Syllabi Scrapbook...

Ok, here are some of the ones I thought worthy of sharing:

http://www.aar-site.org/syllabus/syllabi/d/desjardins/re476/syllabus.html

Mission Statement:
In a world where religion plays so central a role in social, political, and economic events, as well as in the lives of communities and individuals, there is a critical need for ongoing reflection upon and understanding of religious traditions, issues, questions, and values. The American Academy of Religion's mission is to promote such reflection through excellence in scholarship and teaching in the field of religion.

As a learned society and professional association of teachers and research scholars, the American Academy of Religion has over 10,000 members who teach in some 1,500 colleges, universities, seminaries, and schools in North America and abroad. The Academy is dedicated to furthering knowledge of religion and religious institutions in all their forms and manifestations. This is accomplished through Academy-wide and regional conferences and meetings, publications, programs, and membership services.

Within a context of free inquiry and critical examination, the Academy welcomes all disciplined reflection on religion–both from within and outside of communities of belief and practice–and seeks to enhance its broad public understanding


http://web.grinnell.edu/courses/rel/f03/rel390-01/
Course Description
The department offers this course to give majors in Religious Studies the opportunity for intensive study of some of the theoretical and methodological debates that help constitute the field. This semester, we will focus on questions of theory: what do we mean by "theories" of religion and why are they important? We will consider the crucial role theories of religion play in constituting the academic study of religion, how these theories are related to definitions of religion, and how theory shapes our perception of religious phenomena-and the very concept of "religion" itself. A major goal of the course will be to develop the ability to identify and understand the significance of the theoretical perspectives present in any academic study of religious phenomena.


http://jzwelling.web.wesleyan.edu/wescourses/2002f/reli101/01/syllabus.htm

- I particularly like the units entitled “Representation and Contestation” and “Religion and the Construction of Cosmic Realities”


http://classes.colgate.edu/osafi/Theory.htm
Aim of the course:
The course will aim to accomplish two goals:

1) render the history of the field of religious studies explicit, by studying its "origins" and "evolution" from the 18th to the middle of the 20th century [and indeed problematize the very notions of "origins" and "evolution" along the way...]

2) Discussing the major theoretical breakthroughs since the time of Mircea Eliade. As such, we will explore some of the feminist, post-structuralist, etc., critiques that have been made of the "History of Religions" approach that dominated the field in the 1960's.


http://academics.smcvt.edu/jbyrne/Religion%20Theory%20and%20Method.htm

- Check out the “religions and violence” and “religions from within” sections. Actually, there’s a whole course at Uof T on Religions and Violence, so perhaps it would be too much to squeeze into the method and theory course.


I’m biased, but I like the way our course was set up. Ahh, the sweet limitations of familiarity! There are far too many “terms” to consider in one class, but the following might be of interest:

- Violence
- Promise
- Myth
- Virtue
- Conduct
- Sacrifice
- Narrative
- God
- Spirit
- Rebellion
- Immortality
- Worship

Interdisciplinarity: The Undisciplined Discipline

Think about your own education, past, present and future (as you imagine it), with reference to Callahan’s distinction between content-based knowledge and rhetorical expertise (4) and the role of “intellectualism”. How do you see these forms of engagement balanced (or not) in your own schooling? How do you rate their importance to your training as a scholar? Do you agree with Callanan that “flexibility, creativity and curiosity” are “the first casualties of a disciplinary framework that demands expertise in a particular body of material (5)?

Casualties exist in essentially two varieties: fatal and non-fatal. After all, wars kill and maim alike. To apply this shading to Laura Callahan’s colourful language (as implemented in her article “Defining Expertise in the Interdisciplinary Classroom” ), I would agree that “flexibility, creativity, and curiosity” are “casualties” of a disciplinary framework that demands expertise in a particular body of knowledge, however, these victims ultimately survive. Despite their compromised state, they nevertheless endure and contribute to their fields of study. The ‘spirit of intellectual curiosity’ and the ‘goal of mastering a body of knowledge’ are, for me, by no means mutually exclusive, however I strongly feel that the pursuit of the latter [i.e., the ‘goal of mastering a body of knowledge’] greatly curtails the freedom of the former [i.e., ‘spirit of intellectual curiosity’]. Intense, focused pursuit of specific data in the context of a set of specific pedagogical parameters would necessarily limit a scholar’s range of motion, excluding questions and subjects which she may entertain. For example, one does not augment one’s knowledge of the lifecycles of insects by studying hippopotami (presumably). So, one must suspend one’s curiosity about hippopotami in order to devote time, energy and thought to, e.g., grasshoppers, praying mantises, and the like. Although the curiosity about hippopotami is sacrificed in the name of insect expertise, curiosity itself is not at all sacrificed. It is perhaps, injured, curtailed, quarantined, subjugated, etc., but it is not destroyed. If I may draw on a parallel, a colleague of mine (whom I hold in great esteem) gently criticized once that in tackling a breadth of ideas in my writing, I jeopardize exploratory depth of any one issue. She appeared to enjoy the food for thought, but was left unsatisfied with the meagerness of each ‘dish’. I agreed with her: breadth of coverage necessarily encroaches upon depth thereof, and vice versa. After all, there’s only so much ‘page’ to go around. I, too, wonder what would unfold if I devoted some effort to a sustained, focused, probing discussion on Topic Q. The distinction between ‘touching upon several intriguing issues’ and ‘more deeply probing a lesser amount of issues’ is congruent, for me, to the ‘spirit of intellectual curiosity’ and the ‘goal of mastering a body of knowledge’. Pursing a deep mastery of knowledge (i.e., a thorough treatment of an issue) will necessarily detract from an unfettered spirit of intellectual curiosity (i.e. a nebulous treatment of numerous interrelated notions), but focused expertise certainly does not eclipse that intellectual curiosity – indeed it relies upon it. If you’ll pardon the ‘lunacy’ of this metaphor, “flexibility, creativity, curiosity” do not undergo an ‘eclipsed’ by the demands of focused expertise, but merely undergo a ‘waning’ of sorts.

However is a focused, sustained investigation not THE telling sign of good academic writing? Does depth of knowledge not constitute good scholarship? Do we not need to read practically every word written on our topic in order to synthesize the vastness of data into a coherent, defendable, probing, academic standpoint? And what we don’t? Does forgoing a grounded standpoint and wandering from notion to notion, within and without our ‘topic’ not make us less of an intellectual? Gitlin argues that an ‘intellectual’ is NOT one who advances a totalizing discourse on knowledge from a removed perspective, but rather one who is instrumental in advancing the state of society (locally, and globally), essentially one who is an active agent for change. She construes the intellectual as one who transcends the compartmentalized, insulated parameters of their ‘area of study’ in order to become an intelligent, responsible, ethical citizen of the world. But what does social interaction, or interdisciplinarity really have to do with refining one’s intellect? Are intellectuals no longer permitted (expected?) to remain antisocially cloistered, removed from the ebb and flow of ‘practicality’ so as to effectively read, think, write, reread, rethink, rewrite, etc? The social dimension to Gitlin’s construction of the intellectual is interesting because it serves to remind us that we do not exist in a vacuum, that we are more than walking encyclopedias, and we do not pursue knowledge for its own sake, but rather for the welfare of our kind. How may we avoid the social dimension of intellectualism when our broader field is defined as the ‘humanities’. However, socially oriented or not, surely academics are expected to narrowly focus their efforts. Are we all not currently engaged in an arduous process, the fruit of which is mastery of our field of knowledge? Have we not consented to leading lives of rigorous academic austerity, lives of focus and discipline (and periodic pubbing)? Is not the name of our field of study itself a ‘discipline’? We all intend (on some level) to work hard and apply ourselves (with discipline!) in order to acquire and advance knowledge in our field. As graduate students, we are engaged in the pursuit of content-based knowledge in order to masterfully lord over our minute plots of intellectual real estate. This self-imposed yolk is a necessary aspect of being an academic, else our thoughts would stray and wander into the realm of Rambling, Ambiguity or Irrelevance (like most of my blog entries). In thinking of the tension between content-driven ‘discipline’ and ‘free reign’ interdisciplinarity, the image of a horse comes to mind. Unbridled, his travels are more expansive, covering vast regions, though his stays in each region is brief, and potentially unsatisfying. Once harnessed, however, he goes farther and faster toward any one destination. So, do we charge on towards our disciplinary findings, with little care for what we miss along the way, or do we meander aimlessly enjoying the interdisciplinary journey? Call me undisciplined, but I’ve always been partial to the scenic route. And it appears that I’m not alone.

According to Hugo Caviola, expertise ought to emphasize the PROCESS of interaction rather than the GOAL of synthesis (5). Furthermore, synthesis, for him, is personal, subjective, and individually meaningful. However in emphasizing the personal and the subjective, do we not draw dangerously near to intellectual relativism, pursuing opinion rather than knowledge? Surely, there are ‘personal syntheses’ which steer closer and further from ‘the facts’ than others. How do we classify them? Scholarship, humanities’ based or otherwise, is intrinsically tied to an evaluative process whereby the opinion of one individual is ranked against that of another against the backdrop of what we consider to be objectively true. Isn’t this the basis behind ‘peer review’? Giesler’s, in her exploration of the extent to which the academy “negotiates the terrain between experiential knowledge, various bodies of information, and the question of expertise” (388), advocates a dichotomy between context-based knowledge and rhetorical expertise. She appears to align well with Caviola in favouring ‘rhetorical expertise’. She brings our attention to a peculiar but prevalent “circularity” in academic pursuit: one takes interest in a specific subject matter due to personal, subjective factors, one then pursues ‘objective findings’, only to revisit one’s subjective concerns equipped with supposedly objective research. In this setting, content-specific knowledge is merely an intermediary between uninformed and informed subjective reality. One’s interest begins broadly, narrows, then broadens once again. This seems in alignment with the ‘hour-glass’ structure of all academic work: start broad, refine, then broaden once again – or so my Grade 13 English teacher told me. Callahan herself starts her essay quite broadly. She begins with the words of another individual, from another discipline. She quotes Mikhail Bakhtin, from ‘Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics’ as follows:

“The idea begins to live, that is, to take shape, to develop, to find and renew its verbal expression, to give birth to new ideas, only when it enters into dialogic relationship with other ideas, with the ideas of others.”

To employ another metaphor, an idea, once first conceives may be likened to a stone, at first rough and jagged, only attaining a polished state upon entering a ‘dialogic relationship’ in the external stream of consciousness surrounding it. The stone/idea, susceptive to the exchange with its medium, eventually renounces its rigidity, allowing the contextual currents to shape it. The idea succumbs to the resistance of its context in order to become refined. I find it interesting that Bakhtin specifies the need for the contribution of ‘others’ in order for an idea to take shape. This resonates with the definition of the intellectual as one who engages his social setting. My fondness for the scenic route is second only to my fondness for metaphor, and again, I’m not alone. Gotta love that Caviola!

Caviola argues that interdisciplinarity itself exemplifies and upholds the extent to which both “literary and scientific language are inextricably metaphorical in nature”. But what do the metaphors represent? Is there no reality that is not metaphorical? Are all claims to non-representational ‘knowledge’ false? Surely there is nothing metaphorical about a statement such as: “there are currently 27 students enrolled in the MA Program at the Centre for the Study of Religion at the University of Toronto”, is there? Caviola appears to think so, and although I ultimately agree with him, I cannot gloss over the controversiality (is that a word?) of that claim. After all, do we not operate under an overarching method which commences with hypothesis, develops with evidence and culminates with conclusion? How could a claim be both conclusive and metaphorical? This alludes to what I believe to be THE thematic tension central to all of our discussions. All issues inevitably gravitate around the subjectivity-objectivity axis. How do we churn fact from fiction? How do we distil knowledge from a sea of opinions? What is TRUE? We are told to leave our personal biases out of the equation, or to at least account for them and compensate for them, and we do so in order to operate as agents of pure ‘scientific’ rationality. Our personal experiences are to relegated to the back seat, if not the trunk. We are trained to be ‘intellects’ first, and ‘people’ second. Our subjective experiences, notions, ideas, etc. need to be validated by objective demonstrable evidence. We have thus far encountered numerous variations on this theme, e.g., ‘who is the REAL authority of ritual?’, ‘what is the ACTUAL meaning of this text?’, ‘what do those practitioners REALLY experience?’. To me these are all manifestations of the impulse to ascertain the distinction between the subjective and the objective. We tend by and large to prefer the latter with respect in academia. So, Caviola’s claim that all exists as metaphor – be it literature, biology, sociology, anthrolpology, religion, etc. – highly problematizes our academic pursuit of ‘knowledge’. If we can’t really KNOW anything directly, then how do we LEARN, or TEACH? Are we merely chasing allegorical shadows on the wall of some Socratic cave? What could ‘expertise’ possibly mean in this context? Callanan asserts that expertise amounts to the relationship between information, colleagues, texts, institutions and students. This model appeals to me. I like the idea of the ‘teacher’ being a facilitator, equally participating in the process of learning rather than being an instructor, one who possess conclusive knowledge which she must download to her students. An expert, for me, is not someone with all of the answers, but merely someone who has devoted much time and thought to specific questions. To limit expertise to mastery of knowledge is to stifle creativity and originality, to obstruct the expansion of any given discipline, and to prevent the development of new disciplines. Genius, after all, is extolled in juxtaposition to traditional, content-based modes of thought. If knowledge, then, is not something we can readily pursue, since it’s a process rather than a result, what is the actual fruit of our labour? Surely our pursuit is not a fruitless one. It seems that perhaps the fruit is the pursuit itself, where the emphasis is on dialogue, not data. The scholar ought not to engage in conversations as a means for conclusion, but, rather, should regard conclusions as means for conversation.

TEXT: Smudging the lines between Author and Audience

Please excuse the relative lateness of this blog entry: I am currently contending with some personal issues. Incidentally, discussing them here would surely make for a more interesting entry, but I don’t know that they directly relate to the study of religion…did I mention that humour is my favourite defense mechanism….?

Of all of the readings thus far examined, these chapters from Clark’s book promise to contribute most richly to my own research. My MA project is centered around textual analysis of the Ramayana, so the various issues and approaches discussed here are well worth considering whilst grappling with a text as complex and ancient as Sanskrit epic. I am not sure if the variety of theories from which to chose will aid or frustrate my research pursuit; I find myself suffering from the usual mental indigestion …Now, Where do I stand (at least today) on the idea of contextualism…? I am grateful for the qualification “at least today” since it seems that what I think and write about contextualism is itself context-dependent. I only hope that my mindset will not shift to the extent that I won’t be able to defend these views come Wednesday’s class….

I find Genette definition of “transtextuality…[where]…on the same parchment, one text can be superimposed upon another, which it does not quite conceal but allows to show through” quite apt for my research. Texts, for him, transform and/or imitate previous texts. He redefines this as “open structuralism” (132). This is exemplified throughout the receptive history of the Ramayana, particularly in the movement to theologize the text through the lens of Vaisnava devotion. How do I treat these ‘superimposition’? Are they removed from ‘the original’ text? Does there in fact exist an ‘authentic’ text whereby to measure all subsequent redactions, interpolations, interpretations, etc? I have tended in past to subscribe to the notion that all texts are supplements, merely filling out the ongoing cultural dialogue, perpetually alluding to and making reference to other texts, in a similar approach to Derrida who emphasizes the fact that never has there been written a text untouched by other texts (132). He challenges the notion of text as a finished, discreet complete work, positing, rather, that it is “a differential network, a fabric of traces referring endlessly to something other than itself, to other differential traces.” The Ramayana, throughout its vast hermeneutic history, exemplifies inexhaustible varieties of interpretation. Reading it seems, indeed cotributes to the process of composition. To what extent, then, is the reader actually the author of the text? To what extent may he partake in the authorship thereof?

In my opinion, there is much merit in deviating from a desire to uncover the actual, unified, harmonious, uncontestable meaning of a text. Meaning, is, after all subjective and in constant fluctuation. On this basis, I can sympathize with Roland Barthes view that “a text’s unity lies not in its origin but in its destination” (133). Does this imply that the author then possess no agency whatsoever in the composition of a text? This doesn’t somehow seem right to me, either, but in all honesty, I haven’t quite sorted it out. I am interested in what Foucault has to say on ‘authority’ of a text being somehow dependent upon the certainty of its ‘authorship’ in out culture. He puts into perspective just how culturally-specific our regard for authorship is. The reception of a text is inextricably linked to the reception of its author, i.e., its ‘textual proprietor’. This anxiety to ascertain and/or verify authorship seems drastically diminished in my own textual milieu. With respect to ancient South Asian texts, there is far less of an emphasis on the authorship. Numerous texts are of uncertain authorship, and further, several authors are of uncertain historical status. Regarding the Ramayana, for example, what do we know about legendary adi-kavi (first poet), Valmiki? Did such an author in fact, exist? Does the answer to this question colour all subsequent questions we bring to the text? What cultural presuppositions/inclinations do we reveal in inquiry after the author thus? In line of such questioning, I find Derrida’s encouragement for us to question why we read texts the way we do as quite refreshing. How could we refrain from identifying, or confessing, our own philosophijal and political assumptions that are institutionally sanctioned by our social context? In an attempt to resist the seductive appeal of textual ‘re-pristination’ (which I, too, regard as a futile endeavor), I see merit in exploring the Wirkungsgeschichte (“effective history”) of the text. I will never no what Valmiki intended, nor, even if Valmiki existed.

There is much in these reading to process, but I especially perplexed/intrigued by what Gadamer says about text. He seems to hold that language is intended to impart meaning, and that therefore texts are intended to be readable and understood without too much difficulty, but bifurcates his argument with a questionable distinction between written (literary) language and the spoken (auditory) variety. For him the process of writing necessarily constitutes a barricade, blinding the reader from the author’s intended meaning. I am not quite sure how the author vanishes once his thoughts are written rather than vocalized. Or maybe I am phrasing this incorrectly, it’s not as though he vanishes, but merely that he becomes invisible to us – he is still present, but we can’t see him. While one is engaged in text, one cannot easily grasp the meaning of the author. However, for Gadamer, spoken word possesses “sonority, melody, sound”, and therefore more readily presents its meaning to the listener. It is easier to access the ‘actual meaning’ intended while one hears, and accessibility lacking when one reads. I am not sure how to treat this bifurcation in my own work because I deal with an ancient text which was preserved orally for centuries. The verses of this epic poem were ‘heard’, not ‘read’ throughout the vast majority of their cultural reception and preservation. Furthermore the metrically consistent poetry of the Ramayana was intended to be performed – sung, chanted, enacted, etc. So, does the intrinsic ‘sonority’ of this ‘text’ bridge the remoteness between authorship and readership (i.e., listener-ship) to the extent that one, while witnessing its performance, may be granted access to ‘the intent of the author’?

I operate like a pendulum on these issues, because even though I believe that the distinction between interpretation and authorship is fine-to-nonexistent, Clearly Skinner has a point in asserting that texts do not come about of their own volition. Individuals conceive of and articulate ideas, and these ideas are embedded in texts. He challenges the Derridean bifurcation of writing and speech on the bases that he studies dialogues, which is essentially speech captured in writing. He is in a similar boat I think. The third aspect of his argument is applicable to my own pursuit. Skinner appeals to the author’s intention, insofar as it may be identified as in support of their objective. The ‘meaning’ of a text may be various, as subsequent meanings may be later introduced or identified, but Skinner aims to uncover the ‘original’ intention of the statements put forth. I suppose the key here is that ‘the intention’ is not ambiguous. For example, Nagesha Bhatta, a Srivaisnava commentator on the Ramayana rereads its ‘kernal’ verse (where Valmiki curses the hunter) as a praise to Vishnu. His reinterpretation relies heavily upon phonetic and linguistic gymnastics – to simplify, he breaks up the compounds differently, and employs homonyms. The result is nothing short of brilliant, but it is ‘an accurate’ interpretation. Despite my acknowledgement of the reciprocity between interpretation and text, I can’t help but regard this devotion-based reinterpretation as contrary to the original intent of the verse. It does not fit with the verse which come immediately prior, not with what comes afterwards, not is it remotely supported in the context of the rest of the epic. There certainly seems to be no ‘intention’ to praise Vishnu in Valmiki’s curse (which is central to both the ‘emotional flavour’ of the epic along with the epic’s basic plot), and so I can see the merit of Skinner’s emphasis on intention as a standard of interpretational merit. However, where the ‘intent’ is unclear, how do we proceed? I suppose I need to adopt an approach that best befits my subject matter, and adhere to it faithfully for the duration of the project.

The Universality of Emotions: What I think about what I Feel about what Cultural Relativists Think about what they Feel about Emotion

In an attempt to somewhat focus my reflection, I will confine my random ruminations to the tension between relativism and universality that pervades academic discourse on emotion. I must confess that it never occurred to me that emotions were socially derived, but rather, I viewed it self-evident that emotions are universally integral to the (cross-cultrual) “human experience”. Having completed this week’s reading, I find my thoughts on the matter much more nuanced with regard to the extent to which ‘emotion’ may be characterized as culturally dependent. There is much food for thought in these writing, too copious and complex to be digested in one sitting; however, the notion that emotion is contingent upon culture is still somewhat unsettling to me. It seems intuitive to me that emotions are universal, but the line between intuition and folly is quite fine, so I suppose I must identify and articulate my reasons for believing so. I am not sure if this clarifies of complicates, but I perceive a disjunction between what I refer to as ‘emotion’ and what these writers refer to in their discussion. Clearly there is an element of identification, justifications, rationalization, etc. intimately intertwined with the experience of emotion, and this element is indisputably culturally-relative. However, when I refer to emotion, what I mean is the experience of grief, anger, joy, etc. itself, and not our ideas pervading the social circumstances cradling these emotional experiences. The ‘why we feel’, ‘how we feel’, ‘when we feel’, ‘should we feel’, etc are culturally contingent, but WHAT we feel, in my opinion, is universal. Perhaps then the extent to which I disagree with these writers is largely attributable to a different definition of ‘emotion’.

John Corrigan, in his introductory essay (“Introduction: Emotions Research and the Academic Study of Religion”), outlines several arguments in support of emotion being a universal phenomenon. The evidence cited by Corrigan upholding the thesis of the universality of emotion range from: i) the Darwinian assertion that emotion is a necessary, species-wide mode of expression, as species; ii) the linguistic commonality in reference to emotions cross-culturally; iii) the cross-cultural performative dimension of emotion; iv) the theological/philosophical assertion that emotion is universally ‘mysterious’; and, lastly, v) the cross-cultural commonality of neurological/physiological functioning during emotional experiencing (9-10). I will sidestep Corrigan’s questions as to whether such inquiry concerning emotion is reductionistic, etc. My interest here is whether or not emotion is universally experienced. Emotion may in fact be irreducible and/or inexplicable, but I don’t see these issues as directly related to the universality thereof. These categories are not mutually exclusive in that emotional response may be universal and explicable, universal and inexplicable, universal and reducible, universal and non-reducible, etc. In any case, I find the five arguments cited compelling, particularly the linguistic one. We all refer to emotions, cross-culturally, without an anxiety to define exactly what experience we are referring to. They appear to be presumed as self-evident. Anger is anger and grief is grief, etc. This is the case from Shakespeare, to Aristophanes, to Kalidasa. Although clearly the circumstances and norms pervading the social and cultural contexts to some extent dictate the justification, impetus, penchant, etc. of the emotion experience, the fact that we can read and relate to the characters so widely dispersed over culture, space, and time, suggest to me that their emotional experiences aren’t so removed from ours so as to be eclipse by the cultural shifts intervening between composition and reception. Our appreciation of various literary works from various cultures across various times, for me, suggests a somewhat archetypal element to emotional experiencing. Despite the VASTLY different circumstances in works of literature across the ages, across cultures, the classics survive because of their ability to invoke emotion that is basic to all human beings. To what, otherwise, may we attribute the timeless accessibility and appeal of ‘classics’? Why else are we still studying Elizabethan drama and classical Sanskrit kavya alike? The same came be said, I would argue, for visual arts and performing arts. Although they employ the syntax of their culture, they tell the tale of humankind to some degree.

I am not certain that I can articulate this in a sufficiently sensible fashion (since it is intuitive to me, of the same Intuition that dangerously borders Error), but my reflection on the emotion/state of Compassion seems to me to support the universality of emotion. Compassion, to me, appears to be esteemed and extolled cross-culturally, whether embodied in Christ, the Buddha, or the sages of ancient India. But I invoke compassion here not merely because it occurs cross-culturally, or that it is extolled cross-culturally, but because of its nature. And now, what could I possibly mean by that? Thank goodness for the license afforded by Blogging. What I mean is that Compassion is based on an empathetic feeling of concern for the welfare of others. This to me presupposes the emotional likeness among all human beings, all suffering from the same emotional demons. How could I hope to have empathy for others if they are fundamentally different in their emotional experience and emotional requirements? Perhaps I am not articulating this as well as I should for it to be compelling, but the enterprise of compassion (whether by a religious practitioner, a secular humanist, a philanthropist, a civil servant, etc.) seems somehow hollow and futile in the absence of emotional universality. If our emotional experience is discreet and culturally-dependent, the same as our ideas, behaviors, etc., then what comprises this notion of “the human experience”? If not emotion, what, then serves as the common thread constituting the human tapestry? Perhaps the whole notion of there being a common link to human beings (and terms such as ‘humanities’, ‘humankind’, etc.) are conceits, as artificial as the term ‘religion’ itself. It could be the notion of ‘humanity’ as a whole exists only in the realm of the conceptual. However, if this is not the case, and there is such a thing as humanity, then emotional experience would undoubtedly contribute to our universal innate human-ness.

Clifford Geertz writes that “non only ideas, but emotions, too, are cultural artifacts” (13). Is he referring to ideas about emotions, ideas prompting emotions, or emotions themselves? Although I feel that the experience of emotion is one of the commonalities of human beings, I could not uphold the view that social conditioning plays no role in emotional expression. Emotional activity possesses a culturally-contingent dimension. Indeed “highly complex social codes governing such things as…birth, death, marriage” are necessarily dependent upon cultural values and thus differing from one context to another. However, are these highly complex social codes emotions themselves? Are they not mere stimuli for emotional response, catalysts and conduits merely channeling the experience of emotion? Why we feel what we feel is dependent, but what it is that we actually feel, in my opinion, is universal. If the experience of an emotion is intrinsically tied to the ‘reason why’ we feel an emotion, then how can we account feeling a certain emotion (e.g., anger), without knowing why? Social “feeling rules” can’t always apply, if so, we would always feel justified in feeling a certain way, but we don’t. There are many situations where we experience a certain emotion in tandem with the acknowledgement that we have no ‘right’ to feel so, yet we feel so nonetheless. The ‘right to feel a certain way’ is inevitably cultural and thus relative; the ‘feeling a certain way’ appears on some level to be uninfluenced by cultural norms. If, for example, we feel irritable, we may in fact be angered by a stimulus that isn’t culturally sanctioned as justification for anger. Our provocation may not in fact exist under other circumstances, but given our culturally independent irritability we are nevertheless provoked into a heightened state of anger. Of course, such issues depend largely on individual constitutions and predilections towards anger, etc. Such predilections often outweigh cultural sanctions for emotions, else there would be no danger of ‘road rage’ or need for ‘anger management’ instruction. One emotional response often exhibits an independence from (and even rebellion against) social dictates.


Catherine Lutz and Geoffrey M White report that “emotions are a primary idiom for defining and negotiating social relation of the self in a moral order” (14), in other words “moral emotions are moral judgments”. In order to bolster this claim, they invoke the sensation of shame/embarrassment. Their study was based on the Newar inhabitants of Nepal, among whom “hot, flushes red-faced feelings of embarrassment, and cold, metaphorically deathlike, empty feelings of shame, embody moral evaluations” (14). I find it interesting that shame differs from guilt in that for shame to take place, others must be present, while one experiences guilt in the presence of others and in solitude alike. Shame, then, necessarily involves a societal dimension. Shame no doubt is a useful tool for crafting and maintaining social norms, but it is the only type of emotion? What about emotions that occur in solitude, or even at a stage of development prior to the inculcation of social values. Take for example a young child in the toy department. She sees a toy and is instantly gleeful as she reaches out for it. Her parent allows her to play with it. Joy ensues. For thinkers like Michael Stocker, emotions (like the child’s, too, presumably) are not emotions, but rather are “emotionally held thoughts”, akin to Robert M Gordon’s claim that emotions bear a strong functional resemblance to belief. I wonder whether either of these individuals (no doubt fine scholars) have ever had such an experience with a child in the toy department. I wonder if they are able to attribute the child’s enthusiasm regarding Toy-Q to some sort of belief system. Also, I wonder whether or not the grief experienced by the child once confronted with the painful separation from Toy-Q at some point en route to the checkout counter could possibly be accounted for on the basis of indoctrination or cultural bias. My experience as a sales rep at Wal-Mart’s toy dept seven years ago counsels me otherwise.


In Christian’s “ Provoked Religious Weeping in Early Modern Spain”, we are presented with one specific form of piety – a sixteenth-century Catholic Spanish weeping, a clearly ‘learnt behavior’, dependent upon specific prescriptions of religiosity of a specific social context, seeking a specific outcome. May we regard this as representative of all weeping and indeed for grief itself? Does the fact that it was ‘learnt’ and non-spontaneous diminish its status as a bona fide emotional experience? I would like to applaud Ebersole for the extent to which the approach employed in his work “The Function of Ritual Weeping Revisited: Affective Expression and Moral Discourse” is non-reductionistic and intriguingly nuanced. As you are aware, Ebersole, too, shares in the culturally relativistic impulse to derive social significance from emotional response in the context of religion (specifically ritual). He in no way holds the view that ‘a tear is a tear is a tear’, and thus searches after the meaning associated with the shedding of tears, meaning which, invariably varies from one cultural, social, religious context to another. With respect to the actual emotional response, however, he exposes the extent to which our privileging of emotional spontaneity (as corroborative of authenticity, suggested by, e.g., by Durkheim, 204) is largely prejudicial. With regards to ritually/socially ‘scripted’ tears, Ebersole appears to uphold the notion, albeit implicitly, that ‘grief is grief is grief’, whether socially contrived or interpersonally inflicted. The experience, i.e., the feeling of grief, would be the similar (and probably comparable) regardless of the cause, context, or stimulus. On this basis, I hold that the social cues about how to be emotional shed no light on the emotional experience that those cures incited. The ‘feeling rules’ of a culture as represented in art, bureaucracy, family, dress, courtship, language, music, etc (18) is, for me, distinct from the actual feelings proper. Perhaps this is the distinction that accounts for why I cannot relate to cultural relativism with respect to emotional experience. I am referring to emotion, not the rules and representations thereof. The key word here is perhaps representation. All we can study are the representations, articulations, and expressions of emotions, which are necessarily culturally dependent to some degree. How may we as scholars enter into, or study the emotional experience itself? And yet again we find ourselves at the bottom of the slippery slope of experience…

At Home in The World

Rationality, Belief

King criticizes the impulse to “reduce” religion to political, sociological or other dimensions, or to “reduce” such forces to religion (13-14). Discuss his argument. Are you convinced that this is a problem? What might be an alternative approach?


King writes that “one consequence of the modern distinction between the spheres of religion and politics has been to foster a suspicion among Westerners that any linkage of the two realms is an example of a ‘merely rhetorical’ use of religious discourse to mask some underlying political, ideological or ‘worldly’ intention” (13). King advances the example of the Hindu doctrine of karma as promulgated by elite brahmans in order to bolster his claim. The brahmans are understood to act under social and political pressures (in hopes of maintaining their privileged social and political status) rather than by actual religious convictions, which, according to King, are made alien to the ‘public’ realm of political and social authority, relegated to the realm of the ‘private’. King argues that religious convictions and pressures are valid in their own right, and do in fact exist and exert influence in the public sphere, and therefore need not be construed as masquerading for political (and not religious) agendas. For King, the religious and the political are not separate realms in our public reality (14), and he adamantly rejects the “Enlightenment-born” bifurcation of religion and politics. However, assuming that we do in fact suffer from this tendency to reduce bona fide religious impulse to political plotting, and assuming that we become aware of this, and treat the previously-political motivation as in fact a religious one, are we better off? What is gained here?

I am trying to tackle King’s article, but admittedly I am not sure that I possess a firm enough grasp on the material to competently respond. I write now more for teasing out my own thoughts. Bear with me while I inflict the thrust of my mental disentangling upon you the reader. This article, for me, is centered upon King’s primary aim to shed light on the extent to which the mystical is in fact political. He wishes to do away with what he sees as a synthetic veil flimsily partitioning the ‘private’ and the ‘public’ domains insofar as mystical experiencing is concerned. So, for King, before we can even tackle the question of what is mysticism, we must broach the topic of “what is the agenda of power underlying a particular characterization of mysticism?” (9). I certainly concede that the acceptance of various brands of mystical experiences as valid necessarily relates to the extent to which those experiences were compatible with the authorities deeming them valid. So, through this lens, certainly “defining mysticism is a way of defining power”. The mystical, then, as King argues, cannot be treated as uninvolved with the political.

However, perhaps it is my own naïveté on such matters, but is there no mystical independent of the political? To draw upon what I see as a parallel in Christianity, there are gospels which were admitted into the Christian bible, and others which remain apocryphal, so, their revelatory or testimonial status is intimately ties, and dependent upon, the political authorities at work. However, is there not a dimension to these texts (whether admitted into the cannon, or rejected) which renders them valid or invalid, authentic or inauthentic in and of their own right regardless of the political dimension at play? To return to mystical experiencing, does it not possess a certain self-definition independent of the political sphere with which it is entangled? King appears to be arguing that mysticism has indeed been defined, articulated and condoned by political authorities, but surely such ‘definitions’ are political ones, and need not trespass upon the experience itself, indeed need not intrinsically ‘define’ these experiences. One is the outer core definition; the other is the inner experience. However, this appears to be the very dichotomy against which King advocates. Or is it? The inner experience may in fact hold sway in the political arena, but my point is that it need not be defined by that arena, or rather, any definition provided in that arena could not measure or ‘define’ the experience itself. On this basis, the impulse in King’s work, i.e., to expose the extent to which the religious and the political are forever mated, does not hold much appeal for me. In all fairness, however, I have never been interested in politics in the least.

I am nevertheless intrigued by the Enlightenment-born dichotomy King discusses (13). There is a peculiar divide between the realm of science and that of religion that, as King advances, rests upon the extent to which science (and philosophy) may be articulated ‘objectively’, oriented towards the empirical, quantifiable, and demonstrable, poised to be shared with others in society. Then there is the inexplicable, “irrational” internal private impulse towards religion. This distinction reminds me Tagore’s novel “The Home and The World” set in 19th century colonial Bengal. There is much food for thought in this work, but I draw upon it because the aforementioned parallel is one of its running themes: the husband acts in the ‘world’ while the wife exerts authority in the ‘home’. The world is the colonized India, where science and social progress reign supreme, a public realm of secular western ideals. The home, on the other hand, is the hearth of the country, the private realm remaining impervious to colonization, where language, culture, and religion privately endure. Mother India finds solace from her British parasites in the sanctum of each Indian home. The man wears a suit, the woman wears a sari. This fits all too well with the Public-Private Enlightenment dichotomies advanced by King on p 13.

King seems to be saying that the distinction between Home and World is artificial, and in fact, the man who goes out into the public spheres often draws from the impulses and sympathies born of his alter-ego, the feminine, intuitive, religious, sacred convictions within him. For him to draw upon his religiosity, and thus liberate it from what King paints as a marginalized status in post-enlightenment secular society, he exemplifies the extent to which religion is at work in the political domain. But, again, I fail to see how this helps us understand religion in the absence of political exertion. We see the ‘home’ aspect at work in the ‘world’, but what is it like in its own state, at home? Surely we ought not to ‘reduce’ the religious to the sociopolitical, but may be not examine it independent of the sociopolitical?

Experience

I have always been drawn by the account of humanity’s fall from Eden narrated in Genesis. It strikes as some metaphorically-cloaked, profound truth about human existence. I don’t think I will ever entirely understand its appeal, or its message, but I am especially intrigued by a peculiar dichotomy there. Gen. 2:15-17 reads:

The LORD God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it. And the LORD God commanded the man, 'You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die'.

We all know what happens from here. Humankind goes from a state of oblivion to one of knowledge, and in so doing, falls from eternity into a state of mortality. This dichotomy speaks to me, though I know not quite what it says. This story appears to uphold the notion that “ignorance is bliss”, particularly since suffering inevitably accompanies the newly-gained “knowledge” of our primordial parents. However, ignorance here isn’t used in a pejorative sense. For me, this isn’t an ‘ignorance’ comparable to an absence of knowledge, but rather possibly refers to a state transcendent to knowledge, a state beyond the duality of empirical knowing (i.e., ‘knowledge of good and evil’). Perhaps, then, for the sake of discussion, the quest of the mystic can be construed as a re-ascent from a fallen state of ‘knowledge’, back into the ineffable oblivion that is eternity. Human ‘salvation’ would involve, then, a transcendence of a ‘fallen’ state and a return to the blissful state before the intervention of knowledge and suffering. What could this possibly mean though? What could an existence without knowledge of the world, or the self (as represented by Adam and Eve’s self-consciousness about their own nakedness) possibly entail? Who knows? Clearly no one could know, since it is apparently beyond the realm of knowing!

Steven Kats discloses an assumption at the very outset of his paper, “Diversity and The Study of Mysticism”, an assumption from which all of his work proceeds, specifically, that there are no unmediated experiences. To draw upon the aforementioned metaphor, for Katz there is no such Edenic state which humankind may experience the world directly, unfiltered by mental apparatus. Humanity must at all times possess knowledge (however peripherally) of its own nakedness. No experience is blissfully pure, or so Katz assumes. My apprehension about this assumption originates from the fact that it opposes the claims of to whom we subject this assumption. Must we, in the study of mysticism, trespass against the claims of the mystics themselves? If mystics claim that there exists such a thing as unmediated experiencing, then what right do we have, as scholars in the course of investigating such experiences, to proceed on the assumption that they are fundamentally incorrect? Further, I do not understand his basis for believing that different mystics do not in fact refer to the same experience. However, I can potentially see these two points of departure as related. If one cannot have an unmediated experience, then one’s experience must necessarily be tied to one’s individuality, and can thus not be shared by another individual. If one were to allow for unmediated experience, then one allows, too, for the possibility of universality within the realm of mystical experiencing.

Let us examine the notion of common experience among different mystics. In order to truly assess Katz beliefs, I suppose I ought to tackle some of the evidence he gives. My own thinking on the matter is yet quite fuzzy, but I do have some knee-jerk reactions. I was particularly intrigued by his application of logic on the notion of paradox and ineffability (Section V, p 201). He asserts (p 204) that the fact that “(1) Mystic A claims that Experience X is paradoxical and ineffable, while (2) mystic B claims experience Y is paradoxical and ineffable” in no way constitutes evidence equating the experience of A and B. As a matter of fact, he claims that NOTHING can be said about the content of their experience. We can only compare the description of their experiences. But if it is true that we cannot comment on the nature of their experience, and that we therefore have no basis of knowing that their experiences are the same, how, then, can we know that their experiences AREN’T the same?

For Katz, the ineffable seems to refer to one of many possible indescribable states, but I’m not convinced this could be the case. The ineffable for me does not merely refer to something that one cannot describe (because of one’s own limitations), but rather, it refers to that which cannot be described (because of its very nature), that which lies beyond the terrain of empirical knowing. If there are multiple such ‘points’ within the ineffable, would they not be unified in their status as all equally outside the realm of regular knowledge? The ineffable, for me, connotes something singular, or at least something whose plurality (if we chose to conceive of it as such) would exist beyond the threshold of the perception of plurality. Therefore, I am inclined to reject Katz rebuttal of Stace, etc: I don’t see what prevents different mystics from engaging in like experiences.

Furthermore, it strikes me as odd to subject mystical experiencing to the mode of logic as these experiences appear to operate outside of the scope of rationality. Katz himself discusses mystical breakthroughs beyond conventional consciousness with the use of koans, etc. If the path to the experience necessitates a deviation a transcendence of rational knowing (“fundamental to the traversal of the mystical path from consciousness A to consciousness B”, 206), then how could we subject the goal, i.e. trans-rational experience itself, to the mode of logic? Not only do I not follow Katz logic on why mystical experiencing need be variegated and unmediated, I fail to see the logic in relying on logic at all. Clearly rational scrutiny is the necessary instrument of the study of mystical experiencing, we cannot help but cling to it in your academic work. But certainly it cannot be the rod whereby the mystical experience itself is measured.

The Goddess: from Mother to Other

[Feel free to ignore this opening paragraph, it’s mostly scenic, but may help to frame my aversion for Kinsley’s treatment of the genders.] I went the Hamilton escarpment on Saturday to enjoy what few lingering summer moments we had left in the nurturing energy of Mother Nature. There were five of us total, three males, one female, and myself. Kevala (the only biological female) expressed her deep appreciation for the fact that I was able to get the day off work and join them, thereby affording her periodic refuge from “being alone with the boys”. I am not sure if it’s because of my orientation (for those of you know don’t know, or haven’t guessed, I’m gay), or because of my individual sensibilities, but she sees me as different from the other guys, and I have to say that for the most part I agree with her. There were times when “the guys” would carry on about one subject or another and Kevala and I would, with a single glance, convey to each other an amusement and confusion that we alone shared. The exchange carried with it the certainty that a) we’ll never understand the intrigue of Suject X and b) they’ll never understand our lack of interest. Suffice it to say that I often find myself able to identify with females (though not exclusively). As a result, my closest circle of friends consists of males and female alike. However, there were many times throughout the trip when we we divided differently. For example, the rest of us could not relate to Kevala and Davis’ unique views on being in nature (about which I can elaborate at another opportunity for this interested), thus relegating Kevala to the realm of the “other”. Clearly, the boundaries between interpersonal interactions need not crudely adhere to gender distinctions, but this is merely one variety. Being made to awkwardly maneuver between the innumerable gender-based protocols and distinctions pervading our society, I shudder at the thought of having to do so, too, in the study of the history of religion. Perhaps there is no way around it, but I don’t like the approach taken by David Kinsley in “Women’s Studies in the History of Religions”. There is much about this article which I find problematic, but I must find the strength to curtail my ranting to a somewhat-coherent, profanity-free critique. I shall therefore confine my discussion to the examples Kingsley incorporates from the Hindu religious tradition. This is a tradition with whose scholarship I am most familiar. Further, I have benefited from the insights of several Hindu practitioners, of various ages, cultural backgrounds, and walks of life – male and female alike.

According to Kinsley, Women’s studies devastatingly reveals the extent to which the study of the history of religions falls short of its own non-parochial, unbiased, all-inclusive mandate (2). He brings to our attention our limited focus, centered around the religious expressions of man-kind, not human-kind. If the history of every culture is “patriarchal, sexist, androcentric, and often misogynistic” (4), to what extent can the “female perspective” aid in our understanding of that history? If, for example, women were barred from a specific ritual, then what can women tell of the ritual in question? How can one study a sexist phenomenon in a non-sexist manner? Perhaps it is my androcentric Western bias speaking, but I wonder, to what extent can scholars emphasize study women’s religion if religion itself was primarily a male-dominated sphere throughout history? If religious writings are androcentric, and the institutions are androcentric, and expounders, virtuosos, and leaders are all men, then how would studying the ‘feminine perspective’ assist in understanding the history of a tradition? If imams, rabbis, priests, pandits, etc. were primarily (or exclusively) male, then how does one possibly avoid a non-androcentric understanding of history? Would Kinsley have us believe that women have always been on equal footing in the history of religion, and that it is only modernity which relegates them to the status of the other by denying them their equal contribution to the teachings and shaping of religious history?

Kinsley makes grand claims and sweeping generalizations about the history of the study of religion, e.g., that scholarly attention paid to initiatory rites was limited to male initiation rites, or that the study of goddesses was marginalized and treated as a separate section that the study of the ‘gods’ (3). To which scholars, to which studies, and to which traditions does Kinsley refer in order to bolster his sweeping charges of the study of religious history? Let us examine some of his examples and assess the extent to which they pertain to the broad themes he paints at the outset of his paper. As mentioned before, due to the limits of space, and of my own area of study, I will direct this cross-examination based upon the ‘evidence’ Kinsley draws from Hindu thought and practice. Kinsley cites the example of the two sixteen-century Indian poet-saints Surdas and Mirabai to illustrate two divergent gender perspectives within the tradition. Mirabai was a highly atypical individual by all accounts. She was a mystical poet-saint who was known for sacrificing all social connections and responsibilities in order to glorify the name of her beloved deity, Krishna. How many woman did the same? How many reports do we have of similar women? It seems questionable to use her as an example of the types of religious activities that Hindu women typically partake in. She surely may not be regarded as a spokesperson for a specific subculture common to Hindu women at the time. Mirabai is celebrated throughout the tradition for her independent conviction againt social pressures, all in the name of sacred devotion. She is, in essence, an anomaly with respect to ‘women’s religion’. She is, however, an aspect of the rise of devotionalism as a means of salvation on the Indic subcontinent at the time. Also, the fact that her remarkably life and story survive attests to the fact that historical women are in fact studied. I personally learned about her in both my History of South Asia class in addition to my Intro to Hinduism class.

Surdas, too represents the overarching devotionalism movement of his era. However, he, too, was a mystical poet-saint, and not typical by any stretch of the imagination. [Interestingly, I did not learn about him in our “androcentric” academic institution, so perhaps there is hope yet. I digress.] Many sung to Krishna, many dances, many offered fruits, flowers, etc., but how many partook in mystical union with the deity? How can either he or Mirabai – both purportedly in direct contact with the deity Krishna, experiencing ecstatic union with him – possibly be indicative of a respective “religious community”? Perhaps they serve to exemplify a dichotomy among male and female mystic-poets, but by what basis may we apply this dichotomy to the realm of more mundane practice? With respect to the specific difference between the them (that to which Kinsley draws our attention), specifically, that Mirabai spiritually marries Krishna while Surdas does not, women were expected to marry, while men could either marry or renounce society. Therefore it is understandable that Mirabai would regard Krishna as her husband. There was no alternative. Surdas did not need to do so. His female status (as a lover of Krishna) was implemented only whilst engaged in divine devotion to his Lord. Presumably he would regard himself as male at other times. Marriage, however, pervades all aspects of life. One remains married whether performing ritual, doing housework, etc. For him to declare a marriage between himself and Krishna, he would be thought of as married whilst engaging in mundane activities, while he was a man, not a woman. Labeling himself as a ‘wife’ of Krishna would present a logical and social tension when he returned to his inherent, mundane male persona. He could not be Krishna’s wife while he was a man. He could only temporarily be Krishna’s lover while engaging in devotional union, which is characterized by a transcendence of all qualities, including gender. Mirabai, however, was a woman at all times, and would be considered a husband-less woman if not for her cleverly self-articulated marriage to Krishna. This not only prevents her from being a social outcaste, but it bars the pursuit of other men. There is a level of practicality in the distinction of ‘lover vs wife’ which need not be representative of a larger gender-based attitude. [I wonder at the parallel in the expression “bride of Christ”: who are monks married to??] These two poet-saints are celebrated within the tradition because of the extent to which their attitudes, talents, and practices were distinct from the majority; how, then, may we elect them as paradigmatic for the male and female Hindu experience?


Let us now turn to Kinsley’s chanting example. The Devi Mahatmya is a Sanskrit text. Arguably Sanskrit Brahmanical circles are exclusively male, however, instruction in Sanskrit occurs at various secular institutions in India, and throughout the Hindu world. Furthemore, it is not a requirement that aspirants understand the text, but merely recite it. Do all Muslims understand Arabic? The vast majority of Hindu practitioners don’t understand Sanskrit. From what I understand, Sanskrit chanting is considered to have dimensions beyond the mere meaning-containment characteristic of ordinary speech. Comprehension is irrelevant to sensibilities towards vibrations, invocation, etc. My formal research of Devi worship last semester verifies this. In addition, I personally know several women (Indian, Canadians, West Indians, etc), who chant the Devi Mahatmya in Sanskrit, and don’t understand Sanskrit. Therefore, I view Kinsley’s reference to the chanting of this text at one temple (Vindhyavasini) to be highly misleading. The sect of Durga worshippers has an enormous following, male and female alike. The recitation of the Devi Mahatmya is standard practice for all devotees (male and female), regardless of their comprehension of the Sanskrit language. The chanting itself (or even the listening thereof) is considered highly beneficial. The notion that it would be “lowly, crude, and relatively ineffective” (5) because it was chanted by women seems to me a gross misrepresentation. If this was in fact the attitude at one point in time, it certainly would be the exception and not the norm among current worshippers of the Goddess. On what basis does Kinsley regard the sentiments of these anonymous “professional male reciters of the text” as paradigmatic throughout the tradition? Surely such “professionals” constitute a minute fraction of the non-professional millions who regularly recite the Devi Mahatmya.

Kinsley also cites two interpretations of the nine Durgas to perpetuate his sweeping claims. In essence, he purports a male-dominated philosophical view, and a female-dominated life-cycle view. However, I am very interested to know the demographic of the interviewees. However, how many of each gender were interviewed? Who were these “certain females”? How were they chosen? Clearly, if the study was performed on men who are educated in such philosophical principles, and taught to view all deity iconography to directly or indirectly uphold those principles, how could they help but interpret the Devi iconography thus. Further, surely women denied access to such indoctrination could not possibly hold the same view as the men who were. My study of Goddess worship last semester was centered precisely around this tension: the goddesses interpreted by practitioners as the Many versus those interpreting the goddesses as philosophical representations of the One. This dichotomy was not articulated along gender lines in my research, but rather as a function of interaction with various schools of thought. Resurrecting arguments articulated in that research would prove only tangential to this current reflection, but suffice it to say that discourse on the topic is far more nuanced than the “he thinks, she thinks” representation graciously provided by Kinsley via Hillary Rodrigues. This makes me wonder why Hinduism, for Kinsley, is so laden with “female perspectives”. Biases certainly abound, stemming from many factors, gender being no exception. However, to generalize on the basis of gender is equally irksome, whether in the name of patriarchy, or in the name of women’s liberation.

Entry 3 - Reflections on Ritual

For the third Sunday in a row, I find myself just in from work, at my computer preparing to respond to the reading for my Method and Theory class. This repetitive weekly process – at the same time, in accordance to the same procedure, directed to the same audience, resulting in the same response process, etc. – can be described as possessing an air of ritual. In honour of the content of this week’s entry, I wonder if its form – i.e., blogging ‘religiously’ each Sunday – may be accurately described as ‘ritual’. In order to formulate an accurate response to this question, we must commence with a definition of ritual. Robert Sharf, in his article of the same name (“Ritual”) confesses an inability to define the term at the very outset, and yet he is able to sustain a fascinating and intelligent discourse about this elusive term for at least 20 pages. Sharf seems no nearer to defining ‘ritual’ by the conclusion of his article than at the onset, nor am I anywhere near a definition upon completion of reading it. Similarly, this blog entry reflects upon the evasive phenomenon of ritual, a phenomenon which this standard weekly blog entry might in fact actually exemplify.

Although Sharf remains unable to adequately define the term ‘ritual’, he is able to offer some defining features, one of which – one with which I agree, I might add – is that ritual involves a “sense of being set apart from the affairs of mundane”, thus invoking the “sacred” or “holy” (247). Of course, in approaching ritual thus, we corner it by an even more problematic term: what, precisely, constitutes “the holy”? Whatever it is, I agree, that the mundane-ness of my blogging, much like with Sharf’s dinner party example, bars it from admittance to the realm of “ritual” proper. It is indeed far simpler to state what ritual isn’t. We don’t know what it is, but we know it isn’t blogging, but how can we know this is we don’t know what it is? Is it something to which we may all refer, but simply cannot describe in words? Clearly, whatever else ritual may be, it is more than the sum of its parts in that it is marked by a degree of participation and/or expression which transcend the gestures, utterances, and instruments involved.

I was fortunate enough to attend two on-campus events this week which both contributed to my reflections on this article. The Centre held a talk on Buddhist Naga rituals where the speaker began by denouncing the common “western misconception” that Buddhism provides a philosophical system unblemished by ritual. Any such misconceptions were shattered by the ample evidence he provided, pertaining to several Budhist rituals involving invoking Nagas (supernatural snake beings), particularly for the sake of appeasement, or for altering weather patterns. One wonders if it is in fact the case that “ritual action is not intended to alter the natural world”, but rather to “alter [one’s] cognitive and affective relationship to [the] world” (249). So, then, to apply his example, would the Naga invocation dedicated to rain not in fact be meant to bring rain, but, rather to, “channel collective distress while reaffirming entrenched social hierarchies and corporate norms”? Thankfully, as Sharf explains, the focus has shifted away from such scholarly attempts to dissect and interpret the “actual significance” of ritual actions, towards a more fluid (and in my view more applicable) approach of treating ritual form and ritual content as fundamentally inseparable, thereby rendering ritual action akin to performance. I found the comparison of ritual and music to be a powerfully compelling one. This brings my to the second fortuitous campus event which I attended.

There was a beautiful North Indian music and dance performance at the Faculty of music on Friday. The free performance featured classical singing, drumming, and dancing. In my opinion, recorded music cannot begin to compare to the live variety, and I suspect the same can be said of ritual. The inexplicable enhancement of beholding artistic performances live is quite likely mirrored in the occurrence of live ritual. Further both ritual audiences, musical audiences can come in two essential varieties, those who come to enjoy and those who come to assess. Clearly these categories are not mutually exclusive (e.g., an adjudicator may be moved to enjoyment, and a fan may formulate a critique), however, the two modes seem fundamentally different. With the talk on Naga cults, I came with note pad and paper in hand, but this was not the case with the performance. I sought enjoyment as opposed to edification (while, or course, edification may prove enjoyable and enjoyment may prove edifying). I was not aiming to filter the perfomance through my intellect. I would suspect that this distinction holds true for participatory ritual audiences and for those looking to study rituals: the mode of scholarship appears to some extent inherently barred from the mode of experience. The performative, non-respresentational approach to ritual proposed indeed provides a much-needed “respite from hermeneutic anxiety” (252). Just sit back and savour the Host!

I found the discussion of the significance of “play” (as the realm where labels first become disassociated with their referents) to be absolutely FASCINATING, and hope to address it in class. I cannot do so here due to space constraints in this entry. I will, however, inflict one last reflection upon you before closing this entry. Something struck me during the musical performance which I’m not sure I can adequately convey, but I will attempt. The “khatak” dancing was marked by an incredible interplay between the drummer and the dancer. The jingling of her anklet (forgive me for not knowing the proper name) directly paralleled the sequence of the drumming: her (the dancer’s) feet and his (the drummer’s) hands were locked in synchronous rhythmic dance of their own. She would approach the microphone, announce (sing?) a rhythmic sequence (I believe that the sounds she made correspond to specific dance moves), and then both of them would artfully execute the sequence simultaneously. I mused about the fact that fundamental difference between the two was that the drummer relied upon a musical instrument independent of his body, while the dancer manifested the music with her own gestures. Her instrument was he body, thus she, herself, was an instrument of the music. She ‘experiences’ in dance what he ‘produces’ by drumming. They are both performances, but in the case of the dancer, the form and content or much more fused together. The phenomena of ritual pertains, in my music, more to dance than to drumming. In drumming there is the drummer, the drum, and the drumming, but, to borrow from WB Yeats, ‘how can we know the dancer from the dance’? Is form and content here not fundamentally inseparable? Ritual, too, may be considered akin to dance where gestures (form) and significations (content) unite.

Research Proposal

Interested in Hindu ethics, I intend to base my research in Valmiki’s ancient Sanskrit epic, Ramayana. The essential plot has endured innumerable interpolations, variations, redactions, vernacular translations, and local retellings since its composition over two thousand years ago. The themes enshrined in Valmiki’s exquisite Sanskrit verse remain quintessential aspects of Hindu imagination and culture, influencing art, politics, narrative, and moral instruction on all levels of society. Throughout the Hindu world, Rama, the epic’s protagonist, is regarded as the exemplar of social and moral conduct, one whose story continues to inculcate social and moral paradigms throughout the “Hindu world”. His actions as son, husband, brother, friend, king, warrior, et cetera effectively outline current Hindu values. The work’s major characterizations indeed all persist as moral and social archetypes despite the drastic shifts in regime, social condition, and cultural ethos that have occurred since their conception centuries ago. Thus, Valmiki’s Ramayana is uniquely poised to speak to lasting ethical values within the Hindu religious tradition.

Intriguingly, the perseverance of Rama’s role as an ethical ideal sharply contrasts with the tradition’s displacement of the cultural ethos pervading Rama’s society. Throughout the work, the warrior-prince restores and defends social order, exhibiting unflinching optimism about the word’s ability to provide happiness for humankind. Valmiki’s emphasis on world-enjoyment is undeniable: the work culminates in the seventh book where Rama’s ascent to kingship inaugurates an utopian regime on earth. However, the poet’s idyllic humanistic vision ideologically opposes the world-denying philosophy that currently pervades Hinduism. The tradition has evolved drastically over the centuries, becoming far less optimistic about the material world’s ability to provide enduring happiness for humankind. The overall consensus appears to be that nothing of this universe ultimately endures, not even the universe itself. Most Hindu school of thought regard the terrestrial plane a domain of incessant suffering, one which humankind must ultimately reject and transcend in order to escape samsara – the painful cycle of birth, death, and rebirth perpetuated by karma, i.e. human action. Material (earthly) enjoyment is considered illusory: worldly attachment obstructs the pursuit of liberation from samsara. The tradition’s esteem for Rama as a moral exemplar persists in tandem with its overall subscription to an utterly world-denying philosophy. How can this be?

I propose a critical analysis of the Ramayana framed by this particular tension. I shall subject the original Sanskrit work to close reading and literary analysis, scrutinizing Rama’s ethical decisions in the hopes of clearly identifying the ideological values advanced by Valmiki. One some such decision is when Rama graciously accepts exile at the behest of his scheming step-mother, thereby forgoing all social ties and responsibilities, a decision occurring on the very day of his would-be ascent to kingship. I will consider the extent to which Rama’s actions align with one seeking liberation from the world as opposed to one pursuing an earthly utopia. The mutual exclusivity of these pursuits must also be addressed. This inquiry is rendered all the more pressing in light of recent developments in Indian politics (particularly surrounding the Ramjanmabhumi Conflict in1992) where Hindu leaders have succeeded in militarizing the Rama archetype, invoking it to incite and justify mass communal violence and destruction. This sharply contrast Rama’s primary role throughout the tradition as an embodiment of compassion and object of intense devotion. Valmiki’s ancient hero continues to dwells in the hearts of countless Hindus, inspiring both love and war, depending on the interpretations and interests informing their actions. This study aims to distil an academic position on these questions concerning "Rama's example".

Entry 1 - Hope this works!

I am just in from work, and realizing that this entry is officially due in the next hour or so! I guess I’ll start with the Van Voorst reading, “Eastern Scripture among the World’s Religions”. It was an intriguing read, particularly for someone like myself often made to interpret Eastern scriptures using foreign and incompatible conceptualizations. With respect to Van Voorst’s (Perhaps we can refer to him henceforth as VV, shall we?) claim that he is able to situate the scriptures in “the context of their original usage”, I find it as appealing as I do problematic. It is a claim that appears, at least to me, to be rendered false by virtue of the limitations that VV himself establishes in his essay. He aptly commences his work with a section entitled “A Brief History of Scripture Scholarship” outlining the various inappropriate approaches employed thus far in the study if Asian religion, beginning with the (1) mere translation of such texts in a contextually vacuous manner, in isolation of the actual regard, role and usage of the texts by practitioners of the respective faiths, and “progressing” towards (2) the reliance upon ritual, myth, symbolism, and non-textual elements in order to “understand” the faith. VV proposes a happy compromise, a “third wave” of which his work is a part, one neither deprived of, nor indulgent in, the examination of scripture. Presumably by avoiding both these extremes, VV is able to lead his readers toward an understanding of the scriptures’ “original” usages.

One of the wisest things, in my opinion, which VV advances is that “the relationship between scripture and religion is reciprocal and dynamic”. However, this would hold much more rational appeal if the term “scripture” wasn’t as evasive and fraught with incompatibilities to Asian religion. What, exactly, is “scripture” in this context? May Asian religion be accurately described as possessing, using, or revering “scripture”? Scriptures, argues VV, come in various forms, numbers, etc., but are united in one common criterion: existence in written form. He speaks to the significance and meaningfulness of oral scripture, but only when it is read and heard among believers. What if it is “scripture” is heard without ever being read, existing in memory alone, preserved by an ancient, immeasurable lineage? Would the utterances be any less revered of significant to the followers of the faith? Would they then not constitute “scripture”?

The claim that VV makes at the outset is particularly intriguing in light of the fact that he is painfully aware of the obstacles he faces. He is very frank about the fact that some religions do not have scriptures and that scriptural use is not uniform among faiths. Neither does he attempt to conceal the enormous pitfalls presented by the reliance upon translation. He further elaborates on the Protestant biases having infiltrated scholarship on Eastern Scripture, particularly that scripture must written, must be oriented toward individual reflection, and must be accessible to objective academic scrutiny. How, then, does he propose to offset these shortcoming in order to bring the reader to “the context of their original usage”? Indeed, as wise as it is to articulate the dynamic reciprocity between scripture and religion, the relation is of little use when “scripture” functions as an unknown variable.

Are we any closer to defining “religion” as we are “scripture”? Arguable, “religion”, too, evades definition. Therefore, saying that “the relationship between scripture and religion is reciprocal and dynamic” is as illuminating as relating “x” to “y”. Jonathan Z Smith, in his essay “Religion, Religions, Religious” does a good job of demonstrating the limitations inherent in the attempt to define “religion”. He outlines various European presumptions in employing the term “religious” throughout its history. Asian religions has undoubtedly born the brunt of such prejudices. I will not bore you here with Smith’s ample evidence, but introduce the article to reiterate Smith’s conclusion that religion can be defined in many ways, in so many ways, in fact, that one must assent to the fact that religion is ultimately beyond the grasp of academic definition. He asserts that it is not a native term, but rather one established by scholars as a “second-order” generic concept constituting an impassible “horizon” in the study of religion. What does he mean? I believe that the tension Smith posits relates to what VV refers to as the discrepancy between one who reads scripture as “outsiders” (engaged in a scholarly, noncommittal fashion) verses one who reads as an “insiders” (those who regards the texts as more than objects of study). Smith’s hazy horizon of undefined “religion” is maintained as long as the scholar remains distinct from the practitioner, outside and separate from the “clarity” of practice. However, for he/she to assume the role of practitioner, the formal “study” ceases, and along with it any need for definition. Of all the analogies which could mirror this distinction, perhaps my favourite is that of he who “understands” the water from the shore, and he who experiences it directly by swimming in it. Scholarship by its very mode of operation is barred from the “insider” perspective where the ebb and flow of the religion – along with its regard and use for scripture – becomes directly accessible, intuitive, or remotely familiar. Furthermore, even if the practitioner possesses a contemporary familiarity with the meaning, significance, and usage of the a scripture, he/she could not possess an appreciation of its function throughout history. I therefore regard with mild suspicion VV’s alleged ability to set Asian scripture in the “context of their actual usage”.

[ In have never written or read a blog before: does one sign off like in an e-mail, or in an essay?? ]

Anyways, thanks for reading!
Raj

PS – There’s one other thought I wanted to play with before closing. VV quotes Sam D. Gill (p 10) who proposes the distinction that scripture is either “informative” (i.e. relating to doctrine, history, ethics, etc.), or it is “performative” (used in rituals, benedictions, etc.). However, I am not convinced that these are separations in the scripture itself as much as they constitute distinct modalities of engagement with scripture. One can interface with the same except in the “information” mode, reading it and comprehending it, as well as in the mode of “performance”, singing it, chanting it, enacting it, etc. This dichotomy seems somehow to relate to, or represent, the insider and outsider perspective. It reflects, for me, the distinction between the landlocked observer, and the participatory swimmer. Not sure how to flesh this idea out…or perhaps its best left in its skeletal stage…I’m entirely open to feedback.

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Can anyone read this???