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???