’s death and resurrection thus becomes the source and the means for the spread of the Holy Spirit: humans are reborn as children of God by baptism, the baptized subject is recognized as a member in the community of the church, and the Holy Spirit “begins to inhabit the believer” (“commence à habiter le croyant”: Nicolas, 1985, p. 819).

4. An Atheist Reflection A rather traditional way to define an atheist point of view in religious matters is to either point to differences in inspiration with a religious perspective (e.g., a cosmos with or without God), or to differences in organization (e.g., sovereign human beings versus a theocratic view). However interesting these views are, I want to follow a different 109

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line of approach. My point of departure was that baptism is a namegiving ceremony and along the way I showed wherein lies the specificity of Christian baptism as a name-giving ceremony. Hoping this analysis is worthwhile, I now pose myself the question how such name-giving ceremonies can be understood by an atheist. Or, more intriguing still, how they can make sense or have meaning for the atheist. To tackle this problem I dwell upon the social scientific elaborations of Darwinian evolution by such researchers as Boyd & Richerson (1985) and Campbell (1975 and 1991). I subscribe to the general postulate of that theory and stress with these authors its importance for cultural, religious and existential problematic. The adherents of a genuine Darwinian theory of culture (and knowledge) are few, hence I want to explicitly endorse such a stand. As a rule those contributions in social sciences which are called “evolutionary” or “evolutionistic” are either a sort of Lamarckism (e.g., Piaget) or forms of Spencerian theories of social change (e.g., Marxism, but also Parsons). A couple of overviews have detailed this statement (e.g., Ingold, 1987 and 1991; Callebaut & Pinxten, 1987). To my knowledge a genuine (neo)-Darwinian interpretation of social and cultural phenomena had to await Boyd & Richerson’s path-breaking book. These authors apply Darwin’s concepts to the so-called superorganic level, and thus produce research questions of the following type: how can we understand learning processes as evolutionary products, how can so-called “mental” culture (religion, philosophy, and the like) be seen as products of natural selection mechanisms? Is “random variation and selective retention” an evolutionary mechanism which can say something relevant about the history of social and cultural phenomena as well? The latter question distinguishes the Darwinian approach from the Spencerian one. The authors mentioned have been pioneers in the utilization of genuine Darwinian concepts in the social and cultural sciences. It is within this context that I want to shed some light on the religious phenomenon of baptism. As a religious atheist I am an advocate of the same attitude of openness and modesty in religious matters which is to be found in the epistemological stands of the post-positivistic scientist. A basic feature is found in the acceptance of the human knower as a fallible knower (the argument of fallibilism, as in Campbell, 1991), and that sources which are reputed to draw on revelation will also be manipulated by a fallible human being. Secondly and in the same line of thought I claim that the social and cultural sciences are most of the time not yet up to solid or dependable knowledge. For example, we are not yet equipped with a suitable tool to describe socio-cultural complexities with the precision that would allow us to use in a nontrivial way mathematical notation 110

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systems. Nor do we have really strong and integrated theories about the highly complex realities we study. This entails that it is often difficult for social and cultural sciences to really go beyond the level of local knowledge or work with a strong theory about the knower, which would feedback on any social or cultural theory (Pinxten, 1997). In view of such opinions on my side it is to be expected that the social and cultural scientist should show some modesty in my perspective. I invite the theologian and the believer to show a similar modesty in their application of beliefs in the sociopolitical world, be it only for the lack of knowledge about humans, as listeners to God’s message. Let me show how this might work in an evolutionary approach to baptism. As an elaboration of Boyd & Richerson’s evolutionary theory about culture D.T. Campbell (1991) develops a neo-functionalist interpretation of social customs: the group selects in a conscious or subconscious way “cultural uniformities” which enhance the survival of the group. Uniform behavior and beliefs are appreciated as functional for the formation and the continuation of the group. They have a degree of survival value which reminds one of the fitness criteria for purely biological features. The group survives across generations through the teaching of these uniformities and of the group formats in which they are manifested. They are taught as norm and inherent value for the group. In Campbell’s words, the integration of the child in the existing social network and its uniformities is an obvious part of socialization for the common parent: “it would be in the biological inclusive fitness interests of the biological parents to force such culturally inherited membership upon their offspring” (1991, p. 107). This is clear for structural relationships: the child becomes a sexual person at a certain age and hence acquires a new social position. But it becomes a partner in the parent relationship as well and can then function in the procreation of the group. At the level of mental processes different roles, values and beliefs will correspond with different social positions. The uniformities in language, behavior and ritual offer examples from a greater whole of socialization processes which make up the context human beings create for themselves. The name-giving process is without doubt an example of socialization and its formatting by a particular socio-cultural group is such a cultural uniformity. Thus I can understand Christian baptism as a cultural uniformity of the socio-cultural group (or community) of the Christians. The text by Paul exemplifies this in a remarkable way. Indeed Paul refers to baptism literally as to an integral or essential element of group constitution and continuation: through and by baptism one belongs to the group of those who participate in Christ’s death and thereby will be part of the group of those who will be resurrected 111

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(Rom. 6: 3 and 5). Moreover Paul points explicitly to the cultural uniformities which characterize this group and distinguish it from all others: the symbolic death and resurrection in which the members believe. In later interpretations these elements are most of the time juxtaposed. E.g., Nicolas states that baptism marks conversion with Christ acting as a go-between, but at the same time it is “the occasion and also the cause and means of the effusion of the Holy Spirit” (“l’occasion, mais aussi la cause et le moyen de l’effusion de l’Esprit”: Nicolas, 1985, p. 795-796). It is only through the Holy Spirit that the baptized person becomes a member of the church community.

Conclusion I have tried to show how Christian baptism can be understood as a name-giving ceremony with particular elements of contents and formatting which make it a Christian ceremony. As a name-giving ceremony I can then interpret it in evolutionary terms, namely as a particular selection and transfer through a symbolic learning process of cultural uniformities. The transfer takes place and continues because of the supposed survival value of these uniformities in the community, i.e. the Christian community of the people of God.

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CHAPTER 7

Religious Language There is no written source, no dogma, no written philosophy, no holy book. (Sam Gill, Native American Religious Action, 1987)

1. Introduction People have developed language, more than any other living creatures on this planet. This means first of all that over time we have learned to communicate more extensively and with more refinement. We also learned to communicate about language and communication, yielding language activities like linguistics, but also and more importantly perhaps poetry, story telling and all sorts of language use in religions. Human fantasy finds a wonderful outlet in the game of dreamlike and surreal pictures and stories in myths. It is remarkable, to be sure, that humans can people their own world with creations of their own imagination which then are spoken of or sung about in beautiful or horrible ways and treated as if they belonged to the world of experience. Ambiguity in language utterances is played with through poetic words and formulas, which abound in religious activities. Wittgenstein (1922) attempted to clarify language in order to render communication optimal by using very precise meanings only; this enterprise went bankrupt. So, in his second major work (1958) he turned the scales and pleaded for richness and relativity of meaning to allow for better communication, because he then believed that the ambiguity in at least common language is precisely a prerequisite for communication. If the meaning of a word is overlapping completely for two interlocutors, then the communication between them ceases because it has no ground. I pick up this general view of the later Wittgenstein to approach the marked ambiguity of meanings in religious speech. In my opinion ambiguity and opaqueness is deliberate in religious speech, and hence an avenue of fantasy. In this chapter I characterize religious language as that form of human activity which uses all sorts of word and sentence constructions as a way of dealing with wholeness. The distinction between religious and daily language is far from absolute, I think: religious speech may be 113

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more polysemic, using more metaphors or symbols and evoking more than describing things. Maybe parallels should be sought here with music or other arts, where evocation of moods and feelings is more the case than mere reference or denotational meaning attribution (Broeckx, 1985).

2. Symbol Symbol and symbolic action are notions which might have been treated under “action”, rather than only under language. But I decided to place this section here, because really all treatises I know of situate symbol in the linguistic faculty of human beings (Cassirer, 1924; Langer, 1965; Ricoeur, 1965; Apostel, 1985). Etymologically the term “symbol” stems from the Greek verb “symbalein” which means “to throw together, to put together” things that are separated from each other. This helps us to understand the modern notions of symbol and symbolic in so far that a first meaning of polysemy is apparent: different meanings are brought together in the same word or action. This is a crucial feature of the notion of symbol: at least two different interpretations or meanings should obtain, and ambiguity is thus an intrinsic quality of the symbol. The play with ambiguity of meaning in religious language is obvious. In a general characterization of symbol, I draw on Apostel (1985): a symbol is an object, a property, a process or action, or a person which induce in the user or the spectator the following: 1) a multitude of interpretations of usages, 2) which can not be sharply delineated from each other, 3) which are partly conceptual/intellectual and partly emotional, 4) such that the meanings or usages may become symbol themselves for other interpretations or usages, 5) and such that the set of meanings and usages of the first and of the second order interact with each other. It is clear from this characterization that symbols are tertiary or imagined artifacts in Michael Cole’s approach to learning. The ambiguity mentioned is intrinsic, in order for a word, action, etc. to function as a symbol. At the same time the ambiguity cannot be absolute: the group should be able to perceive and use different meanings, without total arbitrariness. With total randomness of meaning the symbol could not function anymore in a group: its communication value would have vanished. This is one more reason to underline that religion is a group or collective phenomenon: to be sure, individuals can develop their extreme idiosyncratic perspective, but they will not be called 114

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religious in my view, since they lack the group or community status. Within symbolic action and language three forms are very frequently used in religions: analogy, metaphor and allegory. – an analogy defines partial similarities between two or more phenomena. Most of the time the phenomena (words, actions, images, things, persons) are clearly different from each other in a variety of ways, but the few similarities between are seen as salient or telling in some sense. E.g., the expression “the TV is a window to the world” uses the formal similarities of the screen and the window and their obvious function (“you look through them into the world”). Any other two properties of windows and televisions obviously differentiate the two types of things from each other, in such a way that users will not mistake one for the other. In religious customs, actions and words, analogies are widely used. For example, the crossing makes use of a sign that is formally identical to the wooden cross on which Jesus is said to have died in God’s endeavor to save humanity through the suffering and death of Christ. By crossing oneself the Christian refers to the analogy between human suffering and death and that of Christ. The representation of the hereafter in Christianity (especially in Orthodox liturgy) carries an analogy between the hereafter and the earthly life we can experience and become knowledgeable about: on the basis of this analogy the deceased can be “given” water, wine, bread or burning candles in the Rumanian orthodox tradition, so that the dead person will have no scarcity in the other world (Bernabé, 1981). Life in the hereafter is seen as different from, but analogous to life on earth. – a metaphor transfers the sense or meaning of one phenomenon to the next. In poetry, but also in science metaphors abound. The more famous example may be the metaphor of waves: waves can be seen in the movement of masses of water, and this image was applied in the 19th century to capture the continuous movement of light particles. The similarities between water and light are almost nil, but the image to describe one was felt to be powerful to envision the other. In religious contexts metaphoric speech is often rich. In recent years this triggered the initiation of a new series of publications on metaphor and religion (Biebuyck et al., 1998; Orye, 1998). – an allegory is a story or a performance using some concrete, personalized features in a symbolic way rather than the real life persons. For example, the allegory can use animals to have human emotions and attitudes bring to the fore: animals are drawn into adventures and show faults or less likable aspects of human characters in their interaction with others. They are deceived, loved or hated, and often show despicable behavior. The political situation can be such that only through allegory critique can be voiced without risk: animals speak out loud 115

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what human beings can only whisper. Also, the allegory depersonalizes a feature or a deed and has it out in the open for everybody to recognize it for what it is. Very abstract concepts can thus be illustrated as well: both in religious texts (e.g., the Gospels) and in philosophical texts (e.g., Plato) the allegory is used to render a vivid representation of an idea.

3. Silence Silence is a form of direct communication with the Whole (nature, God or what have you) in the experience of wholeness. In numerous eastern and western practices of meditation silence and a sort of “turning inwards” are conditions for or forms of religious communication. Indian “vision seekers” respect a self-enforced silence while withdrawing to unreachable places on top of a mountain or down a canyon. There they will seek the ecstatic experience which will show them their individual vision. Some Christian orders (notably the trappist monks) take a life in silence as a basic rule of conduct. In Zen traditions a most poetic expression has it that the master should be so silent he can hear the rocks in the garden of pebbles grow. These and many other examples make clear how a form of concentration is shaped in silent behavior, which gives an attitudinal frame for religious behavior.

4. Direct Communication The most well-known form of direct religious communication is the prayer. At a superficial level it is clear that all sorts of religious traditions pray to the whole, to God or to nature. Because of the differences in religious forms around the world, it is clear that different forms obtain. Most authors unknowingly defend a theologically tainted and hence western biased view on prayer. Typically, they would define it as the communication between human beings and a transcendental being (Heiler, 1935; Platvoet, 1982). In nonwestern traditions we find forms of calling or formal speaking which structurally and in appearance are very similar to the Mediterranean prayer (Reichard, 1937; Gill, 1981). To make clear that the phenomena we refer to are different ones, I will speak of prayer in the Mediterranean traditions and of “prayer” in oral traditions. Indeed, when no god(s) are revered, and the dualism transcendent/immanent does not obtain, it is odd to imply that “prayer” would be a communication between persons in two different worlds, as it intrinsically is for the Mediterranean religions.

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In Mediterranean religions prayer plays an important role: one finds different kinds of prayer and diverging occasions and formats. In the Christian churches collective incantations can be part of normal liturgy (e.g., the Agnus Dei and Kyrie Eleyson during the mass), but they can be alternated by silent meditative prayers. Prayers can even function as expression of repentance or commemoration (as in the litanies of Catholicism). In Islam prayer is a daily obligation of uttermost importance. I distinguish between prayers of diverging nature: In the adoration prayer god is called upon and praised because of the exceptional properties that are ascribed to him: he may be called almighty, or all-loving and so on (as in Christianity), or he may be attributed a superhuman quality of justice (as in Judaism). God is subject of adoration prayers because of these qualities. A particular form is mystic adoration: in the Old Testament (Isaiah) and in later Christianity this form is found, allowing for the elicitation of visual and visionary images together with the uttering of the words. The mystic is said to have a direct meeting with god trough the prayer. In a sense, the prayer is understood as a form of dialogue between god and the mystic: the mystic directly addresses god and receives in return a word or a sign, which he can then sometimes interpret for a larger audience of the (ordinary) faithful. In my understanding the prayer is used here as a means for a prophetic message: god communicates with his following through the vehicle of the chosen prayer, i.e., the prophet (here the mystic). The word of god is not passed to anybody, but only to the chosen person. In that case the word gets a particular character: it has the status of the revelation. God shows what he wills or wants by speaking to a human person. It is obvious that, wherever a church exists to organize religious life, this institution is wary of prophetic and mystic exercises. They are likely to escape the categories of the institution and hence most often interfere with the organization according to the rules of the church. Judaism, Christianity and Islam have genuine research institutes to investigate any new prophetic message at any time, and to expose the pretenders committing fraud. This does not discourage people throughout the world to claim to be the chosen interlocutor of god, leading to ever more religious movements with prophetic founders. The most important results of this type of communication between god and the religious community can be laid down in prophetic messages: the Pentateuch (with the Ten Commandments as basic rules of conduct for humans) or the so-called five books of Moses, and on the other hand Gospels with the words of Jesus Christ in the Christian religion, the Koran as dictated to Mohammed in the eyes of the Muslims, or the book of Mormon as revealed to Brigham Young according

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to the Mormons, all these are examples of this type of communication results. The net result of this line of praying within institutionalized religions has sometimes led to a closing off from this type of prayers in churches: e.g., the orthodox doctrine of Christianity is that Jesus Christ was the last and indeed ultimate prophet (at least in the interpretation of Christ as god become human), after whom all self-proclaimed prophets are likely heretics. By ascribing to Christ a divine status his death is interpreted as the self-sacrifice of God for the salvation of his creation. Once this line of interpretation is taken, it opens the possibility of a view on Christianity as a “religion beyond sacrifices”, as is defended by Girard (1975). The sacrifice of God himself is most clearly the ultimate sacrifice. It is revealed in the words of the God himself (in the person of Christ), hence rendering all further prophecies suspect or at the least of a lower order. The “solution” elaborated by the Roman church is to investigate any claim by mystics and any claim of prophetic insights with utmost caution and systemic rigor. In Islam the ultimate prophet is a human being, namely Mohammed, but prosecution and condemnation of later self-declared prophets (like in the Baha’i tradition) is as severe (Oxtoby, 1996). In nonwestern traditions I recognize a language use which resembles to a certain extent the mystic prayer. It is the vision (Torrance, 1994). To be sure, the resemblance is first of all external and superficial, because the central features of the Mediterranean mysticism are most of the time lacking (i.e., belief, church, monotheistic god). In several Indian communities we find exercises of vision quest. After puberty and with the advent of adulthood the Indian young man is subjected to his personal vision quest. He is led by elders to a place on the mountain where he is to survive for four days and nights in total isolation, and without any survival means. In the course of this period the concentration on one’s experiences, on fear and joy, on the experience of time and of hunger, is a deep challenge to the young man. The expectation is that through fear and joy the young man will have a vision, which will help him overcome the odds of his situation. This deep experience will be told about in the later confrontations with the group. Some individuals have more than one vision quest during their life, and some learn to use the experience in a more systematic way to deal with important problems in their life. The similarity with experiences in the life of saints or prophets in the Mediterranean traditions is striking: e.g., isolation in the desert teaches Jesus about the power of evil, and fasting seems to secure him with a vision that will guide part of his later teachings. Confession is a different type of prayer in my view. Indeed, through the medium of the priest the faithful is communicating with god during 118

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confession: it is not the mediator but god who hears about the sins and decides (or not) to grant forgiveness in the catholic tradition. The institution of confession may well presuppose the notion of guilt in order to function. If that holds, then it offers an explanation for the absence of such an institution in traditions outside of the Mediterranean sphere. Request by prayer is a type of prayer which aims at receiving some benefit from god or the Whole. In the ancient Greek and Roman traditions a pantheon of gods were asked different sorts of favors or benefits. In the catholic and the orthodox versions of Christianity the saints can be seen to have a similar function, often as medium between humans and God: each saint is specialized in a certain task and can be approached through prayers for intervention against illness or misfortune. However, from the study of religious missions we know that this kind of prayer is widespread throughout the world. E.g., many missionaries in Africa have stories about the substitution of pagan figures by Christian saints “because they serve the same purpose”. Moreover, missionary might even be more successful if such overlap between pagan and Christian figures obtains (Neckebroeck, 1987). To be sure, this form of prayer is not highly esteemed by the theologians (and objected to by the protestants) because it focuses on the pragmatic aspects rather than on the divine message, but in the devout experience of the religion this prayer is certainly very popular. The tremendous deployment of sites of pilgrimage testifies of the success of this type of religious speech. The pope himself underlined its importance by granting again the status of locus of pilgrimage to the inner chapel of the Saint Peter in Rome in the holy year of 2000: anybody who passes the threshold will be granted an indulgence for his sins. The hymn or laudatory poem is the externalization in words, music and ceremonial activities of a mere praising of god or the Whole. It has a different form than previous types, and the thanking is included. I give an extended example of prayers in the Navajo tradition. All Navajo prayers have a similar, recurrent structure: 1) moment 1: the relationship between the praying agent and the Whole is stipulated, 2) moment 2: the occasion for the prayer (problem, commemoration, etc.) is mentioned, 3) moment 3: the solution is indicated, 4) moment 4: the situation after the solution is sketched. This general structure is found in the eight different forms of prayers we find in Navajo. These forms are:

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1) the blessing prayer where an identification with the good and holy way is expressed, 2) the restoration prayer which makes explicit that a person can restore harmony through contact with the forces in the universe, 3) the prayer of restoration through exorcism, detailing how negative influences are driven out to leave space for harmony to be restored. Negative influences stem from contacts with foreign cultures. 4) the prayer of restoration through exorcism of native influences, used against witches. This type is similar to the former one, but the object of exorcism is the Navajo who can use the tradition only against his own people. 5) the prayer of restoration which should eliminate an influence from a nonhuman power (one of the Holy People), causing the effacing of a curse, 6) the prayer for restoration through healing: a kind of rebirth is initiated, 7) the prayer to protect against inimical attacks, 8) the prayer which restores the health and vitality of the nonhuman powers (i.e. of the Holy People). Each type of prayer is reserved for a particular type of ceremony (Reichard, 1937; Gill, 1981).

5. Indirect Communication: the Myth The literature on myth is vast and complex. The history of religious studies teaches us how we can deal with this literature. Until very recently all authors in this domain were classicists (trained in classical philology) or theologians (who were classicists to begin with). Apart from them we knew of a few philologists interested in the pre-Christian or pre-Hellenistic times, and specialized in Babylonian, Assyrian or Egyptian myths. Most of the time the philological methods of hermeneutics were applied, which was believed to allow for a more scientific approach of myths. However, two important side effects should be mentioned: because of their backgrounds the specialists came to look upon myths as texts, and, secondly, they attached great importance to the presumed foundational status of some myths. I will go to some length to focus on these two side effects, because they have produced a one-sided and often too exclusive study of myth. Over the last couple of years anthropologists and sociologists entered the discussion arena. That yielded a broadening of the scope, but also the emergence of many misunderstandings. One of the misunderstandings is that anthropologists, who deal with oral traditions most of the time, offer interpretations 120

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that are hardly captured by philologists who studied written cultures more often. The role of writing (of myths) and of oral performance histories is not yet fully analyzed, I think. In my opinion, there is a political aspect to this problem, of which I hardly spot any consciousness in the literature. With their focus on texts the philologists-classicists have created the view that myths are nothing more than recited texts. In the practice of research this meant that they looked for stories with an epic or lyric form (like a Greek epos or like a book of the bible) and that they treated myths as pure or degenerated epic stories. Without doubt there is good ground for such a frame for the analysis of many Mediterranean myths, which have a long history now of written stories. However, when looking at those traditions in the world we now know something about, we can state that of the more or less 4,000 different cultures in the world less than one percent (or some 30) have developed a written language. Hence, the features of a written culture (if they prove to be significant because of the written instead of the oral character of the culture) cannot be used uncritically as a general frame to describe any culture. We would need an adequate approach for oral cultures, and maybe specify from there to understand written culture, but hardly the other way around. On top of that not all written cultures have written down their myths and come to look on them as texts. In fact, Chinese, Inca and other traditions have written down recipes, dates, ritual rules, but hardly any “holy texts”. The use of myth as a fixed and authoritative text is not only restricted to written cultures (and is thus the exception), but as far as I know it is restricted to the traditions of the Mediterranean area and thus appears to be a local phenomenon. In the case of these religions I think one can truthfully say that the writing down of the basic myths was a genuine political act for each of them: the Pentateuch was written down after the fall of the royal court (ca. 1000-900 BC: Rosenberg & Bloom, 1990), the Christians wrote down the gospels at the dawn of their spread throughout the Roman empire, Mohammed acted as the scribe for the Koran as the first step in a political and military history at the time, Luther used texts to fight the practices of Rome in a clearly political-theologian move, and so on. In all of these cases the writing down and fixating of texts happened in a political context, and it appears from the later history of these cases that the reference to the text as it was now laid down had organizational and institutional importance: the letter of the text was used as an indubitable reference, and divergence from it was heavily debated and occasionally sanctioned. Outside of the Mediterranean area one can only point to stories in Asia which have been written down: e.g., the Vedas or some Chinese stories. However, there is no reason to interpret these as belonging in the same category as 121

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the Mediterranean holy books: a Hindu need not read or know the Vedas to be a religious person, and the stories of the Chinese have no authority like the gospels do for the Christian. A second and linked effect of the older studies of myth is that the philologist-classicist attributed a foundational function to (some) myths. To be sure, in the Mediterranean religions the myth(s) of origin has a foundational status. That is to say, the creation of the world, the covenant between God and humanity as expressed in Genesis, is seen by Jews, Christians and Muslim alike as the expression of basic insights for humanity, since they were revealed to us by God himself. This means that the myths-as-texts have a quality of veracity, which they do not necessarily have when the feature of revelation does not obtain. Since the issue is the origin myth, it then followed that this “true message”, being the first message, had to have a foundational character. That is to say, that which is described and most of all prescribed in the origin myth should be appreciated as a foundation, a root or a primary reference for all further understanding by humans of God’s plans with humankind, viz. of morality and politics. In the Islamic world this interpretation of the text is still rather vivid. In Jewish and Christian circles the “fundamentalist” attitude is present in some small branches or communities, but is somewhat avoided by the larger churches or movements. The very term of fundamentalism is, as should be known, a very respectable term in the history of Christianity, going back to the protestant school which wanted to determine the “fundaments” or fundamental texts which could under no circumstances be doubted by the true believer. Engaging on such an enterprise presupposes the attitude vis-à-vis text which I have indicated here (but see: chapter 11). On the other hand, the general opinion and the expectation that a tradition can only survive when it has an origin myth with foundational status is still widespread. Scholars in the field have adopted this opinion and this attitude, and projected them upon origin myths of oral traditions as well. My postulate in this chapter is that the position which holds that all traditions need some foundation or basic meaning, expressed in a fixed text such as an origin myth, is erroneous. Such position rests on the universalizing or the projection onto all traditions of what has been found to be the case in some Mediterranean religions. It is likely that all traditions know an origin myth of some sort. But such a myth need not have a foundational status, nor need it be cast in a fixed text. Before I present some contrasting evidence, I give a provisional work definition of myth.

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Provisional Definition of Myth In a very general formula I circumscribe myth as a primarily, but not exclusively verbal form of communication between humans and the Whole, expressing the way to strive for wholeness, presenting nonempirical realities, sometimes in view of influencing these realities or to redefine the relationship between them and the human agent. I go over each point of the formula. A myth is certainly an instance of verbal interaction or communication, which is to say that myths take the form of stories. However, the text is not the sole important aspect. The context in which the story is told, the features of the story teller (shaman, medicine man, whoever), the characteristics of the hearers (their gender, their age, their knowledgeability), the time of the year and the place of the performance all matter tremendously and can be understood at least in oral traditions as constituents of a myth. For example, certain myths should not be told during summer time in Navajo and Apache tradition, while other stories should be told during harvest times in the Dogon and Bambara traditions. Such aspects are not textual, but they certainly are integral parts of the myth. The whole event or performance should be called a myth, and not just the story, or more narrowly even the text. A myth recounts non-empirical data. The events and even the agents in a myth cannot be found or recognized in everyday life. A myth may refer to angels, gods, devils, ghosts, and their counter-natural deeds and customs, like flying, performing magic or committing incest. The listener is supposed to believe in the figures and events in certain traditions, or to learn to appreciate the exemplary status of these fantasies and get some consolation or draw some lesson from the stories. The beings and events are similar to a certain degree to humans and human experiences, yet differ from them in important aspects. There is a fantastic or nonempirical aspect to the myth. Through the performing of the myth this fantasy world is continuously reactivated or adapted to actuality. That is to say, the listeners are reminded of the realm of half-reality and halffantasy during the performance, and redefine their relationship towards it. A final feature concerns the possible functions of myths. In my understanding myths can induce certain actions of humans vis-à-vis the agents or the events in the story: people can try to manipulate an ancestor through a commemoration myth, or they can reflect on decisions in daily life by drawing on the story and the “solutions” it seems to hold. The restrictions and closures of everyday life, with its customs and agreements which foreclose a more radical change of perspective, can be overcome through the use of this “other” context, which then acts as 123

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a source or reflection or of inspiration. In that sense another notion of “past” might obtain a continuously updated past of half-reality and halffantasy allows for openings in the experience of the present. Even in the textual form of myth in the gospels, this pragmatic meaning can be spotted: the holy mass commemorates the suffering, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, and is hence a continuous interaction with God to safeguard the new relationship between God and his saved creation. In a different form the performance of the Blessingway myth at the end of each ceremony by the Navajo Indians can be understood as a continuous redefinition and manipulation of the relationships between humans and the forces in nature. The functional aspects of myth been hinted at, but not elaborated on by structuralist approaches (Lévi-Strauss, 1965-1978; Kirk, 1970). They are explored more systematically in the performance and action approaches which were initiated by Hymes (1981) and Bourdieu (1981). For the sake of clarity I distinguish between two types of myth, which focus on the different forms or levels of action concerned: the origin myth and the heroic myth. Because of the lack of other editions, I will have to use the text-versions I found in published form to illustrate some points.

Origin Myths As far as I know the statement that all traditions have origin myths of some sort or other is uncontested. They can be scarce or little used (like apparently in Bamileke culture, Mambi-Meido, 1999) or they can exist in abundance. Depending on type and content the origin myth is known under different names: – the cosmogonic myth explains the coming into being or deployment of the cosmos, – the foundation or creation myth tells the story of the creation of the world by a god-creator and it often details the social and behavioral rules for humanity, which are then linked to the creation, – the emergence myth tells how things come on the earth (for example through a corn stalk in the middle of the earth) and are then placed in relationship to each other (e.g., the Navajo origin myth), – the order out of chaos myth relates how things existed in a chaotic way and were gradually ordered to allow a life-space for humans, – the term “origin myth” is likely to be the most general term to refer to stories about initial existence (Long, 1964). In “Differentia 2” I give two examples of origin myths. The examples show that the term can refer to quite different types of stories. In 124

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both, initial situations are described and fundamental order principles are mentioned: space, functions, relationships between things and beings. In Genesis the story is told through the actions of a supernatural being, who starts creating everything in the cosmos. In the Navajo myth things simply “emerge” and are not created by one instance. The category of human beings in both myths differs importantly: the first humans in Genesis are created by God, while First Man and First Woman happen to be among the phenomena which appear in the world. In that sense, the latter are not the first humans from whom a line of descent can be imagined, but their ancestral meaning seems to be more like ideal forms of humanness for the present Navajo. In Genesis a clearly theo-centric emphasis can be detected from the first verse: God is the central figure who creates and organizes a world according to his understanding and will. Humans, being creations of this god, are definitely and explicitly to obey him. In the Navajo myth one detects an anthropo-ecocentrism, which only relates how things happened upon the world and what relationships between them can be envisioned. The focus is on humans-in-the-natural-order. This different focus can explain why the fall from grace with the original sin is a likely theme in the sort of origin myth like Genesis: humans disobey God and hence loose the well-defined situation they had. The strong moralistic aspect to this myth appears to be central: the contract or covenant between God and his creation is structurally basic in the story and is repeated in the relationship between God and Adam, then God and Abraham, then Noah, Isaac, Job, and so on until its final version in the death and resurrection theme of Christ (explicitly redefining the covenant between God and humans). In the Navajo myth the contract notion and the moral issue are absent, as is the notion that one line of conduct would be divinely sanctioned. That is why Navajo would explain that First Man and first Woman are not the “Navajo version” of Adam and Eve, but rather something like the native George Washington (that is, the ancestor who organized or placed things in an exemplary way). With the creation myth it is possible to speak of a type of origin myth that has foundational connotations: it explains how cosmic order, social relations, etc. are defined by the supernatural being in a coercive way for humanity. In the other types of origin myths (emergence myths, order out of chaos myths) this foundational character of the origin story is absent or secondary; it is more often said that humans should find out for themselves, while inspiration can come from the myth, how they should behave in the particular contexts they face.

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The Hero Myth The heroic myth does not give an explanation about the cosmos or human life in general. My understanding of this form is that it redefines a particular theme or hands an addition to the story of the origin myth. The relationship between both can be strict or rather loose. This redefinition can concern a fundamental issue, but it is not a story about everything to be sure. I give three examples. The Navajo myth of night and day animals; the story of the birth of time. (In the origin myth it became clear that light and darkness as such are not a subject of the story. But the changes in length or intensity between light and darkness in the diurnal cycle and in the yearly cycle of seasons, is not covered by the origin myth. This heroic myth gives an addition). At the winter solstice the people of the night and the people of the day gathered to decide on time. The people of the night took a place to the north, and the people of the day sat down to the south. All the animals took off one shoe and buried it in front of them. Someone carried the earth, which was hidden in a shoe of one of the two parties. Someone carried a club stick. In between the parties stood an arbiter holding one hundred and two yucca leafs. When the people of the day had hidden the earth (without the other party having seen it) an animal of the night party came over with the club and hit one of the shoes of the people of the day. His guess was that the earth was hidden there. When his guess was successful, he was handed two yucca leafs. When he failed, he could try once more. When he hit the earth then, he received just one leaf. When he was wrong again, he had to hand over one of the leaves in the possession of the night people to the other party. The earth was then hidden in a shoe of the night people, and the day people had to gamble for it. All the while a sacred song was sung by the referee. When all the one hundred and two leafs were given out by him, the game just went on: the people of the day and the people of the night tried to get all the leaves in their possession. However, the game was not decided: leaves kept changing hands, but no party ever got hold of all the leaves. When morning broke, the game was stopped. This myth tells the story of the waxing and of night and day as we can witness it in nature. The myth is performed or “played” in a game at the period of the winter solstice each year. The game lasts all night and is broken up at dawn. All bystanders have a good time, and are taught at the same time how light and darkness alternate in a continuous and undecided give and take process. It is clear that this myth is a perfor-

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mance and not just a text; in fact, it is hard to imagine how it could be reduced to a text at all. (Based on my field work, 1977 and 1981). The death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The Christian myth, as it is laid down in the gospels, is a second example of the heroic myth. Technically speaking (from my point of view as researcher) the figure and the doctrine of Christ is mythical, notwithstanding that the historical Jesus may or may not have walked the face of the earth. Only believers should accept the other contents of the myth (Jesus = Christ and son of God / his doctrine = the word of God). The researcher considers this to be mythical material, however full of impact the myth has become over time. Against the background of the Jewish tradition (which remains the stem on which the Christian tradition grew) I understand the doctrine of Jesus as an elaboration and partial redefinition of aspects of the Jewish mythology. From Genesis on the relationship between God and the people was expressed in a covenant. Also, the Old Testament holds the promise of a messiah who would announce a new era. Jesus can hence be understood as a particular format for these themes: he is a messiah (as Christians claim), and in the Christian doctrine he is the one who redefines the covenant with God. Looked at from the perspective of the Jewish tradition he is a false messiah, whereas from the point of view of the Christian doctrine he is the ultimate messiah. From the perspective of the researcher he is the redefinition of an Old Testament theme. With the acceptance of monotheism and of the basic status of creation expressed in Genesis which both religions accept, the gospels (or the so-called New Testament) are a typical instance of the heroic myth. The origin myth, – in this case a creation myth –, of the Old Testament is safeguarded, and part of the later story is reshaped by the heroic life and death of Jesus Christ. I take a second look at the issue from present-day orthodoxy, which is going back on this point to the Council of Nicea of 325 CE (Praet, 1996). Jesus is born out of the two humans, with the intervention of a divine agent (represented by the messenger angel of Gabriel who announced Mary’s status of the elect of God, as is depicted in numerous paintings throughout time, showing Gabriel with the Holy Spirit). At an early age, the gospels tell us, Jesus starts preaching and performing miracles: he gives sight back to blind people, he walks on water, he turns water into wine, etc. The miracles are explained to the followers by reference to the extraordinary status of Jesus: he is not an ordinary mortal, but still mortal. In the gospel of John he is called the son of God. He does not start a family, but multiplies himself spiritually in his following. As a final act he offers himself as a sacrifice, and gives his body and his blood to the followers to eat and drink. He dies as a martyr, and the death is interpreted by the followers as a redefinition of the covenant 127

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between God and humanity. God gives humanity a second chance (after the original sin) through this ultimate sacrifice. In that interpretation Jesus is clearly a messiah: he announces a new covenant between God and humanity. It is difficult to say when this version and interpretation of the myth got generally accepted, but it is known that after a few centuries and under the influence of the church institute and of the Roman political authorities a certain amount of beliefs were uniformly decreed at Nicea in 325 CE. Monotheism in the form of trinity was accepted, the deification of Jesus Christ became dogma, and the human status of Mary was decreed. Finally, canonical gospels were distinguished from apocrypha. Technically speaking this defines the Christian myth as a heroic myth against the background of the origin myth in Genesis. According to some Jewish scholars this occasioned the development of the rabbinic tradition in Judaism in diaspora, which is then seen by them as a quasiChristian form of Judaic theology (Neussner, 1996). The myth of Asdiwal in Tsimshian tradition. Claude Lévi-Strauss uses material from Franz Boas to describe and analyze the myth of Asdiwal. I give a summary. A mother and a daughter are hungry while living the life of a widow with child. They are visited by Hatsenas, the wonder bird, who gives them food and impregnates the mother with a son. The son is Asdiwal. He receives magical attributes from his father. Together with his mother he journeys to the West, downstream. Asdiwal is seduced by a bear figure, a beautiful woman who appears to be the daughter of the sun. Asdiwal marries in heaven and resides with the sun. Homesick he yearns to rejoin his mother, “down there”. He deceives his wife who then kills him halfway between the sun and the earth. The sun brings him back to life, and returns to the village of his birth. There he remarries, becomes a father and establishes himself as a good hunter. After an attempt to climb the world upstream, he is turned into a rock. The myth gives important information on geographical orientations: the vertical axis (sun-earth), the horizontal moves (upstream/downstream), and east and west as directions for hunters are defined. Asdiwal can be seen as a heroic myth explaining important geographical knowledge to the people.

6. On the Status and Use of Myths The problem of the status of myths has been argued in a variety of ways. What should be understood by “myth”? Is a myth a story? Is it a set of beliefs? Is it a metaphor? Or still something else? 128

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Lévi-Strauss who spent most of his career studying myths, proposes that the most important part of myths is subconscious: the myth is built up according to structures which can not be observed or experienced, and which form a subjacent logic. According to him this is a basic feature of myths: the myth appears as a story, but what is superficially brought as a story is in fact of secondary importance. What is of real importance and is in fact related to the hearers is hidden behind the observable surface. For example, in the myth of Asdiwal the story tells us about the deeds of a hero, but in fact cosmological and geographical knowledge with survival value is transferred. Between myths the hidden structural logic is what counts: Lévi-Strauss shows that the structures of myths can be explained as transformations of each other, building on the same basic logic. Different authors have voiced criticism on this position. First of all, this view is static: the fixed, historically unchangeable logic seems to determine any and all myths, but it is never explained how this logic came about and works in different contexts. Changes and contextual specificity is simply denied by Lévi-Strauss (Fabian, 1984). A further critique has been mentioned in the previous pages: myths are not just texts or even stories. Myths are happenings which involve participation of a whole group or community. Dell Hymes (1981) lists the following aspects which can be discerned in a mythical story telling event: – a story – nonsensical noises and interjections – intonations and bodily postures of the story teller – repetition of movements and sounds – the singing or the music – theatrical skills of the story teller – the (religious or other) authority of the story teller – the cloths of the story teller – the space of the event, e.g. private or public space – the time of the year, the hour of the day, etc. – the attitudes, the age, and other features of the audience: the stories are told in such a way that they will be retold by the listeners. The telling of a story or the performance of a myth is a learning process. It will be clear, and I repeat myself of course, that a myth is much more than merely a text. Myths are complex actions with an important role for linguistic elements. 129

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7. Religious Language, Learning and Identity Religious language appears now as a complex and varied domain of human activity. Even if I was only able to touch upon a particular part of the domain, it will have become clear that diversity in form and a rich potential in contents is characteristic of this type of religious activity. Returning to the learning theory of M. Cole, I will formulate some general propositions. Taking into account that religious language is a subcategory of religious activity, two features stand out: religious language is distinct from other forms of activity in that narratives take a prominent role in religious language. People explain, tell about or fantasize in stories about their world while using language. The secondary and tertiary artifacts are verbal to a large extent. This implies that the learning process in religions will take on a different character: the more verbal activities have a predominant role in them. Hence, religions with an emphasis on orthodoxy will focus heavily or even exclusively on religious language (eventually only texts, like in some protestant churches), while religions with an emphasis on ortho-praxy will intrinsically only allow a sustaining role for religious language. The latter seems to be literally the case in Judaism, both in the rabbinic version and in contemporary forms (Leibowitz, 1992). The text is secondary to religious actions here, implying that text will never become as compelling or binding as in the orthodox religions. The different schools in Judaism and their continuous and relentless disputes amongst each other offer a marvelous field of study on this particular issue: within one religion it gives the researcher the opportunity to investigate the tension between orthodoxy and ortho-praxy by focusing on the status of texts as religious artifacts and their role in learning processes. In oral traditions I can detect other balances between language and action yielding a view on religious language as complex action (captured with the term “performance”, maybe). Orthodoxy and belief are empty or maybe false categories in these cases, and tertiary artifacts allow for widely diverse interpretations, since contextualization and actualization become more prominent than reproduction. The tradition of story telling offers great examples here: the features of the people, the context and the themes are equally important, and each performance is a transfer or learning process between story teller and audience (Silko, 1991).

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Complex Religious Phenomena The liturgy acclaims God thrice holy: it proclaims Christ as alone holy; it celebrates the feast of saints. Holiness, then, appears to be a complex reality which touches on the mystery of God, but also on worship and morality. It includes the notions of sacred and pure, but also transcends them. It seems to be inaccessibly reserved to God, but it is constantly attributed to creatures (Dictionary of Biblical Theology, London, 1973).

1. Sacredness Concepts like “sacred”, “holy”, “magic” and their derivatives hold a central place in the literature and in the practice of religions. The citation preceding this chapter makes clear that polysemy and somewhat idiosyncratic meaning attribution abound in this field, and may yield complexity and confusion. The citation stems from a Christian dictionary which has authority for the reading of Old and New Testament. Without doubt the notions used would lead to other interpretations in a Jewish tradition, let alone in an American Indian or an Asian tradition. One sensible distinction seems to reside in the cosmology adopted. I remind the reader that at the very least holistic, dualistic and multilayered cosmic structures can be discerned in the world. In the holistic cosmology an attitude of respect towards anything sacred is dominant, maybe occasioned by the feeling or thought that humans live in a habitat together with everything else in existence. The attitude of respect entails that the object of reverence is not harmed or not killed without a good reason. The feeling seems to be that such acts would harm or even render impossible one’s own survival. This respect and the fear to disrupt can be so intense that a general atmosphere of anxiety or alertness obtains. The latter was called a generalized “paranoia” in communities by some (like Reichard about the Navajo, personal communication by O. Werner). In the dualistic traditions I interpret the notions of sacred and holy as markers of a different nature from what is common or earthly. The sacred has a superhuman or supernatural status, eventually extended to human beings as well: in the citation humans are said to have to become 131

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“holy” as well. Hence, what could be called sacred in this world is to be understood by the dualist as part of the “other world”: e.g., Christ is the messenger of God on earth, the Church is the link between the immanent and the transcendent world, etc. It appears that the distinction between two worlds may work as a consolation in the existentialpsychological realm. Maybe such is the reason for the adoption of this paradoxical world view. Anyhow, it seems worthwhile to look at more complex religious phenomena through the perspective of different cosmologies. Next to some international authors in this field, I draw on work of two Flemish thinkers here: Thibau (1982) and Kruithof (1985). Although I agree only in part with their views, they triggered important reasoning processes for me, especially clarifying some notions in this often opaque literature. Both authors hold the opinion that claiming something as sacred is an essential part of religious phenomena. In a very general sense such a process of “making sacred” can be isolated, I think. Secondly, they both claim that sacredness is the ultimate meaning producing activity of a cultural community. In my terms: sacredness is the ultimate form of culturality. In their view the common world is made sensible or meaningful in a profound way by making sacred parts of it. It is obvious I contest the universality of such a statement: for sure, the Mediterranean religions attach a meaning to almost every action or sound, but in my mind this does not obtain across traditions. In our time and in our cultural sphere the authors perceive a progressive schism between the sacred and the profane leading to the dwindling of the sacred. This reduction of the realm of the sacred was set in at the beginning of Christianity, and reaches its high point in the present era, according to the authors. Typical instances are the “profanization” of the liturgy in Catholicism, and the progressive adoption of secular principles in the organization of the religious community (with lay helpers as religious specialists, lay themes instead of the mystery, and so on). At the same time the mythic aspect of Christianity is being emptied (the “entmythologisierung”), with meaning and sense coming more and more from secular ideologies and less from the religious arsenal of the gospels. According to the authors, there is no logical necessity here, but an historical accident. In their view the profound “no-thingification” of this tradition has set in (for Thibau), or the reckless and blind usurpation by the secular westerner will abolish the world (for Kruithof). From an anthropological perspective a continuum of waning sacredness could be envisioned as follows:

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Primitive Æ Christianity Æ West in 2000 AD Maximal sacredness Æ Semi-sacral Æ Profane Æ Nothingness In the frame of reference of the authors this continuum can be interpreted as follows: the “primitive” lives in a totally sacred world. Each act and every thought has a sacred and cosmic dimension. The Christian started out with a sacred world (focusing on life, death, sin, the hereafter) which is only part of the total cosmos. The westerner of today looses all sacredness, yielding a void instead of values and a blind hubris. In the end the westerner will destroy the whole world because of this lack of sacredness (against which Kruithof would pitch ecophilosophy). Similar objections against the mere erasing of the sacred from our life were phrased by notable atheists or agnostics (e.g., Comte Sponville, 2004). To be sure, the scheme is simplified here, but it points to the place of sacredness in this theory of culture. In a general way, the statement that Christianity has a de-sacralizing tendency which is intrinsic, could help explain how Enlightenment and present-day atheism emerged from the Christian cradle (see also the vehement on atheism by atheist Onfray (2006), claiming that the roots of religion are all too present still). That such schools of thought are by necessity seen as “loss” of value, “destruction” or “void” smacks of doom rather than of critical thinking.

2. The Holy, the Sacred For the sake of clarity in a comparative perspective I distinguish between “holy” and “sacred”: I propose to use the terms “sacred” and “sacredness” as the generic terms, whereas “holy” and “holiness” are reserved to religions with a non-holistic cosmology. So, all holy phenomena are sacred, but not the other way around. Holy refers to a status of sacredness of beings or things which belong to a nonhuman world. In principle anything having to do with religious action and language can be sacred. Hence, all phenomena with symbolic connotations and dealing with the relationship between humans and the whole, can have a sacred character. In this way, some persons throughout the world gain a sacred status: they can have a particular power (like the shaman), or they can speak for the holy being (like the priest in Christian churches), they can travel between here and the hereafter, or they can be god incarnated (like the Dalai Lama). Any of these attributes makes the persons acquire a different status, in fact makes them sacred to some extent, and hence somewhat untouchable for the profane predicaments. Who is seen as a sacred person and why differs from culture to culture, but that they exist is a fact.

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Certain places like pilgrimage places, oracle places and the like, particular objects (swords, scepters, etc.) and animals and plants (like the sacred cow in India, and the sacred oak in the Celtic tradition) all have similar features. That is, notwithstanding the differences, they all induce respect yielding a special status of protection or awe. For example, the sacred oak will not be cut and used as firewood like any other tree, the sacred animal will only be hunted and eaten in a ceremonial way. I give some “exotic” examples to illustrate this point in a “non-parochial” way. In several myths in West Africa we find references to the “little red men”. Even in the mythology of Ancient Egypt we find these. It is likely that these “little red men” are responsible for the spread of many material goods and of symbols across Africa in the centuries before the Common Era (de Heusch, 1971). These “little red men” are always called sacred and are approached with a lot of respect, viz. they are given presents. Most probably they were and still are the pygmee groups, who used to be spread over the width of Africa. With their particular physical characteristics and their widespread contacts between different peoples they must have been attributed a special status. In the mythic songs of the Sioux Indians of North America one finds a series of incantations which form the core of Sioux religion (storm, 1972). With the chanting for Wakan Tanka (translated clumsily by westerners as Great Spirit, or worse: the highest god) the Indian expresses a sacredness philosophy: Look, I live Look, I stand in relation to the earth Look, I stand in relation to the “gods” Look, I have a good relation to all that is beautiful Look, I stand in good relation to you Look, I live, I live.

What is expressed here is an attitude of looking upon the whole as a sacred instance: partly implicitly everything is included in the chant and the speaker’s good relationship to all beings is expressed. Upon closer examination respect vis-à-vis the ways of existence of all things is referred to. For example, the earth should not be damaged or sold by human beings. The presupposed order in nature regulates the relationships between beings optimally. Plants and animals can be used according to need, but never destroyed or used without necessity. It is up to each human being to interpret when and how elements of nature can be used harmoniously and when human beings act disruptively. The healing ceremonies, then, are meant to restore occasional disruption by turning around, so to speak, the negative effects of human action (Witherspoon, 1977). 134

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In the Mediterranean traditions the concept of “holy” is used. Referring to the citation heading this chapter, it appears that things holy in these traditions have a moral aspect too. So, with the descriptive dimension comes a normative dimension which directs human behavior in a compelling way. It is this definition of the holy which is found in authoritative texts by phenomenologists of religion: Rudolph Otto (1963) defines the holy as that which escapes reason and at the same time invokes a certain type of emotions in the believer. The holy is “das ganz Andere”, the totally different being. Typical for the holy, according to Otto, is that it invokes a combination of emotions in the believer: it is the mysterium tremendum et fascinans. That is to say, it is the extrarational factor which makes the believer shiver and shy away in anxiety (i.e., “tremendum”), but at the same time it induces a strong feeling of love and attraction (i.e., “fascinans”). The mysterious or intractable aspect of it decrees that it escapes the human knower, and present him with a paradoxical phenomenon. In behavioral practice this means that the holy asks for a different treatment from the profane: for example, it should be touched, or it should be revered, or it should not be spoken about, or it should be manipulated in a particular way. A few examples. In the Jewish liturgy it is forbidden to touch the holy book of the Torah with the bare hands. Special instruments were designed to turn the scroll or follow the lines to be read or sung. The reason is that the Torah contains the word of God. In the same sense, the Holy Being should not be represented in a pictorial way nor should his name be spoken out loud. In Christian and Islamic traditions one knows different holy places: the birth place of Jesus, pilgrimage places where appearances are said to have happened. The holy city of Mecca and its kaabaa or holy stone (on which Mohammed’s head would have rested) is another instance. These places and objects invite a particular behavior in the believer: they should visit these places to pray, like Mecca for the Muslim and Jerusalem for the Christian. Visiting these places extends a particular contact with the other world and may result in a modest kind of bliss according to the doctrines.

3. Sacralizers In his approach Thibau suggests that we need a frame to distinguish between different types of phenomena or events which sacralize (or make sacred) things, and hence induce religious behavior vis-à-vis that thing. He refers to Van Gennep’s theory on rites of passage and to LéviStrauss’s theory of myth. In the course of a human lifecycle Thibau distinguishes between eight crucial biological moments of divide or 135

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crisis, each of which is shaped culturally or religiously because they act as sacralizers. The eight sacralizers are: birth and death, puberty and marriage, incest, and the non-biological phenomena of time, place and language. I would like to add a few to make a more comprehensive list. Claude Lévi-Strauss stresses that culture should be understood as the human formatting which differs from nature. Culture is the human way to be unnatural. A fundamental point in his approach is incest. That is to say, the biological sexual urge does not in itself distinguish between blood relatives (mother, sister, brother, father) and others as possible sexual partners. Anybody who is sexually ripe is biologically speaking a possible partner for sexual activities. Any cultural tradition we know of, however, restricts the set of possible or allowed partners for sexual interaction by means of an incest taboo or incest rule. Certain groups are declared forbidden or impossible partners, because of their close kin relationship (for example, anybody with a blood tie of any sort, or anybody linked by marriage or descent two steps removed, etc.). Incest or the exclusion rule works in these instances as a sacralizer: it installs a relationship of respect, abstinence and “sacred” command over and against the biological logic. A second and somewhat related crucial point, according to Lévi-Strauss is exchange: with the incest taboo goes most of the time a system of advices or preferences on possible sets of candidates for sexual partnership, belonging to other than one’s own bloodline. In practice this leads most often to an exchange system: candidate A from clan X looks for a wife K from clan Y; candidate B from clan Y looks for a wife L in clan X, such that between clans X and Y wives turn out to be “exchanged” over generations. The exchange system can be much more complex, to be sure, but the general rule of exchange is guiding. This exchange is then often formatted in a ceremonial or symbolic form, with formulas, fixed rituals, and the like, which turns the exchange itself into a sacralizer. Also, war in small communities (or “little cultures”) seems to have this symbolic character and can best be seen as a sort of exchange of a ritual type (rather than territorial expansion or manslaughter: Lévi-Strauss, 1973; Verswijver, 1985). Apart from these extensions to Thibau’s frame I want to suggest a further sacralizer: illness. In some traditions illness clearly plays the role of sacralizer and is situated also on the dividing line between nature and culture. Humans fight back and develop as many remedies as possible. In doing so, humans develop artifacts, which go beyond anything in existence. Diagnosis and therapy often acquire a sacred character. An extended example from Navajo religion will illustrate this point. One can claim that some 90% of their religious doings have to do with health and healing. 136

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In the first place the diagnosis of an illness or disharmony is reached and formulated by a shaman. This is a man or a woman who has a certain gift, which enables him or her to act as a diagnostician. In the process one’s knowledge of a person, of the context and of the symptoms play a role, but also the gift to let certain forces in nature speak through the shaman. The shaman is possessed by these forces and consequently (s)he is able to track down the causes of illness or disharmony in a symbolic way. Navajo distinguish between three types of shamanism: a) the handtrembler: the shaman paints a forearm with a lightning or snake figure. In a second time, concentration turns to the body of the patient and the painted arm is moved over the body at a short distance. The shaman goes into trance and the painted arm is starting to tremble when the cause of trouble or illness is detected. b) the stargazer consults the stars by looking through a crystal for a long while fixating a certain constellation. The eyelids should not be moved, occasioning a trance experience. Through this process a vision is coming to the shaman. c) the windlistener represents to my mind the most poetic type. (S)he retires to a quiet and isolated place and concentrates on the noises and sounds of the wind. Through them a symbolic message will be transferred, indicating the cause of illness or trouble. The shaman is a go-between for the patient and for the forces in nature. In this case nature or the Whole uses the shaman as a medium. A second type of religious specialist is the medicine person. One is an apprentice for several years with an older medicine person, where songs are learned and medicinal plants are explored, and the older colleague is helped out in details during the performance of the ceremonies. In practice any medicine person thus learns three to four healing ceremonies (of a total set of some sixty different ceremonies). The shaman makes the diagnosis and sends the patient to a particular medicine person, to get an appropriate ceremony. Of the other sacralizers time and death seem to be the less wellknown in western traditions. Death as sacralizer is expressed in the many and often extended burial ceremonies and funerary beliefs The pre-Christian beliefs and practices of peoples in the mountains of Central Europe trigger our imagination until today: in Rumania and Russia one still finds customs surrounding the dead which are considered bizarre or romantic at times. When somebody dies (s)he is put in an open coffin and stuffed with food and clothes. All the while the corpse is clutching a burning candle. A feast is held in front of the coffin, while the eyes of the dead remain open. The heart is pierced by the religious 137

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specialist, after which act the eyes are closed and the coffin is buried in the cemetery. A full-grown evergreen is planted on the grave to allow the spirit to make the passage to the other world. When the ceremony is improperly performed it is said that the soul of the dead person will “return to haunt the living” (which is found in the romanticized idea of the “vampire”, Bernabé, 1982). In Bali noblemen are buried on a high wooden tower. They are carried around in a festive pilgrimage after which the tower is put to fire. The lore has it that with princes and kings, the widow would throw themselves into the fire, to be burnt alive (Geertz, 1979). Next to these rather sensational ways of making death into something sacred we find a sort of disregard or covering up of death in our western traditions: while in the Medieval Ages death was a public event we find a continuing privatization of death and its withdrawal from the public spaces. It may be that death is loosing its status of sacralizer in our tradition, which may cause specific troubles with mourning and the digestion of loss. Time as sacralizer is found in numerous heathen and Christian festivities and ceremonies. In Genesis time is used in this sense when the seventh day is made into a day of rest or Sabbath day by God: and the seventh day He rested. During the Christian Middle Ages estimates are that up to a hundred holy days were known, each providing occasion for festivities. With Protestantism, growing capitalism and industrialization (in interrelationship with each other, whichever was first) the amount of free or feast days was dramatically reduced. Most of the time such days refer to some natural event: the solstices (for example, the winter solstice for Christmas, the summer solstice for Ascension), the harvest time (with the feast of the Holy Mary on August 15th in Catholicism). Also, historic time is marked by sacred moments: the so-called “Common Era” is the time which starts with the birth of Jesus Christ, whereas the era before that time is then referred to as B.C. (Before Christ). For other traditions, other time schedules obtain e.g., Islamic time reckoning starts from Hegira which was Mohammed’s journey from Mecca to Medina in 622. In the model of identity and learning, which is the basic frame for the present book, it is clear that a special and complex learning situation is obtaining here: on the one hand a practice is learned and on the other hand the contents or meanings of texts, often referring to a cosmology, is central in these religious phenomena. In other traditions than the Mediterranean religions referred to, only behavioral aspects may be taught to be sacralizers, or a particular behavioral pattern can be attached to a belief. In the examples of Christianity and Islam it is striking that behavioral attitudes are not only coupled with, but sustained by or

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founded in beliefs (like for example, the statement that our era starts with the birth of Jesus the Messiah). The artifacts which are used differ according to the tradition: in socalled natural religions natural phenomena are used as sacralizers. The same phenomena get a secondary status in Mediterranean religions where the word has primary sacred worth. The word can have this primary status as a secondary artifact (as with the Torah) or as a tertiary artifact (as with the word of Jesus). This allows us to identify an important distinctive criterion to distinguish among religions, I claim: when a sacred act is performed referring to an external material given like a natural event (i.e., a solstice), and when such an act is performed on the basis of the interpretation of such a natural event by a religious specialist, we have two clearly different religious acts. In the first case the range of interpretation is open to the performer or the local group; in the second place the range of interpretation is codetermined and hence narrowed by the categories of the intermediate specialist, the more so when doctrine gets more important. It is in this second case that dogmas can acquire a status and be guiding principles used by an elite to control a flock of followers. This point is not trivial at all, since it allows us to understand why there are always tensions with mystics in institutionalized religions: it are the mystics who enter into conflict with the institution in Judaism (Kabala), Christianity and Islam (Derwishes). Indeed, in the terms of my model they withdraw the production and learning of artifacts from the institution and place them with the individual religious person. They thus expand the range of interpretation for the individual person and diminish that of the institution, which is why mysticism can be thought next to resistance for a mystica like Sölle (1998). On the other hand, it is striking in shamanistic traditions that the shaman is the medium for the group, but this position does not entail any coercive force on the part of the shaman over the group (Humphrey, 1996; Pinxten own field notes).

4. Magic White magic chases away the bad spirits or heals the people who became victims. So, it is not antisocial. Black magic subordinates the bad spirits and supernatural powers to make them into instruments humans. It is distinguished everywhere from white magic and is condemned (Panoff & Perrin Dictionnaire de l’ethnologie, 1973, p. 165-166).

Magic is a difficult subject. The difficulties are not so much to be found in the phenomenon itself, but rather in the confusion which emerged from it in the course of time. Again I have to refer to Mediterranean theology. In that tradition Christian theology has been treating 139

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other religions for centuries as inferior, primitive or more simply as preChristian phenomena. According to the Christian doctrine the nonChristian parts of humanity (including the Jews, of course) are still living in that stage of the original sin and hence are doomed: only their baptism would bring them to the era of the New Testament and permit them to be saved. In Islamic doctrine a similar attitude obtains, translated likewise in proselytism. In the course of centuries of theological debates the others (non-Christians, for instance) have been looked upon as having a sort of proto-religion. In many texts one will find that these others have magic rather than genuine religion. Hence, magic was used as a term to designate what falls outside of one’s own (or “real”) religion, and carries the connotation of superstition as well. It is seen as incomprehensible, wrong, the work of the devil (as the provisional victor in the Adam and Eve story). Some Christian missionaries have hesitated or doubted when confronted with other cultures and have spoken of “paradise people” living without guilt, but the majority would condemn the others as living with “magic”. In Christian traditions one finds early on the distinction between white and black magic, following a dichotomy as is popular in this tradition where dichotomies abound (good versus bad, god versus the devil, earth versus heaven, etc.). The distinction accepts that some religious aspects are irrational, or beyond scientific or reasonable understanding and yet worthwhile or even true: the magical is not to be rejected as such. But it is not a religion in the full and true sense of the word. Still, magical practices are acknowledged and respected within Christianity: the miracles performed by Jesus Christ (having someone rise from death, give the blind vision, turn water into wine, and so on) were and still are a part of the doctrine. Even in our age miracles and the granting of grace by God are possible. To capture this particular set of events-beyond-reason the term “white magic” is used. In all other cases, that is in those cases that are not identified within this category by the institution watching over it, magical phenomena are expressions of the work of the devil and hence false uses of sacrality. This is the category of black magic. The categories are specific to the Mediterranean religious background, I think, and need to be revised from a neutral and scientific perspective. I give some approaches in social sciences and start re-categorizing from there.

Historical Examples I will refrain from giving examples of condemning Christian or Islamic description. They can easily be found in the writing of church fathers and theologians. A general definition of the notion of “magic” may suffice: “In opposition to religion (which stipulates humility and 140

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prayer) magic is a technique, an art which succumbs to occult forces of evil, magic is able to produce efforts contrary to natural laws” (Tondriau & Villeneuve, 1968). The attitude is clear: magic resembles the religious (with symbols, ritualistic practices), but it is only technique. It is worse than evil, because it can turn around natural laws. One “falls” for it. Such descriptions still abound. Whatever their worth in religious contexts, I hope it is clear they will not further any understanding of the phenomena. Especially in anthropology, where the confrontation with the strange or exotic human expressions is more common than in other disciplines, and where an awareness of otherness and difference may be sharper than in other social sciences, a circumscription has been forwarded. Sir Frazer was one of the first to try and think through the phenomenon of magic in his literary-anthropological work (the Golden Bough, 1922). He correctly stated that magic consists in relatively simple ritualized actions aimed at reaching a concrete goal. In his view, then, this is not a religious phenomenon (as understood in strictly Mediterranean religious terms: a doctrine, a church, a god, etc.), but rather what he called “a false science”. This science is based on two principles: a) the law of similarity: the effect formally resembles the cause. For example, if I want to hurt a person I can do so by injuring an anthropomorphic doll which stands for the victim. b) the law of contact or contagion: the things which enter into contact with each other can have a contagious effect on each other. An elaborate and rather well-known example is that of voodoo magic: On Haiti one knows until this very day elaborate practices of voodoo magic. The magician calls upon a certain deity (i.c., Baron Samedi) with a particular formula and asks him to kill a particular person, using a standard formula: “Seigneur mon dieu, viens chercher à perdre untel afin que…” (Lord, come and do away with person x so that…). Potatoes are offered: a handful are taken for each “desired dead” and they are spread on the path followed by the victim. Through contact with the potatoes spread out the victim will be struck dead. One can also take stones of graves (for each victim a stone) and throw them at the door of the candidate. I will refer to this example of magic in view of killing in the course of this section. Frazer made the remark that magic shows a clear belief in the uniformity of nature: the magician defines relationships between cause and effect (for example, between touching the potatoes and dying), which remind us of scientific reasoning. That is to say, the type of relationship is not mysterious at all, but has a causal ring. This is in 141

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contrast with relationships advocated in religion, according to Frazer, where the mysterious character is quintessential to beliefs about holiness. The opposition between religion and magic then would seem to be, among other things, that between spiritual and concrete goals and complex and simple actions. This might explain Frazer’s characterization of magic as “false science”: magic uses the causal relationship, but does so in an improper way by defining causality between phenomena which can not be critically observed. In the case of scientific causality the relationship between cause and effect should be controllable and predictable. With magic the formal similarity or the symbolic link suffices. This focus on concrete aspects can be found with the definition of magic by other researchers as well. Most of the time, it is taken to be the principal difference with religion as well. E.g., Durkheim (1912) stated that magic is nothing more than a set of recipes, acts and formulas with religious connotations. They are not integrated in an encompassing whole like a religion. My obvious question is whether such characterizations are not typical of and restricted to Mediterranean religions. Moreover, is it not the case that some forms of Christian or Islamic religious phenomena (e.g., prayer, miracle) have the same features and hence jeopardize Durkheim’s distinction? Functionalists such as Malinowski (1922) or Evans-Pritchard (1937 and 1965) explain the same difference between magic and religion by means of the different functions they fulfill. They claim that both religion and magic rest on the human incapacity to reach absolute and fully dependable knowledge. Next to cognitive and technical skills which enhance the human potential to master the environment, these authors explain the function of magic and religion as that of adding an irrational supplement to safeguard and secure that engagement with reality which is beyond the reach of human knowledge. For example, the Trobriand informants of Malinowski build a canoe with remarkable skill and knowledge about the wood, the sea, the winds and so on. The technological knowledge deployed will insure a safe journey on the ocean. On top of that, however, a set of religious and/or magical actions are performed over the canoe to cover any unforeseeable risks (like a storm, an accident). When these actions are concrete and rather technical in nature, the functionalist will call them “magic”. When they draw upon ambiguous or rather general notions he will call them “religion”. In the eyes of the functionalist both lines of action are rather similar, and are only distinct along certain dimensions. The structuralist Lévi-Strauss (1958b) goes one step further and sees magic as a form of religious action (like other forms), which is meant to restore or sustain the unity of a world view. That is to say, a set of impossibilities or defaults of humans attack or scatter the unity of a 142

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world view (such as incest, war, illness, the sexes), just like they destroy the unity between humans and the cosmos. Exchange, myths, rituals and magic are means to restore this unity on a symbolic level. Lévi-Strauss stretches this notion of a therapeutic nature of magic so far that he compares the magician with the psychoanalytic therapist. The latter would realize a further integration and unification in the mind of the patient by a structurally similar act of giving meaning.

My Attempt at a Characterization All authors seem to agree that a few features can be isolated to characterize magic: – it is a concrete practice with a concrete goal, – it is a practice in which superhuman or eventually universal forces are manipulated, – the phenomenon is similar to (other) religious phenomena and is only distinct from the latter in form or in function. Let us have a look at the phenomenon of the miracle within a catholic holy mass: the mass celebrates trans-substantiation which is an example of white magic. The example was suggested to me by a Navajo Indian wondering about the doctrine he was told about by a catholic father. Trans-substantiation refers to the transformation of bread into the “body of Christ” and wine into the “blood of Christ”, as told by Jesus Christ to his apostles during the Last Supper. It points to the selfsacrifice of God and announces the communion for the new congregation of followers. Each mass commemorates this process as the quintessential event at the dawn of Christianity: – an agent (priest) pronounces certain formulas and makes certain gestures (calling on God, raising chalice and host) in a ceremonial way within a prescribed spatiotemporal context (at least once a week, within a sacred space); – at moment t1 the substances are bread and wine; at moment t2 the substances are believed to be the body and the blood of Jesus Christ. In between are the gestures and formulas of the agent; – the agent is only a mediator: he can not realize the transsubstantiation but only perform the necessary ceremonial acts during which a second and invisible agent will actually realize the transformation. The second agent is God who is believed to act on the invitation of his people, mediated by the religious specialist; – the agent believes in the efficacy of the ceremony and subsequently offers the transformed substances to the followers during communion. The efficacy is taken for granted by all present because it is announced 143

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in the words of the predecessor, Jesus Christ (during the ceremonial of Last Supper). Technically speaking, and given the differences of context and meaning, the nuclear meaning of magic is very similar in both examples. That is to say, a human agent causes something to happen, which is actually realized by a second and invisible agent. The efficacy of causation is in the belief system. In the Christian tradition the magical act is firmly integrated in an elaborate doctrine, whereas in the voodoo tradition the act seems to stand more or less on its own. But the same basic causal relationship obtains. The same can be said about all white magic in the Christian tradition: miracles, appearances. In these the fundamental features are the same: a concrete practice, a concrete goal, formulas and stereotypic actions, and the intervention of a third party, who is manipulated by the religious specialist or the believer so that a humanly impossible act is performed. These acts can be diverse: transformation of substance during holy mass, reversal of time and death in miracles, counter-natural processing (as in voodoo curse, or in prayer). Jan Van Baal (1971) points out that magic in certain forms comes very close to prayer: when magic is expressed in curses one comes in the vicinity of a particular type of prayer, namely the plea. The supplicant calls on the “higher being” with a particular formula in order to occasion a certain effect through the action of the “higher being” in a third person. Again, the belief in the transfer of a thought or wish (from human being to “higher force” or god) is the basis for this magical practice.

5. Conclusion and Remarks The foregoing paragraphs can only yield an understanding of magic as a technically specific form of interaction and communication in view of reaching wholeness, investing primarily in concrete formulas and actions and a concrete goal for which a third part is manipulated. In contradistinction to some other religious phenomena the goal is concrete and the formulas and actions are not or hardly ambiguous. The compelling nature of the cooperating external instance (god, power, etc.) is beyond doubt. The intermediary religious agent (priest or ceremonial leader) is clear: the causal relationship is indicated by a human agent, but realized by the nonhuman third party. A last remark is due. In popular lore magic and such ridiculous things as black masses are often linked to each other. This is a mistake, probably stemming from the local tradition of orthodoxy where magic was put together with occultism and anti-religious activities. The “black mass” and other simplistic forms of demonism or Satanism rests on a 144

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simple inversion: actions and goals are turned upside down, and the effects are believed to be opposite as well. Some rituals are performed from back to front, the name of God is substituted by that of the devil, white is turned into black, etc., yielding a rather childish and often ludicrous, uninteresting and empty sort of game. It will be clear that in my mind such shallow activities should not be identified with the interesting and widespread practice of magic. How can I characterize magic as a concrete religious practice in the model on learning and identity? I think it is clear that magic is first and foremost a kind of religious activity which makes use of primary artifacts like substances (blood, bread, bodily fluids, etc.). The actions on them are so to speak virtual: they are described in formulas (secondary artifacts) in which the instance called upon is asked to perform the action really, yielding new primary artifacts. The making, manipulation and interpretation of artifacts is taught by the religious specialists.

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Religious Ways of Learning Four days you have walked your land and done good. Now hold this eagle feather, the symbol of authority, and walk out of your home. Go forth into the world. (Apache singing for life. Claire Farrer, 1989).

Some religious phenomena can be clearly characterized as learning processes. Others then are auxiliaries or artifacts in learning processes. This is not surprising, given the fact that religions are transferred over generations. This is only possible by means of one or the other type of learning, using artifacts in the sense of Michael Cole’s theory (Cole, 1996). I treat some of the more remarkable forms of learning and a few more striking and possibly universal artifacts.

1. Initiation All religions in the world we know of have initiation procedures. Most often, the eight sacralizers discussed in chapter 8, will operate in initiations: crisis moments in life are treated by having them experienced or gone through symbolically in and through an initiation ceremony. In the strict sense of the word, these are not rituals but rather ceremonies or even festivities. Notwithstanding that, I call initiation procedures religious since they serve to fill in a relationship between particular persons or groups and a vaster reality. They thus instantiate a typical learning process securing the imagining of wholeness. The format of initiations seems to be almost always that of transition rituals. A few examples will make this clear: – Berndt (1974) describes a series of initiations around puberty with the Australian aborigines. The novice is isolated from the group; cloths, weapons and such are taken from the subject. At that point the boy is “ritually dead”. He is then circumcised and receives a wind horn. Subsequently, his body is covered with blood and he is made to drink some blood. Meanwhile a few myths are recited and explained to him. Some procedural aspects are repeated: blood is tapped, songs of death are sung over the “ritually dead” person, activities such as walking, fire throwing 147

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and such are imitated by the boy, and so on. After a cycle of ritual and sometimes dramatic actions the initiation is completed. The boy is then integrated in the new community (of warriors), which implies that he is going to live in the house of men and turns away from the hearth of the mother. – The Kayapo Indians who live in the Amazon area of Brazil practice a substantial series of initiations in order to become warrior. The series starts at the moment of sexual ripening of the boy with a puberty rite and continues into old age. In the course of life the boy (and the man) is becoming more and more a warrior. During the puberty rite the boy is stripped naked, except for a penis shield. His body is painted to secure him a symbolic cloth, and he is given a ceremonial name. He is then classed with a group of men in a man’s house in the center of the village. The structure of the initiation ceremony is that of the rite of passage: symbolic death (nakedness), liminal phase (name giving) and re-composition (integration in the house of men). Throughout his life the proof of knowledge will be asked from the man during ever so many initiations: path-finding, fighting, making clubs, etc. At each time an initiation ceremony is staged and a new name is given. This is not a profane cycle of military promotions: each step of the cycle involves social signifiers (name giving) and ritual parts (connecting with the whole tradition). Sometimes, cosmological and mythical references are built into the ceremony. The whole cycle fulfills a function in the cosmology of the Kayapo: its recurrent happening is a necessary element in the progression of the cosmological order. War is not a profane matter in this culture, but rather a ceremonial activity spread over an ordered cycle of teachings, learning of capabilities (like finding tracks, making clubs, etc.) and learning to fight. In contrast to war in western history there are no economic or public interests at play (no pillage, no territorial expansion), but rather the performance of men in a compulsive symbolic and mutual process (Verswijver, 1994). Lévi-Strauss’s view that war is a form of symbolic exchange seems appropriate here. – The Zen Buddhist is totally unknowledgeable when he becomes an apprentice with a master (Herrigel, 1965). The master can have great knowledge in one or the other symbolic activity, which often tends to be regarded as art forms in the West: archery, Japanese fighting or origami. The novice engages in the seemingly endless repetition of what is learned: a particular body posture, a specific movement, a certain way of being still and silent, etc. By means of longitudinal practice one seems to master one’s bodily feeling, which then transcends the immediacy and purposefulness of experience. According to the descriptions which are available the novice learns to make abstraction of his will in order to become an instrument of another force or principle. This description is a 148

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bit cryptic. Nevertheless, it indicates what is at stake: the archer reaches mastery when he is no longer the one who shoots an arrow, but rather IT does. His body and his very person have become an instrument for it. Neither the fixation on a particular target, nor the conscious use of muscles or body postures is in order, but the whole develops as an automatic or natural cycle. The knowledge which is thus transferred between apprentice and master can hardly be made explicit, but it is shown by the master and imitated by the disciple. It has more to do with mentality and concentration than with a clearly deniable “task”. Hence, the learning process is an initiation in actions and ways of doing rather than an instruction in discursive knowledge. At the limit, the use of explicit meaning is absent from this process, making it a ritual in the strict sense. – In Catholicism initiation can be recognized in the sacraments of baptism, formation, communion and the ordination of priests. Baptism is the rite of passage which starts the initiation into Catholicism: witnesses (i.e., adults) speak up for the baby who is still unable to account for herself. Throughout the ages the meaning of baptism is discussed in the church: some claim that Christ initiates baptism as a necessary step towards spiritual regeneration, while others would refer to the Jewish practices and their history (see Different 1). In each case, the practice cleans the baby symbolically of the common human evil (exemplified in the Primal Sin). At the same time the baby becomes part of the symbolic body of Christ and of the church through name giving (see Paul’s interpretation). The engagement is expressed on behalf of the baby by the adult representatives with baptism, but it is repeated by the novice on the occasion of formation. In general then, I think that initiation instantiates or includes a rite of passage, referring to an encompassing context meanwhile (the cosmos, an era, the human predicament, and so on). Often initiation is specific for certain groups. Thus, the Christian churches have a series of initiation societies, matched by non-church societies such as Masonic lodges and their initiation traditions. The examples have made clear that initiations are also, or first and foremost, learning processes which make the novice transcend from one world of knowledge or experience to the next one. These learning processes can make use of different artifacts: texts, imitation of actions, tests of endurance, and so on.

2. Compassion and Understanding A striking feature of many religious traditions is that of compassion and/or “einfühlen”. Sometimes this takes the form of “love thy neigh149

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bor”, sometimes of respect. Often, the emotional aspect is dominant (like in some Christian interpretation of caritas), but at other times detachment is a precondition (as in Buddhist compassion). Also, tolerance can shape respect and compassion. To the extent that compassion is religious, I think it is a way of dealing with the world. This way has to be learned and is itself a vehicle for learning. Compassion is often discussed by theologians and lay people alike in relationship with understanding. The so-called wisdom “to understand is (not) to forgive” can serve as an example of this reasoning, in so far as forgiveness is seen as an expression or an instantiation of compassion. A particular relationship between compassion and understanding may be subject of religious apprenticeship. The following section will make this clear. Whaling & Holmes (1990) develop their ideas on the types of relationships that can exist between understanding and compassion in an attempt to start an inter-religious dialogue between the Anglican and protestant churches on the one hand and Tibetan Buddhism on the other hand. It is a fact that over the latest decades a genuine proliferation of “eastern” praying places, societies and mixed religious traditions can be seen in the West. Every larger city in the West now harbors several new religious groups, from Indian inspired schools of meditation and Buddhist temples to Zen, religious healers and city shamans. In circles of comparative study of religion, this trend has been detected also, partly owing to the fact that some of the prominent scholars in this field have expressed their belonging to a combination of religious traditions: Eliade and Guénon were the forerunners, and W.C. Smith, Whaling and Smart are the followers up. The proposal by the Jewish philosopher-theologian Martin Buber is often taken as a point of departure to shape the dialogue. According to Buber the profane understanding starts from an “I-it”-relationship vis-àvis the world, expressing that what is understood is in a way thereby objectified. Buber stresses that a complementary type can be characterized as the “I-thou”-relationship which expresses that knowing or understanding also means that the other in the relationship is understood as a person. In other words, personality aspects such as the will or the heart will co-determine the relationship between the partners in dialogue together with their intellect. Religion which only objectifies (which sometimes happens in theology) is beside the point, because the personal dimensions are missing from it. Only when the “I-thou”-relationship is fully taken into account will religious understanding be feasible, according to Buber. Somehow at the opposite end of the continuum the notion of compassion can be situated. Whaling& Holmes claim that all religions have 150

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some sort of compassion and hence some way to learn compassion. I would qualify this statement a bit: all know some form of compassion and/or respect. The authors distinguish between three forms, linked to three “circles of compassion”: a. the Circle of the others: compassion with others is shaped in all religions. For example, there is the obligation to give an almond for the Muslim. There is the rule to “love thy neighbor” for the Christian. The Buddhist expresses compassion with all living creatures. The shaman has obligations with the clan or the community and vis-à-vis all living creatures. b. the Circle of the self: the twin notions of disinterest and compassion with the self (at the least as a form of self-knowledge) can be found in all traditions (Whaling & Holmes, 1990, p. 10). c. the Circle of nature: i.e., the ecological caring or the compassion with nature. Different religions strive for different degrees of compassion within each of these circles. For example, Judaism and Christianity define a relationship of mastery by man over nature in the book Genesis, whereas American Indian traditions see natural phenomena rather as partners in fate who should hence be treated with respect. The Buddhist will appreciate the suffering of creatures in nature as parallel with and equal to that of human beings and expresses this in compassion with these creatures. The adept to a particular religious tradition needs not only to learn and understand the world, the others and oneself, but should learn the existential relation of compassion/respect as part of the religious dimension. If the latter would be characteristic of all religions, like the authors claim, then it is important for the learning process to know how compassion is transferred. In that respect religions differ substantially, according to Whaling & Holmes. These differences are relevant in view of possible inter-religious dialogue. Five possibilities appear to obtain a. There is no relationship between understanding and compassion: this is the case in the strictly dualistic religion with a higher spiritual world which is completely separated from the lower material world. Compassion (or maybe pity) is then a possible attitude of the higher world projected on the lower world, and understanding should be cultivated by lower creatures about the higher world. The authors situate Gnosis and some extreme spiritualistic forms of Buddhism and Hinduism here. b. Understanding induces compassion, although not always. The relationship is not automatic, because some people may have more intellectual capacities or, conversely, a “bigger heart” than others. An almost 151

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mythical example of this relationship is Salomon who is reputed to have studied the conditions, the motives and the circumstances before he reached a just and compassionate judgment (Hunter, 1990). c. Compassion by means of understanding is the basic attitude in eastern traditions, according to Whaling & Holmes (1990). For example, Mahayana Buddhism holds that the understanding of prana and the compassion of karma are two wheels of the vehicle: they keep each other in equilibrium. In Hinduism, on the other hand, compassion is yielded by understanding, just as a lack of compassion is produced by misunderstanding or lack of knowledge. Whaling & Holmes point to the example of some Buddhist traditions where equanimity is the highest ideal, resulting in the weakening of the relation between understanding and compassion: understanding will at the most guide compassion, but it is never an integral part of it. d. Understanding is yielded by compassion: this would be the relationship which is taught by Judaism and Christianity. By traveling along the way of compassion one comes to understanding or knowledge. Justice and compassion are intrinsic values: it is by empathy with the existential world of the other or with nature that understanding will grow. The relationship between understanding and compassion in this case is the opposite (or an inversion) of that in e.g., Mahayana Buddhism. The famous speech on the mountain by Jesus (in Matthew), may be the most outspoken text in this regard (Schmidt, 2008). Expanding on the Christian variant one can hence explain the remarkable status of suffering in Christian religions: the cult of the suffering of Christ is, in the learning process of the follower, the prototype of the suffering through sinfulness and hence the (cognitive) explanation of pain and mortality. Only through “compassion” can the fundament of these paradoxical phenomena be understood (i.e., made intelligible). Compassion and metaphysics exist in a particular mutual relationship in this religious tradition1. e. Compassion and understanding are metaphysically and practically complementary to one another. In their work Whaling & Holmes aim to enhance inter-religious dialogue on the basis of their analysis. I will not go into this issue here. I only retain their characterization of the importance of compassion and understanding in their interrelationships in many religions, leading to the striking conclusion that: 1

I do not go into the detailed differences here: suffering as the central and unavoidable issue in Catholicism as against suffering as a “passage” to spirituality in some traditions of orthodox Christianity.

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1. Mediterranean traditions are markedly distinct from others in their emphasis that compassion comes first and has intrinsic value, yielding understanding as a byproduct. In compassion other than rational methods or techniques can be used to yield knowledge. 2. Religions will teach each and every generation how compassion can be reached, in its particular relationship to understanding. Again, the central role of learning processes is emphasized, and the particular type of learning in one or the other religious tradition may be distinctive for them.

3. Sacrifice as a Religious Learning Process Sacrifice is without doubt one of the most typical and at the same time one of the most intriguing forms of religious action. The famous example of Abraham who was about to sacrifice his only son to his god Yahweh shows how the sacrifice fulfills the role of a learning process: after a long life without children Yahweh grants the old Abraham and Sarah the privilege of a baby. It is to be a son, and thus an heir. After several years Yahweh demands of Abraham that he would sacrifice his almost adult son. At the crucial moment of the fatal deed the son is turned into a sheep which will be the sacrificial animal in his stead. This sacrifice is a basic referent for the religious Jew, since it tells of the first historical-mythical generations of the people. It also exemplifies the god-human-relationship for Muslims, acting as the point of reference on the occasion of the yearly feast where a sheep is ritually sacrificed. It is also of great importance to the Christian since it symbolizes the death through self-sacrifice and the resurrection of Jesus Christ instantiating the “lamb that takes upon itself the sins of the world and sacrifices itself in order to save humanity”, situated also with Eastern. In a multitude of religions sacrifices appear in one form or the other. Both theologians and anthropologists have made many studies about the phenomenon. In a general way, one can say that all sacrifices comprise at least two parties: the one who offers or gives and the one who receives the sacrifice. The sacrificial being could eventually be seen as the third party. That is the party which is transferred (wholly or partially) from the first to the second party. The first party is human, whereas the receiver is most of the time a god, the Whole or another religious instance. The sacrificial subject could be a plant, an animal, a human being, a smell, an artifact, a feeling or thought or the first party itself (e.g., one school of thought has it that the Hindu looks upon his life as a sacrifice to the long cycle of rebirths). To understand the structure of the sacrifice, it is useful to look somewhat closer at the influential essay on the gift by Marcel Mauss. 153

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The Gift The early French anthropologist Marcel Mauss will probably be remembered first and foremost by his study of the gift system in oral traditions (Mauss, 1925). He studied the literature on the gift system with the Kwakiutl Indians on the northwest coast of Canada (potlatch) and with the Trobiand west of Australia (kula). The first were abundantly studied by F. Boas, and the second appear in classic studies of B. Malinowski. In both cases Mauss recognized an exchange system in the gift practices. In both communities goods are exchanged, altering their exchange value in the process and over time. The Kwakiutl organize big ceremonial gifts or potlatches, where one party (e.g., village A) gathers a set of beautiful and worthy goods which is then handed over to the second party (e.g., village B) as a gift. However, the gift is in a way a provocation as well: the giver tries to make the gift as grand and important as possible in order to force the receiver to accept it as a valuable gift. If the receiver has to recognize that this is a remarkable gift and hence has to accept it, he is thereby “defeated”: he is forced into the role of the receiver and hence obliged to start working at a compensatory gift. The gift itself is destroyed or consumed. What remains then is the obligation on the part of the receiver to turn the scales around again, compose a gift (over time) which is at the least as good as the one he just received and impress the first party to accept this reciprocal gift. In the meanwhile the giver has a symbolic power (prestige, recognition) over the receiver. If the gift is not considered to be valuable and is hence refused, the giver looses face and honor. If a reciprocal gift does not materialize within a reasonable time the one in debt looses face and prestige. The kula system on Trobriand Island is a somewhat similar exchange system in operation with symbolic amulets. The power of Mauss’s work resides in his analysis of the gift as an integral part of an exchange system, inviting reciprocation (Barnett, 1938, but also work by “economic anthropologists” such as M. Polanyi, M. Sahlins and M. Godelier, see Descola et al., 1999). The exchange structure is considered to be widespread.

Sacrifice The sacrifice is a gift system (in Mauss’s sense), which clearly attributes or modifies identities of the parties involved. Again, in that sense the sacrifice is also a learning process: in the giving and receiving phases one expresses and shapes one’s identities in both parties. If I turn to the example of Abraham, it is clear that Abraham learns through the (aborted) sacrifice about the status and the place of himself and of humankind in a relationship of obedience to the Almighty. In the pray154

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ers of the Islamic sacrificial feast this is amply commemorated. In the theme of the self-sacrifice of God in Christ as the Mystic Lamb this content is expressed in an ultimate way. In the surrender of humans to God (e.g., by being ordained in a religious order) this theme is made explicit again the sacrifice of life by Christ is reciprocated by the gift of one’s own life to God’s work on earth. In practice the interaction between humans and a nonhuman entity (god, whole, nature, etc.) is conceived as a symbolic exchange, implying a promise and an obligation for both parties. Reciprocity obtains here too. Sacrifices from different traditions all seem to have this feature: - Athapaskan Indians (Navajo, Apache in North America) start the day by throwing some corn pollen in the cardinal directions while reciting a formula (Farella, 1995). This sacrifice is supposed to be reciprocated by health and good luck for the human beings. In a similar vein they claim that life on earth is only possible because the sun gives the power for life to living creatures, because of which they can grow and prosper. Since nature is like a closed system (to use a scientific metaphor) the sun would become exhausted if it would not be compensated. The reciprocation is with the dead: the corpses of the deceased are hung in the trees to show or offer them to the sun. The lore is that part of the life forces can thus flow back to the sun, and the dead person symbolizes a sacrifice to the sun who will reciprocate by giving strength to humans in the next cycle (my own field work). The dramatizing of this theme of reciprocation between sun and humankind in Aztec traditions (with human sacrifices whose hearts were offered to the “god” of the sun in order to strengthen it and hence the Aztec empire) could then be understood as a rather theatrical manifestation of the same ritual exchange. - In Christianity the sacrifice theme is brought to an ultimate expression, as mentioned before: God sacrifices Himself (in the instantiation of Jesus Christ who dies the death of the martyr). Only that way could the Creator safeguard his creation, according to Christian lore, by countering the eternal doom which rests on humankind. The doom came over humankind through the disobedience of Adam and Eve. The Christian theme of redemption, adapted from Abraham’s sacrifice of the son to Yahweh, is in the sacrifice of the godly son to God. I distinguish two themes here: a. the exchange between god and humans is laid down in a covenant or contract between both parties (between Yahweh and Adam, between Him and Abraham, and so on), later expressed in baptism and formation where the descendents of Adam and Eve each time express their loyalty to God and commemorate the covenant, 155

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b. the suffering as a toll for salvation, when I interpret it in the Maussian sense of sacrifice as a reciprocal gift. It will be clear from the foregoing that I aim at constructing a nonreligionist, comparative and impartial characterization of sacrifice. Thus I have to take my distance from the popular but clearly Christian (and even catholic) interpretation which can be found in Girard (1975): he describes Jewish, Islamic, Christian and other sacrifice notions and ends up arguing that the Christian tradition is by far the superior one. The superiority stems from the fact that the ultimate sacrifice (God sacrificing himself through the death of Christ) puts an end to all other earthly sacrifices which are therefore and hence considered to be of an incomparably lower status. So, through the self-sacrifice of God all bloodshed stops. Apart from the fact that this a one-sided view of Christianity (which is blind for the history of Holy Wars which continues under Christianity, and does not recognize the internal “crimes” which were committed in the name of the Savior, etc.) Girard’s view is almost explicitly anti-semitic: the other Abrahamic traditions are inferior in this theory.

The Structure of the Sacrifice Each sacrifice has a particular structure. To illustrate this point I refer to the catholic Holy Mass, as a dramatization of God’s self-sacrifice. In the myth of the Last Supper, which is commemorated in each mass, Jesus says: “Take and eat, because this is my flesh; take and drink, because this is my blood”. A certain number of stages precede these words: Jesus and the apostles gather in a certain place with a series of attributes like wine and bread. The time, the place and the attributes are sacred. The attributes undergo a change of substance because of this act of making sacred: symbolically bread turns into the body and wine turns into the blood of Christ (or God Himself). By means of the formula “take and eat” Christ performs the self-sacrifice anew in a symbolic way: he presents the sacrifice as a gift to the apostles (who stand for humankind) and in exchange he will receive obedience and loyalty. In a later moment the actual consumption of the (altered) bread and wine is performed during communion. The structure of this sacrifice is typical for all sacrifices, I claim: a. gathering in a ceremonial spatiotemporal context (in a temple, a church building, etc.), b. preparation of the coming interaction between humans and the Whole (Jesus speaks in the name of God),

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c. the sacrifice itself with the transfer of the sacrificial object from one party to the other (here: the offering of flesh and blood; later in the process the actual crucifixion), d. the consumption of the sacrificed object, in casu in communion, e. finishing actions and expressing gratitude; separation of the people gathered. Within this presumably general structure a great multitude of meanings and concrete formats can be shaped. Again, I am not interested in the truth of one or the other tradition, but I want to highlight the general features behind the diversity. The description of the structure indicates how the learning processes in this complex religious activity operate and how hence the identity of a group or community is shaped through such a procedure for learning: each participant is taught a clear place and status (as sacrificial subject, as performer, as participant in an exchange operation, as participant in the sacrificial meal). The whole procedure can be transferred verbally, in a text (like in Abraham’s story or in bible school), or it can be learned in practice. By doing it in the right place and in the proper time. The tremendous importance of Eastern in all three Abrahamic religions seems to underscore that interpretation.

4. Divination as a Religious Learning Process In Christian reference books the word “divination” does not appear. This is not really unexpected since divination is related to phenomena like possession and oracles, and the latter are barely if ever accepted as permissible religious practices in the Christian world. The problem might be that divination as a form of communication between humans and the Whole is supposed to produce knowledge about humans, nature or a holy being which may vary with the diviner’s personality or according to the context. Such a type of “truth” is unacceptable for a revelation religion. In the latter type of religion the divine creature addressed humans to make what the world looks like and how humans hold a place in it. The word of god is laid down in a text which the prophet carries, and which has an absolute authority since it comes from god. If somebody acts as a go-between or oracle in such a religion, the word of god is factually made relative or modified. Such a gobetween has to be screened with utmost care: either the person is a prophet (e.g., Christ or Mohammed, but after them no prophets are allowed) or he is a fraud. That is, someone possessed by evil (the devil). In the latter case a counterattack is in order: exorcism. The parallels on this point between Christian and Islamic religions are striking. 157

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Sometimes a particular godly grace may fall upon a particular person: in that case the human being would be a holy person. Miracles can be understood in this sense. The Catholic Church holds that a human being can only be recognized as a beatified and later a holy person when the happening of a miracle is ascribed to the person’s influence. In most cases where a miraculous event is claimed, it is thoroughly investigated by a church council and not accepted as the work of god. My point is that technically speaking we have a form of communication here which resembles divination pretty much, but does not really qualify. The reason why it does not, in Christian concepts, is that the ultimate criterion for successful communication in the Christian miracle tradition lies with God alone: He decides to grant grace or not, and the human being has no active part in this decision. In non-Mediterranean traditions we often find types of divination. Devisch (1985) distinguishes between two limit cases: interpretative divination and medium divination. The interpretative divination amounts to the presentation of a question or problem to the diviner who then performs certain ritual actions (making drawings, throwing cards, etc.) to question the powers or divine beings in order to interpret the situation. With the help of the power or divine being the diviner interprets the signs or words in the problem, the order of objects used, colors, etc. The type of reasoning that is used is often strict and rational (e.g., elimination of alternatives), which is certainly the reason why divination procedures in themselves have sometimes been compared with the scientific method of investigation (e.g., Vernant, 1974, on divination in Antiquity). That is to say, the criteria for the selection of an object or a situation can be irrational and the conclusions from the interpretations can be odd, but the process of interpretation has a fixed and rational character: starting from clear premises and using the symbolic means of the system one reaches logical conclusions. Sometimes the “client” enters the procedure in order to reach a solution: he or she can be asked to go through a series of yes/no questions which will yield a certain answer in the end (e.g., in reading the cards). Sometimes the answers are not given by a human being but by animals, stars, the sound of the wind, and so on. Medium divination is the vaguer and less rational form of divination. Here a set of nonhuman agents are consulted. Devisch distinguishes between three types: - The diviner acts the part of or is possessed by a particular ghost. This type is widespread in Africa, where possession can overcome any person and not only the specialist-diviner. In the Christian West this type of possession is most often diagnosed as the work of the devil. In that tradition the manipulation of the communication with God (e.g., in 158

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trance) is not acceptable, and the likelihood of humans falling for the devil is considered to be great. - The diviner is a shaman or visionary: he realizes a contact with the otherworldly phenomena which do not speak in or through the diviner, but can be imitated or interpreted by him or her. According to Devisch this type is very prominent in multi-ethnic groups, in new religious movements and in areas such as the expanding urban territories in Africa where the religious movements flourish. In my experience this form can be recognized with the so-called vision seekers or diagnostic shamans of American Indians as well (Reichard, 1950). - The pure trance divination is a form where possession in the genuine sense seems to be absent, but where the diviner experiences a heightened sense of awareness. In that case the trance techniques are at work. The divinatory use of coma in traditional Rumanian groups seems to be such a form (Bernabé, 1982): a person who comes out of coma often tells tales of the dead, and brings messages of what she heard or was told by them. Within the beacons of the lore about the ghosts who roam and come back from world of death (the “vampire” figure) there is a ground for such type of divination. It is important to address the question whether divination is a religious or rather a pseudo-scientific phenomenon. My basic hypothesis was and is that any form of being busy with the Whole in a symbolic way can be termed religious. In my view this clearly applies to divination, even if rational or even “scientific” means are used. Therefore, it is religion and not (mere) pseudo-science. Neither can divination be classified away as superstition: in my view the latter term can only be used in an ideological discourse. It seems to refer always to an opponent whose habits of conviction are not shared. The connotation of it is that there exists a true belief. What does not qualify within that belief system is hence superstition: in other words, one religion is right and the other is wrong, judged by the standards of the first one. The anthropologist Evans-Pritchard (1937) makes an important contribution here by showing that oracles and divination can best be described as mythical or symbolic forms of searching for a binding, systematic and rational answer to the question. The religious form is present and the reference to the Whole is used, even though the question can be purely practical or concrete (e.g., asking for a diagnosis of an illness, asking for a partner for marriage). What is the relationship between divination on the one hand and learning process and identity on the other hand? It is clear that the diviner does not work for his or her proper interest, neither acts as a monk or priest. The diviner has a function in the group or community 159

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who is a go-between in religious matters for other members of the group. The others come to the diviner with a question to be answered by the oracle or an “informed” interpreter. In that sense every divination is a further definition or assertion of the identity of the group of community, implying a redefinition of the place of the individual. In terms of identity dynamics I understand divination as a narrative procedure: the person with a question formulates a problem or enigma and asks the diviner to produce an answer (by means of other forces) which has the enigma fit into the understanding of the world which is known or recognized as normal or familiar. The diviner produces that part of the narrative as the interpreter of the other powers. The end result is that the narrative of the inquirer is adapted in such a way that it enables her or him to cope adequately with the enigma or question. The type of learning that is typical of this religious tradition is different from that in written traditions or so called “book religions”: the interpretation cycle is crucial, but it is contextual and personalized to a large extent. In somewhat odd terms, “orthodoxy” is local and temporary. Divination requires a specialist, and learning uses perception and metaphorical interpretation much more than mere reproduction. Finally, the artifacts differ, as will become clear in the next chapter.

5. Religious Experience and Mysticism It will be clear by now that religious experience can take a variety of forms. In my opinion this diversity not only obtains between religious traditions, but even within one religion. A Catholic Dutchman, for example, will be politically progressive, tolerant and social-minded across the board. This is by far not the case with the mean Flemish or Polish catholic. The reason may be that in Flanders and in Poland Catholicism has the large majority of the population, while in Holland it is a minority church in a very mixed religious landscape. What is the relevance of this finding for the characterization of religious experience? The phenomenologists of religion (Van der Leeuw, 1931) made the religious experience the rock-bottom of their theory this would be a very particular experience (both frightening and fascinating), standing out among all possible experiences and universal to humankind. Unless we can be clear about the unique features of the intrinsic religious experience and hence become able to distinguish the real thing from fraud, it will remain puzzling which catholic is religiously “correct” or why all varieties classify equally as catholic. The problem is not an easy one as the case of Judaism shows us. An orthodox Jew who follows the tradition of Leibowitz will be considered profoundly religious and can be at the same time genuinely atheist: the ortho-praxis prescribes that rules should be followed strictly, using the Torah and the main interpretations 160

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of rabbis throughout the ages (Neusner, 1995). The rules organize life in minute detail: prescription on food, on table manners, on sexuality, on body care, and so on. At the same time a strict rule dictates that idolatry should be avoided at all cost: no temporary values should be worshiped, no holy pictures, but also the name of Yahweh should never be subject to worship. The logical consequence of these rules is that an orthodox Jew can be an atheist (Leibowitz, 1992; Kasher, 1991). If the divine instance can not be the subject who is met and revered in religious practice, then what should religious experience look like? And how could an individual compare this experience with that of another human being? In the past, religious experience has been the subject of many discussions, one can imagine. I give some examples. - Mircea Eliade (1947) works in the framework of a historical and phenomenological outlook. According to him, religious experience amounts to the experience of hierophany in everything that surrounds human beings. In other words, humans are confronted with the sacred and eternal or superhuman in everything that is around them and experience that certain forms of contact with the environment reveal the holy in the world to them (= hierophany). According to this theory so-called primitive traditions would experience aspects in nature as revelatory, while in the Mediterranean religions it is God Himself who reveals His will by means of prophets. It is clear that this theory can hardly meet the scientific standards of universal and unbiased knowledge, since it takes the local concepts and beliefs of one type of religion (the Mediterranean branch) to stand for religious experience of the whole of humanity. Within the approach there is no way to test or falsify the theory, which is simply universalized. - Jan van Baal (1971) claims that religious experience emanates from the basic absurdity and incomprehensibility of the human predicament. Religion offers two roads of experience for van Baal: a. to become fully unconscious and immerse in the unity of the universe/the Whole/god. This is the maximal participation but also the maximum of dissipation. According to van Baal, the best known example of this type is the mystical experience. b. in the second place humans can seek interaction or communication in religion. The individual then tries to find equilibrium with his or her own individuality or identity on the one hand, and the participation in the other reality, the Whole, god, on the other hand. The idea of communication is central here. - More or less similar ideas can be found in the famous definition of Clifford Geertz (1973):

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Religion is (1) a system of symbols which acts to (2) establish powerful, pervasive and long-lasting moods and motivations in men by (3) formulating conceptions of a general order of existence and (4) clothing these conceptions with such an aura of factuality that (5) the moods and motivations seem uniquely realistic.

Geertz indicates that in the religious forms the common features of daily life can be recognized, but their orchestration is such that the symbols which trigger the experience persuade or convince the follower. That way the symbols refer to a different order of being. This analysis would reveal a basic feature of the religious experience, according to Geertz: humans communicate and interact with the Whole by means of a constructed third party (symbols) which goes beyond daily experience and gains a reality status in the experience. Again, it is clear to me that the symbols, the actions as well as the conceptual tools in this endeavor are specific to the group or community under study. The artifacts and the ways to manipulate them in the proper contexts will have to be learned in order to make the subjects ready to have the experience. In my view this implies that the experiences themselves can best be thought of as learned experiences, subject to learning processes. From that point on it far from clear in what way the “religious” experience as a learning experience can be distinguished from any other type of learned experience. In my view the literature does not provide any decent answer here. For the cosmological dualist the distinction between “religious” (or otherworldly) learned experience and profane (or this-worldly) learned experience may be a sensible distinction, although the filling in of the categories is yet another matter. For holistic traditions this distinction of kinds is an absurdity, and I for one cannot see how the religious experience as such can be identified in such a tradition. That the characterization of religious identities makes use of different types of experiences is in no way diminishing the identity formation function of religious experiences: the vehicle for identity construction may vary, but the basic principles remain the same. It is only when the contents of the religious experience is seen in itself as the non-testable, but no less absolute foundation for religion as such (like in the protestant phenomenological school) that a serious problem arises: here a particular type of experience is singled out and is promoted to be the foundation of the religious itself. Within this reasoning the religious person can only conclude that such an experience must exist, otherwise the whole domain of the religious disappears. As a researcher in these matters I can do nothing else than look upon this reasoning as an interesting, but highly local and particular attempt at identity construction by means of the religious (which then is a means and a contents at the same 162

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time). I hope it is clear that this marks a very sharp distinction between the religionist or indeed religious approach and the scientific outlook on religion.

6. Learning Traditions I kept the transfer of religion by means of doctrines or other orthodox messages deliberately as the last form. The religions of the book have stressed this form to such an extent that it came to look as if religiosity might be equated to doctrine and orthodoxy. It will be clear now that this amounts to a totally unwarranted reduction. Notwithstanding this, it is a fact that doctrines have an important if not a dominant status in mythagogic religions. It is unproblematic to use the term “synagogue” to refer to a place of gathering for schooling, not only in the later rabbinic tradition but from early on, according to the oldest sources (De Vries, 1968). The practice to learn texts by heart, recite them and later on interpret them points to the dominance of text and textual transmission in Judaism. The text as the word of god, as revealed to the prophet (Leibowitz, 1992) is the means par excellence to transfer religious truths across generations. It is obvious that the learning processes which are used here are specifically calibrated on the textual tradition in that religion, and much less on the teaching of nonverbal actions. The disciple is expected to learn by heart a canon of texts, and to recite them flawlessly. The same type of learning is typical of Christian and Islamic teachings. I am of course very aware that within all three (and certainly within the Christian religion), the text can be used in a variety of ways: God can be seen as manifesting himself in the lived interpretation of every new generation and not in the literal following of the text (as was the case in the time of Counter-Reformation). Still, the use of text is striking in these religions. It is in later life that the disciple will be allowed to offer interpretations of some of the texts, and thus show religious maturity. The scribe, mullah or theologian will repeat this procedure throughout his life. In Judaism this developed into the tradition of Halakhah. In that tradition the common follower consults the rabbi of his choice for the solution of a variety of problems: on the basis of his knowledge of texts and comments and of eventual precedents the rabbi will formulate a solution, which is then binding for the questioner. The choice of one or the other rabbi is relatively free, with the knowledge that some rabbis know and support conservative texts and comments primarily, while others represent more progressive or reformist schools of learning (Zuidema, 1997; De Vries, 1968, p. 42). The diversity in this rabbinic tradition is not always to the liking of one particular tradition known as the Hassidic 163

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branch. This orthodox and highly conservative tradition has its life signified and ordered to its minute detail. The remaining communities of this branch (e.g., Antwerp, London and New York) show an elaborate and intricate system of rules for life, spilling over in moral and political stands. The study of the texts is of the highest priority in this tradition (e.g., in the novels of C. Potok and I. B. Singer). In the Christian religion the primacy of the text comes to a particular high point, I think. The point of departure is again revelation of God’s will, resulting in a request to believe in God. This belief is no individual matter, but it is formatted for the followers in a doctrine (literally: a learning system) which aims at reporting about God and his revelation in a rational and consistent way. The only accepted and acceptable expression of the doctrine for the lay person is to be found in the Holy Scripture. Between churches the prescribed contents of the Scripture can somewhat vary, but a minimal amount of convictions can be pointed at across the church boundaries (Pelikan, 1962). For all God Himself has spoken, mediated by Christ, thus rendering the words of the Scriptures an extraordinary status. Since linguistic utterances are intrinsically multi-interpretable, the dependability on the text automatically creates tensions which are expressed in a history of oppositions, orthodoxy debates and blasphemy accusations in the history of Christianity (Richardson & Bowden, 1983, p. 161). Nevertheless, even in initiations such as baptism, formation or even faith healing the doctrine remains an integral part of the procedure (idem, p. 302). Finally, knowledge of the texts is acquired through instruction which is a prerequisite for any person to be eligible as a member for the religious community. In the liturgy the word is central again, with preferential focus on canonic texts. More in particular in the Christian churches the strict distinction between canonic and apocryphal texts is a very serious matter. Large institutes of exegesis and theology study the matter, the sacrament of confession sanctions its implementation and institutes such inquisition and the papacy itself guard the whole territory of textual selection and interpretation. For the person coming from an oral tradition the whole phenomenon is either ominous or bizarre. The third religion of the book is the Islam. In an interesting series of essays about that tradition the eminent scholar on Arabic Brugman (1985) claims that the Koran as the word of Allah (as noted down by the prophet Mohammed) is the most important fact of Islam, and not its doctrinal contents. Moreover and from the beginning Islam has been a political endeavor as well, coupled with a state. From that follows, according to Brugman, that the issue of the law became the prime theme together with the “question who is justified to become leader of the Muslim empire” (1985, p. 14). It is almost impossible to find a full164

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fledged, consistent and explicit doctrine in the Koran, except for the very general rules of conduct in the five pillars. Even the obligation to subject oneself to Allah, which is expressed in the word “Islam” itself, is a rule of conduct which only presupposes the existence of Allah and his last prophet as doctrinal elements. The learning by heart of verses of the Koran is, much like in Judaism and Christianity, turned towards the recitation and precise reproduction of multi-interpretable utterances, rather than towards the acquisition of a consistent worldview. A typical characteristic of the Islamic way of learning is the combination of automatic recitation (with children this is often done with minimal or no understanding, like the Latin catechesis used to do in catholic teaching) coupled to the aesthetics of the songs and the poetic images (Murata & Chittick, 1995). In my opinion this form of learning can maybe best be classified as an intermediate between the semi-theoretical catechesis or bible study of Christianity and the story telling episodes of oral traditions. But, clearly, more in depth research is needed here. These and similar data about Islam might explain why this religion, in contradistinction to Christianity (Van Bendegem, 1997), has no difficulty in adopting scientific knowledge and pass as an important historical source for invention or as a good carrier for scientific knowledge transfer (Joseph, 1989). Moreover, as is relevant for the last chapter of this book, the becoming scantier of Islam in recent centuries with its almost counter-intuitive fixation on the letter of the text seems to be a late phenomenon, yielding in the present international context some fundamentalist movements (Smith, 1981). Of course, it is not my intention to sketch a picture of Islam, but merely to trigger a critical correction of the biased image of Islam in the public opinion. There Islam passes now as an extremely doctrinal religion. Rather, Islam seems to focus first and foremost on behavioral and political levels. It follows that the textual transfer is likely to be less important in this Mediterranean religion than in Christianity. Of a sudden the remarkable criticism of E. Said looms when he accuses the westerner of orientalism: the fallacy of the textual attitude induces the western scholar to project this dependency on texts onto the religious tradition of the other, in this case the Islam (Said, 1982).

7. Education It now is clear that different forms of learning exist, and can be found in diverse religious traditions to shape their particular way of dealing with the world. The cultural psychology as developed by Cole (1996) and Bruner (1996) presents a serious comparative approach to begin to build accountable theories about different learning traditions. 165

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Their work is appreciated by me as a giant step forward, beyond the purely Eurocentric perspective of almost all social and humanistic sciences so far. As indicated at the beginning of this book, Cole’s theory of artifacts is a very important part of this endeavor. The next chapter will focus on that part of the theory. To end the present chapter I give a succinct summary of learning formats from different traditions, as they were illustrated in the various phenomena (initiation, bible school and what have you) mentioned. Cole states that all learning takes shape through mediation of artifacts, learned, discovered or rediscovered in and through learning processes by each generation. Cole emphasizes that practical activities are the focus, that is that learning does not “take place in the head of the individual”, but rather in the outside world and in practice bound learning contexts. Finally, he states that each tradition knows a historical dynamics of artifacts (especially in Cole, 1996, chapter 4). I can only add that culture contacts – through war, trade and marriage – result in shifts in artifacts and in learning styles. Since colonial times culture contacts have been intensified: school learning has become complementary to or a replacement of a lot of the traditional, often nonverbal traditions of learning, resulting in an amalgam of learning processes within the same population. I distinguish at the least between the following forms of learning: a. transfer of theoretical knowledge, eventually captured in a consistent worldview. Written texts are used which are learned by heart, recited and (eventually) interpreted. Only the Christian religion has promoted this form to become the principal form and at times the sole authoritative form, accompanied by an orthodoxy test. The accusation of blasphemy as a particular form of heresy is here, not surprisingly, historically developed into a system of control and sanctioning during Reformation and Counter-Reformation. The system was not only meant to detect and combat internal “deviance”, but also to qualify any other “foreign” way of being religious as sinful, influenced by Satan and hence doomed: “Any viewpoint or utterance that deviated from the true faith was blasphemous or impious” (Levy, 1993, p. 31). b. Compassion is in important ways an opposite form of learning. In the first place, the focus is on “einfühlen” and not on explicit, discursive and/or rational knowledge acquisition. Compassion is by definition personalized and contextualized. Whaling & Holmes (1990) showed how the relationship between compassion and understanding may differ depending on the religious tradition. In particular, eastern and Christian religious traditions were characterized as contrasting instances along this dimension. It is clear that such an insight has important implications for the comparability of both religious traditions. 166

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c. According to yet another criterion the action centered religious form of learning with initiation can be contrasted to that of theoretical learning: in initiation the neophyte learn to relate religiously to the world by undergoing ritual actions and imitate them while in the process. By undergoing the action one learns. The contextualization with this type of learning is clear through the references to crisis moments in life and to natural phenomena in the initiation process. In the process depersonalization occurs as well. Understanding can either be a secondary part of or absent from the practice (the latter in the genuine ritual format). The initiation can be chastening, but this is not the meaning of it. Indicative will be that ritualistic traditions take care of the safeguarding, learning and eventual registration of schedules, the production of paraphernalia or the meticulous description of ritual actions, but can at the same time neglect mythical or other meanings (Staal, 1989). d. Sacrifice is a particular form of learning, understood by me as a type of exchange activity. The social pattern of interaction expressed in the exchange of goods and services requires another form of practical knowledge than the passive undergoing of initiation rites. To begin with two parties are distinguished entering a formalized action cycle of giving and receiving which is taught in the process. The action implies reciprocity. This leads to precision in repetition or imitation, since the efficiency is to a certain extent testable: only when the gift is of such a nature that it has to be accepted, it triggers reciprocation. In the learning process it is clear that negotiation, estimation of proportion, eventual acquisition or loss of honor and certainly social intelligence play a role in this process. Hence, the learning processes involved may be complex in comparison with some of the former types of religious learning. e. Divination is yet another form of learning: the diviner can either follow an apprenticeship or be in charge because of a personal gift. Without doubt practical knowledge is involved, namely the construction of a divinatory context (a table of divination for example: Griaule & Dieterlen, 1965), and the registers of interpretation. Teachings can focus on criteria of interpretation, but also on the type of reasoning used (going from some type of causal to purely associative-irrational reasoning). D.T. Campbell (1979) wrote a path breaking paper pointing out the relative similarities between the scientific experiment and divination. f. The form which is most difficult to characterize, I think, is mysticism. Depending on the author one can understand it as a peculiar type of participation to (“einfühlen” in) the divine or the Whole (i.e., the phenomenological point of view), or purely psychological or psychophysiological processes (as in the view on mysticism and religious experiences together with hallucinogenic mediums in several analyses, most notably A. Huxley’s “Doors or perception”, but also in the strictly 167

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academic work of Zaehner, 1989). Whatever the outcome of the discussion the almost exclusive emphasis on the individual and on subjective aspects turn this form of learning into a strongly personalized and context independent one. Comparative study seems so far a difficult task here. The exception on this rule might be figures like D. Sölle (1998). She describes, almost exotically for the religious circles she normally lives in, the mystic experience as a form of detachment, which is continuously fed back into political resistance. This is most certainly a very interesting perspective, but it remains, as the author herself stresses, far from mainstream. Within a particular religion one form of learning can be dominant, but it is likely that any particular religion can be characterized by means of just one exclusive form of learning.

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Genesis in the Bible The Creation of Heaven and Earth In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was a vast waste, darkness covered the deep, and the spirit of God hovered over the surface of the water. God said, “Let there be light”, and there was light; and God saw the light was good, and he separated light from darkness. He called the light day, and the darkness night. So evening came, and morning came; it was the first day. God said “Let there be a vault between the waters, to separate water from water”. So God made the vault, and separated the water under the vault from the water above it, and so it was; and God called the vault the heavens. Evening came, and morning came, the second day. God said “Let the water under the heavens be gathered into one place, so that dry land may appear”; and so it was. God called the dry land earth, and the gathering of the water he called sea; and God saw that it was good. Then God said”, Let the earth produce growing things; let there be on the earth plants that bear seed, and trees bearing fruit each with its own kind of seed”. So it was; the earth produced growing things, plants bearing their own kind of seed and trees bearing fruit each with its own kind of seed; and God saw it was good. Evening came, and morning came, the third day.(13) … (26) The God said, “Let us make human beings in our image, after our likeness, to have dominion over the fish in the sea, the birds in the air, the cattle, all wild animals on land, and everything that creeps on the earth”. God created human beings in his own image; in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them. God blessed them and said to them, “Be fruitful and increase, fill the earth and subdue it, have dominion over the fish in the sea, the birds in the air, and every living things that moves on the earth”. God also said, “Throughout the earth I give all plants that bear seed, and every tree that bears fruit with seed: they shall be yours for food. All green plants I give for food to the wild animals, to all the birds in the air, and to 169

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everything that creeps on the earth, every living creature”. So it was; and God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. Evening came, and morning came, the sixth day. Thus the heavens and the earth and everything in them were completed. On the sixth day God brought to an end all the work he had been doing; on the seventh day, having finished all his work, God blessed the day and made it holy, because it was the day he finished all his work of creation. … The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and look after it. “You may eat from every tree in the garden”, he told the man, “except from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil; the day you eat from that, you are surely doomed to die”. Then the Lord God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone; I shall make a partner suited to him”.

The Origin Myth of the Navajo: The Age of Beginning The First World These stories were told to Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi, by his grandmother, Esdzan hosh kige. The ancestor was Esdzan at’a, the medicine woman who had the precious Stone in her keeping. Here are the stories of the Four Worlds that had no sun, and of the Fifth, the world we live in, which some call the Changeable World1. The First Wolrd, Ni’hodilqil, was black as black wool. It had four corners and over these appeared four clouds. These four clouds contained within themselves the elements of the First World. They were in color, black, white, blue, and yellow. The Black Cloud represented the Female Being or Substance. For as a child sleeps when being nursed, so life slept in the darkness of the Female Being. The White Cloud represented the male Being or substance. He was the Dawn, the Light-Which-Awakens, of the First World. In the East, at the place where the Black cloud and the White Cloud met, First man, Atse’hastqin was formed; and with him was formed the white corn, perfect in shape, with kernels covering the whole ear. Dohonot I’ni is the name of the first seed corn, and it is also the name of the place where the Black Cloud and the White Cloud met.

1

According to this version the Navajo live in the 5th world. Most of the time references are to the present world as the 4th one (Wyman, 1970).

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The First World was small in size, a floating island in mist or water. On it there grew one tree, a pine tree, which was later brought to the present world for firewood. Man was not, however, in his present form. The conception was of a male and a female being who were to become man and woman. The creatures of the First World are thought of as the Mist People; they had no definite form, but were to change to men, beasts, birds, and reptiles of this world. Now on the western side of the First World, in a place that later was to become the Land of Sunset, there appeared the Blue Cloud, and opposite it there appeared the Yellow Cloud. Where they came together First Woman was formed, and with her the yellow corn. This ear of corn was also perfect. With First Woman there came the white shell and the turquoise and the yucca. First Man stood on the eastern side of the First World. He represented the Dawn and was the Life Giver. First Woman stood opposite in the West. She represented Darkness and Death. First Man burned a crystal for a fire. The crystal belonged to the male and was the symbol of the mind and of clear seeing. When First Man burned it, it was the mind’s awakening. First Woman burned her turquoise for a fire. They saw each other’s lights in the distance. When the Black cloud and the White Cloud rose higher in the sky First man set out to find the turquoise light. He went twice without success, and again a third time; then he broke a forked branch from his tree, and, looking through the fork, he marked the place where the light burned. And the fourth time he walked to it and found smoke coming from a home. … About this time there came another person, The-Great-Coyote-WhoWas-Formed-In-The-Water, and he was in the form of a male being. He told the two that he had been hatched from an egg. He knew all that was under the water and all that was in the skies. First Man placed this person ahead of himself in all things. The three began to plan what had to come to pass, and while they were occupied another being came to them. He also had the form of a man, but he wore a hairy coat, lined with white fur, that fell to his knees and was belted in at the waist. His name was Atse “Hashke”, First Angry or Coyote. He said to the three: “You believe that you were the first persons. You are mistaken. I was living when you were formed”. Then four beings came together. They were yellow in color and were called the “tsts” na or wasp people. They knew the secret of shooting evil and could harm others. They were very powerful. This made eight people. 171

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Four more beings came. They were small in size and wore red skirts and had little black eyes. They were the naazo zi or spider ants. They knew how to sting, and were a great people. After these came a whole crowd of beings. Dark colored they were, with thick lips and dark, protruding eyes. They were the wolazhi’ni, the black ants. They also knew the secret of shooting evil and were powerful; but they killed each other steadily. By this time there were many people. … (F. Turner, 1973, p. 175-178).

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Religious Artifacts A particular Christian-Protestant ethnocentricity is to look elsewhere for creator gods, creation myths and sacred books. Such entities are either absent from or very rare in South, Southeast and East Asia. Deconstructionists have still much work to do in these domains where theologians have reigned too long. (Staal, 1998, p. 67).

1. Cole’s Theory of Artifacts In order to properly understand religious traditions it is necessary to see them as (co-)definers of identity, I claim. This implies that they are vehicles in learning traditions. I use the most elaborated theory of learning available till now, namely that of Michael Cole (1996). The foundation of his theory is the sub-theory of artifacts, allying with a generalized materialism (such as in Marxism, the Vygotsky approach and the socio-cultural learning theories). An artifact is an aspect of the material world which is adapted in human purposeful behavior throughout history (Cole, 1996, p. 117). That is to say, human beings make use of elements from the material world to survive, and pass these on via learning processes which at the same time adapt these auxiliaries continuously. At the time of the Hittites clay tablets were used to keep accountancy records. Later on, paper was used and a myriad of counting systems, to end provisionally today in electronic registration and information processing. Or: we moved while walking by foot, then learned to use horses and buffaloes as means of transportation, then invented the wheel and landed with cars, planes and rockets. From these examples it is clear that artifacts are not solely material, but have growing ideal aspects: language, mathematics, symbolic representations became artifacts themselves. Cole states that all living cultures use three types of artifacts: - Primary artifacts are material objects which are given a deliberate form or function. Books, computers, rules, wooden crosses, and so on. - Secondary artifacts are representations of primary artifacts and of the action forms to use them. At this level, we no longer explore a 173

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tangible world of experience in order to build knowledge about the world, but we learn about reality by means of representations which we study themselves: a model, an image, a photograph, a description of something in a text, and so on. - Tertiary artifacts are purely imaginary and have no direct or even no relationship at all with primary artifacts or material reality to which they relate. We can think of purely symbolic models or theories, of play, art or other aspects of imagination. In learning processes artifacts are intermediary between the pupil and the environment: the pupil does not detect or invent the world autonomously, but uses the artifacts of forerunners in this endeavor. Without this socio-cultural medium of artifacts learning would be extremely restricted and might result in cyclical processes of elementary adaptations (maybe more like instinct behavior). In actual fact, the child learns by means of language and other artifacts from its socio-cultural contexts about the world out there. This means that learning is first and foremost a practice in a socio-cultural context and not merely a series of processes that happen in the head of a person. Hence, social and cultural processes should be the focus in the study of human learning processes. One of these is the power relationship of adults vis-à-vis young people in the learning process (Cole, 1996, p. 110). A culture of a community “weaves together” what is considered knowledge about the world and useful artifacts by the members of that community. Within the frame of this book I want to stress the notion of fantasy again. In my view the theory of artifacts by Cole can be understood as one elaboration of the capacity for fantasy. Provided we look upon human beings as developers and manipulators of artifacts which are instrumental in learning processes, then we see them as creatures, which continuously shape and reshape the world by imagining it and creating it through fantasy. The primary artifacts in this process are drawn from the material world, and the secondary and tertiary artifacts are clearly more dependent on imagination. In religious dealings with the world this process can be recognized to be at work as well. By offering the artifacts and the recipes to use them to a next generation a temporary community guides that generation in the reproduction (with or without major changes) of its own weaving. Using this conceptual apparatus to characterize religious artifacts I propose the following sketch of the domain of “religious artifacts”.

2. Primary Artifacts: Concrete Objects Human beings can make almost any material phenomenon into an object of reverence. We know of “holy cows”, holy places (like Delphi), 174

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holy stones (like the Kaabaa), holy waters, holy winds and holy people. As of today thousands of westerners turn in deep faith to Sri Baba who would be a new “god-on-earth”, and many Jews explore in fear and respect whether the xth candidate Messiah (this time in New York) is the right one. It is utterly impossible to bring an exhaustive overview of all objects which would be sacred. Any encyclopedia of such objects is immediately outdated. What I can do in the context of the present book is to show religious artifacts can be auxiliaries in the learning processes which are formative for identity.

Sounds, Deeds One of the striking and possibly “elementary” phenomena in the contact with traditions without books is the different use of sounds and of some bodily movements. When a Navajo Indian wakes up he automatically performs a little bodily ritual. It consists in rubbing over the chest and the forearms and disperse “what is rubbed off” in the four cardinal directions. (The action commemorates the mythical action of Changing Woman when she materialized human beings). When the Navajo enters a house for the first time, she will throw some corn pollen in the four cardinal directions to bless the house. A meaning is not expressed, but the deed is done. A medicine man might offer an explanation when asked for it, but he might as well tell you “There is too much going on inside your head”. Apart from this, there is the endless recitation of entirely or partially meaningless sounds, the “mantra”, which are given to the disciple by the master in several eastern traditions. The sound is important, not the meaning, to reach religious experiences. In his remarkable book about the sacred tradition with Navajo Indians and Tibetan Buddhists, Gold underlines some striking similarities. He underwent initiation in both traditions for years. Meanwhile he gave ever more attention to the behavior and the images than to the words and their meanings, let alone their beliefs. For example, both traditions show a medicine man or spiritual leader singing over a disciple or a ritual subject. In both cases an elaborate reasoning about the nature and the impact of winds can be detected, often materialized in speech: winds keep (human) beings alive. In songs and ceremonies the spiritual leader manipulates the forces or powers such that impact directly on the subject and the environment. In highly detailed descriptions and comparisons of ceremonies during which parts of the image (of the sandpaintings) are actually rubbed off on the body of the patient, the Navajo subject brings himself in a harmonious relationship with nature. Or at the least, that is the hope of the subject; certainty is beyond reach. By using sounds (including nonsensical sounds, interjections, rhythmic clicks, etc.) 175

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external reality is influenced: as is shown in Different 2, words are compulsive in that way. In the Tibetan tradition Gold sees structurally similar ceremonial manipulations which bring individual “body-minds” as entities of bodies and minds in harmony with the powers in the universe. Sounds (as with the well-known bells and drums, but also human sounds) and gestures (like the placing of “godly figures” in a Mandala) are very important in this religious setting. The Tibetan tradition does not offer any escape out of so-called immanent reality either: on the contrary, during ceremonies, the ties between an idealized or harmonious world and one’s own life is focused on and is manipulated by means of actions and sounds (Gold, 1994, chapters 14 and 15). The way sounds and gestures are manipulated religiously would require at the least a separate book. The examples may, however, suffice to throw light on the phenomenon: the act and the sound are themselves religious artifacts. Moreover, they are primary artifacts: sounds and gestures are auxiliaries in the learning process, and not (only) their meaning. The sounds and gestures are produced in a material or energetic way: they appear in nature, they are produced by bodies and objects (a clock, a bell, etc.) and they can be registered easily. In numerous other religious traditions similar artifacts are used, although most of the time not in a focal place or in isolation from other artifacts. Important sacred moments in the catholic holy mass, for example, are accompanied by a sound (tinkling of a bell) or a gesture (kneeling). The stereotypic monotonous whirling dance of the Derwishes as the sole means to reach the highest mystic experience with Allah, is another example. That sounds and gestures as such can act as primary religious artifacts is sufficiently shown, I claim. When moving to the description of specific actions I have to speak about more complex types of actions: the act is instrumental for religious activity and hence becomes a (complex) religious artifact.

Persons and Objects More complex material artifacts are human beings and complex objects which function in a religious process of learning. People can be artifacts in two ways: as a medium and as the object of a process. The distinction between both is a subtle one, since the object can become a medium. I give some examples. To the extent that we can and want to typify diverse forms of Buddhism as religion, the figure of Gautama as the Buddha is given a double function. In any case, he was the human predecessor who showed the way to a better, more harmonious life. In that sense he can take the 176

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function of the medium: by following in the steps of the Buddha one will (perhaps) reach enlightenment. In certain manifestations of Buddhism the Buddha himself may become the object of reverence and become an object for prayers and sacrifices, eventually through “holy people”. The somewhat difficult status of man-god of the Dalai Lama in Tibetan Buddhism is an illustration: here, the medium prevails, in his capacity of lama reincarnated and object of a cult (Snellgrove, 1987, chapters I and V). Of course, other people exist who are medium or object of religious worship. In the Mediterranean traditions a strict distinction is safeguarded between statuses: in the Jewish, the Christian and the Islamic religions the prophet is a clearly recognized medium, which negotiates or serves as messenger between god and humankind. He (almost always a male figure1) shows the way, receives messages from god and sanctions the followers who disregard or misinterpret the message. The role of Moses in the Old Testament may stand out as one of the best known instances of the prophetic medium: in heroic meetings with Yahweh he receives the Ten Commandments, has the sea split open for the people to cross it, and demolishes the Golden Calf worshipped by heretics (all in the book Exodus). In his very word-focused function as a medium Moses speaks and interprets the words of god for his people, and at the same time exhibits actions which go way beyond the capacities of a lay person. He thus exhibits typical characteristics of the medium: A staff And he said: Throw it to the earth! And he threw it to the earth. Then it turned into a snake: and Moses fled from it. (Exodus 4: 2 and 3).

The status of medium is almost literally indicated in the passage where Moses receives the Ten Commandments he received from Yahweh, which he transfers to his people: And the people saw the thunders and the lightnings, and the sound of the trumpets, and the smoking mountain; when the people saw this, they fled and stood far off; And they said to Moses: speak with us, and we shall hear; and let Yahweh not speak with us, so we will not die! (Exodus 20: 18-19).

The figure of Mohammed as the “last prophet” according to Islam has similar features: he is a medium between Allah and the people. Jesus was just another prophet. According to both Islamic and Christian traditions Jesus is a prophet-medium who makes a profound reorganiza1

In the book Judges (4: 1-16) a prophetess is in action. But female prophets are very exceptional (I am grateful to L. Abicht).

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tion of the covenant between god and humankind explicit. To that extent Jesus is recognized as a prophet by Islamic people (Robinson, 1991). Early Christians may have attributed a similar status to Jesus, who was subsequently deified as laid down in the Gospel according to John. Finally, the deification became orthodoxy with the Council of Nicea (325 CE). The fascinating work on the “historic” Jesus as man and/or god in Christian history (Mack, 1993; Pelikan, 1967; Crossan, 1992; Schillebeeckx, 1981) shows the relevance of the distinction between medium and object in my understanding: if Jesus was a human being, then he could at the most be a prophet and hence a medium for Christianity. But if he was the god incarnated as a mortal human being, then he can be the object of worship. Pelikan examines in depth how this doctrinal point has been discussed and reinterpreted throughout the history of Christianity, allowing Catholicism, Protestantism and eastern European orthodoxy to stress mutual overlaps and differences (Pelikan, especially volume 2). An intriguing perspective comes from literary studies in the latest decades. The analysis of literary texts (including religious texts) sees texts as products which are co-constituted by the reader and listener, with the writer acting more like a medium. In that perspective the message is not only the text and its structural features, but also the coding by the author, the communication between a particular author and a specific audience, and the reconstruction of contents on the basis of means of interpretation on the part of the receiver (Biebuyck et al., 1998). The Book J is a beautiful illustration of all this in the interpretation given by Rosenberg & Bloom (1990). The authors claim within such an interactive and communicative perspective on the first texts of the Jewish tradition, the so-called Yahwist school, that the first books (The Book J) might have been written down by a highly cultivated, probably noble woman. Within an appreciation of Judaism as a fairly male dominated tradition, this is no shallow claim. The authors come to that result by reading the text as an open product, which comes to us as a historic document through a long trajectory of rereading, rewriting and restructuring (changing the order of texts within the books) by E (the editor). These manipulations have been going on a few centuries after the original author wrote the texts down. The literary scholar will now try to trace down that particular history, and to deconstruct the dominant edition. From that point on a gender sensitive and culture conscious perspective can be adopted to rewrite of recompose the original text, this time adopting a woman’s view. This case is illustrative of the importance of the medium, and of its political relevance. The medium/author did hold a particular view on god, on Jewish history and on the role of prophets and ancestors, according to the scholars: they can tell all that 178

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from a particular style of narrative and from the specific order in the story. All this changed significantly when the structure was reordered and the emphases redefined by the (male) editor. The Sufi tradition in Islam (or at the least in the Asian religious forms which draw on Islam) produced a particular type of “holy people”. In a path-breaking volume on the subject Werbner & Bassu explain that Sufis are often regarded as incarnations or “embodiments” of charisma: they embody the religious power and are considered as god-people by the followers. In my categories this means that the boundary between medium and object of cult is fuzzy. The medium becomes an object of reverence because of his/her incorporation of religious power (Werbner & Bassu, 1998). Mills speaks of “anthropomorphic objects” of religious reverence when he refers to the “holy people” of the Sufis (Mills, 1998). A rather pure identification as medium can be found in the shamanistic traditions. In his thorough study of shaman practices Torrance distinguishes the relative passive role of shamans in a possession cult from the active exploration they engage in elsewhere. In the possession cult the shaman is passive, in that (s)he is a “road traveled by another” (Torrance, 1994, p. 118) and looses all initiative or active will power, and hence all responsibility. Here we do not have a visionary figure, but a mere instrument (or medium) by means of which the travel of someone else becomes possible. The phenomenon is known from individual and collective trance sessions, like the Brazilian candomblé. On the other hand, the active shaman is better known as the man or woman with a gift who sets about an explorative journey to the other (side of the) world in a symbolic way. Often the shaman is at the service of the whole community, without genuine de-personification. The shaman can “dream” (in Australia), listen to the wind or gaze at the stars (with Apache groups, Pinxten, 1993c), or the shaman can act as a seeker of a vision which will open the road to an answer to a question of the community. In his synthetic work of comparative religious study Smart (1996) mentions the typical cyclical structure which is attributed to shaman practices: the shaman goes on a “journey” and “leaves his body” or is dematerialized in another way, in order to travel along the axis mundi through the realm of the dead, or experiences illness or fever, to return in his body carrying a message for the community. Somewhat awkwardly, Smart qualifies all this as “ritual” (1996: chapter 2). Probably this is done in order to distinguish his approach from Eliade’s reference work on the topic, where the latter focuses primarily on the psychological setup of the shaman (who is seen as a possessed or somewhat paranormal person).

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Apart from persons all sorts of material objects can have the function of medium. It suffices to refer to the role of the scapegoat or the sacrificial lamb in Mediterranean religions. Or to the status of sacred mountains, sacred winds, sacred plants or rocks, and so on in several traditions (e.g., Reichard, 1950). Humphrey gives a list of “entities and beings” which can have a medium function for the Mongolian shaman: mountains, forests, rivers, but also individual trees and animals (Humphrey, 1996). A particular type of medium is the book. As a secondary or tertiary artifact I will refer to the contents of books; at this point I only focus on the material object itself. In Mediterranean religions the book has obtained a medium function: several Jewish communities see the Torah as the written form of myths and legends, but others regard the book itself as a holy object, which hence can not be touched by human hands, and should be kept in the Ark. In the latter it is believed that God enters into contact with human beings through the book (Oxtoby, 1996). The famed Judaist Neusner presents the following argument: A book on Judaism explains the doctrines, the theology and the philosophy, of Judaism. A book of the holy Torah expounds God’s will as revealed in “the one whole Torah of Moses, our rabbi” as sages teach and embody God’s will. (Neusner, 1995, p. 83).

The first type of books teaches in an intellectual way about the Jewish tradition; the second book requires acts and a particular attitude in life. The leftist orthodox philosopher Leibowitz develops this point and states that the Torah is the highest authority by definition, since it contains the words of the living god in written form. But the contents of the Torah can only become clear through endless negotiations between interpreters and the text in the halakhic tradition. Put simply: the book is the medium par excellence, but it can only fulfill its role of medium in so far as it is interpreted by human beings. Although this is only one school of thought, for sure, it expresses in an unambiguous way what the medium function of the book can amount to (Leibowitz, 1992).

Space and Time A particular material artifact is space: a certain place can in itself be a vehicle for religious activity. Anybody who visited so-called holy places can see how a landscape, a certain constellation of rocks, a view, even colors of a place can more or less induce the status of holiness of places. It is not surprising that Delphi or Upper Corinth was claimed by one religious group after another as holy place. A certain atmosphere marks these places. On the other hand, some built spaces are termed holy: numerous religious traditions produced spatial constructions for 180

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religious activities. The Navajo hooghan is the only possible place/ construction fit for ceremonies. It figures as a core notion and vehicle in the origin myth (van Dooren, 1989; Wyman, 1970). The teepee is the temple of the peyotist, on the other hand, even if it is borrowed from other Indian traditions. The better known examples are, of course, the world famous buildings from diverse traditions: pyramids in Latin America and in Egypt, temples in Asia and Europe, churches, mosques and synagogues all over the world. The sacred architecture has become a subject of scholarship on its own, since religious people tend to excel in these buildings first and foremost. Time can be a religious artifact as well: initiation rites mark biological moments such as birth, death or puberty, and some important moments in natural cycles such as solstices or astronomical movements. Important religious festivities in the Mediterranean religions coincide with seasonal cutting scores. The “ceremonial century” of the Dogon follows the cycle of a barely visible star which circles Sirius in a regular trajectory of 60 years: with each cycle the total population of the Dogon is reborn, which is expressed in a massive collective ritual (Dieterlen, 1971). The famed rain dances of the Hopi and other American Indians are always performed at the start of the rain season, and never in another period of the year. A random sample of such phenomena shows how moments in time are made sacred, or, put differently, they can function as an artifact in religious activity.

3. Secondary Artifacts Secondary artifacts are representations or images of material phenomena, and it is this status that makes them function in religious activities. Again, an endless list can be summed up, and again I will be satisfied with mentioning a few salient examples. However, under this rubric the reader will find some examples which can figure in the next section as well. I think this is unavoidable and may be even intrinsic to religious activities. The profound multi-layeredness of religious symbols is significant here. For one thing, representation and imagination, or mere picturing and fantasy are difficult to separate from each other. However, this does not pose a problem for religious aspects, I claim: depending on the case or on the context an artifact can be secondary or tertiary in nature. An eminent example in Christianity is that of the historicity of Jesus: a great deal of the discussion between Christian and the Enlightenment thinkers focuses on this point. Should one accept the historical truth of Jesus in the format of the son of god who saved humanity (and hence all historical criticism on this figure) in order to be a good Chris181

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tian, or could one treat this status of Jesus as a mythical issue? In the first case the life story of Jesus will be a secondary artifact for the neophyte, and in the second case it is a pure story and hence a tertiary artifact for religious activity. That this distinction is sensible will become apparent from the papal Letters of the past decades, where the pope continues to stress the divine truth (Splendor veritatis) which exists apart from and above human convictions or truths. According to orthodoxy divine truth was revealed to human beings and hence, in my terms, it would be a representation of a reality and not only or merely imagination (Ferry, 1996).

Cosmology One of the most potent and best known representations of the cosmos is the one with a Mandala character. I think, of course, of Buddhist Mandalas which are known throughout the world now (certainly since C.G. Jung’s work and its popularization afterwards). But I also refer to Christian representations of the world in art history: masters such as H. Bosch or J. Van Eyck painted vast and encompassing representations of the Christian universe, including hell and heaven and a variety of figures from the Old and the New Testament. The painting of the Mystic Lamb by Jan Van Eyck is prototypical in this regard: by means of a complex work the whole Christian world order is shown and explained to the illiterate believers. In that sense I would like to qualify this painting as a Christian Mandala. The best known representations of the universe in our era may be the Tibetan Mandalas, which picture the world by means of the frame of mountains in the cardinal directions, surrounded by forms of rebirths (comprising gods, half-gods, animals and so on: Samuel, 1996, chapter 9). In his remarkable comparative study Gold (1994) points out the parallels in cosmological designs of Tibetans and Navajo Indians. In the latter case, the representation is instrumental in the healing ceremonies: the patient is physically placed in the center of the symbolic world and brought into contact with the natural forces that are painted on the sandpainting (parts of the design is wrapped off on the naked body of the patient, who thus interacts with the symbolic entities: Reichard, 1939; Wyman, 1983). In the rather shamanistic traditions an implicit or explicit cosmology is present. Torrance (1994) discusses the well-known axis mundi structure, but he goes beyond the usual view by emphasizing the action directedness of such cosmologies: the universe is basically an axis between zenith and nadir which thus constitutes a virtual road along which the shaman can travel. The cosmos is not a mere instance of theoretical knowledge. Rather, it is a representation which is used as a 182

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means for action: by “traveling” along the axis the shaman interacts with all relevant cosmological phenomena. His clothing includes elements of other natural phenomena (parts of animals, minerals, etc.). The shaman experiences death and rebirth during and through his “journey” and hence turns into a secondary artifact. That is to say, (s)he becomes a spiritual representation in the nonhuman cosmos: “After some kind of spiritual death the shaman was considered an artifact of the spirits and a vessel for their powers” (Humphrey, 1996, p. 31). I take the opportunity to refer to Humphrey’s unambiguous description. The eminent Buddhism-specialist Obeyesekere points to a moral dimension, attached to the cosmology of a “great religion” such as Buddhism (in this case: the Sri Lanka variety he studied). According to Obeyesekere Buddhism can be characterized (from its incipient roots in Hinduism) by its lack of religious values in the Mediterranean sense. The natural order in the representations is always and intrinsically understood as a moral order: the meaning of virtue in that tradition should be understood in this deep, cosmological sense (Gombrich & Obeyesekere, 1988). Of course, the relationships between the religious, the cosmological and the ethical or moral order as such in so-called “great” religions is a subject matter on its own, with vast implications for the understanding of the Christian predicament (Lovin & Reynolds, 1985). I can merely mention it here. In his critical analysis of religious studies Talal Asad sets out to deconstruct (and almost demolish) a famed paper on religion by the widely cited anthropologist C. Geertz (1973). Geertz had claimed that a cosmology is intrinsic to all religions since it functions to explain order and most of all chaos in nature. Humankind would thus be reconciled with the apparent disorder in the universe. Talal Asad (1993) looks at these statements from a historical point of view and thus concludes that Geertz’s position has a late-Christian taste to it, of which the author did not seem to be aware. The proposal that chaos is apparent and would be made bearable by a religious explanation is a Christian bias, according to Asad. He qualifies Geertz’s view as a justification of a power relationship, thus reducing religion (a bit simplistically, I think) to power.

Religious Specialists and Social Structures People and institutes can be secondary artifacts or auxiliaries for religious activities. Of course, in that case I do not speak about the physical persons in themselves, but rather about them as a role or function. In the Christian tradition, for example, I do not focus on the individual figure or prophet, but on their status or role of messiah. Also, not the real or actual words or deeds of the figure are discussed here, but rather their representations as examples of the thinking and acting of the 183

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believer today (or in his or her era). The distinction is subtle, but important, since many of the disciplinary disputes in churches have been concentrating on such issues: the important point is not the individual view or the particular features of a religious specialist, but rather the extent to which and the way in which the individual is a good “representative” of the tradition. This means that he or she should represent in words or actions the original message or the initial happening in the function of the religious specialist. Religious specialists exist in a variety of types, as Smart (1996) abundantly demonstrates. Depending on the particular tradition one will find sages, masters, gurus, preachers, prophets, monks, hermits, enlightened persons, holy people, priests, or divine kings. All these roles and functions represent one particular format shaped on real or mythical predecessors. Such a predecessor can have incarnated one or more roles: he could have been an exemplary figure who showed the way (like Buddha: Lopez, 1995), or a god incarnated like Jesus Christ, or a mediator between ancestors and present-day humans, like the shaman (according to Humphrey, 1996). An institution can have such a function of representation. This would draw such institutions in an endlessly discussed way out of the mundane or historical world. To the extent that an institution represents something, it is part of a religious order and less of a worldly order. It is an instrument for and the incarnation of an event, an experience or a message which are significant for a particular religious way of dealing with the world. Of course, at the same time, such an institution is this-worldly as it is sustained and continued by mortal religious specialists who take human (political, economic, moral) decisions. They have human desires and needs and therefore will tend to mind the human affairs. Through education, moral control, or political action the institution will manifest itself in a worldly way, which is occasionally justified or legitimized by doctrinal positions. The tension between the so-called sacred and profane is sometimes elaborated in explicit and elaborate standpoints and treatises, as is illustrated in a variety of ways by rabbis, church fathers, theologians and such eastern spiritual leaders like the Dalai Lama. It is interesting to see how the relationship of “representation” of original messages or events by the institution can lead to extraordinary and far reaching researches: e.g., already Augustine (version of 1952) could investigate in his Civitas Dei what the ideal and unique divine state would look like in order to conclude why the heathens and their states would have to disappear in this creation. As a Christian, on the other hand, one could draw lessons from Augustine exercise on how to live in such a way that the divine model would be approached on earth. Hence, politics and religion are firmly integrated in such a position. In the 184

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history of Christianity this relationship between both has regularly and prominently been on the agenda of institutional research and political action. That religion and politics are not easily separated from one another is recognized (Pinxten, 1993). In my view this testifies of the fact that an institution (church, order, etc.) can play a role of religious artifact in incorporating religious aspects.

4. Tertiary Artifacts Lastly, I distinguish these artifacts of religious learning processes in which all reference to material situations, events or artifacts is either ambiguous, indirect or inexistent. This is one type of artifacts to be sure, and not the only one. Taking the position that religious artifacts would all be of this third type would reduce religion to “mere fantasy”. In my view this is not derogatory, but also unwarranted. Nevertheless, such a view occurs frequently in philosophical and social scientific analyses of religion (Ferry, 1996): Freud qualified monotheisms as neuroses (because of formal parallels), Marx would call them opium for/of the people (because of presumed functional similarities), etc. I am convinced that these analyses throw an interesting light on the preconditions in which religious practices occur, but they do not speak about the phenomenon itself. My approach wants to take into account such “externalist” analyses, but tries to escape from the reductionist trap. It is in that respect that my model works with the notion of human creativity or fantasy as the capacity which enables humans to fill in proposals on a ladder from highly naturalistic representations to entirely fictive religious forms. It is, of course, up to the reader to judge whether I succeeded in this endeavor.

Extra-human Phenomena God, deities, devils, djins, angels, demons, sacred animals, and a vast variety of other phenomena people the worlds of religions. They may be entirely fictional or refer to an extraordinary human being or an animal who may have been encountered by such and such, or who may have sent a particular message to human beings. Child & Child (1993) need not less than forty pages to list the most common imaginary, sacred nonhuman beings. Predictably, the sun and the moon often serve the role of both natural and “supernatural” phenomena. The healing or beneficial power of the sun has captured human attention all over the planet. Hence this star has been looked upon as the giver of life throughout the world. However, where the sun and the moon have a clear material referent to which features of a religious nature can be attached, this object of reference is absent with many gods, and most certainly with the god of monotheisms. There is even more: this god can not be 185

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pointed at in any material, can often not be represented in sculptures or paintings, and is most often only known to humans by means of a mediator. The latter enters into contact with god by means of an angel or by going through a very unusual and often extremely irrational experience: Moses is addressed by a burning bush (Exodus 3: 1-10), Jesus has a vision quest and thus meets the devil after a long fasting period in the desert, and so on. A fascinating example stems from Gold’s comparative study of Tibetan and Navajo traditions. In the Navajo tradition a series of phenomena can be qualified as “animated” by a wind or nilch’i (McNeley, 1981). One distinguishes between a structuring or skeletal sort of wind (the nilch’i bii’histiin or “in-standing one”) for plants, animals, and other things and the life force (nilch’i bii’siziinii or the “wind who makes one move”). These winds are not only features or faculties of the phenomena, but they have their own life, as is becoming clear in language and in ceremonies. In the Tibetan tradition we find another, but similar autonomy of winds: the unity of “bodymind” (Gold, 1994, p. 74) is integrally controlled and directed by extra-human winds. These winds can set out a trajectory for humans of good fate. On the other hand, human beings can try to know these elements of reality. The bodily plus the spiritual aspects (i.e., the so-called subtle body) may lead, in combination with the winds, to enlightenment. This type of description is almost beyond reach for the westerner, since so many aspects of it have no or an awkward referent in the western representation of human and of the religious beings. I simply want to point to the foreign and almost untranslatable features here and invite the reader to try and respect these peculiarities rather than to reduce or “catalogue them away” because they offer only faint points of similarity with what our traditions have developed. Winds seem to be like “religious agents” without anthropomorphic features, and that is as far as I can characterize them here. A successful author like Karen Amstrong has so far produced several intriguing books about the Mediterranean religions. Her intention is to give the historical context its place, next to the intrinsic message of the religions. Her leitmotiv on the nature of god is rather surprising in this respect, since it is highly pragmatic: … it is far more important for a particular idea of god to work than for it to be logically or scientifically sound. As soon as it ceases to be effective it will be changed… (Armstrong, 1993, p. 5).

In the history of god, according to Armstrong, one can read a history of epiphanies of god: to Abraham god appears as a fellow with friendliness and compassion, but the god of Moses has rather sensational performances and deals in wrath and punishment. In Christianity a 186

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dramatic change of direction is introduced when god is said to be all love for his creation. Moreover, with Jesus god is said to have a son, and later to appear as the trinity. All these themes were somehow subjacent in the monotheistic Judaism of Moses, but the changes remain all the same profound. The figure of the messiah of Judaism is divinized after a few generations of Christians (certainly since John), just like the spiritual metaphor of the light is personalized in the figure of the Holy Spirit by the end of early Christianity (at the Council of Nicea in 325 CE). I am not engaging here in theological discussions, which would be futile and rather derogatory from my perspective. Rather this illustrates how, whether or not under social economic impetus (Armstrong points to an initial capitalism which would have led to monotheism, but I leave that point entirely to her), two very different non-human figures (i.e., Yahweh and the light) combined with an originally human figure (Jesus) appeared over time as three divine persons united in the mystery of the one god. In my perspective, this is a remarkable example of the history of tertiary artifacts. In her study of Mongolian shamanism Humphrey (1996, §1.5) describes how the shaman constitutes one religious entity with certain natural phenomena (an animal, a plant) and certain cosmological and biological processes. What emerges is an ambiguous entity which is hard to classify, and which is termed specific for shamans by Humphrey. My point is that human beings define religious forms in human, semi-human and non-human phenomena in the most diverse ways. This illustrates once more the creativity of humankind in such matters. This creativity is demonstrably there in Mediterranean religions, but abounds in other traditions as well: human beings engage in covenants or negotiations with religious phenomena and the other way around. In Genesis (2: 16 and 17) god forbids his newly created humans to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil. In exchange humans can eat and control all the rest and live happily forever. The following books show how the forefathers call on this covenant or “contract” with god time and again, inviting adaptations, interpretations or specifications while god chooses the people of Israel to be the heirs of the original covenant. In the words of Abraham, Job, Moses and also Jesus Christ argumentations with god on the specific meanings and on the implications of the covenant are developed. Fully within this understanding the renegotiation of the contract in Christianity is often referred to as the New Covenant. The godly nature of Christ in Christianity is then linked to his capability to renegotiate the fundamental covenant through the death of salvation. Again, what a fascinating expression of creativity: humans enter into a binding contract with god and negotiate in a following era

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the terms of the agreement in a specific symbolic way, in this case by the death of the incarnation of the god. If Ferry (1996) and such internal-Christian critics like Drewermann are right, then a profound loss of sacredness and flight from the church in our era is accompanied by a thorough quest for a new definition of the terms of the covenant: humans try to reach an agreement in the secularization movement with other humans, much like the contract they had with god in the Mediterranean religions. This project may be unique (in its historical predicaments), but it is almost certain that it will fail unless our creativity will be great enough.

Myth A myth can be a result of as well as an instrument for learning. This utterance does not really say much. Even when I stick to the notion of myth as it is developed in this book, clarity of understanding does not automatically follow. One of the problems, as I see it, is that of the status of myth: is a myth a product of pure imagination, or an expression of historical truth or something else still? In my approach, this is not an intrinsic problem for myths, but rather a problematic which is linked with the Mediterranean religions. The claim of truth has to be taken literally in the religions of the Mediterranean: god has revealed himself to his creation, and he has spoken; his word is the truth, and the adept is asked to believe in god, to put his faith in him. That is to say, an attitude of faith and surrender is required from the follower, even over and against reason (Smith, 1979). Human beings hence have a particular position vis-à-vis the myth: the myth expresses an objective and external truth (beyond human knowledge), which cannot be tested or investigated in any real sense by human beings. Human behavior, defined in the terms of the covenant as a type of obedient or submissive behavior, is largely prescribed on the basis of this divine or nonhuman truth. Because the truth is beyond human knowledge, the Old and the New Testament are used as a source for behavioral rules, which can somehow be deduced from the premises. The modalities of application and of relevance, as well as the constraints to the rules can be discussed by humans (as is abundantly done by generations of interpreters and theological philosophers). In religious studies this status of myth (as expression of an initial and unchangeable nonhuman truth) was uncritically projected unto myths in other traditions and considered to be a universal feature: especially the origin myths were held to be foundational stories by scholars and arsenals from which rules of meaning and of conduct would invariably be derived. In recent decades some anthropologists have been combating this view, claiming that it was an unwarranted projection of Christian patterns onto non-Christian traditions (e.g., 188

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Hymes, 1981). The problematic of the latest decades thence becomes dual: can any myth be considered to be fiction or imagination or are there semi-historical truth in some myths and what is the relationship between mythology and ethics/politics if we empty the foundational role of myths? In the last two chapters the second question is treated; here the first question is in order. Of course, I do not solve the question here: my answer is to look at traditions as culture specific answers to general human questions. It is without doubt that the Christian religion ascribes a status of truth to the Holy Scriptures, and will not speak about (mere) “myths” when dealing with the revealed truth in the gospels (Pelikan, 1967). The discussion between the Mediterranean religions is concentrating on the limited set of texts which can be considered as expressions of the word of god, as distinct from human texts. The former are then termed canonical texts, and their status is sacred. In the Christian tradition, the status of Jesus is linked to this question. Either he is seen as a prophet, much like Moses or Mohammed, who has taken down the word of god and thus is a fallible figure in the chain between god and humanity. Or he is the Christ, the god incarnated, and thus the carrier of the nonhuman truth, which can then hardly be termed a myth. In the context of the three religions Jesus gets different statuses: as a false messiah he can only tell stories from a Jewish perspective, whereas he carries the divine truth to humanity in the view of Christians. For the Muslim he an be seen as the human reporter of divine messages (Robinson, 1991). Other traditions ascribe another function of artifact to myths and mythical figures. In many oral traditions myths are multimedia expressions and performances about certain phenomena in the world, or about problems one encounters in life. By listening to or witnessing the performance of a myth the problem concerned is presented in a perspective that goes beyond the personal, particular or temporal context and is placed in a greater wholeness. The myth is concretized and actualized at the same time: it speaks about personally experienced realities while at the same transcending them. The personalized presentation of the myth, brought to life by a particular performer, adds an element of actualization: of course, something generic or panhuman is in order, but at the same time the performer makes it into something individualized and contingent. The generic is personalized and contextualized and the context and the individual are meanwhile transcended. This double movement is not feasible in daily categories, and requires a particular medium like a myth. In this way a learning process to become more whole is realized in and through the myth. A praxiological analysis captures the same idea: the myth is understood as the going backward and forward between personal experience through internalization of the 189

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external world and the external (re)production of internalizations (concepts, images, etc.). This active or performative living of myth is what the myth actually is. In other places a substantial treatment of such a perspective is elaborated (Bourdieu, 1980; Pinxten, 1989). In a nutshell this double process constitutes a myth as an artifact of religious learning, which in itself clearly is a construction of identity. The figures which the myth brings to life are elements of this larger process.

Doctrine According to the view of religion researchers like Smart (1996) a doctrine is just one dimension of the domain of religious activities. In his view a doctrine deals with the pantheon, concepts of the soul, forms of creation or inception and philosophical systems which give the religious concepts a greater consistency. It is quite true that Christian religions have a tremendous history of doctrinal systems and interdoctrinal discussions. However, it remains a fair question whether the focus on doctrine or the busying with at all is an integral part of any religious tradition? Would that not trivialize the notion? And what would we gain by doing so and projecting a “philosophical” activity into them? With Smith (1979) I tend to agree that the investment in religious beliefs and their doctrinal framing is a step removed from the attitude of faith and at the same time a step closer to a defensive formulation of difference in terms of heresy and blasphemy. It is only in terms of and functional to a doctrine that differences can be pronounced this way. The interested reader can look into the five volumes on doctrine and doctrinal differences within Christianity by Pelikan (1967). In a thoughtful, cautious and well-documented way the author describes how a history of discussions, schisms, coalitions and juridical battles have seen intellectual refinement in doctrinal matters give blows to religious communities. Although I admire such an “internal” approach such as Pelikan’s, I am also frustrated by it: on the one hand theology seems to be more important in such a history than the religiosity of the people, and on the other hand a tremendous investment in differences and even conflicts (however futile, sometimes) seems to prevail. In my perspective the emphasis on doctrine in religious studies might just be a rather local and even mystifying focus. It is prominent first and foremost in the religions of the book. A careful reading of Samuel’s (1996) brilliant study of Tibetan Buddhism for example, shows us how this particular constellation exists as a shamanistic form of Buddhism, combined with a Lama clerical hierarchy and a monk-master tradition of discipleship. The complex brings Samuel repeatedly to the question of the presence of a philosophy or a doctrinal system: no, there was no philosophy in the first Sutras, but only vague, general rules of conduct; 190

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the so-called philosophy of the Tantric texts is at best bizarre (“stifle an army by bewitching it”, “conquer a young woman in the following way…”, and so on, chapter 22). Later philosophical critiques in Tibet have led to renewed shamanistic practices. The least one can say, – even if this grasp from the thick volume of “Civilized Shamans” is random-, is that our a priori’s on doctrine and on the relevance of doctrine for religion can only confuse us when approaching the Buddhist traditions. To my knowledge the role of doctrine in ritualistic-shamanistic traditions such as the North American Indian and the Dogon examples I use from time to time, is even less clear: stories are told and retold, and ritual actions are engaged in and imitated by performers, but neither instruction, nor an orthodox doctrine are prevalent or even present (Pinxten, 1993c). Much in the line of Smith’s (1979) statement that the investment in belief and doctrine is historically contingent (and not intrinsic to religions), Neusner (1993) offers relevant data on the history of Jewish religiosity. He describes how the characterization of Judaism as a doctrine and as a set of beliefs only gets shaped from the 19th century on, in the protestant context of the Anglo-Saxon world. In the discussions it is said that Judaism undergoes a “modernization” which leads to several new forms of worship, some of which are termed doctrinal. The orthodox tendency puts more and more emphasis on doctrine, while the conservative tradition incessantly stresses the ortho-praxis. The liberal tendency orients its following primarily towards integration in the western society, even at the cost of traditional values and practices. According to Neusner these developments within Jewish religion are more profound and have a deeper impact since the start of the 19th century than in the preceding 17 centuries. Doctrine can be a more or less dominant, and a more or less elaborate artifact of religious learning. This artifact acquired a more prominent place in the religions of the book, but even there it has not always reached a primary status. Indeed, political and organizational motives can interfere: what the institution deems important (the clergy, the theologians, etc.) may at times become more important than the convictions of the founders (Pelikan, o.c.). The terms “doctrine” or “philosophy” can be confusing. In the opinion of some scholars they hold an emphasis on consistency, bordering on scientific rules of logical reasoning. Historically, the links between the religions of the book and the development of scientific work can be argued (Talal Asad, 1993), but this should not lead to a simple identification of the ways of reasoning in both. Many religiously inspired scientists have voiced opinions on the matter and have pointed at similarities and important differences alike between science and religion. At 191

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the same time the relationship between religion and science remains an intriguing subject of research for philosophers and scientists as well (Van Bendegem, 1997). One of the reasons for the search for differences is to be found in the role and status of the mystery in Mediterranean religions. In the Hellenic traditions the mystery was a rite by means of which a person would be initiated in the immortality of the gods. Mystery religions (like e.g., Mithras Cult) were numerous in the Roman Empire at the dawn of the Christian era. In the biblical tradition, on the other hand, the mystery refers to god’s plan with the world, and the foundational status of the god (who is eternal, immortal, all-good, etc.). Secondly, the mystery in a Christian sense is the medium by means of which god’s plan can be revealed, that is Christ (Tinsley, 1983). The extent to which this Christian notion is a continuation of Hellenic mystery notions (through the Nag Hammadi of the Copts, or the Thomas gospel in the Gnostics) is beyond the present discussion. What matters here is that the doctrine takes a particular shape through an exclusive focus on rationally insolvable and reasonably obscure expressions, which nevertheless deal with the “core” of religious activity. The following citations from the gospel of Thomas show clearly how a somewhat “aesthetic” Jesus is preaching: Jesus said: I, who is the light Which befalls on all of you (77a) Or: I, who is ALL, The Whole has genuinely come from my heart. And the Whole has come to me. (Cuvelier, 1990, p. 68-69).

Such a perspective on the doctrine caused unrest in doctrinal schools. Language in these citations is less descriptive and more evocative than in the canonic gospels. Not the exact historical reference seems to be important, but rather the creation of a particular atmosphere of religious experience.

Symbols Symbols might be the best known and universally recognized artifacts of religious activities. It is impossible to give an overview of religious symbols, or even of symbolic systems. A host of studies have been published in this line, with the Jungian tradition as the better known school of thought (C.G. Jung and J. Campbell). Moreover, this type of religious studies has reached the status of “coffee table publications”, leaving me the job of assessing what we know.

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An obvious symbol expresses the cosmological context of the cardinal directions, within which human beings (and eventually deities) are situated. Gold (1994) points to the strong similarities of such symbols in two geographically isolated religious traditions such as the Navajo Indians of Arizona-New Mexico and the Buddhists of Tibet. In a circular structure quadrants are identified each of which represent a cardinal direction. In the center one finds the most important forces/powers in nature and humans. During ceremonies humans are brought into contact, sitting the center, with phenomena in the periphery (animals, powers, plants, etc.). The importance of the symbol may be illustrated by the fact that each individual in both traditions carries the artifact of wholeness the whole time within himself: the center is the self and the cardinal directions constitute the frame of reference that moves along with the agent. Each ceremony and each prayer is a manifestation and a reenactment of the relationship between humans and their environment (or the All) as is expressed in the symbol. The Mandalas in the Tibetan tradition (Samuel, 1996; Gold, 1994) and the sandpaintings in the Navajo tradition or the circular symbol in the Apache traditions (Reichard, 1939; Farrer, 1991), or still the famous “medicine wheel” in other Indian traditions (Storm, 1974) are ever so much illustrations of that same symbol. It is important to look upon symbols in such traditions as actions rather than mere passive representations. For example, the sandpainting in the Navajo case is construed during a ceremonial preparation and is consumed in the course of the ceremonial doings. The distinction between action and symbol is almost virtual, since a sign or symbol itself is seen as an action with direct impact on reality (Witherspoon, 1977). In the contemporary interpretations of symbols in the Mediterranean religions, and certainly in the Christian analyses thereof, the active side to symbols is stressed more and more: a symbol exists as an enactment and rather corporeal experience of the message; it is a repetitive concretization of a content about the divine, and not a mere sign (Biebuyck, 1998). In a similar fashion Werbner & Bassu (1998b) identify symbols in a Sufi tradition they are not the “collective representations” of Durkheim (1912), but rather incorporated liminal actions, which mark a border between a former and a future representation of the world and the place of humans within it. In that way the dynamic view on the symbol, which was initiated and situated in a context of ritual action by V. Turner (1969), seems to become a dominant paradigm, even for Mediterranean religions: the symbol as a means and as a process of religious activity. This type of approaches brings me closer to criticisms on religious traditions: Asad (1993) objected that symbols are not mere representa193

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tions, eventually inducing motivations, but that they are intrinsically linked to power, laws, sanctions and institutions. This gives them an action-laden status, against the merely structural or intra-textual interpretation of the former era of analyses. That a symbol is seldom a “passive” phenomenon can be seen in the so-called worship of symbols in heresy, according to Talal Asad. In the Jewish tradition, for example, this led to complex regulations: the medieval sage Maimonides preached that the reverence of symbols is a dangerous “error of substitution” (Halbertal & Margalit, 1992, p. 42). That is to say, by worshiping an image of god, the image itself becomes an object of worship. Since humans can only represent the god through their fantasy, the image will be similar to the human beings, which is of course less than the divine being. Hence, worship of an icon results in bigotry and heresy.

Moral and Political Systems Religious activities are not happening in the void, nor are they purely individual occupations. Again, I am convinced that the religious history of the West over the past two centuries would present us with a biased picture, if we would draw conclusion on religion on the sole basis of that particular case. One of the foci which come forward as rock bottom material for human religiosity, I suspect, would be human conscience. The individual experience, the personalized god-human relationship, or the experience of good and evil on the basis of individualized consciences has been fairly recently shaping what we understand by religiosity and the experience of wholeness. Sölle (1998) abundantly describes how religion became more and more an individual occupation in Europe from the 18th century on. To project this situation on religiosity in humankind is unwarranted. With these remarks I pose the question of what it means for social rules of groups or communities to serve an artifact function in the domain of religious learning. Sociologists and anthropologists of religion have acquired some competence on these issues, and some of them have even proposed to reduce the religious to the social. Durkheim (1912) for example, identified what he called “collective representations” which form the vehicle which has a group or community persist over generations. In a famous series of articles Durkheim & Mauss (1901-2) proposed to look at the social mechanisms of classification in so-called “totemic cultures” as cognitive categorizations, but also as religious-ritual classifications. People organize their society in social sets of relationships (like kinship systems) and associate these sets with a celestial phenomenon, a totem animal, a name, a set of rules for behavior and a ritual. The bond between social order and religion is clearly strengthened. The behavior of individual and group is codetermined by the religious category. Scholars like Douglas (1970) 194

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put the ties between social organization and religious forms at the center of her interests. In the Christian tradition morality and politics have always had close links with the doctrine of Jesus Christ: in the Quelle a moral attitude of forgiveness and acceptance is dominant, occasionally captured in the form of parables. In Luke and Matthew the Sermon on the Mount is added to the gospel material, yielding a certain amount of moral and political statements. Jesus is a prophet with high moral standards in Luke, even a new king of Israel. In Matthew Jesus appears as the new Moses, who is about to implement the rules of the New Covenant by referring to those of the Old Testament. The gospel of John shows us another Jesus: he is the savior, the son of god, and a Pauline figure (god incarnate who is sacrificing himself). In the latter case, god is interfering with his creation and dictates new moral rules to humanity (Oxtoby, 1996); This short mention already shows that the role and status of morality and politics shifts positions in the four gospels. Smart (1996) distinguishes the moral-political dimension from any other in his theory of comparative study of religions: he claims that up to the Enlightenment in Europe religion and morality were inextricably interwoven with one another and that any religious activity carried a moral dimension. Along his view, this follows from the human predicament as mortal beings: “morality…is something learnt over more than one life” (Smart, 1996, p. 198). If life is supposed to end with death and hence rendered unique (as in Christianity), then this gives a peculiarly dramatic tinge to a good or a bad life. According to Smart religions which carry such a view of life, are more moral or moralizing than other traditions, where e.g., reincarnation features. I doubt whether the “more or less” moral would really do the job, and would rather choose “different” instead. What interests me in Smart’s analysis, though, is that morality can become an artifact of religious learning in particular constellations. For example, when the living of a good or a bad life carries a “dramatic sense” to it. That Mediterranean religions established close ties between the religious and the moral domain is obvious. But even here nuanced views obtain the left-orthodox philosopher Leibowitz severely criticizes the “European” coupling of morality and religion. He rather aims for a legal-political frame in the Jewish tradition, minimizing the substantial role of morality. Morality is an “atheist category” for Leibowitz, as is mentioned by his editor Goldman (1992), since the religious motif of the worship of god is the ultimate and the only motif for the religious person. The European, and in fact Christian break, resides in the rejection of the Law and hence of a life in the service of god by the Christians:

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The religious life is a ceaseless cyclical process. There is no further goal beyond that of living a halakhic life geared to the service of god. Messianic expectations have no genuinely religious significance (Goldman, o.c., p. XIX).

Or, in the words of Leibowitz himself: Israel conducted its life in accordance with the Halakhah, as pronounced in the Oral law (Leibowitz, 1992, p. 11).

In other words, morality as a separate domain is not obvious, because the Law regulates and signifies life in an encompassing religious way. The legal-political serves the functions of the moral, which is relegated and reduced to the domain of private deliberation and regulation, away from the religious. It is of course good to keep in mind that Leibowitz was a fascinating, but rather idiosyncratic thinker in the Jewish concert. Muslims give a large space to the political dimension, and more so than to an independent moral dimension. Al-Azmeh (1993) analyzes how the status of the shari’a as a clear system of rules for social behavior evolved through different political structures: in the Mammaluc era the might of the king expressed the encompassing power of god; during the Ottoman period the same shari’a is presented as utopian ideal. In the present Muslim societies the tension between utopia and livable rule is the focus of discussion. The moral domain is, at first sight, less substantiated than in the European tradition. Ghalioun (1991) has it that the dismantling of the Ottoman empire, which was induced by western powers after the First World War, and the installation of the Wahhabi regime in Saudi Arabia with western support, attacks the political dimension of Islam in the very heart. This yields, according to the author, a very deep identity crisis throughout the Muslim world in this postcolonial period. The moral domain, which is so prominent in the Christian discourse, of the past decades (both in protestant and in catholic treatises and practices), does not have the same priority in the Islamic mind. The moral domain is “universalized” by the emphasis on the individual citizen in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which only sharpens the distinctions between Muslim and Christian world. Other religious traditions redefine the border between religion and the moral/political domain in yet another way. The focus of many Buddhist traditions is without doubt on the realization of the self, even if this realization ends in “nothingness”. The example is then the philosophy of life and enlightenment of the Buddha, Gautama. Smart, who is a self-declared Christian Buddhist, compares the virtues of this tradition with the Christian virtues. Christianity would put the emphasis on the moral issues, but is uncertain in what sense this emphasis can be found in other traditions as well. When Tibetan Buddhism is studied in depth, 196

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like in Samuel’s (1994) ominous work, it is difficult to deny the presence of an ambiguous, polyvalent or otherwise varied domain of “moralpolitical” regulation. Theravada Buddhism links royal with “divine” power, often in combination with other cultic traditions. In Tibetan Lamaism, on the other hand, the mixing seems even denser when one looks at the hierarchical monk system whereby the monk busies himself with all sorts of phenomena in society, going from health and welfare, over karma and future lives to the personal salvation of the followers. In contrast to Theravada Buddhism the Tibetan version spans all “levels” of human existence. The political and moral speeches of the Dalai Lama for western audiences moreover leave no doubt as to the universally meant intentions and pretensions of the leader. For the outsider the question arises of the validity of the western division of labor between moral, political and religious domains, when confronted with the growth of Tibetan Buddhism in the West. From that stand towards the statements of social scientists like Rudolph & Pescatori (1997) is just one step, which is most of the time taken without critical awareness: they claim that religion is rapidly growing to be a vehicle for conflict or cooperation between human communities. I fully recognize such a tendency in recent political statements of pope John Paul II (since Dignitatis Humanae), but whether this and other religious traditions evolve towards a “transnational civil society” remains an open question. Of course, possible globalization and political programming of religious activity seems to be growing in importance. Whether this trend will be universal, incorporating all religious traditions, is difficult to predict. This short analysis only shows that morality and politics often (and perhaps more often) figure on the religious agenda, and that in certain traditions both or one of them acts as an artifact for religious learning.

5. Actions of Manipulation of Artifacts Artifacts do not exist for themselves, but serve a purpose, and hence are functional in religious activities. I will only mention a few particular actions, especially those which are called intrinsically religious. I draw examples from non-Mediterranean religions, since they are less well known.

Some Typical Religious Manipulations Anybody who participates in religious activities, as well as the observers thereof, will agree that basically the same actions are performed as in everyday life: to walk, to sit, to eat, to slaughter, and so on. Still, there is something special to religious actions: they will be performed in a slower manner, or with dignity, or always in group, or in a formal style. Secondly, the observer will notice that the same action does not 197

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carry the same significance or evoke the same sense across religious borders. For example, a Christian weaves the hands together and lowers the eyes to turn inside and engage in prayer, whereas a Navajo Indian spreads the arms wide and distributes tiny clouds of pollen in the cardinal directions while engaging in prayer. Both “pray”, as we say, but what exactly is the religious core of these diverging actions? I give some examples from quite different traditions. Humphrey (1996) discusses the Mongolian shamanistic journey: the shaman “dies” in a symbolic way by going into a trance or slipping into a dream. The shaman then becomes “an artifact of the spirits and a vessel of their powers” (Humphrey, 1996, p. 31). The shaman does not depart to a separate, transcendental world, but experiences other, extraordinary dimensions of the world (that is, within a holistic cosmology), outside of the world of experience of the common human being. The “journey” comes down to a spiritual outreach to heaven and descends again after a certain type of experiences. It is important to understand that the normal, daily horizontal movements are transformed into an “oscillation” along the axis between heaven and earth. Humphrey (1996, p. 123) says that the journey is often described as one from light (earth) through darkness (heaven) and back to light. The landscape has markers of human history which the shaman can visit during his journey. What we can witness, from the outside, is a shaman going in trance, loosing his consciousness as it were or slipping into a dream-sleep, and returning to conscious life after a while. Upon the return the shaman will have stories about spiritual actions and movements and about death and rebirth. Similar data emerge from Navajo field work: the shamans in that tradition are diagnostics (quite distinct from the medicine men who are the therapists), who become the instruments of the vertical axis to relate with other forces in the universe. Star gazers, hand tremblers and wind listeners are the specialist-shamans of this tradition. Torrance (1994) focuses on another type of religious actions, which bring us closer to ritual. He regards possession and the shamanistic journey as the simplest forms of the spiritual quest which would hold a place within every possible religious tradition. In his highly original search for spiritual quests Torrance remains a bit vague about the gradual differences between closed utterly formalized behavior in some rituals and the ritually bound experiences typical of a “spirit medium” and “individual search for transcendence through dreams, visions, or ecstatic flight of the soul” (Torrance, 1994, p. 263). The theory he wants to forward is not fully developed: what would be “the soul” in these instances, and what with “transcendence” in a comparative perspective? I have a lot of sympathy for the author’s courage in attempting to reach a better understanding of these often rejected phenomena and practices. 198

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But this will not suffice to call the results a “theory”, as is foreshadowed in the last chapter. However, Torrance has done some groundbreaking work: in particular I see a lot of value in his approach of the vision seeker as a manipulator of dreams, signs and images to sustain his extraordinary experience. The contents of consciousness become, in my terms, the artifacts of experience which could hardly be captured in the terms of everyday experiences. The event is so powerful and pervasive for the human subject that a particular meaning is attached to it which would give wisdom and direction in life (and because of that will be called a “vision”). It is good to bring up the studies of Felicitas Goodman (1988) at this point: she concentrated on body postures and breathing techniques which are hardly used in everyday life, but which enable subjects to generate and manipulate ways of experiencing the world which are predominantly called “ecstatic” or “spiritual” in the literature. This is no de-sacralization or blasphemy, but rather a humanization of the spiritual phenomena: Goodman is able to describe these religious experiences in psycho-physiological and cultural contexts where they appear to belong, and shows how one can learn and manipulate them in a technical and practical way across cultural borders. Her comparative approach of these “unusual” practices (from a Christian point of view) point to techniques of induction which may well be trans-cultural in nature. Of course, this holds a story on the psycho-physiological processes in human beings, but also on the differential use (or lack of it) of such techniques and practices in different religious traditions. Images, actions of body manipulations, but also psychological processing of representations and bodily actions (or the body as such) become artifacts of religious learning and experience in Goodman’s approach. I am convinced that Goodman’s precise and rather positivistic analyses can help overcome the vagueness in Torrance’s book. The fact that the phenomena Torrance is studying hardly get proper attention in Mediterranean religious studies might be defeated by the thorough approach with analysis of experimentally controllable action procedures that Goodman is aiming for. A more exclusive ritualistic type of action is studied by Staal (1983) and Gold (1994). I only mention Gold’s examples. In the context of Tibetan Buddhism and of Navajo Indian tradition the ceremony is a ritual-with-text, often called a “chant”. It does not have the features of trance or vision quest; although these can be parts of the whole procedure. Let me dwell briefly on the example of the traditional Navajo ceremony. Witherspoon (1977) convincingly analyzed how speech, thought and action (amongst which is ritual) are complementary ways of Navajo active dealing with the world. Each format is a vehicle for the next one 199

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as well. Gold stresses that the ceremony in both traditions is a complex form of action to integrate oneself (with the help of the respective religious specialist) in the universe, which is symbolically depicted in the Mandala or in the sandpainting. This “integration” comes down to a deconstruction of the self and of the learning contents and eventually the learning styles which have been used by the subject, in order to become one with the universe. Of course, the notions used are ambiguous or difficult: Gold speaks of (re)integration, Witherspoon of restoration (to a less culturalized being) and Farella (1984) mentions the unstable seeking of an equilibrium with the “stuff” of the universe. Again, I have to state that the terminology is far from clear, but the avenues opened by these authors are important, I think. In all utterances the use of prescribed and standardized forms of action (the ritualistic aspect) can be detected; in all non-discursive or less rational ways of treating impressions and images in worldly (or inner) phenomena are hinted at. In that way I can understand such notions as “becoming one with nature” or “the forces in brother bear and sister snake are likened to the powers in oneself” (see Gold, Farella, Storm, etc. and a summary in Pinxten, 1993c). The type of experience via the non-rational and often nonconsciously reasoned ritual behavior then is the religious experience, induced by the religious (symbolic) use of particular actions on or manipulations of artifacts such as the Mandala or sandpainting. Finally, the Mediterranean religions. Liturgy is the sum of all religious practices of these religions. In my view it is not correct to speak of ritual here, because the practices are so intrinsically interwoven with meaning and message that the absence thereof is unthinkable (Richardson & Bowden, o.c.). It is remarkable indeed that the doctrine and its instruction organize the agenda for religious learning (Hamilton, 1986). Hence, I proposed the term “sacred drama” to capture the actions within these religions. A series of actions are consciously and understandingly performed in order to actively express a view of the world or a statement of doctrine. The message comes first in these cases, and is enacted. In other words, religious actions do not stand on their own, devoid of meaning. Although the Christian religion may have the most elaborate tradition on this issue, the Jewish tradition is certainly also an exponent of it. The Torah is at the least the source of inspiration for daily religious life (Leibowitz, 1992). The Muslim on the other hand, cannot do without the texts of the Koran, which is the superior source of interpretation for religious experience (Brugman, 1985).

Actions of Wholeness In general terms religious activities always concern the realization, the evocation or the experience of wholeness. With such a phrase I do 200

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not aim at giving a definition, nor do I want to distinguish religious from so-called profane experiences. The latter distinction (made popular by the rather simplistic dichotomy of Eliade on the sacred versus the profane) is in my view purely Mediterranean and hence does not qualify as a tool for comparative research. But how then would “wholeness” be conceived in such an approach? I propose to use it as a substitute for and at the time as a generalization of the Mediterranean notion of the “transcendent”: the individual, the group or the community build their identities by means of certain objects or persons, words, actions or complex constructions which are used as artifacts in worship and in the learning processes of the tradition. These artifacts induce the transgression off the known physical, social and cultural categories of limited, mortal and particular reality. They thus employ seemingly different, older, wider, foreign or otherwise extra-ordinary (aspects of) worlds as referent and object of learning: one’s own mortality, one’s limited action radius, and one’s directly manipulatable world is expanded in a symbolic way in and through religious activity. This is an act of fantasy, to be sure, and the formalized and socialized formats of religious fantasy guide and enable this symbolic transgression beyond one” s material limits. This is what I call actions of wholeness. They are diverse, as is shown amply in the course of this book. Both diverse forms of learning and diverse artifacts abound. However, the same transgression aspect is there, presumably, and the same symbolic venture is apparent. This may explain why attempts at inter-religious dialogue seem to reach an experience of similarity beyond the differences, and why those converted from one religion to the next “recognize” some elements at least. This similarity cannot be overestimated, however: Amstrong (2001) shows how Jewish converts in the age of the Spanish catholic kings (15th century) practiced their religious tradition under the guise of the new religion. Teresa of Avila is possibly the most famous example she thus describes. I avoid the term “experience of wholeness” here, since it implies the (ontic) existence of some wholeness “out there” which is then experienced by a religious person. This smacks too much, too exclusively of the god= whole (“das Ganze” for Otto) and hence does not do justice to the diversity that is out there in the world of religious traditions. In my personal conviction such a whole does not exist (see the last chapter), but apart from that its presupposition does not help me in understanding the subject of this book, that is the diversity of human imagination and action to deal with mortality and wholeness. What I learn from the long history of written sources on religious experiences and religious actions, and from the nature of ritualistic and shamanistic practices, is that we witness an endlessly repeated human and hence fallible attempt to 201

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perform wholeness actions, in order to achieve in this manner one form or the other of wholeness or self-transgression. Therefore, I prefer to speak about “attempt” rather than “reach”, and about action processes rather than experience of wholeness. On top of that, the analysis of the western battle to either throw off the transcendental dimension, or define it in human (and hence” immanent”) terms – as for example sketched in Ferry (1998) and Armstrong (2000) –, can be adequately phrased in my approach: the same attempts at wholeness activity can be seen to be at work here. In the last chapter this point will be elaborated some more.

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Politics, Ethics and Fundamentalism Our preoccupation with our own conceptual navel, is only the index of our methodological sophistication and our political purity. (Gellner, 1998, p. 176).

1. Political and Institutional Context Obviously learning does not happen in the void. Along with the hypothesis that religious activities imply learning processes, I am searching in my model of identity processes for contexts of learning. That is, for institutions and the typical features of them which play a role of sustenance and codetermination in the learning processes. I agree with Neusner in this regard when he sees religions as vehicles of identity: How do religious systems of the social order impart to a social group that sense of structure and meaning that holds people together and explains to them who they are and what they do together? (Neusner, 1994, p. 25).

I am of the opinion that his angle is too Mediterranean (with the emphasis on meaning), but the general function of identity vehicle is well typified. The features of identity processes that are most typical in this regard are labels and narratives (Verstraete & Pinxten, 2004): “labels” are those acts and signs by means of which the individual, the group or the community expresses its identity to the outside world or by means of which it is recognized by the latter. Eventually the outsiders will attribute labels to individuals, groups or communities. I am thinking here primarily of flags, cloths, heraldic signs, emblems, and so on. The notion of narrative refers to the stories that individuals, groups or communities construe to express or repeat one’s identity within changing or new contexts. The aim is to redefine, adapt and hence “save” one’s identity when confronted with potential conflicts and ambiguities due to continuous changes and new inputs from the outside world. This way the identity can be functioning again and remains acceptable notwithstanding the changes. Narratives serve to express the image one has of oneself and others to achieve durable identities. Again, institutions can have an important role in the construction, negotiation and expression of labels and narratives, which hence become artifacts in learning pro203

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cesses. Finally, I repeat that I will look at religious institutions here, as well as conflicts and adaptations of labels and narratives therein from the perspective of identity dynamics. Linked to the institutions are the broader political and social contexts in and through which the learning processes are framed. They need not be strictly separated from the institutions themselves, but for the sake of clarity I use a functional distinction here: the institutional context which is directly linked to religious activities and which expresses first and foremost group identity in my view, and the social and political contexts which predominantly concern community identities. The relationships between moral-political formats and religious expressions and structures are polyvalent. In the terms of the identity model, I see a historic interaction between group and community identities. That is to say, when religious learning processes acquire a certain local uniformity and produce their own religious specialists (just as an example), the relationships between members of a group are streamlined in a uniform way. Concretely, scholars have noted that each monastery in Tibet can be characterized as an identity cluster, relatively autonomous and sufficiently different from the next one to gain its own features: the local monks and his adherents of the monastery shape the local unit, which might make it different in habits, house rules or architectural details from one which is one hundred kilometers further down the road (Samuel, 1994). In predominantly shamanistic groups in Asia and in the Americas (respectively Denaeghel, 1998, and Dobkin de Rios, 1992) particular features attached to local groups can stand out even more: the shaman is tied to and acts on behalf of the local village only. In the case of Navajo and Apache Indian ceremonies it is not odd to be invited to different versions of a religious activity because they are different in the eyes of the local community. This attitude is unexpected because of its lack of orthodoxy rules, for the person raised in a Mediterranean tradition. But also in Judaism in diaspora this dominant role of personal and interpersonal features can be found: a local rabbi can offer interpretations of the texts which give the religious experience of his group of followers quite another direction from that of one of his colleagues. Also, in Christianity some of the historic tensions between eastern European orthodoxy and hierarchical Roman Catholicism can be explained in this way: the autonomous parish (or the local “ecclesia”) of the orthodox tradition is much more a locus of group identity than an identity of a universal community of Christians (Pelikan, 1974). In Asian traditions this feature can be recognized in yet another way: Hindu traditions varied according to time and place, but it is most likely under the influence of nationalistic ideologies in the modern state struc204

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tures that community identity is shaping up now eventually transplanting the variety of group identities (Frykenberg, 1993). Similar tendencies can be seen at work in certain contemporary Buddhist traditions according to some scholars (Gombrich & Obeyesekere, 1988). To be sure, the examples I gave are not conclusive in any sense. My only point is to indicate that social identity dynamics (at the level of groups and/or communities) are far from trivial or irrelevant when it comes to the identification of different religious forms. The reason they matter is that they co-determine the formats of the learning processes which are responsible for the trans-generational continuation of the tradition. My angle in this chapter is that, to the extent that a religious tradition becomes more and also explicitly involved in identity dynamics at a community level it will express rules and representations of a community to which the peculiarities of the group(s) will progressively be subordinated. To that extent religious traditions will become more and more marked by political identity dynamics. The religious community will be engaged in organizational problems of the community (cf. Tibetan Lamaism or Roman Catholicism). To the western reader this is recognizable as the problem of the relationship between religion and politics, or between church and state. Finally, in a progressively more secular state the religious tradition, in its status of vehicle for community identity learning, will oppose continuous secularization and profanization, which may yield political fundamentalist reactions within religions. In my view the latter will only happen under certain conditions: a religion should be turned towards community identities and it should have a proselyte mentality and strive to convert the whole community. Within that perspective on this field of study I propose to look at some moral and political aspects of religious institutions. I am, of course, aware that this subject is vast and will continue to invite research.

2. Moral and Political Aspects and Religious Activities In the history of Christian church traditions, culminating in Descartes” philosophy, the relationship between morality and religion has been a central theme: at the limit the doctrine would allow a person to know how to behave in all particular situations. In political issues, this relationship is more difficult, as we can learn from the same traditions: the Christian world evolved from a decidedly theocratic past (exemplified by the lasting struggles over investiture), to a position of moral and spiritual control by clergy members over rulers (e.g., Thomas Aquinas) to a relative separation of church and secular politics in our time (Pinxten, 1993b). However, the separation is not total and redefini205

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tions of the role of one or the other church or religious denomination in local or world politics are proposed all the time: Amstrong (1998) illustrates how the protestant fundamentalist churches in the United States deliberately and successfully planned a counterattack against secularization in the USA during the 20th century. After long and frustrating defeats (the Khomeiny success in Iran as a bewildering example for protestants: Amstrong, o.c., chapter 9), the fundamentalist protestants may be on the winning hand today and were able to have some people in office in the new government of the USA. Whatever will be the outcome of this evolution, it is clear that the relationship between political power and religion is on the agenda here. I will come back to these developments in the following sections. Another way of confronting modernity and citizenship from the perspective of a religious tradition, is, in my appreciation, manifest in recent Roman Catholic proposals. In the papal letter Dignitatis Humanae Personae of 1965 the moral focus on individual human beings in their capacity of citizen is stressed at the detriment of states and political structures (Mullan, 1998). In other words, the pope and the church address the individual person and hence the whole of humanity, rather than states and regimes, in their religious mission. In practice this entails that the pope as the highest representative of this church places his authority above that of governments and state structures and sends his religious and moral message to every individual in particular. In public performances of the church leader this has led to the use of modern mass media in the dissemination of the message. This way a unique combination obtains: on the one hand individualization is realized (with the emphasis on the moral rather than the political issues) and on the other hand globalization is reached (aiming at the whole of humanity). This deliberate perspective brings this church in line with the western emphasis on Human Rights since the Second World War: the church recognizes the validity of the focus of the Universal Declaration on individual citizens rather than state entities. In his ominous study on the emergence of secularism Taylor (2008) analyzed how Christianity carried the roots for secularism (and for individualism) from an early stage. How can I explain the relationship between religious, moral and political features in a comparative perspective, and thus escaping the a priori’s of a particular religion? Religious activities and moral or political involvement often seem to be related in some, but this relationship only causes problems in particular constellations. I sketch the scenery to begin with. The domains of religion, morality and politics are clearly separate domains when looked at from a comparative perspective. The range and

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the contents of each differ from one tradition to the next, and from one context to the next, and specific formats and histories obtain. The general insight I gained so far is the following. Within the Mediterranean religious area the religious activities have a separate status, distinct from other tasks and roles in the same socio-cultural context. Religion operates with its own specialists, its own built environments, even its own community language. The general characteristic of religion, i.e. its strife for wholeness, is intrinsic, but is codetermined by division of labor: individuals, groups and communities are related to each other by means of religious activities. But the latter are relegated to particular time slots and spaces, and employ specific personnel. On top of that within these revelation religions the one god addresses humanity by means of messages which indicate basic meanings and ideas about the place of human beings in the universe. Finally, the relationship between god and human beings is sketched in a contract which is presented to humanity by the creator god. The contract or covenant format is a highly particular definition of the relationship between a religious instance and humans. It does not necessarily imply, but historically it can be said to have at least induced moral and political opinions and actions, which were believed to be inspired by religion. Within a comparative study I think we can safely state that such a relationship between the religious, the moral and the political spheres is unique. This does not mean that all Jews, Muslims and Christians find religious inspiration for their moral and political life to be essential, or even necessary. What I do say is that the history of interrelationships in the context of a doctrine of revelation yields a frame of thought which is specific. For example, the remarkable de-contextualized distinction between good and evil as if they would be ontological categories, is the result of such a tradition. It is hard to imagine another tradition which went to such great lengths in thinking through and arguing for such a construct of ontological good and evil (incarnated by god and the devil, respectively): founding philosophical schools on the idea, inspiring masses of people to wage war because of it (e.g., the Crusades, holy wars) and making eternal bliss or doom dependent on it. I am not saying, of course, that outside of the realm of the Mediterranean religions ethical or political discussions do not exist, nor that wars would be absent there. That would be ridiculous and untrue. What I am saying is that the coupling of morality, politics and religion (and theological discourse) is probably nowhere as strong as in the Mediterranean traditions. It would be good to take this characteristic seriously, especially if one agrees that religion is first and foremost the realm of fantasy or imagination, as I propose in this study.

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In particular, the de-contextualizing of opinions and rules in these religions by fixating them in a nuclear way in texts with a supra-human authority (thus laying the foundation for scholastics) has been a historic step in the Mediterranean traditions. The text could thus serve as a foundation for moral and political views. This does not mean that interpretation was always banned or even controlled. I only point to the structural conditions or the bedding for obedient thinking that was thus installed in the western tradition: contextual aspects could hence easily and enduringly be brushed away as “mere sociological or historical contingencies” which so-called did not really speak to the core of the matter. It is interesting to see how this type of argument keeps coming back, even in present times when the foundational thinking was not dominant anymore in Christianity: protestant fundamentalists pick up this line of reasoning once more and the hierarchy of the catholic church does pretty much the same in its disapproval of so-called liberation theology (Scott Appleby, 2000; De Schrijver, 1979). It is not surprising that oral traditions look with almost exotic bewilderment at such behavior: Cicero already wondered how people could leave the pragmatic and socially anchored ritual traditions of the Romans for a religious engagement based on the presumed truth of a “word”. With a slightly different emphasis North American Indians asked how someone (Jesus according to the missionaries) could decide for once and for all what is good and what is evil, disregarding the context. In their eyes a human being is embedded in continuously changing concrete situations where he has to choose and decide at risk, and learn all the time why some action or decision proves to be beneficial and another one causes harm. To call on the authority of a text at all times is absurd or at least exotic in their view. The reaction of early (and contemporary) religious westerners that these people are hence “primitive” because they do not accept the authority of the text the westerner brought along, is simplistic and racist. In that reaction the westerner has clearly not looked at the peculiarity of his own behavior. The same holds for the uncritical projection of a morality based on guilt and the attribution of a conscience to all human beings. When studying these issues from a comparative perspective it becomes clear that such concepts and mechanisms only work within the frame of this particular constellation (Pinxten, 1979; Pinxten et al., 1983). Of course, Mediterranean religions have spread their particular complex abundantly and effectively all over the world. Along the way they influenced the structure of so-called profane ideologies like nationalism and globalization which express similar views and conventions in a slightly watered down version as far as the mythological aspects go (Abicht, 1993). Contemporary forms of fundamentalism prolong this 208

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trend in yet another combination: in the present postmodern, global world order the expansion of the Mediterranean traditions triggers all sorts of mixed identities (Marty & Scott Appleby, 1991; Armstrong, 2000). Phrased in my model on identity dynamics this reads: the strongly culturalizing emphasis of the Mediterranean religions (with the foundational role of the myth, with scholastic rhetorical traditions, etc.) is just one of many ways in which religion can serve as an identity vehicle. In the ritualistic and shamanistic traditions the sociality dimension is often more prominent. In the mixed forms which are emerging in the contemporary world, all sorts of alternative formats seem to be taken shape. It is important to recognize them and describe them in their own right in order to combat the colonial attitude that is so widespread in our history. Some examples will illustrate these analytical points.

Examples The mystic searches to realize a direct and personal meeting with god. Without doubt this is a strongly individualized action, even when the mystic aims at reconciling this deep religious experience with a political engagement (Sölle, 1998). I can only think the mystic endeavor as a highly individualized one, even if it implies that particular personal features should be abandoned by the mystic in the course of his or her journey (Apostel, 1981). I mean it is very hard to imagine mysticism as a group phenomenon: it is primarily an individual process or struggle. It is paradoxical then that the mystic would dissolve and at the same time realize this individuality through integration in an overarching community identity (like Christianity). In a ritualistic tradition the individual experience seems less prominent, or even unimportant in view of the group identity: the Chinese anthropologist Fei describes in his beautiful work about the network society of rural China how one’s place in a family and village is imprinted through time, allowing for particular regulations for social and juridical procedures. In a somewhat loose way I could say: the rural society is not organized by means of laws, but through rituals which imprint and teach relationships, sanctions and habits (Fei, 1992, especially chapter 8). Still a different way to link religion with morality/politics I detect in Mediterranean religions: all three of them discuss the problem of their interrelationships because the one god in their tradition interferes from the beginning in the life of human beings. That is why deism, which defends (among other things) the absence of god from creation beyond the initial phase of the universe, was combated so intensely as a heresy: indeed, deism thus allows for the questioning of the divine foundation of morality and politics, at least for worldly affairs. 209

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The three religions differ in their “solution” of the problem of a god who reveals himself confronting human morality and politics: according to the Jewish religion god has given the law to humanity by means of the prophets, and it is now up to human beings to interpret and at the same time to be loyal to the law. The discussion then centers around questions of interpretation in a variety of non-Jewish contexts and in one almost exclusively Jewish context (Israel): how can any new interpretation be loyal to the basic principles in such a way that it can be recognized as Jewish-religious, notwithstanding the novelty of the interpretation and the shifts in circumstances? Ever since diaspora the halakhic practices of consulting a rabbi are considered to be a good auxiliary in this predicament, but it is uncommon these days to read that some consider precisely this auxiliary to be a hindrance and a purely political heritage from diaspora: “it is a danger for a liberal-democratic Israel” (Weiler, 1993, p. 148). Still others do not see any irreconcilability between nation building and the moral and political guidance by rabbis in present-day secular Judaism. Their argument goes that the Jewish religion carries a political message and hence has the experience of millennia of tension and synthesis between religious doctrine and political behavior (Neusner, 1992). With the growth of decidedly fundamentalist movements in Israel like the Haredim the question is becoming prominent, I think (Armstrong, 2000). In Islam human beings seem to be given a restricted space of sovereignty, which differs from both Christianity and Judaism to some extent and seems to define the status of morality and politics in yet another way. Allah is believed to have a definite plan which will be carried through, regardless whether humans obey to it or not. Not following Allah’s plan causes problems for the human beings, who hold individual accountability vis-à-vis Him. Juridical interpreters can help the individual to gain insight in his mistakes and eventually sanction him, but this will not change anything to the deployment of Allah’s decisions (Smith, 1981; Murata & Chittick, 1994, chapter 10). In terms of morality and politics it is of the highest importance to know and understand Allah’s words in the proper way. One consequence is, for example, that it is useless to try and draw historic lessons from one’s mistakes: history is relatively irrelevant, because everything that is important has been given in His words and human beings cannot alter the will of Allah in any way. The good Muslim is the Muslim who obeys to this will. That point contrasts with the Christian lore: the Christian believer lives within the conviction that god is occupying himself with human beings. God can execute his plan, but humans can beg or otherwise influence him to change his plans to some extent. According to Smith (1979), with the shift from faith to belief this entails that the Christian as 210

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it were “chooses” to follow god’s plan or not. As a believer he will live according to the beliefs, but less and less trust or believe in god. In a recent debate my opponent was a higher clergy man: he emphasized that Christians should gain faith again and learn to live under god. In this history of Christianity one finds different positions on this point, sometimes occasioning schisms: protestants and orthodox Christians would give superior and even absolute authority to the Holy scripture (with little room for human sovereignty sometimes), while Catholics would grant a large authority to the church as unique human instance for interpretation of the divine message (Pelikan, 1974: especially volumes 2 and 5). Within the frame of analysis of identity dynamics (Verstraete & Pinxten, 2004) a ritualistic tradition will invest primarily in sociality: a social grammar (and network) exists external to individual or group choices and deliberations, and the identity of any individual is what rituals are about, or what they serve for. In my opinion this is also the case in Islam, to an extent that is much wider than in Christianity. The human network (and hence primary identity) is situated in Allah’s plan with the world. The human predicament is that this plan should be obeyed, but it is possible that humans do not follow this line, hence heresy and factionalism. By stressing the role of the book and of theological schools of interpretation Islam may introduce culturality values which are complementary (and possibly in conflict with) the sociality identity markers. In Judaism and Christianity, where the word (and hence meaning and sense) holds a more central place, the expression of identity on the culturality dimension is more prominent (Lambert, 1977). I see yet other consequences of this state of affairs. I can understand why specifically the appearance of a possibly prophetic interpreter like the ayatollah Khomeiny was the sign for Islamic revolutions (continuing today, including the excesses of any revolutionary movement), and the fundamentalist tendencies in Christianity (such as Opus Dei or the Christian Identity movement) or the extremist followers of rabbi Kook can be successful in their respective traditions. In my view, to the extent that such tendencies can strive for more or even exclusive identity definition through meaning and choice processes by reference to texts, it is to be understood how the choice of texts and the debate between interpretations of them can yield attitudes of inclusion and exclusion on the basis of beliefs, eventually on dogma. When meaning discussions become the main avenue to religious identity distinctions orthodoxy and heresy are within reach. In a ritualistic or a shamanistic tradition such a criterion of exclusion is not available. Another way to express belonging and strangeness can be identified: a formalistic interpretation of ritual actions can yield extreme ortho-praxy, excluding those who digress. 211

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However, it is likely that this will occasion factionalism and blasphemy litigations. If one can speak about Hindu or Buddhist trends towards fundamentalism recently, i.e. some forms of Hinduism and of Buddhism (Marty & Scott Appleby, 1991), I will then set out to search for a growing prominence of texts and beliefs in the learning strategies. Indeed, the linkage of Hinduism to narrow nationalism in India today, or of Buddhism to nationalism in Sri Lanka seems to underscore this interpretation (Gombrich & Obeyesekere, 1992). In practice I see a coupling of ritualistic traditions here with a dominant mythical text (of nationalism) in the present geopolitical context. The reader may wonder where the important notion (at least in religious matters) of “hope” has gone. I grant the investigation on the notion will take a separate study. In my provisional study I must conclude that hope does not hold a place in most traditions where insertion in the prescribed scheme is dominant. The emphasis on sociality in these traditions explains why this is the case: religious activities in such traditions focus on insertion in a preexisting pattern, not on (free) choice of religious meaning. My educated guess in these matters is that hope is only a relevant category when culturality is the main dimension for identity formation.

3. Politics and Religious Activity According to the foregoing paragraphs so-called small religious traditions may be more readily understood as identity manifestations of groups rather than communities: religious movements, small sects and the like. The political dimension of them will be rather local. Certainly in large religious systems the primary referents are communities and in these cases genuine political issues are distinguished, and the wellknown state-religion relationships can be relevant. This means that religious activities as such are not necessarily linked with political organization: e.g., Hindu and Buddhist traditions will be vehicles of group identities most of the time, and only in some particular cases will they be manifesting themselves in a state context and hence be linked with political issues in the genuine sense (Samuel, 1994; Gombrich & Obeyesekere, 1996). In a similar vein one can say that Christianity from the time of Constantine on belongs in this category (Praet, 1996), while in Judaism (after the kingdom) and in Islam (after the caliphs) internal debates about the issue are on the agenda. Fundamentalisms in the present era testify to the relevance of this point. Technically speaking we find a series of types of institutes. In order to avoid a trivial use of the term, I will only call some of them political. I use the term political to indicate those constellation where clear pre212

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scriptions or rules can be detected which are decreed on the group or community as a whole. Religious activities are termed political when they concern themselves explicitly with the organization of the whole group or community. An example can illustrate the boundaries of the notion. Staal (1998) describes how traditional Hindu rituals form an institute in themselves, with rules of conduct, specialists of the cult, calendars, and so on but without statements about or even attention for social phenomena outside of the ritual proper. It looks like it is bizarre to try and attribute a political role or sense to the institution. Nevertheless, this is precisely what is done within an orientalist perspective, where a functionalist interpretation is stressed: the caste system would be kept in place by means of the rituals which tie the different social groups together through their religious activities (with the caste of Brahmans as spiritual leaders; this is the typical type of analysis of L. Dumont 1969, in contrast to Staal, 1989). If the insight is correct that rituals stand on their own, without sense or meaning, then the attribution of a political meaning or function is a misinterpretation. On the other hand, the coupling of a nationalistic ideology and Hindu traditions would then produce a mixed form which would add a genuine political aspect and transform the locally differentiated group forms in a uniform community syndrome. In another but somewhat similar way the shifts in the old Jewish tradition is described by recent scholars: according to some of them the variable, local and group-centered ritualistic Judaism which transpires in the oldest lectures of the Pentateuch as the book of the Yawhist is transformed through editing and rewriting by later scribes into a uniform book with authority and political meaning for the integral Jewish people (instead of groups or “tribes”), over and beyond cultural and religious differences (Rosenberg & Bloom, 1990). This view on things strengthens my former statement that the writing down as a text of the stories in the books of the three Mediterranean religions and the canonization as a “holy text” were clearly political actions: the myth is extracted from its face-to-face or performance context in the group and gains a status of de-contextualized truth for an entire people, regardless of time and space (Pinxten, 1989). In line with this reasoning diverse developments should be re-appreciated: the linking of politics and religion gives the institution (the church) a role in matters of state and makes it religiously vulnerable at the same time, since it gets linked this way to immanent historical organizational structures of communities (Johnston & Sampson, 1994). The flee from churches in certain periods is a logical consequence, while the universalist strive for post-religious normative organization (like in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights) can be understood as a predictable and maybe useful second strive. The latter is recognized as such recently in some protestant and catholic institutions (Billiet & Dobbelaere, 1976; Witte & Van de 213

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Vyver, 1996). Of course, this does not diminish the importance of the initiatives in any way; it only situates them in a political context which is not intrinsically linked with religious activity. Maybe the many small and local group activities of religious purification (all too easily gathered under the label “sects”) may offer yet alternative religious paths later in history. My present guess is that such initiatives are on the way up in the West at the detriment of established and politically active churches. In my opinion any research on sects should take into account this ambiguous and blurring relationship between politics and religiosity in the large religious bodies, lest criminalization and power politics would reign supreme in these studies. Again, if my hypothesis on the attraction of fantasy in religious experience is correct, then religious quests (and hence the formation of so-called sects) will continue and will not be banned or abolished by official or historical authorities. On the contrary, fundamentalism will only become more prominent. In the field of the relationship between politics and religion I distinguish between three levels:

Regionalism The enormous variety of religious forms in the present world produced a vast field of regional political formats which can hardly be overseen. I mention two examples to indicate the diversity we are confronted with. In a beautiful bundle on Sufism the editors stress that Sufi “living saints” in Pakistan and Bangladesh are the literal embodiments of a liminal or border-religion between Hindu traditions and Islam. Their syncretism produces one type of Indian Islam where the ritual actions make a constant concrete linkage between the two symbolic worlds while only existing in actions and a lifestyle of Sufi saints in a community. However, this limits their form of religiosity to a regional context, physically situated in the national border area where they live. Because of their exemplary lifestyle in the community the saints may transcend their ritual status and figure as political or moral examples for the local community. However, they remain local and will not gain a global status at any time. Interestingly, because of their concrete situatedness in the border area of Pakistan with India, they cannot get linked with the nationalism of either of these states, and end up being qualified as bad citizens by the politically fundamentalist Muslim government (Werbner & Bassu, 1998). They exemplify clearly what is meant by a regionalist religious-political predicament. A very different case is discussed by Alles (1994). In his thorough comparative analysis of the heroes in the Iliad and in the Ramayana epic the author claims that the poets opt for a religious solution in order to 214

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safeguard the community identity. I restrict myself to the example of the Iliad. Achilles refutes Agamemnon’s offer and refrains from persuading anybody else. He “knows” that all arguments are irrelevant, and that he will only perform heroic deeds and die a hero’s death upon divine intervention. By choosing for this solution in the epic Homer mystifies the figure of Achilles, who at the same time is promoted to become an exemplary warrior for the Greeks. The excavation of Troy by Schliemann throws a peculiar light on Homer’s epic style: it proves that there was indeed historic evidence for the Iliad (Troy had existed, and the war had happened) but Homer made the hero “bigger than life”. Hence, the hero’s arguments in human terms are promoted to become semi-divine acts. The community identity of Greeks and of inhabitants of Troy is boosted by this type of story which adds a definite religious dimension to the historic tale, which is taught to Greeks generation after generation.

Nationalism After the era of Constantine, Christianity has allied itself often and deeply with states, later to become nation states (Fox, 1991; Armstrong, 1993; Scott Appleby, 2000). At the time of Reformation and Counterreformation this may have seen a high point, shifting gradually to globalization and a focus on individuals after Vaticanum II. The image which is dominant in western media on Islam is that of a theocratic religion, which is intrinsically and necessarily expressed in political structures (Brugman, 1985, p. 51-65). In his comparative study on Christianity, Islam and Hinduism Hefner (1998) emphasizes that the situation in present-day Muslim states is much more confused: on the one hand a few conservative Islamic nationalisms are in power (e.g., Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, Sudan), which reject definite aspects of western political culture and at the same time develop a postcolonial critique. On the other hand, authoritative analyses place the problem with the westerner who holds an orientalist and imperialistic view on Islam: the West would see the Islamic world as dangerous (Huntington) and opponent, and would search accordingly for a recognizable enemy in the format of nation states (El Jabri, 1997). In the international context of dominance countries with an overriding Muslim population are hence coerced in a nationalistic discourse. The war against Iraq, the exclusion from the international community of Iran, as well as the support of the Algerian regime against its own population, all induce extreme nationalism, which abuses Islam. When one follows this line of critique it is at the least clear that the coupling of Islam and nationalism is not obvious or intrinsic, but rather a historical contingency.

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The Israeli situation is not clear when we would look at it as a sole problem of nationalism. Neusner (1995) sketched rather convincingly how Zionism (as a nationalistic tendency within Judaism) was developed in a European context, next to other responses to anti-semitism. However, it only got concrete form in Israel against the international political background after the Holocaust. Political-sociological studies of the confusing current developments in Israeli politics show manifestly religiously inspired nationalistic tendencies where religion may or may not be a genuine factor of motivation (e.g., Haredim, in Landau, 1993). How the alliances between nationalisms and religions will develop remains to be seen. Thorough analyses of the influence of religion in exclusivist nationalistic conflicts in our era (type ex-Yugoslavia) will inform us. In my opinion nationalism is a European aberration which has caused tremendous bloodshed over the past centuries and will have to be overcome in the long term. The connection between soil, language, history, culture and religion on the one hand and an independent state on the other hand is in the eyes of the anthropologist a Eurocentric syndrome: the 4000 living cultures according to anthropological classifications obviously live together in less than 200 states, making the nation state an exception rather than the rule. The coupling of cultural identity and citizenship is possibly the worst avenue to solve the problem of peaceful coexistence, whatever historical arguments have been advanced for it.

Globalization A final interpretation of possible alliances between religion and political structures is found with the so-called globalists. According to scholars in this school of thought (drawing on work by Wallerstein & Featherstone, 1992) the world evolves towards greater uniformity, even in cultural matters. If this is true, then it should be the case that religious ways of going about converge to some extent, eventually to melt into uniform activities. From the perspective of micro-studies in anthropology such tendencies can locally be spotted, but the dominant intuition seems to be that supranational forms come in existence next to regional initiatives, both of them subject to constant reshaping (Pinxten, 1994). Mixed forms with global expansion and at the same time local specification (called “glocalization”) are another phenomenon. It is to be expected that the economic, financial and media globalization will have an impact on religious expressions. Hefner (1998) points to irreversible tendencies in some of the great religions: they explore the coexistence of mixed forms, with special attention for the internal tensions emanating from them. An interesting study in this perspective is that of Rudolph & Pescatori (1997): the 216

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authors illustrate how Catholicism and some larger religious movements are positioning themselves in a transnational world and sometimes collide with nation states in this endeavor. In the present world migrations and refugee streams are more on the agenda than in the recent past. Within that context religions might offer help over and beyond the nation state with its nationalistic ideology. In recent years such a conflict is emerging in Europe (see Maier, 2001; Pinxten & Cornelis, 2001). By offering means of action of support for the needy, development projects, collaboration structures for direct sociopolitical action and so on these religions invest less in belief and more in positive action, which makes them become part of a “transnational civil society”. In that status the religions take a place next to states, nongovernmental organizations and international organisms like the UN, according to Rudolph & Pescatori. Some instances like the protestant World Council of Churches take deliberate stands on apartheid and international conflicts, but the same global positioning can be discerned in the actions and speeches of international religious leaders such as the Dalai Lama. In some cases this leads to clashes between western inspired Human Rights and religious leaders: Hopwood (and others in Cooper, 1998) points to intellectual movements within Islam which strive for an “Islamization” of modernity and of Human Rights rather than the other way around, and at the same time fundamentalism refers to conflicts between religions and universalist programs supported by the UN (Marty & Appleby, 1991 and 1993). However much this engagement for the fate of humanity can be appreciated, and however distancing from nationalistic positions with its war past can be praised, the general attitude is stuck in a pattern of the past. Indeed, the separation between politics and religion, for which Montesquieu pleaded in his Esprit des Lois already at the start of the Enlightenment, had the intention to neutralize conflicts in pluri-religious societies in order to allow for a civil society. While this proved to be a sensible way of thinking at the time of nation states with a past of strong political involvement of religions (e.g., Catholicsm in France, Protestantism in Sweden, Catholicism against Protestantism in German territories, and so on), I can see no reason at all why this line of thought would be less relevant at all in a time where large transnational units or a global political structure are emerging, harboring many and often mutually antagonistic religions within their structures. In that sense, the orientation to a global arena offers no automatic guarantee for peaceful coexistence, I think. If the separation between politics and religion in a globalizing world is not taken seriously, the door to inter-religious war is wide open. Already, the motivational role of religions in war speech is recognized and deliberately exploited by such scholars in international politics as Huntington (1996). 217

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4. Fundamentalism The uncritical howling in the press and in some churches about the danger of sects and about the growth of fundamentalism in Islam and maybe in Hinduism, annoys me. It is a simplistic continuation of orientalism, which thus hinders serious scientific work. The opposite reaction, often found with so-called leftist scholars, is equally wrongheaded: that the religion or culture of migrants and refugees should be integrally safeguarded when the subjects come to live in Europe or North America, precisely because they have these cultural rights, is an equally awkward misunderstanding of tolerance. If these people are discriminated against in the West then the West should be more consequent in applying and sanctioning its universal laws and rights. By creating new, cultural rights or excepting groups from the application of universal rights and laws, one creates a new form of discrimination and racism. Moreover, over the past two centuries the political structures and the values of the West have developed means to go beyond the local, culture specific types of exclusion on the basis of fixed identities. Democracy and responsible tolerance are some of the main features here: it is backward and intrinsically racist to make abstraction of these in favor of presumed native insights and cultural rights for particular groups. The worth of the project we embarked on is precisely that all individuals have the same rights, regardless their gender, their religion or their cultural specificities. By allowing for cultural specificities of one group to dictate their own rules of conduct, one falls back into the racist trap (eventually in reverse racism). This will not solve the problem of coexistence for all in a mixed population, nor will it strengthen the project of tolerant coexistence for all. The point is delicate, because the “progressive” people who work for this blind kind of multiculturalism are doing this with all their heart and arguing it with the best of intentions. However, in practice they strengthen a kind of “ghettoization” in the cities and undermine the function of a joint project of coexistence for the culturally mixed population on a territory. Cultural relativism might push us to the gorge of (reverse) racism here (Tibi, 2000; Pinxten & Cornelis, 2001). One of the labels today in this sort of debate is that of fundamentalism. But, first of all: what is fundamentalism? In the quarter century I have been following the Navajo Indians I witnessed a remarkable evolution: in the 1930s the Peyotl movement started to enter the reservation from the north (Aberle, 1979). It was only in the 1970s, after another disillusion with federal government policies, that the Peyotl movement started to grow rapidly in all Indian reservations of the USA. In Navajo Nation this meant that witchcraft accusations multiplied and grew more intense, eventually to die down when Peyotists managed to get more influential in school politics, in 218

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religious and healing practices and in art. With the election of a traditionalist leader who supported Peyotism, Peterson Zah, in the 1980s, a point of no return may have been reached. Traditional medicine men (some working with or around Navajo Community College at Tsaile, Arizona) became the poets of the peyote origin myth, and the typical sight of teepees on weekends added a new form to the reservation landscape. Literally hundreds of roadmen travel the reservation to perform a ceremony. The typical and famous healing ceremonies (with their sandpainting, their illness and healing theory with some 65 different therapeutic ceremonies) are either integrated rapidly in the peyote cult or they become obsolete. What I want to discuss a little bit is the accusation of witchcraft during the transition between so-called traditional medicine practices and the establishment of the peyote cult. The accusation is a serious matter: if one gives in to it and agrees that one is a witch, this would imply that one places oneself outside of the “people”. One thus becomes a real nobody. What remains is suicide. Indeed, being a witch means that one is only able to use one’s knowledge (however considerable) against one’s people. After a period of tension, the Peyotists seem to gain a majority position now, and hence become the “tradition”. With this shift in attention the witchcraft accusations died down. My question is: can I capture some of the fierce reactions (of accusation, condemnation, etc.) by the term “fundamentalism”? Or is it just the recruiting force and the lack of corruption in the cult, its concrete results in terms of better government and better schooling which makes it grow as an alternative? Moreover, the cult is able to control (for the first time ever) the abuse of alcohol, which in itself is a tremendous feat and would be appreciated by many a family on the reservation. I have no problem recognizing fundamentalist aspects in this cult, and we have to grant that it induce a genuine revitalization in culture, art and health and job infrastructure. So, when I grant that, the question becomes: is fundamentalism “good” then? and what is it? I draw on the extended fundamentalism project of the Chicago research group which worked under the American Academy of Arts and Sciences to produce an explicit and well-founded theory on fundamentalism across the board (Marty & Scott Appleby, 1991 and 1993). First of all, fundamentalism is not or not necessarily, opposed to modernity. At the time of the onset of capitalism and the inception of scientific research it already existed. Moreover, it is, according to the authors, functional in identity production wherever it appears. Across religious peculiarities, fundamentalism has the following general features: - to fight in a militant way any attack on the presumed identity of the religion. This is a defensive aspect. 219

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- to fight in order to safeguard what is precious, as expressed in social ties, convictions or soil. - to fight over the real or imagined past of the religion, the basic opinions or whatever is seen as “foundation”. In the protestant groups one witnessed severe fights over the question which texts from Christian traditions could be considered as the “fundamentals” and hence have authority over other texts. - fight against others. The latter could be outsiders, but in any case they often are the more moderate members of one’s own community. They are considered to be the worst enemies, precisely because they are members, and hence are said to act as traitors. - to fight under god or another transcendental power. It is rather partial on behalf of Marty & Scott Appleby (1991b) to use the verb “to fight” as a conceptual cloth hanger here, but their intention is clear. The primary referent in this case is the American protestant fundamentalism. It is obvious that this movement has all the features mentioned: ostracism vis-à-vis others (especially nonbelievers), political lobbying in the White House (especially under Reagan, Bush and Bush jr.), sanctification of a particular edition of the Bible, and so on (Ammerman, 1991; Armstrong, 2000). When we restrict ourselves from looking at firmness and the defense and implementation of ideals as dangerous, we end up with very convinced groups who are able to separate primary from secondary aspects and strive for the realization of their goals in a very intensive manner. That is what every society does, or not? So, what is wrong with that? Indeed, in the Navajo example I gave this was the condition for success for the peyote cult. Also, our own history shows how effective a religion or an ideology can be when it really goes for its philosophy. On the other hand, when the message is watered down, it is most often the case that no efficiency can be shown. All this only serves the purpose to indicate that the efficiency and vigor of the fundamentalists can not be condemned in themselves. The literature and the history on such movements seems to prove that such features have enabled, among other things, the production of superior art: Van Eyck and Memlinc, but also Bosch and the Italian masters took their religious heritage seriously, the Taj Mahal would not have been built without the religious inspiration at the basis of it, and the mystics would not have written down their beautiful poems without their profound religious zeal. Fundamentalism is efficient and vigorous. The analyses seem to indicate that the efficiency of fundamentalist movements is indebted to the features indicated (put negatively: the zeal, the narrowing of focus, the exclusivity, the growing rigidity, etc.). Thus, one cannot accuse funda220

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mentalism per se of being inefficient (Marty & Scott Appleby, 1991 and 1993; Landau, 1993, and others): a government is forced to change course under the attacks of fundamentalists like in Israel (around 2000), a corrupt regime is made to stand down as under Luther in 1520 or under the Ayatollahs in 1979. In these cases, the religious movement gets involved with political positions: after the successful overthrow of the political regime the religious revolutionaries are finding themselves in the situation that they want to reorganize the political structures themselves, according to the religious principles that had inspired them so far. So, beyond the “fights” which the authors cite there is the challenge to implement principles and install a new and better society. According to me, this is a new task which makes every fundamentalist movement derail: the clergy in Christian traditions became corrupt in their turn, and initiated endless inter-religious struggles, the Taliban in Afghanistan discriminate against women and nonbelievers in a way never seen before; the anti-abortion protestant attackers in the USA kill in the name of the Bible and against the law, and so on. These and many other examples show that the shift from an efficient and impacting critique to an alternative political institution is far from easy, let alone automatic; I think it can safely be concluded from the long history of inter-religious conflicts (from the Crusades over religious wars in Europe to religiously inspired conflicts today) that the pure principles of fundamentalists which work so strongly as a critical means fail to offer viable avenues for new political institutions. One will invariably find an escalation of puritan attitudes which lead to progressive witch hunts and exclusion. The “cleansing” operations in doctrinal political movements and in fundamentalist religious groups are standard: the internal enemy seems soon to be everywhere, and the outside world is identified more and more as inimical. All efficiency in organizing a society is lost and the practically varied, multifaceted and polymorphous reality of any society is progressively seen as a problem to be eliminated (since it seems to contradict the doctrinal purity) rather than a challenge which would yield a test of the doctrine. Typically the doctrine is to be saved at the detriment of the social and political reality. In practice, this invariably means witch hunt, executions, cleansing, intolerant puritan attitudes, and an invalid model of society. There is, however, another point I have to stress. Scott Appleby (2000) gives the following general definition of fundamentalism: (It is) a specifiable pattern of religious militancy by which self-styled true believers attempt to arrest the erosion of religious identity, fortify the borders of the religious community, and create viable alternatives to secular structures and processes (Scott Appleby, 2000, p. 86).

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In that definition I must object to the container use of the term “fundamentalism”: yes, this is what happened in Christian and Islamic history, and yes this may now happen in nationalism & Hinduism or nationalism & Buddhism in some Asian states. But no, this not an adequate definition of religion in its varied fundamentalist expressions. Basically, I think the author lumps two aspects together (on the basis of the historical contingencies mentioned), and hence has to either defend or reject the whole complex at once. When he would defend it, he also has to defend the violent and political actions. If he rejects it, he will be termed intolerant or anti-religious. By stepping out of this casuistic historical position, I think a different study of the complex is possible and clarifying. Juergensmeyer (2000) can be confronted with Appleby’s position and shed some light on the situation, I claim: he gives many examples of new terrorism, which is committed in the name of god. He rightly states that a violent tendency is present in the history of all the Mediterranean religions and in some of the others. The growing terror today (“the global rise of religious violence” in Juergensmeyer’s subtitle) is in that sense a traditionalist answer to (and against) Enlightenment and secularization that precisely the modern citizenship is refused by religious fundamentalists. That is, they lump together religious activity and political organization, much in the “obvious” way that Scott Appleby adds the last line on political action to the foregoing ones on religious developments. In the present world I cannot see how this lumping together can be done in a neutral way. It is not descriptive, but laden with political values. Hence, I propose to look at the phenomenon of fundamentalism by presenting a distinction which is visible and necessary in a comparative perspective, but which was absent or silently passed over in the past of the Mediterranean religions. The distinction I want to make is that between fundamentalism in a technical sense and fundamentalism as a political action program. Technical or religious fundamentalism is a critique and a profound ideological motivating system: it takes seriously the fundamentals of a religious tradition and tries to organize one’s religious and existential life by applying the critique and by using the fundamentals as a primary source of religious inspiration. In my terms: the fantasy dimension in religion is not taken as a mere marginal feature, but rather as a genuine and deep source of inspiration. It is this “taking seriously” which produced superior works of art, and marvels of religious poetry. People apparently try to excel in their creative work when the ultimate destiny is god or a deity. There is no doubt that this religious source has been extremely motivating in the history of humankind, wherever one looks. In poor areas the most worthy possessions have been devoted to this realm: not only material wealth, but spiritual greatness is triggered by 222

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this type of source. In a sense, one can say that religious fundamentalism is a guarantee for the blooming of a religious tradition and of its byproducts (i.e., art, knowledge). A second form of fundamentalism, which is in nearly all features distinct from the first one, is political fundamentalism. In this case, the said inspiration is used to think through and to implement blueprints for the organization of society and eventually a state. In certain religious traditions this second form is closely linked to the first, in others it is not. For example, in the peyote cult there is no way (so far) to link religion and politics since no political means of any relevance obtain; in nationalistic Islamisms or in the Opus Dei version of Catholicism there are means and instruments in abundance (states, international organizations, media institutions). The point is that with political fundamentalism a straightforward, rather simple or one-dimensional (or maybe few-dimensional) political project is drawn from the religious source which is then “applied” to the complex and factually diverse sociopolitical reality of a country or of the world. Basic differentiations in gender, age, intelligence, tastes, culture, sociality and so on are negated, because a uniform, uni-linear or otherwise consistent religious proposal cannot cope with all that diversity and remain fundamentalist at the same time. This can be a way in critical action, but it is hopeless in the compromise phase of organizing real and hence diverse coexistence that political practice is dealing with. In historical cases where it has been tried and is tried today, political fundamentalism based on whatever religious tradition yields reduction or destruction of pluralism and complexity in a community in favor of the simplicity and purity of the utopia found in religious fundamentalism. The same fundamentalism which has people excel in the religious format brings them to a loss of realism, war and crime in the second and political format. The diversity, the difference between doctrinal consistency and factual inconsistency (the human fallibility, for instance) yields political exclusion, elimination of the difference, annihilation of the diverse (e.g., removing women from the public space, cleansing the population of otherness in beliefs, racial features or whatever). History teaches me some things, though not many. Neville (1997, p. 67) defines it neatly with particular emphases: Acknowledging the essential orientations of religions to the ultimate allows us to appreciate the passions of religion, which Kierkegaard characterized as infinite. It is easy to see how these passions might easily lead to war if some historical culture or goal is confused with the ultimate. it is also easy to see how historically different particular religions might come into conflict concerning the framing of the obligations of the human condition and assessing how societies measure up to various obligations. Because there are many religions, each with a claim to represent the ultimate and each with implicit

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if not explicit programs for culture, the question of political tolerance of religion, indeed religious diversity, is urgent.

It is clear I am in sympathy with Neville’s warning, although I again think his characterization of “religion” smacks too much of Mediterranean religions only. But the historical clashes he refers to are certainly on the agenda. Indeed, one lesson of history seems to be that the complexity of which anthropologists speak in terms of cultural differences, and psychologists in terms of gender and personality differences, or linguists in terms of language diversifications, will not be reduced away or cut out: there is no rock bottom insight in any particular religion or culture we know of which offers by itself the sort of foundation we would be looking for to enable a uniform, durable, realistic or just organization of human groups living together. Lacking that sort of insight, any zealous and fundamentalist political scheme will mean bloodshed, exclusion and authoritarian inequality. Whether these proposals stem from religiously inspired philosophers such as Plato in his aborted state views, or from whatever religious leader proper, they have historically ended in the same sad results: elimination, cleansing, or in modern terms “cultural fundamentalism” (Hannerz, 1999). Since I hold the opinion that certainly the Mediterranean religions are intrinsically fundamentalist (and many authors within and outside of these traditions testify to that effect: e.g., Armstrong, 2000; Scott Appleby, 2000; Tibi, 2000; Neusner, 1999), I stress it is of great importance to them to be aware of this. One of the consequences of this awareness then could be to accept the pluri-religious reality and search for means and structures to organize it. It will be clear that these means will have to be found of necessity outside of one’s religious tenets. That is, that religious fundamentalism is a force, but the fight against political fundamentalism also within one’s own bosom is at least as important. It is my conviction that one rather strange and certainly rare type of religious person can possibly play the role of arbiter or mediator here: the religious atheist. No political structure has ever been realized by this type of religiously active human being, partly because (s)he is a critical individualist, without a church nor dogma. Still, (s)he understands to some extent what religious people are driven by, and shares some of the experience or even (shamelessly) borrows some of the means to experience religiosity from them. In the last chapter I will point out some of my understandings and choices in this matter. If we agree that fundamentalism as a religious attitude is respectable and that it is at the same time objectionable as a political avenue, what then could be a decent political input for religion? This brings me to the point of tolerance, inter-religious dialogue and so on. The literature on this issue is rather extensive (one might just think of the long-term 224

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endeavor of Hans Kung in eucumene movements). However, the discussions on inter-religious dialogue are not very interesting. Often it is argued that a church is in line with the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in this or that statement and “hence” offers space for dialogue (e.g., Mullan, 1998 on Dignitatis Humanae Personae; or Witte & Van de Vyver, 1996, on protestant churches). Or it is said that others are allowed to live in the West thanks to the principle of “love thy neighbor”. There is a point in these remarks, but history of anti-semitism and the recent Holocaust in this very same civilization should have us loose “naïvité” in these matters and teach that notions like tolerance, permissiveness and the like are up for serious analysis. Without being able to do this here, I will have to be satisfied with a few suggestions. At the start I am very explicit that my ideological choice (at the end of this book, and not in the beginning) is for a political organization of a community in view of a durable and peaceful coexistence of a purity of opinions and lifestyles. Democracy should offer tools, not an authoritarian toolkit. I am convinced that the dialogue model which is so popular in well meaning circles who exercise in inter-religious dialogue is basically flawed. Some analysis on the rhetorical form of dialogue, in the platonic sense and others, has taught me that dialogue in our tradition is a profoundly unequal and hence unproductive form of carrying on discourse: one party in fact constantly defines the rules of the game and the themes, while the other party can only react within this preestablished frame. The reason is, of course, that the first party thinks its frame is universal (philosophy) or better (the Ancient Greeks developed it) or the only one possible or modern or whatever. However, from anthropological work we know that other traditions have developed other types of rhetoric, and that the inequality of our dialogue frame will render durable and peaceful results of dialogue impossible. Moreover, especially in religions the dialogue format is far from the best one for inter-religious communication: if god has revealed himself to humankind, but different traditions claim to have differing, but equally superior texts of god’s message, then we are in for exclusion and not for dialogue for all. To be sure, with the best of intentions and scholarly expertise we make the exercise, but we will never reach nontrivial results which are satisfying and binding for all parties involved. There is always the point that, precisely because it is god who has spoken, the other party must have misunderstood. God did not lie or make a mistake; that is human error. But whose error, and how important is the mistake? My suggestion is that for issues of politics or of relevance for survival of humanity as a whole (like UN conferences) scientific studies should offer us a minimal program on the basis of which political plans of action should be grafted. This implies that the “facts” of the scientists should be accepted, for better or worse, by all participants in the deci225

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sion making. Of course, scientific data and models are always provisional, never dogmatic. Discussion, dialogue, etc. can then be engaged in on the basis of the acceptance of at least this factual basis: I call this an “entente” rather than dialogue (Pinxten, 1999) meaning that on a certain amount of basic givens no opinion or dogma or belief can be used as an argument. In practice this entails that for example in the UN Conference on birth control in Cairo the obvious, factual basis of the demographic evolutions of the world should not be “up for dialogue”, enabling the Vatican and a few small allies to almost bar decision making on this dramatic issue: overpopulation will entail endless starvation, migration and pollution as we know. It were only the dogmas on abortion and birth control which led the Vatican (which has no problem whatever of demography) to try and boycott a conference of countries in view of mastering eminent disaster if nothing is done in these matters. Hence, the intricacies of dialogue as a rhetoric tradition were (ab)used to overrule or at least not take into account the scientific data. I know that is indeed an intrinsic quality of a value system and of a religion, and I am not objecting to that. I only defend that where the religious position is triggering a political standpoint we find ourselves confronted with a serious problem: can we allow this? Or should we strive for a systematic separation of religion and politics? Indeed, neither Buddhists, nor Shintoists, nor any of the 4,000 small religions have a say in these conferences, nor can it be safely agreed that their values are treated on an equal basis then. Probably they would not strife for participation in such decision making circles, since the state-religion relationship is not felt to be relevant in that sense for them. All the more reason, I would say, to take the separation of religion and politics all the more seriously. Who is representing who and what is the nature of this dialogue if we do not do that? To be sure, these points need further elaboration, but I think the problematic nature of these issues has been made clear in this short treatment.

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CHAPTER 12

Atheistic Religiosity? In Sedona you can’t walk anywhere without tripping over medicine wheels. In places like Chaco, the Park Service is archiving new collections from the modern shrines being erected. As said above, the more we remove magic, drama and mystery from our world, the more we seek it through our own creations of the world of others. I suppose it is predictable that as an anthropologist these sorts of things would bother me. What bothers me the most is that we don’t take these ideas, the thoughts of others, seriously. Their grand ideas are treated as amusing anecdote, caricature, or a projection of what we need to find in the world. (Farella, 1995, p. XVIII).

Each project is finite. Each book is unfinished and becomes a project once more. A following book will have to treat the problems left in a more thorough way. Or start the job all over. Still, it is impossible for me to finish the work on this book without at least an attempt to formulate a sort of message, with an ideological or religious ring to it. Already in my introduction I stated that I consider myself to be a religious atheist. Apart from the fact that this is an ambiguous label, it also needs a lot of explaining. Atheists were and are considered the ones who lost faith, who turned against religious organizations and sometimes as the ones who betrayed religion or even their civilization. I do not agree with these accusations, but I will not go into them. I propose to explain what could be a religious atheist. Maybe he is considered to be a traitor as well, and that would be a pity. But, on the other hand, in the great Christian lore the traitor had a most important role: without him god’s plan of saving creation could not be carried out. Far from claiming that sort of status the religious atheist does have something to say in the present context, where religions are apparently expanding their political activities (Juergensmeyer, 2000) and at the same time the world is growing smaller, more interdependent. In a very general way I am convinced that in the present world the tolerant atheist has a role to play. God is prominently present in the Third World countries, but is hiding or disappearing in Europe. Figures in military uniforms or in expensive suits, waiving stock market labels or bombarding the media with their new myths and life style narratives replace the lord. Is this a place for the religious atheist to try and have his say? I have no divine answer to the pressing questions of our time, 227

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but I am convinced it is worthwhile to take a moral and ideological stand now. Because religion enables human beings to relate to a greater reality and maybe even to diverse realities, the fantasy of the so-called religious atheist should be pooled with the suggestions of the religious traditions. Obviously, the religious atheist is an individualist and will not found a church or any other institution, but this particular and idiosyncratic voice (of which there are many carriers in the world) may be what we need in the present predicament of possible “clash of civilizations” or “cultural fundamentalism”.

1. Atheistic Religiosity/Religious Atheism The very term a-theism has one presuppose that critical and modest doubt has been left behind and that the religious realm is dumped as mere old-time folklore. In my opinion, this is a mistake, which can be based on lack of knowledge about atheism or on ill faith. The term atheism only refers to the absence of god as a final reference, a foundation for answers and explanations on the ultimate questions. That is, the atheist will pose the final questions about the origin of the universe, the meaning of life and death, and so on without relegating the right to answer such questions to a transcendental authority. In the Mediterranean traditions this implied that the atheist falls outside of the religious domain, or at the most will be considered a stubborn negativist. However, in the perspective of the multitude of religions around the world, the situation is not that simple. That is to say, the religious domain cannot be reduced to the contents reserved for it by these traditions alone. Together with the other religious traditions the atheist is not bothered by the “truth” which the Mediterranean religions claim to possess, nor can he simply be discarded or neglected as irrelevant (because the criterion of truth does not apply). In my scientific search I am only interested in the phenomenon of religious identity activities. As a human being I do not share the beliefs of one or the other tradition, but I am searching all the same. As an atheist I propose a particular combination between the scientific and the existential engagement. I distinguish roughly between the following meanings: atheism is a metaphysical position, a moral position or… a religious position. About the first option we know of several learned treatises attacking or defending the power and the weaknesses of a theistic world view. Can problems be adequately formulated and/or solved by presupposing the hand of god as a variable? Does a theistic metaphysics stand in the way of a scientific approach to the universe (as it used to be in the European Middle Ages), or does the one not interfere with the other? Philosophers have been arguing for centuries about these questions in order at least to 228

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bring clarity in the positions and their implications (Le Poidevin, 1996; Orye, 2001). I will not concern myself with these problems here. A related problem is ethical in nature: if god is dead, is there something left which is powerful or persuasive enough to guide human behavior, and from which values and rules could be derived to avoid mere political and social jungle or chaos? In the words of Ferry (1996): are the atrocities in Bosnia and Rwanda or under the heathen Nazism made possible by the “god is dead” mentality? Also, in Horkheimer’s terms: god’s killing cannot be passed unpunished (Verbruggen, 1993). Is the price of his death utter immorality? Along that line of reasoning the atheist is soon identified as the anti-Christ or the human devil who defends unlimited permissiveness and anarchy. It is still important to say that such arguments are simplistic and show nothing else than a refusal to think through the human predicament. The atheist will answer that human beings in the Mediterranean area of religious influence are supposed to have a conscience which will enable them to fight immorality and mere randomness. The humanistic wave of the past centuries was all about that and it produced interesting constructs such as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The papal reaction over the past decennia then is picking up this line of thought: the human conscience is not trusted by this Christian Church, at least not enough to allow for a just world. Hence, the emphasis on a divine truth which is external to and superimposed on the human conscience and which offers a program of conduct that is beyond doubt and hence absolute (Splendor veritatis). Any human decision, choice or act of will should be subordinated to this supreme authority. In my opinion, the question at hand can best be approached in a scientific search (and not as a religious position of course: the one does not substitute for the other) as an anthropological question: how do different schools of thought (including those within theologies or religious traditions) evaluate the capacities and the constraints of human beings? Is the Christian view on human beings rather pessimistic then, whereas the atheist stands up as an optimist? The Mediterranean religions introduced an external authority, who actually punishes human beings and promises at the same time to safeguard them from barbarism when they obey. The atheist seems to believe in the human capacity to improve one’s fate and to be accountable for one’s deeds. It is, of course, impossible to decide who is right in these matters. But it could be defended that there is a relevant difference of intuition here. Whatever else, the horror and bloodshed that Ferry is talking about did not start with atheism or Enlightenment: I referred more than enough to recent discussions about the history of religious wars which have been going on for ages (Aho, Armstrong, Juergensmeyer, and so on). 229

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Atheism, on the other hand, can be situated in its explicit and most elaborate form in the context of Mediterranean religions: the format we know best was developed as a reaction on the traditions of knowledge and moral guidance of the dominant theisms. The concepts and insights of the early atheism are most certainly owing a lot to the theistic systems against which they revolted historically (Le Poidevin, 1996). Without going into a history of atheism I can say that the general connotation of critique and refusal that is attached to atheism has this historic ground. More than that: the suggestion that atheism could be more than “negative” in this sense is met with disbelief in theistic circles, or is appreciated as a implicit retreat to readopt a theistic position. I resolutely reject these statements. The historical anchorage is what it is, and the critique in itself should never be betrayed because it is a noble characteristic of our civilization. But even then the atheist is left with the challenge to develop a project about the way human beings can deal with their mortality and their limitedness in religious ways as an atheist. I will mention some suggestions by forerunners and friends on this path. But first I need to clear one further ambiguity: atheism is clearly to be distinguished from humanism, even if both have some family ties (Pinxten, 2007). Ferry (1996) makes the point that ever since Enlightenment the humanistic current has been destabilizing Christian and church authorities in the West. In each humanistic approach the human beings become the central theme and the basic referent and the selfrealization of humans is made the fundamental ideological goal. In other words, god disappears as ultimate ground and final referent or at least he is most often substituted by the human species in these roles. There is no objection in this current for the humanist to stay religious, that is to attribute a place and function to god in one’s world view. But even then god would be subordinated to the goal of human optimization, or he would not be allowed to interfere in moral and political decisions the way it happened in a theocratic tradition. For one, the exclusion of an opinion or a plan (either a religious one or an atheist one) on the basis of a religious dogma would be avoided or even condemned. Some great religious humanists like Erasmus have shown that to be a humanist and to be a Christian do not exclude one another (although the church ruling at some particular time may have decreed so: but this is historical contingency, not philosophical foundation). With the atheist things are different: the atheist search excludes membership of a church religion. Where I agree with Ferry is that the humanistic world view of the past centuries gradually came to dominate our moral and political thinking, at the expense of Christian impact in those realms. But this need not imply that forms of religiosity are disappearing from the life of the westerner. In other words, the materialistic or profoundly secular world 230

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view is not a fact of life, according to me. The tremendous blooming of sects and religious movements of all sorts in the West has me wonder about the extent to which traditions from elsewhere (beyond the Mediterranean heritage) are integrated in the postmodern world. At the same time, I do not see atheism growing. It is possible that these other traditions will hold a more modest place in the social and political life of the West than the Christian religion did: they may be more restricted to the private sphere of individuals and groups and not have the uniformizing impact on culture and society that Christianity once had. They nevertheless represent religious activity, and can certainly be called either humanistic or atheist.

2. Some Former Explorations After a long journey in search of spiritual “comrades in arms” within Christianity and Judaism, a group of us decided to publish a bundle on so-called religious atheism (Apostel et al., 1981). The bundle met with remarkable success, mainly amongst the doubters and critics of established religions. Apostel remained loyal to this line of research, even though he never left the textual approach to religion. Forerunners on this path (William James; Paul Valéry and others, of whom we were not really sure whether they would have qualified themselves as atheists) are discussed and given a place in what amounts to be a treatise on atheistic spirituality (Apostel, 1998). However inspiring his thinking was for me I cannot really put to use my friend and colleague’s proposals since he only reasoned about these subjects in the frame of dominant Christian categories (which he took to have universal relevance): Otto’s concept of the numinous, Zaehner on mysticism, and so on. But, alas, Zaehner was a genuine Catholic Oxfordian. All the critiques on orientalism, colonialism and the like apply to his work and his views on religious things. The man did not know the self-critical arguments of present-day anthropology and humanities and hence continued to work in the wellknown learned, but biased perspective on religion of other origins, which is so mercilessly attacked by such scholars like Said (1979), Talal Asad (1993) and their generation. Only a self-critical and comparative study will enable us to formulate valid scientific statements and models about other religions and hence about religion in general. The scholars, also about atheistic religiosity, who stick with the tenets of the older approach can unfortunately not give the means to discuss an updated version of religious atheism. Such colleague-atheists like Robin Lane Fox, on the other hand, are more likely sources of inspiration here (Fox, 1991). Moreover, they introduce a contemporaneous line of thought in the debate (like text analysis). I present some insights which I expect to 231

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be of relevance in the future for this type of endeavor. I use the concepts of identity dynamics and learning strategies which have been guiding me throughout this book. For this exercise it is important to keep in mind the remark by Jesuit L. Dupré on these matters: it is not sufficient in order to speak of religious atheism to simply criticize the theistic proposals, nor will it do to produce a weaker copy of the original (theism minus god). If that would be the case the so-called Satanism would qualify as well and would hence be put in the same bag as atheists. This is unsatisfactory for atheists, and it is not taking seriously the religious dimension at all. Atheism will have to develop its own, new contributions (Dupré, 1981). In the same sense Taylor’s historic analysis of the growth of secularism (2008) in Europe gives ample food for reflection: in the present era any choice for a religious adherence (and for an outspoken and deliberate atheism) has to be argued for: this is a low profile secularism where not-belonging is “natural”, but also void of meaning.

The Artifacts The primary artifacts (sounds, objects, space and time) appear in no way tied to one or the other theistic position as such. The non-believer and the conscious atheist can without doubt take a landscape, an atom, or a random object or person as his target of reverence. The invitation to nature mysticism which Apostel (1981) wrote, orients meditation towards nature, to one’s own body, and even to atoms to achieve religious experiences. Of course, one can object that this type of mysticism is only limited or even partial in comparison with the mystic meeting of god (Sölle, 1998: she wants to integrate both in her synthesis). I think that atheists should have no difficulty in granting that this is a somewhat “concrete” or “poor” type of religiosity; since only concrete or material aspects of the world are the objects of religiosity here. As far as the secondary artifacts are concerned, I see no exclusivity with theistic religiosity either. Another Jesuit, Delépierre (1981) gives atheists some advice on this point. He starts from a clearly Christian point of view: religion is to “communicate with the totally other” (Delépierre, 1981, p. 60), thus referring to Otto’s notion of god as the “totally other”. In a second move, he “empties” the former concept by ascribing to the atheist the position on the totally other which could be understood as “the cosmos, of which human beings are the center of reflection” (idem). All characteristics of mysticism can be found here, including what is called by Delépierre self-assertion, yielding happiness and love. Of course, this is a very gracious way to realize a meeting of minds, but still it pins down the atheist in the position of nature mystic. I use Delépierre’s proposal only to indicate that my endeavor is respecta232

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ble, even though I protest that his position is somewhat restricting. I will have to be able and willing to defend these points in the following sections. But first I should look at another artifact of this level: do atheists have prophets or a clergy of some kind? I do not see them, and I even would not know how to conceive of them. This makes the atheist side with the followers of Leibowitz in the Jewish tradition: the reverence of human beings or institutions, even of god himself, is considered to be idolatry. This comes back as one of the literal statements of one of the main thinkers in this tradition: A. Kasher (1981) equates the strict antiidolatry attitude in this Jewish group as atheistic. In his view there is no contradiction at all for the religious Jew in being an atheist, precisely because the latter arms you against idolizing humans, institutions or the All-mighty. The task of the atheist is only becoming more fascinating by such invitations. Tertiary artifacts: can nonhuman beings, myths, doctrines or symbols be the object of a cult for the atheist, and what should this mean? It is at this point that some ecological philosophers can be situated, I think. Van Bendegem (1997) wanders along with them to some extent, while Ferry (1996) accuses them of false religiosity. What is the matter? Some ecologists and some Human Rights defenders take up the prophetic role from theistic religions in the present godless world, according to Ferry, and behave as prophets for a new high cause. The formulate unreachable and non-debatable goals with the zeal and the impetus we knew from the biblical zealots: Nature is holy, and humans should accept their humble and subordinated position in nature and stop urging for a position of master of nature, even of manager or supervisor (as was made popular in Arne Naess’s “deep ecology”). The deeds of these prophets resemble those of their theistic ancestors, including the selfsacrifice and the disregard for death which are so recognizable for a flock which barely lost god over one generation, but which is still living in that transcendental world view. Only the object of transcendental belief disappeared, not the religious attitude (Ferry, 1996). By substituting the lost of dead god by Nature, Man and happiness, assertiveness, the good and so on (even small gods like the exemplary figure of the panda bear: Vermeersch, 1984) the old attitude is safeguarded. In that shift, Ferry claims, humans and their environment become the object of the cult: the (empty) religious cosmos is filled in by a human being who deified nature or himself. In my terminology the old religious artifacts are torn down and substituted by a smaller imagination, namely that of nature and humanity which are idealized and hence function as a tertiary artifact. Of course, they have all the attributes of the tertiary religious artifacts, that is to say they are imagined, untouchable, ideal and (al233

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most) beyond criticism. I agree with Ferry that this process can be observed in some places and that the media have an important responsibility in defining some human beings (especially media people, politicians and stars from the sports world). The “rebuilding” of humans to become conform to the ideal typical image which is “bigger than life” and almost divine in “beauty or radiance” (e.g., Madonna), “might” (type Rambo) or moral superiority (type Exterminator) is an advanced form of this trend (Bourdieu, 1994; Nader, 1997). The statement of Ferry is basically sound, but do we deal here with an intrinsic feature, let alone with the only possible form of atheistic religiosity? I want to propose an answer which does not rest on simple substitution of theistic elements. In my opinion the atheist has two important instruments at his disposal to fill in the artifacts for religious activity: science and fantasy. Science is a knowledge acquisition system with three basic components in this perspective: intuition, methods and concepts, and an institutional and political context (Pinxten, 1987). The second component is the most cited one in philosophical analyses of science: methods, theory formation, conceptual analysis, formation and testing of hypotheses, and so on. The intuitive level is often forgotten, since it is pre-conceptual and pre-discursive. Still, one should not overlook that insights appear first at that level and can only be translated later in discursive, experimental or whatever other formats (Hadamard, 1960). The political context and the organizational aspects of scientific research are discussed primarily in sociology of science. The atheist can, in my opinion, attune his rejection of theistic answers with developments in the sciences: historically, but also intrinsically there is no contradiction or tension between science and religion for the atheist, like the one that has grown in the tradition of the theist, most certainly in its Christian version (Van Bendegem, 1997). The atheist has as his primary tool for testing his scientific knowledge and cannot uphold a standpoint or a proposition which is in contradiction with science, since thereby he would deny his own critical quest and hence induce the degeneration of atheism. This implies that atheistic religiosity is more a process or a continuously provisional system of beliefs and practices than a set of dogmas or received views. Of course, this is easier said than done: all too often well-meaning and scientifically trained people choose the path that is well trodden in the past. This is my first critique on a lot of the present atheistic propositions: all too often and all too easily “common sense” and provisional moral standpoints are “sanctified” and considered to have a status of obvious facts. Worse than that, sometimes a proposal is launched as atheistic answer which is only based on supposedly universal moral values and a “universally human” indignation. More in particular with regard to the 234

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positions on the meaning of life and on religion this induces a degenerate form of atheistic thinking in the present era: Human rights for instance (as a remarkable attempt, construction and possible instrument) are declared universal, forgetting along the way that they emerged from the Christian tradition. Hence, they tend to used by some circles as a measuring rod instead of as a project, and quite a lot of “others” are kept in line by applying this rod. I think that this beautiful project of Human Rights is exactly that: a historically contingent and culture-laden project which has to be tested constantly on its universal foundations and its worldwide applicability. Not using this instrument critically will imply its use as a power instrument for one religiously laden culture only, and will corrupt the instrument. A similar derailment can be witnessed in discussions on cultural and religious tolerance from the position of simplistic cultural relativism: atheists (together with believers) there often confuse cultural relativism with tolerance and defend highly culturally absolutist or religiously dogmatic practices and beliefs of members of another tradition on the basis of “cultural difference” or “multicultural tolerance” (Tibi, 2000). Holding on to such a position will inevitably lead one to racism, and will exclusivity by others which would not be tolerated in one’s own tradition. Indeed, if the rules and opinions of one culture or religion are allowed to reign supreme in an absolute way, then this implies that the very notion of humankind is culturally and politically void. One lands up with highly reified categories of different cultures and religions, which seem to exist as different universes with no possibilities of communication or interaction between them; THE East and THE West, THE African, THE Indian, and so on. The positions of new extreme rightist groups, with their extreme communitarianism, is precisely on this line and hence would meet the naive tolerant person there. Indeed, both start out from an equally ill-founded, although somewhat different moral position and the opposite intentions result in similar effects: a racist structured concept of culture with the extreme rightists (Pinxten & Verstraete & Longman, 2004), and a humane but naively ethnocentric notion of tolerance leading to a one-sided blind version of multiculturalism (Tibi, 2000). The extreme rightist ideology makes a double mistake: the racist position in their notion of culture is scientifically nonsensical and only yielded a protectionist attitude on some historical privileges instead of a genuine understanding of cultural differences (Pinxten & Cornelis, 2001). However, the moralistic atheist sins against his own axioms, landing him oddly enough in the camp of the enemy (that is, the intolerant extreme rightist): the atheist should be more careful in consulting the social scientific literature and expand the old library of natural sciences with the findings of the former in building up moral 235

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argumentations. For example, it is not uncommon to encounter a mild lack of interest for analysis of “cultural” themes in atheistic circles. Culture would be “soft” and economy would the “real thing” which motivates people, or Human Rights will do the job once “everybody stick to them”, and statements of that sort. Or: fundamentalism is a “problem”, because fundamentalists are not willing to have the good intentions and see for themselves how beneficial the instrumental rationality of the West really is. This is not even a preposterous attitude and lack of knowledge about one’s own tradition: this is outright bigotry and big-headedness. The atheist has to study his own tradition in a scientific way, with some urgency. Righteousness is not the same as morality, but declining to take seriously that scientific critique can undermine one’s moral and political opinions at all time and that the ideological choice of one moment can easily turn out to be wrongheaded traditionalism or, worse maybe, truism the next moment. It is fitting to have high standards here, I claim, since precisely the atheist in the position to use scientific critique without limits and this makes atheism precisely free of dogmatic received views. Not taking up this opportunity will reduce atheism to a watered down form of theism (a sort of empty theism). A final example concerns the subject matter of this book: in my view serious atheists should be very much interested in the religious dimension of people and societies. This implies, amongst other things, that the concepts and methods of the particular religious tradition of one’s context of education should be critically examined and that a serious attempt to comparatively study the traditions in the world should be on the atheist’s agenda. Orye (2001) and the present book constantly point to the pitfalls of uncritical and unscientific use of basically Mediterranean concepts and methods, which need to be deconstructed over and over again. It is my conviction that scientific knowledge of this (and any other phenomenon) will only be possible if one strives for comparative analysis with a clear consciousness of the political and cultural contexts of religious activities. Provisionally and as far as I can see the comparative learning theory of Michael Cole offers an important instrument to engage in this sort of endeavor, however limited this theory may be. The phenomenology of religion does not offer such a device, although many atheists uncritically seem to adopt this frame so far. The second instrument is fantasy. At the beginning of this book I defined fantasy as probably a unique human capacity. The atheist can render the role of fantasy optimal, in his own way and in combination with the free use of scientific data and theories. I explain what I mean with this cryptic statement. Atheists are free to use scientific material in his existential and/or religious journey: for example, each and every 236

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possible intuition can be examined. I do not see how believers in one or the other Mediterranean religion can do this since some constraints about the relationship between god and humankind will interfere, through the holy books or through institutional practice. Of course, the old dogmatic control of yesterday is weakening in some areas, but the rise of fundamentalisms within these religions seems to indicate that freedom of research or quest cannot easily be achieved. The atheist is free of this kind of bond and can hence fantasize and vary intuitive searches without this type of limitations. Of course, it would be naive to imagine freedom in an absolute way (what would the contents of that freedom be?), but that dogmas nor institutes can withhold the atheist from exploring the intuitions that humankind have produced all over the planet is a unique predicament. Even at the level of disciplinary aspects of scientific research (the second level) the atheist has a unique position. In line with what the history and the sociology of science have demonstrated (Batens, 1992) breakthroughs in method and concepts in science are significantly occasioned by ambition, guts and lack of bonds. Young scientists seem to possess such qualities more than established academics. My point is that atheists have a similar possibility, since they can see and experience atheism as a infinite and open quest for which the scientific methods and data can be used, and are not hindered by a fixed revealed truth of any sort. At least on these two levels I see a great potential for the atheists to be creative in their atheism.

Religious Actions In his attempt to elaborate on atheistic spirituality Apostel (1998, p. 50-55) shows how meditation works, over twelve steps: silence is the first step. Apostel writes: “After isolating himself and having adopted a relaxed attitude, the subject tries to reach inner and outer silence, without observation, without action” (Apostel, 1998, p. 50). Having reached that point one can now reintroduce the world in a mystic way: “try to imagine as lively as possible your house, your city, your country, your continent, your planet, your solar system, your galaxy, your material universe” (idem). The same exercise is gone through for the body, the smallest particles, death, and so on until all twelve steps have been gone through. Apostel refers constantly to one or the other known religious practice of the West or of the East. In other words, religious manipulations in this view are not religion-specific and can hence be used by the atheist as well. In the activities which aim at wholeness this is even clearer. Again I refer to Delépierre (1981) who stresses that religious detachment and imagination, much like artistic activities have the power to “intensify happiness if it is already present” (Delépierre, 1981, p. 58). Certain body 237

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postures and corporal exercises mentioned by Goodman (1988) and Apostel (1998) refer to, guide or otherwise co-structure mental experiences: deep breathing, a slightly angular body posture and the like. Atheism hence differs from other forms of religious activities: not the absence of religiosity, but the manipulation of some of the same artifacts in a scientifically critical endeavor with an expansion of fantasy and intuitive panorama is what makes it stand out.

Learning Types The learning types I distinguished are all useful for the atheist, I think, except maybe sacrifice and divination. It is not clear to whom or to what the atheist would direct his sacrificial offer. Possibly a principle of nature or reality as such would qualify, but they are of such an abstract status that the use of the term here is odd. Divination in the strict sense is not an avenue for the atheist, since nothing can be asked of a divinity. The intuitive quest can make use of conceptual associations, irrational jumps or shifts, unexpected or unknown patterns, artistic juxtaposition and what have you and these might qualify as methodical variations on divination (as Campbell, 1979 defended). Of course, the atheist can be initiated in the chosen themes and traditions and in still new ones (in the way that for example freemasonry can show a theistic and an atheistic format: Apostel, 1985). I myself plea for the meeting of other tradition through mutual initiation’s learning (Pinxten, 1981). Compassion can be recognized in an often somewhat simplistic form in humanism when it presents itself as social consciousness and profane caritas. Those forms are mostly a-religious, but I see no reason why religious formats should not be tried out. The religious experience and mysticism will not be treated here anymore, since several treatises on the subject are available (e.g., Apostel 1981, 1998).

3. Is there a Message? After the lengthy and often complex analyses and criticisms of the foregoing chapters a short message should be allowed. The religious atheist takes the artifacts and learning types of the religious person seriously. More than that: the atheist recognizes himself in them to some extent, except for the theistic aspects of some of these religions. In contradistinction with the a-religious or religiously indifferent human being the religious atheist respects the religious ways of the fellow human beings. In my proposal, however, respect means that the religious atheist critically examines in a systematic and unhindered way what these religious forms are and they do or do not render optimal the 238

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human strive for wholeness. This implies that the respect of the atheist does not give a soft, flat or automatic right of religious value to any religious group or denomination. Rather this right is earned on the ground of demonstrable qualities. For example, the freedom of religion as a constitutional right in democratic countries may or may not be a good idea, viz. a tenable principle if this right systematically violates a Human Right like nondiscrimination on the basis of gender (a discussion launched in The Netherlands in 2001 by catholic theologians because of the enduring and dogmatic exclusion from the clergy of women on the basis of gender). The atheist takes it to be his task to maximize scientific confrontation and critique in his religiosity, and to use fantasy as freely as possible. For the latter point it is obvious that the atheist will find some alliance with artists and scientists. The message then is that the atheist should carry through the combination of unwavering scientific criticism and creativity and by that avenue escape from the big-headedness of righteousness and the simplistic turning into a demon of those with other existential choices and traditions (Pinxten, 2007). I am convinced that the religious atheist should enhance and sophisticate his engagement to combat self-betrayal. The attentive reader will have noticed that, if anything would exist like the fundamental atheistic contents or texts then this message would read that the atheist should become more fundamentalist. Although no canon of atheism does exist, and hence fundamentalism is an awkward category in this instance, I am aware that such a message can trigger reaction of fear or horror in atheists. What I mean, of course, is that atheism should be taken seriously by atheists, as a project and not be a substitute for self-indulgence. If atheism can be religious, and if that means that one’s practices and tenets will have to be taken earnestly in order to produce an honest atheist engagement, then the atheist should adopt a deeply felt religiosity. What about tolerance then? The gamble or, if you like, the existential creed of the religious atheist is that scientific critique should never be stopped and that free research and free creative quests should be maximized in the human religious project. If we shape this in practice we will often meet high degree of sensitivity in righteous groups and in communities of a more dogmatic nature. We will probably “hurt” their feelings at times. This is, however, a pragmatic issue which can not replace the religious engagement as such, lest we drop the latter. If the religious atheist remains loyal to his religious way, then he has to take the engagement seriously. The religious atheistic project lies for me, specifically, in the faith put in science and in human creativity. Even if some groups or communities will be annoyed by the atheistic quest the project should be forsaken. At least that much has learned from history once more: Bruno, Galileo, 239

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Darwin and many others have taken this road before. To sum it up: it is not because of the fact that some churches at some point in time felt vexed or attacked by Giordano Bruno or Charles Darwin, that the project of the latter was faulty or unworthy. The atheistic project does not have any ally or substitute in the West, as far as I know. Its relevance and its promise as a religious tradition is vested on that. The meeting with other traditions in inter-religious negotiation can only be fruitful, I honestly think, when one of the meeting parties is atheist. Religion as an identity vehicle needs the atheist, lest the searching dimension (the quest) of the religion dries up and disappears at some point in time to be replaced by the simple reproduction of supposedly known formats and contents. For the optimist the religious atheist is hence a supplementary color in the mixed panorama; for the pessimist he will be appreciated as a necessary antidote for righteousness.

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“GODS, HUMANS AND RELIGIONS” While most traditional world religions seem to face a fundamental identity and cultural crisis, signs are indicating that there is a universal need for new spiritual demands and revival, new awakenings of religious practices and feelings. What are the facts beyond these movements? Is there a new human religiosity in the making? This series brings together witnesses, thinkers, believers and nonbelievers, historians, scientists of religion, theologians, psychologists, sociologists, philosophers and general writers, from different cultures and languages, to offer a broader perspective on one of the key issues of our new world civilisation in the making. Series Editor: Gabriel FRAGNIÈRE, Former Rector of the College of Europe (Bruges), President of the Europe of Cultures Forum

Published Books No.19– Rik PINXTEN, The Creation of God, 2010, ISBN 978-90-5201-644-3 No.18– Christiane TIMMERMAN, Johan LEMAN, Hannelore ROOS & Barbara SEGAERT (eds.), In-Between Spaces. Christian and Muslim Minorities in Transition in Europe and the Middle East, 2009, ISBN 978-90-5201-565-1 No.17– Hans GEYBELS, Sara MELS & Michel WALRAVE (eds.), Faith and Media. Analysis of Faith and Media: Representation and Communication, 2009, ISBN 978-90-5201-534-7 No.16– André GERRITS, The Myth of Jewish Communism. A Historical Interpretation, 2009, ISBN 978-90-5201-465-4 o N 15– Semih VANER, Daniel HERADSTVEIT & Ali KAZANCIGIL (dir.), Sécularisation et démocratisation dans les sociétés musulmanes, 2008, ISBN 978-905201-451-7 No.14– Dinorah B. MÉNDEZ, Evangelicals in Mexico. Their Hymnody and Its Theology, 2008, ISBN 978-90-5201-433-3 o N 13– Édouard Flory KABONGO, Le rite zaïrois. Son impact sur l’inculturation du catholicisme en Afrique, 2008, ISBN 978-90-5201-385-5

No 12– Astrid DE HONTHEIM, Chasseurs de diable et collecteurs d’art. Tentatives de conversion des Asmat par les missionnaires pionniers protestants et catholiques, 2008, ISBN 978-90-5201-380-0 No 11– Alice DERMIENCE, La « Question féminine » et l’Église catholique. Approches biblique, historique et théologique, 2008, ISBN 978-90-5201378-7 No.10– Christiane TIMMERMAN, Dirk HUTSEBAUT, Sara MELS, Walter NONNEMAN & Walter VAN HERCK (eds.), Faith-based Radicalism. Christianity, Islam and Judaism between Constructive Activism and Destructive Fanaticism, 2007, ISBN 978-90-5201-050-2 No.9– Pauline CÔTÉ & T. Jeremy GUNN (eds.), La nouvelle question religieuse. Régulation ou ingérence de l’État ? / The New Religious Question. State Regulation or State Interference?, 2006, ISBN 978-90-5201-034-2 No.8– Wilhelm DUPRÉ, Experience and Religion. Configurations and Perspectives, 2005, ISBN 978-90-5201-279-7 No.7– Adam POSSAMAI, Religion and Popular Culture. A Hyper-Real Testament, 2005 (2nd printing 2007), ISBN 978-90-5201-272-8 N° 6– Gabriel FRAGNIÈRE, La religion et le pouvoir. La chrétienté, l’Occident et la démocratie, 2005 (2nd printing 2006), ISBN 978-90-5201-268-1 No.5– Christiane TIMMERMAN & Barbara SEGAERT (eds.), How to Conquer the Barriers to Intercultural Dialogue. Christianity, Islam and Judaism, 2005 (3rd printing 2007), ISBN 978-90-5201-373-2 N° 4– Elizabeth CHALIER-VISUVALINGAM, Bhairava: terreur et protection. Mythes, rites et fêtes à Bénarès et à Katmandou, 2003, ISBN 978-90-5201-173-8 No.3– John Bosco EKANEM, Clashing Cultures. Annang Not(with)standing Christianity – An Ethnography, 2002, ISBN 978-90-5201-983-3 No.2– Peter Chidi OKUMA, Towards an African Theology. The Igbo Context in Nigeria, 2002, ISBN 978-90-5201-975-8 No.1– Karel DOBBELAERE, Secularization: An Analysis at Three Levels, 2002 (2nd printing 2004), ISBN 978-90-5201-985-7

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