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.
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