For me, during the week that we studied Ritual, the “scholar” became the “subject.” As I put it then: “This week, I have begun to wonder more about the observer than the observed” and as I re-visit the questions that I ask in that blog, I am again struck with the possibility that these two categories of people, in certain situations, can be accurately and simultaneously applied to a single individual. I ask(ed): Is it always possible to distinguish between an observer and a participant? Can one be both at the same time? If so, what would such a position look like? What kind(s) of scholarship would this position produce? Can responsible observers risk excluding themselves from all forms of meaningful participation? Moreover, can responsible participants risk excluding themselves from all forms of meaningful observation? If not, how do they negotiate the space to observe and participate meaningfully?
“The Abominations of Anthropology” and “‘But Are They Really Christian?’” strike me as meditations on these same questions. Throughout each of these pieces, Simon Coleman paints a picture of anthropological/ethnographical tasks and the ways in which they consistently grapple with both defining and establishing boundary lines between the observer and the observed. Many of these issues revolve more specifically around describing what territory or attitudes belong to which category and what I particularly like about this aspect of Coleman’s examination is how it highlights the problematic elements of such attempts at neat categorization.
Perhaps of all of the “case studies” presented by Coleman, Susan Harding’s experience in studying “unsympathetic” varieties of Christian fundamentalists (relayed in “The Abominations…”) fascinates me most. There was something spooky about her run-in with “the Baptist tongue,” something encouraging about her assertion that it was worth studying and something thought provoking about the wider academic community’s response. As Coleman notes, “Christian fundamentalists often constitute an area of ethnographic taboo, a decidedly ‘repugnant cultural other’, in the eyes of fieldworkers” (“The Abominations…” 42, 47). How did this come to be? Why?
I think that Coleman offers several reasons, but the ones that interest me most derive from two questions that he poses regarding the relationship between the observer and the observed. He asks, “[W]hat happens when the field is located epistemologically very close to home? What do we risk when we attempt to gain proximity to a religious ‘Other’ who already has a well-defined identity within arenas of public discourse that surround us in our everyday lives?” (“The Abominations…” 43). Phrases like, “very close to home,” “arenas of public discourse that surround us” in combination with questions like, “[W]hat happens…?” and “What do we risk?” effectively communicate an anxiety that originates out of spatial and temporal connections with an “Other.” If this interpretation is vaild, is it possible to paraphrase what Coleman is asking here by in turn asking, “what do observers do when the ones being observed transcend the bounds of what has traditionally differentiated ‘them’ from ‘us’?” And if it is possible, then what do observers do exactly? Is the answer(s) to this question obvious or not? To what extent do observers already know how to cope with the fact that there might not be “a fundamental social, cultural, and analytical divide between ‘the field’ and ‘home’” (“‘But Are They Really Christian?’”…77)?
And (perhaps as always) I find myself wondering what role language plays in this process exactly. Coleman says an awful lot about evangelical vernacular and its relationship to the discourse of anthropology. I have not yet been able to think (or thoroughly understand) as much about all of it as I would like to, but I can say that for every fascinating thing that he has said, what I keep returning to is his convicting assertion that spoken or written language has unjustifiably been prioritized over other forms of communication (“The Abominations…” 52). Assuming that words alone can truthfully or legitimately convey “religious commitment” is a habit that needs to be broken both by conservative Protestants and anthropologists, as far as Coleman is concerned (“The Abominations…” 52). I think that this is an interesting point, but how might seriously adopting this view practically effect scholasticism and the anthropologist’s/ethnographer’s task? How exactly should/would the “non-verbal” be re-integrated back into academic “vocabulary,” as Coleman suggests that it should (“The Abominations…” 52)?
I am attracted to the idea that language can somehow be embodied, that “body-language” is not only a legitimate source of study but also a valid form of communication (“The Abominations…” 52). Ideas like this one prompt me to ask how very physical manifestations of religious experience, like the stigmata, liturgical dance or the Eucharist, for example, are attempting to articulate something specific about religious experience without employing a spoken or verbal language. What is being embodied in these instances and how do we know? How do these messages show themselves to be trustworthy independent of spoken or verbal communication? And, what exactly does Coleman mean when he says that “distinctions between truthful propositions and bodily disciplines begin to break down when we see how charismatic language ideology is translated into specific forms of action relating to words” (“The Abominations…” 52)? Can this statement be used to answer any of the above questions?
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Looking Both Ways Before Crossing
Throughout the last half of this course, I have come to realize that what interests me about writing is exactly what frustrates me about it: the struggle to communicate exactly what I mean. Keeping this in mind, I found reading over some of my previous blogs this week revealing. I can remember exactly how I felt or what specific thought I was trying to convey when I revisit particular sentences. How these feelings or thoughts are manifested in my language interests me. How these feelings or thoughts fail to be adequately communicated frustrates me.
Emily’s right--I have been thinking a lot about language. The majority of my entries revolve around linguistic issues (particularly forms of expression), and it has been both exciting and affirming for me to be able to discern this recurring theme in my thought. What makes such a difference to me is being able to see this concern with language as a genuine and fruitful interest of mine instead of just an annoying habit that I picked up as an English student. It is important for me to be able to know this—it gives me a more detailed view of who I am becoming as an academic and continues to help me in more readily identifying what I am looking to contribute.
In paying closer attention to language as a subject of study, I have also become increasingly aware of the ways in which I use it to express myself. At the beginning of term, Prof. Garrett noted that our blogs were to be about the depth of our thinking and not about the proficiency of our spelling and grammar. To foreground quality of thought in this way challenged me—not because I have been trying to avoid deep thinking, but because of the ways I have equated its expression with big words and complex sentence structure. A few of the authors that we have read this term only increase my awareness of the extent to which this bias is ridiculous and in need of modification. For me, Wendy Doniger, Debora K. Shuger and Caroline Walker Bynum all immediately come to mind. I have been engaged by their quality of thought and the way that each employs accessible languages in frequently conversational styles to meaningfully communicate intricate arguments. Being able to identify the kinds of scholarship that I positively respond to as a reader has motivated me to understand and work on how I want to “academically” write about what interests me. These weekly blogs have given me the space to diligently experiment with and continue to cultivate this kind of writing.
Having five individuals read and comment on my blog every week has also been a significant encouragement. Thank you Emily, James, Jessy, Rebekah and Prof. Garrett for holding me accountable to this task because knowing that I was writing something that would be read by all of you really made me think critically and sensitively through some issues that I might not have otherwise taken the time to ponder, let alone tried to write intelligibly about. Getting to read your blogs and discuss things further as a class was also so instructive—both in how valuable a multiplicity of perspectives on one topic can be and how important it is to admit that there is a multiplicity of valuable perspectives! I feel that these two points have been among the most difficult things that I have had to come to terms with in our course, and when I say, “difficult” and “come to terms with,” I don’t mean in a theoretical sense, I mean in a practical sense.
I am still trying to work out how my “belief” in these two points will practically affect my work. I know that it will inevitably give rise to a number of questions. I know that it will not necessarily do away with the possibility that some perspectives are more valid than others. But I wonder how, in such instances, will I come to know which one is more valid? Right now, I’m thinking about this in the context of my current thoughts on the relationship between neurobiology and religious (or mystical) experience. The languages of the scientist and the languages of the mystic are really diverse, as independent categories and when held in relation to each other. I think that both are valuable but are they equally so? What do we make of the mystic’s inability to “rationally” (or psychologically) account for his or her experiences in neurobiological terms? What do we think when a scientist is unable to adequately address religious experience as anything but a form of biological determinism? Is there a hierarchical relationship between these two discourses? Can one know/accept the answer to this question independent of one’s own belief? How will I engage with these questions in a way that respects the value of a multiplicity of valuable perspectives? I am still working on this and am slowly beginning to think about how one can learn to be okay with uncertainty or mystery and how this uncertainty or mystery might be legitimately fruitful.
I wonder how my approach to these questions would have been different if our course had been organized in terms of categories like, “Anthropology,” “Sociology” and “Psychology.” Would I even be thinking about the same kinds of questions? I wonder. I might ultimately have learned more about what these individual disciplines think of Religion and the methods that each uses to arrive at these viewpoints, but when it was all over, would I have known more about Religious Studies or simply more about “Psychology,” “Sociology” and “Anthropology”?
I like how our class was organized because of how it introduced me to the field in broad and specific ways simultaneously. Categories like, “Emotion,” “Tradition,” and “Text” exposed me to methods/theories used in the field while illustrating how these very methods/theories are often in and of themselves treated as subjects of study. I think that this might have contributed to my understanding of language as not only a method/theory with which to approach Religion and Religious Studies but also as a subject of study itself within these broader fields. I am not sure to what extent I would have made this connection amidst a host of “___ologies” and for me, even this alone has been of such value.
Emily’s right--I have been thinking a lot about language. The majority of my entries revolve around linguistic issues (particularly forms of expression), and it has been both exciting and affirming for me to be able to discern this recurring theme in my thought. What makes such a difference to me is being able to see this concern with language as a genuine and fruitful interest of mine instead of just an annoying habit that I picked up as an English student. It is important for me to be able to know this—it gives me a more detailed view of who I am becoming as an academic and continues to help me in more readily identifying what I am looking to contribute.
In paying closer attention to language as a subject of study, I have also become increasingly aware of the ways in which I use it to express myself. At the beginning of term, Prof. Garrett noted that our blogs were to be about the depth of our thinking and not about the proficiency of our spelling and grammar. To foreground quality of thought in this way challenged me—not because I have been trying to avoid deep thinking, but because of the ways I have equated its expression with big words and complex sentence structure. A few of the authors that we have read this term only increase my awareness of the extent to which this bias is ridiculous and in need of modification. For me, Wendy Doniger, Debora K. Shuger and Caroline Walker Bynum all immediately come to mind. I have been engaged by their quality of thought and the way that each employs accessible languages in frequently conversational styles to meaningfully communicate intricate arguments. Being able to identify the kinds of scholarship that I positively respond to as a reader has motivated me to understand and work on how I want to “academically” write about what interests me. These weekly blogs have given me the space to diligently experiment with and continue to cultivate this kind of writing.
Having five individuals read and comment on my blog every week has also been a significant encouragement. Thank you Emily, James, Jessy, Rebekah and Prof. Garrett for holding me accountable to this task because knowing that I was writing something that would be read by all of you really made me think critically and sensitively through some issues that I might not have otherwise taken the time to ponder, let alone tried to write intelligibly about. Getting to read your blogs and discuss things further as a class was also so instructive—both in how valuable a multiplicity of perspectives on one topic can be and how important it is to admit that there is a multiplicity of valuable perspectives! I feel that these two points have been among the most difficult things that I have had to come to terms with in our course, and when I say, “difficult” and “come to terms with,” I don’t mean in a theoretical sense, I mean in a practical sense.
I am still trying to work out how my “belief” in these two points will practically affect my work. I know that it will inevitably give rise to a number of questions. I know that it will not necessarily do away with the possibility that some perspectives are more valid than others. But I wonder how, in such instances, will I come to know which one is more valid? Right now, I’m thinking about this in the context of my current thoughts on the relationship between neurobiology and religious (or mystical) experience. The languages of the scientist and the languages of the mystic are really diverse, as independent categories and when held in relation to each other. I think that both are valuable but are they equally so? What do we make of the mystic’s inability to “rationally” (or psychologically) account for his or her experiences in neurobiological terms? What do we think when a scientist is unable to adequately address religious experience as anything but a form of biological determinism? Is there a hierarchical relationship between these two discourses? Can one know/accept the answer to this question independent of one’s own belief? How will I engage with these questions in a way that respects the value of a multiplicity of valuable perspectives? I am still working on this and am slowly beginning to think about how one can learn to be okay with uncertainty or mystery and how this uncertainty or mystery might be legitimately fruitful.
I wonder how my approach to these questions would have been different if our course had been organized in terms of categories like, “Anthropology,” “Sociology” and “Psychology.” Would I even be thinking about the same kinds of questions? I wonder. I might ultimately have learned more about what these individual disciplines think of Religion and the methods that each uses to arrive at these viewpoints, but when it was all over, would I have known more about Religious Studies or simply more about “Psychology,” “Sociology” and “Anthropology”?
I like how our class was organized because of how it introduced me to the field in broad and specific ways simultaneously. Categories like, “Emotion,” “Tradition,” and “Text” exposed me to methods/theories used in the field while illustrating how these very methods/theories are often in and of themselves treated as subjects of study. I think that this might have contributed to my understanding of language as not only a method/theory with which to approach Religion and Religious Studies but also as a subject of study itself within these broader fields. I am not sure to what extent I would have made this connection amidst a host of “___ologies” and for me, even this alone has been of such value.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Wrestling With "Genuine Tradition" and "Invented Tradition"
In my mind, I do not separate Tradition from concepts like, Authority, Genesis and Authenticity. I actually think that its connection to these terms is what I find predominantly interesting about it—that sense of “knowing” that I can uncover or understand something “real” about “the origin” of a particular religion if I study its Tradition. As I read over and think about what I have just written though, it is difficult for me to ignore why I have felt the need to place the words, “knowing,” “real” and “the origin” in quotation marks. Do you do things like this as well—where you notice something about your writing that makes you question the ideas that lie behind what you have just expressed?
My use of quotation marks is suggestive, isn’t it? I began by saying how I equate Tradition with Authority, Genesis and Authenticity and go on to undermine this link by connecting Tradition to things that are like (but are not) Knowing, Real and the Origin: “knowing,” “real” and “the origin.” What does this say about the extent to which I think these capitalized concepts exist and/or exist in a way that is knowable? What does this say about the extent to which I trust in the power of Tradition to communicate anything about these concepts? Why do I think that Tradition can be trusted? How do I know that its explanations of a particular practice or perspective are valid? I will (and do) go as far as to invest meaning and value in the study of Tradition, but I wonder how much of these personal formulations of meaning and value need to be re-evaluated.
At the heart of these questions is, I think, Eric Hobsbawm’s notion of “invented tradition” (Hobsbawm 8). In his “Introduction: Inventing Traditions,” Hobsbawm defines the “invention of tradition” in opposition to “genuine tradition” (Hobsbawm 8). He argues that the defining feature of the latter is its antiquity, whereas the former simply appropriates, ritualizes and/or modifies “ancient materials” for some new purpose (Hobsbawm 4, 6). Admittedly, this observation made a lot of sense to me at first because I found it immediately affirming in two respects. The word, “genuine,” locates “Genuine tradition” within the realm of the Original (the ancient), which subsequently establishes a relationship between this kind of tradition and my ideas of “knowing something real” about the “beginning of things.” Using Hobsbawm’s authoritative definition, I can academically “justify” this relationship. Yet, I find that even under the supervision of Hobsbawm’s definition, I do not ultimately have the tools needed to sufficiently escape encapsulating these concepts in quotation marks.
I feel this way in part because I think that there is something superficial about the distinction that Hobsbawm draws between his two types of tradition. He elaborates upon this distinction when he says, “[…] the strength and adaptability of genuine traditions is not to be confused with the ‘invention of tradition’. Where the old ways are alive, traditions need be neither revived nor invented” (Hobsbawm 8). What is he talking about here? In particular, what does he mean by “the old ways,” exactly? Is he actually positing that the “authenticity” of “genuine tradition” rests solely upon its being older or more ancient than “invented tradition”? And as I say this sort of incredulously, do I actually think that I am positing anything different when I assert Tradition’s intrinsic link to Authority, Genesis and Authenticity?
The frustration that I feel over this issue reminds me of how I initially felt about what Bynum says concerning the historian’s task and its “preclud[ing] wholeness” (“In Praise of Fragments”…14). If we can never know everything about the past, then we can ever be sure of what constitutes a “genuine tradition”? Might it not also be possible to categorize the most ancient tradition we know of as an “invention of tradition” if the Beginning and its peoples’ tradition could be accurately pinpointed and described?
As I see it, Paul Post’s article, “The Creation of Tradition,” tries to resolve these questions by exposing their irrelevance to Hobsbawm’s discussion of “invention.” He asserts that in using the term “invented tradition,” Hobsbawm is primarily concerned with “a situation of discontinuity [where] something new is created,” rather than underscoring the superior or inferior quality of some traditions relative to others (Post 46). I think that this argument is compelling in that it does indeed downplay the importance of assigning authenticity to various traditions.
However, does it succeed in rendering this process entirely unnecessary? I don’t think so. Post insufficiently addresses why, if Hobsbawm was not concerned with hierarchically understanding traditions, he “repeatedly make[s] a distinction between ‘genuine’ and ‘invented traditions’” (Post 45). Afterall, cannot all traditions be seen as representations of the initial discontinuity of a new creation that Post speaks of (Post 46)? I also wonder whether or not the “misuse” and “fabrication” that defines Hobsbawm’s “invention of history” should (or should not) be discussed more thoroughly with respect the “invention of tradition” and the particular foundation upon which it is built (Post 45-46)? Are these two “inventions” really conceived of all that differently in Hobsbawm’s thought?
I am still uncertain about how to answer these questions, but wanted to end by asking a few that I thought of while reacting to this week’s readings: How do you think Hobsbawm would view Christianity and Judaism in terms of “genuine tradition” and the “invention of tradition”? Do you think that Post would view them in the same way or not even be concerned about placing them within either of these categories? What (if anything) can the answers to these questions tell us about the usefulness of Hobsbawm’s theory and/or the validity of Post’s interpretation of that theory?
My use of quotation marks is suggestive, isn’t it? I began by saying how I equate Tradition with Authority, Genesis and Authenticity and go on to undermine this link by connecting Tradition to things that are like (but are not) Knowing, Real and the Origin: “knowing,” “real” and “the origin.” What does this say about the extent to which I think these capitalized concepts exist and/or exist in a way that is knowable? What does this say about the extent to which I trust in the power of Tradition to communicate anything about these concepts? Why do I think that Tradition can be trusted? How do I know that its explanations of a particular practice or perspective are valid? I will (and do) go as far as to invest meaning and value in the study of Tradition, but I wonder how much of these personal formulations of meaning and value need to be re-evaluated.
At the heart of these questions is, I think, Eric Hobsbawm’s notion of “invented tradition” (Hobsbawm 8). In his “Introduction: Inventing Traditions,” Hobsbawm defines the “invention of tradition” in opposition to “genuine tradition” (Hobsbawm 8). He argues that the defining feature of the latter is its antiquity, whereas the former simply appropriates, ritualizes and/or modifies “ancient materials” for some new purpose (Hobsbawm 4, 6). Admittedly, this observation made a lot of sense to me at first because I found it immediately affirming in two respects. The word, “genuine,” locates “Genuine tradition” within the realm of the Original (the ancient), which subsequently establishes a relationship between this kind of tradition and my ideas of “knowing something real” about the “beginning of things.” Using Hobsbawm’s authoritative definition, I can academically “justify” this relationship. Yet, I find that even under the supervision of Hobsbawm’s definition, I do not ultimately have the tools needed to sufficiently escape encapsulating these concepts in quotation marks.
I feel this way in part because I think that there is something superficial about the distinction that Hobsbawm draws between his two types of tradition. He elaborates upon this distinction when he says, “[…] the strength and adaptability of genuine traditions is not to be confused with the ‘invention of tradition’. Where the old ways are alive, traditions need be neither revived nor invented” (Hobsbawm 8). What is he talking about here? In particular, what does he mean by “the old ways,” exactly? Is he actually positing that the “authenticity” of “genuine tradition” rests solely upon its being older or more ancient than “invented tradition”? And as I say this sort of incredulously, do I actually think that I am positing anything different when I assert Tradition’s intrinsic link to Authority, Genesis and Authenticity?
The frustration that I feel over this issue reminds me of how I initially felt about what Bynum says concerning the historian’s task and its “preclud[ing] wholeness” (“In Praise of Fragments”…14). If we can never know everything about the past, then we can ever be sure of what constitutes a “genuine tradition”? Might it not also be possible to categorize the most ancient tradition we know of as an “invention of tradition” if the Beginning and its peoples’ tradition could be accurately pinpointed and described?
As I see it, Paul Post’s article, “The Creation of Tradition,” tries to resolve these questions by exposing their irrelevance to Hobsbawm’s discussion of “invention.” He asserts that in using the term “invented tradition,” Hobsbawm is primarily concerned with “a situation of discontinuity [where] something new is created,” rather than underscoring the superior or inferior quality of some traditions relative to others (Post 46). I think that this argument is compelling in that it does indeed downplay the importance of assigning authenticity to various traditions.
However, does it succeed in rendering this process entirely unnecessary? I don’t think so. Post insufficiently addresses why, if Hobsbawm was not concerned with hierarchically understanding traditions, he “repeatedly make[s] a distinction between ‘genuine’ and ‘invented traditions’” (Post 45). Afterall, cannot all traditions be seen as representations of the initial discontinuity of a new creation that Post speaks of (Post 46)? I also wonder whether or not the “misuse” and “fabrication” that defines Hobsbawm’s “invention of history” should (or should not) be discussed more thoroughly with respect the “invention of tradition” and the particular foundation upon which it is built (Post 45-46)? Are these two “inventions” really conceived of all that differently in Hobsbawm’s thought?
I am still uncertain about how to answer these questions, but wanted to end by asking a few that I thought of while reacting to this week’s readings: How do you think Hobsbawm would view Christianity and Judaism in terms of “genuine tradition” and the “invention of tradition”? Do you think that Post would view them in the same way or not even be concerned about placing them within either of these categories? What (if anything) can the answers to these questions tell us about the usefulness of Hobsbawm’s theory and/or the validity of Post’s interpretation of that theory?
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Jane Austen and the Virgin Mary: Communicating the Ineffable
As an undergraduate, I was an English Specialist with a serious interest in Christianity. Deciding how to pursue these two areas of study at the graduate level was something that I had found really difficult. I could not see any connection between how lovers talk to each other in Jane Austen’s novels and Protestant perspectives on Marian apparitions. These two projects could not be made into one, nor could they be independently explored in the same Department.
I came to practical terms with this problem—I chose the Virgin Mary this year and will choose Jane Austen next—but the gap between these two subjects is one that I still think about a lot. I am sure that part of this stems from wanting to know what to study as a PhD student. How do I decide to pursue Religious Studies or English if I end up feeling the same about both? Two Masters make sense to me right now. Two PhDs do not. And so, I feel another part of me wanting to bridge this gap by understanding if there is any common ground to be had among the things that interest me. There doesn’t have to be. I get that. But “getting that” has not stopped me from continuing to wonder what the romantic discourse between pairs of nineteenth-century lovers has to do with Protestant opinions on appearances of the Virgin Mary.
I am far from establishing any kind of authoritative answer to this question. However, John Corrigan’s and Debora K. Shuger’s articles prove helpful. Each author’s discussion of emotion and the role(s) that “feeling” plays in the larger discourse of Religion resonate with me and make me think further (and more specifically) about what interests me with respect to religious experiences. In an indirect way, this thinking helps to shed light on what it is that I “tend” to find interesting and has taught me something about what kind of scholarship I would like to contribute.
In “Introduction: Emotions Research and the Academic Study of Religion,” John Corrigan indirectly (or is it directly?) grapples with what the religious studies student brings to the study of religion that others like, neurobiologists, psychologists and anthropologists either do not or cannot (Corrigan 5). An awareness of the “irreducible component of religion,” emotion, is what he seems to suggest (Corrigan 5). He says that this “essential” ingredient cannot be separated “into nonreligious artifacts” and I find the implications of this statement fascinating (Corrigan 5). Does Corrigan’s observation mean that emotion is intrinsically linked with religion, or that emotional experiences must be understood in terms of religious experiences and vice versa? Is religiosity an emotion? If emotion is irreducible, what kind of method or language invalidates scholarship written about emotion and religion?
It is this last question that particularly interests me and I have noticed it recurring in my blogs. I am concerned with the “language(s)” that the religious use to speak about profoundly emotive mystical experiences. Can we learn who created this language and whether or not it is useful? As Shuger notes in “The Philosophical Foundations of Sacred Rhetoric,” “Western thought” is stereotypically suspicious of the emotions because they are “subrational” and stand in direct opposition to the “dispassionate, objective inquiry” that pursues Truth and Goodness alone (Shuger 117). Does the language of religious people confirm or challenge the legitimacy of this stereotype? Shuger’s demonstration of how the heart and intellect are involved in religious experience clearly articulates the need for a language that speaks to and of both aspects of humanity (Shuger 119). “Sacred rhetoric,” under this argument, seems incredibly relevant and valid…but to who? To both insiders and outsiders? Or to just one of these groups?
Attempting to ascertain the usefulness of the language(s) used by religious people gives birth to many more questions. For example, who are the religious trying to communicate their religious experiences to with this language: insiders, outsiders or both? What do outsiders require linguistically in order for religious experiences to be intelligible? What do insiders require? As already discussed, Shuger maintains that insiders pursue Truth affectively and suggests that this approach must be considered alongside Reason (Shuger 119, 121). Are these two approaches absolutely opposed? How, if at all, does the “religious knowing” that Corrigan mentions in passing relate to this particular question (Corrigan 15)? What does it mean to know something via religion and how is this to be communicated to the outsider so that the language is communicative?
Corrigan suggests that psychobiology can be of use in this endeavour as “it is becoming clear how much of our basic mental and experiential equipment is genetically given and neurologically based” (Corrigan 10). I find this argument encouraging and motivating. Its attempt to integrate human spirituality and physiology implies a language that seeks to responsibly articulate the complexity and interconnectedness of human existence. Emotions and Reason are simultaneously upheld. But how does a person ensure that one does not overwhelm the other? How does an individual avoid both a return to the “old doctrines of biological determinism” and ambiguous, non-communicative “spiritual” jargon (Corrigan 10)? Perhaps more importantly, is this perceived discomfort between science and religion in fact a misunderstanding that can be “fixed” by developing a “common language”? Or is the disconnect one that cannot be bridged simply by speaking the same language? Is it possible, for instance, that religious experiences are inherently ineffable, as William James suggests, and therefore not simply waiting for a language that can account for their complexity?
I have definitely not come to any conclusions about these issues. I can say though, that I am interested in the ways in which people develop a “language” that enables them to intelligibly communicate experiences that they find profoundly difficult to articulate...experiences that range from Mr. Darcy’s love for Elizabeth to Bernadette’s being visited by the Virgin Mary.
I came to practical terms with this problem—I chose the Virgin Mary this year and will choose Jane Austen next—but the gap between these two subjects is one that I still think about a lot. I am sure that part of this stems from wanting to know what to study as a PhD student. How do I decide to pursue Religious Studies or English if I end up feeling the same about both? Two Masters make sense to me right now. Two PhDs do not. And so, I feel another part of me wanting to bridge this gap by understanding if there is any common ground to be had among the things that interest me. There doesn’t have to be. I get that. But “getting that” has not stopped me from continuing to wonder what the romantic discourse between pairs of nineteenth-century lovers has to do with Protestant opinions on appearances of the Virgin Mary.
I am far from establishing any kind of authoritative answer to this question. However, John Corrigan’s and Debora K. Shuger’s articles prove helpful. Each author’s discussion of emotion and the role(s) that “feeling” plays in the larger discourse of Religion resonate with me and make me think further (and more specifically) about what interests me with respect to religious experiences. In an indirect way, this thinking helps to shed light on what it is that I “tend” to find interesting and has taught me something about what kind of scholarship I would like to contribute.
In “Introduction: Emotions Research and the Academic Study of Religion,” John Corrigan indirectly (or is it directly?) grapples with what the religious studies student brings to the study of religion that others like, neurobiologists, psychologists and anthropologists either do not or cannot (Corrigan 5). An awareness of the “irreducible component of religion,” emotion, is what he seems to suggest (Corrigan 5). He says that this “essential” ingredient cannot be separated “into nonreligious artifacts” and I find the implications of this statement fascinating (Corrigan 5). Does Corrigan’s observation mean that emotion is intrinsically linked with religion, or that emotional experiences must be understood in terms of religious experiences and vice versa? Is religiosity an emotion? If emotion is irreducible, what kind of method or language invalidates scholarship written about emotion and religion?
It is this last question that particularly interests me and I have noticed it recurring in my blogs. I am concerned with the “language(s)” that the religious use to speak about profoundly emotive mystical experiences. Can we learn who created this language and whether or not it is useful? As Shuger notes in “The Philosophical Foundations of Sacred Rhetoric,” “Western thought” is stereotypically suspicious of the emotions because they are “subrational” and stand in direct opposition to the “dispassionate, objective inquiry” that pursues Truth and Goodness alone (Shuger 117). Does the language of religious people confirm or challenge the legitimacy of this stereotype? Shuger’s demonstration of how the heart and intellect are involved in religious experience clearly articulates the need for a language that speaks to and of both aspects of humanity (Shuger 119). “Sacred rhetoric,” under this argument, seems incredibly relevant and valid…but to who? To both insiders and outsiders? Or to just one of these groups?
Attempting to ascertain the usefulness of the language(s) used by religious people gives birth to many more questions. For example, who are the religious trying to communicate their religious experiences to with this language: insiders, outsiders or both? What do outsiders require linguistically in order for religious experiences to be intelligible? What do insiders require? As already discussed, Shuger maintains that insiders pursue Truth affectively and suggests that this approach must be considered alongside Reason (Shuger 119, 121). Are these two approaches absolutely opposed? How, if at all, does the “religious knowing” that Corrigan mentions in passing relate to this particular question (Corrigan 15)? What does it mean to know something via religion and how is this to be communicated to the outsider so that the language is communicative?
Corrigan suggests that psychobiology can be of use in this endeavour as “it is becoming clear how much of our basic mental and experiential equipment is genetically given and neurologically based” (Corrigan 10). I find this argument encouraging and motivating. Its attempt to integrate human spirituality and physiology implies a language that seeks to responsibly articulate the complexity and interconnectedness of human existence. Emotions and Reason are simultaneously upheld. But how does a person ensure that one does not overwhelm the other? How does an individual avoid both a return to the “old doctrines of biological determinism” and ambiguous, non-communicative “spiritual” jargon (Corrigan 10)? Perhaps more importantly, is this perceived discomfort between science and religion in fact a misunderstanding that can be “fixed” by developing a “common language”? Or is the disconnect one that cannot be bridged simply by speaking the same language? Is it possible, for instance, that religious experiences are inherently ineffable, as William James suggests, and therefore not simply waiting for a language that can account for their complexity?
I have definitely not come to any conclusions about these issues. I can say though, that I am interested in the ways in which people develop a “language” that enables them to intelligibly communicate experiences that they find profoundly difficult to articulate...experiences that range from Mr. Darcy’s love for Elizabeth to Bernadette’s being visited by the Virgin Mary.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Participating Observers
As Roland L. Grimes makes note of in his essay, “Performance theory and the Study of Religion,” Geertz was acutely aware of the ideological gap between a participant’s understanding of religious ritual and an observer’s (Grimes 111). Great—but I would like to know how much of this awareness was dependent on Geertz first being able to classify himself as an “outsider” to the ritual(s) he was studying. I wonder, for example, what happens to this consciousness if the particular “insider/outsider” dichotomy of ritual is not easily discerned? Is it always possible to distinguish between an observer and a participant? Can one simultaneously be both? If so, what would such a position look like? What kind(s) of scholarship would it produce? Would these academic writings resemble any part(s) of this week’s readings?
The more that I think about the writings of Grimes, Bell and Mahmood, the more I am prompted to ask these types of questions. This week, I have begun to wonder more about the observer than the observed.
In saying this, I do not mean to undermine my interest in “participants” or ritual itself. Embedded within these articles are studies that help me articulate some of what I find so fascinating about the cult of the celebrity in North America and its religious overtones. For example, Bell’s discussion of daily incense offerings and Chinese ancestor worship provides a particular contribution to a broader avenue of study concerning the relationship between popular cultural practice and religious ritual. To what extent can the two be separated and categorized as independent? Where, as many have asked (and continue to ask), does “social morality” end and “real […] religion” begin (Bell 213)? Similarly, Mahmood’s detailed analysis of how female Muslims approach prayer in Egypt serves as an intellectual springboard to discussions about religion and the emotions, and how certain personal, interior landscapes come to be identified as “sacred” or “spiritual” when acted-out or made physically manifest (Mahmood 839). If we must re-evaluate what is “conventional” and “disingenuous” in the “space” created by ritual, what might we be able to categorize as “ritual” that we currently do not (828)? How might this change our definitions of “sacred” activity and will this change work to mythologize the concept of a “secular” realm?
In spite of the way in which I find these questions relevant to my own area of study, they do not strike me in the same way that I am struck by some of the comments made in this week’s articles regarding the various acts/positions of the observer. These are the comments that agitate me. I know that this is partly because I initially felt that they were detracting from discussions of what is “really interesting” about ritual (i.e. the participants and ritual itself). Now I am bothered by them because I cannot shake the feeling that they too are what is “really interesting” about ritual. I would be happier learning about (and writing about) actual ritual practices and the communities who find them meaningful. Yet, to limit citizenship in these communities to participants would be unjustified. Grimes, Bell and Mahmood are slowly teaching me that those who study ritual must also be allowed to legitimately inhabit these spaces.
While there are several comments in the three articles that I find help me to understand these spaces, I would like to mention two in particular. Both appear in the Grimes article and when read in conjunction with one another, posit new questions and answers. The first statement is offered as a paraphrase of the definitions that Geertz assigns to “participants” and “observers.” Grimes says, “For participants, [ritual] performance is a religious rite, while for an observer it is a mere entertaining spectacle, an aesthetic form. For observers, these performances may be ‘models of’ what participants believe, but for participants these performances may be ‘models for’ what they believe; they have prescriptive force” (Grimes 111). I find these distinctions helpful in that they cogently outline how participants and observers both experience and identify ritual performance differently. I find these distinctions bothersome in the kind of language that is used to describe the observers’ position. The phrase “mere entertaining spectacle,” is an especially suggestive one. Admittedly, it might not have been intentionally employed to underline a callous approach of ritual outsiders. Perhaps it was meant to sound light-hearted. Why “mere,” though? Couched within that one word is the evocation of a whole host of implications that seek to undermine. For me, “mere” informs “entertaining” and “spectacle,” making it more likely for these terms to be read negatively. The distance or distinction between participants and observers that subsequently opens up is characterized by Goffman’s “hermeneutics of suspicion” (112-113).
I do not think that being suspicious of things that I do not or cannot understand is entirely wrong. I do not think that it is entirely right, though, when this suspicion ignores the possibility that others might understand that which I do not or cannot. Thankfully, Grimes agrees. He says, “There is nothing wrong with suspicion […] But if suspicion and debunking are the only postures that observers and interpreters assume, the attitude becomes self-consuming and forecloses the possibility of genuine interaction between ritual performers and ritual theorists” (Grimes 113). What I am really interested in in this statement is the “genuine interaction” that Grimes advocates between participants and observers. To a certain extent, this interaction legitimates the position of the observer. S/he is meant to provide a critical perspective on ritual performance that will lend itself to exposing “the exploitive,” disingenuous elements of rites (Grimes 113). This is, I feel, an important component of understanding ritual. And yet, the extent to which this “genuine interaction” will require the observer to forfeit his/her view of ritual as “a mere entertaining spectacle” is a question that I am left with. In this vein of thought, I want to expand upon my initial line of questioning regarding the independence of the participant/observer position and just ask: Can responsible observers risk excluding themselves from all forms of meaningful participation? Moreover, can responsible participants risk excluding themselves from all forms of meaningful observation? If not, how do they negotiate the space to observe and participate meaningfully? What will this look like and how will we know for sure that we see evidence of it in scholarship?
The more that I think about the writings of Grimes, Bell and Mahmood, the more I am prompted to ask these types of questions. This week, I have begun to wonder more about the observer than the observed.
In saying this, I do not mean to undermine my interest in “participants” or ritual itself. Embedded within these articles are studies that help me articulate some of what I find so fascinating about the cult of the celebrity in North America and its religious overtones. For example, Bell’s discussion of daily incense offerings and Chinese ancestor worship provides a particular contribution to a broader avenue of study concerning the relationship between popular cultural practice and religious ritual. To what extent can the two be separated and categorized as independent? Where, as many have asked (and continue to ask), does “social morality” end and “real […] religion” begin (Bell 213)? Similarly, Mahmood’s detailed analysis of how female Muslims approach prayer in Egypt serves as an intellectual springboard to discussions about religion and the emotions, and how certain personal, interior landscapes come to be identified as “sacred” or “spiritual” when acted-out or made physically manifest (Mahmood 839). If we must re-evaluate what is “conventional” and “disingenuous” in the “space” created by ritual, what might we be able to categorize as “ritual” that we currently do not (828)? How might this change our definitions of “sacred” activity and will this change work to mythologize the concept of a “secular” realm?
In spite of the way in which I find these questions relevant to my own area of study, they do not strike me in the same way that I am struck by some of the comments made in this week’s articles regarding the various acts/positions of the observer. These are the comments that agitate me. I know that this is partly because I initially felt that they were detracting from discussions of what is “really interesting” about ritual (i.e. the participants and ritual itself). Now I am bothered by them because I cannot shake the feeling that they too are what is “really interesting” about ritual. I would be happier learning about (and writing about) actual ritual practices and the communities who find them meaningful. Yet, to limit citizenship in these communities to participants would be unjustified. Grimes, Bell and Mahmood are slowly teaching me that those who study ritual must also be allowed to legitimately inhabit these spaces.
While there are several comments in the three articles that I find help me to understand these spaces, I would like to mention two in particular. Both appear in the Grimes article and when read in conjunction with one another, posit new questions and answers. The first statement is offered as a paraphrase of the definitions that Geertz assigns to “participants” and “observers.” Grimes says, “For participants, [ritual] performance is a religious rite, while for an observer it is a mere entertaining spectacle, an aesthetic form. For observers, these performances may be ‘models of’ what participants believe, but for participants these performances may be ‘models for’ what they believe; they have prescriptive force” (Grimes 111). I find these distinctions helpful in that they cogently outline how participants and observers both experience and identify ritual performance differently. I find these distinctions bothersome in the kind of language that is used to describe the observers’ position. The phrase “mere entertaining spectacle,” is an especially suggestive one. Admittedly, it might not have been intentionally employed to underline a callous approach of ritual outsiders. Perhaps it was meant to sound light-hearted. Why “mere,” though? Couched within that one word is the evocation of a whole host of implications that seek to undermine. For me, “mere” informs “entertaining” and “spectacle,” making it more likely for these terms to be read negatively. The distance or distinction between participants and observers that subsequently opens up is characterized by Goffman’s “hermeneutics of suspicion” (112-113).
I do not think that being suspicious of things that I do not or cannot understand is entirely wrong. I do not think that it is entirely right, though, when this suspicion ignores the possibility that others might understand that which I do not or cannot. Thankfully, Grimes agrees. He says, “There is nothing wrong with suspicion […] But if suspicion and debunking are the only postures that observers and interpreters assume, the attitude becomes self-consuming and forecloses the possibility of genuine interaction between ritual performers and ritual theorists” (Grimes 113). What I am really interested in in this statement is the “genuine interaction” that Grimes advocates between participants and observers. To a certain extent, this interaction legitimates the position of the observer. S/he is meant to provide a critical perspective on ritual performance that will lend itself to exposing “the exploitive,” disingenuous elements of rites (Grimes 113). This is, I feel, an important component of understanding ritual. And yet, the extent to which this “genuine interaction” will require the observer to forfeit his/her view of ritual as “a mere entertaining spectacle” is a question that I am left with. In this vein of thought, I want to expand upon my initial line of questioning regarding the independence of the participant/observer position and just ask: Can responsible observers risk excluding themselves from all forms of meaningful participation? Moreover, can responsible participants risk excluding themselves from all forms of meaningful observation? If not, how do they negotiate the space to observe and participate meaningfully? What will this look like and how will we know for sure that we see evidence of it in scholarship?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Blog Break
Hi Emily, James, Jessy and Rebekah,
I just wanted to say that I decided to take my one week off of blog writing this week.
I hope that you are all doing well and I will see you on Wednesday!
I just wanted to say that I decided to take my one week off of blog writing this week.
I hope that you are all doing well and I will see you on Wednesday!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Phenomenology, Women and Re-thinking Religious Experience
Reading Katherine K. Young’s essay, “From the Phenomenology of Religion to Feminism and Women’s Studies,” is encouraging. After having struggled with my own stance towards the role(s) of absolutism and relativism in scholarship last week, I found being introduced to phenomenology helpful.
At the beginning of her article, Young outlines the defining features of the phenomenological approach to religion, stating that it originally involved “synchronic or cross-cultural comparisons and the search for essences, or types (in other circles, this was called comparative religion), but also the historical study of religions with an emphasis on philology and the texts” (Young 18). A lot is said in this one statement.
The idea of searching for “essences” is what first grabbed my attention. I have been reading a lot of David Lewis-Williams lately and thinking about one of his main hypotheses, namely that religious experience is a universal, neurological phenomenon. [Without getting into the details of his argument here, I will just say that I recommend The Mind in the Cave and Inside the Neolithic Mind to anyone interested in neurological explorations of humanity’s history with religious experience]. In spite of the controversy surrounding this hypothesis, I am finding Lewis-Williams’ presentation relevant to my interest in Marian apparitions, particularly in my pursuit of answering why, if this type of religious experience (i.e. the supernatural vision) is indeed available to everyone, is it so heavily stigmatized in contemporary Protestant circles? Is this stigma predominantly rooted in the fact that the apparitions are of a controversial female figure within the Christian tradition? Or is its main locus in the West’s esteem for that which is rational and scientifically verifiable?
What I find so attractive about a phenomenological approach to the study of religion is the way in which it attempts to accommodate and address the extremes of human experience, even if those extremes are classified as “supernatural.” Young says, “because phenomenology allowed for a focus on direct experience, it created scope for scholars to appreciate claims of religious experience by individuals (what became known as the discipline of the psychology of religion)” (Young 20). For me, the idea that an empirically based philosophy can offer the “scope” needed to “appreciate” phenomena like Marian apparitions is incredibly valuable. Admittedly, one could argue that “appreciate” need not equal “scientifically legitimate” and indeed, this has been demonstrated by various psychological studies intent on equating religious experience with pathological experience. Yet, for me, the possibility of a different kind of “appreciation”—one that is capable of employing critical (and practical) methods that do not seek to reduce religious phenomena to “nothing but products of the mind,” one that is capable of “accept[ing] everything that comes into view as tentative fact—cannot be overestimated (Young 19, 23).
At this point, I am reminded of one of the comments that James made on my blog last week. It was well-put and well-taken: “Which is better: (a) because we can't prove something exists we take it not to exist, or (b) because we can't prove something exists we take it to exist. […] Acknowledging that something we cannot prove is real is poor scholarship.” I agree. To proclaim that something is real or fact simply because one is unable to prove otherwise is not responsible. What I am currently grappling with though, is what one is able to say about something that cannot be proven or disproved. If we refuse to subscribe to the “idealism” that Young draws our attention to, namely, categorizing religious experiences as psuedo-psychotic episodes, and instead, treat these phenomena with due complexity, what are we “allowed”/able to say about them (Young 23)? Are we justified in talking about them at all?
Embedded within this week’s descriptions of Gender and Women’s Studies are, I think, several suggestions for how one might answer this last question. Some might rightly shrug this question off, simply claiming their right to study whatever interests them or choosing to avoid what they feel is beyond scholarly discussion in academia. For whatever reason, I am unable to do either of these things and have been thinking about why I feel the need to have a methodological/theoretical justification for studying religious experiences. I am still in the process of formulating my thoughts about this, but I thought that I would include two examples of how Gender and Women’s Studies have been helping me think more about what constitutes a “legitimate” area of study and perhaps more importantly, a “legitimate” mode of study.
The first is derived from Elizabeth A. Clark’s essay, “Engendering the Study of Religion.” In section two, she makes reference to historian Judith Bennett’s argument that gender history “reminds us that many seemingly ‘natural’ ideas about women and men are, in fact, socially constructed” (Clark 237). While it might be a bit of a stretch, I cannot help but think if the same might be said about contemporary Western views on religious experience. Is it possible, in other words, that our ideas of what is “natural” and similarly, what is “not natural,” have been socially constructed? Notably, this question is not meant to revise religious experience as “natural” in the sense of that which is “common.” It is rather, to suggest that experiences like Marian apparitions may be legitimate reasons for academic (and non-academic) communities to revise what they view as “natural” in the sense of that which is “experientially possible” and subsequently, worthy of “serious” scholarship.
The second is derived from David Kinsley’s article, “Women’s Studies in the History of Religions.” In his section on “Engaged Scholarship,” Kinsley makes a point of describing how Women’s Studies has changed the way in which individuals conduct scholarly research. He says, “Women’s studies has also placed a good deal of emphasis on the fact that all scholarship is subjective to some extent. It has raised doubts concerning the possibility (and the desirability) of totally disinterested, objective, detached scholarship. […] The aim is to undertake engaged scholarship—scholarship that is aware of its agenda and pursues it with passion” (Kinsley 10). To take this challenging statement as a license to conduct (and endorse) thoughtlessly biased, non-critical work would be a mistake. But would it be a mistake to read this viewpoint as a theoretical justification for individuals pursuing articulate, intelligent and academically responsible discussions of subjects that extend beyond the realm of what is scientifically verifiable? Clearly I personally do not think that it would…I think that there is definitely more to think about here.
At the beginning of her article, Young outlines the defining features of the phenomenological approach to religion, stating that it originally involved “synchronic or cross-cultural comparisons and the search for essences, or types (in other circles, this was called comparative religion), but also the historical study of religions with an emphasis on philology and the texts” (Young 18). A lot is said in this one statement.
The idea of searching for “essences” is what first grabbed my attention. I have been reading a lot of David Lewis-Williams lately and thinking about one of his main hypotheses, namely that religious experience is a universal, neurological phenomenon. [Without getting into the details of his argument here, I will just say that I recommend The Mind in the Cave and Inside the Neolithic Mind to anyone interested in neurological explorations of humanity’s history with religious experience]. In spite of the controversy surrounding this hypothesis, I am finding Lewis-Williams’ presentation relevant to my interest in Marian apparitions, particularly in my pursuit of answering why, if this type of religious experience (i.e. the supernatural vision) is indeed available to everyone, is it so heavily stigmatized in contemporary Protestant circles? Is this stigma predominantly rooted in the fact that the apparitions are of a controversial female figure within the Christian tradition? Or is its main locus in the West’s esteem for that which is rational and scientifically verifiable?
What I find so attractive about a phenomenological approach to the study of religion is the way in which it attempts to accommodate and address the extremes of human experience, even if those extremes are classified as “supernatural.” Young says, “because phenomenology allowed for a focus on direct experience, it created scope for scholars to appreciate claims of religious experience by individuals (what became known as the discipline of the psychology of religion)” (Young 20). For me, the idea that an empirically based philosophy can offer the “scope” needed to “appreciate” phenomena like Marian apparitions is incredibly valuable. Admittedly, one could argue that “appreciate” need not equal “scientifically legitimate” and indeed, this has been demonstrated by various psychological studies intent on equating religious experience with pathological experience. Yet, for me, the possibility of a different kind of “appreciation”—one that is capable of employing critical (and practical) methods that do not seek to reduce religious phenomena to “nothing but products of the mind,” one that is capable of “accept[ing] everything that comes into view as tentative fact—cannot be overestimated (Young 19, 23).
At this point, I am reminded of one of the comments that James made on my blog last week. It was well-put and well-taken: “Which is better: (a) because we can't prove something exists we take it not to exist, or (b) because we can't prove something exists we take it to exist. […] Acknowledging that something we cannot prove is real is poor scholarship.” I agree. To proclaim that something is real or fact simply because one is unable to prove otherwise is not responsible. What I am currently grappling with though, is what one is able to say about something that cannot be proven or disproved. If we refuse to subscribe to the “idealism” that Young draws our attention to, namely, categorizing religious experiences as psuedo-psychotic episodes, and instead, treat these phenomena with due complexity, what are we “allowed”/able to say about them (Young 23)? Are we justified in talking about them at all?
Embedded within this week’s descriptions of Gender and Women’s Studies are, I think, several suggestions for how one might answer this last question. Some might rightly shrug this question off, simply claiming their right to study whatever interests them or choosing to avoid what they feel is beyond scholarly discussion in academia. For whatever reason, I am unable to do either of these things and have been thinking about why I feel the need to have a methodological/theoretical justification for studying religious experiences. I am still in the process of formulating my thoughts about this, but I thought that I would include two examples of how Gender and Women’s Studies have been helping me think more about what constitutes a “legitimate” area of study and perhaps more importantly, a “legitimate” mode of study.
The first is derived from Elizabeth A. Clark’s essay, “Engendering the Study of Religion.” In section two, she makes reference to historian Judith Bennett’s argument that gender history “reminds us that many seemingly ‘natural’ ideas about women and men are, in fact, socially constructed” (Clark 237). While it might be a bit of a stretch, I cannot help but think if the same might be said about contemporary Western views on religious experience. Is it possible, in other words, that our ideas of what is “natural” and similarly, what is “not natural,” have been socially constructed? Notably, this question is not meant to revise religious experience as “natural” in the sense of that which is “common.” It is rather, to suggest that experiences like Marian apparitions may be legitimate reasons for academic (and non-academic) communities to revise what they view as “natural” in the sense of that which is “experientially possible” and subsequently, worthy of “serious” scholarship.
The second is derived from David Kinsley’s article, “Women’s Studies in the History of Religions.” In his section on “Engaged Scholarship,” Kinsley makes a point of describing how Women’s Studies has changed the way in which individuals conduct scholarly research. He says, “Women’s studies has also placed a good deal of emphasis on the fact that all scholarship is subjective to some extent. It has raised doubts concerning the possibility (and the desirability) of totally disinterested, objective, detached scholarship. […] The aim is to undertake engaged scholarship—scholarship that is aware of its agenda and pursues it with passion” (Kinsley 10). To take this challenging statement as a license to conduct (and endorse) thoughtlessly biased, non-critical work would be a mistake. But would it be a mistake to read this viewpoint as a theoretical justification for individuals pursuing articulate, intelligent and academically responsible discussions of subjects that extend beyond the realm of what is scientifically verifiable? Clearly I personally do not think that it would…I think that there is definitely more to think about here.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
The "T" word
When Roland Barthes asserts that “to look to ‘authorship’ as the decisive clue to meaning […] is misleading in that it constitutes an attempt ‘to impose a limit’ on the text,” I want to ask him why he feels that texts should be limitless (133). And yet, I remain a fan of the way in which his argument champions meaning as the product of a reader-text relationship (133). In combination with the readings from previous weeks, Clark’s chapters have reinforced the “academic dilemma” that I have known to be mine for a while now: I am not comfortable with absolutism or relativism as theories of interpretation.
It has been good to think about this issue alongside Clark’s presentation. In “Texts and Contexts,” her survey of several theorists and each one’s approach to interpretation is helpful. Her discussion is detailed and makes a point of candidly talking about some of the major shifts that have taken place in how academics have thought about “a(A)uthor,” “text” and “context.” The “hermeneutic timeline” that this second feature creates is especially useful in the way that it assists the reader in tracing different theoretical movements to contemporary modes. This plotting of analytical trends has helped me to better understand these movements, particularly in their shift from prioritizing the author’s authority to the reader’s (133).
One thing that I think Clark fails to adequately discuss, however, is the extent to which this shift is rightfully evidenced with respect to texts that claim to be divinely inspired. Admittedly, she does explicitly underline a few of the ways in which historical writings of early Christianity (her area of focus) “provide excellent material for pondering Foucault’s question, ‘What is an Author?’” (170). She even goes as far to mention that the Bible’s claim of divine authorship was taken very seriously by both early Christian writers and readers (170). What I find unsatisfying, however, is the way in which she dismisses this conviction as “misguided” as far as “later perspectives” are concerned (170). I have to say that after reading this statement in light of everything else that this course has exposed me to thus far, I find the attitude that it expresses problematic.
Bynum’s advocacy of taking the text (be it literary or phenomenological) on its own terms, for example, helps us to see the mistakes that are made when we seek to explain away those textual elements that make understanding difficult by appealing to our own feelings of intellectual “superiority” (Holy Feast…7). I am not confident that Clark’s appeal to “later perspectives” is free of such mistakes. I am also not confident that I understand what seems to be her rebuttal to this point, namely, that there is no such thing as taking the text “in itself” because reading always equals extracting the text from its original context and then reinserting it (144). If this does discount my appeal to Bynum, does it discount my appeal to Van Voorst? He encourages an insider-outsider approach to scripture and I wonder how much can be drawn out/understood of a text, particularly one that claims to be divinely inspired, if this stance is not adopted (Anthology of World Scriptures…16)? What is lost and does it outweigh what is gained?
I am frustrated by these questions—a little because I feel as though the question of “divine-authorship/inspiration” is not scientifically verifiable, and a lot because I am not clear on the role that scientifically verified information must play in the study of religion. It sounds like a cliché, and I cringe a little as I type this, but just because we cannot scientifically prove that something exists, does not automatically mean that it does not exist. Right? If this is right than how do we avoid producing scholarship that speaks as though it isn’t right? Is this resonating with anybody else? Or do I feel this way because I am studying Marian apparitions and have a hard time completely discounting these “divine visitations” as the “misguided” delusions of an earlier perspective?
I can admit that my critique of Clark evidences my preference for the academic approaches upheld by Bynum and Van Voorst, and I can also admit that my preference for these approaches stems from the value that I see in adopting an insider-outsider perspective. And I think that ultimately, these biases originate in my desire to know. The “metaphysical assumption” that Derrida believes haunts an individual that feels the need to “locate one particular and exclusive context in order to understand a text,” is one that I personally make nearly every time I engage in research, in writing, in reading (142). I do not think that “there is no such thing as a wrong answer” when it comes to historical work and while this thought does not necessitate a belief in one Truth, I notice that with myself, it usually does. Is this a fault or is this a valid stance? If it is legitimate, is it always or is it only under certain circumstances?
I wonder about this last question because at the same time that I am researching, writing and reading against the backdrop of the “metaphysical assumption” that I am prone to make, I am engaging in these activities because I am also driven by Derrida’s “poverty of hermeneutics” (143). "Original meaning"--how would we ever find it and if we did, would we recognize it? (143). I have experienced texts that have “contradictory and heterogeneous elements” that seem to require multiple interpretations (132). I also sympathize with Barthes’ notion that the reader is the text’s dialogical partner (133, 143). But, what to do about Truth and its role in all of this…I just don’t know.
It has been good to think about this issue alongside Clark’s presentation. In “Texts and Contexts,” her survey of several theorists and each one’s approach to interpretation is helpful. Her discussion is detailed and makes a point of candidly talking about some of the major shifts that have taken place in how academics have thought about “a(A)uthor,” “text” and “context.” The “hermeneutic timeline” that this second feature creates is especially useful in the way that it assists the reader in tracing different theoretical movements to contemporary modes. This plotting of analytical trends has helped me to better understand these movements, particularly in their shift from prioritizing the author’s authority to the reader’s (133).
One thing that I think Clark fails to adequately discuss, however, is the extent to which this shift is rightfully evidenced with respect to texts that claim to be divinely inspired. Admittedly, she does explicitly underline a few of the ways in which historical writings of early Christianity (her area of focus) “provide excellent material for pondering Foucault’s question, ‘What is an Author?’” (170). She even goes as far to mention that the Bible’s claim of divine authorship was taken very seriously by both early Christian writers and readers (170). What I find unsatisfying, however, is the way in which she dismisses this conviction as “misguided” as far as “later perspectives” are concerned (170). I have to say that after reading this statement in light of everything else that this course has exposed me to thus far, I find the attitude that it expresses problematic.
Bynum’s advocacy of taking the text (be it literary or phenomenological) on its own terms, for example, helps us to see the mistakes that are made when we seek to explain away those textual elements that make understanding difficult by appealing to our own feelings of intellectual “superiority” (Holy Feast…7). I am not confident that Clark’s appeal to “later perspectives” is free of such mistakes. I am also not confident that I understand what seems to be her rebuttal to this point, namely, that there is no such thing as taking the text “in itself” because reading always equals extracting the text from its original context and then reinserting it (144). If this does discount my appeal to Bynum, does it discount my appeal to Van Voorst? He encourages an insider-outsider approach to scripture and I wonder how much can be drawn out/understood of a text, particularly one that claims to be divinely inspired, if this stance is not adopted (Anthology of World Scriptures…16)? What is lost and does it outweigh what is gained?
I am frustrated by these questions—a little because I feel as though the question of “divine-authorship/inspiration” is not scientifically verifiable, and a lot because I am not clear on the role that scientifically verified information must play in the study of religion. It sounds like a cliché, and I cringe a little as I type this, but just because we cannot scientifically prove that something exists, does not automatically mean that it does not exist. Right? If this is right than how do we avoid producing scholarship that speaks as though it isn’t right? Is this resonating with anybody else? Or do I feel this way because I am studying Marian apparitions and have a hard time completely discounting these “divine visitations” as the “misguided” delusions of an earlier perspective?
I can admit that my critique of Clark evidences my preference for the academic approaches upheld by Bynum and Van Voorst, and I can also admit that my preference for these approaches stems from the value that I see in adopting an insider-outsider perspective. And I think that ultimately, these biases originate in my desire to know. The “metaphysical assumption” that Derrida believes haunts an individual that feels the need to “locate one particular and exclusive context in order to understand a text,” is one that I personally make nearly every time I engage in research, in writing, in reading (142). I do not think that “there is no such thing as a wrong answer” when it comes to historical work and while this thought does not necessitate a belief in one Truth, I notice that with myself, it usually does. Is this a fault or is this a valid stance? If it is legitimate, is it always or is it only under certain circumstances?
I wonder about this last question because at the same time that I am researching, writing and reading against the backdrop of the “metaphysical assumption” that I am prone to make, I am engaging in these activities because I am also driven by Derrida’s “poverty of hermeneutics” (143). "Original meaning"--how would we ever find it and if we did, would we recognize it? (143). I have experienced texts that have “contradictory and heterogeneous elements” that seem to require multiple interpretations (132). I also sympathize with Barthes’ notion that the reader is the text’s dialogical partner (133, 143). But, what to do about Truth and its role in all of this…I just don’t know.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Masuzawa and the Language of the Study of Religion
In “Philology and The Discovery of a Fissure in the European Past,” Masuzawa provides a detailed account of the role played by language in the nineteenth-century’s ranking of world religions. Drawing on evidence presented in a number of different sources, she argues that the period’s esteem for inflection (over agglutination) led to a biased evaluation of the religions (163). According to the West, belief-systems belonging to geographical areas characterized by an inflectional language were worthy of distinction and subsequently, these religious traditions were given positions of prominence within the hierarchy of world religions that European/Western scholars were busy constructing (163). While I am interested in Masuzawa’s attempt to thoroughly underscore the ways in which this practice was/is unjustifiable, I find that after having read her book, what I am inclined to continue thinking about with regard to this issue of language is something else.
In the same chapter, Masuzawa quotes from Wilhelm von Humboldt’s On Language often, providing the reader with a variety of controversial ideas that the bulk of contemporary thought may (or may not) find foreign. One such example is when Masuzawa cites Humboldt as having written, “The comparative study of languages … loses all higher interest if it does not cleave to the point at which language is connected with the shaping of the nation’s mental power” (159). Notably, Masuzawa goes on to use this statement as further evidence of the kind of thinking that both created and sought to justify the unfounded subordination of the Semitic (and Turanian) language families to Aryan ones (163-170). Without intending to undermine the significance of this argument, I do want to say that the level of importance attached to language in Humboldt’s statement is what especially interests me.
Humboldt’s reverence for language in terms of what it illuminates about a particular culture or humanity in general is clearly outlined throughout the chapter. I would like to divorce some of his statements from their context by looking at them on their own, independent of the racially-charged theory that they were meant to propagate. Given what was said last class about the complications surrounding the c(C)ontext of a text, I wonder if what I am proposing is technically possible or even fair. In spite of all of this, however, I would like to “break the rules” and view two of his statements as simply a grouping of words that yield an interpretation of language that interests me. The first statement occurs when Humboldt refers to language as “the outer appearance of the spirit of a people” and the second occurs when he helpfully begins to unpack it with another:
The bringing-forth of language is an inner need of human beings, not merely an external necessity for maintaining communal intercourse, but a thing lying in their own nature, indispensable for the development of their mental powers and the attainment of a world-view, to which man can attain only by bringing his thinking to clarity and precision through communal thinking with others. (160)
When I read these two assertions as a pair, Humboldt’s regard for language as a deeply spiritual dimension of the human experience appears evident. Words like “spirit,” “bringing-forth,” “inner need,” and “nature” all connote a sense of organic-ness with respect to language’s relationship to the human condition and religious experience and I find this organic linking attractive. But why exactly? What do I find appealing about imbuing linguistic acts (verbal communication) with a kind of fundamental or basic religious significance? In finding this appealing, am I in some way exhibiting this so-called “inner need of human beings”?
I feel unsure of how to think about these things especially given my general frustration with the role that I find language often plays in discussing religion and religious experience in particular. In Varieties of Religious Experience, William James talks about the ineffability that so frequently defines religious phenomena and while I am fascinated by this ineffability, how do I talk about something that cannot be articulated? As the readings for last week and our class discussion demonstrated, I use and will continue to use terms like, “spiritual” and “religion” even though I am unable to define them. What is more, despite this imprecision, I plan to go on and generate scholarship on these topics. These realities confuse me but they have crystallized my awareness of the special place or function that language occupies/fulfills within the study of religion.
Reading Masuzawa has been challenging because while she is very good at outlining the philological dilemma of the discipline, she does not go as far to suggest a way of dealing with it. After having finished her book, I can say that I have benefited from her perspective on the genesis of the study of world religions and yet, still feel the absence of an appropriate vocabulary with which to articulate my own thoughts on the subject. What “language,” if any, is she advocating the use of in her critique of the “world religions” dialogue, I wonder? What “language” is she herself using to speak about her particular interest in the study of religion? How did she formulate it? Moreover, is it possible to develop a “language” or a way to speak about religion and religious experience that is both academically responsible in its objectivity and experientially responsible in its sensitivity towards the insider? These are just some of the questions that I find myself thinking about currently.
In the same chapter, Masuzawa quotes from Wilhelm von Humboldt’s On Language often, providing the reader with a variety of controversial ideas that the bulk of contemporary thought may (or may not) find foreign. One such example is when Masuzawa cites Humboldt as having written, “The comparative study of languages … loses all higher interest if it does not cleave to the point at which language is connected with the shaping of the nation’s mental power” (159). Notably, Masuzawa goes on to use this statement as further evidence of the kind of thinking that both created and sought to justify the unfounded subordination of the Semitic (and Turanian) language families to Aryan ones (163-170). Without intending to undermine the significance of this argument, I do want to say that the level of importance attached to language in Humboldt’s statement is what especially interests me.
Humboldt’s reverence for language in terms of what it illuminates about a particular culture or humanity in general is clearly outlined throughout the chapter. I would like to divorce some of his statements from their context by looking at them on their own, independent of the racially-charged theory that they were meant to propagate. Given what was said last class about the complications surrounding the c(C)ontext of a text, I wonder if what I am proposing is technically possible or even fair. In spite of all of this, however, I would like to “break the rules” and view two of his statements as simply a grouping of words that yield an interpretation of language that interests me. The first statement occurs when Humboldt refers to language as “the outer appearance of the spirit of a people” and the second occurs when he helpfully begins to unpack it with another:
The bringing-forth of language is an inner need of human beings, not merely an external necessity for maintaining communal intercourse, but a thing lying in their own nature, indispensable for the development of their mental powers and the attainment of a world-view, to which man can attain only by bringing his thinking to clarity and precision through communal thinking with others. (160)
When I read these two assertions as a pair, Humboldt’s regard for language as a deeply spiritual dimension of the human experience appears evident. Words like “spirit,” “bringing-forth,” “inner need,” and “nature” all connote a sense of organic-ness with respect to language’s relationship to the human condition and religious experience and I find this organic linking attractive. But why exactly? What do I find appealing about imbuing linguistic acts (verbal communication) with a kind of fundamental or basic religious significance? In finding this appealing, am I in some way exhibiting this so-called “inner need of human beings”?
I feel unsure of how to think about these things especially given my general frustration with the role that I find language often plays in discussing religion and religious experience in particular. In Varieties of Religious Experience, William James talks about the ineffability that so frequently defines religious phenomena and while I am fascinated by this ineffability, how do I talk about something that cannot be articulated? As the readings for last week and our class discussion demonstrated, I use and will continue to use terms like, “spiritual” and “religion” even though I am unable to define them. What is more, despite this imprecision, I plan to go on and generate scholarship on these topics. These realities confuse me but they have crystallized my awareness of the special place or function that language occupies/fulfills within the study of religion.
Reading Masuzawa has been challenging because while she is very good at outlining the philological dilemma of the discipline, she does not go as far to suggest a way of dealing with it. After having finished her book, I can say that I have benefited from her perspective on the genesis of the study of world religions and yet, still feel the absence of an appropriate vocabulary with which to articulate my own thoughts on the subject. What “language,” if any, is she advocating the use of in her critique of the “world religions” dialogue, I wonder? What “language” is she herself using to speak about her particular interest in the study of religion? How did she formulate it? Moreover, is it possible to develop a “language” or a way to speak about religion and religious experience that is both academically responsible in its objectivity and experientially responsible in its sensitivity towards the insider? These are just some of the questions that I find myself thinking about currently.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Masuzawa, Smith and Van Voorst: The Questions
_____________________________________________________
Defining “Religion, Religions, Religious”
_____________________________________________________
As Tomoko Masuzawa and Jonathan Z. Smith point out, the meanings of the term “religion” are various (Masuzawa 60; Smith 270). While Smith in particular offers several critical analyses of some of the ones that have been posited (see pages 280-281 for two such examples), the definition that he himself offers is for me, the most thought provoking. He says, “‘Religion’ is not a native term; it is a term created by scholars for their intellectual purposes and therefore is theirs to define” (281). Arising out of this short (and seemingly transparent) sentence is a host of difficult issues that leave me with difficult questions. If Religion is in fact a term that is “imposed from the outside on some aspect of native culture” and can differ as often as each scholar’s “intellectual purpose” differs, then what exactly is the value of the term, “Religion”? Can the academic really use this term to signify his/her own academic agenda? Does this change what individuals and communities can mean when they refer to themselves as “religious” even if they constitute a native culture (i.e. are “insiders” of a particular faith group) rather than an outside, purely scholastic entity? Are they too capable of imposition in the way that Smith discusses it and if so, what exactly are they imposing and on what?
Evidently, the problem of defining Religion introduces certain methodological issues for individuals engaged in its study. The fact that I find Smith’s suggested reading of the term challenging in what it implies/potentially makes possible does not change the fact that I also find it helpful and (perhaps ironically) compelling. In thinking about my own areas of research, I find Smith’s definition describes a practice that I have already chosen to adopt. My interest in how popular icons are directly/indirectly fostering religious experiences in a secular environment is loaded with categorical problems. To talk intelligently and intelligibly about this topic, I need to define what it is that I mean by “religious experiences” and “secular environment” and to do this, I will ultimately have to state what it is that I mean by Religion. I will have to impose my own “intellectual purpose” on it. But what bothers me now is to what or to whom will I be held accountable in formulating these definitions? If every scholar engaged in religious studies is able to come up with their own meanings for these terms, who or what regulates what does and does not legitimately fall under the discipline of Religious Studies? I know that Smith states that Religion is an anthropological category and not a theological one but, then, what is the underlying “thing,” for lack of a better word, that will identify my work as predominantly “religious” and not “anthropological” (269)?
________________________________________________________
The Problem of “Insider/Outsider”
________________________________________________________
Van Voorst’s essay and Masuzawa’s chapters prove interesting in their discussion of “insider/outsider” relationships with respect to the study of religion. Framing his analysis within the context of Eastern Scripture and some of the disadvantages facing North American readers, Van Voorst writes that “we [North American readers] lack the living context of scripture when we encounter only its textual form [… We] cannot directly see the broad ways that scripture is reflected in religious life, or the more specific ways it is used in worship, devotion, or law” (12). I find this a particularly interesting observation as it relates to geography and notions of being an “outsider.” Related to my particular area of interest is the idea that North American Christianity is in someway distinct from the Christianity being practiced overseas. Despite so often being labeled as a “Western religion,” Christianity originated in the East. Is the New Testament an Eastern Scripture then? And if it is, are North American Christians (in being geographically separated from the East), somehow “outsiders” as far as readership goes even in spite of their being privy to Christian reflections in “worship, devotion and law”?
Speaking specifically about “insiders and outsiders” as initiates or non-initiates of a particular religious tradition, Van Voorst suggests that academics adopt both perspectives in studying religious traditions. He advocates that we read scriptures “as outsiders, in an objective, scholarly, noncommittal way” but then also attempt to read them “as much as possible as insiders, with the eyes, minds, and hearts of those for whom these texts are much more than the object of scholarship” (16). This dual-approach strikes me as valuable in its “holistic” aims: it seeks to accommodate the scholar with objectivity, the particular religious community with sympathy and the actual texts with both of these strengths.
I do wonder how these two sides of scholarship are to be harmoniously integrated in one study though. Van Voorst posits this dual-approach in terms of what to do first and what to do second: our interaction with a text as an outsider should precede our reading of it as an insider (16). But this model suggests that the two categories can be easily separated in all cases, as if the only thing required to make a shift between the two is a change in one’s state of mind. Taking the case of an insider, for example, I wonder whether or not s/he can ever be an outsider in the “noncommittal way” that Van Voorst talks about. Can we really shut off and turn on parts of ourselves in this way? If we can, how will the questions that we ask of texts be changed and how will this effect what answers we choose to accept or reject?
Related to this same question of the “insider and outsider” relationship to religious studies, Masuzawa says that the reader automatically tries to assess the scholar’s “status” (i.e. insider or outsider) in order to evaluate the extent to which his/her argument is credible (69). She goes on to largely dismiss this pursuit by saying that “even if such a measurement should prove reliable, it can reveal the nature of the writing only in one register” (69). Initially, I was assuaged by this comment in the way that it undermines the importance of a scholar’s status as being nothing more than revelatory of one aspect of his or her writing (69). Yet, as I revisit it, I find that my interest in this question is not so much about how people’s “insider/outsider” perspectives affect their writing as much as it affects their research and choice of methodologies. I look forward to discussing this more in class with everyone.
Defining “Religion, Religions, Religious”
_____________________________________________________
As Tomoko Masuzawa and Jonathan Z. Smith point out, the meanings of the term “religion” are various (Masuzawa 60; Smith 270). While Smith in particular offers several critical analyses of some of the ones that have been posited (see pages 280-281 for two such examples), the definition that he himself offers is for me, the most thought provoking. He says, “‘Religion’ is not a native term; it is a term created by scholars for their intellectual purposes and therefore is theirs to define” (281). Arising out of this short (and seemingly transparent) sentence is a host of difficult issues that leave me with difficult questions. If Religion is in fact a term that is “imposed from the outside on some aspect of native culture” and can differ as often as each scholar’s “intellectual purpose” differs, then what exactly is the value of the term, “Religion”? Can the academic really use this term to signify his/her own academic agenda? Does this change what individuals and communities can mean when they refer to themselves as “religious” even if they constitute a native culture (i.e. are “insiders” of a particular faith group) rather than an outside, purely scholastic entity? Are they too capable of imposition in the way that Smith discusses it and if so, what exactly are they imposing and on what?
Evidently, the problem of defining Religion introduces certain methodological issues for individuals engaged in its study. The fact that I find Smith’s suggested reading of the term challenging in what it implies/potentially makes possible does not change the fact that I also find it helpful and (perhaps ironically) compelling. In thinking about my own areas of research, I find Smith’s definition describes a practice that I have already chosen to adopt. My interest in how popular icons are directly/indirectly fostering religious experiences in a secular environment is loaded with categorical problems. To talk intelligently and intelligibly about this topic, I need to define what it is that I mean by “religious experiences” and “secular environment” and to do this, I will ultimately have to state what it is that I mean by Religion. I will have to impose my own “intellectual purpose” on it. But what bothers me now is to what or to whom will I be held accountable in formulating these definitions? If every scholar engaged in religious studies is able to come up with their own meanings for these terms, who or what regulates what does and does not legitimately fall under the discipline of Religious Studies? I know that Smith states that Religion is an anthropological category and not a theological one but, then, what is the underlying “thing,” for lack of a better word, that will identify my work as predominantly “religious” and not “anthropological” (269)?
________________________________________________________
The Problem of “Insider/Outsider”
________________________________________________________
Van Voorst’s essay and Masuzawa’s chapters prove interesting in their discussion of “insider/outsider” relationships with respect to the study of religion. Framing his analysis within the context of Eastern Scripture and some of the disadvantages facing North American readers, Van Voorst writes that “we [North American readers] lack the living context of scripture when we encounter only its textual form [… We] cannot directly see the broad ways that scripture is reflected in religious life, or the more specific ways it is used in worship, devotion, or law” (12). I find this a particularly interesting observation as it relates to geography and notions of being an “outsider.” Related to my particular area of interest is the idea that North American Christianity is in someway distinct from the Christianity being practiced overseas. Despite so often being labeled as a “Western religion,” Christianity originated in the East. Is the New Testament an Eastern Scripture then? And if it is, are North American Christians (in being geographically separated from the East), somehow “outsiders” as far as readership goes even in spite of their being privy to Christian reflections in “worship, devotion and law”?
Speaking specifically about “insiders and outsiders” as initiates or non-initiates of a particular religious tradition, Van Voorst suggests that academics adopt both perspectives in studying religious traditions. He advocates that we read scriptures “as outsiders, in an objective, scholarly, noncommittal way” but then also attempt to read them “as much as possible as insiders, with the eyes, minds, and hearts of those for whom these texts are much more than the object of scholarship” (16). This dual-approach strikes me as valuable in its “holistic” aims: it seeks to accommodate the scholar with objectivity, the particular religious community with sympathy and the actual texts with both of these strengths.
I do wonder how these two sides of scholarship are to be harmoniously integrated in one study though. Van Voorst posits this dual-approach in terms of what to do first and what to do second: our interaction with a text as an outsider should precede our reading of it as an insider (16). But this model suggests that the two categories can be easily separated in all cases, as if the only thing required to make a shift between the two is a change in one’s state of mind. Taking the case of an insider, for example, I wonder whether or not s/he can ever be an outsider in the “noncommittal way” that Van Voorst talks about. Can we really shut off and turn on parts of ourselves in this way? If we can, how will the questions that we ask of texts be changed and how will this effect what answers we choose to accept or reject?
Related to this same question of the “insider and outsider” relationship to religious studies, Masuzawa says that the reader automatically tries to assess the scholar’s “status” (i.e. insider or outsider) in order to evaluate the extent to which his/her argument is credible (69). She goes on to largely dismiss this pursuit by saying that “even if such a measurement should prove reliable, it can reveal the nature of the writing only in one register” (69). Initially, I was assuaged by this comment in the way that it undermines the importance of a scholar’s status as being nothing more than revelatory of one aspect of his or her writing (69). Yet, as I revisit it, I find that my interest in this question is not so much about how people’s “insider/outsider” perspectives affect their writing as much as it affects their research and choice of methodologies. I look forward to discussing this more in class with everyone.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Bynum and Huntington
At the beginning of “In Praise of Fragments: History in the Comic Mode,” Caroline Walker Bynum asserts that the historian’s task “precludes wholeness” (14). Like fish of the sea, she says, men and women engaged in such labour are only ever able to “regurgitate fragments” of a whole and while I find that this perspective articulates what can be frustrating about the historical approach, I also think that it presents what can be liberating (14). In the midst of research, I think that knowing when to accept that certain elements of the past remain inaccessible to even the most determined of historians is sometimes difficult. Yet, the “limitation” that this realization places on what one can understand about the past simultaneously creates an environment where Bynum’s “comic stance toward doing history” is made possible (25). All of the benefits of this particular method—the embrace of contradictions, objections and even re-evaluations of what it means to “do history,” for example—are invitations to engage in the historical task without being crippled by an unspoken expectation that demands the presentation of a whole, indisputable truth (25). The comic mode of history accepts “the partial as partial” and consistently makes room for the possibility that what any given historian posits may be wrong (25).
I find this philosophy consoling in its generosity towards the historian, in its willingness to all at once entertain various versions of the same historical occurrence. But I also wonder what this generosity and this willingness do to the ways in which historians and their audiences view/practice the historical task. Does the comic mode of history, in having pluralism instead of “the total” as its goal, change the “responsibility” of the historian and what one can reasonably expect from him or her (25)? Does the comic mode of history attempt to overwhelm the discipline’s emphasis on accurate information about the past with something else? If so, does this effort matter?
In discussing the relationship that their twentieth-century vantage point bears to the pursuit of their historical interests, both Bynum and Huntington present methodological outlooks that help one in thinking further about what contemporary historians are “responsible” for. I found each author’s espousal of meeting subjects of interest on their own terms informative. Bynum’s refusal to read medieval devotional fasting as a branch of anorexia nervosa, for example, displays the same commitment to faithfully reconstructing a particular socio-historical context as Huntington’s decision to adopt a methodology that he feels openly exhibits a “Buddhist hermeneutics” (Bynum, Holy Feast…4-5; Huntington, “Methodological…” 8). Notably, each author prioritizes (and searches for) an interpretive framework that sympathizes with the historical-cultural context of the subject matter.
Coupled with Bynum’s and Huntington’s more explicit advocacy of understanding texts within their own contexts, this practice betrays a kind of anxiety regarding how modern methods and theories are to be employed in the study of historical phenomena. When Bynum asks whether or not we can intellectually extend beyond our own “twentieth-century perspective” and get at the intentionality of a particular historical text, her question suggests that our own historical-cultural situation has the ability to blind us to the authenticity of the past (“In Praise…” 21). Similarly, Huntington’s reference to D.S. Regg cautions scholars against imposing their own historical circumstance and subsequent worldview on an era that existed outside of that particular frame of reference (“Methodological…” 8). Given these concerns, I wonder whether or not assuaging anxiety over the application of modern methods and theories is part of what Bynum and Huntington directly (or indirectly) attribute to the historical task?
Although neither of these authors go as far to say that the concerns that motivate twentieth-century methods and theories make them irrelevant to subjects in the historical past, I am interested in the amount of room that some of their methodological concepts leave for establishing meaningful connections between the practices of “then and now.” For example, in Holy Feast and Holy Fast, Bynum states that she prefers “understanding the [medieval] women by their context and the context by the women” (Holy Feast… 7). I do see the value of this approach in terms of the historically accurate findings that it aims to produce, but I wonder whether or not it would support an in-depth comparison of contemporary and medieval devotional fasting (Holy Feast…7). While it may teach the reader to think “medievally,” will it teach one about what to do with this new way of thinking? If Bynum says that one is to avoid drawing “direct answers to modern problems” from an examination of medieval practice, what is one to do about those instances where such a thing may actually be possible (Holy Feast…9)? How might Bynum’s approach discourage adopting certain forms of medieval practice into contemporary ones?
In reading these articles and thinking about historically approaching the study of religion, I am prompted to ask (more generally) what one is to do about the role that tradition plays in religious practice? Does a specific religious tradition somehow extend beyond the scope of historical particularity and make it possible to speak of contemporary and non-contemporary religious society on common ground?
I find this philosophy consoling in its generosity towards the historian, in its willingness to all at once entertain various versions of the same historical occurrence. But I also wonder what this generosity and this willingness do to the ways in which historians and their audiences view/practice the historical task. Does the comic mode of history, in having pluralism instead of “the total” as its goal, change the “responsibility” of the historian and what one can reasonably expect from him or her (25)? Does the comic mode of history attempt to overwhelm the discipline’s emphasis on accurate information about the past with something else? If so, does this effort matter?
In discussing the relationship that their twentieth-century vantage point bears to the pursuit of their historical interests, both Bynum and Huntington present methodological outlooks that help one in thinking further about what contemporary historians are “responsible” for. I found each author’s espousal of meeting subjects of interest on their own terms informative. Bynum’s refusal to read medieval devotional fasting as a branch of anorexia nervosa, for example, displays the same commitment to faithfully reconstructing a particular socio-historical context as Huntington’s decision to adopt a methodology that he feels openly exhibits a “Buddhist hermeneutics” (Bynum, Holy Feast…4-5; Huntington, “Methodological…” 8). Notably, each author prioritizes (and searches for) an interpretive framework that sympathizes with the historical-cultural context of the subject matter.
Coupled with Bynum’s and Huntington’s more explicit advocacy of understanding texts within their own contexts, this practice betrays a kind of anxiety regarding how modern methods and theories are to be employed in the study of historical phenomena. When Bynum asks whether or not we can intellectually extend beyond our own “twentieth-century perspective” and get at the intentionality of a particular historical text, her question suggests that our own historical-cultural situation has the ability to blind us to the authenticity of the past (“In Praise…” 21). Similarly, Huntington’s reference to D.S. Regg cautions scholars against imposing their own historical circumstance and subsequent worldview on an era that existed outside of that particular frame of reference (“Methodological…” 8). Given these concerns, I wonder whether or not assuaging anxiety over the application of modern methods and theories is part of what Bynum and Huntington directly (or indirectly) attribute to the historical task?
Although neither of these authors go as far to say that the concerns that motivate twentieth-century methods and theories make them irrelevant to subjects in the historical past, I am interested in the amount of room that some of their methodological concepts leave for establishing meaningful connections between the practices of “then and now.” For example, in Holy Feast and Holy Fast, Bynum states that she prefers “understanding the [medieval] women by their context and the context by the women” (Holy Feast… 7). I do see the value of this approach in terms of the historically accurate findings that it aims to produce, but I wonder whether or not it would support an in-depth comparison of contemporary and medieval devotional fasting (Holy Feast…7). While it may teach the reader to think “medievally,” will it teach one about what to do with this new way of thinking? If Bynum says that one is to avoid drawing “direct answers to modern problems” from an examination of medieval practice, what is one to do about those instances where such a thing may actually be possible (Holy Feast…9)? How might Bynum’s approach discourage adopting certain forms of medieval practice into contemporary ones?
In reading these articles and thinking about historically approaching the study of religion, I am prompted to ask (more generally) what one is to do about the role that tradition plays in religious practice? Does a specific religious tradition somehow extend beyond the scope of historical particularity and make it possible to speak of contemporary and non-contemporary religious society on common ground?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)