Religious Stories We Live By : Narrative Approaches in Theology and Religious Studies [1 ed.] 9789004264069, 9789004264052

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Religious Stories We Live By

Studies in Theology and Religion (STAR) edited on behalf of the netherlands school for advanced studies in theology and religion (noster)

Editors in Chief Jan Willem van Henten (University of Amsterdam/Stellenbosch University) Thomas Quartier (Radboud University Nijmegen)

Associate Editors Herman Beck (Tilburg University) Kees van der Kooi (VU University Amsterdam) Daniela Müller (Radboud University Nijmegen)

Advisory Board David Ford, Cambridge – Ruard Ganzevoort, Amsterdam Maaike de Haardt, Tilburg – Ab de Jong, Leiden – Anne-Marie Korte, Utrecht Peter Nissen, Nijmegen – Jeremy Punt, Stellenbosch

volume 19

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/star

Religious Stories We Live By Narrative Approaches in Theology and Religious Studies

Edited by

R. Ruard Ganzevoort Maaike de Haardt Michael Scherer-Rath

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2014

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual “Brill” typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, IPA, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see www.brill.com/brill-typeface. ISSN 1566-208X ISBN 978-90-04-26405-2 (hardback) ISBN 978-90-04-26406-9 (e-book) Copyright 2014 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Global Oriental, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers and Martinus Nijhoff Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

CONTENTS

List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Introduction. Religious Stories We Live By . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . R. Ruard Ganzevoort

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‘Show, Don’t Tell’. The (Ir)rationality of Religious Stories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Edwin Koster Narrative, Postformal Cognition, and Religious Belief . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 James M. Day Narratives of the Self in the Study of Religion. Epistemological Reflections Based on a Pragmatic Notion of Weak Rationality . . . . . 55 Chris Hermans BIBLICAL STUDIES A Short Story of Narratology in Biblical Studies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Dorothea Erbele-Küster Saramago’s Reshaping of Cain and God. A Study in Characterization and Intertextuality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Wim J.C. Weren Jericho is Shouting. Narrative and Rhetoric in Joshua 6. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 Marieke den Braber The Story of a Gang Rape as a Means of Liberation. A Contextual Reading of Judges 19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109 Klaas Spronk Showcasing the Little Sister. The Grammatical Lives of Samson’s Women (Judg 13–16) as a Syntactic Supplement to Narratological Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 Willien van Wieringen

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contents EMPIRICAL STUDIES

Narrative Reconstruction as Creative Contingency . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 Michael Scherer-Rath Dialogical Constructions of a Muslim Self through Life Story Telling . . . 143 Marjo Buitelaar Religious Narrative and the Body . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 Toke Elshof An Instrument for Reconstructing Interpretation in Life Stories . . . . . . . 169 Jos van den Brand, Chris Hermans, Michael Scherer-Rath, and Piet Verschuren SYSTEMATIC STUDIES Narrative Theology. A Structural Overview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 Luco J. van den Brom Mourning for Yasmina: A Passion Narrative. Storytelling and Social Engagement in Urban Ministry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 195 Anne-Marie Korte Visual Narratives. Entrance to Everyday Religious Practices . . . . . . . . . . . . 209 Maaike de Haardt HISTORICAL STUDIES Changing Narratives. The Stories the Religious Have Lived by since the 1960’s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221 Marit Monteiro, Marjet Derks, and Annelies van Heijst Telling Authorized Stories. The Dynamics of the Dutch Pietistic Narrative Community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241 John Exalto Publish or Perish? The Polemical and Apologetic Publications of the Jesuits in the Low Countries (17th Century) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251 Joep W.J. van Gennip Means of Submission or Symbol of Protest? The Habit of the Sister of St Charles Borromeo Amalie Augustine von Lasaulx (1815–1872) . . . 263 Angela Berlis

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A Religion en plein public. Charlotte Salomon and the Theatre of Memory . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 279 Liesbeth Hoeven Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Angela Berlis is ordinary professor for the History of Old Catholicism and General Church History at the Faculty for Theology, University of Bern (Switzerland). Marieke den Braber is minister of the Reformed Church of Bleiswijk (the Netherlands) and independent researcher in Old Testament Studies. Jos van den Brand is a junior researcher at the Institute for Catholic Education (ICE) at Radboud University Nijmegen (the Netherlands). Luco J. van den Brom is professor emeritus of Christian Doctrine at the Protestant Theological University (the Netherlands), professor of Philosophical Theology at the University of Groningen (the Netherlands), and research associate at the Faculty of Theology of the University of Pretoria (South-Africa). Marjo Buitelaar is associate professor of Contemporary Islam at the University of Groningen (the Netherlands). James M. Day is professor of Human Development and Psychology of Religion at the Université Catholique de Louvain (Belgium). Marjet Derks is assistant professor of Cultural and Religious History at Radboud University Nijmegen (the Netherlands). Toke Elshof is assistant professor of Religious Education at Tilburg University School of Catholic Theology (the Netherlands). Dorothea Erbele-Küster is professor of Old Testament and Hebrew at Protestant Faculty of Theology (Brussels, Belgium) and assistant professor of Old Testament at the Protestant Theological University (the Netherlands). John Exalto is assistant professor in the History of Education at VU University Amsterdam (the Netherlands).

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list of contributors

R. Ruard Ganzevoort is professor of Practical Theology at VU University Amsterdam (the Netherlands). Joep W.J. van Gennip is junior researcher at Radboud University Nijmegen (the Netherlands). Maaike de Haardt is professor of Religion and Gender at Radboud University Nijmegen (the Netherlands) and associate professor of Systematic Theology at Tilburg University School of Humanities (the Netherlands). Chris Hermans is professor of Empirical Religious Studies at Radboud University Nijmegen (the Netherlands). Annelies van Heijst is professor of Care Ethics at Tilburg University School of Humanities (the Netherlands). Liesbeth Hoeven is junior researcher at Tilburg University School of Humanities (the Netherlands). Anne-Marie Korte is professor of Religion, Gender, and Modernity at Utrecht University, Faculty of Humanities (the Netherlands). Edwin Koster is assistant professor of Philosophy at VU University Amsterdam (the Netherlands). Marit Monteiro is professor of the History of Dutch Catholicism at Radboud University Nijmegen (the Netherlands). Michael Scherer-Rath is assistant professor of Empirical Religious Studies at Radboud University Nijmegen (the Netherlands). Klaas Spronk is professor of Old Testament at Protestant Theological University (the Netherlands). Piet Verschuren is emeritus professor of Methodology at the Faculty of Management Sciences at Radboud University Nijmegen (the Netherlands). Wim J.C. Weren is professor emeritus of New Testament at Tilburg University School of Humanities (the Netherlands).

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Willien van Wieringen is lecturer in Old Testament/Hebrew at Fontys University of Applied Sciences (Utrecht, the Netherlands), guest researcher at Tilburg School of Catholic Theology (the Netherlands), and staff member for communication of the Diocese of Rotterdam (the Netherlands).

introduction RELIGIOUS STORIES WE LIVE BY

R. Ruard Ganzevoort The normal human being, you may have observed, has a passion for autobiography. You have it yourself. If you deny it indignantly, that means merely that you have it in its more passive form. I have told you something that you resent because it does not tally with the story about yourself that you tell yourself. This poor uncomfortable creature is continually doing its best to make a plausibly consistent story of its behaviour both to itself and the social world about it, and to be guided by that legend so as to escape an open breach with its environment. The urgency we are under to pull ourselves together and make an acceptable account of ourselves finds its outlet in these yarns about religious experiences and consistent love that we force upon one another at every opportunity. – H.G. Wells, You Can’t Be Too Careful (London: Secker & Warburg, 1941: 110– 111).

For some time now, scholars in a variety of disciplines have become interested in narrative approaches. Researchers and theorists in theology and religious studies are no exception. Although not a prominent theme until the 1970s, narrative has always been a topic in religion, if only because of the narrative material involved in especially biblical studies. The narrative turn in the study of religion reflects an important observation: human beings tell—indeed: live—stories that invite and serve them to see the world in a certain way and act accordingly. And they do so in close interaction with the stories of a religious tradition that offer possible worlds, created through narrative and portrayed in stories and symbols, rituals and moral guidelines. In one way or another human stories are connected with stories of and about God or gods. Liturgy and rituals embody and reenact narratives from the spiritual tradition, allowing contemporary congregants to join in with their own life stories. Pastoral counseling and spiritual care focus on those individual stories as they connect with traditions. Religious education shares the stories of a tradition to help new generations build a repertoire of potentially meaningful narratives. Religious conflict is likewise a conflict about powerful stories and possible worlds. Hegemonic

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and subaltern voices, central and marginal stories, docile and critical listeners constantly meet, merge, or clash. This is the case today, but it is also the case in church history and even in the wide array of stories in the Bible. If we would trace the narrative turn in theology and religious studies, we would encounter many influential writers and thinkers. In the past three or four decades narrative has become a central theme in all fields within theology, religious studies, and adjacent disciplines. Philosophers like Paul Ricoeur (1995) and Richard Kearney (2001), biblical scholars like Hans Frei (1974) and Walter Brueggemann (1997), literary theorists like Mieke Bal (1985), systematic theologians like Edward Schillebeeckx (1979), David Tracy (1981), and Sally McFague (1982), ethicists like Stanley Hauerwas (1983) and Alasdair MacIntyre (1981), cognitive scientists like George Lakoff and Mark Johnson (1980) and Jerome Bruner (1986), psychologists like Theodore Sarbin (1986) and Kenneth Gergen (1994), pastoral theologians like Charles Gerkin (1984), and many others have contributed to the awareness that narrative may in fact be a central concept if we want to understand human existence and religious traditions. In a sense, this was not a new approach but rather a reappropriation of what had been known for long. This wide-spread interest in narrative, however, takes many different guises, defined not only by the various disciplines and their methodological preferences, but also by different schools of thought within disciplines—see for example the debate between the Yale and Chicago perspectives on narrative in biblical theology or the collection of practical theological approaches to narrative in Ganzevoort (1998 ed.). This easily confuses anyone who wishes to understand what is central in narrative approaches and what is incidental. One of the main distinctions is between approaches that focus on narrative form and approaches that take a narrative perspective (Ganzevoort 2011). Narrative forms are paramount in the field of religious studies and theology. Stories abound in the holy books of different traditions (albeit to a different degree). They are also prominent in the religious practices of historical and contemporary religion. For that reason, many have engaged in developing analytical tools and instruments to understand the content, meaning, and function of all these narratives. From narrative exegesis (Powell and Wright 1993) to autobiographical interviewing (Josselson and Lieblich 1995), there are a variety of techniques and methods to account for the narrative nature of the material we are studying. These methods and techniques may aim at objectifying particular readings of a text, or instead acknowledge the intrinsic subjectivity, as is the case in the international project on intercultural reading of the Bible Through the

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Eyes of Another (De Wit, Jonker, Kool, and Schipani 2004), in which bible reading groups exchanged their interpretations of a biblical story. We can, however, apply a narrative perspective even when we are studying material that does not have a distinctly narrative form. A narrative perspective considers the construction of meaning and thus also the construction of religious meaning to take place in the encounter between the human mind and an external reality. These meanings are structured narratively so that we experience life in story-like forms, as philosophical theologian Stephen Crites (1971) wrote in his seminal paper “The Narrative Quality of Experience.” We live our lives from day to day, but we understand our life as if it were a story. Our collective identity, history, and religious tradition are likewise structured as stories. Even non-narrative forms (like creeds, commandments, buildings, garments, hierarchies) can be interpreted in this narrative perspective. The central notion here is that meanings are not fixed or defined by something intrinsic to the facts or texts. Instead meaning is attributed in the act of reading the text or approaching an external reality. This places the reader center stage. The main question becomes how individuals and communities construct their stories in conversation with other ‘readers’, incorporating that which presents itself as ‘real’ and aiming at the construction of a consistent and meaningful story of the self. The reader thus creates his or her own story vis-à-vis self, others, and ‘reality’. This process of narrative construction of a story can thus be seen as a negotiation of possible meanings. In this narrative perspective, special attention is given to the stories of the marginalized. If indeed readers negotiate the meanings of a situation in relation to their own life view and to what their context (audience) expects from them, then marginalized people can (and perhaps should) be empowered to share their stories and be heard. Narrative approaches have often served to create space for subaltern voices and unheard stories as a critical counterweight to hegemonic stories. Religious traditions and hierarchies have thus been challenged by for example the stories of personal experiences of women (Neuger 2001), people of different colors (Andrews 2002), victims of sexual violence (Ganzevoort 2001, 2002), or gay and lesbian believers (Ganzevoort, van der Laan, and Olsman 2011; Kundtz and Schlager 2007). Fundamental to our understanding of how narrative and meaning emerge is the concept of the mimesis or representation of the external reality in our mind and knowing, as Ricoeur (1984–1988) has elaborated. Building on a range of philosophers from Aristotle to Gadamer, he identifies three dimensions of this mimetic representation. First, there is a ‘world behind

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the text’, consisting of the context, events, and background of the narrator (be it a biblical writer, contemporary individual, group, and so on). Ricoeur calls this the prefiguration. Second, there is a ‘world of the text’, the texture of carefully interwoven elements that together create a sense of meaning. In Ricoeur’s terminology, this is the configuration. Third, there is a ‘world in front of the text’, the proposal of a possible world for the reader to live in, inviting her or him to respond. Here he speaks of refiguration. This triple mimesis describes how we come to understand our life and world and also how we relate to the texts from a spiritual tradition. These three dimensions of mimesis relate to rather different approaches in the narrative study of religion. Studies of the prefiguration of any text or for example ritual behavior (Ricoeur considers the model to apply to meaningful action as well) seek to define the meaning of that text or action by looking at the background and intentions of the narrator or actor. Studies of the configuration decide upon the meaning based on the content and structure of the text or action itself. Studies of the refiguration look at the ways in which the audience receives and responds to the text or action to assess its meaning. All three dimensions are valid contributors to the web of meanings and neither of them determines the final meaning. For that reason research projects would ideally combine two or three of these dimensions. That way we would also start to comprehend what happens at the intersections of individual life stories and canonical stories of the tradition. 1. About This Volume Anyone who glances through the variegated field of narrative approaches in theology and religious studies immediately discovers not only how widespread they are, but also that it is rather uncommon to encounter conversations across disciplinary borders. Biblical scholars scrutinize the biblical texts but the combination with studies of the reception by readers is quite rare. Systematic theologians deconstruct and construct the content of stories but they tend to focus less on prefiguration and on refiguration. Both focus less on actions, which are more at the heart of practical theology and the social scientific study of religion. It is not often that these diverse narrative approaches across disciplines are brought together. The aim of this volume is to embark on that conversation. Scholars from the Netherlands Research School for Theology and Religious Studies (NOSTER) contributed examples of their narrative investigations in philosophy

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of religion, biblical studies, systematic theology, religious studies, practical theology, and history of religion. Several of the chapters explicitly include a description of narrative approaches in that discipline. Case studies and integrative texts together offer building blocks for a more comprehensive discussion of narrative approaches in theology and religious studies. The first three chapters break the ground for our interdisciplinary conversations. In his opening chapter, philosopher Edwin Koster explores the rationality of religious stories. He sets out by discussing the features of stories in their claim to represent knowledge and/or understanding. Being both history-like and fiction-like, stories refer to a world out there and at the same time construct a world. Truth claims in stories are primarily existential truth claims: the reader understands the world of the text from the perspective of her or his own world and vice versa. Koster finally discusses the character God in religious (or specifically: biblical) stories. He concludes that God is not a coherent character in these stories and thereby eludes rational consistency. It is precisely this feature that shows the transcendence of the character God and captivates the readers. James Day, scholar of human development and psychologist of religion, discusses the psychological underpinnings of narrative approaches. He takes his starting point in the question what religious truth may mean in a narrative-constructionist perspective. He claims that this perspective is not necessarily reductionistic towards religion, but may in fact help us to appreciate religion’s truth claims in relative rather than ultimate terms. As a psychologist, Day connects these insights with Piagetian and Kohlbergian theories of postformal stages of development and shows how new models of cognitive complexity elucidate the development and function of religious narratives. People functioning at postformal stages experience truth questions as non-dichotomous, as multi-perspectival, rather than dichotomous. They are more pre-occupied with the consequences of casting one’s life in a particular imaginative frame or set of practices than with the content of specific beliefs, affirmations, and doctrines. This fosters religious tolerance, which raises the question how we can promote postformal development. Building on his research in empirical theology and pragmatic philosophy, Chris Hermans discusses the epistemological ramifications of the notion of weak rationality in the study of narratives of the self. There is a path between absolute truth claims and relativism. Hermans draws on psychology, cognitive sciences, literary theory, and philosophy to develop this pragmatic notion of weak rationality. More than some other contributors, he distinguishes between theology and religious studies because of the different epistemic communities in which they operate. His chapter then shows the

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differences between foundationalism, (post)positivism, constructionism, and pragmatism in the study of religion. The differences are apparent in the type of theory of religion, the type of rationality, the type of knowledge, the type of reasoning, and the methodology. 1.1. Biblical Studies Following these three introductory chapters, the reader will encounter a section on biblical studies, more specifically Old Testament. After all, this is a tradition full of stories. Dorothea Erbele-Küster offers a description of the role of narratology in biblical studies. She shows how narrative approaches were developed from the 1980’s onward with initially a specific focus on the aesthetic. Since then there has been a strong input from literary theories, feminist criticism, and eventually computer-assisted text analysis. ErbeleKüster goes on to discuss the role of the narrator in biblical stories, the relation between text and reader (including postcolonial and feminist reading), fictionality, ethics, and identity. Her conclusion reminds us of Edwin Koster’s chapter: the gaps and interruptions in the biblical stories invite the reader to an encounter with the transcendent. Wim Weren focuses on intertextuality in his analysis of José Saramago’s novel Cain. This novel takes the story of Cain and Abel as a starting point and proves to be fruitful material to reflect on the question how texts use and rework older texts and in doing so reinterpret the roles of the characters and the chain of events. This touches upon the fundamental question how stories from the religious tradition are read, interpreted, and reinterpreted. Should one ask for criteria to assess whether such a reinterpretation is valid, Saramago’s novel invites us to do so on moral grounds rather than on dogmatic ones. Weren concludes that like the voice of Abel’s blood that continues to cry out, Saramago’s novels will continue to call for justice. In the next chapter, Marieke den Braber posits that we have no access to the intentions of the writer (see my earlier notes on prefiguration). Therefore, establishing the meaning of the text in the exchange between text and reader becomes highly subjective. She proposes a synchronic method that minimizes the risk of subjectivity. In the terminology used in this introduction, this method focuses on the configuration of the biblical text. Den Braber applies this method, Functional Discourse Grammar, to the story of Joshua 6. Although this highlights several important aspects of the text, she concludes that major issues are left out. These include biblical theological comparisons, ethical questions, and also the differences between the available versions of the text. Most importantly, the reception of the text and thus

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of its rhetorical effects by ancient or present readers is absent. An analysis of the configuration alone does not suffice to grasp the full meaning of the text. Klaas Spronk adds to the reflection by focusing on a contextual reading of Judges 19. Can the gruesome story of this ‘gang rape’ have liberating powers? Feminist readers have objected to this devastating story, this ‘text of terror’ (Trible 1984). Spronk tries to overcome easy defenses of the story by looking closely at the context of the first readers. He claims that stories in the book of Judges probably have Hellenistic backgrounds, collected and reshaped to reflect the search for a collective identity in a post-exilic era. Judges 19 speaks of the dissatisfaction with religious leaders and the need for a good leader/king/messiah. From the perspective of the modern reader, it becomes important that the concubine asserts more autonomy than expected in those days. The dreadful events that unfold not only illustrate the lack of leadership, but also question whether the choices of the concubine should not have been respected in the first place. This allows present-day readers to see a seed of liberation in this story of oppression and abuse. Willien van Wieringen concludes this section with a chapter on the women in the Samson narratives. She returns to the syntactic level. By looking at all the characters that play a role in the story, we may overcome limitations of Mieke Bal’s narratological focus on the narrator’s text. Analyzing the entire cast of characters sheds light on the meaning of the story as a whole. The little sister in Judges 15 does not fit a standard narratological category but nevertheless plays a role in the story. 1.2. Empirical Studies The next section in this book focuses on empirical studies in (practical) theology and religious studies. Like biblical studies, these fields have a strong history in acknowledging the narrative shape of religious practices. Coeditor Michael Scherer-Rath focuses on personal stories and the (religious) identities people construct through those stories. He shows how narrative identity and the interpretation of tragic contingency are key elements in a narrative perspective and how narratives serve people to make sense of their otherwise contingent and therefore epistemically unstable existence. Narrative reconstruction, Scherer-Rath claims, is a creative, cultural, and social act. This relates to three forms of contingency, allowing for new meanings of the self and the world we live in, fostered and shaped by our social relations. Empirical research focusing on life stories seeks to tap into these processes

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of (re-)construction, but is itself also a new layer of constructions, involving the contingency of the respondent, the contingency of the specific context, and the contingency of the researcher. Scherer-Rath makes the awareness of complexities in empirical narrative research concrete by identifying specific methodological decisions that merit attention. Marjo Buitelaar brings home these methodological issues by portraying her research on the narrative construction of identity among Muslim women. Working with the underlying narrative theory of the dialogical self (Hermans and Kempen 1993) that Scherer-Rath alluded to as well, she sets out to show the great variety of meanings that religious practices like wearing a headscarf may carry for the individual, navigating the waters of fashion, piety, and politics. Buitelaar dissects the voices and I-positions in these stories and the interior and exterior dialogues and negotiations. She shows how these women may resort to religious stories from their tradition to reconcile the contradictory voices they encounter. These stories, however, are not applied directly, but reappropriated and reconstructed. The religious stories we live by are constantly retold and renegotiated. In a similar effort to understand the narrative identity processes, Toke Elshof interviewed three generations from each of ten Roman-Catholic families. Her analysis follows semiotic methods of the Paris School, focusing on text-immanent subjectivity (see the parallel discussion in biblical studies in the chapter by Den Braber). These methods also allow for proper attention to the embodied character of interview material, a dimension that sometimes lacks in narrative approaches. Elshof shows how language itself—the material of narratives—is culturally and relationally embedded. She describes the embodied nature of the stories in four dimensions. The ‘prosodic’ dimension, or the shape given to the act of speaking, reveals for respondents awkwardness to speak about God, and, instead, centers on speaking to God. The ‘thymic’ dimension, or the way the text speaks about the body, shows clear differences between the generations, moving from an ecclesiastically governed body to the body as the center of relations. The ‘ritual’ dimension in the text, or the ways the bodily praxis refers to a transcendent reality, shows how religious rituals invoke much wider relations to others and the world than the non-religious rituals that mostly focus on family members. Here, again, generational shifts are noteworthy. The final, intentional dimension of bodily religiosity concerns religiously motivated action that proves to be connected to narrative programs attributed to God. The semiotic analysis of the narratives thus uncovers traces of three superindividual structures in the individual stories: the family, the generation, and the institution.

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Jos van den Brand and his colleagues offer an analytical instrument for the reconstruction of the interpretation that is found in life stories. With this instrument, they try to differentiate between worldview-specific influences in the life story and the personal interpretations the narrator includes in the construction of the story. This is needed, they claim, because contemporary life stories are less monolithically determined by the worldview tradition a person is raised in. Building their model on narrative studies and personality psychology, they focus on the creation of meaning attributed to important events. These meanings emerge from the confrontation of an existential event with ultimate life goals. The elements of this model can be assessed and analyzed through qualitative interviews and other methods, as Van den Brand et al. show, while allowing theorizing on religion without being limited to one specific worldview tradition. 1.3. Systematic Studies The third section deals with systematic theology. Although narrative approaches have been proffered here as well, they seem to be more at odds with central assumptions of the discipline than is the case in other disciplines in theology and religious sciences. Luco van den Brom offers an introduction to narrative approaches in systematic theology. His starting point is the Cartesian differentiation between scientific argument and religious narratives. The latter may serve to convey some truths to the common people, but abstract and conceptual philosophical language is the way to uncover the truth behind the story. Frei (1974) described this as the eclipse of biblical narrative and set in motion a movement of revaluing the function of narrative. Van den Brom shows how narrative functions to make sense of living and to communicate meanings and starts to map some forms of narrative theology. Telling stories can be used as primarily a form of communicating faith and theology, but it can also become a way of innovating and remythologizing for contemporary use in liturgy and doctrine. A final issue regards the ontological status of the world narrative refers to: sometimes theologians take canonical stories as ‘reality depicting’ and advocate a realist position in narrative theology, while others see them as suggesting appropriate ways of apprehending and dealing with reality. Anne-Marie Korte shows how this plays out when systematic theology engages with real life stories of people. Building on a research project on pastors working in urban ministries, she focuses on the journal entries of one of these pastors and asks: How do personal stories of pain and survival become a rhetorical practice of public engagement? How should these stories be

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told, heard and read to have this effect, and who takes the initiative? What role do theologians—trained in social analysis and theological reflection— play in this process? Do religious imagery and frames of reference have a special place? She answers these questions by reading the journal in three different layers: as a reportage of significant life events in the neighborhood where the pastor works, as a literary creation, and as a passion narrative. Co-editor Maaike de Haardt similarly attempts to integrate everyday life and systematic theological reflection. She does so by focusing on visual popular culture, notably the film Babette’s Feast (Gabriel Axel 1987), one that has received quite a few theological interpretations. Usually there is a tendency of (over-)interpreting the film as Eucharistic. This canonical interpretation is too hasty, according to De Haardt, and does no justice to the concrete images and practices. Instead, De Haardt focuses on the role and meaning of food and on aesthetic sensibility. On the level of the practices of belief, the God-language of much systematic theology, with its concepts, its struggles, its models and its dogmas, including such distinctions as transcendence and immanence or sacred and profane, does not make much ‘sense’. We need theological interpretations not of an unknown distant or transcendent ‘God’ but of polysemic and polyformic senses of divine presence in the everyday world. 1.4. Historical Studies The fourth and final section is devoted to historical studies of religion. Arguably stories have always been a central element here. Marit Monteiro, Marjet Derks, and Annelies van Heijst take the lead in their chapter on the changing narratives of religious orders and congregations over the past few decades. They ask specifically why the recently massively emerging stories on sexual abuse are almost completely absent from existing historiographies and what this absence tells us about the perspectives guiding historical research. Part of the answer lies in the fact that religious communities themselves are commemorative communities, actively involved in the historiographies. Through their histories, they construct and reconstruct their collective narrative identities that guide them through present and future. These processes of self-historicizing have helped to shape a collective memory that does not necessarily match their factual history. Working with Kearney’s (2001) notion of ‘imagined community’, John Exalto provides a parallel description of a protestant narrative community, that of Reformed Pietism. This community adheres to an experienceoriented, conservative Calvinism for which conversion was a central theme

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that shapes and authorizes specific stories and constructions of identity. The autobiographies of members are valuable material to reconstruct the processes of interpretation and reappropriation. The community tests, corrects, and supports certain narratives of its members and disqualifies others. The community itself likewise shapes and reconstructs itself through these stories. Joep van Gennip directs our attention to the role of the audience to which narratives are targeted. His case study regards the 17th century’s Jesuit polemical writings. These writings were important to support the development of the Catholic constituency in a predominantly Protestant society. The controversial and apologetic publications strengthened the Catholic identity of the reading community. The strategies used depend heavily on the purported audience. Some were written for Calvinist readers, other publications targeted Mennonites, or the Catholic people themselves. Some publications are only directed to Mennonites at face value, hiding their real critique of the hegemonic Calvinist public church for reasons of security. Angela Berlis portrays another example of such conflicting story-telling between individual, community, and society. Her research, focusing on a material object rather than texts or ideas, highlights the reinterpretation of a relatively well-known narrative following new historical sources, thereby also pointing to the fact that there are always narrative gaps in historical material that elicit conjectures and reconstructions by the historians. Her case study involves the death of a religious Sister in 1872. As a result of her protests against the papal dogmas of the First Vatican Council, Sr. Augustine was removed from her position as Mother Superior. She died a few months after and was buried without her habit, which was interpreted by some as her disqualification as a religious sister and by others as an inevitable result of her de facto excommunication; clothing her body with the habit in the coffin could have implied her submission to the new dogmas. The question remains whether the habit was a symbol of disciplining or of religious authenticity and identity? This analysis of narrative constructions of events like these also shows the importance of body, gender, and agency, not unlike the topics addressed in the chapter by Marjo Buitelaar. The final chapter by Liesbeth Hoeven brings us back to the cultural domain, just like Maaike de Haardt. Hoeven studies the role of religion in cultural performances of commemoration, notably the artwork and texts by Charlotte Salomon before she was deported to and killed in Auschwitz. Salomon explicitly describes life as a theatre and invites the reconstruction of her life through images, words, music, and voice. In this way, she sought

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to create a clear distance between herself as a subject of her own life and herself as the author who told her own history. Based on the interpretation of Salomon’s art, Hoeven discusses how such memorials (‘Lieux de memoire’) can have a symbolic religious and redemptive function for societies trying to negotiate the atrocities of their history, turning traumatic, disruptive memory into constructive narrative. Salomon’s artwork Leben? Oder Theater? claims the plurality of narratives and pleads against a monologue culture, of which Auschwitz was the consequence. 2. Reflections This volume thus brings together narrative approaches from various disciplines in theology and religious studies. It is neither exhaustive nor balanced in the perspectives and in the religious traditions that appear in the book. Exceptions notwithstanding, the chapters are dominated by mainstream Western Christian narratives, which also means that religious studies approaches are somewhat less explicit, although many ‘theological’ contributions are closer to a religious studies perspective than to a confessional theological one. The aims here were less ambitious than offering a full survey. We wanted primarily to foster the unfortunately rare conversation between the various theological and religious studies disciplines on the use of narrative approaches, which may contribute to a new convergence and coherence in this scholarly domain. The conversation in this volume at least leads to the following reflections. First of all, there is not just one narrative approach; there is a wide variety of perspectives that take seriously the narrative character of much of our experience and of religious traditions. Some of the chapters in this volume focus more on the narrative forms found in religious texts and practices. This is especially the case in the section on Biblical Studies, but there are examples in every section. In other chapters the focus is more on individual subjectivity and group authority, notions belonging to a narrative perspective that can also be applied when studying non-narrative forms. It may come as no surprise that these two levels of narrative approaches (form versus perspective) at occasions bring along different methods. The very detailed and systematic analysis found in some chapters in the Biblical and Empirical Studies sections may indicate that these two have a longer history of methodological reflection on the narrative quality of their material. In a sense, this may be more challenging for especially systematic theology as Van den Brom points out. It is significant that the two case studies in

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this section serve primarily to critique taken for granted approaches in the discipline (focusing on the abstract, generalized, absolute). Second, given the fact that no other direction was given to authors than the request to focus on the narrative dimension of existential and religious phenomena, it is promising to note that there are in fact clear parallels and connections between the various disciplines. This might indicate that narrative approaches to the study of religion may function as integrative for the field as a whole. For starters, the sometimes controversial relation between theology, religious studies, and the social scientific study of religion seems less problematic in this collection. Admittedly, the debate on these disciplinary differences is often flawed, rhetorically masking a struggle on academic status, scarce resources, and personal affiliations. That being said, there are—gradual—differences between theology and religious studies, the first usually being more confessional and the second more comparative, the first more from inside a tradition and the second more from outside, the first more accepting of religious truths and the second more agnostic. In a narrative approach, however, these differences evaporate at least to a degree. The awareness that religious traditions contain narrative layers, interacting with each other and inviting readers to connect the stories of the divine with stories of their own existence, neither allows for the absolute truth claims as may have been harbored by the most confessional of theologians, nor for the distantiated objectivism of the most armored of religious studies scholars. The chapters of this volume show that there is a constant interference of ‘emic’ and ‘etic’ interpretations, truths and critiques. Third, the parallels within and between various disciplines in theology and religious studies may serve to overcome unnecessary gaps and conflicts. If indeed our common interest is in the construction of ultimate existential meaning in relation to the sacred (or however one wants to put it), and if the material we study is always a hodgepodge of stories, interpreting, disputing, appropriating one another, then the fundamental approaches of these disciplines are more convergent than they sometimes may have seemed. This is especially the case if we forego the traditional sequential relation in which Biblical Theology explains what the ‘sources’ tell us, Systematic Theology clarifies the ‘truths’, Historical Theology adds the weight of ‘traditions’, and Practical Theology shows how to apply this to church ‘practices’. Inasmuch as this traditional sequence has long been rejected, we have not been too successful in developing a new integrating paradigm. Narrative approaches might serve to do that. We find narratives and narratively structured practices in the texts of the tradition’s sources, in the history of a faith

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community, in the conceptual frameworks they use to make sense of their existential position in relation to the world and to the divine, and in their praxis. All these narratives are connected and contested, and the task of theology and religious studies is to understand these narrative worlds and foster communication between them. This parallels the insight of Henning Luther (1992: 13), drawing on Schleiermacher: Academic theology is not needed for the maintenance of faith of individuals. She is needed, however, to make the pluralization, conditioned by the individualization of religion, communicatively fertile, i.e., to prevent that no understanding is possible anymore between the manifold subjective approaches to religion.1

A more consistent narrative perspective in theology and religious studies could foster more convergence in the disciplines. Fourth, a central issue in many contributions in this volume regards how stories of the religious traditions and individual stories interact. Some chapters look at how readers’ interpretations may contribute to our understandings of texts, other contributions look at how they appropriate the texts in their own narratives and practices. Conflicts and convergences appear immediately. It is intriguing to contemplate why this specific interaction has attracted relatively little research attention. There are obviously philosophical musings, not least in the work of Paul Ricoeur (1995). And there are interesting contributions, for example from the Intercultural Bible Reading project (De Wit et al. 2004), the psychological analysis of hearing sermons (Schaap-Jonker 2008), or the possible meanings of psalms of individual lament in pastoral care (Aalbersberg-van Loon 2003). But to date, such projects have not mounted up to an integrative and systematically and empirically corroborated theory of the interplay of traditional and individual stories, probably because the interdisciplinary conversations within theology and religious studies are few and far between. Fifth, the contributions in this volume live up to the expectations raised by the history of narrative approaches in their attention for the struggle between the stories of hegemonic and subaltern voices. The narrative dimension is not an interest-free zone where stories are constructed in abso-

1 Die wissenschaftliche Theologie ist—wie bereits Schleiermacher notiert—für den Glaubensvollzug der einzelnen Subjekte nicht nötig. Nötig wird sie aber, um die durch die Individualisierung der Religion bedingte Pluralisierung kommunikativ fruchtbar machen zu können, d.h. zu verhindern, daß zwischen den vielfältig subjektiven Zugängen zur Religion keune Verständigung mehr möglich ist.

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lute freedom. Instead, the power of authorities and dominant groups has to be navigated by marginalized groups and individuals for whom it is not self-evident that their story will be accepted. Such conflicts over the legitimacy to tell one’s story in specific ways are found in several of the chapters, not coincidentally often related to gender. One of the strengths of a narrative perspective is that it starts from the concrete and specific narratives of real people to challenge the abstractions and absolutes that always serve to bolster the authority of the hegemonic group. A narrative approach in theology and religious studies serves well to deconstruct these structures and create the liberating space where stories are “heard to speech”, as feminist theologian Nelle Morton (1977) described it. Sixth, if we are to develop encompassing models of narrative in the study of religion, we may deduce from the various cases studies in this volume and elsewhere that the fundamental dynamics of the construction of a story are found in two dimensions. The first regards the questions what the events in our life and world mean to us and how we can build a somewhat coherent but at least meaningful story from the elements that present themselves to us. This is the dimension of emplotment that immediately implies issues of ontology and reference. The second dimension regards our relation to the audience for which we are to perform our life according to the story we are developing. This is the dimension of enactment that immediately involves questions of plausibility. These two dimensions of narrative identity are closely related to the most existential and religious questions. Obviously this volume does not exhaust the variety of narrative approaches or the themes that require attention. In a sense we are only beginning to cross the disciplinary boundaries in bringing into conversation narrative approaches in theology and religious studies. Many issues remain unresolved, including the normative debate about narrative and religious truth claims, the ethical complexities of narrative and power, and the methodological challenges regarding the epistemic quality of narrative. This volume was not meant to treat all those issues systematically. Its value lies in the juxtaposition of narrative approaches from a variety of disciplines in theology and religious studies, revealing promising common ground as well as fundamental issues for further debate.

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Aalbersberg-van Loon, C., De derde en de vierde stem. Een onderzoek naar het functioneren van Psalm 31 en 139 in het pastoraat. Gorinchem: Narratio, 2003. Andrews, D.P., Practical Theology for Black Churches. Bridging Black Theology and African American Folk Religion. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2002. Bal, M., Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1985. Brueggemann, W., Theology of the Old Testament. Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997. Bruner, J.S., Actual Minds, Possible Worlds. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1986. Crites, S., “The Narrative Quality of Experience,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 39 (1971): 391–411. de Wit, J.H., L. Jonker, M. Kool, and D. Schipani (eds.), Through the Eyes of Another. Intercultural Bible Reading. Elkhart, IN: Institute of Mennonite Studies, 2004. Frei, H., The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative. A Study in Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Hermeneutics. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974. Ganzevoort, R.R., Reconstructies. Praktisch-theologisch onderzoek naar de verhalen van mannen over seksueel misbruik en geloof. Kampen: Kok, 2001. ———, “Common Themes and Structures in Male Victims’ Stories of Religion and Sexual Abuse,” Mental Health, Religion & Culture 5/3 (2002): 313–325. Ganzevoort, R.R., “Narrative Approaches.” Pp. 214–223 in The Wiley-Blackwell Companion to Practical Theology. Edited by B.J. Miller-McLemore. West Sussex: Wiley Blackwell, 2011. Ganzevoort, R.R. (ed.), De praxis als verhaal. Narrativiteit en Praktische Theologie. Kampen: Kok, 1998. Ganzevoort, R.R., M. Van der Laan, and E. Olsman, “Growing Up Gay and Religious. Conflict, Dialogue, and Religious Identity Strategies,” Mental Health, Religion & Culture 14/3 (2011): 209–222. Gergen, K.J., Realities and Relationships. Soundings in Social Construction. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994. Gerkin, C.V., The Living Human Document. Re-Visioning Pastoral Counseling in a Hermeneutical Mode. Nashville: Abingdon, 1984. Hauerwas, S., The Peaceable Kingdom. A Primer in Christian Ethics. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1983. Hermans, H.J.M., and H.J.G. Kempen, The Dialogical Self. Meaning as Movement. San Diego: Academic Press, 1993. Josselson, R., and A. Lieblich (eds.), Interpreting Experience. The Narrative Study of Lives. Volume 3. Thousand Oaks: Sage, 1995. Kearney, R., On Stories. London: Routledge, 2001. Kundtz, D.J., and B.S. Schlager, Ministry Among God’s Queer Folk: LGBT Pastoral Care. Cleveland, OH: Pilgrim Press, 2007. Lakoff, G., and M. Johnson, Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980. Luther, H., Religion und Alltag. Bausteine zu einer praktischen Theologie des Subjekts. Stuttgart: Radius, 1992.

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MacIntyre, A., After Virtue. A Study in Moral Theory. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981. McFague, S., Metaphorical Theology. Models of God in Religious Language. London: SCM Press, 1982. Morton, N., Beloved Image. Feminist Imagining: Seeing and Hearing A-New. Manuscript. American Academy of Religion, 1977. Neuger, C.C., Counseling Women. A Narrative Pastoral Approach. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001. Powell, M.A., and N.T. Wright, What Is Narrative Criticism. A New Approach to the Bible. London: SPCK, 1993. Ricoeur, P., Time and Narrative. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984–1988. ———, Figuring the Sacred. Religion, Narrative and Imagination. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1995. Sarbin, T.R. (ed.), Narrative Psychology. The Storied Nature of Human Conduct. New York: Praeger, 1986. Schaap-Jonker, H., Before the Face of God. An Interdisciplinary Study of the Meaning of the Sermon and the Hearer’s God Image, Personality, and Affective State. Münster: LIT, 2008. Schillebeeckx, E., Jesus. An Experiment in Christology. New York: Crossroad, 1979. Tracy, D., The Analogical Imagination. Christian Theology and the Culture of Pluralism. New York: Crossroad, 1981. Trible, P., Texts of Terror. Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1984.

‘SHOW, DON’T TELL’. THE (IR)RATIONALITY OF RELIGIOUS STORIES

Edwin Koster Since ancient times stories have been a source of fascination to countless numbers of people. Stories can conjure up mysterious and exciting worlds. Reading or listening to a story brings pleasure and helps us forget the daily grind for a while. Stories can also work a kind of magic: they can transport us to other places, influence our thoughts, shape our behavior, and even cause us to lose touch with reality. There is, for instance, the classic case of Don Quixote who consistently conflates reality with illusion and is, in a sense, under the same kind of spell that is cast by books. Some readers even appear to have been caught up in this disquieting mix of fact and fiction, for in the tiny Spanish village of El Toboso Quixote aficionados can visit the birthplace of Dulcinea—a woman who probably existed only in the imagination of Cervantes’ imaginary character of Don Quixote! If this seemingly innocent book can cause confusion, then what about religious stories which adherents of the faith regard as deeply serious? In other words, do biblical narratives have a similar captivating and manipulative effect? In this chapter the question ‘What exactly is so captivating about stories?’ is addressed with particular emphasis on the structure of the narrative, i.e., the way in which the characters and events are presented. But instead of talking about the structure of the narrative, we could just as easily talk about the structure of the ‘argument’—a process of reasoning or a composition intended to persuade an audience—for a story creates coherence through a plot and could, on these grounds, be seen as an arrangement of arguments intended to convince the reader. And since questions regarding the structure of arguments can be seen as approaches to the problem of rationality, the main focus of this chapter is the rationality of stories in general and that of religious and biblical narratives in particular. From an epistemological point of view it is far from self-evident to speak of ‘the rationality of religious stories’. Epistemology is the discipline that raises questions about the nature of knowledge. The epistemology of religion relates such questions to ‘religious knowledge claims’ like religious convictions and the reports of religious experiences. Traditionally, the epistemology of religion focuses on the structure of religious experiences and

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particularly on beliefs expressed in propositions (Wolterstorff 1999: 303– 304). However, in this chapter epistemological questions on religion are formulated regarding stories, particularly biblical narratives. Although stories do not have a propositional form, they are a legitimate subject of inquiry for epistemologists of religion: knowledge is mediated through narratives and truth claims are explicitly or implicitly presented. In which way are storytellers able to enthrall their audience? What, with respect to this question, can be said about the arrangements of arguments and the (re)presentation of knowledge in narratives? In the first section the problem of the nature of knowledge claims in narratives is introduced. Concentrating on the history-like character of narratives, it is demonstrated that events and actions that are separated in time are presented in relationship to one another. In the next section the narrative tools that are used to accomplish the task of presenting connections between the elements of a story are discussed. By means of these tools the author of a story creatively shows a coherent world in an indirect way. The ‘principle of fiction’—‘show, don’t tell’—is thus another important feature of the representation of knowledge in narratives. Due to this principle, existential truth claims, the subject of the next section, can be (sometimes implicitly) presented in fictional and biblical narratives. Taken together, the narrative tools and the principle of fiction unite reason and imagination. This is argued in the next section where the rationality of historical and fictional stories (‘the logic of the plot’) is described. Religious stories can also be characterized by the logic of the plot. However, due to the elusive nature of the character of God religious stories contain a non-rational element. In the last section it is explained why religious stories in general and biblical narratives in particular cannot be considered to have rational structures. 1. Stories and the Representation of Knowledge: History-Likeness In what way do stories in general and biblical narratives in particular represent knowledge? Many stories present themselves as history. That is not the same as claiming that the historical novel is the dominant type in literature, but it means that stories have a ‘realistic nature’: they are presented as reports of related events in which characters act as real persons. This feature is shared by biblical narratives. That is why Hans Frei characterized these stories as ‘history-like’ (1974: 10–16, 322–324). Therefore, the meaning of the stories of the Bible, according to Frei, is not illustrated by the specific

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relations between the characters or the symbolic meaning of the geographical and social circumstances but is constituted through these elements of the narrative world. For him, the feature of ‘history-likeness’ is thus a hermeneutical principle: … in each case narrative form and meaning are inseparable precisely because in both cases meaning is in large part a function of the interaction of character and circumstances. (Frei 1974: 280)

Through these interactions narratives are able to represent knowledge. Although historical narratives are thus not the only examples of the class of history-like stories, they can illustrate what it means to represent knowledge. Tom Holland’s Millennium. The End of the World and the Forging of Christendom is a good example. This book narrates the fierce struggle between the power of the church and secular powers in the West in the tenth and eleventh centuries. Pope Gregory VII and Emperor Henry IV of the Holy Roman Empire were the main characters in this struggle, which culminated with Henry’s penance in Canossa in 1077. To get a clear picture of this important event and its consequences, Holland tells an extremely fascinating story about the history of Europe in the early Middle Ages. Using this form—and thus not choosing, for example, to write a chronicle—determines the nature of the knowledge presented. What exactly is this nature? All the knowledge that is represented in Millenium is organized in such a way that it appears to be connected. From Holland’s perspective, the developments seem to be a unity: the mass of largely unrelated materials is organized in a particular way so that it begins to form a specific image of the past: the ‘early Middle Ages’. According to the well-known philosopher of history W.H. Walsh such a concept (i) has to fit the facts: the statements that embody the concept must be supported by evidence, and (ii) must illuminate the facts so that the use of this concept increases our understanding of the selected period (Walsh 1974: 138–140). Louis Mink (1987) explains what this last condition means. He distinguishes between knowledge on the one hand and comprehension or understanding on the other. We know many things as unrelated facts, such as the year in which Abd al-rahman III (emir of Al-Andalus) declared himself caliph, Otto II’s date of birth, the way Harald Hardrada died, or the names of the popes during the reign of Henry IV. But to know these facts is not to comprehend them. Comprehension, Mink writes, is an individual act of seeing-things-together, and only that. It [is] the human activity by which elements of knowledge are converted into understanding. (1987: 55)

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Mink calls it a ‘synoptic judgment’ and, according to him, this form of judgment is typical for the phenomenon of historical understanding and cannot be replaced by any analytic technique. In a total and synoptic judgment, various events are thus seen as elements in a single and complex web of relationships. Mink (1987: 81–85) also introduces the term ‘configurational understanding’ here. Thus, by using the narrative form the relation between different events and circumstances becomes clear. As is well known, Arthur Danto has written some interesting chapters on historical narratives that emphasize this important feature. By opposing the ‘full descriptions’ of the Ideal Chronicler (who writes down everything that happens at the moment that it happens) with the ‘narrative sentences’ of the historian (who writes about the past), he shows that through a historical narrative the historian is able to demonstrate the relation between events and their meaning or significance. While a full description of an event functions as “an order-preserving account of everything that happened”, narrative sentences, such as: “The Thirty Years War began in 1618” or “The author of the Principia was born in Woolethorpe,” describe the events of the past in the light of future events (Danto 1965: 143, 148, 152, 158). In the latter, the birth of Isaac Newton is the first event distinguished in time that is described by means of the second event to be distinguished in time: the publication of his great and important book, the Principia. Danto’s argument on the level of sentences can be extended to include the level of discourse: unlike a chronicle, a narrative makes clear which relationships between events can be reconstructed. Taking this together with the ideas of Walsh and Mink, I come to the following conclusion: Through the history-like nature of narratives stories are able to represent the relationship between events that are separated in time. Being ‘history-like stories’, biblical narratives share this feature: the Gospel of Luke, for instance, presents the life of Jesus as a connected sequence of events. From a certain point of view—in light of future developments— this Gospel gives an image of the past by (re)organizing our knowledge of that period. Many other examples of biblical narratives could be given. 2. Stories and the Representation of Knowledge: Fiction-Likeness This is not the whole ‘story’ of course. If we confine ourselves to historical narratives, we must acknowledge that there usually exists more than one story about the same part of the past. In history, interpretation is always

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needed in order to decide which (recent) events help us understand or explain the past. Here the interplay of facts and imagination plays an important role. Returning to the example of the Gospels, another important element comes to the fore. As many scholars have noted, the contradictions in the Gospels on the one hand and the gaps and tensions between the reconstructions of the historical life of Jesus from the Gospels and from other sources on the other cannot be explained by referring to different historical interpretations only. It is primarily the ‘fiction-like’ character of biblical stories that causes the remarkable variability of the Gospels (Frei 1975: 144– 145). By focusing on the fictional nature of narratives it is possible to clarify further how knowledge in these narratives is represented. Stories are not ‘passive’ copies of reality but are the result of the creative imagination of an author. Authors construct a world by applying narrative skills such as: (i) playing with time and space in representing the events and circumstances, (ii) creating specific character traits, (iii) introducing several perspectives of which the point of view of the narrator is the most common one, (iv) the operation of constructing the plot as a synthesis of all these different ingredients, and (v) creating a special atmosphere that is most typically felt in watching a movie (as a kind of narrative) (Bal 2009). It is easy to recognize these narrative tools in, for instance, The Poisonwood Bible of Barbara Kingsolver (1998). In this book Kingsolver presents the disintegration of a family and a nation. In 1959 Nathan Price, a fiery evangelical Baptist, takes his wife Orleanna and their four young daughters to the Belgian Congo where he intends to work as a Christian missionary saving needy souls. But the seeds they plant bloom in tragic ways within this complex culture. Kingsolver tells her impressive epic against the background of the event of Congo’s dramatic political fight for independence from Belgium. Every chapter of this book opens with a flashback from Orleanna Price’s point of view. Although the primary story takes place in Congo, the mother looks back on the episode from Georgia in the United States. The rest of the story is presented by Nathan and Orleanna’s four daughters. When one of them—for example, Rachel—is speaking, the readers not only learn about her feelings but also come to know the other characters that appear in the events that Rachel narrates. By telling the events from each of the daughter’s perspectives, the reader comes to know all the characters and the plot of the story is gradually revealed from their different points of view (related to their specific character traits). The location of the events of the story, the (for Westerners) mysterious jungle of the Belgian Congo, sometimes gives the story its oppressive air. With her way of telling the story, it is clear that Kingsolver plays with time (sequence, length, repetition), builds up

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different character traits, uses features of the space of the story in a symbolic way, develops the plot by alternating perspectives and creates a particular atmosphere. Thus, all the narrative tools mentioned above can be found in this beautifully constructed story. One can say that the application of the narrative skills creates the relationship that was mentioned in the last section. It explains how, technically, a story can represent connections between events or, in other words, is able to represent knowledge and (re)construct meaning. There is another important feature of the representation of narrative knowledge in fictional stories. This feature can be summarized in what is sometimes called the ‘principle of fiction’ or ‘the principal rule of film’: ‘show, don’t tell’. Instead of a direct presentation of events and characters by the narrator’s exposition and summarization (‘telling’), this principle prescribes that writers should indirectly present their story stuff (‘showing’). Thus, characters are becoming known to the readers by their actions, thoughts, dialogues, senses and feelings, and the course of the events is demonstrated in its development rather than through a direct description by the narrator. This is exactly the way we become acquainted with (the fate of) Rachel, Leah, Adah and Ruth May (the Price daughters in The Poisonwood Bible). Through the actions and events told from their perspectives, the reader slowly begins to know their character traits. All the narrative skills—from playing with time until the creation of a particular atmosphere—can also be found in biblical narratives as well as the tendency to follow the principle ‘show, don’t tell’. Many examples could be given of characters that become known to the reader through indirect presentations (Koster 2005: 266–270). In general, it can be said that direct presentations are rather rare and that there are five ways in which the Bible indirectly presents characters. This is done, first, via their acts— by far the most important one. An example is Jonah fleeing from God to Tarsus. His flight reveals part of his character: to Jonah, his own safety is more important than God’s message (Bar-Efrat 1989: 80–82; Tolmie 1999: 44–47). Second, words can demonstrate something of a character’s identity: not only the content of someone’s speech but also his or her particular way of speaking gives the reader important information about a character (Bar-Efrat 1989: 64–68). Third, although hardly used in biblical narratives, the appearance of a character can present a message indirectly. Thus, the way Mephibosheth is dressed tells the reader that he can be trusted (Fokkelman 1981: 23–40). Another way to present a character indirectly is via his or her surroundings: John the Baptist, for instance, is characterized by his dwelling in the desert and the unclean spirit that Jesus

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rebukes, and lives, quite typically, among the tombs (Tolmie 1999: 47). The last method for this kind of presentation can take place through the subordinate characters. Thus Uriah’s acts—vividly contrasted to King David’s regarding Bathsheba—indirectly reveal traits of the main character of the story (Bar-Efrat 1989: 86–87). 3. Stories and Truth Claims The two features of narrative knowledge—the representation of related material and the principle ‘show, don’t tell’—come to the fore by viewing narratives as history-like and fiction-like. In the case of biblical narratives it is not always easy to make the distinction between these two characteristics. This is beautifully expressed by Robert Alter who characterizes biblical narratives as ‘historicized prose fiction’ or as ‘fictionalized history’. Stories such as those about King David are related to historical facts, but because of the description of internal monologues, feelings, intentions and motives they are first and foremost works of fiction. Alter therefore writes that It is perhaps less historicized fiction than fictionalized history—history in which the feeling and the meaning of events are concretely realized through the technical resources of prose fiction. (Alter 1981: 41)

Alter suggests that the fictionalization of historical data could have been caused by the intention to make “out of the stuff of history a powerful projection of human possibility” (Alter 1981: 36). Ricoeur seems to endorse these thoughts in his reflection on the analogous nature of plot and imagination in historical and fictional narratives. Whereas the historian is looking for truth based on arguments and a writer of fiction is postulating possible worlds to live in, Ricoeur suggests that these characteristics can be exchanged: Could we not say … that by opening us to what is different, history opens us to the possible, whereas fiction, by opening us to the unreal, leads us to what is essential in reality?” (Ricoeur 1981: 296)

The reference to the possible and the essential leads us to the subject of this section: stories and (existential) truth claims. When speaking about stories and truth claims it is necessary to distinguish again between historical and fictional narratives. Historical narratives, especially if they are the result of scientific research, are usually open to critical testing methods, and it is possible to discuss the validity of claims made in a narrative or to debate the preference of one certain narrative interpretation of the past over another (Evans 1997: 119–122, 245–247, 251–252;

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Eco 2000: 50–55; Koster 2009b: 328–332). In the case of fictional narratives, truth claims do not concern the question whether one certain event caused another or whether an event happened. Here truth claims concern existential conditions. Stories can offer models of worlds we would like to inhabit; they can throw fresh light on the human condition or introduce a surprising and attractive point of view we would like to appropriate. If fictional narratives have to do with truth, then it is about existential truth. And to understand this type of truth claim truly, it is necessary to show it. Speaking about the existential reality of a subject in the objective style of discursive argumentation—by describing, exploring and summarizing—is usually not convincing. The singularity of human life seems to oppose a plausible ‘direct’ presentation: existential claims must be shown. This kind of truth claims can enlarge our understanding of the existential world we all live in. It can also motivate us to change our behavior. Because stories are not ethically neutral, they evoke a judgment about the way the actors behave. Somehow they provoke us to judge our own reality and may help us to reflect on our own treatment of situations that may be charged with evil, for example. This effect is perhaps possible only if we have the power of empathy (Kearney 2002: 139). Fictional stories can express existential truth claims and can influence the mind and will of the reader or spectator to perceive the world in a different way and even begin to act in accordance with this new view. Following Alter’s suggestion that the fictional nature of biblical narratives is more prominent than the historical one, I would like to assert that in biblical narratives existential truth claims are not stated as propositions but are shown in the course of the story. Further, like fictional narratives, biblical narratives have the power to influence the mind of the reader or listener. An example of this is the story of Joseph, especially the part in which Judah offers to become surety for his youngest brother Benjamin, out of love for his old father Jacob. The depth of this deed is expressed in the story by the emotional response of Joseph. There is, of course, a great deal of interesting and important philosophical reflection about the phenomenon of substitution, but what gives these reflections transformative power are the narrative examples of replacement, of taking the place of the most vulnerable ones in our societies. The fictionalization of historical fragments or, in other cases, the devout imagination of the biblical writers and editors has resulted in stories that present such an intense image of reality that it is difficult for the reader to free herself from the meaning of these stories. The particularity of fictional and biblical narratives enables them to be applied in a universal context.

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Biblical narratives can move the mind. They can refigure the world in which we live. By imagining a world in which the story of Joseph or one of the gospels describes a possible state of affairs, readers refashion the world and may receive a new understanding of themselves. The effect that Bible stories can have on readers is strengthened by the specific religious character of these stories and by the context in which they are read. Bible stories are usually read by Christians not to gain historical knowledge or, as in the case of fictional narratives, for pleasure. The reading process that occurs within the Christian tradition must result in a new attitude with respect to the world. As the Christ, Jesus must ‘dwell’ in the believer so that the believer can live out of Christ. Bible stories thus make much more of an urgent appeal to the reader than literary stories do because they pose questions that explicitly relate to a worldview. In addition, these stories are considered to be ‘Holy Scripture’, as a result of which they function as authorities in a number of worldview questions. Finally, these stories are read within a community through which the existential appeal leads to collective activities that can reinforce the individual choice (Koster 2005: 216–221, 437–438). 4. Rationality in Narratives Stories unite reason and imagination. In the case of narratives reason is played out in the demonstration of the intelligibility of connections between events, in the use of narrative tools to build up an argument, and in the construction of a coherent plot. Although there is no strict logic of arguments in a story and there is no necessary connection between events in a narrative, we can speak of ‘the logic of the plot’. In the case of historical narratives, this logic takes the form of a configurational explanation that provides retrospective insight into the coherence and meaning of events. In fictional narratives the logic of the plot coincides with the dynamic sum of all the storytelling techniques. From the point of view of the reader, stories are thus characterized by an ‘intelligibility ex post facto’ and in many cases it is possible to consider the words and deeds of the characters of a narrative as fitting responses or understandable decisions. The logic of the plot (which is constructed by the author) and the narrative understanding (the act of reading in which the plot is unveiled) cannot be captured in general rules, because it is a matter of fitting one’s arguments to the complex requirement of a unique situation, where contextual features have to be taken into account. The author brings events, characters, time,

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space, narrative instances and perspectives together into a story and forges them in the composition into a coherent unity: the argumentation structure of a story. The whole is the result of the different narrative techniques that contribute to the production of all kinds of layers of meaning—by playing with the chronological order of events and the amount of time they take, certain instances are accentuated and others are removed from the reader’s view; the construction of the image of a character clarifies motives and intentions; the space can be symbolic; and, for example, by having the narrator or one of the characters observe and articulate the events, their views and interests come to light. The world of the story is shown by means of these narrative techniques. They function as instruments by which an author can connect imagination and reason with each other and create a coherent narrative world. This world is revealed step by step in the mind of the reader. Here, again, imagination and reason play a role. The reader follows the plot and thus reconstructs, as it were, the argumentation structure of the story. At the same time she uses her own experiences, concepts and views to fill the gaps that a story inevitably contains. This is the power of imagination at work. Seeing one thing in terms of another involves imagination. Reading permits an understanding of one world (the world of the text) in terms of another (the world of the reader). By showing this world to the reader her imagination is stimulated and she begins to translate the implicit existential truth claims of the story to her own reality. The way in which the understanding of the reader is given its actual form depends on the story as a whole as well as on the social, cultural and historical context of the reader and on her ability to empathize. If we now rethink the features of the ‘reasoning processes in narratives’, it can be said that the concept of judgment is central. Composing (or understanding) the logic of the plot is not the same as the construction (or the comprehension) of a discursive argument or a deductive inference. It has to do with ‘judgments’: non-objective deliberations that are necessary to apply general features to particular situations and to determine which events, actions or other factors are most important for the development of the story. Narrative rationality can thus be described as the ‘logic of the plot’ in which the concept of judgment is at the centre. It is interesting that the concept of judgment is also a key concept in the case of scientific rationality. One of the first philosophers to use the term judgment in natural science was Thomas Kuhn. According to Kuhn “every individual choice between competing theories depends on a mixture of objective and subjective factors, or of shared and individual criteria” (Kuhn

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1977: 325). He emphasizes that these subjective considerations are not the same as “bias and personal likes or dislikes”. They have a “judgmental” character: it is possible to explain a choice and to clarify the grounds on which the subjective considerations are based. This view is elaborated by Harold Brown who claims that the concept of judgment plays a central role in the notion of scientific rationality. He defines judgment as “the ability to evaluate a situation, to assess evidence, and come to a reasonable decision without following rules” (Brown 1990: 137). Such judgments are fallible and can be made only if an appropriate body of information is available (Brown 1990: 139; 2000: 195). Peer review and other mechanisms for filtering incorrectly formed results allow judgments distorted by false subjective preferences to be criticized and eliminated. Of course, more can be said on the subject of scientific rationality and the differences between the way that judgments are established in science on the one hand and in narratives on the other (Koster 2005: 333–387). But it can be concluded that the rationality of stories is compatible with the rationality of science due to the similar key concept of judgment. 5. Religious Stories and (Ir)rationality Since religious stories use the same type of narrative tools to represent the relationships between actions and events and since they thus can also be characterized by the ‘logic of the plot’, one is inclined to conclude that these stories are also rational in principle. In religious stories the notion of judgment is as useful as in any other story. And if we focus on the characters in biblical stories for instance, we see that there is no fundamental difference from other types of stories. Although characters in the Bible are rarely solely determined by their speech or outward appearance (as is normally the case), it can be shown that for several characters such as Ruth and Judas Iscariot a paradigm of traits can be constructed. It is possible to speak about ‘characterological coherence’, although some characters may be a source of opacity, of complex, various, and never definitive interpretation. This holds, for instance, for Moses, David and Jesus, who are, as Alter writes: “often unpredictable, in some ways impenetrable, constantly emerging from and slipping back into a penumbra of ambiguity” (1981: 129). However, there is one character that makes religious stories in general and biblical stories in particular different from stories such as the modern novel: ‘God’. At first sight God can be conceived as a human character: headstrong, arbitrary, impulsive, or whatever. But the repeated point of the biblical writers is that we

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cannot make sense of God in human terms. Physical appearance, social status and personal history are categories that are not applicable to God. Most of the time, God himself as a speaking agent does not appear but rather his spirit, and this divine spirit is dangerous: it can energize and transform, but it also can paralyze and destroy. How the character God is involved in the events of the story remains— most of the time—a mystery. In many biblical stories, such as the one about Ehud in the book of Judges, the actions ascribed to God are also ascribed to human characters. It seems as if every narration about divine action must be followed by a renunciation (Levinas 1998: 55–78)—from one perspective it is divine action, from another we must speak about the results caused by humans. Only in this way can the mystery of the elusive God be retained. With respect to God, suggestion and open-endedness seem to be more effective than statement and finite listing (Sternberg 1985: 323; cf. Jansen 1995: 214–230). In biblical stories, one can conclude, the effort to construct a consistent concept of God is not found. The demand that the concept of God should be coherent does not prevail above the demand that the stories fit the experience of religious people. In other words: biblical narratives are ways of showing transcendence without reducing it to immanence. Because of this, biblical narratives make use of indirect presentations regarding the character God most of the time. Individual Bible stories stand in the way of a coherent concept of God and the relation that this character has to the events narrated is often not very clear. In connection with the character God there is, moreover, something else that is unique. In opposition to the other characters from Bible stories, God appears in (almost) every book. One could thus inquire into a coherent image of this character on the basis of all biblical narratives. It can be easily seen that where problems already arise in individual books with respect to this question, no coherent image of God can arise on the basis of the whole network of Bible stories that refer to one another. In the Bible God is a character with mysterious aspects that cannot be eliminated. These aspects do not make the acting and speaking of this character (at least) very clear. Viewed from the perspective of modern narratology, Bible stories must thus be judged to be incoherent. From this point of view there is a character within the world of the story that shows ambiguous traits. The behavior of this character apparently cannot be summarized in a coherent image of that character. The question, however, is whether the Bible stories should be judged from this perspective. The impossibility of constructing a coherent image of the character is not seen by the adherents of these narrative traditions as an unassailable barrier. In many religious traditions, after all, it

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is recognized that no coherent articulation of the experience of the transcendent is possible (Vroom 1989: 362–365). Whoever takes into account the specific character of religious stories and, in particular, Bible stories, will not attempt to translate these multifaceted narratives about a transcendent power who is involved in human history into a consistent concept of God (Vroom 2000: 235–236). Rather, it is the world of the story that must be penetrated even more. All those worlds together finally yield a fragmented image of God that has its own value and is possibly one of the few ways to articulate that which is experienced as transcendent. To understand the word ‘God’ in the Bible is to follow the direction of the meaning of the word, as Paul Ricoeur states. With the direction of the meaning he means its double power to gather all the significations that emerge from the particular stories and to open up a horizon that escapes from the closure of a specific discourse (Ricoeur 1995b: 45). Because of this special feature I conclude that the coherence of religious stories is problematic: it is not possible to understand completely the connections between all the heterogeneous aspects. The use of the necessarily ‘open’ and elusive concept of God prevents readers from doing so. By starting from the principle of fiction—‘show, don’t tell’—when presenting the so-called transcendent reality, religious stories introduce a non-rational element. Thus, if religious stories hold their readers in captivity, it is not because of the smooth arrangements of arguments. The principle of fiction is a better candidate to explain why these stories can work a kind of magic. References Alter, R., The Art of Biblical Narrative. London [etc.]: George Allen & Unwin, 1981. Bal, M., Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009. Bar-Efrat, S., Narrative Art in the Bible. Decatur, GA: Almond Press, 1989. Brown, H.I., Rationality. London et al.: Routledge, 1990. ———, “Judgment, Role in Science.” Pp. 194–202 in A Companion to the Philosophy of Science. Edited by W.H. Newton-Smith. Malden et al.: Blackwell, 2000. Danto, A.C., Analytical Philosophy of History. Cambridge: University Press, 1965. Eco, U., Kant and the Platypus. Essays on Language and Cognition. New York [etc.]: Harcourt Brace & Company, 2000. Evans, R.J., In Defence of History. London: Granta Books, 1997. Fokkelman, J.P., Narrative Art and Poetry in the Books of Samuel. A Full Interpretation Based on Stylistic and Structural Analyses. Volume 1: ‘King David’. Assen: Van Gorcum, 1981. Frei, H.W., The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative. A Study in Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Hermeneutics. New Haven [etc.]: Yale University Press, 1974.

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———, The Identity of Jesus Christ. The Hermeneutic Bases of Dogmatic Theology. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1975. Holland, T., Millennium. The End of the World and the Forging of Christendom. London: Little Brown, 2008. Jansen, H., Relationality and the Concept of God. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1995. Kearney, R., On Stories. London [etc.]: Routledge, 2002. Kingsolver, B., The Poisonwood Bible. New York: Harper Collins, 1998. Koster, E., In betovering gevangen? Over verhaal en rationaliteit, religie en irrationaliteit. Budel: Damon, 2005. ———, “Understanding in Historical Science. Intelligibility and Judgment.” Pp. 314– 333 in Scientific Understanding. Philosophical Perspectives. Edited by H.W. De Regt, S. Leonelli, and K. Eigner. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2009b. Kuhn, T.S., The Essential Tension: Selected Studies in Scientific Tradition and Change. Chicago et al.: The University of Chicago Press, 1977. Levinas, E., Of God Who Comes to Mind. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998. Mink, L.O., Historical Understanding. Edited by B. Fay, E.O. Golob, and R.T. Vann. Ithaca et al.: Cornell University Press, 1987. Ricoeur, P., Hermeneutics and the Human Sciences. Essays on Language, Action and Interpretation. Cambridge [etc.]: University Press, 1981. ———, Figuring the Sacred. Religion, Narrative, and Imagination. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995b. Sternberg, M., The Poetics of Biblical Narrative. Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985. Tolmie, D.F., Narratology and Biblical Narratives: A Practical Guide. San Francisco [etc.]: International Scholars Publications, 1999. Vroom, H.M., Religions and the Truth. Philosophical Reflections and Perspectives. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans/Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1989. ———, “The (Ir)rationalism of the Theistic Concept of God.” Pp. 223–236 in PostTheism. Reframing the Judeo-Christian Tradition. Edited by H.A. Krop, A.L. Molendijk, and H. De Vries. Leuven: Peeters, 2000. Walsh, W.H., “Colligatory Concepts in History.” Pp. 127–144 in The Philosophy of History. Edited by P. Gardiner. Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1974. Wolterstorff, N., “Epistemology of Religion.” Pp. 303–324 in The Blackwell Guide to Epistemology. Edited by J. Greco and E. Sosa. Malden, MA [etc.]: Blackwell, 1999.

NARRATIVE, POSTFORMAL COGNITION, AND RELIGIOUS BELIEF

James M. Day The study of narrative, and related advocacy of methods according importance to the place, function, and significance of story-telling in human behavior, increasingly shape our understanding of human behavior. They have contributed to a growing body of literature throwing into question the value of longstanding notions concerning the human subject, the nature of human action, as well as the purposes, and supposed truth value, psychological science contains, expresses, or might yet contribute to understanding human conduct. They have also affected our view of religious “belief”, practices, and contributions to human welfare. In some measure, these critiques have been associated with a trend in psychological science to “explain away” the case made for religious truth. If religion, for example, be no more, or less, than a collection of practices that can be explained in terms of underlying mechanisms, illusions, hopes, obsessive compulsive, magical thinking, or other “abnormal”, even “pathological” behaviors, religion both as body of belief, and sets of practices, becomes “just” one more object of our fascination and study, and in so doing loses a measure of its majesty and supposed capacity to tell us something of ultimate value, whether about God, transcendent goods or realities, the “nature of things”, or about ourselves. Pushed to their extreme in the domain of social construction, or for some constructionists simply going to the logical conclusion of constructionist assumptions, narrative accounts suggest that religions, and/or religious teachings, or accounts of the world, amount to things no more or less worthy of ultimate concern than any other stories or accounts. Religion no longer can belong, in this view, to those things some might have wanted it to be, such as a description of the “real”, because it has been unmasked being as “mundane” as any other set of human behaviors, and one more contribution to the constructionist assumption that there may be no “real” to be found “out there” or “in here”. On this account there is quite simply, or profoundly, depending on how you take such accounts, no “there” there. Religious accounts are consensual accounts, which at some point we found convenient to privilege with “truth”

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language, and to assign cultural importance. But since, on such a constructionist view, there exists no truth beyond what we can establish as consensus, and since consensual descriptions are as much, or more, concerned with what we prefer, as they are things we can establish as being “objective” in any way, religious terms, frames, beliefs, assertions, practices, are things we can, admittedly, “do” things with, but not something that stands over us, or to which we need have any particular loyalty, let alone to which we would want or need to submit ourselves. Religious descriptions of the “real”, in this way of thinking and speaking, are no more true, than any other. What’s interesting about them is what they allow us to do. In this sense narrative is part of a move in psychological science that renews the highly pragmatic strains found in the early psychological work of William James and, later, Mead and Dewey. It moves us from concerns with what we might eventually learn about how things “are”, and predicting on the basis of how they “are” what they will likely turn out to be, to a concern with what languages, accounts, portrayals, stories, etc. allow us to “do”. We are no longer interested, once we take this turn, with what is “real”, or “true”, or “precise”, but with what we can do with the words we have to hand; what words, since we are not only authors of them but also consumers of them, appropriators of them, shaped as much by them as we are makers of them or guides to them, allow us, incline us, constrain us, open up or out, limit or close down; what words and discursive frames, contexts, and worlds, make it possible to do. What would it be like to live in a world if we described it like that? Given that we have moved from a description of the world or of God or of human nature that reads like x to one that now reads like y, what are the consequences we might imagine for living according to these words, images, scripts, and so on, and how might we study how such shifts and transitions occur, and where they take us, in the ways we play them out. From verification and prediction to meta-description and the pragmatics of doing, from a pretense to ontology to an immersion in context, from the epistemological subject to the dialogical self, religion has lost not only its allure, but also its glamour; it no longer glistens above the horizon but lights up features of it along with other kinds of stories, discourses, and perhaps most especially with art. Given such a turn, we are no longer gripped, persuaded, driven, committed, enamored, or inspired by religion, or are we? What is left of religious truth once the stories have been told, once we have taken a narrative turn? Can we dispense, on the basis of what the study of narrative contributes to a re-visioning of science and self,

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with religion altogether? Ought we to? These are some of the trends, turns, and questions I explore in this chapter. 1. Returning to Religion: What Truth May There Yet Be? We have said up to now that there are reasons to doubt, on narrative and associated constructionist grounds, in psychological science, whether religion and religious “truth” can yet be taken seriously. In what way, if any, might we urge a “return to religion” as a way forward and in this sense “rescue” religion from the margins to which it has been consigned? It seems to me there are at least four reasons why we would want not to neglect religion, and take seriously its truth claims, in psychological science, and moreover, that psychological science might help us understand in what way there might yet be ‘truth’ in religion. This does not mean I think psychological science should, or can, “take sides” with anti-religionists, such as Richard Dawkins, or pro-religionists amongst scientists, such as Alistair McGrath, Fraser Watts, or John Polkinghorne. I don’t think scientific, including psychological, epistemologies permit us to establish whether religious claims, in the sense of claims about something “out there”, or “the real”, or “the nature of the world”, are true. I do think that the narrative, and more broadly constructionist, turn in critiquing, and at the same time in the doing, of psychological science, can help return to religion and appreciate its truth claims, not in ultimate terms, but in relative ones. Here is what I mean. Let’s consider four ways in which this turn of affairs, and accompanying methods in psychological science, might help us “return to religion”, and entertain the prospect of its “truth”. First of all, we might say that within psychological science it is not necessary to abandon certain conventions in positivist or constructivist accounts, just because narrative or constructionist ones are useful. After all, if constructionism invites us into, and champions, a multi-paradigmatic way of doing things and describing “reality”, we ought to cherish and do as much as we can with research that holds together, and brings as much as it can into conversation, a variety of models, methods, and meanings in looking at behavior, including behavior related to the study of religion and its components; beliefs, practices, rituals, admonishments, etc. For example, we might take up the religionist-anti-religionist debate and the claim made by Dawkins and others that religion leads to the refusal, or non-attainment, or abandonment, of cognitive complexity, and thus gets in the way of solving the complex problems of selves, relationships, groups,

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nations, and the world. Why, say Dawkins and others, do “religious people” step up to the brink of complexity, which they may be capable of in scientific work, but abandon when it comes to moral questions, or other questions on which their religious authorities have made pronouncements? Is there some inherent taboo in religion and the minds of the religious that inclines us to abandon our capacity for complex thought and decision-making once questions of religious authority are introduced? Doing research in this domain is quite possible in a multi-paradigmatic frame, which may serve as a case in point as to how classical, or conventional, notions of human subjects, in the domain of the science of cognitive complexity, and discursive modes, akin to constructionist sympathies, can join in producing fruitful responses to such questions. That is, on the basis of empirical and experimental research conducted conjointly with narrative models of prevailing discourses in people’s ways of speaking about religion; it is possible to test the question whether being religious leads to a “dumbing down” of people when faced with questions of the relationships between religious authority and complex problems that require solving. In my own research it seems clear to me that religion per se does not explain or answer anything, but that the appropriation of particular kinds of religious accounts, or discourses, does; i.e. in some cases being religious means we step back from the complexity of situations in preference for deference to received authority, whilst in other cases religious commitment is associated with a capacity for cognitive complexity, and a willingness to enter into multiple, ironical, and paradoxical frames of reference (Day 2012; Day, Commons and Richardson 2011). This research combines the most “extreme” versions of constructivist “epistemic subject” research in the neo-Piagetian tradition, with discursive construction and examination of narrative accounts, and shows that meaningful data can be produced which honor both traditions, and respond to questions of contemporary concern. In this case they show that religious commitments, i.e. commitments by people who themselves regard religious truth accounts as having huge importance in their lives, are consequential in the ways they view, and propose solutions to, problems, but do not easily fit simplistic accounts of what religion is or does, as though religion were a unitary object, or unidirectional phenomenon, in terms of causes, effects, even “mere” correlations. Another example of how we might view “traditional” scientific accounts as complementary to “constructionist”/narrative, ones, comes from another frame in related research on moral problem solving. In our very recent research with more than 500 adolescents and young adults in Belgium and England, coming from Anglican, Roman Catholic, and Muslim religious

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communities, and themselves avowing religious commitment and actively engaged in religious practices, we have found direct links between stage of moral judgment, a by now fairly classical construct in the cognitivedevelopmental literature in psychological science, and narrative accounts by participants as to what constitutes a moral dilemma, and how religion matters to them in trying to resolve a real dilemma they have recently faced or are struggling with in the present. It is quite clear here that the greater the complexity in cognitive functioning, the richer the narratives proposed by the participants; greater complexity as measured in “standard” ways is correlated with larger numbers of characters in the stories the participants tell, larger numbers of perspectives taken into account in trying to resolve them, greater initial uncertainty in the face of the problems with which they are contending accompanied with a larger number of potential resources identified that might apply to eventually working them out. Why not imagine that both the classical developmental model, and the narrative/constructionist model, might collaborate, and, in fact, overlap, in championing similar “goods” for human functioning; privileging complexity, perspective-taking, humility, reflection, active listening, role-playing, flexibility, fluidity, etc. (Day 2008a, 2008b, 2011a, 2011b). Second, research using discursive modes, but also conventional models of statistical analysis, illustrates that across cultural contexts, there is a gender factor in how men and women talk about religious experience (Day and Naedts 2006; Day and Youngman 2003). Yet, just because we may observe differences between emphasis in the speech of women and men in talking about religious experience does not mean that development in religious experience is not possible, or worth better understanding. Why not imagine that we can at once pay attention to how gender and the construction of identity interact with relatively lesser, or greater, degrees of cognitive complexity in appreciating religious questions, for richer understandings both of context and the trajectories we might trace toward the relative goods of wisdom, problem-solving ability, role-taking, etc., in religious experience? If we were to affirm such a vision, we would once again embrace narrative and cognitive-developmental approaches as complementary modes of exploring how religious experience and religious language are constructed, and play out, in the lives of women and men. Third, an attention to narrative, and a turn to a constructionist mode of understanding and inquiry may sensitize us to the performative aspects of religious language and practice, thus showing us a way back to something religious authorities have been arguing for millennia; namely, that religion is something that is done, as much as believed, and that to be religious

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constitutes participation in a symbolic world that makes certain forms of actions, and perceptions of truth and reality, possible. A narrative turn does not explain religion away, but reminds us how ‘narrative’ and ‘performative’ religion is and has been, and how some religions have convinced, triumphed, persuaded, and endured, whether others have faded. In this sense a narrative turn reminds us that we might appreciate religion as something more akin to art, more concerned with imagination than with facts, designed to inspire commitments to possible worlds, rather than prove truths or insure beliefs about how the world ‘really is’ (Day 1993, 2011c, 2013; Day and Jesus in press; Jesus 2011). Attending to narrative in this sense does not rob religion of its place, or its power, but instead illustrates in part exactly why its place is so important, and why it generates as much power, and mobilizes as much action as it sometimes does. Saying that narrative helps us appreciate these things about religion does not mean we cannot have preferences about how religion will operate, indeed it shows, if religions are highly social constructions, that we can have distinct preferences for some religious discourses over others, and commit ourselves to them accordingly. Fourth, close attention to narrative sensitizes us to elements within religions that describe religious experience as a dialectic between doubt and affirmation; not an ever onward and upward march toward certitude and consolation, but questioning, dialogue, doubt, and humble commitments taking the form of acting as though, or as if, things were true. This attention to doubt and dialogue, whether in religious communities, the interpretation of religious texts, or in those “internal” dialogues that populate our selves, may help us to recover a sense of religion as project, of faithing as a verblike activity rather than a static, stale, artifact, as something that contains a storehouse of resources for dialoguing with the future, rather than contesting with or naysaying it. In part, whether we embrace religion in this malleable, open-ended, form, or retreat from such options, has to do with the resources we have for imagining the world and our place in it, for appreciating multiple points of view and alternative perspectives of life and ourselves, and our capacity for appreciating, and enjoying, irony, and paradox, in the way we live ourselves, and the world. This, in turn, augurs for an appreciation of postformal operations in human cognition.

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2. Postformal Belief: A Cognitive-Developmental Construct The term postformal in psychological science takes its meaning, at least initially, from Jean Piaget’s claims about stage, structure, and sequence, in human cognition. In Piaget’s view, development in human cognition occurred in an upward movement in capacity to manage complexity; upward, because increasing capacity made for increasing ability both to understand basic and complex operations in how the world works, and, in appreciating more, and more complex, variables, to solve real-life as well as intellectual problems in the world. Piaget viewed human beings as epistemic subjects natively concerned with meaning-making; for making sense of the world, and of themselves and their relationships in it. Piaget systematically explored this development in several domains of cognition, and, though keenly interested in questions of religious cognition, as part of his interest in the question whether structural change in one domain would induce change in other domains, did not pursue studies of development in religious cognition. He did, though, pose the hypothesis, after having begun to map stage change in a variety of domains, including moral cognition, where research subjects moved from decisions based on factors of external might and authority to more autonomous modes of responsible actions that took increasing numbers of perspectives into account, that there should be something like religious development, and believed psychologists should be able to study how shifts in other domains, including moral judgment, might affect how people interpreted religious categories. At Piaget’s impetus, the study of cognitive development, which for Piaget equated with structural transformation, and the human subject as essentially concerned with the construction of meaning, came to include religious cognition (Day 2011a, 2011b, 2013). At the summit of cognitive development, according to Piaget, structural change achieved formal operations; the capacity to think about thought itself, to formulate and test hypotheses, and to think of the real in terms of the possible, instead of limiting the possible to the order of “reality” as it was already established in the world. With it people could become increasingly independent of immediate context in their appreciation of what variables should count in solving problems, whether personal or social, could adopt a scientific attitude toward questions of how things are in the world, and could imagine ideal worlds which could lead to inspired action for social change. Piaget believed that in a world increasingly influenced by scientific method, the need for higher education, and democracy, increasing numbers of people would reach formal operational reasoning. Piaget showed, as have subsequent generations of scholars, that formal operations could be

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attained only in mid to late adolescence, if at all; age made stage change possible because of maturation and opportunity, but was not its guarantor. From findings that would have been disillusioning for Piaget, we know that many secondary school graduates never attain the stage of formal operations. However, some do, and, moreover, some adults also move beyond formal operations (Commons and Richards 2003; Day 2011a, 2011b, 2013). Indeed, as we shall see, we now “know”, in this paradigm, that postformal orders of cognitive functioning that respect Piaget’s criteria for stages of human thought exist across a variety of domains of thinking and solving problems. One area of our research concerns how people think in postformal religious cognition, belief, and moral decision-making. Religious development has been a topic of enquiry in psychological science for more than a century, and religious experience, more broadly, from the outset (Day 2010a; Spilka, Hood, Hunsberger and Gorsuch 2003). Religious and spiritual development have been studied in at least three ways in psychological science: (a) as a distinct phenomenon unto itself; (b) in conjunction with other aspects of human development, such as personality development, affective development, and cognitive development; and (c) in close relation to moral development (see also Day 2007a, 2008a, 2010a, 2010b, 2011a, 2011b, 2013; Day and Jesus in press). To date, researchers have successfully shown that the cognitive-developmental stage affects how children and adolescents think about religious questions, and interpret religious images, rituals, and texts. (Day 2010a, 2010b, 2011a, 2011b; Degelmann, Mullen, and Mullen 1984; Hyde 1990; Peatling and Laabs 1975; Spilka, Hood, Hunsberger, and Gorsuch 2003; Tamminen and Nurmi 1995). Researcher like Armstrong and Crowther (2002), Belzen (2009), Day (1997, 2008a, 2010a, 2010b, 2011a, 2011b, in press), Day and Youngman (2003), Dillon and Wink (2002), Mattis, Murray, Hatcher, Hearn, Lawhorn, Murphy, and Washington (2001), Popp-Baier (1997); Ray and McFadden (2001), Roukema-Koning (2005), Wheeler, Ampadu, and Wangari (2002), Zinnbauer, Pargament, and Scott (1999), and others have identified variables that need to be taken into account if we are to see the value of such neo-Piagetian studies in relationship to religious development in adulthood, which early researchers did not undertake, and we shall return to some of these later in this chapter (see also Day 2011a, 2013).

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3. Models and Methods for the Study of Religious Development Two well-known neo-Piagetian models pertaining to religious and spiritual development are faith development, and religious judgment development (Day 2007a, 2007b, 2008a, 2010a, 2010b; Day and Youngman 2003; Fowler 1981, 1987, 1996; Fowler and Dell, 2006; Oser and Gmünder 1991; Oser and Reich 1996; Oser, Scarlett, and Buchner 2006; Reich, Oser, and Scarlett 1999; Spilka, Hood, Hunsberger, and Gorsuch 2003; Streib 1997; Tamminen and Nurmi 1995; Vandenplas 2001; Wulff 1997). Faith development and religious judgment development research have taken adult development seriously, opening the theoretical door to the prospect of better understanding formal operations in religious cognitions, and the prospect of finding postformal orders of belief. (Day 2010a, 2010b, 2011a, 2013; DiLoreto and Oser 1996). We hold that the later stages (5 and 6, in Fowler’s model, and Oser’s highest stage, 5) qualify as postformal stages (Day 2008, 2010a, 2010b, 2011a, 2011b, in press). In a series of rigorous empirical studies we have established correlations between postformal stage using the Model of Hierarchical Complexity (MHC), and these stages in faith and religious judgment development models (Commons et al. 2007; Day 2011a, 2011b; Day, Commons. and Richardson 2009). Studies in faith and religious development have had to be concerned with moral development, because these models in religious cognition, both in theory and method, are strongly influenced by Kohlberg’s neo-Piagetian model of moral judgment development, and rely in part on the use of hypothetical dilemmas in clinical interviews, to produce the data on which they base their findings (Day 2007a, 2008a, 2010b; Fowler 1981, 1987, 1996; Fowler and Dell 2006; Oser and Gmünder 1991; Oser and Reich 1996; Oser, Scarlett, and Buchner 2006; Reich, Oser, and Scarlett 1999). Fowler was directly influenced by Kohlberg’s teaching and research during his years at Harvard, and both Oser and his colleague Reich spent time in the Laboratory of Human Development at Harvard during Kohlberg’s tenure there, actively appropriating Kohlbergian, neo-Piagetian, constructs and methods into the stream of their own work. Fowler’s model of faith is a multi-factorial model including elements of Piaget’s concept of cognitive development, Kohlberg’s model of moral development, Erikson’s stage model of identity construction, Loevinger’s and Levinson’s concepts of ego development, Selman’s model of role-taking, and Kegan’s concepts of self-development (see Day 2001, 2007a, 2008a, 2010b, 2011a, b, in press; Day and Youngman 2003; Fowler 1981, 1987, 1996; Tamminen and Nurmi 1995). Faith here is “a dynamic pattern of personal trust in and

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loyalty to a center or centers of value” (Fowler 1981: 33), whose orientation can be understood in relationship to the person’s trust in and loyalty to a core set of “images and realities of power” (Fowler 1981: 33) and “to a shared master story or core story” (Fowler 1981: 31, 34; see also Fowler 1996). Oser’s vision, one theoretically and empirically more precise, examining “religious judgment development”, where thought about relationships between ourselves and Ultimate Being (which may, or may not be conceived of as “God”) is plotted on a stage model from states of relative simplicity, egocentrism, and cognitive dualism, upward to more differentiated, elaborated, and complex appreciations of self, relationship, context, perspective-taking, and person-God interaction (Day 2008a, 2008b, 2010a, 2010b, 2011a, 2011b, 2013; Day and Naedts 2006; Day and Youngman 2003; Oser and Gmünder 1991; Oser and Reich 1996). There is also attention in Oser’s model to the relationship between thought, and action, between how people appropriate their understandings of ultimate being in the working out of problems in the concrete situations of real-life, a concern we have followed in testing some of these relationships in collaboration with Oser and Helmut Reich, and using recent innovations drawn from the Model of Hierarchical Complexity (Day 2010b, 2011a, 2011b, 2013; Day and Naedts 2006; Day and Youngman 2003). Oser argues there is a deep structure that is a universal feature of religious cognition across the lifespan, regardless of culture or religious affiliation. Both religious reasoning and spiritual meaning-making include components of moral reasoning and both faith and religious judgment models hold that structural transformation in moral judgment reasoning will likely affect stage change in faith and religious judgment development; because moral questions figure in religious meaning-making, upward change in moral judgment will affect religious understanding (Day 2008a, 2010a, b, 2011a, b, in press; Day and Naedts 2006; Day and Youngman 2003). Empirical studies of stage and structure and comparisons between moral judgment and religious judgment based on thousands of subjects have not shown a clear pattern of moral judgment’s “precedence” to religious judgment despite Oser and Fowler’s claims, on views shared with Kohlberg (1984), that moral judgment stage should have been at levels equal to, and/or, mostly, higher than, faith development stage or religious judgment stage. In empirical studies, there is instead a scattering of relationships: in some people moral judgment scores are higher than religious judgment ones, in other cases the reverse. Taken together there is no statistically significant difference between the two (Day 2002, 2007a; Day and Naedts 2006; Day and Youngman 2003). Thus, we do not know whether the core structures of meaning-making in religious judgment and faith are distinct from the ele-

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ments that compose Kohlberg’s conception of moral judgment, or whether, in conceptual terms, they may be thought of as moral judgment “dressed up” in religious “garb”. Despite some of the empirical problems in defining and studying faith development and religious judgment, these models’ theories and applications have found a wide following in a number of applied domains, from religious education, to nursing, palliative care, theology, and pastoral counseling (Day 2008a, 2010b, 2013, in press; Fowler 1981, 1987, 1996; Oser, Scarlett, and Buchner 2006; Reich, Oser, and Scarlett 1999; Streib 2010; Streib and Hood 2010). 4. Postformal Stages and Religious Cognition Piaget hoped, as we have remarked earlier, that formal operations would become the norm for cognitive development, with positive repercussions for social life, scientific advancement, and the advancement of democracy, by the time of late adolescence, at least in modern, western, societies. Empirical research shows some adolescents attain this level of cognitive functioning whilst others do not, and that some adults move beyond formal operations to postformal operations in the construction of meaning. We have been drawn to the study of postformal operations with the view that, in an increasingly complex world, knowing more about how some people attain postformal capacity and apply postformal reasoning in religious and spiritual domains could help us better understand possibilities for maximal human development in cognitive, socio-moral, and spiritual terms. Piaget and Kohlberg, and other researchers influential in our own scholarly and personal development, had already convincingly demonstrated in the domain of moral judgment development, that increased capacity in moral reasoning was accompanied by enhanced problem-solving and relational abilities, thus enhancing the quality of life for individuals as well as for the “socius”, and it seemed to us opportune to examine such dimensions in relationship to meaning-making related to religious and spiritual experience. We have thus been concerned to examine the classical notion of individual development for social good (enhanced capacity for perspective-taking, greater ability to listen and take into account the views of others and thus help individuals as well as groups face and solve multivariate problems, greater ability to grasp the developmental features in others’ thinking and thus, in professional as well as personal roles, help others attain maximal

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growth in their own lives) in religious cognition, and its relationships to religious belief, belonging, spiritual practice, and moral development (Day 2011a, b, 2013; Day and Jesus in press). We have elsewhere described (Day 2010a, b, 2011a, b, 2013) the important overview offered by Commons and Richards (2003) on the logic of postformal stage conceptions, debates, and validation studies in this domain, showing success in charting and measuring postformal operations of human perceiving, reasoning, knowing, judging, caring, feeling, and communicating. Postformal operations have been empirically validated in problem-solving capacities in algebra, geometry, physics, moral decision-making, legal judgments, informed consent, and, more recently, in our own work, in religious cognition, and the relationship of variables such as religious conservatism, interpretation of religious texts, management of religious authority, and relationship of religious elements to moral decision-making. Our findings are also pertinent to comparing stage in religious cognition with stage of cognition in other domains (Commons and Pekker 2005; Commons and Richards 2003; Day 2008, 2010a, 2010b, 2011a, 2011b, 2013; Day et al. 2011; Day, Richardson, and Commons 2010). Our research corroborates the meta-analytic studies of Commons and Richards (2003) and Commons and Pekker (2005) showing there are four empirically verifiable postformal stages. These stages, systematic, metasystematic, paradigmatic, and crossparadigmatic represent increasing capacities to operate on increasing numbers, but more importantly, orders, of variables, in the solving of cognitive tasks, and have been shown to have consequences for the ways people try to resolve real-life problems. We have confirmed the existence of these stages in how people think about religion and religious issues, as well as in moral problem-solving where religious elements are involved (Day 2008, 2010a, b, 2011a, b, 2012, 2013; Day et al. 2011; Day, Richardson, and Commons 2010). 5. Believing as though or as if: Privileging the Enactment of Imagination Our quantitative studies validating the existence of postformal stages in religious cognition, in faith development, religious judgment development, interpretation of religious texts, and problem-solving scenarios where religious elements are involved, with related domains of informed consent and moral judgment, have attracted readers in developmental psychology, cognitive science, clinical psychology, theology, and religious studies, and generated further research in the psychology of religion, and adult development

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and learning, in part because they have been accompanied by qualitative studies allowing a closer approach to how postformal stage and structure are related to the lived experience of our research participants. Establishing empirical bases for construct validation, and showing that postformal operations have consequences for real-life problem-solving situations, in experimental studies, contributes to the vocabulary of science in these domains, but has not, alone, been adequate to giving a picture of how such operations play out in the lived experience of those who are “detected” or described, in these terms. It is for this reason that we have concomitantly engaged in qualitative studies, with participants in Belgium, England, and the USA, from Roman Catholic, Orthodox, Anglican, Protestant, and Buddhist, traditions, as well as looking at some comparisons with agnostic and atheist participants, in which we have shown that religiously committed people measured at postformal stage evidence common features when talking about the meaning of religious belief, religious rituals and practices, and how religion functions in the management of complex life situations and resolution of moral problems across differences in religious affiliation. We have found, for example, that with transformation in stage and structure come an increasing number of perspectives taken in moral problem solving. Here, there is an important link with narration and the study of narrative in religion. With every increment in stage, on our cognitive-developmental measures, there are corresponding expansions in numbers of perspectives taken, and numbers of actors taken into account, in the stories people tell about moral problems, and about how and why religion matters in trying to solve them. With increases in complexity in cognition, measured in terms of stage, come increasing numbers of potential impacts participants think a decision might have, and an ability to formulate solutions without rigid insistence, at the highest stages, of there being only one right possible answer (Day 2010c, 2011a, 2012, 2013). In these studies, we have taken measures of moral judgment, religious judgment, and cognitive complexity stages, and then independently asked participants to write a one-page narrative about a real-life moral dilemma they have recently faced, and to say in their writing whether religious elements were of any relevance to how they tried to solve the moral problem. We have found one-to-one correspondences between the level of stage in the domains measured, and the numbers of perspectives and actors in the moral dilemmas described by our participants in the moral problem-solving situations they have described. These perfect correlations, across hundreds of participants, and a variety of religious traditions, underscore the claims

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initially made by Piaget and Kohlberg that it is in the interest of society, as well as for the good of individuals, to promote the acquisition of greater complexity in socio-moral cognition, and we would add, religious cognition. With greater capacity for complexity in cognition, comes greater inclination to apply this capacity in the working out of real-life problems, and a greater sensitivity to the perspectives, needs, and concerns of others. Higher orders of cognitive complexity represent expanded resources for narrating, imagining, and understanding the moral and religious experience of others, and for ways of affirming religious conviction whilst listening to perspectives from alternative frameworks of belief, symbol systems, and religious practice. In postformal stages of religious cognition, people at metasystematic and paradigmatic stages interpret the words belief, commitment, and belonging, in the language of living as if, or as though, something were true. They very explicitly talk about religion as imagination; of engagement with a meaningful set of categories in words, texts, liturgical forms, and gestures, in terms of imagining what it would be to live as if the portrait of the world communicated in these forms were true, rather than speaking in terms of certainty. They speak of religious commitment in terms of imaginative enactment of ideal trajectories for human relationship and right living in the world, and the deliberate authoring of a life story whose terms are structured by this enactment, rather than obedience to institutional authority. They have conviction without dogmatism or the need to impose their beliefs on others, they tolerate ambiguity in religious questions without feeling threatened, and find it meaningful and enriching to engage with people of contrasting, even formally opposed, religious points of view (Day 2010c, 2011a, 2011b, 2013). Indeed, without provocation on our part, they talked freely about the sense of communion they had with others of differing religious allegiances, or none at all, as a function of the ways of thinking they shared in conversation, problemsolving, and reflecting on life meanings. As one participant put it, I find I have much more in common, indeed a much keener sense of communion, with some people who have no formal religious association or commitment, who can think about life and about religion in the ways we are discussing it, than with many of the people in the pew where I go to church. (Day 2010c, 2011a; Day et al. 2011)

They uniformly think it important that there be ecumenical and interreligious discussion, and do not see formal religious belonging to different or “opposed” traditions as barriers to understanding, friendship, neighborliness, or committed relationship in love and life partnership. At postformal stages, people in our studies experience truth questions as non-dichotomous, as multi-perspectival, rather than dichotomous, more

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pre-occupied with the consequences of casting one’s life in a particular imaginative frame or set of practices than with the content of specific beliefs, affirmations, and doctrines. Propositions, or descriptions, for these participants, cease to be merely true or untrue, may be both, and the formal epistemological grounds for deciding between the two take second place to questions about how believing in one way or another takes shape in relationship to self and others. There is explicit recognition that believing is as much socially constructed and relationally performative as it is informative of “internally” held beliefs or points of view (Day 2002, 2010c, 2011a, b, 2013). Enhanced perspective-taking, tolerance, a capacity for commitment amidst complexity and uncertainty, and a net good in relationship within acknowledged differences, within and across religious groupings, and between people of religious faith, or none; these characterize religious cognition at postformal stages of reasoning about religious belief, religious texts, religious practices, and religious elements in moral problems. People at these stages speak of the coterminous enrichment that has come to their lives as they have experienced transformation toward postformal modes of experiencing and acting, and poignant loneliness; on the one hand, a feeling of deep communion with others who understand how they can be both committed and unconcerned with ultimate certainty, and sometimes alienation from others who find their ways of believing untenable, even heretical. If we can document irreducible value in accession to postformal stage, with a sense of expansion of self and world, we also know that those who reach such stages, and know such experiences, are relatively rare, and that they have almost uniformly known experiences of pain in being misunderstood and, in some religious communities, having been excluded altogether, on account of the movement that occurs in this “higher” direction (Day 2013). 6. Personal and Social Transformation and Religious Cognition: Promoting Postformal Development? We have shown that there are postformal stages in religious cognition, and that these stages represent a distinctive and potentially valuable contribution to human development, both individual and social. What do we know about what we need to do in order to promote movement to higher stages? Structural-developmental researchers have shown that interventions involving constant exposure to higher stage reasoning help to foster development. In order for this to “work”, those involved in the “intervention” need to be able to enter into an individual’s modal stage of thinking, the one they

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are employing in discussion of religious questions, for example, and expose, with gentle provocation, the person to reasoning at one stage higher than their modal ways of operating. This needs to be combined with opportunities for role-taking, and discussion of issues relevant to the subject’s own concerns where the utility of higher stage reasoning can be seen in practice, augur for growth in intellectual, moral, and religious cognition and moral action (Day 2013). Combs, Pfaffenberger, and Marko’s (2011) recent book, The Post-Conventional Personality: Assessing, Researching, and Theorizing Higher Development offers an overview, across several domains, including religious and spiritual development, that includes suggestions about how postformal reasoning might be promoted and supported in practice. Efforts such as these, as well as other recent research using models different from, but on our view complementary to, the structural-developmental models we have reviewed in this chapter, would incline us to understand that stage movement is a multi-faceted phenomenon, involving affective as well as cognitive variables, relational as well as intellectual frameworks, sometimes painful discontinuity, as well as higher probabilities where secure emotional contexts are made available (Day 2002, 2003, 2010c, 2011c, 2013; Day and Jesus in press). It would clearly be inconsistent with a postformal view, if we were to do anything but engage in a pluriform, multidisciplinary, approach to understanding human growth in the construction of meaning and the processes of transformation associated with it, in religion, as we would, and do, in other domains (Day 2013). As we have noted, expansion in capacity for cognitive complexity, plays out in richer, multi-perspectival, narratives of moral and religious experience, inclining people to expansion of narrative resources both in narrating their own life experience and the roles and functions religion plays in their lives, and in terms of appreciating, listening to, and finding points of connection with other people, including people from very different backgrounds, religions, and frameworks of belief and practice. From our study of narrative expressions in people at postformal stages, we see increasing willingness to view religion as poetry, imagination, and as a performative enactment of hoped-for ways of living and engaging with the world and a turn away from literal, univocal, understandings of religious belief, texts, and authority. Conclusion In this chapter we have argued that the study of narrative and a view to religion as narration has important consequences both for understanding reli-

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gious experience, including religious belief, and the importance of studying religion in psychological science. We have also shown, through our attention to postformal cognition in thinking about religion, one way complementary to a narrative approach, of addressing a question of central interest to theology, religious studies, and the psychology of religion, namely, how it is that people who have the habit of thinking critically can continue to engage with religious traditions proffering hegemonic, unitary, descriptions of the world and the meaning of life. Noting that some people find it possible to navigate the waters of doubt and believing without abandoning either, we have argued that particular attention to studies of combining a narrative approach with postformal religious cognition may give us tools for understanding how higher development in this domain may offer both understanding, and the promotion of personal and social good. References Armstrong, T., and M. Crowther, “Spirituality among Older African Americans,” Journal of Adult Development 9/1 (2002): 3–12. Bett, E., C. Ost, J. Day, and T. Robinett, “The Effectiveness of the Model of Hierarchical Complexity in Accounting for Various Moral Measures.” In Stage Performance across a Number of Domains Using the Model of Hierarchical Complexity. Edited by M. Commons. Quebec: The Jean Piaget Society, Society for the Study of Knowledge and Development, 2008. Symposium. Cartwright, K., “Cognitive Developmental Theory and Spiritual Development,” Journal of Adult Development 8/4 (2001): 213–220. Combs, A., A. Pfaffenburger, and P. Marko (eds.), The Postconventional Personality. Perspectives on Higher Development. Festschrift Jane Loevenger. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2011. Commons, M., C. Ost, M. Lins, J. Day, S. Ross, and J. Crist, Stage of Development in Understanding Christ’s Moral Sayings. Paper presented at the Society for Research in Adult Development Annual Symposium. Boston, MA, 2007. Commons, M., and A. Pekker, Hierarchical Complexity. A Formal Theory. Unpublished manuscript. Cambridge, MA: Dare Institute, 2005. Commons, M., and F. Richards, “A General Model of Stage Theory,” Pp. 120–140 in Beyond Formal Operations. Volume 1: Late Adolescent and Adult Cognitive Development. Edited by M. Commons, F. Richards, and C. Armon. New York: Praeger, 1984. Commons, M., and F. Richards, “Four Postformal Stages,” Pp. 199–220 in The Handbook of Adult Development. Edited by J. Demick and C. Andreoletti. New York: Plenum, 2003. Day, J., “Speaking of Belief. Language, Performance, and Narrative in the Psychology of Religion,” International Journal for the Psychology of Religion 3/4 (1993): 213– 230. ———, “Narratives of “Belief” and “Unbelief” in Young Adult Accounts of Religious

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Experience and Moral Development.” Pp. 155–173 in Belief and Unbelief. Psychological Perspectives. Edited by D. Hutsebaut and J. Corveleyn. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1994. ———, “Exemplary Sierrans. Moral Influences.” Pp. 145–154 in Moral Action in Young Adulthood. Edited by R. Mosher, D. Connor, D. Kalliel, J. Day, N. Yakota, M. Porter, and J. Whiteley. National Resource Center for the First-Year Experience and Students in Transition: University of South Carolina Press, 1999. ———, “Le discours religieux en contexte. Deux études auprès d’adolescents et de jeunes adultes in Belgique francophone.” Pp. 57–69 in Religion et développement humain. Questions psychologiques. Edited by V. Saroglou and D. Hutsebaut. Paris: L’Harmatton, 2000. ———, “From Structuralism to Eternity? Re-Imagining the Psychology of Religious Development after the Cognitive-Developmental Paradigm,” International Journal for the Psychology of Religion 11 (2001): 173–183. ———, “Religious Development as Discursive Construction.” Pp. 63–92 in Social Construction and Theology. Edited by C. Hermans, G. Immink, A. de Jong, and J. van der Lans. Leiden: Brill, 2002. ———, “Moral Reasoning, Religious Reasoning, and Their Supposed Relationships. Paradigms, Problems, and Prospects,” Adult Developments. The Bulletin of the Society for Research in Adult Development 10/1 (2007a): 6–10. ———, “Personal Development.” Pp. 116–137 in Jesus and Psychology. Approaching the Gospels Psychologically. Edited by F. Watts and E. Gulliford. London: Longman, Dartmann, Todd, 2007b. ———, “Human Development and the Model of Hierarchical Complexity. Learning from Research in the Psychology of Moral and Religious Development,” World Futures. The Journal of General Evolution 65/1–3 (2008a): 452–467. ———, “Marital Spirituality throughout the Life Course. Insights from the Psychology of Human Development.” Pp. 85–104 in Companion to Marital Spirituality. Edited by T. Knieps-Port le Roi and M. Sandor. Leuven, Belgium: Peeters, 2008b. ———, “Cognitive Complexity, Human Development, and Religious Influence in Moral Problem-Solving. Empirical Evidence and Some Implications for Human Evolution.” Presented at the “Transdisciplinary Approaches to Personhood Congress.” Metanexus Institute. The John Templeton Foundation. Madrid, 2008c. ———, “La (re)conversion religieuse face aux dilemmas moraux. Regards empirique sur base des recherches avec des adolescents et des jeunes adultes chrétiens et musulmans en Angleterre et en Belgique.” Pp. 151–178 in La conversion religieuse. Approches psychologiques, anthropologiques, et sociologiques. Edited by P.-Y. Brandt. Genève: Labor et Fides, 2009. ———, “Conscience: Does Religion Matter? Empirical Studies of Religious Elements in Pro-Social Behaviour, Prejudice, Empathy Development, and Moral DecisionMaking.” Pp. 49–68 in The Structure and Development of Conscience. Edited by W. Koops, D. Brugman, and A. Sander. London: Psychology Press, 2010a. ———, “Religion, Spirituality, and Positive Psychology in Adulthood. A Developmental View,” Journal of Adult Development 17/3 (2010b): 215–229. ———, “Culture, Psychology, and Religion. Critically Appraising Belzen’s Contributions,” Journal of Mental Health, Religion, and Culture 13/4 (2010c): 359–363.

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———, “Religious, Spiritual, and Moral Development and Learning in the Adult Years. Classical and Contemporary Questions, Cognitive-Developmental and Complementary Paradigms, and Prospects for Future Research.” Pp. 317–343 in Oxford Handbook of Adult Development and Learning. 2nd edition. Edited by C. Hoare. Oxford: Oxford University Press Library of Psychology, 2011a. ———, “Believing As If. Postconventional Stages, Cognitive Complexity, and Postformal Religious Constructions.” Pp. 189–204 in The Postconventional Personality. Perspectives on Higher Development. Festschrift Jane Loevenger. Edited by A. Combs, A. Pfaffenburger, and P. Marko. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 2011b. ———, “Du tiers présent au transcendant. Ombres, lumières, et objets du transitionnel.” Pp. 135–150 in Regards croisés autour des objets transitionnels. Séparations, pertes, quête de lien aujourd’hui. Edited by A.-M. Frankard and J.-L. Brackeleaire. Louvain-la-Neuve: Academia, 2011c. ———, “Between Orthodoxy and Imagination. Postformal Stage and Religious Cognition.” Presented at the European Society for Research in Adult Development Symposium, Universidade do Coimbra, Portugal, July 7–9, 2012. ———, “Constructs of Meaning and Religious Transformation. Cognitive Complexity, Postformal Stages, and Religious Thought.” Pp. 59–80 in Constructs of Meaning and Religious Transformation. Edited by H. Westerink. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 2013. ———, “Narration, Identity, and Human Development. Cognitive-Developmental and Discursive Approaches to Understanding Religious Voices in Self-Narratives.” Pp. 53–82 in Religious Voices in Self-Narratives. Edited by M. Buitelaar and H. Zock. Amsterdam: De Gruyter. Day, J., C. Commons, E. Betts, and A. Richardson, “Religious Cognition and the Model of Hierarchical Complexity. New Possibilities for the Psychology of Religious Development.” Presented at the International Congress on the Psychology of Spirituality. Prague, Czech Republic, 2007. Day, J., M. Commons, C. Ost, and E. Bett, “Can the Model of Hierarchical Complexity Assess Religious Cognition? Findings from Initial Research Efforts.” Presented at the Society for Research in Adult Development. Boston, MA, 2007. Day, J., M. Commons, P. Miller, L. Commons-Miller, and A. Richardson, “Are Atheists more Enlightened than the Religiously Committed? Findings from Research Using the Model of Hierarchical Complexity.” Presented at the International Association for the Psychology of Religion Congress. Bari, Italy, 2011. Day, J., and P. Jesus, “Epistemic Subjects, Discursive Selves, and Dialogical Self Theory in the Psychology of Moral and Religious Development: Mapping Gaps and Bridges,” Journal of Constructivist Psychology 26/2 (2013): 1–12. Day, J., and M. Naedts, “A Reader’s Guide for Interpreting Texts of Religious Experience. A Hermeneutical Approach.” Pp. 173–193 in Hermeneutical Approaches in the Psychology of Religion. Edited by J.A. Belzen. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1997. Day, J., and M. Naedts, “Religious Development.” Pp. 239–264 in Human Development across the Lifespan. Educational and Psychological Applications. Edited by R. Mosher, D. Youngman, and J. Day. Westport: Praeger, 2006. Day, J., A. Richardson, and M. Commons, “Testing Relationships among Cognitive Complexity, Religious Conservatism, Moral Judgment, and Religious Judgment.”

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Presented at the European Conference for Developmental Psychology. Vilnius, Lithuania, 2009. Day, J., and M.’ Tappan, “The Narrative Approach to Moral Development. From the Epistemic Subject to Dialogical Selves,” Human Development 39/2 (1996): 67– 82. Day, J., and D. Youngman, “Discursive Practices and Their Interpretation in the Psychology of Religious Development. From Constructivist Canons to Constructionist Alternatives.” Pp. 509–532 in The Handbook of Adult Development. Edited by J. Demick and C. Andreoletti. New York: Plenum, 2003. Degelman, D., P. Mullen, and N. Mullen, “Development of Abstract Thinking. A Comparison of Roman Catholic and Nazarene Youth,” Journal of Psychology and Christianity 3 (1984): 44–49. DiLoreto, F., and F. Oser, “Entwicklung des religiosen Urteils und religiose Selbstwirksamkeitsuberzeugung. Eine Langsschnittstudie.” Pp. 6-22 in Eingebettet ins Menschsein. Beispiel Religion. Edited by F. Oser and H. Reich. Lengerich, Germany: Pabst Science, 1996. Dillon, P., and M. Wink, “Spiritual Development across the Life Course. Findings from a Longitudinal Study,” Journal of Adult Development 9/1 (2002): 79–94. Elkind, D., “Piaget’s Semi-Clinical Interview and the Study of Spontaneous Religion,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 4 (1964): 40–46. Fowler, J., Stages of Faith. San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1981. ———, Faith Development and Pastoral Care. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987. ———, Faithful Change. San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1996. Fowler, J., and M. Dell, “Stages of Faith from Infancy through Adolescence. Reflections on Three Decades of Faith Development Theory.” Pp. 34–44 in Handbook of Spiritual Development in Childhood and Adolescence. Edited by E. Roehlkepartain, P. King, L. Wagener, and P. Benson. London: Sage, 2006. Goldmann, R., Religious Thinking from Childhood to Adolescence. New York: Seabury Press, 1964. Hoge, D., and G. Petrillo, “Development of Religious Thinking in Adolescence. A Test of Goldmann’s Theories,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 17 (1978): 139– 154. Jesus, P., “Meaning-Creation, Selfhood, and Religion. From Religious Metanarratives to Spiritual Self-Narratives,” Estudios de Psicología 32/1 (2011): 131–145. Kamminger, D., and B. Rollett, The Vienna Religious Judgment Coding Manual. Vienna: University of Vienna, 1996. Mattis, J., Y. Murray, C. Hatcher, K. Hearn, G. Lawhorn, E. Murphy, and T. Washington, “Religiosity, Spirituality, and the Subjective Quality of African-American Men’s Friendships. An Exploratory Study,” Journal of Adult Development 8/4 (2001): 221– 230. Oser, F., and P. Gmünder, Religious Judgement. A Developmental Approach. Birmingham: Religious Education Press, 1991. Oser, F., and H. Reich, Eingebettet ins Menschein. Beispiel Religion. Aktuelle psychologische studien zur entwicklung von religiosität. Lengerich, Germany: Pabst Scientific, 1996. Oser, F., W. Scarlett, and A. Buchner, “Religious and Spiritual Development throughout the Life Span.” Pp. 942–998 in Handbook of Child Psychology, Theoretical Mod-

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els of Human Development. Volume 1. Edited by W. Damon and R. Lerner. New York: Wiley, 2006. Ost, C., M. Commons, J. Day, and E. Bett, “Moral Development and Cognitive Complexity.” Presented at the Society for Research in Adult Development Symposium, Boston, MA, March 2007, 2007. Peatling, J., and C. Labbs, “Cognitive Development in Pupils in Grades Four through Twelve. The Incidence of Concrete and Abstract and Religious Thinking,” Character Potential. A Record of Research 7 (1975): 107–115. Pierce, B., and W. Cox, “Development of Faith and Religious Understanding in Children,” Psychological Reports 76 (1995): 957–958. Popp-Baier, U., “Psychology of Religion as Hermeneutical Cultural Analysis. Some Reflections with Reference to Clifford Geertz.” Pp. 195–212 in Hermeneutical Approaches in Psychology of Religion. Edited by J.A. Belzen. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1997. Power, C., “Hard versus Soft Stages of Faith and Religious Development.” Pp. 116–129 in Stages of Faith and Religious Development. Implications for Church, Education, and Society. Edited by J. Fowler, K.-E. Nipkow, and F. Schweitzer. New York: Crossroad, 1991. Reich, H., F. Oser, and D. Scarlett, Psychological Studies on Spiritual and Religious Development. Being Human. The Case of Religion. Volume 2. Lengerich, Germany: Pabst Science, 1999. Roukema-Koning, B., Als mannen en vrouwen bidden. Een empirisch-psychologische studie. Kampen: Boekencentrum, 2005. Spilka, B., R. Hood, B. Hunsberger, and R. Gorsuch, The Psychology of Religion. An Empirical Approach. New York: Guilford Press, 2003. Streib, H., Hermeneutics of Symbol, Metaphor, and Narrative in Faith Development Theory. Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1991. ———, “Religion als Stilfrage. Zur Revision struktureller Differenzierung von Religion im Blick auf die Analyse der pluralistisch-religiösen Lage der Gegenwart,” Archiv für Religionspsychologie 22 (1997): 48–69. Tamminen, K., and K. Nurmi, “Developmental Theory and Religious Experience.” Pp. 212–230 in Handbook of Religious Experience. Edited by R. Hood. Jr. Birmingham: Religious Education Press, 1995. van Belzen, J., Towards Cultural Psychology of Religion. Principles, Approaches and Applications. Dordrecht/New York: Springer, 2009. Vandenplas-Holper, C., Le développement psychologique à l’age adulte et pendant la viellesse. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2003. Wheeler, E., L. Ampadu, and E. Wangari, “Lifespan Development Revisited. AfricanCentered Spirituality throughout the Life Cycle,” Journal of Adult Development 9/1 (2002): 71–78. Wulff, D., Psychology of Religion. Classic and Contemporary Views. New York: Wiley, 1997. Zinnbauer, B., K. Pargament, B. Cole, M. Rye, E. Butter, T. Belavich, K. Hipp, A. Scott, and J. Kadar, “Religion and Spirituality. Unfuzzying the Fuzzy,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 36 (1997): 549–564. Zinnbauer, B., K. Pargament, and A. Scott, “The Emerging Meanings of Religiousness and Spirituality. Problems and Prospects,” Journal of Personality 67 (1999): 889– 919.

NARRATIVES OF THE SELF IN THE STUDY OF RELIGION. EPISTEMOLOGICAL REFLECTIONS BASED ON A PRAGMATIC NOTION OF WEAK RATIONALITY

Chris Hermans Self-narratives are popular in the study of religion. Some ten years ago I bought a reader entitled Why Narrative? Readings in Narrative Theology, edited by Stanley Hauerwas and Gregory Jones (1997). It included articles on narrative in theology over the past five decades, including the work of Johann Sebastian Metz, which we as theology students read with great interest in the mid-1970s. This line of thinking can be characterized as: (1) starting from a self-evident idea of the Christian religion, (2) drawing on philosophical speculations about the self but without regard to socio-scientific theory, and (3) (largely) based on a foundational epistemology. In this chapter I present a different approach to the study of self-narratives. Why? The first reason is that our object of study is rapidly changing in late modernity: religion in societal and personal life is transforming to the point of virtual disappearance. Researchers are poorly equipped to explore our changing and disappearing object of study in terms of the foregoing three assumptions. My second reason concerns the depth and width of the theories we build. If we proceed from the epistemic knowledge base of the Christian religion, we can only address our ideas to members of this community. We are hardly able to engage in public debate on religion in people’s personal lives. I argue that we need to be involved in larger epistemic communities, both in Christian theology and in religious studies. I describe a pragmatic perspective on scientific inquiry into religious self-narratives, which enables us to sail between the Charybdis of strong rationality and the Scylla of relativism. A pragmatic epistemology works with a weak notion of rationality. This enables us to incorporate the notions of the traditions that we study. At the same time it makes those notions fit for public debate, both academic and in society at large (Anderson 1998). The chapter is structured as follows. I start with key concepts of the self as narrative in personality psychology, which offer insight into the dynamic

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process of autobiographical reasoning and narrative processing. Next I examine the notion of weak rationality, which avoids both absolute truth claims and relativism. The concept of weak rationality, while assuming that all knowledge derives from a specific epistemic community, acknowledges the need to enter into conversation with other epistemic communities. Finally I outline the characteristics of a study of religious self-narratives based on a pragmatic epistemology. These include the type of theory, knowledge, rationality, reasoning and methodology required in a pragmatic inquiry into self-narratives. 1. Narratives of the Self How do people know who they are and what role do narratives play in this process of self-knowledge? I ground my ideas about self-narratives in the psychology of personality, more specifically that of authors who define the self as narrative. Religious self-narratives are not a category sui generis, distinct from other narratives of the self (Taves 2009: 17–22). In line with our argument that religion in late modernity is transforming and/or disappearing, I proceed from the broad premise that all self-narratives can be evaluated in terms of moral/spiritual fullness. According to Charles Taylor (2007: 5) this means that our self-narratives always imply some understanding of fullness or wholeness, that is of life as fuller, richer, deeper, more worthwhile, more admirable, and more like how it should be. From a psychological perspective human fullness is a driving force or personal striving. It manifests itself in self-narratives reflecting something human beings long for. From a symbolic or meaning perspective human fullness may be defined as a conception of the good life. It is concerned with ways of living and acting, with commitment to a specific conception of the good and to a way of life empowered by participation in that good (Ward 2004: 180). According to Paul Ricoeur (1992) this refers to the good life with and for others in just institutions and (as I like to add) a sustainable society. The source of human fullness can be a power either beyond or within human existence. For our argument this suffices to clarify what we mean by religion in the study of self-narratives. The rest of this section deals with the role of narrative in the process of self-knowledge aimed at human fullness. (1) The construction of a narrative about the self presupposes a capacity for self-reflection. The idea of self-reflexivity was developed by one of the found-

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ing fathers of modern psychology, William James. Self-reflexivity implies a distinction between I and Me (H. Hermans 2001). The I is the self-as-knower which constantly organizes and interprets experience in a purely subjective way. Me is the (embodied) self as I know it. The I has three characteristics: continuity, distinctiveness and volition. Continuity refers to awareness of the sameness of the self, present and past. Distinctiveness refers to awareness that the self exists separately from others. Volition refers to awareness that I can reject ideas about myself or feel free to construct new ideas. (2) A second milestone in the development of the concept of the narrative self is the idea that the self arises in social interaction as an offshoot of individuals’ concern about how others react to them. It was Cooley (1902) who introduced the concept of the looking-glass self, being the individuals’ perception of themselves the way others perceive them (Epstein 1973). George Mead (1934) extended this idea with the concept of the generalized other. By incorporating estimates of how the ‘generalized other’ would respond to certain actions, the individual acquires a source of internal regulation that serves to guide and stabilize his behavior in the absence of external pressures. According to Mead there are as many selves as there are social selves. (Epstein 1973: 406)

(3) Ever since the 1980s and 1990s the concept of narrative has emerged as a root metaphor of the self (Bruner 1990). The distinction between I and Me and the social self was translated into a narrative framework. The I is the author of the self-narrative, and the Me is the actor or other characters in the story (Hermans and Hermans-Janssen 2001). Narratives are created to meet the demands of social roles and historical-cultural settings; they force us to ask about their audience and how their construction seeks to answer problems raised by the various subgroups to which we belong (Singer 2004: 444). Self-narratives incorporate the reconstructed past and the imagined future into a more or less coherent whole in order to give the person’s life some degree of unity, purpose and meaning (McAdams and Pals 2006: 209). A narrative approach to the self suggests that human beings construe their own lives as ongoing stories. These life stories help to shape behavior, establish identity, have an impact on the person’s wellbeing and growth, and help to integrate people in social life. (4) In the creation of a life story two processes merge: narrative processing and autobiographical reasoning (Singer 2004). Narrative processing is an

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account of past events ranging from brief anecdotes to fully developed autobiographies. “These accounts rely on vivid imagery, familiar plot structures and archetypal characters and are often linked to predominant cultural themes and plots” (Singer and Bluck 2001: 92). An example of a plot structure in religion is conversion: “I did not live according to my true self, but now I realize what my true self is.” In narrative processing sequences of events are linked together on the basis of some plot. Autobiographical reasoning refers to the process of making sense of the narrative account of life events: what kind of unity emerges from the story of my life? The accumulating knowledge that emerges from reasoning about our narrative memories yields a life story schema that provides causal, temporal, and thematic coherence to an overall sense of identity. (Singer 2004: 442)

There is no autobiographical reasoning without narrative processing: the memory of persons (e.g., adherents of a religion) follows familiar plot trajectories. But autobiographical reasoning is more than narrative processing. Thus it includes the capacity to extract meaning from life narratives. (5) Persons can be seen as motivated storytellers (Hermans and HermansJanssen 2001). What motivates them to tell the story of their own life? What unites modern personality psychologists is the fact that they reject a reductionist theory of motivation, which is characteristic of authors like Freud, Jung, Adler, and Maslow (Singer 2004: 439). They repudiate the idea that all self-narratives reflect one or two basic conflicts or themes which function as organizing principles. Modern research into the self as storyteller focuses on the way narratives emerge from complex influences arising from specific cultural and historical matrices. Some authors in this field (e.g. McAdams 1990; H. Hermans 2001) mention a core theme in narrative identity, namely autonomy (agency) versus relationship (communion). But they are careful not to make universal claims for these motives. Openness to contextual construction or organizing themes makes it possible for scholars working from a feminist perspective (e.g. Buitelaar 2006) to use this narrative framework without being pushed into some universalist framework. (6) In a narrative one hears different I-positions. There is no omniscient author in a self-narrative. The Dutch psychologist Bert Hermans (2001) calls this the dialogic or polyphonic self. The I has the possibility to move, as in space, from one position to the other in accordance with changes in situation and time. (…) The I has the capacity to

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imaginatively endow each position with a voice so that dialogical relations between positions can be established. The voices function like interacting characters in a story. Each character has a story to tell about experiences from its own stance. As different voices these characters exchange information about their respective Me(s) and their worlds, resulting in a complex narratively structured self (Hermans, Kempen, and Van Loon 1992: 28–29)

In a religious self-narrative one may hear different voices: the voice of strong belief in God, but also a voice of disbelief and maybe anger, anxiety, hope, struggle. The different voices can be more of less engaged in a process of positioning and repositioning. Some voices may be more dominant in a life narrative than others. What should be noted is that in self-narratives instability, inconsistency and incoherence can be fertile sources of finding meaning in one’s own life. (7) Researchers who are familiar with advances in the cognitive sciences discern different processes in the formation of self-narratives (Singer 2004: 440). They hold that autobiographical reasoning uses different modes of information processing, operating according to different rules. One scholar who explores this idea is Seymour Epstein (1973; 1990; 1997) with his cognitive-experiential self-theory (CEST). According to CEST there are two conceptual systems in terms of which people process their identity, namely the rational and the experiential system. The rational system operates predominantly at the conscious level, where it functions according to socially prescribed roles of communication and inference. (Epstein 1990: 167) The experiential system is preconscious, automatic, concretive, holistic, intimately linked with emotions. (Epstein 1997: 21)

Each system has advantages and disadvantages. The rational system is better suited to analytic reasoning, controlling our thoughts consciously, justification via logic and evidence, and consideration of long-term consequences. However, it is apt to overlook significant data sources such as the emotional consequences of a decision. The experiential system works with a self-evident logic: “experiencing is believing”. The experiential system is oriented to rapid processing of data, encodes reality in concrete images, metaphors and narratives of (life) events and stores memory in associations based on emotions. The rational and experiential systems are independent but are capable of influencing each other. For example when the rational system influences the experiential system by way of reflections on experiences. When one system is not recognized, it can still have influence on the other system, for example behavior becomes ‘unreasonable’ from the point

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of view of the rational system because emotional knowledge connected to past experiences is neglected. According to CEST, repression simply removes awareness of past experiences from the rational conscious system. As a result, it is governed by the rules of the untempered experiential system. (Epstein 1990: 171)

(8) What is the content of religion in self-narratives? In the introduction to this section I said that narration of the self is oriented to human fullness (cf. Taylor 2007; Ward 2004). This links up with Epstein’s idea that it is part of human nature to make connections between life events. Through these connections people create a narrative plot which helps them to understand what is happening and gives meaning to life. The narrative plot takes the moral/spiritual form of a conception of reality aimed at human fullness. According to Epstein (1997) such a conception contains descriptive and prescriptive beliefs about reality. Descriptive beliefs are beliefs about the person’s nature (e.g., “I am a believer”), the nature of the world (e.g., “God created the world”) and the relation between self and world (e.g., “With God’s help I can change the world”). Prescriptive (or motivational) beliefs are broad generalizations to fulfill one’s desires and avoid what one fears (Epstein 1997; Silberman 2005b). Prescriptive beliefs derive primarily from emotionally significant experiences and are therefore emotionally charged (Epstein 1990: 166). They orient people to their future survival (tomorrow and beyond). There are three types of prescriptive beliefs: actions, emotions and goals: What should I do in order to survive (e.g., “which religious practices help me to gain salvation?”)? Which emotions are helpful in a certain situation (e.g., “which feelings strengthen my sense of being on the way to salvation?”)? What kind of (life)goals should I pursue (e.g., “what goals in life are connected to the good life?”)? Goals, actions and emotions are associated with costs and benefits (Higgens 2000). 2. A Pragmatic Notion of Weak Rationality Self-narratives reflect a psychological process of self-knowledge that is full of change, complexity and different I-positions, with few, if any, universal claims and marked by dual processing that is not always synchronized. If this is the case, what does it mean for scientific theories built on the study of self-narratives in religion? What distinguishes true knowledge about selfnarratives from false knowledge? When is scientific knowledge about the self-narratives of religious persons justified? Justification of knowledge is an epistemological problem, which I view from a pragmatist perspective.

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Pragmatism is a label for many schools concerned with post-foundational knowledge (Rockmore 2002: 50). I think this is a very fruitful perspective on our research object (self-narratives of religious persons), because pragmatists look for practical knowledge and are suspicious of all forms of speculative knowledge. 2.1. All Knowledge Is Fallible According to Aboulafia (2002: 5) pragmatism is “the philosophy that has an aversion to all forms of absolute certainty. Fallibilism is its totem.” The question of foundation takes many different forms in philosophy, whether it consists of sense impressions, matters of fact, a priori truths or whatever. “In such diverse philosophic positions as rationalism and empiricism, there is an underlying conviction that there is such a rock bottom foundation” (Bernstein 1971: 174). All pragmatists share this epistemological critique, although not all share the same view of what criteria should be applied to build knowledge (see Rockmore 2002). I will follow the critique formulated by Peirce in a famous series of articles in 1868 in the Journal of Speculative Philosophy (Peirce CP V: 213–258). In the first article his objective is to show that there is no intuitive knowledge. An intuition claims to be infallible because its origin is outside the act of knowing. What is right in the foundational metaphor is that all cognition starts with pre-existent knowledge. Peirce credits Aristotle with the insight that there must be certain first principles of knowledge, because there must have been a beginning to the process of reasoning and this beginning must be a general principle (Peirce CP II: 27). But this logical starting point of knowledge need not be grasped directly by some intuitive faculty. Our claims to knowledge are legitimized not by their origins—for the origins of knowledge are diverse and fallible—but rather by the norms and rules of inquiry itself. (Bernstein 1971: 175)

All knowledge is fallible, which is an essential characteristic rather than a sign of weakness. Every knowledge claim is open to interpretation and public debate. Through inquiry as a self-corrective process our knowledge can be tested and revised. 2.2. True Knowledge in Self-Narratives Religious self-narratives contain all kinds of beliefs which a person considers to be true. These beliefs construct some idea of moral/spiritual fullness anchored in a power beyond or within human reality. What is the truth

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claim of people’s beliefs? Are those beliefs nothing but constructions in their minds? Is all knowledge about the self in narratives relative, as claimed by constructionist epistemology (Hacking 1999)? In contrast to constructionist epistemology, pragmatists (sensu Peirce) avoid relativism. According to Peirce (2002) the function of thinking is to generate “habits of action”. The meaning of an idea can be discovered by determining what pattern of action it is likely to promote. In pragmatist epistemology the truth of a pattern of action (belief) hinges on two questions, both relating to the cause of the behavior. The first question concerns the link between the stimulus to act and a perception. The second relates to the purpose of the action, namely the achievement of a carefully considered effect. This leads to the following rule for truth claims: Consider what effect, which might conceivably have practical bearings, we conceive the object of our conception to have. Then, our conception of these effects is the whole of our conception of the object. (Peirce 2001: 202)

Put differently, there are two conditions for verifying a behavioral pattern: it must be real and it must be practical (Peirce 2001: 201). In the case of religious narrative it is important to include the possible in what we call ‘real’. In self-narratives life events are interpreted as oriented to moral/spiritual fullness. For example, the search for immortality is conceived of as acts of compassion toward others or sustenance of nature by learning to live in harmony with all living creatures. What we call real is not just something that did happen but also that could possibly happen. According to Peirce (CP 5: 472) possibility is real when it expresses something to be what the proposition expresses. The possible is not just a wild guess but a conjecture based on acceptance of conditional propositions along with the hypothetical antecedents in which such resolutions consist. This makes it reasonable to engage in conduct that depends on the possibility ‘being true’. The possible must be capable of being true in the way stipulated in the propositions. For example, a woman has the (prescriptive) belief that acts of compassion accord with God’s will. On the strength of this belief her life is based on the possibility of being granted immorality. This conception of human fullness motivates her to engage in acts of compassion. The knowledge offered by self-narratives is justified, true belief from a pragmatic point of view if, and only if, people live according to their conception of human fullness. Reality therefore also includes the modality of possibility. Hence Peirce (CP V:438) rephrases the pragmatic maxim as follows: The entire intellectual purport of any symbol consists in the total of all general modes of rational conduct which, conditional upon all the possible

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different circumstances and desires, would ensue upon the acceptance of the symbol.

2.3. Reality, Truth and Community of Inquiry Fallibilism does not abandon the concept of truth. It does not, however, lay claim to absolute truth but only to truth reached in the long run by a community of inquiry. In scientific inquiry we need to connect the notions of truth and reality. Truth refers to cognitions about the real. If nothing in reality refers to our cognitions, there is no escape into relativism or, as Peirce (CP V: 311) puts it, “the vagaries of me and you”. Truth, on the other hand, is what is destined to be agreed upon by the community of investigators in the long run (Potter 1996: 109). Truth is what a community affirms and reaffirms over time. We need not already know the truth about reality; we need only know it in the long run. Peirce rejects the idea that there can be a reality which is incognizable. A proposition that can never be falsified contains no error, for how could this error be established? That is why Peirce holds that reality and truth are two connected, even interchangeable terms. But truth and reality suppose the notion of community without definite limits, capable of a definite increase of knowledge (Peirce CP V: 311). 2.4. Weak Rationality All scientific knowledge is fallible: there are no absolute truth claims. All claims about reality are weak, in the sense that every judgment is made in the context of an epistemic community, based on arguments and ideas which are accepted in that community. An epistemic community can be understood as a conversational context for justifying beliefs, ideas and viewpoints. According to Stout (2004: 235) this implies three things: (a) the conversational context determines what sort of information is required to count as a justification; (b) the conversational context determines the audience of the justification process; and (c) the success of the justification can only be appraised in relation to that audience. All justification is tied to a conversational context and the audience which accepts or rejects the justification of certain beliefs or ideas. This audience is always limited to the class of people who understand the vocabulary in which the justification is cast and have mastered the patterns of reasoning

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required to follow it. We need to broaden this limited audience, because we are aware that our knowledge is fallible, so we should extend our individual judgment or evaluation to communal evaluation and to trans-communal evaluation (Van Huyssteen 1999: 265). But this does not imply including all rational agents in all contexts regardless of time and place. Such a demand would make it impossible to determine the success of our justifications. Our justifications are fallible and we should not require them to be infallible, because they are not. Justifications are successful if they eliminate relevant reasons for doubting. The reasons future generations might have for doubting, being necessarily unknown to us, hardly count as relevant in our context. (Stout 2004: 236–237)

We need to seek ever wider audiences for justification of our claims, but this will always be tied to the discursive practices of epistemic communities which we have learnt to understand and are committed to. 2.5. Theology and Religious Study Should there be different epistemologies for theology and religious studies (social sciences) in the self-narratives of religious people? There is no reason why this should be the case unless one chooses to dispense with the principle of fallibilism and opts for some kind of foundationalism. Is there no difference, then, between Christian theology and religious studies? There is a difference, relating to the epistemic community in which the process of justification takes place. Theological theory building has the scientific forum of scholars studying a specific religious (e.g., Christian) community as an audience for justification. To avoid misunderstanding, theological concepts are second order discourse based on the first order discourse of self-narratives of religious people. The first order discourse is the context of discovery; the second order discourse in the scientific community is the context of justification. Religious studies has a different audience for justification. In religious studies one tries to build theories of religion in general—in other words, concepts and theories in religious studies (including anthropology) need to be justified to an academic audience which studies diverse religious traditions. The categories used in interpreting reality should fit different religious traditions. According to the notion of weak rationality there is only a gradual (not an absolute) difference between theology and religious studies. The concepts of religious studies, too, are fallible and need to be tested in the study of different religious traditions. Thus the conversational contexts in religious studies need to be

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sufficiently broad to allow the study of different religious traditions (in different temporal and spatial contexts). More generally, scientific theories in religious studies can have three advantages in terms of their diachronic (e.g., width), synchronic (e.g., breadth) and abstraction (e.g., height) levels (see Van der Ven 2010: 12–113). I stress that they can but do not necessarily have these advantages. At the same time theological theories can also have a level of abstraction (e.g., breadth) which makes them fit for comparative research beyond the tradition in which the theory was developed (context of discovery) and tested in empirical research (context of justification). But theological theory of self-narratives also has an advantage. Theological theory is couched in terms of the knowledge base of the epistemic community that it studies. For example, it presupposes some understanding of categories in which a specific religion frames its ideas about God. This means that theories of religion can really take into account the notions of the tradition under investigation. At the same time the ideas of such traditions have to be rendered fit for public debate as assumed in our concept of weak rationality (Anderson 1998). This requires accepting that our knowledge is fallible and entering into conversation with other epistemic communities in order to justify the theories we develop from empirical research into the self-narratives of persons belonging to a certain tradition. 3. The Study of Self-Narratives according to a Weak Rationality Where does a pragmatic epistemology bring us in the narrative study of religion? How do we build a scientific theory of religious people’s self-narratives based on a pragmatic epistemology? This section describes the type of inquiry into religion entailed by this epistemology, as well as the type of rationality, knowledge, theoretical reasoning and methodology. In order to position this type of inquiry, table 1 contrasts it with theory building based on other epistemologies. I do not elaborate on other types of knowledge claims (see Cresswell 2003; Verschuren 2009). Apart from pragmatism, I consider foundationalism, (post-)positivism and constructionism as dominant epistemological claims to scientific knowledge.

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Table 1: Different epistemological knowledge claims in the study of religious selfnarratives theories of knowledge (epistemologies) Foundationalism (Post-)positivism Constructionism Pragmatism 1. Type of theory

In religion

Of religion

Based on religion

2. Type of Foundationalism Strong rationality Relativism Rationality (traditionalism) (fallibilism)

Weak rationality

Context of discovery 3. Type of Normative knowledge Hermeneutic

4. Type of reasoning

About religion

Context of justification

Context of discovery

Discovery & justification

Reductive

Holistic

Consequential

Objective

Contextual

Problem solving

Universal

General, abstract Unique

General and diverse

Deductive (from first principles)

Hypotheticdeductive

Inductive/ deductive

5. MethSpeculative odology (beyond incar(= research nated minds) strategies) Analytic

Inductive

Quantitative: Qualitative: from concepts to narratives minds as unique expressions

Qualitative: connecting narratives to general categories

Explanatory

Understanding & classifying

Understanding (Verstehen)

(1) In terms of a pragmatic epistemology the type of theory of religious persons’ self-narratives can be characterized as theory based on religion. Narrative theory is well informed by the self-narratives which it studies and the religious traditions involved in those narratives. Well informed implies that we consider the beliefs professed in the self-narratives to be justified beliefs expressing truth claims that people are willing to act upon. Our theory is informed by the justified beliefs of believers, but it is not a reproduction of the beliefs in the self-narratives. Scientific concepts are framed in the conceptual schemes of a scientific (epistemic) community which have to withstand the test of falsification in empirical research. For example, a narrative interview can report a person’s ultimate life goals that are anchored in God who calls them to act in a certain way. This belief needs to relate to life choices which the person recounts as well as intentions (including emotions) leading to these choices. A researcher will try to falsify the beliefs reported in the self-narrative to determine if they are really justified. We don’t take the truth claims of the story teller for granted but test them for coherence and consistency with the actions that the persons reports. At the same time our theories want to reflect the interpretations of the reported

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beliefs in terms of human fullness in a moral and spiritual sense. This is what I mean by theory based on religion: our theories reflect human selfinterpretations of their life oriented to human fullness couched in scientific concepts. These concepts stand the test of falsification and are an abstraction of the concrete self-narrative by expressing notions that can be ‘transferred’ to other self-narratives. This differs from theory building in religion, which is essentially the same as “religion-in-the-making” (Strenski, quoted in Cady 2002). It assumes that there is some special, intuitive or privileged knowledge in a religion which cannot be challenged or be the object of methodological testing. This position cannot do justice to the principle of fallibilism. The opposite position is theory building about religion, which regards religious beliefs in self-narratives as informants to produce data for theory building (McCutcheon 2003: 14): We study how it is that they believe and behave, and, having gathered this descriptive information, we go on to theorize as to why it is that they believe and behave as they do.

This position is weak in accounting for the specific type of moral and spiritual interpretation in self-narratives. Theory of religion is a position which rejects a clear distinction between the self-narrative (inside-perspective) and an outside observer or interpreter of this self-narrative without accepting the idea of some privileged knowledge of truth as in the first position of theory in religion. In and through self-narratives a person creates a belief about the self and reality, which is the whole of our scientific understanding of religion. There is no outside position testing (or, better, falsification) of truth claims (Tromp 2011: 75). (2) The type of rationality on which we build our theory is weak rationality. Weak rationality accepts that we allow for the knowledge base of our epistemic community in our conversation about religion(s). At the same time it accepts the principle of fallibilism, which demands justifying our knowledge (theoretical concepts) by giving reasons for accepting them. Justification depends on rules and norms of inquiry, not on the schemes we had at the start of our research. We try to eliminate relevant reasons for doubting P (where P is a certain proposition about religious self-narratives). Justification is never complete: it ends when we have eliminated reasons for doubt in a community of inquiry. (3) What type of knowledge is produced by scientific inquiry? We can characterize it as consequential knowledge. The meaning of an idea can be

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discovered by determining what pattern of action it is likely to promote. What we seek to understand is the human actor who constructs life narratives that orient her life (not ideas in the minds of epistemic subjects). There are two conditions for verifying a behavioral pattern: it must be tangible (referring to a perception of a situation) and it must be practical (referring to life goals or an intended effect of our actions). In self-narratives perceptions refer to important life situations (interpreted as existential heights or depths) and life goals refer to concerns which function as personal strivings. The type of knowledge is a kind of problem solving. Self-narratives incorporate the reconstructed past and the imagined future into a more or less coherent whole in order to provide the person’s life with some degree of unity, purpose and meaning. This unity or meaning is not something which narrators can ‘read’ from their lives, but depends on some kind of analysis and evaluation of that life. Autobiographical reasoning can be seen as a kind of problem solving, the problem being defined as the relation between the actual and the desired state of affairs (Verschuren 2008). A last characteristic of the type of knowledge produced in scientific inquiry is the combination of categories (conceptual schemes) that are peculiar to a certain class of narrators (within a certain tradition, and marked by other characteristics such as gender, education and ethnicity) while at the same time allowing for variation (particularity). For example, one constructs a typology of self-narratives or looks for characteristic distinctions between self-narratives. (4) The type of reasoning operating between theory and data (seen as evidence of some theory) is both deductive and inductive. In deductive reasoning, researchers formulate an analytic framework (i.e. a premise cluster A, B, C and some hypothesis H). The analytic framework gives them a clear idea of the cases they want to study and what is of interest in these cases (i.e., phenomena are seen as instances of cases). In inductive reasoning the researcher is open to different configurations of cases which can explain differences in outcomes. These different configurations presuppose inductive reasoning—they can never be defined by deductive reasoning; classification is the result of deductive reasoning. (5) The methodology of narrative inquiry is qualitative but with a strong conceptual background. The Nijmegen methodologist Verschuren (2009) makes a distinction between Q-type and q-type (with a lower case q) methodology. In a Q-type methodology the researcher starts with no assumptions about the self-narratives which are studied. In a q-type methodology the researcher has some general categories in mind while collecting narratives.

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This implies research strategies in which the researcher combines open interview techniques with a structure of questioning related to theoretical notions about religious self-narratives (e.g., qualitative surveys and case studies). One can characterize a q-type methodology as connecting narratives to general categories. The two founding fathers of grounded theory (Glaser and Strauss) went different ways in the 1990s. Glaser advocated a Q-type methodology, Strauss a q-type. A q-type methodology combines understanding (Verstehen), which presupposes a participant perspective, with classifying, which presupposes a spectator’s perspective. Classification is not the same as in a quantitative methodology, where the concepts are predefined and applied to subjects in a linear process (one can call this process concepts in search of minds, understood as ‘carriers of these concepts’). There is a two-way process or iterative trajectory between narratives and classifications. We both try to understand religious self-narratives and connect our understanding with theoretical categories which can be used to classify them (see also Hermans 2009). References Aboulafia, M., “Introduction.” Pp. 1–14 in Habermas and Pragmatism. Edited by M. Aboulafia, M. Bookman, and C. Kemp. London: Routledge, 2002. Anderson, V., Pragmatic Theology. Negotiating the Intersections of an American Philosophy of Religion and Public Theology. Albany: University of New York Press, 1998. Bernstein, R., Praxis and Action. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1971. Bruner, J., Acts of Meaning. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1990. Buitelaar, M., “I am the Ultimate Challenge. Intersectionality in the Life-Story of a Well-Known Daughter of Moroccan Migrant Workers in the Netherlands,” European Journal of Woman’s Studies 13/3 (2006): 259–276. Cady, L.E., “Territorial Disputes. Religious Studies and Theology in Transition.” Pp. 110–125 in Religious Studies, Theology, and the University. Conflicting Maps, Changing Terrain. Edited by L.E. Cady and D. Brown. New York: State University of New York Press, 2002. Cresswell, J.W., Research Design. Qualitative, Quantitative and Mixed Methods Approaches. Thousand Oaks: Sage, 2003. Cooley, Ch.H., Human Nature and Social Order. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 1983. Originally published 1902. Epstein, S., “The Self-Concept Revisited. Or, a Theory of a Theory,” American Psychologist 28/5 (1973): 404–416. ———, “Cognitive-Experiential Self-Theory.” Pp. 165–192 in Handbook of Personality. Theory and Research. Edited by L.A. Parvin. New York: The Guilford Press, 1990. ———, “This I Have Learned over 40 Years of Personality Research,” Journal of Personality 65/1 (1997): 3–32.

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Hacking, I., The Social Construction of What? Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1999. Hauerwas, S., and G. Jones, Why Narrative? Readings in Narrative Theology. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock Publishers, 1997. Hermans, C.A.M., “Epistemological Reflections on the Connection between Ideas and Data in Empirical Research into Religion.” Pp. 73–100 in Empirical Theology in Text and Tables. Qualitative, Quantitative and Comparative Perspectives. Edited by L.J. Francis, M. Robbins, and J. Astley. Leiden: Brill, 2009. Hermans, H.J.M., “Conceptions of the Self and Identity. Towards a Dialogical View,” International Journal of Education and Religion 2/1 (2001): 43–62. Hermans, H.J.M., and E. Hermans-Janssen, Self-Narratives. The Construction of Meaning in Psychotherapy. New York: The Guilford Press, 1995. Hermans, H.J.M., and E. Hermans-Janssen, “Dialogical Process and the Development of the Self.” Pp. 534–559 in Handbook of Developmental Psychology. Edited by J. Valsiner and K.J. Connolly. London: Sage, 2001. Hermans, H.J.M., H.J.G. Kempen, and R. Van Loon, “The Dialogical Self: Beyond Individualism and Rationalism,” American Psychologist 47 (1992): 23–33. Higgins, E.T., “Social Cognition. Learning about What Matters in the Social World,” European Journal of Social Psychology 30 (2000): 3–39. McAdams, D.P., The Person. A New Introduction to Personality Psychology. 4th edition. New York: John Wiley, 2006. McAdams, D.P., and J.L. Pals, “Fundamental Principles for an Integrative Science of Personality,” American Psychologist 61/3 (2006): 204–217. Mead, G.H., Mind, Self, and Society. From the Standpoint of a Social Behaviorist. Edited by Ch.W. Morris. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1934. Parker, K.A., The Continuity of Peirce’s Thought. Nashville: Vanderbilt UP, 1998. Peirce, C.S., The Essential Peirce. Volume 2 (1893–1913). Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998. ———, Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce. [abbreviated as CP]. Edited by Ch. Hartshorne, P. Weiss, and A.W. Burks. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1935– 1966. ———, “How to Make Our Ideas Clear.” Pp. 193–209 in The Nature of Truth. Edited by M.P. Lynch. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001. Potter, V.G., Peirce’s Philosophical Perspectives. New York: Fordham University Press, 1996. Ricoeur, P., Oneself as Another. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. Transl. K. Blamey. Rockmore, T., “The Epistemological Promise of Pragmatism.” Pp. 47–64 in Habermas and Pragmatism. Edited by M. Aboulafi, M. Bookman, and C. Kemp. London: Routledge, 2002. Singer, J.A., “Narrative Identity and Meaning Making Across the Adult Lifespan. An Introduction,” Journal of Personality 72/3 (2004): 437–459. ———, Memories that Matter. How to Use Self-Defining Memories to Understand and Change Your Life. Oakland: New Harbinger Publications, 2005. Singer, J.A., and S. Bluck, “New Perspectives on Autobiographical Memory. The Integration of Narrative Processing and Autobiographical Reasoning,” Review of General Psychology 5/2 (2001): 91–99. Silberman, I., “Religion as Meaning-System. Implications for Individual and Societal

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Well-Being,” Psychology of Religion Newsletter: American Psychological Association Division 30/2 (2005a): 1–9. ———, “Religion as Meaning-System. Implications for the New Millennium,” Journal of Social Issues 61/4 (2005b): 641–663. Silberman, I., E.T. Higgens, and C.S. Dweck, “Religion and World Change. Violence and Terrorism versus Peace,” Journal of Social Issues 61/4 (2005): 761–784. Sointu, E., and L. Woodhead, “Spirituality, Gender, and Expressive Selfhood,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 47/2 (2008): 259–276. Stout, J., Democracy and Tradition. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2004. Taves, A., Religious Experience Reconsidered. A Building Block Approach to the Study of Religion and Other Special Things. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2009. Taylor, C., A Secular Age. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard UP, 2007. Tromp, T., Het verleden als uitdaging. [The Past as Challenge]. Een onderzoek naar de effecten van life review op de constructie van zin in levensverhalen van ouderen. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 2011. van der Ven, J.A., Human Rights or Religious Rules? Leiden: Brill, 2010. van Huyssteen, J.W., The Shaping of Rationality. Towards Interdisciplinarity in Theology and Science. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999. Verschuren, P., Probleemanalyse in organisatie- en beleidsonderzoek. [Problem Analysis in Organizational- and Policy-Research]. Amsterdam: Boom, 2008. ———, Praktijkgericht onderzoek. Ontwerp van organisatie- en beleidsonderzoek. [Practice Oriented Research. Design of Organizational- and Policy-Research]. Amsterdam: Boom, 2009. Ward, K., The Case for Religion. Oxford: Oneworld, 2004. Young, K.-T., and J.L. Martin, “The Looking Glass Self. An Empirical Test and Elaboration,” Social Forces 81/3 (2003): 843–879.

BIBLICAL STUDIES

A SHORT STORY OF NARRATOLOGY IN BIBLICAL STUDIES*

Dorothea Erbele-Küster

Im Idealfall sollten die Strukturen des Erlebens sich mit den Strukturen des Erzählens decken. Dies wäre, was angestrebt wird: phantastische Genauigkeit. Aber es gibt die Technik nicht, die es gestatten würde, ein unglaublich verfilztes Geflecht, dessen Fäden nach den strengsten Gesetzen ineinandergeflochten sind, in die lineare Sprache zu übertragen, ohne es ernstlich zu verletzen. – Christa Wolf, Kindheitsmuster (München: Luchterhand, 21999: 396).

The concept of narrativity refers to the fact that we live our lives by stories, while conversely, stories are capable of engaging us to the point of making us feel part of them. Therefore the narrative structure of any story is more than just a quality of the text, it is an anthropological reality. Telling stories is crucial to the way we open up our world. Stories not only allow us to put our own experiences into words, to sort and interpret them, they also enable us to take part in other worlds, even to project alternative realities. To read or to tell a story is to participate in multiple worlds: The place of reading is a kind of yonder world, a place that is neither here nor there, but made up of the bits and pieces of experience in every sense, both real and fictional […] (Hustvedt 2006: 35)

It is the dynamics of narrativity which produces narratives, transforming the stories we live into the stories we tell and vice versa. Narratology, for its part, explores and uncovers this mechanism. Since the 1970’s a set of narratological tools has been developed to analyze the way a story is told

* I am grateful to Arian Verheij for his assistance in telling this story in English and Yanghee Kim for her help with the bibliographical notes.

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by looking at the narrator, the action, the protagonists, as well as the story’s setting in time and space. 1. Narratology in Biblical Studies The concept of narrativity (narrativité) originates in French structuralism, specifically in the literary criticism of the French-speaking scholarly world of the 1960’s. The term narratology was introduced in 1969 by Tzvetan Todorov in his Grammaire du Décaméron. Some ten years later it found its way into Anglo-Saxon discourse, which by that time had developed a Narrative Theory/Criticism of its own (Prince 2008: 19–27). Except for pioneering studies such as Narrative Art in Genesis by the Dutch biblical scholar Jan Fokkelman (1975), it was not until the 1980’s that narratology as a discipline was adopted in the study of the Hebrew Bible, as scholars became aware of the fact that large parts of the biblical tradition are indeed narratives. Some major introductory works were published, whose titles reveal a specific focus on the aesthetic, such as Robert Alter’s The Art of Biblical Narrative (1981), and Narrative Art in the Bible by Shimon Bar-Efrat (1989). This book, published in Hebrew in 1979, was translated into German in 2006 and into Dutch in 2009, which is a clear testimony to its continuing influence even after thirty years. Much research has since been conducted into the narrative structures of specific biblical books and passages.1 Also, biblical narratology has seen a strong methodological differentiation into disciplines such as semantics, (discourse) linguistics, and syntax—to the extent that nowadays there is in fact a strong need for an integration of these various approaches. Computerassisted text analysis is worth mentioning in this context. This technique allows us, for instance, to map the various syntactical constructions (Hardmeier 2003: 70–71, 106–107) of the backbone of biblical Hebrew narrative, the imperfect consecutive verb form or wayyiqtol. Outside biblical studies, the Israeli scholar Meir Sternberg has made use of biblical texts to develop his theory of literary criticism (Sternberg 1985). Conversely, the Dutch literary critic Mieke Bal has applied insights from general literary criticism to the interpretation of biblical texts from

1 This has resulted in an enormous amount of literature which cannot possibly be covered here in its entirety. For this, the reader is referred to the relevant bibliographical surveys. The present contribution just seeks to highlight the essentials of biblical narratology.

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a feminist perspective (Bal 1986; 2002). Feminist exegesis has made vital contributions to biblical narratology as it focuses on questions such as: in whose interest is this story told? How do the story’s plot and dialogue serve to constitute gender? Which voices do we hear and which voices are silenced (see below)? Naturally, the main emphasis here is on rhetorical analysis (Trible 1983; Fuchs 2000; Exum 1993). In view of all this, it is remarkable that the narratological approach has not got its rightful place in the general text books of biblical studies so far. We do have some specific introductions to this method, however, each with its own focus according to its language and tradition. In German, the Arbeitsbuch literaturwissenschaftliche Bibelauslegung by Helmut Utzschneider and Stefan Ark Nitsche establishes a link between literary and aesthetic analysis on the one hand and traditional biblical exegesis on the other (Utzschneider and Ark Nitsche 2001; Blum and Utzschneider 2006; Seybold 2005: 14–26). Characteristically, these authors discuss narratological analysis within the framework of well-established methods such as Gattungskritik and Formgeschichte. By contrast, Gérard Genette, Umberto Eco, and the aesthetics of reception provide the distinctly non-biblical theoretical framework in the French-language introduction Pour lire les récits bibliques (Marguerat and Bourquin 1998). The Dutch-speaking community has Vertelkunst in de bijbel (Fokkelman 1995), aiming at a general readership, as well as a methodological text book by Eep Talstra (2002; 1998: 1–41), which seeks to integrate several approaches into a reader-oriented analysis. However, the main emphasis in this book is on syntax, not on narratology as such. English introductions to the subject abound, as indicated above (Berlin 1983; Ska 1990; Gunn and Fewell 1993; Amit 2001; Fokkelman 2001). 2. The Narrativity of Biblical Texts In many of the studies on biblical narratology we find an analytical apparatus not unlike the one used in general literary criticism (Erbele-Küster 2010). There are three basic questions: a) who is telling the story, b) how is the story told, and c) what is it that is being told? The third question primarily concerns the narrative’s plot and its characters. Distinguishing ‘how’ (discourse) from ‘what’ (story), narratology makes us aware of what is crucial to the story as sequence of events (c), namely ‘how’ the story is told (b). In fact, these concepts help us read and write the (multiple) stories of our own lives. We will now concentrate on the narrator—who is telling the story (a) and how (b)—and thus on the perspective from which the story is told (Stanzel

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2001; Wénin 2008: 14–27). This is a profound and encompassing feature of the text, even of the act of narrating itself. In modern narratology, it is closely linked to the question of ‘how’ the story is told. If we are to understand narrativity, we must study the stylistics and linguistics of a particular text. Biblical narratives in general are told by an apparently omniscient narrator. The narrator’s voice is not one of the protagonists in the story (BarEfrat 1989: 17–23). He, or she, is external to the plot. Examples of this socalled ‘auctorial’ narration, where the narrator does not participate in the action, are Genesis 22 and Job 1–2, where we are even allowed a glimpse into God’s own ‘private’ sphere. In Genesis 22 the reader is informed by the narrator right at the start that God is going to put Abraham to the test. Still, the tension builds as the story unfolds, since Abraham himself is unaware of this. An interesting aspect of this is the way God is represented in biblical texts, for instance in the direct quotation of his words (Mirguet 2009). In Genesis 22, a story with several protagonists, the general perspective is that of the external narrator, who plays no role in the plot and is never identified. Still, within this auctorial narrative situation there are instances of internal focalization that enable us to share for a moment the perspective of one of the characters. A typical means to achieve this is the use of the interjection ‘behold! look!’ (hinneh) following a verb of perception, which arouses and focuses our interest (cf. Gen 22:1.10; 27:2.6), and makes us participate in a particular character’s world (Bar-Efrat 1989: 35–36). In Genesis 24:63, e.g., we find ourselves next to Isaac: And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide. And he lifted up his eyes, and saw, and behold (hinneh), the camels were coming. (cf. Judg 3:25 and 2Sam 18:24)

What we hear is the narrator’s voice. What we see, however, is what Isaac sees, as we share his particular perspective. In fact, the detached external perspective which seems so typical of biblical narratives is quite often interrupted. Not only does the narrative perspective shift from one protagonist to another from time to time, biblical texts also use subtle clues to guide our interpretation, such as evaluative wording, for instance in the introduction of protagonists (Abigail as a wise and beautiful woman in 1Sam 25:3, David as a handsome young man in 1 Sam 9:2). Moreover, the designation of the participants in a narrative depends to some extent on the internal perspective the narrator is taking and sharing with the readers. The wording of the dialogue is crucial here. For instance,

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in the story on the maid Hagar bearing a child for Abram and Sarai, Abram consistently refers to Hagar as “your (i.e., Sarai’s) maid” (Gen 16:6). Neither Sarai nor Abram ever mention Hagar’s name. Apart from the narrator, the angel of God is the only one to do so (Gen 16:8). Dialogue generally is an important way of presenting the protagonists in any narrative (Bar-Efrat 1989: 64–77). One of the main narratological questions, therefore, is: who is talking? Or, conversely: who is it whose voice we do not hear? Specifically, direct speech, which is the Hebrew Bible’s preferred form of representing dialogue (Alter 1981: 67–69), allows the reader to take varying internal focalizations, through its one-to-one representation which establishes a close connection between the character and the reader (Ska 2003: 41–72). In Genesis 16, it is not until she is addressed in the desert by the angel of God that Hagar actually speaks herself. It is not unusual for the development of a story to be driven by direct speech. Biblical texts often make use of contrastive dialogue like for example in IISam 13: Amnon addresses shortly his sister with the imperative “lie with me”— adding to them only one word, the thematically loaded ‘sister’.” (Alter 1981: 73)

Tamar’s response, by contrast, consists of an elaborate protestation. As we have seen, the reader may be steered through a story along several internal and external narrative perspectives. Some stories also contain interruptions such as the phrase “to this day” (Gen 19:37, 35:20; Jos 4:9; 2 Sam 18:18 etc.) which mark the distance between the world of the story and the world of the narrator: “The phrase ‘to this day’ refers to the narrator’s time and not to that when the events described took place. By mentioning their own period, narrators divert attention from the stratum of the narrated events to that of their own time” (Bar-Efrat 1989: 25). At the same time, such phrases establish a connection between the world of the text and the world of the reader. 3. Fiction and Identity Or si la raison d’être du roman est de tenir ‘le monde de la vie’ sous un éclairage perpétuel et de nous protéger contre ’l’oubli de l’être’, l’existence du roman n’est-elle pas aujourd’hui plus nécessaire que jamais? – Milan Kundera, L’art du roman. essai (Gallimard: Paris 1986: 29).

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3.1. Text and Reader Neither the structure of a given narrative text nor the act of reading that text implies absolute, objective data in and of themselves. That is why in most text books on narratology much attention is paid to the contexts not only of the story but of its reader (Marguerat 2003: 13–40; Amit 2001; Gunn and Fewell 1993) as well—a term which, methodologically, encompasses both the literary concept of the implicit reader and the actual empirical reader (Erbele-Küster 2001). Crucial characteristics of the latter are his or her sex, class, and race. The female readers foreclosed the maleness of biblical literature. Consequently “woman as reader of male-produced literature” analyzed the process of reading differently than her male counterparts (Bach 1990: 25–44). Actually, most biblical texts were not just produced by men. More importantly, from a female reader’s perspective, they also appear to serve male interests (androcentricity). Fokkelien van Dijk-Hemmes and Athalya Brenner (1996) have tried to detect female voices hidden in these male texts. Phyllis Trible (1983), for her part, in the feminist-rhetorical analysis of stories such as the repudiation of Hagar (Gen 16; 21) or the rape of Tamar (2 Sam 13), unequivocally, and understandably, designates them as “texts of terror”. In the narratives of Genesis, for instance, women readers of the so called First World have traditionally identified themselves with Sarai, as opposed to the male focus on Abraham. By contrast, a Third World reader of Genesis 16 and 21 such as Elsa Tamez from Costa Rica, finds herself best represented by Hagar, Sarai’s antagonist in the story, who mirrors her own experiences of oppression, based not only on her sex but also on her class and ethnicity. Tamez’s reading alerts Western readers to the implicit criticism of Sarai’s role that the text contains (Tamez 1983: 183–185). Post-colonial exegesis has provided yet another angle from which to critically examine the narrative perspectives of biblical narrative. Again, the reader’s context determines his or her reception of the text. Basic questions in this line of research are: “how does this text construct difference: is there dialogue and mutual interdependence, or condemnation and rejection of all that is foreign?” In fact, these questions include the gender issue: “does this text employ gender representations to construct relationships of subordination and domination?” (Dube 2000: 57). Musa Dube has coined the term Rahab’s Reading Prism to refer to this new reading strategy, which uncovers the colonial traits of texts and their common interpretations. The biblical figure of Rahab from Jericho (cf. Josh 2; 6) symbolizes the protest against the encroachment of her story by colonial powers.

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3.2. Fictionality and Aesthetics Narratology is aware of the contextual differences between individual narrative strategies. Therefore, it not only focuses on transcultural constants but also seeks to examine the narrative structures and conventions of specific communities, cultures and text corpora. In this respect, narratology has some ground in common with empirical disciplines such as cultural studies, historical criticism and reception criticism. Typical questions concern the contribution of biblical narratives to the material culture of a particular society. What traces did these stories leave behind? How is it that readers of the postmodern era are still able to identify with biblical texts that date back thousands of years? Biblical texts contain certain gaps (Leerstellen) that enable readers from varying social, cultural, and historical contexts to identify with them. The same function is fulfilled by the so-called ‘implicit reader’. Narrativity is, in fact, a multi-layered phenomenon, which opens up new possibilities of explaining why certain stories are ‘functioning’ in certain contexts while others are not (Rudrum 2008: 272). Disciplines such as narratology refrain from trying to read the biblical stories the way the original readership might have done. This is not just because they feel the historical distance makes such a reading heuristically impossible to achieve. Also, and more importantly, each context of reception is believed to actually require its own reading, while narratives, for their part, intrinsically aim at a continuous actualization. There is no such thing as one ultimate interpretation that would be valid once and for all. This is what Herman Gunkel realized as early as 1901, as he made the aesthetic appeal of a text the starting point of his exegesis: “[the folktale] is poetry by nature, its aim is to please, to uplift, to inspire, to affect” (Gunkel 1901: XVI). Efforts have been made, however, to explore the common ground between historical and aesthetic readings, for instance by the “aesthetics of reception” discipline (Dieckmann 2003; Klein 2002). Reading the biblical stories as narratives in the technical sense of the term implies taking into account the fact that the Bible is, in fact, literature, which in turn highlights the fictional character of these narratives. Now the term ‘fictional’ should not be understood in the sense of “unrealistic, not truthful” (Iser 1991). Fictionality is not about conveying fallacious images. It is rather a positive function of a text, as it opens up realms of experience. Nor is fictionality detrimental to the validity of biblical texts, as is suggested by some. On the contrary, the Bible’s literary character and its fictionality are crucial to its canonical status. It is their fictional and exemplary nature

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which has allowed biblical narratives to become normative. It is precisely through the gaps and intertextual references they contain, that the biblical texts have acquired their durable and canonical quality. So are these texts ‘true’? Narratology rejects the dichotomy between true and false, and claims that, yes, narratives are true in and of themselves, regardless of the accuracy of their historical accounts. As Jürgen Ebach puts it, “biblical narrative is never an eye-witness account, so how could we understand it if we read it merely as eye-witnesses?” (Ebach 1987: 69) A story’s truth is on a different level, it is inside the text, inherent to its narrative structure. A story’s truth is in its evocation of a world (an experience of truth) now and for the future. The biblical narrators make themselves accountable, not so much on whether their reports are historically accurate, but rather on whether the reader can commit herself to the story as it is told. Stories order and reorder our experience; that is to say they reveal the way things are in the real world […] Alternatively, stories may be thought to create the real world.” (Gunn and Fewell 1993: 1)

Thus, it is precisely the narrative character of a story which makes it possible for us to verify it, i.e., to re-live the experience it relates. 3.3. Ethics of Reading As narratology gained importance, biblical exegesis saw a paradigm shift, away from the direct moral application of the text, toward an ethical understanding of the act of reading itself. The new ‘ethics of reading’ realizes that multiple ethical perspectives are contained in the contradictions and gaps within narrative structures. The strangeness of these perspectives makes us aware of the ‘other’ and its fragility. Reading biblical stories thus becomes what might be called committed reading (Phillips and Fewell 1997: 1–21). As readers, which protagonists are we going to identify with in a particular story? There are multiple and often contradictory options from which we will choose depending on our situation. In fact, Genesis 16:6 uses an all too clear vocabulary to describe Sarai’s actions, as the narrator states that Sarai ‘oppressed’ her slave Hagar. It is no coincidence that the narrator puts the same Hebrew root in the angel’s mouth as he addresses Hagar later on in the desert. The angel’s assurance that “God has heard your oppression” (Gen 16:11) constitutes a serious criticism of Sarai’s attitude toward Hagar. Ethical awareness, then, arises through an exploration of the multiple points of identification that a story offers, and their discontinuities. Let us discuss one further example of this.

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History does not provide clear ethical rules but rather offers a wide range of courses of action. In the story of Genesis 38, Tamar, a childless widow, acts in a way which is as extraordinary as it is dangerous. Her aim is to get pregnant, more specifically to prevent the name of her late first husband Er, Judah’s eldest son, from being effaced. Judah for his part has seen his second son Onan die upon withholding from Tamar his semen, to which she was entitled under levirate law. In order to spare his youngest son the fate of his two brothers, Judah has sent Tamar away. The widow now positions herself at the side of a road which she knows her father-in-law is going to pass by, her face covered: “When Judah saw her, he thought her for a harlot … and said, ‘Here, let me sleep with you …’” (Gen 38:15–16, CJPS). Tamar becomes pregnant by Judah, who effectively had denied her a descendant, and she gives birth to twins. As Judah hears of her pregnancy, he first condemns her for her supposed harlotry, and sentences her to death (v. 24). But then, as Tamar has proved Judah’s own involvement, he declares: “She is more in the right than I am” (v. 26). Judah effectively switches categories here, as he no longer sees this case as a legal issue in terms of a person breaking a law. He recognizes the connection between the two of them, and relates his own position to Tamar’s, admitting that she has served the community far better than he has. This story, then, is most aptly characterized as ethical similitude (Krüger 1993). Narratives like this one show that morality is connected to a specific situation, and develops through the interaction of different characters. Dietrich and Mayordomo (2005: 179) claim, “since the act of reading comprises emotions as well, any reading of a text has ethical significance”. Taking this for granted, an analysis which uncovers the narrativity of biblical stories may contribute to the development of narrative ethics. Indeed, we should not ask in what way ethical concerns may advance literary theory, but conversely, “how do literary and historical questions advance our understanding of what’s at stake ethically in the reading and writing of the Bible?” (Phillips and Fewell 1997: 4) The interaction between text and reader is where such ethics originate. That is why there is a distinct ethical dimension to the re-telling of (biblical) stories (Zachery Newton 1995). A prominent example for this within the Bible itself is 2Samuel 12, where the prophet Nathan tells David a little story. This story acts like a mirror: as David identifies with one of its characters, a poor man to whom grave injustice is done by a rich man, he is forced—“you are that man!”, says Nathan—to acknowledge his own mistakes. However, biblical stories should not be reduced to moral exhortations. The narrative itself is the meaning, ethics and aesthetics are no

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separate paths toward an analysis of narrativity (Schüssler Fiorenza 1999). However, ethical rules or moral standards may be violated in stories. What is the ethical claim of these “texts of terror” (see above)? In response to this problem Cheryl Exum (1993: 170–201) distinguishes between the narrative as a literary reflection of (extra-literary) violence, and violence exerted by a text as such, where the text can become a lethal weapon in its own right. It is then up to narratological analysis to uncover these features in biblical stories. 3.4. Narrativity and Identity Narrativity enables us to understand ourselves in face of the text (Ricoeur 1994: 303). Telling stories, therefore, is an anthropological reality. It can even be considered a vital necessity. If an experience remains untold, we will not be able to relate to it, so in a sense we remain disconnected from ourselves. “I am the only one who escaped to tell you.” This is how each of the messengers in the story of Job concludes his report on yet another disaster befalling Job’s children and his property. The seemingly stereotyped formula is not just a literary device (Ebach 2007: 20–23). Here, like in other biblical narratives (such as Judg 3, 1Sam 22, and Ezek 24:26), the report of someone who escaped from harm is indeed crucial to the plot. This is an expression of the notion that people just have to tell their stories because they are who they are, escaped from harm. The anthropological dimension of (biblical) narratology finds expression in some of the major works on the subject (Bar-Efrat 1989: 141–196). An important element here is the concept of time, which is even the first notion to be discussed by Paul Ricoeur, as it is crucial not only to narratives but to human existence as such: time becomes human time to the extent that it is organized after the manner of a narrative; narrative, in turn, is meaningful to the extent that it portrays the features of temporal experience. (Ricoeur 1984: 3)

It is not just strictly narrative texts which demonstrate the role that narrativity plays in identity formation. Poems such as the Psalms or the Song of Songs have this dimension as well. Reading and praying these texts will affect any reader. Just like David, the prototypical reader, singer and author mentioned so often in the Book of Psalms, we are allowed through these texts to pray, to put into words our own experiences of anguish and joy, to find new orientations, indeed to tell and re-tell the stories of our lives (Erbele-Küster 2001).

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Conclusion Telling and re-telling provides the formless and void with structure and meaning. At the same time, the many stories we tell, far from consistent in themselves or with each other and showing anything but a clear order, reflect our conflicting human experiences. Likewise, the multiple biblical traditions and narratives testify to the fact that there is no such thing as one single history. It is narrativity which implicates us in the stories and makes us participate in them through the act of reading. The multiple possibilities of identification offered by the biblical texts are the seeds of narrative ethics. The gaps, contradictions, comments, and interruptions in the biblical stories invite the reader to an encounter with the Other—while foreclosing any once-and-for-all reading (Sternberg 1985: 441–515). References Alter, R., The Art of Biblical Narrative. New York: Basic Books, 1981. Amit, Y., Reading Biblical Narratives. Literary Criticism and the Hebrew Bible. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2001. Bach, A., “The Pleasure of her Text.” Pp. 25–44 in The Pleasure of Her Text. Feminist Readings of Biblical and Historical Texts. Edited by A. Bach. Philadelphia: Trinity Press, 1990. Bal, M., Femmes imaginaires. L’ancien testament au risque d’une critique. Utrecht: H&S Publishers/Paris: A.G. Nizet, 1986. ———, Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. Toronto/Buffalo/London: University of Toronto Press, 2002. Bar-Efrat, S., Narrative Art in the Bible. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Series 70. Sheffield: Almond Press, 1989. Berlin, A., Poetics and Interpretation of Biblical Narrative. Sheffield: Almond Press, 1983. Blum, E., and H. Utzschneider, Lesarten der Bibel. Beiträge zur Theorie der Exegese des Alten Testaments. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer Verlag, 2003. Brenner, A., and F. van Dijk-Hemmes, On Gendering Text. Female and Male Voices in the Hebrew Bible. Leiden: Brill, 1996. Dieckmann, D., Segen für Isaak. Eine rezeptionsästhetische Auslegung von Gen 26 und Kontexten. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 329. Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2003. Dietrich, W., and M. Mayordomo, Gewalt und Gewaltüberwindung in der Bibel. Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2005. Dube, M.W., Postcolonial Feminist Interpretation of the Bible. Louis, MO: Sant Chalice Press, 2000. Ebach, J., Kassandra und Jona. Gegen die Macht des Schicksals. Frankfurt: Athenäum, 1987. ———, Streiten mit Gott. Hiob Teil 1: Hiob 1–20. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2007.

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Erbele-Küster, D., Lesen als Akt des Betens. Eine Rezeptionsästhetik der Psalmen. Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament 87. NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchner Verlagshaus, 2001. Reprint with Wipf and Stock, 2012. ———, Art. Narrativität. Accessed March 10, 2010. http://www.bibelwissenschaft.de/ wibilex. Exum, C., Fragmented Women. Feminist (Sub)versions of Biblical Narratives. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Series 163). Sheffield: Sheffield Press, 1993. Fokkelman, J., Narrative Art in Genesis: Specimens of Stylistic and Structural Analysis. Assen/Amsterdam: Van Gorcum, 1975. ———, Reading Biblical Narrative. An Introductory Guide. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001. ———, Vertelkunst in de bijbel. Een handleiding bij literair lezen. Zoetermeer: Boekencentrum, 1995. Fuchs, E., Sexual Politics in the Biblical Narrative. Reading the Bible as a Woman. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, Supplement Series 310). Sheffield: Sheffield Press, 2000. Gunkel, H., Genesis, übersetzt und erklärt. Handkommentar zum Alten Testamen 1/1. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1901. Gunn, D.M., and D.N. Fewell, Narrative in the Hebrew Bible. Oxford: University Press, 1993. Hardmeier, C., Textwelten der Bibel entdecken. Grundlagen und Verfahren einer textpragmatischen Literaturwissenschaft der Bibel. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2003. Hustvedt, S., A Plea for Eros. London: Sceptre, 2006. Iser, W., Das Fiktive und das Imaginäre. Perspektiven literarischer Anthropologie. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1991. Klein, R.A., Leseprozess als Bedeutungswandel. Eine rezeptionsästhetische Erzähltextanalyse der Jakobserzählungen im Buch Genesis. Arbeiten zur Bibel und ihrer Geschichte 11. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2002. Krüger, T., “Genesis 38—ein Lehrstück alttesamentlicher Ethik.” Pp. 205–226 in Konsequente Traditionsgeschichte. (FS K. Baltzer; Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 126). Edited by R. Bartelmus, T. Krüger, and H. Utzschneide. Freiburg (Schweiz): Universitätsverlag/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993. Online: accessed January 10, 2010. http://www.theologie.uzh.ch/faecher/altes-testament/thomas -krueger/Krueger_1993_Gen_38.pdf. Marguerat, D., and Y. Bourquin, Pour lire les récits bibliques. Initiation à l’analyse narrative. Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 1998. Marguerat, D., “L’Exégèse Biblique à l’heure du lecteur.” Pp. 13–40 in La Bible en récits. Edited by D. Marguerat. Paris: Labor et Fides, 2003. Mirguet, F., La représentation du divin dans les récits du Pentateuque. médiations syntaxiques et narratives. Leiden: Brill, 2009. Phillips, G.A., and D.N. Fewell, “Ethics, Bible, Reading As If,” Semeia 77 (1997): 1–21. Prince, G., “Narrativehood, Narrativeness, Narrativity, Narratability.” Pp. 19–27 in Theorizing Narrativity. Narratologia 12. Edited by J. Pier and J.A.G. Landa. Berlin/ New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2008. Ricoeur, P., Lectures 3. Aux frontières de la philosophie. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1994.

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———, Time and Narrative. Volume 1. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1984. Transl. by K. MacLaughlin and D. Pellauer. Rudrum, D., “Narrativity und Performativity. From Cervantes to Star Trek.” Pp. 253– 276 in Theorizing Narrativity. Narratologia 12. Edited by J. Pier and J.A.G. Landa. Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2008. Schüssler Fiorenza, E., Rhetoric and Ethic. The Politics of Biblical Studies. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1999. Seybold, K., “Erzählen vom Erzählen. Beobachtungen zu einer biblischen Erzähltheorie,” Theologische Zeitschrift 61 (2005): 14–26. Ska, J.-L., ‘Our Fathers Have Told Us’. Introduction to the Analysis of Hebrew Narratives. Rome: Ed. Pontificio Instituto Biblico, 1990. ———, “Le livre de Ruth ou l’Art Narratif Biblique dans l’Ancien Testament.” Pp. 41– 72 in La Bible en récits. Edited by D. Marguerat. Paris: Labor et Fides, 2003. Stanzel, F.K., Theorie des Erzählens. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2001. Sternberg, M., The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985. Talstra, E., “From the Eclipse to the Art of Biblical Narrative. Reflections on Methods of Biblical Exegesis.” Pp. 1–41 in Perspectives in the Study of Old Testament & Early Judaism. Supplementum Vetus Testamentum LXXIII. Edited by F.G. Martinez and E. Noort. Leiden: Brill, 1998. ———, Oude en Nieuwe Lezers: Een inleiding in de methoden van uitleg van het Oude Testament. Kampen: Kok, 2002. Tamez, E., “Worship Service. This Hour of History.” Pp. 183–185 in Irruption of the Third World. Challenge to Theology. Edited by V. Fabella and S. Torres. New York: Orbis Books, 1983. Trible, P., Texts of Terror. Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1983. Utzschneider, H., and S. Ark Nitsche, Arbeitsbuch literaturwissenschaftliche Bibelauslegung. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlgshaus, 2001. Wénin, A., “Le “point de vue raconté”, une catégorie utile pour étudier les récits bibliques? L’exemple du meurtre d’Eglon par Ehud. (Jdc 3, 15–26a),” Zeitschrift für Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 120 (2008): 14–27. Zachary Newton, A., Narrative Ethics. Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press, 1995.

SARAMAGO’S RESHAPING OF CAIN AND GOD. A STUDY IN CHARACTERIZATION AND INTERTEXTUALITY

Wim J.C. Weren In two of his novels, the Portuguese writer José Saramago (1922–2010) criticized Jewish and Christian religious ideas. He did so—often quite brilliantly—by retelling and reimagining old stories from the Bible. He first used this device in The Gospel According to Jesus Christ from 1991, in which he presented Jesus as the victim of God’s ruthless plan to dominate the world and to plunge the whole of humankind into perdition (Weren 1999: 234–241). In his final novel Cain, Saramago focused on Old Testament stories, taking the story of Cain and Abel as a point of departure (Gen 4:1–16). A peculiarity of Saramago’s style is that he does not capitalize names (e.g., cain, abel, god, etc.). The dynamic relationship between the modern novel of Cain and the biblical material used in it is central in this contribution. I will try to answer the following questions: (1) What image does Saramago paint of Cain and of his relationship with his brother Abel and with God? (2) What differences do the portraits painted by Saramago show in comparison to the way in which God and Cain are characterized in Genesis 4 (Hebrew Bible and Septuagint)? In answering these questions, I will try to link up with recently developed narrative theories and methods, which are frequently applied to narrative texts from the Bible (Powell 1993). In doing so, I will focus on two important concepts: characterization and intertextuality (cf. Boelaars 2012). The first concept can be explained as follows. The human characters in a story are not real human beings but “people of paper” (Bal 1979). They are language constructs, to which readers and interpreters can attribute meaning by relating them to other textual data. The same goes for nonhuman personages, for example, God or the devil. Character portraits are not stored in the text, ready-made: they are gradually constructed during the reading or interpretation process. The textual data that are relevant to this process are aptly described by Alter (1981: 116–117): Character can be revealed through the report of actions; through appearance, gestures, posture, costume; through one character’s comments on another;

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Personages are often colored by means of material from other books. This phenomenon is referred to as intertextuality (Allen 2000). This term is applied to the fundamental interwovenness of texts from different books. There are various relations between the novel of Cain and stories from the Bible, consciously intended by Saramago and easily discovered by wellinformed readers. In comparing them, it are the differences rather than the similarities that are interesting. Saramago regards the Bible as a classic, the content of which deserves contradiction and fundamental discussion. He provides this by giving new content to God’s and Cain’s roles. My contribution is structured as follows. I will start with an analysis of the roles attributed to Cain and God in Saramago’s novel. Subsequently I will contrast his book with Genesis 4, taking into account not only the version from the Hebrew Bible but also that in the Septuagint and will explore how the Septuagint’s view of Cain and Abel is developed in the New Testament. Finally I will describe how Saramago’s image of Cain and God relates to this colorful interpretation history. 1. Saramago’s Images of Cain and God In the third chapter of his novel, Saramago provides a retelling of Genesis 4:1–16. Some data are the same. Adam and Eve’s two eldest children are called Cain and Abel. Cain is a tiller of the soil and Abel is a keeper of sheep. Both sacrifice the first fruits of their work to God, but the brothers become estranged because the Lord rejects Cain’s sacrifice and accepts Abel’s. Immediately after Abel is murdered by Cain, a lengthy debate develops between Cain and God about the question of guilt and the punishment for the crime committed. Cain will have to roam the earth, but to protect him from vendetta, God places a mark on Cain’s forehead. These are (some of) the similarities; the differences, however, abound. From an early age, Cain and Abel are each other’s best friends. However, this harmonious relationship is disturbed when the brothers offer a sacrifice whereby the smoke of Abel’s sacrifice rises whereas the smoke of Cain’s first fruits swirls downward. There is nothing about smoke staying near the ground or ascending toward heaven in either the Hebrew Bible or the Septuagint. This image originated in painting (e.g., Gustave Doré). In Saramago’s story, Abel mocks his

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brother and proclaims himself to be the apple of God’s eye and his chosen one. This introduces a motive for Cain’s murder of Abel and suggests that Cain was driven to his crime by God’s rejection and his brother’s baiting. In the long discussion between Cain and God after the murder, the question of guilt is central. According to Cain, God is the real murderer and he himself is only the executor. Even bolder is Cain’s statement: “I killed abel because I couldn’t kill you, so, in intent, you are dead, too” (Saramago 2011: 24–25). In Saramago’s story, God is persuaded that he shares the responsibility for Abel’s death and thus also the blame. This sets the tone for the remaining chapters of the novel. Analogous to Genesis 4:12, 14, in which Cain’s punishment consists of his having to roam the earth, we see him turn up in the novel in different places and different times. He roams not only through space but also through time. The present continually shifts back and forth through history. In the Old Testament, the last we hear of Cain is that he built a city (Gen 4:17). In Saramago’s novel, however, Cain shows up in many other biblical stories, where he interacts with other characters and criticizes God because of his many atrocities. He finds himself in the land of Nod (cf. Gen 4:16), where he becomes the lover of Lilith, who bears his son, who is called Enoch (cf. Gen 4:17). Cain stops Abraham from sacrificing his son Isaac to God (cf. Gen 22) and watches how God causes the confusion of tongues among the people building the tower of Babel (cf. Gen 11:1–9). Then he witnesses the announcement of Isaac’s birth and the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah (cf. Gen 18–19). A little later he sees how God causes a bloodbath at the foot of Mount Sinai among three thousand people worshipping the golden calf (cf. Exod 32) and he learns that Moses has the Midianites slaughtered on God’s orders (cf. Num 31). He is also there as Jericho and Ai are destroyed and Achan, indicated by God as having taken things from Jericho that were devoted to God, is obliterated together with his entire family (cf. Joshua 7). In the land of Uz, he sees how God brings disaster upon pious Job for no reason at all. In all these episodes, God is represented in a negative light: he is unjust and cruel; he is a despot and the source of all evil, causing bloodshed time and again. Cain compares favorably to him: he is God’s constant critic and grows into the antihero, more just than God, and pleads in favor of a more humane ethics. Sometimes he is able to prevent the evil that God wants to perpetrate, as in the case of Isaac’s sacrifice, where Cain plays the role of the angel who manages to save Isaac’s life at the last moment. The various episodes show that “the history of mankind is the history of our misunderstandings with god, for he doesn’t understand us and we don’t understand him” (Saramago 2011: 73).

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The last two chapters are about Cain’s revenge on the ruthless Supreme Being. Following God’s advice, Noah takes Cain with him into the ark (after all, God was to spare his life). In total, there are nine people on board: Noah and his wife, his three sons and their wives, and Cain. With these five men and four women, God wants to start a new human race after he has destroyed all the inhabitants of the earth. Cain thwarts this plan by killing all people on board, except Noah, who kills himself. Here we see that Cain is a killer from the beginning to the end. As the door of the ark opens, God sees all the animals come out, but not Noah and his family. Only Cain appears, who tells God that there will not be another human race. God may kill him, but he cannot do so, for “the word of god cannot be taken back” (Saramago 2011: 149). It is clear that Saramago blames God for all evil. Although Cain is not blameless, he argues in favor of a more humane ethics and makes it plain that God is an obstacle in this context. In the novel, Abel is not as blameless as in the Bible; he mocks Cain when his offering is disregarded by God. 2. The Relationship between Cain, Abel, and God in the Bible The question is how the characters as painted by Saramago relate to the way in which Cain, Abel and God are portrayed in texts from the Bible. I will begin with Genesis 4:1–16 in the Hebrew Bible. I will subsequently focus on the Greek translation of Genesis 4:1–16 in the Septuagint and finally discuss the New Testament texts on Cain and Abel. 2.1. Genesis 4:1–16 in the Hebrew Bible Cain is described here as having a close relationship with God from his birth (4:1), and as a man whose profession links him to the soil (4:2). His younger brother is called Abel, in Hebrew: Hèvèl. This name is ominous: it means ‘vanity’, ‘vapor’ or ‘breath’. The theme of the story is clear from the term ‘brother’, which occurs seven times (4:2, 8, 9, 10) but, remarkably enough, this word always indicates that Abel is Cain’s brother and never that Cain is Abel’s brother. The similarities between the two boys (of both it is told that they are born, that they choose a profession and that they make a sacrifice) go hand in hand with subtle differences (Zwilling 2005: 507–516). The order in which their names are presented is also remarkable: Cain—Hevel—Hevel—Cain (4:1–2 and 4:3–5a). In each case, the natural order (first the elder, than the younger brother) is reversed, so that the youngest is in front position. Since

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their professions differ, their sacrifices to God are also different. Given God’s close relationship with Cain (Gen 4:1), it is surprising that God regards Abel and his sacrifice but not Cain and his offerings. No motive is mentioned, but the effect is very clear, namely, Cain becomes very angry and has a furious look on his face. Thereupon God addresses Cain, not Abel. His message is formulated in cryptic Hebrew. It is plausible that God’s words contain a warning to Cain: if he will not look his brother in the eye, but watches him like a predator lying in ambush, then sin will get a grip on him (Van Wolde 1991: 29–32). Cain does not respond to these words. He does address his brother, but the Hebrew text contains an ellipsis, a ‘gap’: the narrative introduction (“Cain spoke to Hevel, his brother”) is not followed by direct speech or character text. Many explanations have been suggested for this phenomenon, but if we take the text as it stands, the fact that Cain’s words are missing could be interpreted as a sign that he does not want to waste words on his brother (Van Wolde 1991: 34–35). The reader is no more prepared for what happens next than Abel is: Cain kills his brother. There are no suggestions in the Hebrew text that the murder was premeditated. The rest of the story is a long conversation between God and Cain (4:9– 15). They speak in turns, God being the first and the last to speak. Similar to Genesis 3:9 (“Where are you?”), God begins with a question: “Where is Hevel, your brother?” The answer consists of a lie (“I do not know”) and a question (“am I my brother’s keeper?”), revealing that Cain does not value brotherhood at all. Abel has not spoken one word in the story, but now his blood is crying out to God from the ground. As a result of his act, Cain is cursed and the earth will no longer yield its fruit. He will have to lead the life of a fugitive. This punishment is unexpected: it was much more likely that God would kill Cain, but he does not do so. Moreover, he gives him a protective mark to prevent that others will kill him. At the end of the story, the bonds linking Cain to God, his brother and the earth are broken, or at least disturbed. Genesis 4:1–16 shows that lack of solidarity with fellow human beings also has a devastating effect on someone’s relationship with God and the earth (4:14, 16). This analysis leads to the following conclusions. Abel is described as someone who is vulnerable and defenseless, but enjoys God’s favor precisely for this reason. In other parts of the Bible, Yhwh also shows a preference for the younger brother, and for the weakest members of a society. Cain turns a deaf ear to the warning given him. By breaking his bond with Abel, he has also disturbed his bonds with God and the earth. Nevertheless, God does not abandon him entirely. Since Cain himself has become vulnerable at the end

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of the story because he runs the risk of being killed, God takes him under his protection. In this Bible story, God is the keeper of a humane ethics (Van Wolde 1991, 39), and thus he is a shining example for those created in his image (Gen 1:27). 2.2. Genesis 4:1–16 in the Septuagint The Septuagint is the oldest Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible. By definition, a translation has a special intertextual relationship to the source text. The Hebrew version of Genesis 4:1–16 is obscure or ambiguous now and then. In the Septuagint version of Genesis 4, the translators have enhanced the contrast between Cain and his brother by explicitly portraying Cain negatively and Abel positively, as is shown by a number of details (Lohr 2009: 486–491; Thatcher 2010: 733–736). Whereas the Hebrew text uses the same word for their sacrifices (äçðî, “gift”), the Septuagint describes Abel’s sacrifice as τα δώρα (“gifts”) and Cain’s as θυσίαι (“sacrifices”). God’s looking or not looking (twice äòù) is replaced in Abel’s case by ἐπεῖδεν (“he looked upon with favor”; cf. Gen 16:13; Exod 2:25) and in Cain’s case by οὐ προσέσχεν (“he was not intent”). The difference between the two men after they have sacrificed is further emphasized as God’s cryptic words to Cain in 4:7 are replaced by: “If you offer correctly but do not divide correctly, have you not sinned?” (Pietersma and Wright 2007: 8). It is stated here that Cain commits a sin by deviating from sacrificial rituals he should have performed; on the other hand, he is promised that he will conquer sin in the future (another possible translation is that he will then again be superior to Abel). The ellipsis in the Hebrew text of verse 4:8 is supplemented in the Septuagint by words spoken by Cain: “Let us go into the field.” They are suggested by the narrative sentence that immediately follows: “And it came about when they were in the field.” The direct speech introduced by the translators implies that Cain’s murder of Abel is premeditated and does not take place totally unexpectedly. Finally, it is interesting that the ambiguous Hebrew word éðåò (“my sin” or “my punishment”) is translated in the Septuagint with the term αἰτία µου (“my guilt”) and that Cain states that this guilt is so great that it cannot be forgiven. The rest of the text remains close to the Hebrew original. The way in which God is portrayed in the Septuagint is thus almost identical to that in the Hebrew version. However, Cain is described much more negatively than in the Hebrew text, where his role is often unclear or ambiguous. In the Septuagint, he sins against sacrificial rites, he ignores God’s warning, he

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commits premeditated fratricide, and in a second conversation with God he fully acknowledges that he is the only guilty party. That Abel enjoys God’s favor is made explicit by the use of ἐπεῖδεν, that has positive connotations. 2.3. Cain and Abel in the New Testament The development reflected in the Septuagint is further elaborated in New Testament texts on Cain and Abel, which are themselves embedded in a broad interpretation history, traces of which can be found in many early Jewish and early Christian texts (Byron 2006; 2007; Menken 2008). What statements on Cain do we find in the New Testament? Cain’s offering is inferior (Heb 11:4); he is from the evil one and his own deeds are also evil (1John 3:12). The readers of 1John must love one another and should not model themselves on Cain because all those who hate their brother or sister are murderers (1John 3:15). Because Cain took his brother’s life, he is Jesus’ opposite, who gave his life to save others. The readers of Jude’s letter must distance themselves from those who “go the way of Cain” (Jude 11). This stigmatization and demonization of Cain goes hand in hand with an increasing idealization of Abel. His sacrifice is better than Cain’s. Because of his faith, he has a reputation for righteousness, and also his deeds are righteous (Heb 11:4). He is the prototype of the martyrs who gave their blood for the faith (Matt 23:35; Luke 11:49–51). Through his faith, he still speaks, even after he is killed (cf. Gen 4:10). His death has the character of a sacrificial death, for he is slaughtered (σφάζω in 1John 3:12) like a sacrificial animal. By sacrificing his life, he can be compared to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant (Heb 12:24). The antithesis between the brothers created here is a continuation of the development started in the Septuagint. It is not supported by the Hebrew text, which shows a more nuanced and more complex picture of Cain. What is the function of the negative way in which Cain is depicted and of the increasingly positive image of Abel? Why do New Testament authors like to draw on the way in which the brothers are portrayed in the Septuagint? To answer this question, we should not only pay attention to the intertextual relations between New and Old Testament texts but also to the functions of these relations, according to Thatcher (2010: 736–740). He explains these functions on the basis of the religious-cultural context in which Matthew’s gospel and John’s and Jude’s letters originated and functioned. One characteristic of these writings is that they tried to explain the contemporary situation of the readers, who were subject to external persecution and

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internal dissension, using examples from the past. Cain and Abel are obvious examples, especially when they are treated as each other’s opposites— as they are in the Septuagint. Another characteristic is that the New Testament texts take a stand against opponents who threaten to disrupt the cohesion, represented by good brotherhood/sisterhood, within the circle of Jesus’ followers. The opponents are associated with Cain, who is evil incarnate, whereas the Christians suffering from persecution and discord should be inspired by Abel’s shining example. Abel is used to legitimize the views and behavior of this group, whereas the deviating opinions and activities of their opponents are discredited by depicting them as scoundrels of the likes of Cain and other depraved figures from the past. 3. The Idiosyncrasy of Saramago’s Interpretation Saramago gives an idiosyncratic interpretation of Genesis 4:1–16. The most important interference is that he omits God’s words of warning in 4:6–7 and that he does not let God address Cain until after Abel’s murder. God’s silence before the murder makes him an accessory. Saramago passes over God’s preference for worthless Abel (and God’s partiality for the poor and the weak elsewhere in the Bible). This novel contains no trace of the idea that the breakdown of the brotherly bond is also detrimental to the bond with God and the earth. The novel does not rely very much on the black-and-white contrast between Cain and Abel in the Greek translation of Genesis 4 and in New Testament texts inspired by the Septuagint. Instead, many Old Testament texts pass in review in the rest of the novel which raise serious ethical questions on God’s role. Cain criticizes God’s destructive actions. In his wanderings over the earth and through time, Cain suddenly becomes the protagonist in episodes in which he is not a character in the Bible at all. In these episodes, there is a character shift: the murderer Cain is changed to a life-saver, and in that role he is diametrically opposed to God. The contrast between Cain and Abel is thus replaced by an antithesis between Cain and God. In comparison with the way in which the Bible speaks about these characters, it could be argued that there is a radical reversal. Reversing roles is a well-known intertextual technique. In this case, God is turned into a character that causes disaster and Cain becomes the advocate of a more humane ethics. This does not mean that this picture of God is not in any way anchored in the Bible itself. Biblical stories usually give a very colorful picture of God, showing dark as well as light aspects. In the novel, this colorful picture of God is

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replaced by a negative portrait. God appears here as a villainous character whose creation is riddled with manufacturing errors. This image of the Old Testament God can be related to Marcion’s inferior God and to the Gnostic idea that the demiurge, who is identified with Yhwh, is the creator of the material world. Even more than through the tradition, the images in Saramago’s novel can be understood from contemporary ideas on the relationship between man and God and on the role of religion in society. In the New Testament, images of Cain are used to denounce the opponents of Jesus’ followers. In a similar way, Saramago’s Cain becomes the standard bearer of contemporary protesters who want to build a more humane society, who consider God in this process as a negative relic from the past, and who like to emphasize the repressive effect of religion in this context. The novel suggests that this struggle will never end. Like the voice of Abel’s blood that continues to cry out, Saramago’s novels will continue to call for justice, even though he has passed away in 2010. References Allen, G., Intertextuality. London: Routledge, 2000. Alter, R., The Art of Biblical Narrative. New York: Basic Books, 1981. Bal, M. (ed.), Mensen van papier. Over personages in de literatuur. Assen: Van Gorcum, 1979. Boelaars, B., Personagebeelden van Kaïn en God. Een confrontatie van het derde hoofdstuk uit het werk Kaïn van José Saramago met Genesis 4:1–6. Bachelor thesis (supervisor: Wim Weren). Tilburg University, School of Humanities, 2012. Byron, J., “Living in the Shadow of Cain. Echoes of a Developing Tradition in James 5:1–6,” Novum Testamentum 48/3 (2006): 261–274. ———, “Slaughter, Fratricide and Sacrilege. Cain and Abel Traditions in 1John 3,” Biblica 88/4 (2007): 526–535. Lohr, J.N., “Righteous Abel, Wicked Cain. Genesis 4:1–16 in the Masoretic Text, the Septuagint, and the New Testament” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 71/3 (2009): 485– 496. Menken, M.J.J., “The Image of Cain in 1John 3,12.” Pp. 195–211 in Miracles and Imagery in Luke and John. Festschrift Ulrich Busse. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 218. Edited by J. Verheyden and G. Van Belle. Leuven: Peeters Publishers, 2008. Pietersma, A., and B.G. Wright, A New English Translation of the Septuagint. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Powell, M.A., What is Narrative Criticism? A New Approach to the Bible. London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1993. Saramago, J., Cain. London: Harvill Secker, 2011. Transl. by M.J. Costa. Thatcher, T., “Cain and Abel in Early Christian Memory. A Case Study in ‘The Use

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of the Old Testament in the New’,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 72/4 (2010): 732– 751. Weren, W., Windows on Jesus. Methods in Gospel Exegesis. London: SCM Press/ Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 1999. van Wolde, E., “The Story of Cain and Abel. A Narrative Study,” Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 52/1 (1991): 25–41. Zwilling, A.-L., “Caïn versus Abel (Gn 4,1–16).” Pp. 507–516 in Analyse narrative et Bible. Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium 191. Edited by C. Focant and A. Wénin. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2005.

JERICHO IS SHOUTING. NARRATIVE AND RHETORIC IN JOSHUA 6

Marieke den Braber Interpreting biblical texts is a difficult exercise. The texts present not simple narratives, but religious stories that are capable of engaging us to the point of making us feel part of them. These stories enable us to participate in today’s world with lessons from the past. The reader, however, interprets the biblical text, its structure and its contents, without being able to ask those who wrote or copied the text about their intended message. The reader has to extract the narrative with its rhetorical effects and message from the only thing that is left to communicate to him: the text. But only that same text (or other versions of that text) can answer the questions that the text and its narrative raise for the reader. Interpreting a biblical text and the narrative contained in it thus runs the risk of becoming a highly subjective exercise. In this chapter I will discuss a synchronic method that minimizes this risk of subjectivity. And I will answer the question what this method contributes to our understanding of the narrative as a “religious story we live by”. 1. Functional Discourse Grammar Several methods in biblical research try to investigate as objectively as possible what the biblical text tells them. These synchronic methods refrain from any discussion on the communication or interaction with ancient or present readers of the text. I focus here on one of these methods, that of Nicolai Winther-Nielsen (1994; 1995; Winther-Nielsen and Talstra 1995).1 This Danish scholar was educated in the Summer Institute of Linguistics with the linguist Robert Longacre (1983). Winther-Nielsen works in the environment of the Copenhagen minimalist school. His method was developed in close conformity with and adapted from the computer analysis of biblical texts as developed by Talstra (1997; 2002) at Free University in Amsterdam.

1 A complete analysis of the work of Winther-Nielsen on Joshua compared to the work of Auld on the same biblical book is given in my dissertation (Den Braber 2010).

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Winther-Nielsen’s method is called Functional Discourse Grammar. It analyses the biblical text synchronically with the help of the computer. The analysis runs from simple elements to clauses, and hierarchically places the clauses in a pattern. These steps are nothing new. What Winther-Nielsen adds to Talstra’s computer-aided analysis is a reading of the text that focuses on the function of grammatical constructions. Winther-Nielsen tries to focus on the rhetorical effect of these grammatical constructions on the reader, without interfering with the interpretation of that very same text. For this he developed an adaptation of the Role and Reference Grammar of Foley and Van Valin (1984) and adapted the hierarchy of clauses of Dik (1989). Winther-Nielsen intends to show that certain grammatical constructions communicate a certain intended effect of the text to the reader. Grammar thus has an important function in communicating the message. The text is discourse by which the author tries to communicate the narrative with the available instruments. The author does not have the option to raise his voice audibly, nor can he make sounds or slow down and darken his voice when the story gets exciting. He has to communicate everything by one means: the text. Winther-Nielsen, with his method, searches for the grammatical markers of how a text does so, from the clause level to the holistic level of the biblical book of Joshua. The goal of Winther-Nielsen’s grammar is to set out how biblical texts structure units and mark boundaries by grammatical means of reference, ranking of verbs in sequences and spatio-temporal frameworks. WintherNielsen’s ultimate aim is to contribute to the reading of Joshua, with the help of a modern linguistic theory. Winther-Nielsen has yet another goal with his method. This is to show that it is quite possible to read the book of Joshua as presented in the Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia (BHS), with all its different narratives, as a unit. This contrasts with diachronic methods that seem only able to read a text and reveal its message by splitting it into different sources, layers or otherwise deleting and adding bits and pieces. Winther-Nielsen rebuts diachronic theories that originated after Noth (1943; 1953) such as Schwienhorst’s (1986). These theories split the book of Joshua into several sources with their ideas on the Deuteronomist and the Deuteronomistic History. Separation is devaluation of the text according to Winther-Nielsen. 2. Reading Joshua 6 Winther-Nielsen’s method focuses on the book of Joshua. This is a biblical book full of interesting narratives like that of Rahab (Josh 2), the crossing

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of the Jordan (Josh 3–4), a circumcision (Josh 5), Jericho (Josh 6), Achan (Josh 7), Ai (Josh 8), the Gibeonites (Josh 9–10) and several accounts on the division of the land, closed with the farewell speech of Joshua (Josh 23– 24). For this study I focus on the narrative of Jericho in Joshua 6. In the Masoretic text this story is about 20% longer than in the Greek Septuagint. The Hebrew text shows several seeming inconsistencies in the orders given and executed by the priests, the exact order of the procession and the seemingly unnecessary doubling of the blowing and shouting when the walls fall. Diachronic theories explain the narrative in Joshua 6 by ascribing these inconsistencies to several sources, as Schwienhorst (1986) and Bieberstein (1995) do. Or they focus on the Greek version with fewer inconsistencies as for example Auld (1998; 2005) does. Winther-Nielsen refrains from this solution and portrays the narrative and its rhetoric’s by purely focusing on the Hebrew text. Below I discuss Joshua 6, critically using the reading of Winther-Nielsen (1995: 191–210; Winther-Nielsen and Talstra 1995: 38–41). I point out the limitations of this functional discourse grammar and present some solutions. I focus on those elements that reveal rhetorical elements in the text and relate to the transference of the narrative and its message to ancient and modern readers. 2.1. Joshua 6:1–5 The narrative starts a couple of verses before with the introduction of the messenger of the Lord (Josh 5:13–15). Joshua has a short and strange conversation with this messenger. The first verse of chapter 6 sketches the situation the messenger, Joshua and the people of Jericho and the people of Israel are engaged in: Jericho is really closed. The verse gives background information to the reader of the narrative, enabling him to understand the situation. Winther-Nielsen shows that the second set of participles in this verse intensifies the effect of the first set. He names the rhetorical effect of this on the reader “restatement”. Joshua 6:2–5 is the divine speech that is the central dialogue of the whole story and presents the real actor of it, the Lord. However, as central dialogue, this is not the central theme of the story. But everything that is about to happen in the narrative following this speech is foretold here. The ntty in 6:2 is to be translated as a future perfective of resolve. It rhetorically enables the action that is to be taken to receive this gift. Later in 6:16 the same word returns as a perfect, to be translated with a present perfect: “the city is given”. The mighty men that fill the city are asyndetic. For Winther-Nielsen

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they are so irrelevant for the grammatical structure that he places them between brackets in his version of the Hebrew text. This is remarkable since rhetorically this characterization of the men of Jericho adds to the character of the narrative for the reader. It enables the reader to receive a better idea of the difficult situation the Israelites are facing at Jericho. The first clause in verse 3 is a combination of an utterance and a command. Winther-Nielsen concludes that such a construction rhetorically has the effect of a proposal on the reader and accordingly gives this label to this clause. But the effect of the clause is not that of a free choice, but that of an order that has to be obeyed. The clause thus functions differently from the encoding Winther-Nielsen gives it. Here it shows that Winther-Nielsen’s rhetorical encoding system is not always sound. Winther-Nielsen is interested in discourse. Part of his method is the reference and participant tracking in a text. In verse 2–5 the reference to the people and the different objects differs. This is also to be found later on in the text, when different names and determination are used for the priests and the ark. Bible translators and researchers have serious problems with this passage and it is often a base for theories that split this chapter into several sources (Schwienhorst 1986; Bieberstein 1995). But for WintherNielsen the difference between the names and determination particles as such is not an issue. As long as there is no grammatical difficulty, there is for Winther-Nielsen no difficulty at all. Since he does neither interfere with translatory questions nor with the interpretation of the text, there is for him no necessity to find an explanation for the different references to the same object. The grammatical and syntactical rules prevail over the coherence of vocabulary. The last verse of the episode starts with a wyhy, a discourse marker that marks the future perspective displayed in this clause. The blast on the yobeel horns is a special sign and the verb sˇ m` in 6:5a is retaken in 6:20 when everything is executed. The sounding of the shofar is also adverbially restated in 5b, before the “shout great” is effected. The repeated sounding of the horns functions in the rhetorical structure to make the reader understand the significance of this act. The result of the shouting and blowing is told with a weqatal in 5d. The following weqatals wnplh and w`lw share the subject, the wall of the city, with one another, but not with the major parts of the complete sentence. Winther-Nielsen concludes after an analysis of the complete book of Joshua that such a syntactical construction displays a result. Curiously, Winther-Nielsen rhetorically encodes this construction as a purpose, for it is a set of weqatals that share a subject. A difference becomes apparent here between the rhetorical encoding of a clause, which focuses

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on the smaller unit, and the interpretation of the clause which focuses on the broader context. Both cull their arguments from the syntax, presenting the scholar different analyses. 2.2. Joshua 6:6–11 The verbal use in the beginning of 6:6 together with the extended proper noun of Joshua provides a possible opening for new discourse. The first clause mounts tension together with the execution of the instructions. The processional train and the exact nature of the participating groups in this episode are not clear. Furthermore, there is no clarity considering who is giving the orders in 6:7a. Grammatically the text can be read as it is written, but the problems occur when one wants to interpret the text. Since neither translation nor interpretation is Winther-Nielsen’s goal, his analysis of these verses does not interfere with the noticed problems. However, Winther-Nielsen notes that the circumambulation of the ark in verse 11 is problematic. Reading the text as presented in the Masoretic Text of the BHS makes the ark seemingly automobile. Winther-Nielsen searches here for a grammatical solution that does not need to change the given text of the BHS. He finds this solution in the reading of the hiphil wysb as a transitive verb with a causative stem, where subject turns into second object. This would result in the translation “He [Joshua] took the ark around … encircling.”2 2.3. Joshua 6:12–14 The episode first introduces the main character of it all: Joshua. A temporal shift occurs with bbqr giving a foreshadowing of circumstances to follow. These follow in the rest of verse 12 and 13, and are summarized in the last clause of verse 14. The passage contains multiple repetitions of the previous content and idiom, with which it rhetorically (re-)attracts the attention of the reader and prepares for the peak action of the execution on the seventh day that is about to follow. This (re-)attraction of attention and preparation is helped by the fronted position of the priests. The repetitions thus rhetorically function in the text and are not unnecessary. This also implies that Winther-Nielsen feels no necessity to change anything in this text. This will also be the case later on in 6:20 where most non-Hebrew 2 Winther-Nielsen follows with this reading the interpretation of Joüon and Muraoka (2000, § 125t, n. 1). Another solution is to read the hiphil as an intransitive equivalent of the factitive piel: “the ark started its encircling” (Joüon and Muraoka 2000: §54d). Both readings avoid the proposed reconstruction of a qal by the Septuagint.

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versions have delimited the number of blows and shouts. For WintherNielsen repetition is intended to have an effect on the reader, enclosing him in the narrative and enriching the tension felt when reading the narrative. Other scholars discussing this passage are occupied with the blurred order of the procession. For Winther-Nielsen it is irrelevant what exactly is told, it is relevant how it is told. This limited focus is possible as long as one looks from a meta-perspective to the text. But as soon as it comes to translation, interpretation or retelling of the story, the problem of the order of the procession occurs and one cannot avoid choosing a solution. It is here that Winther-Nielsen’s method proves to be a first step in the analysis of the text, but unable to provide some of the necessary answers to a reader of the text. 2.4. Joshua 6:15–20b The episode clearly starts with a temporal marker for the seventh day. The tension in the story builds up and the reader recognizes that an important event is upcoming. The doubled vocabulary in 15c and 15d is intriguing. The latter is a precore slot after an episode initial wyhy plus a qatal, making it a reflection of restrictive focus. The use of rq also points to this. Here the verbal system, the vocabulary and the interpretation all point in the same direction: the exceptional position of Rahab and her house.3 The clauses and verbal tenses in 6:16 start the building of a climax. The instructions to the hrm add to the twisting moment. The climax of what is about to happen ˙ once the horns are blown is suspended until verse 20. The verses 6:17–19 give the instructions for the ban. The thrymw in 6:18 “creates an exquisite ˙ wordplay on the ban of 17a” (Winther-Nielsen 1995: 209). Grammatically the form gives Winther-Nielsen no trouble and he feels no need to follow any of the proposed changes of the form as suggested in the BHS. The implication of the verses is that the ban is both a policy and a pitfall. The first clauses of verse 20 are the end of this episode. The wytq`w in 20b sequences the preceding clause.4 Winther-Nielsen interprets that the blowing of the horns continued during the shouting. Grammatically

3 The rhetorical code given by Winther-Nielsen to 15d is ‘concession’. His explanation with this label is that the clause has to enable the reader to understand the seemingly contrasting situation with the nucleus. This does not match his other conclusions for this clause, but this problem is not noticed and discussed by Winther-Nielsen (Winther-Nielsen and Talstra 1995: 40; Den Braber 2010: 181). 4 A we-x-qatal would have been more ordinary, but that was exactly why the narrator chose the wayyiqtol (Winther-Nielsen 1995: 201).

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20b follows 20a, but in the line of the narrative it marks a breaking point: when the people blew the horns, it happened. The episode in 6:15–20b thus impressed the culminating drama upon the reader, representing a divine miracle at the peak in the story. At this point, the functional discourse grammar reaches its limit, because there is no grammatical ground for this interpretational reading. 2.5. Joshua 6:20c–21 The climax of the story occurs in these verses: the collapse of the walls that concludes in the application of the ban to the city and all that is in it. The wyhy in 6:20c marks a barrier in the story. The repetition that causes other interpreters difficulty in the story, and is not copied by the editors of the Septuagint, is interpreted by Winther-Nielsen as necessary for the narrative to express its culmination point. The wyr` of 20a is repeated in 20d and followed with the “climbing, capture and crushing of Jericho” (WintherNielsen 1995: 202). It culminates in the application of the ban in 6:21. Where retellings of the narrative often focus on the spectacular event of the collapsing walls, Winther-Nielsen thus pleads for another focus: that of the application of the hrm. This also fits better with the place of the Jericho˙ narrative within the complete book of Joshua. For this reading a perspective beyond that of functional discourse grammar is needed. The people of Israel are literally on the border of a new life, in a new land. This narrative displays the implications of living in the vicinity of the Lord. Such a life needs to be obedient to His commandments. Only then it is possible to stay in the Land. Achan is first to encounter that disobedience is not allowed (Josh 7). Where Rahab saved her life and that of her family by obedience to the Lord, Achan lost that of himself and his family by disobedience to that same Lord. A stranger was accepted within the boundaries of Israel, a member of Israel learned that descent alone is no guarantee at all for a place within the community. It is attitude and not birth that grants one rights. This reading raises questions that relate to theological questions on predestination and ethical questions such as one’s attitude to strangers. These are questions that would surely interest the reader, but are not raised or answered by the synchronic method discussed in this chapter. 2.6. Joshua 6:22–26 Once the execution of the ban is about to be completed, Rahab comes back into focus. Both she and Jericho are re-introduced with we-x-qatals. The ban continues: first goods were banned; now they are burned. The volitional

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cause that makes the situation acceptable to the reader is given in the first words of 25c, where Joshua makes himself responsible for the oath to Rahab, instead of the spies. Joshua 6:26 acts as a closure of the narrative with a direct quote of the oath. Joshua as name and subject is retaken, time is explicitly referred and the l’mr acts as unit boundary. The curse explains the hrm measures in full. ˙ There is now no doubt left with the reader that such an order has to be taken seriously. Conclusion The analysis shown above reveals elements of the rhetoric of the biblical text of the Jericho narrative in Joshua. But there are several questions that remain unanswered by the analysis. And as soon as the text is read in a wider context and compared to the Greek version of the text, the question of the inconsistency of the text reappears. For example, the order of the people around the ark in the procession may not be a grammatical problem, but it certainly is an interpretational problem. And several biblical theological and ethical questions are raised by the story but are fully out of focus of the synchronic reading of Winther-Nielsen. What Winther-Nielsen’s method clearly focuses on, however, is the centrality of the ban. Not as a violent act, but as an act within the broader line of the book of Joshua, that of obedience and disobedience to the Lord. And the interpretation of WintherNielsen also allows for a new perspective on the function of the repetitions in Joshua 6:20. Not as unnecessary, but arousing the tension in the narrative and repeating the execution of a task. The theory of Nicolai Winther-Nielsen helps the reader to interpret the rhetorical effects of the biblical narrative as told in the masoretic version of the book of Joshua. However, it limits these rhetorical effects to the text itself. The reception of the text and thus of its rhetorical effects by ancient or present readers is absent. This minimizes the usability of the outcomes of the theory, because the biblical narratives were never written to function in an isolated context. They were intended as vehicles of communication of the Lord’s message to its hearers. This part of the communication of the narratives is not intended to be part of the theory by Winther-Nielsen, but it is needed for me to fully understand the narrative. Winther-Nielsen focuses in his method on how the text communicates the narrative, where I as a modern reader am also or even more interested in what it communicates. For the Jericho narrative this implies discussion about, for example, the role

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of violence, the role of the commandments of the Lord in certain situations or for dealing correctly with foreigners living amidst us. These are rather relevant questions nowadays. A close analysis of the Hebrew is a stepping stone for the answer to these questions: a necessary stepping stone that reveals some of the rhetoric. But a lot more is needed for a communication of the narrative to the reader that also reveals to him something of the message and the applicability of that narrative and its message to his present life. References Auld, A.G., Joshua Retold. Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998. ———, Joshua. Jesus Son of Nau¯e in Codex Vaticanus. Leiden: Brill, 2005. Bieberstein, K., Josua—Jordan—Jericho: Archäologie, Geschichte und Theologie der Landnahmeerzählungen Josua 1–6. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995. Den Braber, M.E.J., Built from Many Stones. An Analysis of N. Winther-Nielsen and A.G. Auld on Joshua with Focus on Joshua 5:1–6:26. Bergambacht: 2VM, 2010. Dik, S.C., The Theory of Functional Grammar. Part I: The Structure of the Clause. Dordrecht: Foris, 1989. Foley, W.A., and R.D. Van Valin, Functional Syntax and Universal Grammar. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. Joüon, P., and T. Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew. Rome: Ed. Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 2000. Longacre, R.E., The Grammar of Discourse. New York: Plenum, 1983. Noth, M., Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien: Die sammelnden und bearbeitenden Geschichtswerke im Alten Testament. Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1943. ———, Das Buch Josua, Tübingen: Mohr/Siebeck, 1953. Schwienhorst, L., Die Eroberung Jerichos. Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1986. Talstra, E., “A Hierarchy of Clauses in Biblical Hebrew Narrative.” Pp. 85–118 in Narrative Syntax and the Hebrew Bible. Papers of Tilburg Conference. Edited by E. Van Wolde. Leiden: Brill, 1997. Winther-Nielsen, N., “The Miraculous Grammar of Joshua 3–4.” Pp. 300–317 in Biblical Hebrew and Discourse Linguistics. Computer-Aided Analysis of the Rhetorical and Syntactic Structure. Edited by R.D. Bergen. Dallas: Summer Institute of Linguistics, 1994. ———, Functional Discourse Grammar of Joshua. A Computer-Assisted Rhetorical Structure Analysis. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1995. Winther-Nielsen, N., and E.A. Talstra, Computational Display of Joshua. A ComputerAssisted Analysis and Textual Interpretation. Amsterdam: VU University Press, 1994.

THE STORY OF A GANG RAPE AS A MEANS OF LIBERATION. A CONTEXTUAL READING OF JUDGES 19

Klaas Spronk In the preface of his recently published big commentary on the book of Judges Walter Groß (2009: 13) remarks that he enjoyed the work on this book, but he makes an exception for the last three chapters: “In siebenjährigem Bemühen ist mir das Richterbuch, abgesehen von seinen letzten drei Kapiteln, ans Herz gewachsen.” He is not the only who has problems with this dreadful story in Judges 19–21 about the cruel murder on a defenseless and forsaken woman and its devastating consequences in an Israelite civil war. The story is especially shocking for readers who expect to find guidance or comfort in the sacred texts of Judaism and Christianity. Of course, the extreme violation of hospitality is condemned, but that does not take away the horrifying offering up of a woman to a bloodthirsty mob and the disrespectful treatment of her dead body by her husband. The story teller appears to be so much focused on the role of the bad inhabitants of Gibeah that what happens to the woman seems only instrumental in making his case. From the modern feministic perspective (Exum 2007) this is unacceptable: as a woman reader, I see the story of the gang rape of the Levite’s wife in Judges 19 as the most violent of biblical texts. For me, its effect on bible readers is potentially devastating. (Klopper 2008: 182)

Does that mean that when it comes to gender issues this story is only to be criticized? Or does also this part of the, in the eyes of many readers authoritative, sacred scriptures have transformative power? Is it possible to take advantage of the fact that the Bible at least is realistic in these matters, not evading the harsh reality as it is experienced by so many women in the past and in the present? In this contribution I will present a combination of contextual readings as an attempt to try to let the story speak for itself, but also to let it function as a mirror offering a better view on gender issues. The challenge is to apply the ancient biblical text to a modern situation without merely using it to illustrate or underscore our own convictions. The interpretation and application shall be based on an analysis of the narrative

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structure of the text as part of the larger context. Special attention shall be given to some aspects of the texts that can be regarded as characteristic of the text, for instance, the remarkable function of the topography. Precisely on this point it appears to be fruitful to combine the exegesis with some diachronic considerations. 1. The Literary Context Within the present canonical context the story of Judges 19 takes up a theme which the reader of the Bible first encountered in Genesis 19. A travelling couple is harassed by a hostile crowd in a city where only one of the inhabitants obeys the law of hospitality. In both cases the host tries to save his guests by offering the attackers women who are in the house; in Genesis 19 the two daughters, in Judges 19 one daughter and the concubine of the guest. Whereas in Genesis 19 the women can stay inside the house, the concubine of Judges 19 is sent outside, not by the host but by her husband, and is raped and killed. So compared to the situation described in Genesis 19 things have become worse. The same tendency can be observed within the book of Judges, when looking at the position of women. In the first part of the book women play an active role. Judges 1:12–15 tells of Achsah who is given in marriage as a reward for a military victory, but who also proves to be an assertive woman. Judges 4 is the story of Deborah, the woman who has to lead the leader of Israel into battle, and of Jael, who kills the leader of Israel’s enemy. According to Judges 9 the bad king of Israel Abimelech is killed by a woman. She is given no name. This is a first indication that women are becoming less prominent in the book. The only one who is still called by name is Delilah, who clearly plays a negative role in the story of Samson. Samson’s mother is also no more than the wife of Manoah, although she is the one who is visited by the messenger of YHWH and although she reacts more accurate to his message than her husband. After the story of Samson the nameless women in the book of Judges are primarily victims: of theft (17:2), of rape and murder, and of being carried off into a forced marriage (21:23). The final chapters of the book of Judges are placed within a significant framework: “In those days Israel had no king; everyone did as he saw fit” (17:6; 21:25). The remark about the missing king is repeated twice in between (18:1; 19:1). It indicates that these stories should be read as an introduction to the book of Samuel telling the story of the rise of kingship in Israel. Without a king things are getting more and more chaotic in Israel. In a more

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subtle way there is also a foreshadowing of the coming controversy between the first two kings, Saul and David, by the reference to places associated with them. The first town mentioned is Bethlehem. It is the hometown of the concubine and she returns there after she left her husband. It is also the place where her husband, coming after her, is well received. Anyone familiar with the stories of the kings will associate Bethlehem with the later king David (1Sam 16). The story of Judges 19 describes it as a good place to stay with friendly inhabitants. Having left Bethlehem the travelers have to choose their next stop on the way back to Ephraim. It is decided that they shall not spend the night at Jebus. The story teller adds that this is another name of Jerusalem. They do not think it wise to go there, because it is inhabited by non-Israelites. This is another reference to David, because in the book of Samuel we read that he is the one who conquered the city of Jebus and made it the capital of his kingdom. So this illustrates the repeated remark about the absence of a king: only after David has taken the throne it will be safe to go to Jebus/Jerusalem. Instead, they now have to go to Gibea and they get into big trouble there. It is certainly no coincidence that Gibea returns in the book of Samuel as the home town of the later king Saul. Next to this topographical association with Saul there is a clear correspondence between the extraordinary behavior of a man cutting his dead wife into twelve pieces and sending them to all the tribes of Israel and Saul’s way of convoking the Israelites by sending them the twelve pieces in which he had cut his oxen (1Samuel 11:7). Within the present literary context the story of the gang rape has a clear message. It indicates that Israel needed a good king. Not every king would do. Some will prove to be not fit for the job. Between the lines it is suggested that David shall prove to be a better king than Saul, although the book of Samuel will show that also David turned out to be far from perfect. The story also seems to indicate that one should not only be critical with regard to the political leaders, but also to the religious elite (Yee 2007). This can be derived from the fact that a prominent part in Judges 17–21 is played by Levites. In chapter 17–18 a Levite becomes a priest in Dan. In the later history of the kings this is known as one of the rivals of the only legitimate place of worship, Jerusalem. In chapter 19 it is again a Levite who shows questionable behavior, being the man who cannot protect his concubine and does not respect her corpse.

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klaas spronk 2. The Context of the First Readers

The historical critical research analysis of the text, especially redaction criticism, indicates that there are good reasons to assume that the book of Judges in its present form is a late construct, forming a bridge between the books of Joshua and Samuel (Spronk 2009). It probably contains old stories about local heroes and their victories over foreign enemies, but these are placed in a new framework. This presents them according to a consistent theological view about the relation between human sin and divine judgment. For this purpose some parts of the book of Joshua are also repeated, especially those which refer to the fact that in the time of Joshua not the whole land was conquered. By taking up these elements and emphasizing them, for instance in the first two chapters, the book of Judges can be seen as a specific reaction to the book of Joshua. As was indicated above, something similar can be observed with regard to the relation with the books of Samuel. The book of Judges appears to function as an introduction to the stories of kings like Saul and David. Next to this relative late dating of the book it can be noted that there are many clear relations with themes we also encounter in ancient Greek literature, from cutting off the prisoner’s thumbs and big toes (Judg 1:6), to the three hundred soldiers of Gideon, the sacrifice of the daughter (of Jephthah), the Heracles-like Samson, and the stealing of the virgins (Judg 21:19–23). This makes it likely that the book of Judges in its present form stems from the Hellenistic period (third or second century bce). It was based on older stories from different parts of the country. These stories were united into one coherent framework as part of the overall story of Israel from its early beginnings until the restoration after the Babylonian exile. It can be compared to similar literary operations in this region after the victory of Alexander the Great. The growing influence of the Greek culture threatened to wipe out the memory of the previous civilizations. This may have been one of the reasons of the remarkable increase of production of national historiography (Van der Toorn 2007: 259). In Babylonia Berossos wrote his history of Mesopotamia in the third century bce, Manetho did the same with regard to Egypt one century later. Redaction criticism can be of help to find a plausible picture of the context of the intended, first readers of the text. We can think of people living in the small state of Yehud. After the Babylonian victory of Judah, with the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem and the exile of the ruling elite, and under the following Persian rule it never regained any political or economic power. At the end of the Persian period and also in the early

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Hellenistic period the most important local leaders were the priests of the rebuilt temple. The retelling of the national history may have functioned as a way to keep up and strengthen the identity of the people. Stories about Joshua conquering the land, of David enlarging it to the borders of Egypt and Assyria, and of Solomon as the wisest and wealthiest of the whole known world were something of a legendary past. The name of David was also connected to promises of a future ruler, sent by God as the Messiah. We know of some more or less successful messianic movements around men claiming to be the Messiah in the last centuries bce and first centuries ce. Read within this context the story of the gang rape in Judges 19 tells us of skepticism toward the present religious leaders. The only person with some kind of authority in this chapter is the Levite. From the books of Chronicles we know that they occupied important places in the temple and thus in the society of Yehud. In Judges 19 he does not answer the expectations one would have from such a person. This strengthens the wish for a good leader like king David, someone who “will deliver the needy who cry out, the afflicted who have no one to help; who will take pity on the weak and the needy and save the needy from death, and who will rescue them from oppression and violence, for precious is their blood in his sight” (Ps 72:12– 14). The first readers of the story will probably have had no existing person in mind. They may have related it to the hope for a coming God given Messiah. 3. The Context of a Modern Reader The description of a possible historic context based on a historical critical literary analysis offers a good starting point for looking at the text from a modern perspective. Not only is it helpful to see that this story is about leadership, but also that the quality of the leadership is measured along the line of the relation between the leader and a woman. This leaves open the possibility to look at the text not from the perspective of the leader but from the perspective of the woman. This is a modern perspective, because it is influenced by our present views on the relations between men and women. These differ from the way people looked at this matter in the time in which our text originates. There are no clear indications that the writer had a different opinion compared to his contemporaries regarding the woman as subordinate to the man. On the contrary, he uses the common view on the status of women to criticize the heroes of his story: many of them are defeated by or inferior to women. This should not be interpreted as a form of emancipation of women. On the other hand the important role given to

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women in the book of Judges also opens up the possibility to elaborate on this theme. From a literary point of view one can make use of the fact that the story leaves blank spaces especially on this point. In this way the reader is invited to pay special attention to the role of the women in this story. In verse 1 the woman is presented as a concubine from Bethlehem in Judah. She has no name, but in this story no one has. All the more telling is that she is no more than a concubine. She is not the first wife of the Levite. From the stories in Genesis about Abraham, Sarah and Hagar we know that a concubine has no power at all and may have to endure the whims of her (male and female) masters. Given her status it is surprising that she is leaving the house of her husband and returns to her father. Even more surprising is that her husband comes after her to “speak to her heart” (verse 3) to return. One would have expected him simply to claim his property from her father who in the past must have given him or perhaps sold him his daughter. There are many speculations among the exegetes about the reason for her departure. The Hebrew word used in verse 2 denotes in other texts being a prostitute or (in relation to God) being faithless. Some of the modern translations render it here accordingly; for instance in the New King James Version: “she played the harlot against him,” or in the New International Version: “she was unfaithful to him.” Others, for instance the Revised Standard Version, follow (some of the versions of) the Septuagint translating it as: “she became angry with him.” It is interesting to note that in his retelling of the story Josephus builds up “a romantic background of their separation” (Feldman 2006: 673), in which he has also promoted the concubine to being the wife of the Levite. It indicates that also Josephus was aware of the fact that Judges 19 describes an uncommon situation. There was a Levite, a man of a common family, who belonged to the tribe of Ephraim, and dwelt there. This man married a wife from Bethlehem, which is a place belonging to the tribe of Judah. Now he was very fond of his wife, and overcome with her beauty; but he was unhappy in this, because he did not meet with the like return of affection from her, for she was averse to him, which did more inflame his passion for her, so that they quarreled one with another perpetually. At last, the woman was so disgusted at these quarrels, that she left her husband, and went to her parents in the fourth month. The husband being very uneasy at her departure, and out of his fondness for her, came to his father and mother-in-law, and made up their quarrels, and was reconciled to her. (Antiquitates 5:136–137)

One could conclude that at least Judges 19:2 evokes a question about the precise relation between the Levite and his concubine. Within the book of Judges it comes as no surprise that the authority of the man is questioned.

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It leaves room for feminist exegesis to see her as “a woman who asserts her sexual autonomy by leaving her husband” (Exum 2007: 83). Having noticed this openness of the text toward the position of the concubine as a person with her own identity and rights, it is from our modern perspective disappointing to note that in the rest of the story she remains silent and powerless. When the men inside and outside the house are negotiating about a way to satisfy the aggressive mob we hear nothing about a reaction of the women involved. Apparently the story teller is not interested in the feelings of a daughter hearing her father say that he is willing to trade her for his guest. There is also nothing left of the autonomy of the concubine. It is precisely this contrast to the beginning of the story which gives extra emphasis to the remark that there was no king in these days: with a good king this would not have happened. It brings to mind stories in which king David chooses the side of abused women. He becomes very angry when he hears of Tamar being raped by Amnon (2 Sam 13:21). One can also think of the story about Rizpah, the concubine of King Saul. In 2Samuel 21 it is told how she defends the honor of her two executed sons. She acts against the royal decrees, but eventually David chooses her side. Apparently also this “man after God’s own heart” (1 Sam 13:14) had to go through his own learning process. This had already become painfully clear in the way he had misused his power to win Bathsheba (2 Sam 11). Within our modern context the question comes up whether a good king would also have safeguarded the independence of women like the concubine of Judges 19. It is not the focus of the story, but the story is told in such a way that it at least leaves room for this question. In this way the story contains the seed of liberation. Conclusion The dreadful story of the gang rape of a concubine is more than just an illustration of the fact that without a good king, especially king David, in Israel hospitality was not guaranteed. It is also a story which evokes serious questions about the subordinate place of women. As part of the authoritative scriptures it therefore has transformative power. By describing the horrible violent acts against a defenseless woman it puts the well-known but often concealed problem on the religious agenda. It also adds something to the qualifications of a good king: he should not only promote hospitality and suppress xenophobia, but he should also promote the emancipation of those set behind. With a good king—or one could say: within a just

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society—there would be attention for the feelings of a girl whose father is offering her to save the life of his guests; there would be someone who would ask for the name of the concubine; and it would be normal if everyone paid respect for the defenseless in life and also for their bodies after they have died. References Exum, J.C., “Feminist Criticism. Whose Interests Are Being Served?” Pp. 65–89 in Judges & Method. New Approaches in Biblical Studies. 2nd edition. Edited by G.A. Yee. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007. Feldman, L.H., “Josephus’ Portrayal (Ant. 5.136–174) of the Benjaminite Affair of the Concubine and Its Repercussions (Judg. 19–21).” Pp. 637–675 in Judaism and Hellenism Reconsidered. Suppl. To JSJ 107. Edited by L.H. Feldman. Leiden: Brill, 2006. Groß, W., Richter (Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament). Freiburg: Herder, 2009. Klopper, F., “An Unending Process.” Pp. 181–182 in African and European Readers of the Bible in Dialogue. In Quest of a Shared Meaning. Edited by H. De Wit and G.O. West. Leiden: Brill, 2008. Spronk, K., “From Joshua to Samuel. Some Remarks on the Origin of the Book of Judges.” Pp. 137–149 in The Land of Israel in Bible, History, and Theology. Studies in Honour of Ed Noort. Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 124. Edited by J. Van Ruiten and J.C. De Vos. Leiden: Brill, 2009. van der Toorn, K., Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007. Yee, G.A., “Ideological Criticism. Judges 17–21 and the Dismembered Body.” Pp. 138– 160 in Judges & Method. New Approaches in Biblical Studies. 2nd edition. Edited by G.A. Yee. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007.

SHOWCASING THE LITTLE SISTER. THE GRAMMATICAL LIVES OF SAMSON’S WOMEN (JUDG 13–16) AS A SYNTACTIC SUPPLEMENT TO NARRATOLOGICAL ANALYSIS

Willien van Wieringen Among the women in the Samson narrative, the best known is Delilah—the ultimate biblical femme fatale. Actually, however, the story features no less than five female characters: apart from Delilah, we have Samson’s mother, his bride/wife, the wife’s little sister, and a prostitute. Thus, Samson has more women by his side that any of his fellow biblical judges. This chapter focuses on just one of those women, in order to illustrate the usefulness of syntactic analysis in detecting biblical characters. In fact, syntactic analysis is a major supplement to narratological analysis as developed by Mieke Bal. Bal’s narratology stresses the importance of the narrator. Syntactic analysis, while of course acknowledging the narrator’s role, helps to highlight all characters that all play their parts in the story. This makes it a valuable tool in a gender-oriented reading process. I will first outline the principles of syntactic analysis, and then give a short introduction of Bal’s theory. A close reading of Judges 15:1–2 will demonstrate the benefits of syntactic analysis in turning the spotlights not only on Delilah but on the other women as well (van Wieringen 2007). That reading demonstrates the need and relevance of an addition to Bal’s theory, as will be argued in the last section of this chapter. 1. Gender Perspective The text-immanent approach, in conjunction with syntactic analysis, permits a detailed, biblical-theological interpretation from a gender perspective, because this approach does not zoom in directly on the characters but focuses primarily on the choices made by the narrator in composing the story. In regard to the characters the analyses give the researcher insight into – the way the characters are presented (anonymously, named or with renominalizations).

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willien van wieringen – how information about a character is imparted (word sequence in sentences, word choice, choice of verb conjugations). – how a character’s actions are depicted (verb, conjugations).

All this information provides a portrait of the character. Such a reading also shows what the narrator does not divulge and the lacunae readers have to fill in for themselves. Awareness of lacunae contributes to a detailed image of the character. This method locates characters and their actions, firstly, in their immediate textual environment and, secondly, in the broad context of the Old Testament. Without the interpretive framework of their immediate environment the female characters sing independently of the story in which the narrator placed them. Thus they become the interpreter’s ‘plaything’. Having determined the role of the characters by examining their significance in their immediate textual environment, it seems meaningful to consider other influences that may have affected the creation of the story, such as elements from folklore or psychological insight into the manner in which characters are portrayed. 2. Syntactic Analysis Syntactic analysis has been put forward by Eep Talstra (1995, 1997a, 1997b, 2002) as part of an interpretative road map which takes us from linguistic and literary analysis, via synchronic and diachronic study, to the dialogue between the text and its audiences past and present. Talstra’s computerized analysis of a biblical Hebrew text typically yields an organized line-up of clauses, based on grammatical features (cf. the chart of Judges 15, below). Subsequent points of interest are the inter-clause relationships, the grouping of clauses into sections and chapters, and the grammatical representations of the participants in the story. Here is an important link between linguistic observation and content-based interpretation: grammatical patterns manifest the entrances and exits of the characters on stage, they introduce and define them, thus enabling us to draw up a survey of all the characters and their relationships. The text now appears before us as a composition, like a map displaying a main road and its by-ways. The syntactic structures can be used as building blocks for interpretive claims about the text.

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3. Narratological Analysis In syntactic analysis, as just outlined, the characters in a plot are primarily known by their grammatical functions such as subject, direct object, etc., leaving little room for an appreciation of their substance. We therefore turn to narratological analysis as developed by Mieke Bal (1997). Bal’s method was not primarily developed for biblical studies, but it has proved itself to be innovative and stimulating for biblical studies and thus to be very useful in the field (Bal 1998; Brenner and van Dijk-Hemmes 1993). It distinguishes three narratological levels: the fabula, representing the essence of the story in an abstract way, the narrative as the concrete manifestation of the fabula, and finally the text, the actual form in which narrative and fabula reach the reader. These levels provide the reader with a tool for classifying the text, enabling her, i.e., to decide whether or not the text actually is a narrative (Bal 1997: 9). Yet, even poignant questions such as “who’s looking”, “who’s talking”, and “who’s acting”, crucial criteria in Bal’s theory of focalization, are directly related to grammatical and syntactic phenomena. Regardless of her method, what the exegete has to deal with is the text, as offered to the reader by the narrator, including its particular linguistic structures and narratological strategies. One might think that linguistic analysis offers an objective way of studying the text, as communication through language is conditioned by conventions and the correct application of linguistic rules (langue). However, within this system, each language user is free to make their own choices in order to express themselves (parole). As a result, each language user has their own profile. At the same time, the narrator, as a language user, puts himself between the narrative and the reader. The information on the story and its characters as it is perceived by the reader is determined by the linguistic usage of the narrator, who chooses to name his characters or leave them anonymous, who decides on vocabulary, word order, and verbal inflection. This textual environment (both in the narrow sense of the story as such and in the wider sense of, in our case, the First Testament as a whole) qualifies the characters and their actions. It is crucial that any interpretation preserve the narrative and textual environment provided by the narrator as a frame of reference, lest the characters become mere puppets in the hands of the exegete.

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By way of illustration we will now take a closer look at the female characters in Judges 15, part of the Samson narrative. This story as a whole features no less than five women, two of whom occur in this chapter: Samson’s bride from Timna, and her sister. We will proceed in three stages, (1) chapter—uncovering its structure through grammatical relations between blocks of text (text grammar), (2) clause—focusing on (abnormal) clausal structures and word order (clause grammar), and (3) characters—providing the grammatical-syntactic perspective. 4.1. Stage 1: Chapter Below is a chart of the chapter, as produced by Eep Talstra’s syntactical analysis algorithms, in which the text is split up into grammatical clauses. The chart has the canonical verse references in its first column, a clause numbering in the second. Nominal representations of characters, both animate and inanimate, are underlined. The final column has sigla denoting the clause types.1 15.1

15.2 15.3 15.4

15.5

15.6

1 *It happened some time later, in the days of the wheat harvest >*Samson came to visit his wife, bringing a kid 2 3 >*he said: 5 >*But her father would not let him go in [to her] 7 >*Her father said: 13 = *Samson said to them: 16 >*Samson went …, 17 > he caught three hundred foxes 18 = he took torches, 19 = he turned [the foxes] tail to tail 20 = he placed a torch between each pair of tails 21 = he lit the torches 22 = he turned [the foxes] loose … 23 = he set fire to standing grain … 24 >*[The] Philistines said: 26 > They said: 30 = *[The] Philistines came up 31 > they put her and her father to the fire

Way0 WayX Way0 WLQt WayX WayX WayX Way0 Way0 Way0 Way0 Way0 Way0 Way0 WayX Way0 WayX Way0

1 The main sigla are: WayX = wayyiqtol clause with nominal subject; WayO = wayyiqtol clause without nominal subject; infc = infinitival clause; ptc = participial clause; WLQt = weqatal clause with negation. A clause marked with the symbol > is subordinate to the preceding clause, a clause marked with the symbol = is coordinate with the preceding clause. The wording of the chart is derived from the JPS translation. For syntactic details, the reader is referred to Van Wieringen 2007.

showcasing the little sister 15.7 15.8

32 36 37 38 15.9 39 40 41 15.10 42 44 15.11 49

15.12 15.13

15.14

15.15

15.16 15.17

15.18

15.19

15.20

50 55 58 62 65 66 71 72 73 74 76 77 79 81 82 83 84 85 86 89 90 92 93 94 95 96 100 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109

= *Samson said to them: > he kicked their shins and hips, a thorough thrashing—, = he went down = he stayed in the cave … >*[The] Philistines came up, > they pitched camp in Judah = *they spread out over Lehi, ‘Jaw’. > The men of Judah said: > they said: = *Thereupon three thousand man of Judah went down to the cave … >*they said to Samson: >*he said to them: = *they said to him: = *Samson said to them: >*they said to him, >*saying: = they bound him with two new ropes = they brought him up from the rock. = *As he reached Lehi, >*Shouting came [the] Philistines >*the spirit of YHWH gripped him; > the ropes > became like flax = the bonds melted off his hands. = *He found a fresh jawbone of an ass > he reached, = he picked it up = he killed a thousand men with it >*Samson said: >* it happened >*as he finished speaking > he threw the jawbone away = he called the place Ramath-lehi, ‘Jaw Hill’ = he was very thirsty = he called to YHWH = *he said: >*So God split open the hollow at Lehi >*water came out >*he drank > his spirit returned = *he was revived >*That is why it is called Caller’s Well > which is at Lehi > to this day. = He led Israel in the days of the Philistines for twenty years.

121 WayX Way0 Way0 Way0 WayX Way0 Way0 WayX Way0 WayX Way0 Way0 Way0 WayX Way0 infc Way0 Way0 ptc WPQt WayX WayX Defc WayX Way0 Way0 Way0 Way0 WayX Way0 infc Way0 WayX Way0 Way0 Way0 WayX WayX Way0 WayX Way0 XQtl NmCl Defc Way0

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4.2. Stage 2: Clause A summary of the above chart shows that the chapter comprises three sections, the third of which has four scenes. – Opening: Adverbial clause of time (1a). – Section 1: Samson comes to visit his wife (1b–2). – Section 2: Samson sets fire to the harvest. The Philistines put Samson’s wife and her father to the fire (3–6). – Section 3: Samson is caught by the Philistines and sets himself free; God splits a rock (7–19). – First scene: Samson gives the Philistines a thrashing (7–8). – Second scene: The men of Judah hand Samson over to the Philistines (9–13). – Third scene: Samson sets himself free (14–15). – Fourth scene: Samson sings his ditty and God splits a rock (16– 19). – Concluding note: Samson led Israel for twenty years (15.20). 4.3. Stage 3: Characters We will now examine two verses in greater detail to determine the characters they contain. 15.1 2 >* Samson came to visit his wife, bringing a kid 3 >*he said: 4 > Let me go into the chamber to my wife. 5 >*But her father would not let him 6 > go in. 15.2 7 >*Her father said: 8 >*I was sure 9 > that you had take a dislike to her 10 > so I gave her to your wedding companion. 11 >*Isn’t her younger sister more beautiful than she? 12 > Let her become your wife instead of her. 15.3 13 = *Samson said to them

From a narratological perspective, there are two “actors on stage” in these verses, viz. Samson and “her [his wife’s] father”. Both of them occur in the narrator’s text. Syntactically, however, we have two more characters: Samson’s wife herself and her “younger sister” (italics and bold type, respectively, in the above lines). The wife occurs in the narrator’s text (clauses 2, 5, 7) as well as in the men’s dialogue (4, 9, 10, 11, 11, 12), while the sister is only mentioned by her father (11, 12).

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The father’s statement in clauses 8–12 has an interesting structure. The showcasing of the little sister in 11 is its central element, rather than the message about Samson’s wife having been given to another man, or the reasons for that move, which would actually seem to be more important. Clause 11, a rhetorical question in Hebrew, is higher in the syntactic hierarchy than its neighbors. Possibly, the narrator uses subordinate clauses (8–9) to convey the father’s reasons for giving away Samson’s wife because he has just told the reader about what happened to her (verse 14:20). Samson is the only one who needs to be informed at this point. Through the prominent position of clause 11 the narrator underlines the father’s desire to marry off his second daughter: Samson’s wife may no longer be available to him, but here is a girl who’s even prettier than she. Let us now examine the two verses in some more detail. Clause 2 is a wayyiqtol clause expressing, probably, Samson’s intention to visit his wife (he does not actually visit her). Clause 3 lacks an addressee, so who is Samson talking to? Based on what he says we may safely exclude his wife, which leaves us with two options: her father (in which case abo’ a should be taken to mean “please, let me come”) or Samson himself (“I want to come”). Since in clauses 7 and 8 the father apparently reacts to Samson’s words, he most probably is the implicit addressee in clause 3. Samson’s wife has four grammatical appearances in clauses 1–7, though she never acts as an independent character. Her first two appearances are nominal (wife), and related to Samson: in the narrator’s text as “his wife” (2) and subsequently in Samson’s own words as “my wife” (4). The third and fourth times are pronominal, and linked to her father, through the pronominal suffix in the expression aviha, “her father” (5, 7). Clause 7, like 3, lacks an explicit addressee but now the spoken words themselves, particularly the reference to “you” in 9, make it clear that “her father” is not talking to himself. Clause 8, spoken by the father, has the paronomastic expression amor amarti (literally, “to say, I said”), again without an addressee and followed by indirect speech, a ky clause which by itself does not imply that the addressee must have been someone else. Clause 9, like 8, has infinitival paronomasia (sano saneytah, literally, “to hate, you hated her”). Through this twofold paronomasia it sounds as if the father is trying to justify what he did, by using particularly emphatic language. The expression halo (“isn’t …?”) introduces the rhetorical question of clause 11 in which the father draws Samson’s attention to his second daughter, through a comparison between the two women.

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In fact, the entire conversation is about Samson’s wife, who is supposedly disliked by him (9), who has been given to the wedding companion (10), and whose sister is now brought forward (11a), a prettier girl than she is (11b). Finally the sister is offered to Samson (12a) instead of her (12b). How many actors are on stage at this point? Based on linguistic observations in the narrator’s text as well as in the protagonists’ dialogues, we may conclude there are at least three and probably four of them. The narrator not only mentions “Samson” and “her father” but also “them” as Samson’s addressees in clause 13. From the plural form we may infer that Samson speaks to “her father” and at least one other person. Since the father compares his two daughters with each other, both are narratologically present. Probably, then, the pronoun “them” comprises the father and the two sisters. 5. Confronting the Syntactical and Narratological Methods At first sight, Mieke Bal’s narratological analysis provides a complete survey of the characters in any given text. This method allows us to determine who is looking, who is speaking, and who is acting (Bal 1997: 114). An important draw-back, however, is its limitation to the narrator’s text. In Bal’s interpretation of our story, therefore, the younger sister is conspicuously lacking. Within a single fabula, Bal defines an actant as a class of actors that shares a certain characteristic quality. That shared characteristic is related to the teleology of the fabula as a whole. An actant is therefore a class of actors whose members have an identical relation to the aspect of telos which constitutes the principle of the fabula. (Bal 1997: 197)

If we limit ourselves to Judges 15:1–2, there is no doubt about Samson and his father-in-law as actants, each with a motivation of his own. Samson wants to join his wife; the other man wants to marry off his second daughter. The aim of the women’s father can also be said to secure his own vulnerable position, caught between the wedding guests who in 14:15 threatened to set fire to his house, and his irascible son-in-law, Samson. In any case his aim differs from that of Samson. As he mentions the two sisters, Samson’s (former) wife might be added to the group of actants. In the previous chapter, she had an urgent motivation, viz. to save her life: menaced by her countrymen, she nagged the answer to Samson’s riddle out of him. Even if she lacks an explicit motivation in the present verses, her former appearance allows us to see her as an actant. Her little sister, however, showcased by their father, has no apparent motivation of her own. In Bal’s theory, this definitely bans her from being seen as an actant in the present fabula. But in our text

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she is present all the same, she has a distinctive role, and disregarding this fact would make any analysis unsatisfactory. Bal distinguishes between the roles of the Subject, the Opponent, and the Helper, who is required though insufficient for the Subject to achieve his or her goal. Helpers, together with Opponents, provide tension to the fabula and make the story worth reading (Bal 1997: 202). If the father were Subject, the younger daughter might be seen as his Helper. But the Subject of this fabula is undoubtedly Samson, from whose perspective she could only appear as something like a Helper to the Opponent. Now the role of Helper to the Opponent is lacking in Bal’s model. So where do we leave the little sister? She does not seem to fit any category. Still she is there and she has her role to play. From the words that are spoken about her we may safely assume that she is on stage, together with the other characters that are looking at her. So her presence matters, even if in the text it is exclusively realized in dialogue and she does not act herself. How can we articulate her role using the analytical tool that is available? 6. A Supplement to Bal’s Model It would seem that Bal’s theory is in need of some extension if it is to cover all biblical figures. The supplement will have to take into account characters that only exist within other characters’ words, such as the women in the present narrative, who are no actors, be it Subjects, Opponents or Helpers, but mere negotiable objects in other character’s dialogue (cf. also Judg 19). Other characters that initially exist in other characters’ dialogue only can also be brought to the fore in my addition to Bal. A case in point would be Samson himself in most of Judges 13, the story leading up to his birth. Bal further defines the Anti-Subject, whose goal is not just to oppose the Subject, but who has a goal of its own (Bal 1997: 203). Bal’s use of a limited number of categories only explains why application of her theory leaves no room for the bride’s sister. After all, at the level of the fabula an identifiable group of actants presupposes the presence of a cluster of characters pursuing the same goal within the confines of the fabula. In Judges 15:1–3 there are two actants: Samson and his father, each pursuing his own goal. Samson wants his bride back; his father wants to marry off his younger daughter. The father refers to two sisters; these words expand the group of potential actants to include the woman who was given to Samson in marriage in the first place. In Judges 14 her aim is to save her own skin (the Philistine men are threatening to set fire to her and her father’s house

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if she does not wheedle the answer to the riddle out of Samson, whereupon she persuades him to tell her the answer). Although she has no aim in Judges 15:1–3, her earlier action warrants classifying this woman as an actant. When it comes to her sister it is more problematic. The “daughter on offer” has no goal of her own, so Bal’s teleological criterion does not apply to her. That leaves her out of the running as a classifiable actant at the level of the fabula. Yet she does play a role and it would be unsatisfactory if a role-playing “narrative element” is left out of the analysis. Her role appears to be on the level of a ‘helper’. According to Bal the helper is a necessary but not in itself sufficient condition for the subject to achieve the goal. A helper is the antithesis of an opponent, and together they ensure suspense and make a fabula readable (Bal 1997: 202). From the father’s perspective the younger daughter is a helper, from Samson’s perspective she is a helper of the opponent, more like a derived opponent. But Bal’s theory does not have a sub-category ‘opponent’s helper’: it only distinguishes between subject, opponent (adversary of the subject) and helper (collaborating with the subject). If one switches perspectives and the father becomes the subject instead of the opponent, there would be no objection to classifying the daughter as a helper, but in the fabula of Judges 15 the subject is Samson, not the father. That excludes the younger daughter from every category. Nevertheless she plays a role. She is introduced into a discussion and, judging by what is said about her, we surmise that she is actually on stage and visible to the actants. Her presence is a factor, even though she only features in direct speech. Her “being” is her claim to existence. Hence the daughter plays a role in the story, but how do we accommodate her in the existing analytical method? Bal’s theory seems to require expansion on the level of characters, if we are to avoid disregarding some biblical figures that can further our exegesis. Such an expansion should bring all characters into the picture, even if they only feature in direct speech. As far as the fabula is concerned, Bal’s model suffices, since the female characters do not play a role at that level. But they are objects, they play a role in the story, they are spoken about. How can we include them in the picture? Focalization offers no solution, since Bal’s category of actors is limited to characters about whom the narrator speaks (who are looking, speaking, acting). Our story (Judg 15, also Judg 19), however, concerns women who are referred to by an actor rather than by the narrator. A possible solution would be to supplement the focalization perspective with the question, “Who is being spoken about?” To answer precisely that question, syntactic analysis is a valuable tool. It sheds light on all characters in a text, including those who are being spoken

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about, so that they can be part of the exegesis. In our story this would apply to a young woman who is otherwise easily overlooked, even while she is on stage: the showcased little sister. Summary This study proposes syntactic analysis as a supplement to the narratological method developed by Mieke Bal. The aim is to highlight characters in biblical narrative that might otherwise be overlooked, such as Samson’s sisterin-law in Judges 15:2. The syntactic analysis proposed here has three successive foci: (a) Chapters. Grammatical relations between text blocks are established, resulting in the division of the text into paragraphs (textual grammar). The characters function as stepping stones from one paragraph to another. (b) Sentences. Special attention is paid to regular and irregular sentence structure, and word order (syntactic grammar). (c) Characters. These constitute the grammatical-syntactic perspective. The analysis demonstrates that the narrator uses the language structure in a strategic way to guide the reader. It gives us a better view of all characters and their positions in the story. References Bal, M., Lethal Love. Feminist Literary Readings of Biblical Love Stories. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987. ———, Death and Dissymmetry. The Politics of Coherence in the Book of Judges. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988a. ———, Murder and Difference. Gender, Genre and Scholarship on Sisera’s Death. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988b. ———, Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. 2nd edition. Toronto: Toronto University Press, 1997. Brenner, A., and F. van Dijk-Hemmes, On Gendering Texts. Leiden: Brill, 1993. Talstra, E., “Clause Types and Textual Structure.” Pp. 166–180 in Narrative and Comment. Contributions Presented to Wolfgang Schneider. Edited by E. Talstra. Amsterdam: SHA, 1995. ———, “A Hierarchy of Clauses in Biblical Hebrew Narrative.” Pp. 85–118 in Narrative Syntax and the Hebrew Bible. Biblical Interpretation Series 29. Edited by E. van Wolde. Leiden: Brill, 1997a. ———, “Tense, Mood, Aspect and Clause Connections in Biblical Hebrew. A Textual Approach,” Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages 23 (1997b): 81–103.

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———, Oude en nieuwe lezers. Een inleiding in de methoden van uitleg van het Oude Testament. Kampen: Kok, 2002. van Wieringen, W.C.G., Delila en de anderen. Een syntactisch georiënteerd bijbelstheologisch onderzoek naar de rol van de vijf vrouwen in de Simsoncyclus (Richteren 13–16). 2nd edition. Vught: Skandalon, 2007.

EMPIRICAL STUDIES

NARRATIVE RECONSTRUCTION AS CREATIVE CONTINGENCY

Michael Scherer-Rath The narrative turn in research into stories of people’s everyday lives has triggered rapid growth in this diverse interdisciplinary field. Narrative research is not tied to specific disciplines. Empirical research into narratives can be classified into trends, objects and—deriving from these—research strategies. The various trends are marked by clearly divergent conceptions of the human subject (singular, reflective versus multiple, fragmented) (Sools 2012: 27–30). The conception of the dialogical self is looking for a middle way (Hermans and Kempen 1993). The object of empirical research is usually the way people construct their identities by way of personal stories. Narrative research can also entail the comparison of stories from different groups, cultures or historical periods. But narrative research is not confined to methodology. It can also be a practical method to promote and cultivate the human capacity to tell and understand stories (Sools 2012: 27–28). This could be applied in training, research and in developing spiritual care. Research strategy ultimately depends on the research object. The choice of a method of data collection and analyzing the collected data depends on whether the study focuses primarily on the content of stories or on their interpretation. Research into content entails semantics, semiotics or the structure of these (beginning, middle, and end). Research into the interpretive process looks at the way situations are interpreted and what the interpretation means to the interpreter. A common observation instrument is narrative biographical interviews (open or semi-structured). Analysis of the collected data can be mainly reductive or predominantly explicatory. Reductive analytical methods process data with a view to structuring and condensing them in order to gain goal directed information through comparison. Explicatory methods seek to discover the inner logic of form and content by successively examining the logic of the representation (Porzelt 2000: 73–75). Empirical research in theology and religious studies usually focuses on narrative identity and interpretive processes to gain knowledge of and insight into the actual or potential importance of religion and spirituality in this regard. “Who am I?” That is a cardinal existential question that people grapple with in their daily lives. Narrative study of the religious or spiritual dimension often concerns the subjective perceptions and experience of

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individuals and groups in everyday life, following the phenomenological or interpretive trend in empirical methodology. Is this a satisfactory empirical method to study religious identity as a narrative reconstruction of people’s experience? To fathom the problem I first look at context as an experiential world in which people seek to discover their identity. Ultimately it concerns growing awareness of the tragic contingency of the late modern era. Secondly, I explore narrative identity and narrative reconstruction of events as possible or necessary means of answering the identity question in a contingent world. Finally I try to translate the insight I have gained into epistemological, methodological conclusions for further empirical studies of narrative reconstructions of experience as constructions of narrative identity. 1. Narrative Identity and Tragic Contingency in the Late Modern Era Throughout their lives people seek to discover their identity.1 To find out who they are they look for objects, characteristics, qualities, feelings and actions that reveal their personal uniqueness. Naturally this does not happen in a vacuum but relates to the context in which they interact with themselves, others and their society. They try to answer the identity question in terms of their individual social position (Verortung). But attempts to define that position are abortive. According to the social psychologist Keupp (2010: 108) the processes of globalization, individualization and pluralization in modern capitalism have permanently deconstructed the early (classical) modern social order and its identity construction. In the second, late modern era (Giddens 1991) there was growing awareness of ambivalence between insecurity, risk and a need for orientation on the one hand, and freedom, playfulness and opening up possibilities on the other. This awareness is typical of late modernity. It boils down to a growing sense of tragic contingency: an experience of the need to organize experience and the realization that this is impossible. Contingency means that everything (including one’s own life) could have been different and could develop differently from one’s plans and expectations (Makropoulos 2008: 33–39; Zirfas 2010: 27). Events no longer have a self-evident place in one’s personal perspective on life. In late modernity people have to interpret such events—ambivalent and contradictory as they are—and then react to them in such a way that

1 Identity is seen as a meaningful structure displaying continuity on a diachronic level and coherence on a synchronic level (Straub 1999: 154).

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their interpretations and reactions accord with their personal needs, desires and expectations. In everyday life this entails constant appraisal and accommodation (Keupp 2010: 104) that takes into account the contingency of life and thus creates new contingency. In the ancient world contingency was confined to actions. Even though the world itself was not contingent (it could not change, become different), one could choose what course of action to adopt (Makropoulos 1989: 25). In late modernity there is not merely a proliferation of options to the extent that sociologists now speak of a risk society because its magnitude and the need to choose appears threatening—this is an active way of constructing one’s identity to fit the situation, hence an active form of contingency of action. But there is also a passive form which people engage in from day to day. Situations befall them. Late modern people are increasingly aware of living in a contingent world. The latitude for thought and action in daily life is no longer presupposed or determined by structures with unquestioned significance and normative influence. Individuals have to evolve their own frameworks of thought and action in which to interpret their action and decide on a course of action. This obliges them not only to follow a ‘logos’ but to create ‘logos’ of their own (Waldenfels 1990: 84). How do people handle this? Every day they face situations that are difficult to grasp logically. Yet they have to deal with them so as to understand and place what is happening to them. This enables them to relate and find a proper relationship to reality, a personal identity. We tell others how we relate to events, incidents that at first sight are difficult to understand because they seem irrational. Yet human narrative intelligence lets us think in time; indeed it is the necessary condition for thinking time as experienced and expected. For the historical-narrative construction of meaning, time is therefore always the time of collective or shared experiences, expectations, and developments. (Straub 2005: 79)

Through narrative interpretation the incident is fitted into a ‘plot’. What had been just an incident now acquires meaning as a component of a story and becomes a meaningful element of a plot. An incident that has no preamble or sequel is given a beginning, a centre and an end in time (Straub 2005: 73; Van den Brand 2012). We call such an incident an ‘event’. It is a temporal order that recognizes an incident as a contingent event, observes it consciously, and works on it intellectually (Ricoeur 1986). It is an intellectual feat that does not disregard contingency but sees it as a challenge and transforms it into a provisional but nonetheless orderly pattern. It is a form of narrative interpretation that meets the need to accommodate the

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distinctive nature of the contingency. It is a form of linguistic interpretation that makes contingency intelligible (Straub 2005: 72–73). Narrative creates understanding by creating connection and contexts, in different ways, but as a whole, in a unique way, and articulates all this in a unified form that makes the course of events as they are articulated plausible. (Straub 2005: 73)

Case study: An 85-year-old woman is admitted to hospital. She tells a spiritual caregiver that she had an accident when she tried to get into a car. She slipped onto the back seat. One leg stayed behind and got caught in the door. In itself it is an accident that can happen any day, one that is easy to describe: you can tell what happened and what injuries you sustained. What is less easy to tell is how it happened and why. What impact has the injury had on your life? Such situations are contingent because we can assume that they were not predetermined by fate or by a supreme power that controls everything. The hallmark of contingent situations is that they could have been different. The woman’s leg did not have to get caught in the door. The accident did not have to have an impact on her life. But it did happen and the situation has affected her life. Life after the accident is no longer what it was before. That is because of the effects of the accident on her circumstances and her reflection on it. Often people are active participants, but just as often incidents happen unexpectedly. The interrelationship between the fortuitousness of actions and the need to discover or create order and structure in our lives because the world is no longer governed by an accepted order is the reason for modern people’s keener awareness of contingency. When people encounter a situation they cannot accommodate in their lives they are faced with an interpretive crisis and an experience of contingency (Dalferth and Stoellger 2000: 22), in the sense of an inability to interpret the situation confronting them in terms of their life story (SchererRath 2002: 17–20). There is a discontinuity (disruption) in one’s life story, a breach of trust (Giddens 1990) that life proceeds along familiar, predictable lines. People need such trusting interpretation to handle their daily lives. They should be able to respond almost automatically to everyday situations. Chance events that they cannot comprehend confront them with an incalculable dimension. Yet they still try to reconstruct who is responsible for it. Of course it is not always possible, because it is not so easy to place a chance event in a causal relationship. How do people deal with this—knowing that they need an interpretation (Joas 1996: 235–238)?

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A reminder: an 85-year-old woman is admitted to hospital because her leg got caught in a car door. She has been in hospital for seven weeks. In the story she tells the spiritual caregiver the accident and its physical consequences are a turning point in her life story. She experiences it as a disruption of her life, something unforeseen—an unexpected incident, but one that affects her. In the past she has always been very active. Computing, voluntary work and caring for her family occupied her fully. In one fell swoop it all came to an end. This turning point is the centre of the plot. The turning point relates the disruption to all her future expectations and past experience. A plot assigns the incomprehensible (how could it have happened?) a place without trying to grasp it or resolve it (e.g., metaphysically by assuming that it was planned by God). Other incidents in the environment during her stay in hospital are likewise summed up and, by narrating them, are fitted into a pattern. In the course of the conversation she tells what effect the accident will have on the planning of her life. All holiday plans, for instance, have to be scrapped. For the time being she cannot live with her husband and family. Despite the disappointments, pain, grief and anxiety she appears to accept the contingency of her life and to assign it a place. This can be done in various ways: by ignoring it, combating it, fighting against it. In the rest of the interview she comes to the conclusion that human life is finite and contingent. “In the end we are nothing …” “In a moment it happens.” “You think you can take on the whole world, but if it is decided from above it is all over.” She sees that disagreeable things can happen in human life. At the same time she concludes that everything turns out for the best. It is a subjective synthesis of heterogeneity on the basis of a plot that adapts irrational contingency to a rational (in her case religious) interpretive structure. The acceptance of contingency completes the plot, which has the car door accident as its turning point since it totally disrupted life. The turning point brought about existential change. In the story the incident has the status of an intrusive event with existential meaning. Because of the plot the car door accident is more than just an incident. The narrative assimilates contingency so as to integrate it meaningfully. Thus order and insight are constituted and gained in a unique manner. In this process religious and non-religious worldviews can play a major role. People’s beliefs influence the way they deal with contingency. “You think you can take on the whole world, but if it is decided from above it is over.” Religious worldviews in particular make it possible to transform the unfathomability of contingent events so that positive or negative incidents can

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be integrated with finite human life, resulting in improved quality of life (Westerhoff and Bohlmeijer 2010: 144–147; Dalferth and Stoellger 2007: 12– 19). 2. Narrative Reconstruction as a Creative Act Life stories in the sense of narrative reconstruction of significant events are a good way of dealing with contingency. They allow it to exist without downgrading it or sweeping it under the carpet. Life stories not only insist on the finitude of human actions, but also highlight the possibility of such actions by incorporating them into a personal life story. The philosophical anthropologist and philosopher of culture, Schwermer (2008), maintains that contingency is a condition for cultural life. A living culture has two facets: contingency and creativity. New things that are created both require contingency and bring it about. Innovation is not necessary, but it is possible. At the same time it is possible because it is not necessary. Constructivists would describe the story of the woman in the foregoing case study about an event interpreted as a nadir in her life as a linguistic distinction by means of which people create themselves in language (Olthoff and Vermetten 1994: 32). Hermans and Hermans-Jansen (1995) call the self “a dialogical narrator”. Ricœur (1992) speaks about narrative identity for which—one way or another—one needs others who can explain to you what linguistic distinctions you are making. To be able to describe something one must first observe it. The result of the observation takes ‘shape’ when corresponding elements emerge that refer to each other. These references also direct the observation. The point is that the life world that we perceive is not preexistent and only becomes demonstrable when we perceive it. It takes shape in the course of perception in order to become perceptible (Cassirer 2002: 249). Schwermer distinguishes between three forms of contingency that are important both to the researcher as the observer or interpreter of the actor’s interpretations and to the actor herself: creative, social and cultural contingency. Creative contingency is the human capacity to articulate oneself about previous articulations, to react to previous actions. All acts of observation, orientation and expression may be seen as reactions to previously articulated cultural forms. In this respect the aim of creative contingency is that people’s reactions to these should not be automatically. The cultural molding that influences us from within makes it possible to gain experience of cultural articulations in a cultural context and to verbalize it. If we do not

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encounter such articulations, we lack direction. Without individual transformation (Weiterformung and Umformung) of previously articulated forms culture would produce only rigid, stereotyped articulations. Every articulation is shaped by a distinctive, contingent, creative event. Social contingency responds to this. Self-discovery and self-reconstruction need to be ‘mirrored’ in and by others so one can develop one’s selfhood. The self is constructed in response to these mirrored images. Via the otherness of the other the responses are absorbed into our own selfhood. This explains why people are capable of discovering new things through openness to others. Through the otherness of the other people discover their own otherness: the new, the creative. Like creative contingency, social contingency depends on the essential structure of articulations, but these merely constitute the creative processes of change in continuity. Cultural contingency goes further. Here the self-other polarity focuses on one’s own culture and the foreignness of another culture. Cultural formation and/or change presuppose confronting or being transformed by cultural forms that offer a fresh possibility or challenge. In terms of contingency theory narrative reconstruction of key events may be defined as creative contingency, because it centers on the human capacity for creative action in relation to the experience of contingency and the framework of contingent thought and action that present a challenge to and possibility for creative reaction. 3. Empirical Research as a Creative Contingent Activity To gain greater insight into interpretive frameworks scholars are researching people’s interpretations of events that no longer have self-evident meaning. Empirical research by theologians and scholars of religion can help to clarify the substance and structure of these interpretations. An interpretive research project should rest on the premise that every utterance and observation subjected to empirical study must take into account not only the contingency of the observations but also that of the researcher’s own observations (his interpretation of interpretations). In my view, then, empirical research is subject to three types of contingency and should account for them epistemologically and methodologically: the experience under investigation or the reconstruction of the respondent’s observation, the researcher as the observer of the reconstruction of the observation, and the context in which the research is conducted. Giddens (1976) analyzed this ‘double hermeneutics’ and defined it. Narrative reconstruction requires the

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researcher to devise a framework of thought and action that people create in terms of language and meaning to explain their own context. The ‘translated’ observation does not happen in a vacuum and the research must allow for that. At the same time the researcher’s observation and research design must be treated as factors influencing her observation of the interpretation under investigation. In interviews, to obtain certain knowledge, she acts as an ‘other’ whose otherness challenges the interviewee to reconstruct his experience of his identity anew and, via the questions put to him, discover the ‘other’ in himself (Ricoeur 1992). Empirical research into the observation and interpretation of people’s perceptions and articulation, being observations and articulations of their perceptions and articulations, should allow for creative, social and cultural contingency. That does not detract from the fact that the researcher’s own creative contingency shapes her research and analysis of the collected data and enables her to articulate her findings in a way that affects earlier articulations she has studied and moreover helps to build a culture. Empirical research into life stories must take into account both creativity and the structures necessary for such creativity. Ultimately qualitative research into diverse interpretations of life events seeks to determine the creative contingency of the dialogue partners. At the same time it must take into account the cultural forms that unavoidably underlie that creativity. Hence attention to creative and social contingency affects the structure of a research project with a narrative approach (theoretical sensitivity, structuring of data collection). But it should also entail self-reflection by the researcher. The structure of the project and of the interviewee’s articulation permits the researcher to be creative in the first place. Interpretation is a creatively contingent process, which in its turn produces contingency but cannot circumvent that if it is to yield knowledge about structural aspects of the process. Acknowledgment of premises and frameworks of thought and action (interpretation) are essential. Research into the construction and development of identity depends on people’s narrative intelligence that enables them to narrate their life stories (Straub 2005). Their narrative intelligence enables them to verbalize their experiences and, in so doing, interpret them. “A person’s identity is not to be found in behavior, nor—important though this is—in the reactions of others, but in the capacity to keep a particular narrative going” (Giddens 1991: 54). Over the past 30 years social and human scientists have evolved various empirical research strategies to explore people’s contingent reconstructions of their own experience. According to Verschuren (2009) the choice of a research strategy and a research design is the product of conscious decision

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making that is not dependent on the availability of a standard instrument to be applied almost routinely in the majority of the cases. Ten methodological elements of decision making (Verschuren 2009: 250) Researcher’s position Detached Interactive Open Hidden On behalf of research subject With/by research subject Method

Linear, serial Synchronic Labour extensive Reductive Empirical

Iterative, parallel Diachronic Labour intensive Holistic Non-empirical

Kind of rationality

Comprehensive

Contingent

Kind of knowledge

Nomothetic

Idiographic

Verschuren identifies ten key elements of the researcher’s methodological reflection. He classifies them into four categories: the researcher’s position, his method, the type of reasoning he employs and the kind of knowledge he is looking for. In the case of the researcher’s position the questions are decisive: is the researcher’s role interactive or detached (1)? Narrative reconstruction presupposes the researcher acting as a dialogue partner who makes open dialogue possible through intensive interaction in a natural atmosphere. An interactive role also implies frankness on the researcher’s part rather than undercover research (2). The dialogue partners should be aware that the narrative interview forms part of a particular study and should know the object of the research, otherwise the interview would not be ethical. That implies that the study should not be conducted on behalf of the research subject but with and/or by that person (3). In this sense interaction with the research subject is the method that constitutes the study in the first place. Method is the second category in which decisions about the proposed study are made. The first cardinal decision concerns the steps to be taken. Survey research with closed questionnaires adopts a linear, serial approach because of its fixed structure and sequence. Research goal and questions, data generation and analysis procedure are determined in advance, because this kind of research hinges on the establishment of theoretical and methodological principles. Iterative parallel approaches have a minimum of predetermined steps: the aim is to give the research subjects or their context maximum freedom to determine the phenomenon under investigation for themselves (4). Narrative reconstruction presupposes this freedom, so a

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linear serial approach is inappropriate. The same applies to the choice of a synchronic or diachronic approach (5). Synchronic in this instance means that the study is conducted on one occasion and the data are then compared with information gleaned in different places, albeit also on one particular occasion. Such cross-selective studies differ from the diachronic approach, which requires data to be collected at different times or over a long period, for instance by way of a longitudinal study. In this respect narrative interviews can be synchronic, in that they are conducted at a particular time. The use of data triangulation or methods that collect diverse data or generate data by diverse means is indicative of a diachronic approach. Another important decision concerns the degree of intensity of the research (6). Verschuren (2009: 256) maintains that the researcher must decide whether to study a fairly limited domain in great depth and/or with high internal validity, or to study a broad domain, resulting in greater external validity but unavoidably less depth (hence possibly lower internal validity). Narrative reconstruction clearly entails labor intensive research of a small domain with the emphasis on in-depth study. This leads to the next major decision—the choice between reduction and holism (7). Whereas holistic research tries to view the research subject and context optimally as a functional scene and an organic whole, reduction entails breaking up the research object into research and observation units, breaking up the latter into variables and conducting the study without regard to the social and natural spatio-temporal context. Narrative reconstruction would involve a complex totality, in which process, patterns, complexes of meaning, and types of reconstruction can be discerned. Here it should be noted that the whole is more than the sum of the parts. It represents an integrated whole with a context of its own. That explains the last decision-making element of this method: the choice between empirical research based on sense perception, as opposed to a study based on (non-empirical) knowledge (8). The third category is type of rationality. The two main types are comprehensive versus contingent rationality (9). Comprehensive refers to an approach based on pure scientific logic and reasoning as in standardized research procedures and methodological guidelines. In such an approach the researcher operates mono-rationally. In a contingent model he operates multi-rationally in that rationality is tied to context. Research is seen as a social process rather than a purely intellectual activity. It also entails strategic management of interests (Wertrational) rather than linear, instrumental pursuit of goals (Zweckrational). Contingent rationality is applicable mainly when the aim is creative research, which is certainly the case in the narrative approach. A contingent model is also not concerned only with knowledge

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production. Its strategic functions could include raising research subjects’ awareness, or that of the target group or client (Van Dijke et al. 1991). The fourth category of decision making is the kind of knowledge to be gleaned. A common distinction in this regard is between nomothetic and idiographic knowledge (10). If the aim is to study everyday life, research should be directed to the way people deal with day-to-day living. An idiographic approach allows for the complexities of everyday life, which cannot be pinned down. Yet researchers who want to know more about it have to study it in a transparent, demarcated, scientific manner—realizing that their research will create new contingency. References Cassierer, E., Nachgelassene Manuskripte und Texte. Band 3: Geschichte und Mythos. Edited by K.C. von Köhnke et al. Hamburg: Meiner, 2002. Dalferth, I.U., and P. Stoellger, “Religion als Kontingenzkultur und die kontingenz Gottes.” Pp. 1–44 in Vernunft, Kontingenz und Gott. Edited by I.U. Dalferth and P. Stoellger. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000. Dalferth, I.U., and P. Stoellger, “Religion zwischen Selbstverständlichkeit, Unselbstverständlichkeit und Unverständlichkeit.” Pp. 1–21 in Hermeneutik der Religion. Edited by I.U. Dalferth and P. Stoellger. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007. Giddens, A., New Rules of Sociological Methods. London: Hutchinson, 1976. ———, The Consequences of Modernity. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1990. ———, Modernity and Self-Identity. Self and Society in the Late Modern Age. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991. Hermans, H.J.M., and H.J.G. Kempen, The Dialogical Self: Meaning as Movement. San Diego: Academic Press, 1993. Hermans, H.J.M., and E. Hermans-Jansen, Self-Narratives. The Construction of Meaning in Psychotherapy. New York: Guilford Press, 1995. Joas, H., Die Kreativität des Handelns. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1996. Keupp, H., “Identitäten, befreit von Identitätszwängen, aber verpflichtet zur Identitätsarbeit,” Familiendynamik 36/2 (2010): 100–109. Makropoulos, M., Modernität als ontologischer Ausnahmezustand? Walter Benjamins Theorie der Modern. München: Fink, 1989. ———, Theorie der Massenkultur. München: Fink, 2008. Olthof, J., and E. Vermetten, De mens als verhaal, narratieve strategieën in psychotherapie van kinderen en volwassenen. Utrecht: De Tijdstroom, 1984. Porzelt, B., “Qualitativ-empirische Methoden in der Religionspädagogik.” Pp. 63–81 in Empirische Religionspädagogik. Grundlagen—Zugänge—Aktuelle Projekte. Edited by B. Porzelt and R. Güth. Münster/Hamburg/London: Lit-Verlag, 2000. Ricoeur, P., Zufall und Vernunft in der Geschichte. Tübingen: Gehrke, 1986. ———, Oneself as Another. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. Scherer-Rath, M., Lebensackgassen. Herausforderung für die pastorale Beratung und

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Begleitung von Menschen in Lebenskrisen. Münster/Hamburg/Berlin/London: Lit Verlag, 20022. Schwermer, O., “Das Neue und das Andere. Zum Verhältnis von Kontingenz und Kreativität.” Pp. 183–203 in Der Mensch—ein kreatives Wesen? Kunst—Technik— Innovation. Edited by H. Schmidinger and C. Sedmak. Darmstadt: WBG, 2008. Sools, A., “Narratief onderzoek,” Kwalon 17/1 (2012): 27–35. Straub, J., Handlung, Interpretation, Kritik. Grundzüge einer textwissenschaftlichen Handlungs- und Kulturpsychologie. Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1999. ———, “Telling Stories, Making History. Towards a Narrative Psychology of the Historical Construction of Meaning.” Pp. 44–98 in Narration, Identity, and Historical Consciousness. Edited by J. Straub. Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2005. van Dijke, J., M. De Goede, H. ’t Hart, and J. Teunissen, Onderzoeken en veranderen. Methoden van praktijkonderzoek. Leiden/Antwerpen: Kroese, 1991. Verschuren, P., Praktijkgericht onderzoek. Ontwerp van organisatie- en beleidsonderzoek. Amsterdam: Boom, 2009. Waldenfels, B., Der Stachel des Fremden. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1990. Westerhoff, G., and E. Bohlmeijer, Psychologie van de Levenskunst. Amsterdam: Boom, 2010. Zirfas, J., “Kontingenz und Tragik.” Pp. 9–30 in Dramen der Moderne. Kontingenz und Tragik im Zeitalter der Freiheit. Edited by E. Liebau and J. Zirfas. Bielefeld: Transcript, 2010.

DIALOGICAL CONSTRUCTIONS OF A MUSLIM SELF THROUGH LIFE STORY TELLING

Marjo Buitelaar

I feel like a Muslim, but considering what they say about Islam on television, or how teenage Muslim girls talk about it, I realize that I am a flawed Muslim … I have a Dutch translation of the Koran, but it feels odd to read the Koran in Dutch; I do not feel at home in that translation. Somehow the Dutch language is not suitable to transmit the ornate style of the Arabic text.

In response to the question what being a Muslim means to her, this is how Boushra, a 35 years old Dutch Muslim psychiatrist of Moroccan descent positions herself in the dialogue with various collective voices in Dutch society that speak out about Islam.1 As elsewhere in Europe over the last decade, Islam has become the dominant marker of identity attributed to Dutch citizens of Muslim descent.2 Since identity is always constructed in

1 Boushra (pseudonym, as all other names of my interlocutors that are mentioned in this chapter) is one of the twenty five women who participates in a longitudinal life story project that I started among daughters of Moroccan migrants in the Netherlands in 1998. The second round of interviews were conducted in 2008. 2 Besides 9/11 and the subsequent ‘war on terror’, several local incidents have influenced the dominant Dutch discourse on Islam. In 2002, the liberal-rightist politician Pim Fortuyn, who spoke in very negative terms about Muslims, was killed. Even though the murderer was an environmentalist of Dutch background, Fortuyn’s death is often associated with the perceived danger posed by the presence of fundamentalist Muslims in the Netherlands. In 2004, the Dutch filmmaker Theo van Gogh was killed by a radicalised young Muslim man of Moroccan descent. Van Gogh was the producer of the film Submission, which contains shots of koranic texts written on a naked female body. The film-script was written by Ayaan Hirsi Ali, at the time a member of the Dutch parliament. Submission was part of what she called her ‘jihad’ against Islam’s oppression of women. More recently, the new-rightist Party for Freedom (PVV) won 15,5 % of all votes in the 2010 national elections and played a crucial role in supplying the governing parties with enough support in parliament to pass laws. Leader of the PVV is Geert Wilders, whose flagrantly anti-Islam statements receive much media attention.

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dialogue with others, Dutch Muslims cannot ignore the dominant Western discourse on Islam. Responding to claims of inclusion and exclusion made by the various social groups and categories they identify with in society plays a significant role in the construction of their religious identity. Particularly the diasporic condition of Muslims with a migration background brings into sharp relief the sense of constantly negotiating between past and present, tradition and modernity, and self and other (Bhatia 2001: 57). The current fashion among young Muslim girls of Moroccan or Turkish background to wear a headscarf, for example, shows parallels to the emancipatory “Black is Beautiful” trend in the 1960s and 1970s. In variation to the Big Afro hair style expressing “I am black and I am proud,” girls who wear a headscarf state “I am Muslim and I am proud.” It would be a mistake, however, to reduce the meaning of Islam to Muslims to identity politics only. While wearing a headscarf has become fashionable, the practice also points to a desire to express or experience piety. Rather than a political issue, to most Muslims Islam is first and foremost a personal source of comfort, inspiration, and a guideline for ethically sound conduct. In this chapter I will argue that the study of religious identity construction from a biographical perspective by using the analytical concept of the ‘dialogical self’ allows one to investigate both the intrinsic value of religiosity to Muslims and its contextualized meanings in terms of identity politics. I will do so by reflecting on excerpts from interviews with two Muslim women who participated in my research project on the inheritance of migration in the life stories of highly educated daughters of Moroccan migrants to the Netherlands. 1. Dialogical Self Theory According to dialogical self theory, self-conceptions are produced by a dynamic interplay of so-called ‘I-positions’ and ‘voices of the self’. The self is dialogically constructed in two interrelated ways. First of all, individuals have the capacity to look at themselves through the eyes of others. Secondly, as embodied actors they comment on different ‘versions’ or dimensions of themselves. From each temporally and spatially specific position that one occupies, one enters into (internal) dialogues with one’s other selves, that is, the selves that arise in different positions. In addition, one enters into (imaginary) dialogues with significant others who are related to one in these positions. The self is therefore never entirely ‘here’, but always extends to other localities (Hermans 2001).

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Hermans speaks of ‘I’-positions to accentuate that taking a position is not a matter of generalized role taking, but of appropriation and experiencing it as belonging to oneself. While some I-positions refer to specific social positions, others relate predominantly to personal traits. The Dutch-Moroccan women who participated in the life story research project discussed here, for instance, narrated certain episodes in their life stories from social Ipositions like ‘I as a Muslim’ or ‘I as the daughter of a guest worker’. Other narrations concern self-presentations of personal I-positions such as ‘I as a perfectionist’ or ‘I as an ambitious person’. Inspired by Herbert Mead’s concept of the ‘generalized other’ and the work of the philosopher Bakhtin, dialogical self theory stresses the importance of ‘collective voices’ in the construction of self. When individuals speak, they use the words of the groups to which they belong. These words, in turn, represent the rules, conventions and established world views of those groups. The dialogical self is developed by ‘orchestrating’ the ‘voices’ that speak to and from the different I-positions between which one shifts. These voices, in other words, represent one’s different ‘sites of self’ (cf. Holland et al. 1998: 29–30). Taking into account that the self extends to different localities simultaneously makes the dialogical model of self construction particularly apt to study identity formation in a post migration context. It reminds us, for example, that the religious identity of Moroccan-Dutch Muslims in the Netherlands is informed by narratives on what it means to be a Muslim that circulate in their country of origin, as well as by very different narratives on Islam that circulate in Dutch society. More in particular, dialogical self theory draws attention to the ways in which the multiplicity of voices informing the negotiations of one’s migrant self are shaped by racial, cultural, and postcolonial power relations (cf. Bhatia 2001: 63). Both in Morocco and in the Netherlands, for instance, current narratives on Muslimhood build upon mutually exclusive constructions of Muslims and non-Muslims that date back at least to French occupation in Morocco and Dutch colonial administration in what is now Indonesia. Also, as Asad (2003) convincingly argues, due to historical constructions of European identity, in current European discourse Islam may be perceived to be in Europe, but it is viewed as belonging to Europe. Voices addressing Muslims as ‘the other’ therefore always enter negotiations of a European Muslim identity. The analysis of voices speaking to and from different I-positions in narrative self-presentations allows the researcher to grasp how different social identifications intersect and how personal and collective voices are

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translated, combined or muted in self-representations in a post migration context. While, for example, my interlocutors may distinguish between their I-position as a Muslim and that as a daughter of low-educated migrant workers in the Netherlands, their being Muslim cannot be separated from their gender and migration background. For them, being a Muslim in the Netherlands comes in the modality of being a woman who was raised in a Moroccan family with low-educated migrant parents. Simultaneously, their being Muslim is co-constituted by belonging to a stigmatized religious minority group in a highly secularized Dutch society. In my research I am interested in what ways the Moroccan-Dutch women experience specific elements of the Moroccan cultural heritage as enhancing or hampering their self-realization in the Dutch context. I therefore study how the voices that populate their self-narratives relate to two basic themes in life stories: personal achievements and connectedness to others (cf. McAdams 1993; Kagitçibasi 2005). Narrations that are told from the Iposition as a loyal (Muslim) daughter who sees it as her (religious) duty to respect her parents, for instance, bespeak contradictory voices that inform the narrator’s view on what being a loyal daughter should entail. Living up to the expectations of migrant parents means realizing one’s family’s ambitions for social mobility by seeking a good education and employment. This, however, contravenes family expectations according to which a daughter should stay (close to) home to guard her reputation and help their mothers. It is exactly voices expressing these latter expectations that seem to confirm the negative image of the oppressed Muslim woman held by many non-Muslims in the Netherlands. In efforts to reconcile contradictory voices about the loyal Muslim daughter and to counter negative stereotypes about Muslims, many interviewees created a third position in their narratives by comparing their own ambitions to the lives of Khadidja and Aisha, the two favorite wives of the prophet Muhammad. In the stories of my interlocutors, Khadidja is depicted as an independent tradeswoman and Aisha as an educated woman with a strong will who even joined men in battle. The narrations of my interlocutors are thus populated with role models and significant others in their lives with whom they are engaged in (inner) dialogues and who thus inform their choices in life. As the opening quotation to this chapter illustrates, the emotional, spatial and social ‘horizons’ of my interlocutors are shaped by both concrete and imaginary internalized voices of the people who surround them in daily life. In self-representations of their intersecting identifications, they cannot but make use of the ways in which the meaning of the words they

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use is embedded in field-specific repertoires of practices, capital, characters and discourses that characterize the various modalities of the identitycategories that inform their sense of self. While all words have the ‘taste’ of a specific genre (cf. Bakhtin 1981: 293–294), in narrating their own experiences, however, narrators are active co-constructors of these voices. They innovate rules and conventions as they apply them. By using words within their own specific contexts, they intone them and place them in relation to other words, thus reshaping them as they use them (Shotter and Billig 1998: 24). In narrations in which they compare themselves to Khadidja and Aisha, for example, my interlocutors transform the images of these female Muslim role models by translating the historical setting of stories about these figures to a present-day context. Although to a certain extent it makes sense to depict Khadidja as a ‘business woman’ for example, the connotations of female entrepreneurship in present-day Dutch society are obviously quite different from those related to the conditions and meanings of female labor on the seventh century Arabian Peninsula. There are clearly restrictions on the freedom to improvise upon discourses and add new flavors to the already existing ‘tastes’ of words. Boushra’s mother, for example, often reproaches her daughter for “having drunk the water of the Netherlands”. The views and wishes expressed by her daughter are too remote from Boushra’s mother’s own experiences to recognize them as belonging to a shared cultural-religious context. Other interviewees mentioned similar instances of not being recognized or even rejected by the very people they identify with: many women reported situations in which they had to defend their claim on being a ‘true’ Muslim to both Moroccan and Dutch audiences whose images of Muslims did not correspond with the self-representations of my interviewees. One woman noted for example, that since 9/11 it is no longer possible to deal with her Muslim background in a flexible way. She feels silenced by different groups in Dutch society that claim definitional power over her Muslim self: As a person of Muslim background, you were not allowed time to reflect on your personal view. Before you realized what was happening, waves of insults were poured over Muslims. You never got a chance in the Netherlands to be moderate. Time and again I feel cornered.

The same interviewee also felt muted by certain Muslim voices: Take all those girls who wear headscarves nowadays. I’m sure that the majority of them have no religious reasons for doing so. It just gives them a sense of belonging and appreciation. The headscarf has come to distinguish ‘righteous women’ from ‘bad women’. And guess who the bad woman is?! Me again. It really pisses me off.

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Stories like these illustrate that if individuals want their self-representations to be understood and recognized by others, their narrations should not depart too far from the specific conceptual horizon of their audiences. In turn, the anticipated ‘answers’ of their listeners are significant to their experience of the self (Bakhtin 1981: 280). The self is therefore dialogically constructed in both listening to discourses and appropriating them in one’s own narratives. 2. Applying Dialogical Self Theory to Biographic Research Some voices that address the ‘dialogical self’ are more penetrating than others. As the quotation from the woman who feels ‘cornered’ illustrates, the ways in which one’s I-positions are embedded in power relations create dispositions to voice certain opinions or to silence oneself, to enter into some activities and to refrain from doing other ones (Holland et al. 1998: 136). Since individuals always belong to several groups and categories at the same time, they construct a series of alternative and often inconsistent self-representations based on different chains of selected personal memories (Ewing 1990: 253). Depending on the actual or imagined I-positions from which self-narrations are told, actors may tell different stories about their past, present and future. Through self-reflection and storytelling, they bring different experiences and views together in a composite whole. Some parts become more influential than others, and as the self shifts between I-positions, emotions are organized differently (Hermans and HermansJansen 2001: 128). One strategy to create a sense of wholeness in the face of these multiple self-representations is to construct a self-narrative in which they are integrated. Particularly narrations about key events in one’s life, such as high, low, and turning points are pre-eminent dialogical moments in the construction of identity (cf. Josselson 1995: 42). When asking about ‘key events’ in the lives of the participants in my life story project, in the main part of the interview I did not suggest specific themes but left it to them to decide what topics to discuss. To this end, I adapted an interview format suggested by McAdams (1993), who uses the metaphor of a “book” containing different “life chapters”, “characters”, and “story lines” as an aid for narrators to structure their life stories.3

3 Since narratives are always shaped by the audiences that each participant in the interview situation has in mind, the ‘freedom’ of biographers to shape their own stories

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The stories produced in the ‘life chapters’ part of the interview were the basis for a topical follow-up session on gender, ethnic and religious identifications. The analysis of the life stories thus produced focused on the dialogues between various voices in narrations related to specific Ipositions. To illustrate how this works in the next sections I will present excerpts from two life stories and analyze how religious self representations are constructed through dialogues with different collective and personal voices. 3. Dialogues with Collective Voices In the opening quotation to this chapter, Boushra ponders the question what being a Muslim means to her. On the tape records of the interview, there is a long silence before Boushra hesitantly mentions she feels she is a Muslim. In the following sentence, it becomes clear why she hesitates. She evaluates her feeling that she is a Muslim by looking at herself through the eyes of various others. Informed by their collective voices, what she sees is a ‘flawed’ Muslim: I feel like a Muslim, but considering what they say about Islam on television, or how teenage Muslim girls talk about it, I realize I am a flawed Muslim.

Apparently, the frames of reference available to Boushra do not offer her much footing in defining her own position: she recognizes herself neither in the image of Islam as presented in the Dutch media, nor in the way that many present-day Muslim adolescents construct a Muslim identity. One of the things that make it difficult for her is the lack of an adequate linguistic frame of reference: I have a Dutch translation of the Koran, but it feels odd to read the Koran in Dutch; I do not feel at home in that translation. Somehow the Dutch language is not suitable to transmit the ornate style of the Arabic text.

is far from absolute (cf. Olson and Shopes 1991: 193). Undoubtedly, the responses of my interlocutors were influenced by the realization that I contacted them because of their Moroccan background. Also, exactly because Islam has become such a dominant identitymarker in the Netherlands, much of what was said was organized around the purpose to challenge assumed misconceptions of presumed readers. Either tacitly or explicitly, then, the women who participated in the project had their own agenda when agreeing to cooperate. Toward the end the interview, all participants were asked for their motivations to cooperate. The importance of ‘positive stories’ to counterbalance misconceptions about Islam and the wish to provide Moroccan youth with positive role models were mentioned most often.

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Although Koranic Arabic expresses what Boushra views as the true voice of Islam, she cannot read Arabic. Having been educated in the Netherlands, Dutch is the language she uses for self-reflection and self-expression. She therefore needs a Dutch translation to understand the Koran. For various reasons, this ‘feels odd’ to her. In terms of Bakhtin, Dutch does not ‘taste’ much of religion in her experience. In the highly secularized Dutch society, religiosity is considered to be a private matter. Most Dutch do not talk much about their religious reflections or spiritual experiences in public. It is therefore unlikely that Boushra will have heard Dutch being used to express or discuss religious selves often. The flavor of Arabic, on the contrary, is inherently religious to her. Women like Boushra grew up in homes decorated with framed Koran verses in Arabic calligraphy and they were taught to memorize Koran verses in Arabic. Having gone through the bodily movements that accompany the Arabic prayers infinite times, the connotation of the Arabic language with sacredness has become embodied knowledge to her. This came to the fore in another part of the interview when she was asked what aspects of her Moroccan cultural heritage she finds most important to pass on to her children. In response, she stated: They should decide themselves what they do with religion, but at least I want them to learn the language of Islam.

Boushra’s hesitant self-description as a ‘flawed Muslim’ shows how the ‘voices’ and cultural repertoires that inform self-representations are embedded in specific power constellations. Talking as a psychiatrist, for example, Boushra speaks authoritatively and expresses no hesitations. Talking from her position as a Muslim, however, she is muted by both Muslim voices and non-Muslim voices that claim definitional power over her. Furthermore, her not feeling ‘at home’ in the Dutch language when speaking from her I-position as a Muslim indicates that the various collective voices one has at one’s disposal may address different dimensions of religiosity. While the cognitive dimension of Boushra’s religiosity is addressed perfectly well when reading a Dutch translation of the Koran, the sensory and emotional dimensions of her religiosity cannot be transmitted easily by the Dutch text. 4. Dialogues with Personal Voices The sensory and emotional dimensions of religiosity are, amongst other things, related to what in Dutch parlance is referred to as ‘nestgeur’, meaning: ‘nest scent’. Nest scent refers to early childhood memories of daily family

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routines. Referring experiences that reach back to the earliest, formative stage of psychological development, these childhood memories leave deep marks and are closely related to core identity issues (cf. Benhabib 2002: 85). Bodily and affective experiences merge with cognitive considerations in the impact of nest scent on our selves. Contrary to recollections of important events and family stories, such embodied childhood memories of habitual practices in everyday life are difficult to put into words. One way that nest scent may come to the fore, is by inviting interviewees to recall stories about everyday life in childhood. Such narrations shed light on communicative and behavioral patterns of parents and the impact of familial pedagogical regimes and daily routines on formation of the self. Analysis of family voices that are present in narrations concerning views and experiences about religion over the life span therefore allows for a nuanced understanding of the complexity and ambivalences in the religiosity of narrators. In my own research I have found that narrations touching upon religion in the ‘life chapters’ my interlocutors produced, are of great value to contextualize the responses of the women to questions about their personal ideology in the second, topical part of the interview. While some women mentioned Islam only in passing in their life chapters, others presented Islam as a basic frame of reference. Salima, for example, positioned herself firmly as a migrant’s daughter of Muslim background in the very first sentence of her life story: When I was born, it was my maternal grandfather who whispered the shahada in my ear, since my father was already working in the Netherlands by that time.4

The image of the maternal grandfather whispering the shahada in the ear of his granddaughter sets the tone for narrations full with references to the love, protection and warmth in the Moroccan setting where Salima spent the first five years of her life. These stories contrast strongly with those set in the Netherlands after her family reunion. The latter evoke pain, fear and humiliation suffered by Salima due to the harsh upbringing of her father, who maltreated his wife and daughters. This harsh pedagogical style was reflected in the way Salima’s father taught his children about Islam. Salima related, for instance, how her father frightened her with stories about hellfire when she was about eight years old: 4 The shahada is the Muslim creed ‘There is no god than God and Muhammad is His Messenger’.

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marjo buitelaar My father didn’t like it if we touched his things, so when he caught me spinning a globe that he kept in his bedroom he warned me: as in Hell, there was fire inside the globe that could burn me. I asked: Hell? ‘Yes’, he replied, ‘that’s where some of us go when we die. If you live well you’ll go to Paradise, but if you behave badly you’ll burn in Hell’. After that I had recurring nightmares about Hell. I saw fire everywhere, it was really scary.

Salima also had bitter stories to tell about the restrictions her father imposed on her freedom of movement as a teenager by appealing to what he presented as Islamic prescriptions. In the post-migration narrations that feature in Salima’s life chapters, Islam figures mostly negatively. When in a later phase of the interview we discussed her personal ideology, Salima’s childhood stories helped me gain a fuller understanding of her ambivalent views on public demonstrations of piety. She suspects that many people who claim to be pious Muslims are only hypocrites. Mentioning the hajj or pilgrimage of her father as a case in point, she stated scornfully: His highness grew a beard and went to Mecca. I guess he figured he could compensate for his sins that way. Quite unlikely if you ask me.

In response to the threatening and restrictive religious upbringing by her father, Salima has distanced herself from strict adherence to Islamic prescriptions. She is not interested in reading the Koran or knowing its exact contents, nor does she perform the salât or five daily prayers. While she would never eat pork, she does enjoy a glass of wine now and then. As the opening sentence of her life story indicates, however, she cherishes being brought up as a Muslim and continues to identify with Islam. Like most other interviewees, Salima observes the fast, which she regards as a very valuable ritual: I think it is a very good thing to express one’s solidarity with the poor by fasting. I also make donations at the end of Ramadan. When I endorse the general idea behind a practice, I support it.

To Salima, the bottom line of Islam is the universal message it shares with other religions that one should be good to others and live a healthy and responsible life. This specific appropriation of the Islamic heritage allows her to continue listening to the loving voice of her grandfather who first whispered Islam in her ear, and to silence the negative voice of her father. Also, by emphasizing a universal ethical stance behind Islamic stories, rituals and symbols, Islam can remain meaningful to her in a context where her closest relations, among whom her life partner, are non-Muslims who do not share the religious discourse that she grew up with.

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5. Reshuffling Voices The reorganization of religious voices over the life span came even better to the fore in the 2008 follow-up interviews with fifteen of the twenty five women who I had interviewed in 1998. At the time of the first round of interviews, most women were in their mid to late twenties. The 1998 life stories concentrated on their efforts to create their own place in Dutch society. This was reflected in their narrations on Islam. Arguments against the view that Muslim women should not work and obey husbands, for example, were particularly prominent in the 1998 interviews. By 2008, most women were more firmly settled both in their professional and family lives. As successful working mothers they could afford to be more forbearing in relation to their parents who, in turn, had grown to accept if not understand or even appreciate their daughters life styles. Between the two interview rounds many women had experienced the deaths of close relatives for the first time. This was reflected in narrations about how faith and ritual performances had proved to be an aid in coming to terms with such losses. On the whole, the voices in the 2008 interviews addressed connectedness to others more strongly than personal achievements. Accordingly, narrations on religion contained more reflections on the deeper meanings of life and the importance of living in peace with oneself and one’s loved ones than on women’s rights to education and careers. Besides linking the increased emphasis on spiritual and ethical dimensions of Islam to life span developments, these shifts may also be interpreted as a strategy to avoid having to take sides in the present polarization that characterizes Dutch society. The emphasis on spirituality and connectedness introduces what Baumann (2004: 35) would call “a ternary challenge” to the binary grammars of selfing and othering in the present Dutch debate on Islam. Refusing to get caught in an ideological struggle over classificatory grids, the interviewees creatively appropriate the discourses of the various groups in Dutch society that they identify with. In doing so, they create space for themselves and become active co-producers of the collective voices that inform their sense of self. Intrinsic religiosity and identity politics are tightly interwoven in their religious self-representations. Summarizing Remarks As elsewhere in the West, in Dutch society discourses about Islam have become highly politicized. Dutch Muslims have to respond to various, often

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opposing, and outspoken voices as they construct a religious self. In this situation, it is not easy to develop a religious stance that allows for openness and ambiguity. In life-stories people narrate about their own multiplicity and different self-experiences. Self-narratives therefore constitute a rich source to study the orchestration of various voices in religious selfconstructions. By reflecting on excerpts from life story interviews with two Dutch-Moroccan Muslim women, in this chapter I have argued that applying dialogical self theory to the analysis of self-narratives is a particularly productive approach to study the complexity of religious self-constructions. Quoting Salima illustrates the importance of internal and external dialogues with personal voices addressing the self, while quoting Boushra points to the accommodation of ‘collective voices’ in the construction of religious selves. References Asad, T., Formations of the Secular. Christianity, Islam, Modernity. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003. Bakthin, M., The Dialogic Imagination. Four Essays by M.M. Bakhtin. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1981. Transl. by C. Emerson and M. Holquist. Baumann, G., “Grammars of Identiy/Alterity. A Structural Appraoch.” Pp. 18–50 in Grammars of Identity/Alterity. A Structural Approach. Edited by G. Baumann and A. Gingrich. New York, Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2004. Benhabib, S., The Claims of Culture. Equality and Diversity in the Global Era, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002. Bhatia, S., “Acculturation, Dialogical Voices and the Construction of the Diasporic Self,” Theory & Psychology 12/1 (2001): 55–77. Ewing, K., “The Illusion of Wholeness: Culture, Self, and the Experience of Inconsistency,” Ethos 18/1 (1990): 251–278. Hermans, H., “Conceptions of Self and Identity. Towards a Dialogical View,” International Journal of Education and Religion II/1 (2001): 43–62. Hermans, H., and E. Hermans-Jansen, “Affective Processes in a Multivoiced Self.” Pp. 120–140 in Identity and Emotion. Development through Self-Organization. Edited by H. Bosma and E. Kunnen. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2001. Holland, D. et al., Identity and Agency in Cultural Worlds. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998. Josselson, R., “Imagining the Real. Empathy, Narrative and the Dialogic Self.” Pp. 27– 44 in Interpreting Experience. The Narrative Study of Lives 3. Edited by R. Josselson and A. Lieblich. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1995. Kagitçibasi, C., “Autonomy and Relatedness in Cultural Context. Implications for Self and Family,” Journal of Cross-Cultural Psychology 36/4 (2005): 403–422. McAdams, D., The Stories We Live By. Personal Myths and the Making of the Self. New York: William Morrow, 1993. Olson, K., and L. Shopes, “Crossing Boundaries, Building Bridges. Doing Oral History among Working-Class Women and Men.” Pp. 189–204 in Women’s Words. The

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Feminist Practice of Oral History. Edited by S. Berger Gluck and D. Patai. London: Routledge, 1991. Shotter, J., and M. Billig, “A Bakhtinian Psychology. From Out of the Heads of Individuals and into the Dialogues between Them.” Pp. 13–29 in Bakhtin and the Human Sciences. Edited by M. Bell and M. Gardiner. London: Sage, 1998.

RELIGIOUS NARRATIVE AND THE BODY

Toke Elshof Research into religiosity usually has a certain focus. It can be directed toward religious opinions; it can be interested in the experiential dimension; or it can look into the ritual component or into the measure of active commitment to the church. The researcher decides which aspect or which combination of aspects is to be studied and, in doing so, delineates the religiosity to be researched. In my practical-theological doctorate, in which I researched developments in religiosity within the home-context, I opted for a different path (Elshof 2008). I explored the religious perspective on ‘life in general’ and did research into whether the Catholic faith receives shape and meaning through and in home-life and upbringing and, if so, how. My choice for the perspective on ‘life in general’ automatically led to the biographical interview as the method to collect data (Wester 1995: 16). I interviewed a grandparent, a parent and a (grand)child in each of ten Roman-Catholic families. Interview-texts express subjective religious attributions of meaning. These include the interpretations that respondents give to religion from the point of view of their own ‘world’ as well as the interpretations that respondents give to home-life and upbringing which spring from their own religious perception. For example, one’s conscious interpretations which are explicitly stated, but also those implicit interpretations of which one is unconscious. Studies in lay theology (Luther 1992), which encompass both ‘confessed’ as well as ‘practiced’ religion, run along the same lines as practical theology, which views itself as a hermeneutical interpretation-science (Dingemans 1996: 45–51) and approaches the praxis as a network of interpretations; a network in which actions are the manifestation of a background view: a praxis of giving shape to meaning. The interview transcripts were analyzed using the semiotics of the Paris School. The most important reason for doing so was this method’s textimmanent approach, which guarantees the ample consideration of any subjectivity appearing in the texts. The semiotic analysis-instruments demand a work-method which reigns in any presuppositions held whilst dealing with a text, preventing premature attributions of meaning. Semiotics is therefore a method which can be followed and checked and which leaves the

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subjectivity of the text as intact as possible (Lukken and Maas 1996). A second important motive in opting for a semiotic analysis proceeds from the embodied character of the interview material, something that is narrowly connected to its ‘searching’ character. In a biographical interview, the meaning which is expressed comes about through the searching which takes place during the actual act of speaking (Ghorashi 2002). This characteristic is especially relevant in interviews concerning religiosity amongst Catholics; generally speaking, when it comes to orally expressing their personal beliefs, Catholics can only do so with difficulty. The fact that by definition religiosity cannot be limited to conscious and verbal dimensions, because the incomprehensible and ineffable are exactly part of it, places extra emphasis on the searching and probing aspects of the spoken word. This implies that the shape given to meaning also manifests itself along other than verbal lines. This requires a method of analysis that recognizes the ‘multi-lingual’ aspect of subjectivity. Greimasian semiotics does just this. Especially in the subjectal approach, there is increasing consideration given to the affective layers and the sensibility of a text (Lukken and Maas 2006). The spoken text is regarded as being a syncretic semi-symbolic system, where various forms of expression link up and where linguistic and non-linguistic forms of expression together give shape to meaning (Lukken 1994). The consideration given to sensibility and affectivity lies first and foremost at the theoretical level. In my research, I endeavored to put this into practice. During the interviews I took notes on bodily forms of expression, such as gestures or facial expressions. In transcribing this, I referred to these forms of expression as well as to the bodily and emotional expressions recorded on tape: nuances in volume, rhythm, tone and dialect; and by doing so, avoiding as far as possible the risk of losing the particular expressiveness in the transcription process (Portelli 1992): the non-verbal signals were recorded using textual signs. In this way they could become an integral part of the analysis. Subjectal semiotics fits well into a narrative and hermeneutical approach to identity, firstly because it recognizes that identity, which is a result of narrative, has an open, searching and trans-mutative character. In subjectal semiotics, the understanding of the trans-mutative character of texts has increased. Whilst standard objectal semiotic research limits itself to the analysis of the text as a final product, the subjectal branch regards the text as a result of a process of expression; of a process of enunciation in which a certain intentionality is expressed. It looks at traces in the text which refer to the original expression, primarily where shape is given to content. For example, the communicative act of speaking (by the respondent and the

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interviewer: the pragmatic dimension); the point of view from which an event is recounted by the respondent (the cognitive dimension) and the sensibility and the bodily aspect which are present (the thymic dimension). Besides the form of the content, the form of the expression also reveals traces of the original expression: silences, whispering, laughing or crying, the stamping of feet or the wringing of hands are all part and parcel of the meaning receiving its shape, whilst leaving traces in the text (Lukken and Maas 2006: 393).1 Subjectal semiotics also corresponds to the narrative hermeneutic approach in realizing that individual subjectivity and language are relational and social. The narrative hermeneutic approach takes account of the social embedment of language: the interaction with stories told by others; so-called canonical stories and the polyglot character of identity (Ganzevoort and Visser 2007: 100, 128). Semiotic insight into the way the individual usage of language (‘parole’) and the language-system (‘langue’) are closely interwoven is connected to this. From the point of view of semiotics, language and the meanings recorded therein, precede the individual; the individual makes use of them (Leezenberg and De Vries 2001: 173). Concerning the individual use of language (‘parole’), where extra-linguistic factors such as historical and social processes play a role, new words may be coined and existing meanings may ‘lose their color’ (Leezenberg and De Vries 2001: 171; Lukken and Maas 2006: 394–395).2 The individual use of language therefore ‘hooks’ into the language-system and into the meanings found in it, with their collective, group-connected and historical character and, in doing so, bears their traces. The individual use of language can, however, also transmute and be innovative as far as the collective use of language is concerned, and influence this common praxis; this in connection with shifts in the historical context and in the individual relationship to the collective. Such changes also leave their traces in individual language usage: in speaking, in remaining silent and in searching for words. Individual language, which expresses identity, therefore bears traces of super-individual structures, also of those with a religious character. The subjectal semiotic

1 The subjectal approach is concerned with a semiotic subject; a subjectivity which can be discerned in a text and realised. There is no thinking in terms of a ‘separately obtainable’ existential/ontological extra-textual subject (Lukken and Maas 1996). 2 In the language-system, ‘langue’, the synchronic character of language is at issue. The diachronic character of language can be distinguished from this field of ‘simultaneous being’ found in language-system. The ‘parole’ is the domain of the transmuting processes of language; language which develops through time (Leezenberg and De Vries 2001).

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method fits well with important principles of the narrative and hermeneutic understanding of language and identity: its process-character and social and relational embedment. The added value of a semiotic method lies in the analytic-instruments it makes use of. These enable it to do research into the process-character and social aspects of language and identity in a way that can be checked and followed. My study found that the religiosity of the individual Catholics researched was layered in different ways. Certain super-individual layers could be discerned within the individual religiosity, mainly with a familial character. Religiosity has traits connected to the family. As far as religion goes, Catholics from one and the same family appeared to be similar regarding their engagement to a certain theme. Besides familial layers, religiosity appeared to have traces connected to generation. Generational peers seemed to share the same religiosity. The religiosity of the grandparent-generation had a relatively high ritual and institutional level and the religiosity of the parentgeneration was characterized by loss of a feeling for transcendence. Active church commitment also appeared to exert influence. The religiosity of actively engaged Catholics appeared to have a relatively strong ‘respondingcharacter’. The religiosity of all the Catholics interviewed showed one important similarity: all the interviews demonstrated that religiosity first and foremost had a corporeal or bodily aspect. Embodiment appears to be an important locus for religiosity. This chapter describes the four dimensions which can be distinguished in the embodiment of religion and clarifies how the semiotic approach contributes to a broader insight into religiosity. 1. Prosody Prosody deals with the shape given to the act of speaking. The direct reason to dwell on this aspect, were the test-interviews, in which respondents searched for words, spoke unclearly or lapsed into silence (Elshof 2004). This observed speechlessness corresponded to earlier studies in religion, religious experience and the actual living out of religion. The incapability of Catholics to express their own faith in words is often linked to the history of Catholic sub-culture where religiosity was primarily expressed collectively and ritually. In this sub-culture, one does not speak about God and one is rather critical of the church: these are the most important results made by research looking exclusively into religiosity expressed in words. Research which also studies the form given to the act of speaking, offers broader

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insight into the experiencing of religion, into the images held about God, as well as into feelings and views regarding the church and faith. Firstly, body language turns out to be of assistance when something important cannot be given shape by using words. For example, broad and all-encompassing gestures reveal something about feelings and views concerning faith and God. Secondly, prosody demonstrates that a reserved and searching manner of speaking primarily takes place when the subject is concerned with God and faith. The searching manner of speaking not only demonstrates certain awkwardness when speaking about God, but also the realization that God is a mystery. The search for words is not the only thing that occurs; in searching for these words, God is sought for as well. The fact that only a few words are used does not mean that there is a lack of feelings and views concerning God; rather, a certain quality of the religiosity is made manifest. This expresses the religious realization that the mystery of God cannot be recorded in words, but that God must be sought for again and again. This manner of speaking is not only horizontal and directed toward the partner in the dialogue, but it also clearly contains a vertical dimension. Thirdly, prosody demonstrates that any silence about God, is accompanied in many interviews by a repeated speaking to God. In the stories, God is made present as an actor. God is called upon to be present in expressions such as “Jesus; Oh my God; In the name of God.” God is made present in the text as an actor by telling about situations of joy, trust and happiness, but also in stories about anguish, despair or injustice. In stories about life’s disruptive events/fault-lines, God appears to be an actor who is called upon and is thus made present. It is also in this speaking to God that a vertically directed religiosity is expressed. In this prayerful act of speaking it goes without saying that words are employed and due to this it is considered as part of the verbal dimension. However, more so than words which describe and reflect upon a situation, these expressions give a bodily and emotional shape to something for which no words can in fact be found. A fourth point of added value is the fact that prosody illuminates contradictions between that which is said (the form of the content) and the manner in which it is said (the form of the expression). Various interviews revealed such a discrepancy when the subject of the Catholic Church was broached. In speaking about this subject, the style of speaking often revealed a strong commitment. This commitment was, however, usually diminished at the level of the content. There are for example texts which, on the level of the content, say that pain experienced in the past has been dealt with

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and no longer plays a role. However, prosody then shows up a faltering style of speaking and unfinished sentences. There are also texts which, at the level of the content, express that the church has become irrelevant in one’s own faith. Not seldom this is at odds with a desiring, angry or disappointed tone of voice. This discrepancy then demonstrates that commitment to the church is greater than initially realized or admitted and that church-going and non church-going Catholics alike nurture enduring hope, even though it may be disappointed hope. Consideration given to prosody therefore offers a more nuanced view of the religiosity and the commitment to the church among Catholics. 2. The Thymic Dimension The second field in which the bodily aspect appeared to play a role is the thymic dimension. This concerns the way in which the interview-transcripts deal with the bodily aspect. This seemed to be connected to the respondent’s generation and was narrowly linked to the development in reflection on sexuality and embodiment within church life. The texts from the oldest generation demonstrated that embodiment was a terrain which was subjected to ecclesiastical rules. It is significant that the grandfathers spoke relatively more often about fasting and abstention rules, whilst the grandmothers spoke more of the regulation of sexuality and fertility. Within this generation there was an observable shift in meaning, connected to the changed insights concerning marriage and sexuality promulgated by the Second Vatican Council. The interview-texts from the oldest generation approached bodily and sexual aspects more and more from a personal and relational perspective. The body has slowly come to be seen as the locus of connection with God and others. In the evaluation of relationship and sexuality, mutual love, the equality between man and woman and well as their complementing roles were emphasized more and more. Gradually a shift becomes apparent where the body demands respect while abuse of the body is protested because personal dignity is at issue here. Over time, bodily wholeness and deprivation have, from a religious perspective, come to be viewed in a different light. However. what remains unchanged after this shift is that the body is continued to be viewed as a locus of religious meaning. Besides this, a new tendency regarding the regulation of the body can be observed within the texts from the younger and secularized generations. In these texts it is not a faith-based religious ideal that is at issue: it is

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rather a secular ideal receiving religious features. In these texts, human uniqueness and dignity are also the issue when it comes to embodiment and the body. However, here the emphasis is placed on the individual selfsaving potential in realizing bodily wholeness and on the fact that human physical limitations can be ended or avoided. Here, the body is seen as a locus of human autonomy instead of relationship. However, this does not mean that the body does not appear to be the locus of this ideal in texts with a secular-religious orientation. 3. Rituality A third field concerns rituality. In my research into this, I looked into whether the structuring of a text demonstrates if a bodily praxis has a ritual character: in my research into this aspect I needed to determine whether a bodily praxis had to be considered as a ritual praxis. Consistent with the semiotic approach which requires a strict investigation of the structure of the text, I investigated whether the bodily praxis referred to another, ultimate immanent or transcendent reality and whether the bodily praxis was orientated toward participating in this transcendent reality (Lukken 1999: 28–33). This semiotic approach confirmed the conclusions made by earlier studies into the secularization and individualization of ritual. A number of religious rituals have lost their meaning and, besides this, new religious rituals have come into existence which mostly can be found within the secular domains of family and nature. Besides confirming conclusions drawn by others, this approach offered some new insights. The first new insight concerns the difference between religious and nonreligious rituals. Religious rituals are characterized by the fact that the periphery of personal life is transcended through the ritual praxis. One’s own life is linked to the lives of others: not only to one’s own family, but also to life in the church and world. On the other hand, non-religious rituals link one’s own life mainly to those who are closest: for example, family members still living or who have already passed away. Secondly, it is noteworthy that religious rituality fades after a generation of commitment to the church. Along this gradual scale of diminishing commitment, those religious rituals which are connected to personal existence and which mark important moments in it, appear to survive longest. Lingering commitment is marked by a rituality (also at home) which does not only ritualize changes and crises in one’s personal existence, but which links this

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personal existence to the life of the church and the world in cyclical rituals. Church commitment appears to be a kind of guarantee: not against individualization, but rather against the privatization of religion and ritual. Thirdly, the new church rituals and religious rituals are more verbal than they were in the past. Symbols and rites, in so far as they have survived, are explained and made comprehensible: presentative rituality, characterised by corporal perception decreases in favor of a more discursive, verbal orientated rituality. On the other hand, the non-religious rituals are clearly more characterized by presentation. The non-religious rituals especially offer the bodily experience of being part of a larger whole. The fact that the secular domain offers this fulfillment more than for example the liturgy is an important point for church life to take into consideration. The fourth point concerns the shift within rituality where the shapes given to the expression and to the content become disconnected. Rituals which may look similar do not have to signify approximately the same thing. Expressions which, regarding shape, are religious, such as a prayer or a marriage ceremony in a church, do not necessarily have to hold religious meaning for the individual concerned. A prayer may be addressed to God; however it may also be directed to ancestors or spirits. The wish to marry in church may be accompanied by an explicit rebuffing of religious connotations. Just as similar forms given to expressions can differ from each other regarding content, similar experiences and meanings can, in their turn, be accompanied by differing forms of expression. The experience or the realization of God’s protection and preservation can be expressed in very different shapes as well as in very unsuspected shapes: in the rosary but also in mountaineering. 4. Intentional Action The fourth dimension of bodily religiosity concerns action; especially action that is not immediately recognizable as religious praxis, but that is however religiously motivated or based. With the help of the semiotic concept ‘narrative program’ such a religious axiology can be uncovered (Lukken and Maas 1996: 55–59). Narrative programs are attitudes, intentions, and actions by actors which form part of the text. These actors can be people, institutions, animals, and things. In a story, God can also be an actor to whom characteristics, attitudes or intentions may be attributed. Interview-texts often relate to everyday life and day-to-day actions as if life and its actions were marked by a character of ‘response’: as if they

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were connected to God. In this way, for example, working in the garden can form a narrative program within a text. This work can consist of the pruning of old and dead plants and bushes and ensuring the blossoming of young, green life. Working in the garden is all about caring for nature, where delicate life is protected and old plants must make room for younger ones. Now, a text like this which relates to pruning the garden may not explicitly have much to say about God. The little that is attributed to God regards God’s narrative programs which in this specific text are: protecting delicate life and cultivating the growth of the new. Within this text, the action of working in the garden is discovered to be closely linked to God’s narrative program. Gardening turns out to be a narrative program in which people share in the divine narrative program. Another example is to tell stories about mountaineering; where young people must be able to count on each other and where trusting and being trustworthy are the narrative programs at issue; not letting go, but catching and holding each other. In this same text these are also the narrative programs which are ascribed to God. God is to be found in highs and lows; God is the connecting link and the basis of life; God is the person who catches the falling individual and raises him or her up again. The human actions found in these texts are found to be connected to the narrative programs attributed to God by these same texts. The human narrative programs (of being open, being thankful, being amazed, feeling called, consenting, obeying, listening, being receptive, revealing, and responding) are each and every one of them narrative programs which are relational and which have a character of response. These common everyday actions and attitudes express a religiosity of faith: they react to a prior and transcending divine narrative program of being, creating, giving, calling, asking, teaching and guiding. In narrative programs such as these, the texts suggest in a certain veiled manner, that human actions are religious: they are intimately linked to God’s presence. The semiotic approach makes clear that religiosity, when sought out at the level of the praxis, is certainly not only to be found in a recognizably religious praxis, for example in church commitment, ritual actions or in diaconal work. Religiosity is apparently also able to be found in actions which at first sight do not seem to be connected to religious matters. Such actions may be linked to religion in an implicit and unconscious way. Other researchers have also called for the consideration of religiosity expressed in daily life: taking a time-out in the chaos of day-to-day life, preparing food, caring for children or an enduring engagement with suffering (De Haardt 2004; Dillen 2006: 141; Miller-McLemore 2002). My study contributes to further research into the possible religious intentionality of

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actions, not only in illustrating how different generations of Catholics bodily give shape to their religiosity in daily life, but also and especially because it offers methodological steps in uncovering the religiosity that lies at the basis of actions. Conclusion My semiotic study has demonstrated that individual religiosity bears traces of three important super-individual structures: that of the family, generation and institution. Besides these, another over-arching structure can be found: that of the body, being the most important locus for religiosity. In this chapter I have given a sketch of the four dimensions which can be discerned in this non-verbal structure. Together they offer a better insight into religiosity as it receives shape and meaning ‘from within’. In view of the conclusion that religiosity is especially expressed bodily, this naturally encourages further theological and religious-scientific research, giving credit to the field of embodiment as being a locus of the longing for the encounter between God and man (Korte 1998). This is not only important for research into the Catholic perspective on faith. It serves a wider interest, which is intertwined with post-modern culture and the character of religiosity found within it: a religiosity which, at a structural level, has a searching character (Hellemans 2007: 177). Religiosity in personal life and in society has a searching and usually concealed character; it does not concur with shapes and meanings which are recognizably religious. For studies into religiosity this means a comprehensive search for research methods as well as for fields of research. Embodiment especially forms a locus where searching, individual and subjective religiosity may be discovered. The semiotic approach has proved itself a valid method for analyzing this bodily expressed religiosity. References Dillen, A., Geloof in het gezin? Ethiek, opvoeding en gezinnen vandaag. Leuven: LannooCampus, 2006. Dingemans, G., Manieren van doen. Inleiding tot de studie van de praktische theologie. Kampen: Kok, 1996. Elshof, T., “Hoe te spreken over het ‘heilige’?,” Kwalon, Tijdschrift voor Kwalitatief Onderzoek 9 (2004): 39–43. Elshof, A.J.M., Van huis uit katholiek. Een praktisch theologisch, semiotisch onderzoek

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naar de ontwikkeling van religiositeit in drie generaties van rooms-katholieke families. Delft: Eburon, 2008. Ganzevoort, R.R., and J. Visser, Zorg voor het verhaal. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2007. Ghorashi, H., “Huilen, schrikken, lachen kortom: meereizen met de ander. De meerwaarde van levensverhalen binnen sociaal wetenschappelijk onderzoek,” Amsterdams Sociologisch Tijdschrift 29/1 (2002): 59–72. Hellemans, S., Het tijdperk van de wereldreligies. Religie in agrarische civilisaties en in moderne samenlevingen. Zoetermeer/Kapellen: Meinema/Pelckmans, 2007. Korte, A.-M., “Een lijfelijke hang naar het goddelijke: de nieuwe culturele belangstelling voor godsgeloof als theologische vraag,” Tijdschrift voor Theologie 38/3 (1998): 227–237. Leezenberg, M., and G. De Vries. Wetenschapsfilosofie voor geesteswetenschappen. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2001. Lukken, G., Per visibilia ad invisibilia. Anthropological, Theological and Semiotic Studies on the Liturgy and the Sacraments. Kampen: Kok, 1994. ———, Rituelen in overvloed. Een kritische bezinning op de plaats en de gestalte van het christelijk ritueel in onze cultuur. Baarn: Gooi & Sticht, 1999. Lukken, G., and J. Maas, Luisteren tussen de regels. Een semiotische bijdrage aan de praktische theologie. Baarn: Gooi & Sticht, 1996. Lukken, G., and J. Maas, “Herfstig voorjaar. Deel 2: De recente ontwikkelingen,” Bijdragen 67/4 (2006): 391–423. Luther, H., Religion und Alltag. Bausteine zu einer Praktischen Theologie des Subjekts. Stuttgart: Radius Verlag, 1992. Miller-McLemore, B.J., “Gehoord en gezien: de uitdaging van religieuze vorming in het gezin,” Concilium 2002/4 (2002): 46–55. Portelli, A., “What Makes Oral History Different?” Pp. 45–59 in The Death of Luigi Trastulli: Form and Meaning in Oral History. Edited by A. Portelli. New York: State University of New York Press, 1992. Wester F., Strategieën voor kwalitatief onderzoek. Bussum: Coutinho, 1995.

AN INSTRUMENT FOR RECONSTRUCTING INTERPRETATION IN LIFE STORIES

Jos van den Brand, Chris Hermans, Michael Scherer-Rath, and Piet Verschuren Over a century ago William James (1902) distinguished between research into institutional religion focused on the church and dogmatic theology, and research into personal religion focused on personal religious experience. Like James, we direct our attention to personal religion. This is because the religious landscape has changed radically since the 1950s. Two interrelated trends are discernible. The one is secularization, by which we mean a dramatic decline in institutionalized forms of religion. The other is the emergence of all sorts of subjective, unaffiliated forms of religion (Van de Donk et al. 2006; Heelas and Woodhead 2005). The result of the two trends is that worldview has come to play a far more fluid role in people’s lives (Roof 2005). People more readily abandon the religion in which they were socialized and join another form of religion, whether institutionalized or not. Or they choose to become totally irreligious. Because of this ‘de-institutionalization’ (Luhmann 2002) the role of worldview in their lives has become less distinct and apparent (Luckmann 1967). In view of this diversity of worldviews our study is premised on the following question: what is the role of interpretation in the construction of personal identity? To answer the question we are assuming that people create their personal identity by constructing a life story. We examine how personal interpretation functions in that story irrespective of the person’s worldview-related background. Emmons (1999: 97–98) maintains that this entails a “combined nomothetic-idiographic assessment strategy”. By this he means that we first accumulate knowledge at an idiographic level with a view of the personal aspect of a person’s interpretation. We then transcend the personal level by developing that knowledge at a more universal, abstract— nomothetic level. The chapter is structured as follows. The first section outlines a model for reconstructing interpretation in life stories (Dalferth and Stoellger 2000; Emmons 1999; Emmons 2005; Frijda 2007; McAdams 1995). The next section deals with the nature of a semi-structured interview. After that we describe the interview we designed for the purpose of our study. The final part reflects

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on our approach, based on narrative and motivation theory, to personal interpretations in everyday life. 1. Theoretical Framework First we look at a condensed version of the model evolved by the personality psychologist Frijda. It helps us to grasp how people interpret existential experience in reconstructing their life stories. Frijda’s model does not reconstruct the role of interpretation adequately, so we devised our own model by augmenting his model with aspects that permit a proper reconstruction. In our model we use ‘interpretation’ as a religio-scientific term, as distinct from the psychological term ‘giving/attributing meaning’. 1.1. Attributing Meaning to Existential Events In this study we approach personal identity from a narrative perspective (see McAdams 1993, 1995, 2001; Singer 2004). It implies that people shape their personal identity by reconstructing their life stories by assigning meaning to significant existential events. In their life stories existential events and life goals are indissolubly linked. To that end we use the model of the psychologist Frijda (2007). We condensed the model to components that are pertinent to grasping, firstly, how meaning is attributed to existential events, and secondly, how that meaning affects the intentionality of behavior (see figure 1). Our description starts with the components and then looks at their interrelationships.

Figure 1: Frijda’s condensed model

Existential event: the term derives from narrative psychology, which rests on the premise that people shape their personal identity by reconstructing their life stories (McAdams 1995). In the process events are organized by integrating them in a chronological structure that locates them on a time

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line comprising past, present and future. In addition to organizing them chronologically one has to determine their coherence and direction by establish their meaning for the person concerned (Bluck and Habermas 2000). Personal goals: According to Frijda (2007) an existential event attracts our notice because it is relevant to our interests. The latter, says Frijda, can also be termed ‘motives’, ‘needs’, ‘aspirations’ and ‘goals’. We approach interests from the perspective of personal goals, by which we mean objects that the person seeks to secure or avoid in daily life (Emmons 1999). Attributing meaning: we attribute meaning to an existential event by confronting it with our personal goals (Frijda 2007). We ask ourselves what the event means for the personal goals we pursue. If it is favorable, the event becomes a highlight and arouses positive emotions. Conversely, if it has negative implications for our life goals, we consider it a low point and it arouses negative emotions. According to Lazarus (1999) it means that we do not choose our emotions voluntarily. Each emotion correlates with a theme, indicating what personal meaning was ascribed to an existential event. Thus shame is associated with failure to live up to a personal ideal. That implies, says Lazarus, that the emotion enables us to trace personal meaning. Intentionality: emotions arising from direct confrontation with an existential event influence the intentionality of our actions (Frijda 2007). Thus behavior can be directed to establishing, maintaining, restoring or terminating a relationship with someone or something with a view to the personal goals we are pursuing. Put differently, our behavior is meant to secure our personal goals. How do these aspects of the model relate? How is meaning created? In the model a double vertical arrow from the midpoint of the horizontal arrow represents confrontation (Verschuren 2008). In a confrontation we relate two things to each other in terms of a focus. In this model existential events are viewed in light of personal goals. The event is the object system and the life goals are the reference system. To indicate that the existential event in the confrontation is the object system, we mark it with an asterisk. The result of the confrontation is attribution of meaning to an existential event. A single arrow indicates causal influence. That means that X is necessary to obtain Y, that it is a condition for Y and that Y results from X. In that case

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the intentionality of the behavior (see right-hand side of the diagram) arises from attribution of meaning. What Frijda’s condensed model illustrates is that personal goals play a fundamental role in the meaning we attribute to existential events. They not only determine whether the event attracts our notice or not, but also what meaning we ascribe to it. Thus existential events and personal goals are indissolubly linked. But we still need to clarify the role of worldview in this process. 1.2. Analytical Model for Reconstructing Interpretation of Life Stories To determine the role of a worldview—religious or otherwise—in interpreting existential events we constructed our own model. It is based on the condensed version of Frijda’s model, to which we added the variables ‘ultimate life goals’ and ‘foundational reality’. We also replaced the variable ‘attribution of meaning’ with ‘contingent interpretation’ to make it clear that we are working in the context of religious studies rather than that of psychology. The variables ‘existential event’ and ‘intentionality’ remain unchanged. We first describe the variables and then the relations between them.

Figure 2: Model for reconstructing interpretation of life stories

Ultimate life goals: Frijda’s model shows that meaning is attributed by confronting existential events with personal goals. Emmons (1999) believes that people’s personal goals are ranked hierarchically. That is to say, they link their goals mentally in a network of cardinal, intermediate, and subordinate objectives. We call this network a personal goals hierarchy. Within that hierarchy we distinguish between instrumental and ultimate goals. Instrumental goals are the means to achieve ultimate goals. The latter never

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become a means but are always end goals. They ensure the unity, direction and coherence of instrumental goals (Verschuren 2008). The term ‘ultimate life goals’ indicates that they represent our ultimate values in life and our deepest motivation (Tillich 1963). In Tillich’s view we not only have one ultimate goal, but also one that it is essentially religious. Our premise is that people have various ultimate goals, which may be religious or nonreligious. Foundational reality: That reality may be transcendent or immanent. It is transcendent when it refers to a supreme spiritual being, either personal or impersonal. An immanent reality refers to nature, the cosmos or fellow humans (Bucher 2007). Embedded ultimate life goals: Ultimate life goals may be associated with a foundational reality. They are transcendentally embedded if the foundational reality is a personal or impersonal supreme being. If they are associated with nature, the cosmos or fellow humans, they are immanently embedded (Bucher 2007; Cooper 2003; Ward 2004). Contingent interpretation: We assume that the reconstruction of our narrative identity is a contingent process. The definition of contingency comprises two negatives: that which is neither necessary nor impossible (Aristotle). From it we infer two antithetical meanings of contingent actions (Bubner 1998). Active contingency implies that we can reconstruct our own life story, develop ultimate goals and strive to achieve these through our actions. Passive contingency means that events that befall us may be favorable or unfavorable for goal achievement. As a result we may enjoy great good fortune or experience unpleasant, painful blows (Dalferth 2005, 2008; Dalferth and Stoegler 2000). We experience and realize that things could have been different, without being able to influence them. We come up against the limits of our potential and experience ourselves as dependent, vulnerable and finite. Kuitert (2000) believes that the experience of contingency may be religious. Realizing one’s own finitude may be a basis for an experience of infinitude. In that case the existential event that befalls the person is assigned a religious meaning. Dalferth and Stoegler (2000) call this double contingency. By this they mean not only that religious meanings may vary, but that non-religious meanings may be assigned. It implies that the experience of

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contingency gives us access to both religious and non-religious interpretations.1 There are two ways of dealing with the experience of contingency. The first is to overcome it. These are attempts to compensate for the risks of contingency and overcome them (Lübbe 1998). Yet we can never vanquish life’s contingency altogether. That is the premise of the second strategy for handling contingency, namely to acknowledge it. It happens when people use religion to handle their experience of vulnerability, dependence and finitude. According to Dalferth (2005, 2008; Dalferth and Stoegler 2000, 2007), then, people use religion to deal with the irrational in a rational manner. By ‘irrational’ he means things that befall us that are beyond our control. By ‘rational’ he means the metaphors, stories, parables, rituals, symbols, music, art and interpretive models of a religious tradition. Hence religion is seen as a human construction to cope with contingency in a rational way. Like Dalferth, Scherer-Rath (2007) considers our interpretations to be contingent. We can attribute both non-religious and religious meaning to an existential event. Scherer-Rath calls non-religious interpretation contingent, but he does not take the obverse—existential or religious interpretation—for granted. That qualification only applies if the interpretation is valid for existential events in other spatio-temporal contexts as well. Thus Scherer-Rath distinguishes between three forms of interpretation: (a) situational: the interpretation applies only to the particular situation; (b) existential: the interpretation is applicable to both the particular situation and situations in other spatio-temporal contexts; and (c) religious: the interpretation holds good not only in the particular situation and situations in other spatio-temporal contexts, but also refers to a transcendent reality. What are the relations in our theoretical model? A single arrow represents a causal influence and a double vertical arrow proceeding from the midpoint of a horizontal arrow represents a confrontation (Verschuren 2008). The variable ‘embedded ultimate life goals’ is influenced by the two variables, ‘ultimate life goals’ and ‘foundational reality’, at the far left of the model. In addition there is confrontation with ‘existential events’ as an object system and ‘embedded ultimate goals’ as a reference system. To indi-

1 For a more detailed exposition of the experience of contingency, see M. Scherer-Rath’s chapter in this volume.

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cate that the existential event in this confrontation is an object system it is marked with an asterisk. The external outcome of the confrontation is ‘contingent interpretation’. The ‘intentionality’ of the action (see far right of the diagram) is influenced by ‘contingent interpretation’ based on ‘embedded ultimate life goals’. 2. Semi-Structured Interview Typically a semi-structured interview entails a list of topics and interviewing activity (Janssen 2005). In this section we add two further elements: drawing a lifeline and questionnaires. According to Verschuren (2009) one of the hallmarks of a qualitative survey, which is our research design, is the use of qualitative forms of data collection from a relatively small number of respondents—somewhere between 30 and 80. In addition the analytical procedures are qualitative. The upshot is a semi-structured or open dialogue interview. The analysis and presentation of the results are quantified to a limited extent. In Verschuren’s view this distinguishes qualitative surveys from other forms of qualitative research. We opted for a semi-structured interview because it centers primarily on the respondent. Verschuren (2009) distinguishes between two main components of semi-structured interview. The first is a list of topics that the researcher wants to discuss. The second is a carefully considered interview guide. Verschuren explains that this is necessary partly because interviews allow the interviewee too much leeway to dwell on topics that do not interest the researcher, but also to permit probing. It is helpful if the interviewer knows how to get the respondent back on track in advance. It also helps him to probe the respondent’s psyche in greater depth. Again it is advisable to consider beforehand how to probe more deeply when necessary. Respondents may circumvent topics that actually interest the researcher, or they may come up with startling or puzzling answers. In that case the interviewer may probe for more information. We added the drawing of a lifeline as a third component of our semi-structured interview. It involves getting respondents to select events and locate them on a chronological axis comprising past, present and future. Not only do respondents decide which events to select, but also what meaning they attribute to an event. The dimension of personal interpretation of an existential event is expressed by peaks and dips in the lifeline: peaks represent events that are interpreted positively and dips are the ones that are interpreted negatively. This results

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in an autobiographical series of self-selected existential events in chronological order. (For more information see Assink 2008; Schroots 1998.) Our fourth component is questionnaires, which respondents complete in the course of the interview. While conducting trial interviews we realized that in some instances respondents tend to lose sight of the survey. For instance, it was not always clear which existential event a respondent was describing. Such experiences prompted our decision to add questionnaires. They also made it easier for respondents to reconstruct ultimate life goals and the reality in which they are embedded when reflecting on their selfcomposed life stories. 3. Observation Instrument On the basis of the analytical model described above we developed an observation instrument for data collection. In the interview we successively inquired into (a) the existential events, (b) the contingent interpretation, (c) embedded ultimate life goals, and (d) the intentionality of the behavior. We briefly outline these four components of the interview. (a) Existential events: Respondents first draw their lifelines from birth to the anticipated end of life, indicating peaks and dips. The interviewer draws respondents’ attention to these existential events, asking them to recount what happened and when it happened. Respondents write down their answers on a questionnaire.2 (b) Contingent interpretation: This component has three aspects: highs and lows; emotion; and experience of contingence. (1) Respondents assign each existential event a value of high or low, and explain why. (2) They compare each existential event with a list of 17 emotions. The aim is to match the event with the most apposite emotion. Respondents then clarify their choice of that emotion. Our choice of emotions was based on a list compiled by Lazarus (1999: 193–255): anger, envy, jealousy, anxiety, guilt, shame, relief, hope, sorrow, concern, revulsion, happiness, pride, love, gratitude and compassion. To these we added a 17th emotion: amazement, which could be important to fathom religion (Fuller 2006). (3) Experience of con-

2 Each element (a-d) of the interview concludes by having respondents summarize it in their own words in a questionnaire. The summary comprizes a single word or a short sentence.

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tingence was explored, firstly, from the respondent’s own perspective. To this end we asked respondents to label events as either expected or unexpected, as well as to explain whom they considered responsible for the occurrence of the event. They were then challenged to view their experience of contingence from a different perspective. To this end we used a measuring instrument devised by Scherer-Rath (2007). Respondents are presented with a series of four words, three times in succession. In the situational series (happiness—unhappiness—achievement—failure) the interpretation applies only to the particular situation. In the existential series (gift—tragedy—duty/task—shame) the interpretation applies to both the particular situation and to situations in a different spatio-temporal context. In the religious series (grace—desolation—calling—sin) the interpretation applies not only to the particular situation and ones in other spatiotemporal contexts, but also refers to a transcendent reality (Scherer-Rath 2007). From each series respondents have to choose the word most apposite to their interpretation of an event and explain their choice. (c) Embedded ultimate life goals: Respondents reflect on their self-composed life stories and identify the ultimate life goals they were pursuing. They then explain whether and in what foundational reality these are embedded. (d) Intentionality: Finally respondents consider whether there is any relation between their ultimate life goals and the intentionality of their actions in daily life. In their reflection on this the relation respondents’ attention may be called to a particular aspect of their identity, such as professional identity (Keupp 2008). 4. Reflection on Reconstruction of Contingent Interpretation of Life Stories To conclude the chapter we reflect on the observation instrument from two angles: (a) its practical applicability to different target groups, and (b) theorizing on religion. (a) Practical applicability to different target groups: Since 2008 the semistructured interview has been used with various target groups such as primary school teachers, volunteers at a hospice, cancer patients in the terminal phase of the disease, and inmates of a psychiatric nursing home. The respondents were from different religious backgrounds (Christian and

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Muslim), but we also used non-religious people. Since they were all 21 years old or older, we have had no experience with youths. Respondents did not experience the semi-structured nature of the interview as a drawback and regularly indicated that it was a very special experience to reconstruct their life stories in collaboration with an interviewer. In conducting the interviews due allowance should be made for respondents’ possible physical or mental limitations. For instance, after drawing their lifelines cancer patients were asked to confine themselves to the three most crucial existential events, since they would otherwise have found the physical effort too great. Teachers were able to reconstruct and reflect on their life stories in a single two-hour session, whereas inmates of a psychiatric nursing home did so in two one-hour sessions because of their shorter concentration span. Only once was an interview complicated by the interviewer’s attitude. This person had difficulty calling a respondent’s attention to a traumatic experience several times in a row and probing her about it. As a result we lacked important information to be able to reconstruct that respondent’s interpretation when we analyzed the interview. (b) Theorizing on religion: This instrument permits theorizing on (1) ultimate life goals, (2) foundational reality, (3) goals embedded in a foundational reality, and (4) the influence of contingent interpretation on the intentionality of actions. In such theorizing the assumption is that the interpretive process is the same for religious and non-religious people. In addition the researchers did not determine whether and what role religion played in people’s lives. We explored how ‘personal religion’ (James 1902) functions in their daily lives. Even though we live in an individualized, plural society there has been little or no theorizing about ‘personal religion’ based on empirical research. For this purpose contingent interpretation of life stories seems to be a promising approach. References Assink, M.H.J., Autobiographical Memory in Longitudinal Perspective. Stability and Change of Reported Life-Events over a Five-Year Period. Oisterwijk: Box Press, 2008. Bluck, S., and T. Habermas, “The Life Story Schema.” Motivation and Emotion 24/2 (2000): 121–147. Bubner, R., “Die Aristotelische Lehre vom Zufall. Bemerkungen in der Perspektieve einer Annäherung der Philosophie an die Rhetorik.” Pp. 3–23 in Kontingenz. Edited by G. Von Graevenitz, O. Marquard, and M. Christen. München: Fink Verlag, 1998.

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Bucher, A.A., Psychologie der Spiritualität. Handbuch. Weinheim, Basel: Beltz Verlag, 2007. Cooper, W., “William James’s Moral Theory,” Journal of Moral Education 32/4 (2003): 411–422. Dalferth, I.U., “Umsonst. Vom Schenken, Geben und Bekommen,” Studia Theologica 59 (2005): 83–103. ———, Malum. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2008. Dalferth, I.U., and P. Stoellger, “Religion als Kontingenzkultur und die Kontingenz Gottes.” Pp. 1–44 in Vernunft, Kontingenz und Gott. Edited by I.U. Dalferth and P. Stoellger. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000. Dalferth, I.U., and P. Stoellger, “Religion zwischen Selbstverständlichkeit, Unselbstverständlichkeit und Unverständlichkeit.” Pp. 1–21 in Hermeneutik der Religion. Edited by I.U. Dalferth and P. Stoellger. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007. Emmons, R.A., The Psychology of Ultimate Concerns. Motivation and Spirituality in Personality. New York: Guilford Press, 1999. ———, “Striving for the Sacred. Personal Goals, Life Meaning, and Religion,” Journal of Social Issues 61/4 (2005): 731–745. Frijda, N.H., The Laws of Emotion. Mahwah, NJ/London: Erlbaum, 2007. Fuller, R.C., “Wonder and Religious Sensibility,” Journal of Religion 86/3 (2006): 364– 385. Heelas, P., and L. Woodhead, The Spiritual Revolution. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005. James, W., The Varieties of Religious Experience. London: Longmans, Green, 1902. Jansen, H., “De kwalitatieve survey,” Kwalon 30/3 (2005): 15–34. Keupp, H. (ed.), Identitätskonstruktionen. Das Patchwork der Identitäten in der Spätmoderne. Hamburg: Rowohlt Taschenbuch Verlag, 2008. Kuitert, H., Over religie. Aan de liefhebbers onder haar beoefenaars. Baarn: Ten Have, 2000. Lazarus, R.S., Stress and Emotion. A New Synthesis. London: Free Association, 1999. Luckmann, T., The Invisible Religion. London: Collier-Macmillan, 1967. Lübbe, H., “Kontingenzerfahrung und Kontingenzbewältigung.” Pp. 35–47 in Kontingenz. Edited by G. Von Graevenitz, O. Marquard, and M. Christen. München: Fink Verlag, 1998. Luhmann, N., Die Religion der Gesellschaft. Frankfurt: Surkamp, 2002. McAdams, D.P., The Stories We Live By. Personal Myths and the Making of the Self. New York: Morrow, 1993. ———, “What Do We Know when We Know a Person?,” Journal of Personality 63 (1995): 1125–1146. ———, “The Psychology of Life Stories,” Review of General Psychology 5 (2001): 100– 122. Roof, W.C., and M. Silk, Religion and Public Life in the Pacific region. Fluid Identities. Lanham: Altimira Press, 2005. Scherer-Rath, M., “Contingentie en religieus-existentiële zorg,” Tijdschrift voor Geestelijke Verzorging 10/42 (2007): 28–36. Schroots, J.J.F., and M.H.J. Assink, “LIM/Levenslijn. Een vergelijkend structuuronderzoek,” Tijdschrift voor Ontwikkelingspsychologie 24 (1998): 1–23. Singer, J.A., “Narrative Identity and Meaning Making across the Adult Lifespan. An Introduction,” Journal of Personality 72/3 (2004): 437–459.

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Tillich, P., Chrisitanity and the Encounter of World Religions. New York: Columbia University Press, 1963. van de Donk, W.H.B.J., A.P. Jonkers, and R.J.J.M. Plum (eds.), Geloven in het publiek domein. Verkenning van een dubbele transformatie. Amsterdam: University Press, 2006. Verschuren, P., Probleemanalyse in organisatie- en beleidsonderzoek. Amsterdam: Boom, 2008. ———, Praktijkgericht onderzoek. Ontwerp van organisatie- en beleidsonderzoek. Amsterdam: Boom, 2009. Ward, K., The Case for Religion. Oxford: Oneworld, 2004.

SYSTEMATIC STUDIES

NARRATIVE THEOLOGY. A STRUCTURAL OVERVIEW

Luco J. van den Brom Theology is on the defensive within modern Western universities. Religion and its practice of religious narration are no longer intellectually respectable since the rise of a methodological change in the 17th century. In that period, the ideal of one unified system of all knowledge emerged: this system is grounded on one epistemic method—deduction and perception. This shift since then radically influenced the appreciation of the status of biblical stories to this very day. Recently, however, it emerged that narration is needed in contexts quite different from narrative theology as well. Furthermore, even in theology, hidden metaphysical presuppositions completely determine the meaning of narratives. 1. The Cartesian Depreciation of Narrative Within the perspective of the Physics, René Descartes regards it ridiculous to presuppose that God has created all things merely for our benefit because we, being reasonable, “cannot doubt that an infinitude of things … have never been of use to anyone”.1 By way of precaution, Descartes subscribes to the doctrine of creation of a complete world in the beginning, but for the natural sciences he simultaneously recommends a somewhat evolutionary approach to cosmology. The creation narratives of Genesis, according to him, are perhaps metaphorical and need to be left to theological conversation, and so he tried to avoid a conflict with contemporary religious authorities (Cottingham 1986: 98–99). We can argue that Descartes approaches religious and scientific issues in a slightly dualistic way. In this way he does maintain the religious meaning of biblical creation stories, but he considers them unimportant with respect to the cosmological status of the planet earth. Meanwhile, he intends to avoid arguing over the compatibility of the religious stories with the universal principles of argumentation. However, according to his general conviction there are two ways of speaking of God:

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René Descartes, Principia Philosophiae, III 3.

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the first one is accommodated to the human mind in religious metaphors and the other one is the more philosophical way to express “the bare truth” without evocative language.2 In Scripture, the first mode is used: anthropomorphic language in order that common people may understand “some truth”, whereas in science and philosophy we use formally clear language to get rid of anthropomorphisms in order to describe actual events exactly as they happened. Descartes’ basic idea seems to be that the philosophical outlook searches for the truth behind the story for a more general (perhaps religious) use. This tendency to look for a broader context of application outside the narratives became characteristic for the Enlightenment treatment of religious language and was continued by its 18th and 19th century successor as the historical-critical analysis of biblical texts. This analysis wants to reconstruct the historical events which those texts are thought to refer to and also the most likely historical course. The procedure of this historical reconstruction looks at biblical texts from an externalist perspective and attempts to fit them into another world, i.e. the contemporary world of the historian herself. This is a universe behind the stories, a world rationally reconstructed by an account of factual information, i.e. of stories empirically verifiable of their own. The religious story may represent an unsophisticated understanding of God’s agency in the world, but it is to be distinguished from the well-considered ideas of reason about the world. Now it is the conceptuality of that rational system which tries to interpret the biblical stories in modern secular terminology, thereby assuming that their “meaning is detachable from the specific story” as if its meaning is not dependent on both its literary form and on how it is used in the particular context (Frei 1974: 6). By consequence, the narrative character of biblical stories became subsidiary matter to a rational world view. The historical-critical approach of the time used to look for possible interpretations by which those biblical texts might fit into its own contemporary modern world view and tell us what actually happened in the past according to the standards of modernity. This approach of biblical texts looks more like an interest in reconstruction of their propositional and moral content and the historical context from which they arose. Thus, from a perspective of rational or natural philosophy, there is no special focus on the textual characteristics and the form of the writings or the dynamics of the interplay between text and stories and their readership or audience.

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Descartes, “Objections against the Meditations and Replies,” second reply.

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In the 20th century, Hans Frei called for attention to this eclipse of biblical narrative within the hermeneutics of the Enlightenment in the period of the preceding two centuries. He argued how the traditional presupposition that the literal meaning of a story is its historical reference, had faded away. Therefore, the question arose how to bridge the gap between narrative and reality, between story and its supposed historical reference. Modern theologians tried to translate the history-like but implausible stories of the Bible into other, non-narrative meanings in order to show that the Bible has its significance to modern people as well. Due to the confusion of historylikeness with ostensive historical reference of biblical stories, their narrative quality as such is depreciated. Frei’s simple cure consists in an opposite strategy: not the Bible has to be adequate to history but just the other way round, the world must fit in with the Bible (Frei 1974: 3, 12). Although there even exist anthropological ideas about a general theory of the narrative as such, Frei insists that theology should not be founded upon such a general anthropological notion, but needs to start at the particular story of the Bible which identifies someone like Jesus of Nazareth in a relational story. That narrative description refers in an adequate way to the mutual interaction of characters and circumstances, even “though we cannot say univocally how” (Frei 1993: 33–36, 208–210).3 Frei apparently does not see that a theory of “the narrative as such” does not contradict the particularity of the biblical story at all: it rather underlines in a scholarly context the need for narratives even in secular disciplines, pace Descartes. 2. Function of Narrative Narrative theology shares its distinguishing concept with other disciplines like e.g. narrative psychology, literary criticism, narrative ethics, cultural studies, history and with everyday practice within family life too. Consequently, their respective uses of narrative show it is “a concept with blurred edges” and they simultaneously contribute to its connotations in the various contexts as well. It alerts us the possibility of stories functioning in diverse scholarly settings to give us a grasp upon reality, in which that grasp is more than “some truth” to common people (as Descartes thought). For example, in geometrical optics it is convenient to suppose that light “travels”

3 My italics. His cold feet of general anthropology as possible foundation shows the influence of Karl Barth’s theology on Frei.

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in straight lines as light rays, either called paths of particles or moving wave fronts—two stories to deal with one phenomenon (light). We tell students these stories and not merely “common people”, to illustrate the behavior of light. Kenneth Burke, a twentieth-century literary critic, argued that literature according to its function and effects on readers is best thought of as “equipment for living”. People use proverbs, stories, tragedy, or comedy to cope with and adapt to everyday situations they face (Burke 1994: 167– 173). Stephen Crites (1997: 69–72) offered the thesis that the formal quality of experience—in which many forms of literary art are involved—is inherently narrative. Children grow up with stories their parents tell them about how “the ways of the world” are. Such stories can effect certain basic beliefs helping them to look around in their environment, searching for the purpose of their intentions and actions. According to a pragmatic approach, narratives help people in getting language to talk about experiences in daily life, about how to look at them and about how to respond to them. The narrative therefore presupposes three constitutive elements: a story, a narrator and an intended audience. It presents a story in which a storyteller, from her perspective, selects and connects a series of certain events in a spatiotemporal order in order to show the audience this linguistic view makes sense: Thus, the narrative gives a striking example of meaningful language, informing the audience about how to deal with intended issues. The literary approaches to the gospels emphasize the rhetoric of the communication context through which the narrators affect the hearers and readers they have in mind. These narrators invite both their intended audience and their actual audience to enter the picture of their particular portrait of Jesus and to appreciate their specific understanding of him. In telling their story they make use of a plot to develop it within a certain structure and to start a process in which they stimulate hearers or readers to build up their pictures even further (Burridge 2005: 18– 22). Narratives also have their function in the writing of history, in which historians can agree on the facts but disagree on their meaning, that is, on how such facts are represented in historical narratives which have the structure of human action: situation—motivation—means—intention. Upon assessing their present situation, people can be motivated to leave it; then they will look for and choose the means to realize the end they are aiming at (Stanford 1998: 206–226). But the historical narrative also describes the context in which the action takes place. These subjective and inter-subjective elements in the narrative help us to grasp the possible historical significance of an action. The facts do not speak for themselves: it is the historian who calls

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on them and “who decides which facts to give the floor, and in what order context”.4 Those facts must be ordered into a plot by the historical narrator because “a fact is like a sack—it won’t stand up till you’ve put something in it” (Carr 1961). This reminds us of the topical interest of Aristotle’s remark that the chief requirement of a tragedy is plot: the ordering of incidents into a unity or a complete whole of one action. Even in history the narrative needs a plot as the structure of action, i.e. as the structure of human lives.5 Gabriel Fackre distinguishes two types of narrative: an account of events with participants patterned by the narrator’s principle of selection and an account of characters and events patterned upon a plot. By doing so, he wants to make sense of a distinction between history and story. The first type refers to observable events and actions according to some principle of selection whereas the second type may include fiction as well and reveals the narrator’s intention: in her plotting role, she arranges the movement of characters through conflict toward an intended resolution (Fackre 1983: 341).6 Such a contrast of types, however, seems to me to be artificial and neglects the role of historical narrative because, as we saw, in history we use the narrative as a concept with blurred edges. This use in history as a discipline includes a certain plot too, which functions through the selective principle the historian uses in assessing her data. Therefore, in both types of narrative, readers are invited to enter a specific understanding of the events narrated or of the paradigmatic behavior of the possible characters. This distinction makes no sense in narrative theology in general, and is merely meaningful in the case of stories which suggest empirical truth claims. In ethics, the use of narrative as a distinguishing concept recently came in vogue because ethicists became more interested in moral character and virtues, such as e.g. generosity and practical wisdom (Roberts 1997). Character traits are not identifiable moments in someone’s history but display themselves in her intended actions and emotions. The easiest way to present them is the narrative, whether true or fictional, but recognizable in a lifelike way. Therefore, Iris Murdoch stresses the point that “(w)here virtue is concerned we often apprehend more than we clearly understand and grow by looking”. She contends that moral language relates to a context which is

4

Carr (1961: 11–12): “The historian is necessarily selective.” Aristotle, Poetics, 1450a30–1452a21. See Stanford (1998: 214). 6 Fackre’s distinction makes sense in case history is considered as merely collecting annals and chronicles without drawing a conclusion. 5

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infinitely more complex than that of science! Therefore, she presents literature as a context in which we can receive schooling on “how to picture and understand human situations” (Murdoch 1970: 31–34). For understanding someone’s identity and character, her way of thinking, feeling, and acting, we speak about her network of relations and connections with other people and her involvement in their actions. Often our accounts will take narrative forms. Such narrative forms can present examples for a kind of psychological ethics to illustrate and grasp how to act in certain contexts and to give someone a moral sensitivity for the social stratification of what might be the case in these contexts. These contemporary uses of narrative in different disciplinary contexts give us a picture of the importance of realistic narrative to get a grasp on the reality of our environment and to picture it. We need stories to understand the human situation and the function of notions as character, self, person, action and reciprocal interactions etc. within it. 3. Different Aims of Narrative Theology Narratives have been used for very different purposes in theology. Therefore Hauerwas and Jones (1987: 2–4) record some possible reasons why to use narrative within a theological context and the Christian life of faith. However, at the outset they warn their readers against oversimplification of the variety of ways in which narrative can be applied. In a kind of an overall approach to a subject, some authors might include both story and rational analysis in their exposition, having an a priori value judgment at the back of their mind. This approach is analogous to Descartes’ view. I.e., they think that any insight evoked by narration needs to be checked against more rational analysis in order to be an intellectually viable option. Actually, they distort the picture of what is at stake in a proposal of stories.7 To my mind, in doing so such authors tend toward treating stories as second-class arguments for the insight, not as a serious attempt to tell how to act. Hauerwas and Jones notice that narrative plays an important part in various activities within our environment. These activities are very diverse in character: e.g., the explanation of actions, the articulation of human consciousness, the depiction of the identity of agents, the explanation of strate-

7 Hauerwas and Jones argue against James Gustafson that rationality and historical method have a fundamentally narrative form, at least to some extent, even in epistemological issues.

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gies of reading, arguments for the relevance of story-telling through fables and myths, the historical account of a developing tradition, etc. This already is an impressive list to display the variety of possible uses of narrative and we could also add items of the above section. Following the directions of Alasdair MacIntyre, they also contend narrative is a crucial concept for understanding epistemological matters and displaying the content of Christian beliefs. In a more general philosophical context, MacIntyre (1988: 363–364)8 suggests that epistemological crises may be solved by the discovery of new concepts and the framing of some new type of theory. One of his examples is Boltzmann’s paradox between an account of concepts of classical thermodynamics and an account of concepts of statistical mechanics such as “temperature” and “entropy”: for example, temperature is meaningless for individual atoms, but only assumes significance when applied to a (large) ensemble of atoms. One such new theory might be the explanatory power of Niels Bohr’s quantum theory with its appeal to a “story” about a hydrogen atom with well-defined stable orbits for an electron. This way of thinking alerts us that in understanding our environment we simultaneously make use of a variety of ways which are mutually supplementary and include the evocative power of priming stories. However, apart from these attempts at rehabilitation of narratives, theological narratives occur within a broader context which sheds some light on how to value the purpose of religious sayings as speech acts. When we use religious language, we presuppose that all our utterances relate to our environment in a way which is basic or prior to our theology. Our narratives are intended as speech acts in our linguistic communication, be it as assertive descriptions or as personal expressives, as self-involving commitments, directives, or as declaratives, or as a combination of these. In telling religious stories we take a background for granted that functions as an actual environment within which these acts as actions make real sense. Many speakers presuppose that this environment is a real world independent of human beings and of what they think and say about it. What is more, their statements refer to states of affairs in that real world, and therefore as successfully being true or false by virtue of their correspondence to how those states of affairs actually are. Such a basic background position we call “external realism”. Others, however, do not take realism for granted but doubt such an independent world and reject the idea that our statements

8 MacIntyre’s argument looks like Thomas Kuhn’s use of paradigm-clashes and scientific revolutions.

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successfully refer to independent states of affairs in the real world. This position is dubbed idealism or social constructivism: the world is constituted by our perceptions and representations of our consciousness (our ideas). The tension between these basic positions determines the broader context within which theological narratives occur and have their meaning as speech acts (Searle 2000: 12–20, 146–150). Gerard Loughlin (1999: 10–20) recognizes the tension between the two basic positions mentioned above, yet interprets this tension differently, namely as modernism with its pursuit of a theory of everything against postmodernism with its rejection of such a master story. In postmodern theology he discerns two types: a textualist versus a narrativist type. According to textualists, a “world of language hangs between” the human conscious self and the multiplicity of experiences: we are always surrounded by, or embedded in, a world of signs (Cupitt 2010).9 The narrativists, like the textualists, accept the “ubiquity of language” in which we are embedded, but they stress the particularity of the stories related to the story-teller, who in turn is related to a community of story-tellers too: stories are concerned with “the particular world fictioned”, not so much with the fictionality of the world. In that way, the narrativist approach is a primary understanding of the world in biblical terms and therefore “narrativist theology differs in its master story”. By doing so, Loughlin presents both positions as two sides of the same coin. However, he neglects, that “relation” is vital to narrativism as a primitive or basic concept in order to meaningfully tell its master story. Whereas textualists—as idealists10—design their environment from the standpoint of an individual self as an onlooker, with the help of their ubiquitous system of signs or ideas, narrativists experience life through their particular stories as imbedded in a complex web of networks of relations. These specific stories give meaning to parts of that web and they locate and identify people within the network. In that way, the Christian faith always understands its environment in terms of biblical stories and idioms. Though often imagining it in innovative ways, the understanding is not vice versa: the biblical narrative is not adapted to the world using universal categories. Realizing that relation is the basic concept, narrativists need narratives instead of realist language in order to cope with the complexity of relations in daily life and to imagine which attitudes and behaviors might be more 9 Cupitt describes religion in the language of evolutionary psychology as originally a progressive force in human affairs. 10 Cupitt elucidates his “new great story” as Hegel’s but low-key in a very English idiom. Cupitt (Ch. 1, 5) calls it “a history of our human ideal culture”!

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appropriate to this actual set. Through stories we apprehend which meaning we may ascribe to human situations, in order to grasp “what to relate to what” and what kind of attitude to adopt. Realist language refers to objects descriptively. In contrast, narratives function within a relational conceptuality for “two-or-more place” characteristics of situations (e.g., “covenant” assuming both God and humans). By calling my neighbor a creature, for example, I introduce a network of biblical creation stories to ascribe meaning to this person in relation to the Creator. I.e., God, willing her, intends her to be in existence and therefore the character of our behavior toward her should simultaneously express our understanding that we live together in the sight of her and our Maker as well—a larger network. In realist language, however, calling the neighbor a creature expresses a causal account of her existence by referring to God’s agency once in the past—this looks like an empirical truth claim. This suggests the story’s language is meant to be object language at the same level as natural science. In idealist language, on the other hand, it expresses our apprehension of another human being as a conscious self like us, enabling us to imagine what we could become: we create the idea of God to bring order in our chaotic experiences of the environment and to make sense of the future development we expect for ourselves.11 God functions as a regulative ideal within a complex of signs which give ideals and values through which we orient our lives. In other words, different presuppositions of our worldview determine a difference both in the meaning of the narratives and in the scope or objects of narrative theology. Francesca Murphy (2007) contends that narrative theology tends to render God not as a person or a being, but as a story that is unable to present God as being real in the end of the day. Therefore, her catchword “God is not a story” argues in favor of a realist theology in contrast to a non-realist theology of self-contained narratives. She argues that a theology focusing on “telling God’s story” tends to become a concern with the story per se and not with God himself as a living being. For that reason such theology is not actually referring to reality. However, although she contends God always exceeds the telling of stories which have been composed about the Deity, she neglects the possibility that narratives can support faithful people with the appropriate idiom to talk about their relation with God Transcendent, beyond the empirical realm. This relationalist language—a third alternative—helps a community of believers to express

11

Such a non-realist perspective is presented by Cupitt (2010, Ch. 8).

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its faith in the practices of liturgy and in daily life by means of a vocabulary worthy of God. Such practices are certainly not an ontological reduction of the Deity. Both believers and theologians are embedded in complex networks without a God’s Eye point of view to imagine the whole reality but the linguistic help of narratives makes liturgical conversation appropriate and possible for them. 4. Some Forms of Narrative Theology Narrative theology always displays some form of reflective discourse about God in active relation to creatures within the frame of structured stories. The primary stories of the Christian tradition are those of the Bible according to the Hebrew or Christian canon. These stories have the special function of introducing certain expressions, idioms and grammar that support believers that are looking at their environment and trying to cope with the current particularities in daily life, by making them sensitive toward the reorienting perspective offered by the canonical framework. We see this role in the movement of Biblical Theology which defends a “canonical approach” in exegesis and looks for the meaning of biblical texts in their final or canonical form because in their final form they are judged to be the “word of God”. The history of the canon gives us a sense of the dynamic process of the development of the tradition of Christian faith in its correlation with questions of the day: believers can continue this dynamic tradition by apprehending a sense of their new questions in the light of the way of that development (Childs 1993: 85–89; Sanders 1987: 11–39). Sometimes theologians take these canonical stories as “reality depicting” and advocate a realist position in narrative theology (e.g., Ratzinger 2007: xi–xxiv), instead of taking these stories as suggesting appropriate ways of apprehending and dealing with reality. Telling stories can be used in the communication of faith and theology as it is done in Robert Jenson’s Systematic Theology (1997; 1999), but it can also become an innovative way to express Christian faith by providing creative, remythologizing models and metaphors for contemporary use in liturgy and doctrine. Sallie McFague’s (1987: Ch. 2) metaphorical theology invites us to imagine new ways of doing theology—yet keeping it consonant with the Christian tradition—by looking for new language and stories for our own time. Metaphorical theology might be a relational theology which uses both canonical images and alternatives ones imagined by theologians as “how to relate to God” rather than as describing God-an-sich: metaphors cannot be reified and are open-ended like biblical narratives. Because of the open-

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endedness of biblical stories and Christian metaphors the mystery of divine transcendence will always be honored in this type of theology. References Aristotle, Poetics. 1450a30–1452a21. Burke, K., “Literature as Equipment for Living.” Pp. 167–173 in Contemporary Literary Criticism. 3rd edition. Edited by R.C. Davis and R. Schleifer. New York: Longman, 1994. Burridge, R.A., Four Gospels, One Jesus? A Symbolic Reading. Revised edition. London: SPCK, 2005. Carr, E.H., What Is History?. London: Penguin Books, 1961/1987. Childs, B.S., Biblical Theology of the Old and New Testaments. Theological Reflection on the Christian Bible. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993. Cottingham, J., Descartes. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 1986/2002. Crites, S., “The Narrative Quality of Experience.” Pp. 65–88 in Why Narrative? Readings in Narrative Theology. Edited by S. Hauerwas and L.G. Jones. Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 1987/1997. Cupitt, D., A New Great Story. Kindle edition. Salem, OR: Polebridge Press, 2010. Descartes, R., “Objections against the Meditations and Replies.” Second reply in The Philosophical Works of Descartes. Transl. by Elizabeth S. Haldane and G.T.R. Ross. Volume 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1931/1982. ———, Principia Philosophiae. III 3 in The Philosophical Works of Descartes. Transl. by Elizabeth S. Haldane and G.T.R. Ross. Volume 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1931/1979. Fackre, G., “Narrative Theology. An Overview,” Interpretation 37 (1983): 340–352. Frei, H.W., The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974. ———, “Remark in Connection with a Theological Proposal.” Pp. 26–44 in Theology and Narrative: Selected Essays. Edited by G. Hunsinger and W.C. Placher. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993. ———, “Response to ‘Narrative Theology’: An Evangelical Appraisal.” Pp. 207–212 in Theology and Narrative: Selected Essays. Edited by G. Hunsinger and W.C. Placher. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993. Hauerwas, S., and L.G. Jones (eds.), Why Narrative? Readings in Narrative Theology. Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 1987/1997. Jenson, R.W., Systematic Theology. Volume 1. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. ———, Systematic Theology. Volume 2. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. Loughlin, G., Telling God’s Story. Bible, Church and Narrativity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. MacIntyre, A., Whose Justice? Which Rationality? London: Gerald Duckworth, 1988. McFague, S., Models of God. Theology for an Ecological, Nuclear Age. London: SCM Press, 1987. Murdoch, I., The Sovereignty of Good. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1970. Murphy, F.A., God is Not a Story. Realism Revisited. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007. Ratzinger, J.A./Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth. New York: Doubleday, 2007.

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Roberts, R.C., “Narrative Ethics.” Pp. 473–480 in A Companion to Philosophy of Religion. Edited by P.L. Quinn and C. Taliaferro. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1997. Sanders, J.A., From Sacred Story to Sacred Text. Canon as Paradigm. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987. Searle, J., Mind, Language and Society. London: Orion Books, 2000. Stanford, M., An Introduction to the Philosophy of History. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 1998.

MOURNING FOR YASMINA: A PASSION NARRATIVE. STORYTELLING AND SOCIAL ENGAGEMENT IN URBAN MINISTRY

Anne-Marie Korte Pastor Monique is a Roman Catholic neighborhood pastor educated in the ministry of presence who works in a low-income district of a large city in the Netherlands. In her journal in the year 2000, she described the reactions of local residents to the disappearance and murder of a five-year old neighborhood girl whose lifeless body was eventually found at a dump. The journal provides us with a unique window on Pastor Monique’s role (Baart and Vosman 2003: 13–24), showing us a neighborhood pastor who tries to help local residents come to terms with these traumatic events while also fostering their individual and social agency.1 In this chapter I use Pastor Monique’s journal to explore the function of storytelling, and especially of narratives of pain and survival, in empowering local communities. I am particularly interested in the neighborhood pastor’s role in eliciting, sharing and publicizing the locals’ stories in order to enhance social engagement and solidarity in public life. Methodologically, I look at the theological and social impact of storytelling in urban ministries at two levels. I present a close reading of the journal entries (which read like short stories). Then I use the results of this textual analysis to evaluate the role of narrative in this particular case of urban ministry. 1. Traumatic Events, Narrative Theology and Feminist Hermeneutics In “Turning to Narrative: Towards a Feminist Theological Interpretation of Political Participation and Personhood,” theologian Rosemary Carbine argues that narratives about the collective experience of traumatic events can become significant in politics and theology, and can help people who are

1 Pastor Monique de Bree kept the journal for the express purpose of discussing her work in a study group of neighborhood pastors and theologians at the former Catholic Theological University in Utrecht (Baart and Vosman 2003: 13–24). My initial analysis of the journal entries appeared in Baart and Vosman’s publication (Korte 2003).

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seldom heard in either of these areas to gain support and recognition (Carbine 2010). Her article analyzed the testimonies of poor African-American women who had survived hurricane Katrina, as recorded during U.S. congressional hearings in 2005. These women told Congress how government aid had totally failed as they and their families struggled to survive (Democracy Now 2005). Carbine discusses the importance of such testimonies using methods and insights from ethics, social sciences, gender studies and liberation theology. She also draws from feminist theological views on narrativity in particular. Narrativity is a key concept within feminist theologies. From the very origins of this discipline, telling stories about one’s own experiences has played an important role. It is seen as recognition of the input and authority of women in the field of theology (‘hearing each other into speech’); as a critical counter voice to the established theological discourse (‘raising subaltern voices’); as a new source of knowledge and an impulse for theological transformation (‘the personal is political’); and as an alternative, rich theological discourse closely linked to women’s lives which is able to do justice to their position and experiences. All these elements play a role in the context of Katrina, but Carbine takes it a step further. She wants to show the implications women’s stories have for their own political agency and public participation, and that of the people who feel the impact of their stories. She aims to provide a theological perspective on narrative as a rhetorical practice of public engagement utilized by marginalized groups in the struggle for justice. According to Carbine, acknowledging narrative as such shows that this public engagement is more effective as a means of increasing solidarity than as a way to oppose or shape public policy. Carbine sees the fact that more than 70,000 volunteers helped the original inhabitants to rebuild their homes in the five years after Katrina as the creation of alternative public spheres, which in their diverse forms, sites, and content offer pedagogical and political possibilities for strengthening the social bonds of democracy, new spaces within which to cultivate the capacities for critical modes of individual and social agency, and crucial opportunities to form alliances (Carbine 2010: 402; Giroux 2006: 191). With this analysis, Carbine updates the relationship between theology and politics while at the same time addressing a moot point from feminist theology’s focus on narrativity, i.e., the question whether, and if so, how, stories of victimhood can contribute to social change and cultural innovation. Can they do more than simply validate this victimization? Carbine answers this question affirmatively. According to her such stories create new rhetor-

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ical forms of political participation to empower political actors and achieve greater solidarity in public life. She sees this rhetorical practice as a separate form of theology: “an experientially based kind of theological reflection in search of a more just alternative to patriarchy in religion and society” (Carbine 2010: 387). Key to this type of theology are naming the pain (of social injustice) and retrieving dangerous memories (of suffering with a prophetic significance) (Metz 1992). In this way, the practice of relating personal struggles in order to achieve social change takes on prophetic meaning. While I do support the revaluation of publicizing stories of suffering and victimhood, I wish to address a point that remains nebulous in Carbine’s analysis. Whereas Carbine focuses primarily on the consequences of the storytelling (social change), I am more interested in how this process is set in motion. How do personal stories of pain and survival become a rhetorical practice of public engagement? How should these stories be told, heard and read to have this effect, and who takes the initiative? What role do theologians—trained in social analysis and theological reflection—play in this process? Do religious imagery and frames of reference have a special place? The answer to such questions can be found in the work of neighborhood pastors. I consider their specific angle and practical experience very relevant, since they focus on people’s daily lives and on stories of survival in urban environments often rife with social problems and tensions (Baart and Vosman 2003). The work of these pastors is, by definition, guided by the question of how personal stories can result in a rhetorical practice of public engagement. In essence, this is their theological agenda. This chapter explores an actual example of a neighborhood pastor’s work: the writings of Pastor Monique. The journal entries reveal how her listening skills give residents a voice. They also show what role the pastor herself plays and expose her own intentions and ambivalence. I read and analyze this text in three ways: as reportage (what picture of the events does the writer paint?) as a literary creation (which rhetorical devices does this text contain and what do they imply about its underlying tensions?), and as a typical example of a specific genre, i.e., the Passion narrative. 2. First Reading: The Text as Reportage Pastor Monique described in her journal how the people in her neighborhood—a mix of immigrants and indigenous Dutch—reacted to the murder of five-year old Muslim girl Yasmina in October 2000. Yasmina had gone

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missing and was later found dead. People reacted with alarm, disbelief, anger, and fear. Rumors started circulating about who was responsible for the crime and eventually Yasmina’s 16-year old neighbor was unmasked as the perpetrator. This increased consternation among local residents. On day four, they held a silent march through the neighborhood in memory of Yasmina. Afterward, a crowd of neighborhood residents met in the local playground. Pastor Monique recorded all this in ‘pianissimo’: her sketch of events consists of small gestures, evocative details, short dialogues and striking remarks. Devastating events such as (sexual) violence, murder, war, and natural disasters are urgent in every sense of the word: in their inevitability, their appeal, their invocation of the questions ‘why?’ and ‘how can we continue?’ Such occurrences demand responses, stances, answers. Narratives about such events have a characteristically compelling power: they draw their readers in and mobilize their anger, sadness, indignation and readiness for action. This is not only true of stories in genres explicitly aimed at such mobilization, such as tragedies and passion plays, but also of other representations, stories and stylizations of devastating events. As literary scholar Elaine Scarry (1985: 204–205) shows us, using the story of the near sacrifice of Isaac in Genesis 22, such stories have a strong ability to converge; they draw readers/listeners in to such an extent that they are no longer individuals with multiple viewpoints and aspects. The reader/listener becomes merely the ‘offspring’ of the text and is, as such, reborn into the disturbing, and disturbed, reality invoked by the text. The impact of narratives about horrific events also goes beyond personal involvement, as political philosopher Jean Bethke Elshtain (1998) notes. Such stories call on the need to establish a collective identity, promoting a demarcation between ‘us’ and ‘them’, as well as the urge to moralize. Compared to the rhetorical features that Elshtain considers typical of narratives about traumatic events, Pastor Monique’s report is restrained. Her writing style helps to resist the effects of being consumed by the text and of defining and limiting oneself through (the narration of) horrific events. This resistance is the primary goal of Pastor Monique’s actions. The text records situations on four consecutive days during which Yasmina’s death became increasingly real yet ever more incomprehensible to neighborhood inhabitants. It shows how everyone involved struggled to find a response. The pastor, the playground attendant, and the neighborhood watch volunteer were busy tempering people’s emotions to prevent adults and children from becoming overwrought with fear, anger or helplessness.

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Although the text contains a few morally or religiously informed explanations and interpretations (e.g. in the questions posed by the pastor, the children and the adults), it is neither written from a moral or religious point of view nor intended to address moral or religious questions. Events and conversations are recorded without further comment. The content and style of the textual excerpts reveal something about the way in which Pastor Monique does her work. First of all, her journal entries make it easy to empathize with the bewilderment, fear, anger, grief and existential questions the murder of a young child evoked in the neighborhood. I found it particularly striking how the pastor consistently paid attention to the neighborhood children and meticulously registered their responses and emotions. The pastor, or first person narrator—she is neither addressed as ‘pastor’ nor refers to herself as such, she is only identified as the author at the top of the page—is a supportive presence. She offers children and adults alike an opportunity to express their feelings and relate their stories at a time of great fear and upheaval. Secondly, the text evokes a subtle yet apt image of the neighborhood pastor’s own position as the narrator who is deeply involved yet simultaneously acts as ‘the voice of reason’. She is not above and beyond events, but part of the group confronted with fear and inexplicable loss; she observes and empathizes. At the same time, she is the neighborhood’s pillar of strength thanks to her knowledge and broad view, her availability, her wealth of contacts and the trust she has earned. The text neither explicitly addresses the pastor’s position, responsibilities and self-image, nor provides a theological commentary on the events. In my second reading I look at the pastor’s actions in greater detail in an attempt to uncover any theological interest or agenda that may reside in the text. 3. Second Reading: The Text as a Literary Creation In my second analysis I explore the text as a consciously stylized creation, using questions that bring the author’s intentions and views into sharper focus and uncover the issues which the text debates internally, as it were. I use a focalization analysis to foreground the various voices, views and perspectives in the text: who sees, who speaks, who acts? (Bal 1978). Looking at the verbs in the text, most of them describe speech, sight and motion. The most frequent and consistent focalizer is the ‘I’. The lion’s share of this text consists of interactions with this first person narrator, and about two-thirds of those are interactions with children. The two people

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mentioned most often—Yasmina and the murderer—are not focalizers. The topic discussed most often—aside from Yasmina and the perpetrator—is the silent march. This focalization analysis not only reveals how pivotal the pastor’s role is, but also what it consists of: Who sees. It is mainly the pastor who sees, and—revealingly—she allows her view to be supplemented, redirected and confused by others’ views. Who speaks. The children and their parents are given room to speak by the pastor. Most of the text’s spoken language consists of their voices; the conversations recorded also reflect this. Sometimes the speakers are aware of this and show their appreciation, for example when one of the children says that talking to Pastor Monique about being bullied in school has helped her get it off her mind. Who acts. The pastor is remarkably mobile in the text. She goes to the playground, walks the streets, accompanies people to institutions, goes to people’s homes, brings children into her own home, and joins the silent march. Gradually she encourages children, parents and neighbours to speak. Children and parents are depicted speaking rather than acting, except for one girl who throws jackets to the floor in anger. Generally, the text describes people’s moods and views instead of their actions: they are upset, angry and sad. They weep, ask questions, discuss their participation in the silent march, and eventually—in a clear case of actions speaking louder than words—they take part in the silent march. This reading illustrates how the pastor empowers children and adults to speak. Spoken interactions between the first-person narrator and other characters are the mainstay of this text. My analysis sheds light on the pastor’s position, responsibilities and selfimage; at their core, the pastor’s actions consist of literally being there for the locals and giving them room to speak. The theological significance of ‘empowering others to speak’ has been recognized in liberation and feminist theologies in particular. There it has been turned into an explicit method in consciousness-raising groups that intertwine social awareness, reclaiming religion and developing an ability to (collectively) influence one’s own living conditions. This is predicated on the assumption that the capacity to become a speaking and acting subject, both individually and collectively, is triggered in a context of ‘being heard’ and ‘hearing one another’ (Morton 1985). The goal is not so much religious empowerment,

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but rather the promotion of agency in those who are socially, culturally and religiously marginalized. This perspective is clearly present in Pastor Monique’s actions. However, my focalization analysis also brings to light a remarkable shift in perspective in the text. The pastor is seen acting from a perspective other than ‘being there’ for the neighborhood residents in two instances: at the beginning and end of the text, when ‘I’ and ‘we’ are used alternately. Let us take a closer look at the deviating passages. The very first line of the text names two characters: the playground attendant and the ‘I’. For the first three paragraphs, these constitute a ‘we’ sharing their concerns about what is going on in the neighborhood. This shows us that they occupy a different position from the neighborhood inhabitants themselves: ‘us’ as opposed to ‘them, the neighborhood residents’. As this ‘we’ acts in the text, a discussion is held as how to handle the neighborhood residents: – ensure no rumors start leading a life of their own; – understand what people do to overcome their fear; – acknowledge that it is difficult to respond to fear and restlessness when you do not know precisely what is going on; – be aware that it is pedagogically unwise to cry when children are present; – acknowledge that evil is elusive, untamable and cannot be recognized from the outside. After that, the focalizer ‘we’ does not reappear in the text for a long time. The ‘I’ can apparently rely on this shared view on how to communicate with the residents. From that point on, the ‘I’ gradually starts to overlap with the neighborhood residents. At the end of the text, when the silent rally begins, the ‘I’ completely dissolves into the neighborhood ‘we’. However, at two points the ‘I’ reappears and takes a distinct position, posing questions and expressing amazement. The first time, the ‘I’ asks one of the mothers what the marchers are singing in Arabic. From the ensuing conversation the pastor gathers that it is a profession of Allah’s greatness and power; after this exchange, the pastor becomes part of the ‘we’ again. The second time is at the end of the text, when the ‘I’ expresses her feeling that the silent march is brought to a ‘wondrous conclusion’ by five-year old Seda’s words about God’s love, procreation and being born.2

2

In my use of the words ‘Allah’ and ‘God’ here, I follow Pastor Monique’s text. In the

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These two moments show some similarities. In both cases, Allah’s greatness and power are mentioned, as well as the fact that people are born and die. The two situations are mirror images of each other. In the first case, in a context dominated by sadness and mourning, Allah’s majesty and almightiness are professed in an Islamic prayer and linked to the fact that people are born and die. Immediately afterward, balloons are released, some of them carrying Yasmina’s picture up into the sky. In the second case, the silent march has officially ended and the atmosphere has become more informal and somewhat cheerier. As those present are about to begin eating and drinking in the playground, little Seda spontaneously professes Allah’s greatness, power and love. She also playfully expresses ideas about birth and death, creation and manufacture, and acceptance and denial of death. The reason I am paying such close attention to these shifts between ‘I’ and ‘we’ is that these are the instances when the pastor detaches herself from the collective neighborhood ‘we’, and speaks as an individual, talking either to herself or possibly to us as her audience. It is worth noting that the pastor acts as an ‘I’ in response to the explicit religious expressions of the locals. Is this out of professional interest and her training as a theologian, which, by definition, sets her apart from them? Or is it that the rituals are from a different religion, and does this difference (in terms of both content and style) evoke the wonderment in the ‘I’? Or is the pastor somehow uncomfortable with this kind of religious expression—regardless of which faith it is part of—and does she, as a questioning and amazed ‘I’, differentiate herself from the ‘we’ who presumably do not feel any discomfort? Even without answering these questions, we can see that the pastor’s amazement at the religious behavior (reciting Koran) and the religious vision (Seda’s story) of some of the neighborhood residents prompts her to distance herself from the ‘we’ and to speak as an ‘I’. This bespeaks an aspect of the pastor’s theological interest that differs from her ‘accommodating’ attitude and her attempts to ‘help others to voice their troubles’. Both times, the pastor records religious views on creation, life and death, evoked by the murder of Yasmina. In my third reading I will discuss these views in greater detail.

context of the recitation from the Koran, the name ‘Allah’ is used; the Muslim girl Seda is reported as speaking of ‘God’ (Baart and Vosman 2003: 13–24).

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4. Third Reading: The Text as Passion Narrative The content, style and rhetorical effects of the text as analyzed above are reason to read Pastor Monique’s text as a Passion narrative. This reading can elucidate how suffering and survival narratives can set in motion a rhetorical practice of public engagement and what role theology can play in this. Narratives about dealing with innocent suffering and victimhood are not specifically religious or Christian—as the Classical tragedies prove, for example—yet they are often the subject of religious observations or interpretations, and in this sense Passion narratives can play a special religious role. In the Jewish and Christian tradition, various kinds of Passion narrative underpin the experiencing of God and shape religious memories and education. We can distinguish two types of Passion narrative: stories about those who suffer for, and because of, their faith (such as prophets and martyrs), and stories about those who suffer innocently and whose suffering (and death) leads them (or others) to question God’s role in their situation. An example of the latter is the biblical story of Job. These two types of Passion narrative converge in the central Christian story of Jesus’ suffering, death and resurrection (Verburg 1999; Spiegel and Kutter 1997; Cormack 2002). I see Pastor Monique’s text as a Passion narrative of the latter type, about innocent suffering. The text reveals the existential questions raised by the grisly murder of a five-year old child. It also alludes to religious matters and commentaries, though only in passing. These are the moments when the pastor, prompted by conversations with the local residents, and almost in spite of herself, links the murder to God’s power over life and death. These conversations play a remarkable role. They record the religious professions and statements of the Muslim residents of the neighborhood. Pastor Monique sets these statements and professions apart in her texts, and in so doing reveals another aspect of her theological agenda. As we saw earlier, she mainly expressed this agenda through her accommodating attitude, her efforts to allow the residents to voice their feelings and to resist the tendency to get carried away by the violence of the events. Here, the Pastor’s theological interest is also focused on ‘bringing’ innocent suffering and victimhood ‘before God’. The text also contains another element of theological interest. In my opinion it can be read as a Passion narrative linked to the central Christian Passion narrative about Christ’s suffering, death and resurrection. There are several parallels. The daily entries have a dramatic structure reminiscent of the Holy Week, from Good Friday to Holy Saturday to Easter Sunday:

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– The text about Day 1, Tuesday, is all about the horrific event itself. The entry describes the locals’ initial responses to the disappearance of Yasmina and the discovery of her corpse; the news that she was murdered and left at the dump; the helplessness, fury, sadness, and calls for revenge; the discussion of her terrible death, the possible perpetrator(s), and the upcoming funeral. – The text about Days 2 and 3, Wednesday and Thursday, deals with the responses and the shock. It describes the various, divergent responses to the murder of Yasmina; the question of how to pick up the pieces; the plans for a silent march and the responses to these plans: whether or not people should join the march, in what way they should participate; how to go about everyday life which simply resumes: sharing a meal, preparing for a wedding. – The text covering Day 4, Friday, is all about the silent march and deals with the collective experience of anger, sadness and mourning. Day 4, the silent march, is the climax of this text. Let us return to some of the points I made earlier about this part of the text. Firstly, the chief focalizer here is a ‘we’: during the silent march, the pastor is indistinguishable from the residents of the area, except for two points when she separates herself from the collective, observes, and positions herself as a questioning and amazed ‘I’. Secondly, the conversation between the pastor and Seda, which marks the end of the text, contains a nearly literal embryonic resurrection narrative: a young child, the same age as the victim Yasmina, professes God’s majesty, power and love, and playfully talks of birth and death, manufacture and repair; images which leave her torn between having to accept the finality of death and God’s ability to make everything right: – “God is loving, right?” – “Yes.” – “God made everything. Everything there is. Up above and down below, and everything here.” (she makes an all-encompassing gesture) – “And you too? Did God make you too?” – “No, I was not made. I was born.” – “Where were you born?” – “In my mother’s belly.’ – “How did you get in there?” – “I was just there. My papa and mama got married, and then babies get born, right? That’s how it happened.” (silence) – “If I was made and they cut me in my belly I would not die, right? I could be fixed again. If you’re made, you can’t die. That’s why. I was born. Don’t you know that?!”

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– “No … You taught me that well.” – “Good job, right?!” (Baart and Vosman 2003: 13–24, lines 385–402)

Within the text as a whole, these closing, ‘wondrous’ remarks are not very prominent. Most of the text is devoted to people’s responses to events and the expression of emotions. The text emphasizes Holy Saturday, the interim period in the Christian Passion narrative, rather than Easter Sunday. The experience of resurrection and new life is present only ‘in embryonic form’. This reveals a new aspect of the pastor’s theological agenda and gives the story a unique slant. Although the experience of irrecoverable loss and destruction is present in many Christian stories and liturgies, mourning, accepting loss and destruction, and ‘being at a loss for words’ are not given pride of place. Generally, redemption, liberation and resurrection are foregrounded instead. Yet in this story the pastor is not only there for her people, creating room for them to voice their feelings and bringing innocent suffering and victimhood ‘before God’, but this pastor—literally and figuratively—creates a space to accept loss and destruction. In this space, the tension between death and life is neither resolved nor cancelled, allowing those present to arrive at their own interpretation and judgment of the situation in conversation amongst themselves. Conclusions In this chapter I investigated whether, and how, stories of suffering and survival can set in motion a practice of public engagement and what roles the neighborhood pastor, her theological agenda, and religious imagery and frames of reference might play in this. To answer these questions I turned to the theological and social significance of the neighborhood pastor’s actions. The pastor’s actions—empowering people to speak, ensuring they do not get carried away by anger, enmity and vilification, helping them find ways to get on with everyday life, jointly expressing shock, sadness and defeat— primarily suggest kinship with theological reflection and praxis in AfricanAmerican womanist theology. This movement, rooted in the experiences of slavery and present-day social marginalization, does not offer a perspective of social liberation or substantial social upheaval. In this sense it differs from white feminist theology and political or liberation theology. AfricanAmerican womanist theology is based on survival without a prospect of structural change or improvement, on continuing, day in, day out, to work on improving the quality and dignity of life while in the grips of inescapable

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poverty, helplessness and violence. In this theological movement, the vicissitudes of Hagar and Ishmael play an important role (Gen 16; 21). Chased into the desert and reduced to searching for springs, they come to symbolize living from hand to mouth, survival with no prospect of structural change, literally being at God’s mercy and depending on their own ability to “make something from nothing” (Williams 1992). There is a clear parallel with the work of Pastor Monique, who offers support and hope by helping the neighborhood locals regain their footing and vent their emotions by being there for them, on a day-to-day basis. I have shown that by sharing herself (the ‘I’ becomes ‘we’) and by becoming part of the life and stories of the neighborhood residents, the pastor empowers them and mobilizes them to make something out of nothing. By eliciting, sharing and publicizing the residents’ stories of pain and survival, Pastor Monique creates a space to cultivate and practice modes of individual and social agency. This ‘rhetorical practice of public engagement’ consists of empowering political actors and achieving greater solidarity in public life, the traits that Carbine identifies as key to a narrative theology that gives rise to public engagement. However, as I have shown, this storybased practice of social engagement has other, more significant traits: ritual and symbolic components. These are best visible in Pastor Monique’s actions and reflections with regard to the ‘silent march’. Pastor Monique, trained in both social analysis and theological reflection, has created communal conversations and performances to mourn and commemorate Yasmina, using Christian concepts, symbols and rituals, in particular the Christian Passion narrative. Holding a silent march has become a common public response to random violence or other events which claim innocent victims (Post 2002). I believe it is possible to refute the conclusion that this is a matter of short-lived and non-specific mobilization tied to victimhood, as has been suggested from a sociological perspective (Rigter 2002; Bal et al. 2001; Walgrave and Verhulst 2004). Pastor Monique’s actions and reflections show that not all forms of mobilization surrounding victimhood are interchangeable or equivalent but rather that they are defined by the public significance attached to them and the discourse about them. Pastor Monique’s interpretations (particularly when she speaks as an ‘I’, separate from the local residents) reveal a way of dealing with innocent suffering and victimhood that is both in line with the Christian Passion narrative, and constitute a critical re-reading of it. In this instance, the silent march is qualified in light of Holy Saturday. Stories of trauma, innocent suffering and victimhood are ‘brought before God’ and time and space are created to come to terms with the loss and destruc-

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tion. In this time and space, the tension between life and death, loss and recuperation, desperation and hope is thematized but not reconciled. Through her participation in the silent march and her published reflections on it, Pastor Monique enables both the local residents and us readers to engage in a dialogue in which we can reach a personal interpretation and conclusion about the shocking events that occurred. In this sense she eventually creates a community of ongoing public engagement surrounding the loss of young Yasmina. References Baart, A., and F. Vosman (eds.), Present. Theologische reflecties op verhalen van Utrechtse buurtpastores. Utrecht: Lemma, 2003. Bal, L., M. Van Dijk-Groeneboer, and C. Menken-Bekius, “De stille tocht van Gorinchem: Een sociologische analyse” Praktische theologie 28/3 (2001): 278–291. Bal, M., De theorie van vertellen en verhalen. Inleiding in de narratologie. Muiderberg: Coutinho, 1978. Cannon, K.G., Black Womanist Ethics. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988. Carbine, R.P., “Turning to Narrative: Towards a Feminist Theological Interpretation of Political Participation and Personhood,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 78/2 (2010): 375–412. Cormack, M. (ed.), Sacrificing the Self. Perspectives on Martyrdom and Religion. New York: Oxford University Press, 2002. Daly, M., Gyn/ecology. The Metaethics of Radical Feminism. Boston: Beacon Press, 1978. Democracy Now, “New Orleans Evacuees and Activists Testify at Explosive House Hearing on the Role of Race and Class in Government’s Response to Hurricane Katrina.” December 9, 2005. http://www.democracynow.org/article.pl?sid=05/ 12/09/1443240. Elshtain, J.B., “Women and War. Ten Years On,” Review of International Studies 24/4 (1998): 447–478. Giroux, H.A., “Reading Hurricane Katrina. Race, Class and the Biopolitics of Disposability,” College Literature 33/3 (2006): 171–196. Korte, A.-M., “Verhalen van ontzetting. Theologische reflectie over tekstfragmenten uit het dagboek van buurtpastor Anne (oktober 2000).” Pp. 25–44 in Present. Theologische reflecties op verhalen van Utrechtse buurtpastores. Edited by A. Baart and F. Vosman. Utrecht: Lemma, 2003. Metz, J.B., Glaube in Geschichte und Gesellschaft. Studien zu einer praktischen Fundamentaltheologie. Ostfildern: Matthias Grünewald Verlag, 1992. Morton, N., The Journey Is Home. Boston: Beacon Press, 1985. Post, P., “Van paasvuur tot stille tocht. Over interferentie van liturgisch en volksreligieus ritueel,” Volkskundig bulletin 25/2–3 (1999): 215–234. Post, P., A. Nugteren, and H. Zondag, Rituelen na rampen. Verkenning van een opkomend repertoire. Kampen: Gooi & Sticht, 2002.

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Rambo, S., Spirit and Trauma. A Theology of Remaining. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010. Rigter, N., “De Zwaagwesteinder stille tocht en het Kollumer oproer. Mobilisatie rond een slachtoffer,” Sociologische gids 49/1 (2002): 26–44. Scarry, E., The Body in Pain. The Making and Unmaking of the World. New York: Oxford University Press, 1985. Spiegel, Y., and P. Kutter, Kreuzwege. Theologische und psychoanalytische Zugänge zur Passion Jesu. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1997. Verburg, W., Passion als Tragödie? Die literarische Gattung der antiken Tragödie als Gestaltungsprinzip der Johannespassion. Stuttgart: Verlag Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1999. Walgrave, S., and J. Verhulst, “Emoties en slachtofferschap als drijvende kracht voor sociale bewegingen en mobilisaties. Een vergelijkend onderzoek,” Belgisch Tijdschrift voor Nieuwste Geschiedenis—Revue belge d’histoire contemporaine 34/3 (2004): 509–553. Williams, D., Sisters in the Wilderness. The Challenge of Womanist God-Talk. Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1992.

VISUAL NARRATIVES. ENTRANCE TO EVERYDAY RELIGIOUS PRACTICES*

Maaike de Haardt For some years now the heart of my theologizing has been the attempt to integrate everyday life and systematic theological reflection. I am interested in the ‘religious’ dimensions of everyday practices and in their theological meaning and interpretation, especially with regard to theological reflection on ‘God’ (De Haardt 2002a). With this focus on the everyday I follow developments in critical cultural studies, philosophy and theology (De Haardt forthcoming). In this approach everyday life is considered as both the starting point for all theoretical questions and a critical corrective to an epistemology and methodology in which ‘daily life’ too quickly turns into a technical theoretical model that has lost its relation to everyday reality. This loss is caused by—in short—academia’s technical, monologic rationality, its need for conceptual ‘purity’, its desire for universality, and the pleasure and desire of ‘seeing the whole’ (De Certeau 1984). By restricting the everyday to this kind of conceptuality, scholars try to deny that what is ultimately impossible: daily life cannot be reduced to an all-encompassing systematic schema. It is here, at this point of breaking through the monologue of much academic reflexivity, including theology, that not only everyday life but narratives as well emerge as a starting point for systematic reflection. I understand ‘narratives’ here in a simple way, i.e., as life stories, stories about someone’s life. People can tell these stories about their own lives, about the lives of others or as imaginary stories. As sources for reflection, ‘narratives’ can consist of more or less autobiographical ego documents; research reports of more or less ethnographical data, or—as is the case here—in stories that are transformed into literary, filmic, or theatrical narratives. In this way I consider narratives to be stories that have to be told. This is a very loose definition, without much theoretical reasoning behind it,1 but it has

*

A different version of this chapter was published as De Haardt 2002a. This is neither to deny the considerable discussions on the concepts of narrative, narrativity, and narratology as such nor to deny the multiple and diverging disciplinary and/or methodological approaches to actual analysis of narratives. 1

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functioned this way in my theological work over the years, starting with theological reflection on literature, and has gradually come to include ‘other’ kinds of narratives (De Haardt 1989, 2000, 2002b, 2009). What is distinctive in this approach to narratives, however, is the ‘interpretative’ element: the sense-making dimension of narratives (Ganzevoort ed. 1998; Ricoeur 1995). Narratives, (auto)biographical or not, can thus offer a kind of more or less ‘coherent’ sense with regard to a/one’s life or life in general, they are ‘stories we live by’. Before turning to my filmic example, let me point to yet one other and important element in this choice for narratives in relation to the everyday life. Here I refer to a kind of ‘religious attitude’ or, perhaps better, an ‘aesthetic’ or ‘spiritual’ sensibility, in addition to the political and epistemological elements mentioned above that can be discovered in narratives. In naming this ‘sense of presence’, I refer primarily to a ‘sense of wonder’, a capacity located in and mobilized by ordinary life. It is a capacity for ‘being filled with wonder’,2 to let oneself be interrupted without leaving or neglecting ordinary life. It is a capacity to see or to experience a depth of meaning as well as the longing for depth and meaning in and through daily activities, practices, and words. This becomes theologically or religiously relevant if a person, be it the narrator or the interpreter of the narrative, is able to ‘see/feel/hear/touch’ and thus recognize or acknowledge in the experience of this ‘sense of wonder’ one of the many forms of the experience of ‘p/Presence’ and therefore to interpret reality and life in light of this ‘presence’. For me, this shift in theological attention to this ‘sense of wonder’ and this ‘sense of presence’ in everyday life has become the bedrock of all theological transformation and, more specifically, of a transformation in reflections on the ‘divine’ and/or the sacred. In recent theology ‘art’ is considered able to express a ‘sense of presence’, (some would say a ‘sense of transcendence’) that is more vital and critical, that is more complex, polyvalent, and evocative than the monologic voices of many theologies (Bergmann 2009). Notably, Latino/a and feminist theologians have been broadening this interest in this aesthetic sensibility to the day-to-day practices, experiences, and sensibilities of ordinary people (Graham and Poling 2000; Isasi-Díaz and Segovia 1996). Others have broadened this perspective from ‘high art’ to ‘popular culture’ and the way in which

2 I derive this notion of ‘being filled with wonder’ from Luce Giard’s (1998: xxi) description of Michel de Certeau. I increasingly came to consider this ‘sense of wonder’ as the central dimension of religion and spirituality and, as such, a central key to systematic reflection on religion. I elaborate extensively on this theme in my current project “A Sense of Wonder: Religion and Everyday Practices” (forthcoming).

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‘the sacred’ can be traced there (Lynch 2005). Popular culture is considered a “vital medium through which ultimate reality itself is mediated and revealed” (Graham 2007) and is related directly to the everyday practices of ordinary people. Film, though only recently acknowledged as a form of art by theologians, is considered a typical medium of popular culture and, as such, a relevant source for my theological perspective. Therefore, to give an example of one of the forms of how one can ‘practice’ a theology of everyday life, I will offer an analysis and interpretation of a highly acclaimed narrative: the film Babette’s Feast, directed by Gabriel Axel (1987), based on a novella by Isak Dinesen (Axel 1987; Dinesen 1958). This brings me to the still young and diverse—as a discipline and methodologically—academic field of film and religion (Lyden 2009; Mitchell and Plate 2007). My approach, in line with the above, looks for the ‘aesthetic sensibilities’, the ‘sense of presence’ in film and thus is not necessarily dependent on explicit religious signs. In theological terms I am searching for the ‘sacramental potential’ of the visual narrative: a potential not limited to recognizable religion, religious ideas, or the mention of God. On the contrary, following Greeley, it is the “sacramental sense of awe and wonder that should be seen as significant” in relation to film’s “inherent power to affect the imagination” (Greeley in Johnston 2009: 321). Films thus can have performative ‘revelatory power’ (Wallace in Ricoeur 1995: 9) for its spectators. Babette’s Feast seems to have such power, since the movie has given rise to a great deal of theological interpretation. Babette’s Feast is a powerful and simple movie, both in story and cinematography. It depicts the lives of two sisters in a remote pietistic Protestant community where a French Roman Catholic refugee named Babette arrives one day and becomes the sisters’ housekeeper. Food plays an important role in the story. In the film, this centrality of food is underlined by the highly sensual visual presentation of food, not only during the festive meal of the title but throughout the film, from the opening shots of fish drying on a clothesline to the presentation of the sober religious life: the community singing about the Lord who feeds them while Babette bakes. We see the tensions in the community during tea, and we see the poor getting fed. The little community gradually becomes accustomed to the strange French woman, and she is included in their prayers. She teaches them, by way of her cooking and her other daily practices, that their simple food need not be tasteless and that the quality of the food does matter. The women in the village imitate her in inspecting fish and bacon. We see the disappointment in the faces of ‘the poor’ when the sisters prepare their meal, instead of Babette. The film ends with a twenty-minute sequence of the festive dinner that Babette

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prepares for the community after winning a lottery prize. Alternating between kitchen and dining room, focusing on food and faces, on preparation and tasting of the food, the images are wonderful in their sensual intensity. In my view, most interpretations of Babette’s Feast demonstrate an often “limited theological treatment” (Johnston 2009), referring to and interpreting mainly its “obvious religious” themes (Maistro 1999; Wright 1997). Interpreters of this film immediately designate the central theme to be Babette as a kind of Christ figure; they speak about her self-sacrifice and her redemptive power. The feast itself is generally interpreted as the ‘Eucharistic’ highlight of the film (see for instance Bergesen and Greeley 2003; Marsh 1997; Mendez Montoya 2009; Wright 1997). These theological interpretations of the film are too hasty, leaving the concrete images and diverse practices of belief behind, fixing them into one clear (and in my view overused) theological idea. They actually miss the sensitive, evocative, far more open and indefinite character of the film. So, if it is not the explicit Christian themes that indicate the religious relevance of the film, what then makes this filmic narrative theologically interesting? What kind of religious insights can be discovered in seeing this film? Like other interpreters, I will turn to the food, and to the centrality of food in the film. But I focus on the centrality of food in the film as a whole and not only in the last twenty minutes. As I have said, there is far more food in the film than only Babette’s concluding meal. I suggest that all forms of contact and communication in the film are in some way food-related and thus meaningful. Communication in this film is characterized principally by Babette’s ‘different’ attitude toward food. This different attitude is the most important element in the transformation that takes place in the little community. Babette’s ‘sense of food’ generates sensitivity in the villagers that was not there before. It involves her attention to food and to the quality of food, her care in the process of cooking, her concern with taste, smell, visualization, and touch. Her sense of food reveals knowledge at the sensory level, embodied knowledge, and becomes the medium of communication and trust for the sisters, the community, and the villagers. Gradually, the members of the little village appropriate this ‘strange’, hitherto unknown sensitivity. They even integrate elements of this sensitive attention into their own lives and come to appreciate it, despite their spirituality and ascetic practices that favor abstinence from this sensitivity and ‘worldly’ enjoyments. These are hardly spectacular transformations. In fact, I would argue, because of these largely invisible, barely noticeable but nevertheless actual transformations of everyday life and practices, the community is able to become open to different, hitherto rejected, and unknown sensations and

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other, still unknown, redeeming ways of relating to one another. Precisely this new sensibility can be considered an enrichment of the quality of their lives. To use more explicitly theological terms, with regard to interpreting Babette’s Feast I like to speak of graceful practices, that is, practices that create space for well-being, for becoming more fully human, or, otherwise, that embody the imago dei. Following this line of thought, Babette’s final meal can only then be seen as a culminating point in which these transformations become undeniable and meaningful when seen in the light of and as a continuation of the preceding events and changes. By focusing primarily or, even worse, solely on the festive meal, nothing would prevent a more cynical interpretation of the mood of the dinner guests, for example, seeing them only as being ‘under the influence’ since they are not used to alcohol. Instead, during the meal their transformative practices become more explicit or conscious for the community because of the presence of a general, a long-time admirer of one of the sisters. In the meal he sees the hand of a famous Parisian chef, Babette, who had to flee during the revolution. She, as he remembers, was a real artist who could turn a meal into a love affair. The general is able to name the transformative experiences of the community by conjoining them with their religious tradition. He uses familiar religious ‘ingredients’ (biblical language, prayer, and preaching) to name his own and the community’s new insights and experiences: justice and love meet each other. The old religious sensibility of the community of rejecting world and food is nourished, literally and metaphorically, by this new and other sensibility. And perhaps only the ‘old’ language of Scripture and hymns can adequately accompany this transforming potential of the ‘food-practice’ of the meal to become real and world-and-food affirming, while at the same time the words of Scripture also receive a new meaning. Babette’s art of living and her aesthetic sensibilities manifest themselves in ‘taste’, in food and eating, opening up both for her and the community unexpected, unknown, and moving experiences. Again, I am not speaking of ‘great’ or ‘radical’ transformations. As the scholar in ritual studies Ronald Grimes (2000: 245) has noted, “the film reveals nothing new, only that which has not been truly seen or really tasted before”. With the exception of the feast, Babette uses the same familiar ingredients in preparing food. She nevertheless creates different meals and biscuits that are not tasteless like the previous ones were, but full of flavor. It is her aesthetic sensibility, her tasteful art that enables her to present the extra-ordinary in the ordinary. It can safely be said that this brings to mind the classical hierarchy of the senses. Taste, smell, and touch, so characteristic for Babette’s art, belong to the so called ‘lower

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senses’, which are traditionally gendered female, belong to the domain of the ordinary and do not count in relation to ‘real Art’ or ‘real knowledge’ (Heldke 1992; Korsmeyer 1999). In a way it is ironic that these ‘repressed’ senses return in the paradox that ‘taste’ and ‘tasteful’ are also honorable qualifications in high culture, even though in that case ‘taste’ does not refer to food, eating or film. But why speak of a ‘sense of wonder’ or a ‘sense of presence’ with regard to these simple practices and the transformations they bring about? And further, how can this presence be characterized? First of all, there are the ‘surviving’, ‘resisting’, and ‘self-identifying’ qualities that these practices have for Babette. Although she is a refugee in a strange country where her daily circumstances have changed dramatically, her ordinary cooking practices enable Babette to find her way in this new and strange world and to make this world her own. She has retained the courage to live, her art of living, and her art of cooking saves her. One only has to look at the strong cinematographic presentation of this: the faces of the poor, the silent appreciation of her biscuits, the food-related contacts with the villagers; all small signs of the resilience of her talent, her creativity, and the potential meaning of her art. The festive meal, in a way the summit of Babette’s way of being in the world as it brings together her old and new worlds, shows that—even though the power of the attentive sensibility of her art can take different directions—it remains as transformative as it ever was. In my theological view, these practices are acts of believing, and, as such, they reveal what people, Babette as well as the community, believe and what causes them to believe. For Babette, this belief and what causes her to believe is her allegiance to her art and the way she is able to use it to find her way in the world. As a theologian, I see this art as a power/practice that is both liberating, resisting, and life-giving. The community’s beliefs and religious practices have gradually become monotonous and worn out, lacking their original vitality and dynamism. The older people are a bit moody and even a little vindictive toward one another. The sisters do not know how to handle this situation. Babette’s presence and her food practices lure them to life again and reinforce their beliefs with unknown, graceful, and saving experiences. These experiences of ordinary, anonymous women and men show other facets of the life-giving power of presence in which nourishing and transformation are central elements. Here it is appropriate perhaps to refer to Lady Wisdom in Proverbs, or to other biblical stories: the simple invitation to eat and drink seems to be lifegiving, just as the preparation of a meal can be a ‘divine’ art.

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With the example of a visual narrative as a source of a religious interpretation of everyday life and practices, I also want to demonstrate that theology in general, in order to be able to detect this kind of religiosity in everyday practices, does need a more ‘sacramental’, thus a more aesthetic, primarily sensory, and so more ‘ordinary’ imagination of the Divine or the sacred. It is not the ‘greatness’ of Babette nor her ‘Eucharistic meal’ but the greatness, openness and sanity of these ordinary women (including Babette) and men, that make it possible to relate these stories to the stories and narratives of the Christian tradition, to weave them together. These and other narratives of a graceful art of living can give practical insight, meaning, and color to abstract theological notions, such as the notion that God can be known through the senses. They demonstrate Ricoeur’s claim of the epistemological intelligibility of narratives and the practical wisdom they resemble (Ricoeur 1995). The story of Babette’s Feast manifests that the idea of God is indeed, as Johan Baptist Metz once said, a practical idea without which there is no truth in the pure idea of God. In weaving these stories of women’s (and men’s) graceful ways of being into the traditionally told stories of the Christian tradition, these stories too can well up (again?) to give concreteness to the abstract idea of God. My interpretation of Babette’s Feast makes it clear that on the level of the practices of belief, the God-language of much systematic theology, with its concepts, its struggles, its models and its dogmas, including such distinctions as transcendence and immanence or sacred and profane, does not make much ‘sense’. This insight is not without implications, at least for the development of my theology of everyday life. For a long time I have defended the necessity of a preference for immanence, radical immanence, in speaking about ‘God’ or divinity in (feminist) systematic theology. This emphasis was—and is—part of my project of deconstruction of traditional systematic reflection on ‘God’ as well as part of my constructive project on ‘divinity’ and ‘the sacred’. However, within the context of narratives and practices of everyday life, these gendered and dualistic concepts can have a different meaning. In my analysis of Babette’s Feast they can function as an indication of both a sensible presence of ‘God’, as well as the transforming power of this p/Presence. In relation to the sensible presence the notion of immanence seems evident, with regard to the transforming power, the notion of transcendence can be adequate. However, this kind of ‘transcendence’, as I hope my analysis of the film has shown, does not ignore, neglect, or diminish the materiality of ordinary existence nor can it be qualified as its opposite. On the contrary, this transcendence makes the ordinary extraordinary without diminishing its everyday character. In this respect then, the traditional

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distinction between sacred and profane does not make sense either, since there are no ‘separate’ sacred spaces in this movie, only ‘common’ (profane) spaces that can become temporarily sacred. The importance of looking at this ‘other’ meaning of an ‘immanent transcendence’, or a ‘transcendent immanence’, is that it reveals different facets, elements, and characteristics of ‘God’ simultaneously. Reflecting on the ‘practices-of-God’ in this visual narrative shows that these facets cannot be converted into one meaning, concept, or image. What is more, these manifold polysemic traces of divinity are theological interpretations not of an unknown distant or transcendent ‘God’ but of polysemic and polyformic senses of divine presence in the everyday world. References Axel, G. (Writer). Babette’s Gastebrut. Denmark, 1987. Bergesen, A.J., and A.M. Greeley, God in the Movies. New Brunwick: Transaction, 2003. Bergmann, S., In the Beginning is the Icon. A Liberative Theology of Images, Visual Arts and Culture. London/Oakville: Equinox, 2009. Transl. by Anja K. Angelsen. de Certeau, M., The Practice of Everyday Life. Volume 1. Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 1984. de Haardt, M., “Zwarte inspiratie en witte theologie: niet zonder risico’s.” Pp. 45–58 in Op Reis … Een verkenningstocht door Nederland, Vlaanderen en de Verenigde Staten. Edited by L. Troch and M. de Haardt. Kampen: Kok, 1989. ———, “Transcending the Other-Self.” Pp. 194–208 in Self/Same/Other. Revisioning the Subject in Literature and Theology. Edited by H. Walton and A.W. Hass. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000. ———, “Komm esset mein Brot … Exemplarische Überlegungen zum Göttlichen im Alltag.” Transl. by A. Berlis. Pp. 5–32 in Tango, Theologie und Kontext. Schritte zur einer Theologie des Alltags. Volume 8. Edited by H. Meyer-Wilmes. Münster: LIT Verlag, 2002a. ———, “A Way of Being in the World’ Traces of Divinity in Everyday Life.” Pp. 11–26 in Common Bodies. Everyday Practices, Gender and Religion. Volume 6. Edited by M. de Haardt and A.-M. Korte. Münster: LIT, 2002b. ———, “Gestalten van overgave: over de creatieve wisselwerking tussen theologie en populaire cultuur,” Michsjol 18/2 (2009): 57–62. ———, “A Momentary Sacred Space? Religion, Gender and the Sacred in Everyday Life’.” In Everyday Life and the Sacred. Edited by A. Berlis and A-M. Korte. Leiden: Brill, forthcoming. Dinesen, I., Babette’s Feast. Anecdotes of Destiny. London: Joseph, 1958. Ganzevoort, R.R. (ed.), De Praxis als Verhaal. Narrativiteit en Praktische Theologie. Kampen: Kok, 1998. Graham, E., “What We Make of the World. The Turn to ‘Culture’ in Theology and the Study of Religion.” Pp. 63–81 in Between Sacred and Profane. Researching

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Religion and Popular Culture. Edited by G. Lynch. London. New York: I.B. Taurus, 2007. Graham, E., and J. Polling, “Some Expressive Dimensions of a Liberation Practical Theology. Art as a Form of Resistance to Evil,” International Journal of Practical Theology 4/4 (2000): 163–183. Heldke, L.M., “Foodmaking as a Thoughtful Practice.” Pp. 301–227 in Cooking, Eating, Thinking. Transformative Philosophies of Food. Edited by D.W. Curtis and L.M. Heldke. Bloomington/Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1992. Isasi-Díaz, A.M., and F.F. Segovia (eds.), Hispanic/Latino Theology: Challenges and Promise. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996. Johnston, R.K., “Theological Approaches.” Pp. 310–328 in The Routledge Companion to Religion and Film. Edited by J. Lyden. London/New York: Routledge, 2009. Korsmeyer, C., Making Sense of Taste. Food and Philosophy. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1999. Lyden, J. (ed.), The Routledge Companion to Religion and Film. London/New York: Routledge, 2009. Lynch, G., Understanding Theology and Popular Culture. Oxford: Blackwell, 2005. Maistro, M.C., “Cinnematic Communion? Babette’s Feast, Transcendental Style and Interdisciplinarity?” Pp. 83–98 in Imagining Otherness: Filmic Visions of Living Together. Edited by D. Jasper and S. Brent Plate. Atlanta: Scholar Press, 1999. Marsh, C., Did You Say Grace. Eating and Community in Babette’s Feast. Pp. 207–219 in Explorations in Theology and Philosophy. Movies and Meanings. C. Marsh and G. Oritz. London: Blackwell Publishers, 1997. Mendez Montoya, A.F., The Theology of Food: Eating and the Eucharist. Malden/ Oxford: Willey-Blackwell, 2009. Mitchell, J., and B.S. Plate (eds.), The Religion and Film Reader. New York/London: Routledge, 2007. Ricoeur, P., Figuring the Sacred. Religion, Narrative and Imagination. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1995. Wright, W.M., “Babette’s Feast: A Religious Film.” The Journal of Religion and Film 2/1. 1997. Retrieved in 2010 from http://www.unomaha.edu/jrf/index.html.

HISTORICAL STUDIES

CHANGING NARRATIVES. THE STORIES THE RELIGIOUS HAVE LIVED BY SINCE THE 1960’S*

Marit Monteiro, Marjet Derks, and Annelies van Heijst Religious orders and congregations are being caught up by their own history. For the Netherlands, this has been the case since the spring of 2010, when Dutch media began to report on numerous cases of sexual abuse of minors committed by representatives of the Dutch Roman Catholic Church.1 Reports concentrated on occurrences in the 1950’s and 1960’s and received extensive coverage in newspapers, on television, and in radio broadcasts. Victims’ stories left a deep impression and caused indignant reactions directed not only against the church and its office holders, but against the religious as well. Media reports made clear that victims pointed at both priests and ordained members of orders and congregations as well as lay brothers and friars when identifying the perpetrators of sexual misconduct within the context of Roman Catholic schools and boarding institutions (Dohmen 2010).2 Thus, due to a spate of media information lasting till well

* Translated by dr. Aleid Fokkema. The conceptual-theoretical lines of thought on the historiography of the religious in the Netherlands derive from our book on convent life, apostolate, and new spirit of active female religious the Netherlands during the 19th and 20th century (Van Heijst, Derks, and Monteiro 2010). The concentration on ordained members of orders and congregations is based on the book on Dominicans in the Netherlands (1795– 2000) (Monteiro 2008). In 2010 and 2011, Marit Monteiro was a member of the Investigative Committee on sexual abuse of minors in the Roman Catholic Church in the Netherlands, which was presided by the former Secretary of Education Wim Deetman. Her contribution to this chapter is made in a personal capacity. 1 The series of newspaper reports and items in current affair programs on radio and television kicked off on February 26 with Joep Dohmen’s report in a leading Dutch newspaper, NRC Handelsblad: http://www.nrc.nl/binnenland/article2492821.ece/Nederlandse_paters_ beticht_van_seksueel_misbruik. The same journalist had reported on this theme in the same paper as early as 2002, causing barely a stir at the time: http://www.nrc.nl/dossiers/misbruik _in_de_katholieke_kerk/ (date of retrieval: 6-13-2011). 2 When interviewed for the radio program Argos (http://weblogs.vpro.nl/argos/2010/ 08/13/14-augustus-2010-joep-dohmen-te-gast/) (date of retrieval: 6-13-2011), journalist Joep Dohmen drew a connection between the large-scale and also international media attention for sexual abuse on the one hand, and the relatively high number of reports in a very short

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into the summer of 2010, a picture was unfolding that made the case of the Netherlands look quite similar to the one of Ireland, which had drawn a lot of international attention in 2009.3 The immediate cause for the reports in the Netherlands lay in Germany, where accounts of sexual abuse of pupils committed by Jesuits in their prestigious colleges began to emerge in January 2010. Although in Germany attention shifted quite soon to boarding institutions other than Roman Catholic as the locations where minors turned out to have been especially vulnerable to the violation of their physical and mental integrity on the part of caregivers and teachers, Roman Catholic educational institutions—some of them full boarding institutions—still were directly implicated in this country.4 Belgium followed suit in April 2010, with almost 500 reports mainly concerned with sexual abuse committed by religious staff in schools and boarding institutions in 1950–1980.5

period of time on the other, especially abuse at Roman Catholic boarding schools. Dohmen received reports of seven hundred cases, 423 of which provided the material for his book on abuse in the Roman Catholic Church which mostly, though not exclusively, zooms in on abuse in an institutional setting. 3 For the case of Ireland, see the report usually referred to as the Ryan report, after the chair of the government installed Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse (CICA), which saw the light in May 2009. A summary of its conclusions can be found at http://www .childabusecommission.ie/rpt/pdfs/CICA-Executive%20Summary.pdf (date of retrieval: 613-2011). Reports and testimonies for the Irish investigative committee were oriented on a great variety of institutional education of children in care of the State, something that so far in the Netherlands seems to have been much less the case. 4 Reports in Germany concerning sexual abuse on a prestigious Berlin prep school led by Jesuits, the Canisius Kolleg, were conducive to a range of disclosures about sexual abuse of minors at other boarding schools, including non-Roman Catholic ones. The biggest stir was caused by disclosures on the so-called ‘führende deutsche Reformschule’ Odenwald Schule, counting alumni from the prominent liberal bourgeoisie and employing teachers of high standing. For the state of affairs in this debate, see http://www.faz.net/ s/Rub79FAD9952A1B4879AD8823449B4BB367/Tpl~Ecommon~SThemenseite.html (date of retrieval: 6-13-2011). Initial results from a large-scale investigation into educational institutions in Germany confirm the vulnerable position of pupils in full boarding institutions both religious and non-religious (Damberg cs. 2010). 5 In this case, reports were incited by the news transpiring that the Bishop of Bruges, Roger Vangheluwe, had sexually abused his nephew over many years. The Belgian Conference of Bishops subsequently installed a commission headed by psychiatrist and university professor Peter Adriaensens. The report Verslag activiteiten Commissie voor de behandeling van klachten wegens seksueel misbruik in een pastorale relatie (Report on activities by the commission for dealing with complaints of sexual abuse in a pastoral relation) was made public in September 2010. The period covered, however, is limited to the commission’s activities during the period between April 19 and June 24, 2010, which was when the commission’s files were confiscated by the examining magistrate on the suspicion of withholding information from the court. This effectively stopped any further investigation by the commission, which had

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Not a trace of this all occurs in recent general historiographies on the church or religion in the Netherlands (Selderhuis et al. 2006; Van Eijnatten and Van Lieburg 2005) while such violations are but scantily considered in the historiography of religious communities (with the exception of Van Heijst 2002; Eijt 2006; Derks 2007; Monteiro 2008). This raises the question of how this could be.6 In answering that question, we will not focus on what scholars might actually have been able to retrieve from the archives of religious institutes and the Roman Catholic Church.7 Rather, we think it is important to analyze the perspectives that have guided and continue to guide historical research into religious communities. This particular field has been commanded in the past two decades by the religious themselves as well as by academically formed professional historians. To a large extent it has evolved beyond the reach of scholarly debate, due to the academic lack of interest for such institutes. The first part of this chapter therefore considers tendencies in historical research and their effect on narrative changes in the historiography of the religious. Religious communities are actively involved in such historiography, acting as commemorative communities that wish to account for the past. Our second part describes how this is directly correlated to a thoroughly altered self-understanding, a societal and churchly repositioning from the late 1960’s that channeled the religious’ new narratives on the past. We are interested in analyzing the role such narratives had in processes of (revised) self-historicizing where new narratives began to dominate the actual past. We do not follow any narrative theory in doing so, but join the field of memory studies oriented on the correlation between appropriating the past and (re)creating self-identity through narratives. The interaction of repositioning and self-historicizing is extensively dealt with in our comprehensive study titled Ex Caritate (Van Heijst, Derks, and

typified itself as a ‘Truth and Reconciliation commission’; consequently its work was limited to a mere inventory of victims’ reports, 124 of which are fully rendered in the commission’s report. 6 Dohmen (2010) even insinuates the collusion of scholars in keeping a Roman Catholic lid on the sexual abuse of minors by priests and religious. For a critical comment see Derks (2011a). 7 See, for example, J. van Vugt, “Seksueel misbruik in katholieke internaten: doos van Pandora?” (public lecture, March 11, 2010 Radboud University Nijmegen, Soeterbeeck Program); http://www.ru.nl/soeterbeeckprogramma/terugblik/terugblik_2010/verslagen_en_teksten/ lezing_joos_van_vugt/ (date of retrieval: 6-13-2011); and also A. Broers, “Monteiro: Seksueel misbruik is machtsmisbruik” (http://www.dominicanen.nl/?p=36240 (date of retrieval: 6-132011).

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Monteiro 2010), which is oriented on convent life, work and apostolate, as well as the new spirit of active female religious in the Netherlands during the nineteenth and twentieth century. In the present concise contribution we argue, while referring to the case of Dutch Dominicans by way of concrete example, that a similar correlation is also applicable to male religious. Their repositioning as from the latter half of the 1960’s similarly relied on a form of self-historicizing that involved reinventing, as it were, themselves, their own identity, and their vocation. The notion of self-historicizing here does not so much imply the integration and reworking of the past in selfimages, as the selective process of appropriating certain aspects from the past, while excluding others (Altermatt 2010).8 With the religious this took shape through processes of resourcement that enabled them to recreate their so-called ‘authentic’ identity and vocation by foregrounding a ‘desired legacy’ primarily expressing who they wished to be. We maintain that this caused them to lose perspective of their actual history, including the ‘undesired legacy’ that could pose quite a challenge to the more positive selfimages. In the third part of this chapter we argue that historians should account for this and be wary of defining legacy in terms of what the religious themselves view as ‘desired’. Alternative views offered by others who have had experiences with the religious in different capacities should also be considered. This calls for a new narrative of religious communities, designed to add depth to the formerly introvert perspective on one’s own community, one’s own institute and its specific idiosyncrasies, by means of memories and experiences of those whom the religious directly interacted with in daily life and work. 1. Historiography of the Religious in the Netherlands Academic interest for the history of religious institutes has until recently been very slight in the Netherlands, just as elsewhere (De Maeyer, Leplae, and Schmiedl 2004; Derks and Eijt 2002; Wynants 2000). Feeling the pressure of attrition that would quite soon, in the Netherlands at any rate, bring their community to an end, religious communities therefore provided incentives to such historiography by commissioning historical studies of orders and congregations. In a parallel movement they took the initiative in 2002 to

8 Altermatt (2010) underscores that the processes of self-historicizing are always motivated by contemporaneous ends.

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establish a communal heritage centre for storing the archives of religious communities, the ‘Erfgoedcentrum Nederlands Kloosterleven’, where eventually the archives of nearly a hundred associated religious institutes will be stored.9 In commissioning (scholarly) historical research, orders and congregations have made an effort to record in an accessible manner their own history as well as the inspiration that guided their labors, to be understood as their own religious legacy with only a few to none direct successors in the Netherlands (Roes and De Valk 2004: 160). Legacy however does not just befall us accidentally, as, among others, the Dutch cultural historian Willem Frijhoff (2007a; 2007b) points out: we are actively involved in construing it. The tried and trusted implements for such constructions are historiography and archive creation (Assmann 2008).10 In the past decades a few research institutes have specialized in the historiography of the religious. Some of such institutes are directly affiliated to a religious community, such as the Titus Brandsma Institute in Nijmegen, which is affiliated to the Carmelites, or the Franciscan Study Centre in Utrecht, affiliated to the Franciscans (Roes and De Valk 2004: 157, 160).11 The research objective is cast in terms of resourcement or a return to sources—in view of the Second Vatican Council’s (1962–1965) explicit commendation for religious communities, which was meant to provide a frame for the renewal of their way of life, field of work, and spiritual orientation. These studies chiefly concentrate on the immaterial legacy of the religious, which by

9 The center’s website can be visited at http://www.erfgoedkloosterleven.nl/ erfgoedcentrum/erfgoedcentrum.html (date of retrieval: 6-13-2011). This center evolved from a ‘service center’ for Dutch cloister archives, founded in the late 1980’s by Cees Paanakker in close collaboration with the Catholic Documentation Center at the Radboud University Nijmegen. 10 Apart from turning to these classic implements, the religious have also invested in setting up and equipping their own museums, as well as organizing exhibitions, publishing books of photographs, and oral history projects. Here, the lead can also be taken by professionals who are not historians in the first place; thus, a foundation for producing historical documentaries called Stichting Verhalis (www.verhalis.nl) in the Netherlands wishes to film and record in their project “Cloister tales” the memories and life stories of the religious that “taken together will create a colorful picture of cloister life in the Netherlands and Flanders such as the religious of various orders and congregations have experienced it during the past century”. This foundation is also oriented on the stories and memories of the religious during World War II, in the scope of the Ministry of Health, Welfare and Sports “the Legacy of War” project in which Marjet Derks operated as scholarly advisor. 11 See http://www.titusbrandsmainstituut.nl/ned/algemeen/het_instituut.htm (date of retrieval 6-13-2011) and http://www.franciscaans-studiecentrum.nl/index.php?reload=1& page=2&language=ne (date of retrieval: 09-25-2010).

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definition is considered to be valuable and inspiring.12 The next section will address more elaborately the somewhat uncomplicated approach to the history of orders and congregations entailed by resourcement as the guiding research principle. This principle has no part in the terms of reference of the independent ‘Stichting Echo’, a foundation that intermediates between religious communities commissioning research on the one hand, and academically formed historians executing this research on the other. The foundation was established in 1995 by three historians. Apart from acting as an intermediary for commissioned research, the foundation also has the explicit scholarly aim of furthering scholarly research into the significance of religion in relation to gender.13 This aim exposed in fact two fundamental gaps in scholarly research: on the one hand, church and religion history had failed so far to consider definitions, constructions, and meanings of femininity and masculinity within a religious context, while on the other hand faith was only marginally treated in gender history and as such only in terms of a one-sided association with patriarchy (Van Heijst 1995). At first, the foundation was chiefly oriented on the historiography of active female religious (Derks and Van Heijst 1992; Derks et al. 1992; Van Heijst and Derks 1994; Derks and Monteiro 1996; Derks 1996). Knowledge gaps were most significant here and the topic had obvious correlations with international research into the feminization of religion.14 This was extended to male religious and religious masculinity in the late 1990’s (Monteiro 2005, 2006; Werner 2008, 2011).15 The difference in pace reflects a greater resolve and decisiveness

12 For example, it also rings through in the lecture delivered by Peter Nissen, at the time Professor in Church History at the Radboud University, on January 16th, 2008, on the occasion of the Conference of Dutch Religious in the scope of the Year of Religious Heritage: http:// www.knr.nl/documenten/LezingPJANissen16012008.pdf (date of retrieval: 6-13-2011). 13 The foundation was founded by two of this contribution’s authors, Marjet Derks and Marit Monteiro, joined by José Eijt. Together with financial expert Janice Hinlopen, they sat on the foundation’s initial board, from which they resigned in 2005, respectively 2000. For the current board, see http://www.stichting-echo.nl/overecho.php. 14 This characterization was coined by Langlois (1984), in order to describe the increasing number of women attracted to Catholic religious institutions in nineteenth-century France, as well as the feminization of religious practice, reflected in an intensified Marian devotion since 1854. See also Busch, 1995. American historians have instead focused on the feminization of Protestantism, relating it to the separation of spheres in bourgeois culture. See in particular Welter (1974); Smith (1981). 15 From 2004 to 2008, Yvonne Maria Werner directed the research project Christian Manliness—a Paradox of Modernity: Men and Religion in Northern Europe 1840–1940 at the University of Lund. Werner (2011) includes contributions by Callum Brown, Hugh McLeod, and Marit Monteiro.

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on the part of female religious in appointing professional historians for commissioned research (Monteiro 2008: 24–25).16 What counts is that the systematic attention for the interrelation of religion and gender, occasioning numerous seminars and publications jointly organized with the then Department of Church History at the Faculty of Theology of the Radboud University Nijmegen, gave real impetus to scholarly research into religious institutes.17 These publications are thematically divergent from the commissioned historical studies on religious institutes engendered by professional historians in the past fifteen years. The common denominator in the latter is the orientation on one particular community (Van Vugt 1997; Roes and De Valk 2004).18 Appreciated as these publications are for their scholarly design, theoretical scope, and method (Wynants 2000; Roes and De Valk 2004: 157), they are also rooted in the truly particularist tradition of historiography on religious institutes, which considers, from the institute’s particular perspective, its specific history in differential terms, that is, in terms designed to accentuate the differences to other religious institutes. Such an introspective approach, for that matter, is a common feature in historical research carried out in reciprocity with specific commemorative communities (Van Heijst 2008: 348). The latter term, ‘commemorative community’, refers to groups cultivating a shared collective memory based on certain selections of the past that are taken as identity confirming and thus serve to anchor one’s own identity (Assmann 2006: 27–36). Since the late 1960’s, such commemorative communities have pressed their mark on both scholarly and lay historiography. The significance of 16 This draws attention to the fact that congregations of sisters usually lacked members who might be sufficiently equipped for writing the history of their communities. This was no different for congregations of brothers (the lay male religious), whereas the ordained orders, who on the whole had received a higher education, preferred such projects to be carried out by one of their own. 17 The Department was headed by prof. Peter Nissen. Publications appeared in the series Metamorfosen: Studies in de Religieuze Geschiedenis, published by Verloren, Hilversum and centered on themes and topics such as cloister life, mission, etnification of mission work, spiritual leadership, conversion, care, and clerical culture and identity (for a full list of titles, see http://www.stichting-echo.nl/publicaties/; date of retrieval: 6-13-2011). 18 Van Vugt (1997) already argued for a more consistently thematic approach. Roes and De Valk (2004: 153, 155) reiterate this plea. A thematically oriented research program was started by Marit Monteiro at the Radboud University Nijmegen, in 2005. Its aim was to study Catholic intellectuals and programs of forming a confessional intellectual elite that were also at the root of prep schools for either boys or girls in which the religious had invested both money and manpower. Meanwhile, the related project Dragers van Belofte (2010, www.ru.nl/letteren/ dragersvanbelofte) was aimed at a larger, non-academic audience.

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political-institutional history (centered on ‘big’ events and the share of ‘big’ names therein) has dwindled, giving way to the so-called ‘history from below’, which is oriented on groups that so far had not been considered in historical studies, receiving at best the parts of passive extra’s (Jonker 2008). This has been especially true for groups going through a process of social emancipation in the same era and deploying their own history to that effect; notably laborers, women, and ethnic minorities. In other words, ‘metanarratives’ were joined by an increasing number of ‘little narratives’ that provided a perception of the past narrowly related to the actual positioning of groups sharing specific identity parameters such as ethnic identity, sexual orientation, regional origin, or religious conviction (Rosenfeld 2009). Gradually, this development has acquired a footing in Dutch church and religious history. This started in the 1980’s with the dissemination of the socalled ‘histoire religieuse’ inspired on the French-based Annales school of historiography (Frijhoff 1981; Van Eijnatten and Van Lieburg 2005). The ‘histoire religieuse’ approach tilted the research perspective from the church as an institution, its administrative organization, and its most important supporting structures, toward the wide spectrum of believers (Monteiro, Rooijakkers, and Rosendaal 1993). In France, this shift had been taking place since the 1970’s, thus contributing to religious history’s growth into a more fully-fledged cultural historical domain for scholarly research. In the Netherlands, on the other hand, the chiefly theological orientation of church historians remained dominant until well into the 1990’s, with an agenda concerned with developments in theology and church politics (Goddijn, Jacobs, and Van Tillo 1999). But the ‘histoire religieuse’ approach did find acceptance with scholars in cultural and contemporary history carrying out (also commissioned) research into religious communities. Their agency-oriented cultural historical perspective paved the way for seeing the religious as agent-protagonists in a history of their own, and enabled, moreover, the differentiation of collective and individual dimensions in such history. Both these aspects of shedding light on agency and internally differentiating the views and practices of orders and congregations were made possible through the use of written sources chiefly scooped from the private archives of these institutes. Apart from that, the method of oral history was also applied, which involved interviewing members as well as former members of the communities being studied. This ‘audacious research technique’ served to distinguish Dutch researchers from, for example, their Belgian counterparts, as the church historian Paul Wynants noted in 2000. The latter continued to wield an institutional and also functionalist perspective on religious com-

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munities, whereas Dutch researchers—Wynants explicitly singles out the ‘Stichting Echo’ group—opted for approaches that facilitated laying bare the contradictions in the life world and conceptual world of the religious (Wynants 2000: 248–250). 2. Repositioning and Self-Historicizing Oral history enabled historians to take a more accentuated account of the religious’ perception of themselves and their own. The altered historiographical approach caused a reconsideration of extant, often quite elevated and a-historical histories on religious life, religious communities, and the religious themselves. The surviving stories that the religious often also enjoy telling about themselves and others are fragmented and highlight the ambiguous and sometimes downright contradictory perceptions and experiences of an order’s or congregation’s individual members. Nonetheless, the narrative scaffolding for new historiographical approaches continued to be bolstered by the trusted topics of foundation, vocation, entering an order or congregation, community life, and fields of work (Eijt 1994; Monteiro 2000). To put it differently, the altered view did lead to an analysis of individual religious’ memories and experiences, but the result still was cast in the mould of the over-familiar narrative of life and work of the religious and the distinction this had to secular lifestyles (Van Heijst 2008: 348). Another point of criticism is related to deploying oral history as the method for research, as it touches upon the tension between the repositioning of the religious since the 1960’s and their self-historicizing. Interviewers’ enthusiasm, sometimes little reflected upon, risks spilling over into an unquestioned adoption of the perspective wielded by the very same religious the historians are studying (Derks 2011b; Van Heijst, Derks, and Monteiro 2010: 1030–1034). That perspective is dominated by the way the religious have been defining themselves and their relation to others since the 1960’s. They embarked on a quest for useful and noticeable work that fitted their idea of what they considered, under the influence of the renewal process in religion and the church, as socially and ecclesiastically relevant tasks they could take up. They had the objective to literally keep up with the times without obscuring their religiosity and indeed making themselves felt in their religious capacity. The possibilities to do so differed for lay members of religious orders or congregations (both male and female), on the one hand, and the ordained orders on the other. Sisters, brothers, and friars were more at a loss, because dwindling membership since the 1960’s had forced

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them to hand over the administration and organization of their most important fields of work, viz. care and education, to lay professionals. Moreover, they had devoted their life to work and lacked the means to independently redefine their religious identity outside those familiar terrains (Van Heijst, Derks, and Monteiro 2010: 1030–1032). During the same period, in contrast, the priest-religious, fully engaged as they were in the clerical tasks of priesthood and pastoral care, came to be directly involved in a fierce battle within the church on the structure and future of the Roman Catholic Church in the Netherlands (Borgman and Monteiro 2008). Allowing for the differences among the groups of religious mentioned here, they had in common that all oriented their repositioning in society toward a commitment to people living in the margins of society, both in the Netherlands and abroad. It also followed that in their new self-image they withdrew from contributing to the institutionalization of religion that had been initiated in the nineteenth century (Cox 2003: 208). Repositioning therefore implied developing a distorted perception of the past that had no connection to their actual history. Ex Caritate describes the process of becoming detached from the pre-Vatican past for active female religious: in the process of resourcement, sisters looking into the past traced a history of commitment with groups defined as ‘the poor’, but they often failed to consider that in that very same past they had also provided care and education to the well-off and socially privileged groups (Van Heijst 2008; McNamara 1996: 578–592).19 A similarly blinkered perception occurs with the male lay orders and congregations and orders of priest-religious that— as will become clear from the example of Dominicans—tend to lose sight of the fact that from the mid-nineteenth century on, they had been actively involved in the attempt to institutionalize Roman Catholicism and cut out a considerable share in religious leadership they would abandon more than a century later (Monteiro 2008).20 The Second Vatican Council’s commendation to seek resourcement did not only lead to a distorted perception of one’s past, but it also brought on a chiefly spiritually oriented self-historicizing, which was equally historically inaccurate.21 The decree of Perfectae Caritatis (October 29th 1965) referred

19 Similar blind spots relating to the complex connection between the Christian evangelical spirit and colonial power have been established for mission work too (Cox 2002). 20 A similar distantiating from a real past of their own also shows with the Franciscans, see De Kok (2008). 21 Called ‘spiritual historiography’ by Annelies van Heijst (2002: 167), it is enacted by the religious themselves who, from a new spiritually oriented self-understanding criticize

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to the Gospel as the most important touchstone for the process of resourcement that would nourish the process of religious renewal. The charisma of one’s religious community was meant to provide the other source. It was, however, chiefly this latter source the religious turned to, in their quest for the original body of thought of founders and for the founding narratives about their community (Van Heijst, Derks, and Monteiro 2010: 838–840). These means of resourcement were primarily meant to reposition the religious afresh within a church that with greater deliberation was seeking to relate to the world. But the result was a basically a-historical type of self-historicizing. That is, through resourcement the religious could reinvent their collective identity in light of the tasks they set themselves anew and the spiritual embedding they designed in view of this, but the same process entailed severing the ties with their actual and particular past and discarding all elements that did not suit that new self-understanding. Both these developments are well documented in the history of Dutch Dominicans, who had always considered preaching their formative principle—it had been St Dominic’s acting principle in founding the order. Dogmatic preaching was the task of his followers, who therefore had to be ordained priests, as preaching was the prerogative of the clergy alone. At the time of their order painstakingly acquiring a footing again in the Netherlands during the first half of the nineteenth century, Dutch Dominicans were active as parish priests set on establishing and reinforcing a mission church in what effectively was a multiconfessional society. This parish work, however, could not be reconciled with the clearly contemplative image propagated by the order’s international leadership. Nonetheless, the Dutch priestreligious quite pragmatically did not relinquish ‘their’ parishes for reasons of image building, income, and recruitment. During the mid-1950’s their parochial responsibilities were increasingly criticized from within: Dominicans should really cultivate a preaching that reached beyond parishes and was free from parochial constraints, in order to better observe the order’s true nature, which was studious and contemplative. In the 1960’s this call came to be voiced more stridently, with the rise of a new generation of Dominicans ready to be fully engaged in the renewal process of church and religion. Preaching, they felt, was an activity involving physical and mental mobility that could not be reconciled with the sedentary nature—as they saw it—of parish work. Wholly in the spirit of

their predecessors for their legalistic adherence to the Rule of Life, which they designate as unbiblical.

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resourcement recommended by Vatican II, they harked back to St Dominic’s body of thought, adjusting it to fit their own agenda by ignoring his orientation on serving the church by dogmatic preaching. Instead, they emphasized his mobility, which served to support their claim that as exempt religious they did not really belong in the institutional setting of parish priesthood but should rather cultivate their self-assigned role as thorns in the side. Feeding on the commendation of resourcement, they stipulated the profoundly prophetic nature of Dominican life and their specific status within the church. Since then, ‘Dominican’ has implied a distantiating from the structure of church leadership, which involved giving up parishes. Although 60 % of the Dutch Preachers did actually work in a parish at the time, only 13,5 % were convinced that ‘the Dominican way of life’ could be established in these surroundings (Monteiro 2008: 711–712). It was not before the early 1980’s, however, that giving up parishes actually came into the picture. As it then turned out, the significance of this field of work had altered profoundly for Dominicans. Giving up parishes ceased to be the way of marking distance to church officialdom—now the same effect had to be realized by clinging to them. The reason was that the 1970’s and 1980’s constituted a period of fierce polarization within the church, with Dominican parishes evolving into ‘safe havens’ at the base. Here, there was room for ‘prophetic’ speech and sermons and for questioning institutionalized office holding priesthood. Here, Dominicans could now pre-eminently work on the profile of priest-religious committed to creating a democratic, egalitarian community of faith in the spirit of Vatican II (Monteiro 2008: 812; Monteiro forthcoming). 3. New Narratives This example illustrates that Dominicans could reinvent their own collective identity over and again. For the past two centuries this has been true for all religious, and especially so in the period after the Second Vatican Council, which in issuing the decree of Lumen Gentium (November 21, 1964) put an end to the specific and also privileged position of religious over ordinary baptized believers (Van Heijst, Derks, and Monteiro 2010: 838). From that position the religious had been used to draw their specific sense of identity, marked as it was by opposing cloister life to the extramural world. Cloister life implied vocation and specific charisma—thus it was impressed upon female as well as male religious during their period of formation. Religious devoted their life to God and expressed this in a life lived under vows of

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chastity, poverty, and obedience. The interpretation of these vows was determined by a fundamentally binary spirituality, which opposed cloister and world, spirit and flesh, reason and heart, while interpreting the three evangelical counsels in absolute terms: abjuring marriage and sexuality, living a life without any personal possessions, in absolute obedience to superiors vested with an authority derived directly from God. Those classical interpretations of the vows perished in the later 1960’s in favor of new and less strict interpretations. Part of the female and male religious attempted to practice these in new communities outside the cloister. New interpretations were meant to clarify the intrinsically prophetic and charismatic nature of religious life to others (Van Heijst, Derks, and Monteiro 2010: 940–944; Monteiro 2008: 723–734). Life of the religious took a new shape, clearly demarcating the gap to a past they did not desire to retrieve— nor were they able to. The consequences were far-reaching. The definitions and moorings of their religious identity and life, trusted till then, were now transformed into a problematic and undesired legacy, which was expressed, for example, in critically interrogating the legalistic interpretations of regulations and vows that were now considered conducive in the impoverishment of religious life. Moreover, and immediately following from this, they insufficiently took account of the fact that the binary spiritual regime that had guided their lives, work, and sufferings too, had been imposed on others as well, through their own activities in care and education (Van Heijst 2008: 362–363).22 Dealing with the past was in danger of coming to be determined not by that past, but by desires or fears for the future. The orientation on the future clearly came into view in internal, sometimes heated discussions on the question of ‘to recruit or to perish’ during the 1970’s and 1980’s.23 Communities that refused to become reconciled to their finiteness turned in reflection to their spiritual ‘authentic’ sources, focusing with renewed intensity on what they considered to be their historically given uniqueness. This was also true for congregations who knew that the Dutch branch would soon

22 Just as in Ex Caritate, Van Heijst’s argument is concerned with female religious and those trusted to their care, but it similarly holds for male religious and those they were responsible for in education or care. 23 The discussion culminated in Sponselee (1987). Taking the way of life of lay brothers as a starting point, Sponselee, at the time the superior general of the Brothers of Oudenbosch, advocated a point of view shared by only a minority of the religious: the fact that people no longer felt drawn toward religious life was a malady the church as a whole was suffering from; it could not be countered by recruitment initiatives, which amounted to fighting the symptoms, no more. See also Hautvast and Monteiro (2001: 80–83).

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become extinct and who saw an opportunity in branches abroad, the former missions. From that perspective, preserving one’s legacy acquired the meaning of passing on ‘original inspiration’. In essence, this was a double form of resourcement: the factual past of the Dutch branch was largely cleansed of ambivalences and awkward episodes, in favor of a narrative about sacrifices made to quench time-bound needs—a narrative fit to include the efforts made by the religious for their mission and thus prepared for a sequel peopled by new generations of religious abroad (Purba 2010).24 In propagating their gospel-based commitment, religious institutes created an internal dissociation from the church that sometimes became an external one too. Especially the ordained members of orders and congregations such as the Dominicans—with lay sisters, friars, and brothers following suit at a somewhat more considerate pace—took a more critical stance when, in the context of polarization within the church during the 1970’s and 1980’s, they began to evaluate their role and position within that church. Their eventual decision in the early 1980’s to stick to ‘their’ parishes should be seen against this backdrop. They declared to be indebted to what began to be called a ‘credible church’ and what since 1985 came to be associated with the discontent Catholic grassroots or ‘other’, that is, non-institutional face of the Roman Catholic Church characterized by the idea of a community of faith in the spirit of Vatican II. Most religious no longer identified themselves as pillars of the Roman Catholic Church such as once they had been, but as bearers of the gospel such as they had become. In doing so, they created a collective memory unlimited by any “time horizon”, in the terms of literary scholar and memory expert Aleida Assmann. Such a time horizon, which is usually shared by about three generations, is replaced by a number of signs and symbols that are dissociated from time, place, and context, forming the ‘timeless’ supporting structure of cultural memory. Others can in turn appropriate these without having experienced what these signs and symbols originally referred to. It is a process of free identification, Assmann argues, by means of which people develop their personal and collective identity. Beyond the confines of generational memory restricted by the laws of biology, memories and stories thus are stabilized in a collective memory, which is also valid and operational for future generations (Assmann 2006: 33–36).

24 Purba is an Indonesian Sister of Schijndel, who finished her dissertation as a research project affiliated to the Titus Brandsma Institute.

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This is exactly how resourcement works if it is used as a historiographical grid: memory is dissociated from experience and then associated afresh with those aspects and episodes one explicitly desires to be identified with, without necessarily having lived or experienced them. Undesired legacies do not completely disappear from the picture in this process, but are selectively plugged into collective memory. Foundational stories, for example, will invariably testify to adversity, thus creating an ample platform for promulgating the steadfastness, will power, and creativity of the first generation religious. Or, pre-Vatican II interpretations of the vows are described in contrast to new views that are rooted in an up-to-date discourse on fundamental human rights, individuality, and autonomy. Other undesired legacies, however, quite often simply form no part of the stories told by the religious: disputes on the community’s course; hierarchal differences and playing sisters off against one another; arguments about work or monastic customs; stories of leaving the order or congregation; the odd person out threatening to tarnish the community’s image; expensive idealistic projects only partly realized, if at all; or high ambitions floundering in the murky waters of endless meetings. Research into such undesired legacy will however clarify the discrepancies between what the religious acknowledge as constituting their tradition and their actual history. Researching such ‘undesired legacy’ from within religious communities, by studying archives and oral history, might duplicate the new narratives on religious life coined since the 1960’s. Historians therefore should take a wider perspective and include groups having a share in religious communities’ histories without being, or no longer being, part of it. This starts in this branch of historiography by systematically involving the experiences and memories of religious who have left their order or congregation. This first move in widening the perspective should be followed by others: those who in the past were implicated in the world of religious, for instance within the context of parish, school, or institution of care, should also be interviewed. They deserve a place of their own in assessing the pastoral care, education, or health care they received and in appraising the experiences that befell them when interacting with religious (Van Heijst 2008; Schumacher 2007). This requires a shift in focus toward those whom the religious had marked as outsiders and who therefore literally ended up in a position outside the history of religious communities. By taking account of their stories in researching religious communities, it will become clear that the memories of this group too are multifaceted, if not self-contradictory, ranging from positive recollections to the very negative ones. Considering also these agents in historical research enables an evaluation of the

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institutional context and the spiritual value pattern that channeled the way the religious operated until far into the 1960’s. Concluding Remarks Historical narratives on religious and their communities in the Netherlands have been thoroughly revised in the past fifteen years. Institutional and functionalist approaches have been superseded by research from a more cultural historical perspective, sometimes carried out as commissioned research by professional historians. These historiographies feature religious as the most prominent agents in a history of their own, showing multifaceted stories about the past that are both intertwined and selfcontradictory. A more thematic approach, oriented not on an order in particular but for example on education or care, proved to be difficult in a field of research that was able to grow largely due to investments on the part of religious. As commemorative communities they were pre-eminently interested in the history of their own institute and in the uniqueness of their history (Van Heijst, Derks, and Monteiro 2010).25 It is exactly this insight that is essential for future historical research. This implies that historians should take account of the fact that religious communities also are commemorative communities, which via processes of self-historicizing have been able to shape a collective memory that does not necessarily match their factual history. This is pre-eminently the case for those who entered their order or congregation around or after the Second Vatican Council. By advocating resourcement as a frame for the religious’ renewed self-images and tasks, Vatican II contributed to the chiefly spiritualized perceptions of the past and uncomplicated appraisal of one’s own legacy. The resourcement principle has constituted a twofold influence on the historiography of the religious: a direct influence, through studies explicitly designed and carried out from this perspective and focusing on spirituality as, in fact, an a-historical category; and an indirect one, through the narratives religious tell about themselves and featuring new dominant selfimages and accompanying narratives. These constituted an a-historical grid 25 Ex Caritate shows that communities of active female religious had a lot more in common in 1850, 1900, or 1950 than they were able to perceive due to the orientation on one’s own institution, whereas continuity and similarity within the community is a great deal less than presupposed. For example, with respect to objective, field of work, and self-image, the Franciscan Sisters of Oirschot had a great deal more in common in 1950 with, for instance, the Sisters of Mercy of St Borromeo, than with their own ancestors in 1850.

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that could retroactively produce a slanted picture of the past. The latter is in danger of being cleansed of what the new self-image perceives as undesired legacy or what could be marked as awkward and shameful episodes, in favor of a narrative on building a vital, non-hierarchically organized community of faith (priest-religious) or on sacrifices made to quench time-bound needs (sisters, brothers, and friars). Historians have to account for the changes in the narratives that have guided the religious’ self-understanding since the 1960’s. Those narratives underpin the accounts of religious life in interviews and surveys. And now that those narratives are under duress, due to the stories of former students and pupils recounting their experiences with members of religious orders and congregations, they are making clear that the religious cannot monopolize their own history. They share that history with many who form no part, or no longer form a part, of religious communities and whose memories of that shared past are different. As a result, they put a strain on the frame of mind that sees the religious life as a perfect way of life—a frame of mind that proved to be enduring with the religious themselves. They lay claim to what has been characterized by Marjet Derks as a shared, but essentially plural and contradictory memorial space, which surpasses individual orders and congregations and which historical research should be doing justice to (Derks 2011a). References Altermatt, U., Konfession, Nation und Rom. Metamorphosen im schweizerischen und europäischen Katholizismus des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts. Fribourg: Huber, 2009. Assmann, A., “Canon and Archive.” Pp. 97–107 in Cultural Memory Studies. An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook. Edited by A. Erll and A. Nünning. Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 2008. ———, Der lange Schatten der Vergangenheit. Erinnerungskultur und Geschichtspolitik. München: C.H. Beck, 2006. Borgman, E., and M. Monteiro, “Katholicisme.” Pp. 86–121 in Handboek Religie in Nederland. Perspectief—overzicht—debat. Edited by M. Ter Borg et al. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2008. Busch, N., “Die Feminisierung der ultramontanen Frömmigkeit.” Pp. 203–219 in Wunderbare Erscheinungen. Frauen und katholische Frömmigkeit im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert. Edited by I. Götz von Olenhusen. Paderborn: Schöningh, 1995. Cox, J., “Master Narratives of Long-Term Religious Change.” Pp. 201–217 in The Decline of Christendom in Western Europe, 1750–2000. Edited by H. McLeod and W. Ustorf. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003. ———, Imperial Faultlines: Christianity and Colonial Power in India, 1818–1940. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002.

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Damberg, W., B. Frings, T. Jänichen, and U. Kaminsky, Mutter Kirche Vater Staat? Geschichte, Praxis und Debatten der konfessionellen Heimerziehung seit 1945. Münster: LIT Verlag, 2010. De Maeyer, J., S. Leplae, and J. Schmiedl (eds.), Religious Institutes in Western Europe in the 19th and 20th Centuries. Historiography, Research and Legal Position. Louvain: KADOC Studies on Religion, Culture and Society 2, 2004. Derks, M., “Een vleugel van de kerk. Identiteiten en identificaties van katholieke vrouwen.” Pp. 72–90 in Roomsch in alles: Het rijke roomse leven 1900–1950. Edited by P. De Coninck and P. Dirkse with a contribution by M. Derks. Zwolle/Utrecht: Waanders, 1996. ———, Heilig moeten. Radicaal-katholiek en retro-modern in de jaren twintig en dertig. Hilversum: Verloren, 2007. ———, “Een ongehoorde geschiedenis. Historici, herinneringen en geschiedschrijving rond misbruik.” Pp. 88–102 in Grensoverschrijdingen geduid. Over seksueel misbruik in katholieke instellingen. Edited by E. Borgman and R. Torfs. Nijmegen: Valkhof Pers, 2011a. ———, “Into the Pores. Imprinting Catholic Femininity through Words, Images and Rituals,” Schweizerische Zeitschrift für Religion- und Kulturgeschichte 105 (2011b): 556–558. Derks, M., and J. Eijt, “Wie kookte het Laatste Avondmaal? Over de zichtbaarheid van vrouwen in religiegeschiedenis.” Pp. 194–2003 in Kloosters en religieus leven. Historie met toekomst. Edited by M. Ackermans and Th. Hoogbergen. ’s-Hertogenbosch: Adriaan Heijnen, 2002. Derks, M., J. Eijt, M. Grever, and M. Monteiro, “Res Novae. Evoluties in de beeldvorming over katholieke vrouwen,” Ex Tempore: Historisch Tijdschrift KU Nijmegen 11/2 (1992): 121–133. Derks, M., and A. van Heijst, “Katholieke vrouwencultuur. Een theoretische verkenning.” Pp. 325–346 in Roomse Dochters. Katholieke vrouwen en hun beweging. Edited by M. Derks, C. Halkes, and A. van Heijst. Baarn: Arbor, 1992. Derks, M., and M. Monteiro, “Met wijsheid opent zij haar mond. Vroomheid, visie en vrouwelijkheid.” Pp. 9–26 in Vrome vrouwen. Betekenissen van geloof voor vrouwen in de geschiedenis. Edited by M. Cornelis et al. Hilversum: Verloren, 1996. Dohmen, J., Vrome zondaars. Misbruik in de Rooms-Katholieke Kerk. Rotterdam: NRC boeken, 2010. Eijt, J., Met geloof en ijver. De Nederlandse provincie van de Broeders van de Christelijke Scholen, 1908–2006. S.l., s.n., 2006. ———, Religieuze vrouwen. zusters, bruiden, moeders. Hilversum: Verloren, 1994. Frijhoff, W., “Hemels erfgoed. Een reflectie.” Pp. 45–56 in Erfgoed. De geschiedenis van een begrip. Edited by F. Grijzenhout. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2007b. ———, “Dynamisch erfgoed. Of: heeft de cultuurgeschiedenis toekomst?” Pp. 13– 40 in Dynamisch erfgoed. Edited by W. Frijhof. Amsterdam: Boom uitgevers, 2007a. ———, “Van ‘histoire de l’église’ naar histoire réligieuse’. De invloed van de ‘Annales’groep op de ontwikkeling van de kerkgeschiedenis in Frankrijk en de perspectieven daarvan voor Nederland,” Nederlands Archief voor Kerkgeschiedenis 61 (1981): 113–153.

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Goddijn, W., J. Jacobs, and G. van Tillo (eds.), Tot vrijheid geroepen. Katholieken in Nederland 1945–2000. Baarn: Arbor, 1999. Hautvast, S., and M. Monteiro, Verbondenheid in eigenheid. Veertig jaar Samenwerking Broeder-Congregaties Nederland. Nijmegen: Valkhof Pers, 2001. Jonker, E., “Wilde herinnering en getemde geschiedenis,” Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 121 (2008): 136–147. De Kok, J.A., Acht eeuwen minderbroeders in Nederland. Een oriëntatie. Hilversum: Verloren, 2008. Langlois, C., Le Catholicisme au feminine. Les congrégations françaises à supérieure générale au XIXe siècle. Paris: Editions du Cerf, 1984. McNamara, J.A.K., Sisters in Arms. Catholic Nuns through Two Millennia. Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press, 1996. Monteiro, M., Vroomheid in veelvoud. Geschiedenis van de Franciscanessen van Oirschot 1797–1997. Hilversum: Verloren, 2000. ———, Katholieke cultuur in kantelend perspectief. Hilversum: Verloren, 2005. ———, “Mannen Gods. Historische perspectieven op clericale identiteit en clericale cultuur.” Pp. 9–32 in Mannen Gods. Clericale identiteit in verandering. Edited by G. Ackermans and M. Monteiro. Hilversum: Verloren, 2006. ———, Gods Predikers. Dominicanen in Nederland (1795–2000). Hilversum: Verloren, 2008. ———, “Contested Clerical Authority and Prophetic Alternatives.” In Religious Leadership. Edited by J.W. Buisman, M. Derks, and P. Raedts. Leiden: Brill Publishers, forthcoming. Monteiro, M., G. Rooijakkers, and J. Rosendaal, De dynamiek van religie en cultuur. Geschiedenis van het Nederlands katholicisme. Kampen: Kok, 1993. Purba, M., Spirituality in Context. Vincentian Spirituality Actualized by the Batak Sisters of Charity in North Sumatra. Cologne: Lambert Academic Publishing, 2010. Roes, J., and H. de Valk, “A World Apart? Religious Orders and Congregations in the Netherlands.” Pp. 135–162 in Religious Institutes in Western Europe in the 19th and 20th Centuries. Historiography, Research and Legal Position. Edited by J. De Maeyer, S. Leplae, and J. Schmiedl. Louvain: KADOC studies on Religion, Culture and Society 2, 2004. Rosenfeld, G.D., “A Looming Crash or a Soft Landing? Forecasting the Future of the Memory ‘Industry’,” The Journal of Modern History 81 (2009): 122–158. Schumacher, S., Van gestichtskind tot zorgverlater. Herkenning en erkenning van ontvangers van vroegere religieus geïnspireerde zorg. Unpublished Master thesis. Tilburg: Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies, Tilburg University, 2007. Selderhuis, H. et al. (eds.), Handboek Nederlandse Kerkgeschiedenis. Kampen: Kok, 2006. Sponselee, T., Sterven of werven. Identiteit en toekomst van broeder-congregaties in Nederland. Aalsmeer: Luijten, 1987. Smith, B., Ladies of the Leisure Class. The Bourgeoises of Northern France in the Nineteenth Century. Princeton and Guildford: Princeton University Press, 1981. van Eijnatten, J., and F. van Lieburg, Nederlandse religiegeschiedenis. Hilversum: Verloren, 2005. van Heijst, A., Zusters, Vrouwen van de Wereld. Aktieve religieuzen en haar emancipatie. Amsterdam: SUA, 1985.

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———, Liefdewerk. Een herwaardering van de caritas bij de Arme Zusters van het Goddelijk Kind, sinds 1852. Hilversum: Verloren, 2002. ———, Models of Charitable Care. Catholic Nuns and Children in their Care in Amsterdam, 1852–2002. Series in Church History 33. Leiden: Brill, 2008. van Heijst, A., and M. Derks, “Godsvrucht en gender. naar een geschiedschrijving in meervoud.” Pp. 7–38 in Terra incognita. Historisch onderzoek naar katholicisme en vrouwelijkheid. A. van Heijst and M. Derks. Kampen: Kok, 1994. van Heijst, A., M. Derks, and M. Monteiro, Ex Caritate. Kloosterleven, apostolaat en nieuwe spirit van actieve vrouwelijke religieuzen in Nederland in de 19e en 20e eeuw. Hilversum: Verloren, 2010. van Vugt, J., “De geschiedenis van zusters, paters en broeders. Geschiedschrijving over het religieuze leven in Nederland in de laatste twee eeuwen. Resultaten tot nu toe en wensen voor de toekomst.” Pp. 126–163 in Jaarboek Katholiek Documentatie Centrum 26. Nijmegen: KDC, 1996. Welter, B., “The Feminisation of American Religion.” Pp. 137–155 in Clio’s Consciousness Raised. New Perspectives on the History of Women. Edited by M.S. Hartmann and L.W. Banner. New York/London: Octagon Books, 1974. Werner, Y.M. (ed.), Christian Masculinity. Men and Religion in Northern Europe in the 19th and 20th Centuries. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2011. Werner, Y.M. (ed.), Kristen manlighet. Ideal och verklighet 1830–1940. Lund: Nordic Academic Press, 2008. Wynants, P., “Les Religieuses de vie active en Belgique et aux Pays-Bas, 19e–20e siècles,” Revue d’Histoire Ecclésiastique XCV/3 (2000): 238–256.

TELLING AUTHORIZED STORIES. THE DYNAMICS OF THE DUTCH PIETISTIC NARRATIVE COMMUNITY

John Exalto In his day the Dutch pastor Gijsbertus van Reenen (1864–1935) certainly was in favor of members of his congregation gathering to speak of their faith, share stories of their conversions and validate the work of the Holy Spirit in their lives. At the same time, Van Reenen was concerned because these meetings, referred to as conventicles, often became a competition of sorts to see who could tell the most dramatic story of conversion. This was problematic for Van Reenen because, ironically, his particular religious tradition championed spiritual humility. Further, Van Reenen rejected the role of spiritual inspectors, seasoned believers present at the conventicles who offered instant judgment about the stories told (Van der Zwaag 2003: 620). Van Reenen belonged to the bevindelijk gereformeerden, sometimes given the pejorative label ‘black stocking churches’. In reality, this denomination was a group of Christians who held to experience-oriented, conservative Calvinism. From a historical perspective, they could also be labeled as Reformed Pietists. The terms ‘experience’ and ‘Pietism’ also describe an important hallmark of this group of believers in that they emphasize the conversion event (cf. Janse 1985; Hijweege 2004; Van Lieburg 2007). The emphasis on conversion makes this group of Dutch Reformed Pietists an interesting test case for the application of narrative approaches to historical movements, and so this chapter analyzes the religious culture of Dutch Pietism in the nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century from the perspective of the narrative community. This analysis is divided in five sections: I will first explain the concept of narrative community; I will then examine the origins and development of the Pietistic morphology of conversion in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Subsequently, I will discuss a case from Dutch Pietism in the late nineteenth century and analyze the specific dynamics of the Dutch Pietistic narrative community. In conclusion, I will test the usefulness of a narrative approach for the study of Pietism.

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Storytelling is an act of communication—a narrator, a listener and a subject are needed—offered in the context of a community or subculture. The individual identity and the group identity of a storytelling community are inherently narrative in character. According to the philosopher Richard Kearney such a community is in essence an “imagined community”, or in other words a narrative construction that is invented and re-constructed each time a story is (re)told. In Kearney’s opinion, the narrative has a “mimetic” function; that is, the story is a creative retelling of reality where hidden models and significances come to light. Through mimesis, via the story, reality receives sense, coherence and shape (Kearney 2001). The perceptions of Kearney can well be applied to religious cultures and communities. Using sociologist Andrew M. Greeley’s basic model of the function of religion, we see clearly that every religious community is a ‘storytelling community’. This story-telling community processes its story in five circuitous steps: (1) religion starts with an experience that renews hope, (2) the experience is encoded in symbols understood and shaped by the community and (3) these symbols are shared with others through stories. (4) These stories define the ‘story-telling community’ and (5) the community shares the stories in their communal rituals. Importantly, Greeley points out that the community is not a passive entity. As a carrier of a tradition, she has a critical function to test the stories for their validity and, if necessary, correct a narrator whose story is not (entirely) correlated with the community and its tradition. The community teaches the narrator to express the experience using the community’s symbols and vocabulary. In this way, theological orthodoxy is the ‘superstructure’ of this critical function, while the popular foundation or ‘substructure’ supports the superstructure with story. Both are needed for an adequate functioning of the narrative community (Greeley 1995: 23–56). What Greeley calls the ‘story-telling community’, I call the narrative community. 2. The Pietistic Conversion Morphology The narrative structure of the Dutch Pietistic conversion story of the nineteenth and early twentieth century is centuries old, originating with early modern English Puritanism and its emphasis on preaching, pastoral care and writing. Those Puritan leaders drew attention to the necessity of personal conversion, and warned of the danger of self-deception. Further, the

the dynamics of the dutch pietistic narrative community 243 Puritan appeal was connected with the exhortation of a conscientious selfexamination. To give shape to this self-examination the Puritans developed a chain of marks, the so-called ‘marks of grace’ with which the soul could test the authenticity of conversion. Along with this critical function, the marks of grace also aided the believer in understanding and translating spiritual experiences. The marks of grace were the symbols of the Puritan narrative community. With the help of these symbols, members of the community could shape mimesis and thus render meaning and cohesion in their narrative identity. The chain of marks was often intended to measure the various successive spiritual stages through which the reborn soul passed. This is the so-called ordo salutis, the ‘golden chain’ of salvation: election, calling, regeneration, conversion, faith, justification, sanctification, and, post mortem, glorification. In Puritanism, these stages were recorded as early as the early seventeenth century. Various Puritan leaders extended the order of salvation by adding preparatory and middle stages (Morgan 1963; Shaw 1983; Hindmarsh 2005: 35–38). Thanks to the genre of the spiritual autobiography—and in spite of the differences between literacy and orality—we have some insights into the Puritan narrative practice. Writers often described and arranged their experiences with the help of the ‘marks of grace’ and thereby internalized the Puritan morphology of conversion (Hindmarsh 2005: 48–50, 53; Caldwell 1983). Some writers internalized the entire morphology; others only used some stages of the morphology (Webster 1996; Gribben 2002). These autobiographies are really fossilized deposits of oral communication. Orality is of course far more dynamic than the written reports, but thanks to the written reports we do know something about the oral communication of conversion and these texts reveal the theology and preaching of the local pastors. In eighteenth-century Anglo-Saxon Puritanism, the boundaries of local narrative communities were fluid. Local communities were subsumed by a larger, international evangelical awakening movement. But the demographics did not change the content of the oral and written communication, stories of regeneration remained at the core of the narrative community. For example, an anonymous person participating in a Methodist awakening in the eighteenth century wrote: “Nothing I can say makes so much impression on myself or others, as thus repeating my own conversion” (cited in Hindmarsh 2005: 127). Therefore personal conversion stories were told and retold. According to the historian Bruce Hindmarsh, this kind of storytelling leads to “mimetic conversion” as others were encouraged to tell their own story (Hindmarsh 2005: 156–159; cf. Caldwell 1983: 163–166).

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Puritan and Pietistic narrative communities centered their stories on conversion. However, the form of organization and the moment of origin of these communities depended on existing structures and local circumstances so that the content and form of the stories were not always uniform. For some communities, the entire morphology of conversion was lacking while for others the entire ordo salutis was followed. And in some communities, the order of salvation was varied, depending on the theological tradition and the identity of the local pastor. In a narrative community, new believers usually modeled their stories after the stories of established, authoritarian souls of the community. This oral communication stimulated the process of transcribing conversion stories, and this is yet another method of ‘mimetic conversion’. Written media, such as devotionals and spiritual autobiographies, stimulated ‘mimetic conversion’ because of the printed word presented to the reader conversion stories and modeled how to tell them. The result was a variety of models; some told their story in an entirely normative model while others used select parts of the model (Exalto 2006; Van Lieburg 2006). Of particular interest, the reading of autobiographies led to the development of a route of conversion with various stages, and was used by many new narrators and authors to structure their own story (cf. Gribben 2002). Thus the dynamics of the narrative community were stimulated and shaped both by orality and literacy. 3. The Story of a Spakenburger Fisherman The Pietistic narrative community can be considered an intersection of theology, preaching and inner-experience. These three aspects have mutual influence and wield power over the others (Van Lieburg 2006). The idea of a crossroad of communications is analogous to Greeley’s interference of superstructure and substructure. At regional and local levels, the narrative community was engaged in preaching, conventicles and daily, casual contact. For a correct understanding of the functioning of this crossroad of communication, local historical research is needed to analyze how theology, preaching and experience played out in each specific locale. However, for this chapter a general sketch of the developments can be traced. Compared to the seventeenth-century Puritan chain of spiritual marks of the reborn soul, the Dutch Pietistic order of salvation of the nineteenth and twentieth century is a much longer route and follows the previous ‘convictions’ of a shocking and soul-shaking experience of conversion. In this understanding of conversion, the believer encounters Jesus and salvation

the dynamics of the dutch pietistic narrative community 245 comes into view. However, simply ‘seeing is not having’, and so the first step is the ‘lopping off’ (justification) of sins. This is a visual-dramatic moment in which the soul becomes totally indebted to Jesus so that its sins can be forgiven. Afterward, the surety of salvation is received. Next, the soul begins to know Jesus through intimate experience. Personal knowledge of the Father and the Holy Spirit ensues, sometimes with the confirmation of election. This order of salvation closely parallels the history of salvation from the fall in paradise (the ‘lopping off’), the advent, and the living out of the core moments of Jesus’ life on earth: birth, suffering, death, resurrection, ascension, and the pouring out of the Holy Spirit. During these centuries the Puritan order was not only extended with various preparatory stages, but also lengthened with a new and final stage, the so-called tribunal experience in the court of conscience (Graafland 1994). These dynamics of the Pietistic narrative community are keenly illustrated by the story of Johannes Hartog (1840–1916), a resident of the fishing village of Spakenburg at the Zuiderzee. Hartog was a respectable citizen, a diligent fisherman, a faithful husband and a zealous Christian. But Hartog was initially critical (he confessed later that at this time he was in his unregenerated state) of the pastor of Spakenburg who, claimed Hartog, “failed to proclaim the whole counsel of God” (Hartog 1931: 3). Even unregenerated Johannes Hartog knew better than his pastor how the route to salvation was going. Nevertheless a cholera epidemic broke out in 1866 and Hartog lived with an existential mortal fear that he was afflicted by the cholera. The fisherman lay in bed for weeks with the assumption that death was very near. His earlier ‘self-conceit’ was instantly gone, and lying on his supposed deathbed, Hartog’s earlier theories of true conversion loosened their hold. As Hartog later recounted in his spiritual autobiography: In my earlier days, in my delusion, I dared to speak about the truth and about the conversion, but I knew nothing of it. Sure, at times I have said, am I ever blind and unhappy; I was not aware of anything, but oh, when the law of God was impressed on the mind with all its demands, then the intelligence of the intelligent is destroyed and the wisdom of the wise is brought to naught, then the tiger in sin becomes a lamb. (Hartog 1931: 11)

Johannes Hartog knew himself as a sinner and thus knew the impossibility of his eternal preservation. He feared the wrath of God. He also wrote that he knew Jesus came to the world to save sinners, “but now I saw myself against a holy and righteous God, who will not leave the guilty unpunished” (Hartog 1931: 13). The pastor visited the fisherman and assured Hartog that, indeed, there was divine grace to save Hartog. At that moment, it seemed that the Spakenburg fisherman heard these words for the first time. Then, in

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another crucial turning point in Hartog’s inner life, Hartog heard a powerful sermon and then accepted God’s promise of salvation for his soul. Now fully assured of his salvation, Hartog shared his experiences at conventicles in Spakenburg. But Hartog was not alone in sharing stories of conversion. In fact, Hartog’s own aunt, Hendrikje Poort, shared “how she had lost and learned to lose herself, but how she then had found the Lord Jesus as her all-sufficient and willing Savior”. When Hartog heard the story of his aunt, he was sorry that he had shared his conversion story. While he did indeed loved the truth, Hartog now realized that he did not know the love of Jesus in his heart. Thus, the next morning, Hartog hurried to his pastor and told him that he, Johannes Hartog, feared that he had deceived the people. “The pastor then stood up, shook my hand and said to me: welcome to the fight, you must thank the Lord that He revealed this to you. You could have lived for years without knowing your spiritual deprivation” (Hartog 1931: 17–18). A few months later, Hartog received, again during a sermon, the faith in Jesus as his personal Savior. Again Hartog’s pastor counseled him that he was most assuredly walking the route of salvation, even if Hartog had only taken his initial steps. The fisherman no doubt retold this entire story at the conventicles. For our purposes, it is interesting to note how after his (first) conversion Johannes Hartog participated in and shaped the narrative community of Spakenburg. Hartog visited the conventicles, told his story and listened to other stories of the work of God in the souls of the community. But tellingly, the story of aunt Hendrikje differs from that of her nephew Johannes: the aunt told more, with the result that Hartog was convicted because his experiences were not like those of his aunt. The corrective effect of the aunt’s narrative indicates that within the narrative community a story must meet certain criteria if the story is to be accepted by the community. Further, while Hartog’s pastor was not present at the aforementioned evening, he nevertheless was an important voice in the local Pietistic narrative community. Though the pastor did not dismiss Hartog’s story, the pastor did judge Hartog an immature believer in comparison to the others. Thus the pastor played a pivotal role in the narrative community: he counseled new converts, preached to the entire community of believers, and was the final arbiter of conversion stories.

the dynamics of the dutch pietistic narrative community 247 4. The Dynamics of the Dutch Pietistic Narrative Community The theologian Cornelis Graafland saw a strong, uniform model of salvation in the nineteenth century Dutch Pietistic stories of conversion (Graafland 1994). But the case of Johannes Hartog shows that this observation needs to be tested: the stories of Hartog and his aunt were inconsistent, and only after later experiences was Hartog at the same ‘level’ as his aunt. In other words, autobiographies such as those of Hartog exemplify a more reliable record of history and can be considered as fossilized deposits of oral communication. By examining autobiographies such as these, we see that the dynamics of the narrative community were strongly demonstrated in sermons and letters, and the oral communication most vivid at the conventicles, and there most acute when new believers received instruction and spiritual guidance from the seasoned believers (cf. Exalto 2006). “Nobody measured his spiritual path with using a yardstick,” wrote the Pietistic farmer Johannes van Vuuren (1856–1932) in 1924 because “there are as many different paths as there are true conversions” (Van Vuuren 1976: 57). When Van Vuuren wrote this adage, no doubt he was aware that his story could serve as a model for others, even if that was not his intention. Yet, many Pietists nevertheless did measure their spiritual paths against the spoken or written stories of others, a process described as ‘mimetic conversion’. When we apply Greeley’s model to the Pietistic community, the diverse spiritual stages can then be interpreted as symbols in the context of the narrative community. With the help of these symbols, members of the community gave shape to the mimesis in conformity to the greater, normative story of the narrative community and thus rendered meaning and cohesion to their narrative identity. This ‘spiritual vocabulary’ gave the subject a narrative identity and helped him to know his own place on the path to heaven, while giving him tools to discuss it with others. Thus he could be led further on that path because the symbols and vocabulary made communication with fellow travelers possible. Seasoned believers tested, guided and, where necessary, corrected the stories of new believers. This action is the last phase in Greeley’s model, the communal rituals, and this occurred at two key places: during church services when the pastor explained the order of salvation (possibly followed by pastoral aftercare), and at the conventicles when the participants engaged in direct conversations. The normative order of salvation was only seldom explicated at worship or the conventicles. This is because this salvation order is not a rational construction structure, but rather a category of experience lived out in

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life. As a gift of the Spirit, this experience is not a believer’s to enforce, only his to receive. Of primary importance was the believer’s recognition of his sinful state that was in need of regenerating grace. This conformed to the first of a threefold phase set out in the Heidelberg Catechism, a dominant confession used by a wide range of orthodox Reformed churches. The Pietists interpreted the three distinctions of the Catechism—misery, redemption and gratitude, or sometimes learned as ‘sin, salvation, service’ or ‘guilt, grace, gratitude’—as a description of salvific events that needed to be experienced successively. Yet at the same time, Pietistic pastors warned against ‘spiritual drilling’ or direct application of the order of salvation as a strong and frozen model. The aforementioned Gijsbertus van Reenen was suspicious of the work of spiritual inspectors because they rendered judgments about the stories at the conventicles, yet in reality their heartless behavior scared off new believers. Thus pastors such as Van Reenen rightly questioned what such inspectors really knew about conversion, for the path to salvation was individual and not restricted to one normative model with prescribed, compulsory stages. Thus the pastors and the spiritual inspectors policed the stories (albeit with different criteria) while the actual story tellers such as Hartog offered the stories to be judged. In this way, according to Greeley, the community was shaped by the superstructure (ministers and inspectors) and fed by the substructure (story tellers). Conclusion In seventeenth century Puritanism, a morphology of conversion was developed where godly people tested the quality of their conversion experiences. In Dutch Pietism the morphology was adapted and later extended with additional stages in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. As in early modern English Puritanism, modern Dutch Pietism lacked uniform morphology or order of salvation. This teaching varied in time, place, and person. The subjective appropriation of the conversion morphology was the central theme of the Pietistic narrative community. This narrative community, looking at it from an ethnological perspective, existed halfway into the twentieth century—as far as the sources could give information—as a dynamic, believable culture for group members. It satisfied the mechanisms of narrativity as sketched by Kearney and Greeley. The Pietistic group culture was an ‘imagined community’, constructed at the moment the participants told stories about the work of God in their souls. The stories had a double mimetic

the dynamics of the dutch pietistic narrative community 249 function: first, the story itself is mimesis, for inner experiences were told in linguistic symbols; second, the stories of the experts led to mimesis by the novices as they adopted the stories and applied them to their own inner life. Throughout this process new believers found their place in the community, added their voice to the narrative community and gave their spiritual life shape and meaning. The circular five-step-model of Greeley is fairly straightforward and applicable to the Pietistic narrative community. Participants encoded their experience in the symbols of the narrative community, the stages or hallmarks of the order of salvation and the morphology of conversion. They shared their experiences with the help of the symbols with their group participants and so contributed to the communal rituals of the story-telling community. The circular character of the narrative community is also applicable to Pietism, and evinces the existence of a superstructure and a substructure. A consequence of the five-step-plan was that new believers told stories which were authorized by the experts and inspectors. At some point the models of Kearney and Greeley need to be completed and corrected. Both models presume a good working narrative community, but give no attention to disintegrating factors. It also seems that both models presume that in the community only one type of story is told. In reality, as we have seen, different stories were told at varying tempi in the Pietistic narrative community of this era. These stories differ by more or less intersections and spiritual stages (e.g. Hartog and his aunt), by the values awarded to intersections preceding the justification, by the experience of the tribunal experience, and by the non-canonical, individual stories refuted by the experts of the community. These variations and stratifications in stories need further reflection. And finally, these stories need to be contextualized within the broad, rich field of storytelling of Dutch Pietism, a religious culture with a gold mine of stories about true and false conversions, miracles and hoaxes, angels and demons, and godly and ungodly sinners (cf. Exalto and Van Lieburg 2009). References Caldwell, P., The Puritan Conversion Narrative: The Beginnings of American Expression. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983. Exalto, J., Wandelende bijbels. Piëtistische leescultuur in Nederland 1830–1960. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2006. Exalto, J., and F. van Lieburg (eds.), Spoken op het kerkhof. Verkenningen van protestantse vertelcultuur. Zoetermeer: Meinema, 2009.

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Graafland, C., “De theologie van het conventikel.” Pp. 33–65 in De stille luyden. Bevindelijk gereformeerden in de negentiende eeuw. Edited by F. van Lieburg. Kampen: De Groot Goudriaan, 1994. Greeley, A.M., Religion as Poetry. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1995. Gribben, C., “Lay Conversion and Calvinist Doctrine during the English Commonwealth.” Pp. 36–46 in The Rise of the Laity in Evangelical Protestantism. Edited by D.W. Lovegrove. London/New York: Routledge, 2002. Hartog, J., Voor den grootste der zondaren. Schets van de bekeeringsgeschiedenis van Johannes Hartog te Spakenburg, die de Heere met hem gehouden heeft in de jaren 1866 en 1867, door hem zelven in 1877 beschreven. Ouddorp: K. Heerschap, 1931. Hindmarsh, D.B., The Evangelical Conversion Narrative. Spiritual Autobiography in Early Modern England. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Hijweege, N., Bekering in bevindelijk gereformeerde kring: Een psychologische studie. Kampen: Kok, 2004. Janse, C.S.L., Bewaar het pand. De spanning tussen assimilatie en persistentie bij de emancipatie van de bevindelijk gereformeerden. Houten: Den Hertog, 1985. Kearney, R., On Stories. London: Routledge, 2001. Morgan, E.S., Visible Saints. The History of a Puritan Idea. New York: New York University Press, 1963. Shaw, M.R., “Drama in the Meeting House. The Concept of Conversion in the Theology of William Perkins,” The Westminster Theological Journal 45 (1983): 41– 72. van Lieburg, F., “Reformed Doctrine and Pietist Conversion. The Historical Interplay of Theology, Communication and Experience.” Pp. 133–148 in Paradigms, Poetics and Politics of Conversion. Edited by J.N. Bremmer, W.J. van Bekkumm, and A.L. Molendijk. Leuven: Peeters, 2006. van Lieburg, F. (ed.), Refogeschiedenis in perspectief. Opstellen over de bevindelijke traditie. Heerenveen: Groen, 2007. van Vuuren, J., Laatste woord van een vader aan zijn kinderen. Levensgeschiedenis van Johannes van Vuuren, geboren te Haaften en overleden te Utrecht op 19 mei 1932 in den ouderdom van 75 jaren. Gorinchem: Romijn & Van der Hoff, 1976. Webster, T., “Writing to Redundancy. Approaches to Spiritual Journals and Early Modern Spirituality” The Historical Journal 39 (1996): 33–56. Van der Zwaag, K., Afwachten of verwachten? De toe-eigening des heils in historisch en theologisch perspectief. Heerenveen: Groen, 2003.

PUBLISH OR PERISH? THE POLEMICAL AND APOLOGETIC PUBLICATIONS OF THE JESUITS IN THE LOW COUNTRIES (17TH CENTURY)

Joep W.J. van Gennip In recent decades, the stream of national and international publications on the history of the Dutch Catholic church in the seventeenth century has been increasing continually.1 Until roughly the first half of the twentieth century, most of these publications were written by members of the clergy (e.g., Pontianus Polman and Reinier Post). Historians who held non-priestly offices (e.g., Louis Rogier and Gerard Brom), were relatively exceptional. What these scholars had in common was their Catholic identity. They had been brought up in an age of confessional segregation, and their ‘duty’ was to place Catholicism and Dutch Catholics in a fairer, more balanced, position in discussions concerning the development of the Netherlands and the making of Dutch history, which had long been influenced by Protestant historians. Although their publications were more thorough and ‘objective’ than those written by polemical clergyman in the nineteenth century (e.g., Allard),2 their attitude and approach to church history is different from ours. In current times, the deprivation (and associated emancipation) of Dutch Catholics in society is no longer an issue. An increasing number of church historians have no specific religious background. One advantage of this situation is that it allows them to approach their studies more objectively and from a greater distance. New visions and methods have emerged within the general historiography. Examples include the Annales School, the use of quantitative data and narratives as sources, the emphasis on local history, and the multidisciplinary and international approach of specific topics. These methods have also influenced the field of Dutch church history (including the history of the Dutch Catholic church). Current studies focus more on laypeople or parishioners than they do on the clergy.

1 Examples include Van Eck (2008), Hoppenbrouwers (1996), Kaplan (2007), Kooi (2002), Parker (2008), and Pollmann (2006). 2 The protestant Willem Knuttel, with his study De toestand der Nederlandsche katholieken ten tijde der Republiek (1892), is exceptional.

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Various historians (including church historians) from other countries are also interested in the phenomenon of religious toleration or confessional co-existence (omgangsoecumene)3 in the seventeenth-century Republic. Faith on the Margins by Charles Parker (2008) is one example. This work describes the strong influence of Catholic laypeople in shaping and developing a Catholic missionary church in the seventeenth-century Protestant Dutch Republic. Clandestine Splendor by Xander van Eck provides the first discussion of the paintings that were made for clandestine Catholic churches in the seventeenth-century Republic, thereby approaching and describing the group of Catholic believers from an unusual and interesting art-historical and social perspective (Van Eck 2008). Kaplan devoted the publication Divided by Faith to the key concepts of ‘religious conflict’ and ‘religious toleration’ in early modern Europe, thus framing them in an international perspective (Kaplan 2007). Jesuit Books in the Low Countries 1540– 1773, which was combined with an international congress at the University of Leuven in December 2009, took an unconventional approach to describing the history of the Society of Jesus, using books written by its members on a variety of topics to reflect the order’s history (Begheyn et al. 2009). Books and narratives are vehicles of culture, and they arise within specific times and contexts. In addition to reflecting the opinion of the author, they provide a glimpse of the society in which they were created. One must also bear in mind that publishing in the seventeenth century differed from current practice. Seventeenth-century society was characterized by higher illiteracy, smaller networks of book distribution, different genres, religious censorship, and limited editions. The genre of controversial Catholic literature written in the Dutch Republic has been scarcely examined, especially in relation to writers who were also active as pastors in the Republic (Hoppenbrouwers 1996: 3, 61, 99). In this contribution, I focus on these polemical and apologetic publications, particularly those written by the Jesuits of the Flemish-Belgium Province. One has to bear in mind that there is a difference between writings that are only meant to attack and criticize other convictions (polemical), and publications which are merely focused on defending one’s own belief (apologetic). With what goal were these publications written? Were they intended to build up and preserve a Catholic community, and possibly to convert nonCatholics in the Dutch Republic? Did publications written in the Southern

3 Introduced by Willem Frijhoff (1983: 430–459). For a critical note concerning this concept, see Groenveld (1995).

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Low Countries differ from those written in the North? In other words, I focus on whether these publications reflect the contexts or environments in which they were written. Before addressing these questions, I present a short historical outline in order to sketch the essence of my research project and to acknowledge the importance of the background and context therein. 1. The Historical Context In 1540, Pope Paul III officially approved the Society of Jesus (or Jesuit order), which was founded by Ignatius of Loyola. The order expanded quickly throughout Europe, in time becoming the backbone of the Counter-Reformation (or Catholic Reformation) during the Post-Tridentine era. Colleges were erected for teaching the doctrine of the Mother Church to the youth; missionaries were sent to India and the New World to minister the word of God, and other Jesuits swept into the German lands to preach the Catholic life and morality. In their institutes, theological and dogmatic books were written to attack Lutheranism and, later, Calvinism (O’Malley 1998). The first Jesuits who came to the Low Countries settled in the university centre of Leuven in 1542. Several years later, they entered the Netherlands, which was then undergoing many political and religious changes, which would culminate in the Eighty Years’ War (1568–1648). The Dutch Republic had become independent of the Habsburg empire and was now ruled by a Protestant (Calvinist) elite, while the Southern Netherlands (comprising roughly what is currently Belgium) remained under Spanish rule and became the centre of the Counter-Reformation in the Low Countries. In 1572, the United Provinces (another name for the Dutch Republic) prohibited the public celebration of the Catholic mass. In the years to follow, actions were taken against “papist misbehaviors” (paepsche stoutigheden), although there were differences by location. These interventions depended largely on the local authorities and the emergence of sudden, politically motivated upsurges of anti-Catholic sentiments. Ironically, although it was not illegal to be Catholic, it was illegal to worship as one. Parker (2008: 13) correctly observes that the practice of denying Catholics access to their sacraments forced them to live in a permanent state of damnation, causing them to see themselves as persecuted. Since the 1570s, Calvinism prevailed as the public faith in the Republic, although this did not mean that everyone was a member of the Protestant church (Gereformeerde kerk). In fact, it was not until 1650 that approximately half of the Dutch population could be counted as church members

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(lidmaten), and it would take until the late seventeenth century before the nation could be considered Protestantized (Parker 2008: 26). A large group of inhabitants consisted of ‘sympathizers’, people who were not (or not yet) members of any church at all. In parts of North-Brabant and Limburg (the Generality Lands4), Catholics would outnumber Protestants throughout the century. In short, life as a Catholic in the Republic during this era was difficult, although not impossible. The lack of pastoral care, which was a consequence of the declining number of priests, had a particularly strong effect on Roman Catholic-believers, as did the secularization of church property. The situation deteriorated upon the death of Archbishop Schenck van Toutenburg in 1580, which left all five episcopal sees that were subordinated to the Archdiocese of Utrecht5 empty. The only strongholds for Catholics in the North were the diocesan cities of Utrecht and Haarlem, where a structure of Catholic hierarchy continued. In 1592, Sasbout Vosmeer, the former vicar general of Haarlem, was appointed apostolic vicar with jurisdiction over all the northern provinces. As a consequence, the archdiocese of Utrecht ceased to exist, and was transformed into the Dutch Mission (Missio Hollandica), with an internuncio, and later the Propaganda Fide in Rome, as its supreme head. In the same year, Vosmeer had asked the Society of Jesus to offset the scarcity of secular priests by sending a number of Jesuits to the Republic. In 1592, four members entered the Dutch Mission, which was attached to the Belgian (later, the Flemish-Belgian) Jesuit Province. The number of Jesuits increased to fifteen in 1616, fifty-three in 1631, and even eighty in 1668 (Spiertz 1991: 87). In contrast to what these figures suggest, conflicts arose between the Jesuits and the secular clergy soon after the order entered the Republic, and this affected the status of the mission territory, causing disagreement about clerical authority and even raising fundamental theological questions about the doctrine of grace (Jansenism). During the seventeenth century, the animosity grew harsher, affecting and even dividing groups of Catholic believers within the Republic (Ackermans 2003; Hoppenbrouwers 1996: 9– 20). The Jesuits who served as missionaries in the Republic came from the Southern Low Countries, where they were educated in accordance with the Tridentine reform program. Diocesan priests destined for the North-

4

Directly ruled by the States General. The Archdiocese of Utrecht was erected in 1559, and it included the dioceses of Haarlem, Deventer, Leeuwarden, Groningen, and Middelburg. 5

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ern Netherlands were taught according to the directives of Trent in the Collegium Pulcheriae Mariae Virginis in Leuven, which was erected especially for that purpose in 1602, and in the Collegium Alticollense in Cologne (erected in 1617).6 The clergy (both secular and regular) who were taught here were among the best educated in Europe (Parker 2008: 19). The first members of the Society of Jesus who came to the Netherlands administered the sacraments as itinerants, and they were often disguised as farmers, tinkers, or merchants. Over the years, they created permanent locations (‘stations’) from which they could work among their fellow believers, as did other regular clergymen. Most of these stations (or even clandestine churches) were erected in the larger and more tolerant cities like Amsterdam, Delft, and Utrecht. To provide an indication, there were around twenty Roman Catholic stations in Amsterdam in 1700, three of which were administered by Jesuits. At the same time, Utrecht had eleven Catholic stations, four of which were staffed by members of the Society (Kaplan 2007: 174; Spiertz 1991: 88–89). In the rural provinces of Friesland, Groningen, Overijssel, and Zeeland, severe persecution made it harder to erect these illegal places of worship (Hoppenbrouwers 1996: 65). Throughout the entire seventeenth century, Catholic laypeople in the Republic were of the utmost importance for maintaining these missionary posts, supporting the clergy, paying ransom when priests were caught, and bribing the local authorities to turn a blind eye so that priests could administer the sacraments. Within this clandestine Catholic network, the Jesuits not only administered the sacraments, but also taught the catechism and introduced such pious devotions as the veneration of Jesuit and national saints (e.g., St Boniface and St Willibrord). They also held polemical and apologetic sermons, which were accessible to Catholic believers, as well as to non-Catholic audiences, including Calvinists, Mennonites, and the previously mentioned large group of sympathizers.7 Local narratives of the Catholic past were recounted and devotional and controversial literature was explained, thereby creating an important Catholic subculture of belonging. Polemic

6 Other colleges incorporated into the University of Leuven that were important for educating secular priests for the Republic were the Willibrord College and the Collegium Regium (Hoppenbrouwers 1996: 18). 7 This is more than often mentioned in the manuscript Acta Missionis, written by Norbertus Aerts S.J. Examples: I, 1616, ANSI, OS, inv. nr. 376, f. 127; IV, 1631, 1634, 1635, 1637, ANSI, OS, inv. nr. 379, f. 74–76, 263, 328, 453, 458; VI, 1644, 1651, 1655, 1656 ANSI, OS, inv. nr. 381, resp. f. 72–73, 307, 453, 490–491; VIII, 1667, 147–149.

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and apologetic publications written by Jesuits played an important role in this process of persuasion, conversion, and influence. 2. Publications in Context During roughly the first forty years, from 1542 until 1584, the Jesuits who worked in the Low Countries were not able to produce a significant number of publications due to a lack of members, in addition to financial, political, and settlement problems. From its beginning, the Society of Jesus had recognized the importance of printing for theological and educational purposes. At the end of the sixteenth century, when the Society was firmly established in the Southern Netherlands, the number of publications written by its members started to grow rapidly and reflected a variety of subjects. Their publications obviously included devotional, exegetical, and theological literature, although they addressed scientific, historical, and medical topics as well (Andriessen 1991: 61–70). Internationally, the Society of Jesus was known for producing controversial literature, which they used to combat Protestants. The Lectures on the Controversies of the Christian Faith Against the Heretics of This Time (Disputationes de controversiis christianae fidei adversus huius temporis haereticos; 1586–1593) by Robert Bellarmine, S.J. became the cornerstone of the systematic Catholic controversial theology, and most of the polemic and apologetic publications of the seventeenth century had to pay tribute to this major work, especially in the structure of their theological argumentation and quoting of church authorities in the controversies.8 In this respect, it is important to emphasize that the controversial and non-irenical publications written by seventeenth-century Catholic clergy were not as original and brilliant as those of the sixteenth century had been. The authors continually repeated the standard arguments against the Protestants: they were heretical, they were scattered in different denominations, they lacked a hierarchy, they were not founded by Christ, and they refused to accept the doctrine of the transubstantiation and the veneration of saints (Hoppenbrouwers 1996: 58–61; Nissen 1988; Polman 1932). This iteration in argumentation was adopted in some way by the nine selected polemical writers of the Flemish-Belgian Province of the Society of Jesus who play a central role in my research project.9 All of these authors

8

For an interpretation of this work, see Dietrich (1999). Jacob Stratius (1559–1634), Johannes van Gouda (1571–1630), Augustinus van Teylingen (1587–1669), Godefridus Wandelman (1590–1654), Gerardus Otthonis (1592–1675), Paulus van 9

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published polemical and apologetic literature or texts (e.g., tracts, sermons, hymns, historical books, pastoral letters, and pamphlets) during the seventeenth century that circulated through the Northern and Southern Low Countries. For example Clear Signs of the Church of Christ (Clare sekere aenwysinge vande Kercke Christi; 1647) written by Wandelman, School in the Differences of Faith (Schole van ’t verschil des gheloofs; 1655) from Otthonis and Ecclesiastical History of the Whole World (Kerckelycke historie van de gheheele wereldt; 1667–1671) from the author Hazart. Most of these publications were written in Dutch and were meant for the common folk of the Southern Netherlands and the Republic, many of whom were literate, especially in the Dutch cities (Frijhoff 1999: 237–238; Hart 1976: 115–181, esp. 130– 132, 178–179; Parker 2008: 21). Although most of this literature was published in the Southern Low Countries, some Catholic literature was printed in the Republic, especially in Amsterdam. For security reasons, this literature was often published under a false printing address (Antwerp or Cologne) and pseudonym.10 To provide an indication of the total volume of these ‘hidden’ editions, 134 publications (irrespective of subject and including reprints) were written by members of the Society of Jesus in the Republic during the first half of the seventeenth century. In the second half of that century, the number had increased to 349 editions (Begheyn 1997: 299, 1998: 141). The controversial writings of the Jesuits of the Flemish-Belgian Province had a two-fold purpose. First, they were circulated in order to consolidate the Catholic faith within their own group and to reinforce the weak and indecisive fellow believers in their faith. This was done by emphasizing the superiority of the Catholic Church, stressing its continuity from Christ onward and its universalism. The second intention was to convert nonCatholics, persuade them of the wrongfulness of their faith or disbelief by expressing that their souls were in peril of damnation if they did not convert to Catholicism. A range of tactics, argumentation styles, rhetorical strategies, biblical metaphors and conversion narratives were used in these processes of consolidation and persuasion.11 To become aware of these tactics I

den Berghe (1609–1683), Franciscus Mijleman (1610–1667), Cornelius Hazart (1617–1690), and Joannes van der Laen (1618–1669). 10 Mijleman published under the pseudonyms Van der Brugge and Victor à Campis, Wandelman under Theodose Tranquille/Theophilus Tranquillus and his initials G.W., Van den Berghe under Van Dael and Van der Laen under Leonardi van Saenen. 11 See Bäumer (1991: 254–272), Kooi (2007: 271–285), and Van Gemert (2005: 93–100). For the reverse order, see Pettegree (2005).

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investigate the (argumentation) structure of the texts, the used quotations (from the Bible and church authorities), the authors’ possible knowledge of Protestant ideas and the attitude of the texts (didactical, non-conformist, or triumphant). Thousands of these controversial works, ranging from a one paged pamphlet to huge folios, were published, distributed, and read in the seventeenth century, often evoking reactions—in print—by Protestant ministers. In this research project, I describe a selection of controversial publications by the above-mentioned Jesuits by analyzing the strategies of consolidation and persuasion used in their publications, as well as the impact that the context (environment),12 the target group (Catholics or non-Catholics), and the polemical tradition of the Society of Jesus (especially Bellarmine) had on this process. In order to distinguish the influence of the environment or ‘narrative aspect’ of the Dutch Mission in these writings, I have divided the selected Jesuit authors into three groups. The first group consists of Jesuits who had only pastoral duties in the Catholic Southern Netherlands (Van Gouda and Hazart). The second group includes Jesuits who were active as missionaries in the Republic for at least ten years (Van Teylingen, Otthonis, Van den Berghe, Mijleman, Van der Laen). The final cluster comprises the priests of the Society who were active in the Dutch Mission for less than ten years, after which they returned to the South, where they published controversial literature (Wandelman, Stratius). For the last group, I analyze only those publications that were written after the authors’ missionary periods. My hypothesis is that the apologetic and polemical publications of these missionaries were influenced by their labor in the ‘Vineyard of the Lord’. In other words, their writing was affected by their pastoral duties within the multi-confessional Republic. Their task as missionaries in a society in which members of the Holy Mother Church were considered second-class citizens could succeed only by adapting local customs, keeping a low profile, and integrating the local Catholic narratives and circumstances with the PostTridentine Catholicism in which they had been educated as missionaries in the Southern Low Countries (cf. Mullett 1999: 168–174). An initial comparison of the polemical works of Cornelius Hazart, who worked almost his entire life in Antwerp, and of Franciscus Mijleman, who

12 The period of publication is obviously taken into account as well. Publishing at the beginning of the seventeenth century differed in political and religious viewpoints from writing during the Twelve Years’ Truce, the Peace of Münster, or at the end of that century.

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remained a missionary for more than twenty-eight years in the Ommeland (the rural area around Groningen) yields remarkable results. The more than eighty publications by Hazart are written in an aggressive polemic style, more often than not pouring out abuses about the Calvinist ministers who were living in the Republic, just across the borders near Antwerp. Chain polemics with these ministers were often the result. Hazart, who was even appointed as a ‘controversial preacher’ (concionator controversiarum) in Antwerp, had a large audience of both Catholics and non-Catholics, who came to listen to his public sermons. In an international port like Antwerp, particularly during the Twelve Years’ Truce (1609–1621), Protestants were able to attend these polemic sermons, which were set apart from the official mass and often held during fairs or other public festivities (Van Gennip 2007: 100–110). Mijleman, who published most of his controversial works at the end of his life in the Republic (under a false printing address) and a pseudonym, was especially concerned to make clear to both Catholic and non-Catholic reading circles the heretical intentions of the Mennonites, who were active in the province of Groningen.13 For example, he warned Catholic parents that their children should not marry Mennonites.14 In another publication, he even identified his own theological dispute with a Mennonite as the reason for putting the discussion into print.15 An entirely different manuscript was the Honor of the Ommeland (Ommelands Eer), which focused completely on the Catholic community in the Ommelanden by emphasizing the area’s ‘glorious’ pre-Reformation past through narratives and biblical metaphors. The Honor of the Ommeland created a strong sense of belonging among Catholics (Van Gennip 2009: 23–55). In order to understand the intention of the polemical writer with his publications, it is crucial to identify the group of readers he had in mind: Catholics, ‘sympathizers’, non-Catholics (Calvinists, Lutherans, Mennonites or all three confessions) or Catholics as well as non-Catholics. The author often makes some remarks on his target group in the prologue or closing words of his publication, or sometimes even addresses a group of believers in his introduction. But one has to be critical toward these references, because sometimes the author changes his group of readers during his plea or states

13 Just as Catholics, Mennonites were not able to profess their faith freely in the Republic. From time to time, they were heavily persecuted by the Calvinist government (Zijlstra 2000). 14 Mijleman, De Getrouwe Leydsman (1664): 224–225. 15 Mijleman, Vast ende klaer bewys (1661).

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that his work is intended for Mennonites, in this way not offending the Public Church in the Republic, but while one takes a closer look at the text the Jesuit also criticizes the Calvinists. This analysis clearly shows that the dialectical environment in which these pastors acted, their target group, and the strategies of consolidation, persuasion, and conversion are interrelated in these publications. Identifying these characteristics provides insight into the adaptability of the Jesuit missionaries in the Republic, their contacts with laypeople, and the way in which their controversial publications fused and reflected on the Tridentine-polemic tradition of the South and the suppressed, but persistent Catholicism of the laypeople in the North. References Ackermans, G., Herders en huurlingen. Bisschoppen en priesters in de Republiek (1663–1705). Amsterdam: Uitgeverij Prometheus/Bert Bakker, 2003. Andriessen, J., “Apostolaat met de pen. Intellectuelen en artistieke activiteiten.” Pp. 61–73 in De jezuïeten in de Nederlanden en het prinsbisdom Luik (1542–1773). Edited by E. Put and M. Wynants. Brussel: Algemeen Rijksarchief Brussel, 1991. Bäumer, R., “Motiva conversionis ad fidem catholicam. Konversionsgründe im Zeitalter der Katholischen Reform,” Forum Katholische Theologie 4 (1991): 254–272. Begheyn, P., “Uitgaven van jezuïeten in de Noordelijke Nederlanden 1601–1650,” De zeventiende eeuw 13/1 (1997): 293–308. ———, “Uitgaven van jezuïeten in de Noordelijke Nederlanden 1651–1700,” De zeventiende eeuw 14/1 (1998): 135–158. Begheyn, P., B. Deprez, and R. Faesen (eds.), Jesuit Books in the Low Countries 1540– 1773. A Selection from the Maurits Sabbe Library. Leuven: Peeters, 2009. Dietrich, T., Die Theologie der Kirche bei Robert Bellarmin (1542–1621). Systematische Voraussetzungen des Kontroverstheologen. Paderborn: Bonifatius Druck-BuchVerlag, 1999. Frijhoff, W., “Katholieke toekomstverwachting ten tijde van de Republiek: structuur en grondlijnen tot een interpretatie,” Bijdragen en mededelingen betreffende de geschiedenis der Nederlanden 98 (1983): 430–459. Frijhoff, W., and M. Spies, 1650: bevochten eendracht. Den Haag: Sdu Uitgevers, 1999. Groenveld, S., Huisgenoten des geloofs. Was de samenleving in de Republiek der Verenigde Nederlanden verzuild? Hilversum: Uitgeverij Verloren, 1995. Hart, S., Geschrift en getal. Een keuze uit de demografisch-, economisch- en sociaalhistorische studiën op grond van Amsterdamse en Zaanse archivalia, 1600–1800. Dordrecht: Historische Vereniging Holland, 1976. Hoppenbrouwers, F.J.M., Oefening in volmaaktheid. De zeventiende-eeuwse roomskatholieke spiritualiteit in de Republiek. Den Haag: Sdu Uitgevers, 1996. Kaplan, B.J., Divided by Faith. Religious Conflict and the Practice of Toleration in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2007.

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Kooi, C., “Paying Off the sheriff. Strategies of Catholic toleration in Golden Age Holland.” Pp. 87–101 in Calvinism and Religious Toleration in the Dutch Golden Age. Edited by R. Po-Chia Hsia and H. Van Nierop. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. ———, “Conversion in a Multiconfessional Society. The Dutch Republic.” Pp. 271–285 in Konversion und Konfession in der Frühen Neuzeit. Edited by U. Lotz-Heumann, J.-F. Missfielder, and M. Pohlig. Heidelberg: Gütersloher Verlaghaus, 2007. O’Malley, J.W., The First Jesuits. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998. First ed. 1993. Mullett, M.A., The Catholic Reformation. London/New York: Routledge, 1999. Nissen, P., De katholieke polemiek tegen de dopers. Reacties van katholieke theologen op de doperse beweging in de Nederlanden (1530–1650). Enschede: Quick Service, 1988. Parker, C.H., Faith on the Margins. Catholics and Catholicism in the Dutch Golden Age. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008. Pettegree, A., Reformation and the Culture of Persuasion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Pollmann, J., “From Freedom of Conscience to Confessional Segregation? Religious Choice and Toleration in the Dutch Republic.” Pp. 123–148 in Persecution and Pluralism: Calvinists and Religious Minorities in Early Modern Europe, 1550–1700. Edited by R. Bonney and D.J.B. Trim. Oxford: Peter Lang Publishing, 2006. Polman, P., l’Element historique dans la controverse religieuse du XVIe siècle. Gembloux: Duculot, 1932. Spiertz, M., “Pastorale praktijk in de Hollandse Zending. Jezuïeten in de Republiek der Zeven Provinciën (1592–1773).” Pp. 87–99 in De jezuïeten in de Nederlanden en het prinsbisdom Luik (1542–1773). Edited by E. Put and M. Wynants. Brussel: Algemeen Rijksarchief Brussel, 1991. van Eck, A., Clandestine Splendour. Painting for the Catholic Church in the Dutch Republic. Zwolle: Waanders, 2008. van Gemert, G., “De jezuïet Jodocus Kedd (1597–1657) en de interconfessionele polemiek in de Nederlanden en in het Duitse taalgebied.” Pp. 89–100 in Wegen van kerstening in Europa, 1300–1900. Edited by C. Caspers, F. Korsten, and P. Nissen. Budel: Damon, 2005. van Gennip, J., “Een Roomse strijder met pen en preek. De Antwerpse controversist Cornelius Hazart S.J. (1617–1690),” Tijdschrift voor Nederlandse kerkgeschiedenis 10/4 (2007): 100–110. ———, “Franciscus Mijleman (1610–1667). Een jezuïetenmissionaris werkzaam in de Ommelanden in de zeventiende eeuw,” Trajecta. Religie, cultuur en samenleving in de Nederlanden 18/1 (2009): 23–55. Zijlstra, S., Om de ware gemeente en de oude gronden. Geschiedenis van de dopersen in de Nederlanden 1531–1675. Hilversum/Leeuwarden: Uitgeverij Verloren/Fryske Akademy, 2000.

Sources Nijmegen, Archief Nederlandse jezuïeten (ANSI), collectie Oude Sociëteit (OS): Norbertus Aerts, Hs. Acta Missionis Hollandicae (authentic copy).

262 Inv. nr. 376. 379. 381. 382. 383.

joep w.j. van gennip 1614–1622 (vol. I), 1630–1638 (vol. IV), 1643–1656 (vol. VI), 1657–1664 (vol. VII), 1665–1670 (vol. VIII).

Published Mijleman, Franciscus, Vast ende klaer bewijs hoe dat Christus Jesus, onsen saligmaker, in zijn H. Menschwordinghe heeft uyt zijns H. Moeders, en Maegts Maria suyver lichaem aengenomen onze Nature, dat is: Vleesch en Bloedt. Hoe dat oock het selve vastelijck, ende ontwijfelijck te gelooven is, een ygelyck noodigh ter saligheyt die tot kennisse komt. Eerst tegen eenen particulieren geschreven, nu voor een yegelyck in ’t licht gebracht. Antwerpen [= Amsterdam]: Philips van Eyck, 1661. ———, Getrouwe Leydsman, ofte Erntstlijcke waerschouwinge voor alle die hedendaegs, bij menighte seggen: Die goedt doet en op God betrouwt, sal wel saligh worden, midlertijdt leven en sterven onbekommert. Sonder belijdenisse, ofte gebruyck van het eenighste, algemeen, saligmakende geloof. Door François van der Brugge. In ’t licht gebracht voor alle de menighte, die in duysternisse wandelen, sonder sorge op ’t poinct der saligheyt. Antwerpen [= Amsterdam]: Philips van Eyck, 1664.

MEANS OF SUBMISSION OR SYMBOL OF PROTEST? THE HABIT OF THE SISTER OF ST CHARLES BORROMEO AMALIE AUGUSTINE VON LASAULX (1815–1872)*

Angela Berlis After a period in which the narrative form of history was rejected as unscholarly or historicist, recent decades have witnessed a reaction. In her discussion of cultural history, Ute Daniel (2001: 440) refers to a “narrative turn”. It would appear that even after the oft-predicted collapse of the ‘Grand Narrative’ (J.-F. Lyotard, 1979), interest in history as narrated stories has in no way disappeared. Historians have, however, become more critical and more careful about the way in which history can be narrated: who is telling the story, from what perspective and with what intention? Which ‘grand narratives’ may be playing a background role in the telling of this story, either implicitly or explicitly? Whose actions are being described, whose perspective is privileged, and whose are not? Much can be learned from literary theory here (Bal 2009). Historians have also become more sensitive to lacunae: where are things being left out or left unsaid? Good films live from the cutting process; from an excision of scenes which nonetheless leaves a coherent narrative, and which may allow the audience to reconstruct the missing episodes themselves (Daniel 2001: 442). Anyone who seeks to describe a historical incident is inevitably confronted with such ‘cuts’; with gaps in the narrative which are caused by the destruction or loss of sources or because the material sources never existed in the first place because stories were passed on only orally. When new sources are found, they help to fill out narratives by adding new details, and may sometimes make it possible to tell the story—and write history—differently. This chapter is based on the discovery of a series of new sources in Munich and in Trier which make it possible to narrate a particular event— the circumstances surrounding the death of a religious Sister in 1872—from

* I would like to express my thanks to Markus Isch (Bern, Switzerland) for his English translation of this chapter and to Charlotte Methuen (University of Glasgow) for her comments on the content and her corrections to the translation. An earlier, shorter version of this chapter appeared in German (Berlis 2010).

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several perspectives. This is interesting in that the circumstances of this Sister’s death became a topos and have therefore always been told from the same perspective. Because the protagonists of this event belonged to different camps within the Catholic Church, the existence of topos has had the result that even today the particular perspectives and positions in relation to this event have not changed. The newly-discovered sources make it possible to explore the motivations and intentions of a range of those involved. This results in a revised narrative reconstruction which allows for new interpretations and the inclusion of a range of viewpoints. The chapter begins with a discussion of the significance of clerical and religious clothing, its meaning and symbolism. It then considers the life of Amalie von Lasaulx, who took the veil and became Sister Augustine. As a consequence of her protest against the papal dogmas of the First Vatican Council (1870), she was removed from her position as Mother Superior; she died in 1872. The conflict is considered with particular reference to her habit, drawing on the recently discovered sources in order to offer new perspectives on these events, and especially the question of whether her habit was “torn from her body”. The chapter concludes with a short reflection about the implications of this type of story for the writing of Church History today. 1. The Meaning and Symbolism of Religious Clothing Clergy and members of religious orders are traditionally distinguishable by their particular clothing. Until a few decades ago, dress regulations were a set part of everyday life. People were used to distinghuish between workday and Sunday clothes; clothing norms were also strongly gender specific. Even today in Western Christianity, some religious groups regard skirts as the only appropriate female attire, and discourage women from wearing trousers, especially during services.1

1 The subject of ‘women who wear trousers’ is a constantly recurring historical topos. Women in men’s clothing has almost never been seen as a positive occurrence. The most famous example may be that of the legendary Pope Joan who inevitably ended in disgrace and ignominy. Many caricatures, particularly in the early modern era, show how a woman wearing trousers became a topos of fear of women’s power. The first and second waves of the women’s movement in the late nineteenth and in the twentieth centuries did not oppose these prejudices only through their rhetoric, but also in their practices. Women expressed their protest and bolstered their demands by adopting dress reform or wearing trousers. On the whole tange of these devopments, see Dekker and van de Pol (1989); Stoll and Wodtke-

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In the second half of the twentieth century, dress regulations in church and society underwent significant changes. After the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965), many members of orders in the Roman Catholic Church swapped their habits for more secular attire (Kuhns 2003). In the early second-wave women’s movement, ‘removing the veil’ was often taken to be a sign of liberation (Ewens 1979). The religious habit “no longer conveyed the meaning it was intended to convey”: it was associated with “something naïve, laughable or downright kinky” (Byrne 1990: 98). Religious clothing, however, has not disappeared. It is still seen in everyday life (Spendel et al. 2007),2 and is sometimes even propagated as a positive expression of a visible religious way of life in an increasingly secularized world. Clothing marks boundaries. It delineates the boundaries of the body to the outside world, but also reflects social, cultural, religious and gender boundaries.3 The religious symbolism of clothing is multi-layered: it shows the wearer’s membership of a particular institution, functions as a distinguishing feature both toward the outside and within, and displays the status of the clergy. Clerical clothing—not only liturgical clothing—reflects membership of a particular group and the particular function exercised in and for that group. Furthermore, it serves to distinguish the wearer, both externally—against those who do not belong to this specific group—and internally, marking the different status within a congregation, for instance between priests and lay people or—among nuns—to distinguish between choir sisters and nuns (a distinction that was abolished only in 1967) (Frank 1998). Clothing indicates the status of the religious function. Status, however, can quickly be commuted into degradation and disgrace. Numerous examples can be found in the accounts of people persecuted in the Third Reich; for instance, concentration camp survivors who tell of nuns and priests who, on their arrival at the camp, had their habits or clerical clothing stolen, ridiculed and thrown into the mud, their rosaries broken apart and

Werner (1997). As for religious female transvestism, the most famous case is the legend of a female pope. See for the reception history Gössmann (1994); Boureau (2001). In the trial against Joan of Arc the interplay between clothing, religion, and gender played a mayor role: See Höpflinger (2008: 248–252). 2 In this contribution, a Roman Catholic nun (A. Spendel), a female Protestant minister (A. Röckemann), a Muslim woman (H. Mohaghegi) and a Jewish woman (L. Dämmig) describe and discuss religious clothing in their church or religion. 3 On the historical and cultural significance of clothing in general see Pauly (1997). For the development of the ‘habitus’, the bearing of a person, his/her appearance and manner (a term introduced by Pierre Bourdieu) see Frevert (2003).

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breviaries ground into the dirt. The Nazi’s consciously abused and profaned religious clothing; priests’ vestments and clerical clothing were reworked to clothe women who worked in brothels (Französisches Büro 2005: 61). The talliths or prayer shawls of Jewish men were cut up and given to female Jewish camp inmates as underwear (Raphael 2003: 386). Clothing can clearly play a significant role in conflicts, and it can also be an expression of protest. In December 2007, the Archbishop of York, John Sentamu, cut through the white collar of his episcopal shirt in front of television cameras. The media reported this incident widely. A native of Uganda, Sentamu did it in protest against the actions of the President of Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe, which had, Archbishop Sentamu believed, cut up the identity of the Zimbabwean people. As long as Mugabe remains in power, Sentamu refuses to wear the emblem of his clerical identity as a sign of his solidarity with the people of Zimbabwe.4 Disgrace and protest do not generally feature greatly in literature about religious clothing. In this chapter, the example of the Sister of the congregation of St Charles Borromeo, Sr. Augustine (1815–1872) will be used to consider these aspects. The circumstances of Sister Augustine’s death play a particular role here. Sister Augustine died a few months after her removal from office as Mother Superior of the St Johannis hospital in Bonn in november 1871. Like many other Catholics, she had protested against the declaration of the Pope’s infallibility and jurisdictional primacy at the First Vatican Council (1869/1870). An ‘Old Catholic’ opposition formed to resist these innovations. Doctrinal questions played a role in this dispute, but so too did other factors, such as different devotional practices and conflicting expectations about how the church should respond to the demands of modernity. These factors became increasingly significant in the second half of the nineteenth century. Scholars identify an increasing ‘Ultramontanization’ of Roman Catholicism from the 1850s onward, which relegated more liberal Catholic groupings to the margins. Religious ideas and practices are also always expressed in the ‘material’ aspects of lived Christianity, although this has not yet found much recognition in historical theological research (Molendijk 2003). Such material aspects, including religious clothing, played an important part in disputes between Old Catholics and Roman Catholics.5 4 See http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1572026/Sentamu-cuts-up-dog-collar -in-Mugabe-protest.html or http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7135087.stm. Accessed February 28, 2012. 5 Historian Irmtraud Götz von Olenhusen (1994: 111, 193–197) suggests that the ultramontanization of the Roman Catholic clergy also expresses itself in the priests’ clothing. Wearing

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For, as Linda B. Arthur has affirmed: “We wear our identities on our bodies and our bodies are used by religions to visually communicate world views” (Arthur 1999: 6). This chapter will explore the different contemporary interpretations of Sister Augustine’s habit. An appeal to hitherto unexploited sources makes it possible to include the perspectives of all the parties involved. The chapter will trace the biography of Sister Augustine, paying particular attention to her clothing and to the question of whether her habit was indeed torn from her body. 2. Life Choices Amalie von Lasaulx was born on 19 October 1815 into a renowned noble family in Koblenz (Berlis 1995). At the age of twenty-five, she joined the Sisters of St Charles Borromeo, a congregation which had originated in Nancy, Lorraine, and which had made a substantial contribution to the reform of nursing in Germany. The Borromean Sisters, (colloquially known as the Borromäerinnen or Barmherzige Schwestern, in English Sisters of Charity) had been running the Bürger Hospital in Koblenz since 1826. Many daughters of good families assisted in the hospital. Among them were Amalie’s elder sisters Anna (1810–1866) and Clementine (1812–1877), who would later join the congregation of the Sisters of St Elisabeth in Luxembourg and each in succession became Mother Superior. The youngest sister initially seemed destined for another form of life: Amalie became engaged to be married, but then broke off the engagement out of disappointment with her fiancé, and subsequently experienced a profound crisis. During a long period in Würzburg at the house of her brother Ernst (1805–1861), who was professor extraordinarius in classical philology, she decided to dedicate her life to charity. After making contact in 1838, she joined the community in 1840 as a novice. As Arnold van Gennep points out, joining a religious community can be likened to a change of status: a phase of separation from the postulant’s former life and context is followed by a liminal phase or novitiate and finally a phase of becoming a member or being incorporated, the profession (Köser 2006: 414–418). The ceremonial handing-over of the habit—the clothing— marks this new life phase. It can be seen as a “ritual transformation of the

conspicuous or even torn clothing had always been seen as an expression of misconduct, but from the second half of the 19th century, unclerical behaviour was connected with the failure to wear normal clerical clothing.

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body”: the novice’s hair is cut short, she receives a new name and new clothing (Hüwelmeier 2004: 165; Menges 1995). The habit is often seen symbolically as a “holy garment” (Frank 1997: 393–394). The habit of the Borromean Sisters of Charity has its origins in the traditional dress of women in Lorraine, which was commonly worn at the time when the congregation was founded in the mid seventeenth century. The adopting of normal women’s dress was a conscious decision intended to differentiate the status of the Borromean Sisters of Charity from that of members of enclosed communities, who wore habits (Moll 1947: 7 fn 2).6 The particular focus of the congregation also finds its expression in the vows taken by the sisters: alongside the traditional religious vows, of chastity, poverty and obedience, the Sister of Charity confirms the finality of her relationship to God through two further vows: the vow of stability, which binds her to her sisterly community, and the vow of mercy, which under obedience irrevocably commits her to charitable work. (Moll 1947: 8)

At her clothing, Amalie von Lasaulx received the name Sister Augustine (Von Hoiningen-Huene 1881: 39). At the Mother House in Nancy (Lorraine) she was trained as a pharmacist and in 1842 was sent to the Josephinisches Institut in Aachen, which was run by the Borromean Sisters of Charity. On 17 September 17 1843, Sister Augustine took her final vows in Nancy. In November 1849, Sister Augustine was appointed as head of the newly founded St Johannis Hospital in Bonn. She was renowned, and much loved, for her organizational talent, her care of both the sick and the Sisters—“like a mother” and her generous acceptance of people from every denomination and all walks of life. The people of Bonn fondly called her the “black mother”. Her care for the wounded on the battlefields during the wars of 1864 and 1866 and in the St Johannis Hospital during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870/1871 made her even more widely known (Berlis 2009). She combined a practical approach to life combined with a brisk attitude, which in the nineteenth century was often labeled masculine. Denominational affiliations faded into the background in her friendships. This Catholic sister corresponded with the Protestant Princess Marie von Wied or the Protestant Professor Clemens Perthes (the founder of Christian hostels for journeymen) as well as with the

6 This is, therefore, an example of a so-called ‘fossilized fashion’. Clothing that had originally been chosen to identify these women with the women around them and not to mark them out as religious later came to have precisely the opposite effect. Linda Arthur (1999: 5) emphasizes the relationship between such ‘frozen’ clothing and gender roles, and in particular the importance of control by means of dress regulations.

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Mendelssohn family who were converts from Judaism. Many of those who would later become Old Catholics could be counted amongst her friends and acquaintances. 3. The Dismissal of Sister Augustine as Mother Superior and the Final Months of Her Life The Mother Superior in Bonn followed developments within the Catholic Church with a watchful and critical eye. Her religious upbringing had taught her a liberal Catholicism, and she did not disguise her opposition to the new Vatican doctrines. Her views were also known within her community, and in November 1871, the Order’s Superior General, Mother Mechtilde de Rozières (1810–1872) of Nancy, and the Provincial Superior, Mother Xaveria Rudler (1811–1886) of Trier, travelled to Bonn and dismissed Sister Augustine from her position as Mother Superior. Sister Augustine was already gravely ill, a consequence of her care of the wounded in the wars. Since she was too unwell to travel to Nancy, she was allowed instead to enter the hospital in Vallendar, which was also run by the Borromean Sisters of Charity, whose Mother Superior, Sister Hedwig (1822–1887) was a friend of the dismissed Mother Superior. News of Sister Augustine’s dismissal caused popular outrage far beyond Bonn, and newspapers reported every detail. Sister Augustine spent the remaining two and a half months of her life in the care of the Borromean Sisters of Charity in Vallendar. Her friends and relatives in Bonn offered her a home, but she wished to remain loyal to the vows she had sworn at her profession and stay in her community (Berlis 2004). In Vallendar, she was permitted to receive only few of her old friends. Clergy who had been suspended because of their public opposition against the Vatican decrees were not allowed to visit. Two priests, not yet suspended, secretly brought her communion (Berlis 1998: 558–562). The other Sisters did not understand her position; even Sister Hedwig, her friend, and Sister Gertrud, her attendant who had accompanied her from Bonn to Vallendar, could not see the sense of her position. Sister Augustine received numerous visits from those who wished to ‘convert’ her, including her own sister Clementine (who had taken the religious name Anna), the Mother Superior of the Sisters of St Elisabeth in Luxembourg. On 9 December 1871, Amalie von Lasaulx wrote to the Superior General in Nancy (Trier Mutterhaus Archives; Berlis 2004: 233–234) giving her reasons for holding on to her convictions. She could not accept Papal

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infallibility, which she took to be an aberration. However, she would continue to subscribe to all the other doctrines of the Catholic Church. The Superior General’s response was harsh: Sister Augustine was no longer a member of the community. This letter may have been addressed to Sister Hedwig, for Sister Augustine is spoken of only in the third person. The Superior General ordered that Sister Augustine must lay aside her habit. Sister Hedwig did not immediately enforce this instruction. Sister Augustine died on 28 January 1872. Sister Augustine’s burial took place two days later in a family grave in Weißenthurm. Her body was placed in a boat and transported across the Rhine from Vallendar to Weißenthurm. However, she was denied an honorable burial. Franz Heinrich Reusch (1825–1900), Professor in Bonn, said three Lord’s Prayers and spoke a eulogy to the deceased beside her grave. As a suspended priest, Reusch, the former father confessor of the Sisters at the St Johannis Hospital appeared in secular rather than liturgical clothing. The burial was able to take place uninterrupted, perhaps because the parish priest in Weißenthurm, Hubert Josef Bayerath (1826–1890) despite his calm outward appearance, had taken “all the precautions available to me” and had, among other things, bolted the doors of the church (Trier Diocesan Archives; Berlis 2004: 234–235). However, on January 31, he inquired of the Vicar General in Trier whether the churchyard had not been desecrated by the interment of this “protesting Catholic”. The Vicar General’s answer of 6 February 1872 is notable: he argued that since the deceased had not been banned by name, there had been no “violation” of the church yard. In fact, it would appear that Amalie von Lasaulx had excommunicated herself though her refusal to accept the dogmas pronounced at Rome in July 1870; moreover, she had been expelled from the congregation by order of her Superior General. The Diocese of Trier, however, was clearly keen to avoid any further public commotion.7 4. The Habit—“Torn from Her Body”? Sister Augustine knew that it would be impossible for her to be buried in her habit. Indeed, it is doubtful whether she would have wanted this, since she must have been afraid that the dressing of her corpse in her habit might be taken as a sign of her submission. She did not want to be said

7

The case was also discussed by the government in Koblenz. See Schneider (1993).

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to be ‘converted’ posthumously, and before her death, she requested the Protestant Princess Marie von Wied to check what she was wearing in her coffin. At least this is the implication of a letter written thirty years later by the Princess’s daughter, the Romanian Queen Elisabeth (1843–1916), to the historian Christine von Hoiningen-Huene (1848–1920), one of the two biographers of the late Sister Augustine. Queen Elisabeth, better known under her artistic pseudonym Carmen Sylva, wrote to her: You may not know that she made my mother [Princess Marie von Wied] promise to look at her in her coffin, since she was afraid that through brainwashing or absent-mindedness she might say something that could be taken to mean that she had renounced her views. And at the same time she wept that she would not be buried in her habit. (Central Archives Zurich; Berlis 1995: 299–300)

Princess Marie von Wied found the coffin in the boat and had it opened, “and there she lay in her nightgown and bonnet, with a peaceful smile on her lips as if she were still alive. She had not abjured!” (ibid.) The circumstances of Sister Augustine’s death caused an outcry. The harshness of the treatment meted out to her by her own superiors was generally seen as quite unjustified and provoked great indignation. That she had not been buried in her habit was seen as the culmination of this dishonor. These sentiments continued to resonate in the press, as can be seen from a letter written by Sister Hedwig on 7 February 1876 to Professor Carl von Cornelius (1819–1903) in Munich, a childhood friend of Sister Augustine, and now a leading Old Catholic layman. The Protestant, anti-ultramontane press had reported that the Borromean Sisters of Charity had “torn” Sister Augustine’s habit “from her body” (BSBM; Berlis 2004: 235–236). In rebuttal of this allegation, Sister Hedwig told Cornelius that Amalie von Lasaulx had worn her habit until two days before her death, and had taken it off only because it had become too heavy for her to bear. In response, Carl von Cornelius had an appropriate notice placed in the Old Catholic paper Deutscher Merkur (Berlis 2004: 236–237). The letter is evidence that Sister Hedwig did not obey the Superior General’s instructions that Sister Augustine should no longer be allowed to wear her habit. Sister Hedwig did not understand her friend’s attitude, but she had not tried to convert her.

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Despite this correction published in the press, many retained a strong image of a nun who had been literally stripped of her well-deserved reputation, seen as a symbol of the harsh measures meted out by the Roman Catholic church against critical voices in its midst. In the Old Catholic church, Amalie von Lasaulx was revered for her courageous admission and honored as a confessor, or almost a martyr (Reinkens 1878). The discovery of hitherto unexploited archival sources in Munich and Trier has made possible a more precise reconstruction of events and the correlation of different interpretations and perspectives. Most of the voices quoted here have never previously been public. Sister Augustine’s habit plays a central role. This is true not only in the final phase of her life, but from the time of her joining the Sisters of St Charles Borromeo. At her clothing, her habit became part of her identity. There are no surviving pictures or photographs of her that show her wearing anything other than her habit. The people of Bonn, who nicknamed her the ‘black mother’, emphasized not only her religious function but also her habit. A reflection written after a retreat in 1854 shows Sister Augustine’s sense that her habit was an important expression of her vocational ethos as well as her awareness of its power: I feel more confident and brave when facing open violence than when accompanied by those who hide their weapons under their clothes. But when religious clothing not only hides such weapons but drives them deeper into a dissenter’s breast, then I have to catch my breath.9 (Von Hoiningen-Huene 1878: 89)

Once Sister Augustine had come into conflict with her superiors, various interpretations emerged. For the Superior General, the habit represented a means by which she could take disciplinary action against the Sister. The removal of Sister Augustine’s habit was visible proof of her expulsion from the community. However, the Superior General’s authority did not in practice extend to Vallendar, where Sister Hedwig declined to question the integrity of her sister, despite orders to the contrary. Clearly there was

8 Sister Hedwig to the Provincial Superior, December 21, 1871. Trier Mutterhaus Archives published in Berlis (2004: 234). 9 Translation from German by Charlotte Methuen. The English version (which is not used here) can be found in: Von Hoiningen-Huene (1881: 111).

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little question for Sister Hedwig that Sister Augustine still belonged to her spiritual family. In the end it was Sister Augustine herself who chose to remove her habit when it became too heavy for her. However, this did not alter her selfperception, for she had literally internalized her vesture: What does it signify? … It only comes to this, that one day I shall get up and not find my black dress, and then you will be forced to address me as Miss von Lasaulx; but, before God and my own conscience, I shall still remain a Sister of Charity. (Von Hoiningen-Huene 1881: 330)

For Sister Augustine’s circle of friends, the habit was symbol of self-control: that Amalie von Lasaulx did not wear it in death was proof that she had persevered in her protest and not submitted. For many of her contemporaries, particularly the people of Bonn, the fact that Sister Augustine was not buried in her habit was above all a sign of the dishonoring of its wearer. The use of additional sources has shown that the disciplinary action is not the only interpretation of Sister Augustine’s habit. Instead, her choice not to wear—or not to be buried in—her habit can be seen to be an act of protest and a symbol of her perseverance in her original convictions. At the same time, the habit remains a symbol of Sister Augustine’s relationship to her community and to the significance of her ‘holy dress’. Amalie von Lasaulx wore that ‘holy dress’ until shortly before her death; it was integral to her way of life and to her vocation. 6. Reconstruction of Narratives as Opening of Wider Historical Perspectives In conclusion, one might ask what a reconstruction of a narrative on a microhistorical level means for the writing of church history. Until the 1980s, it was common in church historical writing on the First Vatican Council to point to the influence upon Sister Augustine by her confessor in the St Johannis Hospital or by other priests (see for example Franzen 1974: 45 fn 52, 253). Sister Augustine was not seen as an actor and was less visible in this view. However, a re-reading of the two biographies about her (Von Hoiningen-Huene 1878; Reinkens 1878) together with the newlyfound sources offers another picture of her: not that of a dependent woman, but of a clear-minded and determined nun and leader who knew her own religious principles and followed them. Whilst the two biographies were both written shortly after Sister Augustine’s death and from the point of view of those who were opposing the Vatican decrees, some of the new sources

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considered here make visible the position of others, including those who defended the Vatican decrees. In this chapter, sources from both parties have been brought into conversation with each other. The result is that different perspectives on Sister Augustine’s agency in one of the main conflicts within Roman Catholicism in the nineteenth century are offered. Additionally, this micro-historical approach makes it possible to trace new insights into how the struggle between the two parties developed. The particularity of this individual case allows more general conclusions to be drawn about the wider history. The reconstruction of this episode represents a recounted reality (“erzählte Wirklichkeit”; Rosenthal 1994: 128). Church historians have recently begun to consider, not only the events of ecclesiastical politics, but also material witnesses such as clothing which make possible the analysis of historical relationships and the construction of gender. It has become clear that clothing is an important means of religious communication and for the expression of religious conflict. This presents a challenge to today’s historians. If we do not want to tell the same story over and over again in a kind of repetitive litany, just as earlier generations have told it, we need to include insights gained from these new sources. New approaches and questions, together with new sources enable the retelling: because we see differently, we tell differently. For a long time, the story of Sister Augustine functioned as an identity marker: Sister Augustine was—dependent of the point-of-view of the observer—seen either as a renegade and apostate, or as one of the martyr-confessors of the first flush of Old Catholicism. Every community needs to understand its roots. The challenge is to meet that need with a re-told narrative of Sister Augustine. It is the responsibility of church history to break out of the cycle of repetitive story-telling, and to offer new interpretations, which draw on newly discovered—or newly interpreted—sources, which are adequate to fulfill today’s expectations that historiography will take proper account of gender, and which make possible an ecumenical reading of history. References Arthur, L.B., “Dress and the Social Control of the Body.” Pp. 1–7 in Religion, Dress and the Body. Edited by L.B. Arthur. Oxford/New York: Berg, 1999. Bal, M., Narratology. Introduction to the Theory of Narrative. 3rd edition. Toronto/ Buffalo/London: University of Toronto Press, 2009. Originally in Dutch: 1980. Berlis, A., “Das Ordenskleid der Borromäerin Amalie Augustine von Lasaulx (1815– 1872). Mittel der Disziplinierung oder Symbol des Protests?” Pp. 119–131 in Das neue Kleid. Feministisch-theologische Perspektiven auf geistliche und weltliche Ge-

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wänder. Edited by E. Hartlieb, J. Koslowski, and U. Wagner-Rau. Sulzbach/Taunus: Ulrike Helmer Verlag, 2010. ———, “Eine Borromäerin im deutsch-dänischen Krieg (1864). Amalie Augustine von Lasaulx und die Pflege Verwundeter,” Schriften des Vereins für SchleswigHolsteinische Kirchengeschichte 54 (2009): 87–112. ———, “Mieux que six évêques et douze professeurs … Amalie von Lasaulx (1815– 1871) et la naissance du vieux-catholicisme allemand.” Pp. 227–237 in Archivio per la storia delle donne. Volume 1. Edited by A. Valerio. Neapel: D’Auria, 2004. ———, Frauen im Prozeß der Kirchwerdung. Eine historisch-theologische Studie zur Anfangsphase des deutschen Altkatholizismus (1850–1890). Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1998. ———, “Sie war ein grosser freier Geist. Amalie Augustine von Lasaulx (1815–1872),” Oekumenisches Forum. Grazer Jahrbuch für konkrete Ökumene 18 (1995): 289–300. Boureau, A., The Myth of Pope Joan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001. Byrne, L., “Apart From or A Part Of. The Place of Celibacy.” Pp. 97–106 in Through the Devil’s Gateway. Women, Religion and Taboo. Edited by A. Joseph. London: SPCK, 1990. Daniel, U., Kompendium Kulturgeschichte. Theorien, Praxis, Schlüsselwörter. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 2001. Dekker, R., and L.C. van de Pol, The Tradition of Female Transvestism in Early Modern Europe. Foreword by Burke. P. Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989. Dekker, R. and L.C. van de Pol, Vrouwen in mannenkleren. De geschiedenis van een tegendraadse traditie. Europa 1500–1800. Amsterdam: Wereldbibliotheek, 1989. Deutscher Merkur 7 (1876): 171–172. Ewens OP, M., “Removing the Veil. The Liberated American Nun.” Pp. 256–277 in Women of Spirit. Female Leadership in the Jewish and Christian Traditions. Edited by R. Radford Ruether and E. McLaughlin. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1979. Frank, K.S., “Ordenstracht,” Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche, 3rd edition, vol. 7 (1998): col. 1108–1109. ———, “Mönchskleidung,” Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche, 3rd edition, vol. 7 (1997): col. 393–394. Franzen, A., Die Katholisch-Theologische Fakultät Bonn im Streit um das Erste Vatikanische Konzil. Bonner Beiträge zur Kirchengeschichte 6. Köln-Weimar: Böhlau Verlag, 1974. Französisches Büro des Informationsdienstes über Kriegsverbrechen (ed.), Konzentrationslager Dokument F 321 für den Internationalen Militärgerichtshof Nürnberg. With edits, commentaries and afterword by P. Neitzke and M. Weinmann. 18th edition, 61. Frankfurt: Zweitausendeins, 2005. Frevert, U., “Männer in Uniform. Habitus und Signalzeichen im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert.” Pp. 277–295 in Männlichkeit als Maskerade. Kulturelle Inszenierungen vom Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart. Edited by C. Benthien and I. Stephan. Köln: Böhlau, 2003. Gössmann, E., Mulier Papa. Der Skandal eines weiblichen Papstes. Zur Rezeptionsgeschichte der Gestalt der Päpstin Johanna. München: Iudicium, 1994. Götz von Olenhusen, I., Klerus und abweichendes Verhalten. Zur Sozialgeschichte katholischer Priester im 19. Jahrhundert: Die Erzdiözese Freiburg. Kritische Studien zur Geschichtswissenschaft 106. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994.

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Höpflinger, A.-K., “Mehr verschandelt als verwandelt. Kleidung als Medium der Geschlechterkonstruktion in religiösen Symbolsystemen.” Pp. 243–255 in Handbuch Gender und Religion. Edited by A.-K. Höpflinger, A. Jeffers, and M. PezzoliOlgiati. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2008. Hüwelmeier, G., Närrinen Gottes. Lebenswelten von Ordensfrauen. Münster/New York/Berlin/München: Waxmann, 2004. Köser, S., Denn eine Diakonisse darf kein Alltagsmensch sein. Kollektive Identitäten Kaiserswerther Diakonissen 1836–1914. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2006. Kuhns, E., The Habit. A History of the Clothing of Catholic Nuns. New York/London/ Toronto/Sydney/Auckland: Doubleday, 2003. Menges, E.D., “Einkleidung” Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche 3rd edition, vol. 3 (1995): col. 553. Molendijk. A.L. (ed), Materieel Christendom. Religie en materiële cultuur in WestEuropa. Hilversum: Verloren, 2003. Moll, K., Mutter Maria Ulrich, Novizenmeisterin der Borromäerinnen zu Trier, 1851– 1926. Limburg a.d. Lahn: 1947. Pauly, S., “Kleidung. I. Kulturgeschichtlich, II. Geistliche Kleidung,” Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche 3rd edition, vol. 6 (1997): 121. Raphael, M., “Holiness in extremis. Jewish Women’s Resistance to the Profane in Auschwitz.” Pp. 381–401 in Holiness Past and Present. Edited by S.C. Barton. London/New York: T & T Clark, 2003. Reinkens, J.H., Amalie von Lasaulx. Eine Bekennerin. Bonn: P. Neusser, 1878. Rosenthal, G., “Die erzählte Lebensgeschichte als historisch-soziale Realität. Methodologische Implikationen für die Analyse biographischer Texte.” Pp. 125– 138 in Alltagskultur, Subjektivität und Geschichte. Zur Theorie und Praxis von Alltagsgeschichte. Edited by Berliner Geschichtswerkstatt. Münster: Westfälisches Dampfboot, 1994. Schneider, H., “Ein ungewöhnliches Begräbnis in Weißenthurm. Leben und Sterben der Amalie von Lassaulx (1815–1872).” Pp. 51–55 in Heimatbuch 1994. Edited by Landkreis Mayen-Koblenz. Höhr-Grenzhausen: Linus Wittich, 1993. Spendel, A., Röckemann, A., Mohaghegi, H., and Dämmig, L., “Was trägst du eigentlich? Frauen und ihre religiöse Kleidung.” Schlangenbrut 25/99 (2007) 13–16. Stoll, A. and V. Wodtke-Werner, Sakkorausch und Rollentausch. Männliche Leitbilder als Freiheitsentwürfe von Frauen. Dortmund: Edition Ebersbach, 1997. [von Hoiningen-Huene, C.], Sister Augustine, an Old Catholic. Superior of the Sisters of Charity in the St. Johannis Hospital at Bonn. Authorized Translation from the German. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1881. ———, Erinnerungen an Amalie von Lasaulx, Schwester Augustine, Oberin der Barmherzigen Schwestern im St. Johannishospital zu Bonn. 2nd edition. Gotha: Friedrich Andreas Perthes, 1878.

Archives Archiv der Kongregation vom hl. Karl Borromäus, Mutterhaus Trier [= Trier Mutterhaus Archives]. Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, München, Carl von Cornelius Papers [= BSBM] Diözesanarchiv Trier, Abt. 70, Nr. 6848 [= Trier Diocesan Archives]

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Zentralarchiv Zürich, Christine von Hoiningen gen. Huene Papers [= Central Archives Zurich]

Websites (accessed February 28, 2012) http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1572026/Sentamu-cuts-up-dog-collar -in-Mugabe-protest.html http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/7135087.stm.

A RELIGION EN PLEIN PUBLIC. CHARLOTTE SALOMON AND THE THEATRE OF MEMORY

Liesbeth Hoeven “Keep this safe. It is my whole life” (Felstiner 1994: x) were the words of Charlotte Salomon when she gave her script Leben? Oder Theater?1 with a collection of paintings and associated texts and music, to a friend, right before her deportation to Auschwitz in 1943. Charlotte’s artwork contains a complex set of coherent interlocking narratives. She not only narrated her family history in the presence of her painting book, but also recalled an entire exiled nation’s struggle for self-preservation in a situation of alienation. 1. Leben? Oder Theater? Her Artwork Telling a Story—The Story of Her Life The biographical story of Charlotte (born in Berlin on 16 April 1917, killed in Auschwitz on 10 October 1943—four months pregnant at that moment), which was situated in Germany (1917–1939) and later in France (1939–1943), as shaped in her artwork Leben? Oder Theater?, can be viewed as some sort of a ‘personified history’. It can be seen as a way to make the contradictions and tragedies of the Nazi era for individual people come to life (Felstiner 1994: xiii). She succeeded to culturally develop herself, while Jews became more often excluded from public life because of the rise of anti-Semitism. In just over a year (1941–1942), Charlotte painted the life she had saved from Nazi Germany. As the postscript to her work describes: she had to go deeper into solitude, to forsake her own suicide and to work-through the suicides in her family. She created a biography in pictures, in order to rebuild her entire world. With her acquired skills from the art academy in Berlin, she arranged 769 paintings and hundreds of (transparent) text beams to form a kind of lyrical drama (Singespiel). With this play, Charlotte invites the observer

1 The Joods Historisch Museum in Amsterdam (the Netherlands) is the owner of the complete collection of paintings of Charlotte Salomon. The collection will be referred to as JHM.

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to a new type of art, in which picture, music, and voice are united. The transparencies in front of the many gouaches gave the impression that the pictures featured not the life she had lived, but the life that she envisioned for many years. As a consequence of this exceptional plural type of art, it looks like the observer watches a play in which the text for the scenes is projected on screens (Felstiner 1994: x–xi). All resources that Charlotte used (the colors and actors, texts, music and film) served one purpose: to create a clear distance between herself as a subject of her own life and herself as the author who told her own history. In reference to these remarks on the phenomenon of personified history, it may be obvious that the “Leben? Oder Theater?” on the title page of her artwork can be read as ‘Teleater’, with the reference to ‘tele’ for seeing things from a distance (cf. JHM no. 4155–4151; Belinfante 1998: 31). Charlotte’s artwork reminds us of the ongoing process of unfolding memories in narrative time, and of the possibility to appropriate this act of retelling. She herself seemed aware of the fact that remains from the past can pass on a memory which encompass history and the people who were reduced to it. This proved not to be a common idea. About fifty years ago, people preferred to forget the horror. After the Holocaust they returned to their old lives as if nothing had happened, hardly leaving room for the trauma’s and experiences of the victims. The confrontation, or the narration and commemoration of the inhumane situation in which many had found themselves and in which everyone had a part in, was not considered. Neither by the many powerless people who stood by and tried to repress the unavoidable sense of guilt that arose from it, nor by the few survivors who wanted nothing but to recover their (abruptly ended) life. Remembering the past deprived them from the life that lay in front of them. In all respects ‘moving on’ was the message. The postmodern time does look for this confrontation and characterizes itself by the urgency to remember catastrophic events such as the Holocaust, in order that we would not forget: never again! The only way in which we can give history back to culture is by ascribing our cultural heritage a prominent place in our history, even when it involves events that are incomprehensible and unforgivable. We are aware of the public story of the Holocaust—the number of six million people who were murdered—but the private ones must still be played out in the course of this overall narrative. James Young, a well known American Holocaust scholar, advances the thesis that we cannot know a historical epoch outside the ways it is passed down to us, for instance in its texts. Moreover, Young explores the consequences of this narrative understanding. Not only for the victims of the past and for the

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survivors afterward, but also for subsequent generations responding to their own world in light of the Holocaust (Young 1988). We here arrive at the necessity of historical memorials; the cultural memory, and with that the formation of collective identity, is constructed by means of such places. The French historian Pierre Nora (1989: 19) called them lieux de mémoire. These places of memory can be physical in nature, but can also refer to persons and their narratives, symbols, institutions or commemoration days. These ‘places’ serve as a focus around which memory is again constituted and they originate space for a culture in which people can commemorate not only on an individual but even on a collective level. A perception like this is of great importance in a world in which catastrophic events reoccur permanently. In what way do values that are rooted in the Jewish-Christian tradition make a contribution to this social discussion? The symbolic religious dimension of such historical memorials to which Nora refers will be explored in this chapter on the work of Charlotte Salomon. The specific form of her memory implies not to get stuck on the individual level of the question of guilt, suffering and impotence where commemoration comes into play. On the contrary, it is appropriating one’s story and with that the common past as something which affects every human being. The way in which Charlotte is telling her life history reflects the way in which we can pass on her narrative—and that of so many others who lost their voice. Hence, the main question discussed in this chapter is the way in which witness accounts like Charlotte’s—narratives with an almost monumental status because they represent and provide access to a public universal message on behalf of a community—can be of great importance to society in this redemptive regard and thus to the contemporary culture of commemoration. 2. Living Life as Theatre The tensions in the way Charlotte commemorated consist in her memory as an individual and private matter (her life) which is suitable for a collective public orientation (her life as a theatre). Charlotte represents the many victims of the Nazi regime who tried to recover and maintain their invention of identity and liberation, their struggle and their will to live and survive. Many of them were supported by an appropriated language system. These actual victims escaped from captivity by acquiring some ‘playground’ that let defeat be temporarily erased from one’s memory, and aimed for a revival of hope. The question arises to what extent such an intentionally created surrealistic world is also valuable to be able to process what had happened,

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both for the people that had struggled with the experience itself, as well as for the people that were exposed to this experience of others. From this point of view two requests come into sight. First, what does it mean to live life as a theatre at a crucial catastrophic moment? Second, and moreover, in what sense do witnesses who created a surrealistic world like Charlotte, preserve special insights for future generations? 2.1. Imagination as Playground To answer the first question, we should mention two categories of memories that can be distinguished: narrative memories and traumatic memories. The distinction between narrative and traumatic memory concerns the difference in distance from the subject to an event or to history. Narrative memory takes place after the event has happened and is therefore retrospective. The traumatic memory, on the contrary, can be seen as a new experience, in which the one who remembers does not have any distance to the occurrence, but is still situated in the middle of it (Van Alphen 2004: 18–20).2 In my opinion, the exceptional facet of the phenomenon of living life at crucial and traumatic moments as theatre is situated in the fact that at such moments the distinction between traumatic and narrative memories is not valid anymore—or in fact we should not speak of ‘memories’ but of ‘experiences’3 at this stage. In this new category that synthesizes two types of memory, the ‘actor’ is condemned to perform or live through the historical narrated drama that he or she could otherwise not get a grip on (Van Alphen 2004, 19). The work of Charlotte is illustrative in this sense. Paradoxically, she left her traumatic environment behind to cleanse herself of the negative experiences and stories of her past, from which a new story—her play with music—arose that united both worlds. Charlotte was not retrospec-

2 Ernst van Alphen quotes the work of Pierre Janet, a French psychiatrist and colleague of Freud in Paris. 3 Here the word ‘expérience’ comes in sight, which means in Dutch both ‘beleving’ and ‘ervaring’. Jacq Vogelaar (2006: 95–96) interprets these terms as follows. He calls the ‘ervaring’ as an aware growing or an aware made ‘beleving’; a lived through event or a ‘herbeleving’. According to Vogelaar camp literature concerns this difference: it deals with the transformation of an event into a story. In the artwork of Charlotte ‘beleving’ and ‘ervaring’ coincide as categories: by her anew perception of the past she experienced it again. In her play with music she transformed events into stories and memorized in this way directly to what had happened. This is a remarkable and rather unique fact. Vogelaar refers in his distinction after all to camp literature which is not rarely noted for years after the perception an sich, as a result of which what had happened can only be commemorated when years passed by.

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tively telling about Auschwitz but told out of Auschwitz, with a retrospective view on her own past. Because of this, she remembered her life vividly— with all its menaces—that she had lived before her deportation as well as the threats that were exposed in her biographical story. The same phenomenon—withdrawing from the actual time and space— is common for people who try to survive in the most degrading circumstances. The qualification to resist intolerable situations as such casts a spell on reality in a world in which realism and idealism overshadow each other. People who had to live in this mixed reality evoke fictitious quasi-situations in the middle of their biography of time (Husserl 2005: 651–654). It is clear that the work of Charlotte propagates this main point. Her story, as well as a lot of camp stories can be subtitled ‘chronicles of an announced death’ from a realistic point of view—although exactly these stories themselves idealistically disproved the anticipated outcome (Vogelaar 2006: 354). The play of imagination fits the reservation of the hard reality that was common in camp life. Current traumatic experiences were overshadowed, because these new imaginary narratives provided a shelter in a more beautiful and safer world. The mixture of reality and fiction in these creative plays produced an enlargement of the situation. They gave insight in both the actual situation of the constraint of freedom as well as in the possibility of the liberation. People different from Charlotte do not enact their own past as evasion of reality. Nor did they dream of the future which lay ahead of them. Because of this, people were too much aware of the inescapable destiny that threatened them. Due to this, another survival tactic evolved: people created a ‘heaven on earth’, right here, right now. In any case, they broke away from the time and space that oppressed them like Charlotte did; the place which was already desecrated for a long time by the horrible circumstances. They created a place of holiness for themselves where time and space could become appropriated under their own conditions, assuming that the Jewish value Kiddoesj ha-chajim was valid: ‘the holiness of life’. This refers to the conviction that people who are able to laugh and to create in the most abysmal circumstances also are capable to survive the oppressors. This resistance was often civilized; for adults as well as children.4 Playing

4 That this resistance also has a reverse side is clarified by Tadeusz Borowski: “In spite of the horrors of the war we lived in another world. Perhaps for the world that was prospected” … “If there was not any hope left of this anticipated world, of the return of the human rights— do you think that we could endure it for one day in the camp? (…) Never in history has hope

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became some sort of counter value; a ‘dangerous’ challenge to the established power. 2.2. Playing Forward What does this imagination as a playground for children and adults, apart from the duty to make our victims’ voice heard, teach people years later? First of all, I would assume that in remembrance to the Holocaust, this practice only highlights the traumatic as well as the narrative aspects of witnesses considered as a whole. Only on this condition a world awakens, which proves to be more than the atrocious reality. Just then we are not losing touch with one special human being and his or hers specific story that fights against the phenomenon of history as an anticipated outcome. ‘Auschwitz’ refers in this sense not only to a historical place and episode (an ultimate point of reference), but it functions as a symbol or a metaphor of the struggle and hope of all people who did and did not survive the past as well (Dekoven Ezrahi 1996: 121–154). The communication of the narratives and traumas of survivors as some sort of cultural heritage, as well as the consciousness of the primal desire to live life in full that they pass on, can be revived when this communication is no longer only recalled in memory but also relived. I like to mention a newly implemented phenomenon in this regard: one which understood ‘playing forward’ literally. The experience of living life as theatre is namely bent in a remarkable manner by contemporary artists who experience the Holocaust in a theatrical, playful way. Playing is no longer a way to escape reality, but a way to contract a confrontation with the hard reality of the past: imagining oneself in persons and events of those days. People such as David Levinthal (used tin soldiers—popular playthings—which he photographed for his Mein Kampf -series), Ram Katzir (developed coloring books with pictures based on Holocaust-photos) and Zbigniew Libera (created a Lego Concentration Camp Set) are using playthings and games to represent the Holocaust; a type of artwork which evokes the question if there is any place left for ‘playing the Holocaust’ within the Holocaust commemoration (Van Alphen 2004: 79–94). This typical enlarged way of ‘playing forward’ can be understood as a new cultivated form of remembrance. However, a new discussion arises. We

been stronger than people themselves, but also never did hope cause so much evil in this war, in this camp. We have never learned to lose hope and for this reason we die in gas” (quoted in Vogelaar 2006: 192).

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should be aware that this type of commemoration is situated at right angles to the main point which—to ensure that the Holocaust never ever happens again: a statement which is currently spread everywhere in the contemporary memory culture—propagates that generations of the future must have as much knowledge as possible of the Holocaust. Yet, the idea that when the past is confessed we have some sort of grip on the future just seems to be powerless in opposition to one and the same catastrophe: knowing is not in analogue with having it under control. Moreover, the Holocaust does not only exist through a history of memory but rather through a history of traumatism. Referring to this, transmitting a traumatic history means communicating knowledge which is not master of itself (Van Alphen 2004: 95–96), as we have seen in the previous section. By presenting artwork as all kinds of playthings, artists create a new cultivated form of remembrance which stimulates the observers to imagine oneself in a situation which is similar to the ‘real’ situation in the past. As such, identification—as it is portrayed by Charlotte and her identification with the actors in her play—replaces control. The distance toward the past which is anxiously maintained, is not respected but asked for justification in a provocative manner (Van Alphen 2004: 103). As a result, this category of artwork calls for a feeling for the moment itself from now on. It is performing the drama: a type of art that we already found represented in the work of Charlotte. Nowadays history can be played backward in this way, making progress toward the future in a paradoxical double sense: by regaining consciousness of one’s own direction and task in the actual time and space through breaking with this actual land- and timescape to consecrate the desecrated places of experiences in the past. Contemporary places of memory, as the Holocaust produces in multiple forms, propagates the valuable meaning concerning the creativity and power of creation, left to the mercy of the next generation. 3. The Theatre of Memory Summarizing the previous outlines, Charlotte and other people indicate the necessity of a way of living in specific (fictitious) language- and symbol systems as some sort of a condition to rise up in inhuman circumstances. In this last section I will show in which way this symbolic function of the principles of creation and salvation—embedded in the notion of remembering (in case of direct witnesses) and commemoration (in case of passing down the past by further generations)—can be identified as a part of a ‘holy game’ (Post 2000), which give places of memory a transcendental connotation. The

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best way to get a grip on this idea of holiness is by observing this kind of playing (forward) as a part of the domain of the theatre of memory that our contemporary culture remains and accommodates. Subsequently, some religious fundamentals come into the picture where consolation and faith can be found in the middle of a situation that looks for possibilities where the impossible upholds itself. In this sense, commemorating catastrophes in history proves to be more than a repetition of ‘the falling curtain’. Another perspective is unfolding: a storyline that not only claims history in a straight way but also originates a perspective in which the holy and religious dimension of living comes to the stage. 3.1. Scenario, Actors and Role Play: Aiming the Principle of Creation How can people play in a strange country (cf. Psalm 137), in a strange and alienated society? Does freedom exist among slavery, joy in the middle of distress? Indeed: one can play ahead on the liberation and cast off, with laughter, the spell of the alienation of true life (cf. Psalm 26) (Moltmann 1971: 9). An idea like this can only become reality and can only be propagated when scenario, actors and role play leave room for the principle of creation as an intended act to renew the own world in times of distress. Charlotte does not only owe the preservation of her play with music to the fear and uncertainty in which she found herself a long time and that she noted down, nor to her smart dead. On the contrary, Charlotte shows us a life behind the scenes, a life which is worthy despite the suffering and grief. In that life imagination and creativity create hope for a better life outside captivity. But also a life that finished with a hopeful new life of the child she carried and whom she could never hold. The crucial point here arrives that commemorating what becomes ruined is encompassing more than just ruin only. Exactly that seems to be no common vision in our society. Often, history is within public remembering commemorated such as it had actually occurred, as a previous history of the noted outcome. Charlotte’s recreation of her own world in contrary, created a religious perception which contained and shaped the world by keeping alive the creation through reminding what it means to be a human being. A scenario which recollects the fight of the victims, as well as the hope which inspired this struggle, requires a restoration of communication that the Holocaust tried to demolish for once and for all. It is obvious that recurrence of a drama can impossibly be prevented when everyone places only oneself in the spotlight and declare only their own text as the universal one. Fundamentally, this does not sound as a very hard task for future

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generations: all people move themselves on the same stage called ‘world’ after all. However, we often try to cast a spell on this world stage into a one dimensional reality: the reality of the individual who prolongs itself like a head role player in the own created setting. In fact, Charlotte exactly supported the same. Nevertheless: she played not only the lead role of the story of her own life but was also director of her play with music. By knowing this last role herself she became all of her players and kept an overview— not as a victim, perpetrator or witness but as partner in history—and could provide the valuable idea concerning the fact that all people in respect to a catastrophe have their own narrative which they must maintain. In this way, Charlotte showed with her play with music that role play created space to appropriate the story of another and with that the past as something that began to move herself. Her play propagates that creative play of people is always a game that plays with the player itself after all. By playing with colors, tunes and words people become each other’s opposing teammate. This does not only apply to playing in living, but also for the game of living itself (Moltmann 1971, 28–29). With that an artwork like Leben? Oder Theater? claims the plurality of narratives and pleads against a monologue culture, of which Auschwitz was the consequence. Plays and memory are in that sense pre-eminently two substrates in creating a human culture ‘after Auschwitz’. 3.2. Plot: Out of the Principle of Salvation It seems that being a partner in history—an idea which explicitly argues and effects the scenario with it players and their role play as explained before— produces a universal solidarity and liberating strength that team up with the collective and public commemoration. It creates space for witnesses and monuments which, as places of memory, in this regard not only represent and construct a national identity but also shape a common vision on the past, the present and the future. These places—or maybe we should all call them little theatres of memory—obtain a religious character in this way (in respect of the structure as well as the content) because they are a part of a scenario that expresses who we are (identity), where we belong (community), what we expect (future) and what or who we ultimately trust (God) (Volg 2006: 102). In track of the Jewish-Christian tradition we can discover with this condition on the one hand an appropriation of the situation of community and history, and on the other hand an anticipation toward a better future. In such a scenario in which—parallel to Exodus and Passion— despair and hope awaken, memory becomes a form of implacability that at

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the same time makes belief that history makes progress in a not advanced expected way. This plot that arises depends explicitly on the principle of salvation as a devotional gift of life within the intended act of creation as ascribed above is urged to occur. In regard to this twofold principle of living and surviving, memory can be seen as a fundamental category of identity shaping and liberation (Metz 1977: 63–64), which remains the history of freedom by the term of the whole (of history and its victims) and not by that of the total (as seen from the sovereignty of the victors which correctly exclude the ones who are defeated). Because it introduces the interest in freedom in a narrative way, the history as reminded history of traumatic suffering is a ‘dangerous tradition’. This can only be attained through the view that modeling the past through people who suffered and were oppressed—by means of their dangerous but also holy games—was a hidden practice of freedom (Metz 1977: 173). Exactly here the releasing strength of a religious memory culture in the world of today upholds itself: in a story line that opens our eyes for displays of beauty in a tragic world. It is a belief that urges us to remember: on the one hand the discontinuity and caesurae, on the other hand the continuity and revival. People who preserve and pass over their concrete narratives as well as concrete symbols function as eye-openers: they capture surprising sacral aspects in itself. The play with music of Charlotte, the Holocaust toys and games that are devised generations afterward together promote a culture of commemoration in which inhumanity as well as humanity will be remembered. Interruption as well as progress. Commemoration becomes then in itself the recovering value of the dialogue that Auschwitz would conclude once and for all. This implies that contemporary people should accept being interrupted permanently by another or the Other. Only then a promising and liberating future arises. Charlotte signed her prologue with the following significant quote: “The author, St. Jean, August 1941/42. Or between heaven and earth beyond our era in the year I of the new salvation” (cf. JHM no. 4155–4156). Belief in the resurrection can be understood in this regard as the courage to resurrect “association with death” (Moltmann 1971: 20). Epilogue In plays acts are imitated. The characters are fictitious. In memories events are commemorated. Commemorating people guard as partners in history:

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a reality that can be transmitted from generation to generation. The marvelous type of art of Charlotte synthesizes both: scenes that started from melodies, a memoir which is presented as an operetta, which is divided in acts, in which people in her life were introduced as ‘the actors’ and who are divided with satiric fictional names, in which the ‘I’ of diaries changed into the ‘she’ of stories, in which the scenes were narrated through an unnamed ‘author’, where a true story is threaten as a scenario (Felstiner 1994: 144). Right here the specific contribution of an artwork like the one of Charlotte can be situated in the public debate on the importance of remembrance and the best way to collectively cultivate this: the shaping of memories and the reflection on memories (Erll 2005: 165–193) became synthesized by working on her play with music. That is why direction (conciliation with living) and full play (dedication to living)—both unmistakably rooted in the Jewish-Christian tradition—form a dynamic whole in this theatre of memory of Charlotte. These two categories are grounded in the religious fundamentals of creation and salvation which make us aware of the symbolic potential that lies in all places of memory. Moreover, they mirror and determine in this way the valuable cultural remembering; which requires a religion en plein public. We should keep these memories safe, as Charlotte memorized us in her quote when she handed over her script. They are our whole history. References Belinfante, J., “Theatre? Remarks on a Work of Art.” Pp. 31–39 in Charlotte Salomon. Life? Or Theatre? Edited by J. Belinfante et al. Zwolle: Waanders, 1998. Dekoven Ezrahi, S., “Representing Auschwitz,” History and Memory 7 (1996): 121–154. Erll, A., Kollektives Gedächtnis und Erinnerungskulturen. Eine Einführung. Stuttgart: Metzler, 2005. Felstiner, M.L., To Paint Her Life. Charlotte Salomon in the Nazi Era. New York: HarperCollins, 1994. Husserl, E., Phantasy, Image Consciousness, and Memory (1898–1925). Dordrecht: Springer, 2005. JHM/Joods Historisch Museum, Charlotte Salomon. De complete collectie. Cd-rom. Amsterdam: Joods Historisch Museum, 2002. Metz, J.B., Glaube in Geschichte und Gesellschaft. Studien zu einer Praktischen Fundamentaltheologie. Mainz: Matthias Grünewald Verlag, 1977. Moltmann, J., Die ersten Freigelassenen der Schöpfung. München: Kaiser, 1971. Nora, P., “Between Memory and History. Les Lieux de Mémoire,” Representations 26 (1989): 7–24. Post, P., “Speelruimte voor heilig spel.” Pp. 139–167 in Over spel. Theologie als drama en illusie. Edited by H. Beck, R. Nauta, and P. Post. Leende: Damon, 2000.

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van Alphen, E., Schaduw en spel. Herbeleving, historisering en verbeelding van de holocaust. Rotterdam: Nai Uitgevers, 2004. Vogelaar, J., Over kampliteratuur. Amsterdam: De Bezige Bij, 2006. Volf, M., The End of Memory. Remembering Rightly in a Violent World. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006. Young, J., Writing and Rewriting the Holocaust. Narrative and the Consequences of Interpretation. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988.

INDEX OF SUBJECTS, AUTHORS AND BIBLICAL PASSAGES 1John 3, 95 Abel, 6, 89–98 abuse, sexual, see sexual abuse aesthetics, 6, 10, 76–77, 81–83, 210–215 African-American womanist theology, 205 Allen, G., 90 Alter, R., 25–26, 29, 76, 79, 89–99 Annales School, 228, 251 artwork, 11–12, 279–280, 282n3, 284–285, 287, 289 Assmann, A., 225, 227, 234 Auld, A., 99, 101 Auschwitz, 11–12, 279, 283–284, 287–288 autobiography, 1–2, 11, 56–59, 68, 176, 209, 243–245, 247 Babette’s Feast, 10, 211–215 Bakhtin, M., 145, 147–148, 150 Bal, M., 2, 7, 23, 76–77, 89, 117, 119, 124–126 Baumann, G., 153 Bellarmine, R., 256, 258 biblical studies, 1–9, 12–13, 19–20, 22–30, 75– 85, 119 body, see embodiment Boelaars, B., 89 Borromean Sisters of Charity, 236n, 267, 272 Brenner, A., 80, 119 Brom, G., 251 Brown, H., 29 Brueggemann, W., 2 Bruner, J., 2, 57 Burridge, R., 186 Byron, J., 95 Cain (character), 89–97 Cain (novel), 89–90 canon, 4, 9–10, 81–82, 110, 120, 159, 192, 249 Catholicism, see Old Catholicism; Roman Catholic Church character character shift, 96 character text, 93 characterization, 89, 102 Carbine, R., 195–197, 206 clandestine churches, 252, 255

clause, 100, 102–104, 118, 120–123 clothing (clerical/religious), 263–274 cognitive complexity, 5, 35–37, 39, 45–46, 48 coherence, 12, 19, 27, 29, 31, 58–59, 66, 102, 132n, 171, 173, 242 commemorative communities, 10, 223, 227, 236 Commons, M., 36, 40, 41, 44 community of inquiry, 63, 67 concerns, see goals confessional co-existence, 252 configuration, 4, 6–7, 22, 27 see also mimesis constructionism, 33, 38, 62, 65–66, 190 contingency, 7–8, 131–141, 173–175 and creativity, 136–138 as religious, 173–175 cultural, 136–138 interpretation, 173 social, 136–138 tragic, 132 controversial preacher, 259 controversial writings, 11, 252, 255–260 conversion, 10, 58, 227, 241–249 Conversion Morphology, 242–244, 248 conversion stories, 243–244, 246, 257, 260 corporeality, see embodiment creation (literary), 10, 197, 199 see also creation (theatrical) see also creativity (human) creation (theatrical), 286, 288 see also creation (literary) see also creativity (human) creativity (divine), 183, 191, 202, 285, 289 creativity (human), 7, 9–10, 20, 23–24, 57, 97, 118, 136–140, 153, 192, 196–197, 199, 202, 214, 225, 235, 242, 283, 285–288 Crites, S., 3, 186 Cupitt, D., 190–191 Dalferth, I., 134, 136, 169, 173–174 Danto, A., 22 Day, J., 5, 35, 37, 38–48 de Certeau, M., 209, 210n de Haardt, M., 10–11, 165, 209–210

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de-institutionalization of religion, 169 see also institutionalization of religion Delilah, 110, 117 de Rozières, M., 269 Descartes, R., 183–185, 188 development, religious, 5, 37, 39–45, 47–49, 138 see also stage, developmental de Vries, G., 159 dialogue, 8, 24, 34, 38, 58–59, 77–80, 101, 118, 122–123, 125, 131, 136, 138–139, 143–150, 154, 161, 175, 198, 207, 288 dialogical self, 8, 34, 131, 144–145, 148, 154 Dik, S., 100 Dillen, A., 165 Dingemans, G., 157 Dominic, St, 231–232 Dominicans, 221, 224, 230–232, 234 Dutch church history, 251 Dutch Mission, 254, 258 elite, 111–112, 227, 253 ellipsis, 93–94 Elshof, T., 8, 157, 160 embodiment, 8, 11, 57, 109, 116, 143–144, 150– 151, 158–166, 195, 212, 264–265, 267–268, 271 bodily expressions, 158 bodily praxis, 163 embodied knowledge, 150, 212 Emmons, R., 169, 171–172 emotion, 48, 59–60, 83, 146, 148, 150, 158, 161, 171, 176, 187, 198–199, 205–206 emotional dimensions of religiosity, 150 emotional knowledge, 60 empirical empirical methodology, 132, 139 empirical studies, 7–9, 36, 41–45, 65–66, 81, 131, 137–138, 140, 178 holism, 59, 66, 139–140 idiographic approach, 141 interpretive, 132 narrative biographical, 131 nomothetic approach, 139, 141, 169 phenomenological, 132 reduction, 140 epistemic communities, 5, 55–56, 63–67 epistemology, 5, 19–20, 34–35, 47, 55–56, 60–62, 64–66, 132, 137, 188–189, 209–210, 215 see also community of inquiry see also constructionism

see also epistemic communities see also foundationalism see also positivism see also pragmatism Epstein, S., 57, 59–60 ethics, 2, 6, 15, 26, 82–85, 91–92, 94, 96, 105– 106, 139, 144, 152–153, 185, 187–188, 196 see also morality everyday religious practices, 10, 209–216 everyday life, 10, 131–134, 141, 151, 164–165, 170, 185–186, 204–205, 209–216, 264–265 existential events, 170–178 Exum, C., 77, 84, 109, 115 fabula, 119, 124–126 faith, see religion femininity, 226 feminism feminist theology, 15, 195–207, 210, 215, feminist exegesis, 6–7, 77, 80, 109, 115 feminist perspective, 58 feministic perspective, 109 see also feminization of religion see also African-American womanist theology feminization of religion, 226 fiction, 22, 26, 79, 81 fiction-likeness, see fiction First Vatican Council, 11, 264, 266, 269, 273– 274 focalization, 78–79, 119, 126, 199–201, 204 Fokkelman, J., 24, 76–77 Foley, W., 100 foundational reality, 172–174, 177–178 foundationalism, 6, 64–66 Fowler, J., 41–43 Fackre, G., 187 Frei, H., 2, 9, 20–21, 184–185 Frijda, N., 169–172 Functional Discourse Grammar, 6, 99–101, 105 Gadamer, H., 3 Ganzevoort, R., 2–3, 159, 210 gender, 227 history, 226 religious masculinity, 226 see also feminism see also femininity see also masculinity Genesis, 78–83, 114, 183 Genesis 4, 89–97

index of subjects, authors and biblical passages Genesis 16, 79–80, 82, 206 Genesis 19, 110 Genesis 21, 206 Genesis 22, 198 Gergen, K., 2 Gerkin, G., 2 Ghorashi, H., 158 Giddens, A., 132, 134, 137–138 goals personal goals, 171–174 personal goals hierarchy, 172 ultimate life goals, 33, 60, 66, 68, 172– 178 embedded ultimate life goals, 173–178 Graham, E., 210–211 Greeley, A., 211–212, 242, 244, 247–249 Groβ, Walter, 109 hajj, 152 Hauerwas, S., 2, 55, 188 Hazart, C., 257–259 Hebrew Bible, 76, 79, 85, 89–90, 92, 94 Hedwig, Sr., 269–273 Hellemans, S., 166 Hermans, C., 5, 8, 69 Hermans, H., 57–59, 131, 136, 144–145, 148 histoire religieuse, see religious history history-likeness, 20–22, 25, 185 Honor of the Ommeland, 259 hospitality, 109–110, 115 humane ethics, 91–92, 94, 96 imagination, 19, 20, 23, 25–28, 38, 44, 46, 48, 211, 215, 282–282, 286 immanence, 10, 30, 173, 215–216 see also transcendence infallibility, papal, 266, 270 see also Old Catholicism innocent suffering, 203, 205–206 institutionalization of religion, 230 see also de-institutionalization of religion intentionality, 8, 25, 28, 66, 90, 158, 164– 165, 170–172, 175–178, 186–187, 197, 199, 263–264, 281 intertextuality, 6, 82, 89–97 I-positions, 8, 58, 60, 144–146, 148, 150 irrationality, see rationality Islam, 8, 36, 143–153, 178, 197, 202–203, 265n2 see also Muslim self-construction

293

Jericho, 80, 91, 99–107 Jesuits, 11, 222, 251–261 Jesus, 22–24, 27, 29, 89, 95–97, 161, 185–186, 203, 244–246 Jesus, P., 38, 40, 44, 48 Johnson, M., 2 Johnston, R., 211–212 Jones, L., 188 Joshua 6, 99–107 Judges 13–16, 117, 120–127 Judges 19, 7, 109–116 Jude, Letter of, 95 jurisdictional primacy, papal, 266 see also Old Catholicism Kaplan, B., 251–252, 255 Kearney, Richard, 2, 10, 26, 242, 248–249 kingship, 110 Klopper, F., 109 Koran, 143, 149–150, 152, 202 Korte, A.-M., 9, 166, 195 Kuhn, T., 28, 189n Lakoff, G., 2 Lazarus, R., 171, 176 leadership, 7, 113, 227, 230–231 Leben? Oder Theater?, 279–280, 287 Leezenberg, M., 159 liberation, 7, 15, 115, 196, 200, 205, 214, 265, 281, 283, 286–288 life span, 151, 153 life story, 1, 4, 7, 9, 46, 57–58, 69, 134–138, 143–154, 169–178, 209 linguistics, 76, 78, 99–100, 118–119, 123, 134, 136, 149, 158–159, 186, 189, 192, 249 Lohr, J., 94 Loughlin, G., 190 Low Countries, 251–262 Lukken, G., 158–159, 163–164 Lumen Gentium , 232 Luther, H., 14, 157 Lynch, G., 211 MacIntyre, A., 2, 189 Makropoulos, M., 132, 133 marginal, 2–3, 15, 35, 196, 201, 205, 226, 230, 252, 266 masculinity, 226, 268 McAdams, D., 57–58, 146, 169–170 McFague, S., 2, 192 meaning, attribution of, 3, 9, 89, 157, 170–172, 174–175

294

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memory, 10, 12, 58–59, 112, 198, 223, 227, 234–236, 280–282, 284–289 memory, places of, 285, 287, 289 memory studies, 223 Menken, M., 95 Messiah, 7, 113 methodology, 2, 6, 8, 12, 15, 56, 65–69, 76–77, 80, 131–132, 137, 139–140, 165 Mijleman, F., 257–259 Miller-McLemore, B., 165 mimesis, 3–4, 242–244, 247–249 Mink, L., 21–22 modernity, 144, 184, 266 late modernity, 55–56, 132–133 morality, 1, 6, 36–37, 39–49, 56, 60–62, 67, 82–84, 184, 187–188, 198–199, 253 see also ethics Morton, N., 15, 200 Mugabe, R., 266 Murdoch, I., 188 Murphy, F., 191 Muslim self-construction, 8, 143, 145, 154 see also Islam narrative narrative approach, 12–15, 49, 57, 138, 140, 170, 173 narrative community, 10, 241–249 narrative identity, 7–8, 15, 58, 131–132, 136, 173, 243, 247 narrative intelligence, 133, 138 narrative processing, 56–60 narrative reconstruction, 131–141, 264 narrative structure, 75–76, 81–82, 242 self-narrative, 55–62, 64–69, 146, 148, 154 see also Passion narrative narratology, 6–7, 30, 75–85, 117, 119, 124–126, 209n narrator, 4, 6–7, 9, 23–24, 28, 68, 76–79, 82, 90, 104n4, 117–119, 122–124, 126–127, 136, 146–148, 151, 186–187, 199–200, 210, 242, 244 Old Catholicism, 266, 269, 271–272, 274 oral history, 225, 228–229, 235 Oser, F., 41–43 Otthonis, G., 256–258 papist misbehaviors, 253 Parker, C., 251–255, 257

Paris School, see text-immanent approach Passion narrative, 10, 197, 203–206 Peirce, C., 61–63 Perfectae Caritatis, 230 personal ideology, 151–152 personality, psychology of, 56 Perthes, C., 268 Phyllis Trible, 80 Pietersma, A., 94 Pietism, 10, 241, 248–249 plot, 19–20, 23–25, 27–29, 58, 60, 77–78, 84, 119, 133, 135, 186–187, 287–288 Polman, P., 251, 256 Portelli, A., 158 positivism, 6, 65–66 post migration identity, 145–146, 152 postmodernism, 81, 190, 280 Post, R., 251, 285 postformal stages, 5, 38–41, 43–49 Post-Tridentine Catholicism, 253, 258 Powell, M., 2, 89 practical theology, 2, 4–5, 7, 13, 157 pragmatism, 5–6, 34, 55–56, 60–62, 65–66, 159, 186 prefiguration, 4, 6 see also mimesis presence, sense of, 210–211, 214 prosody, 8, 160–162 Protestantism, 10–11, 45, 211, 226n14, 251–254, 256, 258–259, 265n2, 268 quality of life, 43, 136 Ramadan, 152 rationality, 19–31, 139–140, 209 in narratives, 19–20, 27–29 irrationality, 19–31, 133, 135, 174 non-rationality, 20, 31, 89 strong rationality , 55 weak rationality, 5, 55–56, 60–67 reader, 3–7, 11, 13–14, 19, 23–24, 26–28, 31, 44, 55, 76n, 77–85, 89–90, 93, 95, 99–107, 109–110, 112–119, 122, 127, 149n, 184, 186– 188, 198, 207, 244, 259 refiguration, 4 see also mimesis Reich, H., 41–43 Reinkens, J., 272–273 religion, 1–2, 4–6, 9–11, 13–16, 19–20 et passim institutional vs. personal, 169, 178 religious worldview, see worldview religious truth, see truth claim

index of subjects, authors and biblical passages religiosity, 8, 144, 150–151, 153, 157–158, 160– 162, 164–166, 215, 229 sensory dimensions, 150, 215 cognitive dimensions, 19, 150 religious orders, 221–237, 263–274 religious protest, 10, 11, 80, 162, 264, 266, 270, 273 see also Protestantism religious history, 228 resourcement, 224–226, 230–232, 234–236 Reusch, F., 270 rhetoric, 7, 9, 13, 77, 80, 99–107, 122, 186, 196– 198, 203, 206, 257, 264 rhetorical practice of public engagement, 9, 196–197, 203, 205–207 Ricoeur, P., 2–4, 14, 25, 31, 56, 84, 133, 136, 138, 210, 215 rituals, 1, 4, 8, 35, 40, 45, 94, 152–153, 157, 160, 163–165, 202, 206, 242, 247, 249, 267 communal, 242, 247, 249 Islamic, 152 sacrificial, see sacrifice Rogier, L., 251 Roman Catholic Church, 195, 221–237, 254, 255, 265–266, 272, 274 in the Netherlands, 221–237 Rudler, X., 269 sacramentality, 211, 215 sacraments, 253, 255 sacrifice, 90–95, 112, 198, 212, 234, 237 salât, 152 Salomon, C., 11–12, 279–289 salvation, 60, 243–249, 285, 287–289 Samson, 117, 120–127 Sanders, J., 192 Saramago, J., 6, 89–98 Sarbin, T., 2 Schillebeeckx, E., 2 Schleiermacher, F., 14 Second Vatican Council, 162, 225, 230, 232, 234–236, 265 semiotic, 8, 131, 157–160, 163–166 semiotics, 157–158, 160, 163, 165–166 semi-structured interview, 175–176 Sentamu, J., 266 Septuagint, 89–97, 101, 103n, 105, 114 sexual abuse, 10, 115, 162, 221–237 shahada, 151 ‘show, don’t tell’, 19–20, 24–25, 31 silent march, 198, 200–202, 204, 206– 207

295

sin, 93–94, 112, 152, 177, 245, 248–249 Sisters of Charity, see Borromean Sisters of Charity social constructionism, see constructionism stage, developmental, 5, 37, 39–48 Sternberg, M., 30, 76, 85 Straub, J., 132–134, 138 Streib, H., 41, 43 subjectal semiotics, 158–159 syntax, 7, 76–77, 102–103, 117–127 systematic theology, 2, 4–5, 9–10, 12–15, 209, 215, 256 Talstra, E., 77, 99–101, 104, 118, 120 text-immanent approach, 157 Thatcher, T., 94–95 thymic dimension, 159, 162–163 Tracy, D., 2 transcendence, 5–6, 8, 10, 30–31, 33, 160, 163, 165, 169, 173–174, 177, 191, 193, 210, 215–216, 285 trauma, 12, 178, 195, 198, 206, 280, 282–285, 288 truth claim, 5, 13, 15, 20, 25–26, 28, 35, 56, 62–67, 187, 191 ultramontanism, 266, 271 urban ministry, 9, 195–207 van Dijk-Hemmes, F., 80, 119 van Eck, A., 251–252 van Gennep, A., 267 van Gennip, J., 11, 259 van Valin, R., 100 van Wolde, E., 93 Vatican Council, see First Vatican Council; Second Vatican Council Verschuren, P., 65, 68, 138–140, 171, 173–175 violence, 3, 84, 106–107, 109, 113, 115, 198, 203, 206, 272 Visser, J., 159 voices of the self, 8, 144 von Cornelius, C., 271 von Hoiningen-Huene, C., 268, 271–273 von Lasaulx, A. (Sr. Augustine), 264, 267– 274 Vroom, H., 31 Walsh, W., 21–22 Wandelman, G., 256–258 Weren, W., 6, 89 Wester, F., 157

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Winther-Nielsen, N., 99–106 wonder, sense of, 202, 210–212, 214 worldview, 9, 27, 135, 169, 172, 191 Wright, B., 94, 212 Wynants, P., 224, 227–229

xenophobia, 115 Zwilling, A.-L., 92