Hagiography and Religious Truth: Case Studies in the Abrahamic and Dharmic Traditions 9781474235778, 9781474235808, 9781474235785

Table of contents :
Cover
Half-title
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Figures
Contributors
Foreword
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Part I: Theoretical Considerations
1. Saints, Truth, and the “Use and Abuse” of Hagiography
2. Devotion, Critique, and the Reading of Christian Saints’ Lives
3. Sacred Narrative and The Truth: What Does It Mean If It Did Not Happen?
Part II: Case Studies in Dharmic Traditions
4. Imagining Hagiographies in Chhattisgarh Ramdas Lamb
5. Turning Tomb to Temple: Hagiography, Sacred Space, and Ritual Activity in a Thirteenth-Century Hindu Shrine
6. From Legend to Flesh and Bone: The Reenactment of a Tantric Narrative
Part III: Case Studies in Abrahamic Traditions
7. The Transmission of Virtue in the Hagiography of Haci Bektas Veli: The Narrative of Güvenç Abdal
8. A Global Intercessor: Triumphalism and Reconciliation in the Services of St. John Maximovich
9. “King-slaves” in South Africa: Shrines, Ritual, & Resistance
10. Many Truths, One Story: John of Ephesus’s Lives of the Eastern Saints
Part IV: Case Studies in Comparison
11. Saints from the Margin: Rescuing Tradition through Hagiography in the Lives of Sylouan the Athonite and Milarepa
12. Holy Negotiations in a Hindu Heartland: Abundant People and Spaces among the Khrist Bhaktas of Banaras
Afterword: Truth, Scholarship, and Hagiography in the Study of Our Saints
Notes
Select Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Hagiography and Religious Truth

Also available from Bloomsbury Academic Religious Statues and Personhood: Testing the Role of Materiality, Amy Whitehead Meditation in Judaism, Christianity and Islam: Cultural Histories, edited by Halvor Eifring Ritual: Key Concepts in Religion, Pamela J. Stewart and Andrew Strathern

Hagiography and Religious Truth

Case Studies in the Abrahamic and Dharmic Traditions

Edited by Rico G. Monge, Kerry P. C. San Chirico, and Rachel J. Smith

BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2016 Paperback edition first published 2018 Copyright © Rico G. Monge, Kerry P.C. San Chirico, Rachel J. Smith and Contributors 2016 Rico G. Monge, Kerry P.C. San Chirico, Rachel J. Smith and Contributors have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editors of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgements on p. xvi constitute an extension of this copyright page. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Monge, Rico G., editor. Hagiography and religious truth: case studies in the Abrahamic and Dharmic traditions / edited by Rico G. Monge, Kerry P.C. San Chirico, and Rachel J. Smith. New York: Bloomsbury, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index. LCCN 2016016471 (print) | LCCN 2016024874 (ebook) | ISBN 9781474235778 (hardback: alk. paper) | ISBN 9781474235785 (epdf) | ISBN 9781474235792 (epub) LCSH: Saints. | Hagiography. | Abrahamic religions. | Hinduism. LCC BL488 .H34 2016 (print) | LCC BL488 (ebook) | DDC 206/.1–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016016471 ISBN:

HB: 978-1-4742-3577-8 PB: 978-1-350-06528-4 ePDF: 978-1-4742-3578-5 eBook: 978-1-4742-3579-2

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To Sara, Sheri, and Brett

Contents Figures Contributors Foreword: Of Saints and Scholars by Jeffrey J. Kripal Acknowledgments Introduction Rico G. Monge, Kerry P. C. San Chirico, and Rachel J. Smith

ix x xiii xvi 1

Part I theoretical considerations Saints, Truth, and the “Use and Abuse” of Hagiography Rico G. Monge Devotion, Critique, and the Reading of Christian Saints’ Lives Rachel J. Smith

7 23

Sacred Narrative and The Truth: What Does It Mean If It Did Not Happen? Patricia Fann Bouteneff and Peter C. Bouteneff 37 Part II CASE STUDIES IN DHARMIC TRADITIONS Imagining Hagiographies in Chhattisgarh Ramdas Lamb

53

Turning Tomb to Temple: Hagiography, Sacred Space, and Ritual Activity in a Thirteenth-Century Hindu Shrine Mark J. McLaughlin

70

From Legend to Flesh and Bone: The Reenactment of a Tantric Narrative Joel S. Gruber 89

Contents

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Part III CASE STUDIES IN ABRAHAMIC TRADITIONS The Transmission of Virtue in the Hagiography of Hacı Bektaş Veli: The Narrative of Güvenç Abdal Vernon J. Schubel

109

A Global Intercessor: Triumphalism and Reconciliation in the Services of St. John Maximovich Nicholas Denysenko

124

“King-slaves” in South Africa: Shrines, Ritual, & Resistance

Bahar Davary

Many Truths, One Story: John of Ephesus’s Lives of the Eastern Saints Todd E. French

137 151

Part IV Case Studies in Comparison Saints from the Margin: Rescuing Tradition through Hagiography in the Lives of Sylouan the Athonite and Milarepa Thomas Cattoi

169

Holy Negotiations in a Hindu Heartland: Abundant People and Spaces among the Khrist Bhaktas of Banaras Kerry P. C. San Chirico

183

Afterword: Truth, Scholarship, and Hagiography in the Study of Our Saints Francis X. Clooney, SJ

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Notes 205 Select Bibliography 247 Index 254

Figures Figure 1 Diagram, Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī.75 Figure 2 Taking darśan of the Ajāna Vṛkṣa (Unborn Tree). Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin. 78 Figure 3 Wall inscribed with the text of the Jñāneśvarī. Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin. 78 Figure 4 A Jñāneśvar devotee reciting the Jñāneśvarī near the Ajāna Vṛkṣa (Unborn Tree). Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin. 79 Figure 5 Jñāneśvar devotee reciting the Jñāneśvarī near the Ajāna Vṛkṣa (Unborn Tree). Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin. 80 Figure 6 Jñāneśvar devotee reciting the Jñāneśvarī near the Ajāna Vṛkṣa (Unborn Tree). Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin. 81 Figure 7  Śikhara tower over the samādhi marker of Jñāneśvar. Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin. 83 Figure 8 Jñāneśvar’s bare samādhi marker corresponding with the niṣkala (without form) aspect of Śiva. Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Shirish Shete. 84 Figure 9 Jñāneśvar’s dressed samādhi marker corresponding with the sakala (with form) aspect of Śiva. Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi 86 Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Shirish Shete.

Contributors Patricia Fann Bouteneff focuses her academic research on the folklore of the Greeks of Asia Minor. Apart from numerous published essays on folktales and theater, her monograph Exiles on Stage: The Modern Pontic Theater of Greece (Athens, Greece: Epitropi Pontiakon Meleton, 2002) remains the authoritative treatment of that subject. In the corporate sphere, she specializes in organizational engagement and strategic communications. Peter C. Bouteneff is a professor of systematic theology at St. Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary, where, apart from teaching courses in theology, spirituality, and sacred arts, he directs the Arvo Pärt Project and the Sacred Arts Initiative. He has published on a wide array of theological and artistic subjects, including two books addressing the nature of truth and historicity: Sweeter than Honey: Orthodox Thinking on Dogma and Truth (SVS Press, 2006), and Beginnings: Ancient Christian Readings of the Biblical Creation Narratives (Baker Academic, 2008). His latest monograph is Arvo Pärt: Out of Silence (SVS Press: 2015). Thomas Cattoi holds a PhD from Boston College and is associate professor of Christology and cultures at the Jesuit School of Theology at Santa Clara University, which is part of the Graduate Theological Union at Berkeley, California. He is the author of Divine Contingency: Theologies of Divine Embodiment in Maximos the Confessor and Tsong kha pa (Gorgias Press, 2009) and Theodore the Studite: Writings on Iconoclasm (Ancient Christian Writers. Newman Press, 2014), as well as the editor of Perceiving the Divine through the Human Body: Mystical Sensuality (Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), Local Ecclesiologies in Dialogue (Solstice Press, 2013), and The Ecstasy of the End (Palgrave Macmillan, 2015). His teaching and research interests focus on Christology, early Christian spirituality, and Buddhist–Christian dialogue, with particular attention to the world of Vajrayāna. He is currently the co-editor of the journal Buddhist-Christian Studies and is completing a volume on the comparative theology of the sacred image. Bahar Davary is an associate professor of religious studies at the University of San Diego. Davary offers undergraduate courses on world religions, Islamic faith and practice, and diversity courses. At the graduate level she has taught comparative religious ethics at the Joan B. Kroc Institute for Peace and Justice. Davary’s scholarly research focuses on the interpretation of the classical Islamic canon as well as engagement with the concrete lives and social situations of women in various parts of the Muslim world. She is the author of Women and the Qur’an: A Study in Islamic Hermeneutics, as well as a number of articles on Islam and feminism.

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Nicholas Denysenko is an associate professor of theological studies and director of the Huffington Ecumenical Institute at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. Denysenko is the author of three books and several articles on liturgy, including Liturgical Reform After Vatican II (Fortress, 2015). Todd E. French holds a PhD from Columbia University and is an assistant professor of religion at Rollins College, Winter Park, Florida. He specializes in late antique hagiography, early Christianity, and Syriac literature. His areas of interest include Byzantine history, and narrative in the context of religion. He has published a number of articles and book chapters on Augustine of Hippo, Syriac Christianity, and patristic Christology. Joel S. Gruber earned a PhD in religious studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara, specializing in Tibetan Buddhist biography, history, and doctrine. He currently teaches courses covering a wide array of topics at the University of San Diego, including Buddhism, Hinduism, Chinese religions, and religious studies theory. He has published numerous journal articles and short essays on a diverse range of topics, including Tibetan Buddhism, Sino-Tibetan politics, Buddhism in the West, religion and pop culture, and Occultism. Joel is currently working on a forthcoming book on an enigmatic medieval saint purported to have influenced the religio-cultural history of Indian, Tibetan, and Chinese Buddhism. Ramdas Lamb is a professor of religion at the University of Hawai’i. He has been studying the religious and cultural traditions of rural Chhattisgarh since the mid-1970s. Among his publications on the region is Rapt in the Name: The Ramnamis, Ramnam, and Untouchable Religion in Central India (SUNY Press, 2002). Mark J. McLaughlin is a visiting assistant professor of South Asian Religions at the College of William and Mary. McLaughlin’s research focuses on sacred space in the subcontinent, most especially as it is expressed in Hindu traditions. At the moment, his research concerns Hindu samādhi shrines (tomb-shrines of revered gurus) and includes the forthcoming publication, “From Veda to Dargāh: The Roots of Hindu Samādhi Burial Practice and its Emergence as a Full-fledged Shrine Worship Tradition,” in The Built Environment of Death and Cremation in Hinduism, edited by Cathleen A. Cummings (forthcoming). Rico G. Monge is an assistant professor of comparative theology and religious studies at the University of San Diego. His teaching and research focuses on comparative theology, continental philosophy of religion, and the history of Christian theology (including Catholic, Protestant, and Eastern Orthodox theology). As a comparative theologian, Monge specializes in Christian and Islamic mystical and ascetic traditions. Monge is the author of articles on the philosophical underpinnings of Alexander Schmemann’s sacramental theology, Basil of Caesarea’s ecclesiology, and the ascetic dimensions of Islam (forthcoming).

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He is also in the early stages of planning a book that will offer a distinctively Eastern Orthodox approach to the field of comparative theology. Kerry P. C. San Chirico is an assistant professor of interfaith and inter-religious studies at Villanova University. With expertise in Indian religions and Global Christianities, his scholarly interests include South Asian bhakti, vernacular Hinduism, inter-religious interaction and exchange, and theory and method in the study of religion. Recent publications include the chapter “Religion in the Practice of Daily Life in India” in the series Religion and Everyday Life and Culture (Praeger, 2010) and “Between Christian and Hindu: Khrist Bhaktas, Catholics, and the Negotiation of Devotion in the Banaras Region” in Constructing Indian Christianities (Routledge India, 2014). He is currently the secretary of the Society for Hindu-Christian Studies. Vernon James Schubel is professor of religious studies at Kenyon College, where he is also the director of the Islamic Civilization and Cultures program. He has conducted research on Islam in Pakistan, Turkey, and Central Asia with an emphasis on the Sufi and Shi’i traditions. He is the author of Religious Performance in Contemporary Islam, which was published by the University of South Carolina Press in 1993, and numerous articles on Islam. Rachel J. Smith is an assistant professor in the Department of Theology and Religious Studies at Villanova University. Smith’s research focuses on the Middle Ages at the intersection of theology, history, and literature. She is particularly interested in sanctity and its representation in saints’ lives and literatures and practices of devotion. Her forthcoming publications include an article on Thomas of Cantimpré’s Life of Lutgard of Aywières in The Harvard Theological Review, an essay, with Amy Hollywood, on Christology in The Oxford Companion to Mystical Theology, and an essay on Anselm of Canterbury and Hadewijch in the volume The Practice of the Presence of God: Theology as a Way of Life (Ashgate).

Foreword Of Saints and Scholars The editors asked me to write a foreword for this new collection of chapters on Hagiography and Religious Truth. I am honored and happy to do that. I take it as my little task here not to introduce the individual chapters, which are uniformly provocative, but to explain—briefly and bluntly—why the potential reader should read this book. Allow me to do this in two quick steps. The first involves, not too surprisingly, a story about a saint, in this case a Hindu one. The second summarizes my own reading of the collection and its hopeful movement toward a new critical theory of the possible. First, the story. Let us call it . . . . The Neuroscientist and the Electric Saint Marjorie Hines Woollacott is a neuroscientist. She was teaching at Virginia Polytechnic Institute in 1975. She did not want to go to the meditation retreat her sister had gifted her for her birthday. As a professional scientist, Marjorie shared little of her sister’s enthusiasm for such things. Still, Marjorie and Cathie were very close, and there was something else. Cathie had given Marjorie a mantra to repeat before a plane flight for her flying anxieties, and it somehow oddly calmed her down in ways that went well beyond what she was expecting. Still rather astonished by the odd effects of the mantra on the plane, Marjorie decided to give the retreat a try. It was a fateful decision. What the retreat promised was an “initiation” (diksha) at the touch of a realized master or guru. And these people were not trucking in metaphors. They meant it. The details are well known to historians and ethnographers of the Hindu Tantric traditions. This is the “descent of power” (shakti-pat), an often literally “electric” zapping that is believed to awaken a dormant energy system in the human body variously described and imagined in different systems. The modern chakra system is probably the best known of these. Subtle body systems aside, the message is clear enough: the secret of enlightenment sleeps in us all, and it can be awakened by the electric touch of one in whose body it is already active. Hence the importance, even necessity, of the realized saint. The lamp won’t go on, after all, if you don’t plug it into the wall socket. One needs a power source. This guru used peacock feathers to help him plug people into the universal current. Here is what happened to Marjorie that day: Then, firmly, I felt the swami’s thumb and fingers right between my eyes and on the bridge of my nose. I was alert. My eyes were closed, but my senses were

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Foreword otherwise fully engaged, so that when in this moment I experienced a current of what felt like electricity enter from the swami’s fingers into my body, I had a sense of utter certainty about the event. It isn’t that I knew precisely what had happened. To this day, I can’t explain it. But it seemed as if a tiny lightning bolt leapt from his fingers to a point between my eyes and down to the center of my chest. I could feel the exact point where the energy stopped. I knew it was my heart, not the physical heart but parallel to the physical heart and more like a heart than my physical heart had ever been. I say that because for the first time I could feel energy pulsating from my ‘new’ heart, which seemed to be at my very core. . . . It felt like nectar; it felt like pure love pouring through me. Words went through my mind, and they had nothing to do with scientific analysis: I’m home, I’m home! My heart is my home!1

The eventual effect of this transmission of energies on Marjorie was profound, life changing really. She would continue her career in neuroscience, where she works to this day, but she would also come to see that she has serious doubts about this particular community’s reductive, materialist, bottom-up approach to the nature of consciousness. Consciousness, she came to see, is most likely not an emergent property of brain matter, as everyone around her in her professional life seemed to assume. In 2015, she came out of her professional closet and published her statement on all of this, a book entitled Infinite Awareness: The Awakening of a Scientific Mind. To Weird and Wonder the Study of Religion I open with Marjorie’s story of the electric saint in order to perform what I take to be the central points of these chapters: that hagiographical literature, that is, stories about saints, carry their own specific forms of truth; that these truths are transmitted and manifested (as opposed to measured or verified) in the miraculous, theological and fantastic genres of these stories; and that such religious truths cannot be reduced to the standard “contexts” and “constructs” of the historical and social scientific study of religion, although many times they might well involve historical facts and empirical realities, as we see with the story of Marjorie. As a simple illustration of these profound points, consider, for just a moment, the comparative categories of “charisma” and “initiation.” Reading the classic literature on the sociology of religion, for example, one comes away with the distinct impression that what sociologists call “charisma” is entirely socially constructed, that its oft-reported “electric” or “magnetic” nature is little more than a metaphor for social relations and the excitement generated by the presence of a religious leader (who, of course, is not really “electric” or “magnetic”). So too with “initiation” and the transmission of secret knowledge that is often at the heart of such an event. If one reads the standard literature on these particular topics, it is all too easy to get the impression that an initiation is nothing more than a scripted ritual that produces a change in social status or social role; that a religious secret is little more than a constantly receding horizon or teasing promise, an empty signifier; and that the transmission of such a secret is nothing more than

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a trick to accrue social capital and religious authority. Of course, all of these things are often at play. But then there is the apparent little lightning bolt that leapt from the saint’s fingers into Marjorie’s brain and down into the center of her chest, the very core of her being. She knew perfectly well that there were no nerve complexes that could explain these energy movements, but then there they were: What are we supposed to do with that in the standard reductive frameworks? Could particular types of charisma actually involve exotic forms of living energy that are conscious and intentional, that somehow know what they are doing? Is it possible that these energies are not just metaphors for social relations? Stranger still, is it possible that real religious knowledge is somehow carried and communicated by these energetic transmissions? The authors of the present volume are consistent in their implicit answer to these latter rhetorical questions: “Yes, it is possible.” They are working toward a new comparativism that recognizes that what is “impossible” is more a function of our meta-theories and ideologies—what Hayden White called our “historical imaginations”—and what these allow us to imagine and consider as real than it is a function of the empirical elements of “history” or the limits and nature of reality as such. History and reality do not make the saint impossible. We do. There is so much hope here, so much new life, and so much new interest. Such a new historical imagination, after all, promises to weird and wonder the comparative study of religion, without surrendering an iota of the hard-won critical reason and historical consciousness of the discipline. As a number of the authors have pointed out through the pioneering work of Robert Orsi, such an imagination affirms presence as well as absence, pays as much attention to the abundantly anomalous as to the day-to-day norm. It thus calls us to a both-and, not an either-or, way of thinking. In a similar spirit, the authors all display a strong desire to take the legendary events and mythologized experiences of hagiographical literature as resonating with—which is not to say identical to—something real, as something that, yes, of course, has been shaped and exaggerated by tradition, but shaped and exaggerated out of something quite real and impressively resonant across cultures and times. There is a certain most remarkable “realist impulse” here, one that promises to renew and revision the comparative study of religion for the twenty-first century by telling a different story, not just about saints, but about the comparative study of religion itself. Jeffrey J. Kripal J. Newton Rayzor Professor of Religion Rice University

Acknowledgments We are grateful to the many individuals and contributors who have participated in the formation of this volume, not the least of whom are our families. We would also like to thank Bloomsbury Academic and the Commissioning Editor for Religious Studies, Lalle Pursglove, for her unwavering support and invaluable guidance in every step of the process of bringing this text from concept to reality. Special thanks are also due to Sara J. Monge for her editorial eye and work in proofreading. The editors would also like to thank the following scholars and colleagues whose work and mentorship inspired this volume both directly and indirectly: Brenna Moore, Robert Orsi, Amy Hollywood, Bob Davis, Christine Thomas, Thomas A. Carlson, Francis X. Clooney, Jeffrey J. Kripal, Barbara Holdredge, Ann Taves, Mary Hancock, Mathew Schmalz, and Father Premraj, I.M.S. Special acknowledgment is also given to Lauren Horn Griffin for her invaluable assistance in the early stages of this project. Last but not least we are grateful to the College of Arts and Sciences, University of San Diego, for providing a grant that made the publication possible.

Introduction Rico G. Monge, Kerry P. C. San Chirico, and Rachel J. Smith

For too long, hagiographies have been read either as mere myth or legend, or, alternatively, as literal accounts of “what really happened.” Fortunately, historians, academic theologians, and scholars of religion are now considering hagiographic modes of discourse as legitimate forms of historical writing and as sophisticated narrative technologies. Almost concurrently, religionists have begun examining sanctity as a category suitable for comparative study. Following in the footsteps of phenomenologists of religion Joachim Wach and Gerard van der Leeuw as well as philosopher and psychologist William James, scholars such as Robert Cohn and Robert C. Neville have explored the notion of the “saint” as a typology that can be compared across religions.1 More recently, Richard Kieckhefer and George Doherty Bond have examined the category of sainthood in major world religions, editing a volume that provides a theoretical look at the phenomenon of the saint in the world’s major religious traditions.2 Meanwhile, scholars such as Miriam Levering, John Stratton Hawley, and Simon Ditchfield have focused on hagiography as a form of legitimate historical writing in their respective fields and traditions.3 However, there remain very few comparative studies of saints and virtually no interreligious studies of hagiography as such. The only widespread comparisons of sainthood across religions in recent years are Saints and Virtues, edited by John Stratton Hawley in 1987, which explores the notion of saints as moral exemplars in various religious traditions; Women Saints in World Religions, edited by Arvind Sharma in 2000, which collects essays about specific female saints from various religions; and Saints: Faith without Borders, edited by Françoise Meltzer and Jas Elsner in 2012, which focuses on modernity’s dismissal of yet fascination with the concept of the “saint.” None of these volumes focuses on the nature of hagiographic discourse and its truth-bearing power in relation to modern notions of historiography. Engagement with this question largely occurs in relatively specialized contexts, typically among practitioners of particular religious traditions or confessional circles rather than among general historians, academic theologians, and scholars of religious studies. This volume provides a much-needed cross-cultural comparison of sacred history, exploring the ways in which saints’ lives, iconography, and devotional practices are articulations, in Ricoeur’s phrase, of “truths of manifestation,” functioning as vehicles for prefiguring, configuring, and refiguring religious, social, and cultural life.

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By exploring hagiography throughout several of the world’s religious traditions, this volume illustrates how various modes of hagiography articulate religious truths and represent conceptions of sanctity. By “various modes” we mean to highlight that hagiography is not limited to the written lives of saintly figures. Rather, liturgy, text, hymnography, pilgrimage, and sacred space all can operate on the level of hagiographical discourse. We thus define hagiography not only as the lives of saints as depicted textually in narrative, but also as represented iconographically, hymnically, liturgically, and enacted and imitated ritually. The hagiographic materials from a particular time and place can tell us much about the beliefs and practices of a community, yet the limited degree to which hagiography has been used as an instrument for understanding diverse religious traditions in various times and places is surprising. The articles in this volume, when taken together, seek to provide a clearer understanding of the ways hagiography discloses religious truth to practitioners and to suggest various approaches to hagiographic sources that will enrich religionists, historians, and theologians alike. The dismissal of hagiographic discourse as mere myth or legend has seriously limited our understanding of the ways in which hagiography functions as a genuine receptacle of the past that guides individual adherents, religious communities, and societies. This volume will show how certain ideas can be represented most powerfully only through sacred historical material like iconography, ritual practices, and the lives of saints; some meanings simply cannot be communicated effectively through historical-critical methodologies, due to the limitations inherent in such methodologies. This approach does not mean that we must abandon the standards of modern historiography altogether. Rather, it recognizes that there is more than one sort of historical truth, or that the truths conveyed in sacred historical materials may be different from, but not necessarily in irresolvable conflict with, truths conveyed from other perspectives. Drawing upon the thought of Paul Ricoeur, this means that the understanding of “truth as verification,” which dominates the sciences and modern approaches to historiography, is distinct from “truth as manifestation,” which manifests or reveals its truth in a discourse akin to that of poetry. Thus, by exploring how hagiography functions throughout several of the world’s religious traditions, this volume illustrates how various modes of hagiography articulate religious ideas and represent conceptions of sanctity. Providing the reader with guidance on how to approach this book necessitates calling attention to the subtitle of this volume, “Case Studies in the Abrahamic and Dharmic Traditions.” The chapters gathered together here do not aim to present a comprehensive portrait of the function and power of hagiography and its various manifestations. Neither do they make any claim to present a totalizing theory of “Dharmic hagiography” or “Abrahamic hagiography.” Indeed, the chapters are quite selective in which traditions are explored, and each study maintains focus on particular hagiographic phenomena rather than trying to make a statement on the tradition as a whole. Accordingly, the volume consciously includes chapters focused on those traditions that have most openly and explicitly embraced hagiography. Hence, within Christianity, Roman Catholicism and Eastern Orthodoxy appear multiple times, but Protestantism does not. Similarly, both chapters on Islam deal

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with Sufism. Hinduism and Tibetan Buddhism are the primary representatives of the Dharmic traditions. This selection in no way signals that Protestant Christianity, Salafi Islam, Judaism, and other traditions not included here do not have their own forms of hagiography. While these groups might exhibit tendencies ranging from neutral to hostile toward hagiographic devotional practices, they nevertheless do have forms of discourse that are functionally hagiographic. The editors of the present volume hope that the approaches offered here will spark an exploration of the latent hagiographic dimensions of other traditions, whether these traditions are Abrahamic, Dharmic, or neither. The volume is composed of four parts, the first of which includes three chapters devoted to theoretical considerations concerning the interplay of hagiography and truth. Each comes from a different methodological perspective, thus complementing each other. Rico G. Monge’s “Saints, Truth, and the ‘Use and Abuse’ of Hagiography” draws heavily on continental philosophy and theorists of religion to critique modern understandings of truth and to challenge us to take seriously the implications of postmodernity. Rachel J. Smith’s “Devotion, Critique, and the Reading of Christian Saints’ Lives” employs historical-critical methods in order to demonstrate that the opposition between devotion and critique does not hold, thus pointing toward an approach that can help reconcile premodern and modern approaches to truth. Last but not least in this opening section is Peter and Patricia Bouteneff ’s “Sacred Narrative and Truth: What Does It Mean If It Did Not Happen?” Bringing together their respective expertise in Christian theology and folklore, the Bouteneffs demonstrate how ancient hermeneutic strategies and contemporary literary studies can shed light on the meaning of a sacred narrative’s relationship to human history. Having laid down these theoretical considerations, Parts II and III are case studies in the Dharmic and Abrahamic traditions, respectively. Ramdas Lamb’s “Imagining Hagiographies in Chhattisgarh” explores how the charisms of two saintly men in nineteenth-century India were routinized by their hagiographical traditions in nearly opposite trajectories—with exceptional rapidity due to the role of the Internet. Mark McLaughlin’s “Turning Tomb to Temple” investigates how the received hagiographical narrative has transformed a Hindu saint’s tomb into a sacred space manifesting the tradition’s notion of nondual reality. Finally, Joel S. Gruber’s “From Legend to Flesh and Bone” demonstrates how the myth of a quasihistorical Indian saint was transformed into a Tibetan Buddhist historical reality multiple times through ritual embodiment. The case studies in the Abrahamic traditions that form Part III likewise illustrate the truth-bearing power of hagiography. Todd E. French’s “Many Truths, One Story” thus explores how a persecuted sixth-century Christian community’s hagiographic corpus can simultaneously function as a prescription for peace building with estranged Christians and for power consolidation over the pagan “other.” Similarly, Nicholas Denysenko’s “A Global Intercessor” demonstrates how the hymnography dedicated to a twentieth-century Eastern Orthodox saint can alternate between promoting triumphalism and division or reconciliation and spiritual renewal. Bahar Davary’s “King-Slaves in South Africa” examines how two

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shrines to Sufi Muslim saints in South Africa stand as manifestations of the lives of these saints and the transformative power of their resistance to colonialism and apartheid. Vernon J. Schubel’s “The Transmission of Virtue in the Hagiography of Hacı Bektaş Veli” shows how Sufi and Shia hagiographical narratives forge bonds between practitioners and holy persons who serve as root paradigms simultaneously deepening moral virtues, etiquette, and participation in the interior mystical path. The volume closes with a fourth part explicitly engaging in comparison across the Abrahamic and Dharmic Traditions. Thomas Cattoi’s “Saints from the Margin” explores how the hagiographers from different religious backgrounds (Eastern Orthodox and Tibetan Buddhist) appropriate and reconstruct the legacy of spiritual practitioners who function on the margins of their respective traditions, while simultaneously legitimizing a particular theological or doctrinal position and buttressing their own authority as their traditions’ representatives. Kerry P.C. San Chirico’s “Holy Negotiations in the Hindu Heartland” is an ethnographic study of the Khrist Bhaktas, or “devotees of Christ,” whose saintly figures and nascent hagiographies stand in between Catholicism and Hinduism, being neither fully recognized nor fully rejected by either. The chapter closes with a plea that recapitulates one of the central themes of this volume—that we must strive to take hagiographies and their truth claims seriously without domesticating them either through blind confessionalism or skeptical reductionism. Complementing these full-length studies are a “Foreword” by Jeffrey J. Kripal and an “Afterword” by Francis X. Clooney. In keeping with the theme of this volume, Kripal’s scholarship, notably his Authors of the Impossible, has helped bridge the gap between the scientific and the sacred, while refusing to abandon either as disclosing the real truth.4 Clooney’s methodology, on the other hand, has opened up new ways for adherents to engage and learn from each other’s traditions without abandoning their own—and without sacrificing scholarly rigor.5 It is the editors’ hope that this volume not only furthers their landmark work, but also inspires others to continue applying their approaches to hagiographic discourse.

Part I T heoretical C onsiderations

Chapter 1 Saints, Truth, and the “Use and Abuse” of Hagiography Rico G. Monge

Quid est veritas? Τί ἐstin ἀlήqeia; What is Truth?1 This infamous rhetorical question is posed to Jesus Christ by Pontius Pilate after an interrogation process in which Jesus has explained, “For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”2 Pilate poses the question, in part at least, to exonerate himself from any clear path forward concerning what to decide about Jesus’s fate. Nevertheless, Pilate’s question rivals Hamlet’s rumination on suicide for the preeminent status of the question—the central question of our personal and collective existence. Indeed, Jesus himself offers no answer in return to Pilate’s question. Earlier in the Gospel of John’s narrative, however, Jesus responds to Thomas’s question “How can we know the way,” by declaring “I am the way, the truth, and the life.”3 Jesus himself is the embodiment of the way, he is the embodiment of life, and as such he, not a set of verifiable intellectual propositions, is the manifestation of truth itself. As Kallistos Ware provocatively reads it, the problem is that Pilate “posed the wrong question, for he should have said, ‘Who is truth?’; and so it is no wonder that Jesus remained silent.”4 Already, we find ourselves far from the metaphysics of our age (a point to which I shall return later), which understands truth almost solely in terms of propositions that are verifiable or falsifiable according to a scientific method that has come to wield hegemony over all other disciplines. Even Sigmund Freud, who highly valued the power of art, classified science as that which discloses truth, while art was ultimately, for him, an illusion.5 But is this really a satisfying understanding of truth? Too often it seems that the insights of thinkers like Søren Kierkegaard and Friedrich Nietzsche concerning the subjectivity of truth have been politely acknowledged as valid by the academy and then generally ignored in the way scholars, even those in the humanities, continue to conduct their business. Truth then is what the sciences discover; the humanities show us merely what is “worthwhile” or “meaningful.” Yet Kierkegaard boldly defined “the highest truth attainable for an existing individual”

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as “an objective uncertainty held fast in an appropriation-process of the most passionate inwardness is the truth.”6 What does Kierkegaard mean by this? As one commentator cogently explains, Kierkegaard meant “that truth which could be expressed objectively (so that it was the same for everyone) was mere information that concerned everyone and no one. Real truth, truth that a man would lay down his life for, was essentially subjective: a truth passionately engaged by the subject.”7 Put differently, Kierkegaard wants us to see how little the scientific mode comes to apprehending truth. If I note that an entity that provided me with 25 percent of my DNA no longer has mitochondria-producing adenosine triphosphate, and all neural activity has ceased in this entity—if I acknowledge these facts—I have come nowhere close to capturing the truth of the death of my grandmother. Indeed, I have obscured it, overlooked it, even debased it. It is rather in a poem stained by my tears, or a painting of her labored over for weeks that I capture the truth of my grandmother’s death. Here we begin to see the depths of how inverted Freud’s assessment of art and science was. It is art that captures the truth of what it means to be a human being. Art shows us the truth of what it means to live, love, struggle, give birth, grow, hurt, and die. Understood this way, contra Freud, the bare facts given by science, when they are invested with the dignity of truth, reveal themselves to be an illusion. What then of religion and religious truth? Freud contended that art is the illusion that can recognize itself as an illusion, while religion is the illusion that loses its power when unmasked. But if art speaks truth and not illusion, Freud’s claim about religion also falls apart, or at least has to be significantly reframed. Make no mistake; I am not denigrating the sciences, their value, or the reliability, accuracy, and repeatability they offer us. Nor am I suggesting that religion or art can produce what science can. Rather, I am affirming with Jesus and with Kierkegaard that truth as such is not a set of propositions to be verified or falsified. The human being herself is that which carries the power to embody truth. And those narratives, shrines, monuments, and artworks we create to commemorate and celebrate our greatest human exemplars of truth become vehicles for configuring and refiguring the world. We have arrived at the point where we might begin to speak of hagiography as a disclosure of truth. Nikolai Velimirovic, an early twentieth-century Serbian Orthodox bishop, understood this relationship of truth and hagiography in an inter-religious sense better than most have. Speaking from his Orthodox Christian perspective, he boldly argued, “It ought to be absolutely indifferent to the Church what political denomination, or social creed, or institutional shape a human society shall have as long as this is founded upon any other ideal but saintliness.” He further elaborates that all politics, social issues, race relations, economics, and even family dynamics are healed or problematized by only “two denominations . . . saintliness or unsaintliness.” The truth that can transform humanity is not found in scholastic theological prescriptions for Velimirovic, but in the saints who are this truth.8 At this point, the academic ethos I briefly critiqued above will demand to know what saintliness means. But neither I nor Velimirovic will give such an answer, at least not readily in some fashion that will work with “ideal types,” probe the cognates

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for the Greek hagios in other languages, or reduce saintliness to something that can be disembodied and then quantified and classified. As Velimirovic put it, “Christianity has not to argue but to show you the saintliness in the flesh.” He then proceeds to argue that if Christian saints do not suffice, this should not lead us to look to the great political powers of Christian civilization, the “Napoleons and Bismarcks . . . Medicis and Cromwells or Kaisers and Kings.” Rather, he maintains we should “point out the saintly men outside of Christian walls, like St Hermes and St Pythagoras, or St Krishna and St Buddha, or St Lao-Tse and St Confucius, or St Zoroaster and St Abu-Bakr,” and concludes with the forceful assertion that “unbaptized saintliness” is easily better than “baptised earthliness.”9 Let us not get distracted by debates about the Christocentricism or Eurocentricism implicit in Velimirovic’s statements. Neither is it productive here to evaluate what theology of religions he might hold based upon these statements. Indeed my own approach is that of comparative theology, which strives to avoid the thorny issues of exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism that are inherently bound up with a theology of religions. The point is that Velimirovic held that the transformation of humanity, with all of its political, racial, and economic problems, comes through the disclosure of saintliness. For Velimirovic depictions of saintliness are not merely loci of truth, they represent nothing less than the manifestation of truth par excellence. Nevertheless, the mode in which sanctity is communicated, the mode known in scholarly circles as the “hagiographic,” is regularly opposed to history. History, presumably a discipline of the humanities, commonly operates according to the verificationism and falsifiability of the scientific method. Hence, history is construed as representing objective truth. Hagiography, on the other hand, is that which dissembles, whitewashes, and idealizes, and thus carries with it the connotation of falsehood. This suggestion of falsehood naturally leads to disparaging attitudes toward hagiography. At best it is trivial fantasy that serves only to reveal what unenlightened people have believed (and still believe).10 At its worst it is nothing less than a dangerous erasure of the truth itself. We shall see below how these attitudes prevail in the Bollandist approach toward hagiography, which has held hegemony for quite some time. For the moment, however, let us look at a contemporary example in which scholarly negativity toward hagiography interacted with the public sphere in a particularly illuminating manner. When legendary Penn State University football coach Joe Paterno suffered his meteoric fall from grace due to his role in the cover-up of a child molestation scandal, prominent sports journalist Rick Reilly introspectively reflected on the role the sports media had played in perpetuating the problem. In a penitent article for ESPN, Reilly recalled the following: What a fool I was. In 1986, I spent a week in State College, Pa., researching a 10-page Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year piece on Joe Paterno. It was supposed to be a secret, but one night the phone in my hotel room rang. It was a Penn State professor, calling out of the blue. “Are you here to take part in hagiography?” he said.

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Hagiography and Religious Truth “What’s hagiography?” I asked. “The study of saints,” he said. “You’re going to be just like the rest, aren’t you? You’re going to make Paterno out to be a saint. You don’t know him. He’ll do anything to win. What you media are doing is dangerous.” Jealous egghead, I figured. What an idiot I was.11

Based on the evidence we now have, the sports media, including Reilly, were clearly engaged in a dangerous activity that turned a blind eye to deep systemic problems in Paterno’s leadership. But is this the fault of “hagiography?” Is “hagiography” inherently false idealization? Implied here by the unnamed professor’s statement is that hagiography rewrites, deletes, or ignores the facts of history in order to promote an agenda. To put it more simply and directly, the essence of hagiography is that it is constituted by lies and untruth. What the professor was really asking Reilly was: “Are you here to do real investigative journalism? Or are you here to be an accomplice to perpetuating a fraud?” But he did not ask it that way. Instead he used a word unfamiliar to Reilly (and many in the public sphere) as a slur that impugned the integrity of Reilly’s journalism. In this curious exchange, we see quite clearly how hagiography is routinely construed as the enemy of history, and thus of truth.

Modern History and the Disclosure of Truth: Von Humboldt, Von Ranke, and Delehaye How did this opposition between history and hagiography arise? And how did it come to dominate the academic study of hagiography? As I have already suggested, part of the problem is that the contributions of Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, and their intellectual inheritors, have not been fully internalized into scholarship in the humanities. We shall look at Nietzsche’s understanding of the relationship between truth and history extensively below. First, however, we will briefly examine the thought of two nineteenth-century figures representative of what might be called the “modern” approach to history—Wilhelm von Humboldt and Leopold von Ranke—and then observe the impact this had on the Bollandist approach to hagiography (as exemplified by Hippolyte Delehaye). The modern approach to history might best be summed up in von Ranke’s words—the historian strives to describe “what really happened.” Walter Benjamin derisively referred to this impulse as “the strongest narcotic of the nineteenth century.”12 Benjamin thus hyperbolically declared the search for “what really happened” to be more powerful than heroin. Or was it hyperbole? If anything, Benjamin may have underestimated just how long the opiate hangover induced by Wilhelm von Humboldt and Leopold von Ranke (among others) would last.13 Wilhelm von Humboldt was a contemporary and peer of G. W. F. Hegel and, like Hegel, was deeply influenced by J. G. Fichte. Accordingly, von Humboldt shares a strong affinity with Hegel’s conviction that history follows a path of progress that conforms to reason.14 For von Humboldt, “all history is the realization of an idea,” and thus, the historian’s ultimate goal is to discover “all that which determines the

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reality of things, like a chain of necessity.”15 Understood in this way, history is barely distinguishable from the sciences, and its claim to truth rests on similar grounds. There are laws and causal necessity governing the history of human existence, and the historian’s task is to discover those laws and illuminate the meaning of history’s causal necessity. Because history is grounded in objective laws and objective necessity, von Humboldt can claim that “the historian’s task is to present what actually happened.”16 Nevertheless, von Humboldt does acknowledge that a distinction exists between history and the sciences, primarily because the former must engage in activity more akin to the poet than to the scientist. Unfortunately, he is clearly embarrassed by history’s poetic dimensions, noting that “it may seem questionable to have the field of the historian touch that of the poet even at one point.”17 Nevertheless, he cannot deny that history functions like poetry in that the historian must connect the disjointed fragments of historical data “only through his imagination.”18 Despite this drift into the direction of the arts, von Humboldt salvages the more scientific nature of history by arguing that unlike the poet, “the historian subordinates his imagination to experience and to the investigation of reality.”19 In von Humboldt’s thinking, then, history investigates reality and experience, whereas poetry does not. As we have seen, Kierkegaard takes issue with this kind of Hegelian thinking about history and the objectivity of truth. Especially problematic from a Kierkegaardian perspective is von Humboldt’s claim that “history strives to attain the vision of man’s fate in its complete truth . . . a vision conceived by a soul so fixed upon its object that merely personal opinions, feelings, and standards lose themselves in it and dissolve.”20 Each of the subjective components of the individual that Kierkegaard will later elevate to the dignity of truth is dismissed by von Humboldt as “merely personal” and worthy of complete dissolution in the face of history’s objectively discernible causal chain. Leopold von Ranke, on the other hand, saw himself as standing in direct opposition to von Humboldt and all Hegelian attempts to discern “reason in history.” Reminiscent of Karl Marx’s critique of Hegel, von Ranke asserts, “Philosophy always reminds us of the claim of the supreme idea. History, on the other hand, reminds us of the conditions of existence.”21 Elsewhere he lumps poetry with philosophy, saying that both “have to move within the realm of the ideal while history has to rely on reality.”22 Just as Marx saw himself as having broken free of Hegelianism, when in reality he was inverting Hegel’s system but remaining within its dialectic, so also von Ranke repudiates ideas of von Humboldt, but remains fundamentally in agreement about the task of history to describe “things as they really are.” For von Ranke this means investigating the conditions of material existence rather than contemplating the “idea” governing the march of history. Crucial, however, is that both firmly believe: (1) that the historian is capable of objectively describing things “as they really happened”; and (2) that this objectivity is equivalent to truth. Von Ranke’s thoughts on myth further clarify this point. Myths “express the view of a people itself . . . the subjective character of a people or its thoughts,” but they do not contain any “objective facts.”23 With von Humboldt and von Ranke, humans and their subjectivity belong to the domain of myth; objectivity reigns supreme as

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the essence of truth. However, as later thinkers will point out from Kierkegaard and Nietzsche onward, such objectivity is itself a myth. Von Ranke’s words thus become more insightful than he intended concerning myth, for the myth of objectivity itself “expresses the view of a people . . . the subjective character of . . . its thoughts.” This myth is that which still constitutes the metaphysics of our age. It is also the myth that constituted the Bollandist approach to hagiography. Driven by the same definition of truth as von Ranke, the Bollandists set about applying this methodology of determining historical truth to the study of hagiography. It should be noted that these Jesuit scholars did not intend the denigration of sanctity or saints. Rather, because they had themselves identified truth with that which is historically verifiable, they set out to extract what “truth” they could from the vast Roman Catholic tradition of hagiography. This endeavor is exemplified well by Hippolyte Delehaye’s landmark work The Legends of the Saints.24 Driven by his concern to ascertain the objective truth (i.e., that which is historically verifiable) of saints’ lives, Delehaye sets up a rigid opposition between hagiography and history—the very opposition Rick Reilly encountered in his late night phone call with the Penn State professor. Delehaye specifically opposes the term “hagiographer” to those writers who “have simply recorded what they have seen with their eyes and touched with their hands. Their narratives constitute authentic historical memoirs no less than works of edification.”25 The latter are those who, in Delehaye’s view, presented the lives of saints objectively, hence truthfully, and deserve to be commended as historians of sanctity. The hagiographer, on the other hand, should not be condemned as a “faithless historian,” but only because we should seriously “ask ourselves whether the name of history, as we moderns understand it, should be applied to their writings at all.”26 At stake for Delehaye is that the hagiographers have committed flagrant “abuses” of history and have led pious believers into an appalling situation in which they are now venerating illusion and falsehood. According to Delehaye, the premodern historian, in this case the hagiographer, maintained the supremacy of aesthetics over accuracy, because our ancestors viewed “all noble narratives which delighted them” as history, “and the heroes therein depicted were genuine saints equal in all respects to those who enjoyed traditional honours.”27 Delehaye quite accurately observes that this ethos even led to situations in which saintly figures who originally existed only as literary fictions “quitted the literary sphere in which they had been created and really became the object of public devotion.” He then adds forcefully that this fact “is greatly to be deplored wherever it occurred.”28 His point is indeed a serious one. What should be done with the fact that a number of venerable figures in Christianity (and as we shall see in this volume, in other religions as well) never had any biological existence? To be sure, we must wrestle with these issues and not retreat into a fundamentalism that denies the reality of verifiable data. Delehaye, however, finds the situation to be deplorable, because it is intrinsically harmful. But is this so? Might we not ask if an originally fictive character has become in some sense an ontological reality if those who emulate her have transformed themselves and their world for the better?

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In any case, Delehaye’s answer to his own question concerning the status of the hagiographer is abundantly clear: premodern chroniclers did not possess the same criteria for truth as modern historians. What is the core difference between the two? Delehaye explains, What for us is merely accessory, for the ancients was the very essence. Then historians had regard, above all else, to literary effect; material truth troubled them less, accuracy scarce at all, and of the critical spirit they had, as a rule, no conception whatever. The main thing was to give pleasure to the reader by the interest of the narrative, the beauty of the descriptions and the brilliancy of the style.29

Delehaye’s assessment here is largely accurate, but its value for this chapter lies primarily in the likelihood that the contemporary reader (including the academic scholar) accepts its accuracy without challenging its underlying assumptions. For here again we see “material” facts, “accuracy,” and a “critical” spirit equated with “truth.” On the other hand, aesthetic “pleasure,” “beauty,” and potency of “style” are mere “accessories” to the modern historian who contends these aspects have little to nothing to do with truth. Because the hagiographer is essentially a “panegyrist,” he is free from the requirement to “draw a portrait of which every detail is in precise accordance with the truth.”30 Truth here stands far apart from beauty, which has been rendered an optional accessory. In the Protestant cemetery in Rome, if one listens closely, one can hear the faint scratching sounds of nails on a coffin—John Keats desperately trying to return from the grave and save us from ourselves.31

Friedrich Nietzsche, Hayden White, and the End of Objectivity Poets like Keats and philosophers like Kierkegaard were monumental nineteenthcentury figures who challenged the modern notions of truth. But it is Friedrich Nietzsche who most thoroughly and rigorously called into question not only how we think of truth but also the very status and value of history as such. Throughout his works he assaults the ideal of scholarly objectivity as a myth that has reigned over us due to the philosophical dominance of René Descartes and Immanuel Kant, both of whom assumed that the goal of philosophy (and the scientific method, which they maintained their philosophies grounded) was the production of knowledge about which one can be objectively certain. Nietzsche, on the other hand, (in)famously proclaimed that objective “facts are precisely what there are not, only interpretations.”32 This provocative quote can be erroneously taken to mean that Nietzsche held that there is no “truth” and that ultimately everything is perspective and interpretation. Rather, what Nietzsche is pointing out is that the cherished ideal that an uninterpreted fact can speak for itself is an illusion. One cannot stand over and above one’s subjectivity and adopt the God’s-eye view Descartes sought and believed he had found. As Benjamin put it, one can only believe this possible if under the influence of von Ranke’s strong narcotic.

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Does Nietzsche then find history valueless? Not in the least. In The Use and Abuse of History he both praises and critiques history in a manner consistent with his later and more widely read works. In Thus Spoke Zarathustra, The Twilight of the Idols, and The Gay Science (among others), Nietzsche reveals himself first and foremost as a philosopher whose aim is the affirmation of “life.” It is this preoccupation with life affirmation that provides the guiding principle of his evaluation of history. For Nietzsche, history is only valuable inasmuch as it serves life. Or, as he more eloquently puts it, “We need [history] for life and action, not as a convenient way to avoid life and action, or to excuse a selfish life and a cowardly or base action.”33 History is therefore valuable only if it is useful for life—and this usefulness has nothing to do with the utilitarianism of John Stuart Mill or Jeremy Bentham. Rather than promoting the greatest amount of happiness for the greatest number of people, Nietzsche maintains that the history’s value lies in its ability to spur people to be great and to do great things.34 For this reason, however, Nietzsche argues that the historical and the unhistorical are both of equal value to individuals as well as to any given culture.35 The unhistorical can provide a basis for human greatness as much as the historical does; conversely, the historical can prove as stultifying and constricting as the worst fiction does. The historical thus is necessary (and potentially detrimental) to life “in three ways: in relation to [man’s] action and struggle, his conservatism and reverence, his suffering and desire for deliverance.”36 According to Nietzsche these three ways correspond to “three kinds of history . . . the monumental, the antiquarian, and the critical.” Each of these kinds of history has its use for different people, in that “the man who will produce something great” resonates with monumental history, the “man who can rest content with the traditional and venerable” uses the antiquarian approach, and “he whose heart is oppressed by an instant need” desires critical history because it “judges and condemns.”37 The main problem with history for Nietzsche occurs when history becomes an end in itself and is no longer in service to life. He argues this is particularly true of German culture, which he believes so highly values the history of other cultures that it has no culture itself.38 As a result, “an excess of history” can become detrimental to life. History in excess can weaken personality, bring about the delusion that one possesses justice, degrade the instincts of a culture, lead to the belief that humanity is “old,” thus ultimately bringing about a “dangerous state of cynicism” that brings creative activity to a halt.39 This is in contrast to history’s “real value,” which “lies in inventing ingenious variations on a probably commonplace theme, in raising the popular melody to a universal symbol and showing what a world of depth, power and beauty exists in it.”40 It is this world of depth, power, and beauty that heightens life—and the unhistorical can do this as well as the historical can. One should never forget that throughout his life Nietzsche held the Dionysian myths in the highest regard even though he did not believe in the supernatural. Nietzsche’s argumentation concerning the value and dangers of history is quite compelling. His observation about ancient Greek culture (and most non-Western cultures, for that matter) is a significant one, for it seems undeniably true that

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an ancient Spartan transported to the modern age would find our system of education incredibly ludicrous. The Greeks, who “had the ‘unhistorical sense’ strongly developed in the period of their greatest power,” knew how to live without being immersed in a historical education.41 For Nietzsche, most civilizations valued an education that taught one how to live; modern education merely teaches one methods of critical thought and research. If Nietzsche were alive today, one wonders what dismay he might feel at observing that we may rapidly be approaching (or have already arrived at?) a time in which our culture no longer teaches how to live or how to think. Another key insight of Nietzsche that is particularly relevant for our purposes here is that an overemphasis on certain notions of history lures us into the sense that we can stand as a judge of the people of the past—yet this implies that we are over and above the past, for only a superior can judge an inferior. As Nietzsche points out, however, we are not above the past, we are merely later than it.42 Thus, if we wish to judge the great people and cultures of the past, then we must ourselves become great people and part of great cultures. We are not greater, nor have we achieved “progress,” simply by virtue of having come later. This brings us back to the words of Goethe with which Nietzsche opens his essay: “I hate everything that merely instructs me without increasing or directly quickening my activity.”43 Nietzsche and Goethe thus stand together with Kierkegaard in valuing most not that which is objectively verifiable but that which has the power to transform both individuals and the culture to which they belong. In our faithful adherence to the myth of “objective history,” we become a stagnant culture unable to further ourselves through creating new truths that better serve us all. In short, we have reached the end of history. Reflecting on Nietzsche’s critique reveals to us that any rigid dichotomy between hagiography and historiography ultimately yields to an understanding of history that belongs largely to the nineteenth century. In maintaining this dichotomy, we ignore the seminal contribution of Hayden White44 to the understanding of historiography, in which he further develops the ideas set forth by Nietzsche, as well as the groundbreaking work of the philosopher of history, R. G. Collingwood.45 Building on White’s thought, we can come closer to an understanding of how hagiography does, in fact, function in a manner quite similar to history and its disclosure of truth. That is, deeper reflection on the fundamentally fictive character of historiography illuminates how hagiographies might themselves be better understood as sacred historiography—a historiography that manifests truths sacred to a particular tradition of thought. Indeed, as we shall see, White’s observations help reveal how any historiography (whether bearing an explicitly religious character or not) manifests truths sacred to particular traditions of thought. In Tropics of Discourse, Hayden White sets out to critique the historian’s task from the vantage point of literary theory. He argues that his approach is better suited to examine the work of the historian than the historian’s own approach would be, for the historian does not have the critical distance necessary to see what it is he or she is doing. Rather, the historian often operates according to a particular

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theory of history that does not subject its own theory to critical examination. White observes that while twentieth-century historians have come to recognize that the nineteenth-century goal of chronicling what “really happened” is impossible, there has nevertheless been a resistance to recognizing that historical narratives are “verbal fictions, the contents of which are as much invented as found and the forms of which have more in common with their counterparts in literature than they have with those in the sciences.”46 This role of the historian as a storyteller, previously identified by Collingwood, is that which White hopes to explore more fully.47 While fundamentally agreeing with Collingwood that history is a form of storytelling, White observes that Collingwood failed to see . . . that no given set of casually recorded historical events can in itself constitute a story; the most it might offer to the historian are story elements. The events are made into a story by the suppression or subordination of certain of them and the highlighting of others, by characterization, motific repetition, variation of tone and point of view, alternative descriptive strategies and the like.48

What Collingwood remained blind to, according to White, is that historical events do not arrange themselves in a story form. Rather, the most they “offer to the historian are story elements. The events are made into a story by the suppression or subordination of certain of them and the highlighting of others. . . . In short, all of the techniques that we would normally expect to find in the emplotment of a play.”49 Historiography is therefore not the retelling of a story that has already occurred, but is instead the creation of a story out of elements that have already been given by the past (rather than imagined by the author of a novel, for example). It is this inherently creative quality of historiography that accounts for the fact that two different historians writing about the French Revolution can create contradictory narratives about the exact same events. Each historian seeks out and interprets facts about the same subject differently because they have different stories to tell. At the same time, White wishes to make clear that while all historical studies are fictive works that are formed into coherent stories by their authors, this by no means undermines “the status of historical narratives as providing a kind of knowledge.”50 Does this mean that history does not provide real knowledge about the past because it is merely an arbitrary fiction of its author? White’s answer is that history does provide real knowledge, because “the encodation of events in terms of such plot structures is one of the ways that a culture has of making sense of both personal and public pasts.”51 Only through arranging into narrative form the disparate data that constitute what we understand to be “events” does understanding the past even become possible. As a result, the arrangement of historical data into narrative is not merely helpful in making sense of the past, it is indispensable—it is the only way in which the past becomes meaningful. Hence, White believes that his theoretical approach safeguards any historical classic from ever losing its truth-bearing value. “Like literature,” he explains, “history progresses by the production of classics, the

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nature of which is such that they cannot be disconfirmed or negated, in the way that the . . . sciences are. . . . There is something in a historical masterpiece that cannot be negated, and this nonnegatable element is its form, the form which is its fiction.”52 White demonstrates this point by showing how history writes using the elements of literature. It imposes the literary elements of plot upon the story, and it utilizes the figures of metaphor, metonymy, and synecdoche as well.53 None of this suggests that we cannot distinguish “between good and bad interpretations of a historical event,” because we are still able to discuss whether the use of the data seems responsible and whether the story formed by it is compelling—just as we do with works of literature. Contra von Ranke and Delehaye, White celebrates that history was once understood to be a literary work—as part of the field of rhetoric.54 However, history has forgotten its origins and mistakenly conceived of itself as a science, which means that history is “in bad shape today” because “in the interest of appearing scientific and objective, it has repressed and denied to itself its own greatest source of strength and renewal.”55 If one looks at the way hagiographies have functioned across cultures and religions, they fit quite compellingly within White’s description of historiography. First, almost all hagiographies create a story out of the data of past events. While one might reasonably question how responsible hagiographers are with that data, especially in light of their irreconcilable discrepancies, it remains the case that the hagiographer is concerned with telling a story that captures the truth concerning the person depicted. Moreover, the discrepancies between the data that a Marxist historian (for example) might choose to include in a historical account and that which a hagiographer selects demonstrate primarily that each type of historian has a different story to tell.56 These stories that the hagiographer tells are indeed that which endow the past events of a holy figure’s life, as well as devotees’ experience(s) of his or her sanctity, with meaning. It is history: a particular way of interpreting past events so as to make sense of them within the context of a particular community of interpretation. The fact that the meaning given is a “sacred” one, and not a socioeconomic one, for example, does not detract from their functioning as a type of historiography. A key argument of patristics scholar John Behr that resonates with White is that “just as any history is written retrospectively, with the benefit of hindsight and leading to the point from which it is written,” so also Christian theology proceeds in such a way as to transform one’s view of creation and the history of the world. While Behr is here thinking of the formation of the canonical Christian Gospels, might not the same be said for hagiography when understood as sacred historiography?57 Another way of putting this is that while it is commonly accepted that the interpretations of past phenomena provided by Marxists, feminists, deconstructionists, psychoanalytic theorists, queer theorists, and the like all “legitimately” fall within the realm of “history,” the interpretive moves that lie in hagiography (sacred historiography), for some unexplained reason, are not accepted as falling within this realm. Rather, the historian either dismisses hagiographic modes of discourse as myth or legend, or hagiography is valorized by those with confessional concerns and “pastoral” purposes for blindly defending

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their accuracy on all points. (Or, as we have seen earlier, denigrated by Delehaye as purely edificatory and thus, in their essential nature, not true.) Again, it should be stressed that none of this suggests that hagiographies present the lives of saints as “they actually happened.” Nor does it make the foolhardy claim that all of the data presented in them are factually accurate. What it does mean is that hagiographers in fact do what any historian does—they interpret the data about their subject’s lives in a way that is intended to provide real, meaningful knowledge about them. In the end, validating hagiography as sacred historiography opens up further lines of inquiry that deserve serious attention. What is the relationship that hagiography properly has to historical interpretation, especially as it is carried out by scholars today? And what are the implications of this relationship upon other interpretive models (Marxist, psychoanalytic, etc.) that are themselves often founded upon claims that are as unverifiable (and as non-falsifiable—thus just as nonscientific) as the sacred or theological models that underpin hagiography? One major question I am left with after reading White, however, is how to understand the difference between a historical novel and a work that purports to simply be a historical study. Without doubt, there is, at the very least, a significant difference in style between these two genres of writing. While they are equally fictive, the historical novel works more firmly within the established conventions and styles that novelists use, whereas the supposedly more serious “historical study” attempts to use conventions and styles that grant the appearance of objectivity and critical detachment. Is either mode superior to the other? Contemporary “biopics” produced by Hollywood help clarify what is at stake in this question. Which captures the truth of Abraham Lincoln’s significance in American history better— Steven Spielberg’s Lincoln (2012), which selects, edits, and even fictively creates events and sayings that never happened, or a hypothetical 600-hour documentary that would merely report every verifiable detail of the last four months of Lincoln’s life without selection or interpretation?58 Whatever one might think of Spielberg’s film, it, at the very least, manifests existential and communal truths concerning Lincoln and America. The hypothetical documentary described above would not. At the same time, the fictive nature of the biopic may serve only to reinforce already existing hegemonic “truths” of a particular culture or subculture. Incorporating modern standards of accuracy and verification can thus help reconfigure truths, which, through their calcification, cease to wield the transformative potential of the saint. Here we have reached a crucial aporia in White’s thought, especially as it relates to the tension between hagiography and modern historiography. In acknowledging this aporia, is there a way to render it productive for generating new ways of thinking about the relationship between history and religious truth (and hence this curious genre we call hagiography)? In offering an answer to this question, we will turn, on the one hand, to Dipesh Chakrabarty and Robert Orsi for possibilities through which we might reconceptualize “history.” On the other hand, we will turn to Paul Ricoeur—and his predecessors Martin Heidegger and Hans-Georg Gadamer—to more fully theorize what is meant by the term “truth.”

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Chakrabarty and Orsi: An Abundant Provincialization of History In his provocatively titled Provincializing Europe, Dipesh Chakrabarty exposes what he considers to be the two primary unchallenged assumptions that underlie the European intellectual tradition’s understanding of history. The first assumption is that “the human exists in a frame of a single and secular historical time that envelops other kinds of time,” while the second assumption maintains the human to be “ontologically singular.” Gods and spirits exist merely as “social facts,” which are dependent on human society for their existence.59 Put differently, Chakrabarty is pointing out that Ludwig Feuerbach and Emile Durkheim hold hegemony over Western academic discourse on such phenomena. Gods, spirits, and apparitions can be said to exist, but only as the byproduct of a society’s “collective effervescence”—because all theology is ultimately anthropology.60 Is Chakrabarty thus suggesting that we completely reject the verificationism underlying European notions of historical and scientific truth? Chakrabarty does not see the answer in abolishing modern European standards of inquiry, but rather in allowing other normative approaches to the world to speak as well: “For it is only in this way that we can create plural normative horizons specific to our existence and relevant to the examination of our lives and their possibilities.”61 Chakrabarty is thus advocating that we create a space for understanding historical truth as existentially transformative, subjective, and polyvocal. Building on Chakrabarty’s postcolonialist insights, Robert Orsi suggests that modern Western historiography has limited itself by prohibiting the possibility of “presence” and by granting total authority to “absence.”62 The transcendent, the numinous, all that which exceeds the categories of our understanding, is therefore either dismissed out of hand as nonexistent or “absent,” or, as we saw with Chakrabarty above, domesticated as a “social fact” that can be comprehensively comprehended. We do so, maintains Orsi, because merely entertaining the notion that the transcendent breaks through into time and exceeds the categories of our understanding threatens the boundaries modernity holds so dearly.63 Orsi’s case study focuses on the Marian apparitions at Lourdes, France, and the thousands of miraculous healings that have been reported there since the phenomena began in 1858. Since that time, this small market town in the Pyrenees foothills has become the most visited place in France other than Paris. How should we speak of the phenomena at Lourdes? Orsi asks, “What words or categories of interpretation are there for this abundance of shops, things, people, and rosaries? How do we talk about what happened, at Lourdes and at other sites where the transcendent breaks into time and comes face to face with humans in the circumstances of their everyday lives.”64 It is important to emphasize that Orsi has no interest in interpreting these occurrences in a confessional or apologetic manner. Rather than explore how a Catholic theologian might interpret this major pilgrimage site (whether approvingly or disapprovingly), Orsi desires to find a way for scholars to speak of the apparitions at Lourdes without domesticating them. While he admits some progress has been made in that earlier historians of religion would have refused to talk about Marian apparitions at all, he laments that the

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ways people talk about the apparitions at Lourdes help “modern historiography” maintain its authority, rendering these phenomena safely contained within modernity’s boundaries. Hence, “we have learned a great deal how shrines like Lourdes contributed to local and national histories. But the categories and boundaries of modern historiography retain their authority.”65 In other words, Marian presence is automatically dismissed, absence is assumed, and what can be learned from engaging these phenomena are “social facts.” In Orsi’s view, real encounter with gods and spirits needs to be brought back into scholarly conversation and analysis.66 This does not mean resorting to established Catholic theological hermeneutics to explain the apparitions either. Doing so would itself be another form of domestication that renders the phenomena safe according to established religious categories. Rather, Orsi suggests that we begin to focus on what he calls “abundant events” and the role relationships play in them. These events are “abundant” in that they exceed the capacity of modern historiography to comprehend them. Mary is indeed alive in relation to her devotees, but she is no mere “social fact,” for she is also independent from them and does not conform to their expectations.67 Orsi thus argues that we should be moving toward developing an “abundant historiography,” which records the events of the past without automatically assuming absence, dismissing presence, and seeking to reduce all meaning to sociological categories. According to this model, hagiographic modes of discourse would no longer be simply demythologized or mined for their anthropological value; rather, they would be allowed to speak truths on their own terms as manifestations of an “abundance” that exceeds the limitations of modern historical-critical methodology.

Ricoeurian Hermeneutics, Religious Truth, and Hagiography We arrive at last at Paul Ricoeur, who provides us with what is arguably the most nuanced and productive way of thinking about the polyvocal nature of truth and thus how we might reclaim the truth-bearing dimensions of hagiographic discourse without attempting to retreat into an atavistic premodern mindset. First, it is instructive to say a brief word about the groundwork laid by Ricoeur’s predecessors, Martin Heidegger and Hans-Georg Gadamer on the question of the nature of truth. In Being and Time, Heidegger makes a key distinction between two kinds of truth, one primordial and the other derivative. According to Heidegger, the traditional notion of truth (associated with the correspondence of a proposition with reality) is derivative of the primordial phenomenon of truth as disclosedness.68 In other words, the world as it manifests itself to human beings is the primordial ground of truth, and the verificationism we traditionally identify with the term “truth” (since Aristotle) is a derivative form of truth. Building upon Heidegger in his Truth and Method, Gadamer sought to reclaim truth from the sciences, arguing that the humanities are what yield the kind of truth that shapes how one actually lives. Accordingly, Gadamer held that one of the most important tasks of the humanities was that its truths facilitated Bildung—the process by

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which one is cultivated as a self.69 Here we find ourselves again quite close to what Nikolai Velimirovic found to be the essential function of hagiography. It is Paul Ricoeur, however, who refines these ideas in his explicit exploration of the nature of religious truth. Against those who would equate the scientific method with “truth,” and religious thought with “meaning-making,” Ricoeur explains that religious discourse does not merely claim to be meaningful, but also to be true. This claim must be understood on its own terms. It implies that we do not yet recognize the truth value of this kind of language if we do not put in question the criteria of truth that are borrowed from other spheres of discourse, mainly the scientific one, whether we invoke a criterion of verification or a criterion of falsification.70

Unlike Kierkegaard who polemically declared all truth to be subjective (thus removing truth from the realm of the scientific method), and unlike Heidegger who places scientific truth on a subordinate level by relegating it to the status of “derivative” truth, Ricoeur seeks to recognize that there are different registers of truth, each of which must be understood on its own terms. While the truth of the sciences operates according to the criteria of verifiability or falsifiability or both, other forms of discourse “display claims to meaningfulness and to fulfillment such that new dimensions of reality and truth are disclosed, and that a new formulation of truth is required.”71 What is this new formulation? Ricoeur argues that in many forms of discourse outside of the sciences, truth means “not adequation but manifestation.”72 The truth found in the arts, for example, is one such form of discourse. Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night is a false representation of a starlit evening if one is operating according to a truth that requires verification or adequation. It would hardly match up with a photograph of what van Gogh was looking at when he painted it. Yet the truth it manifests of the beauty of the world has led to it becoming one of the most recognizable and celebrated paintings of all time. For Ricoeur, religious discourse manifests truth in a fashion that has far more in common with the arts than it does with the sciences. In particular, its manifestation of truth occurs, as it does with fiction and poetry, through the “world of the text.”73 When I engage with a text, Ricoeur argues, I find that “what is to be interpreted in a text is a proposed world, a world that I might inhabit and wherein I might project my ownmost possibilities.”74 The truth conveyed through the world of the text is thus intensely personal and potentially transformative. It does not operate according to a correspondence theory of truth that accurately describes what is; rather, it functions according to an understanding of truth that manifests what could be. Thus, the truth of fiction and poetry lies in their power to prefigure, configure, and refigure existence. As Ricoeur puts it, “Through fiction and poetry new possibilities of being-in-the-world are opened up within everyday reality. . . . And in this way everyday reality is metamorphosed by means of what we would call the imaginative variations that literature works on the real.”75 Put differently, the truth of science (verification or adequation) presents us with what

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is, whereas the truth of art and literature (manifestation) reveals to us what could be depending on how we choose to interact with that which is. Is there any difference then between the truth of poetry or fiction and that of religious truth? Ricoeur believes that the primary distinction is that religious texts invite, indeed even challenge, their readers to even greater transformation. They do not merely open up a space in which one projects one’s “own most possibilities.” In the case of religious texts, “what is thus opened up in everyday reality is another reality, the reality of the possible.”76 Religious texts thus move beyond opening a space in which one can project one’s possibilities; religious texts manifest to the reader the reality of what could be. In Nietzschean terms, Ricoeur is asserting that religious texts bear a greater capacity to operate in “service to life.” In Gadamerian terms, religious texts have a uniquely potent role to play in Bildung. Perhaps because of his Protestant background, the religious texts that Ricoeur focuses on are biblical texts, where truth is “embedded in such modes of discourse as narratives, prophecies, legislative texts, proverbs and wisdom sayings, hymns, prayers, and liturgical formulas.”77 While Ricoeur directed his studies in religion primarily on the Bible, it should be easy to see by now how the truth of manifestation that he finds so powerfully present in religion applies to hagiography. For in hagiography the reader, within her “everyday reality,” is presented with that other reality—“the reality of the possible.” Because Ricoeur equally accepts the truth of verification and the truth of manifestation as truth, he provides us with a way forward in approaching hagiography that synthesizes the criteria of the modern historian, the criticisms of Nietzsche and White, and the concerns of Orsi and Chakrabarty. Ricoeur sometimes referred to his ability to hold these tensions together as a scholarly form of “controlled schizophrenia.”78 For this reason, he can, within the same essay, and without contradiction, note that in his approach he is deeply influenced by Rudolf Bultmann’s project of “de-mythologization,” on the one hand, and by Mircea Eliade’s “phenomenology of the sacred” and Rudolf Otto’s idea of the “numinous,” on the other.79 In Ricoeur, we find a model for taking seriously the empirical truth findings of a Delehaye, while affirming the existential truth concerns of Nietzsche and Gadamer. We can acknowledge the fictive elements of all historical writing with White driven by the human need for “meaning-making,” while recognizing with Orsi that some events and people are “abundant,” exceeding all of our rational and fictive categories. We can retain a historical-critical eye that takes seriously the “truth of verification,” while maintaining that Bildung and the “truth of manifestation” equally deserve the dignity of truth. Such an approach to the study of hagiographic discourse thus holds the most promise for religionists, historians, and comparative theologians alike.

Chapter 2 Devotion, Critique, and the Reading of Christian Saints’ Lives Rachel J. Smith

In a 2006 blog entry written in the wake of Gerald Ford’s death, Frank Dwyer protested the “evidently irresistible proto-American total immersion in sanctimonious eulogy and sappy hagiography.” Dwyer called for breaking away from these pious readings of a presidency and for Americans to conduct a careful reflection on “whether all the intoning newsreaders are right.”1 More recently, Zaki Hasan wrote that a “questionable haze” surrounds Chris Kyle, the soldier who was the subject of the controversial film American Sniper; there are questions about the “veracity” of the events of the Iraq war as described by Kyle. This haze has rendered much of the conversation about Kyle, Hasan argues, “hagiographic.”2 These are just two examples from a multitude of options in vernacular discourse in which the term “hagiography”—not unlike the related term “medieval”—is pejorative.3 In the former case, to write hagiography is to relate thoughtlessly affective and affected (“sappy”) narrations of a life. Dwyer connects these narrations to a smug religiosity that expresses itself in “sanctimonious” memorialization. In the latter case, the hagiographic refers to the false representations of Kyle and the events in which he participated. In both cases, the “hagiographic” denotes a lack of intellectual rigor, a paucity of truth, and an excess of emotion. To write a hagiography is to memorialize the dead in a way that is strained and distorted by a misplaced devotion to their memory. Devotion, so this logic goes, can only witness to a figure by creating images of them that are false in their perfection. In other words, the hagiographic is not “critical.” These definitions of hagiography, although they come from a popular forum and genre, echo assumptions about the religious and the devotional that were crucial to the establishment of secular academic study. Scholars have attempted to revisit the terms by which such study was established with a turn to the postsecular in critical theory. This turn has been important for those who want to reconceive the practices that constitute the study of religion as well as the treatment of religious subjects in disciplines including history and anthropology. Over the last fifteen years, critical theory has moved away from ideology critique and the neo-Marxist foundations of that approach, seeking a way to analyze religious

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practice and belief without reducing them to the terms of secular assumptions in which (as in these blog posts) devotion becomes fanaticism and the religious imagination is understood to be necessarily uncritical and deceptive. Such an approach has increasingly been seen as inadequate, unable to account for the rich and multiple effects of religiosity in the private and public sphere. Moreover, even as the secularization thesis has failed to account for the role and future of religion in the contemporary world, many theorists have attempted to show the violence concealed within the normative claims of secular discourse.4 In what follows, I will first outline some of the primary critiques of the social sciences by postsecular theorists. I will then consider these critiques in light of some of the key moments in the study of Christian hagiography, outlining both the ways it has been defined and how materials deemed hagiographic have been interpreted, particularly in terms of the figuring of the relationship between devotion and critique. In the conclusion of the chapter, I will offer some suggestions for an approach to saints’ Lives that does not imagine the scholar positioned fully outside the object of study, bestowing a final word of truth on the material by translating the theological language and understanding of a vita (Life) into terms that are solely sociological, anthropological, or historicist. This is not, however, to argue for a romantic notion of immediacy to the material. Nor is it to say that social scientific approaches to hagiography are fundamentally invalid. To the contrary, they have provided important information about the social life and the religious imaginary of the Middle Ages. However, despite the success of these methods, I will argue that to engage such materials through these approaches alone impoverishes our reading of them. Following Dipesh Chakrabarty, I  will suggest that generous modes of reading hagiographical texts—modes that require different skills of translation—are desirable and possible. This is not only an ethical project but also an empirical one. We cannot attend to the complexity and theological self-understanding of saints’ Lives without such generosity. This complexity includes the critical postures within particular hagiographies and the theological tradition more broadly that are dependent on and in service to devotion rather than opposed to it. A theological position that articulates devotion and critique as necessarily bound together, I will show, can be found within particular Lives, and examination of ecclesiastical literature demonstrates that concerns about the truth of hagiographical accounts and the surveillance of transcendence have been a part of clerical writing about hagiography for millennia. The critical stance, in other words, has a long history, one that this chapter will examine in the context of the reading of hagiography.

Postsecular theory and Hagiographical Devotion In his highly influential volume of 2003, Formations of the Secular, Talal Asad argues that “secular ideology” claims the prerogative to decide what counts as

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belonging to this world and what is otherworldly, what is real and rational from what is imaginary and irrational: The complex medieval Christian universe, with its interlinked times (eternity and its moving image, and the irruptions of the former into the latter: Creation, Fall, Christ’s life and death, Judgement Day) and hierarchy of spaces (the heavens, the earth, purgatory, hell), is broken down by the modern doctrine of secularism into a duality: a world of self-authenticating things in which we really live as social beings and a religious world that exists only in our imagination.5

Medieval Catholicism, Asad notes, conceives of time as a weave of the temporal and eternal; heavenly actors periodically punctuate earthly time. In secular discourse, to the contrary, time is uniform. The cosmos, too, is simplified, bifurcated rather than layered. These secular revisions are not merely descriptive, but normative insofar as the divine or religious is rendered as “unreal” or “irrational.” Relationships between human beings or human beings and their environment (rather than, for example, human beings and saints) are considered the ‘true’ or ‘real’ sites where human life unfolds and may be measured. Asad’s analysis of secular doctrine helps explain why naïve devotionalism is labeled “hagiographic” in the blog posts above. His critique, however, is aimed not at conceptions of the religious found among bloggers, but instead at the heart of the social sciences.6 In the “secularist logic of explanation,” Gregory McLennan notes, “the apparently irrational is consistently re-presented in terms of the realrational, and the apparently transcendent is encoded into a this-worldly profile, courtesy of a kind of ‘sociological truth.’ ” 7 Academic disciplines founded upon a secular logic perform their analysis through a project of translation in which religious phenomena, among others, are “encoded” in the language of a discipline’s analytical apparatus. Such recoding constitutes “critique.” The critical project has more and less explicitly been understood to continue the work of freeing humanity from the illusory dreams and dangers of a theological imagination: In the discourse of modernity “the secular” presents itself as the ground from which theological discourse was generated (as a form of false consciousness) and from which it gradually emancipated itself in its march to freedom. On that ground humans appear as the self-conscious makers of History (in which calendrical time provides a measure and direction for human events), and as the unshakable foundation of universally valid knowledge about nature and society.8

Secular critique, which requires the translation of religious material into its universalizing terms and categories, is thought to yield the “truth” of religious phenomena, taking false or “imaginary” material and rendering it real by explaining

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it in “this-worldly” terms. The critic is figured as disinterested, positioned “outside” of a text or phenomenon rather than within the space of devotional engagement. A true critic is one who is not subject to the temptation of religious (or hagiographical) excess. The modern study of hagiography, undertaken by both historians and religionists, has been structured by this same disposition of scholar and material that Asad identifies as crucial to the formation of modern academic disciplines.

Defining Hagiography The excising of the theological and devotional from the academic affected not only the relationship between scholar and subject, but also the ways in which subjects were defined. In an important essay, the historian Felice Lifshitz demonstrates that the distinction between hagiography and historiography was central to the definition of historiography in the mid-nineteenth century.9 No longer defined as either as the last books (“sacred writings”) of the Hebrew bible,10 nor read as a form of historical writing in which salvation history and the history of a community were bound together as was true in the late Carolingian and early Capetian periods,11 hagiography became the fantastic, religious other to the writing of history. There has continued, Lifshitz argues, an “industry involved specifically in discovering the characteristics which distinguish historical writing, or historiography, from ‘hagiography,’ an effort that has revolved around privileging historical writing as that which aims to truthfully—meaning verifiably, factually—recount events, while hagiography is still frequently stigmatized as ‘untrue.’ ”12 To construct a positivist, secular notion of history as a critical discipline, hagiography became the legendary: From the twelfth century . . . a new paradigm [was created] within whose framework “historiography” became a type of narrative ostensibly concerned exclusively with the realm of sensible reality divorced from the realm of the sacred, the realm of the “saints.” However, it was not until the nineteenth century that the category, the genre, of “hagiography” was invented. For then, historiography stood ready to be purged of those who dared write of saints or miracles in history at all, rather than within the confines of “hagiography,” “superstition,” “folklore,” or “popular devotion.”13

In the attempt to forge a space that could be measured and assessed by empirical means, the immeasurable and unmeasured realm of the sacred needed to be expunged. Hagiography is the necessary but disavowed other to history, as the theological is to the study of religion.14 In the English-speaking context, the modern definition of hagiography was part of a sectarian project that identified hagiography with the excesses of Catholic devotionalism. The English poet, essayist and biographer Robert

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Southey—to whom the OED ascribes the first use of the terms “hagiologist,” “hagiology,” “hagiographic,” and “hagiologic”—thought “Romish hagiographists” had a ridiculous desire to ascribe every sort of miracle to the saints. In 1860, R. A. Vaughn asserted that it is the “Mohammedans” who write “hagiography.”15 The “first stage of hammering out the new term [hagiography],” Lifshitz notes, “is marked by the context of sectarian polemic.”16 In rendering the hagiographic unempirical, Catholic, uncritically beset by an obsession with miracle and marvel in contrast to the sober consideration of earthly subjects by historians, the definition of hagiography recapitulated the structure of the modern conceptualization of “religion” in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In the wake of the wars of religion between Catholics and Protestants, Robert Orsi notes, both theologians and philosophers attempted to redefine religion as an essentially peaceful and reasonable phenomenon divested of those particularities—ritual, dogma, ecclesiastical hierarchies—that were understood to be responsible for endless fighting. Manifestations of religious piety that did not adapt to this normative definition were marked as “premodern, irrational, emotional, magical, superstitious, and ‘primitive.’ ”17 In other words, as overly devoted. This putatively neutral notion of modern religion, as Orsi has shown, was in fact profoundly shaped by Protestant assumptions and relied upon a notion of the Catholic (and its synonym, the medieval) as essentially foolish and backward, laden with outward signs of religiosity and defined by a concern for external rituals rather than inner transformation and ethical individualism.18 This concern to delimit the empirical and keep it from being contaminated by the fantastic did not, however, arise sui generis in the seventeenth century. The Catholic community had attempted to define good and bad religion, good and bad means of instilling and rousing devotion, well before Enlightenment attempts to quell sectarian violence and forge the boundaries of historiography as an explicitly secular field of study. The church was concerned with the status of saints’ and martyrs’ Lives as early as the sixth-century Gelasian Decree outlining “books that are to be received and are not to be received.” Alongside a list of the content and order of canonical books, the decree prescribed which theologians and texts were to be accepted by the faithful. It prohibited the liturgical reading of many a martyr’s tales due to a fear that their narratives were inaccurate and their authorship not sufficiently accounted for: But in accordance with ancient custom [and] with particular caution these [martyr tales] are not read in the holy Roman Church, because the names of those who wrote them are entirely unknown and, in addition, they are thought by infidels and the ignorant to be superfluous or less fitted to the order of events than the actual circumstances. . . . Because of this, . . . they are not read in the holy Roman Church so that not even the slightest occasion of ridicule might arise. We, however, with the aforementioned Church, venerate with all devotion both all the martyrs and the glorious agonies of those who are known to God more than to human beings.19

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The notion that historical writing is that which is accurate—recounting the “order of events” in a way that is true to the facts—is crucial here, as is the identity and character of the narrator; the orthodoxy of a writer is an authorizing condition of the text. The martyr himself or herself may be venerated, but the unfolding of the events of a life is ultimately known by the divine author of history and not necessarily by human beings if the textual tradition is unreliable. The author proclaims other passion narratives to be acceptable by virtue of their long use in the Church of Rome. However, the decree exhorts Catholics, when reading those texts to follow Paul and seek to “prove all things, hold fast to what is good” (omnia autem probate quod bonum tenete) (1 Thess. 5:21).20 This appeal to “prove” or “test” the sources of a tale and claims for the sanctity of an individual found new life in the thirteenth century when canonization procedures were remade into a juridical process of inquisition.21 Whereas in the early Middle Ages a saint would typically be deemed such by virtue of local devotions and the rite of episcopal translation of relics, the centralizing aims of the high medieval papacy transformed this process. To become a saint increasingly required undergoing a rigorous procedure that was complete only after receiving adjudication and ratification at the papal level.22 The dossier of a potential saint, including, importantly, a vita containing the testimony of eyewitnesses and accounts of posthumous miracles, would be submitted and subjected to scrutiny in order to “make a locally venerated saint fit a model of sanctity approved by the church.”23 From the juridical approach to Lives in canon law, which assessed their facticity and orthodoxy in the service of bestowing or denying sanctity, the next crucial moment in the treatment of saints’ Lives occurred in the seventeenth century in Belgium, where Jesuit scholars undertook the ambitious project of finding and publishing the names, dates, related feasts, and the most accurate versions of the Lives of Christian saints. For this group of scholars, named “the Bollandists” after an early member of the group, “accurate” meant the original or closest to the original version of a vita, a version unencumbered by the accretions of local legend.24 Unlike contemporary criticism of hagiography in which all versions of a Life are seen as worthy of study—being both revelatory of and shaped by the historical and political contexts in which they arise25—the Bollandists sought the purity of the primitive source, printing what they deemed reliable, and classifying the sources they were able to collect. Jean Bolland and Godfrey Henschen published the first volume of the Acta Sanctorum in 1643, approximately fifty years after Héribert Rosweyde initiated the project. Using the techniques of systematic manuscript research and the categorization of sources, they formed a “passage from dogmatic truth to historical truth,”26 yoking theological orthodoxy to historical facticity. Rosweyde’s initial impulse for beginning the project was his observation that in reading the Lives of the saints, he found many of them to be “apocryphal” and their orthodoxy questionable.27 It was believed that the historical truth of a document, established

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through the application of source criticism and paleography, would yield an orthodox account of a saint.28 The Bollandists thus continued the spirit of the Gelasian Decree, seeking the right sources to guide devotion and memory for the church. Although dogmatic and historical truths are bound together in the Bollandist project, their critical methods required the same quarantine of the factual and the fantastic, the historical and the legendary that Lifshitz finds in the construction of historiography in the nineteenth century. As Michel de Certeau notes of the Bollandists, Because erudite selection keeps only what is “sincere” or “truthful” about documents, uncritical hagiography . . . is cast aside. A rift opens up. On the one hand, the austerity that in liturgical matters both priests and theologians opposed to popular folklorization is now transformed into historical exactitude, a new form of worship through which clerics keep the people in the light of truth. On the other hand, from the rhetoric of sermons on the saints we move to a “devout” literature that cultivates both the affective and the extraordinary. The trench between learned “Biographies” and edifying “Lives” widens. The former are critical, less numerous, and deal with the most ancient saints; that is, those who belong both to a primitive purity of truthfulness and to an elitist privilege of knowledge. The latter, in the form of a thousand popular “Flowers of the Saints,” are quite widespread and devoted instead to contemporaries who died “in the odor of sanctity.”29

The centralizing, unifying strategy of academics formed a gap, de Certeau argues, between the proliferation of local devotions, often to newer saints, and those older texts curated by the critical eye of the learned priestly class. Thus de Certeau contends that at the root of the modern historical impulse, we find a clerical presence, first in the Gelasian Decree and again with the Bollandists; clerical attempts to forge universal, orthodox worship on the basis of proper documentation and a sanctity proven through critical methods are echoed by modern historians’ search for the facts and proof of what really happened.30 There is, however, a crucial difference between the function of “critique” operative in the Gelasian Decree, high medieval canonization procedures, and the Bollandists, and the “critique” undertaken by the social sciences, namely that the critical gestures of the former set emerged from devotion to the same tradition as the objects of their scrutiny, and that these critiques were carried out in order to ensure correct devotion. With the definition of the fields of historiography and religious studies in the modern academy, the clerical search for “facts” and proof was radically reformed. The distinction between insider-outsider, secular historian and religious writer (as Lifshitz documents in the nineteenth century), hardens. In the formation of the study of religious subjects, this division is particularly fraught, for it is not primarily a separation from the past but from a space of devotion, a stepping into

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the position of critical distance, away from the nearness of theological confession. This separation of confession and critique was essential to the production of modern knowledge and thus was “grafted” onto other epistemological distinctions, including the objective and subjective, the critical and uncritical, the detached and empathic, binaries that continue to “bedevil” religious studies.31 The notion that one may take up a pure position as outsider is, however, impossible, Robert Orsi argues, for “all humans are insiders and outsiders to their worlds.”32 However clearly the divisions between secular and sacred, scholarly and confessional, past and present, are made, they are unstable in both the writing of history and the study of religion. Speaking to this instability in historiography, including the history of religious subjects, Michel de Certeau argues that historians first divide the present and the past, thereby clearing a space in which they may “produce” the past. This production, in turn, stiches past and present back together, for history narrates the past by connecting it to the present.33 The writing of history, moreover, forces “historians [to] experiment with a praxis that is inextricably both theirs and that of the other (another period, or the society that determines them as they are today).”34 The language, categories, and modes of engagement with a source that a scholar uses cannot, in other words, only be those proper to their discipline, but must also be those of their subject. The conceptualization of history has, as de Certeau’s work suggests, become more complex since the nineteenth century. Scholars today conceive of the history that counts and deserves to be remembered as more than the deeds of great men or the machinations of the state. Furthermore, there has been an extensive debate about the status of narrative in the writing of history: is history merely fiction? Can its narrations be seen in any way as empirical? How can responsibility to the truth of the past be reconciled with the necessarily narratival and hermeneutic reality of the discipline?35 Religious studies is, likewise, reconsidering how it tells its stories, the relationship between scholar and practitioner, a relationship that is increasingly seen as foundational to the construction of the categories by which scholars have approached and interrogated materials.36 However, despite the ways in which careful consideration has been given to the writing of history or the study of religion, and despite the conceptualization of the scholar as an individual with his or her own past, interests, and agenda, the way in which the academic is located vis-à-vis the object of study overwhelmingly remains one of distance. Distance is still a synonym for critique. Devotion, the posture exemplifying the nearness of the insider, is considered incompatible with such critique.37 In what remains of this chapter, I want to examine the effects of this polarity of devotion and critique on scholarly engagement with saints’ Lives. I will argue, first, that this polarization distorts the ways that the scholar and the scholarly enterprise are imagined and, second, that it occludes the richness of these texts, limiting the ways in which academics are able to read them. Frantisek Graus, whom Patrick Geary credits as the first witness to historical interest in hagiography in the twentieth century, exemplifies the potentialities and pitfalls of positioning the scholar as a secular outsider in relation to hagiographical

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material and its theological content. Graus argued that the generic demand of hagiography is that it is “consciously propaganda.” One may find in saints’ Lives the social values of the hagiographer, but one may never assume that they provide an unbiased vision of that social world. The scholar of hagiography must, therefore, read with both a literary and historical eye, understanding the formal constraints of the genre as determinative of the historical picture it portrays.38 Graus’s attention to the rhetorical nature of hagiography, such that he saw the ways in which history is mediated through narratives formed by their political aims, was a crucial contribution to the non-devotional reading of saints’ Lives. Historians that followed read vitae as rhetorically shaped and reshaped for political purposes—including consolidating community identity, building local economies, soliciting the conversion of certain constituencies in order to alter the social landscape, to support pastoral programs seeking to form communities according to historically constituted ideals, or to resist heresy—and thus demonstrated the historiographical import of each recension of a vita.39 In other words, the text is considered not as a sealed unit in relation to timeless ideals, but as a document that is of its historical moment, written and rewritten for needs and purposes that change over time, apparent in the various versions of a text and the different ways in which it is categorized and transmitted through networks of production and dissemination.40 This historiographical work has been invaluable for allowing new ways of understanding hagiographical documents and the worlds of which they are a part, placing these sources within multiple milieux, and attending to the variety of ends to which they were put. Moreover, careful rhetorical analysis is not beholden to generic categories as absolutes, but attends to the self-understanding of a text, its modes of self-presentation, the gaps and ambiguities within it, including the ways in which the text might defy the expectations of the genre to which it belongs. The rhetorical study of hagiography that figures like Graus are in part responsible for, then, can lead to conclusions that are at a great remove from simply defining a text as “propaganda.” However, the positioning of the scholar of religion as a “critical” outsider to her subject tempts the return of the label. If critique is the prerogative of one who remains unaffected by the lure of the text, the prerequisite for knowledge is distance. Truth, in this view, can be found only by the reader who has attained space from the text. “Devoted” readers are thereby rendered dupes and the writer becomes either a conscious agent of propaganda or a fool who simply repeats messages on behalf of forces larger than herself. True understanding of a vita occurs through its translation into terms that are considered empirically verifiable and so “real” (for example, economics or political power), categories of analysis that promise to unmask the true purpose and effects of the text. This reduction of a text to its sociopolitical dimensions is particularly an issue when considering the theological content of a saint’s Life in such a way that takes its theological claims as worthy of investigation not only in the terms of the modern academy, but also (as de Certeau argues is necessary for the writing of history), on their own terms. If critique, however nuanced or sympathetically presented, is

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understood to be incompatible with the theological devotion of the hagiographer or the religious reader, then the theological is reduced to a functionalist role of easing or enabling certain economic or social agendas; pastoral theology, considered by such a method, is necessarily reduced to a means for the imposition of ideology. Such a view of theology and religious teaching is particularly thin. First, it essentializes belief as an assent to propositional content rather than a continually evolving practice or relationship of trust with divine beings. Such an approach also ignores the ways that hagiographical theology might attempt to teach skills of deliberation and interpretation. As the invocation of 1 Thessalonians by the author of the Gelasian Decree shows, religious devotion may in fact be the driving force behind a principle of critique, a notion of critique predicated not on distance from a text, but on the devotion of the reader to creedal and scriptural criteria. Thus, the decree urges readers of romances and vitae to “test” and “prove” what they read by evaluating them against the measuring rod of scripture. The devotional reader should, then, develop skills of interpretation and discernment. Even as reading scripture is understood by the author of the Gelasian Decree to teach these skills, so, too, can the reading of saints’ Lives develop interpretive skills, which the reader is called upon to use in order to decide a narrative’s trustworthiness. Thomas of Cantimpré (c. 1201–c.1270), a Dominican hagiographer who wrote five Lives of contemporary holy persons representing a variety of religious vocations from the Low Countries, registers anxiety in many of his works that the strategies of persuasion he uses in order to convince readers that the novel figures he offers for their devotion—the key strategy being the vivid representation of their bodies and miracles—will in fact inspire disbelief, that the “incomprehensible greatness of . . . miracles [will] become an odour of death rather than life in the hearts of unbelievers.”41 His texts betray a self-consciousness about their own methods, an awareness that the techniques used to create compelling narratives can produce undesired consequences. Even in the vita of his most traditional figure, the Cistercian nun Lutgard of Aywières, Thomas is profoundly concerned that the text will not be believed. The prologue emphasizes the rhetorical situation of writer and resistant reader, the reader who considers the merits of an argument, weighs the legitimacy of offered proofs. Thomas writes that he hopes that not only you [Hadewijch, the Abbess of Aywières] but the virgins of all the monasteries of Brabant receive (suscipiant) this life of the gracious Lutgard so that she, whose reputation for virtue (fama virtutis) was known to all, should become even more widely known (innotescat) by the publication of this little book (libelli). May it increase virtue and merit in its readers, to whom it will provide a lesson (praescriptum) and example (exemplum) of virtue.42

The verb suscipere—important in that part of the Gelasian Decree considered above—here an implicit synonym for credere, means to take up, accept, defend, and receive. As the origin of the English “suspicion,” it refers to the Roman practice of the father “taking up” a new child from the ground after overcoming his fear that the infant may not be his own. Thomas hopes his readers will overcome their

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distrust of the vita and “take it up.” The verb further implies that this reception is not only a matter of overcoming doubt, but an affective identification with, recognition of, and caring as if it were one’s own for that which was regarded as suspect. To believe, then, is to “take up” the text and the saint after a period of doubt. Only then will it be able to increase “virtue and merit” in the reader. Importantly, such belief is neither automatic nor guaranteed. If the means of proving sanctity—descriptions of miracles, marvels, paramystical phenomena, eyewitness testimonies—are ineffective or even counterproductive, what is left is the reader’s assessment of the text and, finally, as there can be no absolute assurance, an act of trust in the figures there represented. Thomas’s hagiographies, like the Gelasian Decree, call upon the reader to exercise his or her discretion, a discernment of a text and a saint that draws upon a web of knowledge based on other texts, including, importantly, authoritative hagiographies and scripture. Thomas shows that faith in the saint (and the doctrines he attempts to teach through her) requires an occasionally precarious negotiation between writer and audience, reader and text, the demands of the text and the skepticism of the reader. If, however, devotion and faith are regarded as the opposite of critique, then faith is not understood to be that which might teach critical skills and, concomitantly, it is not thought that it can be taught through critical means. Such a view renders faith either as a form of false consciousness arising from belief in spurious information, or as something that some people naturally have and others do not. In the former case, belief is conceived as assent to propositional content. And indeed, Thomas is concerned that Lutgard be “proven,” that the proposition that this woman is worthy of being considered a saint be assented to by readers. However, this is not a sufficient understanding of the stakes Thomas sets out in the prologue. Thomas has written here the Life of a woman he knew and loved and the assent he seeks is imbricated fully with a notion that it requires love to be fulfilled. In the context of this saint’s Life, the faith that is solicited is one conceived of as a relationship to a divine other, a relationship that develops out of practices of reading, prayer, and devotion, not merely assent to certain truth claims. In the latter case, belief is understood to be something that cannot be taught but must be part of the cultural water in which subjects swim. The exemplary site of natural belief has long been the medieval. This is true for multiple discourses, including Catholic attempts to recapture an “age of faith” in the founding of medieval studies, Renaissance constructions of Enlightenment founded upon a distinction between medieval credulity and the “rebirth” of classical reason, and in popular culture where the medieval signifies, much like the hagiographic, the credulous, the fanatical, the intolerant, and hyper-religious.43 Stephen Justice argues that most contemporary scholarship regards belief as a “black box” unavailable to modern scholars, thus “enforce[ing] an idea of the immediacy to faith” on the part of medieval people.44 Justice argues that, in contrast, hagiographies often “bare the devices of faith” and “open to inspection the constraints they work on themselves to maintain their credit in what seems scarcely credible.”45 The presumed immediacy of faith to the people of the Middle Ages makes invisible to scholars the attempts of medieval materials to teach devotion and critique. The naturalization of medieval

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belief, moreover, creates a safe space for the modern scholar who, standing outside the religious purview of the text, remains immune from its temptations, from the faith that is seen as proper to a time now past. This notion of a discrete space of faith occupied by the medieval subject supports the construction of modern historiography, described by Lifshitz as requiring the formulation of hagiography as the fantastic and fanatical shadow of historiography. Hagiography pertains to faith while the historical becomes a naturalized space emptied of the sacred. On the basis of such a bifurcation, historical material could be analyzed and critiqued using empirically verifiable criteria upon material that was empirically verifiable and thus deemed real. The boundaries between the positions of insider and outsider and between history and hagiography are not as hard and fast as was suggested by the modern historians Lifshitz examines. The function of exemplarity, often invoked as a crucial characteristic of hagiography, is not easily removed from contemporary or medieval understandings of history.46 Like Lifshitz, Jean Leclercq observes that legendary tales and historical chronicles were often placed together in manuscripts. It is not, he argues, that these collectors did not understand Isidore’s distinction between historia and fabulae, but that both types of text “provide[d] instruction on the way life should be led.” Both the strictly historical and the fabulous could edify and exhort.47 In this, medieval authors continued the antique practice of writing history in order to provide models for conduct.48 Exemplarity and edification—the building of character and community—implicate the reader in the text. They suggest an appeal in the story that escapes the immanent space of the narrative: there is no purely private space of textuality without effect but always a conversation with the reader who is both within and without the story. If we draw the line between insider and outsider in absolute terms, we miss the role of devotion in hagiographic materials. We also miss the ways that historical texts work upon readers in the present, the play of distance and nearness that is an inescapable dynamic in all reading, in all study. The work of postcolonial theorist Dipesh Chakrabarty suggests that if it is impossible to position a reader entirely outside of a text, scholarship on religious material should not translate the theological or religious understanding into social scientific frameworks alone. He argues that the social sciences, in which phenomena are analyzed in naturalistic, universal terms, are “indispensable” but “inadequate.”49 Such frameworks are indispensable insofar as we cannot escape the historicist, materialist context in which much contemporary life and scholarship unfolds. Moreover, he notes that critiques of various forms of oppression, including colonialism, rely upon the universalizing claims of “European thought,” making a project of “postcolonial revenge” in which that tradition is disavowed, not only undesirable but impossible.50 The social sciences, however, cannot sufficiently account for the ways in which, for many contemporary South Asian subjects, agency is a property held not only by human but also divine actors. In order to account for and narrate the reality of these divine beings in such a way

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that claims of supernatural agency are not labeled “archaic” survivals—thereby plotting religious narrative according to a historicist schema—or recoding the gods as “in the end ‘social facts,’ ”51 Chakrabarty argues that a new “politics of translation”52 is required in which belief and experience are not simply converted into “this-worldly” terms that render them inferior and secondary to naturalistic categories.53 In these new “translations,” the gods and spirits would be treated as “co-eval” with human agents rather than caught up in a developmental narrative that Chakrabarty identifies as crucial to historicism, wherein the “premodern” becomes the “waiting room” for modernity.54 This call to revisit translation practice is not only an issue of accurately describing and analyzing the lifeworlds of the communities with which Chakrabarty engages, but is crucial to the ethical import of postcolonial theory, for historicism has, he argues, profound political implications. Historicism naturalizes history—its events, its actors, social forms, practices, and beliefs—by giving the same ontological status to all. In reading historical time as unified in this way, the past is narrated in light of its relation to a modern present and future, the source of which is the West. The structure of all such narratives is the “first in Europe, then elsewhere” version of time. Historicism “posited historical time as a measure of the cultural distance . . . that was assumed to exist between the West and the non-West.”55 The same structure that Chakrabarty has identified in the colonial construction of the “East” and “West” and their relationship to modernity and time is also operative within Western discourse about its own history in the opposition of the “dark ages” to the “Enlightenment” and in the naturalized religiosity ascribed to medieval subjects, contrasted with the secularism ascribed to the modern scholar. To read saints’ Lives in light of Chakrabarty’s suggestions would, first, take the theological as real on its own terms rather than attempt to recode it as an expression of “social facts.”56 Caroline Walker Bynum’s Holy Feast, Holy Fast, now approaching its thirtieth anniversary, has in some ways opened the space for this approach. The book thinks with the theo-logic of medieval vitae, understanding their semiology, particularly the sign of the female body, within the matrices of medieval Catholic belief and practice rather than according to a second-wave feminist framework that found only degradation in the extreme female asceticism depicted in these Lives rather than a privileged imitation of Christ.57 Bynum’s work is, then, a key moment in the history of reading medieval hagiography. In terms of the theological reading of saints’ Lives, however, her approach needs to be taken further by attending to the texture, detail, and complexities of particular texts and their integrity as wholes, rather than subordinating vitae by a wide variety of authors from multiple regions and periods to theological categories in a singular way.58 Chakrabarty’s approach does not allow us to adjudicate whether or not such theological claims have an objective referent, nor does it seek to. Instead, first, it allows us to attend to theological argument as much as the social realities (and the interrelationship of the two) of a text without reducing the former to the latter. Second, the solicitation of a reader’s devotion neither needs be reflexively

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disavowed nor understood as necessarily threatening to the critical posture which is no longer identified solely with the “secular” or “modern.” If we draw the line between devotee and scholar, insider and outsider, medieval and modern, in absolute terms, we miss the role of devotion both in hagiographic materials, and the multiple ways in which historical texts might work upon readers in the present. To say this is not to argue, however, that we should dream of a scholarly approach to the text that is pure enchantment, engaging in a nostalgic fantasy of a reading that is without the discomforts of distance and critique, a reading that only edifies and does not dismantle. Such a space was not part of the approach to hagiographical materials in the earliest accounts of the church, and it is inappropriate in the academy. But the faith sought by a hagiography need not be understood as erasure of a critical faculty in order to mask a hidden agenda, nor as something that one either possesses or lacks, but as something bound together with a set of skilled interpretive strategies and capacities for criticism. A consideration of the way in which hagiography has been read in religious and secular contexts demonstrates the instability of the positions of insider-outsider, devout and critical. Critical distance—postures of adjudication and a corrosive hermeneutics that approach a text with suspicion—has long been part of a theological tradition that includes saints’ Lives. Critique of the facticity and orthodoxy of vitae and martyr tales was present in the early church, as attested to by the Gelasian Decree. In the thirteenth century, Thomas of Cantimpré registers the doubts of his readers and the potential for his tales to be disbelieved. Again with the Bollandists, we find a clerical group applying modern critical methods to hagiographical documents. In each of these cases, however, the critique was made possible by a former devotion—devotion to scripture, to orthodox doctrine, to ideals of sanctity—that acted as a rod by which to measure novel material. This critique was, moreover, in service to what each of these authors conceived to be right devotion.

Chapter 3 Sacred Narrative and The Truth: What Does It Mean If It Did Not Happen?

Patricia Fann Bouteneff and Peter C. Bouteneff

Introduction It happens to any believer soon or later, especially those of us raised in a secular environment. Religious narratives that we first learn as history can, under mature examination, turn out probably to be ahistorical. As one important example, Christians and Jews during formative years of their lives are told the story of God’s creating the world in six days, culminating in the forming of the first human couple, Adam and Eve. Inevitably, at some point we learn of contemporary scientific theories about the beginning and age of the universe, the evolution of human beings, and the redaction of Scripture. One consequence of that disconnect is the debate between “evolution and creation.” Within that rather unhelpful opposition, one camp insists that the scientific data that point to a fourteen-billion-year-old universe and the evolutionary genesis of humanity obviate the biblical accounts of the hexaemeron and the Paradise story. Another side avers that the scientific data must be wrong because the Bible never is. Then there is the view that Adam and Eve are characters in a “true” creation myth rather than historical personages. This tension, between the sacred Genesis narrative and the evident facts of the universe’s age and human origins, leaves us with options. One is to reject the biblical account in the first three chapters of Genesis entirely. That approach has the benefit of being scientifically accurate. But it not only alienates us from a significant contingent of religious people, but also potentially forfeits the story’s profound insights. Another option is to link the story with scientifically accepted theories, which means adopting one of several approaches (“God of the gaps,” “day-age theory,” “theistic evolution,” et al.) that understand the events and characters of the Genesis accounts to correspond in some more or less direct way to “what actually happened.” This approach, like the first, retains the asset of a strong “scientific truth” factor, but for many believers requires an unacceptable retooling of their conception of an “inspired” scripture. A third option is to enjoy the intrinsic value of the beauty, insight, and theological truth inherent in the creation myth as it

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is, even as you acknowledge the historical problems. This last is one of several approaches that require us to sacrifice a fully self-consistent position. Sometimes we have to think in two different modes simultaneously. The very existence of these multiple approaches to Genesis—in conflict with each other even as they may overlap—raises the question of whether and where truth and meaning are located within a given story, and whether and how they depend on historical veracity. Virtually everyone agrees that stories—fables, legends, parables, and myths—can contain truth, meaning, and life lessons, whether or not the events they portray actually happened. Outright fictions, such as parables, fables, and folktales do not pretend to historicity, yet lose nothing of their capacity to yield insight, to tell the truth. If a story begins, “The Kingdom of Heaven is like a man who . . .” or “Once upon a time . . .,” its truth-bearing capacity bears no pretense to historicity. But many, if not most, religious narratives are—or seem to be—told as historically true. Discovering that their events may in fact not have “happened” in the physical or temporal world can be deeply alienating to a believer. If the world did not actually come into being in six days, with Adam and Eve as our actual human progenitors, then, as one biblical scholar has insisted to us, “that would mean that God lied.” This problem is not unique to ancient texts: in 2003 in the United States, the author James Frey published A Million Little Pieces as a memoir. When it was revealed some months later that key portions were fiction, a huge controversy ensued. The publisher offered refunds to customers who felt betrayed, although the author averred that the story he had written contained “the essential truth” about his life. Such stories have proliferated in the ensuing years. None of them would have evoked controversy had their authors published their stories as fictional, or as “embellished memoir.” Expectation is crucial: audiences abhor being deceived. The ancient texts foundational to many people’s faith now face audiences with modern sensibilities and sophisticated scholarly tools at their disposal. Their scholarship has caused some to reject their faith along with the stories. But for those who retain their belief—and its dependence on scriptural and hagiographic stories—challenges remain. These dissonances can be couched academically: How can we, as postmoderns, genuinely reappropriate the premodern sensibilities that informed the source and intended audience of a given narrative? On a personal level, we, the authors of this study, often find ourselves asking: How can I remain vulnerable to a significant story, yet be true to the critical, convincing data that I uncover that would seem to compromise its historical foundations? This chapter will present several short case studies drawn from two broad categories, scripture and hagiography. Each category features two stories that were told-as-true, accepted as having happened, and whose historicity has been challenged in a post-critical age. But history itself also testifies to diverse hermeneutic strategies for helping contemporary scholar-believers cope with these challenges. As we will show, early Christian authors had to reconcile the cosmology of the Genesis hexaemeral accounts with their own quite different understanding of the universe. They grappled with the material much as post-Darwinian Christians have had to in our era. We will conclude by presenting some of their strategies.

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Scripture Our first two case studies emanate from Hebrew Scripture: the flood account in Genesis 6–8 and the Book of Tobit. Here we might recall that, rather than being a string of undifferentiated data, Scripture encompasses a diversity of content and function. There are etiological creation stories, prayers, apocalyptic literature, prophecy, historical narratives, and genealogies, as well as wisdom literature that features stories akin to folktales. The Christian New Testament also contains a variety of genres, including multiple accounts of Jesus’s life, stories about what happened to his disciples after his death, letters of instruction and encouragement, and apocalyptic literature. The hermeneutic strategy that insists on a flat “inerrancy” (as historical fact) of “every word” of the Bible is a modern construct, far from universal in our day and quite foreign to early Christians and Jews. But even to the “sophisticated modern reader,” some stories more than others are potentially threatened by modern suspicions about their historicity. When some biblical accounts, such as the flood narrative and the Tobit story we will examine next, are shown to exist alongside strikingly parallel stories in other traditions, a believer is left scrambling to defend both their faith as well as the uniqueness of Judeo-Christian history and lore. We begin with the story of the flood. The Biblical Flood  The Biblical Flood occurs in Genesis 6:5–8:22. In the story, God decides to destroy the world through a deluge when he sees that the mass of humankind has sunk into sin. He instructs Noah to build an ark and to gather onto it the members of his household along with pairs of all the animals on the earth. The rains fall and whatever is not on the ark is destroyed. As the waters recede, the ark goes aground and God sends a rainbow as a sign that he will never again visit such destruction on creation. This story is often cited in religious contexts as proof that God has a plan for humanity and the rest of creation. An example of divine providence, it shows God’s guidance of human beings, whom he made in his image, to the realization of their holy vocation. For Jews and Christians the Biblical account of the flood is a foundational text alongside the creation narratives. Most of us in Judeo-Christian religious and popular culture may not realize that we reference the flood when we call ancient ideas or artifacts “antediluvian.” It is probably the best known of all Old Testament stories, especially among schoolchildren, who play with toy arks and animal pairs and sing songs in school and around the campfire about the flood. The Noah story’s wide cultural significance was enhanced by having been carried worldwide by missionaries. Scholarship around it includes books, monographs, and essays by theologians, anthropologists, folklorists, classicists, and geologists. Scholars and laypeople have long searched for evidence of the historicity of the mythical flood, seeking geological, meteorological, oceanographic, and other causes for the deluge; many continue to do so. Rumors that pieces of the ark have been found on Mt Ararat in eastern Turkey continue to circulate.1 Paleontological evidence of fossilized seashells and fish on mountains—observed by Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans—caused some Greeks to hypothesize that the earth had once been covered by water.2

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A further challenge for scholars, especially of religion and folklore, “Noah and the Ark” falls into the genre of myth. Myths, technically, are stories of the distant past that are believed. Many scholars would add that it is “a sacred narrative explaining how the world or humans came to be in their present form.”3 But “myths,” especially in popular parlance, are often considered to be the opposite of “reality.” Devout pagans of antiquity likewise would never have called their belief in Zeus and his pantheon “myths,” because myths are lies. St. Paul and other early Christians regularly set mύqoi in opposition to ἀlήqeia, much as Plato set mύqoV in opposition to lόgoV. That basic connotation remains with us today: myths are undeniably powerful, but overwhelmingly we consider them fictions. All this means that identifying the flood account as a “myth” denudes it of its veracity, and therefore, perhaps, of its real power. Equally, when we mature into a realization that the flood story in Genesis is only one of a wide array of flood myths, we challenge Judeo-Christian uniqueness. Once a cherished story is seen to play a role in widely varying systems, it may no longer seem to convey a unique truth; the religion’s broader historical narrative might seem in danger of losing its coherence. The oral tradition from which the story was compiled4 continued in many cultures: by 1959, folklorist Francis Lee Utley had studied 275 versions from around the world of just one folktale based on the ark story.5 Flood myths as part of etiological narratives abound: they are found in Mesopotamian, Hindu, and Greek mythology, and among the story repertoires of Mesoamerican, North American, and South American tribes.6 For a long time, Christian scholars resolved that “problem” by suggesting that all the other stories had been derived from the (earlier) biblical version. In 1872, however, an Assyriologist named George Smith discovered that an account of the flood was recorded on cuneiform tablets in the British Museum. His discovery scotched the arguments that the biblical story was the earliest version. Further, the flood story poses challenges at several other levels. For believing biologists, if the story is 100 percent accurate, it means that every animal, down to the smallest insect and bacterium, and every human being, descends from the passengers on the ark. Textual scholars find that aspects of the Noah story contradict earlier chapters in the Book of Genesis. (In The City of God 15: 9–14, the fourth-century Christian Saint Augustine pointed out that if all the numbers and ages in Genesis are correct, Methuselah [Gen. 5:21-27] would have had to be on Noah’s ark.) The historicity issue for believers becomes the “problem of myth.” Where does its truth lie? Tobit O Lord Jesus Christ our God, the true and living way, Who didst deign to ­journey with Thy foster-father Joseph and Thine all-immaculate Virgin Mother into Egypt, and didst accompany Luke and Cleopas to Emmaus: We humbly pray Thee, O all-holy Master, by Thy grace to accompany now [name]. And send and unto him, as unto Thy servant Tobias, a guardian angel, guiding, ­preserving and delivering him from every evil assault of enemies, both visible

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and invisible; and directing him unto the fulfillment of Thy commandments; and preserving him in peace, happiness, and health; and bringing him back again in safety and tranquility.7 “Prayer for Travelers” Unlike the story of the flood, which is known virtually worldwide, the Book of Tobit is a relatively obscure Old Testament narrative. The book recounts the tribulations of Tobit and Sarah, and of Tobit’s son, Tobias, who travels between them to enact the solutions to their separate problems. The book is set in the Nineveh of the eighth century BC. Tobias, a pious man, who lives as an exile among the Assyrians, strives to bury as many of his countrymen as he discovers slain and left to the dogs. In spite of his charitable deeds, he finds himself blinded and impoverished. God hears his prayers, however, alongside those of Sarah, who is living a demonhaunted existence in Media. When Tobit commissions his son, Tobias, to collect a debt owed to him in Media, God sends Raphael—in the only instance that the archangel is mentioned by name in the Bible—to accompany him. Raphael teaches Tobias how to magically deliver his father from his sightlessness and Sarah from her demon, after which Tobias and Sarah marry each other. Tobit, though relatively obscure, matters because of the view that many Christians retain of the inerrancy of the Bible. The book is listed in the canon of the Councils of Hippo (AD 393) and Carthage (AD 397); it forms part of the canonical or deuterocanonical books of both the Orthodox and Catholic churches and was translated as part of the Septuagint. Evidence from the Dead Sea Scrolls suggests authorship no later than the second century BC. The book functions as wisdom literature, much like Ecclesiastes, Job, the Song of Songs, and the like. To wit, before Tobias sets out on his journey, Tobit provides him with a set of precepts about prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. But the sense that the characters in the book are historical recurs both in the Jewish Midrash Bereishit Rabbah and Christian work (Finding The Way To The Heart 2010). As a result, Tobit’s story figures in prayer life, especially of Orthodox Christians. His son, Tobias, is mentioned next to historical figures such as the Virgin Mary, the evangelist Luke, and his companion Cleopas in the standard Orthodox prayer for travelers cited earlier. The book’s praise of marriage is read aloud during weddings in some traditions. The problems with Tobit, for believers, are not unlike those for the flood, even if Tobit’s function within the grand Jewish and Christian narrative is far smaller: they concern both historicity and uniqueness. Tobit’s story is closely tied with folktales and contains undeniably folkloric elements. The basis of the story in folklore is known as “The Grateful Dead.”8 The story commonly includes a protagonist who in his travels encounters the body of someone who was never buried appropriately, often because he did not pay off some debt. After the traveler either pays the deceased’s obligations or ensures his burial, he is later rewarded, or his life is saved by the dead man’s soul embodied as either a person, an angel, or animal. The Book of Tobit is not a pure folktale, however. It is a novelized version, meaning that its author or authors added elements to it so that it is often grouped within the genre known as “the ancient Jewish novel.” Although it is easy enough

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for Christians to acknowledge that the Bible, their foundational religious book, contains a wide variety of genres, it can be hard to accept that it also contains a genre so lacking in a real referent to a historical event, existing in an invented world similar to our own, as a novel or folktale,9 and that parallel stories with identical elements have been told in many other cultures across time. For some, the Bible’s inclusion of this kind of story places its overall seriousness in question. Scripture and Parallel Narratives: The Problem of Uniqueness  We alluded earlier to the problem of uniqueness: at the level of both national and religious identity, what happens when the flood is no longer an example of God’s care for his chosen people (Noah was a forefather of Abraham), but is instead a generalized story of the “reboot” of human civilization gone awry? Less pressingly, what happens when Tobit is no longer a Hebrew who introduces us to one of the archangels, but one among many folk figures, like Cinderella or the ubiquitous tale hero Jack? For Christians, the potential threat can be sharpened further still when it applies to Jesus Christ himself. When a “religious studies” approach yields parallel incarnation narratives, either through the “sons of god” in shamanistic traditions, or in the avatars of Hinduism, the Christ story can be grouped as just another of the myths lodged deep within the collective human psyche. Joseph Campbell, building on Jung’s theory of a collective subconscious, describes these parallel myths as part of an ur-myth, which can feel threatening to a person of faith: what happens when one’s “hero” might have “a thousand faces?”10 There have been multiple strategies within Christian tradition to counter this notion: the two most extreme are exclusivism and pluralism. The exclusivist approach, associated with ancient thinkers like Theophilus of Antioch (2nd c. CE) and Cyprian of Carthage (3rd c. CE) and modern ones like Karl Barth (1886– 1968), has it that non-Christian traditions are merely stammering approximations to the truth of Christianity, and that their histories and practices have no intrinsic salvific value. The pluralism approach, associated with no premodern Christian thinkers, but with contemporary ones like John Hick and Paul Knitter, delights in the revelation of parallel mythic traditions. In this view, parallels confirm the basic intuition that all the great religious traditions have equal access to the One Truth, in much the way that all the planets in a solar system receive the sun’s heat and light, none in exclusion to another. The exclusivist approach retains Christian uniqueness by invalidating any story, however similar, that figures into another faith traditions. The relativist approach diffuses the “uniqueness” tension by eliminating all pretenses to uniqueness. There are other strategies, with ancient and modern provenance. Both the aforementioned Theophilus of Antioch and his second-century contemporary Justin Martyr argued, vis-à-vis the Greek creation myths, that the accounts in the Hebrew Pentateuch are older and therefore truer. Justin also introduced a much subtler and more useful reading of the parallel accounts of creation, one we associate today with the word “inclusivism.” This strategy retains uniqueness and particularity by continuing to identify Jesus Christ, who is both Son of God as well as Son of the

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(human) Davidic lineage, as the sole savior of the world. “There is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven . . . by which we must be saved” (Acts 4:12). The pluralists’ solar system analogy is perhaps retained, but the sun is none other than the Holy Trinity: Father, Son (Jesus Christ), and Holy Spirit. So while the hero may have a thousand faces, he has only one identity and his name is Jesus. Folklorists and other scholars have long noted that the discovery of parallel stories, myths, and practices around Noah and the ark, has already been “invoked as documentary ‘proof ’ that the flood had indeed been a worldwide historical event.”11 For the Christian inclusivist, similarly, the parallel accounts not only do not threaten Christian uniqueness, they support the universality of Christian truth. Several modern Christian thinkers (Hans Urs von Balthasar, Paul Fiddes, Jeremy Begbie) have all likened this phenomenon to the acoustic one of “attunement.” If one were to sing a pure note into a piano with the strings unmuted, certain strings will vibrate in resonance with that one note. Thus, it is with the biblical stories. C. S. Lewis often said that stories and myths, both in the Bible as well as outside it, bear truth insofar as they resonate with “the one true story”: that of Jesus Christ, Son of God, crucified for our sake. It no longer matters, then, whether one story predated the other. Ostensibly, some creation myths or flood myths or both, as well as similar myths, could predate the written codification in the Book of Genesis. What now matters is which of these is the sung pure note, and which are the strings resonating in sympathy with it. The test of that pure note, for the Christian, is the person of Christ himself, such that both the truth and the uniqueness of the Paradise story rest in Christ’s presence within them. Virtually all of the early Christian interpreters of the Paradise account, from Paul onward (cf. Rom. 5:14), understand Adam primarily as the “type” or “figure” of Jesus Christ, the “New Adam.” Uniqueness thus resides in Christ, as does the coherence of the entirety of Scripture.

Hagiography Hagiography, like any genre, fulfills a particular set of functions, with concomitant expectations of both authors and audience. As such, hagiography does not pretend to consist of unbiased recountings of historical facts, although a given example will vary as to how much it may be embellished or fanciful in the course of edifying, instructing, and inspiring its audience. Few people would be propelled into a crisis of faith by learning that not every miraculous detail in a saint’s life might have actually occurred. That being said, some details are of greater weight than others. Saints’ legends composed with a strong pedagogical or political intention, or with both intentions, as well as those saints’ legends of uncertain provenance, are vulnerable to challenge. Two examples follow: While the martyrdom of St.  Euphemia of Chalcedon is not historically contested, at least one miracle attributed to her is controversial. The popular St Phanourios of Rhodes, on the other hand, is a saint whose very existence has been seriously questioned; however, he is a living presence to many—including the authors of this chapter.

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Euphemia of Chalcedon12 Thou didst fill the Orthodox with gladness and didst cover with shame all the heretics; for at the holy Fourth Council in Chalcedon, thou didst confirm what the Fathers decreed aright. (Apolytikion hymn to St. Euphymia in the Orthodox Church) The widely venerated Euphemia of Chalcedon was martyred in 303 CE. Her feast day is celebrated on September 11, while the miracle she performed at Chalcedon is commemorated on July 11. Her hagiography, which follows established patterns of the genre, gained her a devoted following across the Christian world, both before and after the watershed church council held in her city of Chalcedon in the year 451. Her story continued to develop in subsequent centuries, in ways that were profoundly shaped by that council and by the rival church factions that resulted from it. The evolution of her hagiography shows how miracle accounts can accrue over time, often with transparent motivations. Indeed, saints’ vitae do often develop lives of their own, partly because a saint’s life and perceived activity tend not to end with death. That is to say, the mark of a saint is that he or she continues to act in the world, effecting healings and providing wisdom and visions, through prayers and sometimes through relics. The evolution of vitae can be a matter of reporting these interactions or it can be an addition or elaboration, whether innocent or calculated. St. Euphemia was martyred by being thrown to wild animals after she refused to worship a pagan idol. She is widely venerated in the Eastern Orthodox Church, partly for a miracle that her relics were said to have performed at the Council of Chalcedon, nearly 150 years after her death. That council created within Christendom significant factions, whose leaders sought means of defending their respective teachings and heroes. The council took place in the church building where Euphemia was entombed; prayers were offered to her at several points during deliberations. The miracle story of the accrued hagiography notes that the council’s two main factions could not find agreement through discussion, so the Patriarch suggested that each side write down its respective confessions of faith. The martyr’s coffin was opened and the two scrolls were placed in her hands. The council then entered a three-day period of prayer and fasting, after which the coffin was reopened. The Orthodox confession of faith was found still clutched in her hands, while the heretical one lay beneath her feet.13 Several points need to be noted. First, the veneration of St. Euphemia continued long after the council among both factions. Her vita in the “non-Chalcedonian” churches does not feature this miracle story, nor do the vitae that survive in the Christian West (despite the West’s own adherence to the council). Second, we have several recensions of her vita.14 One was written about a century after her death, some fifty years before the council. Another from the sixth-century reports that only the Orthodox text, and not the heretical one, was placed in  Euphemia’s tomb. (A different sixth-century story tells that heretics tried

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to remove that text from Euphemia’s hands in the coffin, but they were repelled by fire and smoke that emanated therefrom.) The next version dates from the ninth century, during the iconoclast crisis; it features the miracle story just recounted, as well as another that vindicates the veneration of icons. Yet another version from two centuries later features more miracle stories, plus an elaborated account of the Chalcedonian phenomenon. However, yet another account was written the year that the Council of Chalcedon occurred: a report from the Constantinopolitan Patriarch to the Pope of Rome (Anatolius of Constantinople: 978). It is written in a florid style similar to that of hagiography, but it reports the series of events differently. The Patriarch recounts that the council’s bitter disagreements caused its members to turn to St. Euphemia in fervent prayer; however, it was the Lord Jesus Christ who finally helped them reach an agreement. Once the conciliar definition had been agreed and formulated, everyone entered the Church of St. Euphemia. With thanksgiving and prayer to her and to the Lord Jesus Christ, they placed the resulting document on the church’s holy altar. Euphemia’s involvement in the council was real, through the prayers addressed to her, but was neither as dramatic nor as decisive as it appears in the miracle story. Yet this account clearly evolved, through oral transmission, into the more graphic version of the story told later, a version according to which her relics vindicated orthodoxy and trampled on heresy. This case study resonates beyond the generalized questions of this chapter about truth and narrative, for it plays a role in a major church schism that has lasted for centuries, and in the attempts to heal it. The Eastern (or “Greek”) Orthodox Church, which is “Chalcedonian,” and the Oriental Orthodox Churches,15 which are “non-Chalcedonian,” continue to operate separately to this day. This means that there are hundreds of millions of Christians who have been out of communion with each other for one and a half millennia over their approaches to the Council of Chalcedon. A promising process of rapprochement, begun in the 1960s, continues to bear hope for reconciliation. So, what role should St. Euphemia play, especially once we can show that the miracle story, in which she condemns the non-Chalcedonian hero Dioscorus, was essentially a ninth-century invention? Non-Chalcedonians venerate St. Euphemia on the basis of vitae and a liturgical experience that never featured the miracle story. Chalcedonians continue to commemorate the miracle with its own feast day every July 11 and depict it on icons and frescoes. The reconciliation process has addressed broadly the question of the veneration of local saints, but not St. Euphemia directly. Phanourios of Rhodes16 A heavenly song of praise is brightly sung on the earth; the hosts of the Angels keep an earthly festival now in splendor and radiant joy; from on high, they praise with hymns thy suff ’rings and struggles; and below, the Church doth laud the heavenly glory thou foundest by thy contests and pains, O glorious Phanourius. (Apolytikion hymn to St. Phanourios in the Orthodox Church)

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St. Phanourios, whose feast day falls on August 27, is the focus of a folk cult widespread in Greece, Cyprus, and in parts of the Greek diaspora. His hagiography does not follow the conventions of the genre, primarily because virtually nothing is known about him or his life except what little can be inferred from his icon. That icon was found in the rubble of a church on the Greek island of Rhodes. Although the other icons in the ruins were in poor shape, this one remained undamaged. It depicted a saint, the details of whose martyrdom were shown in a series of twelve miniatures around the edges of the icon. “But years of research, scanning the archives of centuries and questioning the leading authorities of the day, yielded nothing, and no more was known about Fanourios than the day on which his icon was snatched from the ruins of that ancient Greek church” (OrthodoxWiki). A local archbishop, after examining the martyrdom depicted on the pristine icon, concluded they provided enough testimony to petition that Phanourios be recognized as a saint. “Fanourios, lost  for centuries in the ruins of a church, became the patron saint of things lost” (ibid.). The traditions around the saint’s cult are marked by several distinctive features: how little is known of the saint himself, the adherence to his tradition of a folktale or believable story (not known by all followers), and the baking of a special bread or pie in relation to it. Though his icon was discovered in the fifteenth century, there is no record of him in Byzantine sources; his cult had been growing over the course of the twentieth century through written sources (two fifteenth- or sixteenth-century manuscripts originating in Crete, along with compilations of saints’ lives from the eighteenth century on), oral sources,17 Christian beliefs (prayer services), customs (baking of a bread or pie to honor him on his feast day, help alleviate the sins of his mother, and honor a promise in exchange for his help), legends (stories of the miracles he has worked, stories of his mother’s mean nature), and human need (as the sophisticated and scholarly friend who introduced the authors of this chapter to the saint said, “I only know him through folk practice and effective results”; we are adherents ourselves).18 He is seen as a saint who reveals lost objects as well as one who reveals one’s future. His cult is growing because he is seen to be genuinely powerful: he helps those who invoke him to recover lost objects, and adherents feel that he is genuinely responsive to them and their needs. As a result, customs have accrued around him: The Phanouropita (“Phanourios” and “pita” for “bread” or “pie”) is a Greek and Cypriot tradition, preserved in many regions of Greece and Cyprus and spread to the Greek people of the diaspora. There is at least one church—on New York’s Long Island—where a short service to St. Phanourios is celebrated after virtually every liturgy and adherents line up to have their Phanouropitas blessed.19 Although some Greek hierarchs have been reluctant to recognize him or to perform services in his honor because of the scarcity of information pertaining to him, his life, or his martyrdom,20 the Orthodox Church in America’s stance seems to be one of general

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acceptance (Orthodox Church in America). The problem for us moderns seems to be the question of how much we need to know about a saint before we can have a relationship with him or her. Residual Orality  Hagiographies fall into the category of “legends.” The most elegant definition of legend comes from the field of folklore and is based on its temporality and level of belief: a legend takes place in the more or less recent past—the time, place, and persons are specified—and is generally believed as true and based on actual persons.21 Historical fact often underlies legends, but the age-long addition of the marvelous and the obviously anachronistic can make it difficult to sift the historical from the traditional. Like myths and folktales, they are deeply rooted in oral culture. Orality and residual orality have exerted strong pressure on the nature and evolution of the saint’s life. The following thoughts on orality are largely based on Walter J. Ong’s seminal work.22 In an oral culture, you only know what you can recall. The organized knowledge that we literates today study has mostly been assembled and has been made available to us in writing: it is pre-synthesized. An oral culture has no texts. In order to stimulate and engage an audience, a thinker, bard, or cleric had to convey memorable thoughts, speak memorable words in standard thematic settings. As a result, saints’ Lives often resemble one another in a way that makes them memorable to their audiences. The extreme language and the events of much hagiography find saints saying and doing similar things even in vastly different circumstances and eras. Such observations can help explain to us postmodern academics why and how hagiographic narratives took their shape. As such, they may be helpful in the process of contextualization, that is, in our placing these narratives within our mental construction of the history of cultures and ideas. In other words, we know better why it is that stories are generated, how they are elaborated upon, and how they evolve to fulfill deep human needs. But that has the potential of sounding terribly cold. The contextualization, explanation, and analysis of a story can easily denude it of its power. But it can also yield insights that invite a more genuine and holistic engagement. That being said, we continue to wonder: have we lost something enjoyed by “the ancients” who generated and first heard these stories? Hermeneutic Strategies from History We tend to imagine that our distant forebears thought completely differently from us, certainly on the interpretation of stories and the question of their historicity. Although it would be anachronistic to pose them some of our post-critical questions, there are instances where we find certain ancient scriptural exegetes— persons of faith—grappling with questions of truth and historicity in a manner that can feel familiar.

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Take Origen, the brilliant, controversial, and influential third-century Christian writer. He was alert to the question of the relationship between truth and historicity, whether in Homer’s epics or Scripture. He believed the entire Bible to be an interweaving of things that happened, things that may have happened, and things that could not possibly have happened as written.23 He believed further that God interlarded the difficult, historically challenging passages (skandala) into scripture to goad readers into a deeper relationship with it. In outlining his hermeneutic sensibility, he wrote about the Paradise narrative of Genesis 2–3: To what person of intelligence, I ask, will the account seem logically consistent that says there was a “first day” and a “second” and a “third,” in which also “evening” and “morning” are named, without a sun, without a moon, and without stars, and even in the case of the first day without a heaven? And who will be found simple enough to believe that like some farmer “God planted trees in the garden of Eden, in the east” and that he planted “the tree of life” in it, that is a visible tree that could be touched, so that someone could eat of this tree with corporeal teeth and gain life, and further, could eat of another tree and receive the knowledge of “good and evil?” Moreover, we find that God is said to stroll in the garden in the afternoon and Adam to hide under a tree. Surely, I think no one doubts that these statements are made by Scripture in the form of a figure [quod figurali tropo] by which they point toward certain mysteries. (De Principiis 4.3.1.)24

For him, Genesis “enshrines certain deeper truths than the mere historical narrative, . . . and contains a spiritual meaning almost throughout, using ‘the letter’ as a kind of veil to hide profound and mystical doctrines” (ibid., 3.5.1). Worth noting, however, is that even as he allegorizes Paradise, its flora and fauna, and the events that took place therein, he does not extend that allegorization to Adam and Eve themselves. He apparently believed in their historic existence, in part because they stood at the dawn of human genealogy.25 Origen thus sets an early example of thinking that abandons the pretense to perfect self-consistency, an approach familiar to any of us who are fully aware of the data mitigating against a saint’s historical existence, yet praying for his or her intercession. Gregory of Nazianzus, a fourth-century disciple of Origen who transcribed and enshrined his comments on Genesis and the hermeneutics of scripture, promulgated a profound and Christian interpretation of Paradise that does not rely upon its historical existence. In his 38th Oration, he describes the Paradise narrative exclusively in terms of what it means for human salvation in Jesus Christ. He is explicitly uninterested in historicity. The first time he mentions Eden he calls it “Paradise—whatever that was!” (Or. 38.12.). Rather than understanding the story to pertain to one historic couple, he universalizes: “We were in Paradise and fell from grace.” When he talks about the forbidden tree of the knowledge of good and evil, he hypothesizes that this could be referring allegorically to “contemplation,” which is (like the knowledge of good and evil) intended for humanity, but only after a process of maturation (ibid.). Gregory shows how Christian thinkers,

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including authoritative voices from antiquity, could derive the necessary and true from certain narratives—including those that Scripture seems to record as history—without second-guessing their historicity. Gregory Palamas, a theologian writing a millennium after Nazianzen, shows us a third approach. He was somewhat alarmed at his predecessor’s allegorization of the tree. He points out that, just because a tree “symbolizes” something, it does not necessarily mean that the tree itself did not exist. Palamas’ hermeneutic strategy is nearly identical to that identified with the fifth-century Antiochian exegetical school. According to that view, one thing can symbolize another, but for that symbol to carry weight and be part of a “coherent narrative” it had to actually, physically exist. So that in order for the serpent to represent Satan, there had to be an actual serpent.26 As an idea, this can seem either realistic or absurd, depending on the story. For example, it would be preposterous to tell Jesus that, in order for the Prodigal Son parable to be true and symbolize either the universal human fall and repentance, or the incorporation of the Gentiles into the salvation story, there had to have been an actual father with two actual sons who enacted the parable’s events. In other cases, a narrative’s truth is predicated on the respective event having actually taken place in time. Jesus, for example, had to exist, had to be crucified, and had to rise from the dead, historically; that would be the argument from traditional Christian faith. Paul writes the Corinthians saying that “if Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain” (1 Cor. 15:14). The Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed has the Roman prefect Pontius Pilate ordering Jesus’s crucifixion, precisely in order to ground the event in first-century history. We have thus seen several approaches, past and present, to reckoning the relationship between truth and historicity. Neither in the past nor in the present are there any hard-and-fast rules, much less universal ones, for the hermeneutics of religiously significant narratives. These stories have such different provenances, functions, and eventual interpretations and significance that no single strategy applies to them all. As narratives, they all testify to the universal human need to recount stories to create meaning and instill principles for the living of a right life. They also share the universal problem of the epistemic inaccessibility of the past—we can never fully know what “really happened” in every sense of that word. We can only have greater and lesser clarity about the past, because the past is no more and can never be fully recaptured. We contemporary academics who are also persons of faith will at one time or another inevitably find ourselves wrestling with questions of historicity, truth, and meaning. We will wonder how to remain true to their epistemological principles, as well as feel vulnerable, and even somehow submissive, to formative stories from the past. Our solutions will likely vary depending on the narrative under review, and change over the course of time. Even as they may approximate like-minded approaches in antiquity, our hermeneutic strategies are unlikely to be completely satisfying, conclusive, or even self-consistent. Perhaps that in itself is part of the answer: leaving ourselves open to certain mysteries and inconsistencies, within which God can work.

Part II C ase S tudies in D harmic T raditions

Chapter 4 Imagining Hagiographies in Chhattisgarh Ramdas Lamb

Introduction Since ancient times, India has had a rich oral tradition of sacred stories of beings— human and spirit, animate and inanimate—carried throughout the land by wandering bards. It has continually been enhanced by the visions and imaginings of storytellers and cultures and has been one of the most pivotal sources for Hindus and other Indians to learn about the religious and cultural knowledge and traditions of the subcontinent and also about the plethora of beings who inhabit the manifold realms of existence. Among the countless legends and stories, the most popular have been those of deities incarnated as humans—such as Rām and Kṛṣṇa—and also amazing hagiographic tales of ascetics and other humans who have overcome the sufferings of the world to attain great wisdom, devotion, mystic powers, and liberation.1 The stories in this traveling tradition and the pictures they paint, whether confined to a particular region or spread far and wide, have been especially important for rural Indians to learn about personalities, beliefs, and practices both within and outside their own village milieu. This chapter examines the formation of two oral hagiographies from the Chhattisgarh region of central India, one simple and relatively unchanged during the four decades that I have heard it and another continually being enhanced and elaborated. Both tell of the founders of rural religious movements begun in the nineteenth century. Specific focus will be placed on the interplay between these stories, the teachings and organizations connected with them, and the differing intentions, imaginings, and agendas of the people who use them.

Hagiographies in the Hindu Context Although reference to various ascetics (sādhus) and sages has long been a part of Indian storytelling, one of the earliest known written hagiographies is that of Siddhartha Gautama, or the Buddha. The story likely began to develop some time after his death (ca. fifth or fourth centuries BCE) and remained in oral form

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for several hundred years. During that time, Buddhism developed primarily as a renunciant religious tradition, so the teachings that entered his hagiography deal mainly with the renunciant approach to life. An important focus therein involves seeing the Buddha as gurū and adhering to his teachings as necessary prerequisites to enlightenment. Other elements that appear in the Buddha’s life story at some point include miraculous events, beginning with his conception. This practice of adding to and embellishing stories has long been a part of the oral and even written tradition in India, as throughout the world. A good example of this can be seen in the countless oral tellings and written versions of the Rām story created and popularized throughout South and Southeast Asia during the last several millennia. Because storytellers have had a great deal of freedom to modify the tales they tell, they have often done so with the apparent desire to keep the story interesting, relevant, and entertaining relative to their own particular audiences. Whether from listening to the many tales or through interacting with the wandering sādhus who have long been a regular part of the rural landscape, many village householders have yearned to find someone whom they can look to as gurū. Although the gurū or disciple tradition no doubt began within the early ascetic traditions, the relationship eventually expanded to include householders and came to be integral for those seeking to tread a spiritual path. In Hinduism, it is often hard to overestimate the importance and respect given one’s spiritual teacher. A commonly quoted verse attributed to Kabīr expresses the sentiment well: Guru and God are before me. Whose feet should I touch? I offer myself to the guru who showed me God.2 On a more immediate and material level, however, villagers also look to spiritual teachers for guidance and blessings in worldly affairs, ranging from cures of physical maladies, to fortune telling, to ways of having more successful crops. In addition to these benefits, spiritual teachers have traditionally served to connect followers to a spiritual lineage or a community. Those who become members often gain access to a wider array of teachings and teachers and also to a personal identity as part of a spiritual community. This can bring various material, psychological, and spiritual benefits. Some such communities remain small and regional, while others spread throughout India and are now international as well. When such communities increase in numbers and influence, devotional sentiments of members naturally expand from one’s primary teacher to include other teachers and holy beings who are or have existed in the lineage back as far as its founder, or ādi-gurū. Knowledge of the past personalities is typically transmitted orally through hagiographies, with those of the founder often rising above others as the most important. Although such stories may begin as a loose collection of tales, over time they have a tendency to become organized, elaborated, and embellished. The number and depth of teachings attributed to the founder are likely to increase, and events relating miraculous deeds are typically added as well. The central personalities

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may be said to have experienced visions, revelations, or other events that help set them apart—that is, make them sacred. Depending upon the tradition, at some point the founder may ultimately be revealed to have been the incarnation of a past teacher, of a particular deity, or of ultimate divinity in human form. These traits serve to elevate the sanctity of both the founder and of the lineage in the minds of the followers. In addition to being a source of teachings, hagiographies are seen to inspire, bless, and edify. Because of the important transcendental characteristics of such stories—a miraculous conception or birth, an incarnation of a deity or past holy being, knowledge of the past and future, the ability to alter material reality, and so on—historical accuracy is often of diminished concern to reciters or adherents. The role that the founder’s hagiography plays in the life of an individual is influenced by many factors, especially the way in which one becomes a member of a religious group or community. If it is due to receiving initiation from someone whom one has chosen as gurū, then the latter, in the Hindu tradition at least, becomes a primary focus of one’s devotion, and his or her teachings are seen as being of central importance. Here, although the founder’s story is given deference, it is far less significant than the words and actions of one’s own gurū. If, on the other hand, one is born into a religious community, as is the case with most people in the world, then personal gurūs tend to be less significant, if they even exist in the tradition. Instead, individuals are encouraged to develop an intimate connection with and devotion to their tradition’s founder, for example, Christianity and Jesus, Buddhism and the Buddha. Traditionally, such organizations tend to have leaders who may or may not be seen as highly realized beings. If they have been chosen due to their perceived spiritual attainment, then devotion to them may be a significant part of the group’s ethos as well. However, if they were chosen due to some other factor, such as kinship (son, daughter, etc.) with the past leader, then personal spiritual achievement would have little or no meaning. In this case, devotion to the living head of the lineage is more pro forma than substantive.

Personal Context In order for the reader to better understand the contents of the chapter, I provide some personal context for what is written below. I first visited rural Chhattisgarh in the 1970s, having been taken there by members of the Rāmnāmī Samāj, a lowcaste religious movement centered in the region. Not long after arriving, I learned samāj (lit. “community”) had been formed by followers of another larger and more populous religious movement in the area, the Satnāmī Samāj. My interest then broadened to include this group as well. Because the village that became my “home” in the region is only a few kilometers from where the latter group began, finding elders and others who had knowledge of its origins was relatively easy. At the time, I was a Hindu sādhu with the freedom to wander through the region, attend whatever religious activities were taking place, and spend long periods living and speaking with members of both samājs. I also had a habit of keeping a diary, which ended up becoming my first fieldwork journal. After deciding to pursue an

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academic education several years later, the two groups became an integral part of my research and have taken me back to the region for study more than two dozen times. The bulk of information provided herein about the founders and their stories comes from information I was able to collect during these journeys and the countless hours over the decades sitting and talking with members of both groups.

Hagiographies in Chhattisgarh During the nineteenth century in what is now the Indian state of Chhattisgarh, two religious reformers from the same Untouchable subcaste (jāti) of leather workers (camār), the same geographic region, and the same socioeconomic background initiated movements to lift their jāti community and their followers out of the degraded social, economic, and religious status in which they had been relegated by the orthodox caste system of the day. Through their teachings, which seem to have initially shared many common elements, they both deeply inspired their followers with a sense of direction, self-identity, and self-worth. Both left an indelible mark on their community. However, the two movements are vastly different in more ways than they are similar, and the hagiographies of their respective founders make this apparent.

Gurū Ghāsīdās and the Satnāmī Samāj The first of the two movements is the Satnāmī Samāj, started by Gurū Ghāsīdās in the 1820s. The earliest known written mention of him is found in D. Chisholm’s British Settlement Report, published in 1869. The material was no doubt collected from Satnāmīs and thus represents hagiographic-like descriptions of the Gurū. Chilsolm writes of the Gurū, He was a man of unusually fair complexion and rather imposing appearance, sensitive, silent, given to seeing visions, and deeply resenting the harsh treatment of his brotherhood by the Hindus. He was well known to the whole community, having travelled much among them; he had the reputation of being exceptionally sagacious and was universally respected.3

The next textual source of information comes from Russell and Hira Lal in their The  Tribes and Castes of the Central Provinces of India (1916). Here, although mention is made of several of the mystical events of the oral tradition regarding the Gurū at that time, the presentation is not at all hagiographic, and even derogatory of the Satnāmīs and other camārs. As but one example, The creed enunciated by their prophet was of a creditable simplicity and purity, of too elevated a nature for the Chamars of Chhattisgarh. The crude myths which are now associated with the story of Ghasi Das and the obscenity which

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distinguishes the ritual of the sect furnish a good instance of the way in which a religion, originally of a high order of morality, will be rapidly degraded to their own level when adopted by a people who are incapable of living up to it.4

More recently, Saurabh Dube’s research and publications from the 1980s onward have expanded our understanding of the history and development of the samāj more than any other. All these sources will be utilized in the following hagiographic account, drawn extensively from the oral tradition that was popular in the 1970s in the region of Ghāsidās’s birthplace. According to that tradition, Ghāsīdās was born sometime in the mid-eighteenth century in the village of Girod. Little was known about his early life. Most stories begin with his teenage years and tell of his resentment of the caste system and the oppression his jāti had long experienced as a result. He and his brother decided to travel to the Jagannath Temple in Orissa, known for its strict prohibition of Untouchables entering the site. He wanted to confront the priests there, but on his way he had a vision of the divine “whose name is Truth (Sat)” who told him to go back to his village. After returning home, he retreated to the nearby jungle and took up residence in a cave where he spent long periods of time in solitude and contemplation. Some members of his village thought he was possessed and an exorcism was attempted, but to no effect. Eventually, he began to visit nearby villages to talk about his experiences and realizations, and some villagers would also visit him in the forest and hear his teachings. Gradually his popularity grew, and after one extended period of solitude, he emerged saying that he had attained “true wisdom” (sat gyān), and had realized the purpose of and direction for his life. He began to preach, emphasizing equality of all humanity regardless of caste origin. He also laid out a set of seven precepts to which he demanded his followers adhere. These began with a belief in and devotion to a single supreme divinity through the chanting of his name, “Satnām,” and a rejection of image worship in any form. The next several precepts dealt with food and food preparation and included both a vegetarian diet and a prohibition against the consumption of alcohol and tobacco. Following these was a command to stop working with leather.5 The use of cows in agricultural labor was also prohibited. The last precept instructed his followers, who came to be called Satnāmīs, to wear a necklace of beads made from sacred basil (tulsī) wood, a common practice for Vaiṣṇav Hindus all over India, and a sign that one is a strict vegetarian. All of these prohibitions actually reflect common Vaiṣṇav6 purity practices, and apparently Ghāsīdās hoped that they would help his community to be more accepted in the largely casteist society of his day. Of these teachings, primary importance was given to the worship of one true God through the chanting of “Satnām.” Portions of Gurū Ghāsīdās’s original message reflect teachings from an earlier Satnāmī sect from Punjab, survivors of which supposedly settled in Chhattisgarh.7 However, all the Satnāmīs with whom I spoke in the 1970s held the belief that the precepts had come from Ghāsīdās alone and were not at all influenced by any other group. When I would ask about other teachings attributed to him, most said he avoided philosophical controversies, focusing instead on devotion. One of the largest differences of opinion about the Gurū in those early days was whether or

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not he considered himself a Hindu. While there was a slowly growing faction that declared their samāj to be a unique religion separate from Hinduism, the majority saw themselves within the Hindu fold, and some even claimed their ancestors were actually upper-caste Hindus (kṣatriya, or warrior caste) who had wrongly been identified as members of the Untouchable camār subcaste. Moreover, the latter sought re-identification as members of the upper caste, a common strategy for seeking elevated status within the caste hierarchy. In their version of the Gurū, he was a devotee of the Rāmāyan and would draw on the epic’s teachings when talking to his followers and others. Although strong views were held on both sides of the debate about his affiliation with Hinduism, what was unanimously agreed upon was that Ghāsīdās rejected image worship and the bulk of rituals practiced at that time. He also forbade his followers from entering temples containing images. Most elders with whom I spoke in those days acknowledged that Ghāsīdās sought to sanskritize his followers in areas of eating, dress, and livelihood, but rejected any idea that he attempted to claim a higher status within the caste structure for the sect; nor did he seek to stand aloof from other members of his jāti. Instead, they said he stressed unity among all low castes. There were a few other episodes in his life that were talked about in those days, but they are not significant to the current discussion. The year of his death was commonly believed to be 1850. Lawrence Babb writes that by that time the great majority of Chhattisgarh camārs considered themselves as Satnāmī either in practice or in spirit.8 During discussions about the samāj, Bālakdās, the oldest son and successor to the Gurū, was often brought up both as the person responsible for organizing the followers and setting rules, and also as one who actively sought to confront and antagonize orthodox Hindus. Some elders felt his actions actually set back the samāj from gaining any respect from the larger society. Russell and Hira Lal record that the actions of Bālakdās, which included openly wearing a sacred thread over his shirt to flaunt it, led to his assassination. His murder is said to have been committed in 1860 by a band of Rajputs who were never caught.9

Parasurām and the Rāmnāmī Samāj Soon after first meeting the Rāmnāmīs, I began to enquire about their samāj and its origins as well. At that time, most members were aware the founder’s name was Parasurām, but few knew much about him. As with Gurū Ghāsīdās, there were no early written accounts by followers, nor was anyone aware of attempts to write about his life prior to the time I began to collect material. When one understands the tenor of Parasurām’s teachings and approach to life, this fact becomes understandable. Yet I was fortunate to meet and speak with a few elders who had seen and met Parasurām when they were young, and they related to me several incidents from his life and teachings that they had either experienced directly or had heard about from others. Although two of them had actually made it a point to memorize aspects of his life to share with others, they were both illiterate so kept their tales in oral form. Taking what I learned during the many hours spent with

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each, combined with the earlier accounts I had heard, as well as the few stories that seemed to be commonly known by many members of the samāj, I put together a rough sketch of his life, a portion of which I offer here. Parasurām was born sometime in the mid-nineteenth century in the village of Charpara in eastern Chhattisgarh. His parents were poor farm workers, as were and still are the majority of Indian villagers. Although illiterate, his father was an ardent devotee of stories and tales from Tulsīdās’s Rāmcaritmānas and of the Puranic myths that typically punctuated conversations during village social gatherings. Although the Valmiki Rāmāyaṇa is arguably the oldest written version of the story, it is in the language of Sanskrit, which hardly any Indians know today. In addition, its depiction of Rām is primarily as a human, albeit with some divine qualities and rarely used today in a devotional context. Tulsīdās’s Hindi language text, which is popularly referred to in the region as the Rāmāyan or the Mānas, is, on the other hand, a highly devotional work and the one most Rām devotees in north and central India look to for their inspiration. This is clearly the case in Chhattisgarh. Parasurām followed in his father’s footsteps in developing a deep sense of devotion to the text and to Rām, and this led him to memorize many of stories, as well as a number of specific verses from the Rāmāyan. In addition, he was able to teach himself to read and would spend many of his free hours trying to understand the meanings of those verses and stories that were more popular and more frequently recited in the region. This brought him a sense of peace as well as a certain degree of respect from the largely illiterate membership of his jāti community. Shortly after reaching his teens, his marriage was completed and he had his first child. Nothing is known of the next fifteen to twenty years of his life except that he spent them farming, caring for family, devoting himself to the Rāmāyan, and chanting Rāmnām (recitation of the name of Rām). Sometime near the end of the nineteenth century, when Parasurām was in his mid-thirties, he contracted a disease suspected by many to be leprosy. Fearing he would infect others or that his entire family would be ejected from the village, he decided to leave his home to become a forest dweller until he was cured or died. The day before his planned departure, however, he met a Rāmānandi10 sādhu who is said to have given him a special blessing that put him in a sort of trance state in which all he could do was chant Rāmnām. When he returned to a state of physical consciousness the following morning, he realized that a tattoo of “RāmRām” in devanāgarī script had appeared on his chest and his disease had miraculously disappeared. Word of the miracle spread through the village and soon a crowd filled and surrounded Parasurām’s home. For several days he was immersed in a semiconscious state of joy, neither sleeping nor eating. He slowly returned to a somewhat normal state of awareness and began to tell the assembled people about what he had experienced and the insight he had gained. Over the next several months, his home became a center of constant activity. Parasurām would impress upon all of who came the importance of chanting Rāmnām and learning stories from the Rāmāyan. His fame spread among his jāti community, and he began receiving invitations to visit other villages and speak about his experiences and

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realization. Some villagers began to look to him as gurū and would ask him for specific instructions and guidance. While he discouraged the “gurū” label, he would do what he could to help them understand the teachings of the Rāmāyan for use in guiding their lives. He also encouraged them to take part in group chanting of Rāmnām, either with him or in their own villages and homes with friends and family. Eventually, four of the more frequent visitors decided to show their devotion to him and to Ram and by also getting a “RāmRām” tattoo. Parasurām suggested that if they wanted to do so, they should have it put on their foreheads where everyone would see it and be reminded of to chant Rāmnām. Up until the early part of the twentieth century, the number of Parasurām’s followers remained relatively small, although they now lived in villages as far as 50 kilometers away. However, antagonistic feelings against them by some high-caste villagers led to violence, to a court case before a British judge, and a victory for the Rāmnāmīs, as Parasurām and his followers had by then come to be called.11 This court “victory” over members of the upper castes caused the group to swell in popularity and in size so that by the time of Parasurām’s death the 1920s, the number of tattooed Rāmnāmīs was nearly 20,000. Amid his increased popularity, Parasurām sought to remain low key and encouraged his followers to continue the simple life of a householder, devoting all their efforts to “Rāmnām Swami,” the name he often used in referring to the divine. For their part, the Rāmnāmīs would spend their days working in their homes or fields and would gather at night to sing or chant bhajans, or hymns, with Parasurām if they lived nearby or with each other if they did not. At this point in his nascent community, Parasurām’s words expressed a simple approach to formless devotion to Rām coupled with aspects of Vedantic thought, both of which seem to have been largely drawn from the Rāmāyan Like Ghāsīdās, he emphasized the importance of vegetarianism to his followers, and an adherence to other aspects of a Vaiṣṇav lifestyle as much as possible, including nonconsumption of alcohol and tobacco and not using cows for agricultural labor. Quoting diverse couplets he had memorized from the Rāmāyan, he would urge his followers to try to live a life of simplicity and devotion. He would stress the need to try to see everyone as equals and to treat one another accordingly. He rejected gender, caste, wealth, and education as valid characteristics for evaluating others, and said that, if anything, the quality of one’s devotion to the divine is the only criterion that distinguishes someone. He frequently emphasized the importance of continuously chanting Rāmnām as a means to help one see through the illusion of material existence and commune with Rāmnām Swāmī.12 He taught his followers that all are equals in Rāmnām Swāmī’s eyes because everyone and everything have divinity as their source and reality. Consequently, everyone should be treated the same. Because of his belief in equality and that he had seen and experienced that people in positions of authority often oppress those below them, Parasurām stressed to the Rāmnāmīs that their devotion and dependence should be focused solely on Lord Rām and his Name and not on any human being. While he said they could look at him as someone from whom they have gained some insight, he made

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it clear that they should treat him no differently than anyone else from whom they learn something of value. Moreover, just as he was able to share something of value with them, so each of them has or will have something of value to share with others. The frequent emphasis that Parasurām placed on the concept of equality had a profound influence on the development of the Rāmnāmī Samāj. This can be seen in the lack of specifying a gurū or gurūs in the group, in the way female members have equal presence in its decision-making body, and in the lack of any organized attempt to create or maintain a hagiography of Parasurām. As mentioned earlier, by the time of Parasurām’s death in the 1920s, the samāj had nearly 20,000 tattooed members. In addition, it is estimated that that more  than  50,000 would attend its annual three-day gathering to listen to and partake in the chanting of Rāmnām and to listen to talks by various members on the Rāmāyan. Unlike the practice of choosing a successor from the gurū’s family in the Satnāmī and Kabīrpanthī movements in Chhattisgarh, Parasurām had purposely chosen no successor. Instead he reminded his followers to look upon him as a brother or father, not as a gurū, for the only true teacher is Rāmnām Swāmī. After his death, however, many of his followers felt lost without a leader, but they did not want to disobey their founder. They looked to their elders for inspiration and direction, and the latter agreed that no one person should determine the direction and fate of the movement, and no one should be looked upon as gurū. Instead, they decided that a committee consisting of elders chosen from each area within Chhattisgarh should make decisions for the group, but that very few rules should be made. Throughout his time with them, Parasurām had made very few rules other than being vegetarian, not drinking alcohol, and getting at least one “RāmRām” tattoo. He knew well that rules tend to separate and exclude. While he felt the few rules he established would help Rāmnāmīs both in their personal lives and in their dealings with caste Hindus, he avoided placing further restrictions on them. The Rāmnāmī decision-making body that was formed after Parasurām’s death has essentially remained intact and up to present day and has, for the most part, adhered to his approach to rule-making. However in 1960, in order to be recognized as a religious organization by the state government, the samāj had to officially designate both a head and an assistant, which they did. Although positions of authority now exist as per the practicalities of legal recognition, the committee remains the primary guiding force for the Rāmnāmīs on the organizational level, and no single individual has a greater say in any matters that does the committee as a whole.

Changing Times, Changing Stories Dube suggests that in the nineteenth century the “Satnāmīs developed a repertoire of myths, a part of their oral tradition, which centered on the gurūs.”13 He also mentions two books written by Bābā Rāmāchandra about the Gurū. The first one, Ghāsīdāsjī kī Vanshāvalī (“The Family or Lineage of Ghāsīdās Jī”), was written

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in the early twentieth century. A decade or so later, the author backtracked on many of stories in it and wrote another text entitled Satnām Sāgar (“The Ocean of the True Name”) to take its place. The latter one includes various mythological, cosmological, and philosophical imaginings and implies the need for Satnāmīs to align with Vedic thinking and being.14 However, neither text became popular among Satnāmīs. About the time of the latter text, a group of Satnāmīs who had become politically active with the Quit India movement began official attempts to get their samāj recognized as being within the Hindu caste system, ideally as a warrior jāti, instead of in the category of Untouchables. It is worth noting that in writing about the samāj members in that time period, George Briggs states that they had temples in which both Rām and Kṛṣṇ were worshiped as incarnations of Viṣṇu.15 Thanks to the political influence that Satnāmīs had accrued, they were at least able to officially change their jāti name from “camār” to “satnāmī” in hopes that this would diminish the negative stigma that the previous name carried with it. Amid the various writings in the early twentieth century, the closest to a hagiography of Ghāsīdās was probably Ramchandra’s first book, but his later repudiation of it relegated it to relative obscurity. What remained was an oral tradition that gradually got punctuated with new stories and teachings relative to the contributors and to the social and political situation of the time. The wearing of a Hindu sacred thread, which was practiced by Ghāsīdās’s son, Bālakdās, but then abandoned, had once again become common place for Satnāmī males in central Chhattisgarh in the 1970s, especially in the vicinity of Girod. The oral hagiography repeated by those who wore the thread referred to Ghāsīdās as a great and powerful Hindu holy man. At the time, there would be an occasional Satnāmī stambh visible in a village, signifying either a Satnāmī residence or a spot where the samāj would gather on a regular basis. The stambh is a wooden pole up to 11 feet in height, painted white and topped with a white flag. Tradition attributes the practice to the Gurū’s early days in the forest when his followers set up a large wooden pole near his cave abode to help newcomers spot the site more easily. It later came to represent a type of spiritual lightning rod, and many believe that it draws divine energy from the heavens. Then, near the end of the decade, an incident occurred in the town of Akaltara that led many Satnāmīs there to reject any affiliation with Hinduism. Some samāj members in the town began spreading a rumor that a Brahmin had claimed that only Brahmins are light skinned, thereby implying that all light skinned Satnāmīs could only have been fathered by Brahmins. Satnāmīs were obviously enraged by this and the implication that all the mothers of light skinned members of their jāti were adulteresses. Even worse for Satnāmīs, it placed the Gurū’s mother in that category as well because of the early description of him as being lightcomplexioned. There were several protest demonstrations, attracting a quite large gathering. The leaders of the protest then jointly declared themselves and the samāj as separate from Hinduism. Many of the Satnāmī women in the town began wearing a white dot on their foreheads, instead of a red one, to show their distinction from Hindu women. While most Satnāmīs did not support this view, it

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played into the desires for separateness that a growing number of samāj members were feeling. Within a few years, hagiographic accounts began including stories of Ghāsīdās rejecting Hinduism completely. Not long after Arjun Singh became chief minister of Madhya Pradesh in 1980, he set about seeking to consolidate the Satnāmī vote for his Congress Party. One step was to begin promoting Gurū Ghāsīdās as a great holy man from the state and Girod as a tourist destination for Satnāmī pilgrims and others. In those days, the samāj’s annual festival (melā) at the village temple dedicated to Ghāsīdās rarely attracted more than a thousand or so pilgrims during the entire three-day event. The state government began to improve the road to the temple as a first step, and plans for construction around the temple site were discussed. About the same time, Singh had a new state university named after Ghāsīdās, and a larger-than-life image of the Gurū sitting in meditation was placed atop a pillar at the school’s entrance. All Satnāmīs, especially samāj members, began to feel politically important. Many in and around the Gurū’s home village started referring to it as “Girodpuri” (Girod city). Some of the new elements that became popular in Ghāsīdās’s changing oral hagiography included claims that he had great yogic powers and divine insight from an early age. Any mention of suspicion by some of him being possessed, as I had heard several times earlier, was no longer included. Although the adventures of Bālakdās were still referenced, most now focused on him organizing the samāj, while the Gurū’s life was clearly of central importance in the overall oral tradition. By the time Dube began writing on the Satnāmīs in the late 1980s and early 1990s, several attempts at written hagiographies had been published locally, including one by Shankar Lal Toddar. After formation of the new state and the increasing government promotion of Ghāsīdās, more hagiographies started emerging. Satnāmīs who had read Toddar’s work saw many elements in it being repeated in the newer tellings. While none of the writings gained popularity with more than a limited number of Satnāmīs, they nevertheless show creativity and imagination, including many stories from the Gurū’s youth and a reiteration of his great yogic powers. A few even begin referring to him as an avatar, although the most common epithet used for him is “Sat Purūṣ,” which generally connotes someone who has fully realized truth in his or her life. A common comparison made in those days of the greatness of Ghāsīdās was with the Buddha, Rāmānanda, and Kabīr. In November 2000, Chhattisgarh became its own state, and during the annual three-day Girodpuri melā a few months later in February 2001, word was already spreading of the new government’s plans for a massive construction project at the festival site, complete with a new temple, several large covered areas for pilgrims to stay, and a new widened and paved road from the nearby town about  10 kilometers away. The most enthusiastic (and controversial) endeavor in the plans was construction of a 77-meter-high tower, meant to overtake the 73-meter Qutub Minar in New Delhi as the tallest tower in India. The melā that year hosted somewhere between 5,000 and 10,000 tourists and pilgrims, a slight rise from the previous year. Within months, however, as the government began putting money and efforts into advertising its construction plans for Girodpuri as

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an important pilgrimage site, word and excitement spread through the Satnāmī and other communities in central Chhattisgarh. Large numbers of nearby villagers were hired to begin work on the new road and on the new buildings. The state government furthered the promotion of Gurū Ghāsīdās as the state’s own “Mahāpuruṣ” (“Great Person”), while tourist brochures advertising ancient temple sites listed Girodpuri as an important place to be visited. Subsequently, more than 20,000 people attended the 2002 melā, and a makeshift bazaar there included various stalls selling booklets and a few books about Ghāsīdās and the Satnāmīs. Each year thereafter, the number of visitors more than doubled, and the number of writings about the Gurū increased as well. By the 2008 melā, the number of attendees increased to nearly a quarter million, and the number of different publications on Ghāsīdās and the Satnāmīs—mostly booklets—was more than two dozen. Many of these contained teachings and wisdom attributed to the Gurū, with several hagiographic accounts as well. Those I read all seemed to draw upon the existing oral hagiographies, while typically adding a few new events or miracles. Meanwhile, the numbers continue to grow. At the most recent melā, in February 2015, the local newspapers estimated attendance at close to one million. The number of separate publications has now reached over four dozen, but many of these are no longer available. While the oral tradition continues to grow along with the proliferation of written material, the Internet has become a new and powerful way to imagine and spread the tales of Gurū Ghāsīdās.

Imagining Gurū Ghāsīdās on the Worldwide Web Although there is now a collection of written versions of the hagiography of Gurū Ghāsīdās, the story continues to remain essentially oral for most Satnāmīs, especially those who live far from the urban centers where books on the Gurū are gradually becoming available. The fact that there is still no official or “canonized” version has left the door open for countless additions and alterations to the story. Thus, diverse and sometimes contradictory claims about the Gurū continue to be perpetuated in various localities with little means to refute them. With differing versions coming into contact, conflict, dissension, and tension have arisen, especially because of the exclusivist view of Gurū Ghāsīdās and his samāj held by a number of his more vocal followers.16 More significant, however, has been the spread of online sites dedicated to or at least referencing him. With the improvement and proliferation of Indian mobile phone technology has come the increased use of phones and smart phones all over the country, even in some of the most remote villages. Internet accessibility has become more prevalent as well, and is rapidly becoming in vogue for younger people throughout India. While the majority of Satnāmīs have probably never read any of the dozens of written stories of the life of the Gurū, a growing collection of online sites provide them an opportunity to read a variety of accounts. Those interested in doing so can also create a site that tells their own version, and this can be accomplished and made available more easily, more inexpensively, and more immediately than writing

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and attempting to publish a printed book. As with the oral versions, the various online hagiographic accounts have elements in common with each other, but they also have their own unique aspects that are occasionally quite different, and in some case portray competing versions of the story. When one searches for “Ghāsīdās” using most search engines, Wikipedia is the first site on the list, which likely makes it the one most read. However, what makes the site uniquely significant is that of all the current sites, Wikipedia makes it relatively easy for almost anyone to expand or alter the existing contents of a page. This allows Satnāmīs and others to add to, remove from, or alter the existing “Ghāsīdās” page relative to their own understanding of the Gurū and his story. At the same time, the site provides a great deal of opportunity for researchers to track the changes. Because Wikipedia archives all modifications to a page, one can trace the evolution of the story on the site. A brief overview of what the archive history of the “Ghāsīdās” page reveals since it first came online in 2006 is instructive. The first Wikipedia article on Gurū Ghāsīdās appeared in 2006. While it did not give a list of tenets of the Gurū, it did state that followers had to give up consumption of meat, alcohol, and tobacco. No other teachings were listed. Later that year, some more events were added to his life story, including a specific date of birth and specific year of death. Many of the other additions mirror elements that can be found in the publications of Dube as well as in my Rapt in the Name (SUNY 2002). The following year, the Gurū’s life story was expanded, and there was a link to the “satnami.com” website created in 2005 that began to offer its own story of Ghāsīdās and the Satnāmīs. A few months later, more teachings appeared on the Wikipedia site as well as other pieces drawn from the written sources just mentioned. In 2008, more than 100 changes to the site increased its size by nearly five times from what it had been at the beginning of the year. Links to various other Satnāmī sites were now present, several of which no longer exist. The hagiography continued to increase in size as new events, miracles, and teachings punctuated the story of the Gurū. Reference to his seven precepts first appeared. Although not all were discussed, those that were reflected the seven mentioned earlier. The bulk of added material included new incidents and miracles in his life along with some new teachings. There were also references to a variety of rules and rituals that Satnāmīs were said to follow. During the next several years, more edits and additions were made to the Gurū’s life. The changes would suggest that different sets of followers were competing at the time to have their own understanding promoted. The year of his birth, for example, had gone back and forth between 1718 and 1756, while that of his death had changed as well. References to websites and published sources were also added or removed. The year 2012 brought another drastic change to the site. Over 90 percent of the existing material was removed. Apparently, some Satnāmīs wanted to “cleanse” the site of material they disagreed with, and at least some of the editors appear to have wanted to return the hagiography of Gurū Ghāsīdās back to the simpler one that was on the site in earlier years. By the middle of the same year, however, the site was back to about half the size it had been in previous years, with a variety of miraculous

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and other events once again appearing. A new set of seven precepts were added to completely replace the earlier ones. Most of the elders I interviewed about this suggest a variety of reasons for why they think the precepts were changed. The most common reasons given were that: (1) the original precepts were composed for rural followers and the young Satnāmīs of today who are likely involved in Internet editing probably find the older precepts irrelevant, and (2) meat eating and the use of intoxicants have become more commonplace among urban Indians today, including Satnāmīs, so keeping the restrictions on these might make it more difficult to attract followers and also cause contemporary samāj members to lose interest in the other apparently novel teachings now attributed to the Gurū. The Satnāmi website, referred to above, is another site that continues to expand since its origins in 2005. At first, its goal appears to have been presenting its own version of the Satnāmī Samāj and of its gurū. Eventually, however, it adopted what appears to be more of a confrontational approach, much like Gurū Ghāsīdās’s son, Bālakdās, in the early years of the movement. This can be seen on the home page, where it now says the site is “DEDICATED TO RAJA GURU BALAKDAS.” Over time, it has added multiple page links addressing history, philosophy, and politics. The predominant ethos is decidedly political while expressing strong anticaste and anti-Hindu sentiments. Many of the linked writings are of Dalit leader B.R. Ambedkar and are explicitly and simultaneously anti-caste and anti-Hindu. Apparently, the owners of the website feel quite akin to Ambedkar’s views. Vocal Satnāmīs and Ambedkar Buddhists both regularly express loathing of Hinduism and Hindus, which provides them an area of commonality and solidarity. There is an old saying in India and elsewhere: “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Consequently, Ambedkar Buddhism is also praised on the site. It claims, “Preachings of Guru Ghasadas is [sic] almost similar to Lord Buddha and he also followed the middle path like him.”17 Several pages also elaborate on teachings and doctrine the authors attribute to the Gurū. On the pages listed under “History,” the first contains a denigration of Dube and his research on the history of the Satnāmīs as found in Untouchable Pasts (SUNY 1998). On the second page, Professor Chad Bauman’s review of Rapt in the Name is used to demonstrate how a “false” version of Parasurām’s story has been perpetuated. It offers, instead, its own version that depicts Parasurām as a lackey of orthodox Brahmins, while the real purpose of establishing his samāj was to “stop the Satnām Movement.”18 This “anti-hagiography” of Parasurām is relatively recent, rather unique, and likely unknown to the vast majority of Rāmnāmīs and Satnāmīs. Because there is no written or even well-known story of Parasurām, and because very few of his followers are active on the Internet, it is relatively easy for such fabrications to be created and promoted with little if any resistance. For decades, Satnāmī leaders have sought to have all members of the satnāmī jāti also self-identify as members of the Satnāmī Samāj, for they see this as a necessary unifier that will strengthen the samāj both on an individual level as well as on the organizational level. To this end, the Rāmnāmīs have often been the focus of proselytization, while their samāj has been the frequent subject of denigration. For decades (at least), Satnāmī evangelizers have attended every annual Rāmnāmī

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melā promoting their organization, with the explicit message that all satnāmīs should become Satnāmīs. Ironicially, Ambedkar Buddhist missionaries attend the melās as well with the same goal of proselytization in mind.

Iconic Imagining of the Guru Another recent aspect in the evolution of Ghāsīdās that serves to enhance his status and support his growing hagiography is the appearance and spread of iconic imaginings of him as objects of worship. The first such image of the Gurū that I saw was in a small roadside shrine in western Chhattisgarh in or around 2007. Roadside shrines are commonplace in rural Chhattisgarh, with the vast majority dedicated to Hanuman, painted with the red-orange color most associated with the deity. The Ghāsīdās shrine was white and had a white flag on the outside, which immediately caused it to stand out as a Satnāmī shrine. Inside was a small (less than two-feet-high) image of the Gurū that somewhat resembled the image at Gurū Ghāsīdās University. When I mentioned seeing it to Satnāmī friends in my village, several were incredulous, saying that such imagery is still strictly forbidden in the samāj. Since that time, however, images have increasingly begun to appear in similar shrines and also at the base of stambhs (now commonly referred to as “jaitkhams”). Poster pictures have also become increasingly prevalent in Satnāmī homes, with the university image of the Gurū serving as the dominant model. In short, the university image has come to set the standard for the Gurū’s depiction. This increase in the popularity in images of the Gurū has led to a greater devotional focus on him as an object of worship and conversely seems to have diminished, to an extent, emphasis on a singular devotion to chanting the Satnām mantra. At the various shrines, now one can see ritual prayer to an image of the Gurū much like that done to images in Hindu temples and shrines. At more and more Satnāmī homes as well, various rituals are performed to poster pictures of the Gurū, a practice that was extremely rare even a decade ago. Moreover, one can view online videos of devotional offerings to pictures of the Gurū. Both the written and the online hagiographies reflect this change in the way Satnāmīs now relate to Gurū Ghāsīdās.

Parasurām’s Story Today During the last few decades, most Rāmnāmī discussions I have heard that mention Parasurām increasingly reference his lack of interest in starting a new religion. Instead, they reiterate his emphasis on encouraging his followers to chant Rāmnām. They mention that he had seen the direction of the Satnāmī Samāj and thus warned his followers from taking a path into politics and confrontation. Consequently, many of the roles that a hagiography plays in the existence and

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promotion of a religious organization or belief system are irrelevant to most members of the samāj today. Of the few younger Rāmnāmīs I have met in recent years, when asked about Parasurām, most have a basic knowledge about who he was and about some aspects of his life. They have heard the story of his possibly having leprosy and of being cured by a blessing, and also of “RāmRām” tattoo appearing on his chest. Of the cure, several asked rhetorically, “Did he really have leprosy or some other skin disease that cleared up on its own?” One also said that he had heard the story about the tattoo appearing on his chest and suggested that the event could be interpreted in several ways. In the local Hindi dialect, the words chātte men are used in telling the story about “RāmRām” appearing “on the chest.” As an option, he stated, “The words can also mean ‘in the heart.’ Maybe that is what was meant.” Significantly, here were young, committed Rāmnāmīs, who in many ways were following Parasurām’s guidance by depicting him as not having been any more special than anyone who repeats Rāmnām.

Conclusion Over the decades, the Satnāmī conceptualization and understanding of Gurū Ghāsīdās have continued to expand along with the number of his followers. Now, the vast majority sees him as a wise and liberated being who transcended the limits of normal human existence. That is why they can pray to him for blessings in the same way Buddha is prayed to by his followers or Kabīr by his. Then there are those Satnāmīs who believe the Gurū was an avatar of Lord Viṣṇu, with others believe him to be a direct incarnation of the Divine, whose human existence was meant specifically for them. A look at current websites provides other descriptions and explanations. One states, “He is immortal and living in Satlokhi Cave.”19 Another attaches even more sanctity to him: “Satguru Ghasidas Baba is incarnation of ‘Sat’ and ‘Truth’ in the human form. He is only one Satguru. He is only one God.”20 As the Satnāmī Samāj continues to develop and spread, the hagiography of Gurū Ghāsīdās will likely expand, along with declarations of his divinity. While the Satnāmī Samāj continues to grow in size and influence, the Rāmnāmī Samāj is clearly moving in the opposite direction, a fact with which most members seem comfortable. The vast majority of Rāmnāmīs today are in their 70s or 80s and have little or no interest in attempting to promote the samāj to anyone, including their younger family members. While they are quick to acknowledge the significant role it has played in their own lives, providing them with both a spiritual practice as well as a strong sense of self, they also acknowledge that it is far less important to most of their descendants as well as to most other Satnāmīs today. Although there were regular gatherings with Parasurām during the early years of the samāj, the first “official” annual melā occurred in 1910. In conversations with Rāmnāmī elders over the years about the future of their organization, several would point to 1910 as a starting point and say that they believed that a hundred

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melās would be a sufficient number for the existence of the festivals and their samāj. Remembering these teachings, most Rāmnāmīs seem comfortable with their samāj slowly diminishing into nonexistence. A hundred melās have come and gone. Although a small number continue to portray Parasurām as a great saint whose life was filled with miracles, most members today tend to think of him as a simple but dedicated man whose life was devoted to Rāmnām Swāmī and to promoting equality for his people. One samāj member’s comment years ago seems reflective of a larger view held by Rāmnāmīs: “Parasurām was a poor Chhattisgarhi villager, similar in many ways to us; therefore, we all have the capability and opportunity to become as great a Rāmnām devotee as he did.”21 Clearly, most Rāmnāmīs show little interest in a hagiography of Parasurām, and judging from the few stories about him, he would likely be quite pleased with this.

Chapter 5 Turning Tomb to Temple: Hagiography, Sacred Space, and Ritual Activity in a Thirteenth-Century Hindu Shrine Mark J. McLaughlin

On the western edge of the Deccan Plateau in the Indian state of Maharashtra, near the bustling town of Pune, sits the small village of Āḷandī. In the center of this small village is a temple compound inside of which are several shrines, one of which dominates. The daily schedule of the compound revolves around this central shrine. Rituals begin in the morning with the usual waking up of the mūrti (divine form), followed by the ritual bathing, feeding, and worship of the mūrti through pūjā offerings, and culminating in darśan, in which worshipers are blessed with the auspicious sight of the mūrti. In the evening the regimen is repeated, concluding with bedtime rituals for the mūrti. Nothing here is out of the ordinary. All are standard temple rituals. However, even though this is a temple compound, the principle shrine of the complex around which virtually all ritual activity revolves is not a temple of a Hindu god. Rather, what sits at the heart of this “temple” is a body—the entombed body of Jñāneśvar Mahārāj, the founding guru of the Vārkarī movement. This is not a temple in the traditional sense. It is a samādhi shrine, a tomb-shrine. According to the Vārkarī tradition, in 1296 CE when Jñāneśvar was twentyone, he excavated a cavern underneath a Śiva temple, entered it, and instructed his companions to wall up the entrance behind him. Then, sitting in a meditative posture, he entered saṃjīvan samādhi (living samādhi), or self-willed absorption into the unmanifest absolute, and departed his physical body.1 More than seven hundred years later, scores of devotees come daily to his samādhi shrine to receive his blessings and his merit, which are said to radiate from his body, permeating the entire temple compound within which it is situated. In Hindu traditions, a guru such as Jñāneśvar is revered as one who has become permanently established in the absolute; he is liberated, a realized sage. He may be called a siddha (a perfected being), a satguru (a true guru), or a sant (one who has realized the truth). A Hindu samādhi shrine marks the final resting place of such a realized guru’s body and reflects the traditional understanding that the perfected body of a realized sage is a purified expression of absolute consciousness and therefore should not be cremated but rather should be preserved as a localized

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instantiation of sacred power. This in itself is significant, as it is one of the only instances in Hindu traditions in which a body is buried rather than cremated.2 Even more remarkable is the fact that the samādhi shrine of a realized sage functions in much the same way as a Hindu temple. The ritual practices that are generally directed toward the deity of a temple are in this case directed toward the realized sage whose body is entombed in the samādhi shrine. In this chapter, I argue that the hagiographical narrative of Jñāneśvar supports a ritual interaction that recognizes the body of the entombed saint as a conduit absorbed in and radiating the state of the tradition’s notion of nondual reality, allowing the shrine to function as a temple housing the very form of the formless absolute. To do this, this chapter will explore ways in which the received hagiographical narrative has defined the space of the samādhi compound and the ritual activity that takes place within it, while also considering how the space further influences the hagiographical narrative that underpins its existence. It will demonstrate how hagiography can have a continual impact on the historical development of a sacred space and its ritual activity.

Jñāneśvar as Mūrti The earliest evidence we have for a renowned poet-saint named Jñāneśvar can be found in the commentary on the Bhagavad Gītā attributed to him, which is dated in the text itself to 1290 CE. There are three other texts credited to a Jñāneśvar, two of which, Anubhavāmṛta and Cāṅgadeva Pāsaṣṭī, use language and philosophical concepts similar to those found in the Gītā commentary. A fourth text, the Jñānadeva Gāthā, a collection of abhaṅgas to Viṭṭhal attributed to Jñāneśvar, uses language that is more modern and simple. The other critical textual evidence concerning Jñāneśvar’s life, which is also the tradition’s major hagiographical source text for him, comes from Nāmdev, another venerated poet-saint of the Vārkarī tradition who in his writings claims to have been a close companion of Jñāneśvar. Nāmdev wrote a biography of Jñāneśvar, much of it in the form of an eyewitness account. The third and final section of this biography, called Samādhi, focuses on the days leading up to, and the actual event of, Jñāneśvar’s entry into samādhi.3 The realized guru in a Hindu tradition such as Jñāneśvar’s is understood to be a localized embodiment of absolute consciousness itself. Charles White remarks, “In thinking about the situation in Hinduism, one observes that here the line grows indistinct at times between the gods and the saints. In the measure that the cult theory allows, most saints are considered to be divine and often receive public worship in the manner of divinities.”4 In speaking of the state of a realized sage, Jñāneśvar himself asserts, “Thus he becomes the embodiment of the state of the Absolute, which is the source of all activity, and is truly the very form of the Formless.”5 Furthermore, it is clear that Jñāneśvar viewed his own guru, Nivṛttināth, in this way, for his own works

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are overflowing with devotional praises to his guru, whom he celebrates as the absolute Godhead. Here is an example: Paying homage to Shri Nivrittinatha, I bow to Him who is the spring to the garden of spiritual endeavours, an auspicious thread of Divine Command and though formless the very incarnation of compassion. Though manifest he is not seen. He is light and yet does not illuminate. He exists and yet is nowhere. The [Absolute] does not proceed towards Himself. How can he recede also? However he does not give up the illusory screen of his name (Nivrittinatha).6

Moreover, in the perspective of Jñāneśvar and his followers, the realized guru is the key to the disciple’s own transcendence. Being in the presence of a realized guru is sought after above all else, for such a person is held to have the ability to trigger the same transformation in those who come to him. Indeed, the Mahābhārata declares that the true guru is the one who bestows immortality.7 This is the real reason for seeking a guru—not merely for the sake of supreme knowledge, but for the direct experiential realization of that supreme knowledge. The one Kashmiri text we are certain Jñāneśvar was familiar with, the Śiva Sūtras of Vasugupta, summarizes its perspective on the role of the guru in one singular phrase, “gurur upāyaḥ” (“the guru is the way”).8 The Kaulajñānanirṇaya proclaims, “Clearly such a liberated one may free another. . . . He is Paramātmā [the supreme self] by touching him one becomes liberated of this there is no doubt. Dear One! Instructed by him one becomes free.”9 Jñāneśvar offers extended praises of his own guru’s power to dispel the darkness of ignorance and catalyze the awakening of his disciples. Hail to the Guru, the resplendent sun which has risen, dispelling the illusion of the universe and causing the lotus of non-duality to unfold its petals. He swallows up the night of ignorance, removes the illusion of knowledge and ignorance, and brings in the day of enlightenment for the wise . . . His glory gives perpetual light to the experience of the highest bliss of a liberated being. When this great sovereign of the sky rises forever, the cycle of rising and setting disappears along with the four quarters of the earth. Both appearances and disappearances vanish; and God, who was concealed beneath outer forms, is revealed. What more is there to say? This dawn is beyond description. . . . To Nivritti, who is that sun of Consciousness, I bow again and again. There are no words which can express his praises.10

Hindu perspectives on the special status of a realized guru thus present a radical understanding of the relationship between God and saint, and I would argue that it is such perspectives that allow for the entombed body of a sage such as Jñāneśvar to be treated as a mūrti, a localized embodiment of absolute consciousness, and the shrine to function as a temple. In this context the Tirumantiram instructs the

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devotee to mark the spot of the buried body of a realized sage with his sandals and an image in his likeness and to perform the same rituals as those offered to the deity in a temple.11 Thus, it is the very ontological status ascribed to the realized guru that allows for the particular manner in which a guru such as Jñāneśvar is worshiped in his samādhi shrine as a special kind of mūrti. According to certain Hindu traditions, when a realized sage leaves the body, the sage does not die in the usual sense. The process of transmigration ceases in that such a one has no more karma left that would propel that one to be reborn again. Instead, the realized sage becomes absorbed into the totality of the absolute, and all vestiges of atomistic personal identity cease.12 This state is termed mahāsamādhi, or the great absorption, in which death has been conquered.13 The sacred power of the realized sage, and of the realized guru more specifically, is said to radiate from the body even after he or she has left it. Additionally, all the spiritual merit accumulated by the guru due to his compassionate activities in the world is said to stay with the body and is for the benefit of others.14 It is for this reason that the body is buried, and the space of burial becomes a shrine to which devotees come in order to immerse themselves in the sacred power radiating from the body and to receive blessings from the accrued merit of the realized guru.15 Jñāneśvar repeatedly praised the state of the satguru, and swooned with onepointed devotion for his own guru, Nivṛttināth. In the Jñāneśvarī, his famed commentary on the Bhagavad Gītā, verse upon verse is dedicated to extolling the virtues of the perfected state of the realized guru. For him the guru is the localized embodiment of the absolute Godhead—the very form of the formless. Jñāneśvar’s own state of realization is seen by his devotees as no different from that of his guru’s, and thus Jñāneśvar’s body has been revered since his death as the very manifestation of absolute consciousness. In Mahīpati’s Bhaktavījaya, the celebrated eighteenth-century hagiographical account of the principal Maharashtrian poetsaints, he narrates Nāmdev’s first meeting with Jñāneśvar: ‘My good deeds in a former birth have come to their fruitage. I have met Pandurang [Kṛṣṇa] in visible form. In order to save those who are entangled in the deeds of this earthly life, and those ignorant men intoxicated by the seductions of this life, you, O Swami [Jñāneśvar], have become an avatar.’ Saying this he [Nāmdev] again prostrated himself on the ground before him [Jñāneśvar].16

The most revered scripture of the Vārkarī tradition is Jñāneśvar’s aforementioned commentary on the Bhagavad Gītā, the Jñāneśvarī, which, as one of the first major works in the vernacular Marathi language, is accessible to the common people. Coveted by Vārkarī devotees as the root text of the tradition, it is chanted, read, and studied as a central devotional practice. As such, devotees have a clear understanding of the role of the guru from Jñāneśvar’s perspective. They witness his reverence for his own guru in verses such as: I have built a temple of the meaning of the Gita, with a pinnacle as high as Mount Meru. Within it I worship the image of my Guru.17

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Moreover, they infer from other verses that Jñāneśvar is to be understood as no different from his guru, Nivṛttināth. As the reflection vanishes along with the relative objectivity of the original object, so the personality of [the] one who salutes [i.e., the disciple] is taken away by [the guru] along with [the guru’s] own state of being an object of respect. . . . Therefore, the words master and disciple mean but one Reality and the master alone lives in both the forms.18

Jñāneśvar is celebrated by his Vārkarī devotees as a realized saint who is eternally established in the absolute and is the conduit for their own transformation. As such, he is viewed as the source of all, and like Viṭṭhal, is affectionately referred to in the feminine as “Mother”—Jñānobāī Māulī, Mother Jñāneśvar.19

Architectural Configuration The spatial orientation of the village of Āḷandī20 revolves around Jñāneśvar’s samādhi compound. This compound is deeply layered with the history of devotees’ encounters with the perceived presence of Jñāneśvar in the space. The compound is set off from the village by a wall two stories high circumscribing an area approximately one town block in size. The main entrance to the compound is through a large gateway in the center of the northern wall (see Figure 1). Along the north-south axis of this gate is situated a series of three consecutively smaller maṇḍapas (pavilions), culminating in the garbhagṛha (“womb-chamber” or sanctum) of Jñāneśvar’s samādhi marker, which sits just south of the center of the compound on this axis. Directly below this marker is held to be the meditating body of Jñāneśvar. This is the hub of the compound. Surmounting the small garbhagṛha, inside of which sits the samādhi marker, is a classic temple śikhara (superstructure). Immediately west of this structure is the somewhat smaller Śiva shrine of Siddheśvara (Lord of siddhas), in which is established a small, black stone Śiva liṅga.21 Between these two structures rests a black stone Nandī, his gaze ever focused on the liṅga of Siddheśvara, awaiting his master’s command.22 The northern wall of Siddheśvara’s shrine forms the boundary of one side of a raised enclosure, inside of which grows a tree. Along the eastern end of this enclosure is a wall with a long textual inscription of the Jñāneśvarī inscribed on it. This wall marks the western side of the central maṇḍapa in front of the samādhi shrine. Extending from the eastern end of this maṇḍapa is a hall with a Disneyland-style darśan cue. Immediately off the eastern end of the samādhi sanctum is a small Gaṇeśa shrine, as well as a small room for ritual items and a bedchamber for Jñāneśvar. On the other side of these structures, further to the east, are two small shrines to Lakṣmī and Nārāyaṇa.23 Off the back (southern end) of the samādhi sanctum is a covered porch with a small shrine dedicated to Muktābāī, Jñāneśvar’s sister. Between this conglomeration of structures and the surrounding wall of the complex runs a prākāra (opened corridor). Along this prākāra are situated

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Figure 1  Diagram, Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī.

three additional trees—a pipal tree to the immediate right after passing through the main gateway, another tree to the left and slightly around the corner toward the Lakṣmī and Nārāyaṇa temple, and a third tree located along the prākāra in the far southwest corner of the compound, just outside Siddheśvara’s shrine. Running along the inside perimeter wall of the compound is a series of administrative rooms, which include offices for the trustees, the kitchen, storage rooms, and a bookstore. In the northeastern corner of the complex is a fountain with running water for the cleansing of the devotees’ feet and hands prior to worship. In addition to the main northern entrance, there are three other small gateways into the compound. Two of them are along the eastern wall—one just next to the fountain and the other closer toward the middle of the eastern wall. The remaining gateway is located in the center of the western wall. Just off this western gateway is a stairway that runs down to a subterranean meditation room, which is said to sit directly across from the meditating body of Jñāneśvar.24

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Since Jñāneśvar is believed to have entered his samādhi cavern by way of a tunnel dug under the mūrti of Nandī, Ranade postulates that he must be sitting facing Siddheśvara, which would place him in a westward facing direction, a direction that Ranade points out is counter to Jñāneśvar’s own suggestion that a realized sage should leave his body while facing north.25 However, the main access of the whole compound runs north to south from the main entrance gate to the door of the samādhi’s sanctum. Thus, as one moves through the gate toward Jñāneśvar, one is moving in a southward direction. Since it is customary to approach the deity of a temple face to face, it is likely that Jñāneśvar is indeed facing north and thus able to greet his approaching visitors.

Āḷandī in Jñāneśvar’s Life and Samādhi The sacred power ascribed to the site where Jñāneśvar is entombed predates his samādhi. It even predates his birth.26 The Śiva shrine of Siddheśvara, a form of Śiva particularly favored by the Siddha and Nāth traditions, was already established in the village.27 In their childhood, Jñāneśvar and his siblings spent much time in Āḷandī, frequenting the Siddheśvara shrine, and when Jñāneśvar decided it was time to leave the body, it was to Āḷandī that he wished to go in order to enter into samādhi in the presence of Siddheśvara.28 After returning from traveling on pilgrimage in the north with Nāmdev—the tales of which are told in Nāmdev’s Tīrthāvalī—Jñāneśvar is said to have expressed his desire to take saṃjīvan samādhi at the Siddheśvara temple. The occasion—as recounted in Nāmdev’s third and last volume on Jñāneśvar’s life, entitled Samādhi—was celebratory and filled with days of bhajan (hymn) chanting. He was surrounded by his brothers, sister, and dear friends, which included all the other great Vārkarīs poet-saints of the period. Nāmdev’s sons prepared the samādhi cavern as well as Jñāneśvar’s meditation seat. Jñāneśvar himself gave a philosophical discourse, and the evening before he was to take samādhi there was a huge bhaṇḍārā (feast) followed by more bhajan chanting throughout the night and into the early morning hours. The next day, ecstatic and exhausted by a full night of chanting, the time had come. It was the thirteenth day of the dark half of the month of Kārtik (October to November) in 1296. The remembrance of the moment when Jñāneśvar entered into samādhi tugs at the heartstrings of his Maharashtrian devotees, as was vividly conveyed to me one evening at a home in Varai on the outskirts of Mumbai.29 A bhajan session had spontaneously broken out, and while one of Nāmdev’s Jñāneśvar samādhi abhaṅgas was being sung, it was simultaneously interpreted. With folded hands Jñānobāī is walking to Nivṛtti. He says, “You have treated me like a small child (given me everything). I have crossed the bhāvasāgara thanks to you. Whatever I am, you made me.” Nivṛtti, with tears in his eyes, grabs Jñāneśvar’s cheek and says, “You have done so much for us.” Nāmdev (who is watching) says, “It is so hard to watch this. Jñāneśvar has now merged into Brahman.”30

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Tears swelled in the eyes of the singers, while joyful smiles played across their faces as they swooned in the poetic beauty of the memory of a seven-hundred-year-old moment they were now hearing recounted. As Nāmdev’s eyewitness account continues, Jñāneśvar turned from Nivṛtti, his brother and guru, to enter the samādhi cavern and planted his staff in the ground next to the entrance, where it immediately took root. Jñāneśvar took his seat, placing a copy of the Jñāneśvarī at his feet. Nivṛtti then sealed the entrance and marked the spot with a stone. It was done.31

Tale of a Tree We learn from Nāmdev’s narrative that the samādhi space in Āḷandī originally contained a preexisting Śiva shrine, Nandī, and pipal tree. With the selfentombment of Jñāneśvar, the site of his samādhi was marked by a stone as well as the rooted staff at its entrance. Although Jñāneśvar’s act of taking samādhi is the seminal event, which establishes his presence in the space, the most definitive spatial relationship of the site is not established until Eknāth’s visit in the late sixteenth century. This purported event some 300 years after Jñāneśvar’s selfwilled samādhi defines the spatial relationship that we see today in the temple compound between devotees and Jñāneśvar. It is an event in the hagiographical record that influenced not only the physical development of the space over time but also one’s movement through it. This acclaimed event is invoked by the Vārkarī tradition to explain the recovery of Jñāneśvar’s renowned Marathi commentary on the Bhagavad Gītā, the Jñāneśvarī, which by the sixteenth century had become corrupted by successive interpolations. Eknāth, the next major figure in the Vārkarī tradition after Nāmdev, is credited with purging the later interpolation from the commentary and producing a critical edition of the original Jñāneśvar verses.32 Although Eknāth and Jñāneśvar were separated from each other by nearly three hundred years, the hagiographic narratives speak of a purported encounter between them, which serves to illustrate how the space of Jñāneśvar’s samādhi shrine has influenced the tradition and at the same time how the tradition understands the dynamic, living quality of the space. According to one hagiographic account, one night Eknāth had a dream in which Jñāneśvar came to him and told him that he was choking. Convinced of the urgency of the matter, Eknāth went to Āḷandī, which at that time had become somewhat overrun by jungle. Eknāth is said to have meditated there under a tree near a ruined, partially submerged Śiva shrine on the banks of the Indrayānī River. He was then guided by Jñāneśvar in his meditation to the spot of the samādhi. Opening his eyes, his gaze fell upon a small hillock above the Śiva shrine with a tree and a stone marking the site of Jñāneśvar’s samādhi. He entered the cavern and there he found Jñāneśvar seated in meditation, as young and alive as the day that he had entered the cavern nearly three hundred years before, yet now his physical body consisted of a self-luminous light. Around his neck was a large root from the tree above, embracing him in a stranglehold. Eknāth removed

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the root from constricting the radiant body of the young guru. Before leaving the tomb, he found the copy of the Jñāneśvarī at the feet of the entombed Jñāneśvar. Eknāth took the copy with him, and in this way, according to the narrative, the uncorrupted version of the Jñāneśvarī reemerged in the sixteenth century.33 To this day one of the main practices performed at Jñāneśvar’s samādhi shrine is the chanting of his Gītā commentary, and the place to chant it is around the tree whose

Figure 2  Taking darśan of the Ajāna Vṛkṣa (Unborn Tree). Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin.

Figure 3  Wall inscribed with the text of the Jñāneśvarī. Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin.

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Figure 4  A Jñāneśvar devotee reciting the Jñāneśvarī near the Ajāna Vṛkṣa (Unborn Tree). Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin.

roots had led to the great recovery (see Figures 2–6). The sacred status ascribed to this tree is further enhanced by the traditional belief that it sprang from the very staff that Jñāneśvar himself planted in the ground as he entered the cavern. This tree is celebrated as the ajana-vṛkṣa, unborn tree. This hagiographical narrative illustrates how the tradition recognizes the living presence of Jñāneśvar in the space, and how his living presence in the space influences and shapes the rituals of the tradition. This narrative, carried in the awareness of the devotee when he or she encounters the tree during recitation of the Jñāneśvarī, the sacred text of the tradition, has a deep influence on the meanings that the space holds for the devotee. In this way, the devotee is a participant in the space, not a spectator of it, and it is this participation that continually inscribes layers of meaning in the space for the devotee. One

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Figure 5  Jñāneśvar devotee reciting the Jñāneśvarī near the Ajāna Vṛkṣa (Unborn Tree). Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin.

takes darśan of the tree—this tree planted by Jñāneśvar, this tree that embraced Jñāneśvar, this tree whose roots Eknāth removed from Jñāneśvar. This tree is the conduit to these events and to these revered poet-saints of the Vārkarī tradition. As Christian Novetzke has also acknowledged, the tree connects the past to and in the present.34 When one participates in the rituals of the space, one is connected to the past experiences that have taken place in that space and to the great sages who participated in those experiences.

Movement through the Space The devotee’s movement through the space of Jñāneśvar’s Samādhi compound begins first by performing a full pradakṣiṇa (circumambulation) of the compound by way of its prākāra. Then one goes to receive Jñāneśvar’s darśan in his garbhagṛha.

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Figure 6  Jñāneśvar devotee reciting the Jñāneśvarī near the Ajāna Vṛkṣa (Unborn Tree). Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin.

From there the movement flows to Nandī, where one does pradakṣiṇa of the bull,  making sure to touch the pādukās that rest on the far side of him, which mark the spot where Jñāneśvar is said to have entered his tomb via a passageway underneath Nandī. At this point many devotees whisper into the left ear of Nandī if they have something special to say to or ask of Siddheśvara. This is a common practice at Śiva temples, for it is said that whatever is shared with Nandī in this ear goes straight to Śiva. From Nandī, the movement flows through the maṇḍapa of Siddheśvara and into his garbhagṛha for his darśan. The presence of Jñāneśvar in the compound is not limited to his buried body but also extends to the memory of his movements through the space before he took samādhi. This was made clear to me while entering Siddheśvara’s temple with

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my academic host. On the threshold of the sanctum, he turned to me and said, “We may not know much for sure about the development of the other structures in the compound, but one thing we are certain of is that he [Jñāneśvar] touched this liṅga, Nivṛtti touched this liṅga, Nāmdev touched this liṅga. They all came for Siddheśvara’s darśan. I always think of him touching this liṅga before I take Siddheśvara’s darśan.”35 With that, he turned, knelt to the ground, placed his hand on top of the liṅga, and brought his forehead to it. Thus, in this devotee’s perspective, even during Śiva’s darśan, devotees are receiving the darśan of Jñāneśvar and the other Vārkarī poet-saints. Immediately after Siddheśvara’s darśan, it is customary to sit for a few minutes of meditation in his maṇḍapa. Then the flow moves out the southern doorway of Siddheśvara’s shrine and around the corner to the right past the back (western) wall of his shrine to a staircase that leads up to the raised enclosure where the ajana-vṛkṣa grows. Here, as mentioned earlier, worshipers take darśan of the tree, while dedicated devotees sit on the marble slab floor of its courtyard chanting the Jñāneśvarī. After darśan of the tree, worshipers come down via a different set of stairs and enter into the central maṇḍapa that is aligned with Jñāneśvar’s samādhi. Here they will sit for some time in meditation. After this, the formalities of the visit are done, and one may move around the entire compound at will, which most people do for some time. They may visit the pipal tree near the main gate, where it is said Jñāneśvar’s mother performed her 108,000 pradakṣiṇas, which proved influential in the birth of Jñāneśvar and his siblings. Women seeking a blessing to have children will make special offerings here. Devotees may also go visit the other tree near the Lakṣmī and Nārāyaṇa shrines and take darśan of Eknāth’s pādukās that are enshrined there, as this is said to be the tree under which he meditated when searching for the site of Jñāneśvar’s samādhi. Others may choose to go to the vīṇā maṇḍapa, the large hall closest to the main gate, and take darśan of Jñāneśvar’s abhaṅgas by touching the feet of the vīṇā holding kīrtankār, who must continually stand while strumming the instrument and who is honored as an embodiment of the abhaṅgas. Thus, devotees after circumambulating the samādhi compound and visiting the various shrines will wander here and there after their darśan, enjoying the serene, still beauty of the compound.

Jñāneśvar Samādhi Compound as Temple While there are many points of interaction with Jñāneśvar and his narrative in the space, it is the perceived living presence of Jñāneśvar seated in meditation deep within his samādhi sanctum that is the focal point of the compound. Devotees interact with this living presence in the very same manner as they interact with a deity in a temple. The first clue that this samādhi compound functions as a temple is in the name of the compound itself. Steel scaffolds on the top of the compound wall support a massive sign in red neon letters that announces to points far off into the distance, “Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir” (The Samādhi Temple of

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Jñāneśvar Mahārāj).36 The next clue regarding its temple identity is the structure of the samādhi shrine itself. There can be no mistake that the structure over the samādhi marker is a classic garbhagṛha and śikhara (see Figure 7). Along with a mūrti—in this case, the entombed body of Jñāneśvar—these three components make up the fundamental aspects of a Hindu temple. From a distance, there is nothing to identify this structure as a samādhi shrine other than the sign, and everything about its visual language says, “temple.” Although the back wall of the garbhagṛha houses the vigrahas (sculpted images) of Viṭṭhal and Rukmiṇī, it is Jñāneśvar who is revered as the deity of this temple, and this we can find expressed in the architectural elements of the structure itself. The focal point of worship in the garbhagṛha is the samādhi marker situated at its

Figure 7  Śikhara tower over the samādhi marker of Jñāneśvar. Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Asha Tyska McLaughlin.

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center, which rests just above the presumed site of Jñāneśvar’s meditating body (see Figure 8). The vertical alignment of this marker with the great sage designates it as an extension of his body. In this way, the samādhi marker becomes the mūrti of interaction for the shrine-cum-temple. There are other architectural features as well that serve to identify Jñāneśvar as the deity of the space. As Tamara Sears points out in her analysis of a medieval Śaiva maṭha, In temple architecture, the door frame preceding the entrance to the main sanctum was traditionally ornamented with standard sets of divinities that fulfilled two distinct functions. The first was primarily auspicious and apotropaic: the doorway was the final threshold separating the space of the exterior world from the temple sanctum. The second was to signify the specific deity enshrined within; the figures depicted on the door frame both signaled the temple’s sectarian affiliation and acted as a projection of the deity’s presence from within.37

Figure 8  Jñāneśvar’s bare samādhi marker corresponding with the niṣkala (without form) aspect of Śiva. Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Shirish Shete.

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There are two entrances to the garbhagṛha of Jñāneśvar’s samādhi—one on the northern wall and one on the eastern wall. In the center of the lintel of the northern entrance is an image of Gaṇeśa, god of thresholds, remover of obstacles, and Śiva’s son. As noted by Sears in her research on Śaiva maṭhas, this is a very common deity for the lintel of a Śiva temple and thus perhaps points to Jñāneśvar’s Śaiva connection, if not to his self-identification with Śiva through his nondual realized state.38 What is more unusual is the image found on the lintel of the eastern entrance, which is of Jñāneśvar himself. In at least one of the maṭhas Sears has been investigating, she has identified rooms that she argues were sacred spaces reserved for the guru of the maṭha. These rooms had the image of the guru in the center of the lintel of the entrance doorway, declaring the guru, as an embodiment of Śiva, to be the deity of the room. In Āḷandī the same technique is employed to identify Jñāneśvar as the deity of this particular temple. This image does not go unnoticed by the throngs of devotees moving through the space. As the line progresses through the door and into the garbhagṛha, nearly every person reaches up and touches the feet of the image before passing beneath it.39 Other indications that Jñāneśvar’s samādhi is considered a temple can be found in the daily schedule of the compound. The rituals performed before the samādhi marker in the sanctum mirror, in many respects, those performed before the mūrti in a standard temple. Beginning at 4:15 a.m., Jñāneśvar is awakened by kakadāratī being performed by a Brahmin pūjārī before the samādhi marker positioned above Jñāneśvar’s meditating body. This is followed by several pūjās, immediately following which the doors are opened for public darśan until around 12:00 p.m. I am told that sometimes this darśan can run as late as 1:30 p.m., as no one who comes is turned away. Once darśan has subsided, the doors are closed and the offering of food occurs. Immediately following, the doors are opened again for darśan until 3:00 p.m. At this point, the doors are closed again, and Jñāneśvar, or more precisely, the stone samādhi marker above his entombed body, is “dressed” (pośākh). That is, a silver bust bearing the likeness of Jñāneśvar is placed on the top tier of the stone samādhi marker. The bust is then adorned with a crown and backed by an aureole (see dressed Figure 9). Pūjā is performed to the image, which is also anointed with kumkum powder and sandalwood paste. Silk fabrics are wrapped around the base and garlands are draped around his neck. At 3:15 p.m., the doors are reopened and darśan commences again until somewhere between 7:00 p.m. and 8:30 p.m., depending on the size of the crowd. At 8:30 p.m., dhūpāratī is performed, which consists of waving a canister of burning incense. Then darśan continues until sometime between 10:15 p.m. and 10:45 p.m., at which point bedtime rituals begin and run until 11:30 p.m. when the doors of the shrine are closed for the night. The samādhi marker of Jñāneśvar consists of a multi-stepped, pyramid-shaped black stone (see bare Figure 8). During the morning darśan period, the stone marker stands unadorned, and it is this exposed stone that is the contact point for morning darśan. The devotee will come forward and praṇām, touching his hands and forehead to the stone. Moreover, worshipers are invited to perform abhiśeka (ritual bathing) of the marker with the assistance of the pūjārī.40 During

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Figure 9  Jñāneśvar’s dressed samādhi marker corresponding with the sakala (with form) aspect of Śiva. Śrī Jñāneśvar Mahārāj Samādhi Mandir, Āḷandī. Photo credit and copyright: Shirish Shete.

this practice, the worshiper himself is directed by the pūjārī in the pouring of the various substances over the samādhi marker and rubbing them into the stone. Others bring their own scented oils, with which they themselves anoint the stone. Coconuts, bananas, mangos, flowers, and garlands are also placed or draped on the stone marker. Worshipers experience a very intimate and personal encounter with the samādhi marker by means of the very rituals reserved for the mūrti of a temple. As we have seen from our review of the daily schedule, in the afternoon darśan the samādhi marker is “dressed,” during which a silver bust is placed on the marker that is adorned with a crown and draped in silk fabrics and garlands. While in these afternoon darśans, the gazing upon the image of Jñāneśvar is visually intimate and can stimulate in the worshiper deep adoration and devotion, there is no physical contact with the marker when it is dressed. All ritual actions are mediated through the temple Brahmin on behalf of the approaching devotee. On a practical level, this makes sense, as the mass of worshipers pressing in on the samādhi marker could jostle or disturb the masked portion of the marker. However, the pattern

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of these juxtaposed morning or afternoon darśan practices has a much deeper significance. The significance can be found reflected in the ritual schedule of most North Indian Śiva temples. Devotees coming for darśan at one of these temples will encounter this same juxtaposition of darśan practices with regard to the liṅga.41 In the morning, in such temples as Kedārnāth, the aniconic liṅga is exposed and the worshiper is free to interact with it through touch. This unadorned liṅga is representative of Śiva’s niṣkala (without parts) aspect, and as such Śiva is understood to be present as the formless absolute. In the afternoon the liṅga is “dressed” with a mask that slides over it and is often accompanied by a silver or brass cobra coiled at the base of the liṅga, which rises behind spreading its protective hood over the sakala (with parts) Śiva, or Śiva with form. When Śiva is present this way, devotees do not touch him. Interaction takes place through the medium of the priest.42 What we are witness to at Jñāneśvar’s samādhi shrine throughout the day is an encounter with Jñāneśvar in these same niṣkala/sakala aspects. During morning darśan, the interaction is with Jñāneśvar as the formless absolute, while in the afternoon the interaction is with this formless absolute as expressed through the body or image of Jñāneśvar (see Figures 8 and 9). The intimacy of contact with the formless is thus juxtaposed with the separation caused by the form. What can be more intimate and personal than the formless absolute, in which there is no separation! This is the most intimate of experiences. The moment there is form, on the other hand, there is duality and thus separation. A distancing occurs, but in the case of Jñāneśvar’s form, it is a distancing that allows for focused adoration and devotion. Thus, in Jñāneśvar’s tradition we witness through the practice of darśan the tradition’s ability to play at the pivot point between its understanding of manifest and unmanifest reality—freedom within and through the paradox of the juxtaposition of niṣkala/sakala.

Concluding Remarks According to the tradition, as these examples illustrate, Jñāneśvar sits eternally absorbed in identification with the absolute and this absorption radiates out to permeate the entire samādhi compound. His state of consciousness is understood to impact the atmosphere of the space. It is what makes the space sacred. The space pulsates with his enlightened state, and this perceived presence is what dictates the ritual activity of the compound. In this regard, the received hagiographical narrative of this saint plays a significant role in the continued historical development of the space. Hagiography is inscribed in the architectural structure as well as the ritual action. “Here,” to borrow a phrase utilized by Robert Orsi, “the transcendent broke into time.”43 And it has not left. The compound does not simply memorialize past events. The ritual activities of the space are not simply forms of remembrance of something that has gone. To perceive this space through a lens of absence, as the historiography of modern discourse offers us, is a mistake. This is a culture of

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presence—a presence anchored by the perceived occurrence of Jñāneśvar having taken saṃjīvan samādhi in the space. Such happenings Orsi calls abundant events because the foundation event that establishes presence in the space informs all subsequent events there: The abundant event is not exhausted at its source. Presence radiates out from the really-real event along a network of routes, a kind of capillary of presence, filling water, relics, images, things, and memories. . . . The routes are formed and shaped by the abundant event: they develop through successive transactions among people wanting to share their experience of presence, and in this way, the routes themselves become media of abundance.44

One morning, in the still and silent predawn darkness of the compound, while a handful of devotees were waiting for the sanctum to open for darśan, I watched a lone sādhu approach the back of the samādhi shrine. He placed a cup on the ground and softly said, “Milk, Mother.”45 Quietly, and without breaking stride in his morning āratī preparations, the temple Brahmin poured the milk.

Chapter 6 From Legend to Flesh and Bone: The Reenactment of a Tantric Narrative Joel S. Gruber

There is a persistent set of characteristics that define Superman through ­decades of creative voices and it’s that essential, unshakeable quality of Superman-ness the character possesses in every incarnation, which is divinity by any other name. —Grant Morrison1 According to contemporary Tibetan accounts, Vimalamitra was a late eighthcentury Indian Buddhist saint who became renowned throughout the medieval kingdoms of India for possessing a mastery of both exoteric sutra and esoteric tantric teachings. Upon hearing of Vimalamitra’s proficiency in all aspects of the Buddhadharma, the great Tibetan king Trisong Detsen (r. 755–ca. 797), dispatched an envoy of translators to request that Vimalamitra assist him in disseminating Buddhism across the newly converted Buddhist kingdom of Tibet. Vimalamitra dutifully accepted the king’s request and left his homeland to venture outward across the Himalayas. In Tibet, he spent the better part of the next decade fastidiously composing and translating a number of important texts on a vast array of Buddhist subjects. Despite the prodigious doctrinal range evident within his scholarship, the Indian saint is best known for emanating dozens of times throughout the Tibetan plateau, from the twelfth century to the present day, each time “revealing never-before-seen” tantric texts. The oldest extant details of Vimalamitra’s life (ca. tenth century) exclusively focused on his ability to extend his life and then emanate, abilities that strategically “validate” his status as a tantric practitioner. By the twelfth century, his spiritual biography was significantly expanded to include the dates, names of persons, texts, and accomplishments that, through the medium of narrative, legitimate his newfound status as the author of Dzokchen texts. Positioning him as the author of these texts also, of course, “proved” the Indian pedigree of these works. This strategy involved creating an unbroken line of transmission extending from the eighth-century founding figure, Vimalamitra, to the prominent Tibetan Dzokchen masters of the tenth through twelfth centuries. Establishing this requisite lineal

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consistency required that the historical Vimalamitra, known to have traveled to Tibet in the eighth century, was a highly accomplished tāntrika with the power to emanate and bestow teaching transmissions to multiple Tibetans born hundreds of years following his departure from the Himalayan Kingdom. Once this approach proved successful, the need to rewrite and debate his “pre-emanation” life story as a means to legitimate disputed claims to lineal descent became obsolete. Instead of rewriting a biographical account that was standardized around the fourteenth century, the proponents of the Nyingma tradition focused on novel narrativebased arguments designed to authenticate innovative developments in tantric doctrine and ritual by constructing biographies explaining the life and teachings of contemporary Nyingma saints believed to be Vimalamitra’s emanations. This chapter briefly summarizes the development of the legend of Vimalamitra and his Tibetan emanations, as well as the political function of these narratives. It explores the complexity of Tibetan belief in Buddhist hagiographies by analyzing instances within contemporary American popular culture in which, as folklorist Linda Dègh has written, “the style, context . . . transmission and reception of [a] legend sometimes suggests that . . . narratives can turn into facts.”2 By comparing the evolution of Vimalamitra’s life story and his Tibetan emanations with a small but growing group of “real-life superheroes” and their reenactment of superhero comics, I argue that we can gain valuable insights regarding the reason why Tibetans believed in the historical veracity of embellished hagiographies, despite knowing they were embellished or fictionalized. To conclude, I argue that Tibetans aware of the fictive content within Vimalamitra-related narratives regarded these accounts to be true because they repeatedly witnessed, or at least believed they repeatedly witnessed, these fictions be reenacted as historical acts, or something like facts.

The Emanation Prototype Nupchen Sangyé Yeshé’s (Gnubs chen Sangs rgyas Ye shes, ca. tenth century) late ninth- or early tenth-century Lamp for the Eye in Contemplation (Bsam gtan smig gron) contains the oldest extant biographical details of an Indian named Vimalamitra,3 one of the first known citations of a tantric text he purportedly composed, and the oldest record of his appearing in two places at one time. Vimalamitra is featured most prominently in the Lamp for the Eye in Contemplation’s chapter that outlines the views, practices, and results of Mahāyoga, the third of four Buddhist “paths” presented in the text’s doxographical schema. After the results of the path have been outlined, Nupchen boldly writes that past generations have witnessed accomplished masters perform acts demonstrating their exceptional realizations, and as proof he invokes a narrative (perhaps oral?) of Vimalamitra’s time in Tibet: “When Vimalamitra seemingly displayed4 death in Tibet, he actually remained in India without truly having died.”5 In this single line, Nupchen claims that Vimalamitra transcended death and appeared in two places

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at once,6 both of which constitute yogic achievements doctrinally consistent with the power to emanate (sprul). As a result of Nupchen’s strategic deployment of Vimalamitra’s name, his citation of Vimala’s commentaries, and his reference to an event potentially based on a previously existent legend, it is clear that Vimalamitra is, for Nupchen, a tantric figure integral to accomplishing his text’s purported goals, which include establishing the supremacy of these newly developed Tibetan Mahāyoga practices. Therefore, the Vimalamitra of the Lamp for the Eye in Contemplation is an Indian tāntrika whose commentaries and meditative accomplishments legitimate a series of texts detailing the intricacies of a Mahāyoga path in its formative stages in Tibet during the late ninth century, and furthermore, it is evident that this Vimalamitra functions as a “proof ” that the results promised in these Mahāyoga texts can be obtained from the practices they outline.

The Foundation for the Emanation The innovative developments in Tibetan spiritual biographies that followed Nupchen’s Lamp for the Eye in Contemplation offered emerging tantric traditions new narrative license to describe the lives and practices of their revered Buddhist saints with a level of detail and sophistication that far surpassed the preceding minimalist approach to Buddhist biography. As part of a broader literary movement, the circa twelfth-century The Great History of Dzokchen Nyingtik (Rdzogs pa chen po snying thig gyi lo rgyus chen mo; henceforth Great History) reimagines Vimalamitra’s life story and further elevates his status to the point where he is now considered one of the most powerful tantric masters to grace the storied annals of Tibetan history.7 The text embellishes his journeys through the kingdoms of India, the charnel grounds of China, and the Himalayan mountains of Tibet, and highlights a series of miraculous deeds that were strategically designed, and elaborated upon, by the Great History’s author(s) in large part to demonstrate the unequivocal greatness of Vimalamitra’s Nyingtik practices. Although the forty folio-sides of narrative devoted to Vima are often entertaining and well written, the story rarely loses sight of its primary objective: to prove that secret Nyingtik texts were transmitted to Tibet by an exceptionally realized Indian. Several different dialogues, teachings, and travel adventures are centered around these Nyingtik texts, and each element of their plots is carefully chosen to address the three most common twelfth-century critiques leveled against Nyingtik by rival schools, namely that the Nyingtik tantras are not from India, are not part of the initial imperial translation project, and are apocryphal texts recently produced by Tibetans. Therefore, Vimalamitra’s life story should be read first and foremost as a twelfth-century narrative-based argument intended to legitimate the Nyingtik tradition purportedly derived from Vimalamitra, demonstrate the results of these practices, and legitimate several of the Nyingtik texts purportedly produced by revelatory means.

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Prior to the Great History’s rendering of Vimalamitra’s life story, patron deities or bodhisattvas such as Manjuśrī, Avalokiteśvara and Tārā. emanated in the presence of Tibetan masters, but in this particular account, a quasi-historical Indian emanates to authorize dharma texts and practices, a promise that is fulfilled once the story turns to the revelations of the tenth through twelfth centuries.

The Vow to Emanate The Great History claims that fifty years after Vimalamitra’s departure from Tibet, his disciple, a Tibetan named Nyang Tingzin Sangpo, concealed the secret texts Vimalamitra entrusted to him in the Temple of the Hat (Zha’i lha khang), where they remained for an additional one hundred years8 prior to being discovered by Dangma Lhüngyal (Ldang ma Lhun gyi Rgyal mtshan, d.u.). At that time, the reader is told that Dangma Lhüngyal had no students of his own and was forced to conduct an exhaustive search for his lineal heir. After three years of peripatetic wandering, he encounters Chetsün Sengé Wangchuk and enthusiastically proclaims, “Because I have bestowed the incomparable unsurpassable secret oral instruction of the Nyingtik upon you, we have established a karmic connection.”9 Shortly after, Chetsün dreams he is visited by a terrifying blue Indian who says: I am the Learned One, Vimalamitra. Fortunate being! If you desire to find the quintessential meaning, You will do so on the side of the mountain at Trakmar Gegön in Chimpu. Go retrieve the precious secret Nyingtik texts! Take them and meditate unseen for seven years at an enclosure of rocks above Uyuk Chigong. By doing as directed, the contaminated aggregates will disappear.10 When Vimalamitra manifested in the presence of Chetsün Sengé Wangchuk, his emanation marked the beginning of a tradition in which the famed Indian tāntrika continuously manifested across the Tibetan landscape to preserve the Nyingtik lineage. Vimalamitra’s emanations performed the same function as both Vajrasattva and the ḍākinī that appeared to guide Vimalamitra earlier on in the Great History, while he was on his own quest for the Nyingtik texts. Over the course of the story, Vimalamitra had transformed from being guided by divine agents to becoming one himself, capable of emanating to lead Tibetans on their spiritual journeys for the Nyingtik teachings. In order to reach such elevated heights, he first attained the power to live indefinitely through practicing the Nyingtik teachings, thereby proving their efficacy. Other accomplishments include his ability to transform into a lion and ride a garuda11—acts that prove his mastery over corporeal forms. Despite the rumors of his purported death, he emanates multiple times hundreds of years later to assist the founding Tibetan visionaries central to the Vimalamitra Nyingthig lineage. The Great History therefore provides

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the foundational narrative for legitimizing some of the earliest Nyingtik teachings, and Vimalamitra’s subsequent emanations provide the tradition an opportunity to legitimate the next nine-hundred years of his revelations.

The Embodied Emanation The famous polymath Longchenpa’s (Klong chen pa, 1308–64) Nyingtik Yabshi (Snying thig ya bshi) is a compilation of redacted and “revealed” Nyingtik views, practices, and histories based on the teachings attributed to Vimalamitra (Bi ma Snying thig), which he paired with another collection of doctrinal works, spiritual biographies, and practice manuals from a more recent revelatory tradition featuring Padmsambhava (‘Kha ‘dro Snying thig). He then grouped this pair with his own contributions, the Three Yangti Sum (Yang ti Gsum). The methods by which Longchenpa arranged the histories and spiritual biographies of the prominent lineal figures within the Bima Nyingtik likely ensured that, for the first time, the lives and revelations of Nyingtik figures were chronologically and topically consistent.12 Shortly after Longchenpa finished his compilation, and the Bima Nyingtik was promulgated, the revelatory or visionary model featuring Vimalamitra became popularized. The spiritual biographies within Longchenpa’s Bima Nyingtik are arranged chronologically, beginning with the biography of Shangtön Tashi Dorjé (Zhang ston Bkra shi Rdo rje, 1097–1167), who the Nyingtik tradition claims was Chetsün’s student and Western scholars claim was the “anonymous” narrator of The Great History.13 According to his biography, Shangtön Tashi Dorjé passed the teachings to his son Nyima Bum (Nyi ma ‘Bum, 1158–1213), whose own son, Guru Jober (Gu ru Jo ‘ber, 1196–1255), transmitted these same rituals and practices to his student, Trülshik Sengé Gyapa (‘Khrul zhig Seng ge Rgya pa, thirteenth century), who then entrusted the Nyingtik revelations to Drupchen Melong Dorjé (Me long Rdo rje, 1243–1303).14 Trülshik Sengé Gyapa and Melong Dorjé maintained the necessary unbroken transmission, and as a sign of their tantric proficiency, they achieved the highest result, but neither of the two revealed additional Nyingtik treatises. In the Shang family—including Shangtön Tashi Dorjé, his son, and his grandson—it was the Shang patriarch alone who uncovered additional treasure texts purportedly concealed during imperial times. Thus the biographies of each of these prominent persons are seemingly governed by a consistent principle that determined the rules of revelation: if they acquire additional Nyingtik teachings, this requires Vimalamitra to emanate (to Shangtön Tashi Dorjé and Chetsün Sengé Wangchuk); conversely, when practitioners do not purport to possess new Nyingtik texts (Nyima Bum, Guru Jober, Trülshig Sengé Gyapa, and Melong Dorjé), Vimalamitra does not manifest. In the decades leading to the fourteenth century, Vimalamitra had manifested during visionary quests of the prominent Tibetans mentioned, each of whom discovered hidden teachings that revealed the quintessential meanings and practices of Dzokchen’s most esteemed lineage. Prior to Longchenpa, however,

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Vimalamitra had merely emanated in visions to other Tibetans, he had not incarnated as a Tibetan in flesh and bone. It seems that once again Longchenpa was responsible for a pivotal development in the history of the Nyingma tradition, a point that would permanently alter the trajectory of the Vimalamitra emanationbased narratives that became important to the treasure tradition; toward the completion of a spiritual biography that Longchenpa composed in honor of his beloved guru, Kumārāja, he penned a homage that may seem at first glance to be little more than a collection of unremarkable lines of praise, but in actuality these verses are representative of a quantum leap in the history of Vimalamitra’s emanations: Oṃ āḥ hūṃ. Praise to the guru, Kumārāja. I prostrate before the one undifferentiated from the Primordial Lord, The great vidyādhara, the actual Vimalamitra, Endowed with an ocean of great qualities equal to the reaches of space, I bow at the feet of the Lord of Dharma, Kumārāja.15 When Vimalamitra emanated as Kumārāja, a living Tibetan meditation master became a dynamic representation of an important figure from the imperial era, and thus when Kumārāja transmitted the teachings to Longchenpa he did so as one of the greatest Buddhist heroes of Tibet’s mythical past, who at that moment purportedly had manifested in a corporeal form to inhabit the present-day world of Longchenpa. An Indian tantric archetype constructed in part to represent the Nyingma tradition’s idealized vision of a highly realized tantric practitioner became more Tibetan than ever. Future Nyingmapas, courtesy of Longchenpa’s innovations, could now follow suite and recognize their most esteemed teachers as Vimalamitra. Longchenpa was neither the first to claim that a living Tibetan was the incarnation of a past saint nor the last to refer to a revered guru as an emanation. But he did set the stage for an extensive list of Tibetan masters within the Nyingma lineage (one that eventually included Longchenpa himself) to be recognized as emanations of Vimalamitra. As a result, Vimalamitra was henceforth emanating as a Tibetan in addition to manifesting (e.g., in the visionary experience) to them. This development became central to the quintessential model for recognizing “authentic” Vimalamitra emanations, and it has been replicated in many guruas-Vimalamitra narrative since: Vimalamitra emanates as an embodied Tibetan master in order to mark the legitimacy of that master’s revealed texts, his accomplishments as a guru, and the tantric proficiency of the student.

The Emanation Multiplies Longchenpa’s impressive scholarly contributions cast a towering shadow over the next generations of Nyingma intellectuals. Despite his brilliance, an extensive exegetical tradition based on his work did not follow; both his doctrinal mastery

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of sūtra-based traditions and the precision of his thought remained difficult to duplicate. In addition, visionary revelations attributed to imperial period figures continued to dominate the Nyingma tradition, and his ideas were often incorporated into these revelations without citation. Jikmé Lingpa (“Jigs med Gling pa,” 1730–98), however, was an exception to this post-Longchenpa trend. He sought to clarify the internal structure of the diverse and at times contradictory approaches to the Dzokchen practices of his time by following some of the organizing principles previously established by Longchenpa for composing, redacting, and also revealing the numerous works necessary to restructure and re-present a wide range of orthodox and heteroclitic Nyingma practices. It is therefore fitting that Jikmé Lingpa’s collection of teachings, the self-contained and all-encompassing assemblage of contemporary doctrine, ritual, and meditative practices that became the gold standard for Nyingtik traditions throughout Tibet, was based on the model laid down by Longchenpa, which Jikmé Lingpa aptly named the Longchen Nyingtik.16 Jikmé Lingpa frequently referred to the work of Longchenpa, and at times noted that the verses he penned were inspired by Longchenpa; but in addition, he too partook in the time-honored Nyingtik revelatory tradition, and accordingly, claimed to have experienced three separate and distinct visions of Longchenpa. More specifically, he claimed in the first of his autobiographies that, during one of his many practice retreats, he uncovered a prophecy previously hidden within Padmasambhava’s retreat enclave stating that he, Jikmé Lingpa, was indeed an emanation of Vimalamitra.17 In a second autobiography, he also recounted a visionary experience that was so powerful and vivid, he claimed to have attained the requisite pure perception that enables the perfect recollection of each former life, and during this time of insight, he recognized that he had been both Vimalamitra and Longchenpa in previous births.18 Just as Vimalamitra appeared to Chetsün Sengé Wangchuk roughly 600 years earlier to provide revelatory assistance to his Tibetan lineal heir, Longchenpa did the same for Jikmé Lingpa, and just as Longchenpa had a vision in which he recognized that Kumārāja was the living embodiment of Vimalamitra, Jikmé Lingpa envisioned Longchenpa in his purest form, as the living embodiment of Vimalamitra—and at that very moment, Jikmé Lingpa also realized that he too, the mastermind behind the Longchen Nyingtik, was none other than a living incarnation of the noble Vimalamitra! Prominent contemporary Nyingma masters such as Jikmé Lingpa were therefore considered the joint emanation of figures such as Vimalamitra and Longchenpa. This enabled the master to be seen as the embodiment of two lineages: one to the imperial period and the other to the eminent scholar who most influenced that master’s own updated tantric doctrines and practices. In addition to Jikmé Lingpa, Lhatsün Namkha Jikmé (Lha btsun Nam mkha’ “Jigs med,” 1597–1653) was recognized as an emanation of Vimalamitra and Longchenpa, and others, such as the first Drubwang Pema Norbu (Pad ma Nor bu, 1679–1757), were identified as being composite emanations that synthesized the enlightened qualities of Vimalamitra and other Tibetans, such as Jatsön Nyingpo (“Ja” tshon Snying po, 1585–1656).

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Once Vimalamitra started to be incorporated into the incarnation lineage of a few living Nyingma masters, it was not long before his emanations multiplied exponentially. The institution of the tulku, or reincarnated lama, is generally said to have begun with the Karma Kagyu sect that identified Rangjung Dorjé (Rang “byung Rdo rje,” 1284–1339) as the reincarnation of the second Karmapa. Within a short time this had become a pan-sectarian phenomenon, occurring with a frequency that would have been difficult for either Longchenpa or Rangjung Dorjé to envision. For example, shortly after Jikmé Lingpa’s eighteenth-century incarnation drew his last breath, his subsequent incarnation lines divided into three: body, speech, and mind emanations. The three tulkus were recognized according to a tripartite division that then further subdivided at such a prolific rate that two hundred years after Jikmé Lingpa’s three initial emanations were named, no less than thirty additional distinct individuals were believed to have inherited his incarnation and emanation lines (twenty of these recognitions belonged to the Khyentsé line).19 Therefore, this lone figure produced over thirty historical Tibetans who were also regarded, at least nominally, as the emanation of Vimalamitra, a total that surpassed the original one-emanation-per-century-vow decreed by Vimalamitra in the Great History by an average of fifteen times, for two consecutive centuries!20 As tulku reincarnations became exceedingly common, other prominent Nyingma figures such as Chokgyur Lingpa (Mchog gyur Gling pa, 1829–70) experienced visions in which they saw their guru as Vimalamitra, in addition to encountering emanations of the Indian tāntrika as himself.21 When Chokgyur Lingpa received the Lama Yangthig (Bla ma Yang thig) empowerment from his teacher, Jamyang Khyentsé Wangpo, he saw the great Khyentsé as Vimalamitra, and when he opened the doorway to the famous Indian saint’s former practice enclave, Vimalamitra immediately manifested in an ethereal form surrounded by a blue light to provide the famous tertön, a revealer of previously hidden sacred texts, with further oral instructions for the highest Nyingtik practices.22 In yet another vision, Vimalamitra appeared in the presence of Chokgyur Lingpa to bestow the texts he prophesied centuries ago would be necessary for Tibetans to survive these particularly degenerate times.23 By the end of his life, Chokgyur Lingpa’s bevy of Vimalamitra emanations included instances in which Vimalamitra manifested as a Tibetan and others in which he emanated as himself.

The Posthumous Emanations The dozens of Tibetans throughout the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries who purportedly experienced a Vimalamitra-related encounter— whether in visions or through the process or incarnation—were all part of a broader movement in which the hagiographies of seminal but previously unrecognized Nyingtik lineal greats were rewritten to include what was in essence a posthumous acknowledgment of their accomplishments in the form of a newfound honorary title, “emanation of Vimalamitra.” This process of bestowing titles of honorary

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recognition included, perhaps predictably, the first Tibetan who purportedly disintered Vimalamitra’s concealed works, Dangma Lhüngyal. Dudjom Rinpoché’s The Nyingma School of Tibetan Buddhism details the spiritual biography of Dangma according to the outline provided by the original account of his life, as found in the Great History; yet in the updated version Dangma Lhüngyal is designated as “an emanation of Vimalamitra.”24 Dangma was not the only figure to posthumously receive a lifetime visionary-achievement award. Nyoshul Khenpo’s A Marvelous Garland of Rare Gems presents a “more contemporary” version of the original Melong Dorjé spiritual biography from the Bima Nyingtik; for the first two-thirds of his life story, the basic narrative appears unchanged and follows the format of the original. But toward the end of Nyoshul Khenpo’s work, a single line has been added wherein Kumārāja, the first known Tibetan to be regarded as an emanation of Vimalamitra, realizes that his own guru, Melong Dorjé, possesses all “the marks of Vimalamitra.”25 Both Nyoshul Khenpo and Dudjom Rinpoché also claim that Longchenpa was indeed an emanation of Vimalamitra, an identification that cannot be corroborated by his original biography.26 But it is Nyoshul Khenpo’s account alone that presents the most impressive and exceptional example of the tradition’s newfound impulse to overload the past with the emanations of Vimalamitra. When Longchenpa searches for his soon-to-be guru, their first contact is glamorized in a manner that would not have been possible for most of Nyingma history. The meeting of the two legendary figures is framed as if it were a predestined rendezvous between an emanation of Vimalamitra as the guru (Kumārāja) and an emanation of Vimalamitra as the student (Longchenpa), who is informed by the former of a prophecy he received from an emanation of Vimalamitra (as a scholar in a dream): When Longchenpa was twenty-seven, he set out to meet Rigdzin Kumārāja in the Yartokyam Uplands, where the latter and some of his students were living in felt tents. As soon as he saw Kumārāja, Longchenpa knew with certainty that before him was Vimalamitra in person. The guru himself was extremely delighted and said, “Last night I dreamed of an amazing bird, which I was told was of divine origin, surrounded by a flock of a thousand smaller birds. They took my texts and flew away in all directions. When I saw you, I immediately knew that you would become a holder of my lineage of spiritual teachings.” . . . Later [Kumārāja] told [Longchenpa], “In a dream, I met a scholar who I was told was Vimalamitra, wearing a scholar’s cap and carrying a text. He said to me, ‘This fellow Drime Ozer is a holy person who has prayed and aspired to safeguard my teachings. You, Zhonnu Gyalpo, will give him the pith instructions in their entirety. He will become the custodian of your teachings and a protector of the Dzogchen teachings.’ ”27

As is evident from this passage, the two Nyingma masters involved in the first known recognition of a Vimalamitra incarnation are also made to play a significant role in another monumental development, the movement to rewrite the past in

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order to claim that Vimalamitra emanated during the visions of past Tibetan masters or was the incarnation of seminal figures within the Nyingtik lineage.

The Eternal Return of the Emanations The religious studies scholar Mircea Eliade used the term “eternal return” to describe an overarching impulse that led “religious” cultures to ritually reenact their origins in an effort to revisit bygone eras of the sacred past: “The eternal return is a belief expressed (sometimes implicitly, but often explicitly) in religious behavior, in the ability to return to the mythical age, to become contemporary with the events described in one’s myths.”28 When Eliade’s theory is utilized as a hermeneutical concept that is neither binding nor all-encompassing, it functions as a useful tool for understanding the evolution of Vimalamitra’s emanations in the Nyingma tradition. The first instance of Vimalamitra “emanating” was recorded by Nupchen Sangyé Yeshé during the late ninth or early tenth century to legitimate emerging Mahāyoga doctrines and meditative techniques. Next, the author(s) of The Great History transformed Vimalamitra into a tāntrika with the power to emanate and return hundreds of years after his departure from Tibet. Within the spiritual biographies of the Bima Nyignthig, Vimalamitra appeared before Tibetans to present them with concealed texts from the eighth century. When Vimalamitra emanated, Tibetan authors came face to face with a hero from the golden age of Tibetan Buddhism. This meeting established a continuous lineal connection that remained firmly grounded in the enlightened activities of a sacred past. Moreover, each time that Vimalamitra emanated, his primeval transmission of the teachings was repeated, or reenacted. The Vimalamitra mythos that glorified the imperial era was further developed when Longchenpa declared that Kumārāja was an incarnation of Vimalamitra. At that moment, Longchenpa, the Tibetan figure responsible for first creating a cohesive Nyingtik tradition, re-animated a founding figure into the body of a Tibetan, Kumārājā. Material relics containing “never-before-seen” teachings were now accompanied by a corporeal relic. The primary difference between these attempts to return to a mythical past and those described by Eliade is that Vimalamitra “manifested” in the present as a living Tibetan who literally embodied the tradition’s mythical past. By the eighteenth century, the number of Tibetans who had inherited a Vimalamitra emanation line, had been recognized as Vimalamitra, or had a visionary exchange with the Indian saint had grown exponentially. Not long after, Nyingma histories were updated to ensure that important members of the tradition that had not been previously associated with Vimalamitra were regarded as emanations of the Indian saint as well. By the twenty-first century, the Nyingma tradition had successfully resurrected the past and brought it into the present, creating a “reverse eternal return” whereby Nyingma practitioners brought the past

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to the present rather than “return to the mythical past.” As a result, devoted and accomplished students had ready access to a living embodiment of Vimalamitra. However, these emanations did not foment the coming of a second golden age. Instead, the ever-increasing number of Vimalamitra emanations produced literature that reflected a self-awareness of this excess, adjusted accordingly, and then continued to pay homage to the tradition’s established history.

Emanating Then and Now Several of Vimalamitra’s most recent twentieth-century emanations are among the cast of Nyingma characters driving the subplots of Tulku Urgyen’s memoirs (Sprul sku O rgyan, 1920–96), entitled Blazing Splendor.29 There is one particular recognition story, however, that stands apart from the others for its level of detail and uncharacteristically raw depiction of human foibles and misadventure. The tale begins one night when Tsikey Chokling Rinpoché (Rtsi khe Mchog gling Dkon mchog “Gyur med,” 1871–1939)30 experiences a vision in which his guru, Samten Gyatso (Bsam gtan Rgya mtsho, 1881–1945/46),31 manifests in his presence as the actual embodiment of Vimalamitra, prompting the devoted student to immediately transcribe a “mind treasure, a small volume of texts including a sādhana revealing the magical nature of Samten Gyatso’s present incarnation.”32 After recording the mind treasure—yet ever afraid of the elderly lama’s temper—he keeps the texts hidden (and with him at all times), until one day at the intersection of the Tsichu and Khechu rivers,33 as Samten Gyatso watches Tsikey Chokling swim, he prepares to move his student’s belongings from the edge of the water. When he lifts the discarded bunched-up robes to a less precarious location, a single text falls to the ground. Tsikey Chokling’s request to leave the text only stokes Samten Gyatso’s curiosity, prompting the beloved teacher to quickly read through several key passages. After a few moments, he becomes infuriated and unleashes the following diatribe: You are supposed to be a reincarnation of Chokgyur Lingpa—at least according to the great Khyentsé—and until today I had absolute faith that this was true. I was counting on you to uphold the New Treasures for the benefit of the Dharma and all sentient beings. But now, when I look at these scribbles of yours, I see that you are a charlatan through and through, a deceiver of other people, an outright liar! What a disgrace to the Dharma! Swear to me that from this day on you will never again succumb to writing down such pretentious nonsense!34

Samten Gyatso then violently tosses the text into the river, ensuring that it could never be read again, before continuing to berate his young student: “You’re making this old monk, who is completely devoid of any qualities, into something he’s not! What a preposterous fraud! If you are going to act like this, there is no benefit in your being the tulku of Chokgyur Lingpa.”35 Tulku Urgyen,

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the narrator of the story, carefully contextualizes Samten Gyatso’s anger by immediately explaining that his dear uncle grew irate because he was actually a humble practitioner personally committed to keeping his accomplishments a secret, a motivation befitting of a hidden yogi: “The moment a special ability is announced, worldly people will see it as nothing but an attempt to aggrandize oneself. If we truly care about the well-being of others, we should not give them the least pretext to think such negative thoughts about [esoteric Buddhism] and its practitioners.”36 Despite the exegesis provided, Tulku Urgyen ironically retells the recognition account that Tsikey Chokling was ordered in no uncertain terms to never again repeat. Beyond illuminating the potential hazards of naming an emanation, this narrative follows the precedence established for recognizing Nyingma figures as the eighth- or ninth-century tāntrika: Vimalamitra emanates as an embodied Tibetan master, authenticating texts purportedly produced via revelatory means, and the experiential account of the recognition is then disseminated in order to mark the accomplishments of the guru as well as the student. Yet this particular tale takes an unexpected turn the moment that Samten Gyatso heaves a revealed treasure text into the river and berates his student for being, among other things, a fraud, a misrecognized Chokgyur Lingpa! Samten Gyatso’s rage and his accompanying litany of insults are difficult to interpret, particularly because Tulku Urgyen’s didactic explanation becomes problematic the moment he retells the story. Though some may argue that Samten Gyatso’s diatribe could be considered a demonstration of humility, or a refusal to publically acknowledge his accomplishments, Tulku Urgyen’s exegesis remains inconsistent with at least one of the primary motivations underlying one thousand years of Vimalamitra-related narratives: to establish the legitimacy of the lineage and its revelatory tradition. Perhaps Samten Gyatso was frustrated with the over-recognitions of contemporary incarnations, or perhaps like Lama Gönpo (Kun bzang Shan pan “Od zer,” 1906–91), the student of Jikmé Lingpa’s body emanation, Tsö Patrul Rinpoché (Tso Dpal sprul, twentieth century), he was entirely uninterested in the formalities dictating such recognitions.37 Or, perhaps Samten Gyatso’s response was typical and in accordance with a preexistent oral tradition among prominent Nyingma families. If this is the case, the most unique aspect of Tulku Urgyen’s retelling of the story might not lie in the details themselves, but rather in that these details reached the general public. Regardless, beyond the difficult-to-ignore incident in which he destroys his student’s “pretentious scribbles,” traditionally regarded as being precious and divine revelations, Samten Gyatso reifies the import of properly recognizing an emanation of Vimalamitra when he exclaims, “You’re making this old monk, who is completely devoid of any qualities, into something he’s not!” While humbly rejecting his own “improper” recognition, he reemphasizes the accomplishments of a lineage that began when Vimalamitra seemingly approached death in Nupchen’s Lamp for the Eye in Meditation and persisted through Tsikey Chokling’s near death at the hands of Samten Gyatso, who despite his protests has since been confirmed as an embodied emanation of Vimalamitra.

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“Believing” in Vimalamitra Despite awareness of Samten Gyatso’s admonishments, the contemporary Nyingma tradition, like Tsikey Chokling, regards Samten Gyatso as a living embodiment of Vimalamitra. Though it is unclear whether Tsikey Chokling removed the embellishments Samten Gyatso scolded him for inserting in the biography, the text currently includes content that appears, at least to a Western reader, as embellishment. Yet, a majority of the Nyingma practitioners who are aware of these stories believe Samten Gyatso was an emanation of Vimalamitra and regard Chokgyur Lingpa’s hagiography as biographical history. One of my longtime friends is a Tibetan student of the great Nyingma practitioner, Penor Rinpoche (Pad nor Rin po che, 1932–2009),38 one of the more famous contemporary teachers to be recognized as an emanation of Vimalamitra. In addition to having read Blazing Splendor, during the past six years my friend has helped me with the translation of some of the more difficult passages within Vimalamitra’s early hagiographies and dozens of the tantric texts attributed to him. As a result, he has seen firsthand that Tibetans wrote these tantric texts, and that the early spiritual biographies were gradually constructed as part of a narrativebased argument defending the legitimacy of Nyingma tantras. In other words, he understands that Vimalamitra’s lasting legacy is in large part a product of the Tibetan imagination. Yet, he maintains faith that the contemporary “biography” of Vimalamitra contains important truths, and, like Tsikey Chokling, he believes that his recently deceased teacher, Penor Rinpoche, was an emanation of Vimalamitra. His belief is neither the result of naivety nor blind faith. It is instead reflective of a Tibetan technique of balancing the tensions that exist between the dyad of skepticism and belief that is quite different than the way contemporary scholars read Nyingma spiritual biographies. For example, Blazing Splendor contains several passages wherein Samten Gyatso asks Tsikey Chokling to compile a hagiography for Chokygyur Lingpa. When Tsikey Chokling embellishes the hagiography by including quotations from previously composed, revered, and well-known Nyingma hagiographies, Samten Gyatso rebukes his student for these exaggerations and tells him to start over. To remedy the situation, Samten Gyatso sends Tsikey Chokley to consult his own mother, who explains that Tibetans, especially those in the eastern part of Kham, are extremely skeptical, so it is important to focus on presenting the truth.39 The end product is not “true” according to Western notions of historiography, but it is true according to Tibetans. During several discussions with my friend regarding his understanding of Vimalamitra’s life story, many of the explanations he provided were similar to those publicly stated by his more famous contemporary, a Nyingma scholar named Tarthang Tulku, who has argued that a belief in the facticity of these early hagiographies, including those of Indian saints such as Vimalamitra enabled Tibetan practitioners to visualize, via narrative, a path toward spiritual transformation. Moreover, they enabled Tibetans to construct a distinctly Nyingma identity and define what it means to be a tāntrika. In other words, Tarthang Tulku is arguing that these miraculous life stories have, for generation after generation, encouraged

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Tibetan practitioners to become dedicated to tantric practice and benefit society in ways that might not have otherwise been possible. When framed in these terms, the question of interest becomes the following: are there examples in contemporary American culture that are even remotely comparable?

Enacting Fictions Thirty years ago, renowned folklorists Linda Dègh and Andrew Vazsonyi wrote an article providing numerous contemporary examples in which fictive narratives, both good and bad, were reenacted as real-life historical events, concluding that “the style, context . . . way of transmission and reception of [a] legend sometimes suggests that. . . . narratives can turn into facts.”40 Unlike this chapter’s focus on Tibetan spiritual biographies, their research primarily focused on deviant behavior modeled by individuals repeatedly exposed to violence via television serials, graphic novels, and movies. Dègh and Vazsonyi explain: Violence on TV is of special concern. It might well be true that TV not only depicts violence, but that it also instructs the viewer on how to carry out that violence. But this is only one of its dangers. The other is more serious; through mere frequency, TV creates an impression that violence is a dominant social behavior. Experiments show that those who spend four hours a day watching TV see life as ten times more violent than it really is.41

Considering their article was composed over thirty years ago, Dègh and Vazsonyi’s warning appears startlingly prophetic. Through repeated exposure to fiction-based violence, numerous recent studies suggest that, the consumer consistently misinterprets the world as being more violent than it actually is, and, more problematically, believes that acts of this sort are “dominant,” and thus more “normal” ways of behaving than a more realistic survey of individual and community behavior would indicate. Furthermore, if we analyze the correlation between single-shooter video games and the alarmingly frequent single-shooter homicides committed at schools, churches, movie theaters, and other public places, we have to ask whether it is merely a coincidence that Nintendo 64’s GoldenEye 007, a single-shooter video game that sold over eight million copies between 1997 and 1999, was one of the most popular video games available at the same time when two students executed the first of the many mass homicides at Columbine High School.

Enacting Spiritual Biographies Until the late twentieth century, Tibetans did not have access to violent movies and television serials. Throughout much of Tibetan history, literate Buddhists read the life stories of Buddhist saints such as Vimalamitra, and they told stories about the

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miraculous deeds of these same saints, as well as those of contemporary masters— some of whom claim to have encountered emanations of Vimalamitra, and some of whom were considered to be emanations of the Indian saint themselves. Is it possible that as a result of prolonged exposure to these narratives and these spiritual biographies, Tibetans believed the world they inhabited was more enlightened than it actually was? Furthermore, did this exposure cause Tibetans to experience what anthropologist Tanya Luhrmann calls an “interpretive drift,” wherein fictive “enlightened” narratives written and told as histories caused religious practitioners to interpret their own experiences as being more akin to those described in saintly life stories?42 Were Tibetans culturally conditioned via these narratives to interpret their own personal “religious” experiences in the terms, topics, and themes utilized to narrate saintly miracles, which in turn ensured they were more likely to view the world as being more enlightened than a more Western, post-Enlightenment secular worldview would allow? And if so, did this Tibetan interpretation of reality then also ensure they were more likely to believe Vimalamitra’s spiritual biography was true? Moreover, did these narratives, as Dègh has argued regarding violence in TV, encourage and instruct Tibetans on how to enact saintly activity? In simpler terms, did a belief in the “truth” of these biographies ensure Tibetans acted in a way more comparable to texts narratives that stress the importance of meditative practice and acts of compassion than they might have otherwise acted? If so, did Vimalamitra’s biographies and accounts of his emanations create a truth that anthropologists are now capable of quantifying, measuring, and analyzing? As the XVII Karmapa, Örgyen Trinlé Dorjé (O rgyan “Phrin las Rdo rje,” b. 1985), one of Tibet’s most influential contemporary religious leaders has pointed out, “When masters [told] their life stories it’s not just their words or teachings, but their own lived experience of putting the dharma into practice. Their life stories are living instructions.”43 But the question remains: how could Vimalamitra’s hagiography instruct Tibetans to perform miraculous deeds that included flying, achieving near-immortality, and shape-shifting? The recognized emanations of Vimalamitra, including Samten Gyatso, Jamyang Khyentsé Chökyi Lodrö, and Penor Rinpoche, did not perform these types of miracles.

Enacting Heroic Deeds Comic book historian Bradford Wright has written: “Just as each generation writes its own history, each reads its own comic books. The two activities are not unrelated; comic books are histories [that] frame a worldview and define a sense of self for the generations who have grown up with them.”44 In 2011, Michael Barnett created a documentary about an increasingly prominent collection of individuals who call themselves real-life superheroes. As of now, in the United States alone, there are more than 300 “officially” registered real-life superheroes, individuals who dress up in costumes and patrol their neighborhoods, aiming to

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serve and protect. When asked about the making of the documentary, Barnett explains: When we started I thought “Hey there were people running around in costumes fighting crime how great is that?” But what I found was something so much more human—a deeply human story about people who often have very limited resources, but are real and ready to do anything they can to make the world a better place. It’s the direct the opposite of apathy, in fact. I mean, why do these people do this, even if it means becoming victims of ridicule? It’s just so noble. . . . Making this film has had a deeply profound impact on my life.45

Barnett has since devoted his life to servicing and drawing attention to the growing homeless population. When Barnett was asked what motivated these real-life superheroes, he explained that, while none of them were bitten by radioactive spiders, many had stories similar to the origin story of Batman, who devoted his life to fighting crime after witnessing the murder of his parents: “Most of why these guys do this stems from something traumatic in their lives and it manifests itself in some way where they try to overcompensate for it. It’s a really personal reason for a lot of them. . . . It stems from something violent happening to them [in their youth], by and large.”46 Barnett’s documentary focused on seven real-life superheroes, but featured Mr. Xtreme, who currently patrols the streets of San Diego. Barnett chose to focus on Mr. Xtreme because he “allowed the audience to see what he was really like.”47 As the documentary unfolds, it becomes obvious that Mr. Xtreme has been emotionally traumatized, and, is in many ways delusional, yet it is just as obvious that, as Barnett has stated, his intentions are pure and noble. After being bullied and teased, abused at home, and sexually molested, he sought solace in the heroics of comic and TV superhero serials. When he grew older, he decided to become a superhero, explaining that he was inspired by characters such as Superman, who the famous comic book author and historian Grant Morrison argues is an archetypical image that represents “a perfectly designed emblem of our highest, kindest, toughest selves.”48 Though he has been inspired by superheroes, and despite his mental instability, Mr. Xtreme explains that he “knows what’s real, what he can and can’t do, but is showing the community that they can take a stand, not be prisoners in their own communities.”49 In other words, Mr. Xtreme is aware that he cannot fly or travel faster than a speeding bullet, and that he mostly performs heroic deeds of the smaller sort. For his costume and extremely uncharacteristic earnest devotion toward assisting others (in ways that can at times be intrusive), Mr. Xtreme is often seen being mocked and ridiculed by those who see him walking the streets of San Diego. But more importantly, he has inspired those who do know him, including Barnett, to do more to help the community. Moreover, those he has devoted his life to helping, including the homeless, at-risk youth, the physically and emotionally abused, or just members of the communities that he frequently patrols have, on

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multiple occasions throughout the documentary, quite seriously referred to him a real-life superhero. In addition, there are over one hundred persons who have left comments on Mr. Xtreme’s website, and again many have quite seriously referred to him as a real-life superhero. In the case of Mr. Xtreme, I think it is fair to say that these superhero stories inspired a traumatized child to become a more dedicated activist than would have otherwise been possible. Despite at times appearing to be delusional regarding his own combat skills, Mr. Xtreme does not believe himself to be Superman, but instead is doing his best to live up to that ideal, to become something like an emanation of Superman.

Conclusion Though Mr. Xtreme has never leaped over a tall building in a single bound, Samten Gyatso never flew around the charnel grounds of India while shape-shifting from human form to that of a mythical dragon called a garuda, as Vimalamitra purportedly had done. Instead, Mr. Xtreme, like Samten Gyatso, did his best to live up to an ideal originally presented in a fictional account. Is it possible that Samten Gyatso’s commitment to tantric practice and unceasing devotion to benefiting his community is part of the reason that, despite insisting he was not an embodied emanation, Tibetans refer to him as a real-life emanation of Vimalamitra? Are the accomplishments of eight hundred years of Tibetan practitioners striving to achieve the ideals presented in Vimalamitra’s hagiographies the reason that Tibetans, such as my friend, believe in the life story of Vimalamitra despite knowing it was fictionalized? To be clear, I am not arguing that Vimalamitra’s hagiographies are just like superhero comic books, for obvious reasons. There are far too many important differences that significantly problematize this comparison and are potentially insulting to Tibetans. Instead, I am arguing that the reenactment of superhero comics by real-life superheroes, when coupled with the analysis of folklorist Linda Dègh, anthropologist Tanya Luhrmann, and comic book writers and historians such as Bradford Wright and Grant Morrison (quoted in this chapter’s epigraph), might provide us insight into understanding the complexities of Tibetan belief. Without idealizing the lives of Nyingma practitioners, which of course are always flawed in one way or the other, and without romanticizing the reasons that they have been recognized as emanations, which are always at least in part political, it may just be that those Tibetans aware of the embellishment and politics surrounding the legend of Vimalamitra believe that he and his emanations are real because they represent a vision of our highest, kindest selves. And it may be that just as each generation of Tibetans writes its own hagiographies, each reads them as histories that frame a worldview.50 When properly contextualized, Blazing Splendor is the culmination of several centuries of creative voices, each of which contributed to an inherited Vimalamitra mythos. It is the latest iteration of the narratives surrounding a quasi-historical saint, which were created by authors

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bound by an unnamed (and unspoken) oath to hide innovations within an origin story of the sacred past. Generation after generation, this coterie developed the Vimalamitra character by also maintaining an unshakable Vimalamitra-ness— divinity personified by a single name. As generations of Nyingma tāntrikas strived to achieve an ideal initially presented to them by fictive biographies such as those featuring Vimalamitra and his emanations, their efforts to reach this ideal subsequently enabled tāntrikas to achieve heroic deeds that might not otherwise have been possible. When compared to Vimalamitra’s biography in the Great History, their achievements are always of the less-fantastic sort; but these same achievements, whether they be the introduction of new tantric teachings enabling devoted meditators to better apply their practice to a more contemporary world or acts of compassion rooted in community service, are also more capable of being measured, charted, and classified by the contemporary scholar as indicative of historical realities.

Part III C ase S tudies in A brahamic T raditions

Chapter 7 The Transmission of Virtue in the Hagiography of Hacı Bektaş Veli: The Narrative of Güvenç Abdal1 Vernon J. Schubel

The Menakıb-ı Hacı Bektaş Veli, or Vilayetname, is the primary hagiographical account of the life of the thirteenth-century Sufi pir Hacı Bektaş. The earliest known manuscript of the Vilayetname was composed in Ottoman Turkish and dates to the seventeenth century. The Vilayetname exists in multiple versions. It is readily available in numerous modern Turkish translations—for example, the popular version published by the Turkish scholar Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı in 1958 and the more contemporary rendering by Esat Korkmaz.2 It is a text that it is widely read by contemporary Alevis, who consider it to be, along with Buyruk and their body of devotional poetry called nefes, one of the most legitimate and authoritative sources for understanding their tradition. The Vilayetname, like most Sufi hagiographies, is full of wondrous and supernatural occurrences. Travelers undertake miraculous journeys, traversing vast distances in impossibly short periods of time. People transform into birds and animals. Elements of the Vilayetname are reminiscent of the imagery and motifs of pre-Islamic Turkic traditions. A close examination of the Vilayetname, however, reveals that its underlying religious worldview is remarkably consistent with Sufi and Shi’i narratives found throughout the Islamic world. Its narratives are designed to encourage its readers to engage in the mystical process of the interior path (tarikat), while simultaneously imparting important moral and ethical lessons intended to improve human communal behavior.

The Nature of the Alevi Tradition The Vilayetname is a primary source for understanding the religious worldview of the Turkish Alevi community, a worldview in many ways identical with that of the Bektaşi Sufi tradition. In fact, these two interrelated traditions are often referred to collectively as the Alevi-Bektaşi community. Both accept the authority of the Twelve Imams of Ithnashari Shi’ism. Both follow the person and teachings of Hacı Bektaş Veli, a descendant of the eighth Shi’i Imam Ali Riza, whom they view as the repository of the spiritual authority (vilayet) of the Twelfth Imam. Both identify

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themselves as followers of Imam Ali b. Abu Talib, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad. The religious worldview of Alevilik, including their beliefs about the nature of God, prophecy, and imamat, are strikingly similar to those of other batıni (esoteric) Shici groups like the Ismacilis. The Alevis maintain an interpretation of tevhit (Arabic, tauhid or “unity of God”) clearly rooted in the mystical concept of wahdat al-wujud, (the unity of being) associated with the thirteenth-century Sufi intellectual Ibn ‘Arabi. Their mystical understanding of tevhit has led them to see a profoundly spiritual connection between God—who they refer to in Turkish as Dost (the Friend)—and those who have attained true intimacy with the divine. These include Muhammad, Ali b. Abu Talib, the other Imams of the Twelver Shi’i tradition, and the important pirs of their tradition including Hacı Bektaş Veli and Pir Sultan Abdal.

The Alevi Tradition as an Example Tarikat Shi’ism The Alevi-Bektaşi community is perhaps the most significant surviving example of what Marshall G. S. Hodgson has called “tariqah Shi’ism.” Hodgson argues that the majority of the religiously motivated opposition movements in the medieval Islamic world drew on both the Shi’i and Sufi traditions. He writes: Protests by the relatively dispossessed against the amirs and the upper social classes were also directed against the official Jama’i Sunni ulama who had made their peace with the amirs and received appointments from them. Hence it had long been Shi’i. With the collapse of the Isma’ili movement, however, Shi’ism of the older form, looking to an imam of the house of Ali to lead a head on assault on the old caliphate no longer had attractions. . . . A new Shi’ism now arose which was expressed largely in Sufi forms, in special tariqahs whose esoteric wisdom was less a general Sufi doctrine than a special revelation supposed to be derived from the secret teachings of Ali. This new Shi’ism may be called tariqah Shi’ism.3

During the fifteenth century there was a widespread proliferation and popularity of these Shi’i tarikats. Many of the western Turks of Azerbaijan and Anatolia were drawn to the populist and anti-privilege temperament of tarikat Shi’ism. As early as 1240 the revolt of the ‘Alid loyalist Babais in Anatolia attracted the loyalty of many pastoral Turkmen tribesmen who rose up in opposition to the Seljuk aristocracy. In 1416 many of these same peoples joined the revolt of Şeyh Bedreddin against the Ottomans. Following the failure of this revolt, many of his followers turned both to the Bektaşis and to another Turkic order which accepted the authority of the Twelve Imams, the Safavi tarikat.4 In the fifteenth century, the Safavi tarikat became a potent political and military force under the leadership of their pir, Shah Isma’il Hatayi, who eventually established the Safavid Empire. The Safavids depended heavily on the religious and

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military support of the nomadic Kızılbaş tribes of Central and Eastern Anatolia. The contemporary Alevis, who account for somewhere between 15 and 30 percent of the 70,000,000 inhabitants of modern Turkey, are largely the descendants of these Kızılbaş tribes. Living on the periphery of the Ottoman Empire, the Kızılbaş suffered continuing persecution from the Sunni Ottomans. Their long history of persecution and resistance reinforced the already secretive and esoteric nature of their religious belief and practice. While Safavid Shi’ism in Iran over time became increasingly shari’ah minded and ulema centered, the Kızılbaş tribes of Anatolia retained the mystical and anti-authoritarian perspective of tarikat Shi’ism including a distinct irreverence for “anything official, including all religious dogmas.”5 However, it would be a mistake to read this tendency as anti-nomianism. While it explicitly rejected and even ridiculed aspects of the shari’ah and the authority of the ulema, the Alevi tradition developed and maintained a deeply refined understanding of ethics (ahlak; Arabic, akhlaq) and etiquette (edep; Arabic, adab). The Alevi community, unlike other Anatolian Muslims, rejects the shari’ah as an essential aspect of piety. They neither keep the Ramadan fast, nor offer the five daily ritual prayers of salat, nor attend congregational Friday prayers in the mosque. Rather the Alevi community participates in a variety of other practices, most notably the ayin-i cem—a form of semah involving dance and the performance of devotional songs in Turkish called nefes. This rejection of shari’ah has led some of their detractors to question whether the Alevi community is actually Muslim. After all, there are many people—Muslim and non-Muslim alike—who consider shari’ah the most essential expression of Islamic piety and identity. Indeed many books on Islam begin with a discussion of “the five pillars of Islam”—the shahadah or “Confession of Faith” by which one becomes a Muslim, daily ritual prayer (salat), the fast of Ramadan, the giving of alms (zakat), and the pilgrimage to Mecca, or hajj. This perspective is highly misleading. There are many Muslims who neglect prayer and fasting, even though they believe these actions are required by shari’ah. Other Muslims have consciously adopted a more secular lifestyle, affirming an Islamic identity while rejecting the necessity of ritual observance. Some communities, such as the Alevis, deny the necessity of these practices on religious grounds, substituting their own vernacular rituals and traditions. For them the shari’ah is only an initial doorway into Islam which can be left behind once one has proceeded to deeper levels of religious understanding.6 Despite the importance of shari’ah within Islam, most Muslims do not see their religion in legalistic terms. There is a famous hadith in which the Prophet says, “The greatest in my community are the most excellent in ethics (ahlak).” Many Muslims have argued that the final goal of Islam is not simply to perform specific proper actions rooted in law, but rather to develop intrinsic virtues such as repentance (taubah), patience (sabr), and contentment (ridah). These virtues are part of an overarching notion of humanity (insaniyat, Turkish ınsanlık).7 After all most of the decisions that human beings have to make in their lives do not have specific legal answers. This is particularly true in times of crisis. Thus, Muslims look to the Prophet Muhammad not simply as a lawgiver, but more

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importantly as a moral exemplar. Throughout his life the Prophet was faced with difficult moral and ethical decisions. Muslims look to see how he behaved in the various aspects of his life—as a father, a husband, a political leader, a teacher— in order to learn the kind of man he was and gain insight into how they should lead their own lives. Furthermore it is not only the narrative of his life, but also the narratives of the lives of those who were touched by his presence and his example—his companions and his spiritual successors—which can provide this moral and ethical guidance. The Shi’i tradition pays particular attention to the Prophet’s family, especially Ali b. Abu Talib and the other Shi’i Imams; for Sufis it is the great pirs, who can trace their teachings and spiritual authority back to the Prophet through a chain of teachers. In fact, most Muslims believe we should not only follow the examples of such persons; we should also love them. It is often surprising to those who think of Islam as a religion of rules and laws to see how much emphasis the Islamic tradition gives to love (muhabbat, Turkish muhabbet or ishq). The Muslim God is not only a God of justice but also a God of love who loves human beings and calls on them to reciprocate that love. Narratives of love abound in Islam—the love between God and his Prophet, the love between the Prophet and his family (ahl al-bayt; Turkish ehl-i beyt), and the love between Sufi masters and their disciples. For many Muslims love for and allegiance to the Prophet, his family (ehl-i beyt) and the “Friends of God” (auliyah-i Allah; Turkish evliya-i Allah) is a crucial aspect of Islam and an essential part of the path that leads to the perfection of one’s humanity. Despite their devaluing of shari’ah, the Alevi tradition fully embraces this aspect of Islam. As the term “tarikat Shi’sm” implies the Alevi tradition shares important features with both Shi’i and Sufi Islam, each of which can be characterized by its emphasis on love and devotional allegiance both to the Prophet and to the ehl-i beyt and the evliya-i Allah respectively. This does not primarily mean simply imitating their actions in the context of shari’ah, but instead striving to transform one’s essential personality so as to emulate the virtuous character of theses paradigmatic human beings.

Devotional Allegiance in Shi’i Islam The Shi’i tradition is rooted in the belief in the necessity of devotional allegiance to the Prophet Muhammed and his family, the ehl-i beyt. As one important Pakistani Shici thinker explained it to me, both the Sunni and the Shica accept the dual authority of both the Prophet and the Qur’an. But whereas the Sunni accept Muhammad as the Prophet of God because the Qur’an identifies him as such, the Shica believe that the Qur’an is the Book of God because Muhammad says that it is; and he can never lie. Shici Islam thus gives primacy to personal allegiance and devotion to the Prophet Muhammad. This emphasis on personal allegiance to the Prophet Muhammad is the defining characteristic of Shi’i piety. Muhammad is the beloved of God (Habib Allah). Therefore, if one wishes to truly love God, one must also love the Prophet. Similarly one must demonstrate one’s love for the Prophet

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by expressing love and allegiance toward those whom he loved. This is particularly true of those closest to the Prophet in his own lifetime—his daughter Fatimah, his cousin and son-in-law Imam Ali, and his grandsons Hasan and Hüseyin.8 This emphasis on devotional allegiance has led to corollary emphasis on narrative within the Shi’i tradition. The important events in the lives of the ehl-i beyt (the family of the Prophet)—which include the naming of Ali as Mawla at Ghadir-i Khumm, at which time the Shica believe Ali was designated as Imam by the Prophet, the victory of the Muslims at Khaybar under the leadership of Ali, and the confrontation of Fatimah with Abu Bakr over the inheritance of the garden at Faydak—form an ultimate commentary upon the Qur’an. Most importantly they provide a universal model for virtuous human behavior. Central among such events is the martyrdom of Imam Hüseyin at Kerbala. At Kerbala the last remaining grandson of the Prophet was brutally killed by troops sent by Yazid b. Muawiyah, who illegitimately claimed to be the rightful Caliph of Islam. At Karbala, Imam Hüseyin, who as a child had climbed and played upon the back of his grandfather, the Prophet, was decapitated and his body trampled on the desert floor. For the Shica this is a moment which evokes both horror and grief. For them at Kerbala the community of Islam was fundamentally and irrevocably divided between those who accept the necessity of allegiance to the ehl-i-beyt and those who reject it. For the Shica these events carry with them a reality which penetrates and encompasses all of history. The Imams and their close companions are much more than ordinary people involved in political and religious struggles. They are models of human perfection, to be not only emulated as paradigms of human virtue but also venerated and loved. In fact it is in large part through loving encounters with the Imams that Shi’i Muslims hope to be transformed into human beings capable of manifesting similar virtues. The Alevi community shares this same understanding of devotional allegiance which characterizes the larger Shi’i community. It should, however, be pointed out that most contemporary Alevis do not identify themselves as Shi’a. This is, in large part, because they do not wish to be identified with either the shariah mindedness of the Shi’ism of Iraq and Iran, or the political Islamism associated with the Iranian Revolution. But there is another reason they distance themselves from the larger Twelver community. For the Alevis it is not only necessary to accept the spiritual authority (vilayet) of the Twelve Imams but also that of the Sufi pir Hacı Bektaş and his successors.9

Devotional Allegiance in the Sufi Tradition Along with its emphasis on the necessity of love for the Prophet and the ehl-i beyt, the Alevi tradition also maintains a corollary emphasis on devotional allegiance to the evliya-i Allah or Sufi “saints”10 especially those pirs descended from the spiritual lineage of Hacı Bektaş Veli. I use the term “Sufism” to refer to that entire complex of beliefs and practices which express devotional allegiance to the evliya-i Allah as

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a crucial expression of Islamic piety. The evliya constitute an invisible hierarchy which serves as the spiritual government of this world. They represent models of Islamic piety whose lives and practices are to be emulated and also persons of spiritual power to whom one can come for blessings, guidance and miraculous interventions. Furthermore, I understand followers of “Sufism” to include all those who believe in the evliya-i Allah, whether or not the persons holding that belief are actually involved in the disciplined practice of the master-disciple relationship (pirmurid, Turkish, pir-mürit.) I thus include within “Sufism” not only the disciplined activities of mystical practice that occur within a Sufi tarikat but also much of what is commonly referred to as popular Islam—pilgrimage to shrines, vernacular poetry, music, and, of course, hagiography. Throughout the Islamic world, Muslims encounter the evliya in a wide variety of ways. Some have contact with living Sufi pirs. Many more visit them by making pilgrimage to their tombs where the evliya remain spiritually available to their devotees. But perhaps the most common way in which the evliya are evoked and remembered is through oral and written narratives about their lives. People grow up hearing and remembering stories of the evliya–their miracles, their encounters with other people both Muslim and non-Muslim, their ethical teachings. Tazkiras, collections of such narratives, are especially popular. Fariduddin Attar, the author of the Conference of the Birds, is equally famous for a Persian tazkira collecting stories of important evliya such as Rabia of Basra, Mansur al-Hallaj, and Ibrahim ibn Adham. Stories of the evliya are a major form of literature in the Islamic world and a primary vehicle for the transmission of notions of ahlak and edep. Through these Sufi narratives the concept of devotional allegiance which is particularly strong in Shi’i Islam, where devotion and allegiance to the Prophet Muhammad and those persons considered his legitimate successors is an absolutely critical aspect of piety, finds a similar home within the Sunni tradition. Through the Sufi tradition devotion to the Prophet and his son-in-law Ali, who is frequently referred to as the “Ruler of the Friends,” or Shah-i Evliya, extends out to include devotion to the evliya-i Allah, who serve as the mirrors who reflect the light of God onto this world provide paradigmatic models deserving of both devotion and allegiance. The ultimate goal of the Sufi path is the creation of insan al-kamil, the perfected human being. Significantly, the fuel for this process is love. Love for one’s spiritual master or pir, which is manifested in devotion and obedience to him or her, and provides the impetus and mechanism by which one reaches to intimacy with God. This is a nearly universal theme within the Sufi path which traditionally holds that fana fi-pir (annihilation in the pir) leads inexorably to fana fi-rasul (annihilation in the Prophet) and ultimately to fana fi-Allah (annihilation in God). At the end of this process there should be nothing left within the perfected human being that is not fully congruent with the divine will. This is the interior state of Muhammad, Imam Ali, and the evliya-i Allah. Interestingly within the Turkish Sufi tradition the most common word for the evliya is in fact erenler, which literally means those who have reached or attained. The erenler are perfected human beings who have attained the status of insan al-kamil.

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The characteristics of that perfected human and the terminology used to describe him (or her) are remarkably similar across the breadth of the Sufi tradition. Virtues of humility, courage, forbearance, voluntary poverty, and hospitality, significant virtues associated with the Prophet Muhammad, are universally praised. They are seen as the essential personality characteristics of Muhammad, as well as of Imam Ali and the great evliya of the Sufi mystical tradition. It should be noted that these virtues are not matters of law, and thus not matters related to shari’ah, but rather to the interior journey or tarikat. Furthermore the interior mystical journey which leads to an intimate encounter with God and the creation of insan al-kamil is described in terms of transformation of character. The various “stations” (maqam, Turkish, makam) of the mystical path are designated in terms of human virtues such as repentance (taubah), patience (sabr), love (muhabbet), and trust (tawakkul). The interior world of the human being thus provides a bridge to the divine and mastering that interior world is essential to the mystical path. As Omid Safi has noted, the Sufi tradition is not only about “formal initiation into Sufi orders, or elaborate cosmological speculations about the reflection of the loftiest heavenly realities in the very soul of humanity”11; it is just as importantly about cultivating the interpersonal ethics of adab, “the compassionate, humane, selfless, generous and kind etiquette that has been a hallmark of refined manners in Muslim cultures.”12 While the Alevi tradition clearly affirms the devotional allegiance expressed in the Sufi traditions, it should be noted that contemporary Alevis are uncomfortable with identifying themselves as Sufis, just as they are with identifying as Shi’a. In contemporary Turkey, Sufism is often associated with shari’ah-minded Sunni orders like the Nakshbandis with whom Alevis feel little affinity. Furthermore, the Alevis have been among the strongest supporters of the secular Republic in Turkey and shared many of the criticisms of Sufi tarikats common among Turkish secularists. In today’s Turkey the word tarikat has become tainted for some people and is sometimes used as a synonym for a “cult.” Thus, they often refer to the Alevi “path” or “way” not with the Arabic synonym tariqat but rather the Turkish term yol.

The Imams and the Evliya as “Root Paradigms” For Shi’i and Sufi Muslims the ehl-i beyt and the evliya-i Allah provide what Victor Turner has called “root paradigms.” In defining his concept of a “root paradigm,” Turner says: By paradigm I do not mean a system of univocal concepts, logically arrayed. I do not mean either a stereotyped set of guidelines for ethical, aesthetic, or conventional action. A paradigm of this sort goes beyond the cognitive and even the moral to the existential domain; and in so doing becomes clothed with allusiveness, implications and metaphors–for the in the stress of action, firm definitional outlines become blurred by the encounter of emotionally charged

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wills. Paradigms of this type, cultural root paradigms, so to speak, reach down to irreducible life stances of individuals, passing beneath conscious prehension to a fiduciary hold on what they sense to be axiomatic values, matters literally of life and death.13

For Turner “root paradigms,” which are largely found within the context of religious symbolism, are a kind of “cultural DNA” that provides models for imitation which lead human beings to overcome the self-serving component of their natures and instead perform acts of altruism and self-sacrifice. He writes: Root paradigms are the cultural transliterations of genetic codes–they represent that in the human individual as a cultural entity which the DNA and RNA codes represent in him as a biological entity, the species life raised to the more complex and symbolic organizational level of culture. Furthermore, insofar as root paradigms are religious they entail some aspect of self-sacrifice as an evident sign of the ultimate predominance of group survival over individual survival.14

This concept of sacrifice extends beyond the boundaries of a specific group allegiance and extends to encompass all of humanity. Furthermore they provide models that speak not to the aspects of human behavior governed by structure and law but instead to the realm of anti-structure and communitas. Turner writes: I would expect a connection between root paradigms and the experience of “communitas,” an “essential we” relationship (to quote Buber) which is at the same time a generic human bond underlying or transcending all particular cultural definitions and normative orderings of social ties. The root paradigm . . . is probably concerned with fundamental assumptions underlying the human societal bond with pre-conditions of communitas. (italics mine)15

Interestingly Turner developed the concept of the “root paradigm” in 1974, the same year the Richard Dawkins coined the term meme in his book The Selfish Gene.16 While it has not gained the currently of meme, in my opinion the concept of the “root paradigm” is far richer than that of the meme and much more useful in terms of understanding human cultural practices. Whereas Dawkins presents memes as mere units of transmission that spread themselves from host to host, “root paradigms” are multivalent models of imitation which reorient the self so as to allow people to creatively encounter the world in changing historical and social circumstances. Encountered both in rituals and narratives “root paradigms,” rather than instilling specific behaviors in individuals, help them to creatively transform.

Perfecting Humanity in the Alevi Tradition Despite their often explicit rejection of a shared identity with either the Shi’i or Sufi Islam, their own particular worldview is firmly rooted in devotional allegiance

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to the ehl-i beyt and the erenler as “root paradigms.” Within the narratives of the Vilayetname we see the religious worldview of the Alevi tradition unfold— communicating exoteric understandings of ethics and virtue, while simultaneously affirming the ultimate necessity of an interior path that leads to an immediate and ineffable encounter with God. In the Alevi tradition both the Imams and the pirs are considered the epitome of humanity (ınsanlık). The cultivation of ınsanlık—to become truly human—is the highest goal to be sought within the Alevi tradition. In the entirety of Creation marifet (spiritual gnosis) can only be achieved by human beings. Among the most famous of all Alevi sayings is: Marifetsiz hayat, hayvan hayati—“a life without spiritual gnosis is an animal life.” For Alevis the spiritual quest is what defines the human being. It is not rooted in an attempt to escape the human condition, but is instead a quest to become truly human. As is the case in the larger Sufi tradition, narratives about the evliya-i Allah provide opportunities for teaching and learning about human virtue—both as part of the mystical interior spiritual path and simultaneously as a way of encouraging better and more humane behavior in an “exoteric” sense. Such narratives “teach humanity” by providing paradigmatic human models that inspire both devotion and imitation. This is expressed in the wonderful Alevi saying, “My qiblah is a Man,” a saying which succinctly points to the importance of devotional allegiance to Imams and the evliya as central to the spiritual path. The Vilayetname affirms and explains this religious worldview. Like the opening narrative of Buyruk, another important primary source of the Alevi tradition, which describes the Prophet’s miraç in order to make clear the mystical connection between Ali, Muhammad and God, the Vilyaetname affirms the necessity of integrating the exoteric teachings of the Prophet with the esoteric knowledge of Ali.17 The opening chapters of the Vilayetname go to great pains to place Hacı Bektaş in the lineage of Imam Ali Riza and demonstrate his intimate connections with both the Prophet Muhammad and Imam Ali. The later narratives of the Vilayetname place Hacı Bektaş and his disciples into an ongoing tradition of pir-mürit which consistently affirms the Alevi-Bektaşi path as a process for perfecting humanity.

The Narrative of Güvenç Abdal 18 Perhaps no narrative in the Vilayetname does this so overtly (or effectively) as the story of Güvenç Abdal. Güvenç Abdal is one of the best known of Hacı Bektaş’s mürits (disciples). His tomb occupies a prominent place in a room within the tomb complex of Hacı Bektaş himself. He provides a model of the perfect mürit for those considering the mystical path. As the story is recounted in the Vilayetname, Güvenç Abdal was a just (adil) young dervish and a disciple of the Hünkar (“the Monarch,” of the titles of Hacı Bektaş). One day he asked Hacı Bektaş to answer a series of questions: Who is the sheikh? Who is the mürit? Who is the muhib? Who is the aşık? Rather than answer these questions directly Hacı Bektaş instead told Güvenç Abdal that a gold

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merchant (sarraf) had made an offering (nezr) of a thousand gold pieces and that he needed him to go and get it. Without pausing to even ask who this sarraf was or what city he lived in Güvenç Abdal kissed the hand of the Hünkar (Monarch), Hacı Bektaş, and headed out on the road. He walked and walked until finally he came to a huge city larger than any he had ever seen before. Upon asking one of its inhabitants, he learned that he was in the city of Delhi in Hindustan and he was amazed that he had traveled so far so quickly. He asked himself, “Where is Rum (literally Rome, meaning Anatolia)? Where is Hindustan?” Wandering through the streets he came upon a market and there spied a sarraf (gold merchant). As soon as the sarraf saw him he called Güvenç Abdal over to him and then asked where he had come from. When Güvenç Abdal revealed that he was from Rum he asked him who he served. He replied that he was servant of Hacı Bektaş and that three days earlier his sheikh had sent him to find a sarraf who had a made a vow (nezr) of one thousand gold pieces and return with them to him. The sarraf brought him to his house as a guest and fed him for three days. Then he revealed that he was the sarraf who had made the vow. He explained how one day he had been caught in a storm on the Indian Ocean and just as his ship was about to sink he called upon the erenler to save him and offered a thousand gold pieces if he was saved. The Hünkar appeared, took the boat in his hand and brought it safely to shore. The sarraf asked him his name and Hacı Bektaş told him who he was and that he lived in Rum. The money lender asked how he could get the money he vowed to him in Rum and Hacı Bektaş said he would dispatch someone to receive it. Hacı Bektaş then described his disciple Güvenç Abdal to the sarraf. When the sarraf eventually recognized Güvenç Abdal in the market, he invited him to his house. The merchant gave Güvenç Abdal the thousand gold pieces he had vowed in the shipwreck and then gave him another thousand with instructions to disperse it to those who were in service to Hacı Bektaş. He then gave him another thousand for himself. Placing the three thousand pieces in his purse, Güvenç Abdal again set out on the road. While still in the city he came upon a house where he saw through a window a beautiful girl whose face shone like the sun. As soon as he saw her he fell madly in love with her (aşık oldu). Güvenç Abdal lost his patience and resolve. His reason abandoned him. For three days and nights he sat transfixed at her window. The girl seeing the state of the young dervish—and fearing that people might interpret it as something inappropriate—sent one of her servants to tell him to go away. The girl was the daughter of a merchant who was away on business. Her servant informed Güvenç Abdal that his desire for the girl was impossible and that he could not win her love. She then informed the dervish that the girl was the daughter of a rich merchant and if his servants discovered him they would bring great trouble upon him. The servant also told him that if he really wished to win the hand of a girl such as her he would surely need a lot of gold. At this point the dervish opened his purse and showed the servant the three thousand pieces of gold. The servant then returned to the girl and told her that the apparently poor dervish was actually

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in possession of three thousand gold pieces. They became greedy for the gold and invited Güvenç Abdal inside where he took out the purse and placed it in front of his intended beloved. But then while Güvenç Abdal was sitting at the girl’s feet and was about to go down the “road of the Şeytan (Satan),” the wall miraculously opened up and a hand emerged. This hand tapped Güvenç on his chest, and thrust him to the ground rendering him unconscious. When the girl saw this she rose up. When Güvenç Abdal regained consciousness she asked him what was going on. He explained that that this had all occurred because of the power (vilayet) of his sheikh, Hacı Bektaş, who had intervened to keep him from committing an evil deed. Then he explained the whole story—how he had left Rum and come to India and all the events that had led up to that moment. The girl having seen this miracle herself became a lover (aşık) of Hacı Bektaş and longed to visit him. They took the three thousand gold pieces and headed off together on the road. They walked until the middle of the night and then lay down in a deserted place. When they woke in the morning they discovered that they were no longer in the place where they had fallen asleep. They were now in a thorny place on the road which ran by the hill known as “Mt. Arafat” in Suluca Karahöyük, Hacı Bektaş’s hometown. They rose up and set out on their way. The Hünkar’s deputies (halifes) came out to meet them and brought them to Hacı Bektaş. Güvenç Abdal kissed Hacı Bektaş’s hands and pressed his face against his feet and explained to him all that had happened to him. At this point the Hünkar asked him if he understood the hidden meanings of all of these events. He reminded him of his initial questions—Who is the sheikh? Who is the mürit? Who is the muhip? Who is the aşık? Hacı Bektaş Haci explained to Güvenç Abdal that it was he who was the mürit as he had willingly gone out on the road without asking where he would go or what he would do. The sarraf was the muhip, because as he was about to be destroyed in the shipwreck he called up on the sheikh and when Güvenç Abdal came to him he gave what he had vowed without question. Hacı Bektaş, of course, was the sheikh who easily transported Güvenç Abdal from here to there and back again and saved him from committing sins. And the girl was the one who functioned as an ashik, a lover, as she refused to be satisfied until she journeyed to meet him. And then Hacı Bektaş married the girl and Güvenç Abdal to each other and they received their hearts’ desires.

Interpreting the Text The story of Güvenç Abdal is a truly remarkable narrative capable of multiple interpretations. While on the surface it might appear a simple folktale, it is clearly a Muslim narrative that resonates with the larger Sufi hagiographical tradition. It is also clear that it is a teaching tool designed to communicate important information about the nature of the Alevi-Bektaşi mystical path. One of the hallmarks of the Alevi-Bektaşi tradition is the way that it uses folkloric themes in order to communicate its messages. This is of course not unique to the

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Alevi-Bektaşi tradition. This use of folkloric themes lies at the heart of Mevlana’s Mesnevi, the Central Asian Rashahat, and even Attar’s Conference of the Birds with which the Vilayetname shares many important characteristics. The heart of the narrative is an affirmation of pir-mürit. Güvenç Abdal is sent on a journey in order to answer to his questions: Who is the sheikh? Who is the mürit? Who is the aşık? Who is the muhip? These are all terms dealing with relationships on the mystical path. Interestingly in a text which is originally in Turkish—and is central to a tradition whose rituals are performed in Turkish—these are all terms that come from the Arabic of the Qur’an and that are used universally across the linguistic diversity of the Islamicate world. Both muhip and aşık are tied to Arabic words for love—muhabbat and ishq. And mürit has connotations of intention or desire, from the Arabic word irada. As a mürit of his sheikh Güvenç Abdal wants to know the meaning of these different gradations of lover, gradations which mirror terms like Muslim, mumin, and muhsin in exoteric Islam. In fact this narrative mirrors an important and universally accepted hadith, the so-called hadith of Jibra’il. In this hadith, a stranger asks the Prophet to define three different terms used in the Qur’an to describe the community of Muhammad’s followers. He first asks the Prophet, “What is faith (iman)?” The Prophet answers that “faith consists of belief in God, His angels, the meeting with Him, his Apostles and the resurrection.” He then asks, “What is Islam?” The Prophet answers that it “consists of the service of God, the refusal to associate with Him, prayer, fasting alms-giving and fasting during the month of Ramadan.” He then asks him about the meaning of ihsan, and the Prophet answers that it is “to serve God as though you could see him. Even though you cannot see him he can see you.” The stranger then asks another question about the coming Day of Judgment and then vanishes. Afterward the Prophet reveals that the stranger was in fact the angel Jibra’il.19 Just as Jibra’il asks the Prophet to give the meaning of three terms crucial to understanding the Quran’ic designations for believers—mumin, Muslim, and muhsin, Güvenç Abdal asks the meaning of three terms regularly used to describe people on the interior path in the Bektaşi tradition. However, these are terms they cannot be fully understood by means of a didactic explanation. Love—either romantic love or mystical love—is its own proof. As these are terms which have to do with the experience of love, they can only be fully understood through actual experience. Thus the answer to his question is not provided didactically but rather existentially. In an inversion of Attar’s famous story of sheikh San’an in The Conference of the Birds, in which a famous shaikh travels to Rum and learns hard truths by falling madly in love with a Christian girl, Güvenç Abdal leaves Rum to travel east to existentially learn the mysteries of love and the path. Interestingly he goes on a mission in search of gold—something not only material but something symbolic of materialism itself. In the end, however, that search for gold is transformed by the sheikh into a search for spiritual knowledge. Güvenç Abdal’s journey initiates a liminal period in which the young dervish, separated from his home and lacking structural identity, encounters a series of challenges. In this liminal condition, basic categories of everyday existence are called into question. Time and space are conflated. He is lost “betwixt and

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between.” He asks in astonishment, “Where is Rum?” and “Where is Hindustan?” How did he get there in a mere three days? There are no rational answers to these questions. He must seek his answers in experience itself. All of this, of course, is the result of the miraculous intervention (keramet) of the pir. Hacı Bektaş arranges the miraculous journeys of Güvenç Abdal to Hindustan as well as his equally miraculous return along with his future bride. Hacı Bektaş is able to see into the unseen. He hears the cry for help of the sarraf in the distance and spiritually crosses time and space to save him from the shipwreck (a common trope in Sufi hagiography). He is similarly aware of the interior state of his disciple, although separated from him by thousands of miles. He is able to protect him even over long distances reaching out to prevent him from sinning. He transforms the young dervish’s lustful desire for the girl and her greedy desire for gold into pure and fruitful spiritual desires—moving them from the realm of animals (hayvanlar) and the animal soul (nefs) into the realm of humanity. This belief in the ability of the evliya to work miracles places this narrative clearly within the thematic world of earlier Islamic mystical hagiography. Resonances with Attar appear throughout the story. In The Conference of the Birds Sheikh San’an travels to Rum, where he falls under the spell of the beauty of a Christian girl until he is ultimately saved by the intercession of the Prophet, who intervenes because of the prayers of his mürits. In this story it is the mürit who is similarly smitten and is saved by the direct and miraculous intercession of his sheikh. In both stories the girl is transformed and drawn to a true spiritual path, but unlike in Attar’s story where the girl dies, she is instead united in marriage with Güvenç Abdal. But in both stories the way to higher truth is found through engagement in the material world. As in the concept associated with the wahdat al-wujud tradition of Ibn Arabi, the “allegorical” romantic love and desire become the bridge to “the real” spiritual love and annihilation.20 This aspect of the narrative is particularly important from the perspective of the Alevi-Bektaşi worldview. The Alevi worldview rejects the notion that there is a clear distinction between this world and the next—between dünya and ahiret. Its radical doctrine of tevhit does not allow for a clear distinction between the spiritual and the material. The Day of Judgment (kıyamet) is not some distant event to be awaited. Rather it is occurring at every moment, because every moment contains eternity. Those who live the lives of animals (hayvan) are already in hell whether they know it or not. Those who are truly human (insan) and manifest human virtues are already in paradise (cennet). Thus the material world is not to be escaped but rather transformed into the spiritual. One must see the hidden (batıni) realm behind the zahiri realm of appearance. The pir facilitates that transformation, conquering the nefs through love and nurturing insanlik (humanity). Thus the narrative teaches that one’s relationship to one’s pir is crucial to one’s spiritual path. We learn that the series of questions at the heart of the narrative are about the pir and one’s possible relationships to him: Who is the sheikh? Who is the mürit? Who is the muhip? Who is the asik? The sheikh is the one who can work miracles. He is also the (friend) dost and the master (mevla) of his mürits. He intercedes on the behalf of his disciple, Güvenç Abdal, protecting him from both physical and

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spiritual dangers. He takes the desire of his mürit for the girl and transforms it into something spiritual. And who is the mürit? The mürit is one who behaves with complete obedience, like Güvenç Abdal. As soon as he is asked to do something by his pir, he does so without question. This is a universal theme in the Sufi traditions that the mürit should present oneself to the pir like “a corpse prepared for burial.” This resonates with the story in the Qur’an of Musa and Hızır where Hızır, the man of tarikat, who has spiritual knowledge (ilim ladunni), tells Musa, the man of shari’ah, that he will be unable to follow him because he will not be able to keep from asking questions. Only love can make one act without question in obedience to one’s beloved. The mürit acts out of love for the pir and equally importantly the pir acts out of love for the mürit. (Like Ali and Muhammad in the story of Ghadir Humm, that is retold in Buyruk, each is in some sense both master and friend to the other.) While we should all aspire to be mürits, the reality is not all of us can achieve this. The sarraf—the gold merchant—is clearly a person of this world—the world of business, of buying and selling. Unlike the mürit he is not living in constant remembrance of the sheikh. But when his life is endangered, he calls out to the erenler and offers a nezr, an offering. He too is a lover because he called out when he was in trouble and the sheikh helped him. The pir saves him and goes on to use him in his plan to teach his disciple. Although not a mürit he is a person of high ethical character. When Güvenç Abdal comes to him, as a true muhip he shows him kindness and hospitality. He proves himself trustworthy, by not hesitating to make good on the promise he has made to the Hünkar. He also shows himself to be generous, giving even more than he has been asked. And the girl is the aşık. She too comes from the world of buying and selling, as her father is a merchant. She is also a person ruled by appearances, initially rejecting Güvenç Abdal because he appears as a poor dervish and only accepting him when she discovers his material wealth which she initially greedily desires. But she too becomes a true aşık when she experiences the vilayet of Hacı Bektaş. She believes in him and is filled with desire to see him. In his role as a sheikh, Hacı Bektaş unites them all into a single interrelated mystical community where each plays a part in leading the others to become the best and most virtuous human beings they can be. In the mystical worldview of the Vilayetname not everyone can be a disciple (mürit) or a deputy (halife) of the sheikh. There are those who like the sarraf will call out for help (medet) and not be disappointed. And there are those who seem to be outside of the community entirely, like the girl, but when they learn of the sheikh will be filled with desire for him and seek him out. And he will arrange for them to meet. All of these people are transformed in some way or another by the sheikh. All of them as a result become more virtuous and more human.

Conclusion The story of Güvenç Abdal demonstrates how the Alevi tradition effectively unites the worldviews of Shi’i and Sufi Islam. It demonstrates how Hacı Bektaş, who is

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both the repository of the authority of the Twelfth Imam and the spiritual ruler (Hünkar) of the world, serves as a source of help (medet) and guidance for those who love him no matter what their station. It affirms the centrality of the pir in the transformation of believers, not only those who are close disciples (mürits) like Güvenç Abdal, but also those who love him but are more distant from him—the aşıks and muhips. He not only provides specific guidance to those on the interior path, like Güvenç Abdal, but also helps to transforms those who love him in a less disciplined way, like the goldsmith and the girl, into more virtuous and ethical human beings. In so doing it shows how the Alevi tradition, which explicitly rejects aspects of shari’ah, nevertheless affirms crucial Islamic notions of love, devotion, and virtue which provide paradigmatic models not only for progress on the mystical path but for social and ethical behavior in the communal sphere as well. In so doing it demonstrates the crucial role of love and devotional allegiance to holy persons within the Islamic tradition.

Chapter 8 A Global Intercessor: Triumphalism and Reconciliation in the Services of St. John Maximovich Nicholas Denysenko

San Francisco is a holy city for many: a center for pilgrims who love culture, art, history, and food. It is also the unlikely home for a modern saint of the Russian Orthodox Church, St. John Maximovich of Shanghai and San Francisco. St. John was a bishop of the Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia (ROCOR) who guided Russian Orthodox believers in Shanghai, Tubabao, and Western Europe. He was appointed bishop of San Francisco in 1962 and oversaw the construction of Holy Virgin Cathedral on Geary Boulevard until his death in 1966. He was buried in a crypt underneath the cathedral, and the cathedral clergy examined his relics in 1993 to discover that they were incorrupt.1 ROCOR glorified St. John as a saint in 1994, and the cathedral has become a center for international pilgrims who come to venerate St. John in his shrine. This chapter will analyze the hagiographical narrative of St. John Maximovich as it is communicated by the liturgical services celebrated in his memory. My analysis explores the hymnography of the services as an expression of every aspect of St. John’s life. I also discuss the ritual environment of his commemoration, namely, the shrine with his relics, and the relationship between the local and universal observances of his feast.  My examination of the textual and ritual elements of St.  John’s liturgical offices will emphasize the contours of two prevalent themes of his narrative: the triumph of Orthodoxy over its opponents and reconciliation.

A Brief Biographical Sketch A growing body of literature narrates the story of St. John’s life.2 The chief written sources narrating the story of St.  John’s life have been edited by Father Peter Perekrestov of Holy Virgin Cathedral in San Francisco. A lengthy hagiographical narrative is in Russian and contains a fairly detailed biography, along with citations of and contributions from numerous people who knew him, including clergy and laity from all over the world. The Russian narrative contains selections from St. John’s homilies, speeches, a variety of directives, and reports on the inspection of his relics and the written report offered to ROCOR’s Holy Synod. A shorter

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version of this vita has been translated into English. There are also numerous videos chronicling his life, including a recent video available for viewing on YouTube titled “The Glorification of St. John Maximovitch (1994),” produced by the Western American diocese of ROCOR and Miracleworks Productions.3 St. John Maximovich was ordained a bishop in 1934 and appointed bishop of Shanghai in 1935.4 He led 5,000 of his flock into Tubabao in the Philippines in 1949.5 His episcopal tenure shifted when ROCOR appointed him to be archbishop of the Western European Eparchy in 1950.6 In 1962, ROCOR’s synod sent him to Holy Virgin Cathedral in San Francisco to oversee the construction of the new cathedral.7 His appointment occurred during a tense period in the community’s history, as internal divisions concerning the use of funds for building the cathedral were compromising the construction process. St. John endured the strife and the exterior of the cathedral was completed in 1964. The first liturgy celebrated in the cathedral occurred on the Sunday of Orthodoxy in 1965. St. John died in 1966 while on a pastoral visit to Seattle. He was buried in the cathedral crypt. In September of 1993, in preparation for the glorification of St. John, three bishops and several clergy examined St. John’s relics, which were incorrupt. ROCOR’s synod of bishops celebrated the glorification of St.  John on June 19, 1994. The crypt which held his relics became the Church of the Finding of St. John’s relics, and a shrine was constructed to house his relics in the cathedral.

The Service to St. John: Hagiographical Categories8 In this section, I will draw from excerpts from the liturgical services to St. John to illuminate the salient hagiographical themes comprising his narrative. The process of composing a service for a Byzantine feast or saint is complex: one draws from the historical narratives and essentially translates them into dozens of poems, carefully organized to fulfill the requirements of Byzantine liturgy.9 Antonia Giannouli notes the reciprocity between the hagiographical and hymnographic genres: it is possible that hagiography is occasionally inspired by hymnography.10 For the services of St.  John Maximovich, the hymnography draws from the hagiographical narrative. Hagiographical hymnography communicates a sketch of the commemorated figure’s vita. Giannouli refers to the example of the medieval hymnographer Gabriel, whose kontakion on St. Symeon, the “Holy Fool,” was so developed that it was essentially a vita in the form of a hymn.11 The poetry is multifaceted: it is historical, hortatory, tropological, and doxological. Thus, the service to St. John presents central elements from his hagiographical account, but they are not merely informational: their primary purpose is to inspire and edify the faithful in such a way that they will conduct their lives to glorify God in the company of the saints.12 It is essential to parse out hagiographical themes by attending to the larger ritual context of the liturgy. In the case of St.  John Maximovich, the ideal celebration of his service would occur in Holy Virgin Cathedral, at his shrine or perhaps with his relics in the midst of the assembly. Participants would not only

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learn from the text, but they would hear it sung (and, ideally, sing it themselves), along with lessons from Scripture, refrains, incense, the veneration of his relics and icon (entailing kissing the glass separating a participant from St.  John’s body), and receiving anointing from the oil burning in the lamps near his tomb. A participant in the services of St.  John who experiences them at Holy Virgin Cathedral has a primary experience of sanctoral commemoration. Participation in the community event of remembering the saint initiates one into the broader world of the saint’s contribution: teachings, ascetical practices, and the discourse the saint engaged. As we examine the themes and features of sanctity expressed by the services to St. John, we should bear in mind that the liturgical participant enters into the broader world connected to the life of the commemorated saint. In the case of St. John, the liturgical participant enters into the world of an émigré bishop who protected his flock from multiple persecutions, presided over a flock that constituted a Christian minority in Western Europe, and espoused a vision of Russian Orthodoxy that vehemently denounced Bolshevik atheism while simultaneously lamenting the tepid participation in church life of émigré Russian Orthodox people.

Hagiographical Themes in Hymnography: Antecedents The service to St.  John communicates his hagiographical narrative. From the outset, it is important to note that one can identify many of the hagiographical categories attributed to St.  John in services composed to other saints. A good example is the second Sunday of Lent, when the Orthodox Church commemorates St.  Gregory Palamas. Patriarch Philotheos of Constantinople composed the hymns for this office in 1368, the same year in which the commemoration of St.  Gregory Palamas was appointed to the second Sunday of Lent.13 For the purposes of this chapter, the service to St. Gregory Palamas functions as a useful antecedent for the service to St. John Maximovich. This example permits us to see how hymnography communicates a hagiographical narrative: the hymns define the saint by remembering his achievements and contributions. In the case of St.  Gregory Palamas, his contributions were not one dimensional. His primary gift was teaching theology, but the hymns also honor his asceticism and episcopal leadership. In St. Gregory Palamas, one finds multiple hagiographical types. I have used his service as a comparator for St. John Maximovich because the hymns share two features in common: multiple hagiographical categories and triumphalism in refuting heresies. St. John’s service is not patterned after St. Gregory Palamas’ per se, but it shares these similarities. We will see that the triumphalism in the service to Gregory Palamas is a hagiographical motif designed to vindicate both an Eastern theological teaching questioned by Roman Catholics and the superiority of the Eastern Church over the Latin one. The expressional style of triumphalism is common to the two saints, while the specific teachings and opponents differ. The hymns praise St. Gregory Palamas for his theological excellence: the first sticheron at vespers on “Lord, I have Cried” refers to Palamas as “the trumpet of

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theology, the herald of the fire of grace, the honored vessel of the Spirit, and the unshaken pillar of the church,” among other attributes.14 The hymns of this service emphasize Palamas’ most salient feature: he was a graceful teacher of the church. The hymnographer situates Palamas in the company of his antecedents who were also brilliant teachers. For example, one of the troparia chanted on Ode 1 of the canon to St. Gregory Palamas compares him with St. Gregory Nazianzus.15 The church asks him to intercede on their behalf, which illuminates his exercise of the office of bishop of Thessalonica, a memory expressed powerfully by the following troparion from the canon appointed for matins16: O blessed saint, by the grace of God thou hast become the great glory and strong support of the Orthodox, a good shepherd, a second Gregory the Theologian, and the ever-watchful guardian of thy flock.

This troparion affirms St. Gregory Palamas’s initiation into the holy community of theologians while also praising his tenure as bishop of Thessalonica. Palamas’s saintly attributes include his asceticism, as he is “the chief adornment of the monastic life” (third sticheron on “Lord, I have Cried”), the “glory of monks” (Troparion), and one who “put to death every lust of the flesh that is condemned to perish” while bringing his soul to life “through asceticism.”17 The service also proclaims St. Gregory Palamas’s contribution to Orthodoxy’s victory over heresy. The heresy is the teaching that one cannot participate in the divine life of God because humans cannot approach God’s incomprehensible nature, which one cannot know. St.  Gregory Palamas taught that humans can partake of the energies of God, distinguished from divine essence, and this participation enables Christians to grow in theosis, the process of becoming truly human, which is to be like God.18 The hymns of the service remember Gregory’s victory over the heresy of his time and name the heretic whom he defeated. The reference to heresy is implicit in the initial hymns of vespers, when the second sticheron refers to Palamas as “the fervent protector of the faith,”19 but becomes more explicit in the hymns of the Canon at matins. For example, the first and second troparia on Ode 3 state20: We reject every false intention of the heretics, and we put them all to flight with thy holy writings, o Gregory. O blessed of God, thou hast refuted the foolish wisdom of the heretics. He who is himself the true wisdom came to dwell in thy heart, and with his aid triumphantly though hast broken their rebellious pride.

The explicit language of the hymns’ condemnation of heresy reaches its pinnacle by naming the primary heretic, Barlaam: “though hast broken in pieces the sword and the bow of those who believe falsely, o holy hierarch, and thou hast shattered the arrogance of Barlaam and all the power of the heretics, as a great rock shatters a spider’s web.”21 The relationship between implication and explication in the hymn’s proclamation of victory is significant because of the ritual element of singing. Throughout the office, the community celebrates the defeat of heretics in general;

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by Odes 6 and 7 of the canon, the church condemns Barlaam’s heresy. Thus, the hymnography communicates a narrative that joins the temporal church with the heavenly one. Together, they proclaim their triumph over heresies, especially the heresy that denied Christian participation in the divine life of God attributed to Barlaam. The triumphalism of the hymns celebrates the unique contributions of Palamas’s teaching which refutes heresy. Secondarily, by singing these hymns, the church also espouses the superiority of Orthodoxy over the Roman Church.22 Because this expression of triumph occurs in a ritual setting, today’s church essentially condemns the heresy promoted by Barlaam. The ritual context and proclamations of the service to Gregory Palamas form and inform the participant, who joins the community in proclaiming the triumph of Orthodoxy over the heresy of Barlaam and the error of the Latin Church. In assessing the polemical, triumphant language of the service, one might question its impact on ecumenical dialogue. It is essential to note a second comparator, namely the service to the Royal Holy Martyrs celebrated on January 25 and July 4. This service honors the martyrs who were murdered by the Bolsheviks in 1918, especially Tsar Nicholas II and other members of the royal family. ROCOR took the initiative for the glorification of the royal family by glorifying them in 1981 and composing the service in their honor.23 The Moscow Patriarchate glorified them in 2000, but categorized them as passion-bearers.24 Nevertheless, the decision of the Moscow Patriarchate to glorify the royal family contributed to the mending of painful divisions between ROCOR and the Church in Russia, a process that was completed in 2007 when the two churches reestablished Eucharistic communion. The service of the Royal Holy Martyrs is important because it is the immediate antecedent to the glorification of St.  John. The glorification of the Royal New Martyrs communicates the element of Soviet persecution of the church that one will also find in the service to St. John. For example, the first sticheron at vespers refers to the departure of “Holy Rus” from its creator and God.25 The second sticheron refers to the people who “forgot the word of God,” and asks the Lord to establish the great passion-bearer and new martyr Tsar as an intercessor for the restoration of the throne of Orthodox emperors. The service emphasizes Tsar Nicholas’ role as the intercessor who is to pray for contemporary Russia. The service’s hymnography communicates a thematic pattern: Tsar Nicholas and the other members of the royal family defended the Orthodox faith while the Russian nation abandoned it. In death, the Tsar becomes the intercessor for Russia and her defender against a regime hostile to Orthodoxy. The second sticheron on the aposticha expresses this sentiment by identifying Tsar Nicholas with the angels who intercede before the throne of God. The hymn petitions the Royal Martyr Tsar Nicholas to “pray for the salvation of the Russian nation from the cold hatred of the godless.” ROCOR’s glorification of the Royal Holy Martyrs toward the end of the Cold War establishes a thematic connection between the intercessory work of the martyrs in the present and the triumphant victory which will be proclaimed in the glorification of St. John. The murder of Tsar Nicholas established him as

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an angelic intercessor for Russia before God’s holy throne. He prays for Russia’s deliverance from those who oppose God and revolted against the monarchy.26 Lament and petition for restoration mark the service to the Royal Holy Martyrs, which sets the stage for the triumphalism and reconciliation expressed in the service to St. John. The Service to St. John Maximovich The service to St. John attributes multiple hagiographical categories to him, exuding many familiar marks of holiness exemplified in the Eastern communion of saints. As we saw with the example of St. Gregory Palamas earlier, it is not unusual for a saint to be a bishop, ascetic, and brilliant theologian all at once. St. John’s hymnography expresses this type of multidimensional hagiography; the hymns exalt him for his ascetical virtues, his compassionate episcopal ministry, his defense of Orthodoxy, and his wonderworking, especially in physical and spiritual healing. The most salient aspects of his narrative in the services are triumphalism and reconciliation. Asceticism St. John was an exemplary ascetic, as expressed by a sticheron from “Lord, I have Cried”: “How can we not marvel at thy sleepless vigilance, and how can we not hymn thine ascetic life?”27 His life evokes the legacy of the great ascetics of the Egyptian and Palestinian deserts, an image of St. John presented by the sessional hymn at the second chanting of the Psalter: “With faith and love do we all honor thy memory today, O heavenly man and earthy-angel; for thou wast a true desertdweller amid this greatly turbulent world.”28 The hymns proclaim elements from the hagiographical narrative that testify to St. John’s austerity.29 Episcopal Ministry The service depicts St. John as a model bishop who consistently cared for his flock in his many assignments. The hymns from the service honor St. John’s labors in Shanghai and Western Europe, as expressed by his troparion (the chief hymn of his feast): “Lo, thy care for thy flock in its sojourn prefigured the supplications which thou dost ever offer up for the whole world.”30 The local quality of his sainthood is amplified in kontakion no. 8 of the Akathist Hymn: “Here wast thou called to suffer persecution and, by thy patience, righteousness and instruction, to guide the flock, and didst erect the church of the Mother of God, the Joy of All Who Sorrow.”31 These hymns celebrate St. John’s pastoral labors and offer a snapshot into his own sufferings. For example, the kontakion refers to St. John’s role in constructing the cathedral on Geary Boulevard in San Francisco. The vita elaborates how people in the community vilified St. John for the arguments over finances that had help up the construction process. When asked who was to blame for the internal parish strife, St. John responded, “the devil.”32 His antagonists admitted in letters written to ROCOR’s synod that St. John always maintained peace with his opponents.33

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St. John as a Wonderworker and Healer St. John’s vita contains dozens of testimonies to his performance of wonderworking healings. Several of the hymns refer to the unmercenaries praising St. John and celebrate the eternal quality of his healing ministry, as we see on the second Troparion on Ode 5 of the canon chanted at matins: “The gift of healing was given thee even when thou wast a priest, and thou didst increase it in the days of thine episcopate; and thou dost perfect it in the life which is eternal.”34 St. John’s Place in the Communion of Saints The service depicts St. John as both a local and universal saint, as the doxastikon on Lord, I Have Cried refers to him as “the luminary of the Russian diaspora, the teacher of diverse nations.”35 The local quality of his sainthood is amplified in kontakion no. 8 of the Akathist Hymn: “Here wast thou called to suffer persecution and, by thy patience, righteousness and instruction, to guide the flock, and didst erect the church of the Mother of God, the Joy of All Who Sorrow.”36 Among the most powerful statements appearing in the service to St. John are two hymns that establish his legitimacy in the communion of saints, whose sanctity is equal to models who blazed trails of holiness in the past. First, the Ikos at the Canon (at matins) envisions a cosmic celebration of St. John’s life and ongoing advocacy for the church; The heavens rejoice with us now, and the choirs of the saints receive a new and all-glorious adornment. The apostles greet a universal preacher; the ancient martyrs praise one who wondrously glorified their memory; holy hierarchs converse with their peer in eloquence and wisdom; the venerable marvel at a vigilant ascetic; holy kings honor an advocate for the restoration of Orthodox kingship; and the unmercenaries share their incorrupt and unapportioned reward with an unmercenary healer. As all-glorious as thy ministry was, o father John, so great was the multitude of wreaths fashioned for thee. Wherefore, with the choirs of the saints pray to Christ God in behalf of us who fall down before thy precious relics, that our souls may be saved in peace.37

Another example of St. John as a legitimate participant in the communion of saints comes from the Akathist Hymn composed in his honor, particularly Ikos 7: We see thee as a new chosen one of God, who wast manifest in the latter times as one of the holy hierarchs of Gaul, exhorting thy flock to preserve the same Orthodox faith that they confessed, and astonishing the peoples of the West by this holy life. . . . Rejoice, thou who wast a new Martin by the miracles and ascetic feats. Rejoice, thou who wast a new Germanus by thy confession of the Orthodox faith. Rejoice, thou who wast a new Hilary by thy divine theology. Rejoice, thou who wast a new Gregory by thy love and glorification of God’s saints. Rejoice, thou who wast a new Faustus by thy monastic fervor. Rejoice, thou who wast a new Caesarius by thy steadfast love for the canons of the Church of God.38

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The service to St. John Maximovich depicts him as a modern model of episcopal excellence, a desert ascetic who made his dwelling in the city, and a marvelous wonderworker whose healings occurred both before and after his death. The hymns communicate the hagiographical vita, which commemorates St. John as a holy figure who embodied tradition, manifesting the sanctity of the communion of saints in his time through his labors. Especially notable in this final example is the list of saints St. John exemplified: the hymn deliberately pairs St. John with Western saints to honor his past service in Western Europe, an implicit reference to his ministry as one who sought to reconcile divisions, including the ancient fissures between Western and Eastern Christians. St.  John embraced multiple types of sanctity, including the fool for Christ.  On multiple occasions, people commented on his aloof manner and haphazard dress, a feature which clashes with the triumphalism that permeates his life. The service refers to St.  John’s eccentricity, but essentially forms the liturgical participant to encounter a person whose holiness was threaded throughout all of his activities and encounters.39 The remembrance of St.  John as a multidimensional holy figure of the past sets the stage for invoking him to act on behalf of those who petition him for a variety of purposes in the present and future. In other words, the participant can be confident to pray to St. John for the healing of diseases, the defeat of an antagonist, or the reconciliation of a divided community, since St. John has performed these acts of advocacy in the past. Triumphalism and reconciliation are the two most prevalent aspects of St. John’s service, and in the next section, I will develop the place of these themes in his life and discuss the diverse ways one might interpret them today through the lens of ritual studies.

Triumphalism in the Services of St. John Maximovich The service to St. John depicts him as a defender of Orthodoxy, which has multiple meanings. For example, St. John promoted strict observance of the requirements of the Typikon in his episcopal tenure; he also condemned the teaching of Sophiology that had become popular (and remains so) among Russian immigrants in Western Europe, who had access to the teachings of Sergius Bulgakov.40 St. John’s defense of Orthodoxy was most closely identified with his patronage of the church and condemnation of the Soviet regime which raged a bloody war against the church for most of the twentieth century. The service to St. John refers to this particular defense in a sticheron on “Lord, I have Cried” (in Tone 3), which attests to St. John’s defeat of the atheist communists in his pastoral labors: “O good minister of the Gospel of Christ, who didst gird thyself about with the truth of Orthodoxy, with the sling of thy words thou didst drive away the ravenous wolves who do not confess Christ to be the true Wisdom of God, and who seek after alien wisdom.”41 The service also suggests that the Russian people are themselves to blame for the revolution that destroyed their homeland, as expressed by the theotokion on Ode 6 of the Canon at matins: “We were deprived of an Orthodox homeland, o Lady, when the waves of God’s wrath passed over us, for we had become

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maintainers of vain and false things.”42 The theotokion on Ode 7 punctuates the Russian people’s acceptance of blame: “Our fathers sinned and were given into the hands of iniquitous foes more wicked than the earth had ever seen.”43 These two examples represent the complexity of triumphalism: the émigré Russian community reflected on the tragedy of the revolution and the devastation it wrought, and accepted its own role in contributing to the disintegration. One might view this reflection as theologically problematic since it links the revolution with theodicy, but the acceptance of responsibility for departure from the church echoes St. John’s own writings. In other words, the hymnography is inspired by St.  John’s hope for the restoration of the Orthodox monarchy and the glory of Holy Rus. St. John was a loyal monarchist, but while his sermons condemn the Bolsheviks for the destruction they wrought in Russia, he interpreted the situation as an opportunity for repentance and the emergence of a new Russia out of the ashes of destruction. He predicted divine punishment for the Bolsheviks, who were guilty of regicide: “How many times more grave and sinful was the murder of the Orthodox monarch anointed by God; how many times greater must the punishment be for the murderers of Tsar Nicholas II and his family?” In his assessment of the spiritual condition of Russians abroad, St. John asserted that a multitude of Russians were to blame for the calamity that befell Russia44: Until now, there has been no real repentance; the crimes that were committed have not been openly condemned, and many active participants in the Revolution continue even now to assert that at the time it was impossible to act otherwise. By not voicing an outright condemnation of the February Revolution, of the uprising of the Anointed One of God, the Russian people continue to participate in the sin.

St.  John made many other assertions vigorously criticizing the revolution and communist government, but he also made two notable predictions. First, he believed that the blood of the new Russian martyrs would “regenerate Russia and make it radiant with new glory.”45 Second, he outlined the potential contribution of Russians abroad in spreading Orthodoxy and contributing to Russia’s regeneration, though he appeared to expect that Russians living abroad would eventually return to Russia.46 St. John spoke and preached frequently on the topic of Russia’s legacy and her future. In a homily delivered in Belgrade on the feast day of St. Vladimir (July 15, 1934), St.  John presented a historical synthesis of the ideal Holy Rus’.47 St.  John depicts the Russian person as an Orthodox Christian; Russian identity is inseparable from Orthodoxy.48 Despite his presentation of the moral ideals of Holy Rus’, St. John named the problem of sin that contributed to the collapse. He stated that one cannot believe that “all Russians lived strictly by the gospel, that there was never any sin in Russia, or deviation from Orthodoxy.”49 This led him to the rhetorical question: “Will holy Rus’ be victorious, or the godless power?”50 St.  John said that there are two possible paths before the Russian people in his final exhortation: moral decay and gradual ruin or the completion of her historical task, namely service in righteousness and truth.51 St. John summed up the task for the Russian people at

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the conclusion of a homily on all the saints of Russia; “in repentance, in faith, in cleansing may the Russian land be renewed and may Holy Rus’ arise.”52 Thus, the hymnography presents a snapshot of St.  John’s own reflection on the future state of Orthodoxy in Russia by praising St. John for his defense of the church while admitting the people’s own failures to be a part of the problem. The church’s victory over her enemies, especially the hostile Bolsheviks, is expressed most poignantly in the erection of St. John’s shrine. The shrine is a small fixture with an ornate roof, containing the relics of St. John in a glass-enclosed tomb.53 The Cathedral’s cozy interior space makes St.  John’s shrine easy to find—it is immediately visible upon walking into the nave of the cathedral. Above the tomb is an icon of St. John, who holds Holy Virgin Cathedral in his left hand, a sign of his eternal advocacy of the cathedral community. The shrine’s design is classical Russian, quite similar to dozens of shrines containing incorrupt relics throughout Russia, which were a special source of devotion in the late-imperial and early Soviet periods of Russian history.54 The shrine is significant for our study because of the history of Soviet desecration of saints’ shrines. An offensive act of the Soviet regime against the Russian Orthodox Church in the early period of Bolshevik rule was the state’s organized attempt to discredit the church by exhuming relics of saints throughout the country. Such relic inspections were performed in an attempt to liberate the people from the false idea that the bodies of the saints were preserved in a state of perfect incorruption.55 The people were scandalized by such acts and Soviet authorities were frustrated by the peoples’ resilient faith in their country’s wonderworking saints. The erection of a shrine in St. John’s memory, with the incorrupt relics in full view for all to venerate, is a sound rebuttal of the Soviet history of exhuming relics to delegitimize the Orthodox Church. St. John died before the collapse of the USSR and the emergence of the Russian Federation. His desire for the restoration of the monarchy has not come to pass, but the erection of and pilgrimages to his shrine symbolize the Orthodox Church’s victory over the Soviet regime. A consideration of the primary ritual event that honors St.  John elucidates this point. Worshipers who gather in San Francisco to honor St.  John ritually engage him by approaching his shrine and venerating his relics. The mere act of participating in such a ritual witnesses to ROCOR’s resilience in the face of fierce persecution since ROCOR was able to sustain the tradition of honoring saints by entombing them in the church despite the Soviet attempt to eradicate this practice from the church and her people’s consciousness. The émigré church’s construction of a physical shrine containing the material remnants of their beloved saint is a tangible symbol of their proclamation of the victory of truth over the falsehood championed by their Bolshevik opponents. The performance of this ritual in the present, embellished by the narrative proclaiming St. John’s contribution to God’s narrative over the hostile regime, is a living symbol of the fulfillment of St. John’s defense of the church. To state it simply, the glorification of St.  John and the erection of his shrine demonstrated the impotence of the Soviet regime to prevent Russian Orthodox believers from sustaining their ritual devotions throughout the globe. The communities had resisted and lamented the desecration of shrines in

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their homeland, and replaced the lost shrines with a new one commemorating their modern prophet who consistently opposed those who performed the original desecration. Thus, those who participate liturgically in this ritual continue St. John’s practice of proclaiming the truth of the Gospel over Bolshevik atheism since the ritual forms such a position in symbol and word. The ritual has the capacity to be meaningful even for those who do not make a pilgrimage to San Francisco, yet honor St.  John’s memory by celebrating the service, which is the global commemoration. The reproduction and distribution of his icon and the narrative of his service constitutes the gathering of a community around a shrine deriving its meaning from its native location in San Francisco. The narrative itself has the potency to deliver the same message of the church’s victory over the hostile Bolsheviks because a global community has joined the local in honoring St. John’s memory, and gathers around shrines that center on his icon. In this vein, ritual participation grants one access to the message of triumphalism in St. John’s service, and participants become learners of a narrative that is much more expansive than the hymns’ content. One must consider the complexity of this ritual participation given the saturation of the narrative’s content with themes linked to historical events that are central to the memories of the host community. St. John’s hagiographical narrative contains two elements that are less accessible to the global participant, yet cherished by the local community: the dream of a reconstituted Holy Rus’ society that is governed by a restored Orthodox monarchy. The hymns hint at the restoration of the monarchy and do not mention Holy Rus’ as an ideal civilization, but ritually engaging the hymns grants one access to the expanded hagiographical corpus. A participant who probes more deeply into these themes will discover their vibrant existence in diverse ways. First, the Moscow Patriarchate has rehabilitated the concept of Holy Rus’ and transformed it into a pastoral initiative that envisions the assembly of a morally sound Orthodox civilization within the patriarchate.56 The geopolitical conflicts and wars that have afflicted Russia and Ukraine from 2013 to the present are attributed by critics to a misappropriation of the Holy Rus’ ideal by Russia in a symphonic alliance of state and church. The wounds and divisions resulting from this conflict cast a dubious specter on this aspect of triumphalism the hymns imply and the vita elaborates. The same matter of dubious relevance applies to the restoration of an Orthodox monarchy. St.  John belonged to a generation of immigrants that understood the monarchy as established by God and an essential component of Orthodoxy. Contemporary Orthodox theology no longer depends on a monarchy. In this vein, the triumphalism connected with monarchy in the service is somewhat antiquated, with the exception of the notion of Tsar-martyr Nicholas as an angelic advocate for the Russian people.

Reconciliation The service to St. John communicates the notion of reconciliation. Reconciliation is again multivalent. St.  John’s vita praises his activities as bishop of Western

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Europe who promoted reconciliation between East and West. The sessional hymn sung after the Polyeleos (in Tone 4) offers a brief reminder of St. John’s restoration of several pre-schism saints to the Orthodox Church calendar during his tenure as bishop of Western Europe: “O excellent lover of the glory of the ancient saints unknown to the East and neglected in the West, though didst follows in their steps.”57 The service does not have an explicit reference to the divisions within the Orthodox Church, fractures that isolated ROCOR for the entirety of its history during the Soviet era. However, the service refers to a global Orthodox veneration of St. John in the sticheron following the Gospel at matins, which states that the “councils of the Orthodox rejoice today.”58 The service contains an exhortation for the global church to make a pilgrimage to Holy Virgin Cathedral in honor of St. John’s memory in a sticheron from “Lord, I Have Cried”: Join chorus, ye East and West, ye North and South, celebrating the memory of the holy hierarch and wonderworker. Rejoice, o heavens, receiving the new angel, the divinely inspired man of prayer and unmercenary pastor, the gracious healer, prophet and herald, John, our merciful helper, the mighty surety for us at the judgment.59

The service envisions St. John becoming a universal saint to whom all Christians can appeal, a feature portraying him as a reconciler of the divided. The ritual engagement of St. John’s service promotes reconciliation within the Orthodox Church. For the majority of its history, ROCOR was an outspoken critic of the Soviet Union. ROCOR experienced a painful separation from the Moscow Patriarchate in 1927 due to the decision of Metropolitan Sergius (Stragorodksy, Patriarch Tikhon’s successor) to pledge the Orthodox Church’s support for the Soviet State.60 The shrine of St. John has become a symbol of reconciliation because it encourages a new era of rapprochement with the Orthodox community. For most of its history, ROCOR found itself on the periphery of global Orthodoxy because of its conflict with the Moscow Patriarchate. ROCOR was canonically legitimate, but enjoyed close relations with only some Orthodox churches. In 2007, following a heated and tumultuous process, ROCOR reestablished communion with the Moscow Patriarchate; rapprochement was realized.61 The restoration of communion opened floodgates for the reconciliation of ROCOR with the rest of global Orthodoxy. As one of the most recent saints to be glorified in America while simultaneously representing Orthodox of Russia, China, and Western Europe, St. John has become a global figure and universal saint. As a global figure, he draws pilgrims from varying regions of the globe, and these figures come to know his hagiographical vita by participating in the services. Ritual participation in the service to St. John is an engagement with the larger narrative of St. John’s leadership in ROCOR and ROCOR’s history as a church community estranged from her homeland. In this vein, the services refer to St. John as a living advocate who intercedes with God for the entire church. The notion of saintly intercession is universal, and I alluded to two antecedents in the commemorations of St. Gregory Palamas and the Royal Holy Martyrs above, so the idea of intercession is not

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new here. The notion that commemorating St. John heals ecclesial fractures and reconciles estranged peoples becomes persuasive when one reflects on the vita of his ministry in Western Europe, where his actions sought to restore principles from a time of unity between East and West. While St. John’s dream of a restored monarchy did not come to fruition, the return of ROCOR to the patriarchate in 2007 marked the beginning of a process of reconciliation within Orthodoxy. St. John’s narrative, then, is a symbol of reconciliation on two levels: within the global Orthodox communion, and the universal church. The exhortation for all people to come and honor his memory previews a reconstituted global Orthodox Church. The service to St. John accentuates this dream, and the steady flow of pilgrims who venerate his tomb manifests the process of reconciliation in the present.

Conclusion It is tempting to view the dream of intra-Orthodox and Christian reconciliation as a utopian objective that cannot be reduced to the veneration of an eccentric Orthodox saint in San Francisco. This chapter has demonstrated that St.  John Maximovich’s liturgical hagiography follows patterns established by antecedents in the liturgical cycle, as manifested by the examples of St.  Gregory Palamas and the Royal Holy Martyrs. I have also noted the challenges that emerge from the peculiarities of the narrative. Most readers will understand the connection between St.  John’s defense of Orthodoxy and the church’s resurrection after the demise of the Soviet Union. But the triumphalism that permeates liturgy is not only informative; it can also be problematic. The problem occurs when participants lack the interpretive tools for adopting aspects of a given narrative. Does affirming St.  Gregory Palamas’s theological brilliance require one to rejoice in the defeat of heretics, especially Barlaam and his followers? Does honoring the Royal Holy Martyrs demand that one must desire the restoration of an Orthodox monarchy? Does venerating St. John Maximovich mean that one must support the Moscow Patriarchate’s Russian World initiative, which shares much in common with the saint’s notions of Holy Rus’? The liturgical rituals have the capacity to shape participants into people who model their lives after the saints they venerate, and in many cases, this also means adhering to some of their teachings. The matter of discerning which elements of liturgical hagiography need to be passed on to today’s generation of worshipers, and which can remain in the historical background is pastoral. I suggest that ritual participation in liturgical hagiography initiates one into a much larger narrative populated by theological maxims, moral virtues, and other ideas from the life of the saint. The impact of the narrative is potentially vast, because the global reception of a saint entails the gathering of communities around local shrines of the saint, with the icon functioning as the shrine with the primary narrative intact. In the case of St. John Maximovich, a global community encounters a figure who embodies the asceticism of late antiquity, exudes triumphalism, and promotes reconciliation. Time will tell if those who honor his memory will interiorize these values.

Chapter 9 “King-slaves” in South Africa: Shrines, Ritual, & Resistance1 Bahar Davary

“When the beloved of God are discussed, abundant mercy descends on all present.”

—Hadith attributed to the Prophet2

Introduction The history of Islam in South Africa in the past few centuries has been synonymous with the struggle against oppression.3 Islam is the second oldest religion in South Africa and its sites, shrines, and mosques are important heritage landmarks in the country. The first Muslims brought to the Cape were Malay slaves; some of them were of noble descent—teachers, religious leaders, and freedom fighters in the Dutch East Indies who were captured and brought in as political prisoners. The most visited shrine is that of Sheikh Yusuf of Macassar, who was the first teacher of the Qur’an in South Africa, and is for this reason regarded as the father of Islam in the country. The two other important kramats are those of the last Malaccan sultan, Sheikh Abdurahman Matebe Shah, located at Klein Constantia, and of Sheikh Sayed Abdurahman Matura of Java on Robben Island. It is noteworthy that prior to the nineteenth century open practice of Islam was not permitted, so Muslims practiced their faith secretly. Their burial places known as kramats or mazaars look like miniature mosques and are frequently visited by the locals. Over two-dozen such shrines surround Cape Town and more are being discovered.4 These sites stand specifically as manifestations of transformative power in their resistance to colonialism and apartheid. This chapter argues that for South African Muslims the shrines of the saints (kramats) bear much more than historical criticism can convey. They are viewed by the locals as sites that serve as protectors of the boundaries of the city. It is claimed that the laws of nature are interrupted at these sites. Some believe that the bodies that lie buried there do not decay, that the sites prevent raging fires, and that animals behave strangely at the site of the unknown burial place. As such, the shrines constitute sites of reverence for people of different faiths and of various ethnic backgrounds.

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This shared respect toward particular sacred shrines can be found beyond Cape Town and South Africa, among the diverse ethnic and religious populations in various parts of the globe, including Bosnia, Southeast Asia, and the Middle East. The shrines are also remnants of the presence of the sacred in a world that “has assiduously and systematically disciplined the senses not to experience sacred presence,”5 as Robert Orsi has pointed out. The kramats remain a border territory between the spiritual and the historical, which is a relationship intensely complicated by the demands of the modern city.6 The focus of this chapter is the kramats in Cape Town as hagiographic text in the hermeneutical sense of the term. As Hans-Georg Gadamer puts it, “in all understanding, whether we are expressly aware of it or not, the efficacy of history is at work. When a naïve faith in scientific method denies the existence of effective history, there can be an actual deformation of knowledge.”7 Contemplating these gravesites entails history, understanding of religious authority, ritual life, and cultural practices of the people. The shrines function in the same manner as the hagiography of the emancipated Catholic nun Chicaba. La Vida de la Venerable Negra exhibits subjectivity and agency of a slave woman overcoming both dreadful conditions of slavery and gender inequality, while highlighting the importance of race. The shrines are testimonies to individual responsibility, integrity, and resistance to bondage, exile, and colonialism. The chapter will also make parallel references to the notion of keramat in Southeast Asia, with the specific example of keramats in Penang. The chapter will focus on the way in which these shrines have actively shaped and are shaped by notions of sanctity while negotiating national, political, economic, and social altercations.

Hagiography, Historiography, and Truth Public interest in the genre of hagiography has remained high even with the onset of modernity. At the same time, hagiographic literature has been ignored to a large extent in contemporary scholarship. Hagiography in the Christian sense of the term is often construed as the life and miracles of individuals canonized by the church, generally the Roman Catholic, Anglican, Eastern Orthodox, and the Church of the East. Other religions such as Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism, and Islam also produce hagiographic texts detailing the life of the gurus, janamsakhis,8 awliya,9 and other individuals imbued with sacred aura and power with the ability to perform extraordinary feats. Hagiography poses a difficulty for the skeptical twenty-first-century mindset. The contemporary skeptic reader questions the authenticity of this genre of writing for the supposedly uncritical approach with which the author describes the events of the life of the saint. Historical credibility is strained by the stories that are often replete with miracles, marvels, and clandestine narratives. This difficulty notwithstanding, hagiography can and should be seen as a technique for making events meaningful. It can be a way for expressing doctrines in the form of narratives, and as such it has been categorized as a subgenre of historiography.10 Those familiar with this genre of writing are

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able to draw historical data and significance from the literature. An example of this within various religious traditions around the world is pilgrimage travelogues. These travelogues have been both mediums of representation of the sacred for the believers and a good source of information for historians.11 Within Women’s studies and Afro-Caribbean studies, for example, hagiography has been studied in order to arrive at historical truth via critical inquiry into the text. The work of Sue E. Houchins and Baltasar Fra-Molinero, The Compendio de la Vida Ejemplar de la Venerable Madre Sor Teresa Juliana de Santo Domingo is a good case in point.12 The Vida de la Venerable Negra tells the story of a remarkable black woman who was kidnapped at the age of nine and was enslaved, but was freed through exhibiting extraordinary holiness. From her hagiography the authors draw a slave narrative, that of Chicaba who exhibits subjectivity and agency overcoming both dreadful conditions of slavery as well as gender degradation. This work highlights the importance of race and makes visible black devout Catholic women in monastic settings. Race and ethnicity play a considerable role in South African kramat hagiography, historiography, and identity. The kramats of Cape Town are shrines to Indonesian resistance exiled in Africa by colonial rule that controlled both territories. As such the shrines bear the memory of resistance to oppression and control. The theme of the exiled, migrant, or slave runs strong in the representation of kramat in every context in which it is represented from South Africa, to Bosnia, and Southeast Asia.13

Islamic Hagiography A basic difference between Christian and Muslim hagiography is that Muslim sainthood is not dependent upon an official process of canonization. A Muslim saint becomes a saint by the recognition of his or her followers and the simple reverence of the common folks, without an official decree. While the primary purpose of Muslim and Christian hagiography is the affirmation of the way of life of the saint, the second difference between the two hagiographic traditions lies in the fact that Islamic hagiography14 does not have the effect of enshrining doctrine. In fact, Muslim mystics have at times been criticized for what is perceived as lack of regard for the outward aspects of religion in order to uphold its inner meanings. Criticism—at times even accusations of heresy—has been aimed at mystics, including towering figure such as Ibn Arabi. Such criticisms persist today. An unmistakable difference between Christian and Muslim hagiography is the role and significance of images in Christianity and the lack of it in Islam. While icons are important components of Christian hagiography, especially within the Orthodox churches, Muslim hagiography is for the most part devoid of images and icons. There are, however, a number of paintings depicting the Prophet within Islamic art.15 More specifically, among the Shi’a the images of the Prophet and that of Ali and his son Hossein occasionally adorn homes and workplaces. Generally speaking, however, the depiction of human figures, even that of the Prophet, is not popular or common among the majority. Instead, calligraphic written descriptions

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of the Prophet became a popular ornament for Muslims who venerated him as an exemplary role model. The brief description of the Prophet that adorns some Muslim homes is called hilyat al-nabi,16 the ornament of the Prophet. The hilya is a realistic physical description of the Prophet. It mentions his characteristics of magnanimity and graciousness. It does not entail extraordinary assumptions about him. Nevertheless, one can argue that the earliest Muslim hagiographic work can be found in the writings on the life of the Prophet himself. It should not come as a surprise that for many Muslims, Muhammad is the saint par excellence, al-insan al-kamil, the perfect human and khair ul-bashar, best of humanity. While it is not common for Muslims to refer to Muhammad as a saint because he is to them the messenger of God, and the vessel of revelation, it is not incorrect to assume for him the status of the saint. That is because the grandest title for him is Abdullah, the servant of God. In other words, he is a celebrated example of submission to the divine will. Muslim saints, awliya, have reached their status due to their heightened understanding and practice of submission as well as the emulation of the Prophet. The narratives of the life of the Prophet entail a few miracles, but they are less sated with miraculous events if compared with other hagiographic writings in both Islamic and Christian literature. Yet, there are a few narratives that contain miracles and extraordinary scenarios and conversations. The three most famous miracles of the life of Muhammad cited in his biographies are: (1) the Ascension; mi’raj, (2) the opening of the six-year-old Muhammad’s heart and its washing by the angels, and (3) splitting of the moon. Muslim communities throughout the centuries have understood and interpreted these narratives in a multitude of ways, with variances ranging from viewing them as visions to considering them actual realities. These stories, just as the stories of the miracles of the saints, do not sit well with the mindset that is regulated by the criteria of verification and falsification rather than the concept of truth as manifestation as in the thought of Paul Ricoeur.17 The genre of Islamic hagiography—aside from the biographies of the Prophet and the Imams (the progeny of the Prophet)—started around eleventh century CE, with the foundational work of Abu “Abd-al-Raḥmān Solami (d. 1021) titled Ṭabaqāt al-ṣufiya18 (The Stations of the Sufis); this was followed by the Ḥelyat al-awliā”19 attributed to Abu Nu’aym Esfahani (d. 1038). The magnificent twelfthcentury work entitled Taḏkerat al-awliāʾ20 (The Remembrance of the Friends of God) by Farid-al-Din ʿAṭṭār is a magnificent work of a poet interested in the lives of the saints without being engaged in a particular Sufi order or tradition himself.21 The primary purpose of all foundational hagiographic literature is in its transformative power of manifestation, rather than promoting doctrinal and legal statements. Obviously, the hagiographers were not simply interested in the outward (zahir) aspects of a Sufi’s life. Information such as dates of birth, death, and the sequences of events of their life were naturally included in the hagiographic writings, but the interest was in the inward (batin)—the meanings of the stories of

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the lives of the saints. As Hamed Algar has pointed out, “The specifically ‘human’— the whole stuff of modern biography—is trivial and profoundly uninteresting from a traditional viewpoint.”22 It is the sacred that remained the focus of these writings, regardless of the changes in the genre. Gradually the changes in the organization of Sufi establishments produced slightly different forms of hagiography, that of the exclusive lives of individual saints who were not associated to a particular order. In these cases, it was the descendants or companions of the saints who were involved in the writing and maintaining the shrine of the saint.23 At times these groups may have lived at the shrine (mazaar or mausoleum) of the saint. The stories of the life of the saint were transmitted by oral tradition. Many of the stories exist only in the hearts of the members of the communities among whom they lived and have never been transcribed. Most often the only source of information on these individuals is the oral tradition or a single hagiographic text. Nile Green has pointed out that despite the popularity of the genre of Sufi hagiography which has not declined even with the onset of modernity, this genre of literature has been largely ignored by contemporary scholarship.24 This paper aims to focus on the shrine (kramats) of the saints in Cape Town, South Africa, as a hagiographic text, as a consciousness-raising experience.25 What have remained of South African Muslim saints are the kramats, shrines, the oral tradition, and the rituals. Ironically the writings that exist about the shrines are not hagiographic texts. The first writings appeared between 1934 and 1939 in a series of articles in The Cape Naturalist.26 The author Marie Kathleen Jeffreys explains the reason for her writing to have risen “from the interest which members showed in the tomb pictured overleaf (the kramat on Signal Hill).”27 This interest may be a reflection of a naturalist in a culturally and ethnically diverse environment. In the context of Southeast Asia, Mandal argues that spirit beliefs have the power to draw the reverence, respect, or, tolerance of the culturally diverse population.28 This seems true in the context of South African Kramats as well. The respectful reference of M. K. Jeffreys in her article in The Cape Naturalist draws the attention of the reader to the presence of the shrine of sheikh Mohammed Hassen Ghaibie Shah al-Qadri on Signal Hill Road. He was a follower of Sheikh Yusuf, who is known as the founder of Islam in the Cape. Cape Town official tourism website features an aerial photo of the Signal Hill kramat, stating that it is particularly worth visiting, not just for its spiritual reasons, but because it offers spectacular views of the Cape Town city center as well as the Atlantic seaboard.29 A major source on the kramats is the Mazaar Society Guide to the kramats of the Western Cape.30 The Cape Mazaar Society is a nonprofit organization founded in January 1982. Its initial purpose was the maintenance of the shrine of Sheikh Abdurahman Matura on Robben Island, but eventually it became responsible for all kramats in Cape Town.31 The Cape Mazaar Society is recognized by the Muslim Judicial Council of the City of Cape Town, Cape Town tourism, and the South African Heritage Resources Agency. It is clear that the Guide negotiates between spiritual truth on the one hand and historical accuracy on the other, between tourism and reverence for sacred space. The introduction of the

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online site reveals this challenge. The Guide refers to the saints as heroes and torchbearers of Islam, “who were subjected to the most harsh forms of cruelty and torture, but never wavered from the true path.”32 The miraculous stories of the saints are rather minimized throughout the Guide. The kramat becomes the burial place of those who struggled for Islam, those who opposed indignity, and fought against oppression, colonization, and apartheid. Occasionally, the Guide hints at the miraculous aspect of the kramat by suggesting that, for example, a kramat was discovered by a person who was directed to it in a dream.33 Baderoon has acutely referred to the kramats as visible signs of culture incorporated into a renewed picturesque discourse in the service of tourism while, at the same time, considering them of particular spiritual and religious significance.34 The Guide introduces twenty-four sites around the Cape peninsula as central to the story of Islam. Rayda Jacobs’ film The Tuan of Antonie’s Gat (2003) is the only documentary I have found on the kramats. It not only documents the two conflicting stories about the Simon Town kramat, but it also foregrounds the notion of the unseen. It is reflective of a manifestational power of hagiography.

Cape Town Saints and Kramats At the entrance of Klein Constantia, a vineyard in Cape Town35, stands a kramat, a shrine with white walls and a green dome, surrounded by trees and the sound of a nearby stream. This serene and humble setting is the resting place of Abdurahman Matebe Shah (d. 1681 or 1682), a notable man, and an orang cayen,36 who became a revered Cape Muslim Sheikh. He is said to have belonged to the Qadiri Sufi order.37 The shrine is built on the spot where he is known to have prayed and preached every morning. In the seventeenth century during the Dutch East Indies Company (VOC) rule, many political prisoners of high standing were exiled to the Cape and sent to remote places to contain and control their influence. They were often so placed in order to prevent them from having contact with the slave population. Many were sent to labor in the forest where they later died and were buried. Matebe shah was among them. The oral tradition links him to the last sultanate of Malacca in Indonesia, a ruler who was also a hafez, a memorizer, and a teacher of the Qur’an. He had been captured along with two of his companions during the Dutch conquest of Sumatra and brought in chains on board of the ship Zuid-Polsbroek, banished to Cape Colony in 1667.38 The VOC was aware of his political status and the danger his resistance posed to their interest in tin and spice trade with Far Asia. After a fierce battle, the Soeroersang region in Malacca fell to the Dutch, and Matebe Shah and his two advisors (Sheikh Abdul Mutalib and Sayed Mahmud) were captured. As their execution would have made martyrs out of them, they were exiled to the Cape instead.39 Muslim identity in South Africa is intertwined with the history of slavery in the Cape. Unlike West and East Africa, South Africa was untouched by slavery until 1652 and the establishment of the VOC in the Cape. Distribution of

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land to Dutch settlers and the need to grow and supply food brought about the need for cheap labor. The VOC thus began the import of people from the East Indies as slaves. Many of the first slaves were political prisoners whose crime was defying Dutch rule in their lands.40 Matebe Shah was not the only orang cayen who was forcefully brought to the Cape because of his strong opposition to the Dutch rule in the East Indies. Another remarkable site not too far from Cape Town is the shrine located at the entrance of Robben Island. This site is the kramat of Sayed Abdurahman Motura41 (d. 1744), also an orang cayen, who fought colonial rule in South East Asia and was brought there as a prisoner, the same infamous prison that held Nelson Mandela over two centuries later. The island as beautiful as it is stands as a reminder of the injustices afforded the many prisoners, some of whom were Malay, Bengali, Yemeni political exiles, sultans, spiritualists, and slaves. The kramat on Robben Islands was built in 1969. Today it sits outside of the barbed wire area near the place where Tuan Motura spent eleven years as a prisoner.42 He was reputed as a learned and religious man and for consoling prisoners and offering them wondrous cures and comfort. Upon his death his burial site became a place for meditation and consolation for those who knew the holy man and later for others who heard the stories associated with him. Later prisoners who have not met him would also seek solace at the site of his burial. Ironically, the current kramat was built with the help of prison authorities in the 1960s. He was neither the only orang cayen nor the only Muslim imprisoned on Robben Island. Other figures such as Tuan Guru (Imam Abdullah ibn Abdus-Salam), who traced his ancestry to the sultanate of Morocco, were among the many prisoners.43 Robben Island is thus an important part of the history of Muslims in South Africa. Cape Town, South Africa, is home to about twenty-four such kramats or burial sites of saints, awliya. The awliya (Wali-allah; lit., protector or supporter) are known as Friends of God on the one hand, and supporters and guardians of God’s creation on the other. Kramats or shrines of awliya, in architecture and design, are by and large like miniature mosques. Cape Town, Kramats while influenced by South East Asian kramats are slightly different in that the former is generally the mazar or mausoleum of a saint, while the latter refers to shrines in a broader sense, that which is not always a burial site but a guardian spirit of local sacred places. In early twentieth-century Tawfik Canaan’s writings pointed to the shared pilgrimage sites between Muslims, Christians, and Jews in Palestine.44 In the Malay world these sites are often the juncture of many religions coming together. In Penang, Malaysia, for example, the datuk kong (nadugong) (a guardian spirit of local sacred places) which is a Sinicized version of keramat is a common site.45 Veneration or outward respect for the site can be observed not only among people of various faiths and ethnicities but even among those who generally identify as secular. According to Tong Cheu Hock keramat in Penang is an integral part of the “Sino-Malay spirit cult.”46 Beng-Lan Goh’s research on the significance of keramat worship and construction sites in contemporary Malaysia shows that all property developers “erected makeshift shrines to venerate the keramat. . . . Some even

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went to great lengths to perform elaborate rituals to appease these Malay Muslim spirits in the course of their development activities.”47 The makeshift shrines were usually removed after the completion of the construction project. In some cases the makeshift sites developed into permanent structures of modern landscape of urban Penang as part of a capitalist sacralization that is “ineluctably entwined with historical socio-moral imperatives of social reproduction.”48 Developers’ reasons for performing the ritual appropriation despite it requiring time and money was according to Goh, ensuring work safety, preventing unforeseen disasters that would cause delay in the project, as well as mixed sentiments of reverence and fear. Some had disturbing dreams about transgressing sacred spaces resulting in mishaps at the worksite.49 Veneration of pious men and women saints is common throughout Muslim societies be it in Southeast Asia, Middle East, or Africa.50 The shrines often entail hybrid rituals of ancient local cultures and religions as well as Islamic practices. Visit to the shrine can entail asking for blessing, or pleading for protection in dangerous occupations in maritime locals. Muslim sacred spaces such as shrines have been formidable representations of hagiographic truth. The aniconic character of Muslim hagiography is preserved in the shrines where the sacred is conveyed through the absence of image, while at the shrine, the primary mode of invocation of the sacred is dhikr (remembrance—sometimes through recitation) and only secondarily through calligraphy and architecture. As such the shrine creates a non-polemical theology, a loci of spiritual transformation despite temporality. In other words, the shrine appeals not only to people of various religious traditions and different ethnic groups, but it also intercedes between temporal and spiritual. At the same time “it is local, tied to the landscape, and is not transportable.”51 According to Green and Murray kramats mark a sacred space in the modern city and introduce alternative conceptions of space and notions of temporality in postapartheid evaluation of heritage.52 Lives of South African Muslims cannot be detached from their past. Both manifestational and historical understanding of the saints and the sites of their burial becomes part of the future of South Africans in general and Muslim South Africans in particular. Maritime cultures often ascribe protective powers to saints. Their burial places are the loci of extraordinary protective power.53 Local legends hold that the circle of kramats in and around Cape Town protects the city from earthquakes and natural disasters.54 For several generations residents of Cape Town have visited the shrines. They continue to pay their respects to Kramats in Bokaap, Bakoven, Camps Bay, Oudekraal, Signal Hill, Faure, Bainskloof, and others. Among the saints buried there are Tuan Nuruman who resided in the slave lodge and was known among both enslaved and free Muslims as an oracle of good deeds. Local tradition describes him as having a light; an aura that emanated when he prayed. Tuan Sayed Alawi of Yemen served a prison sentence of eleven years. Upon his release he served as the first official Imam in Cape Town. Imam Abdullah Kadi Abdus Salaam, commonly known as Tuan Guru, was a prince from Tidore

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brought to the Cape in 1780. While imprisoned in Robben Island he wrote a copy of the Qur’an from memory and upon his release established the first school where Qur’an was taught.55 A student of Tuan Guru Achmat van Bengalen (Ahmad of Bengal) was brought to the Cape from Chinsura, a northern province of Bengal around 1780.56 He was a slave and a trusted friend of Tuan Guru after the release of the latter from prison in 1793. Ebrahim Mahomed Mahida states that the presence of a strong Muslim educational institution became a cause for concern to the Cape authorities. Ahmad of Bengal was not only a teacher and Imam but also a staunch advocate for social justice and supporting the plight of the slaves and the people of color in the Cape.57 He is known to have enforced strict Islamic rules regarding slavery. “No Mahometan [i.e., Muslim] can or ought to sell a Mahometan as a slave. If he buys a slave from a Christian and that slave becomes a Mahometan, he is entitled to sit down as an equal in the family, and cannot be sold.”58 It is possible that this may have been a reaction to an earlier statement by Dutch Christian authority on Christianity and slave status. According to Mahida, “The total registered population at the Cape in 1775 was 12,000.”59 Approximately half of the population was slaves. This became a matter of concern for the Dutch authorities who then legislated to control the slave numbers at the Cape. Among the placaaten [statutes] issued by the Dutch was one that prohibited the sale of baptized Christian slaves.60 Mahida argues that the colonists, who feared the loss of their slaves, through their conversion to Christianity, indirectly encouraged the spread of Islam among the slaves. By 1800 the benches in the Groote Kerk [Church] of Cape Town, traditionally reserved for slaves, had become virtually empty.61 A source of wisdom and peace for runaway slaves was Sheikh Yusuf of Macassar (1626–99), the most prominent Muslim figure in South Africa.62 He is credited with establishing Islam at the Cape and a symbol of resistance to colonialism. Sheikh Yusuf was born in 1626 in Goa on the island of Sulawesi. He fought against the Dutch along with Sultan Ageng and was captured in 1683 exiled first to Ceylon and then in 1694 to the Cape of Good Hope aboard the ship “de Voetboeg” along with forty-nine other Muslims. His tomb sits on a hill in Faure overlooking Macassar, even as historical records note that his body was transported back to the East Indies. He was born Abadin Tadia Tjoessoep, the nephew of king Biset of Goa who was captured and exiled. He continued to teach Islam even if a law in 1642 had prohibited the practice of any religion other than that of the Dutch Reformed Church in the Dutch colonies. Sheikh Yusuf was, and continues to be, revered not only for his connection to the ruling family of Goa, but more so for his continued agitation against Dutch colonial rule throughout his imprisonment. His kramat is one of the most venerated burial sites and is visited by the local Muslims of the Cape. The award-winning South African novelist Ishtiyaq Shukri’s novel The Silent Minaret introduces his protagonist as Issa Shamsuddin. Issa is Arabic for Jesus. Shukri’s protagonist is a transnational and transformational figure. It is for this reason that Tina Steiner has pointed out that for Shukri “Jesus, like sheikh Yusuf,

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can be read as a figure of resistance against the Roman Empire that colonized the Middle East in the first century.”63 It is not uncommon for Muslims to see Jesus’ tribulations as a struggle not only between truth and falsehood, monotheism versus pagan traditions, but also that of an oppressed ethnic group versus the occupied oppressor with a sense of formidable superiority. The experience of the Muslim subaltern has not been far from this. The figure of Jesus as a divine messenger and a resister is therefore a familiar concept to the mind of many Muslims. Sheikh Yusuf ’s diasporic influence across the Indian Ocean region (archipelago and Ceylon), his popularity, and religious influence was seen as a threat posed to the company (the VOC),64 in the same way that Jesus’ influence and power were for the Roman authority. Consequently, in 1693 Sheikh Yusuf was transferred along with his followers and family members to Zandvliet, a farm near the mouth of the Eeste River in Faure, where he continued his resistance to colonialism by his teachings. In a matter of a short time, the farm that belonged to a Dutch Reformed minister soon became a gathering place for fugitive slaves, and for the first cohesive and vibrant Muslim community in South Africa, despite its isolation.65 Until this day, every Easter Sheikh Yusuf ’s shrine on that farm becomes filled with pilgrims’ tents as a continuation of a tradition of their gathering on Easter Sunday, which was a holiday for the slaves 350 years ago.66 Despite Dutch attempts to isolate him in order to control his influence on the enslaved population, the farm became known as one of the first Muslim community centers and one of the initial points of resistance at the Cape. It is for this reason that Shukri67 maintains that the history of Islam in South Africa is synonymous with the struggle against oppression.68 It was subsequently named Macassar after Sheikh Yusuf and to this day holds his shrine, even as his body was taken back to South East Asia.69 According to Dangor, as well as many South African Muslims and non-Muslims alike, Sheikh Yusuf of Macassar laid the foundations for the establishment of one of the first socially responsible Muslim communities in South Africa.70 It is not an exaggeration to claim that the historical monuments built in commemoration of these saintly figures’ struggle and contemplation bear much more than historical criticism can convey. They stand as manifestations of the lives of these saints and the transformative power of their resistance to colonialism and apartheid.

Ziyarat (shrine visitation) and its connection to hajj Visiting the shrines of saints (awliya) is a common Muslim practice, not specific to a certain denomination. It is not a dividing feature of Shi’a or Sunni or even a marker of Sufi practice. Shrine visitation is a practice common throughout much of Muslim majority and minority countries around the world from Egypt to Mali, Ethiopia to South Africa, from Turkey and Iran to China, and from India and Bosnia to Malaysia and Indonesia, even as they are referred to by different names such as mazar or dargah in South Asia, shengmu in China, haram in Iran, kramat

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in South East Asia, and in South Africa. Variance in naming aside the shrines are generally known among Muslims to be significantly important in propagation of Islam but more importantly as a means of creating a space for personal and communal experience of spiritual transformation. Many studies have focused on varied functions of the shrines. A popular view is that by visiting the shrine of the awliya relatively mundane problems of visitors such as illness may be alleviated.71 The shrines are known to provide healing and therapeutic routines to visitors, as well as encouraging social participation. They can also become centers of economic exchanges, education, as well as providing a venue for leisure and relaxation for visiting families or groups. At times they may serve as “centers of moral authority, exercising legitimacy over inter-ethnic and intra-social relationships . . . constitut[ing] and encod[ing] relationships between political and religious authorities.”72 The close connections between shrines, springs, and trees generate personal notions of well-being and blessing. In Cape Town, the major annual celebration at the kramats is called the “urs celebration.” Urs Shareef involves a number of activities including visiting the graves of the saints. The process includes rituals such as covering the grave of the saint with a new layer of sheet covered with flowers as a sign of respect, as a mark of distinguishing the saint from ordinary people. The cult of saints is a universal practice in Islam. “It is a subject of fierce debate between the partisans of a strict interpretation of the scriptures and the exponents of a local, ‘traditional’ way of being Muslim.”73 It is this ritual that is a source of debate in the competing arena of spiritual space in South Africa. In the year 2000 a Cape Town Imam called Sheikh Faiek Gamieldien opposed this practice after a television program featured the ritual as a Muslim practice. Discussion groups were established by those who defended the ritual, so that they may create a space for dialogue. Sheikh Faiek, who had initially opposed the practice, chose to stay out of the debate.74 Opposition to shrine visitation and urs by the new Salafis has only been successful in community teachings when it ultimately accommodated the demands of the local population and the local patterns of Muslim life. The spread of Salafi-Wahhabi75 ideology with its rejection of the practice as idolatrous establishes the ritual of shrine visitation as sanctification and worship of the person in whose honor the shrine is constructed. Even if it is the burial place of the Prophet himself, the Salafis do not consider such visits appropriate.76 In South Africa, practices relating to the kramats have been the major point of contention for Salafis in community centers and mosques.77 The contestation over who gets to define Muslim sacred space and the ritual around it is not a modern dilemma but a long-standing continuous one. The contemporary dilemma is heightened according to Khaled Abou Fadl by a kind of globalization project of an authoritarian vision of Islamic ritual life that deems to replace longstanding regional practices.78 It is not in the scope of this paper to counter the Salafi-Wahabi negative perception of shrine visitation, but rather to focus on the significance of shrine visitation as the site of the sacred and its impact on South African Muslim identity negotiations and postapartheid nation building.79 The Salafi aversion to the shrine is a testimony to the very real power the shrines exert on human existence.80

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In general, the kramats of Cape Town date back to the seventeenth century. Most of them are located outside the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century city limits along Table Mountain. The mountain was both an escape for slaves who escaped and a burial place for those who were not allowed in the company cemeteries.81 Some burial places, however, were discovered much later. One burial site, was found, and identified, by woodcutters working in Constantia as late as 1972. Several of these people had indicated that their animals and carts would refuse to cross over certain parts of the field. “Spiritualists” were consulted and they confirmed that a kramat lies buried under the spot.82 The Cape Mazaar Society, the custodian of the Cape Town kramats, regularly post images of graves that have been discovered and efforts must be made in order to identify the sites. While traditional Muslim burials require burial sites to face Mecca, very few of the saints are buried accordingly. That is because Muslim slaves and prisoners were not privy to strategic information and could not establish where Mecca was lest this information enables their escape or provides them with opportunity for military retaliation.83 The kramats in and around Cape Town remain symbols of the early struggle of the Cape Muslim community. The existence of the kramats is joined with a 250-yearold prediction that the circle of kramats protects Cape Town from disasters. For South African Muslims, to make visits to this circle of kramats is an act of piety that is both individual and collective. Here, visiting the kramats is undertaken as a prelude to partaking in the lifetime journey of hajj for pilgrims and their families. The two rites are highly connected in the psyche of South African Muslim.84 The historian Sugata Bose contends that the hajj was not simply a religious rite, but rather it also created a movement in the Indian Ocean region and “a vehicle for an anti colonial current that state boundaries could not contain.”85 He contends that the hajj was the site of interplay between pilgrims and colonial authority during the period of British imperial control.86 South African Muslim communities are by and large descendants of people who were brought from East Africa, South East Asia, and South Asia to the Cape as slaves and exiled prisoners as early as 1658. Some trace back their ancestry to traders and indentured laborers who were brought from India in 1860s. Baderoon observes that since “most South African Muslims arrived via the Indian Ocean into lives of slavery and indenture,” therefore, “the reclamation of the same ocean for pilgrimage is an assertion of a new and sacralized geography away from these traumatic histories.”87 Prior to going to hajj, South African Muslims visit the kramats. The ritual of making the circle of shrines of the Cape bears more than simple resemblance to circumambulation rituals as part of the requirements of hajj. It is not only exercising a religious rite, it is an implementation of contemplative action in commemoration of the saints whose struggle and whose remembrance led to transformative action and a movement for social justice. Just as the South African narratives of hajj inspire new spirituality, morality, and a renewal of self, the kramat visit is an integral practice of faith, of community building, and of history making for South African Muslim. In visiting the kramat the individual and the community seek proximity with the spirit of

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the wali (friend of God). Some visitors experience the wali’s baraka; blessing and are empowered by its spiritually, and with an exemplary ethos of justice in dealing with oppression, resistance, and racism.

Conclusion The modern city, according to Michel de Certeau, is characterized by the disappearance of stories and legends. The public space is being de-narrativized without a trace of memory in all big and small cities around the world.88 What the sacred spaces of Southeast Asia, South Africa, and Bosnia discussed in this chapter have in common is that they are public places that are “predominantly sites of story and legend, and private spaces of ritual and prayer.”89 Accordingly, it is the density of legends associated with the kramats that gives them resistance to being de-narrativized. “They mark the accretions of time and hold open a space for the miraculous in the present.”90 Whether the challenge is capitalism and development (in the case of Penang) or post-socialism and war (in the case of Bosnia), or colonialism and oppression (in the case of South Africa), a shared notion is the layered and contested meanings of the sacred sites. The buoyancy of the kramat culture as a means of negotiating connections and contradictions resulting from deeper historical realities leads to reformulating identities and histories both personal and communal and a rethinking of the relation between hagiography and historiography. South African process of mapping memory as a central element of building a civil society and a human rights culture, in order to distance itself from its past injustices, has led to building physical memorials to that past. The infamous prisons all over the country have been transformed into museums. Constitutional Hill is constructed on the site of the Johannesburg’s Old Fort Prison (built in 1893), the site of incarceration of prisoners for over eighty years.91 The bricks from the dreadful prison are used in the structure of one of the walls in Constitutional Hill as a reminder of a horrific past not to be repeated. Fragments of memories and oral histories presented in art are interwoven in the structure of the building “to accommodate layers of truth as they are revealed.”92 The ghastly prison is transformed into a secular space for establishment of justice, with an effort to infuse in it the emotional experiences of individuals in order to map the memory of a certain form of relationship, that of apartheid era with its oppression, humiliation, and degradation. The kramats map the memory of the visitor with their very existence and symbolisms. That is because the shrine “offers the opportunity to go beyond the limitations of daily existence and to enact relationships in a way more appropriate . . . than the spiritually infused materiality of the world. The shrine in this sense not only encapsulates the problematic of human existence but also posits a means of its solution—if indeed only a temporary one.”93 According to Kurin, blessedness as defined in mystical traditions has a greater generative power than

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any other substance and its degeneration into the mind (zamir or aql) and heart (dil) is conspicuous.94 The kramats in their multiple settings and their contested meanings help map the memories of oppression, migration, exile, slavery, apartheid as well as playing a role in South African Muslim identity negotiations. As such, they bear much more than historical criticism can convey. They stand as manifestations of the lives of the saints and the transformative power of their resistance to colonialism and apartheid.

Chapter 10 Many Truths, One Story: John of Ephesus’s Lives of the Eastern Saints Todd E. French

Cultural tastes in literary styles differ widely today from ancient Christian communities. Hagiography, the most popular and widely produced form of literature in late antiquity, held a status that is hard for us to imagine. Such content that was widely distributed as the very best of the time would be dismissed as tall tales for simpletons today. Many modern historians would consider this material significantly crafted by the author’s predilections, and in certain instances hardly approximating an actual event or biography. With the rise in modern historiographical acceptance that history cannot be divorced from the imprint of the author, we might surmise that it was similar in antiquity—if less stigmatized. The only way to remove your work from this critique would be to circulate it as an authorless narrative, which is how many hagiographies were received.1 John of Ephesus, the subject of this chapter, writes an amalgam of these styles. He likely not only collected stories from the many monks he encountered throughout his life, but also integrated his own history into some of them. John chose to compile fifty-eight hagiographical narratives, ranging from stories of the unsung recluse, to stories that render the activities of the very famous—including the Emperor Justinian. Others seem to be of dubious provenance, abounding with unnamed characters.2 He combines from personal experience and others’ tales to create a collection of figures that would have piqued the interest of any late sixth-century hearer. Ancient Christian hagiography is a wonderfully vibrant genre, capable of being used to promote sanctity, solve political and theological disagreements, encourage and discourage social behaviors, and render anew figures and communities. It is an amazingly pliable medium, bordering on playful, in relation to the everyday reality of living.3 In this sense, we can perhaps appreciate as poignantly today as our ancestors did these remarkable tales. Whether meant to move us shallowly or deeply, we can rarely shake their imagery and the subsequent impact on our imaginations. Imagination thus is the site of greatest import for any treatment of hagiography, one’s image-driven mindscape where narrative meets meaning.

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It would be foolish to accept these stories as historical truths. They operate easily above this in varied ways. Whether obfuscating or encompassing the details, they all have something to say. We should not, however, be so quick to accept the notion that each piece renders only the author’s intents or promulgates an obvious narrative. Hagiographical compilations reach far beyond the author, at times approximating Bakhtin’s notion of novel in its polyphonic structure.4 The model works in the aspect that John of Ephesus ultimately cannot force his subjects to say exactly what he wants; they are independent actors with particular goals in their faith. It is also difficult for John to control how these saints are received in the minds and worldviews of subsequent communities. Whether John of Ephesus aimed to explicitly determine the narrative—as in the case of epics and other related genres—and what that narrative was are the primary questions of this chapter. While the production of hagiography lends itself to an author-centered telos—particularly in the style of the singular vita—the genre of compilation introduces a polyphonic aspect that allows a multiplicity of interpretative vectors.5 John’s work, like most hagiographies, is multivalent and has been read in diverse ways by different constituencies in the ancient and modern worlds. This chapter will evaluate John’s work in three ways: as a chronicle of historical events; as a sympathetic history of persecution and piety embraced by ancient and modern communities alike; and as a politically driven, prescriptive narrative aimed at peace building. The deep grooves of such a textured narrative surface—compiling over fifty-eight separate figures set in various historical moments—allow for the possibility of multiple interpretations as well as veiled authorial intents. I argue that John’s work is as collusive as it is suggestive, envisioning a community that combined an emperor’s interests with a bishop’s faith. Subsequent communities have read these documents variously, searching for truths that match their own worldview. This, in many ways, is the brilliance of the multivalent compilation. It is possible to read the text as a chronicle of saints’ lives, a commemoration of Miaphysite struggles, or as a text aimed at managing and acknowledging the communal memory of Miaphysites while prescribing a coalescence of divided groups under Justinian’s imperial power. I argue that given John’s relationship with the emperor, the saintly stories he chose to include, and his focus on paganism as the primary issue facing the empire, the latter reading is most compelling. The intended reconciliation is generated by a compilation that is able to acknowledge the memory of past struggles, envision piety and providence as primary goals of the saintly community, and reframe the struggle against the pagan other. The hagiographical compilation of John of Ephesus is a particularly dynamic work with abundant ancient and contemporary meanings. At the outset, it appears to be a bishop’s rendering of pious individuals in the capital of Constantinople and the Syrian hinterlands leading up through the sixth century. It reads well as such a work, highlighting the troubling nature of everyday life these Christian ascetics faced in dealing with demons, pagans, money-hungry deed holders, and persecuting officials of the dominant sect. Their power to overcome any given situation is remarkably consistent and tells “a” story of what one might experience if they pursued the pious life of askesis in these “deserts” of the Eastern provinces.6

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Susan Harvey’s 1990 monograph Asceticism and Society in Crisis tells this story well, highlighting sectarian maneuvering, Syriac literary influences, hagiographical comparisons, and an impressive historical treatment of the region and its figures.7 As we examine John’s curious position in the capital, questions begin to emerge regarding his political leanings, his commitment to a theological heritage, and his own understanding of how a society—deeply intertwined with imperial Christian faith—should be envisioned in this emerging Byzantine world.8 Utilizing John’s proximity to the imperial household, the Emperor Justinian’s wider program of pagan conversion and jurisprudential developments, a question of the dating of the text, and the literary material John chose to represent his saints, this chapter will propose some new possibilities for reading John’s work. In doing so, it will affirm a growing, scholarly consensus that other layers of “truth” beyond historical veracity are possible in Christian hagiography, and John’s Lives of the Eastern Saints.

Collecting hagiographies in a tumultuous world John of Ephesus records his saints in a unique way, weaving autobiographical details into the narrative accounts of his subjects. A few chapters into his compilation he records the marvels of his early life. John was born sometime around the year 507 in a territory called Ingilene in Northern Mesopotamia.9 Having contracted the same disease that took his elder brothers’ lives before the age of two, John was taken by his parents to seek help from the local saints. They arrived to find a man named Maro, living on a column, crying day and night, “My Lord, let not this stone be to me a conductor to torment, but a conductor to life.”10 Holy Maro had climbed atop the column that his brother had occupied for thirty-eight years prior to his passing. Hearing John’s parents’ pleas for help, Maro told them to feed the lifeless boy lentils. Thinking him already dead, the parents and fellow monks acted only after Maro’s continued urging. John, tasting the lentils, was awoken from his slumber and revived. Maro told John’s parents to rear him for two more years and then deliver him back to Maro, who was his “spiritual father.”11 This story, in addition to setting the tone of the miraculous tales John will witness, indicates the intimate connection between John of Ephesus and the ascetics’ lives he relates. We might also introduce the question of “truth” at the outset of John’s life in his retelling. John certainly believed that these stories held power in the lives of those who lived on in their telling. His own life was a testament to the power of the saints in accomplishing God’s will, even when the outlook appeared to be at its bleakest. John lived out his early years residing in and traveling widely within the ascetic communities of his youth. When he was fifteen, his spiritual father Maro died. Joining up with the monastic community of Amida in the 520s, John remained with this exiled Miaphysite community until about 540, when he came to Constantinople.12 The empire, at this point, was deeply divided between the followers of the Council of Chalcedon and the communities that held to “one nature” in Christ. A brief treatment of this development will help texture John’s own theological situation.

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Following the conversion of Constantine and his calling of the first council of Nicaea, the church had struggled to put forward a faithful way to represent Christ in relation to his humanity and his role as the Son in the Trinity. Nicaea had affirmed—perhaps too facilely—that the Father and Son were homoousios, or of the same substance or being, even though it was found nowhere in the scriptures and set the scene for nearly a century of discord on the issue. The Council of Constantinople 381 had tried to clear up the issue under the guidance of Emperor Theodosius I and a group of influential, Nicene-leaning theologians from Cappadocia. The outcome was the Trinity, affirmed in three persons operating in one substance or ousia. A half century later in 431, the conciliar focus returned to the nature of Christ as both man and God, and grappled with just how to parse the many instances of Christ acting like a human being (weeping, changing or pleading) vis-à-vis his supposed power as the Word of God incarnate. The issue was initially settled in favor of Cyril of Alexandria, against figures like Nestorius, who said Christ must have two distinct natures—dyo two or physis nature—dyophysite. The opposition, those who affirmed a single combined nature of Christ—monophysite or Miaphysite—13 enjoyed a short victory until the Council of Chalcedon 451 affirmed that Christ was indeed to be understood as having “two natures, unconfusedly, unchangeably, indivisibly, inseparably . . . combining in one person and hypostasis.”14 This extremely brief history of early conciliar Christology gives a necessary backdrop for understanding how John’s works were situated amid the Syrian ascetic communities and the Constantinopolitan Chalcedonians who were in power before, during, and after the reign of Justinian I (527–565 C.E.). Much like the conflict with Arius over the subordination of the Son—which lasted well over a century—the conflict over the nature(s) of Christ was not destined to go away quickly. It was the primary theological issue during Justinian’s reign. John of Ephesus was raised in a Miaphysite community of monks, and in the year 529, during his period of exilic travel to several monasteries, he was ordained deacon by John of Tella. This action was just one of many underground ordinations intent on bolstering the Miaphysite clergy.15 John of Tella is said to have ordained 170,000 men into Miaphysite clerical service. These numbers were clearly an exaggeration, and perhaps betray a building up of the Miaphysite communal ego. Harvey notes, however, that John had been efficacious in achieving two irrevocable steps, “First, a network of ecclesiastical leaders had been established, ensuring the renewed care of the Miaphysite congregations; second, the precedent of an independently ordained Miaphysite structure had been established.”16 It is possible to read this as a foundational moment for the Miaphysite movement, but also, given the extreme exaggeration, as John’s hyping John of Tella’s life in order to further his own program of acknowledgment and conversion. Until John reached his early thirties, he had spent most of his life traveling in the Amidan ascetic communities, “fleeing persecutors” and finding shelter in “makeshift conditions.”17 During this time we can assume that he collected many of the stories that he eventually turns into the Lives of the Eastern Saints.18 We know very little about the transition that took place from John’s life of ascetic wandering to

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his taking up residence in Constantinople. It is certain, however, that the empress Theodora’s Miaphysite leanings had some sort of influence on this. As empress and wife of the “Chalcedonian” emperor, Justinian, she plays an interesting role in the story of how John came into the capital and came to be closely relied upon by her husband’s administration. The mismatched theologies of Justinian and Theodora are recorded in the histories of Procopius and Euagrios Scholastikos. Ancient historians speculated widely on the marriage of a Miaphysite actress to a Chalcedonian emperor. Procopius held that, For a long time they appeared to all to be at variance both in their characters and in their actions; but afterwards this disagreement was seen to have been purposely arranged between them, in order that their subjects might not come to an agreement and rise against them, but might all be divided in their opinion. First, they split up the Christians into two parties and brought them to ruin, as I shall tell you hereafter, by this plan of pretending to take different sides.19

A nuanced view is heard from Euagrios, who speculated that Justinian and Theodora divided the empire along lines of religious loyalties to secure financial and political gain from both.20 We cannot accept either view without some reservation. They were likely not intent on keeping the empire divided, either for protection or political and financial gain. Every late Roman emperor knew that a divided church was an interminable problem, bent on wasting resources.21 It seems equally impossible to consider them as wholly divided on these matters without either lessening the severity of the theological disagreement or questioning their relationship. But if we think of them as foremost concerned with ruling a divided Byzantine state, the picture comes into focus. How better to rule a divided world than to acknowledge both sides’ claims and give them a share in the rule by way of an advocate in the imperial household? They could play off of each other with ease, moving both sides closer to a common ground by keeping lines of communication open.22 To do this they would need agents like John of Ephesus. He was Miaphysite, ascetic, but also able to move easily in the circles of the imperial retinue. It is possible he shared, with Justinian, the greater vision of a united and powerful Byzantine Empire. Harvey cites Michael the Syrian, who reported “that John propagated Chalcedonian faith because he was acting at the emperor’s behest, and that he judged it a lesser evil than paganism or Montanism.”23 Although we might question whether he was in full support of Chalcedonian faith, Michael is certainly on to something. Procopius is notorious for relating the “true” personality of Theodora the actress in his Secret History.24 His spurious treatment of the queen may only provide one point of truth, that she was an actress of some sort. Whether Justinian fell in love with her or chose her is up for debate. Procopius attributes it to being smitten with “extraordinary passion.”25 Perhaps Theodora was an actress, and as actors are prone to do, they can take on the most compelling roles. Along these lines, we might speculate that Justinian chose her for her ability to play the part of Miaphysite

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sympathizer and wife of the great Chalcedonian emperor. The Miaphysite Syrians rewrote the story of Theodora’s youth: The child of a circus family who grew up on stage as a sexual acrobat became the chaste daughter of a Miaphysite priest in the eastern provinces, with whom the young Justinian fell in love while on a military campaign. Her parents, this story went, were alarmed by Justinian’s Chalcedonian views and agreed to a betrothal only on the grounds that he would leave her faith unchanged.26

Whatever the reader makes of these vastly different portrayals, there seems to have been some theological fluidity in the imperial palaces concerning the debate over the natures of Christ. Justinian did not appear to be as stringently opposed to his wife’s position as we might imagine. Harvey notes, “Monophysite sources present a confused memory of the matter. Even some of the sources that record the persecutions offer praise for Justinian’s religious activities.”27 Acknowledging this softer side of Justinian, it is hard to imagine him persecuting the Miaphysites with any real sincerity.28 If this were the case, he would have had to start in his own palaces by some accounts of the situation. During the reigns which bookended Justinian’s rule, that of Justin I and Justin II, the Miaphysite persecutions, as recounted by John of Ephesus, were far more intense. Justinian appeared to show cooperation with the downtrodden community by choosing John, a known Miaphysite, for the role of “converter of pagans” in the interior of Syria. This was likely Justinian’s way of pulling the empire back together after his uncle Justin I’s harshness. John saw fit or was encouraged to craft a piece of hagiographical literature that served more purposes than simply highlighting the ascetic Miaphysite plight in a time of distress. It is possible to consider that John was employed by Justinian for a particular purpose—perhaps like his marriage to Theodora and her dabbling in the aid of Miaphysites. He appointed John to show that he was not as strict as his uncle and was consequently looking for a solution to the animosity. We gain some sense of this in Justinian’s avoidance of Chalcedonian language when he circulates his statement of faith, ca. 527.29 Later in his reign, Justinian also circulates anathemas, which could signal a search for a common enemy against whom everyone could rally.30 John, Theodora, and Justinian were all navigating a tenuous and somewhat disingenuous path between the Chalcedonian and Miaphysite parties.31 The one thing they seemed to have in common was a desire for God’s powerful, imperially generated blessings and peace.

Supporting evidence from John’s Lives of the Eastern Saints The length of this chapter limits our investigation to only a couple of the fiftyeight lives that John explores in his hagiographical compilation. A few important figures will serve to give us some feel for how John’s hagiographies are crafted in the broader work, and allow some conclusions regarding the multiple readings available in this valuable hagiography.

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Habib John’s first vignette in his collection is built upon the fantastic deeds of the holy man Habib. According to the narrative, Habib took over the monastery from his superior around the age of thirty. He had lived with him for twenty years. John relates the power of Habib explaining that he often did not even have to act, but people made remission “of their own free will” out of “fear of the blessed man.”32 When Habib spoke, “God would perform in action everything that he said without delay, because he saw his zeal and readiness and the keenness of his purpose.”33 Habib is presented as an agent of God, whose will was also perfectly aligned. John’s first complete story displays the theme of monastic power and divine justice in civil, legal dealings.34 This is due in no small part to the eventual judgment and death sentence that Habib effects in its wake. John explains that there was an old man who had an ancient debt and he “used to plunder many people.”35 The plundered people told Habib of the man and he set out to speak to him. When the debt holder heard of this, he quickly gathered up his deeds and fled. Upon learning of this, Habib states, “Because his will was thus prepared to do evil toward these poor men, if God wills their deliverance, let them never see him again.”36 In the same night, the man died. Habib protects the poor by enlisting God’s justice in an immediate form. As if to show that more good became of this than just the man’s punishment, John relates that the dead man’s wife and children returned the deeds to their rightful owners. It is not only a story of God’s retribution, but also a story of legal adjudication and corrective justice. The people received back ownership of their land and the offending party received the punishment that was due him. It appears that Habib was greatly interested in matters of debt remission; John says the fear of him spread as well as his fame among the poor. Habib was happy to be helpful to any widower or impoverished person who called on him for help. The subsequent story tells of some poor men who beseeched Habib for help against another creditor who had kept the debts for several years. When the man hears of Habib’s enlistment, he says, “Will not this fellow go and sit in his monastery and be quiet? For see! He comes out and wanders about to eat and drink.”37 These inflammatory words were enough to send Habib reeling in self-doubt about his assumed role between the solitary life and the social cause.38 Returning to his monastery he prays, Lord who knows what is in the hearts of all, if you know that I came out in this business in order to eat and drink, forgive this man. And again, if your grace knows that it is for the sake of your name and for the sake of the deliverance of the wronged that I have come out, in order that this same thing may be made known to this man and to everyone else, do with him as your grace knows how.39

With this “grace exacted forthwith from the man requital for the old man,” and the Lord “smote him, and half of him became withered, one of his eyes and one of his arms, and the whole of his side, and one of his feet, and he fell into grievous affliction.”40 The punished man finds out that it is a punishment for his actions

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and immediately sends out intercessors asking that the saint pray for him. Habib responds through one of his disciples saying, “Go, my son; we for our part will not close the door, and pray for him. But the rest of the sentence has gone forth against him, that he shall depart from life; and this we cannot reverse.”41 John presents Habib as a caring old man who would still pray for the health of the man, even though he precipitated his death directly prior to this. In the wonderful words, “as your grace knows how,” John has pieced together the most careful and deliberate phrasing for a holy man who wishes one of his problematic neighbors would disappear. We suppose that Habib gets what he is hoping for regardless of his veiled language of supplication. The community wanted to be rid of the man’s usury and what better way to show the providence of God coupled with the power of the holy man than for Habib’s prayer to result in death? This was not, however, an immediate death. Since it came on gradually, withering only half of the man’s body, it gave him time to acknowledge the holy man’s power and his own sinful ways. This gradual but immediate judgment is of a perfect style for hagiographical representation. It promotes the power of God over any other claims of authority; it places this power squarely in the hands of God’s agents, and it is traceable only so far as the holy man, that is, we do not even know the name of the man who died.42 This is not to say that the story is not true, but rather that it contains truths that are not of the verifiable order. Similar to so many wonderful stories of religious movements, this hagiography abounds with a number of truths concerning holiness, intimidation of the poor, God’s power, retributive justice, and communal ethics. None of these truths, however, pass the test of verifiability. The hagiography intentionally shields us from the possibility of examining the details for veracity in its regular usage of unnamed subjects and secondhand narratives.43 When the debt-holding man died during the prayer of Habib’s disciple, the story spread quickly and according to John, “fear and the terror of him went out thenceforth in every place.”44 The story is reminiscent of a scriptural example in the Acts of the Apostles Chapter 5, where the story of Ananias and Sapphira is told.45 In both instances God’s actions to bring about death are administered through the association of God’s chosen representatives, either the apostles or the ascetics. When word spreads, so does fear. Fear is useful for teaching in ways that tales of old men’s piety is not. John certainly subscribes to the idea that God is willing and able to exact a similar punishment through his holy agents at any time necessary for the support of his providence. We should mark here the critique that the man holds of Habib’s activity in society. Asking, “Will not this fellow go and sit in his monastery and be quiet? For see! He comes out and wanders about to eat and drink,” is a direct response on John’s part to those who would question the monk’s role as legal actor in society.46 Should the Miaphysite monk be ashamed for leaving his monastery? Should he not act on behalf of those who need his assistance, namely the poor and cheated in society? John portrays Habib as perfectly introspective, questioning his own role in earnestness, yet in the end showing God’s power. The message rings through this hagiographical vignette with clarity. No ascetic should be confined to the monastery. It was time for God’s power to be made manifest in society

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and the ascetic, as an imperial agent of justice, was as prime an ambassador, as he was arbiter. A final point on the figure of Habib comes in John’s relation of the holy man to a passage from Job. John quotes, “Who hath contended with him and hath had peace?”47 It is interesting that John chose to cite this quote from Job. It is not the standard, perennial citation of patience through worldly suffering, but rather an identification with genuine power, portraying the saint as a wielder of power on par with the divine. Whereas one could conceive of the ascetic, with his struggles through worldly pain and temptation, identifying with the tormented Job figure, John of Ephesus twists the association. The quote would seem to align the holy Habib with God, rather than with Job. Of all the characters of the Hebrew scriptures, Job contends with more abuse and punishment than any other.48 Indeed, numerous references to Job can be seen in ascetic texts. J. R. Baskin has noted that Job occupies a prominent place in Patristic exegesis because of his embodiment of suffering as a means to salvation as well as a prefiguring of Christ.49 What is surprising, however, is the shift our holy man has made from suffering servant to divine agent. John is depicting Habib as a saint who embodies the power of God to mete judgment, as much as the power of a local judge to administer justice. The Miaphysite monk is not a simple recluse, but a formidable part of society, imbued with power and acting on behalf of Byzantine citizens. John begins his compilation not with a story of Miaphysite persecution, but triumph and communal leadership. For an even clearer picture of this power in the realm of conversionary tactics, we will turn to the vibrant and bold figure of Simeon.

Simeon the Mountaineer Simeon used to spend eight months of his year in caves on the mountains and then make his way down to a monastic convent for the winter. On one occasion he happened upon a community perched on a mountain near the Euphrates River. He was surprised to find cattle and other domestic animals there and substantial homes scattered about in the terrain. Simeon enquires about the community from some shepherds he sees, who inform him that “we found our fathers living in this way on these mountains; and, inasmuch as we were born on them, lo! we also live on them.”50 Simeon asks the men how they are able to assemble in God’s house and hear the holy scriptures and partake in the mysteries of “his body and blood” if they live here in such seclusion.51 The men answer with laughter saying, “How, blessed sir, does the oblation that a man receives profit him? For what is the oblation?”52 Simeon shakes with fright at this uninformed comment and is moved to tears for them, asking if they are Christians or Jews.53 The men, picking up on the old man’s intensity, replied that they were Christians, but that they had only heard the scriptures from their fathers and never had seen them.54 Describing the people as worse off than animals, Simeon begins to take his leave when a realization strikes him. He states, “Perhaps it was indeed for this reason that God’s grace led me to the mountains here, in order that there may be salvation for these

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souls that are in the darkness of error.”55 Simeon resolves to stay in the area and win the souls for God. He comes upon a village and sees a little church that raises his hopes. Inside, however, is a dilapidated and dusty chapel where Simeon takes up residence. Simeon asks the people of the town to fast for a week and reconvene with him after breaking bread together on the first day of the week. When they return, he inquires after the children of the community and whether they had been made a part of the covenant and received tonsure. The people respond that they had not, because they had little time left after tending to the goats. This is where the story takes a very interesting turn. Simeon calls on the people to bring all of their children with them to the church the following Sunday. Equipping himself and a companion from the group with a razor, he dismissed the parents saying, “Allow all the little ones to receive a present today, and we will bless them and speak with them . . . and thus they may remember it as long as they live.”56 To the little ones he explained, “You will receive presents, and we will mix them for you. Remain all of you.”57 Ninety children remained and Simeon shut the doors and separated out one-third of them from the group. The remaining sixty he secured in a separate room. Simeon then, “soothing them with blandishments,” shaved the boys and girls who he had selected. He then released the sixty boys and girls to see their siblings and friends and run home to tell their parents what had happened. Some mothers, obviously shaken by the event, declared that their sons should not be called sons of the covenant and lashed out at Simeon. He accepted the abuse, laughing through their wrathful response. Simeon replied, “They are yours, my sons; they are not going to destruction; they are being presented to Christ, while they are yours.”58 Two parents stood out, however, saying, “We will not present one of them to Christ.” Simeon goes on to explain, “Have mercy upon your souls, my sons, and do not be obstinate and deprive yourselves of your children, and incur blame.”59 He continued, “Beware, for, if you take them away, I for my part have testified, and I testify again, that neither of them will reach next first day of the week in this bodily life.” The parents of the two boys replied, “If you think that your curses are so well heard, go and curse these Huns who are coming and making havoc of creation, and let them die.”60 Within three days both boys were dead. Terror spread and the people came and fell down before Simeon saying, “We have been presumptuous, sir, forgive us; lest you curse us also and we die.”61 Then he spoke, I, my sons, did not curse these either (far be it!); but God took them away, that he might chastise you yourselves for your presumption against his work; since it was not in our name, but in the name of God himself and in his word that I marked them. And now go repent and pray to God that he will forgive you, lest you also perish as well.62

Simeon lives on in this capacity as a sort of spiritual dictator for twenty-six years in the village. John relates “all these mountains also had been brought into subjection, and they trembled to commit any breach of order, lest the old man should hear it and separate them from the fellowship of men, or that he should curse them.”63 It

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is difficult to read this last line and consider Simeon’s role as anything less than the powerful wielder of curse that he himself approximated. Even though he is careful to distance himself from curse language in the previous section, it is clear that this is how the people in his community understood his role. The story remains unapologetically presented by John of Ephesus as an example of how the holy Simeon lived his life and utilized the power of God. John’s message is that one should not question or challenge the authority of the holy man who was now more than just a hermit operating in his own tiny cell in a distant monastery. The holy man was acting as clergyman, abbot, and above all, governor of this mountain town. The ascetic was no longer limited in the power he could wield in retribution, conversion, or reform. A mountainous community that was verging on pagan belief was fertile ground for John’s converting monks. The overriding issue this story presents was not whether the Miaphysites were right, but how the monk should engage in conversion of the pagan other.

John of Hephaestopolis In one of John’s lives, he tells the story of John of Hephaestopolis. This monk found his way to the capital and maintained a close relationship with Theodora. The story conjectures that she had been “appointed queen by God to be a support for the persecuted against the cruelty of the times,” and that she supplied them with “provisions and liberal allowances.”64 In the course of events, John of Hephaestopolis’s enemies in the capital, including some bishops, devised a plan to get him to leave. They “concocted a petition purporting to come from him” asking for leave from the capital.65 Theodora, thinking that it would benefit his health to get some recreation, agreed and sent him a message telling him to go. John’s enemies interfered with the message, convincing him that the empress was trying to spare his life since Justinian had ordered his death. After pretending to believe them, John made his way to the empress’s court and sorted out the situation. The text here is particularly interesting, since, when the lies came to light, the deceivers were condemned to death. This outcome of justice is precisely what we might expect, given our reading of Habib and Simeon. In this case, however, John “with great entreaty delivered them from death, and did not requite them according to their deeds.”66 That an ordaining Miaphysite like John would be protected by the court is certainly significant. What is even more remarkable is that he would spare the lives of those Chalcedonian enemies who had caused him such trouble.67 John of Ephesus appears to be signaling a hope for reconciliation between the two parties alongside a program of retribution for those who fall outside of the Christian fold. A later, engaging narrative is spun concerning how John of Hephaestopolis had disregarded Theodora’s injunction to not ordain in the capital and had traveled secretly around the empire converting and ordaining in the name of the Miaphysite communion.68 Theodora’s concern as compared to John of Ephesus’s rendering of Theodora’s concern could be read in two different ways. Harvey reads Theodora

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as not being able to control the movement of Miaphysite ordination citing that she “begged” John to “keep quiet . . . and not make priests in this city.”69 If we think of John as rendering a movement that was geared toward pagan conversion and less interested in simply converting Chalcedonians to Miaphysite views, we get a different perspective. John was summoning a character in John of Hephaestopolis that embodied the missionary stylings necessary to grow a Christian empire, while at the same time feeding the Miaphysite community the messages of reconciliation and power they wanted to hear. If we consider the possibility that Justinian’s own theological leanings toward the Chalcedonian perspective were more a function of connecting with the broader empire, and in particular the Western Church of Rome, we might relax the historical reading of Justinian as a persecutor of Miaphysitism. Ecclesiastical growth in any community would help to accomplish Justinian’s goals of a Christian empire, especially when pagan forces were making inroads from the East and North of his capital. Justinian knew that in the end, battle against the pagan would trump any internal Christian conflict. John of Ephesus supports this notion with a quote from this story of John of Hephaestopolis. He states, “In this time of [the church’s] distress also [God] set up these two pillars of light [John of Tella and Hephaestopolis] in it to comfort it; by whose holy prayers may schisms and strifes be done away from within it until the end, Amen!”70 If John was simply interested in promoting a Miaphysite community, he would not be calling for the ending of schisms and strifes, unless he thought the Miaphysites had a chance of converting the whole world to their views. Given his proximity to the capital, thereby giving him a broader view of what was happening in the West, it is not likely this was his argument. Again, if we rethink this along the lines of a melding Christian sensibility of conversion, which Justinian undoubtedly hoped for, John of Hephaestopolis’s words calling for peace fit nicely.

Theodore A final, brief example from John’s work further exemplifies the nuanced relationship Justinian had with his Miaphysite subjects.71 Theodore was a chamberlain of Justinian who requested retirement to quartermaster (castrensis), so that he could subsequently retire in two years.72 Having been granted this request he took his acquired wealth from being at court and spread it widely. Justinian, who was “edified by him and loved him” found out about his squandering all of his wealth and called Theodore back to court to chastise him for disbursing it so quickly. To solve the problem Justinian gives the man an allowance of one thousand darics a year.73 Justinian working closely in harmony with a Miaphysite in his court is surprising enough, given the common assumption that Justinian, as Chalcedonian, pursued some level of persecution throughout his reign. When this is coupled with Justinian’s bestowal of bounty on Theodore, we are left to wonder what message is being conveyed.

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A final note on dating E. W. Brooks dates John’s work to 566, with revisions in 567 and 568, a year or two into the reign of Justinian’s successor, but gives no evidence—perhaps this is taken from Dyakonov’s 1908 biography. Harvey follows his dating, offering that it was probably written in his monastery outside of Constantinople.74 Given the confused nature of his personal chronology in his texts, which Brooks calls “an almost insoluble puzzle,” I think we should be open to an earlier date.75 Brooks’s date is a good eighteen years before John’s death, and quite early in a history of sustained persecutions that would leave John eventually jailed in his final year of life. If his work was circulated during Justin II’s rule, under the duress of John Scholasticus’s persecution of the Miaphysites, it takes on a commemorative flavor—reminiscing the faithful ascetics who had founded these embattled communities and perhaps building up a persecuted community by portraying its ascetics as powerfully ordained in God’s favor. In this sense, his message would have been to remember the power of the saint to correct society and exemplify the true “orthodox” faith—here meaning Miaphysite. If we accept a date for John’s work that is within Justinian’s lifetime, the hagiographies take on a particularly interesting flavor. His work would have been clearly meant to reconcile, remember, and articulate a particular program for saintliness that was wrapped up in conversionary practice and the legalistic notions of justice that Justinian had recently begun promulgating. I lean toward the latter, that this hagiography was written during Justinian’s reign and perhaps circulated during this time when reconciliation was being modeled by Justinian and Theodora in their own palaces. We can, however, be relatively sure that John’s narratives were collected prior to this, when John was traveling widely in the ascetic communities, before coming to Constantinople. As further evidence that John wrote his Lives at a time that was more peaceful than Justin’s reign, we can compare John’s tone in his third volume of Ecclesiastical History, written to record the period of struggle under John Scholasticus. John states, “For I am fully aware that the times of the world are on the wane, and all but spent: yet have I recorded these events, because I would have men know them during the period, short though it be, ere this woebegone world shall pass away.”76 His outlook on the world is at its bleakest here.77

Synthesis This chapter has asked whether John of Ephesus was just relating stories aligned with his own theological community that he heard during his earlier ascetic career. His complicated position in the capital and his affirmation of the Miaphysite faith would suggest otherwise. Having examined just a few of John’s lives, we perceive an interesting set of themes developing. John is envisioning holy persons who are: just, acting to mete out God’s punishment in an empire teetering on the edge of disaster; powerful, able to employ God’s power to end a life or bring it back

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in an instant and in this way justifying the claims of Miaphysite orthodoxy; and conversion-oriented, interested in forcing pagan people and their towns back to the faith of their fathers and the emperor. I would like to propose that John wrote the Lives during a time of relative peace and reconciliation in the capital. His hagiography can be read as a prescriptive piece, promoting a vision of an idealized ascetic community that was active in conversion of the pagan, adjudicating disputes, and applying retribution when necessary. Could this be read as a model for keeping an antagonistic sect from squaring off with the emperor or patriarchal administration? Indeed, those narratives within the collection that pit Miaphysites against their Chalcedonian enemies can be read as valorizing and acknowledging the communities which had undergone serious persecutions in Justin I’s reign. To this I would also add that John’s work, like many hagiographies, is particularly malleable. If one were to pick up the Lives during the patriarchate of John Scholasticus, under Justin II, it would certainly be read as a disseminating vehicle, publicizing the unfortunate history and resulting conditions of the Miaphysite community. Heroic deeds would be seen as an acknowledgment of God’s favor. Modern Miaphysite communities could read it similarly, recognizing in these texts the history of an ascetic community striving for “orthodoxy” in adverse conditions.78 I have employed the work of John of Ephesus because he exemplifies the variety of paths interpretation can follow from ancient to contemporary historiography. John has been read as a Miaphysite sympathizing preserver of saintly vitae, an enigmatic and poorly skilled historian, and now a politically astute promulgator of imperial interests. I offer this not as a final reading, but another possible voice proclaiming “truth” from John’s work. If we return to Bakhtin’s thoughts on the dialogic between text and reader, we might affirm that John’s text will continue to have meaning beyond even what we can conceive today.79 For now, the notion that John’s hagiography polyphonically rendered a politically invested picture of the ideal saint is most compelling. I argue it was meant to reconcile by acknowledging struggle and reframing that struggle as providentially ordained heroism against the pagan other. The Syrian monks likely knew John of Ephesus was Justinian’s man as much as he was theirs, and he would have to be in order to hold such a prominent position in the administration. Justinian was likely trying to appease the Miaphysites by bringing on one of their own. It becomes clear that John’s hagiographical compilation represents not simply a contentious community awaiting divinely ordained revolution, but an active community, engaged in all of the things an emperor like Justinian was eager to see accomplished. As to the question of “truth” in these hagiographical narratives, we cannot speak of just one. This is a twilight reminiscence of his early years spent in ascetic rigor and religious persecution, as well as a persuasive imperial treatise outlining a prescription for ascetic activity in the provinces. It is a testament to the power of God in a time of turmoil that included invading armies, earthquakes, famine, and plague, as well as an acknowledgment of the suffering that many Miaphysites underwent, with the underlying hope of reconciliation and peace. And finally,

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in contemporary Miaphysite sects, it is a history redolent of the ancestral deeds accomplished in an ancient and holy church community—a history that is as captivating today as it was to John’s target audience. Upon reflection, all of these readings of the Lives can be sustained by its text, marking once again the marvelous pliability and enduring historical significance of late ancient Christian hagiography.

Part IV C ase S tudies in C omparison

Chapter 11 Saints from the Margin: Rescuing Tradition through Hagiography in the Lives of Sylouan the Athonite and Milarepa Thomas Cattoi

The purpose of this paper is to explore the role of hagiography in contexts where religious traditions experience profound transformation, either as the result of external sociopolitical pressures or as a consequence of inner theological and institutional dynamics. As a contested tradition is reconceptualized or needs adapting to changed cultural circumstances, the lives of saints offer a bridge between an earlier form of the tradition and its current incarnation, where beliefs and practices from a former time are appropriated and reinterpreted so as to underscore the tradition’s continuity and integrity. This chapter will explore the life of Sylouan the Athonite (1866–1938), as set out in the works of Archimandrite Sophrony Sakharov (1896–1993),1 and the life of the Tibetan ascetic Milarepa (Mi la ras pa, ca. 1052–1135), as described in the biography written by Tsangnyön (Gtsang Smyon) Heruka (1452–1507).2 Sophrony’s “transmission” of Sylouan’s life and teaching to the Orthodox diaspora and a broader Western public affirmed the continuous vitality and relevance of the Orthodox monastic and ascetic tradition in a context where Orthodox Christianity no longer functioned within integrally Orthodox polities and societies. In a similar way, Heruka’s Life of Milarepa turned the figure of a marginal ascetic, whose life and deeds were shrouded in legend, into a pivotal figure in the Tibetan Buddhist tradition at a time when the bKa’ brgyud order saw its influence increasingly eroded by the growth of the Gelug monastic order and its tendency to privilege philosophical speculation over yogic and devotional practice. A joint reading of these two hagiographies will suggest that both contemporary Orthodoxy and premodern Tibetan Buddhism use hagiography as a tool to alternatively strengthen or redefine the shape and doctrinal boundaries of their religious tradition. At the same time, this comparative exercise will also illumine a number of points of contact, as well as differences, in how the two traditions understand subjectivity, ultimate or divine reality, and the nature and purpose of spiritual practice.

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The Starets3 and His Disciple After his death on Mount Athos in 1938, the figure of Sylouan might have sunk into oblivion, or might have only survived in the local memories of his monastic community, if not for the work of Archimandrite Sophrony Sakharov, who had become a disciple and confidante of Sylouan in the last years of the elder’s life. In 1952, Sakharov published a collection of Sylouan’s writings accompanied by a longer text that was partly biography, partly commentary, and partly speculative reflection, which contextualized Sylouan’s spiritual vision in the Athonite monastic milieu, but simultaneously underscored the theological continuity between his understanding of asceticism and deification on one hand, and the centurieslong tradition of Russian Orthodox monasticism on the other. In the period following the Second World War, Sakharov was quickly becoming one of the leading figures in the movement to preserve or, indeed, recreate this very tradition in Western Europe, after the ravages of the Bolshevik revolution and decades of Soviet persecution had laid waste to the vast majority of Russia’s monastic centers, and the great Russian monasteries on Athos languished for lack of recruits. His hagiographic writings on Sylouan, who had been his master and spiritual director on Athos in the 1930s, enabled him to present himself as a legitimate heir of this tradition. Sophrony’s mission was to preserve and continue the tradition of the great masters of the Holy Mountain and prerevolutionary Russia, who in turn had labored to keep alive the theological and spiritual legacy of the Philokalia.4 Sylouan and Sakharov were very different men: the former was simple and unlearned, the latter was urbane, well traveled, and highly educated. Both, however, were typical products of late-nineteenth and early-twentieth-century Russian society, where a highly sophisticated élite existed along vast impoverished masses.5 Sylouan was born Symeon Ivanovich Antonov in 1866 in the province of Tambov and, after serving his required stint in the Tsarist army, reached Mount Athos in 1892, where he received the small habit6 in 1896 at St. Panteleimon Monastery.7 The archives of the monastery contain very little information about his subsequent life: while Sylouan had to return to his country to serve in the army again during the Russo-Japanese war, after 1906 the records list only few occasional trips to St. Panteleimon’s dependency in Kalamareia, near Thessaloniki, to accompany the monastery’s administrator. Sylouan spent the last thirty years of his life as a humble monk, receiving the great habit in 1911 and fulfilling his monastic obedience (Rus. poslushanie) at the monastery’s mill, which was located at some distance from the monastery’s main buildings and therefore gave him greater opportunity for solitary prayer. At the time of Sylouan’s death in 1938, St. Panteleimon had already started down the path of a decades-long decline after the sealing of Russia’s borders in the wake of the revolution stopped the influx of novices from the motherland. Sakharov’s existential and intellectual itinerary, for its part, reflected that of many members of fin-de-siècle Russian intelligentsia. Born in Moscow in 1896, the young Sergei Symeonovich Sakharov studied painting and sculpture at the Academy of Arts and the Moscow School of Painting. During this period

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of intense intellectual and artistic exploration, Sakharov delved into the study of Eastern religions, intrigued by the notion of an impersonal absolute that he thought for a time was more suited to the needs of modern humanity than the personal God of his Christian upbringing. His refusal to cooperate with the Soviet regime led to his departure for Western Europe and his eventual decision to settle in Paris, which was quickly becoming a center of Russian émigré life. Sakharov rediscovered the Orthodoxy of his youth and attended lectures at the budding Institute St. Serge, where he became acquainted with the thought of Sergey Bulgakov and Nicholas Berdyaev.8 Disappointed by their perceived anti-asceticism, however, and disillusioned by the art world, Sakharov decided to move to Athos and embrace the monastic life. It is between 1931 and 1938 that Sakharov, having taken residence at St. Panteleimon, took the name Sophrony, became a disciple of Sylouan, and started an extensive correspondence with David Balfour, an English Catholic who had converted to Orthodoxy. Sakharov found himself in a peculiar position: on the one hand, he was living an extraordinary experience of inner spiritual transformation with a master who had little, if any, formal education; on the other hand, he felt he lacked the conceptual and theological categories to explain to a learned outsider what this experience actually involved. As a result, he delved into an intense study of the Church Fathers and of the broader spiritual tradition of Eastern Christianity, in this way hoping to come to a better grasp of the inner universe of his elder. After the death of Sylouan, Sophrony retreated into the wilderness of Athos, until unclear circumstances forced him to leave Athos and return to Paris in 1947 after an absence of sixteen years. In Paris, Sakharov, who had received priestly ordination, found himself marginalized by the Orthodox theological establishment as he refused to break communion with the Moscow Patriarchate. It is at this point that he decided to publish Sylouan’s extant writings and offer to the world a systematic presentation of his ideas, which in his mind embodied the ideal of the monastic life in a world—and a church—that increasingly struggled to appreciate the value of asceticism. A first version in 1948 was followed by a more elaborate version in 1952 and another one in 1975.9 Thanks to these monographs, Sophrony became a sought-after spiritual director, as well as an important figure in the movement to reestablish Orthodox monasticism in the West. Sophrony would go on to establish the monastery of Saint John the Baptist at Tolleshunt Knights, in the county of Essex. Thanks largely to the popularity of Sophrony’s writings, Sylouan would be glorified by the Ecumenical Patriarchate in 1987, just six years before Sophrony’s own repose in 1993. What was the theological vision of Saint Sylouan, and how did Sophrony choose to present it to the world? We should remember that Sylouan had spent his monastic life within an establishment where obedience to one’s own spiritual master was the pivot of monastic practice, where constant prayer was the very core of spiritual life, and where monastic practice was understood as an ongoing “spiritual battle” in line with the tradition of the early Desert Fathers.10 Sylouan’s extant writings touch on each of these three themes, though his understanding of spiritual battle differs subtly, if significantly, from normative approaches to this

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issue. While Sylouan’s corpus touches on many other themes, for reasons of space we will limit ourselves to exploring these three themes; we will see later how these three themes are also present in Heruka’s biography of Milarepa. Sophrony notes that “in the eyes of the Starets, obedience is an indispensable condition of progress in the spiritual life.”11 This conception of obedience is profoundly ecclesiological and rests within a notion of tradition which embraces the whole of the church’s life, to the point that Holy Scripture itself is nothing but one of its expressions. Sylouan emphasizes the centrality of the Holy Spirit in the life of the church, so that tradition is nothing but the Spirit’s uninterrupted action within the church; if the church were to be deprived of all books of the Old and New Testament, “Tradition” would help the church recreate the Scriptures, if perhaps by using another language or another set of terms altogether.12 Obedience must then be understood pneumatologically; in obeying one’s monastic superior or spiritual director, one ultimately yields to the call of the Spirit.13 As Archimandrite Sophrony points out, in the initial stages of the monastic life obedience can take the form of a passive self-abandonment to the will of the spiritual father, reflecting one’s trust in his better understanding of the divine will for one’s life.14 As we progress, obedience takes a more active form, and we attune oneself to the needs of our own immediate community, so that we may bring about, in an act of neighborly love, what is to the best interests of our brothers. At an advanced stage, obedience enables one to “read” into the soul of every member of humanity, as one learns to see each and every person as a bearer of the divine image.15 In the words of 1 John, “If anyone says, ‘I love God’ and he detests his brother, he is a liar” (1 Jn. 4:20). Obedience is thus closely connected with humility; if we are not able to practice humility toward our brethren in the mundane matters of everyday life, how shall we practice obedience toward God’s eternal will? For Sylouan, this kind of obedience is profoundly Christological, as it brings us close to the model of Christ: in the same way as Christ in the hypostatic union could assume the whole of humanity, through the practice of obedience the life of the monk comes to acquire a universal value, participating in Christ’s salvific mission.16 Unlike early authors from the Philokalia, Sophrony is to conceptualize Sylouan’s practice of obedience and humility in psychological terms. For Sophrony, “The absence of the predisposition to obey in a man is the clearest indication of psychological illness”17; obedience simultaneously leads to selflessness and integration. On one hand, without obedience, the monk cannot develop a healthy sense of self, remaining wrapped in the selfish embrace of his own inclinations and desires; this healthy self will then be able to enter into a relationship with God, and it is only through this relationship that we can access the depths of God’s mystery. On the other hand, through obedience, the monk is able to envisage all his experiences as revelations of the common experiences of humanity. For Sylouan, each experience of physical or moral suffering, each failure and each joy, allowed him to indwell the sufferings and the joys of all members of the human race, where there was no longer distinction between oneself and one’s neighbor: as he experienced illness, he leaned spiritually over the bed of all those who experienced illness in solitude and fear.18

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Sophrony emphasizes the far-reaching character of Sylouan’s prayer. Through his reflection on the mystery of death, Sylouan was mystically united with all those who experience the wrenching separation of the soul from the body, sometimes after a period of difficult agony. In the soul of his master, Sophrony discerned a universal compassion for the whole of humanity, where his prayer assumed a universal character and was so to speak a bearer of the cosmic Adam, in the likeness of Christ at Gethsemani.19 Sophrony wishes to present the starets as the paradigm of a so-called “hypostatic” prayer, where the whole of human nature is enveloped in the embrace of our entreaties with God. Christian obedience—and here we see a major difference from its Buddhist analogue that we will analyze below—is grounded in the dialectic reality of our relationship with the Trinitarian God: God reveals himself to humanity and expects a response to his love, so that we gradually become like him.20 Sophrony was writing at a time when Europe had emerged from the ruins of two world wars and the iron curtain had sealed off whole nations from contact with the West. He thought it would be important to stress that Christian obedience is not obedience to an ideology or abstract principle, but to a person, who manifests through his commandments but invites us to a personal relationship with him. This emphasis on obedience and on one’s readiness to respond to God’s call also is congruent with Sylouan’s own understanding of monastic prayer, which Sophrony, using the starets’ own writings, presents as a school of humility and an ongoing training in spiritual discernment.21 The Orthodox spiritual tradition routinely emphasized the danger of undertaking an intense prayer life without proper guidance, and Sylouan similarly stresses that if anyone thinks that he can learn about prayer from books and manuals, he is bound to suffer from delusion (Russ. prelest’). Prayer is itself a gift that God gives to those who set out to pray; if you follow the guidelines of a spiritual director, you will experience the gift of grace, which the Holy Spirit bestows on those who pray with humility. For Sylouan, the monk is called to imitate the humility of Christ, and only in this way he is going to make any significant progress. Like the Desert Fathers in the first centuries of the Christian era, Sylouan emphasizes the danger of “thoughts,” which distract one from pure prayer22; unlike many of them, however, he presents pure prayer as a gift of the Holy Spirit, who—like a mother full of tenderness—“heals, instructs and fills us with joy” (284). Sylouan even claims that the Holy Spirit introduces us to the knowledge of Christ, since the Holy Spirit will cleanse the monks’ intellects of all obfuscations and they will finally be able to practice the Jesus prayer. It is interesting to note how Sylouan, echoing the Philokalia, but also going against the grain of Athos’ monastic culture, openly sets inner, silent prayer on a higher level than liturgical services celebrated publicly. For Sylouan, quite simply, “the best church of God, is the soul.” While the struggle against imagination plays an important role in the prayer life of the monk, who needs to shed all images of this world in order to ascend to God, it is important to remember that the first, and certainly one of the most challenging stages in the spiritual life of the monastics, is the struggle against the passions.23

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When the monk succumbs to demonic thoughts, he is immediately detached from divine life and loses his own inner freedom.24 Sophrony emphasizes, however, that for Sylouan even the worst sinner retains a margin of self-determination, so that even someone who is somehow “possessed” by a demonic thought or a sinful habit is always able to shake off the attraction of sin and move back toward God.25 Sylouan and Sophrony are merely the latest representatives of an endless chain of monastics who, from the fourth century onward, practiced the so-called “discernment of spirits” in the secret of their cells. Where Sylouan differs from the treatment of this topic in the Philokalia is in his frequent use of the language of grace: presenting the spiritual combat as an alternation of states when grace is present and when it withdraws, he emphasizes that inner growth ultimately depends on God’s help, and not merely on our own ascetic efforts. On the other hand, and perhaps more intriguingly, Sylouan discloses the depths of his own struggle in ways that are unprecedented in the Orthodox tradition, where experiences such as John of the Cross’s “dark night of the soul” are hard to find.26 Sylouan notes that victory in the spiritual combat may not entail the disappearance of demonic thoughts; rather, it may actually consist in the ability to rest in the company of such thoughts without plunging into the depths of discomfort and despair.27 Sylouan actually tells us of a day when demons came swarming into his cell, even coming between him and the icons so that he could not bow down to venerate them lest he accidentally venerate a demon. After praying for deliverance, Sylouan heard a voice telling him: “Keep your mind in hell, and despair not.” In this way, even the depths of psychological suffering that accompany one’s combat with the passions are invested with a salvific value.28

The World of Milarepa Themes of obedience to one’s spiritual master, intellectual purification and struggle with the supernatural also appear in Gtsang Smyon Heruka’s Life of Milarepa. Heruka (1452–1507) was a smyon pa or “religious madman” who at the age of twenty-one renounced his vows as a renunciant to train with a number of tantric masters such as the bKa’ brgyud teacher Shara Rab-“bjams-pa Sangs-rgyas (1427–1470). Heruka, who spent most of his life as a wondering ascetic in central Tibet, devoted his energies to the transmission of the ‘aural tradition’ (snyan brgyud) of the bKa” brgyud school, which had been preserved in its fullest form by monastics far from centers of ecclesiastical and political powers, such as the Pelkhor Chos-de monastery in Gyantse. Heruka’s work was particularly significant given the changes that at the time were transforming the religious landscape of Tibet. While the country continued to be divided into different polities until the mid-seventeenth century, the popularity of the thought of Tsong kha pa (1357– 1419) ensured a gradual move away from shamanistic and tantric approaches to the practice of Buddhism toward a more speculative approach to the dharma.29 Heruka’s hagiography of Milarepa can then be read in the context of a broader attempt by non-Gelug schools to develop a more sustained and coherent account

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of their own distinctive approach to Buddhist practice in opposition to the more structured philosophical scholasticism of Gelug.30 Heruka’s Life of Milarepa betrays the influence of the rnam thar (complete liberation) genre, which recounts the spiritual and existential itinerary of important religious figures. As Donald Lopez points out in his introduction to Heruka’s work, the hagiographic convention at the time distinguished between outer biographies, which focused on an individual’s accomplishments in the conventional world; inner biographies, which recorded their subjects’ lineages and often sketched the lives of their masters; and secret biographies, which focused on their heroes’ yogic or visionary experiences.31 Heruka’s Life of Milarepa, however, is unique as it blurs the boundaries of these three genres. Its author presents us with a highly stylized account of Milarepa’s childhood, his later peregrinations in search of revenge, and his eventual repudiation of black magic in favor of the dharma. At the same time, readers are told about his relationship with Marpa and his extraordinary feats of obedience. Finally, the whole narrative is interspersed with his famous allegorical poems, where the teachings of the dharma are interpreted through a kaleidoscope of symbols and images that draw from the repertory of Buddhist myth no less than from the landscape and the people of Tibet. Milarepa’s life is also arranged around twelve pivotal episodes, which echo the Buddha’s traditional twelve “deeds,” ensuring that the tale of the great Tibetan yogin comes to resemble as much as possible the story of Buddha Śakyamuni. The use of the first person, which ensures that the text reads like an autobiographical account, virtually conflates Milarepa’s and Heruka’s voices, bringing the former closer to the audience and simultaneously enhancing the role of the latter.32 Who was Milarepa? If the contours of much later figures from Tibetan religious histories, such as the already mentioned religious reformer Tsong kha pa, blur historical record and pious phantasy, this is all the more the case with a figure like Milarepa, who lived at a much earlier period in Tibet’s history.33 Legend tells us of a boy named Mila Thos dpa ga’, born around the year 1050, who grows up in a wealthy family, but whose possessions are taken over by a greedy uncle and aunt after the death of his father. At the request of his mother, Mila leaves to study black magic, and eventually returns to take his revenge: he summons a hailstorm that causes the death of thirty-five of his relatives.34 Horrified by the consequences of his action, Mila leaves again and decides to find a lama who would help him atone for his deeds and get rid of his negative karma. Mila then enters the service of Marpa the translator (1012–97), another historical figure whose deeds are shrouded by legend.35 Marpa proves to be a stern taskmaster, asking Mila to build and then demolish three towers. Exasperated by what appear to be pointless pursuits, Mila leaves his master to try his luck with other teachers, but he does not seem to fare much better: a Nyingma practitioner attempts to teach him the rdzogs chen practice (Great Perfection),36 but Mila makes no progress and eventually returns to Marpa. The latter, pleased with his persistence, finally agrees to teach him the dharma and confers on him a number of secret empowerments such as the inner fire (gtum-mo); thanks to this secret power, he can face the rigors of winter dressed with a simple cloth (re-pa). Mila,

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who is now known as Mila re pa, eventually leaves Marpa, becomes a solitary practitioner, and after twelve years he achieves the condition of vajradhara (utter enlightenment).37 At the age of forty-five, he moves to a cave in a location known as Drakar Taso, though he also travels across Tibet teaching the dharma. Over a period of about forty years, thousands hear him teach and are simultaneously edified and entertained by his poetic compositions, many of which are included in the One Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa.38 According to legend, he taught the dharma to twenty-one disciples, including his first biographer Rechung pa and the monastic reformer Gompopa (1079–1153), who would go on to become one of the first bKa’ brgyud masters as well as the teachers of the first Karmapa. According to tradition, Milarepa died from probable poisoning in the year 1135 at the age of eighty-four, and his passing into nirvāna was accompanied by the usual plethora of miraculous occurrences.39 Heruka’s Life emphasizes Milarepa’s lineage, foregrounding the continuity of Milarepa’s approach to the dharma with the tradition of Buddhism handed down from India, and thereby stressing the remote legitimacy of the bKa’ brgyud tradition. Marpa’s idiosyncratic teaching style was actually a form of tantric practice whose goal was to cut through all attachments and obfuscations, thus destroying our ego no less than our negative karma. In this perspective, enlightenment was not the culmination of a strenuous program of study and ascetic practice, but could blossom all of a sudden in the most unforeseen circumstances: the encounter with a bodhisattva in disguise, the chirping of a bird in a grove, or even the experience of an unfair punishment at the hands of ones’ lama could all lead to the experience of nirvāna. Marpa himself had been a disciple of the Bengali monk Atiśa (982– 1054), one of the pivotal figures in the New Transmission of Buddhism to Tibet.40 Atiśa had only come from India in the last years of his life at the invitation of a local ruler, but his teaching on the aspiration to enlightenment (bodhicitta) proved to be enormously influential, and so was his speculation on the perfection of wisdom (prajñāpāramitā) which he derived from the Madhyamaka tradition of the great monastic universities in Northern India.41 As Milarepa faithfully received the Mahayānā teaching of Atiśa and the Vajrayāna teaching of Marpa, he could reconcile the wisdom of the sūtras with the practice of the tantra. For Mahayānā, no less than Vajrayāna, obedience is ultimately fidelity to the dharma one has received; but in the world of Vajrayāna tantric practice that the bKa’ brgyud school sought to make its own, this often meant unconditional obedience to the commandments of the master. Heruka’s stories of the “deeds” of Milarepa, who obeys Marpa’s commands even when they seem to counter all reason or common sense, offer a paradigm of obedience that differs from the more predictable form of monastic obedience that was prevalent in Gelug establishments.42 We should not forget that Heruka himself chose to forsake his monastic vows at the age of twentyone, and then, like Milarepa, spent most of his life as a wondering ascetic. This did not prevent him from acquiring a considerable following and from exercising significant influence on the political and religious disputes of the time.43 Such outlandish practices of obedience, however, were meant to prepare yogins for the practice of meditation, which entailed a strenuous training of the mind. In

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Chapter 10, Heruka has Milarepa liken the mind to a stallion, which “rides like the wind” and has to be caught and tethered. Milarepa says To catch him, catch him with the lasso of non-duality. To tether him, tether with the stake of meditative absorption, If hungry, feed him the lama’s oral instructions. If thirsty, water him at the river of mindfulness. If cold, board him at the corral of emptiness. ... My prey is the demon of clinging to “I.” Thus I slay my enemies, the mental afflictions, And protect my friends, the six kind of beings. ... Racing back, I arrive at the line of enlightenment. Racing such a horse, I win Buddhahood.44 This imaginative presentation of the purpose of meditation clearly shows how the yogin is constantly striving toward a mental state transcending the dichotomy between conventional and ultimate reality and resting in the awareness of the emptiness of all things. Mindfulness will help one transcend the defilements— or “afflictions” —that cover up the pure nature of the mind. As customary in a Māhāyana—or Vajrayāna—setting, the poem also emphasizes how the pursuit of awakening is not a solitary pursuit, but is undertaken for the sake of all sentient beings. The beings of all six worlds are the beneficiaries of Milarepa’s spiritual athleticism, whose goal is to shepherd them all to nirvāna. The inextricable link between ascetic practice and the pursuit of awakening is also expressed by another poem in the same chapter: Upon the ground, the field of equanimity, I mix in water and manure of stable faith in the path. I saw the seeds of pure, untainted mind. ... With the whip of diligent exertion I till the hardened soil of five poisonous afflictions. ... From ripened ears, the truth of actions and results, I reap the harvest, a superb life of liberation.45 When a Nyingma master attempts to teach Milarepa the Great Perfection practice, promising extraordinary results with no efforts, Milarepa experiences no success. This episode reflects Heruka’s skepticism about dzogs chen, which claims to cut

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through directly to the reality of nirvāna without engaging in the necessary work of purification. Milarepa’s meditative accomplishment is so advanced that it erases the negative karma he has accumulated while dabbling in magic in his youth. His supernatural powers are described in great details in other hagiographies as well, where we also find extensive accounts of his encounters with demons and semidivine female spirits (dākinīs), all of whom are impressed with his extraordinary insight. Milarepa spiritual progress begins after he gains the ability to discern that magic powers pursued for the purpose of self-aggrandizement are bound to lead to self-destruction. Miracles are only the outward manifestation of an inner state of liberation, and are not to be sought for their own sake. Milarepa’s world is replete with crowds of supernatural beings, but even the deities that attend Milarepa’s funeral rites cannot but be impressed by his extraordinary spiritual achievements. In an episode that curiously parallels a story about the life of Sylouan, Milarepa is said to be confronted by demons who invade his cell. Utterly unperturbed, he tells them that they will have to leave together, thereby acknowledging that for the yogin who has achieved awakening demons are mere obfuscations of an already enlightened mind.46 Heruka himself was well known for practicing chod—offering his body—symbolically to demons for the sake of all sentient beings, thereby implying that the true ascetic was no longer controlled by fear of supernatural spirits.47

Hagiography and the Reshaping of Tradition For Sophrony no less than Heruka, the rescuing and simultaneous recreation of a spiritual tradition happened through the creative appropriation of a figure from the institutional margins of the tradition. Sophrony chose an obscure, semiliterate Russian monk who would have been utterly puzzled by the philosophical theology of the Institute Saint Serge; Heruka chose instead to focus on an ascetic that, while familiar with the subtleties of Madhyamaka, nonetheless places a distinct emphasis on the experiential dimension of practice and the reality of enlightenment as subverting and transcending all philosophical categories. At the same time, while a joint reading of these two hagiographies underscores a parallelism of intent in the minds of their respective authors, the three themes foregrounded in this discussion—the role of the master, prayer/meditation and “spiritual battle”—are treated in highly specific ways by the two authors, reflecting a number of irreducible differences between the theological and speculative worldviews that they espouse. The notion of eldership as developed in the Eastern Christian tradition was arguably rooted in the tension between rural monastic institutions and urban ecclesial structures in fourth and fifth century Palestine and Egypt.48 The Christian monasticism that emerged after the end of the Roman persecutions was initially independent of episcopal oversight, and very few monastics actually received priestly orders. As a result, many monastic communities lacked all semblance of a structured liturgical or sacramental life, and it was regular encounters of

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correspondence with a spiritual elder that provided a structure to the spiritual life of the individual ascetic. The elder did not derive his authority from his power to perform the sacraments of the church, but rather from his recognized virtuosity in the art of spiritual discernment. The same tension between ecclesiastical status and spiritual insight resurfaced in nineteenth-century Russia, where most elders (startsy) were not ordained priests, and as such they could offer spiritual directions but could not impart sacramental absolution in confession.49 As such, the charism of discernment escaped the customary ecclesial channels: its holder was effectively the beneficiary of a direct grace from God. One can see the analogy between this phenomenon and the reality of the Tibetan yogins who may not have held formal monastic vows or may not have concluded their traditional course of studies, but may have been the depositories of a wisdom that transcended the boundaries of monastic structures. Thanks to their popularity with ordinary lay practitioners, both startsy and yogins could potentially threaten the authority of the established clergy, who would seek to curb, and occasionally suppress their influence.50 While Sylouan and Milarepa are both instances of this kind of “marginal” holiness, there is a substantial difference as to the source of their wisdom, as well as the goal of their practice. Sylouan receives his wisdom from the Holy Spirit, who comes and wrenches him away from his condition of sinfulness and gradually frees him from his passions, introducing him to a communion with the divine where he is eventually deified. Milarepa, on the contrary, is understood as a manifestation of the all-encompassing Buddha nature (tathāgatagarbha), which is intrinsically pure even when covered by adventitious attachments. As such, while the starets would guide his disciples on this trajectory of ontological transformation and deification, his Tibetan counterpart would help his followers come to an appreciation of their real nature, in a process of gradual cognitive purification. The different versions of the Vajrayāna teaching on the Buddha bodies (kāyas) similarly envisaged all yogins as a conventional manifestation of the Buddha in the world of form (nirmanakāya), gradually introducing devotees to grasping the fundamental emptiness of the Buddha’s body of dharma (dharmakāya).51 What about the goals of spiritual practice? According to Sylouan, the purpose of inner transformation is entering into a dialogical relationship with the Trinitarian God through the mediation of the Holy Spirit. This kind of asceticism is ultimately “ekstatic,” as it compels us to leave our own selves behind, in preparation for an encounter with the transcendent God. Prayer entails an intellectual purification which manifests in acts of charity toward our neighbor as we heed the promptings of the Spirit. In this respect, Sophrony’s account of Sylouan’s spirituality echoes the writings of earlier authors such as Maximos the Confessor, who in his Liber Asceticus presents the life of Christ—the model for all ascetic practices—as an exercise in the simultaneous pursuit of theōria and praxis.52 When we turn to Milarepa’s—and Heruka’s—cosmological horizon, we see that their world is peopled with innumerable Buddhas and bodhisattvas, but in line with the tenets of Madhyamaka philosophy, the universe they inhabit lacks a creator God or a first causal principle: all the supernatural beings and phenomena that we encounter in the Life are an efflorescence of the tathāgatagarbha straddling the boundary

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between the emptiness of ultimate reality on one hand, and the plurality and contingency of the conventional world on the other. Heruka’s Milarepa impresses his devotees with his ascetic feats, and through meditation on the prajñāpāramitā comes to grasp the fundamental emptiness of reality. Yet, in order to gain this insight, one has to develop the so-called “mind of enlightenment” (bodhicitta) —in other words, one must be ready to sacrifice oneself for the benefit of all sentient beings, so all may eventually achieve awakening. This fundamental Māhāyana—and Vajrayāna—teaching ensures that awakening is then understood as intrinsically linked with the complementary pursuit of wisdom and compassion. This approach clearly parallels Sylouan’s vision, but while for the starets contemplation and love of neighbor pave the way for our ultimate communion with the divine, in the Tibetan context wisdom and compassion are themselves manifestations of the Buddha nature that encompasses all aspects of reality. For Milarepa—and for Heruka—all relationships belong to the conventional dimension, while the reality of nirvāna entails the surpassing— and indeed, the suppression of all subjectivity. These two ways of conceptualizing the goal of spiritual practice have important implications for understanding the reality of “spiritual battle” in each of the two traditions. For Sophrony, the demons tormenting Sylouan in his cell are real spiritual beings, whose goal is to thwart the spiritual progress of the starets; their antics can only be swept aside through constant prayer and trusting that God will not allow them to prevail and disrupt his plan. As noted earlier, however, when the demons invade Milarepa’s cave, the response of the yogin is quite different. His disarming suggestion that from now on, he and the demons will have to live together indicates that the latter are mere external projections of his own fears and cravings; a true tantric practitioner will not try to suppress them, but rather he will try to work with them and use their energy for a higher goal. For the Christian Desert Fathers, but also for Sylouan, discernment of spirits entailed an authentic process of discrimination between angelic and demonic inspiration: the thoughts coming from the angels had to be heeded, and those coming from the demons had to be resolutely rejected. In Milarepa’s view, all thoughts ultimately come from within ourselves; as long as we dwell in the conventional world, we may come across demons and other supernatural beings, but as we move toward enlightenment, we come to realize that all of them issue from our mind, and as such they are actually resources to be deployed as we strive for awakening. In the world of Milarepa, samsara is nirvāna and nirvāna is samsara, and there is no ontological distinction between the demons in an ascetic’s cave and the Buddhas and the bodhisattvas in the glory of their pure realms. For Sylouan, and anyone shaped by the intellectual horizon of the Philokalia, discretio spirituum teaches you to distinguish between good and evil spirits, whereas in the Vajrayāna tradition you learn to discern the fundamentally nirvanic character—as well as the emptiness—of all supernatural beings, no matter how frightening their appearance. Sophrony and Heruka deploy hagiography as an apologetic tool to buttress their understanding of a particular spiritual tradition at a time when their respective religious cultures were undergoing massive transformations due

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to changing sociocultural and political conditions. Sylouan’s formative years were spent in prerevolutionary Russia, whose official ideology saw virtually no distinction between Orthodoxy and the state, and where the Tsar was the de facto head of the church. By the time Sophrony reached adulthood, this world had utterly disappeared, and his dissatisfaction with Marxism and with the Western philosophy to which he was exposed in Paris ensured his return to Orthodoxy and his embrace of the monastic tradition. Sophrony’s decision to transmit Sylouan’s legacy to the modern world reflected not only his desire to rescue the monastic tradition of Russia from destruction but also his conviction that the spiritual practices preserved in Orthodox monasticism represent the purest form of Christian asceticism, and offer an answer to the deepest spiritual needs of contemporary humanity. For Sophrony, Christianity is not a theoretical system like Marxism or French existentialism, which has to be assessed on the basis of their intellectual merits: rather, it is the story of an encounter with Christ, taking place within the church which accompanies and supports our spiritual trajectory toward deification. In a world where the great monastic centers of Optina and Valaam had been shut by the Soviet government and the Russian houses of prayer on Athos were rapidly dying out, Sophrony attempted to transplant the tradition of starchestvo in a different cultural milieu, suggesting that this vision of the spiritual struggle continued to be relevant for contemporary humanity. Authoring this hagiography also established Sophrony’s own spiritual authority as a mouthpiece of Russian monasticism in the diaspora, confirming the continuity of his vision with the traditional teaching on asceticism and theōsis. Thanks to his appropriation of Sylouan’s legacy, Sophrony’s monastery at Tolleshunt Knights could become one of the leading Orthodox monastic centers in the Western Europe, in recent decades rivaling in influence even the reestablished monastic centers in the countries of the former Soviet Union. The systematic destruction of Tibet’s religious culture in the second half of the twentieth century paralleled the destiny of Russian Orthodoxy after the Bolshevik revolution, and in both cases, the efforts of the diaspora were crucial for the preservation of the nation’s spiritual patrimony. During the life of Tsangnyön Heruka, however, Tibet was characterized by a relative degree of sociopolitical stability, where the dharma enjoyed the political and economic patronage of the élites of the time. What motivated Heruka to write were cultural and religious shifts within the Buddhist establishment, such as the already mentioned shift away from yogic and devotional approaches to the dharma toward a form of monasticism that privileged speculative reflection. Heruka’s hagiography turned a figure from the distant past into a primary voice in the religious debates of his time, affirming the enduring validity of Milarepa’s approach and presenting his synthesis of yogic virtuosity and ritualized devotion as a foundation for later bKa’ brgyud approaches to the dharma. In the same way as Sophrony would seek to imitate Sylouan’s asceticism throughout his life, Heruka modeled his own practice on Milarepa’s: Heruka’s own bKa’ brgyud lineage would become known for the preservation of Milarepa’s corpus of esoteric teachings, and it would survive in Rechung Puk, south of Tsedang, until the cultural revolution of the 1960s. It is

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interesting to observe how, at a time when the popularity of Tibetan Buddhism in the West shows no sign of abating, Heruka’s Life of Milarepa continues to play an important role in the transmission of the dharma to an audience that may be unaware of its historical inaccuracies, but is fascinated by the depths of its insights, as well as the reach of its poetic inspiration. The discipline of comparative theology encourages us to reflect on the ways in which exposure to a different religious tradition challenges and transforms our understanding of our own. This brief survey of two hagiographical texts shows how the genre of hagiography can serve analogous apologetic purposes in highly different contexts, securing the preservation, but also guiding the development and the reshaping of religious belief and practice in line with the theological vision and the specific agenda of their authors. Of course, Sophrony’s and Heruka’s writings are rooted in fundamentally different approaches to spiritual practice, reflecting distinctive anthropological, cosmological, and soteriological commitments. At the same time, the hagiographies of Sylouan and Milarepa, beyond an analogous parenetic intent, also betray the desire of their respective authors to secure their own legacy as the spiritual heirs of their masters and the legitimate representatives of their own tradition at a time of significant religious and cultural upheaval.

Chapter 12 Holy Negotiations in a Hindu Heartland: Abundant People and Spaces among the Khrist Bhaktas of Banaras Kerry P. C. San Chirico

Introduction The Khrist Bhaktas of Banaras are literally “devotees of Christ” in the purported heart of Hindu civilization. They can be found in and around Roman Catholic spaces in the Banaras region of the North Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. There are similarly named devotees scattered throughout various parts of contemporary India,1 but their sizable population in the ancient city known also as Varanasi speaks to this community’s singularity. They are 85 percent women, constituted in equal measure by Dalits and “Other Backward Classes” (OBCs), a rather tactless term denoting mostly agricultural subcastes long dwelling on the lower rungs of Hindu society. Numbering in the thousands, the Khrist Bhaktas by their very existence challenge the existing taxonomy of religions in the Indian Republic, categories fortified during the British Raj and fixed by the Indian Constitution.2 For while the term “Hinduism” is notoriously capacious, it is not so plastic presently as to allow for a designation “Hindu Christian,” at least not as reified by law and policed by hard-bitten adherents. For its part, Christianity has long worshipped a Triune deity brooking no contenders, as the Abrahamic traditions are stubbornly wont to do: “For I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God.” (Exod. 20:5). In short, the Hindu and Christian identities are understood to be (de jure if not de facto) mutually exclusive. Moreover, in a period when conversion is understood as an inherently denationalizing, deracinating exercise—particularly by those who maintain that only religious traditions born in India can be of India—the Khrist Bhaktas place themselves within the orbit of a rather alien and thus dangerous deity. Crucial to understanding the complexity of their religious identity is the fact that these devotees of Christ do not, however, “officially” convert through baptism. The result on the ground is complicated for those who would see religions as hermetically sealed “things,” and for whom legal designations reflect actual lived reality. Truth be told, it is likewise complicated for those trying to make sense of the phenomenon of a movement that refuses easy definition. All this is to say that when a 2010 census-worker arrives at a Khrist Bhakta home

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and the bhakta describes herself as Hindu, she can do so matter-of-factly and without dissimulation, for according to the legal definition, she is, in fact, Hindu. Moreover, being unbaptized, she is not Catholic according to Catholic canon law and therefore is unable to partake of the sacraments that typically accompany Catholic believers from cradle to grave. Other Khrist Bhaktas might refer to her as a fellow viśvāsī, a believer, while most Hindus, unfamiliar with the peculiar subtleties of this minority tradition, would likely refer to her as Īsāī, Christian, if they choose to refer to her with reference to her cultic status rather than to her subcaste. Such is the relational nature of identity. No matter what Hindu nationalists say, these devotees of Yesu and Mariam are uniquely of Uttar Pradesh and the Banaras region. Aside from the crosses or rosaries hanging around the wizened hands and necks of devotees, aside from the Sanskritized Hebrew names entreated on the lips of these Bhojpuri speakers, one is hard-pressed to distinguish between these adepts and those of a similar socioeconomic status at nearby Saṅkat Mochan or Kaśī Viśvanāth temples, where Ganeśa and Śiva are entreated, adorned, and adored. Elsewhere I have argued that the Khrist Bhaktas can be best interpreted as a unique admixture of Hindu bhakti, or devotion, vernacular Hinduism, and charismatic Catholicism—a triad of religious modalities finding their geographical locus since the 1970s at Mātṛ Dhām Āśram, a verdant eight-acre center for Catholic indigenization efforts, and since the early 1990s, a place to encounter the revivifying power of the Holy Spirit who communicates by way of physical and emotional healings, material improvement, and peace.3 In this chapter, I explore the process by which particular people, places, and things are becoming delineated—and set apart as holy—in this notoriously charged area half way between New Delhi and Kolkata. I describe a nascent hagiography and the representations and contours of devotion found therein by focusing on Catholic religious and Khrist Bhaktas in relation, and in an “abundant space” that has long been considered a tirtha, a ford or crossing point wherein gods, godmen and godwomen do dwell. This taking root, this process of establishment, of “becoming firm,” is tenuous. The aim, then, is to explore the development of holy peoples and places (and discourse about such) in a particular time and space visà-vis the Khrist Bhaktas of Banaras, thus providing an object lesson in some of the complexities surrounding a living encounter between Dharmic and Abrahamic religious traditions in twenty-first century India.

Contextual Challenges In a volume dedicated to exploring hagiography and religious truth, the Khrist Bhaktas evoke certain unique challenges. Two bear mentioning. The first is conceptual or semantic; the second is historical and political. The conceptual problem involves the word often used to denote holy people—that is, the word sant. In Hindi-speaking Catholic spaces it is translated “saint,” a word related to the Latin sanctus, meaning holy or consecrated. Translating sant for saint is, strictly

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speaking, a false etymology, for sant is a word derived from the Sanskrit word sat. Unlike saint, sant does not mean that which is set apart, but “truth” or “reality.” Therefore, sant has the root meaning of “one who has experienced Ultimate Reality,” or one who sincerely seeks enlightenment.”4 Yet like the word “saint,” sant has today the general meaning of a morally good person or religious teacher or adept. Here, then, sant for saint is not a bad translation. When Khrist Bhaktas hear of the writers of the four Gospels, they hear of Sant Mārkus, Sant Mattī, Sant Lūkas, and Sant Yohan. Being on Catholic ground, they pray for the intercession of Sants Tomas (Thomas, apostle to India), Teresa, Monica, and the newly canonized Alphonsa. Meanwhile, on the Hindu side, “saint” is now used commonly to refer to Hindu sants as an English-language equivalent. In what is arguably the most popular work of Eastern religion in the West, The Autobiography of a Yogi, Paramahamsa Yogananda employs “saint” throughout to refer to religious teachers of some renown, including gurus and yogis.5 The text’s Hindi version refers to the same as sant or employs the word in its adjectival form.6 Such usage reflects the fact that being called a saint does not usually involve an institutionalized system such as has evolved in the Roman Catholic Church. As with evangelical Protestantism, saints can refer more broadly to the body of adherents. The appropriate Sanskrit word for such a gathering of the saints is the satsaṅgh. Interestingly enough, the name given to the open-air pavilion where Khrist Bhaktas and Catholic clergy worship at the Āśram is called Satsaṅgh Bhāvan, the meeting place of the true. Meanwhile, for the hearer in Banaras, sant also evokes the Sant Mat, a loosely associated devotional assemblage whose origins takes us to fourteenth-century Maharashtra and to the provinces of Punjab, Rajasthan, and to the Gangetic valley that includes Banaras. This Mat is more broadly associated with bhakti movements dating to at least the second century of the Common Era. Generally, these sants of western and northern India stressed the importance of devotion over Brahmanical orthodoxy, hailed from low-caste backgrounds not unlike the Khrist Bhaktas, addressed the deity in the regional vernaculars, and stressed inner experience. In Maharashtra, the sants are identified with Vaiṣṇavism, whereas in the north, the quintessential sant, Kabīr, rejected the orthodoxies of both Brahmanical Hinduism and the Islam into which he was born. These devotional figures—Tukarām and other Vārkārī devotees of Viṣṇu-like Viṭhobā in Maharahstra; Kabīr, Dādu, Ravidās, Nānak, and others in the north—stressed bhakti and, at least ideally, social egalitarianism. Sants and bhaktas (devotees, worshipers), which are overlapping terms often used to describe devotees who worship a deity in embodied form, have had a profound influence on Hindu theology, practice, and ethos up through the present day.7 Thus to call these devotees Khrist Bhaktas is to evoke the waves of devotional movements that have, over the centuries, washed over Banaras and other parts of India. We shall return to these and other devotional figures later in our discussion of devotion, but this sant parampāra, or saint lineage, adds to the constellation of meanings associated with sant. On the ground, this semantic issue is perhaps academic.8 Yet as we engage in comparative hagiography one must recall that the hagios can be interpreted variously. As with all acts of comparison, special care should be taken when

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moving across religious boundaries. Moreover, we would be remiss to assume that a moral quality always inheres in such figures. This is a point made by Rudolph Otto in his seminal work Das Heilege. In the long history of religions, he argues, before moral qualities were attached to qadosh, hagios, or sanctus, “the Holy” was as an amoral, ineffable force. So laden with a moral sense was the Holy that Otto had to invent a new term—“the numinous.” This amoral power can be discerned to this day in the Hebrew scriptures by those with eyes to see.9 What can be said of this ineffable force can likewise be said of individuals: holy people need not be loving, kind, or compassionate. This might be a hard word in the age of hugging guru grandmas, smiling septuagenarian popes, and laughing lamas. And yet the presence of those deemed holy is often experienced as unnerving, even dangerous. In fact, Indian religious history—not unlike European religious history—is replete with explicitly morally dubious personages. One thinks not so much of sants here, but yogis, gurus, sādhus, saṁnyāsīs, and fakīrs,10 those who constitute the still broader ascetic conglomeration formed by the encounter between Hindu and Islamic traditions. Yogis can be benevolent, using their powers for mokśa (liberation), but they also can be frightening and treacherous, possessing unsuspecting victims for this-worldly gain. As David White reminds us in his aptly named Sinister Yogis, in Indian history “yogis are bogeyman, control freaks, cannibals, and terror mongers.”11 To be “spiritually powerful” (to use a perilously vague term), then, is not necessarily to be “righteous” in a Judeo-Christian register or dharmik12 in an Indic register. Meanwhile, sādhu (whose name denotes goodness and virtue) is often translated as saint or “holy man,” which is more appropriate given that the word has morally positive connotations. Nevertheless, like yogis, these renunciants are hardly unambiguous moral exemplars. Like American televangelists, sādhus are often distrusted as begging charlatans living off the sweat of others rather than true ascetics dedicated to liberation. Aside from the semantic issue, studying the encounter between Hindus and Christians requires especial sensitivity because of the colonial legacy of much of the encounter of the last 250 years. The asymmetries of power were real and significant, even if reconfigured in contemporary India. Try as we might to move beyond the “big fact” of colonialism, it is true that interpretation and explication of Hinduism(s) were long done by Christians or by those whose frameworks were developed on Western Christian soil; often found wanting, aspects of Hindu tradition or traditions were obscured, overlooked, or misrepresented. In the nineteenth century there was an explicit attempt to destroy Hindu traditions from the inside out. The hope of many British East Empire and later Raj administrators, aided by missionaries, was to disabuse Hindus of their legion “superstitions” through the Westernized education of Indian elites, an education that often included Christian proselytization.13 Past colonial injustice and consequent (and not unfounded) Hindu distrust present a challenge when dealing with this new encounter because of the taint of history and because both religio-cultural complexes—Hinduism and Christianity—dwell together in spaces like Mātṛ Dhām Āśram and in the Khrist Bhaktas themselves. Symbols are mixed, meanings

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can dwell together ambiguously (as is the case with saint and sant), and practices arise from unidentified quarters.14 Put another way, just when Indian Hindus and Christians (the majority of whom are poor and hail from low-caste backgrounds) are seeking to live on their own terms, free of the judgmental gaze of the other, a community is born that displays the fragility and complicated nature of these identities and their historic interactions—and this among groups who, while historically dispossessed, have, since the 1960s, engaged themselves in political and social uplift.15

History Roman Catholicism began in North India at the court of the Mughal Akbar in the late sixteenth century but arrived in earnest in Banaras in the middle of the twentieth century with the arrival of polyglot16 Canadian Capuchins, French Franciscans, and the Sisters of the Queen of the Apostles. The era of foreign missionaries ended in the 1970s, as mission stations gave way to churches within the Varanasi diocese. It would be wrong to overlook prior activities of the twentieth century in which Catholics sought to “Indianize” their tradition, not to mention previous work of Protestants;17 but such activities were formalized in the aftermath of Vatican II when the encyclicals Nostra Aetate and Lumen Gentium were promulgated. Marking a new period of active engagement with the world and the non-Christian religions, the Roman Catholic Church recognized the existence of positive values in the nonChristian religions in se and not merely in the lives of individual adherents for the first time. In earnest, Indian Catholics translated the Mass into vernaculars and, significantly, began translating Hindu symbols into Christian ritual contexts in the hopes of becoming comprehensible to Hindus while simultaneously opening themselves up to the riches of Indian religion and culture. This work of translation and active engagement with Brahmanical Hinduism made its way to Banaras, where long-fallow land was transformed not into a monastery but an āśram, complete with sādhus and swāmīs (priests of the Indian Missionary Society [IMS] and diocesan priests), and what would eventually be called the Indian Christian Spiritual Experience, a hybrid retreat employing both Catholic and Hindu meditation and worship practices.18 Yet the indigenization movement, so robust in the 1970s and 1980s, saw its energies wane in the subsequent decade, even as the Āśram developed.19 A new breeze was blowing in from Mumbai, which had swept in from the United States and parts of Africa. This was the advent of neo-Pentecostalism and charismatic Catholicism. The Āśram began holding healing and worship services. Certain families experienced healings, others saw their financial situation improve; for some, family squabbles ceased. A new peace was said to reign. With lived Indian religion being famously nonsectarian in the sense that efficacy trumps sectarian boundaries, news of these incidents spread and numbers increased. Oral histories place these activities in 1992–93. As numbers rose, worship space grew piecemeal to accommodate devotion to such an extent that today, on every second Saturday of the month, the

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Āśram will swell to 4,000. On feast days like Christmas and Easter, no less than 10,000 attend. In this developing context we may understand the “holy” in two modes: first, as referring to particular individuals. Khrist Bhaktas refer to priests and nuns in terms drawing on Hindu titles reserved for sants, gurus, deities and other superhuman beings. (And as we will see, this is the way some religious speak about particular devotees as well.) Ramdas Lamb’s use of Kabīr’s paean to the divine nature of the guru [see Chapter 4] is here apposite. The Khrist Bhakta regard for the priests and nuns of the Āśram’s devotional apparatus would strike post-Vatican II, American Catholics living in the wake of the sexual abuse scandals as dangerous; evangelical Protestants might deem them idolatrous. But for the purposes of this chapter, perhaps what should be highlighted is the fact that the category of holy is likewise associated corporately to the Khrist Bhaktas by the aforementioned Catholic religious. For among the striking facts of the Khrist Bhakta phenomenon is the high regard in which pardesī20 Catholic priests and nuns hold these Hindu devotees. How might we understand this? I would argue that for Catholic religious they represent the more pious other, whose faith is purer, whose remonstrations to God are sturdier and more pressing due to greater lack, and whose piety far exceeds that of the typical Banārsī Catholic population, composed of Dalits who converted to the faith in the mid-twentieth century. In fact, then, both groups represent the holy to each other—a people connected to God in a special way, who can avail material and spiritual goods, for whom God seems especially inclined. Thus, in the interrelation of the Khrist Bhaktas and Catholic religious, we witness an ongoing and tenuous negotiation: negotiation of the Indian Missionary Society in its relationship to non-baptized Hindus worshipping Jesus as Sadguru and mukti-dātā (“True-Guru,” “liberationgiver” “savior”); negotiation on the part of Khrist Bhaktas with Catholic clergy and nuns; negotiation by Khrist Bhaktas with families who do not worship Jesus; negotiation by Khrist Bhaktas and Catholics to create meaningful means of communion with the divine in nontraditional forms given facts on the ground and in the air; negotiation by both parties with local Hindu nationalists ever present in hushed tones and pregnant silences, whose possible activities against viśvāsī (believers) hover in the air like something impending.

Khrist Bhaktas as Those Set Apart: Some Emerging Hagiographic Representations in Context Who is this more pious other? Sister Vincy resides in the Āśram and has been familiar with the movement for a decade. Originally from a pious Thomas Christian Catholic family in Kerala, she joined the Sisters of the Queen of the Apostles fueled by a desire to “save souls.” At age sixteen she came to the region, where she would eventually earn her bachelor’s degree at Benaras Hindu University. Except for two years of graduate study in counseling psychology in England, she has spent majority of her fifty-plus years in the Banaras region. For several years she was

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leader of her order in the region. Desiccated by this administrative work, she asked to be placed in the Āśram for a time. When asked why the Khrist Bhaktas come to the Āśram, she explained: [SV] . . . So then you see, there are people—they just don’t come just only for healing. Some. Some come because someone [else] comes. Vahan jao to chalne ho jāenge. Āpke parivar mein āyī. [“Go there and something will happen. I came with your family.”]So many come first with this kind of, eh, curiosity. Then that becomes faith. See, from curiosity and, yeah, maybe a hope something will happen. So when they see things happen, when they hear the testimonies, so it turns, it becomes faith. Then they themselves experience some sort of healing. And when they witness [what is happening] there, it becomes deeper. So faith comes by, you know, preaching the Word. And preaching the Word comes from the Word of Christ himself. So that I see many come now. First is healing, then slowly, slowly they deepen their faith. And once I heard one of the Khrist Bhakta ladies telling me, she brought another group with her, and another lady who was sick. She said, “Sister-jī. Yeh log pehle mahimā dekhnā chāhte hain. Pehle viśvās karenge! Tabhī nā mahimā dekhenge.” [Respected Sister, these people wish to see glory [a miracle]. First believe! So they will not see [God’s] glory.] So first let them. She is a Khrist Bhakta. She is telling me, “First they should believe; then they will see the glory.” Instead of that they are thinking, “Pehle mahimā dekhenge, uske bād viśvās karenge. Kaisā ho saktā?” [First reveal the glory, then we will believe. How can that be?] [It] means she has got deep faith!21

Significantly, that faith in Jesus is considered superior to her own. Asked why she was attracted to this place and to the Khrist Bhaktas, she responded, “Because you see something different than the traditional structure thing. That will deepen my faith also. Although I am a traditional Christian, I don’t have as much as they have faith. So I want to witness that. It simply strikes me.” Reflected here is a widespread dissatisfaction with the institutional nature of Indian Catholicism. In the wake of Indian independence, Christian churches found niche areas in civil society: running orphanages, schools, and conducting development work. This negotiation came at a price. Few Indian Catholic sisters were attracted to a consecrated life of service because they wanted to educate upper-caste Hindus in elite Catholic schools in North India, hundreds of miles from their family and their own language and culture. The Khrist Bhaktas thus serve to revivify their own sense of vocation, and to challenge these Catholic ascetics—who live a comparatively comfortable life—to reconnect with the vision that brought them to the religious life in the first place, a vision borne of a very different time in this sister’s life and in Indian Catholicism around the time of Vatican II. An IMS priest, also born in Kerala but around Banaras since the 1980s, speaks of what we may call institutional disillusionment during a discussion about the Khrist Bhaktas. He explains tensions within his own order, which has shifted to

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stressing social development since the 1970s. Apparently, in this shift, something was lost: Father Prem Anthony: The Catholic Church is the single largest body of the Church in India. Of course it has the wider reach and visibility. And politically and otherwise [it is] much more powerful. That is there—which has its own strengths; its own weaknesses. Of late, the missionary Church has gone much more into social action-based ministry than otherwise. There was a time when the Church was specifically and fully involved in direct evangelistic and mission work. That has now for the most part changed. It is now for the most part a kind of consciencization-based, social work-based, development-based ministry. Um, well, I go along [with this situation]. KSC: [Laughing] So how do you feel about it? PA: [Laughing] At the same time there is a pain in my mind, in my heart, real personally speaking. There is less a spirituality and more of a kind of blind action. You need to do and do and do. That being part of being a Christian which is essential is being forgotten. So if you have nothing to do you are nothing. Being part of a Christian is gradually being forgotten. So that the spirituality of rootedness, the spirituality of, you know, the ability to give peace, tranquility, and goodness to others has become reduced. We have all become doers and doers and doers. KSC: Yeah. Yeah. PA: Well, it may be ok, but there is definitely a feeling of a vacuum, which is what I feel most concerned about, even here as a formatter, as a chief formatter here, as a rector. This is something that pains me and pains the others as well. What are we training our boys for? What exactly is the type of ministry they should be actually and actively involved in? What exactly are you supposed to cater? Not merely who—even what exactly are you supposed to be? Are you supposed to create a greater social ethic or are you supposed to be specifically a spiritual person who lifts minds and hearts of the others to God. And help the others to be converted to whatever, to something better—not to Christ—even to a better spirituality. So is my presence helping the other to become more spiritual, more genuine, more, ah, wholesome? So that is, that is something probably that we in the Catholic Church may need to ask ourselves. What exactly is the meaning of our presence? How are we actively present? We are present and we are actively present. But the how of it and the why of it—that is the question mark to me. But the Khrist Bhaktas bring something new, something that will challenge the status quo. He explains, PA: All of us say in our private conversations and otherwise, probably this is a new way of being the Church. We have systematic categories—as you rightly said—of our thinking of our social and ecclesial structures. This

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is well beyond that. Probably you know in faith terms they are better than we are and yet they are not part of the structural Church. And of course in spite of that they are loved more by the Lord—definitely—and they love the Lord more at least as much as we love. Not less, anyway. So how to place them? How to consider them? So, I would only see it is a new way of being the Church. It’s outside the structures, but it is very dynamic. And it is emerging and it is going to be a movement. We are definitely going to see a very, very—what you say?—kind of quantitative change in the Church of India because of this movement. And it is not—take it from me—confined to this part of the country. KSC: Right. PA: It is a movement that is catching on. And, God willing, you will see the difference in the Church on the outside because of this movement. And yet it is not seen; it is not very visible. It is not very visible all over. Certain [it is seen in] places because they are given a platform, they are given an ambiance. It becomes, it becomes visible. But it is happening in an invisible manner in different places.22 At least two points bear mentioning. First, beyond the disillusionment is the sense that the Church itself is being challenged—and challenged not just by the presence of the Khrist Bhaktas but by the God who seems to be out ahead of the Catholic Church at work in the lives of these novel adherents, these anomalies. Second, note the sense that the Khrist Bhaktas are superior—superior Christians, in fact, “loved more by the Lord.”23 In his own representations, Swami Anil Dev, the ācārya, or abbot, of the Āśram represents the Khrist Bhaktas provocatively as Hindus who are better at worshipping Christ than Christians. To thousands of assembled charismatics from throughout India in December of 2009, the rather gaunt middle-aged priest in ochre habit spoke with passion about their zeal and about the relative lack of intensity among Indian Christians. In these and other representations, we have evidence of hagiographies-indevelopment. And it should be noted that contrary to some interpretations of hagiography as purveyor of the status quo and authorized beliefs and practices, the narratives of holy persons (and groups) can also work to subvert established, reified norms by expressing an alternative vision. In the Banaras region, that vision is of a Church that is more than its institutionalized structure, defying the current doctrinal orthodoxy, and destabilizing the established post-Independence niche of Indian Catholicism. Here we have evidence of an antinomian streak that existed at the beginning of the world’s oldest “organized” religion. It is obvious to at least this interpreter that Swami Anil Dev realizes he must tread carefully. But so must others.

Malinī, The Lord’s Dāsī Malinī is in her fifties and is married to a husband she rarely sees since he works as a day laborer far away. With six daughters, some married and some still children, she lives approximately six kilometers from Mātṛ Dhām Āśram in

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a modest two-room waddle and daub home. Hailing from an OBC background of the Rājbhar jāti,24 she is a fixture within Khrist Bhakta circles. You will find her at Mātṛ Dhām Āśram on second Saturdays passing out the sweet buns, the prasād used in lieu of communion; she can be heard at Mass at the nearby St. Thomas Church on Sunday morning, singing in what sounds like a child’s highpitched voice, answering questions put to the congregation during the sermon; and she is an aguā, an “animator,” leading a prayer meeting every Wednesday and crisscrossing nearby villages—usually by foot and sometimes by auto-rickshaw— where she visits with viśvāsī families, sometimes facing the opprobrium of those unimpressed by her chosen deity. Hers is an emblematic story indicative of the ways in which the Khrist Bhaktas relate to Yesu and, to a lesser extent, Mother Mary. Mere “belief ” in Jesus is the last thing that comes to mind when thinking of Malinī’s relationship with Yesu. As Robert Orsi writes of another woman, “She does not believe in Jesus. Jesus is present to her. Moreover, this woman’s Jesus has an existence that is greater than the sum of her intentions, desires, needs, hopes, and fears, and that cannot be completely accounted for with reference to her social circumstances. He has a life of his own in her life.”25 And that life, perhaps not surprisingly, shares many of the contours of Kṛṣṇaite love so emblematic of devotion to the blue-skinned deity often encountered in this region. For if Varanasi is Śiva’s city it is also Kṛṣṇa’s land. So that in describing her encounters with Yesu, she sounds remarkably like the bhakta Mīrābāī who once sang, Life without Hari is no life, friend, And though my mother in law fights, my sister in law teases, the prince is angered, A guard is stationed on a stool outside, and a lock is mounted on the door, How can I abandon the love that I have loved in life after life? Mira’s Lord is the clever Mountain Lifter: Why would I want anyone else?26 Malinī’s love for Yesu is described using the language of courtship, eventually showing all the intensity of mādhurya rasa, the devotional “flavor” that is understood to be most intimate and sublime expression of preman, or love, among Hindu devotees, particularly of the Gauḍiya Vaiṣṇava tradition. Yet this love started with mere furtive glances: M: I saw him in Sakṣa Bhavan, where Prabhu [the Lord] stands like this [with outstretched arms]. Seeing him I felt some embarrassment, such as when a relationship (dostī) between a man and a woman begins. At first those people show modesty toward each other (saramindā). They won’t get together and they certainly won’t embrace each other. If it’s true love (saccā pyār) it can be expressed in a glance [najar se]. It was

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like that with my glance at the Lord. Whenever I’d look at him I’d get embarrassed. . . . Also, when I would see his image (tasvīr), it was like he was standing there, no? So it was the same with the image. I felt embarrassed: “Lord, what are you trying to say?” KSC: Why was this? M: I don’t know. I myself was wondering why. Why am I so bashful? It was like he was doing something to me. Whenever I glanced at Prabhu, it felt like he was laughing at me. I couldn’t look at him for long—I would look at him and look away, look at him and look away. At one time I wasn’t looking, as it was usually the custom to greet him. Now I can look at him properly, but for up to two months I couldn’t even look, feeling shy. I said, “Lord, you’re playing with me.” It felt like the Lord was playing with me. I used to say, “Lord, stop playing with me.” Slowly, with this going on, it felt that in my life a relationship had developed (dostī kiyā). But it’s not like I’m holy. Look . . . I’m saying that just as a man and woman (nār-nārī) develop a relationship (dostī), so it was with my relationship with Prabhu. On those days when I wouldn’t come [to Mātṛ Dhām Āśram] I would feel uneasy (becain), discontented. It went on like this for a long time—whenever I didn’t come to Īsā pūjā. And now look, I don’t need to go there, he comes here [to her house where she erected a shrine]. KSC: When was this? When was the first time you came here [to Mātṛ Dhām Āśram]? M: I’m telling you. Between 1998 and 1999. Before coming here what did I know? I didn’t know anything. Coming here I learned everything. My relationship with Prabhu Yesu developed. Whenever I didn’t come to Yesu [here], I felt uncomfortable at home. Here I keep hearing Yesu more and more. Just like when any man and woman are in love, if someone places obstacles in their way, they become disheartened, but they don’t accept defeat. Like those songs of lovers . . . that’s how I felt. When I’m not with the Lord, I have no peace (cain). Until today I haven’t asked anything of the Lord. Instead I say, “Lord, I don’t know your will (Prabhu, mein nahin jāntī terī icchā purī ho.) Look, you know about these things. You know what’s necessary.”27 Malinī speaks of dostī, a word in Hindi that in daily parlance refers to friendship, but in this context bears connotations of romantic intimacy. Courtship of narnārī, or husband and wife, begins with mere furtive glances prior to the arranged marriage. Only after the marriage union does intimacy begin. Until then, if there is true love, saccā pyār, it can be exchanged through such glances. In fact, according to Malinī, in accordance with traditional Uttar Pradesh village mores, the wife is not even supposed to sit on the same cot as her husband until after a couple of children have been born. And so it is well after marriage, after even bearing children, that true intimacy between husband and wife comes to its fruition. So it is with Malinī and Yesu: She is initially smitten; she finds his love disconcerting,

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and she can find no peace until and unless she sits in his presence embodied in an image within the context of Īsā (Arabic/Urdu: Jesus) pūjā. She seeks only to be where he is, she desires only his will (icchā), and fear of absence and the pain of longing looms. It even seems as though he is playing games at her expense. Such are the feelings, emotions, and understandings that could not be adequately understood without a knowledge of Hindu devotion in its local manifestations over the last four centuries. But, of course, in evidence here is not merely Hindu attitudes directed at a novel deity. Like Kṛṣṇa bhaktas who emulate the associates of Kṛṣṇa portrayed in the Bhāgavata Purāṇa, Malinī’s encounter with Yesu takes on characteristics from the Bible and subsequent Christian history. It is striking that she continually says, “I am the Lord’s dāsī”—literally, “I am the Lord’s slave”—for these are the words of Mary at the time of the Annunciation (Lk. 1:26-38). And this may be the root devotional mode for Khrist Bhaktas, developing in intensity as greater intimacy is experienced over time. As with Kṛṣṇa devotion, however, some may forever embody one of the less intimate devotional modes. It is not an insignificant fact that Malinī’s husband is mostly absent from the picture. She herself admits that this allows her to give herself completely to the Lord and to love others. She explains to me, “Brother, my husband is not here. So I can give everything to the Lord. Whatever mistakes I’ve made, forgive me. And whatever I’ve not done, forgive me.”28 Here we have a mixing of Hindu and Christian sensibilities. She is constantly seeking forgiveness, an element not nearly as pronounced in Kṛṣṇa devotion. (Recall also that she insists on the fact of her own unworthiness before Yesu’s image, saying, “I’m not holy.”) I would argue that here we can see in Malinī a developing Christian sensibility cultivated through her encounters with biblical religion. At the same time, the legacy of Kṛṣṇa bhakti lingers among the Khrist Bhaktas. Not for nothing does one bhajan cry out, “Hai atimadhur Yesu!” (“Oh most sweet Yesu”). Another bhajan refers to Christ as jagdīś, “Lord of the Worlds,” an epithet for Kṛṣṇa. These expressions may be Christian supersessionism when viewed from the perspective of Catholic religious employing an indigenous religious vocabulary, but from another perspective it reminds us that while Mātṛ Dhām Āśram may be Yesu’s place, it was long preceded by a blue-hued deity whose presence can still be detected by those with eyes to see and ears to hear.29

Abundant Spaces “Their pilgrimages, their legends, and their hymns (which they sang by the thousand) literally mapped a sacred geography of the Tamil regions and fashion a communal self-image that cut across class and caste.” So writes A. K. Ramanujan about the saint-poets—we have already met them as sants and bhaktas—who through their devotion to Viṣṇu and Śiva changed the Tamil Nadu landscape and the “religion” identified in retrospect as Hinduism. One is reminded that devotion to deities in India is not immediately given in the abstract; rather, it

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is attached to particular places and to encounters therein. Tirupati in southern Andhra Pradesh is where one encounters a particular manifestation of Viṣṇu known as Veṅkaṭeśvara; down the hill is the temple to Alamelumanga, his consort, worshipped for her own sake. The aforementioned Tukarām is worshipped as Viṭhoba at Pandharpur in Maharashtra; and the Khrist Bhaktas encounter Yesu at Māṭr Dhām Āśram. That is where, on various occasions, they have not merely “believed in” Jesus or Mariam, but experienced them—or phenomena they feel compelled to understand as so many proofs (pramāṇas) of their existence and power. The word numinous might mean nothing to them, but in conversations, they relate the various occasions when they experienced various prakaṭs, or manifestations, of God. Others witness to being healed of cancer, cataracts, and alcoholism. Meanwhile, a new chapel replaces the old; buildings are expanded. It is hard to dismiss the feeling that yet another sacred space is being delineated in Varanasi through brick, mortar, worship, Lenten circumambulations, healings, and various prakaṭs whose interpretation defies simple empirical interpretation. Asked about a growing sense of “depth” to the space, Swami Anil Dev offers an interpretation. His language reflects the patois of charismatic Catholicism: SAD: Yes. It gets anointed. But the anointing can be lost if it is not maintained, preserved and not done further. The place itself can be anointed and people get anointed. Um, spiritual things are happening. Not only this. The sādhna is going on. Groups after groups, all the time there are people in sādhna. And that sends all vibrations of spirituality. Vibrations of the presence of the Lord. Yes, it’s the truth. KSC: So it [the Āśram] is charged. SAD: Yes. It is charged. KSC: Phīr bhī [still], when I talk to people, they feel the peace when they enter this place. SAD: You know the base? The foundation is prayer. KSC: Where is the 24-hour prayer? In Darśan Bhāvan? SAD: In the intercession. It is going on all through, for the last ten years. Plus prayer going on there [in Darśan Bhavan]. All of us are interceding. So the whole place is being anointed, anointed. Robert Orsi uses the phrase “abundant events” to describe historical and cultural relationships, responses to objects, sense perceptions, experiences of the body, and memories that constitute, as he calls it, an experience of “the real,” which defies description. Many have had experiences of the ineffable, but our understanding and explication of these remain woefully inadequate. Historicist interpretations give us predictable accounts of religion and culture: culture shapes religion, which in turn reflects culture, or, more radically, culture and religion are in symbiotic relationship, each constituting the other. But can we find the critical language to talk about how religious practices and imaginings can subvert this “given” that everybody knows, elude the limitations of our

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prejudices about social power, confound expectations, and transform lives and societies, for better and for worse?30

In his quest to speak empirically about the “something more” of abundant events, Orsi offers five characteristics by which they can be identified: The event is sui generis, it is understood as real, it arises at the intersection of the conscious and the unconscious, it fundamentally alters our understanding of the past, present, and future, and it is shared among (and through) people. Here Orsi is not solving a problem as much as identifying the inadequacy of our current hermeneutical tools and offering intimations forward. One way to do that, beyond his useful five characteristics, may be to broaden the category itself. For if Orsi can speak persuasively about abundant events, than we can also write of “abundant spaces”— places that are irreducible to mere geographic territory. After all, if our abundant experiences are more than merely so many head trips, then they are often, literally, grounded, attached to place. There are those places known as spaces of encounter. (Recall that Banaras has long been understood as a tirtha, a ford or crossing point.) There are spaces experienced as “charged.” There are spaces that evoke feelings of peace, but also of profound discomfort. There are spaces that point beyond themselves to a “higher” reality. The word for this in Hindi is a-lokic, literally, “not of this world,” “transcendent,” or even “strange.” The term signals a space that is experienced as somehow different from the norm. Banaras is regularly spoken of in this way: Kāshī is the whole world, they say. Everything on earth that is powerful and auspicious is here, in this microcosm . . .. And yet Kāshī is not of this earth, they say. While it is in the world and at the very center of the world, it is not attached to the earth. It sits high above the earth on the top of the trident of its lord and protector Shiva. Kāshī is not subject to the relentless movement of the great cycles of time, the eras of universal creation and dissolution.31

It is of this place and somehow not of this place. Abundant spaces evoke paradox. Visitors to the Āṣram, regardless of religious affiliation, mention the śanti or peace of the space as a reason for their regular visitation. Commensurate with the grammar of charismatic Christianity, Swami Anil Dev expresses this reality as “anointed,” a blessed space that is made that way through the ongoing activity of prayer and meditation. Through the ministrations of the faithful, the ground becomes ontologically saturated with God’s holiness. Here humans and gods sanctify a space in concert. This sanctification can, however, be lost due to inattentiveness and sin. The Sanskrit word sādhna used by the priest is wholly appropriate. Signifying self-effort and spiritual discipline, at Mātṛ Dhām sādhna is both an ongoing activity and a small room attached to the open-air pavilion of Satsaṅgh Bhāvan. During the popular Second Saturday meetings, prayer by Khrist Bhaktas and Catholic religious is ongoing, with that day’s speakers ducking into the “sādhna” room in preparation for their pending or just concluded address, where the speaker re-joins others whose prayers are in progress.

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Conclusion And yet for all this abundance and emplacement and hallowing, there is a tenuousness to the space and to the Khrist Bhakta movement. The threat of violence against Khrist Bhaktas and the Catholic religious in and around Mātṛ Dhām is real. The place of Catholicism in Banaras, as in most of North India, is tenuous, and the gates of the Āśram are easily breached. It is not an inapt metaphor to point out that its gatekeeper is an emaciated one-armed fifty-something-year-old man equipped with a bamboo stick. In other words, the negotiation of the place of the Khrist Bhaktas is happening under fragile and sometimes dangerous conditions, and the survival of the Āśram and the new community growing around it is anything but assured. This utter tenuousness should keep interpreters from treating the Khrist Bhaktas as simply pre-Catholic. It is likely that in the years ahead, many of these Khrist Bhaktas will be received into the Catholic Church; others will likely join Pentecostal churches; then there is the possibility of more heterodox movements arising from within this community. For their part, Catholic religious acknowledge that the present Khrist Bhakta in-between-ness cannot go on forever. They understand the danger of Khrist Bhaktas becoming kinds of second-class citizens, an outcome that would appear hypocritical for a tradition touting social egalitarianism, particularly when its religious elites at Mātṛ Dhām Āśram hail from the upper crust of Indian Christianity. And yet it is their very otherness that makes the Khrist Bhaktas special. Ironically, to baptize the Khrist Bhaktas is to de-singularize them—and then to fall prey to a danger perceived as worse than any violent Hindu nationalist: Catholic nominalism. The Spirit could blow elsewhere. As with all movements this will one day end, either through cessation or transformation. And, one might ask: if the Khrist Bhaktas remain unbaptized, how will they be remembered in the Indian Catholic Church? Is “official” hagiography only for the baptized? Will this more pious other ultimately be lost to the memory of the Church because, in the end, there is no place for a pious anomaly, no place for the nonbaptized no matter how pious? The question brings to mind other questions about the process of remembrance and the ways individuals and institutions shape the meanings associated with religious exemplars. It brings to mind questions about basic categories through which one is considered—not just how one is considered but that one is considered at all. By what mechanism might Catholic religious remember the Khrist Bhaktas as individual believers and as that corporate moreholy other? Who decides? In what formats might their memories be maintained? Thinking reflexively, what role does even this chapter play in such a preservation? Whatever happens to the Khrist Bhaktas—tracing the future of any movement is an endeavor fraught with danger—when I think about the development of Mātṛ Dhām Āśram and places like it, and when I think about the dissemination of “Christ and his mother and all his hallows” in the years ahead—if it should happen—I wonder if it will seem to outsiders like the religious topography changed overnight. “Where did all these people come from?” “How did Jesus and Mary join the other poster art in the bazaar or at the road-side stall, along with

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Śiva and Kṛṣṇa and Hanumān?” “Who is this robed man pointing to a bleeding heart?” Of course, it would not have arisen ex nihilo. I invite the reader to return to the image of Malinī crisscrossing on foot or auto-rickshaw Banaras villages separated by fields of mustard and onions, or, in the summer, scorched, Mars-like earth circumscribed by serpentine paths. You can see her visiting fellow devotees, praying for members of her Hindu jāti, leading the singing of bhajans, lighting incense. Perhaps she offers words of succor and testimonial, thereby inviting others into a new devotional orbit, and in the process, singing new places into existence, along with new sensitivities, moods, and motivations. And all this is done mostly under the radar, so to speak. For from the outside she is just another middle-aged Indian woman en route to some unknown destination. Saints are often thought of as quite irrelevant to the serious goings on of the “real world.” They dwell on the margins of society or at least of that society’s expectations. They are exceptions, outliers, “otherworldly”—or dismissed as such. Yet a convincing case can be made—and I am not the first to make it—that saints are uniquely of their times and of their places. They live in the locative and in the genitive. They typically do not hover above the ground (certain monks and yogis excepted) even if their gaze tends elsewhere. The saints, or sants, are themselves world-makers and re-makers—arguably as significant as the remembered generals who have scorched this earth. While many might be known with epithets discussed in these pages, I wonder if more often than not, they are unknown, unnoticed, or neglected because they do most of their work in the wake of the said generals, in the tender places left behind. Or they dwell in spaces literally and figuratively where others dare not dwell. If remembered, it might only be in retrospect, in tones of awe that can elide their more ambivalent identities. In the Banaras region of Uttar Pradesh, the encounters with this Khrist continue, and the bhaktas that bear his name continue to make their way into an unknown future. Like all of us they move forward tentatively and often with mixed motives—for reasons that various on-lookers might find dubious, inconvenient, misguided, distasteful, or discomfiting. (We have seen what they evoke in Catholic religious.) Their future is unknown and may be, in the “big picture,” irrelevant. But they do exist now and the sheer audacity of their being invites continued reflection. May they continue to do so, but mostly for their own sake. And may we not neutralize their manifestation of abundance either through chauvinist confessionalism or callow epoché.

Afterword: Truth, Scholarship, and Hagiography in the Study of Our Saints

Hagiography and Religious Truth is a welcome volume that considerably enriches our thinking on sainthood across traditions, by a series of careful scholarly studies of narratives about saints in several Abrahamic and Dharmic religious traditions. The editors and contributors are to be congratulated for this collective effort, so instructive and interesting and suggestive of new insights. Without attempting a full response to the chapters—this would be beyond my mandate here—I wish to simply offer a few reflections that highlight some deeper and, in my estimation, more important dynamics of the volume, such as where it leaves us, and where we might go next. First, of course, the volume does us the service of getting us to think seriously about hagiographies. Each chapter illumines a saintly story or stories in a religious tradition (or, in Part Four’s chapters by Cattoi and San Chirico, several traditions are studied together) by giving attention to accounts of powerful and holy figures. Such narratives are often treated by scholars with reserve, if noticed at all, targeted for not being historically accurate or even plausible, even if still figuring importantly in both the histories and living forms of religious communities. Hagiographies seem to invite a double treatment: the faith of insiders, deconstruction by outsiders and those committed to the historical perspective. This volume invites scholars to take a second look at what matters deeply to the communities. The chapters gathered here recognize this inevitable tension and resolve it by ambitioning a generous inclusiveness that admits alternative truths. Our authors are respectful toward the accounts they study even when, as they indicate, they know very well the uncertainty of the details and wish not to abandon their own scholarly responsibilities. Consider how the editors put the issue in their Introduction. On the one hand, “This volume will show how certain ideas can be represented most powerfully only through sacred historical material like iconography, ritual practices, and the lives of saints; some meanings simply cannot be communicated effectively through historical-critical methodologies, due to the limitations inherent in such methodologies.” On the other, “This approach does not mean that we must abandon the standards of modern historiography altogether. Rather, it recognizes that there is more than one sort of historical truth, or that the truths conveyed in sacred historical materials may be different from, but not necessarily in irresolvable conflict with, truths conveyed from other perspectives.” Alongside “truth as verification,” there is “truth as manifestation,” which manifests

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“its truth in a discourse akin to that of poetry.” We can honor truth in both forms, the volume insists. The editors and contributing authors thus want to defend all that they have found and appreciated in their research, as requiring reception skills beyond a flattening notion of truth that would leave out a great deal of the information and perspectives one discovers in the study of premodern cultures. To make the point, they highlight the interplay of hagiography and truth, and critique unaccommodating modern understandings of truth; they do so not for pious reasons, but from a stance of postmodernity, with a heightened respect for the situatedness of all learning. Barriers typically separating devotion and critique need not be taken as permanent or impermeable. It is clear then that more than just the hagiographical sensitivities of religious insiders, along with a scholar’s basic respect for them, is at issue. Occasioned by reflection on saints and the stories we tell about them, Hagiography and Religious Truth takes a stance on truth as such, and insists on making room in the academy for insights that are both religious and true, not merely rational, historical, and true. Truth comes in other forms, and historical positivism cannot be allowed to determine how we read and assess these powerful stories. The book is thus also a work of provocation, flying in the face of historical–critical methods that would exclude far-fetched and implausible accounts and replace them with sober accounts of what can be known responsibly. A volume entitled Hagiography and Religious Truth needs of course to say something about “religious truth.” Rico Monge’s chapter explores the theme explicitly. Near the end of his essay, and citing Paul Ricoeur, Monge says, Is there any difference then between the truth of poetry/fiction and religious truth? Ricoeur believes that the primary distinction is that religious texts invite, indeed even challenge, their readers to even greater transformation. They do not merely open up a space in which one projects one’s ‘ownmost possibilities.’ In the case of religious texts, ‘what is thus opened up in everyday reality is another reality, the reality of the possible.’ Religious texts thus move beyond opening a space in which one can project one’s possibilities; religious texts manifest to the reader the reality of what could be. . . . . While Ricoeur directed his studies in religion primarily on the Bible, it should be easy to see by now how the truth of manifestation that he finds so powerfully present in religion applies to hagiography. For in hagiography the reader, within her ‘everyday reality,’ is presented with that other reality—‘the reality of the possible.’

The “possible” opens a very broad space indeed; if unmonitored, it might stray quite far from both what is epistemically sound or religiously worthwhile. But because “Ricoeur equally accepts the truth of verification and the truth of manifestation as truth,” Monge is confident that honoring the criteria of historians will not foreclose reverence for other modes of truth. The thrust of the volume then is to see the chapters as showing us, by way of examples, how this richer notion of truth plays out.

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In her introductory chapter, Rachel Smith too highlights key questions surrounding truth. She is forthright in highlighting the danger of a reductionism that would equate hagiography with a kind of failed history, or an epiphenomenon that at best supports from the sidelines the information painstakingly gained by serious scholarship: The notion of a discrete space of faith occupied by the medieval subject supports the construction of modern historiography, described by [Felice] Lifshitz as requiring the formulation of hagiography as the fantastic and fanatical shadow of historiography. Hagiography pertains to faith while the historical becomes a naturalized space emptied of the sacred. On the basis of such a bifurcation, historical material could be analyzed and critiqued using empirically verifiable criteria upon material that was empirically verifiable and thus deemed real.

Conversely, drawing on the work of postcolonial theorist Dipesh Chakrabarty, Smith emphasizes that not even the scholar can stand neutrally outside the text that is studied; however exact our methods and pure our neutrality, we are drawn into the world or worlds of what we read. What needs then to be in the scholar’s toolbox is also awareness of and enduring respect for categories outside the ordinary academic ones, as we learn to “take the theological as real in its own terms rather than attempt to recode it as [merely] an expression of ‘social facts.’” Even if—probably like the authors of the hagiographies themselves—we retain a sense of the difficulties and ambiguities of writing down a receding past, “Chakrabarty’s approach . . . allows us to attend to theological argument as much as the social realities (and the interrelationship of the two) of a text without reducing the former to the latter.” By contrast, “if we draw the line between devotee and scholar, insider and outsider, medieval and modern, in absolute terms,” we will fall short in our study, because we will “miss the role of devotion both in hagiographic materials, and the multiple ways in which historical texts might work upon readers in the present.” Attentive comparison is another way into a postmodern space that is academic, theological, and still rich in respect for piety. When taken together, the chapters offer resources by which we can explore hagiography and religious truth in a number of traditions. The chapters in Part Two (Dharmic traditions) and Part Three (Abrahamic traditions) put before us the rich complexities of the lives of saints, stories told over and again, received and heard for different purposes in different social and political contexts. The religions and regions covered are many, but these chapters are for the most part not comparative; the authors stay close to their chosen materials, working within particular community’s contexts. But the overall effect of the volume is that the reader is enabled to read back and forth among the lives of saints configured this way and that way, and to assess multiple ways in which hagiographies were written, rooted in historical memory and in myth, and then reused over time and to good effect. Reading through the whole volume enables and compels us to think about lives of saints across many eras and in many contexts.

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An explicitly comparative move occurs only in Part Four, in the chapters by Thomas Cattoi and Kerry San Chirico. Cattoi’s comparison, formally proposed as an explicit instance of comparison, shows how Greek Orthodox and Tibetan Buddhist theorists use the stories of their saints to establish models of holiness for their members, to hold their traditions together despite social and political trauma, and thus to employ these model saints as the best defense against competing views and new threats to the community. San Chirico’s chapter offers not so much an intentional comparative exercise, but rather, a study of India’s Khrist bhaktas, a community wherein models of holiness are being proposed and practiced in ways that cannot be traced solely to either community. If hagiography has often been implicitly an interreligious practice, here it becomes explicitly, observably so. It will not be surprising if I now go on to ask to what extent Hagiography and Religious Truth is a contribution to comparative theological reflection, and to ponder over where a comparative theological reception of the book might take us, in terms of each scholar’s project, and with respect to the volume as a whole. I write here as a comparative theologian, as someone whose method, as the editors kindly put it, “has opened up new ways for adherents to engage and learn from each other’s traditions without abandoning their own—and without sacrificing scholarly rigor.” As I have admitted already, the volume is a resource for comparative study, and that study readily raises theological questions about person and power, history and truth, in a number of traditions. At their best, the chapters make space for personal reflection that implicates the authors themselves in the comparative study. In their chapter early in the volume, the Bouteneffs set a tone—a mix of honesty, humility, and a diminution of expectations—that illumines much of what follows: We have thus seen several approaches, past and present, to reckoning the relationship between truth and historicity. Neither in the past nor in the present are there any hard-and-fast rules, much less universal ones, for the hermeneutics of religiously significant narratives. These stories have such different provenances, functions, and eventual interpretations and significance, that no single strategy applies to them all. As narratives, they all testify to the universal human need to recount stories to create meaning and instill principles for the living of a right life. They also share the universal problem of the epistemic inaccessibility of the past—we can never fully know what “really happened” in every sense of that word. We can only have greater and lesser clarity about the past, because the past is no more and can never be fully recaptured.

This epistemic humility inevitably tells us about ourselves as scholars: We contemporary academics who are also persons of faith will at one time or another inevitably find ourselves wrestling with questions of historicity, truth, and meaning. We will wonder how to remain true to their epistemological principles as well as vulnerable, and even somehow submissive, to formative stories from the past. Our solutions will likely vary depending on the narrative

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under review, and change over the course of time. Even as they may approximate like-minded approaches in antiquity, our hermeneutic strategies are unlikely to be completely satisfying, conclusive, or even self-consistent. Perhaps that in itself is part of the answer: leaving ourselves open to certain mysteries and inconsistencies, within which God can work.

And so the door is opened to a richer reception, if readers are ready to read through the hagiographies into the theological and spiritual truths still alive within them. It is pertinent to a volume that thinks through truth and hagiography together to note that comparative theology should usually, by my estimate, have an autobiographical element, and perhaps the authors might have done well to become still more personal. This does not have to occur in every kind of study, of course. If I am writing as an Indologist, I do not mind adopting a stance of impersonality and objectivity, insofar as such is possible. Translating a Mimamsa text of ritual analysis or a Vedanta text of scriptural analysis can work well without any observable inward glance. But when a work becomes theological—such as in the study of the saints, and the saints studied next to one another—it can be an enriching fact to learn something of the autobiographical confession of the scholar or writer. In other words, since our authors write so well and convincingly about richer and alternative accounts of the spiritual path and the lives of saints, they often seem about to take the next step, as if to ask their readers, in the academy, to consider what the study of holy lives does to people who are open to the religious truth of what they read. It is no surprise that the authors writing here have affinity to that which they study and may well have been transformed by the power of these saints and their stories, but they tell us little on the personal level. Most intriguing here is McLaughlin’s marvelous, mysterious closing paragraph: One morning, in the still and silent pre-dawn darkness of the compound, while a handful of devotees were waiting for the sanctum to open for darsan, I watched a lone sadhu approach the back of the samadhi shrine. He placed a cup on the ground and softly said, “Milk, Mother.” Quietly, and without breaking stride in his morning arati preparations, the temple brahmin poured the milk.

What was McLaughlin thinking as he sat there, so early in the morning? If, as he says, Janeswar’s hagiography has “a continual impact on the historical development of a sacred space and its ritual activity,” to what extent does visiting the site and dwelling there for a time make the scholar into a participant in the holy life, in the holy community? Hagiography and Religious Truth makes available the intellectual and spiritual implications of multiple variant narratives of truth and the spiritual life. If so, may it not also instigate among scholars something of the kindred salutary unrest, as historical scholarship finds itself connected to methods, stories, and possibilities that clear the way for vulnerability to the truths of these many holy lives? If, as the volume tells us, boundaries among the several important understandings of truth

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and value ought now to be recognized as in fact permeable, it seems plausible, even if not explicitly stated in the volume, that collecting in one place these studies in hagiography might also draw readers (along with authors) into a kind of interfaith communion of the saints that is indebted to each saint’s tradition but reducible to no single community, religious or academic. Francis X. Clooney, SJ Harvard University

Notes Foreword 1 Marjorie Hines Woollacott, Infinite Awareness: The Awakening of a Scientific Mind (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2015), 8.

Introduction 1 Wach, Sociology of Religion (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1944); Van der Leeuw, Religion in Essence and Manifestation: A Study in Phenomenology (New York: Harper & Row, 1963); James, The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study in Human Nature (London and Bombay: Longmans, Green, & Co, 1902); Cohn, “Sainthood,” The Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Mircea Eliade et. al. (New York: Macmillan, 1989) 13: 1–5, see also his article “Sainthood on the Periphery: The Case of Judaism” in Saints and Virtues, ed. John Stratton Hawley (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987); Neville, Soldier, Sage, Saint (New York: Fordham University Press, 1978). There are also encyclopedic sources on saints in world religions, e.g. Holy People of the World: A Cross-cultural Encyclopedia, edited by Phyllis G. Jestice in 2004. 2 Richard Kieckhefer, George Doherty Bond, eds., Sainthood: Its Manifestations in World Religions (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988). This volume does not look at actual examples of sainthood in different traditions, but instead offers more comprehensive essays on the concept of sainthood in various religions. 3 See Levering, “Women Ch’an Masters: The Teacher Miao-tsung as Saint” in Women Saints (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2000); Hawley, Sur Das: Poet, Singer, Saint (Seattle: University of Washington Press, Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1984), Songs of the Saints of India (Oxford University Press, 2007), and his edited volume Saints and Virtues; Ditchfield, Liturgy, Sanctity and History in Tridentine Italy: Pietro Maria Campi and the Preservation of the Particular (London and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 4 Jeffrey J. Kripal, Authors of the Impossible: The Paranormal and the Sacred (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011). 5 For an excellent description of the methodology of comparative theology, see Francis X. Clooney, Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010). For a demonstration of its scholarly rigor, see His Hiding Place Is Darkness: A Hindu-Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013).

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Chapter 1   1 The words of Pontius Pilate to Jesus in John 18:38. All English biblical quotations are NRSV unless otherwise noted.   2 John 18:37   3 John 14:5-6.   4 Kallistos Ware, How are We Saved?: The Understanding of Salvation in the Orthodox Tradition (Minneapolis: Light & Life, 1996), 46–47, emphasis mine.   5 Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, trans. James Strachey (New York: Norton, 1989), 23–36.   6 Søren Kierkegaard, Concluding Unscientific Postscript, trans. David F. Swenson and Walter Lowrie (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 182.   7 Andrew Louth, Discerning the Mystery: An Essay on the Nature of Theology (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), 27.   8 Velimirovic, now canonized in the Orthodox Church as St. Nikolai, believed so strongly in the power of hagiography to transform human life that much of his life work was dedicated to compiling an exhaustive collection of the lives of Orthodox saints. This text has now become standard liturgical reading in Orthodox churches throughout the world. See Velimirovic, The Prologue of Ohrid: Lives of Saints, Hymns, Reflections, and Homilies for Every Day of the Year (Alhambra, CA: Sebastian Press, 2002).   9 Nikolai Velimirovic, The Agony of the Church (Edinburgh: Turnbull & Spears, 1917), 37–38. 10 This approach aligns with Ludwig Feuerbach’s dictum that all “Theology is Anthropology”; hence, hagiography’s value lies in its disclosure of anthropological insights. See Ludwig Feuerbach, The Essence of Christianity, trans. George Eliot (New York: Dover, 2008), x–xvi. 11 Rick Reilly, “The Sins of the Father,” http://espn.go.com/espn/story/_/id/8162972/joepaterno-true-legacy July 13, 2012 (accessed October 23, 2015). 12 Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project (Cambridge, MA: Harvard, 2002), 863. 13 An anecdote concerning the early stages of this book helps illustrate this point. The first place the idea of this project was pitched was in a Bollandist publication to gauge interest. The very concept was dismissed out of hand for not conforming to the norms of hagiographical scholarship. 14 See, for example, Hegel, Reason in History, trans. Robert S. Hartman (New York: Pearson, 1995), and also Hegel, The Philosophy of History, trans. J. Sibree (Mineola, NY: Dover, 1956). 15 Wilhelm von Humboldt, “On the Historian’s Task,” in Leopold Von Ranke: Theory and Practice of History, ed. Georg Iggers and Konrad von Melte (Indianapolis: Bobbs Merril Company, 1973), 7, 22. 16 Ibid., 5. 17 Ibid., 6. 18 Ibid., 7. 19 Ibid. 20 Ibid., 8–9. 21 Leopold von Ranke, “On the Character of Historical Science,” in Leopold Von Ranke: Theory and Practice of History, 37. 22 Ibid., 33. 23 Ibid., 45–46.

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24 Hippolyte Delehaye, The Legends of the Saints; an Introduction to Hagiography, trans. V. M. Crawford (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1907). 25 Ibid., 60. 26 Ibid., 69. 27 Ibid., 64. 28 Ibid. 29 Ibid. 30 Ibid., 68. 31 I have in mind here, the closing lines to “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” which read: “When old age shall this generation waste,/Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe/Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,/‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all/ Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’ ” Have we not become an age of woe? 32 Friedrich Nietzsche, The Will to Power, trans. Walter Kaufmann (New York: Vintage Books, 1967), §481. 33 Friedrich Nietzsche, The Use and Abuse of History, trans. Adrian Collins (Indianapolis: Liberal Arts Press, 1957), 3. 34 Ibid., 59. 35 Ibid., 8. 36 Ibid., 12. 37 Ibid., 17. 38 Ibid., 23. 39 Ibid., 28. 40 Ibid., 39. 41 Ibid., 24. 42 Ibid., 40. 43 Ibid., 3. 44 For an excellent demonstration of the deep and lasting impact of Hayden White, see Philosophy of History after Hayden White, ed. Robert Doran (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013). 45 For an incisive overview and analysis of the philosophy of history, I recommend R. G. Collingwood’s insightful and still relevant survey in The Idea of History (Oxford: Clarendon, 1946). Especially relevant are “Part II: The Influence of Christianity,” “Part III: The Threshold of Scientific History,” and “Part IV: Scientific History.” 46 Hayden White, Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins Univerisity Press, 1978), 82. 47 Ibid., 83. 48 Ibid., 84. 49 Ibid. 50 Ibid., 85. 51 Ibid. 52 Ibid., 89. 53 Ibid., 90–97. 54 Ibid., 97, 123. 55 Ibid., 99. 56 On this point see Collingwood, Idea of History, esp. Part V: Epilegomena. 57 John Behr, The Mystery of Christ (Crestwood, NY: SVS Press, 2006), 89. 58 Worth considering here are Michael Bird’s observations in his essay “Film as Hierophany,” in which he discusses how Mircea Eliade’s understanding of the manifestation of the sacred (the literal meaning of “hierophany”) is captured by the

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medium of film. Bird, “Film as Hierophany,” in Religion in Film, ed. John R. May and Michael Bird (Knoxville, TN: The University of Tennessee Press, 1982), 3–22. 59 Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 16. 60 See, for example, Emile Durkheim’s The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, trans. Carol Cosman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), and Ludwig Feuerbach, The Essence of Christianity, especially the Preface and 1–30. 61 Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe, 20. 62 Robert Orsi, “Abundant History: Marian Apparitions as Alternative Modernity,” in Moved by Mary: The Power of Pilgrimage in the Modern World, ed. Anna-Karina Hermkens, Willy Jansen, and Catrien Notermans (Surrey, UK: Ashgate, 2009), 218. 63 Ibid., 216. 64 Ibid. 65 Ibid., 217. 66 Ibid., 220. 67 Ibid., 222. 68 Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson (New York: HarperCollins, 2008), 256–73. 69 Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013), 8–19. 70 Paul Ricoeur, “Philosophy and Religious Language,” in Figuring the Sacred: Religion, Narrative, and Imagination, trans. David Pellauer (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1995), 35. 71 Ibid., 35–36. 72 Ibid., 36. 73 Ibid., 41. 74 Ibid., 43. 75 Ibid. 76 Ibid., 44–45. 77 Ibid., 37. 78 Paul Ricoeur, Critique and Conviction: Conversations with François Azouvi and Marc de Launay, trans. Kathleen Blamey (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 6. 79 Paul Ricoeur, “Manifestation and Proclamation,” in Figuring the Sacred: Religion, Narrative, and Imagination, trans. David Pellauer (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1995), 48–49. See especially Rudolf Bultmann, New Testament and Theology, trans. Schubert M. Ogden (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1984); Mircea Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion, (Omaha: University of Nebraska Press, 1996); and Rudolf Otto, The Idea of the Holy, trans. John W. Harvey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1958).

Chapter 2 1 Frank Dwyer, “Against Hagiography: The Relevance of Gerald R. Ford,” Huffington Post, December 28, 2006, accessed June 20, 2015, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ frank-dwyer/against-hagiography-the-r_b_37270.html. 2 Zaki Hasan, “Zaki’s Review: American Sniper,” Huffington Post, January 21, 2015 (updated March 23, 2015), accessed June 30, 2015, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ zaki-hasan/zakis-review-american-sni_b_6518452.html.

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  3 On the use of “medieval” as a descriptor and paradigm governing the atrocities of ISIS, see Graeme Wood’s essay, “What ISIS Really Wants,” accessed July 14, 2015, http://www.theatlantic.com/features/archive/2015/02/what-isis-really-wants/384980/. See a response by John Terry, who argues that the ISIS fighters themselves have a notion of the medieval as violent, uncritical, having a take-no-prisoners culture that they are attempting to emulate, an ideal that is itself a nostalgic and radical reworking of history. “Why ISIS Isn’t Medieval,” accessed July 14, 2015, http://www.slate.com/ articles/news_and_politics/history/2015/02/isis_isn_t_medieval_its_revisionist_ history_only_claims_to_be_rooted_in.html.   4 Concern for such violence, particularly in American aggression after 9/11, has been an important factor in much of postsecular critical theory. For example, see Talal Asad, Formations of the Secular (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), 3–8; Judith Butler, “Sexual Politics, Torture, and Secular Time,” British Journal of Sociology 59, no.1 (March 2008): 1–23. In Provincializing Europe (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University, 2000), postcolonial critic Dipesh Chakrabarty connects the naturalization of time in secular thought to imperialist violence, repeated and justified, he argues, by historicist accounts of religious societies.  5 Asad, Formations of the Secular, 194.   6 On this observation, see William Connolly, “Europe: A Minor Tradition”, in Powers of the Secular Modern: Talal Asad and His Interlocutors, ed. D. Scott and C. Hirschkind (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press), 75. Noted by Gregor McLennan in “The Postsecular Turn,” Theory, Culture & Society 27, no. 4 (2010): 5.   7 McLennan, “The Postsecular Turn,” 5.  8 Asad, Formations of the Secular, 192.   9 Felice Lifshitz, “Beyond Positivism and Genre: ‘Hagiographical’ Texts as Historical Narrative,” Viator 25 (1994): 95. 10 Ibid., 109. 11 Lifshitz, “Beyond Positivism,” 99. 12 Ibid., 95. 13 Lifshitz, “Beyond Positivism,” 108. 14 However, by redefining history as that which does not include the sacred, historians missed the ways in which many medieval authors understood biography of saints to be forms of historical narrative. They distorted the evidence. For the sake of accuracy, there cannot be, Lifshitz argues, a single definition of history or hagiography, for the purposes of a narrative, what authors and audiences understood historiography and hagiography to be constituted by, depend on historical context (99). These contexts include not only the immediate scene of writing and reception, but also the ways in which texts were anthologized, categorized, and transmitted. Whether a Life appeared in a chronicle for a monastery, a liturgical book, a private prayer book, or was gathered with the Lives of other saints changed its purpose and meaning. See Patrick Geary, Living with the Dead in the Middle Ages (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994), 21. 15 Lifshitz, “Beyond Positivism,” 110. 16 Ibid., 109. This is an ironic gesture, to say the least, as Protestants were prolific authors of martyr’s Lives, which in many ways functionally replaced the saints that had been expunged in the Reformation. Authors like Fox portrayed martyrs of the Common Era, including those who kept Christian faith alive during the centuries of “Romish” captivity, in ways that were informed by biblical models. Unlike the saints, the martyrs were not intercessors and any miracles surrounding them were carefully attributed to God. However, like the saints, they provided examples for the true life

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of faith, even as they created a genealogy for the Reformation so that its protest could be understood to be part of a lineage rather than a novel phenomenon appearing ex nihilo, thus garnering the prestige and authority of tradition. 17 Robert A. Orsi, “Introduction,” in The Cambridge Companion to Religious Studies, ed. Robert A. Orsi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 5–6. 18 On the Protestant assumptions governing the foundation of the field of religious studies, see Robert A. Orsi, Between Heaven and Earth: The Religious World People Make and the Scholars who Study Them (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), 183–87. 19 Heinrich Denzinger, ed., “Decretum Gelasianum,” in Compendium of Creeds, Definitions, and Declarations on Matters of Faith and Morals. 43rd edition. LatinEnglish, ed. and trans. Peter Hünermann, et al. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press. 2012), 126 § 353. “Sed ideo secundum antiquam consuetudinem singulari cautela in sancta Romana Ecclesia non leguntur, quia et eorum, qui conscripsere, nomina penitus ignorantur, et ab infidelibus et idiotis superflua aut minus apta quam rei ordo fuerit, esse putantur. . . . Propter quod, . . .ne vel levis subsannandi oriretur occasio, in sancta Romana Ecclesia non leguntur. Nos tamen cum praedicta Eccleasia et omnes martyres et eorum gloriosos agones, qui Deo magis quam hominibus noti sunt, omni devotione veneramur.” Translation modified. 20 Ibid., 126, § 353 . “Item vitas Patrum, Pauli, Antonii, Hilarionis et omnium eremitarum, quas tamen vir beatissimus Hieronymus descripsit, cum omni honore suscipimus. Cum haec ad catholicorum manus pervenerint, beati Pauli Apostoli praecedat sententia: ‘Omnia probate, quod bonum est, tenete’ ” (1 Thess. 5:21). 21 André Vauchez, Sainthood in the Later Middle Ages, trans. Jean Birrell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 3. 22 Vauchez notes that 933 is typically given as the beginning of pontifical canonization, and that the term canonizare appeared for the first time in a letter from Benedict VIII (d. 1024) who confirmed the cult of St. Simeon the hermit (22). This move to papal canonization was not, however, official or widespread until 1234 when Gregory IX legislated the papal prerogative of canonization (31). 23 Vauchez, Sainthood, 8. On the importance of the category of juridical proof in the adjudication of female sanctity, see Dyan Elliott, Proving Woman: Female Spirituality and Inquisitional Culture in the Later Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004). 24 Hippolyte Delehaye describes Roseweyde’s plan for the collection and preparation of hagiographic material as follows: For the Lives already printed . . . the text of these publications was not to be considered sufficient but was to be collated with the other manuscripts. In previous collections . . . documents had often been glossed over for the sake of style. The authority of the document was thus weakened although its expression may have been frequently improved. Prologues, miracles, obscure passages, were suppressed. The texts therefore had to be restored to their original integrity. Documents, the manuscripts of which were missing, were only to be accepted when it could be proved that they had not been thus tampered with. Inedited Lives were to be sought out from every quarter, and inserted in their proper place among the others. Obscure passages were to be explained and elucidated according to the programme of the Illustrationes. Hippolyte Delehaye, S. J., The Work of the Bollandists Through Three Centuries, 1615-1915 (from the original French)

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(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1922), 12–13. See also the Introduction to Kathleen Ashley and Pamela Sheingorn’s Writing Faith: the Life and Miracles of Ste. Foy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999) for a discussion of the Bollandists; and Michel de Certeau, “A Variant: Hagio-Graphical Edification,” in The Writing of History, trans. Tom Conley (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992), 269–84. 25 See Lifshitz, “Beyond Positivism,” 97. She cites as seminal to this approach the works of J. -C. Poulin, L’idéal de sainteté dans l’Aquitaine carolingienne d’après les sources hagiographiques (750–950) (Quebec: Presses de l’Université Laval, 1975), and C. W. Jones, Saint Nicholas of Myra, Bari and Manhattan: Biography of a Legend (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978). 26 De Certeau, “A Variant: Hagio-Graphical Edification,” 271. 27 Delehaye, The Work of the Bollandists, 7. 28 Cardinal Bellarmin had much less faith in the implicit accuracy and orthodoxy of primitive sources, writing to Roseweyde that the original stories may have much that is improbable and silly and give rise to laughter rather than edification (ibid., 14). 29 De Certeau, “A Variant: Hagio-Graphical Edification,” 271–72. 30 Ibid., 275. 31 Orsi, “Introduction,” 5. 32 Ibid., 11. 33 Tom Conley, “Introduction: For a Literary Historiography,” in de Certeau, The Writing of History, viii. 34 De Certeau, “A Variant: Hagio-Graphical Edification,” 45. Despite his acknowledgment of the communication with the past required by historiography, the emphasis in de Certeau’s work was the difference and distance of the past. This stance was essential to his break with his mentor, the Jesuit historical theologian Henri de Lubac, for whom the past was not merely a distant other but a call that solicited and engaged the present, potentially transforming and renewing it. See Brenna Moore on this debate, “How to Awaken the Dead: Michel de Certeau, Henri de Lubac and the Instabilities between Past and Present,” Spiritus 12, no. 2 (Fall 2012): 172–79. 35 For an example of reflection on these questions, see Paul Ricoeur, Memory, History, Forgetting, trans. Kathleen Blamey and David Pellauer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), particularly the second section. See also Hayden White, “The Value of Narrativity in the Representation of Reality,” Critical Inquiry 7, no. 1 (Autumn 1980): 5–27; and Tropics of Discourse (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), particularly Chapters 2, 4 and 5. 36 An important recent example that testifies to the multiple voices engaging in this reconsideration of the discipline are essays collected in The Cambridge Companion to Religious Studies, ed. Robert A. Orsi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 37 See Robert A. Segal who writes, “The scholar, not the believer, is the expert. The scholar’s medicine kit contains what the believer lacks: theories. In religious studies, as in medicine, the doctor knows best.” In “All Generalizations Are Bad: Postmodernism on Theories,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 74, no. 1 (2006): 158. Cited by Noah Salomon and Jeremy F. Walton, “Religious criticism, secular critique, and the “critical study of religion”: Lessons from the study of Islam, in The Cambridge Companion to Religious Studies, 405. 38 Frantisek Graus, Volk, Herrscher, und Heililger im Reich der Merowinger: Studien zur Hagiographie der Merowingerzeit (Praha: Nakladatelství Československé akademie věd, 1965), 39. For an excellent and admiring discussion of Graus, see Geary, Living with the Dead in the Middle Ages, 11–12.

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39 Some important studies that treat the rhetorical nature of medieval hagiography include Barbara Rosenwein, Rhinoceros Bound: Cluny in the Tenth Century (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982); Ashley and Sheingorn, The Life and Miracles of Ste. Foi; and Dyan Elliott, The Bride of Christ Goes to Hell: Metaphor and Embodiment in the Lives of Pious Women, 200-1500 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012). 40 See Ashley and Sheingorn, The Life and Miracles of Ste. Foi, for a discussion of this shift, ix. 41 Thomas of Cantimpré, Vita Ioannis Cantimpratensis, ed. Robert Godding, “Une oeuvre inédite de Thomas de Cantimpré: la ‘Vita Ioannis Cantimpratensis,’ ” Revue d’histoire Ecclesiastique 76, no. 2 (1981), II.8b; See also, Vita Mariae Oigniacensis, Supplementum, ed. A. Raysse, in Acta Sanctorum, 23 June, V (Paris: 1867), Prologue. The potential for the excessive piety of saintly life to lead readers to respond with skepticism and not with faith is one that is not only registered by the Life of John and the Supplement, but is also a crucial issue in the rhetorical conundrum that is The Life of Christina the Astonishing in which the saint is represented as a demoniac. Thus Thomas writes that those who were devoted to Christina and convinced by her marvelous deeds were nevertheless “terrified that these supremely amazing marvels might exceed human reason, and that the beastly minds of men might convert these divine deeds into demonic activity.” Thomas of Cantimpré, Vita Christianae mirabilis, ed. J. Pinius, in Acta Sanctorum, 24 July, V (Paris: 1868), II.20 (0654B). English translation by Margot King and Barbara Newman in Thomas of Cantimpré: The Collected Saints’ Lives (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), 127–60. Thomas’s own representation of Christina, however, portrays these same deeds and thus risks this “conversion” of divine power into the demonic by readers. 42 Thomas of Cantimpré, Vita S. Lutgardis Aquiriensis, ed. G. Henschen, in Acta Sanctorum, 16 June, III (Antwerp, 1791), Prologue. English translation by Barbara Newman and Margot H. King in Thomas of Cantimpré, The Collected Saints’ Lives, 211–96. 43 The medieval has not only been a source of fear for moderns, but was attractive for many as a site of counter-cultural possibility, offering an alternative to the disenchantments of contemporary life. Saints and their vitae played an important role in some of these retrievals. For example, Jacques and Raïssa Maritain were avid readers of saint’s Lives, “devouring” countless vitae “in their early apprenticeship as Christians.” See Brenna Moore, Sacred Dread: Raïssa Maritain, the Allure of Suffering, and the French Catholic Revival (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012), 65. For a discussion of the non-Catholic interpretation and retrieval of Christian and non-Christian medievalism see Mark Sedgwick, Against the Modern World: Traditionalism and the Secret Intellectual History of the Twentieth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 44 Steven Justice, “Did the Middle Ages Believe in Their Miracles?” Representations 103, no. 1 (Summer 2008): 1. 45 Ibid., 15. 46 De Certeau, for example, repeats Hippolyte Delehaye’s oft-cited definition of hagiography as stories of sacred actors that intend to “edify” through “exemplarity” (“A Variant: Hagio-Graphical Edification,” 269). 47 Jean Leclercq, The Love of Learning and the Desire for God: A study of Monastic Culture, trans. Catherine Misrahi (New York: Fordham University Press, 1982), 166. In a reverse formulation of this argument, Catherine Sanok argues that people

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of late medieval England used exemplary literature in order to think historically in Her Life Historical: Exemplarity and Female Saints’ Lives in Late Medieval England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007). 48 The exemplary function of history continues today, as can be seen in the commonly reported story of Barack Obama’s use of the book Team of Rivals by historian Doris Kearns Goodwin as a model for constructing his own cabinet. For an analysis of this story four years after the fact, see Todd Purdham’s article, “Team of Mascots,” Vanity Fair, June 30, 2012, accessed July 14, 2015, http://www.vanityfair.com/news/2012/07/ obama-cabinet-team-rivals-lincoln. 49 Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 6, 16, 88, 254. 50 Ibid., 4–5. 51 Ibid., 16, 74–76. 52 Chakrabarty, Provincializing, 86. 53 Ibid., ch. 3. 54 Ibid., 8. 55 Chakrabarty, Provincializing, 7. 56 Robert Orsi has taken Chakrabarty’s suggestions further than a treatment of theological content to consider how religionists might analyze unexplained religious experiences in ways that “acknowledge their existence” and account for the “more” factor of “abundant events.” See “When 2 + 2 = 5: Can We Begin to Think about Unexplained Religious Experiences in Ways That Acknowledge Their Existence?” The American Scholar (Spring 2007), accessed July 31, 2015), http://www. theamericanscholar.org/when-2-2-5/. 57 Caroline Walker Bynum, Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987). 58 For an outline of the key critiques of Bynum by figures including David Aers, Kathleen Biddick, Karma Lochrie, Richard Rambuss, and Amy Hollywood, see Amy Hollywood, “Feminist Studies,” in The Blackwell Companion to Christian Spirituality, ed. Arthur Holder (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), 366–74.

Chapter 3 1 See Snopes 2015 for an investigation into the origins of rumor and its debunking. 2 Mayor 2011. 3 Dundes 1988: 1. 4 The biblical version conflates two oral accounts (see Ginzberg 1988). 5 Aarne-Thompson-Uther tale type 825. See Utley 1988: 338–56. Folklorists rely on an internationally recognized system for classifying folktales known as the Aarne–Thompson Tale Type Index (cataloged by AT or AaTh numbers). We use them those numbers to organize, classify, and analyze traditional narratives. In 2004, a long-needed update appeared as the Aarne-Thompson-Uther classification system (catalogued by ATU numbers). 6 Leeming 2004: Flood. 7 A standard Orthodox prayer for travelers. The version is found on the Saint Gregory Palamas Outreach website. 8 Aarne-Thompson-Uther tale type number 505. Variants occur throughout Europe, the Middle East, Asia, and the Americas, and South Africa.

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  9 See Lawrence Wills, who finds Tobit, as a work, “guided by a persistent whimsy” (1995: 1–2, 69). 10 Campbell 1968. 11 Dundes 1988: 3. 12 Some of the below draws on Bouteneff 2004: 131–40. 13 The popular version of this can be found in Velimirovic 1985: 38. 14 Cf. Halkin 1965. 15 Armenian, Syriac, Coptic, Ethiopian, Eritrean, and Malankara Indian. 16 We owe much to Renee Hirschon and George Democopoulos for sharing their respective experiences of the veneration of the saint in the United States, the United Kingdom, and Greece. 17 Aarne-Thompson-Uther tale type 804. 18 Quote derives from a Facebook message from a friend—an Orthodox Christian and professor of anthropology in the United Kingdom—about her experience with St. Phanourios (August 4, 2015). See also Kaplanoglou 2006: 55–56. 19 Many villagers in Greece believe that they follow this tradition to grant rest to the soul of the saint’s mother, who is said to have been a sinful woman (Kaplanoglou 2006; OrthodoxWiki). 20 Others, like Vassilakes, believe that the origin of the St Phanourios story is based on a misreading of an icon of St George, found in Rhodes, which might explain why the legend did not spread in Rhodes, but took hold in Crete (see Kaplanogou 2006). 21 A myth, on the other hand, takes place in a distant, undefined past and is believed. A folktale takes place in the indefinite past, and is only enjoyed, not believed at all. 22 Ong 1982. 23 See De Principiis 4.2, passim but especially section 9. See also Origen’s Commentary on John, 10.4.18-19. On Origen’s interpretation of Genesis, see Bouteneff 2008. 24 Throughout this section, Origen contends that Scripture records “thousands of events” as if they happened, but they could not possibly have happened as written. And this is so precisely in order to draw the reader into the deeper meaning of these narratives. 25 See Bammel 1989. 26 See Hill 2004: 53, n. 43. More broadly and helpfully, see Young 1997.

Chapter 4   1 The hagiographies of Vālmīki, Tukārām, Tulsīdās, and Mīrābāī are just a few of the many examples.   2 Unpublished translation by Prof. Linda Hess.   3 Quoted in R. V. Russell and R. B. Hira Lal, Tribes and Castes of the Central Provinces of India (London: Macmillan, 1916), 308.   4 Ibid., 310.   5 Working with leather was one of the main excuses the priestly caste used to label Ghāsidās’s community as inherently impure, and thus “untouchable.”   6 Throughout most of India, devotees of Viṣṇu or one of his incarnations (Rām, Kṛṣṇ, etc.) are referred to as “Vaiṣṇav,” or devotees of Viṣṇu, and for the most part, Vaiṣṇav householders are believed to adhere to traditional rules of purity more closely than other Hindu householders. In Chhattisgarh, the major adherents to these rules include the followers of Kabīr and of the Rāmānanda Sampradāy.   7 Russell and Hira Lal, Tribes and Castes of the Central Provinces of India, 308.

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  8 Lawrence Babb, “The Satnāmīs—Political Involvement of a Religious Movement,” in Untouchables in Contemporary India, ed. J. M. Mahar (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1972), 145.   9 Russell and Hira Lal, Tribes and Castes of the Central Provinces of India, 310–11. 10 The Rāmānandi Sampradāy is a Vaiṣṇav sect dating to the sixteenth century and to the fourteenth-century Vaiṣṇav Sant Rāmanand. See Richard Burghart, “The Founding of the Ramanandi Sect” in David N. Lorenzen, ed., Religious Movements in South Asia 600-1800 (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2005), 227–50. 11 For a more detailed explanation of the events leading up to an including the court case, see my Rapt in the Name (Albany: SUNY Press, 2002), 65–67. 12 A Mānas verse that he would often repeat to make this point is: umā kahaun: mai : anubhava apanā│ sata hari bhajanu jagata saba sapnā││ (3.38.3) “Umā, let me tell you my own realization: Prayer to Hari (Rām) is truth, the world is but illusion.” 13 Saurabh Dube, Untouchable Pasts: Religion, Identity, and Power Among a Central Indian Community, 1780-1950 (Albany: SUNY Press, 1998), 13. 14 Ibid., 14–15. 15 George W. Briggs, The Chamārs (London: Association Press, 1920), 223. 16 Many of Gurū Ghāsīdās’s followers believe he was a realized being whose teachings are absolute. Thus, those who hold differing views on his teachings see each other as wrong. One example of this is the disagreement between those who claim the Gurū considered himself a Hindu and that his jāti was originally rājput (warrior caste) and those who claim he rejected Hinduism completely and started his own religion. Both groups are adamant about their views and openly reject the other. 17 http://www.satnami.com/sirpur.html [accessed August 3, 2015]. 18 http://www.satnami.com/hist02.html [accessed August 2, 2015]. 19 http://wikimapia.org/11037461/Giroudpuri [accessed August 4, 2015]. 20 http://www.gurughasidas.org [accessed August 14, 2015]. 21 Interview with Rāmnāmī in Matiya, Chhattisgarh, January 1985.

Chapter 5   1 This is a practice associated with the Nāth Siddha tradition, of which Jñāneśvar was a member. See, for example, Dasgupta, Shashibhusan, “The Nāth Cult,” in Obscure Religious Cults, 2nd ed. (Calcutta: Firma K. L. Mukhopadhyay, 1962), 215–16. On the practice of a realized sage leaving the body at death, see Mark J. McLaughlin, “Lord in the Temple, Lord in the Tomb: The Hindu Temple and Its Relationship to the Samādhi Shrine Tradition of Jñāneśvar Mahārāj” (PhD. diss., University of California, Santa Barbara, 2014), 125–65. On Jñāneśvar’s relation to the Nāth Siddha tradition, see McLaughlin, “Lord in the Temple,” 170–79.   2 Other instances that may require burial as opposed to cremation include the death of young children, pregnant women, and those dying violent deaths. See for example, Pandurang Vaman Kane, History of the Dharmasāstra: Ancient and Mediaeval Religious and Civil Law, vol. 2, pt. 2 (Poona: Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute, 1974), 938–42; Raj Bali Pandey, Hindu Saṃskāras: Socio-Religious Study of the Hindu Sacraments, 2nd ed. (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, Poona: Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute, 1969 [1949]), 256–57. In addition, many scheduled caste communities also practice burial of their dead.

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 3 Nāmadeva Gāthā, 872–1096. As with the origins of many traditions, the historical evidence at this time of Jñāneśvar’s life and connection to Nāmdev is murky. For brevities sake, I will not get into the controversies surrounding this evidence here, as it has been elucidated elsewhere, both by myself and others. See, for example, Catharina Kiehnle, “Authorship and Redactorship of the Jñyāndev Gāthā,” in Devotional Literature in South Asia, Current Research 1985-1988, ed. Ronald S. McGregor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 126–37; Kiehnle, Songs on Yoga: Texts and Teachings of the Mahārāṣṭrian Nāths. Jñāndev Studies I and II (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1997), 2–5; Novetzke, “History, Memory, and Other Matters of Life and Death,” in Shared Idioms, Sacred Symbols, and the Articulation of Identities in South Asia, ed. Kelly Pemberton and Michael Nijhawa (New York: Routledge, 2009), 220; McLaughlin, ‘Lord in the Temple’, 166–70. What remains important for this chapter is the received hagiographical narrative from these sources and the impact they have on the space of Jñāneśvar’s samādhi compound.   4 Charles White, “Swami Muktananda and the Enlightenment Through Sakti-pat,” History of Religions 13, no. 4 (May 1974): 309.  5 Jñāneśvarī 6.468. See Swami Kripananda, Jnaneshwar’s Gita: A Rendering of the Jnanesvari (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989), 86.  6 Amṛtānubhāva 2.1, 26, 32. See B. P. Bahirat, The Philosophy of Jnanadeva (Bombay: Popular Prakashan Private Limited, 1956), 168, 171.   7 Mahābhārata 5.52.44.5. On the role of the guru in the northern Sant tradition, see Daniel Gold, The Lord as Guru: Hindi Sants in North Indian Tradition (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), especially 173–99. For a description by the twentiethcentury-adept Gopinath Kaviraj of the process by which the guru is able to influence and guide his disciple, see David Gordon White, The Alchemical Body. Siddha Traditions in Medieval India (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 165–66.  8 Śiva Sūtras 2.6. For Jñāneśvar’s citation of the Śiva Sūtras of Vasugupta, see Amṛtānubhāva 3.16.  9 Kaulajñānanirṇaya 17.37-39. 10 Jñāneśvarī. 16.1-2, 13-17. See Kripananda, Jnaneshwar’s Gita, 256. 11 Tirumantiram 7.19.1919-22. 12 See for example Siddhasiddhāntapaddhati 5.53-54, 73, 78-79. 13 On the development of the term mahāsamādhi and its relationship to the practice of leaving the body at death, see McLaughlin, “Lord in the Temple,” 127–40. 14 Swami Muktananda, Conversations with Swami Muktananda: The Early Years (South Fallsburg, NY: Siddha Yoga Dham Associates Foundation, 1998 [1981]), 114–15. 15 One may recognize here a similarity to the function of baraka in the Sufi dargāh tradition. On the relationship and mutual influence between the Hindu samādhi shrine tradition and the Sufi dargāh tradition with particular attention to Maharashtra, see McLaughlin, “Lord in the Temple,” 182–96. 16 Bhaktavijaya 10.13-14. See Justin E. Abbott and Pundit N. R. Godbole, trans., Stories of Indian Saints, vol. 1 (Delhi: Caxton Publications, 1988 [1933]), 159. 17 Jñāneśvarī 18.1760. See Kripananda, Jnaneshwar’s Gita, 350. 18 Amṛtānubhāva 2.49, 61. See Bahirat, The Philosophy of Jnanadeva, 173, 175. 19 On Vārkarī notions of Viṭṭhal as mother, see for example, Ramchandra Dhere, The Rise of a Folk God: Viṭṭhal of Pandharpur, trans. Anne Feldhaus (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 207–20. On the notion of Jñāneśvar as mother, see Irina Glushkova, “Object of Worship as a Free Choice: Viṭhobā (God), Dñyāneśvar (Saint), the Dñyāneśvarī (Book), or Samādhī (Grave)?,” in Objects of Worship in South Asian

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Religions: Forms, Practices, and Meanings, ed. Knut A. Jacobson, Mikael Aktor, and Kristina Myrvold (New York: Routledge, 2015), 111; McLaughlin, “Lord in the Temple,” 208–10. 20 Also known at various times in its existence as Āḷaṅkāvatī, or Āḷaṅkapūr. 21 A liṅga is the aniconic form of Śiva worshiped in most Śiva temples. 22 Each Hindu god has a mount (vāhana) who bears and serves them. Śiva’s is the white bull Nandī. 23 Nārāyaṇa is another name for the Hindu god Viṣṇu and Lakṣmī is his consort. The broader Vaiṣṇava tradition recognizes ten classical avatāras, or incarnation descents of Viṣṇu. One of the most beloved of these avatāras is Kṛṣṇa. The hub of the Vārkarī tradition, of which Jñāneśvar is recognized as the root guru, is the mūrti of Lord Viṭṭhal in Paṇḍharpur, who is understood within the tradition to be a manifestation of Kṛṣṇa. The presence of Lakṣmī and Nārāyaṇa temple in the Āḷandī compound mirrors the images of Viṭṭhal and his wife Rukmiṇī on the back wall of Jñāneśvar’s samādhi sanctum, and points to the Vārkarī’s association of Jñāneśvar with their broader devotional tradition anchored by the Viṭṭhal temple in Paṇḍharpur. 24 While in the past, it was possible to access this room for meditation, on my last visit to Āḷandī it was being used as a storeroom while various areas of the compound went through some needed renovation, and thus it was closed indefinitely. 25 R. D. Ranade, Mysticism in Maharashtra: Indian Mysticism (New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers Pvt. Ltd., 2003 [1933]), 35. 26 For the biographical narrative of Jñāneśvar, see Nāmdeva Gāthā, 671–96. 27 On Siddheśvar temples and the Siddha and Nāth traditions, see White, The Alchemical Body, 60, 95–96, 103, 110. 28 Nāmdeva Gāthā, 700–830. 29 This family had invited a number of people over to have darśan of the pādukās of a renowned nineteenth-century Maharashtrian siddha popularly known as Swami Samartha, who in 1878 had taken mahāsamādhi in Akkaḷkoṭ, a rural village just across the eastern border of Maharashtra in the state of Karnataka. He purportedly left a pair of his pādukās with the family on whose land he had chosen as the site to leave his body. This family became the caretakers of his samādhi shrine, and they have dedicated themselves to touring the state often with his pādukās so that his devotees can have his darśạn. 30 Anonymous personal communication, Varai, August 19, 2009. 31 See Nāmadeva Gāthā, 193–243. 32 Eknāth Caritra 16.69-77; Bhaktalilāmṛta 19.120-129. See also Jon Milton Keune, “Eknāth Remembered and Reformed: Bhakti, Brahmans, and Untouchables in Marathi Historiography” (PhD. diss., Columbia University, New York, 2011), 212, n. 103; Shankar Gopal Tulpule, Classical Marathi Literature: From the Beginning to A.D. 1818, A History of Indian Literature Series, vol. 4 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1979), 359. 33 This hagiographic account was narrated to me by Jñāneśvar bhaktas while visiting Jñāneśvar’s samādhi shrine compound in February 2001. Another version has Eknāth sit in conversation with Jñāneśvar about the text from which he gains the internal knowledge to distinguish the original verses from the interpolated ones. 34 Novetzke, “History, Memory, and Other Matters,” 228–29. 35 Personal communication with Vishwanath Karad, Dean and Founder, Maharashtra Institute of Technology and Unesco Chair of the Āḷandī Center for World Peace, January 2011. 36 While the samādhi shrine tradition adheres itself to the notion of a temple by use of the term mandīr, the Sufi tomb-shrine tradition in India uses the term dargāh to

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designate the site where the Sufi pīr is buried. This term refers to a royal court. The interesting point of note here is that while the rituals performed in a samādhi mandīr are drawn from temple ritual, those temple rituals are themselves drawn initially from rituals reserved for the king as expressed in the Vedas. See Richard M. Eaton, “The Political and Religious Authority of the Shrine of Baba Farid,” in India’s Islamic Traditions, 711-1750, ed. Richard Eaton (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2003), 263–84, 274; J. C. Heesterman, The Ancient Indian Royal Consecration: The Rājasūya Described According to the Yajus Texts and Annoted (The Hague: Mouton & Co., 1957). 37 Sears, I. Tamara, “Constructing the Guru: Ritual Authority and Architectural Space in Medieval India,” The Art Bulletin 90, no. 1 (March 2008): 12–14. 38 On Nāth identification with Śiva, see Kaulajñānanirṇaya 6.4-5, 17.37; P. C. Bagchi ed., Kaulajnana-nirnaya of the School of Matsyendranatha, trans. Michael Magee (Varanasi: Panchya Prakashan, 2007), 29; Dasgupta, “The Nāth Cult,” 217–18. 39 The current image of Jñāneśvar on the lintel is the classic portrait of him as a young adolescent, the creation of which can be traced to an early twentieth-century portrait. See Glushkova, “Object of Worship,” 122. 40 Abhiṣeka consists of the ritual pouring over the mūrti of the pañcāmṛta (five nectars), including milk, curd, ghee (clarified butter), honey, and sugar followed by water, which is usually infused with rose or saffron. 41 On this, see Diana L. Eck, India: A Sacred Geography (New York: Harmony Books, 2012), 210; Dhere, The Rise of a Folk God, 145–47. 42 Eck, India: A Sacred Geography, 210–11. 43 Robert A. Orsi, “Abundant History: Marion Apparitions as Alternative Modernity,” in Moved by Mary: The Power of Pilgrimage in the Modern World, ed. Anna-Karina Hermkens, Willy Jansen, and Catrien Notermans (Farnham, England; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2009), 215. 44 Orsi, “Abundant History,” 223. 45 Dūdh Māulī.

Chapter 6 1 Grant Morrison, Supergods (New York: Spiegel and Grau, 2012), 14. 2 Linda Dègh and Andrew Vázsonyi, “Does the Word ‘Dog’ Bite? Ostensive Action: A Means of Legend Telling,” Journal of Folklore Research 20 (1983): 5. 3 Lamp for the Eye in Contemplation contains the earliest Tibetan references to Vimalamitra, but there is an older Chinese source that includes an Indian named Vimalamitra. According to Xuánzàng (c. 602–664), Vimalamitra traveled throughout the “five parts of India,” mastered the diverse doctrines of the Buddha, and became one of the greatest scholars of India. While returning home to Kaśmir, he approached the famous stūpa of Saṃghabhadra and made the following vow: You, Śāstra-master [Saṃghabhadra], were a man of magnanimity and eminence and extolled the great teachings. Why did you live such a short life and die at the time when you were just about to defeat the heterodox schools and establish your own sect? I, Vimalamitra, am a man of shallow learning, and although we have lived at different times, I admire your righteousness and have always remembered your virtue for many years. Vasubandhu is dead, but his theories are still in vogue. I shall exhaust my knowledge to write treatises for all the scholars in Jambudvīpa to efface the fame of the Mahāyāna teachings and the name of Vasubandhu. This will be an unending task, but I shall do my best for its fulfillment.

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According to Xuánzàng’s account, the moment Vimalamitra uttered these words, he became delirious and fell to the ground. Upon impact, five tongues shot out of his mouth and hot reddish-black blood poured from the tip of each, oozing down his robes. In a final act of desperation, Vimalamitra scribbled a bloodstained letter of repentance: The Mahāyāna doctrines are the ultimate truth of the Buddha-dharma, the teachings that are beyond the scope of both conception and substance. I have foolishly denounced an advanced teacher and for my ignorance, I am now suffering the just karmic retribution and in hindsight, I realize that my sins are punishable by death. It is my only hope that my foolish actions can provide an example for my students. Be careful not to cast aspersions on the Mahāyāna and never doubt the legitimacy of the teachings again. Having written his last word, the earth quaked and opened to envelop his bleeding corpse. Xuánzàng, The Great Tang Dynasty, 130–34.   4 The Tibetan term tshul bstan is preceded by the adverbial tshul, the Tibetan word tshul bstan becomes a technical term that often means “seemingly displayed.” This term might be utilized to describe acts of buddhas and bodhisattvas that have been performed for the benefit of others, as skillful means. The implication is that these acts were “seemingly,” but not actually, performed in the manner that they appeared. For example, in many tantric histories, the Buddha “seemingly” performed the twelve acts, but in actuality, he was a highly realized being before descending from Tuṣita. Once “born,” he enacted or performed his twelve acts in order to demonstrate the Buddhist path to students of moderate capacity.   5 Nupchen claims that he will provide “proof in the form of direct perception” that the most advanced Mahāyoga practitioners can quickly purify the contaminated aggregates to become a high-level vidyādhara. As proof of this he mentions past masters who have achieved comparable results. Vimalamitra is the first. This might be taken as a sign of the Indian’s importance to the early tantric traditions of Tibet. Next, he claims that Padmasambhava miraculously vanished to liberate demons. He then explains that there were innumerable masters who became vidhyādaras and others who went to the pure lands with ḍākinīs, including Ma Rinchen Chok (Rma Rin chen mchog, d.u.). The interlinear notes within the text, which may or may not have been written by Nupchen, list several other tāntrikas as “proofs.” These include Nup Namkai Nyingpo (Gnubs Nam mkha’i Snying po) and Nyen Pelyang (Gnyan Dpal dbyangs). While Nupchen may not have provided convincing proof that Vimalamitra possessed tantric powers, he may have been the first to record an interesting legend surrounding Vimalamitra. See Nupchen, Lamp for the Eye, 277: 4–278: 3.   6 Nupchen Sangyé Yeshé (Gnubs chen sangs rgyas ye shes). Lamp for the Eye in Meditation (Sgom gyi gnang gsal bar phye ba bsam gtan mig sgron), (“Khor gdon gter sprul” Chi med rig dzin, Leh: Smartsis shesrig spendzod, Vol. 74, 1974), 277: 3–4.   7 Vimalamitra is introduced in the Great History on p. 606, he departs Tibet on p. 646, and the text details the revelations of his texts until p. 657. See Anonymous, Great History of Dzokchen Nyingtik (Rdzogs pa chen po snying thig gi lo rgyus chen mo). Bka’ ma shin tu rgyas pa (kaH thog). 34: 505–660, (Chengdu: kaH thog mkhan po ‘jam dbyangs, 1999).   8 Nyang Tingzin Sangpo records annotated notes to the concealed Nyingtik texts and entrusts them to Drom Rinchen Barwa (Drom Rin chen ‘Bar ba, d.u.), thereby ensuring that the transmission of the lineage remains intact. Drom Rinchen Barwa passes the annotations to his student, Lodrö Wangchuk (Blo gros Dbang ‘phug, d.u.), who passes them to his own student, Dangma Lhüngyal, who then eventually discovers “the three cycles, the oral instructions of Nyingtik, and their explanatory tantras.” See Great History, 647: 6–648: 5.

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 9 Great History, 648: 5–6. 10 Ibid., 652: 2–5. 11 Sam van Schaik’s “The Sweet Sage and the Four Yogas” analyzes an untitled Dunhuang Mahāyoga text found in IOL Tib J 454, which he names The Four Yogas. The article includes a discussion of the lion and the Garuḍa similes utilized by Mahāyogins to explain the qualities of buddhahood in a living practitioner; see Sam van Schaik, “The Sweet Sage and the Four Yogas: A Lost Mahāyoga Treatise from Dunhuang,” 18. According to Sam van Schaik, during the formative stages of his accomplishments, when the tāntrika does not obviously demonstrate the qualities of his attainment, they are like a lion and the garuḍa when still in the womb or the egg. Van Schaik writes, “It is the same for the yogin who has realized sameness; his qualities are present but will only fully manifest when he attains buddhahood. One early source for this simile appears in a passage from an unidentified Māyājāla tantra cited in A Lamp for the Eyes of Contemplation.” See van Schaik, “The Sweet Sage,” 18. For further discussions of the lion and garuḍa similes, see David Jackson, Enlightenment by a Single Means (Vienna: Austrian Academy of Sciences Press, 1994), 95–114. 12 Prior to Longchenpa, Nyingtik literature belonged to three major collections that emerged in the eleventh through fourteenth centuries, including the Seventeen Tantras, the Bima Nyingtik, and the Ḍākinī Nyingtik. As Germano has explained, the Seventeen Tantras are largely Tibetan syntheses, and function as the primary texts upon which the other two collections are based. The Seminal Heart of Vimalamitra is a three-volume collection that also contains a few Tantras, but consists mostly of ritual, contemplative, and philosophical texts attributed to Vimalamitra and other Indian teachers. Vimalamitra and his disciples are said to have buried both The Seventeen Tantras and The Seminal Heart of Vimalamitra as Treasure, where they remained until the late tenth or early eleventh century, at which time their excavation began, a process that culminated in the mid-twelfth century. It appears, however, that these texts were in fact largely composed by their Tibetan discoverers themselves.See David Germano, “The Seven Descents and the Early History of Rnying ma Transmissions,” in The Many Canons of Tibetan Buddhism, ed. Helmut Eimer and David Germano (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 244. 13 The life stories of Shangtön Tashi Dorjé’s son Nyima Bum and grandson Guru Jober are also included in The Liberation of the Great Victor Lama Shang, Nyima Bum, and Guru Jober (Bla ma rgyal ba zhang chen po dang nyi ma ‘bum jo ‘ber gyi rnam thar). Scholars have listed Shangtön Tashi Dorjé as The Great History’s author. Although the text lacks a colophon to corroborate this claim, the stories of each Nyingtik lineal heir lead to Shangtön Tashi Dorjé, and near the text’s final pages, an unnamed narrator uses the personal pronoun I (bdag) to answer one of Chégom Nakpo’s (Lce sgom Nag po, 11th–12th c.) questions. 14 Trülshik Sengé Gyapa and Melong Dorjé’s life stories are depicted in The Liberation of Trülshik Sengé Gyabpa and Melong Dorjé (Khrul zhig seng ge rgyab pa dang me long rdo rje’i rnam thar). 15 See Longchenpa (Dri med ‘od zer). Rig ‘dzin chen po ku mA rA dza’i rnam thar lo rgyus dang bcas pa). Snying thig ya bzhi, (Cazadero, ca: yeshe de text preservation project, 1992), 483: 6–484: 1. 16 Sam van Schaik. “The Early Days of the Great Perfection,” Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 27, no. 1 (2004): 165–206. 17 Janet Gyatso, Apparitions of the Self: The Secret Autobiographies of a Tibetan Visionary, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998), 40. 18 Gyatso, Apparitions of the Self, 59, 95.

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19 Do Khyentsé Yeshé Dorjé (Mdo Mkhyen brtse Ye shes Rdo rje, 1800–66) was first recognized as the mind emanation of Jikmé Lingpa. Following his cremation ceremony, his incarnation further divided into (at least) three. Of the three, only one line continued past the initial recognition. Doring Choktrul’s (Rdo ring Mchog ‘prul, 20th c.) incarnation line ended after his emanated form “dissolved back into its ultimate nature.” The second of these lineages ran through Dudjom Lingpa’s son (Bdud ‘jom Gling pa, 1835–1904), Khyentsé Tulku Zamling Wangyal (Bdzam gling Dbang rgyal, 1868–1907), but seemingly ended after he passed. The third emanation of Do Khyentsé Yeshé Dorjé, Alak Zenkar Pema Ngodrub Rolpé Dorjé (A lags Bzan dkar Padmma Dngos grub Rol pa’i Rdo rje, 1881–1943), was, upon his death, recognized as one of the most revered living Tibetan scholars, Alak Zenkar Thupten Nyima (A lags Bzan dkar Rin po che Thub bstan Nyi ma, 1943–). Dza Patrul Orgyen Jikmé Chökyi Wangpo (Rdza Dpal sprul O rgyan ‘Jigs med Chos kyi Dbang po, 1808–87), the author of the beloved Words of My Perfect Teacher (Kun bzang bla ma’i zhal lung), was recognized a decade after Do Khyentsé Yeshé Dorjé as Jikmé Lingpa’s speech emanation. In the years following Patrul Rinpoché’s death, his subsequent incarnation line became complex, difficult to trace, and apparently fiercely contested. The clearest and most succinct summary available was offered by Nyoshul Khenpo in his A Marvelous Garland of Rare Gems: “The fifth Drupwang Dzokchen declared Changma Khen Rinpoche Tupten Chopel to be the sublime tulku of this lord, [Patrul Rinpoche]. As well, many other extraordinary holy beings were incarnations of Patrul Rinpoche, including Tso Paltrul of Repkong; Khedrup Namkha Jimge, son of Dudjom the elder; and Jikmé Wangpo, son of the second Tsamtrul.” See Nyoshul Khenpo, A Marvelous Garland of Rare Gems, trans. Richard Barron (Junction City: Padma Publishing, 2005), 229. In addition to the incarnation lines stemming from Jikmé Lingpa’s mind and speech emanations, twelve years after Patrul Rinpoche was born, the body emanation, Jamyang Khyentsé Wangpo (‘Jam dbyang Mkhyen brtse’i Dbang po, 1820–92), manifested in the Land of Treasure, Degé’s Terlung Valley. Jamyang Khyentsé Wangpo’s emanation line further subdivided into body, speech, mind, qualities, and activities emanations (in addition to a few others). Among these principal five, both the mind and speech emanations were recognized as two distinct concurrent lineages (two mind and two speech). Jamyang Khyentsé Chökyi Lodrö (‘Jam dbyangs Mkhyen brtse Chos kyi Blo gros, 1893–1959), one of the greatest Dzokchen masters of the twentieth century, was recognized as the sole activity emanation, but his emanation split into another three distinct lineages, etc. 20 Each subsequent incarnation inherited the eighteenth-century treasure-revealer’s emanation or incarnation lineage. 21 Rangjung Yeshe’s more recently published biographies of contemporary Nyingma lamas blend traditional Tibetan tales of liberation with a Western biographical impulse to paint a more vulnerable portrait of an important historical figure. Blazing Splendor includes the type of complexities of saintly life that are often omitted from more traditional Nyingma spiritual biographies. These genre-bending shifts in the text’s structure and points of emphasis illuminate avenues of expression regarding Nyingma saints that may have previously only been included within oral traditions, but seldom made their way into published Tibetan texts, a fact not lost on Blazing Splendor’s compilers or editors: “This is not a traditional narrative of an enlightened master’s life in Tibetan Vajrayana.” The informed reader, including Tibetans, “will find this biography unlike most others in their traditional genre. . . . The book’s voice reflects the cozy circumstances in which this tale was first old—a feeling of sitting at

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the master’s side, as Tulku Urgyen shared these chapters in his life with his closest Western Students.” See Tulku Urgyen Rinpoche, Erik Pema Kunsang, and Maria Binder Schmidt eds., Blazing Splendor: The Memoirs of Tulku Urgyen (Kathmandu: Rangjung Yeshe Publications, 2005), xiv–xix. 22 Immediately following his vision, the ground shook and innumerable miracles followed one after another. As Chokgyur Lingpa regained his senses, the protector Ekajati appeared before him and Jamyang Khyentsé, and she told them that in three years’ time they would both receive a great boon; they telepathically agreed that this message prophesied their revelation of the Dzokchen Desum (Ddzogs chen sde gsum). Several years following the vision of Ekajati, Chokling also disinterred a statue of white Tārā from the cave known as Turquoise Rock (G.yu brag) at Gatö. He claimed it was sculpted by Vimalamitra. Khyentsé later reported that this secret revelation was the twenty-sixth of Chokgyur Lingpa’s Earth Treasure revelations (sa gter), witnessed with his own eyes. This particular statue was also accompanied by other revelatory objects, including long life pills and Vimalamitra’s The Inner Heart Essence (Thugs thig Snying po). 23 Perhaps the most prominent of Chokgyur Lingpa’s teachings came following a journey to Riwo Wangzhu (Ri bo Dbang zhu), one of Vimalamitra’s former practice caves. As Chokling unsealed the sacred cave, Vimalamitra manifested and offered several oral instructions. Shortly after, Vimalamitra bestowed Vimala’s Profound Essence (Bi ma la zab thig), a guru sādhana on how to “become” Vimalamitra through the practices of generation and perfection (bskyed rim dang rdzogs rim).24 Great History, 650: 2–651. Also see Dudjom Rinpoche, ed., Gyurmey Dorjee and Matthew Kapstein. The Nyingma School of Tibetan Buddhism: Its Fundamentals and History, 2 vols. (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 1999), 556–57. 25 See Nyoshul Jamyang Dorjé and Richard Barron, trans., A Marvelous Garland of Rare Gems (Junction City, CA: Padma Publishing, 2005), 87. 26 Longchenpa’s foremost student, Chödrak Sangpo (Chos grags Bzang po, 1300/13101375/1385), recorded a story in which Vimalamitra manifested to remind Longchenpa he had forgotten to repair an imperial-era landmark, but he does not claim Longchenpa was an emanation of Vimalamitra. 27 See Khenpo, A Marvelous Garland of Rare Gems, 103–04. 28 The obvious limitations and inaccuracies of Eliade’s research have been covered by dozens of scholars over several decades. There is no need to revisit them here. It is enough to note that his theory of the eternal return overgeneralizes “religious behavior” in a way that is obvious to contemporary scholars. See Mircea Eliade, The Myth of the Eternal Return (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971), xiii. 29 Blazing Splendor lists two other emanations of Vimalamitra, Khenpo Ngakchung (Mhan po Ngag dbang Dpal bzang, 1879–1941), the joint emanation of Vimalamitra and Longchenpa, and Jamyang Khyentsé Wangpo (1820–92), the combined emanation of Vimalamitra, Trisong Detsen, Longchenpa, and Jikmé Lingpa. 30 Könchok Gyurmé Tenpé Gyaltsen was the second in the Tsikey Chokling line, one of Chokgyur Lingpa’s two incarnation lines. 31 Samten Gyatso was recognized as the next Ngaktrim Tulku (Ngag ‘brim); he was also Tulku Urgyen’s uncle and root guru. 32 Tulku Urgyen, Blazing Splendor, 207. 33 Tsikey monastery was built at the intersection of the Tsichu and Kechu rivers, an area known as Tsikey. 34 Tulku Urgyen, Blazing Splendor, 208. 35 Ibid.

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36 Tulku Urgyen also explains Samten Gyatso’s anger and harsh words as the enlightened qualities of yet another emanation, those of the notoriously fierce deity, the Four-Armed Mahākala. See Tulku Urgyen, Blazing Splendor, 206–08. 37 Tulku Urgyen writes: Samten Gyatso specifically requested that his students not find [his reincarnation.] . . . “After I die, there is no doubt that people will ask the Karmapa to find my tulku. But please understand, I honestly don’t have the slightest ambition to have my name pinned onto someone as though he were my reincarnation. . . . One thing is for sure: there will not be any direct reincarnation. For that I have no wish” (233). Although Samten Gyatso’s stated ambition was quite clear, Tulku Urgyen writes, “In Lhasa I ran into one of Samten Gytaso’s disciples from Derge, who was a very devoted but headstrong lama. Even though he had heard about Samten Gyatso’s explicit wish that the Karmapa not be asked to find a tulku, this lama joined forces with the bursar of our monastery and went off to central Tibet to ask the Karmapa anyway. . . . We exchanged a few words: ‘Didn’t your guru tell you not to look for his tulku?’ I asked him. ‘And yet against his will you travel all the way to see the Karmapa.’ But that did no good as Khampas can be quite obstinate, as it is said: ‘Khampas are headstrong like yaks—either bandits or great meditators.’ So the disciple went ahead and asked the Karmapa despite all my objections. That’s why today someone is known as Samten Gyatso’s tulku.” See Tulku Urgyen, Blazing Splendor, 246. 38 Penor Rinpoche was the eleventh throne-holder of the Palyul (Dpal yul) lineage of Palyul monastery, one of the six primary monasteries of the Nyingma tradition. He was also the head of the Nyingma lineage from 1993 to 2001. 39 Tulku Urgyen, Blazing Splendor, 22–23. 40 Dègh and Vázsonyi, “Does the Word ‘Dog’ Bite?” 5. 41 Ibid., 5. 42 Tanya Luhrmann, Persuasion of the Witch’s Craft (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989). 43 See the Karmapa’s speech in Bodh Gaya on the anniversary of the first Karmapa’s parinirvana, The Karmapa, “Anniversary of Dusum Khyenpa.” December 5, 2013, http://kagyuoffice.org/anniversary-of-dusum-khyenpa/. 44 Bradford W. Wright, Comic Book Nation: The Transformation of Youth Culture in America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001), XIII. 45 “Superheroes: Interview with Michael Barnett,” HBO Documentaries (2011), http:// www.hbo.com/documentaries/superheroes#/documentaries/superheroes/interview/ michael-barnett.html. 46 See Michael Barnett’s documentary, Superheroes. HBO Documentaries (ParkCity: Slamdance, 2011). 47 Superheroes, 2011. 48 Morrison, Supergods, 14. 49 Superheroes, 2011. 50 Wright, Comic Book Nation, XIII.

Chapter 7   1 An earlier and much shorter version of this paper was published in a Turkish translation as “Hacı Bektaş Veli’nin Velayetname’sindeki Güvenç Abdal Anlatısı” in

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Pınar Ecevitoğlu, Ali Murat İrat, and Ayhan Yalçınkaya, ed., Hacı Bektaş Veli Güneşte Zerresinden Deryada Katresinden (Ankara: Dipnot Ayınları, 2010).   2 See, Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı, Manakib-l Haci Bektas-i Veli Vilayet-name (Istanbul: Inkilap Kitabevi, 1958) and Esat Korkmaz, Vilayet-name (Manakib-l Haci Bektas-i Veli) (Istanbul: Can Yayınları, 1995).   3 Marshall Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, vol. 2 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977), 493–94.  4 Hodgson, The Venture of Islam, 498–500.   5 Ibid., 500.   6 Ahmet Karamustafa, “Islam: A Civilizational Project in Progress,” in Progressive Muslims: On Justice, Gender and Pluralism, ed. Omid Safi (Oxford: Oneworld, 2003), 108.   7 Many shari’ah-minded Muslims, in fact, will argue that the point of following the path of shari’ah is not simply to obey the law but to be transformed internally so that one can become a person whose life is rooted in morality, in ethics (akhlaq), and whose behavior naturally manifests politeness toward others (edep).   8 I am forever indebted to Professor Karrar Hussain for this insight. For further discussion of this see Vernon Schubel, Religious Performance in Contemporary Islam: Shici Devotional Rituals in South Asia (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1993), 13–17.   9 Rather than supporters of vilayet-i faqih, who maintain the authority of jurists or ulema in the absence of the Twelfth Imam, they are instead the primary proponents of what might be called vilayet-i evliya, or the authority of evliya (Arabic, auliyah, or Friends of God.) This idea that what distinguishes the Alevi-Bektaşi community from Twelver Shi’ism is belief in the evliya is associated with the promınent twentiethcentury Bektaşi intellectual Bedri Noyan. 10 I hesitate to use the Christian term “saint” for the Arabic wali fearing that the reader will see the auliyah through a distorted lens. While the Christian saint has some characteristics in common with the Muslim wali, they are very different institutions. For ease of style I sometimes use this term with the admonition that it is shorthand for auliyah or wali. For a fuller discussion of the issues involved see Carl Ernst, The Shambala Guide to Sufism (Boston and London: Shambala, 1997), 58–59. 11 Omid Safi, Progressive Muslims: On Justice, Gender and Pluralism (Oxford: Oneworld, 2003), 14. 12 Safi, Progressive Muslims, 13. 13 Victor Turner, Dramas, Fields and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1974), p. 64. 14 Turner, Dramas, Fields and Metaphors, 67–68. 15 Ibid., 68. 16 Richard Dawkins, The Selfish Gene (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974). 17 For further discussion see Vernon Schubel, “When the Prophet Went on the Miraç He Saw a Lion on the Road: The Miraç in the Alevi-Bektaşi Tradition,” in The Prophet Muhammad’s Ascension: New Cross-Cultural Encounters, ed. Frederick Colby and Christiane Gruber (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 2010). 18 The following is not an exact translation of any single version of the text. It is instead a retelling which draws upon a number of different versions including those of Abdülbaki Gölpınarlı, Esat Korkmaz as well the version published by the

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Karacaahnmet Sultan Kültür ve Tanıtım Derneği Yayınları in 2001 and the version prepared by Sefer Aytekin and published by Ayyıldız Yayınları in 1995, as well as the version prepared by Yrd, Doç. Dr. Hamiye Duran and published by the Turkiye Diyanet Vakfi in Ankara in 2007. There is little substantive difference in any of these versions. 19 Kenneth Cragg and Marston Speight, Islam from Within: Anthology of a Religion (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Publishing), 80. 20 For a full examination of the relationship between love, sexuality and the mystical path in the thought of Ibn ‘Arabi, see Sa’diyya Shaikh’s remarkable book Sufi Narratives of Intimacy: Ibn Arabi, Gender and Sexuality (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2012) especially Chapter 6, 173–202.

Chapter 8   1 In general, the notion of “incorrupt” relics refers to the absence of normal decomposition when the body of a saint has been exhumed for examination. Incorrupt relics are frequently considered signs of sanctity, but are not required for glorification. For more information, see Monica M. White, “Relics,” in The Encyclopedia of Eastern Orthodox Christianity, 2 vols. ed. John McGuckin (West Sussex, UK: Blackwell, 2011), 465–67.   2 St. John’s official title is John, Archbishop of Shanghai and San Francisco, the Wonderworker. The principal source is the hagiography in its third edition by Peter Perekrestov, Владьіка Иоанн—Святитель Русского Зарубежья, 3d ed., Серия “Житиа святьіх” (Vladyka John—A Saint of the Russian Diaspora) (Moscow: Strentensky Monastery, 2009). A shorter version of the hagiographical narrative appears in Peter Perekrestov, Man of God: Saint John of Shanghai and San Francisco (Richfield Springs, New York: Nikodemus Orthodox Publication Society, 1994: 2012 printing). Also see Святитель Іоаннъ (Максимовичъ) и Русская Зарубежная Церковь (Saint John Maximovich and the Russian Church Abroad) (Jordanville, NY: Holy Trinity Monastery, 1996), and Service and Akathist to Our Father Among the Saints John, Archbishop of Shanghai and San Francisco, The Wonderworker (San Francisco: Russkiy pastyr, originally published in 2004; 2013 revision).   3 The documentary is available on YouTube at https://youtu.be/kjW52yefm8s (accessed April 30, 2015).  4 Святитель Іоаннъ (Максимовичъ) и Русская Зарубежная Церковь, 11.   5 Ibid., 116–17. Perekrestov also notes that St. John attempted to save those who were unable to depart from Shanghai, especially those who were accused of collaborating with the Japanese (112). Also see Святитель Іоаннъ (Максимовичъ) и Русская Зарубежная Церковь, 15–16.   6 Ibid., 129.   7 Ibid., 223.   8 In this section I will quote frequently from Service and Akathist to Our Father Among the Saints John, Archbishop of Shanghai and San Francisco, The Wonderworker (San Francisco: Russkiy Pastyr, originally published in 2004; 2013 revision). Henceforth “Service to St. John.”   9 For a seminal survey on the relationship between hagiography and hymnography, see Antonia Giannouli, “Byzantine Hagiography and Hymnography: An

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Notes Interrelationship,” in The Ashgate Research Companion to Byzantine Hagiography, vol. 2: Genres and Contexts, ed. Stephanos Efthymiadis (Farnham, Burlington: Ashgate, 2014), 285–312. For a historical overview of the genesis of Byzantine hymnography, see Miguel Arranz, “Les grand étapes de la liturgie Byzantine,” in Liturgie de l’Église particulière et liturgie de l’Église universelle: Conférences SaintSerge XXII semaine d’études liturgiques, Paris, 30 juin-3 juillet 1975 (Rome: Edizione Liturgiche, 1976), 43–72. For the theological significance of hymnography in Byzantine liturgy, see Constantin Andronikof, Le sens des fêtes, tome I (le cycle fixe) (Paris: Cerf, 1970), 7. Ibid., 286–87. Ibid., 288. Ibid., 289. The Lenten Triodion, trans. Kallistos Ware and Mother Maria (South Canaan, PA: St. Tikhon’s Seminary Press, 2001), 314. From the first sticheron sung from the Triodion at Vespers on Saturday evening, in The Lenten Triodion, 314. “Thou has proved a true follower and companion of thy namesake Gregory the Theologian,” in The Festal Menaion, 318. Also see the doxastikon at Lord, I have cried: “And now in thine intercessions, o Godbearing Gregory our father, pray that great mercy may be granted to our souls,” The Lenten Triodion, 321. Ibid., 316–19. For a fundamental explanation of how hesychasm capacitates theosis in Gregory Palamas, see Norman Russell, Fellow Workers with God: Orthodox Thinking on Theosis, Foundations Series (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2009), 132–34. Also see the Troparion, which refers to Gregory as “the invincible protector of theologians,” in The Lenten Triodion, 316. The Lenten Triodion, 319. Ibid., 325. Also see the first Troparion on Ode 6, which credits Palamas for breaking Barlaam’s “empty boasts” into pieces. Barlaam was an Orthodox monk who became Catholic and was the chief catalyst of the hesychastic controversy because of his condemnation of hesychasm and claim that the light that appeared on Mount tabor was created, and not divine. For a brief overview, see Alice-Mary Talbot, ODB, ed. Alexander Kazhdan, s.v. “Barlaam of Calabria.” Barlaam was a proponent of reunion between the two churches and converted to Catholicism in 1342. Barlaam’s attacks against Palamas became entangled with ongoing divisions between the Orthodox and Roman churches, as one can see through the hymnography. On this topic, see Jaroslav Pelikan, The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Doctrine, vol. 2: The Spirit of Eastern Christendom (600-1700) (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974; paperback edition, 1977), 270–71. Also see John Meyendorff, A Study of Gregory Palamas, trans. George Lawrence (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1998), 42–50. The Encyclopedia of Eastern Orthodox Christianity, ed. John McGuckin, s.v. “New Martyrs.” For coverage in public media, see Ari Goldman, “A Russian Sect Canonizes Nicholas II,” New York Times (November 2, 1981), http://www.nytimes. com/1981/11/02/nyregion/a-russian-sect-canonizes-nicholas-ii.html (accessed May 1, 2015).

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24 “Император Николай второй и его семья причисленьі к лику святьіх,” Pravoslavie.ru web site, August 14, 2000 (accessed April 30, 2014). Also see Vladimir Gubanov, Царь Николай II-й и новые мученики: пророчества, чудеса, открытия и молитвы: документы (Moscow: Ob-vo Sv. Vasilia Velikago, 2000). 25 I consulted the Slavonic liturgical office appointed for July 4 and published online by Осанна, http://osanna.russportal.ru/index.php?id=liturg_book.menaion_sept_aug. july_m0401 (accessed April 29, 2015). The service to the Tsar Passion-Bearer Tsar Nicholas II and his family is available on several sites online that publish texts from the Orthodox liturgical year. 26 The idea that the Tsar-martyr Nicholas intercedes for Russia gained popularity in 1998 when his icon began to produce myrrh, and forty-four thousand copies were printed for distribution in Russia, a testimony to the phenomenology of royal intercession. See Richard Betts, “From America to Russia: The MyrrhStreaming Icon of Tsar Nicholas II,” Road to Emmaus: A Journal of Orthodox Faith and Culture (2000), http://www.roadtoemmaus.net/back_issue_articles/RTE_01/ From_America_to_Russia.pdf (accessed November 15, 2013), and Wendy Slater, “Relics, Remains, and Revisionism: Narratives of Nicholas II in Contemporary Russia,” Rethinking History: The Journal of Theory and Practice 9, no. 1 (2005): 53–70. 27 Service to St. John, 6. “Lord, I have cried” is a staple feature of the office of Byzantine Vespers. The title for the psalmody chanted with intercalated hymns, consisting of selections from psalms 140, 141, 129, and 116. 28 Ibid., 16. 29 The vita contains numerous examples. E. G. Chertkov stated the St. John had no bed in his cell and prayed all night long, leaning on his staff or on his knees. Chertkov mused “this is how he exhausted himself!” (Perekrestov, Man of God, 51). 30 Service to St. John, 13. 31 Ibid., 38. The Kontakion is one of the central hymns of the Byzantine offices, defining the primary themes commemorated by the church on that day of the liturgical year. 32 Ibid. 33 See Perekrestov, Владьіка Иоанн, 230–31. 34 Ibid., 23. 35 Ibid., 7. 36 Ibid., 38. 37 Ibid., 24–25. 38 Ibid., 37–38. 39 See, for example, the reference to St. John’s slowness of speech in Kontakion no. 6 of the Akathist Hymn, in ibid., 36. 40 See St. John’s assessment titled “The Spiritual Condition of the Russian People in the Diaspora,” in Perekrestov, Man of God, 206–08. The literature treating Bulgakov’s Sophiology is vast. For a survey, see the special edition of St. Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 49, nos. 1–2 (2005) which addresses Bulgakov’s career, theological contributions, and Sophiology. 41 Service to St. John, 6–7. 42 Ibid., 24. 43 Ibid., 25. 44 Perekrestov, Man of God, 208. 45 Ibid., 204. 46 Ibid., 217–18.

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47 Perekrestov, Владьіка Иоанн, 435–39. 48 “The Russian man in his ideal was always an Orthodox Christian,” ibid., 437. 49 Ibid., 438. 50 Ibid. 51 Ibid., 439. 52 Ibid., 454, under the subheading “Россия.” The opening text of the homily suggests that St. John delivered it on the feast of All Saints of Russia, which falls on the Sunday after All Saints. 53 For a brief overview of shrines housing saintly relics in the Russian tradition, see “Рака для святьіх мощей” (“Shrine for Holy Relics”), in Благоукраситель No 39 (Published by “Русиздат” Summer 2013), 25–26. Reliquaries originated with the cult of the saints and began to be placed underneath altars in the fourth century. For a survey on reliquaries in the Byzantine Tradition, see Anthony Cutler and Margaret E. Frazer, The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, ed. Alexander Kazhdan, s.v. “Reliquary.” For further reading, see John Wortley, “Icons and Relics: A Comparison,” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 43, no. 2 (2002–03): 161–74. 54 See the seminal study by Robert Greene, Bodies Like Bright Stars: Saints and Relics in Orthodox Russia (DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press, 2010). For shrines comparable to the one of St. John Maximovich, see, for example, the shrine of Saint Simeon at Verkhoturskii Monastery (Figure 2, p. 49), and the shrine of Saint Dimitrii Rostovskii at the Spaso-Iakovlevskii monastery outside of Rostov (Figure 3, p. 50). 55 Greene, Bodies Like Bright Stars, 103–06. 56 For an overview, see М.Д. Суслов, “Святая Русь геополитическое воображен ие в современной Русской православной церкви,” Политическая наука no. 2 (2013): 142–64; Mara Kozelsky, “Religion and the Crisis in Ukraine,” International Journal for the Study of the Christian Church 14, no. 3 (2014): 219–42; Nicholas Denysenko, “Fractured Orthodoxy in Ukraine and Politics: The Impact of Patriarch Kyrill’s ‘Russian World’,” Logos: A Journal of Eastern Christian Studies 54, nos. 1–2 (2013): 3368; Nicholas Denysenko, “Chaos in Ukraine: The Churches and the Search for Leadership,” International Journal for the Study of the Christian Church 14, no. 3 (2014): 242–59. 57 Ibid., 16. The service expounds this notion in the Akathist, Kontakion 7 and ikos 7, by praising St. John for teaching his people to honor Western saints whose faith was Orthodox, and by “astonishing” Western people with his sanctity (Service to St. John, 37–38). 58 Ibid., 19. 59 Ibid., 6. 60 For a survey of the background, see Dmitry Pospielovsky, The Orthodox Church in the History of Russia (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1998), 249–55. For a discussion of the response of the Russian Church Abroad, see Dmitry Pospielovsky, The Russian Church Under the Soviet Regime, 1917-1982, vol. 2 (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1984), 255–79. ROCOR published St. John Maximovich’s presentation of the position of his church in an essay titled “Русская Зарубежная Церковь” (“The Russian Church Abroad”) in Святитель Іоаннъ (Мак симовичъ) и Русская Зарубежная Церковь, 22–39. 61 “Act of Canonical Communion,” Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia Web site, http://www.russianorthodoxchurch.ws/synod/engdocuments/enmat_akt.html (accessed November 5, 2012).

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Chapter 9   1 I am grateful for the Faculty Development Program (South Africa, Spring 2014) organized by the University of San Diego’s College of Arts and Sciences. It was during the course of this program that I fortuitously encountered the two kramats, shrines, one outside of Cape Town and the other on Robben Island and started research on the subject. An earlier draft of this work was presented at the Exploratory Session: Cross-Cultural and Interreligious Explorations on Hagiography at the AAR 2014 in San Diego, CA.   2 The hadith is quoted in Cape Mazaar Society Guide to the Kramats (2010). http:// www.capemazaarsociety.com/etiquette.php (accessed August 29, 2015)   3 Ishtiyaq Shukri, The Silent Minaret, 74.  4 http://www.southafrica.net/za/en/articles/entry/article-southafrica.net-mosques-andkramats (accessed November 27, 2015).   5 Robert A. Orsi, Between Heaven and Earth: The Religious Worlds People Make and the Scholars Who Study Them (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005). P. 12.   6 Louise Green and Noeleen Murray, “Private Property and the Problem of the Miraculous: The kramats and the City of Cape Town,” Social Dynamics 38, no. 2 (June 2012): 201–20, 208.   7 Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method (New York: Continuum, 1997), 301.   8 A Punjabi term literally meaning birth stories, it refers to the biographies of Guru Nanak, the first Sikh Guru, and contains miracles and supernatural events and conversations.   9 Plural of the Arabic term Wali meaning custodian, guardian, it also refers to someone with authority. Most commonly it refers to a saint or a person deemed holy. It is often translated in English as friend of God. 10 http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/hagiographic-literature (accessed August 14, 2015). 11 See Amineh Mahalati, “Women as Pilgrims: Memoirs of Iranian Women Travelers to Mecca,” Iranian Studies 44, no. 6 (2011): 831–49; G. Frank, The Memory of the Eyes: Pilgrims to Living Saints in Christian Late Antiquity (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press, 2000), 856–1901; Sandeep Banerjee and Subho Basu, “Secularizing the Sacred, Imagining the Nation-Space: The Himalaya in Bengali Travelogues”, Modern Asian Studies 49, no. 3 (May 2015): 609–49. 12 The Vida is the hagiography of Sister Teresa de Santo Domingo (c. 1676–1748) written by Father Juan Carlos Miguel de Paniagua in Salamanca, 1752. It is a collaborative writing between the biographer and sister Teresa or Chicaba herself. Sue E. Houchins and Baltasar Fra-Molinero, “The Saint’s Life of Sister Chicaba, c. 1676-1748: An As-Told to Slave Narrative,” in Afro-Latin Voices: Narratives from the Early Modern Ibero-Atlantic World, 1550-1812, ed. Kathryn Joy McKnight and Leo J. Garofalo (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Company, Inc. 2009), 214–39. 13 Sumit Mandal’s work in South East Asian history highlights the significance of ubiquitous popular shrines; keramat (of Hadrami migrants) to gain further insight into dynamics of cultural and social diversity in modern Muslim Southeast Asia. He argues that many of the keramats in Southeast Asia are gravesites of Hadrami migrants or their descendants. Sumit K. Mandal, “Popular Sites of Prayer, Transoceanic Migration, and Cultural Diversity: Exploring the significance of keramat in Southeast Asia,” Modern Asian Studies 46, Special issue no. 2 (March 2012): 355–72.

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14 See John Renard, ed. Tales of God’s Friends: Islamic Hagiography in Translation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009). Michael Sells, ed. Early Islamic Mysticism: Sufi, Qur’an, Mi’raj, Poetic and Theological Writings (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1995). John Renard, Friends of God: Islamic Images of Piety, Commitment, and Servanthood (California: University of California Press, 2008). 15 http://www.newsweek.com/koran-does-not-forbid-images-prophet-298298. 16 The short description is as follows. It can be found at http://www.rasheedbutt.com/ igallery.cfm?start=2: I saw a man, pure and clean, with a handsome face and a fine figure. He was not marred by a skinny body nor was he overly small in the head and neck. He was graceful and elegant with intensely black eyes and thick eyelashes. There was huskiness in his voice, and his neck was long. His beard was thick, and his eyebrows were finely arched and joined together. When silent, he was grave and dignified, and when he spoke, glory rose up and overcame him. He was from afar the most beautiful of men and the most glorious, and close up he was the sweetest and the loveliest. He was sweet of speech and articulate, but not petty or trifling. His speech was a string of cascading pearls, measured so that none despaired of its length, and no eye challenged him because of the brevity. In company he is like a branch between two other branches, but he is the most flourishing of the three in appearance, and the loveliest in power. He has friends surrounding him, who listen to his words. If he commands, they obey implicitly, with eagerness and haste, without frown or complaint. Quoted in Carl W. Ernst, Following Muhammad: Rethinking Islam in the Contemporary World, (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2003), 76–78. For mystical concepts of Muhammad, see Carl W. Ernst, Shambhala Guide to Sufism (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 1999). 17 On Ricoeur’s dichotomy, please see Chapter 1 of this volume. 18 ʿAbd-al-Raḥmān Solami, Ṭabaqāt al-Ṣufiya, ed. J. Pedersen, Leiden, 1960. 19 Abu Noʿaym Eṣfahāni, Ḥelyat al-awliāʾ, 10 vols. Cairo, 1351–57/1932–38. 20 Farid-al-Din ʿAṭṭār, Taḏkerat al-awliāʾ, ed. M. Esteʿlāmi, Tehran, 1968. 21 http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/hagiographic-literature (accessed August 14, 2015). 22 Hamid Algar, “The Naqshbandi Order: A Preliminary Study of Its History and Significance,” Study Island 63 (1976): 134. 23 At times dispute develops between two families both of whom claim to be descendants of the saint. In South Africa, for example, there are contentious stories about Tuan Ismail Dea Malela with two families claiming to be his descendants. See Green and Murray, “Private Property and the Problem of the Miraculous,” 204. 24 Nile Green, “Making a ‘Muslim’ Saint: Writing Customary Religion in an Indian Princely State,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East 25, no. 3 (2005): 617–33. 25 Drawing from Heideggerian-Gadamerian theories of understanding of “being-inthe-world” Dasein, sharing the world with other people involves becoming aware of the world, and being immersed within it through language. (Gadamer 2004) Building on the notion of language and text as the medium of understanding, I suggest that a shrine or a relic can be read as a visual, multidimensional text. 26 Green and Murray, “Private Property and the Problem of the Miraculous,” 206. 27 Ibid., 207. 28 Mandal, “Popular Sites of Prayer, Transoceanic Migration, and Cultural Diversity,” 369.

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29 http://www.capetown.travel/blog/entry/5-kramats-in-cape-town-you-need-to-visit (accessed August 15, 2015). 30 The information included in the booklet are attributed to the work of Achmat Davids. See M. Jaffer, ed., Guide to the kramats of the Western Cape. Rev ed. (Cape Town: Cape Mazaar Kramat Society, 2010). 31 http://www.capemazaarsociety.com/about.php (accessed August 25, 2015). 32 http://www.capemazaarsociety.com/about.php, n.d. About us (accessed August 25, 2015). 33 http://www.capemazaarsociety.com/Sayed-Abdul-Aziz.php, n.d. Sayed Abdul Aziz (accessed August 25, 2015) 34 G. Baderoon, Oblique Figures: Representations of Islam in the South African Media and Culture. Thesis (PhD). University of Cape Town, 2004. Quoted in Green and Murray, “Private Property and the Problem of the Miraculous,” 207. 35 Klein Constantia is the first wine farm established in South Africa by Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie (VOC) the Dutch East India Company in 1685. 36 Literally meaning men of power in Malay languages. 37 According to Prof. Yusuf Da Costa in an interview in a documentary produced by Rayda Jacobs. Rayda Jacobs, The Tuan of Antonie’s Gat. South Africa: Riempie Productions, (2003). 38 Since 1652 upon the arrival of Dutch settlers at the Cape of Good Hope, the VOC Dutch East India Company had established a system by which anyone who opposed the colonization of their lands in South East Asia were arrested as political prisoners and sent to the Cape as slaves. Many of these political prisoners or exiles were Muslims. 39 http://stanford.edu/group/avicenna/cgi-bin/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/ Kramats-in-Cape-Town.pdf (accessed August 21, 2015). 40 N. Worden, E. Van Heyningen, and V. Bickford-Smith, Cape Town: The Making of a City (Cape Town: David Philip Publishers, 1998). 41 Cape Mazaar Society, established in 1982 as a custodian of the kramats in Cape Town, was initially established to maintain the kramat on Robben Island. The Cape Mazaar site offers two different spelling: Sayed Abruraghman Motura or Tuan Matarah. See http://www.capemazaarsociety.com/html/about_us.html. 42 A sign inside the kramat reads: “In honor of Sayed Abdurahmen Motura. This Durga was constructed when advocate C. R. Swart was president of the Republic of South Africa.” Among the donors and helpers it lists general J. C. Steyn, commissioner of prisons, P. A. Kellerman and staff, and sheikh Sayed Ahmad Kaderi and his congregation. It is dated May 1969. This may be a different example of antagonistic tolerance than that the ideas presented in Robert Hayden’s project. http://www.ucis.pitt.edu/antagonistictolerance/Contested_sharing.html (accessed September 7, 2015). 43 Sources on the shrines contain little information about the figures. Research in oral local history and private handwritten journals held in various apartheid museums may provide more knowledge about the figures. 44 Tawfik Canaan, Mohammedan Saints and Sanctuaries in Palestine (Jerusalem: Ariel Publishing House, 1927); reprinted edition, London: Luzac, 1980. Canaan points to the veneration of a shared saint known as the following: Elijah, Mar Jiryis (St. George), and Khidr among Christians, Jews, and Muslims. This shared veneration has been severed due to the conflict. See Lance D. Laird, “Boundaries and

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Baraka: Christians, Muslims, and Palestinian Saints,” in Muslims and Others in Sacred Space, ed. Margaret Cormack (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 40–73. 45 Beng-Lan Goh, “Spirit Cults and Construction Sites: Trans-Ethnic Popular Religion and Keramat Symbolism in Contemporary Malaysia”, in Engaging the Spirit World: Popular Beliefs and Practices in Modern South East Asia, ed. Kristen W. Endres and Andrea Lauser (New York: Berghahn Books, 2011), 144. 46 C. H. Tong, “The Datuk Kong Spirit Cult Movement in Penang: Being and Belonging in Multi-ethnic Malaysia,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 23, no. 2 (September 1992): 381–405. 47 Goh, “Spirit Cults and Construction Sites,” 145. 48 Ibid., 146. 49 Ibid., 150. 50 David Henig’s work on Muslim holy sites in contemporary Bosnia reflects shared traits with shrines in South Africa, South East Asia, and other parts of the Muslim landscape. For example, in Bosnia “the veneration of holy sites such as tombs, caves, springs, hills, and trees . . . is closely entwined with personal notions of wellbeing, . . . and personal blessing.” Such is true in almost all other Muslim holy sites in South Africa, Turkey, Pakistan, Iran, Malaysia, or elsewhere. The most important among the Bosnian Muslim pilgrimages is Dova na karicima, a three-day pilgrimage commemorating Hajdar-dedo Karic at the wooden mosque of Karici in the central Bosnian highlands and the Ajvatovica pilgrimage near the village of Prusac. As in the case of South African kramats, the Hajdar-dedo Karic’s memory exists in vivid oral traditions, and the visits and annual pilgrimages. There is no written record about the Derwish sheikh who performed miracles (keramat), and who had been brought to the Balkans during the early Islamization of the area and founded the mosque. Bosnian oral tradition has it that Cetnik tried to set fire to the wooden mosque during WWII but did not succeed. The South African Muslims also believe that the fires on Signal Hill, Cape Town, could not harm the kramat. In both cases, the stories are indications of the blessedness of the place. See David Henig, “This is our Little hajj: Muslim Holy sites and Re-appropriation of the Sacred Landscape in Contemporary Bosnia,” Journal of the American Ethnologist Society 39, no. 4 (November 2012): 751–65, 754. 51 In the context of Southeast Asia the ethnicity of keramat has been as diverse as the Indian Ocean region despite its locality. In Aceh, Penang, Surabaya, Melaka, and Jakarta the keramats arose between 1500 and 1800 and are in some ways related to colonialism and economic exploitation. Mandal, “Popular Sites of Prayer, Transoceanic Migration, and Cultural Diversity,” 358. 52 Green and Murray, “Private Property and the Problem of the Miraculous,” 203. 53 There are various cases of shrines as protection of maritime dangers. The example of Penang in South East Asia was mentioned earlier in this paper. Cape Town is a maritime city and the kramats are believed to be its protectors. In other parts of the world there are examples such as the burial place of Sehit Baba H. Z. Ebu Said at Anadolu Feneri (the eastern lighthouse), a Turkish village outside of Istanbul, on the meeting place of the Bosporus and the Black sea. The burial ground is marked by an aged tree and is venerated by the locals. It is a site of the sacred that is believed to protect them from both natural disasters as well as foreign attacks. http://www.bizimsahife.org/kutuphane/ islam_alimleri_ans/Cild/01Cild/2/47.htm (accessed August 23, 2015). 54 http://www.sahistory.org.za/places/circle-kramats (accessed November 3, 2014). 55 http://bokaap.co.za/kramats/ (accessed November 3, 2014).

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56 Ebrahim Mahomed Mahida, History of Muslims in South Africa: A Chronology. http:// v1.sahistory.org.za/pages/library-resources/onlinebooks/history-muslims/1700s.htm (accessed August 21, 2015). 57 “Kramats of Cape Town: Telling Stories of Slavery, Defiance, and Identity” by Irteza Binte-Farid. http://stanford.edu/group/avicenna/cgi-bin/wordpress/wp-content/ uploads/2013/03/Kramats-in-Cape-Town.pdf (accessed November 3, 2014). 58 Nigel Worden, “The Changing Politics of Slave Heritage in the Western Cape, South Africa,” Journal of African History 50, no. 1 (2009): 23–40 59 http://v1.sahistory.org.za/pages/library-resources/onlinebooks/historymuslims/1700s.htm (accessed August 23, 2015). 60 Ibid. 61 Ibid. 62 See J. A. Van der Chijs, Nederlandsch-Indisch Plakaatboek, 1602–1811, Erste Deel 1602–1642 (Batavia: Landsdrukkerij, 1885), 474–75. Quoted in “The Islamic Da’wah from the Auwal Masjid in the Bo-Kaap to Mosterd Bay (Strand), 1792-1838”, by Ebrahim Rhoda, Quartz Building NLSA 61, no. 2 (2007): 47. 63 Tina Steiner, “The Indian Ocean Travels of Sheikh Yusuf and Imam Ali Ali: Literary Representations in Ishtiyaq Shukri’s The Silent Minaret and Achmat Dangor’s Bitter Fruit,” Social Dynamics 38, no. 2 (June 2012): 181. 64 See Kerry Ward, Networks of Empire: Forced Migration in the Dutch East India Company (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 208 and Tina Steiner, “The Indian Ocean Travels of Sheikh Yusuf and Imam Ali Ali: Literary Representations in Ishtiyaq Shukri’s The Silent Minerat and Achmat Dangor’s Bitter Fruit,” Social Dynamics 38, no. 2 (June 2012): 172–83. 65 http://www.capemazaarsociety.com/html/faure.html (accessed November 3, 2014). See also Ward, Networks of Empire, 207. 66 http://showme.co.za/lifestyle/circle-of-saints/ (accessed November 3, 2014). 67 Ironically, at the end of July of 2015 Shukri was detained, questioned by the British authority at the Heathrow airport, and was threatened to be deported because of his travels to Yemen accompanying his wife, a British citizen who was working for Oxfam and traveling to Yemen for her job. http://africasacountry.com/tag/the-silentminaret/ (accessed August 23, 2015) and http://bookslive.co.za/blog/2015/07/17/ south-african-author-ishtiyaq-shukri-releases-statement-after-being-detained-anddeported-from-londons-heathrow-airport/ (accessed August 23, 2015). 68 Ishtiyaq Shukri, The Silent Minaret, 2005, 74. 69 Oral tradition claims that one of his fingers was missing when his body was transported back to his birthplace. It is for that reason that his tomb in Macasser was built. 70 Suleman Essop Dangor, “A Critical Biography of Sheikh Yusuf,” unpublished Islamic Studies M.A. thesis, University of Durban-Westville (1994), 59. Quoted in “The Islamic Da’wah from the Auwal Masjid in the Bo-Kaap to Mosterd Bay (Strand), 1792-1838”, by Ebrahim Rhoda, Quartz Building NLSA 61, no. 2 (2007): 45. 71 T. W. Arnold, The Preaching of Islam (Lahore: Shaikh Muhammad Ashraf, 1961 [Orig. 1896]). 72 R. Kurin, “The Structures of Blessedness at a Muslim Shrine in Pakistan,” Middle Eastern Studies 19, no. 3 (July 1983): 312. 73 H. Chambert-Loir, “Saints and Ancestors: The Cult of Muslim Saints in Java,” The Potent Dead: Ancestors, Saints, and Heroes in Contemporary Indonesia, ed. H. Chambert-Loir and A. Reid (Crows Nest, Australia: Allen and Unwin, 2002), 139.

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74 “In one example, the video-recorded debate frequently zoomed in on an empty seat where the sheikh was supposed to have sat to present his arguments.” Mohammed Haron, “Da’wah Movements and Sufi Tariqahs: Competing for Spiritual Spaces in Contemporary South(ern) Africa,” Journal of Muslim Minority Affairs 25, no. 2 (August 2005): 273, 281. 75 Salafism refers to the ultra-conservative reform movement within Sunni Islam developed in the thirteenth century with the ideas of figures such as Ibn Taymiyyah. It is based on the fundamentals of Islam. Wahabism is the common term that refers to the eighteenth-century Sunni reform movement brought about by Muhammad ibn Abdul-wahab. Both ideologies hold to the strict idea of Tawhid, in which visiting shrines becomes an act of shirk; idolatry. 76 The Salafis and especially Wahabis regard shrines as a pure sign of shirk, polytheism and disbelief. Hence destruction of the shrines is viewed as purification of the earth of polytheism and disbelief. This view contradicts the traditional understanding of Islam that has historically respected sacred sites of all religious traditions, especially those of Judaism and Christianity. Muslims, Jews, and Christians have shared sacred places, that is, the sites of burials of prophets Jonah, Daniel, and Seth and many other prophets named in the Qur’an, the New Testament, or the Torah. The shrine of Prophet Jonah destroyed by ISIS in Mosul, Iraq, in July 2014 is one of those shared sacred sites. In the wake of the power vacuum in Mali, Egypt, and Libya the Wahabis destroyed several Sufi shrines. 77 Yunus Dumbe and Abdulkader Tayob, “Salafis in Cape Town in Search of Purity, Certainty and Social Impact,” Die Welt Des Islams 51 (2011): 188–209. 78 Khaled Abou El Fadl, The Great Theft: Wrestling Islam From the Extremists (New York: Harper Collins, 2007), 5–7. 79 For a more detailed account of indigenous shrine criticism through the twentieth century, see David Damrel’s, “Baraka Besieged: Islamism, Neofundamentalism, and Shared Sacred Space in South Asia,” in Muslims & Others in Sacred Space, ed. Margaret Cormack (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 15–39. 80 The Wahhabi movement in Saudi Arabia began with the destruction of tombs in Mecca and Medina including the tomb of Khadija, the wife of the Prophet. See http:// theislamicmonthly.com/the-destruction-of-the-holy-sites-in-mecca-and-medina/ (accessed January 10, 2016) 81 L. Van Sittert, “The Bourgeois Eye Aloft: Table Mountain in the Anglo Urban Middle Class Imagination, c. 18911952.” Kronos 29 (2003): 161–90. Quoted in Green and Murray, “Private Property and the Problem of the Miraculous,” 203. 82 http://www.capemazaarsociety.com/html/constantia_forest.html (accessed November 8, 2014). 83 http://showme.co.za/lifestyle/circle-of-saints/ (accessed November 3, 2014). 84 For South African hajj narratives see Na’eem Jeenah and Shameema Shaikh’s Journey of Discovery: A South African Hajj (2000); Shafiq Morton, Notebooks from Makkah and Madinah (2005), Mogamat Hoosain Ebrahim, The Cape Hajj Tradition: Past and Present (2009); Rayda Jacobs The Mecca Diaries (2005); Eric Rosenthal, From Drury Lane to Mecca (1931). 85 Sugata Bose, A Hundred Horizons: The Indian Ocean in the Age of Global Empire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 195. 86 Gabeba Baderoon, “The Sea Inside Us: Narrating Self, Gender, Place and History in South African Memories of Hajj,” Social Dynamics 38, no. 2 (June 2012): 237–52. 87 Ibid., 239.

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88 Michel De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Rendall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984). 89 Green and Murray, “Private Property and the Problem of the Miraculous”. 90 Ibid. 91 Churchill Madikida, Lauren Segal, and Clive van den Berg, “The Reconstruction of Memory at Constitution Hill,” The Public Historian 30, no. 1 (February 2008): 17–25. 92 Ibid., 24. 93 Richard Kurin, “The Structure of Blessedness at a Muslim Shrine in Pakistan,” Middle Eastern Studies19, no. 3 (July 1983): 312–325 (322–23). 94 Ibid., 324.

Chapter 10   1 This is not to say they were authorless, but that the story often mattered more than the author and was appropriated in multiple traditions under different names. For an excellent example, see Robert Doran, Stewards of the Poor: The Man of God, Rabbula, and Hiba in Fifth-century Edessa (Kalamazoo, Mich: Cistercian Publications, 2006).   2 As we will see in the story of Habib.   3 I am thinking here of the story from John Moschos which depicts a man in the afterlife who is neck deep in a river of fire. In his conversation with his elder, who has been having the vision, he relates that he is doing fine thanks to the elder’s prayers—much better in fact than the bishop upon whose head he is standing. John Moschus, The Spiritual Meadow, trans. John Wortley (Kalamazoo, Mich: Cistercian Publications, 1992), 44.   4 His notion that the character’s words “destroy the monologic plane of the novel and calls forth an unmediated response—as if the character were not an object of authorial discourse, but rather a full valid, autonomous carrier of his own individual word,” is quite applicable to hagiography. M. M. Bakhtin (Mikhail Mikhaĭlovich), Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics, Theory and History of Literature; Vol. 8 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 5.   5 Farrell notes, The medieval compilation and commentary, on the other hand, are products of multiple authors in a much more literal way: the author(s), compiler(s), and commentator(s) may well be different individuals and may function at different historical moments, further, they may all function as points of intersection for a multiplicity of voices, which suggest that the manuscript text may have several ‘centers’ or, indeed, that the manuscript text may be more radically decentered that any nineteenth-century novel. Thomas J. Farrell, Bakhtin and Medieval Voices (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1995), 126.   6 Brown and Harvey have both argued that Syrian asceticism was primarily different from the Egyptian form in its terrain as well as communal focus. Brown notes, “In Egypt, the antithesis between desert and settled land—érhmoV and oikouménh—was stark enough in reality (the rainfall of Egypt is 1.1 inches per year) and absolute in the imagination of the Egyptians. The links between the holy man and society constantly yielded to the pressure of this great fact.” Harvey states, “In the Syrian Orient, proximity to the temporal society was a given. Even in texts describing anchorites, the dramatic isolation eulogized in Egyptian (as well as Palestinian) hagiography

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is rarely to be found.” See Peter Brown, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity,” The Journal of Roman Studies 61 (1971): 83; Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis: John of Ephesus and the Lives of the Eastern Saints (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 15.   7 I am deeply indebted to her compelling and beautiful treatment of John’s Lives in their context.   8 We should note here that while our contemporary perspective might envision this world “emerging” since it will have another nine centuries of longevity, we should not lose sight of the fact that the Emperor Justinian, and perhaps John of Ephesus, considered their imperial outlook with a somewhat dimmer perspective. Justinian’s administration was deeply concerned on several fronts, namely: wars, plague, legal development and complications, as well as the continual political trials that a sixth-century emperor had to face. Even in the midst of such imperial success, he still felt that he was in a “whirlpool” of turmoil. Caroline Humfress, “Law and Legal Practice in the Age of Justinian,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, ed. Michael Maas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 175.  9 Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 28. 10 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, trans. E. W. Brooks, Patrologia Orientalis 82 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003), 4, PO 17: 60. 11 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, 4, PO 17: 63. 12 Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 29. 13 The term “monophysite” is contested today as a pejorative rendering of the community by the ancient council and historians, but has been used extensively throughout history in the descriptions of the groups that comprise the opponents of the Chalcedonian council. 14 John Anthony McGuckin, The Westminster Handbook to Patristic Theology, 1st ed. (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 80. 15 Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 29. 16 Ibid., 103. 17 Ibid., 29. 18 We might speculate that these popularities would have been reversed in the ancient world, given the vast interest in hagiography. 19 Procopius, Secret History, vol. 6, Loeb Classical Library; 48 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979), 10. 20 Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 80. 21 Ammianus Marcellinus speaks of the Christian bishops tying up the imperial post running hither and thither for conciliar meetings, but the intellectual toll went far deeper. We might cite here the numerous audiences an emperor like Justinian would have to give to complaining bishops. Ammianus Marcellinus and Andrew WallaceHadrill, The Later Roman Empire (A.D. 354-378) (London: Penguin Books, 1986), 21.16.18. J. N. D. Kelly, Early Christian Creeds (London: Continuum International Publishing Group, 2006), 263. 22 Millar notes that many modern scholars are now “accepting that the dual approach from within the palace may have reflected not a real conflict, but a stratagem aimed at keeping lines of communication open.” Fergus Millar, “Rome, Constantinople and the Near Eastern Church Under Justinian: Two Synods of C.E. 536,” The Journal of Roman Studies 98 (November 2008): 70. 23 Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 82.

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24 He regularly refers to her with unfounded pejoratives. Procopius, The Secret History: With Related Texts, trans. Anthony Kaldellis (Indianapolis: Hackett Pub. Co., 2010), II.9. 25 Procopius, The Secret History, II.9.29. 26 Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 81. 27 Ibid. 28 Harvey argues, But the emperor’s position was understandably affected by diverse concerns. His aspirations to regain the lost western provinces necessitated courting the papacy by advancing an official pro-Chalcedonian policy. At the same time, he took this crisis seriously as a theological problem. He rejected what he saw as the too easily categorized pro- and anti-Chalcedonian positions and sought a solution that could reconcile the language of Chalcedon with that of Cyril of Alexandria. He marked this idea with ‘conversations’ he sponsored between Chalcedonians and Monophysites. Over the course of his reign his own theological writings progressed significantly towards this goal. Ironically, his final lapse into aphthartodocetic heresy gave witness to deeply Monophysite leanings in his personal theology. Ibid., 82 29 Millar notes here that Justinian’s creed which “stresses the unity of the divine person who was crucified and buried, makes no specific mention of Chalcedon or any other oecumenical council, but anathematises the heresies of Nestorius (deposed at Ephesus in 431), of Eutyches (condemned at Chalcedon for his extreme monophysite doctrines) and of Apollinarios, while twice referring to Mary as Theotokos, ‘Mother of God’.” This would have been particularly encouraging for Miaphysite hearers. See Millar, “Rome, Constantinople and the Near Eastern Church Under Justinian,” 68. 30 There is no mention in the Anathemas of the Miaphysites, they are focused on a greater enemy, that long dead, but ever-influential, Origen of Alexandria. Two anathemas, 1 and 11 in particular are interesting for our work here. Justinian, “The Anathematisms of the Emperor Justinian Against Origen,” in Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers Enhanced Version, ed. Philip Schaff, vol. 14, 2 (Grand Rapids, MI: Christian Classics Ethereal Library, 2009), 619–620. 31 Harvey notes, “In fact, our subtlest picture of Justinian, and of the perhaps more elusive Theodora, emerges from the pen of John of Ephesus, who knew the royal family well. It is apparent in the Lives of the Eastern Saints that John holds a heartfelt respect for both, regardless of official imperial policies—a situation the more profound for its circumstances.” Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 80. 32 Translations are from E. W. Brooks, unless otherwise stated. I have updated the language of the text at points. John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, 1, PO 17: 7. 33 Ibid.,17: 8. 34 His first narrative is only partially preserved but relates a tale about an owner of an ass and his assertion of rights in parchments for debts. The man ultimately brought the parchments to Habib begging him for forgiveness. 35 Ibid. 36 Ibid. 37 Ibid.,17: 9. 38 There is significant evidence to suggest that monks had taken on the role of adjudication. See Brown, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity.” 39 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, 1, PO 17: 9–10. 40 Ibid., 17: 10. 41 Ibid.

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42 On this style, utilizing “people unknown to us,” see Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 37. 43 This is not to say that many figures are not named in hagiographies, but many of the secondary figures in the stories remain anonymous. We often know the saint’s name but none of the other figures in the narrative. When particular figures are included, such as famous saints and the emperor, the possibilities of verifying are still shielded from John’s audience. Many of the saints had already gone “to sleep” (the phraseology often used for death) and there would hardly be an opportunity for a monk to interrogate the emperor regarding a story’s veracity. 44 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, 1, PO 17: 11. 45 Ananias and Sapphira sell their property for more than they admit and are caught in a lie by Peter. They are struck dead immediately in the apostle’s presence. 46 Ibid., 17: 9. 47 Ibid., 17: 11. 48 See Wills, who looks for earlier ascetic motifs in stories such as Job. Lawrence M. Wills, “Ascetic Theology Before Asceticism? Jewish Narratives and the Decentering of the Self,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 74, no. 4 (December 2006): 902–25. 49 J. R. Baskin, “Job as Moral Exemplar in Ambrose,” Vigiliae Christianae 35, no. 3 (September 1, 1981): 222. 50 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, 16, PO 17: 233. 51 Ibid. 52 Ibid. 53 A rather unfortunate binary for describing one’s faithfulness in John of Ephesus’s literature. 54 The men say they live like animals on the mountains and Simeon replies that the animals are better off because they “remained as the Creator created them.” Ibid., 17: 235. 55 Ibid., 17: 236. 56 Ibid., 17: 242. 57 Ibid. He was indicating some type of drink or food with this. 58 Ibid., 17: 244. 59 Ibid., 17: 244–45. 60 Ibid., 17: 245. .‫ܢ̇ܡܘܬܘܢ‬.‫ܕܐܢܗܟܢܐܣ̇ܝܒܪܝܢܐܢܬܘܢܕܫܡ ̈ܝܥܢܠܘ ̈ܛܬܟܘܢ܆ܙܠܘܠܘܛܘܢܠܗܠܝܢܗܘ ̈ܢܝܐܕܐܬܝ̇ܢܫܒ̇ܝܝܢܠܒܪܝܬܐܘ‬ 61 Ibid., 17: 245. 62 Ibid., 17: 245–46. 63 Ibid., 17: 246. 64 Ibid., 25, PO 18: 327. 65 Ibid., PO 18: 330–31. 66 Ibid., PO 18: 332. 67 The text here is incomplete and does not specifically state anything that suggests they were Chalcedonian. It states they were “believers,” with “envy,” “members of his company (sunodίa),” and that some were bishops. Without speculating on the reasons the text falls off here, however interesting this detail may be, I would suggest that this text is referring to those Chalcedonian figures who shared his company in the capital. 68 Ibid., PO 18: 333 ff. 69 Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 104.

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70 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, 25 PO 18: 338. 71 Other stories abound like that of Z’ura, who baptizes Theodora and heals Justinian. Ibid., 2, PO 17: 24–35; J. A. S Evans, The Age of Justinian: The Circumstances of Imperial Power (New York: Routledge, 1996), 111. 72 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, 57, PO 19: 546. 73 Ibid., 19: 551. 74 Peregrine Horden points out this detail. Harvey states, “The collection probably was written while John was living in his monastery outside Constantinople. John became leader of the Monophysites there in 566. The Lives appear to have been written between 566 and 568.” Harvey, Asceticism and Society in Crisis, 164 fn.62. Peregrine Horden, “Review of: Asceticism and Society in Crisis. John of Ephesus and The Lives of the Eastern Saints, by Susan Ashbrook Harvey,” The Journal of Ecclesiastical History 45, no. 03 (July 1994): 490–90. 75 John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, Intro. III. 76 John of Ephesus, The Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History of John, Bishop of Ephesus, trans. J. Payne Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1860), I.3, 3. 77 There are moments that approximate this in the Lives, but these are often rendered as concern over invading pagan armies and the failure of people to align themselves with God’s will. The monk Zacharias explains to John, “Lo you see that Christianity has vanished from the earth, and religion has been forgotten, and vanity and error have prevailed.” See John of Ephesus, Lives of the Eastern Saints, 19, PO 17: 267. 78 I would note here that “orthodoxy” is a contested moniker, meaning right thought or opinion, which both sides claim. 79 He explains, There is neither a first nor a last word and there are no limits to the dialogic context (it extends into the boundless past and boundless future). Even past meanings, that is those born in the dialogue of past centuries, can never be stable (finalized, ended once and for all)—they will always change (be renewed) in the process of subsequent, future development of the dialogue. At any moment in the development of the dialogue there are immense, boundless masses of forgotten contextual meanings, but at certain moments of the dialogue’s subsequent development along the way they are recalled and invigorated in renewed form (in a new context). Nothing is absolutely dead: every meaning will have its homecoming festival.. M. M. Bakhtin (Mikhail Mikhaĭlovich), Speech Genres and Other Late Essays, 1st ed., University of Texas Press Slavic Series; No. 8 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986), 170

Chapter 11   1 The main reference for this text will be Archimandrite Sophrony’s volume Saint Sylouane l’Athonite (1866-1938): vie, doctrine, écrits, translated from the original Russian by Archimandrite Symeon and published by Les Éditions du Cerf in 2010. The text comprises a first part penned by the Archimandrite Sophrony (Vie et Enseignement du Starets Sylouane) and a second part including the extant writings by Sylouan (Écrits du Starets Sylouane). An English translation of this volume is available as Archimandrite Sophrony, Sylouan the Athonite (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1998); also trans. Rosemary Edmonds, Wisdom from Mount Athos: The Writings of the Starets Sylouan-1866-1938 (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary

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Press, 2001). In his latest work on modern Orthodox theology, Louth devotes a chapter to the relationship between Sylouan and Sophrony; see Andrew Louth, Modern Orthodox Theology (Downers Grove, Ill.: InterVarsity Press, 2015), Ch. 19 (“Spiritual Elders 2: St. Sylouan and Fr. Sophrony: seeing God as he is”), 299–305.   2 Tsangnyön Heruka’s biography of Milarepa has been translated in English multiple times, and for a long time the standard version was The Life of Milarepa, trans. Lobsang P. Lhalungpa (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1977). This essay will rely on the more recent The Life of Milarepa, trans. Andrew Quintman (New York and London: Penguin Books, 2010). This essay uses a Wylie transliteration of Tibetan terms, with the exception of simplified phonetic spelling for the names “Tsangnyön Heruka” and “Milarepa.” 3 The Russian term starets (pl. startsy) indicates an elder or spiritual master, known for his spiritual insight. Western readers are often familiar with the Starets Zosima in Feodor Dostojevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. See Svenn Linner, Starets Zosima in The Brothers Karamazov: A study in the Mimesis of Virtue (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1975). 4 The Philokalia is a well-known anthology of spiritual writings from the fourth to the fifteenth century, edited in the late eighteenth century by St. Nikodemos the Athonite and St. Makarios of Corinth. The first four volumes of the Philokalia are available in English as G. E. H. Palmer, Kallistos Ware, and Philip Sherrard (eds), The Philokalia: The Complete Text, Vols 1–4 (London: Faber and Faber, 1979–92). 5 Sophrony’s autobiography was published as Sophrony Sakharov, We Shall See Him as He is: The Spiritual Autobiography of Elder Sophrony, trans. Rosemary Edmonds (Platina, CA: St. Herman of Alaska Heritage Press, 2006). The first part of Sophrony’s Saint Sylouane l’Athonite contains the most detailed information on Sylouan’s life available today. The biographical information in this section will draw primarily from these two works. 6 The conferral of the small habit (schema) and the great habit—see below—mark the progression in the spiritual life of Orthodox monastics. A classical study—still valuable despite its age—is Nalbro Frazier Robinson, Monasticism in the Orthodox Churches, Being an Introduction to the Study of Modern Hellenic and Slavonic Monachism and the Orthodox Profession Rites, Together with a Greek Dissertation on the Monastic Habit, done into English with notes (London: Cope and Fenwick; Milwaukee: Young Churchman, 1916). 7 St. Panteleimon was the largest Russian monastic establishment on Mount Athos, and in the years before the First World War it housed a population of over three thousand monks. See Graham Speak and Kallistos Ware (eds), Mount Athos: Microcosm of the Christian East (New York: Peter Lang International, 2011). 8 On the seminal role of the Institute Saint Serge in twentieth-century Orthodox theology and the debates between Neopatristic theologians and their opponents, see Alexis Kniazeff, L’Institut Saint-Serge: de l’académie d’autrefois au rayonnement d’aujourd’hui (Paris: Beauchesne, 1974). 9 Sophrony continued to rewrite this volume for over three decades. The French version of 2010 used the longest Russian text from 1975. 10 On the spiritual battle, see again Evagrios Pontikos, Texts on Discrimination in Respect of Passions and Thoughts, in Geoffrey E. H. Palmer, Philip Sherrard, and Kallistos Ware (eds.), The Philokalia (Vol. 1) (London: Faber & Faber, 1979), 38–52. 11 Archimandrite Sophrony, Saint Silouane l’Athonite 86 (the translations from the French are my own). 12 Ibid., 87.

Notes 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

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Ibid., 32–35, 46–47, 94–98. Ibid., 79–85. Ibid., 49, where he says, “The brother is our own life.” Ibid., 106–08. Ibid., 115. Ibid., 43–51, 193–94, 237–40. Ibid., 116. Ibid., 158–79 on deification. Ibid., 56–59, 75–77, 94–95, 286–87. et al. Unsurprisingly, references to prayer are scattered throughout the whole of Sylouan’s work. 22 Ibid., 144, 419–24. The great master of discretio spirituum in the Philokalia is Evagrios Pontikos, and a careful study of Sylouan’s writings may reveal yet undiscovered correspondences between his theology and that of the fourth-century master. Evagrios was familiar with the struggle against demonic forces fought almost daily by the monastics in the Egyptian deserts, and offers numerous tools to discern the angelic or the demonic origin of intellectual inspiration. Living in a pre-Augustinian age, however, Evagrios appears to rely on the ascetic’s individual effort and says relatively little about the role of charis (grace). See Pontikos, Texts on Discrimination in Respect of Passions and Thoughts, in Geoffery E. H. Palmer, Philip Sherrard, and Kallistos Ware (eds.), The Philokalia, Vol. 1, 38–52. 23 Ibid., 140–41, 151–53, 175–77. 24 Ibid., 127, 150, 419–24. 25 Sophrony’s language may reflect his exposure to existentialist philosophy in France, where Sartre and Merleau-Ponty offered contrasting opinions on the impact of habit on human freedom: while the former emphasized the utter freedom of the individual at all times, the latter acknowledged the force of habit (sédimentation) in shaping behavioral patterns. See Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception (New York: Routledge, 1962), Introduction, 1–31. 26 See Johannes Pulkkanen, The Dark Night: St. John of the Cross and Eastern Orthodox Theology (Saarbrücken: Lambert Academic Publishing, 2012). 27 Ibid., 332–33, 410–11. 28 Ibid., 44–45. This one of the most famous episodes in the life of the Starets, and it is represented iconographically at St. John Baptist’s monastery at Tolleshunt Knights. 29 Dharma (Tib. chos) is a functionally polyvalent term that could be translated as “the teaching” or “the law,” but also, like the Greek term logos straddles the divide between the epistemological and the ontological, as it can also indicate the underlying structure of the natural order that “the teaching” uncovers. See John Makransky, Buddhahood Embodied: Sources of Controversy in India and Tibet (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1997), especially Chapter 1. 30 Tibetan or Vajrayāna Buddhism can be regarded as a highly distinctive branch of Mahāyāna. An overview of its foundations is clearly beyond the purview of this essay, and the interested reader is referred to Reginald A. Ray, Indestructible Truth: The Living Spirituality of Tibetan Buddhism. Vol. 1: The World of Tibetan Buddhism (Boston: Shambala Publisher, 2000). The Gelug pa school started by the followers of the great monastic reformer Tsong kha pa would eventually control Tibet politically and religiously after seizing power in 1642 and establishing the Dalai Lama as the secular ruler of the country. The bKa’ brgyud school, headed by the Karmapa, favored yogic and devotional practice over philosophical formation, and was more open to shamanistic elements from the older tradition of Tibet, such as the practice of the smyon pas.

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31 Donald Lopez, introduction to The Life of Milarepa, xxviii. 32 Ibid., xxix. The “twelve signs” in the Buddha’s life serve a function that is analogous to the “eight signs” in the Gospel of John. 33 The information in this section is drawn primarily from Quintman’s translation of Heruka’s work. 34 In Tsangnyön Heruka’s Life of Milarepa, this is the subject of the third chapter (27–42), which recounts his “third ordinary deed.” 35 On Marpa, see Chögyam Trungpa, The Life of Marpa the Translator: Seeing Accomplishes All (Boston: Shambala, 1995). 36 rDzogs chen emphasizes immediate access to the enlightened state, in opposition to more gradual approaches to practice. See Reginald Ray, Indestructible Truth: The Living Spirituality of Tibetan Buddhism (Boston: Shambala, 2002), Ch. 5 (Nyingma: The Ancient School), 103–29. 37 This is a tantric term associating the term vajra (diamond) that implicitly conflates nirvāna with an ontologically strong reading of Buddha nature (tathāgatagarbha). See Paul Williams, Mahāyāna Buddhism: The Doctrinal Foundations (New York: Routledge, 2008), Ch. 5 (The Tathāgatagarbha), 103–28. 38 See Garma C. C. Chang, The Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa: The Life-Story and Teaching of the Greatest Poet-Saint Ever to Appear in the History of Buddhism (Boston: Shambala, 1999). 39 See Heruka’s, The Life of Milarepa, Ch. 12, with its lengthy descriptions of supernatural events and appearances. 40 On Atiśa, see Alka Chattopadhayaya and Lama Chimpa, Atiśa and Tibet: Life and Works of Dipamkara Srijnana (alias Atiśa) in Relation to the History and Religion of Tibet with Tibetan Sources (New Delhi: Motilal Badarsidass, 2011). 41 In the Mahāyāna (and Vajrayāna) tradition, developing bodhicitta (the mind of enlightenment) is the first step on the path; see Ray, Indestructible Truth, Ch. 12, 311–30. On the prajñāpāramitā (perfection of wisdom) sūtras and the development of Mahāyāna, see Williams, Mahāyāna Buddhism, Ch. 2, 45–49. The philosophical school of Madhyamaka, whose Prasangika current would become Tibet’s de facto official philosophy after the establishment of Gelug rule, emphasized the distinction or equivalence between the conventional, samsaric and the ultimate, nirvanic dimension of reality; see again Williams, Mahāyāna Buddhism, Ch. 3, 63–83. 42 See Heruka, The Life of Milarepa, Chs. 5–6. Some of the towers allegedly built by Milarepa in obedience of Marpa’s commandments can still be seen in Tibet. 43 In the first years of the sixteenth century, Heruka was an advisor to the seventh Karmapa and was also involved in the renovation of the Swayambhu stupa under the patronage of Ratnamalla, king of Kathmandu. See Donald Lopez, Introduction to Heruka’s, The Life of Milarepa, xxxii–iv. 44 See Heruka, Life of Milarepa, Ch. 10, 151–52. 45 See ibid., 130–31. 46 For a contemporary take on this story, see Pema Chödron, Start Where You Are: A Guide to Compassionate Living (Boston: Shambala, 2001), 35–36. 47 On chod, see Jérôme Edou, Machig Labdron And The Foundations Of Chod (Boston: Snow Lion, 1995). 48 For an introduction to the tradition of the Desert Fathers, see William Harmless, Desert Christians: An Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). 49 See again Linner, Starets Zosima in The Brothers Karamazov, 120ff.

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50 See Geoffrey Samuels, Civilized Shamans: Buddhism in Tibetan Society (Washington and London: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1993), Ch. 2 and 11–14, for a discussion of the ongoing tension in Tibet between a more bureaucratic and a more shamanistic approach to practice. 51 On the three kāyas, see Williams, Mahāyāna Buddhism, Ch. 8, 172–86. 52 See Maximos the Confessor, Liber Asceticus (PG 91: 911–58).

Chapter 12 1

Another common moniker is “Yesu Bhakta,” usually found among Protestants, specifically evangelicals and Pentecostals, also in the Banaras region. The presence of Protestants in the city and villages of Banaras has certainly influenced the growth of the Khrist Bhakta community, although my focus throughout this chapter will remain the Khrist Bhaktas. 2 Article 25 of the Indian Constitution states, Freedom of conscience and free profession, practice and propagation of religion (1) Subject to public order, morality and health and to the other provisions of this Part, all persons are equally entitled to freedom of conscience and the right freely to profess, practice and propagate religion (2) Nothing in this article shall affect the operation of any existing law or prevent the State from making any law (a) regulating or restricting any economic, financial, political or other secular activity which may be associated with religious practice; (b) providing for social welfare and reform or the throwing open of Hindu religious institutions of a public character to all classes and sections of Hindus. Explanation I: The wearing and carrying of kirpans shall be deemed to be included in the profession of the Sikh religion. Explanation II: In sub clause (b) of clause reference to Hindus shall be construed as including a reference to persons professing the Sikh, Jaina or Buddhist religion, and the reference to Hindu religious institutions shall be construed accordingly. The1955 Hindu Marriage Act effectively delineated the category Hindu still further. Section 2c applies the amendment “to any other person domiciled in the territories to which this Act extends who is not a Muslim, Christian, Parsi or Jew by religion. . . .” 3 See my “Between Christian and Hindu: Khrist Bhaktas, Catholics, and the Negotiation of Devotion in the Banaras Region,” in Chad M. Bauman and Richard Fox Young, eds., Constructing Indian Christianities: Culture, Conversion, and Caste (India: Routledge, 2014), 23–44. 4 Karine Schomer and W. H. McLeod, eds., The Sants: Studies in a Devotional Tradition of India (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1987), 3. 5 To complicate matters still further, in the Khrist Bhakta context, both Catholic and Hindu meanings are evoked. So in the quarterly magazine of Mātṛ Dhām Āśram, “Yesu ne Kahan . . .,” “Jesus Said . . .,” we find an article translated into Hindi by San˙t Pāpā Frānsīs—that is, the current pope. This might make perfect sense in this devotional context, drawing on Hindu usage. From the Catholic side, however, calling Pope Francis a saint is a bit premature. See San˙t Pāpā Frānsīs, Īśvar Humain Kśamā Dene Main Nahīn Thaktā, “Prabhu Ne Kahan . . .,” Vars 8, Ank 1, March-April, 2013 (Varanasi: Mātṛ Dhām Āśram Trust), pp. 2–3.

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6 See Yogī Kathāmṛta: Sampūrṇa Evam Asamkśapta (Dvitīya Hindī Samskaraṇ). Kolkata: Yogoda Satsanga Society of India, 2005. 7 Bhakta has been used generally to describe those religious figures who were devotees of a deity with attributes, or saguṇa; sant, as described above, is a word related to the Sanskrit sat (truth), used to refer to Maharashtrian poet-saints from the fourteenth century onward and to those North Indian luminaries of the late medieval period who worshipped a deity beyond or without attributes (nirguṇa) in the vernacular languages while eschewing Brahmanical orthodoxy. However, sant and bhakta are often used interchangeably to describe devotees that participate in various regional devotional movements, most likely because a strict dichotomy between saguṇa and nirguna is not maintained in practice. For an excellent study of hagiography in North Indian Hindu bhakti movements, see David N Lorenzen, “The Lives of Nirguṇī Saints,” in Bhakti Religion in North India: Community Identity & Political Action, ed. David N. Lorenzen (Albany: SUNY Press, 1995), 181–211. 8 The argument that discrete religions represent incommensurable systems precluding comparison is contradicted by the very fact that translation happens. Adherents can make themselves understood to the extent that what is communicated is interpreted by both sides as meaningful, with signifiers rightly referring to given signifieds. This does not mean translation is perfect, or that equal signs can unambiguously be drawn between one language’s noun and another’s; rather, it tells us that the translation work is good enough, even though misunderstandings occur. As with the porousness of religious traditions, so too are meanings. Like reality itself, the meaning of sant is ever in flux, sustained in a web of relations. 9 Consider 1 Chronicles 13, which relates the story of the Ark of the Covenant. “When they came to the threshing floor of Kiddon, Uzzah reached out his hand to steady the ark, because the oxen stumbled. The LORD’s anger burned against Uzzah, and he struck him down because he had put his hand on the ark. So he died there before God” (9–10). In evidence here could be the recollection (by hundreds of years) of an amoral numinous power subsequently interpreted as anger. This seems a far cry from the just YHWH of the subsequent Hebrew prophets, but commensurate with the fact that Chronicles rework older sources, particularly from Samuel and Kings. 10 For a study of the “instability, transnational circuits, and contested nature of saint language,” particularly involving the Perso-Arabic word faqīr in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, see Timothy S. Dobe, Hindu Christian Faqir: Modern Monks, Global Christianity, and Indian Sainthood (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). 11 David Gordon White, Sinister Yogis (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2009), xiii. 12 The capacious Sanskrit term dharma can be defined variously as cosmic order, duty, law, and problematically in modern Indian languages, “religion.” To be described as dharmik in India today is to live in accordance with dharma, adhering to the precepts of dharma that generally follow from one’s caste, station, and stage of life. To be dharmik, then, connotes both righteousness and religiousness. See Barbara Holdrege, “Dharma,” in The Hindu World, ed. Sushil Mittal and Gene Thursby (London: Routledge 2004), 213–48. 13 See Michael S. Dodson, Orientalism, Empire, and National Culture: India, 1770-1880 (New Delhi: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 14 For a subtle discussion of multiple meanings dwelling together in Hindu-Christian spaces near Banaras, see Mathew Schmalz, A Space for Redemption: Catholic Tactics in Hindu North India (Unpublished Dissertation) University of Chicago, 1998.

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15 See Christophe Jaffrelot, India’s Silent Revolution: The Rise of the Low Castes in North Indian Politics (Delhi: Permanent Black, 2003). I interpret the Khrist Bhaktas as engaged in a broader movement of sociopolitical uplift that here involves a shift of devotional loyalties. 16 Elder religious recall respectfully that these priests spoke their native French, but also English, Hindi, and Bhojpuri, the vernacular language of eastern Uttar Pradesh and western Bihar. 17 See Eric J. Sharpe, Faith Meets Faith: Some Christian Attitudes to Hinduism in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (London: SCM Press, 1977), and Wesley Ariarajah, Hindus and Christians: A Century of Protestant Ecumenical Thought (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdman’s, 1991). 18 Such work of inculturation or indigenization has met with scorn by very loud Hindu voices claiming that it amounts to a sham, an attempt to hoodwink unsuspecting Hindus into accepting a falsely saffronized Christianity. One has to admit that the ochre robes, the highly Sanskritized Hindi, the lotus position Jesus, and the Hindu titles of address for clergy can leave one feeling that this might all be a bit affected, particularly when the articulated theology is largely unchanged. And yet it must be said, given that such work has been taking place for forty years, that this is what Catholicism looks like for Khrist Bhaktas. It is no affect to them. Given that Indian Christianity, including Catholicism, has long been criticized for denationalizing its converts and for falsely identifying Christianity with the West, it would seem Indian Catholics are damned if they do and damned if they do not. For a scathing indictment of Catholic āsrams from a Hindu nationalist perspective, see Sita Ram Goel, Catholic Ashrams: Sannyasins or Swindlers? (New Delhi: Voice of India, 2009). The work of inculturation has also met with criticism from within the Catholic Church. Many Dalit Catholics resent the Church adopting elements of a tradition that has long kept them subjugated. See Mathew Schmalz, “Ad Experimentum: Theology, Anthropology and the Paradoxes of Indian Catholic Inculturation,” in Theology and the Social Sciences, ed. Michael Barnes (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2001), 161–80. 19 For a discussion of the emergence and decline of the indigenization movement in Catholic India, see Xavier Gravend-Tirole, “From Christian Ashrams to Dalit Theology—or Beyond: An Examination of the Indigenisation/Inculturation Trend within the Indian Catholic Church,” in Constructing Indian Christianities: Culture, Conversion and Caste, ed. Chad M. Bauman and Richard Fox Young (New Delhi: Routledge, 2014), 110–37. 20 The three Hindi terms connoting varying degrees of connection to the land or des: deśī, “of the land”; pardeśī, from outside the land; videsī, a person from abroad, a “foreigner.” Note the gradual progression from insider to outsider. In modern parlance, a pardeśī is an Indian but not a local. A Catholic priest or nun from the southern state of Kerala will be considered pardeśī, no matter how long he or she has lived in Banaras. This writer, as a foreigner from outside the region and nation, is called videśī. Nevertheless, pardesī and videśī are often used interchangeably. 21 Personal interview, Sister Vincy, Mātṛ Dhām Āśram, Varanasi, April 23, 2010. 22 Personal interview, Fr. Prem Anthony, Viśvā Jyoti Gurukul, Khraist Nagar, Varanasi, April 4, 2010. 23 There is in all this a touch of the Romantic. But we are a far cry from the normal triumphalism of Christian missionary activity, particularly in India. Nor should we cynically dismiss Catholic aggrandizement of the Khrist Bhaktas as the mirror image of Catholic triumphalism. There is a genuine sense of wonder about the very

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existence of such devotees that leads Catholic religious to understand the advent of the community as an act of God. “First,” Fr. Anil Dev tells his Catholic journalist interviewer, “we must accept the movement is an act of the Holy Spirit; it was initiated, strengthened and led by the Holy Spirit.” Quoted in Nirmala Carvalho, “Khrist Bhakta: A Spiritual Movement,” Indian Currents (October 26 to November 1, 2009): 44. 24 The Rājhbar or Bhar are a jāti of typically landless small cultivators who support themselves through wage labor or majdūr. Malinī’s family is representative of the community in that its members can be found scattered throughout India, as was her own father, who worked in Mumbai for some time. In explaining her family history, she continually mentioned her family’s poverty. 25 Robert Orsi, “The Problem of the Holy,” in The Cambridge Companion to Religious Studies, ed. Robert Orsi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 85. 26 Translated by John Stratton Hawley and Mark Juergensmeyer, Songs of the Saints of India (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 134. 27 Personal interview, Malinī, Mātṛ Dhām Āśram, August 29, 2010. This interview was conducted in Hindi. 28 Personal interview, Malinī. Mātṛ Dhām Āśram, Varanasi, August 29, 2010. 29 It should be noted that the further one moves into the center of this movement, the more exclusive worship of the Christian god becomes. In fact, among many Khrist Bhaktas and Catholics, this is the true test of devotion. Suffice it to say, many who attend worship services at Mātṛ Dhām Āśram and in the villages surrounding it are not exclusively devoted to Jesus but understand him to be a deity like other Hindu deities or a kind of sant figure to be sought for various boons. The issue this then poses is the nature of Christian identity. Is exclusive devotion to Jesus the sine qua non of being a Christian? What then of the myriad Christians in southern India who have placed the Trinity at the top of a pantheon, effectively demoting Hindu deities and demigods in a process of super-ordination not uncommon to Hinduism? See Corinne Dempsey, Kerala Christian Sainthood: Collisions of Culture and Worldview in South India (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). 30 Robert Orsi, “When 2+2=5,” in The American Scholar. March 1, 2007. https:// theamericanscholar.org/when-2-2-5/#.VjpzZK6rS1s. (accessed October 2, 2015). 31 Diana Eck, Banaras: City of Light (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), 23–24.

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Index Note: page locators followed by ‘n’ indicate notes section Aarne–Thompson Tale Type Index 213 n.5 Abdullah (servant of God)  140 Abdus-Salam, Imam Abdullah Ibn 143–5 abhaṅgas  71, 76, 82 abhiśeka (ritual bathing)  86, 218 n.40 Abrahamic religious traditions  3–4, 183–4, 199 “abundant events”  195–6 ācārya (abbot)  191 Acta Sanctorum (Bolland and Henschen) 28 Acts of the Apostles  158 adab (kind etiquette)  115 Adam and Eve  37, 43, 48, 173 adi-gurū (founder)  54 aguā (animator)  192 ahlak/akhlaq (ethics)  111, 114 ahl al-bayt/ehl-i beyt (family of the Prophet)  112–13, 117 Ahmad of Bengal  145 ajana-vṛkṣa (unborn tree)  77–80, 82 Ajvatovica pilgrimage  232 n.50 Akathist Hymn  129–30, 228 n.57 Alamelumanga 195 Āḷandī village  70, 74, 76–7, 84, 217 n.24 Alawi, Tuan Sayed  144 Alevi-Bektaşi community  109–10, 117, 119–21 Alevilik 110 Alevi tradition and folkloric themes  119–22 nature of  109–10 perfecting humanity in  116–17 and root paradigms  115–16 and tariqah Shi’ism  110–12 Algar, Hamed  141 Ali b. Abu Talib  110, 112

al-insan al-kamil (perfect human)  140 Ambedkar, B. R.  66 American Sniper (film)  23 Ananias and Sapphira  158, 238 n.45 Annunciation 194 Antonov, Symeon Ivanovich. See St. Sylouan the Athonite Anubhavāmṛta (Jnāneśvar)  71 Archimandrite Sophrony Sakharov  169–74, 178–82, 239 n.1, 240 n.5, 241 n.25 Asad, Talal  24–5 asceticism 181 female 35 Palamas’s  123, 127 St. John’s  129, 136 Sylouan’s  170–1, 179, 181 Syrian  235 n.6 Asceticism and Society in Crisis (Harvey) 153 aşık (lover)  119–20, 122–3 Āśram  187–9, 196–7 Atiśa 176 Attar, Fariduddin  114, 119–20 ‘Aṭṭār, Farid-al-Din  140 auliyah-i Allah/evliya-i Allah (“Friends of God”)  112–15, 117, 121 The Autobiography of a Yogi (Yogananda) 185 awliya/Wali-allah (protector/ supporter)  138, 140, 143, 146–7 ayin-i cem practice  111 Bābā Rāmāchandra  61–2 Bakhtin, M. M.  152, 164, 235 n.4 Bālakdās  58, 63, 66 Balfour, David  171 Banāras  183–5, 187–9, 191, 196–8 Barlaam  127–8, 136, 226 nn.21–2

Index Barnett, Michael  103–4 Barth, Karl  42 Baskin, J. R.  159 batin (inward)  121, 140 Bauman, Chad  66 becain (uneasy)  193 Bedreddin, Şeyh  110 Behr, John  17 Being and Time (Heidegger)  20 Benaras Hindu University  188 Benjamin, Walter  10, 13 Bentham, Jeremy  14 Berdyaev, Nicholas  171 Bhagavad Gītā  71, 73, 77–8 Bhāgavata Purāṇa 194 bhajan (hymn)  60, 76 bhaktas (devotees/worshippers)  185, 192, 244 n.7 Bhaktavījaya (Mahīpati)  73 bhakti (devotion)  184 movements 185 bhaṇḍārā (feast)  76 The Bible  22, 37, 39, 41–3, 48, 194, 200 The Biblical Flood  39–42 Bima Nyingtik (Longchenpa)  93, 97–8 Bird, Michael  207 n.58 bKa’brgyud school  169, 174, 176, 181 Blazing Splendor (Tulku Urgyen)  99, 101, 105, 222 n.29 bodhicitta (enlightenment)  176, 180 bodhisattvas  176, 179–80 Bolland, Jean  28 Bollandist approach  9–10, 12, 28–9, 36, 206 n.13 Bolshevik revolution  170, 181 Bond, George Doherty  1 Book of Genesis  37–40, 43, 48 Book of Tobit  39–42 Bose, Sugata  148 Brahmanical Hinduism  185, 187 Briggs, George  62 British Raj  183 British Settlement Report (Chisholm)  56 Brooks, E. W.  163 Buddha  53–4, 63, 66, 68, 175 Buddhism  3, 54–5, 66, 89, 100, 174, 176 Buyruk  109, 117, 122 Bynum, Caroline Walker  35 Byzantine Empire  46, 125, 153, 155, 159

255

cain (peace)  193 camārs (leather workers)  56, 58, 62 Canaan, Tawfiq (Tawfik Canaan)  143 Cāṅgadeva Pāsaṣṭī (Jnāneśvar)  71 Cape Mazaar Society  141, 148, 231 n.41 The Cape Naturalist (Jeffreys)  141 Cape of Good Hope  145, 231 n.38 Cape Town saints, and kramats/ mazaars 141–6 castrensis (quartermaster)  162 cennet (paradise)  121 Chakrabarty, Dipesh  18–20, 22, 24, 34–5, 201 Charismatic Catholicism  187 Chetsün Senge Wangchuk  92–3, 95 Chicaba 138–9 Chisholm, D.  56 chod (offering his body)  178 Chodrak Sangpo  222 n.26 Chokgyur Lingpa  96, 99–101, 222 nn.22–3 Christianity  2–3, 9, 12, 42, 55, 139, 145, 169, 171, 181, 183, 186, 196–7 Christian obedience  173 Christian uniqueness  42–3 Christmas 188 Christocentricism 9 Cohn, Robert  1 Cold War  128 Collingwood, R. G.  15–16, 207 n.45 Common Era  185 comparative theology  9, 182, 203, 205 n.5 The Compendio de la Vida Ejemplar de la Venerable Madre Sor Teresa Juliana de Santo Domingo (Houchins and FraMolinero) 139 Conference of the Birds (Attar)  114, 119–21 Congress Party  63 Constantinople  45, 126, 152–5, 163 Council of Chalcedon 451  154 Council of Constantinople 381  154 Cyprian of Carthage  42 Cyril of Alexandria  154 Dādu 185 dākinīs (semidivine female spirits)  178 Dalits  66, 183, 188 Dangma Lhüngyal  92, 97 dargāh (Sufi tomb-shrine)  216 n.15, 217 n.36

256 darśan  70, 74, 80–2, 84–6 Das Heilege (Otto)  186 dāsī (slave)  194 datuk kong (nadugong) 143 Dawkins, Richard  116 Dead Sea Scrolls  41 de Certeau, Michel  29–30 Degh, Linda  90, 102–3, 105 Delehaye, Hippolyte  10, 12–13, 17, 22 Descartes, Rene  13 Desert Fathers  171, 173, 180, 242 n.48 Detsen, Trisong  89 Dev, Anil  191, 195–6 devanāgarī script  59 devotional allegiance in Shi’i Islam  112–13 in Sufi tradition  113–15 dharma  174–6, 181, 241 n.29, 244 n.12 dharmakāya (body of dharma) 179 dharmik  186, 244 n.12 dhikr (remembrance)  144 dhūpāratī 85 dil (heart)  150 Dionysian myths  14 Dioscorus 45 “discernment of spirits”  174 discretio spirituum 180 disillusionment  189, 191 Ditchfield, Simon  1 Divine Will  114 Do Khyentse Yeshe Dorje  221 n.19 dost (friend)  110, 121 dostī (relationship)  192–3 Dova na karicima piligrimage  232 n.50 Drubwang Pema Norbu  95 Drupchen Melong Dorje  93, 97 Dube, Saurabh  57, 61, 63, 65 Dudjom Rinpoche  97 Durkheim, Emile  19 Dutch East Indies Company (VOC)  142–3, 146 Dutch Reformed Church  145 Dwyer, Frank  23 Dza Patrul Orgyen Jikme Chokyi Wangpo  221 n.19 dzogs chen practice (Great Perfection)  175, 177, 222 n.22, 242 n.36 Dzokchen  89, 91, 93, 95

Index Easter  146, 188 Eastern Christianity  131, 171, 178 Eastern communion of saints  129 Eastern Orthodoxy  2–4, 44, 138 Ecclesiastical History (John)  163 Ecumenical Patriarchate  171 edep/adab (etiquette)  111, 114 Eknāth  77–8, 80 Eliade, Mircea  22, 98 Elsner, Jas  1 emanations embodied 93–4 eternal return of  98–9 foundation for  91–2 heroic deeds  103–5 overview 89–90 posthumous 96–8 prototype 90–1 vow to emanate  92–3 embodied emanation  93–4 Enlightenment  27, 33, 35 erenler. See auliyah-i Allah/evliya-i Allah (“Friends of God”) Esfahani, Abu Nu’aym  140 eternal return, of emanations  98–9 Euagrios Scholastikos  155 Eucharistic communion  128 evangelical Protestantism  185, 188, 243 n.1 Fadl, Khaled Abou  147 fakīrs 186 fana fi-Allah (annihilation in God)  114 fana fi-pir (annihilation in the pir) 114 fana fi-rasul (annihilation in the Prophet) 114 female asceticism  35 Feuerbach, Ludwig  19 Fichte, J. G.  10 “Flowers of the Saints”  29 Ford, Gerald  23 Formations of the Secular (Asad)  24 Fra-Molinero, Baltasar  139 French Revolution  16 Freud, Sigmund  7–8 Frey, James  38 Gadamer, Hans-Georg  18, 20, 22, 138 Gaṇeśa  74, 84

Index garbhagṛha (“womb-chamber” or sanctum)  74, 80–1, 83–4 garuda (mythical dragon)  92, 105 Gauḍiya Vaiṣṇava tradition  192 The Gay Science (Nietzsche)  14 Geary, Patrick  30 Gelasian Decree  27, 29, 32–3, 36 Gelug establishments  169, 174–6, 241 n.30, 242 n.41 Ghāsīdāsjī kī Vanshāvaī (Bābā Rāmāchandra) 61 Giannouli, Antonia  125 “The Glorification of St. John Maximovitch” (video)  125 Goh, Beng-Lan  143–4 Golpınarlı, Abdulbaki  109 Gompopa 176 Gospel of John  7 “The Grateful Dead”  41 Graus, Frantisek  30–1 The Great History of Dzokchen Nyingtik  91–3, 96, 98, 106 Green, Louise  144 Green, Nile  141 Groote Kerk (Church)  145 Guide to the kramats of the Western Cape 141–2 gurū  54–5, 60–1, 66, 70–3, 78, 84 Gurū Ghāsīdās hagiography  56–8, 60, 62–4, 68. See also Satnāmī Samāj and online technology  64–7 Guru Jober  93, 220 n.13 gurus 186 Güvenç Abdal  117–23 Habib 157–9 Habib Allah (beloved of God)  112 Hacı Bektaş Veli  109–10, 113, 117–19, 121–2 hafez (memorizer)  142 hagiographical devotion  24–6 hagiography(ies) in Chhattisgarh  56 definitions of  23–4, 26–36 and hermeneutic strategies  47–9 in Hindu context  53–5 historiography and truth  138–9 and hymnography  2–3, 124–6, 128–9, 132–3, 225 n.9, 226 n.22

257

Islamic  139–2 (see also kramats/ mazaars (shrines of saints)) Jnāneśvar Mahārāj’s samādhi 70–86 and John of Ephesus  151–65 and Rāmnāmī Samāj  55, 58–61, 66–8 (see also Parasurām) and reshaping of tradition  178–2 and residual orality  47 and Satnāmī Samāj  55–8, 62–8 (see also Gurū Ghāsīdās) of St. John Maximovich  124–36 Sufi (see Sufism/Sufi Islam) Vimalamitra  89–106, 218 n.3, 219 nn.5, 7, 220 n.12, 222 nn.22–3 halifes (deputies)  119, 122 Hallaj, Mansur al- 114 Hamlet 7 Harvey, Susan  153, 155, 161, 163 Hasan, Zaki  23 Hatayi, Shah Isma’il  110 Hawley, John Stratton  1 hayvanlar (animals)  121 Hebrew Bible. See Hebrew Scriptures Hebrew Pentateuch  42 Hebrew Scriptures  26, 37, 39, 42–3, 48–9, 126, 172, 186 Hegel, G. W. F.  10–11 Heidegger, Martin  18, 20–1 Ḥelyat al-awliā”(Esfahani) 140 Henschen, Godfrey  28 hermeneutics  3, 20–2, 30, 36, 38–9, 47–9, 98, 138, 196, 202–3 Heruka, Tsangnyon (Gtsang Smyon)  169, 172, 174–82, 240 n.2, 242 n.43 Hick, John  42 hilyat al-nabi (ornament of the Prophet) 140 Himalayas 89–1 Hindu Christian  183 Hinduism  3–4, 42, 54, 58, 62–3, 66, 71, 138, 183–7, 194 Hindu Marriage Act (1955)  243 n.2 Hira Lal, R. B.  56, 58 historicism 35 historiography, and truth  138–9 Hodgson, Marshall G. S.  110 holy, modes of  188 Holy Feast, Holy Fast (Bynum)  35 Holy Fool  125

258

Index

Holy Mountain  170 Holy Rus  128, 132–4, 136 Holy Spirit  43, 172–3, 179, 184 Holy Synod  124 Holy Trinity  43, 154 Holy Virgin Cathedral  124–6, 133, 135 Houchins, Sue E.  139 Hünkar (Monarch). See Hacı Bektaş Veli hymnography  2–3, 124–6, 128–9, 132–3, 225 n.9, 226 n.22 hyper-religious 33 “hypostatic” prayer  173 Ibn ‘Arabi  110, 139 Ibrahim ibn Adham  114 icchā (will)  194 Ikos (hymn)  130 ilim ladunni (spiritual knowledge)  122 illusion  7–8, 12–13, 60, 72 Imam Ali Riza  109, 117 Imams (progeny of the Prophet)  140 iman (faith)  120 IMS. See Indian Missionary Society (IMS) incorrupt relics  124–5, 130, 133, 225 n.1 Indian Catholicism  189, 191 Indian Christian Spiritual Experience  187 Indian Constitution  183, 243 n.2 Indian Missionary Society (IMS)  187 indigenization movement  184, 187, 245 nn.18–19 Indrayānī River  77 inner fire (gtum-mo) 175 insan al-kamil (perfected human being) 114–15 insaniyat/ınsanlık (humanity)  111, 117, 121 Institute Saint Serge  178 intellectual purification  174, 179 interpretive drift  103 Īsā. See Jesus Christ Īsāī (Christian)  184 Islamic Art  139 Islamic hagiography  139–2 Ismacilis 110 Issa Shamsuddin  145 Ithnashari Shi’ism  109 Jacobs, Rayda  142 Jagannath Temple  57 jagdīś (“Lord of the Worlds”)  194

James, William  1 Jamyang Khyentse Chokyi Lodro  103 Jamyang Khyentse Wangpo  96, 221 n.19 janamsakhis 138 jāti (subcaste)  56–9, 62, 66 Jatson Nyingpo  95 Jeffreys, Marie Kathleen  141 Jesus Christ  7–8, 39, 42–3, 45, 48–9, 55, 145–6, 173, 188–9, 192, 194–5, 197 Jibra’il 120 Jikme Lingpa  95–6, 100, 221 n.19 Jñānadeva Gāthā (Jnāneśvar)  71 Jñāneśvarī  77–9, 82 Jnāneśvar Mahārāj’s samādhi 70–1 and ajana-vṛkṣa (unborn tree)  77–80 and Āḷandī village  76–7 architectural configuration of  74–6 movement through space of  80–2 as mūrti 71–4 as temple  82–7 Job (Prophet)  159 John of Ephesus hagiographies  151–65 collection of  153–6 and Habib  157–9 and John of Hephaestopolis  161–2 overview 151–3 and Simeon the mountaineer  159–1 and Theodore  162 John of Hephaestopolis  161–2 John of Tella  154 John Scholasticus  163 Judeo-Christian  39–40, 186 Justice, Stephen  33 Justinian (emperor)  151–6, 161–4, 236 n.8, 237 n.29 Justin II  156, 163 Kabīr (sant)  54, 63, 68, 185, 188 kakadā ratī 84 Kant, Immanuel  13 karma  73, 175–6 Karma Kagyu  96 Karmapa  96, 176 Kārtik month (October to November)  76 Kāshī. See Banāras Kaśī Viśvanāth temple  184 Kaulajñānanirṇaya 72 kāyas (bodies)  179 Keats, John  13

Index keramats (miracles)  121, 138, 143, 229 n.13, 232 nn.50–1 khair ul-bashar (best of humanity)  140 Khrist Bhaktas (“devotees of Christ”)  243 n.1 and abundant spaces  194–6 conceptual/semantic challenges  184–7 description 183–4 emerging hagiographic representations 188–91 historical/political challenges  187–8 Malinī and  191–4 Kieckhefer, Richard  1 Kierkegaard, Søren  7–8, 10–12, 15, 21 kıyamet (Day of Judgment)  120–1 Kızılbaş tribes  111 Klein Constantia shrine  142–3 Knitter, Paul  42 Korkmaz, Esat  109 kramats/mazaars (shrines of saints)  137–9, 141–50, 229 n.1, 231 n.42, 232 n.50, 232 n.53 Cape Town saints and  141–6 Kṛṣṇa bhaktas 194 kṣatriya (warrior caste)  58 Kumārāja  94–5, 97–8 kumkum powder  85 Kyle, Chris  23 Lakṣmī and Nārāyaṇa temple  74–5 Lama Gonpo  100 Lama Yangthig  96 Lamb, Ramdas  188 Lamp for the Eye in Contemplation (Nupchen)  90–1, 100 La Vida de la Venerable Negra 138 Leclercq, Jean  34 Leeuw, Gerard Van der  1 The Legends of the Saints (Delehaye)  12 Levering, Miriam  1 Lewis, C. S.  43 Lhatsun Namkha Jikme  95 Liber Asceticus (Maximus the Confessor) 179 Life of Milarepa (Heruka)  169, 174–5, 182, 240 n.2 Lifshitz, Felice  26–7, 29, 34 Lincoln (film)  18 Lives of Christian saints  28

259

Lives of the Eastern Saints (John of Ephesus)  153–4, 163–5 Longchen Nyingtik 95 Longchenpa  93–8, 222 n.26 Lopez, Donald  175 Lord Kṛṣṇ  62, 73, 192, 194, 198 Lord Rām  59–60 Luhrmann, Tanya  103, 105 Lumen Gentium 187 Lutgard of Aywieres  32–3 mādhurya rasa  192 Madhyamaka  176, 178 Mahābhārata  72, 216 n.7 “Mahāpuruṣ” (“Great Person”)  64 mahāsamādhi (Great Absorption)  216 n.13, 217 n.29 Māhāyana  176–7, 180, 242 n.1 Mahāyoga  90–1, 98 Mahida, Ebrahim Mahomed  145 Mahīpati 73 Mahmud, Sayed  142 makeshift shrines  143–4 Malay Muslim  143–4 Malay slaves  137 Mandal, Sumit  141, 229 n.13 maṇḍapa (pavilion)  74, 81–2 Mandela, Nelson  143 mandīr (temple)  217 n.36 manifestation of truth  7, 9, 21 maqam/makam (stations)  115 “marginal” holiness  179 marifet (spiritual gnosis)  117 Maro 153 Marpa the Translator  175–6 Martyr, Justin  42 A Marvelous Garland of Rare Gems (Nyoshul) 97 Marx, Karl  11 Maryiam. See Jesus Christ Mātṛ Dhām Āśram  184, 186, 191–2, 194, 197, 243 n.5 Matura, Sheikh Abdurahman  141 Maturu, Sheikh Sayed Abdurahman  137 Mawla 113 Maximus the Confessor (Maximos the Confessor) 179 mazaar/mausoleum. See kramats/mazaars (shrines of saints)

260

Index

McLennan, Gregory  25 Mecca/Hajj piligrimage  111, 148 medet (help)  122–3 medieval Catholicism  25, 209 n.3 meditation  63, 75–7, 82, 94, 100, 176–8, 196, 217 n.24 melā (annual festival)  63–4, 67–9 Meltzer, Francoise  1 Menakıb-ı Hacı Bektaş Veli. See Vilayetname mevla (master)  121 Miaphysite/Miaphysitism  152–6, 158–9, 161–5, 236 n.13 Michael the Syrian  155 Milarepa  169, 172, 174–82, 240 n.2, 242 n.42 Mila Thos dpa ga’. See Milarepa Mill, John Stuart  14 A Million Little Pieces (Frey)  38 Mīrābāī 192 Miracleworks Productions  125 mi’raj (ascension)  140 modern historiography  20 mokśa (liberation)  186 monastic obedience  114, 122, 170–6 Monge, Rico  200 monophysite. See Miaphysite/Miaphysitism Montanism  152, 155. See also pagan/ paganism Morrison, Grant  104–5 The Moscow Patriarchate  128, 134–6, 171 Motura, Sayed Abdurahman  143 Mughal Akbar  187 muhabbat/muhabbet/ishq (love)  112, 115, 120 Muktābāī 74 mukti-dātā (liberation-giver)  188 mürits (disciples)  117, 120–3 Murray, Noeleen  144 mūrti (divine form)  70, 83–4, 86 Jnāneśvar Mahārāj as  71–4 Musa 122 Muslim Judicial Council  141 Mutalib, Sheikh Abdul  142 najar se (glance)  192 Nāmadeva Gāthā  216 n.3 Nāmdev  73, 76–7, 82 Nānak 185

Nandī  74, 76–7, 81 Nārāyaṇa. See Viṣṇu nar-nārī (woman)  193 Nāth Siddha tradition  215 n.1 nefes (devotional poetry)  109, 111 nefs (animal soul)  121 neo-Pentecostalism 187 Nestorius 154 Neville, Robert C.  1 “New Adam”  43 New Testament  39, 172, 234 n.76 New Transmission of Buddhism  176 nezr (offering)  118, 122 The Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed  49 Nietzsche, Friedrich  7, 10, 12–15, 22 nirguṇa (without attributes)  244 n.7 nirmanakāya (world of form)  179 nirvāna  176–8, 180 niṣkala (without parts)  86 Nivṛtti/Nivṛttinātha  71–3, 77, 82 “Noah and the Ark”  39–40 Nostra Aetate 187 Novetzke, Christian  80 Nupchen Sangye Yeshe  90–1, 98, 100 Nuruman, Tuan  144 Nyang Tingzin Sangpo  92, 219 n.8 Nyima Bum  93, 220 n.13 The Nyingma School of Tibetan Buddhism (Dudjom) 97 Nyingma tradition  90, 94–101, 105–6, 175, 177, 221 n.21 Nyingtik Yabshi (Longchenpa)  93 Nyoshul Khenpo  97 OBCs. See “Other Backward Classes” (OBCs) obedience, monastic  114, 122, 170–6 Old Testament  39, 41, 172 One Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa 176 Ong, Walter J.  47 online technology, and Gurū Ghāsīdās hagiography 64–7 Optina monastery  181 orang cayen 142–3 Orgyen Trinle Dorje  103 Origen  48, 214 n.24 Orsi, Robert  18–20, 22, 27, 30, 87, 138, 192, 195–6

Index Orthodox Christianity  169 “Other Backward Classes” (OBCs) 183, 192 Otto, Rudolf  22 Otto, Rudolph  186 Ottoman Empire  110–11 Padmsambhava 93 pādukā  81–2, 217 n.29 pagan/paganism  3, 44, 146, 152–3, 155, 161–2, 164 Paradise  37, 43, 48 Paramātmā (the supreme self)  72 Parasurām  58–61, 66–9. See also Rāmnāmī Samāj pardeśī (from outside the land)  188, 245 n.20 pastoral theology  32 Paterno, Joe  9 Pelkhor Chos-de monastery  174 Penor Rinpoche  101, 103, 223 n.38 Perekrestov, Peter  124 The Phanouropita tradition  46 Philokalia  170, 172–4, 180, 240 n.2, 241 n.22 Pilate, Pontius  7, 49, 206 n.1 pilgrimage travelogues  139 pirmurid/pir-mürit (master-disciple relationship)  114, 119 pir (spiritual master)  109–10, 113–14, 117, 120–3, 218 n.36 Pir Sultan Abdal  110 placaaten (statutes)  145 Plato 40 Polyeleos 135 pośākh (“dressed”)  85 posthumous emanations  96–8 Prabhu (lord)  193 pradakṣiṇa (circumambulation)  80–2 prajñāpāramitā (wisdom)  176, 180 prākāra (opened corridor)  74–5, 80 prakaṭs (manifestations)  195 pramāṇas (proofs)  195 praṇām (touching hands and forehead) 85–6 prasād 192 praxis 179 preman (love)  192 Procopius 155

261

Prophet Muhammad  110–15, 117, 120–1, 134–5, 139–40, 147 proselytization  66–7, 186 Protestant Christianity  3, 13, 22, 27, 185, 187–8, 209 n.16, 210 n.18, 243 n.1 provincialization, of history  19–20 Provincializing Europe (Chakrabarty) 19 pūjā offerings  70, 84–5, 194 pūjārī (priest)  84, 86 Qadiri Sufi order  142 Qadri, Mohammed Hassen Ghaibie Shah al- 141 Quit India movement  62 The Qur’an  112–13, 120, 122, 137, 142, 145 Rabia of Basra  114 Rājbhar jāti  192, 246 n.24 rājput (warrior caste)  215 n.16 Ramadan  111, 120 Rāmānanda 63 Rāmānandi  59, 215 n.10 Ramanujan, A. K.  194 Rāmāyana 58–60 Rāmcaritmānas (Tulsīdās)  59 Rāmnāmī Samāj  55, 58–61, 66–8. See also Parasurām Rāmnām (recitation of the name of Rām)  59–61, 67–9 Rāmnām Swāmī. See Parasurām “RāmRām” tattoo  60–1, 68 Ranade, R. D.  76 Rangjung Dorje  96 Rapt in the Name (Lamb)  65–6 Ravidās 185 real-life superheroes  90, 103–5 Rechung pa  176 Reilly, Rick  9–10, 12 religious identity  42, 183 Renaissance 33 re-pa (simple cloth)  175 residual orality  47 Ricoeur, Paul  1, 18, 20–2, 140, 200 ridah (contentment)  111 rnam thar (complete liberation)  175 Robben Island shrine  143

262 ROCOR. See Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia (ROCOR) Roman Catholicism  187 root paradigms  115–16 Rosweyde, Heribert  28 Royal Holy Martyrs  128 Royal New Martyrs  128, 135–6 Rukmiṇī 83 Russell, R. V.  56, 58 Russian Orthodox Church Outside of Russia (ROCOR)  124–5, 128–9, 133, 135–6 Russian Orthodoxy  124, 126, 133, 170, 181 Russo-Japanese war  170 sabr (patience)  111, 115 saccā pyār (true love)  192–3 sacred shrines. See kramats/mazaars (shrines of saints) sādhna 195–6 sādhus (holy man)  53–5, 86, 186–7 Safavid Empire  110 Safavid Shi’ism  111 Safavi tarikat 110 Safi, Omid  115 saguṇa (with attributes)  244 n.7 Saint Augustine  40 Saint John the Baptist  171–2 Saints: Faith without Borders (Meltzer) 1 Saints and Virtues (Hawley)  1 St. Euphemia  43–5 St. Gregory Nazianzus  48, 127 St. Gregory Palamas  49, 126–9, 135–6 St. John Maximovich  124–36, 131 asceticism 129 brief biography  124–5 in communion of saints  130–1 episcopal ministry  129 hagiographical categories  125–6 hymnographical narrative  124–6, 128–9, 132–3, 225 n.9, 226 n.22 reconciliation 134–6 service to  129 triumphalism in services of  131–4 as wonderworker and healer  130 St. Panteleimon Monastery  170–1

Index St. Paul  40 St. Phanourios of Rhodes  43, 45–6 St. Sylouan the Athonite 169–74, 178–82 Śaiva maṭha 84 sakala (with parts)  86 Sakharov, Sergei Symeonovich. See Archimandrite Sophrony Sakharov Śakyamuni. See Buddha Salafism  234 nn.75–6 Salafi-Wahhabi  3, 147, 234 n.75 salat (daily ritual prayer)  111 samādhi (tomb) shrine, Jnāneśvar’s  70–1, 73 and Āḷandī village  76–7 architectural configuration of  74–6 saṃjīvan samādhi (living samādhi)  70, 76, 86 saṁnyāsis 186 samsara 180 Samten Gyatso  99–101, 103, 105 sanctity  1–2, 9, 12, 17, 28–9, 33, 36, 55, 68, 126, 130–1, 138, 151 sanctus (holy/consecrated)  184 Saṅkat Mochan temple  184 śanti (peace)  196 Sant Lūkas 185 Sant Mārkus 185 Sant Mat 185 Sant Mattī 185 sant parampāra (saint lineage)  185 sants (saints)  70, 184–6, 188, 194, 198 Sants Tomas (Thomas, apostle to India) 185 Sant Yohan 185 saramindā (each other)  192 sarraf (gold merchant)  118–19, 121–2 satguru (a true guru)  68, 70, 73, 188 sat gyān (“true wisdom”)  57 Satlokhi Cave  68 “satnami.com” website  65 Satnāmī Samāj  55–8, 62–8. See also Gurū Ghāsīdās Satnām Sāgar (Bābā Rāmāchandra)  62 Sat Purūṣ 63 Satsaṅgh Bhāvan  185, 196 sat (truth)  57, 244 n.7 scriptures  32–3, 36–8, 48, 73, 147, 154, 159, 172, 186

Index Sears, Tamara  84 second Sunday of Lent  126 Secret History (Procopius)  155 secular critique  25–6 The Selfish Gene (Dawkins)  116 Sergey Bulgakov 131, 171 Şeytan (Satan)  119 Shah, Abdurahman Matebe  142 Shah, Sheikh Abdurahman Matebe  137 shahadah (“Confession of Faith”)  111 Shah-i Evliya (“Ruler of the Friends”) 114 Shangton Tashi Dorje  93, 220 n.13 Shara Rab-bjams-pa Sangs-rgyas  174 Sharma, Arvind  1 Sheikh Faiek Gamieldien  147 Sheikh Yusuf of Macassar  137, 141, 145–6 Shi’a Islam  112–13, 115, 139, 146 shrine visitation (Ziyarat) 146–9 Shukri, Ishtiyaq  145–6, 233 n.67 siddha (a perfected being)  70 Siddhartha Gautama. See Buddha Siddheśvara (Lord of siddhas)  74–6, 81–2 Signal Hill  141 śikhara (temple superstructure)  74, 83 The Silent Minaret (Shukri)  145 Simeon the mountaineer  159–61 Singh, Arjun  63 Sinister Yogis 186 Sisters of the Queen of the Apostles 187–8 Śiva liṅga  74, 82, 86, 217 n.21 Śiva Sūtras (Vasugupta)  72 Śiva temple  70, 74, 76–7, 81–2, 84, 86, 184, 192, 217 n.21 skandala (passages)  48 Smith, George  40 Smith, Rachel  201 smyon pa (“religious madman”)  174 snyan brgyud (aural tradition)  174 sociological truth  25 Solami, Abu “Abd-al-Raḥmān 140 Son of God. See Jesus Christ South African Heritage Resources Agency 141 Southey, Robert  27 Spielberg, Steven  18 spiritual battle  178, 180

263

stambh (pole)  62, 67 starets  172–3, 179–80, 240 n.3 Starry Night (van Gogh)  21 startsy (elders)  179 Steiner, Tina  145 Sufism/Sufi Islam  3–4, 109–10, 112–17, 119, 121–2, 140–2, 146, 216 n.15, 217 n.36 Sultan Ageng  145 Sunni Islam  110–12, 114–15, 146, 234 n.75 Sunni Ottomans  111 sūtra-based traditions  95 sūtras 176 Swami Samartha  217 n.29 swāmīs (priests)  187 Syrian asceticism  235 n.6 Ṭabaqāt al-ṣufiya (Solami)  140 Table Mountain  148 Taḏkerat al-awliāʾ(ʿAṭṭār) 140 tantra 176 tāntrika  90–2, 96, 98, 100–1, 106 tarikat (interior path)  109, 114–15, 122 tariqah Shi’ism  110–12 Tarthang Tulku  101 tasvīr (image)  193 tathāgatagarbha (all-encompassing Buddha nature) 179 taubah (repentance)  111, 115 tawakkul (trust)  115 Temple of the Hat  92 tevhit/tauhid (unity of God)  110 Theodora  155–6, 161 Theodore 162 Theodosius I (emperor)  154 Theophilus of Antioch  42 theōria 179 theōsis 181 Thomas Christian Catholic  188 Thomas of Cantimpré  32–3, 36, 212 n.42 Three Yangti Sum 93 Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Nietzsche)  14 Tibetan Buddhism  3, 98, 169, 176, 179–80, 182, 241 n.30, 242 n.41 tirtha (ford/crossing point)  184, 196 Tīrthāvalī (Nāmdev)  76

264

Index

Tirumantiram 72 Tirupati 195 Tjoessoep, Abadin Tadia. See Sheikh Yusuf of Macassar Toddar, Shankar Lal  63 Tong Cheu Hock  143 The Tribes and Castes of the Central Provinces of India (Russell and Hira Lal) 56 Trinitarian God  173, 179 Triune deity  183 Tropics of Discourse (White)  15 Trulshik Senge Gyapa  93 truth description of  7–10 and end of objectivity  13–18 and hermeneutics  20–2 and historiography  138–9 as manifestation  1–2 modern history and disclosure of 10–13 provincialization of history  19–20 sociological 25 as verification  2 Truth and Method (Gadamer)  20 Tsar Nicholas II  128, 132, 227 n.26 tshul bstan (seemingly displayed)  219 n.4 Tsikey Chokling Rinpoche  99–101 Tsong kha pa  174–5 Tso Patrul Rinpoche  100 Tuan Guru. See Abdus-Salam, Imam Abdullah Ibn The Tuan of Antonie’s Gat (documentary film) 142 Tukarām  185, 195 tulkus  96, 99–101 Tulku Urgyen  99–100, 223 n.37 tulsī (basil)  57 Tulsīdās 59 Turner, Victor  115–16 Turquoise Rock  222 n.22 Twelve Imams  109–10 Twelver 110 The Twilight of the Idols (Nietzsche)  14 Typikon 131 ulema (authority of jurists)  111, 224 n.9 Untouchable Pasts (Dube)  66

Urs Shareef 147 The Use and Abuse of History (Nietzsche) 14 Utley, Francis Lee  40 vāhana (mount)  217 n.22 Vaiṣṇavism  57, 60, 185, 214 n.6 vajradhara (utter enlightenment)  176 Vajrayāna. See Tibetan Buddhism Valaam monastery  181 Valmiki 58–9 van Gogh, Vincent  21 van Schaik, Sam  220 n.11 Vārāṇasī. See Banāras Vārkarī tradition  71, 73–4, 76–7, 80, 82, 185 Vasugupta 72 Vaughn, R. A.  27 Vazsonyi, Andrew  102 Velimirovic, Nikolai  8–9, 206 n.8 Veṅkaṭeśvara. See Viṣṇu Vida de la Venerable Negra 139, 229 n.12 videsī (foreigner)  245 n.20 vigraha (sculpted image)  83 vilayet-i evliya  224 n.9 vilayet-i faqih  224 n.9 Vilayetname  109, 117, 120, 122 vilayet (spiritual authority)  109, 113, 119, 122 Vimalamitra  89–106, 218 n.3, 219 n.5, 219 n.7, 220 n.12, 222 nn.22–3 vīṇāmaṇḍapa 82 Virgin Mary  41 Viṣṇu  62, 68, 185, 194–5 viśvāsī (believers)  184, 188, 192 Viṭhobā  185, 195 Viṭṭhal  71, 74, 83 von Humboldt, Wilhelm  10–11 von Ranke, Leopold  10–13, 17 Wach, Joachim  1 Wahabism  234 nn.75–6 wahdat al-wujud (unity of being) 110, 121 Wahhabi movement  234 n.80 wali (friend of God)  149, 229 n.9 Ware, Kallistos  7

Index Western European Eparchy  125 White, Charles  71 White, David  186 White, Hayden  15–16, 18 Wikipedia 65 Women Saints in World Religions (Sharma) 1 Word of God  154 Wright, Bradford  103, 105 Yazid b. Muawiyah  113 Yesu. See Jesus Christ

“Yesu Bhakta.” See Khrist Bhaktas (“devotees of Christ”) Yogananda, Paramahamsa  185 yogins  175–7, 179–80 yogis 186 Young, Frances  49 YouTube 125 zahir (outward)  140 zakat (giving of alms)  111 zamir/aql (mind)  150 Ziyarat (shrine visitation)  146–9

265