Journal articles on the topic 'Suffering Christianity and other religions Rome'

It is a fact that Christianity is deeply rooted in the history of the Albanian nation, but, unfortunately, such a fact has opened the gate to endless discussions. This paper aims to highlight an important event in the history of Albania, which will influence the future history of this nation. During the nineteenth century, Protestants contributed significantly to the Albanian national issue through performing translations of several books of the Bible, at a time when books in Albanian language were very rare. Different foreign missionaries came to Albania to spread their religious views. They strongly influenced the opening of Albanian schools while Albanians, under Turkish rule, were forbidden to use their language, to learn to write, or read it. Gradually, the foreign missionaries were attended by Albanian intellectuals, who insist on the opening of the Albanian school and the education of Albanians in Albanian language. Interestingly, Protestantism was the only religious belief that supported Albanian writing and reading, while other religious beliefs exercised in Albania were the fiery opponents of every Albanian component. The Albanian language on one hand was opposed by the Greek Orthodox Church, on the other hand, by the Latin Catholic Church and above all, Ottoman rule opposed the teaching of the Albanian language in order to keep the Albanian people as subordinate as possible. It seems that Protestantism has emerged in all the countries where it has spread, supporting various national identities, but especially in Albania, it has played an important role in supporting the national identity of Albanians and the education of generations, especially of girls. The opening of the first Albanian girls' school in the city of Korça keeps the seal of the Protestant church and it has had a great impact in the future for the emancipation of Albanian society, of women and girls who are oppressed and printed in many directions. Sevasti Qiriazi, as a representative of the Protestant church in Korça, and the first teacher in Albania, will protect the school and try to support the spread of the Albanian language at all costs. Through the spread of faith in Albanian, the first Protestants in Albania conveyed not only knowledge, but also great human, moral, and educational values to people who were suffering, but eager for knowledge and development. The Protestant Albanian movement was actually an 'Albanian spiritual movement' with religious, educational, national and cultural values and purposes. For several decades, during the communist regime in Albania, a good part of the influence of protestants in the country was denied and all efforts were made to overshadow the influence of Protestantism towards education and emancipation of Albanians in this period. Today, after many years of shadow, Protestantism is again one of the religions that are practiced in Albania and numerous efforts are being made to discover many of the unknown elements of the positive influence that this belief had in educating Albanians over the years.

Suffering is the reality of religious people, so suffering is an important theme of almost all religions. The negative and depressed color of suffering invites religions to discuss it. Christianity does not see it as fatalistic, but regards suffering as the constitutive reality of all humans. All human beings must suffer, but faith makes humans have a different perspective in reacting to it. This paper wishes to examine the theme of suffering with hermeneutic studies. The research model used in this paper is a qualitative model with as much as possible using hermeneutics by comparing several texts and understanding about suffering, both in Christianity and in other religions. The expected goal of deepening this theme is to find a more comprehensive understanding of suffering as a Christian believer, and finally be able to unite spiritual suffering in the light of Christ who also suffered, so that eventually he also rose with Christ. Life is not to suffer and die silly. Life is also not filled with the solitude of the cross merely, because God created man clearly not to make him suffer.

In a study of the religious significance of food to medieval woman, Caroline Walker Bynum argues that the ascetic practices embraced by these women are signs of a commitment to explore the religious potentialities of the body rather than being indications of a hostile attitude to the flesh. She comments that belief in the ‘salvific potential of suffering flesh (both our's and God's)’ differentiates Christianity from other world religions, since it is a ‘characteristically Christian idea that the bodily suffering of one person can be substituted for the suffering of another through prayer, purgatory, vicarious communion etc….’ In the discussion which follows I shall attempt to draw out this differentiating characteristic in a comparative study of Christian and Buddhist concepts of, and attitudes to, suffering. I shall suggest that the divergent orientations which structure the religious treatment of this issue are related not only to radically opposing conceptions of the religious ‘path’, but also to different understandings of ‘self’. Although the categories ‘self’ and ‘suffering’ are intimately related in each context, it is my contention that in the Christian context the religious meaning of life becomes apparent to the individual in so far as the content of self is defined progressively in the reflexive encounter with the ‘Other’ (God), an encounter which can be facilitated through suffering. In a Buddhist context, on the other hand, it is precisely such a reflexivity (between self and ‘others’ if not the ‘Other’) which is understood to create and reproduce both self and suffering, and from which the Buddhist desires liberation.

The process of adapting universal religions to local cultures, conditions, and milieux is as old as the religions themselves. As far as Christinity is concerned, it was also subject to the continuous blending of general doctrinal principles with the national form of their expression, especially with age-old traditions in folklore. Consequently, Frankish or Germanic Christianity differed considerably from the Slavic version, while the latter again differed from that prevailing in the Eastern Roman Empire. Although in missionary areas the Church sometimes approved of investing the cult with specific features, taking into account the nationality and mentality of its congregations, in Europe itself conflicts between local church authorities on the one hand and Rome on the other often broke out over these matters. They found expression and were finally ossified in successive divisions of Christianity; beginning with the Great Schism of 1054, through the attempt to organize a national church in Bohemia (the Hussite Movement), to the permanent split brought about by the Reformation.

ENGELSK SUMMARY: The sculptures on the altarpiece of Aarhus Cathedral are a good example of 'analogism', an understanding of reality (an 'ontology') that presents an ideal reality as a harmonious order. The altarpiece sought to mediate between two in principle different types of religions: archaic religion, typical of the great cultures of ancient times, claiming a divinely guaranteed good and beautiful hierarchical world, and the axial rejection of the known reality as evil, false and full of suffering. This attempt of mediation is what defines Christianity and other great religions after the axial rebellion: The world is fundamentally bad and in need of redemption and salvation – and yet basically good and beautiful, with room for small, local miracles. These religions can therefore be regarded as 'post-axial compromise religions'. DANSK RESUME: Skulpturerne på altertavlen i Aarhus domkirke er et godt eksempel på ‘analogisme’, en virkelighedsforståelse (en ‘ontologi’) der fremstiller en ideel virkelighed som en harmonisk orden. Altertavlen søgte at mediere imellem to i princippet forskellige religionstyper: den arkaiske, typisk for den nærorientalske oldtids store kulturer, der hævdede en guddommeligt garanteret god og smuk hierarkisk verden, og den aksiale, der forkastede den kendte virkelighed som mangel- og lidelsesfuld. Dette medieringsforsøg er hvad der definerer de store religioner efter de aksiale oprør. Verden er grundlæggende ond og længes efter forløsning og frelse ‒ men samtidig smuk og god, med plads til små, lokale mirakler. Disse religioner kan derfor betragtes som ‘postaksiale kompromisreligioner’.

Abstract The Jesuit mission among the “ancient Christians” on the Malabar coast in today’s Kerala was one of the watershed moments—as I argued a decade ago—in their global expansion in Asia in the sixteenth century, and a prelude to the method of accommodation as it had been theorized and practiced in Asia. In this article I want to emphasize the invocation of comparisons with and the use of Mediterranean antiquity in crafting the identities, memory, and history of Indian Christianity. Jesuit ethnographic descriptions concerning the liturgy, rites, and customs of māppila nasrānikkal, also known as St. Thomas Christians, triggered a series of debates involving various missionaries, Catholic Church authorities in Goa and Rome, as well as Syrian bishops and St. Thomas Christian priestly families. Caught up in the contrary efforts at unifying and homogenizing Christianity under two distinct helms of the Portuguese king and the Roman pope, the missionaries generated different intellectual tools and distinctions, all of which contributed to further jurisdictional struggles. The St. Thomas Christian community became a model of “antique” Christianity for some and a heretical or even idolatrous sect for others. It became a mirror for the divided Christianity in Europe and beyond. In India, it was precisely the vocabulary and the historicizing reasoning that was invested in analyzing and defining these Indian homegrown Christians that would be subsequently applied by comparison, analogy, or contrast to formalize and reify other Indian “religions.” The dating and the autonomous or derivative status of Indian (“pagan”) antiquities emerged, a century later, as a major orientalist problem.

On March 21, 2014, Seyed Amir Akrami, a visiting Iranian scholar at the EasternMennonite University in Harrisonburg, VA, visited the headquarters ofthe International Institute of Islamic Thought. He holds a PhD in the philosophyof religion (McGill University), as well as a BA and an MA in Islamictheology and mysticism (University of Tehran).In his opening remarks he stated that with the end of the Cold War, thecloser relations between politics and religion necessitates interfaith relations.Realizing this, the West (especially the United States) has undertaken an unprecedentedstep: establishing centers for religion and diplomacy. Akrami considersthis a very positive development. Another reason for this new approachwas Samuel Huntington’s (d. 2008) “clash of civilizations” theory, which upsetmany Muslims. What is often forgotten, however, is that Huntington alsocalled for dialogue. President Mohammad Khatami of Iran responded to thisby launching his 2001 “dialogue of civilizations” initiative. Akrami maintainsthat political and economic polarization is being replaced by cultures, of whichreligion is a very important part. Given that Islam and Christianity are theworld’s two largest religions, it is more practical to focus on them than tryingto start a dialogue with all religions at this time.The second part of his presentation consisted of several historical observationsrelated to Christian views of Islam, Muslim views of other religions(especially Christianity), and how best to approach/view these two religions’relationship. John of Damascus (d. 750), an early Christian scholar of Islamnoted for his largely polemical works, viewed Islam as a Christian heresy.Centuries later, the Crusades poisoned Muslim-Christian relations. But, importantly,part of the reason for this military onslaught was the great schismof 1054 that split Christendom between the Catholic Church (Rome) and theOrthodox Church (Constantinople).Normal Daniel’s Islam and the West: The Making of an Image (Oxford:Oneworld, 1993) is a very good source for these negative views. Among themare the following: (1) Muhammad was a cardinal who wanted to become thepope. When he failed in this attempt, he became a heretic; (2) Muhammadtrained a dove or a bird to sit on his shoulder in order to deceive/delude hisfollowers into thinking that he was being inspired; and (3) Dante, in his DivineComedy, called Muhammad an imposter and liar and therefore placed him inthe eighth circle of hell ...

Abstract: the article presents the different conceptions of Messiah in Judaism and in Christianity. Although present in other cultures and religions, the concept of messianism is defined in the Jewish religion, influenced mainly by contexts of crisis. Even if it is a fundamental concept, it is not always convergent. In the Hebrew Bible several messianisms were developed, with proposals of Messiah king, priest and prophet. The figure of David was fundamental in defining various types of messianism, but it was in the post-exile period or in the second temple that messianic ideas developed. At the beginning of the Christian era, the effervescence of messianic proposals sharpened popular expectations. Candidates for messiahs referred to the models of tradition, especially Moses as liberator, Aaron as priest, David as king and Judas Maccabee as military and politician. Christianity resumes texts and ideas about the Messiah, but changes the interpretation, concentrating it on the person of Jesus of Nazareth, called the Christ, the Anointed or the Messiah. Although Jesus embodies various traits of Jewish messianism, he privileges the image of the poor, servant, suffering, peacemaker, merciful and supportive Messiah in the struggle for justice. Despite the different understandings, Messianism must be a cause of common effort between Jews and Christians for peace and justice in the world. O Messias no Judaísmo e no Cristianismo Resumo: o artigo apresenta diferentes concepções de Messias no Judaísmo e no Cristianismo. Embora presente em outras culturas e religiões, o conceito de messianismo se define na religião judaica, influenciado sobretudo pelos contextos de crise. Mesmo se tratando de um conceito fundamental, ele nem sempre é convergente. Na Bíblia Hebraica, se desenvolveram vários messianismos, com propostas de Messias rei, sacerdote e profeta. A figura de Davi foi fundamental para definir diversos tipos de messianismo, mas foi no período do pós-exílio ou do segundo templo que as ideias messiânicas se desenvolveram. No início da era cristã, a efervescência de propostas messiânicas aguçava as expectativas populares. Candidatos a messias traziam como referência os modelos da tradição, principalmente Moisés como libertador, Aarão como sacerdote, Davi como rei e Judas Macabeu como político e militar. O Cristianismo retoma textos e ideias sobre o Messias, mas muda a interpretação, concentrando-a na pessoa de Jesus de Nazaré, chamado o Cristo, o Ungido ou o Messias. Embora Jesus encarne traços diversos do messianismo judaico, ele privilegia a imagem do Messias pobre, servo, sofredor, pacificador, misericordioso e solidário na luta pela justiça. Apesar das diferentes compreensões, o messianismo deve ser motivo de esforço comum entre judeus e cristãos, em vista da paz e da justiça no mundo.

Jean-Mohammed Abd-el-Jalil united in himself on a very deep level two religions, Islam and Christianity, that in many ways are opposed to each other, especially on the doctrinal level. His conversion/life journey shows how he achieved this, at great cost to himself. Born in Morocco, in a family deeply committed to Islam, he himself eventually adopted a rather rigid, strict form called ‘Wahhabism’. A gifted student, he was given a government bursary to study in France with a view to taking up a responsible position in soon to be independent Morocco, but his life changed radically after a sudden conversion to Catholicism at Midnight Mass. Before he was ready for baptism he worked through some difficult doctrinal issues with a fellow convert, Paul Ali Mehmet Mulla-Zadé, who taught Islam in Rome. After his baptism Abd-el-Jalil entered the Franciscan Order in Paris where he remained for the rest of is life, apart from a brief crisis when he fled to Morocco, seemingly to return to Islam. He enjoyed a long academic career and wrote books to help Christians understand Islam. His final fifteen years were spent as a virtual hermit because of illness.

This article refers to St. Justin, who was one of the Church Fathers, one of the first Christian philosophers and Greek apologists and also a martyr for the Christian faith when this was spreading throughout the Roman Empire. In the preface, it is shown that a hostile attitude existed at the time of both the Roman Empire and the Jews towards Christianity at its very beginning. Christians were being stultified and sentenced to death. Each part of the article shows Justin in a different cultural role. First, we can see the beginnings of his life. Justin lived in the second century after Christ. He was born in Samaria, which was firmly hellenised and that is why he was well prepared to live in a multinational empire in those times. As a Christian philosopher Justin was entering into relations with the Jews and pagans, always seeking the truth. The next part is about Justin – as a philosopher. He was also the most popular and the most outstanding Christian philosopher of the second century after Christ. He kept a positive attitude towards philosophy. He valued Stoics, Platonics, Socrates and Plato in some areas, so that he could notice elements of truth in the teachings of Greek philosophers. But Justin was against religious syncretism. We owe to Justin the demonstration of Christian true faith through pagan philo­sophical concepts. He was looking for dialogue between Christianity and pagan philosophy and used its terms to show others the only true wisdom which he had got to know by himself. Since the mid-second century the pastoral purpose of patristic literature was changing to become a means of defence of Christianity against attacks from out­side and inside – meaning heretics. He also started the new type of discussion with heretics. Then Justin as a theologian – he refers many times to the Old Testament and Prophets announcing the coming of Jesus – Logos, whose grain of truth Justin noticed in every ancient teaching. Justin also refers to the parallel between Socrates and Christ, something we can find everywhere in the Apology of Justin. He also left us the oldest descriptions of the sacrament of Baptism and the Eucharist. He is the person who created the dialogue between faith and intellect. Another part speaks about apologies which first of all were to demand equa­lity with other religions and philosophies. Then as an apologist – he defended Christianity from unfounded accusations by Roman emperors and cultural elites. He defended the Christian faith through the use of rational arguments. He wanted to show universal truth via rational discourse. Finally Justin as the righteous man , which we can say he was called because of his name (Lat. iustinus – righteous) and which was the way he acted in his life. He was searching for the truth in his life, the true knowledge. He founded a philosophical school in Rome in which he taught one true wisdom and as a true philosopher he did this free of charge. He was accused of being a Christian and brought before the judge, because he did not accept the pagan gods, and did not obey the Emperor. The best apology for Christians was their readiness for martyrdom. As a Christian philosopher he ended his life and sealed it by shedding his blood shed for Christ. He is regarded as one of the early Church Fathers. This early witness of Tradition became one of the first who tried to bring Christian thinking closer to Greek philosophy; Justin became a something of a keystone which linked antiquity with the novelty of Christianity. In conclusion, Justin brought Christianity closer to philosophy by explaining it using philoso­phical language.

Marxism was not merely a teaching of historical or economic materialism; it was also a teaching about the rescue, a “Messianic mission”, of the proletariat, about a perfect society due in the future, a teaching of the man’s power and defeat of the irrational forces of nature and society. The features of the selected “People of God” have been transferred onto the proletariat. A logically contradictory blend of materialist, scientific-deterministic and non-moralist elements with the idealistic, moralistic and religious mythmaking elements has existed in the Marxist system. Marx created the proletariat myth and his mission was object of faith. Marxism was not merely a science and politics, but also a religion. His power was based on this.Communist atheism represented a type of “apophatic theology”, the next step of development that should lead to deletion of the theological component. The most significant features of this process were violence and totalitarianism. The energy of negation of the previous religious concept was transferred into affirmation of the new, terrestrial hierarchy. That is how the god-type leaders appeared quite rapidly as the state forms of the service and worshipping of God, which represented more than good conditions for the formation of personality cults. Just like all religions, communism is irrational, dogmatic and based on faith, rather than on science. Just like Christianity and Islam, communism had its own scriptures, the works of Marx, Lenin and Stalin. Just like most other religions, required irrational faith; the people living in communist countries had to cherish absolute faith in the order and its leaders, whereas the others were treated as classic heretics.Like in the Soviet Union, the totalitarian political power in Yugoslavia was imposed through sacralization of the Communist party and its leader. The most important elements in this process were the level of party Manichaeism, viewing of the party as the center of “holiness” surrounded by the sinister “mass of enemies”. A new faith was developed over time, which replaced the original tendency to have things improved. Communists were unforgiving in treating their political opponents as deadly enemies. Any connivance was experienced by the representatives of “new religion” as “intolerable weakness”.In the overly religious world at the turn of 20th century one of the instantly obvious characteristics of communism as ideology was the apparently clear lack of religiousness. When it turned out that “the plagues of communism had brought nothing more than death and poverty, totalitarian regimes and tyrants”, offending of atheists, especially after the world wars, by labeling them communists was widespread very much. And indeed, communism did not appear to have any gods, churches or holy books. Nevertheless a logical question came up why an apparently godless ideology has caused a catastrophe of such scale. The answer is more than simple: that ideology was far from atheistic, communism contains all the most specific features of religion, so it is no wonder it has brought so much pain, suffering and death.

The article is devoted to the religious relations in the territory of Georgia in the initial stages of the formation of the Mongol Empire and the State of the Hulaguids. Georgia emerged as a powerful state in the Caucasus region at the beginning of the 13th century. However, the expansion of neighboring Khorezm and Islamization around was a major threat in these times. In an effort to protect realm, King of Georgia Georgy XIV Lasha and Queen Rusudan went into alliance with the Catholic Church. However, the Catholics did not aim to save Georgia from Khorezm, so the alliance did not actually existing. The Mongol invasion of Georgia in 1220 was difficult. However, the Mongols have shown tolerance since the beginning of the conquest. The paper analyzes the eyewitness testimonies on efforts to bring peace between Christians and Mongol khans. Such a tolerant religious policy is conditioned by the Mongols' own belief - shamanism, which implies belief in the power of Heaven and fear of punishment for the image of any of the gods. However, there is a rather pragmatic reason for such a toleration: peaceful relations with other religious communities of the empire helped to suppress the resistance of the conquered peoples. For example, the clergymen of all religions were exempt from taxes, and the Mongolian army, as a rule, did not destroy religious buildings during the conquest. Moreover, the khans asked priests of different denominations to pray for them. According to the testimonies of Catholic missionaries in Karakorum, there were a Christians among the Mongol Aristocracy, rather a Nestorian orientation. Therefore, since the beginning of the Mongol conquest of Georgia, Nestorianism has also spread in its territory. During the establishment of the Khulaguid authorities in the Caucasus, Nestorians, who also belonged to the ruling sections of society, took care and custody of Georgian monasteries, assisted clergy and pilgrims. In particular, it was during the rule of the Hulagu that monasteries and churches were established and built in the state, schools and scientific centers were operating, and pathways for pilgrims were laid. In the process of conquering new territories, the Mongols paid great attention to the religious situation in a particular region. In particular, they were able to profitably use military conflicts that were formed on religious grounds. Therefore, in comparison to the possible Islamization of Georgia, the Mongol invasion helped to preserve the Christian religion. The transition of Georgians to Catholic power was also not carried out, which saved the state from possible manipulation by Rome. Although the Mongols were pagans from the beginning of the empire's creation, they were tolerant of Christians both throughout the country and in Georgia in particular. In turn, the Christian Church supported the Mongolian authorities. Georgian clergymen and local mthavars continued to build monasteries and pilgrimage routes; Georgia has been able to preserve Orthodox Christianity as a state religion.

Matthew Pierce’s first book, Twelve Infallible Men: The Imams and the Making of Shi‘ism, is a unique scholarly work about Ithnā Ash‘arī Shī‘ism and the development of communal identity. His main argument in this book is that the Shi‘a religious identity was shaped over time based on collective social memory and specific biographical depictions of spiritual leadership centered on the sacredness of the Prophet Muhammad and his family, the ahl al-bayt. While much scholarship on Shi‘ism is centered on the topics of succession, theological doctrines, or the specific rituals of ‘Ashura, Pierce focuses instead on how love and devotion towards the imams and the ahl al-bayt developed. His scholarly inquiry was piqued by his experience in the shrine city of Qum, Iran, where he was a resident and scholar of an inter-faith dialogue program from 2003-2006. There he observed firsthand the personal devotional lives of Twelver Shi‘as who cultivate personal connections and relationship with the imams through devotional ritual, seeking intercession, pilgrimages to shrines, mourning their suffering, and seeking their guidance. In Twelve Infallible Men this system of piety and devotion is traced to five early biographical figures. His primary source material was biographical works, in particular the five collective biographies of the imams written between 943-1150 CE: The Establishment of the Inheritance (Ithbāt al-waṣiya), attributed to al-Masʿūdī; Proofs of the Imamate (Dalāʾil al-imāma), attributed to Ibn Jarīr; The Book of Guidance (Kitāb al-irshād), by al-Mufīd; Informing Humanity (Iʿlām alwara), by al-Ṭabrīsī; and Virtues of the Descendants of Abū Ṭālib (Manāqib Āl Abī Ṭālib), by Ibn Shahrashub. Through his thematic and comparative analysis of these five sources Pierce traces the origin of communal remembrance and the Shi‘i system of piety utilizing the methodology of collective 57 memory studies. Throughout his text he notes broader religious rhetorical trends related to the geographic area and time period, such as the martyrdom narrative in early Christianity and the influence of miraculous stories to confirm saintly status, amongst others. In this way, Pierce situates the Shi‘i narrative within a wider milieu that speaks to sociological developments and broader religious experiences. The selected texts were all produced during the ‘Abbasid reign that was established by utilizing the legitimacy of ahl al-bayt as the source of proper Islamic leadership in their overthrow of the Umayyad regime. The ‘Abbasid era saw the development and emergence of Shi‘i scholarship and identity. Pierce could perhaps have given more historical context and analysis of anti-‘Alid sentiment (such as the institutionalized cursing of ‘Ali) during the Umayyad regime, as part of the development of sympathy and sorrow for the family of the Prophet. But one aspect of the Shi‘i narrative that Pierce analyzes in great depth throughout his work is the shared memory of suffering, primarily as demonstrated by the martyrdom of and the centrality of sorrow for the ahl al-bayt. In his analysis of narrative patterns and recurring symbols he is interested in revealing the needs of the believing community and what made these particular stories meaningful to them. The book is organized into five chapters. Crucial to this work is Pierce’s clarification of Sunni-Shi‘a disputes and the fluidity of how these identities developed and eventually solidified over time. He notes how this time period saw a variety of theological and jurisprudential debates, and the central aspects of what formalized into a Shi‘a identity, ritual, and concepts. The writings Pierce examines emerged during a period where Arabic literature was first taking shape and therefore demonstrate a process within the Islamic community at large of articulating specific narratives. The first chapter describes the canonization of the Twelve Infallibles. Pierce purposefully does not engage the polemics of the time, although these may have provided means to understand another facet of how the selected authors chose to craft their narrative. But he analyzes how the biographies of the imams became standardized over time—for example, how martyrdom was attributed to all of the imams after Mufīd’s writings and how Mufīd in particular set the standard for these narratives contributing to a coherent Shi‘a community with clear boundaries. In the second chapter Pierce explores the collective biographies’ central concern, namely the deaths of the Imams. Their tragic martyrdom becomes a theme in this genre of writing where suffering and grief comprise the proper Shi‘a response. Notably, Pierce also sheds light on the role of martyrdom in minority spiritual groups in the Near East. In this chapter Pierce also begins his gendered analysis, which is a highlight throughout the work, bringing in the tropes of the treacherous wife and the vulnerable bodies of the imams. These characterizations make the earlier narratives circulated, especially in Mufid’s writing, now unthinkable. Furthermore, emotional performances of grief and weeping emerge as demonstrations of piety, as well as being associated with political rebellion. Pierce explores how this emotional performance was in distinct contrast to the proto-Sunni traditionalists’ emphasis on controlling grief. The third chapter revolves around the themes of suffering and betrayal that permeate the biographies. Pierce investigates the arc of sacred history for Shi‘is as evidenced by their afflictions and the denial of their rights, which feature as central literary motifs in these primary sources, along with the symbols of suffering and outsiders. He discusses how the imams emerge as a distinctive type, as too do their betrayers. This chapter also features important events in Shi‘i history: the events of Ghadir and the martyrdom of Husayn in Karbala, a pivotal story in the Shi‘a community, but one that did not take central stage until later in these collective biographies. Love and devotion to the ahl al-bayt become salvific mechanisms that draw upon performances of mourning. Pierce also explores how religious ritual developed along with the narratives in the biographies. He continues his exploration of gender tropes where the female body is the site of mistrust and fear, specifically in the example of ‘A’isha. A central point of his book, elaborated in this chapter, is how the boundaries of the community were conceptually paired with the imams’ bodies. The fourth chapter is a systematic exploration of masculinity as revealed through the imams’ vulnerable bodies and the idealization of male performance. Pierce describes how masculine ideals as envisioned by the biographers comprise the concepts of virtue, manliness, and group loyalty. He explores how the narratives describe the physical appearance, miraculous achievements, and heroics of the imams. The importance of maleheirs, courage, strength, and skill in weaponry are all gendered themes of the imams as characterized in the biographies. Pierce analyzes how these qualities render claims of their legitimacy as leaders, observing how their portrayals also exemplify refinement and self-control. With the exposition of miraculous knowledge and actions, Pierce describes how the imams find victory in the spiritual realms while having experienced loss in the physical world. This chapter also features an important discussion of Fatima in the collective biographies and a fascinating and unique description of her pious female embodied performance sanitized of all female bodily imperfections (most specifically, blood). This last part of chapter four leads into the final chapter, which explores birth narratives in the collective biographies. These narratives form a unique center around which Shi‘is could celebrate and demonstrate communal devotion; it also established a divine ordainment through the transmission of prophetic light to the imams. Pierce explains that a unique aspect of Shi‘i hagiography is how the biographers labor to establish the imams’ mothers’ purity and chastity. His analysis of the sanitized bodies and bodily functions of these mothers is of particular interest. Part of the unique function of the imam is the transmission of his leadership to his successor and is revealed in the way in which the imams occlude the mothers in nurturing and caring for their newborn. These birth narratives underscore the Shi‘i claims of divinely appointed and rightful spiritual leaders, giving evidence to the community of believers that the imams were clearly designated from birth. Pierce effectively explores the Shi‘i community of memory and how these biographers established communal boundaries. His exploration of these primary sources with attention to literary analysis and genre specific themes and symbols is distinctive, and brings a different perspective into Islamic studies. Pierce’s analysis of gender ideals is also elucidating and could be explored more deeply in future work. It is also worth noting that within the body of the text, he predominantly references women scholars in his and related fields. Pierce successfully establishes the case for the crafting and defining of socio-religious Shi‘i identity via biographical texts whose key themes include loyalty, mourning, and justice for rightful heirs who were pure, ideal, and miraculous men. Nicole Correri, M.Ed., M.A.Hartford Seminary

Fra tugtemester til skolemester: Om forskelle mellem Luther og Grundtvig[From Castigator to Schoolmaster: On Differences between Luther and Grundtvig]By Ove KorsgaardIs Grundtvig’s thinking to be perceived as a genuine appropriation and continuation of Luther’s? Or is it rather to be perceived as a renegotiation of Luther’s thought? Regin Prenter, Christian Thodberg and Svend Bjerg maintain three different positions on the question of the relationship between Luther’s and Grundtvig’s theological thinking. With Prenter, a tight connection is tied. With Thodberg it is “both...and”. With Bjerg there is a marked distance between Luther’s and Grundtvig’s theology. In this article a more conceptual-historical viewpoint is adopted which demonstrates that they used the concepts “nation” and “folk” with differing significations.Luther does not use the word “nation” in its modem signification. According to Liah Greenfield: “he did not take the step that connected the separation from Rome to the definition of the polity as a people.The ‘German nation’, for Luther, had none but the conciliar meaning of the princes and nobility of the Empire, and in this sense he used it in An den christlichen Adel deutscher Nation.” Grundtvig on the other hand used the word “nation” in its modem signification, that is to say, he made an inseparable connection between the concepts “nation” and “folk”. And he is surely the person who, in Denmark, has exercised the greatest influence in linking these two concepts.Before “nation” and “folk” became synonymous concepts, the word “folk” signified kinship and household. The societal whole was comprised, so to speak, of a certain number of households. Each household had as its supreme authority a householder who exercised English Summaries / danske resuméer power over his “folk”. The master tailor exercised power over the journeymen and apprentices who, together with children and other family members, belonged in the household. The combined households of a land were subordinate to a father of the land and belonged in his house, for example the Oldenburg House, the Habsburg House and so on. The supreme lord was the Lord God and all the houses within a society belonged in the final instance to his house. Individual freedom was no part of Luther’s political programme.His guardianship-society {formyndersamfund) was built not upon individual, responsible members of society but upon a fellowship between superiors and subordinates. The household constituted that social space within which a connection was forged between the individual and the Christian state. That Luther espoused political guardianship {formynderskab) as the best principle of governance is not remarkable. Everyone, more or less, did so at that time. The epochmaking and revolutionary thing about Luther was that he dispensed with the pope as religious guardian.But the sharp distinction which Luther drew between spiritual and secular governance is not, as is often alleged today, a distinction between State and Church but only between the State and “the Church Invisible”. In a continuation of Augustine, Luther in fact distinguished between two Churches, the invisible and the visible. The Church has both an outward, institutional and predominantly worldly side and an inward, invisible and predominantly spiritual side. As an incorporate member of the State one is obligated to be a member of the visible Church, that is to say the Church as an institution. Membership of the visible Church, however, grants no certainty of salvation. The visible Church cannot dispose over the relationship between the individual and God. Therefore membership of the visible Church is not enough to secure salvation. Faith is necessary. And faith is a personal and existential matter. With the doctrine of public polity, there is thus created a spiritual free-space. The formation of the individual’s morality and character, on the other hand, was placed under the aegis of secular government.Grundtvig grew up in a society whose world view was characterized by Luther’s thinking on calling and station. Lutherdom encompassed not only the obvious foundation in faith with respect to the Church but also the foundation in morality with respect to the State. However, Grundtvig himself was engaged in reassessing this foundation. After 1825 he began to distinguish himself with quite Luther-critical viewpoints, which is connected with the fact that he himself became one of the leading contemporary spokesmen for the new viewpoint that it was not the dispensations of Lutheranism but the dispensations of the folk which should comprise the moral foundation of State and school.The shift from Lutherdom to ‘folkdom’ meant that after 1825 Grundtvig again and again pointed to errors in Luther and his disciples. Thus he tackled three central dogmas in Lutherdom. The first was fundamentalism in respect of Scripture. The second was fundamentalism in respect of sin. The third was Lutherdom’s fundamentalism in respect of the State. For Grundtvig, the alliance which Constantine the Great established in 325 between State and Church was nothing less than a great lapse into sin in the history of the Church. And this lapse Luther had not tackled. The process of transformation from Christian principality to democratic nation-state demanded a clarification of the relationship between religion, State and polity. What form of connection should there be established between individual, State and religion in a democracy? Should Christianity, which was deeply integrated in the state-structure of the absolute monarchy, continue to comprise the foundation for the State’s educational polity? Grundtvig drew a clear boundary between citizenship and religion and, according to the ecclesiastical-political premises of his day, advocated religious freedom, freedom to preach, and dissolution of parochial ties. In simplified terms one can say that Luther’s horizon was a world divided into religions, and these were subdivided into nations, while Grundtvig’s horizon was a world divided into nations, and these could be subdivided into various religious societies.A conceptual-historical viewpoint reveals that Luther and Grundtvig not only used the concepts “nation” and “folk” with differing significations: theologically, they also thought differently upon crucial points. These differences can be put into perspective by looking at Luther’s categories “law and gospel”, “householder and household” and “parents and children” set off against Grundtvig’s use of “the knot” as metaphor.According to Grundtvig, Luther did not go far enough in his understanding of the relationship between law and gospel. He did not manage to untie the “tight knot” [Haardeknuden]. Instead of, like Luther, regarding the law as castigator, Grundtvig spoke of “Moses as ‘schoolmaster’ for the whole world, who guides those desiring it to Jesus”. This shift in the view of the law - from castigator to schoolmaster - is a key to understanding Grundtvig’s thought.Grundtvig regarded the law as an “enlightenment of which one freely makes use according as one can and will”. Understood in Grundtvig’s English Summaries / danske resuméer terms, the law thus becomes a medium for folk-enlightenment. In other words, it is possible to untie the knot between the law and the gospel.The opening of the Gospel of John - In the beginning was the Logos - forms the basis of the whole of Grundtvig’s programme of enlightenment and exposition. Grundtvig distinguishes, however, between logos and dia-logos. Humankind does not have direct access to the logos of the great word, but must make do with the little word, the verity of which must be proved through dia-logos, that is, dialogue.For Grundtvig, “enlightenment” [Oplysning] is not an absolute, but a relative concept. The world cannot be overseen from a panoptic viewpoint, but necessarily has to be viewed with various eyes. The truth always emerges from out of the interplay between truths. Using a modem concept, one may say that for Gmndtvig enlightenment is a discursive concept, a concept open to argument. No one can boast of being in possession of the absolute tmth. We understand fragmentarily and in part. And such a process of understanding demands, according to Grundtvig, faith.[Editorial note: Danish tugtemester, as used in this context to refer to the Law, is not readily translatable into English. A tugtemester is one who enforces discipline by chastisement and castigation, whether a gaoler, a slavemaster, a disciplinarian pedagogue addicted to flogging or a rigorous moral tutor.]

Photograph by Gonzalo Echeverria (2010)“I must plunge again and again in the water of doubt” (Wittgenstein 1e). The Holy Grail in the phenomenology of religion (and, to a lesser extent, the sociology of religion) is a definition of religion that actually works, but, so far, this seems to have been elusive. Classical definitions of religion—substantive (e.g. Tylor) and functionalist (e.g. Durkheim)—fail, in part because they attempt to be in three places at once, as it were: they attempt to distinguish religion from non-religion; they attempt to capture what religions have in common; and they attempt to grasp the “heart”, or “core”, of religion. Consequently, family resemblance definitions of religion replace certainty and precision for its own sake with a more pragmatic and heuristic approach, embracing doubt and putting forward definitions that give us a better understanding (Verstehen) of religion. In this paper, I summarise some “new” definitions of religion that take this approach, before proposing and defending another one, defining religion as non-propositional and “apophatic”, thus accepting that doubt is central to religion itself, as well as to the analysis of religion.The question of how to define religion has had real significance in a number of court cases round the world, and therefore it does have an impact on people’s lives. In Germany, for example, the courts ruled that Scientology was not a religion, but a business, much to the displeasure of the Church of Scientology (Aldridge 15). In the United States, some advocates of Transcendental Meditation (TM) argued that TM was not a religion and could therefore be taught in public schools without violating the establishment clause in the constitution—the separation of church and state. The courts in New Jersey, and federal courts, ruled against them. They ruled that TM was a religion (Barker 146). There are other cases that I could cite, but the point of this is simply to establish that the question has a practical importance, so we should move on.In the classical sociology of religion, there are a number of definitions of religion that are quite well known. Edward Tylor (424) defined religion as a belief in spiritual beings. This definition does not meet with widespread acceptance, the notable exception being Melford Spiro, who proposed in 1966 that religion was “an institution consisting of culturally patterned interaction with culturally postulated super-human beings” (Spiro 96, see also 91ff), and who has bravely stuck to that definition ever since. The major problem is that this definition excludes Buddhism, which most people do regard as a religion, although some people try to get round the problem by claiming that Buddhism is not really a religion, but more of a philosophy. But this is cheating, really, because a definition of religion must be descriptive as well as prescriptive; that is, it must apply to entities that are commonly recognised as religions. Durkheim, in The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, proposed that religion had two key characteristics, a separation of the sacred from the profane, and a gathering together of people in some sort of institution or community, such as a church (Durkheim 38, 44). However, religions often reject a separation of the sacred from the profane. Most Muslims and many Calvinist Christians, for example, would insist strongly that everything—including the ostensibly profane—is equally subject to the sovereignty of God. Also, some religions are more oriented to a guru-pupil kind of relationship, rather than a church community.Weber tried to argue that religion should only be defined at the end of a long process of historical and empirical study. He is often criticised for this, although there probably is some wisdom in his argument. However, there seems to be an implicit definition of religion as theodicy, accounting for the existence of evil and the existence of suffering. But is this really the central concern of all religions?Clarke and Byrne, in their book Religion Defined and Explained, construct a typology of definitions, which I think is quite helpful. Broadly speaking, there are two types of classical definition. Firstly, there are substantive definitions (6), such as Tylor’s and Spiro’s, which posit some sort of common “property” that religions “have”—“inside” them, as it were. Secondly, functionalist definitions (Clarke and Byrne 7), such as Durkheim’s, define religion primarily in terms of its social function. What matters, as far as a definition of religion is concerned, is not what you believe, but why you believe it.However, these classical definitions do not really work. I think this is because they try to do too many things. For a strict definition of religion to work, it needs to tell us (i) what religions have in common, (ii) what distinguishes religion on the one hand from non-religion, or everything that is not religion, on the other, and (iii) it needs to tell us something important about religion, what is at the core of religion. This means that a definition of religion has to be in three places at once, so to speak. Furthermore, a definition of religion has to be based on extant religions, but it also needs to have some sort of quasi-predictive capacity, the sort of thing that can be used in a court case regarding, for example, Scientology or Transcendental Meditation.It may be possible to resolve the latter problem by a gradual process of adjustment, a sort of hermeneutic circle of basing a definition on extant religions and applying it to new ones. But what about the other problem, the one of being in three places at once?Another type identified by Clarke and Byrne, in their typology of definitions, is the “family resemblance” definition (11-16). This derives from the later Wittgenstein. The “family resemblance” definition of religion is based on the idea that religions commonly share a number of features, but that no one religion has all of them. For example, there are religious beliefs, doctrines and mythos—or stories and parables. There are rituals and moral codes, institutions and clergy, prayers, spiritual emotions and experiences, etc. This approach is of course less precise than older substantive and functional definitions, but it also avoids some of the problems associated with them.It does so by rethinking the point of defining religion. Instead of being precise and rigorous for the sake of it, it tries to tell us something, to be “productive”, to help us understand religion better. It eschews certainty and embraces doubt. Its insights could be applied to some schools of philosophy (e.g. Heideggerian) and practical spirituality, because it does not focus on what is distinctive about religion. Rather, it focuses on the core of religion, and, secondarily, on what religions have in common. The family resemblance approach has led to a number of “new” definitions (post-Durkheim definitions) being proposed, all of which define religion in a less rigorous, but, I hope, more imaginative and heuristic way.Let me provide a few examples, starting with two contrasting ones. Peter Berger in the late 1960s defined religion as “the audacious attempt to conceive of the entire universe as humanly significant”(37), which implies a consciousness of an anthropocentric sacred cosmos. Later, Alain Touraine said that religion is “the apprehension of human destiny, existence, and death”(213–4), that is, an awareness of human limitations, including doubt. Berger emphasises the high place for human beings in religion, and even a sort of affected certainty, while Touraine emphasises our place as doubters on the periphery, but it seems that religion exists within a tension between these two opposites, and, in a sense, encompasses them both.Richard Holloway, former Bishop of Edinburgh in the Scottish Episcopal Church and arch-nemesis of the conservative Anglicans, such as those from Sydney, defines religion as like good poetry, not bad science. It is easy to understand that he is criticising those who see religion, particularly Christianity, as centrally opposed to Darwin and evolution. Holloway is clearly saying that those people have missed the point of their own faith. By “good poetry”, he is pointing to the significance of storytelling rather than dogma, and an open-ended discussion of ultimate questions that resists the temptation to end with “the moral of the story”. In science (at least before quantum physics), there is no room for doubt, but that is not the case with poetry.John Caputo, in a very energetic book called On Religion, proposes what is probably the boldest of the “new” definitions. He defines religion as “the love of God” (1). Note the contrast with Tylor and Spiro. Caputo does not say “belief in God”; he says “the love of God”. You might ask how you can love someone you don’t believe in, but, in a sense, this paradox is the whole point. When Caputo says “God”, he is not necessarily talking in the usual theistic or even theological terms. By “God”, he means the impossible made possible (10). So a religious person, for Caputo, is an “unhinged lover” (13) who loves the impossible made possible, and the opposite is a “loveless lout” who is only concerned with the latest stock market figures (2–3). In this sense of religious, a committed atheist can be religious and a devout Catholic or Muslim or Hindu can be utterly irreligious (2–3). Doubt can encompass faith and faith can encompass doubt. This is the impossible made possible. Caputo’s approach here has something in common with Nietzsche and especially Kierkegaard, to whom I shall return later.I would like to propose another definition of religion, within the spirit of these “new” definitions of religion that I have been discussing. Religion, at its core, I suggest, is non-propositional and apophatic. When I say that religion is non-propositional, I mean that religion will often enact certain rituals, or tell certain stories, or posit faith in someone, and that propositional statements of doctrine are merely reflections or approximations of this non-propositional core. Faith in God is not a proposition. The Eucharist is not a proposition. Prayer is not, at its core, a proposition. Pilgrimage is not a proposition. And it is these sorts of things that, I suggest, form the core of religion. Propositions are what happen when theologians and academics get their hands on religion, they try to intellectualise it so that it can be made to fit within their area of expertise—our area of expertise. But, that is not where it belongs. Propositions about rituals impose a certainty on them, whereas the ritual itself allows for courage in the face of doubt. The Maundy Thursday service in Western Christianity includes the stripping of the altar to the accompaniment of Psalm 22 (“My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me”), ending the service without a dismissal (Latin missa, the origin of the English “mass”) and with the church in darkness. Doubt, confusion, and bewilderment are the heart and soul of this ritual, not orthodox faith as defined propositionally.That said, religion does often involve believing, of some kind (though it is not usually as central as in Christianity). So I say that religion is non-propositional and apophatic. The word “apophatic”, though not the concept, has its roots in Greek Orthodox theology, where St Gregory Palamas argues that any statement about God—and particularly about God’s essence as opposed to God’s energies—must be paradoxical, emphasising God’s otherness, and apophatic, emphasising God’s essential incomprehensibility (Armstrong 393). To make an apophatic statement is to make a negative statement—instead of saying God is king, lord, father, or whatever, we say God is not. Even the most devout believer will recognise a sense in which God is not a king, or a lord, or a father. They will say that God is much greater than any of these things. The Muslim will say “Allahu Akhbar”, which means God is greater, greater than any human description. Even the statement “God exists” is seen to be well short of the mark. Even that is human language, which is why the Cappadocian fathers (Saints Basil the Great, Gregory of Nyssa, and Gregory Naziansus) said that they believed in God, while refusing to say that God exists.So to say that religion is at its core non-propositional is to say that religious beliefs are at their core apophatic. The idea of apophasis is that by a process of constant negation you are led into silence, into a recognition that there is nothing more that can be said. St Thomas Aquinas says that the more things we negate about God, the more we say “God is not…”, the closer we get to what God is (139). Doubt therefore brings us closer to the object of religion than any putative certainties.Apophasis does not only apply to Christianity. I have already indicated that it applies also to Islam, and the statement that God is greater. In Islam, God is said to have 99 names—or at least 99 that have been revealed to human beings. Many of these names are apophatic. Names like The Hidden carry an obviously negative meaning in English, while, etymologically, “the Holy” (al-quddu-s) means “beyond imperfection”, which is a negation of a negation. As-salaam, the All-Peaceful, means beyond disharmony, or disequilibrium, or strife, and, according to Murata and Chittick (65–6), “The Glorified” (as-subbuh) means beyond understanding.In non-theistic religions too, an apophatic way of believing can be found. Key Buddhist concepts include sunyata, emptiness, or the Void, and anatta, meaning no self, the belief or realisation that the Self is illusory. Ask what they believe in instead of the Self and you are likely to be told that you are missing the point, like the Zen pupil who confused the pointing finger with the moon. In the Zen koans, apophasis plays a major part. One well-known koan is “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Any logical answers will be dismissed, like Thomas Aquinas’s statements about God, until the pupil gets beyond logic and achieves satori, or enlightenment. Probably the most used koan is Mu—Master Joshu is asked if a dog has Buddha-nature and replies Mu, meaning “no” or “nothing”. This is within the context of the principle that everything has Buddha-nature, so it is not logical. But this apophatic process can lead to enlightenment, something better than logic. By plunging again and again in the water of doubt, to use Wittgenstein’s words, we gain something better than certainty.So not only is apophasis present in a range of different religions—and I have given just a few examples—but it is also central to the development of religion in the Axial Age, Karl Jaspers’s term for the period from about 800-200 BCE when the main religious traditions of the world began—monotheism in Israel (which also developed into Christianity and Islam), Hinduism and Buddhism in India, Confucianism and Taoism in China, and philosophical rationalism in Greece. In the early Hindu traditions, there seems to have been a sort of ritualised debate called the Brahmodya, which would proceed through negation and end in silence. Not the silence of someone admitting defeat at the hands of the other, but the silence of recognising that the truth lay beyond them (Armstrong 24).In later Hinduism, apophatic thought is developed quite extensively. This culminates in the idea of Brahman, the One God who is Formless, beyond all form and all description. As such, all representations of Brahman are equally false and therefore all representations are equally true—hence the preponderance of gods and idols on the surface of Hinduism. There is also the development of the idea of Atman, the universal Self, and the Buddhist concept anatta, which I mentioned, is rendered anatman in Sanskrit, literally no Atman, no Self. But in advaita Hinduism there is the idea that Brahman and Atman are the same, or, more accurately, they are not two—hence advaita, meaning “not two”. This is negation, or apophasis. In some forms of present-day Hinduism, such as the International Society for Krishna Consciousness (commonly known as the Hare Krishnas), advaita is rejected. Sometimes this is characterised as dualism with respect to Brahman and Atman, but it is really the negation of non-dualism, or an apophatic negation of the negation.Even in early Hinduism, there is a sort of Brahmodya recounted in the Rig Veda (Armstrong 24–5), the oldest extant religious scripture in the world that is still in use as a religious scripture. So here we are at the beginning of Axial Age religion, and we read this account of creation:Then was not non-existent nor existent: there was no realm of air, no sky beyond it.Death was not then, nor was there aught immortal.Darkness there was: at first concealed in darkness this All was indiscriminated chaos.All that existed then was void and form less.Sages who searched with their heart's thought discovered the existent's kinship in the non-existent.Who verily knows and who can here declare it, whence it was born and whence comes this creation?The Gods are later than this world's production. Who knows then whence it first came into being?He, the first origin of this creation, whether he formed it all or did not form it,Whose eye controls this world in highest heaven, he verily knows it, or perhaps he knows not.(Rig Veda Book 10, Hymn 129, abridged)And it would seem that this is the sort of thought that spread throughout the world as a result of the Axial Age and the later spread of Axial and post-Axial religions.I could provide examples from other religious traditions. Taoism probably has the best examples, though they are harder to relate to the traditions that are more familiar in the West. “The way that is spoken is not the Way” is the most anglicised translation of the opening of the Tao Te Ching. In Sikhism, God’s formlessness and essential unknowability mean that God can only be known “by the Guru’s grace”, to quote the opening hymn of the Guru Granth Sahib.Before I conclude, however, I would like to anticipate two criticisms. First, this may only be applicable to the religions of the Axial Age and their successors, beginning with Hinduism and Buddhism, Taoism and Confucianism, and early Jewish monotheism, followed by Jainism, Christianity, Islam and so on. I would like to find examples of apophasis at the core of other traditions, including Indigenous Australian and Native American ones, for example, but that is work still to be done. Focusing on the Axial Age does historicise the argument, however, at least in contrast with a more universal concept of religion that runs the risk of falling into the ahistorical homo religiosus idea that humans are universally and even naturally religious. Second, this apophatic definition looks a bit elitist, defining religion in terms that are relevant to theologians and “religious virtuosi” (to use Weber’s term), but what about the ordinary believers, pew-fillers, temple-goers? In response to such criticism, one may reply that there is an apophatic strand in what Niebuhr called the religions of the disinherited. In Asia, devotion to the Buddha Amida is particularly popular among the poor, and this involves a transformation of the idea of anatta—no Self—into an external agency, a Buddha who is “without measure”, in terms of in-finite light and in-finite life. These are apophatic concepts. In the Christian New Testament, we are told that God “has chosen the foolish things of this world to shame the wise, the weak to shame the strong…, the things that are not to shame the things that are” (1 Corinthians 1:27). The things that are not are the apophatic, and these are allied with the foolish and the weak, not the educated and the powerful.One major reason for emphasising the role of apophasis in religious thought is to break away from the idea that the core of religion is an ethical one. This is argued by a number of “liberal religious” thinkers in different religious traditions. I appreciate their reasons, and I am reluctant to ally myself with their opponents, who include the more fundamentalist types as well as some vocal critics of religion like Dawkins and Hitchens. However, I said that I would return to Kierkegaard, and the reason is this. Kierkegaard distinguishes between the aesthetic, the ethical and the religious. Of course, religion has an aesthetic and an ethical dimension, and in some religions these dimensions are particularly important, but that does not make them central to religion as such. Kierkegaard regarded the religious sphere as radically different from the aesthetic or even the ethical, hence his treatment of the story of Abraham going to Mount Moriah to sacrifice his son, in obedience to God’s command. His son was not killed in the end, but Abraham was ready to do the deed. This is not ethical. This is fundamentally and scandalously unethical. Yet it is religious, not because it is unethical and scandalous, but because it pushes us to the limits of our understanding, through the waters of doubt, and then beyond.Were I attempting to criticise religion, I would say it should not go there, that, to misquote Wittgenstein, the limits of my understanding are the limits of my world, whereof we cannot understand thereof we must remain silent. Were I attempting to defend religion, I would say that this is its genius, that it can push back the limits of understanding. I do not believe in value-neutral sociology, but, in this case, I am attempting neither. ReferencesAldridge, Alan. Religion in the Contemporary World. Cambridge: Polity, 2000.Aquinas, Thomas. “Summa of Christian Teaching”. An Aquinas Reader. ed. Mary Clarke. New York: Doubleday, 1972.Armstrong, Karen. The Great Transformation. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2006.Barker, Eileen. New Religious Movements: a Practical Introduction. London: HMSO, 1989.Berger, Peter. The Social Reality of Religion. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973.Caputo, John. On Religion. London: Routledge, 2001.Clarke, Peter, and Peter Byrne, eds. Religion Defined and Explained. New York: St Martin’s Press. 1993.Durkheim, Emile. The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. New York: Free Press, 1995.Holloway, Richard. Doubts and Loves. Edinburgh: Caqnongate, 2002.Jaspers, Karl. The Origin and Goal of History. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1977.Kierkegaard, Søren. Either/Or. London: Penguin, 1992.———. Fear and Trembling. London: Penguin, 1986.Murata, Sachiko, and William Chittick. The Vision of Islam. St Paul, Minnesota: Paragon House, 1994.Niebuhr, H. Richard. The Social Sources of Denominationalism. New York: Holt, 1929.Spiro, Melford. “Religion: Problems of Definition and Explanation.” Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Religion. Ed. Michael Banton. London: Tavistock, 1966. 85–126.Touraine, Alain. The Post-Industrial Society. London: Wilwood House, 1974.Tylor, Edward. Primitive Culture. London: Murray, 1903.Weber, Max. The Sociology of Religion. Boston: Beacon Press, 1991.Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough. Nottingham: Brynmill Press, 1979.

Sadhu Sundar Singh (1889-1929) was a Christocentric Indian Christian Mystic, known for his efforts to Indianize Christianity and whose thoughts on Christ, Bible, Spirituality, Christianity etc, are very original. Born in Sikh religion, by the age of sixteen he read Bhagavadgita and memorised Granth, Koran and several Upanishads. He hated Christianity so much, that he tore up and burnt the bible at this teen age. But next year, in a powerful vision he saw Jesus and was converted to Christianity. At the age of Seventeen, he set out on his journey as a new Christian, penniless, except with a New Testament copy, wearing a saffron turban and the saffron robe of a sadhu, as an ascetic devoted to spiritual practice, to preach the Gospel and about Jesus. Due to the Sadhu's uncanny physical resemblance to the Incarnate Jesus, similarities to the life and ministry of Apostle Paul, he was considered as a Biblical gure coming alive. He travelled extensively in India and around 24 countries in his missionary work. His thoughts on Prayer, Visions, Bible, and Heaven on Earth etc were so strong and original, that it even surprised most of the western theologists. His entire theology is based on his personal and spiritual experiences (Anubhava) with Lord Jesus. His thoughts about the primacy of Prayer in a Christian's life are compa red with that of other great European Christian mystics like St. Augustine, St Francis of Assisi, and St. Thomas a Kempis. Many of his theological thoughts are similar to that of Luther, even though he never met him nor read about him, but he also had some differences too. In his various severe sufferings that he faced in his efforts to preach the Gospel, even when he was persecuted, left to dead, imprisoned in Ilom, dumped in a dark well in Rasar, among skeletons and bones, he said Christ's presence has turned his prison or hell into a heaven of blessing. In him Christianity and Hinduism meet, and the Christian is like a ower which blossoms on an Indian stem. He says non-Christians, who did not get an opportunity or left an opportunity to accept Jesus, will get another opportunity afterlife to have their false and partial views of truth corrected. Even though he says all other religions are inadequate and only through Jesus one can get salvation, in his fullment approach, he says there is dim measure of “light of the truth” among the followers of different religions and provides for “continuity” in fullment and that they will eventually get full knowledge of true God, the “True Reality”. Sundar Singh is thoroughly convinced, that Christianity can enter Indian hearts and souls if offered in Indian form. He had done more than any man in the rst half of the twentieth century to establish that "Jesus belongs to India” and Christianity is not foreign.

Two major religions, Christianity and Islam, claim that their scriptures are God’s words and, therefore, divine, accurate, and without any mistakes. However, these statements are needed to be critically studied. This paper attempts to examine scriptural information on the events in the past and the future as presented by two holy books based on the true history or other signs. The author will discuss examples of events from the Bible and the Qur’an respectively. In the case of the Bible, the events include the floods in the age of prophet Nūh; Identity of Haman; The second coming of Jesus to the Earth before Paul; and The Kingdom of God. From the al-Qur’an, theauthor will present examples of the flood in the age of prophet Nūh; Identity of Haman; further information on Fir’aun; information on Rome after the defeat by the Persian Kingdom; and Cases of Abū Jahl and al-Walīd ibn Mughīrah. All those scriptural events will be examined comparatively in this paper.Keywords: al-Qur’an, Bibel, Informasi Skriptural, Peristiwa Masa Lalu dan Masa Kini

<p><strong>Abstrak</strong></p><p>Mewujudkan toleransi baik antar umat beragama, Intern umat beragama, maupun antar umat beragama dengan pemerintah (Trilogi Kerukunan), sikap kedewasaan dalam memahami ajaran agama yang dianutnya merupakan prasyarat bagi penganut masing-masing agama. Di dalam ajaran Hindu senantiasa dituntut untuk melaksanakan sosialisasi kehidupan beragama ke arah persaudaraan dan persahabatan antara sesama manusia. Di dalam agama Budha toleransi merupakan cermin suatu kedewasaan mental dalam beragama. Sebab beragama atau mempunyai keyakinan tidak semata-mata untuk menciptakan atau membentuk seseorang untuk mengasingkan diri dari agama-agama lain. Di dalam ajaran agama Kristen sikap toleransi yaitu melihat diri orang lain sama seperti dirinya, mengasihi orang lain sama seperti mengasihi dirinya, walaupun kepada seorang musuh. Begitu juga di dalam ajaran agama Islam, agama ini sangat menekankan kepada aspek kemanusiaan (memanusiakan manusia), ia berusaha melepaskan manusia dari segala bentuk penindasan, penderitaan dan kekerasan, sehingga apabila penganut dari masing-masing agama bersifat dewasa dalam memahami ajaran agamanya masing-masing, maka akan diharapkan bahwa konfik Intrn Umat Beragama, Antar Umat Beragama dan Antar Umat Beragama dengan Pemerintah dapat dihindari.</p><p><strong>Kata Kunci : </strong>Ajaran Agama, Toleransi<strong></strong></p><p><strong> </strong></p><p><strong><em>Abstract</em></strong><em></em></p><p><em>Realizing tolerance (tasammuh), both among religious communities, interns of religious communities, as well as between religious communities and the government (Harmony Trilogy), an attitude of maturity in understanding the teachings of the religion it adopts is a prerequisite for adherents of each religion. In Hinduism it is always demanded to carry out the socialization of religious life toward brotherhood and friendship between fellow human beings. In Buddhism tolerance is a reflection of mental maturity in religion. Because religion or belief is not merely to create or shape someone to isolate themselves from other religions. In the teachings of Christianity the attitude of tolerance is seeing others as themselves, loving others as loving themselves, even to an enemy. Likewise in the teachings of Islam, this religion emphasizes the human aspect (humanizing humanity), it seeks to release people from all forms of oppression, suffering and violence, so that if the adherents of each religion are mature in understanding the teachings of their respective religions , it will be expected that the conflict between the Interreligious Beliefs, Interfaith Religion and Interfaith Religion with the Government can be avoided.</em></p><p><strong><em>Keywords: </em></strong><em>Religious Teachings, Tolerance</em></p>

Kylie Minogue, her interviewer tells us in the October 2000 issue of Sky Magazine, is a "fatalist": meaning she "believe[s] everything happens for a reason" (Minogue "Kylie" 20). And what kind of reason would that be? Well, the Australian singer gives us a few clues in her interview of the previous month with Attitude, which she liberally peppers with references to her personal beliefs (Minogue "Special K" 43-46). When asked why she shouldn't be on top all the time, she explains: "It's yin and yang. It's all in the balance." A Taoist – or at any rate Chinese – perspective then? Yet, when asked whether it's important to be a good person, she responds: "Do unto others." That's St. Matthew, therefore Biblical, therefore probably Christian. But hang on. When asked about karma, she replies: "Karma is my religion." That would be Hindu, or at least Buddhist, wouldn't it? Still she goes on … "I have guilt if anything isn't right." Now, far be it from us to perpetuate religious stereotypes, but that does sound rather more like a Western church than either Hinduism or Buddhism. So what gives? Clearly there have always been religious references made by Western pop stars, the majority of them, unsurprisingly, Christian, given that this has traditionally been the major Western religion. So there's not much new about the Christian references of Tina Arena or Céline Dion, or the thankyous to God offered up by Britney Spears or Destiny's Child. There's also little that's new in references to non-Christian religions – who can forget the Beatles' flirtation with Hinduism back in the 1960s, Tina Turner's conversion to Buddhism or Cat Stevens' to Islam in the 1970s, or the Tibetan Freedom concerts of the mid- to late nineties organised by the Beastie Boys' Adam Yauch, himself a Buddhist convert? What is rather new about this phenomenon in Western pop music, above and beyond its scale, is the faintly dizzying admixture of religions to be found in the songs or words of a single artist or group, of which Kylie's interviews are a paradigmatic but hardly isolated example. The phenomenon is also evident in the title track from Affirmation, the 1999 album by Kylie's compatriots, Savage Garden, whose worldview extends from karma to a non-evangelised/ing God. In the USA, it's there in the Buddhist and Christian references which meet in Tina Turner, the Christian and neo-pagan imagery of Cyndi Lauper's recent work, and the Christian iconography which runs into buddhas on Australian beaches on REM's 1998 album Up. Of course, Madonna's album of the same year, Ray of Light, coasts on this cresting trend, its lyrics laced with terms such as angels, "aum", churches, earth [personified as female], Fate, Gospel, heaven, karma, prophet, "shanti", and sins; nor are such concerns entirely abandoned on her 2000 album Music. In the UK, Robbie Williams' 1998 smash album I've Been Expecting You contains, in immediate succession, tracks entitled "Grace", "Jesus in a Camper Van", "Heaven from Here" … and then "Karma Killer". Scottish-born Annie Lennox's journey through Hare Krishna and Buddhism does not stop her continuing in the Eurythmics' pattern of the eighties and littering her words with Christian imagery, both in her nineties solo work and the songs written in collaboration with Dave Stewart for the Eurythmics' 1999 reunion. In 2000, just a year after her ordination in the Latin Tridentine Church, Irish singer Sinéad O'Connor releases Faith and Courage, with its overtones of Wicca and paganism in general, passing nods to Islam and Judaism, a mention of Rasta and part-dedication to Rastafarians, and considerable Christian content, including a rendition of the "Kyrié Eléison". Even U2, amongst their sometimes esoteric Christian references, find room to cross grace with karma on their 2000 album All That You Can't Leave Behind. In Germany, Marius Müller-Westernhagen's controversial single "Jesus" from his 1998 chart-topping album Radio Maria, named after a Catholic Italian radio station, sees him in countless interviews elaborating on themes such as God as universal energy, the importance of prayer, the (unnamed but implicit) idea of karma and his interest in Buddhism. Over a long career, the eccentric Nina Hagen lurches through Christianity, Hinduism, Hare Krishna, and on towards her 2000 album Return of the Mother, where these influences are mixed with a strong Wiccan element. In France, Mylène Farmer's early gothic references to Catholicism and mystical overtones lead towards her "Méfie-toi" ("Be Careful"), from the 1999 album Innamoramento, with its references to God, the Virgin, Buddha and karma. In Italy, Gianna Nannini goes looking for the soul in her 1998 "Peccato originale" ("Original sin"), while on the same album, Cuore (Heart), invoking the Hindu gods Shiva and Brahma in her song "Centomila" ("One Hundred Thousand"). "The world is craving spirituality so much right now", Carlos Santana tells us in 1995. "If they could sell it at McDonald's, it would be there. But it's not something you can get like that. You can only wake up to it, and music is the best alarm" (qtd. in Obstfeld & Fitzgerald 166). It seems we're dealing here with quite a significant development occurring under the auspices of postmodernism – that catch-all term for the current mood and trends in Western culture, one of whose most conspicuous manifestations is generally considered to be a pick 'n' mix attitude towards artefacts from cultures near and distant, past, present and future. This rather controversial cultural eclecticism is often flatly equated with the superficiality and commercialism of a generation with no historical or critical perspective, no interest in obtaining one, and an obsession with shopping for lifestyle accessories. Are pop's religious references, in fact, simply signifieds untied from signifiers, symbols emptied of meaning but amusing to play with? When Annie Lennox talks of doing a "Zen hit" (Lennox & Stewart n.pag.), or Daniel Jones describes himself and Savage Garden partner Darren Hayes as being like "Yin and Yang" (Hayes & Jones n.pag.), are they merely borrowing trendy figures of speech with no reflection on what lies – or should lie – or used to lie behind them? When Madonna samples mondial religions on Ray of Light, is she just exploiting the commercial potential inherent in this Shiva-meets-Chanel spectacle? Is there, anywhere in the entire (un)holy hotchpotch, something more profound at work? To answer this question, we'll need to take a closer look at the trends within the mixture. There isn't any answer in religion Don't believe one who says there is But… The voices are heard Of all who cry The first clear underlying pattern is evident in these words, taken from Sinéad O'Connor's "Petit Poulet" on her 1997 Gospel Oak EP, where she attacks religion, but simultaneously undermines her own attack in declaring that the voices "[o]f all who cry" will be heard. This is the same singer who, in 1992, tears up a picture of the Pope on "Saturday Night Live", but who is ordained in 1999, and fills her 2000 album Faith and Courage with religious references. Such a stance can only make sense if we assume that she is assailing, in general, the organised and dogmatised version(s) of religion expounded by many churches - as well as, in particular, certain goings-on within the Catholic Church - but not religion or the God-concept in and of themselves. Similarly, in 1987, U2's Bono states his belief that "man has ruined God" (qtd. in Obstfeld & Fitzgerald 174) – but U2 fans will know that religious, particularly Christian, allusions have far from disappeared from the band's lyrics. When Stevie Wonder admits in 1995 to being "skeptical of churches" (ibid. 175), or Savage Garden's Darren Hayes sings in "Affirmation" that he "believe[s] that God does not endorse TV evangelists", they are giving expression to pop's typical cynicism with regard to organised religion in the West – whether in its traditional or modern/evangelical forms. Religion, it seems, needs less organisation and more personalisation. Thus Madonna points out that she does not "have to visit God in a specific area" and "like[s] Him to be everywhere" (ibid.), while Icelandic singer Björk speaks for many when she comments: "Well, I think no two people have the same religion, and a lot of people would call that being un-religious [sic]. But I'm actually very religious" (n.pag.). Secondly, there is a commonly-expressed sentiment that all faiths should be viewed as equally valid. Turning again to Sinéad O'Connor, we hear her sing on "What Doesn't Belong to Me" from Faith and Courage: "I'm Irish, I'm English, I'm Moslem, I'm Jewish, / I'm a girl, I'm a boy". Annie Lennox, her earlier involvement with Hare Krishna and later interest in Tibetan Buddhism notwithstanding, states categorically in 1992: "I've never been a follower of any one religion" (Lennox n.pag.), while Nina Hagen puts it this way: "the words and religious group one is involved with doesn't [sic] matter" (Hagen n.pag.). Whatever the concessions made by the Second Vatican Council or advanced by pluralist movements in Christian theology, such ideological tolerance still draws strong censure from certain conventional religious sources – Christian included – though not from all. This brings us to the third and perhaps most crucial pattern. Not surprisingly, it is to our own Christian heritage that singers turn most often for ideas and images. When it comes to cross-cultural borrowings, however, this much is clear: equal all faiths may be, but equally mentioned they are not. Common appropriations include terms such as karma (Robbie Williams' 1998 "Karma Killer", Mylène Farmer's 1999 "Méfie-toi", U2's 2000 "Grace") and yin and yang (see the above-quoted Kylie and Savage Garden interviews), concepts like reincarnation (Tina Tuner's 1999/2000 "Whatever You Need") and non-attachment (Madonna's 1998 "To Have and Not to Hold"), and practices such as yoga (from Madonna through to Sting) and even tantrism (Sting, again). Significantly, all of these are drawn from the Eastern faiths, notably Hinduism, Buddhism and Taoism, though they also bear a strong relation to ideas found in various neo-pagan religions such as Wicca, as well as in many mystical traditions. Eastern religions, neo-paganism, mysticism: these are of course the chief sources of inspiration for the so-called New Age, which constitutes an ill-defined, shape-shifting conglomeration of beliefs standing outside the mainstream Middle Eastern/Western monotheistic religious pantheon. As traditional organised religion comes under attack, opening up the possibility of a personal spirituality where we can pick and choose, and as we simultaneously seek to redress the imbalance of religious understanding by extending tolerance to other faiths, it is unsurprising that we are looking for alternatives to the typical dogmatism of Christianity, Islam and even Judaism, to what German singer Westernhagen sees as the "punishing God" of the West ("Rock-Star" n.pag.). Instead, we find ourselves drawn to those distant faiths whose principles seem, suddenly, to have so much to offer us, including a path out of the self-imposed narrow-mindedness with which, all too often, the major Western religions seem to have become overlaid. Despite certain differences, the Eastern faiths and their New Age Western counterparts typically speak of a life force grounding all the particular manifestations we see about us, a balance between male and female principles, and a reverence for nature, while avoiding hierarchies, dogma, and evangelism, and respecting the equal legitimacy of all religions. The last of these points has already been mentioned as a central issue in pop spirituality, and it is not difficult to see that the others dovetail with contemporary Western cultural ideals and concerns: defending human rights, promoting freedom, equality and tolerance, establishing international peace, and protecting the environment. However limited our understanding of Eastern religions may be, however convenient that may prove, and however questionable some of our cultural ideals might seem, whether because of their naïveté or their implicit imperialism, the message is coming through loud and clear in the world of pop: we are all part of one world, and we'd better work together. Madonna expresses it this way in "Impressive Instant" on her 2000 album, Music: Cosmic systems intertwine Astral bodies drip like wine All of nature ebbs and flows Comets shoot across the sky Can't explain the reasons why This is how creation goes Her words echo what others have said. In "Jag är gud" ("I am god") from her 1991 En blekt blondins hjärta (A Bleached Blonde's Heart), the Swedish Eva Dahlgren sings: "varje själ / är en del / jag är / jag är gud" ("every soul / is a part / I am / I am god"); in a 1995 interview Sting observes: "The Godhead, or whatever you want to call it - it's better not to give it a name, is encoded in our being" (n.pag.); while Westernhagen remarks in 1998: "I believe in God as universal energy. God is omnipresent. Everyone can be Jesus. And in everyone there is divine energy. I am convinced that every action on the part of an individual influences the whole universe" ("Jesus" n.pag.; my transl.). In short, as Janet Jackson puts it in "Special" from her 1997 The Velvet Rope: "You have to learn to water your spiritual garden". Secularism is on its way out – perhaps playing the material girl or getting sorted for E's & wizz wasn't enough after all – and religion, it seems, is on its way back in. Naturally, there is no denying that pop is also variously about entertainment, relaxation, rebellion, vanity or commercialism, and that it can, from time to time and place to place, descend into hatred and bigotry. Moreover, pop singers are as guilty as everyone else of, at least some of the time, choosing words carelessly, perhaps merely picking up on something that is in the air. But by and large, pop is a good barometer of wider society, whose trends it, in turn, influences and reinforces: in other words, that something in the air really is in the air. Then again, it's all very well for pop stars to dish up a liberal religious smorgasbord, assuring us that "All is Full of Love" (Björk) or praising the "Circle of Life" (Elton John), but what purpose does this fulfil? Do we really need to hear this? Is it going to change anything? We've long known, thanks to John Lennon, that you can imagine a liberal agenda, supporting human rights or peace initiatives, without religion – so where does religion fit in? It has been suggested that the emphasis of religion is gradually changing, moving away from the traditional Western focus on transcendence, the soul and the afterlife. Derrida has claimed that religion is equally, or even more importantly, about hospitality, about human beings experiencing and acting out of a sense of the communal responsibility of each to all others. This is a view of God as, essentially, the idealised sum of humanity's humanity. And Derrida is not alone in giving voice to such musings. The Dalai Lama has implied that the key to spirituality in our time is "a sense of universal responsibility" (n.pag.), while Vaclav Havel has described transcendence as "a hand reached out to those close to us, to foreigners, to the human community, to all living creatures, to nature, to the universe" (n.pag.). It may well be that those who are attempting to verbalise a liberal agenda and clothe it in expressive metaphors are discovering that there are - and have always been - many useful tools among the global religions, and many sources of inspiration among the tolerant, pluralistic faiths of the East. John Lennon's imaginings aside, then, let us briefly revisit the world of pop. Nina Hagen's 1986 message "Love your world", from "World Now", a plea for peace repeated in varying forms throughout her career, finds this formulation in 2000 on the title track of Return of the Mother: "My revelation is a revolution / Establish justice for all in my world". In 1997, Sinéad points out in "4 My Love" from her Gospel Oak EP: "God's children deserve to / sleep safe in the night now love", while in the same year, in "Alarm Call" from Homogenic, Björk speaks of her desire to "free the human race from suffering" with the help of music and goes on: "I'm no fucking Buddhist but this is enlightenment". In 1999, the Artist Formerly Known as Prince tells an interviewer that "either we can get in here now and fix [our problems] and do the best we can to help God fix [them], or we can... [y]ou know, punch the clock in" (4). So, then, instead of encouraging the punching in of clocks, here is pop being used as a clarion-call to the faith-full. Yet pop - think Band Aid, Live Aid and Net Aid - is not just about words. When, in the 2000 song "Peace on Earth", Bono sings "Heaven on Earth / We need it now" or when, in "Grace", he begs for grace to be allowed to cancel out karma, he is already playing his part in fronting the Drop the Debt campaign for Jubilee 2000, while U2 supports organisations such as Amnesty International, Greenpeace and War Child. It is no coincidence that the Eurythmics choose to entitle their 1999 comeback album Peace, or give one of its tracks a name with a strong Biblical allusion, "Power to the Meek": not only has Annie Lennox been a prominent supporter of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan cause, but she and Dave Stewart have divided the proceeds of their album and accompanying world tour between Amnesty International and Greenpeace. Religion, it appears, can offer more than hackneyed rhymes: it can form a convenient metaphorical basis for solidarity and unity for those who are, so to speak, prepared to put their money - and time and effort - where their mouths are. Annie Lennox tells an interviewer in 1992: "I hate to disappoint you, but I don't have any answers, I'm afraid. I've only written about the questions." (n.pag). If a cursory glance at contemporary Western pop tells us anything, it is that religion, in its broadest and most encompassing sense, while not necessarily offering all the important answers, is at any rate no longer seen to lie beyond the parameters of the important questions. This is, perhaps, the crux of today's increasing trend towards religious eclecticism. When Buddha meets Christ, or karma intersects with grace, or the Earth Goddess bumps into Shiva, those who've engineered these encounters are - moving beyond secularism but also beyond devotion to any one religion - asking questions, seeking a path forward, and hoping that at the points of intersection, new possibilities, new answers - and perhaps even new questions - will be found. References Björk. "Björk FAQ." [Compiled by Lunargirl.] Björk - The Ultimate Intimate. 1999. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://bjork.intimate.org/quotes/>. Dalai Lama. "The Nobel [Peace] Lecture." [Speech delivered on 11.12.89.] His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet. The Office of Tibet and the Tibetan Government-in-Exile. Undated. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://www.dalailama.com/html/nobel.php>. Hagen, N. "Nina Hagen Living in Ekstasy." [Interview with M. Hesseman; translation by M. Epstein.] Nina Hagen Electronic Shrine. Undated. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://208.240.252.87/nina/interv/living.html Havel, V. "The Need for Transcendence in the Postmodern World." [Speech delivered on 04.07.94.] World Transformation. Undated. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://www.worldtrans.org/whole/havelspeech.php>. Hayes, D. & D. Jones. Interview [with Musiqueplus #1 on 23.11.97; transcribed by M. Woodley]. To Savage Garden and Back. Undated. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://www.igs.net/~woodley/musique2.htm>. Lennox, A. Interview [with S. Patterson; from Details, July 1992]. Eurythmics Frequently Asked Questions. Undated. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://www1.minn.net/~egusto/a67.htm>. Lennox, A. & D. Stewart. Interview [from Interview Magazine, December 1999]. Eurythmics Frequently Asked Questions. Undated. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://www1.minn.net/~egusto/a64.htm>. Minogue, K. "Kylie." [Interview with S. Patterson.] Sky Magazine October 2000: 14-21. Minogue, K. "Special K." [Interview with P. Flynn.] Attitude September 2000: 38-46. Obstfeld, R. & P. Fitzgerald. Jabberrock: The Ultimate Book of Rock 'n' Roll Quotations. New York: Henry Holt, 1997. [The Artist Formerly Known as] Prince. A Conversation with Kurt Loder. [From November 1999.] MTV Asia Online. Undated. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://www.mtvasia.com/Music/Interviews/Old/Prince1999November/index.php>. Sting. Interview [with G. White; from Yoga Journal, December 1995]. Stingchronicity. Undated. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://www.stingchronicity.co.uk/yogajour.php>. [Müller-] Westernhagen, M. "Jesus, Maria und Marius." [From Focus, 10.08.98.] Westernhagen-Fanpage. Undated. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://home.t-online.de/home/340028046011-001/Presse/Focus/19980810.htm>. [Müller-] Westernhagen, M. "Rock-Star Marius Müller-Westernhagen: 'Liebe hat immer mit Gott zu tun.'" [From Bild der Frau, no.39/98, 21.09.98.] Westernhagen-Fanpage. Undated. 26 Jan. 2001. <http://home.t-online.de/home/340028046011-001/Presse/BildderFrau/19980921.htm>.

IntroductionAccording to Friedrich Nietzsche, the death of Man follows the death of God. Man as a concept must be overcome. Yet Nietzsche extends humanism’s jargon of creativity that privileges Man over animal. To truly overcome the notion of Man, one must undercome Man, in other words go below Man. Once undercome, creativity devolves into a type of building and unbuilding, affording art the ability to conceive of the subject emptied of divine creation. This article will examine how Man is unbuilt in three works by three different artists: Francis Bacon’s “Study of a Baboon” (1953), Jan Švankmajer’s Darkness, Light, Darkness (1989), and Patricia Piccinini’s “The Young Family” (2002). All three artists evoke the animalistic in their depiction of what could be called the sub-subject, a diminished agent. Unbuilding the subject becomes the basis for building the sub-subject in these depictions of the human remainder. Man, from this vantage, will be examined as a cultural construct. Man largely means human, yet the Renaissance concept favoured a certain type of powerful male. Instead of rescuing Man, Bacon, Švankmajer and Piccinini, present the remnants of the human amidst the animal rather than the human subject detached from the animal. Such works challenge humanism, expressed in Giorgio Vasari’s analysis of art and creativity as indicative of Man’s closeness to the divine, which in a strange way, is extended in Nietzsche’s writings. These artists dismantle and build a subhuman form of subjectivity and thereby provide a challenge to traditional conceptions of creativity that historically favour Man as the creator beneath only God Himself. In the course of this article, I explore the violence of Bacon’s painted devolution, the deflationary animation of Švankmajer and Piccinini’s subhuman tenderness. I do not argue that we must abandon humanism altogether as there are a multiplicity of humanisms, or attempt to invalidate all the various posthumanisms, transhumanisms and antihumanisms. Rather, I attempt to show that Nietzsche’s posthumanism is a suprahumanism and that one possible way to frame the death of Man is through undercoming Man. Art, held in high esteem by Renaissance humanism, becomes a vehicle to imagine and engage with subhuman subjectivity.What Is Humanism? Humanism has numerous connotations from designating atheism to celebrating culture to privileging humans above other animals. The type of humanism I am interested in is not secular humanism, but rather humanism that celebrates and conceptualises Man’s place in the universe and does so through accentuating his (and I mean his given humanism’s often sexist, masculinist history) creativity and intellectual power. This celebration of creativity depends in part on a type of religious view, where Man is at the centre of God’s design. Such a view holds that Man’s power to shape nature’s materials resembles God. This type of humanism remains today but usually in a more humbled form, enfeebled by the scientific realisations that characterised the Enlightenment, namely the realisation that Man was not the centre of God’s universe. The Enlightenment is sometimes characterised as the birth of modern humanism, where the human subject undergoes estrangement from his surroundings through the conceptualisation of the subject–object division, and gains control over nature. A common narrative is that the subject’s autonomy and power came to extend to art itself, which in turn, became valued as possessing its own aesthetic legitimacy and yet also becoming an alienated commodity. Yet Cary Wolfe, in What Is Posthumanism?, echoes Michel Foucault’s claim that the Enlightenment could be viewed in tension to humanism (“Introduction” n.p.). Indeed, the Enlightenment’s creation of modern science would come to seriously challenge any view of humanity’s privileged status in this world. In contrast, Renaissance humanism conceived of Man as the centrepiece of God’s design and gifted with artistic creation and the ability to uncover truth. Renaissance HumanismRenaissance humanism is encapsulated by Vasari’s preface to The Lives of the Artists. In his preface, Vasari contends that God was the first artist, being both a painter and sculptor: God on High, having created the great body of the world and having decorated the heavens with its brightest lights, descended with His intellect further down into the clarity of the atmosphere and the solidity of the earth, and, shaping man, discovered in the pleasing invention of things the first form of sculpture and painting. (3)Interestingly, God discovers creation, which is a type of decoration, where the skies are decorated with bright lights—the stars. Giving colour, light and shade to the world and heavens, qualifies God as a painter. The human body, according to Vasari, is sculpted by God, which in turn inspires artists to depict the human form. Art and design—God’s design—is thereby ‘at the origin of all things’ and not merely painting and sculpture, though the reality we know is still the product of God’s painting and sculpture. According to Vasari, God privileges Man not for his intellect per se, but by bestowing him with the ability of creation and design. Indeed, creativity and design are for Vasari a part of all intellectual discovery. Intellect is the mode of discovering design, which for Vasari, is also creation. Vasari claims “that divine light infused in us by a special act of grace which has not only made us superior to other animals but even similar, if it is permitted to say so, to God Himself” (4). God is more than just a maker, he is a creator with an aesthetic sense. All intellectual human endeavours, claims Vasari, are aesthetic and creative, in their comprehension of God’s design of the world. Vasari’s emphasis on design became outmoded as Renaissance humanism was challenged by the Enlightenment’s interest in humans and other animals as machines. However, evolution challenges even some mechanistic understandings of the human subject, which sometimes presupposed that the human-machine had a maker, as with William Paley’s watchmaker theory. As Richard Dawkins put it in The Blind Watchmaker, nature “has no vision, no foresight, no sight at all. If [evolution] can be said to play the role of the watchmaker in nature, it is the blind watchmaker” (“Chapter One: Explaining the Very Improbable” n.p.). No longer was God’s universe designed for Man’s comprehension and appreciation, foretelling humanity’s own potential extinction.Man and God’s DeathThe idea that humanity was created by blind processes raises the question of what sort of depiction of the human subject is possible after the death of God and the Enlightenment’s tendency toward disenchantment? An art and self-understanding founded on atheism would be in sharp distinction to Vasari’s characterisation of the nature as an artwork coloured by the divine painter and sculptor in the heavens. Man’s creativity and design are, for the Renaissance humanist, part of discovery, the embodied realisations and iterations of the Platonic realm of divine forms. But such designs, wondrous for Vasari, can be viewed as shadows without origin in a post-God world. In Vasari, Platonism is still present where the artist’s creation becomes a way of discerning the origin of all forms, God himself. Yet, without divine origin, these forms are no longer discoveries and the possibility emerges that they are not even creations, emptied of the divine meaning that gave Man’s creative and scientific work value. Nietzsche understood that the loss of God called for the revaluation of all values. This is why Nietzsche claims that God’s death signifies the death of Man. For Nietzsche, the last Man was such an iteration, a shadow of what man had been (Thus Spoke Zarathustra 9-10). The Post-Man, the Übermensch, is one who extends the human power of creation and evaluation. In Vasari, Man is a model created by God. Nietzsche extends this logic: Man is his own creation as is God Man’s model. Man is capable of self-construction and overcoming without the hindrance of the divine. This freedom unlocked by auto-creation renders Man capable of making himself God. As such, art remains a source of sacred power for Nietzsche since it is a process of creative evaluation. The sacred is affirmed against secular profanity. For Nietzsche, God must be envisaged as Dionysus, a God that Nietzsche claims takes on a human form in Greek festivals dedicated to creation and fecundity. Mankind, in order to continue to have value after God’s death, “must become gods”, must take the place of God (The Gay Science 120). Nietzsche, All-Too HumanistNietzsche begins a project of rethinking Man as a category. Yet there is much in common with Renaissance humanism generated by Nietzsche’s Dionysian belief in a merger between God and Man. Man is overcome by a stronger and more creative figure, that of the Übermensch. By comparing Nietzsche with Vasari we can understand just how humanist Nietzsche remained. Indeed, Nietzsche fervently admired the Renaissance as a rebirth of paganism. Such an assessment of the rebirth of pagan art and values can almost be found in Vasari himself. Vasari claimed that pagan art, far from being blasphemous, brought Man closer to the divine in a tribute to the creativity of God. Vasari’s criticism of Christianity is careful but present. Indeed, Vasari—in a way that anticipates Nietzsche’s view that secular sacrilege was merely an extension of Christian sacrilege—attacks Christian iconoclasm, noting that barbarians and Christians worked together to destroy sacred forms of art: not only did [early Christianity] ruin or cast to the ground all the marvellous statues, sculptures, paintings, mosaics, and ornaments of the false pagan gods, but it also did away with the memorials and testimonials to an infinite number of illustrious people, in whose honour statues and other memorials had been constructed in public places by the genius of antiquity. (5) In this respect, Vasari embodies the values Nietzsche so praised in the Italian Renaissance. Vasari emphasises the artistic creations that enshrine distinctions of value and social hierarchy. While Vasari continues Platonic notions that ideals exist before human creation, he nevertheless holds human creation as a realisation and embodiment of the ideal, which is not dissimilar to Nietzsche’s notion of divine embodiment. For Nietzsche and Vasari, Man is exulted when he can rise, like a god, above other men. Another possibility would be to lower Man to just another animal. One way to envision such a lowering would be to subvert the mode by which Man is deemed God-like. Art that engages with the death of Man helps conceptualise subhumanism and the way that the subject ceases to be raised above the animal. What follows are studies of artworks that unbuild the subject. Francis Bacon’s “Study of a Baboon”Francis Bacon’s work challenges the human subject by depicting nonhuman subjects, where the flesh is torn open and Man’s animal flesh is exposed. Sometimes Bacon does not merely disfigure the human form but violently abandons it to focus on animals that reveal animal qualities latent in the subject. Bacon’s “Study of a Baboon”, expresses a sense of human devolution: Man devolved to monkey. In the work, we see a baboon within an enclosure, sitting above a tree that simultaneously resembles a gothic shadow, a cross, and even a smear. The dark, cross-like tree may suggest the conquering of God by a baboon, a type of monkey, recalling the old slander of Darwin’s theory, namely that Darwinism entailed that humanity descended from monkeys (which Darwin’s theory does not claim). But far from victorious, the monkey is in a state of suffering. While the baboon is not crucified on or by the tree, suffering pervades the frame. Its head resembles some sort of skull. The body is faintly painted in a melancholy blue with smudges of purple and is translucent and ghostly—at once a lump of matter and a spectral absence. We do not see the baboon through the cage. Instead we see through the baboon at the cage. Indeed, its very physiology involves the encountering of trauma as the head of the baboon does not simply connect to the body but stabs through the body as a sharp bone, perhaps opaquely evoking the violence of evolution. Similarly, the baboon’s tail seems to stab through the tree. Its eye is an enlarged void and a pupil is indicated by a bluish white triangle splitting through the void. The tree has something of the menacing and looming quality of a shadow and there is a sense of wilderness confronted by death and entrapment, evoked through the background. The yellowy ground is suggestive of dead grass. While potentially gesturing to the psychical confusion and intensity of Vincent Van Gogh or Edvard Munch, the yellowed grass more likely evokes the empty, barren and hostile planes of the desert and contrasts with the darkened colours. The baboon sitting on the cross/tree may seem to have reached some sort of pinnacle but such a status is mocked by the tree that manages to continue outside the fence: the branches nightmarishly protrude through the fence to conquer the frame, which in turn furthers the sense of inescapable entrapment and threat. The baboon is thereby precluded from reaching a higher point on the tree, unable to climb the branches, and underscores the baboon’s confines. The painting is labelled a study, which may suggest it is unfinished. However, Bacon’s completed works preserve an unfinished quality. This unfinished quality conveys a sense in which Man and evolution are unfinished and that being finished in the sense of being completed is no longer possible. The idea that there can finished work of art, a work of art that preserves an eternal meaning, has been repeatedly subject to serious doubt, including by artists themselves. Indeed, Bacon’s work erases the potential for perfection and completion, and breaks down, through devolution, what has been achieved by Man and the forces that shaped him. The subject is lowered from that of human to that of a baboon and is therefore, by Vasari’s Renaissance reasoning, not a subject at all. Bacon’s sketch and study exist to evoke a sense of incompletion, involving pain without resolution. The animal state of pain is therefore married with existential entrapment and isolation as art ceases to express the Platonic ideal and aims to show the truth of the shadow—namely that humanity is without a God, a God that previously shed light on humanity’s condition and anchored the human subject. If there is a trace or echo of human nobility left, such a trace functions through the wild and violent quality of animal indignation. A scream of painful indignity is the last act approaching (or descending from) any dignity that is afforded. Jan Švankmajer’s Darkness, Light, DarknessAn even more extreme case of the subject no longer being the subject, of being broken and muted—so much so that animal protest is annulled—can be witnessed in Jan Švankmajer’s animated short Darkness, Light, Darkness. In the animation, green clay hands mould and form a human body in order to be part of it. But when complete, the human body is trapped, grotesquely out of proportion with its environment. The film begins in a darkened house. There is a knocking of the door, and then the first green hand opens the door and turns on the light. The hand falls to the floor, blindly making its way to another door on the opposite side of the house. The hand opens the door only for eyeballs to roll out. The eyes look around. The hand pushes its clay fingers against the eyeballs, and the eyeballs become attached to the fingers. Suddenly with sight, the hand is able to lift itself up. The hand discovers that another hand is knocking at the door. The first hand helps the second hand, and then goes to the window where a pair of ears are stuck together flapping like a moth. The hands work together and break the ears apart. The first hand, the one with eyes, attaches the ears to the second hand. Then a head with a snout, but missing eyes and ears, enters through the door. The hands pull the snout until it becomes a nose, suppressing and remoulding the animal until it becomes human. As with Bacon, the violence of evolution, of auto-construction is conveyed indirectly: in Bacon’s case, through painted devolution and, in the case of the claymation, through a violent construction based on mutilation and smashing body parts together.Although I have described only three minutes of the seven-minute film, it already presents an image of human construction devoid of art or divine design. Man, or rather the hands, become the blind watchman of evolution. The hands work contingently, with what they are provided. They shape themselves based on need. The body, after all, exists as parts, and the human body is made up of other life forms, both sustaining and being sustained by them. The hands work together, and sacrifice sight and hearing for the head. They tear off the ears and remove the eyes and give them to the head. Transcendence is exchanged for subsistence. The absurdity of this contingency becomes most apparent when the hands attempt to merge with the head, to be the head’s feet. Then the feet actually arrive and are attached to the head’s neck. The human subject in such a state is thereby deformed and incomplete. It is a frightened form, cowering when it hears banging at the door. It turns out that the banging is being produced by an angry erect penis pounding at the door. However, even this symbol of masculine potency is subdued, rendered harmless by the hands that splash a bucket of cold water on it. The introduction of the penis signifies the masculinist notions implicit in the term Man, but we only ever see the penis when it is flaccid. The human subject is able to be concluded when clay pours from both doors and the window. The hands sculpt the clay and make the body, which, when complete is oversized and barely fits within the house. The male subject is then trapped, cramped in a foetal position. With its head against the ceiling next to the light, breathing heavily, all it can do is turn out the light. The head opens its mouth either in horror or a state of exertion and gasps. The eyes bulge before one of the body’s hands turns switch, perhaps suggesting terror before death or simply the effort involved in turning off the light. Once completed and built, the human subject remains in the dark. Despite the evident quirky, playful humour, Švankmajer’s film reflects an exhaustion with art itself. Human life becomes clay comically finding its own form. For Vasari, the ideal of the human form is realised first by God and then by Man through marble; for Švankmajer it is green clay. He demotes man back to the substance for a God to mould but, as there is no God to breathe life into it and give form, there is just the body to imperfectly mould itself. The film challenges both Vasari’s humanism and the suprahumanism of Nietzschean spectacle. Instead of the self-generating power and radical interdependence and agency of Übermensch, Švankmajer’s sub-subject is Man undercome—man beneath as opposed to over man, man mocked by its ambition, and with no space to stand high. Švankmajer thereby realises the anti-Nietzschean potential inherent within cinema’s anti-spectacular nature. Antonin Artaud, who extends the aesthetics advanced by Nietzsche in The Birth of Tragedy, contrasts the theatre’s sense of animal life with cinema. Artaud observes that movies “murder us with second-hand reproductions […] filtered through machines” (84). Thus, films murder creative and animal power as film flattens life to a dead realm of reproduction. Continuing Jacques Derrida’s hauntological framing of the screen, the animation theorist Alan Cholodenko has argued that the screen implies death. Motion is dead and replaced by illusion, a recording relayed back to us. What renders cinema haunting also renders it hauntological. For Cholodenko, cinema’s animation challenges ontology and metaphysics by eschewing stable ontologies through a process that entails both presence and absence. As Cholodenko points out, all film is a type of animation and reanimation, of making images move that are not in fact moving. Thus, one can argue that the animated-animation (such as Švankmajer’s claymation) becomes a refinement of death, a Frankesteinian reanimation of dead material. Indeed, Darkness, Light, Darkness accentuates the presence of death with the green clay almost resembling putrefaction. The fingerprints on the clay accentuate a lack of life, for the autonomous and dead matter that constructs and shapes a dead body from seemingly severed body parts. Even the title of the film, Darkness, Light, Darkness reflects an experience of cinema as deflation rather than joyous spectacle. One goes to a darkened space, watches light flicker on a screen and then the light goes out again. The cartoonish motions of the hands and body parts in the film look only half alive and therefore seem half-dead. Made in the decaying Communist state of Czechoslovakia, Švankmajer’s film aptly acknowledges the deflation of cinema, reflecting that illumination—the light of God, is put out, or more specifically, switched off. With the light of God switched off, creation becomes construction and construction becomes reconstruction, filtered through cinema’s machine processes as framed through Cholodenko. Still, Švankmajer’s animation is not unsympathetic to the plight of the hands. We do see the body parts work together. When a vulgar, meaty, non-claymation tongue comes out through the door, it goes straight to the other door to let the teeth in. The teeth and tongue are aided by the hands to complete the face. Indeed, what they produce is a human being, which has some sense of coherence and success—a success enmeshed with failure and entrapment. Piccinini’s “The Young Family”Patricia Piccinini’s sculptural works offer a more tender approach to the subject, especially when her works focus on the nonhuman animal with human characteristics. Piccinini is interested in the combinations of the animal and the machine, so her ideas can be seen almost as transhuman, where the human is extended beyond humanism. Her work is based on connection and connectedness, but does not emphasise the humanist values of innovation and self-creation often inherent to transhumanism. Indeed, the emphasis on connection is distinct from the entrapment of Bacon’s baboon and Švankmajer’s clay human, which half lament freedom’s negation.The way that Piccinini preserves aspects of humanism within a framework of subhumanism is evident in her work “The Young Family”. The hypperrealistic sculpture depicts a humanoid pig form, flopped, presumably exhausted, as piglet-babies suckle on her nipples. The work was inspired by a scientific proposal for pigs to be genetically modified to provide organs for humans (“Educational Resource” 5). Such a transhuman setting frames a subhuman aesthetic. Care is taken to render the scene with sentiment but without a sense of the ideal, without perfection. One baby-piglet tenderly grasps its foot with both hands and stares with love at its mother. We see two piglets enthusiastically sucking their mother’s teat, while a third baby/piglet’s bottom is visible, indicating that there is a third piglet scrambling for milk. The mother gazes at us, with her naked mammalian body visible. We see her wrinkles and veins. There is some fur on her head and some hair on her eyebrows humanising her. Indeed, her eyes are distinctly human and convey affection. Affection seems to be a motif that carries through to the materials (carefully crafted by Piccinini’s studio). The affection displayed in the artwork is trans-special, emphasising that human tenderness is in fact mammalian tenderness. Such tenderness conflates the human, the nonhuman animal and the material out of which the humanoid creature and its young are constructed. The sub-agency brings together the young and the old by displaying the closeness of the family. Something of this sub-subjectivity is theorised in Malcolm Bull’s Anti-Nietzsche, where he contrasts Nietzsche’s idea of the Übermensch with the idea of the subhuman. Bull writes that subhumanism involves giving up on “becoming more than a man and think[ing] only of becoming something less” (n.p.; Chapter 2, sec. “The Subhuman”). Piccinini depicts vulnerability and tenderness with life forms that are properly speaking subhuman, and reject the displays of strength of Nietzsche’s suprahumanism or Vasari’s emphasis on art commemorating great men. But Piccinini’s subhumanism preserves enough humanism to understand art’s ability to encourage an ethics of nurturing. In this respect, her works offer an alternative to Bull’s subhumanism that aims, so Bull argues, to devalue art altogether. Instead, Piccinini affirms imagination, but through its ability to conjure new ways to perceive animal affection. The sub-subject thereby functions to reveal states of emotion common to mammals (including humans) and other animals. ConclusionThese three artists therefore convey distinct, if related and intersecting, ways of visualising the sub-subject: Bacon through animal suffering, Švankmajer through adaptation that ultimately leads to the agent’s entrapment, and Piccinini who, instead of marrying anti-humanism with the subhumanism (the procedure of Švankmajer, and Bacon), integrates aspects of transhumanism and Renaissance humanism into her subhuman vision. As such, these works present a realisation of how we might think of the going under of the human subject after Darwin, Nietzsche and the deaths of God, Man and the diminishment of creativity. Such works remain not only antithetical to Vasari’s humanism but also to Nietzsche’s suprahumanism. These artists use art’s power to humble—not through overpowering awe but through the visible breakdown of the human agent, speaking for and to the sub-subject. Such art, by unbuilding and dismantling the subject, draws on prehuman trajectories of evolution, and in the case of Piccinini, transhuman trajectories. Art ceases to be about the grandiose evocations of power. Rather, more modestly, these works build a connection between the human with other mammals. Acknowledgements I wish to acknowledge Daniel Canaris for his valuable insights into Christianity and the Italian Renaissance, Alan Cholodenko for providing copies of his works that were central to my interpretation of Švankmajer, and Rachel Franks and Simon Dwyer for their invaluable assistance and finding very helpful reviewers. References Artaud, Antonin. The Theatre and Its Double. New York: Grove P, 1958.Art Gallery of South Australia. “Educational Resource Patricia Piccinini.” Adelaide: Art Gallery of South Australia. 11 Dec. 2016 <https://www.artgallery.sa.gov.au/agsa/home/Learning/docs/Online_Resources/Piccinini_online_resource.pdf>.Bacon, Francis. “Head I.” 1948. Oil on Canvas. 100.3 x 74.9cm. ———. “Study of a Baboon.” 1953. Oil on Canvas. 198.3 x 137.3cm. Bull, Malcolm. Anti-Nietzsche. New York: Verso, 2011. Cholodenko, Alan. “First Principles of Animation.” Animating Film Theory. Ed. Karen Beckman. Duke UP, 2014. 98-110.———. “The Crypt, the Haunted House, of Cinema.” Cultural Studies Review 10.2 (2004): 99-113. Darkness, Light, Darkness. Jan Švankmajer, 1990. 35mm. Nietzsche, Friedrich. The Birth of Tragedy and Other Writings. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2007. ———. The Gay Science. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2007. ———. Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2006.Piccinini, Patricia. “The Young Family.” 2002. Silicone, Polyurethane, Leather, Plywood, Human Hair, 80 x 150 x 110cm. Vasari, Giorgio. The Lives of Artists. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1998.Wolfe, Cary. What Is Posthumanism? Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2010.

IntroductionThe common origin of the adjective “corporeal” and the noun “corpse” in the Latin root corpus points to the value of mortuary practices for investigating how the human body is objectified. In post-mortem rituals, the body—formerly the manipulator of objects—becomes itself the object that is manipulated. Thus, these funerary rituals provide a type of double reflexivity, where the object and subject of manipulation can be used to reciprocally illuminate one another. To this extent, any consideration of corporeality can only benefit from a discussion of how the body is objectified through mortuary practices. This paper offers just such a discussion with respect to a selection of two contrasting mortuary practices, in the context of the prehistoric past and the Classical Era respectively. At the most general level, we are motivated by the same intellectual impulse that has stimulated expositions on corporeality, materiality, and incarnation in areas like phenomenology (Merleau-Ponty 77–234), Marxism (Adorno 112–119), gender studies (Grosz vii–xvi), history (Laqueur 193–244), and theology (Henry 33–53). That is to say, our goal is to show that the body, far from being a transparent frame through which we encounter the world, is in fact a locus where historical, social, cultural, and psychological forces intersect. On this view, “the body vanishes as a biological entity and becomes an infinitely malleable and highly unstable culturally constructed product” (Shilling 78). However, for all that the cited paradigms offer culturally situated appreciations of corporeality; our particular intellectual framework will be provided by cognitive science. Two reasons impel us towards this methodological choice.In the first instance, the study of ritual has, after several decades of stagnation, been rewarded—even revolutionised—by the application of insights from the new sciences of the mind (Whitehouse 1–12; McCauley and Lawson 1–37). Thus, there are good reasons to think that ritual treatments of the body will refract historical and social forces through empirically attested tendencies in human cognition. In the present connection, this means that knowledge of these tendencies will reward any attempt to theorise the objectification of the body in mortuary rituals.In the second instance, because beliefs concerning the afterlife can never be definitively judged to be true or false, they give free expression to tendencies in cognition that are otherwise constrained by the need to reflect external realities accurately. To this extent, they grant direct access to the intuitive ideas and biases that shape how we think about the world. Already, this idea has been exploited to good effect in areas like the cognitive anthropology of religion, which explores how counterfactual beings like ghosts, spirits, and gods conform to (and deviate from) pre-reflective cognitive patterns (Atran 83–112; Barrett and Keil 219–224; Barrett and Reed 252–255; Boyer 876–886). Necessarily, this implies that targeting post-mortem treatments of the body will offer unmediated access to some of the conceptual schemes that inform thinking about human corporeality.At a more detailed level, the specific methodology we propose to use will be provided by conceptual blending theory—a framework developed by Gilles Fauconnier, Mark Turner, and others to describe how structures from different areas of experience are creatively blended to form a new conceptual frame. In this system, a generic space provides the ground for coordinating two or more input spaces into a blended space that synthesises them into a single output. Here this would entail using natural or technological processes to structure mortuary practices in a way that satisfies various psychological needs.Take, for instance, W.B. Yeats’s famous claim that “Too long a sacrifice / Can make a stone of the heart” (“Easter 1916” in Yeats 57-8). Here, the poet exploits a generic space—that of everyday objects and the effort involved in manipulating them—to coordinate an organic input from that taxonomy (the heart) with an inorganic input (a stone) to create the blended idea that too energetic a pursuit of an abstract ideal turns a person into an unfeeling object (the heart-as-stone). Although this particular example corresponds to a familiar rhetorical figure (the metaphor), the value of conceptual blending theory is that it cuts across distinctions of genre, media, language, and discourse level to provide a versatile framework for expressing how one area of human experience is related to another.As indicated, we will exploit this versatility to investigate two ways of objectifying the body through the examination of two contrasting mortuary practices—cremation and inhumation—against different cultural horizons. The first of these is the conceptualisation of the body as an object of a technical process, where the post-mortem cremation of the corpse is analogically correlated with the metallurgical refining of ore into base metal. Our area of focus here will be Bronze Age cremation practices. The second conceptual scheme we will investigate focuses on treatments of the body as a vegetable object; here, the relevant analogy likens the inhumation of the corpse to the planting of a seed in the soil from which future growth will come. This discussion will centre on the Classical Era. Burning: The Body as Manufactured ObjectThe Early and Middle Bronze Age in Western Europe (2500-1200 BCE) represented a period of change in funerary practices relative to the preceding Neolithic, exemplified by a move away from the use of Megalithic monuments, a proliferation of grave goods, and an increase in the use of cremation (Barrett 38-9; Cooney and Grogan 105-121; Brück, Material Metaphors 308; Waddell, Bronze Age 141-149). Moreover, the Western European Bronze Age is characterised by a shift away from communal burial towards single interment (Barrett 32; Bradley 158-168). Equally, the Bronze Age in Western Europe provides us with evidence of an increased use of cist and pit cremation burials concentrated in low-lying areas (Woodman 254; Waddell, Prehistoric 16; Cooney and Grogan 105-121; Bettencourt 103). This greater preference for lower-lying location appears to reflect a distinctive change in comparison to the distribution patterns of the Neolithic burials; these are often located on prominent, visible aspects of a landscape (Cooney and Grogan 53-61). These new Bronze Age burial practices appear to reflect a distancing in relation to the territories of the “old ancestors” typified by Megalithic monuments (Bettencourt 101-103). Crucially, the Bronze Age archaeological record provides us with evidence that indicates that cremation was becoming the dominant form of deposition of human remains throughout Central and Western Europe (Sørensen and Rebay 59-60).The activities associated with Bronze Age cremations such as the burning of the body and the fragmentation of the remains have often been considered as corporeal equivalents (or expressions) of the activities involved in metal (bronze) production (Brück, Death 84-86; Sørensen and Rebay 60–1; Rebay-Salisbury, Cremations 66-67). There are unequivocal similarities between the practices of cremation and contemporary bronze production technologies—particularly as both processes involve the transformation of material through the application of fire at temperatures between 700 ºC to 1000 ºC (Musgrove 272-276; Walker et al. 132; de Becdelievre et al. 222-223).We assert that the technologies that define the European Bronze Age—those involved in alloying copper and tin to produce bronze—offered a new conceptual frame that enabled the body to be objectified in new ways. The fundamental idea explored here is that the displacement of inhumation by cremation in the European Bronze Age was motivated by a cognitive shift, where new smelting technologies provided novel conceptual metaphors for thinking about age-old problems concerning human mortality and post-mortem survival. The increased use of cremation in the European Bronze Age contrasts with the archaeological record of the Near Eastern—where, despite the earlier emergence of metallurgy (3300–3000 BCE), we do not see a notable proliferation in the use of cremation in this region. Thus, mortuary practices (i.e. cremation) provide us with an insight into how Western European Bronze Age cultures mediated the body through changes in technological objects and processes.In the terminology of conceptual blending, the generic space in question centres on the technical manipulation of the material world. The first input space is associated with the anxiety attending mortality—specifically, the cessation of personal identity and the extinction of interpersonal relationships. The second input space represents the technical knowledge associated with bronze production; in particular, the extraction of ore from source material and its mixing with other metals to form an alloy. The blended space coordinates these inputs to objectify the human body as an object that is ritually transformed into a new but more durable substance via the cremation process. In this contention we use the archaeological record to draw a conceptual parallel between the emergence of bronze production technology—centring on transition of naturally occurring material to a new subsistence (bronze)—and the transitional nature of the cremation process.In this theoretical framework, treating the body as a mixture of substances that can be reduced to its constituents and transformed through technologies of cremation enabled Western European Bronze Age society to intervene in the natural process of putrefaction and transform the organic matter into something more permanent. This transformative aspect of the cremation is seen in the evidence we have for secondary burial practices involving the curation and circulation of cremated bones of deceased members of a group (Brück, Death 87-93). This evidence allows us to assert that cremated human remains and objects were considered products of the same transformation into a more permanent state via burning, fragmentation, dispersal, and curation. Sofaer (62-69) states that the living body is regarded as a person, but as soon as the transition to death is made, the body becomes an object; this is an “ontological shift in the perception of the body that assumes a sudden change in its qualities” (62).Moreover, some authors have proposed that the exchange of fragmented human remains was central to mortuary practices and was central in establishing and maintaining social relations (Brück, Death 76-88). It is suggested that in the Early Bronze Age the perceptions of the human body mirrored the perceptions of objects associated with the arrival of the new bronze technology (Brück, Death 88-92). This idea is more pronounced if we consider the emergence of bronze technology as the beginning of a period of capital intensification of natural resources. Through this connection, the Bronze Age can be regarded as the point at which a particular natural resource—in this case, copper—went through myriad intensive manufacturing stages, which are still present today (intensive extraction, production/manufacturing, and distribution). Unlike stone tool production, bronze production had the addition of fire as the explicit method of transformation (Brück, Death 88-92). Thus, such views maintain that the transition achieved by cremation—i.e. reducing the human remains to objects or tokens that could be exchanged and curated relatively soon after the death of the individual—is equivalent to the framework of commodification connected with bronze production.A sample of cremated remains from Castlehyde in County Cork, Ireland, provides us with an example of a Bronze Age cremation burial in a Western European context (McCarthy). This is chosen because it is a typical example of a Bronze Age cremation burial in the context of Western Europe; also, one of the authors (MG) has first-hand experience in the analysis of its associated remains. The Castlehyde cremation burial consisted of a rectangular, stone-lined cist (McCarthy). The cist contained cremated, calcined human remains, with the fragments generally ranging from a greyish white to white in colour; this indicates that the bones were subject to a temperature range of 700-900ºC. The organic content of bone was destroyed during the cremation process, leaving only the inorganic matrix (brittle bone which is, often, described as metallic in consistency—e.g. Gejvall 470-475). There is evidence that remains may have been circulated in a manner akin to valuable metal objects. First of all, the absence of long bones indicates that there may have been a practice of removing salient remains as curatable records of ancestral ties. Secondly, remains show traces of metal staining from objects that are no longer extant, which suggests that graves were subject to secondary burial practices involving the removal of metal objects and/or human bone. To this extent, we can discern that human remains were being processed, curated, and circulated in a similar manner to metal objects.Thus, there are remarkable similarities between the treatment of the human body in cremation and bronze metal production technologies in the European Bronze Age. On the one hand, the parallel between smelting and cremation allowed death to be understood as a process of transformation in which the individual was removed from processes of organic decay. On the other hand, the circulation of the transformed remains conferred a type of post-mortem survival on the deceased. In this way, cremation practices may have enabled Bronze Age society to symbolically overcome the existential anxiety concerning the loss of personhood and the breaking of human relationships through death. In relation to the former point, the resurgence of cremation in nineteenth century Europe provides us with an example of how the disposal of a human body can be contextualised in relation to socio-technological advancements. The (re)emergence of cremation in this period reflects the post-Enlightenment shift from an understanding of the world through religious beliefs to the use of rational, scientific approaches to examine the natural world, including the human body (and death). The controlled use of fire in the cremation process, as well as the architecture of crematories, reflected the industrial context of the period (Rebay-Salisbury, Inhumation 16).With respect to the circulation of cremated remains, Smith suggests that Early Medieval Christian relics of individual bones or bone fragments reflect a reconceptualised continuation of pre-Christian practices (beginning in Christian areas of the Roman Empire). In this context, it is claimed, firstly, that the curation of bone relics and the use of mobile bone relics of important, saintly individuals provided an embodied connection between the sacred sphere and the earthly world; and secondly, that the use of individual bones or fragments of bone made the Christian message something portable, which could be used to reinforce individual or collective adherence to Christianity (Smith 143-167). Using the example of the Christian bone relics, we can thus propose that the curation and circulation of Bronze Age cremated material may have served a role similar to tools for focusing religiously oriented cognition. Burying: The Body as a Vegetable ObjectGiven that the designation “the Classical Era” nominates the entirety of the Graeco-Roman world (including the Near East and North Africa) from about 800 BCE to 600 CE, there were obviously no mortuary practices common to all cultures. Nevertheless, in both classical Greece and Rome, we have examples of periods when either cremation or inhumation was the principal funerary custom (Rebay-Salisbury, Inhumation 19-21).For instance, the ancient Homeric texts inform us that the ancient Greeks believed that “the spirit of the departed was sentient and still in the world of the living as long as the flesh was in existence […] and would rather have the body devoured by purifying fire than by dogs or worms” (Mylonas 484). However, the primary sources and archaeological record indicate that cremation practices declined in Athens circa 400 BCE (Rebay-Salisbury, Inhumation 20). With respect to the Roman Empire, scholarly opinion argues that inhumation was the dominant funerary rite in the eastern part of the Empire (Rebay-Salisbury, Inhumation 17-21; Morris 52). Complementing this, the archaeological and historical record indicates that inhumation became the primary rite throughout the Roman Empire in the first century CE. Inhumation was considered to be an essential rite in the context of an emerging belief that a peaceful afterlife was reflected by a peaceful burial in which bodily integrity was maintained (Rebay-Salisbury, Inhumation 19-21; Morris 52; Toynbee 41). The question that this poses is how these beliefs were framed in the broader discourses of Classical culture.In this regard, our claim is that the growth in inhumation was driven (at least in part) by the spread of a conceptual scheme, implicit in Greek fertility myths that objectify the body as a seed. The conceptual logic here is that the post-mortem continuation of personal identity is (symbolically) achieved by objectifying the body as a vegetable object that will re-grow from its own physical remains. Although the dominant metaphor here is vegetable, there is no doubt that the motivating concern of this mythological fabulation is human mortality. As Jon Davies notes, “the myths of Hades, Persephone and Demeter, of Orpheus and Eurydice, of Adonis and Aphrodite, of Selene and Endymion, of Herakles and Dionysus, are myths of death and rebirth, of journeys into and out of the underworld, of transactions and transformations between gods and humans” (128). Thus, such myths reveal important patterns in how the post-mortem fate of the body was conceptualised.In the terminology of mental mapping, the generic space relevant to inhumation contains knowledge pertaining to folk biology—specifically, pre-theoretical ideas concerning regeneration, survival, and mortality. The first input space attaches to human mortality; it departs from the anxiety associated with the seeming cessation of personal identity and dissolution of kin relationships subsequent to death. The second input space is the subset of knowledge concerning vegetable life, and how the immersion of seeds in the soil produces a new generation of plants with the passage of time. The blended space combines the two input spaces by way of the funerary script, which involves depositing the body in the soil with a view to securing its eventual rebirth by analogy with the sprouting of a planted seed.As indicated, the most important illustration of this conceptual pattern can be found in the fertility myths of ancient Greece. The Homeric Hymns, in particular, provide a number of narratives that trace out correspondences between vegetation cycles, human mortality, and inhumation, which inform ritual practice (Frazer 223–404; Carney 355–65; Sowa 121–44). The Homeric Hymn to Demeter, for instance, charts how Persephone is abducted by Hades, god of the dead, and taken to his underground kingdom. While searching for her missing daughter, Demeter, goddess of fertility, neglects the earth, causing widespread devastation. Matters are resolved when Zeus intervenes to restore Persephone to Demeter. However, having ingested part of Hades’s kingdom (a pomegranate seed), Persephone is obliged to spend half the year below ground with her captor and the other half above ground with her mother.The objectification of Persephone as both a seed and a corpse in this narrative is clearly signalled by her seasonal inhumation in Hades’ chthonic realm, which is at once both the soil and the grave. And, just as the planting of seeds in autumn ensures rebirth in spring, Persephone’s seasonal passage from the Kingdom of the Dead nominates the individual human life as just one season in an endless cycle of death and rebirth. A further signifying element is added by the ingestion of the pomegranate seed. This is evocative of her being inseminated by Hades; thus, the coordination of vegetation cycles with life and death is correlated with secondary transition—that from childhood to adulthood (Kerényi 119–183).In the examples given, we can see how the Homeric Hymn objectifies both the mortal and sexual destiny of the body in terms of thresholds derived from the vegetable world. Moreover, this mapping is not merely an intellectual exercise. Its emotional and social appeal is visible in the fact that the Eleusinian mysteries—which offered the ritual homologue to the Homeric Hymn to Demeter—persisted from the Mycenaean period to 396 CE, one of the longest recorded durations for any ritual (Ferguson 254–9; Cosmopoulos 1–24). In sum, then, classical myth provided a precedent for treating the body as a vegetable object—most often, a seed—that would, in turn, have driven the move towards inhumation as an important mortuary practice. The result is to create a ritual form that makes key aspects of human experience intelligible by connecting them with cyclical processes like the seasons of the year, the harvesting of crops, and the intergenerational oscillation between the roles of parent and child. Indeed, this pattern remains visible in the germination metaphors and burial practices of contemporary religions such as Christianity, which draw heavily on the symbolism associated with mystery cults like that at Eleusis (Nock 177–213).ConclusionWe acknowledge that our examples offer a limited reflection of the ethnographic and archaeological data, and that they need to be expanded to a much greater degree if they are to be more than merely suggestive. Nevertheless, suggestiveness has its value, too, and we submit that the speculations explored here may well offer a useful starting point for a larger survey. In particular, they showcase how a recurring existential anxiety concerning death—involving the fear of loss of personal identity and kinship relations—is addressed by different ways of objectifying the body. Given that the body is not reducible to the objects with which it is identified, these objectifications can never be entirely successful in negotiating the boundary between life and death. In the words of Jon Davies, “there is simply no let-up in the efforts by human beings to transcend this boundary, no matter how poignantly each failure seemed to reinforce it” (128). For this reason, we can expect that the record will be replete with conceptual and cognitive schemes that mediate the experience of death.At a more general level, it should also be clear that our understanding of human corporeality is rewarded by the study of mortuary practices. 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