The Death of Sacred Texts: Ritual Disposal and Renovation of Texts in World Religions 0754696219, 9780754696216

Table of contents :
Cover
Contents
List of Figures
Notes on Contributors
Introduction
1 Accounts of a Dying Scroll: On Jewish Handling of Sacred Texts in Need of Restoration or Disposal
2 Relating, Revering, and Removing: Muslim Views on the Use, Power, and Disposal of Divine Words
3 A Fitting Ceremony: Christian Concerns for Bible Disposal
4 The Death of the Dharma: Buddhist Sutra Burials in Early Medieval Japan
5 Rites of Burial and Immersion: Hindu Ritual Practices on Disposing of Sacred Texts in Vrindavan
6 Is a Manuscript an Object or a Living Being?: Jain Views on the Life and Use of Sacred Texts
7 Making the Scripture a Person: Reinventing Death Rituals of Guru Granth Sahib in Sikhism
8 Disposing of Non-Disposable Texts: Conclusions and Prospects for Further Study
Index

Citation preview

The Death of Sacred Texts The Death of Sacred Texts draws attention to a much neglected topic in the study of sacred texts: the religious and ritual attitudes towards texts which have become old and damaged and can no longer be used for reading practices or in religious worship. This book approaches religious texts and scriptures by focusing on their physical properties and the dynamic interactions of devices and habits that lie beneath and within a given text. In the last decades a growing body of research studies has directed attention to the multiple uses and ways people encounter written texts and how they make them alive, even as social actors, in different times and cultures. Considering religious people seem to have all the motives for giving their sacred texts a respectful symbolic treatment, scholars have paid surprisingly little attention to the ritual procedures of disposing and renovating old texts. This book fills this gap, providing empirical data and theoretical analyses of historical and contemporary religious attitudes towards, and practices of text disposals within, seven world religions: Judaism, Islam, Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism. Exploring the cultural and historical variations of rituals for religious scriptures and texts (such as burials, cremations and immersion into rivers) and the underlying beliefs within the religious traditions, this book investigates how these religious practices and stances respond to modernization and globalization processes when new technologies have made it possible to mass-produce and publish religious texts on the Internet.

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The Death of Sacred Texts Ritual Disposal and Renovation of Texts in World Religions

Edited by Kristina Myrvold Lund University, Sweden

© Kristina Myrvold and the Contributors 2010 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. Kristina Myrvold has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the editor of this work. Published by Ashgate Publishing Limited Ashgate Publishing Company Wey Court East Suite 420 Union Road 101 Cherry Street Farnham Burlington Surrey, GU9 7PT VT 05401-4405 England USA www.ashgate.com British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data The death of sacred texts: ritual disposal and renovation of texts in world religions. 1. Sacred books – Conservation and restoration. 2. Discarding of books, periodicals, etc. 3. Rites and ceremonies. I. Myrvold, Kristina. 208.2–dc22 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The death of sacred texts: ritual disposal and renovation of texts in world religions / [edited by] Kristina Myrvold. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-7546-6918-0 (hardcover : alk. paper) – ISBN 978-0-7546-9621-6 (ebook) 1. Sacred books. 2. Books – Religious aspects. I. Myrvold, Kristina. BL71.D43 2010 208’.2–dc22  2009040968 ISBN 9780754669180 (hbk) ISBN 9780754696216 (ebk)

Contents List of Figures   Notes on Contributors   Introduction   Kristina Myrvold 1 Accounts of a Dying Scroll: On Jewish Handling of Sacred Texts in Need of Restoration or Disposal   Marianne Schleicher 2

Relating, Revering, and Removing: Muslim Views on the Use, Power, and Disposal of Divine Words   Jonas Svensson

3

A Fitting Ceremony: Christian Concerns for Bible Disposal   Dorina Miller Parmenter

4

The Death of the Dharma: Buddhist Sutra Burials in Early Medieval Japan   D. Max Moerman



5 Rites of Burial and Immersion: Hindu Ritual Practices on Disposing of Sacred Texts in Vrindavan   Måns Broo 6 7 8

vii ix 1

11

31 55

71

91

Is a Manuscript an Object or a Living Being?: Jain Views on the Life and Use of Sacred Texts   Nalini Balbir

107

Making the Scripture a Person: Reinventing Death Rituals of Guru Granth Sahib in Sikhism   Kristina Myrvold

125

Disposing of Non-Disposable Texts: Conclusions and Prospects for Further Study   James W. Watts

147

Index  

161

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List of Figures 4.1

Diagram of Sutra Burials in Japan. Author’s illustration  

75

4.2

Map of Sutra Burial Locations. Author’s illustration  

79

5.1

The Grantha Samādhi in Vrindavan. Author’s photograph  

99

6.1

Folio from the Kalpasūtra/Kālakakathā manuscript, British Library I.O. San. 3177 (dated 1427 ce). Reproduced by courtesy of the British Library

113

Agan Bhet Samskar at Goindwal Sahib in 2008. Author’s photograph  

138

7.1

7.2 Ritual Structure of Human versus Scriptural Cremations  

141

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Notes on Contributors Nalini Balbir is professor in Indology at University of Paris-3 Sorbonne Nouvelle and at Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes (Section Sciences historiques et philologiques). Her fields of research are primarily Jainism, Theravada Buddhism, and Pali and Prakrit languages and literature. Among Balbir’s latest publications are, for example, Catalogue of the Jain Manuscripts of the British Library (2006) and Jaina Studies (2008). Måns Broo received his PhD in Comparative Religion in 2003 and is currently Adjunct Professor of Religious Studies at Åbo Akademi University. His research interests are directed towards Sanskrit texts and Vaishnava Hinduism. Broo’s publications include a Swedish translation of the main Upanishads (2005). D. Max Moerman received his PhD in East Asian Religions from Stanford University in 1999. Currently Associate Professor in the Department of Asian and Middle Eastern Cultures, Barnard College, Columbia University and Associate Director of the Columbia Center for Japanese Religion, he is the author of Localizing Paradise: Kumano Pilgrimage and the Religious Landscape of Premodern Japan (2005). Kristina Myrvold is Assistant Professor of History and Anthropology of Religion at Lund University. Her doctoral dissertation of 2007 focused on ritual uses of texts among the Sikhs in Varanasi, India, where she has conducted extensive fieldwork. Myrvold has published several book chapters on Sikh practices, such as “Death and Sikhism” (2006) and “Personalizing the Sikh Scripture: Processions of the Guru Granth Sahib in India” (2008). Dorina Miller Parmenter is Assistant Professor of Religious Studies at Spalding University in Louisville, Kentucky. She completed her PhD at Syracuse University in 2009 with the dissertation “The Iconic Book: The Image of the Christian Bible in Myth and Ritual.” Marianne Schleicher received her PhD in Comparative Religion in 2003. Her dissertation, which was awarded the University of Aarhus Prize for the best PhD dissertation, was later revised and published as Intertextuality in the Tales of Rabbi Nahman: A Close Reading of Sippurey Ma’asiyot (2007). Currently Schleicher holds a position as Assistant Professor in Jewish Studies at the Department of the Study of Religion, the University of Aarhus, Denmark.



The Death of Sacred Texts

Jonas Svensson received his PhD in Islamic studies in 2000 and is currently Assistant Professor at Växjö University and Halmstad University. He is currently doing research on contemporary Muslim discourses on HIV/AIDS and Islam, and the controversies surrounding the celebration of Prophet Muhammad’s birthday. Svensson’s publications include Women’s Human Rights and Islam: A Study of Three Attempts of Accommodation (2000), and articles “Have You All Got Your Copy of the Qur’an?” (2006), and “‘Muslims Have Instructions’ – HIV/AIDS, Modernity and Islamic Religious Education in Kisumu, Kenya” (2009). James W. Watts is Professor of Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near Eastern traditions and Chair of the Department of Religion, Syracuse University. His research interests include the rhetoric of the Pentateuch and its reception, ritual texts, and comparative scripture studies. With Dorina Parmenter, he directs the Iconic Book Project. Watts has published several books, including Ritual and Rhetoric in Leviticus: From Sacrifice to Scripture (2007) and Reading Law: The Rhetorical Shaping of the Pentateuch (1999).

Introduction Kristina Myrvold

This book investigates diverse historical and contemporary religious attitudes and ritual practices related to the disposal of sacred texts which are considered old, damaged and no longer usable in worship or are intentionally and ritualistically concealed only to be preserved for the future. The idea of a book about text disposal originates from ethnographic observations during my fieldwork in India at the beginning of the twenty-first century. Whilst residing on the bank of the River Ganga in Varanasi, I occasionally watched local Hindus consigning damaged printed editions of Ramcharitmanas and other religious texts of various sizes to the river. My own research study of Sikh practices of the scripture Guru Granth Sahib brought me to the north-western state of Punjab where elaborate cremation rituals for old printed copies of the scripture were arranged at regular intervals. On inquiry Jewish and Muslim friends told me that old Torah scrolls are given separate graves in the cemetery and worn-out copies of the Qur’an are either burnt or buried in tombs. Scholarly notes from different parts of the world indicated that the ritualized disposal of texts, either for the purpose of obliterating or preserving the texts, is a crucial aspect in the religious life of many communities, both in the past and at the present. In different Buddhist traditions, for example, manuscripts were placed within statues of the Buddha or the monastery walls only to be rediscovered in the distant future (see, for example, Gyatso 1996; Walser 2005; Veidlinger 2006). The very existence of these and other practices suggests that texts attributed a sacred status evoke powerful values associated with both their contents and their physical forms. In many religious traditions people have a deep concern for providing a respectful treatment of their sacred texts, similar to deities or human subjects of exalted status, even when the texts are considered obsolete and useless. For quite some time a growing body of research in Religious Studies and Anthropology has moved away from an exclusive textualist approach in the study of sacred texts to direct its attention to how texts are conceptualized, treated, and used in different times and cultures. In the move towards the study of “texts in context,” scholars have observed the multiple uses and ways by which people encounter both oral and written texts, and the complexity of relationships that can exist between texts, practices and contexts (see Coburn 1984; Levering 1989; Timm 1992; Cantwell Smith 2005). The traditional discursive enterprise with focus solely on the contents is no longer a sufficient approach for understanding the culture-specific meanings of texts and what the texts are considered to be by their producers and users. Although modernist voices within religions emphasize



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authorial intentions and the interpretative possibilities of their sacred texts, the texts do not merely serve to communicate referential messages and symbolic meanings or reflect their historical contexts, but can assume the most diverse functional roles, even becoming potential social actors in the religious life of people (Bell 1988). Some texts seem to have no communicative function at all, are not intended to be read or understood, but only produced as “ceremonial artifacts” to be appreciated for their physical properties and presence (Moerman Chapter 4). In what Karin Barber has called “the anthropology of texts” the aim is “to open up to view the sheer range of ways in which texts can be constituted and apprehended, the range of relationships they can establish between speaker/writer and hearer/reader, and the ways in which they can be valued and held to have meaning” (Barber 2007, 13). Considering the ways in which adherents of various religious traditions handle their sacred texts with the utmost care, scholars have as yet paid surprisingly little attention to the ritual procedures by which people enliven their texts within their communities, and create, renovate, preserve and dispose of the texts. This volume seeks to broaden the subject by focusing on texts that are considered to be at the final stage of their worldly existence, that is, when their material bodies are withdrawn from the social and relational contexts in which they have been produced and used by religious people. The approach is empirical and comparative, unfolding practices of text disposal that are regarded as meaningful and appropriate by members of different religious communities. Some general questions addressed in the essays presented here include: What do religious people do when the physical form of their sacred texts is regarded as old and worn-out? What kind of ritual attention do sacred texts command? How do religious people explain and interpret their practices of text disposal? How do they respond to modernization processes and new technologies when sacred texts are mass-produced and published in digital versions? The topic of the book has been structured by religion for the purpose of introducing the readers to divergent practices and discourses on text disposal within some of the major world religions. Religious Conceptions of Sacred Texts As the essays in this volume deal with religious uses and conceptions of sacred texts from the perspective of text disposal, it is relevant to elucidate what can be meant by the concept “sacred texts” and particularly what makes the texts sacred. Previous scholarship has generated numerous definitions and paid considerable attention to the different media by which texts are transmitted. Comparative studies have highlighted the differences and similarities between religions that privilege oral transmission of texts – such as Buddhism and Hinduism – and those which favor written texts – like Christianity and Islam (see, for example, Graham 1987; Coward 1988). According to one classification, “sacred text” is a wider and more unspecified category for authoritative oral or written texts that are canonical

Introduction



and normative, often believed to be of divine origin, and treated as sacred and powerful (Levering 1989). The word “scripture” has been deemed a narrower category for normative and bounded written texts since the English word signifies something written down (Cantwell Smith 2005). Scholars have also observed that these analytical categories are strongly influenced by Western models and experiences of religious texts, and have attempted to substitute the terms with, for instance, “word” or “canon” in order to mark out that written aspects are not privileged in all religious traditions (see, for example, Coburn 1984; Folkert 1989; Graham 1987). In more recent years, the dichotomy between the oral and written dimensions has given way to more balanced approaches which acknowledge the co-existence and interaction of both through a wide range of complex relationships that exist between people and texts. Another way is to start with the literal meaning of the word “text”. Derived from the Latin texere, which means to weave or join together, the word refers to “the quality of being joined together and given a recognisable existence as a form” (Barber 2007, 1). From this perspective a text can be constituted by means of diverse media in order to become accessible and used in various ways. Along similar lines, it is challenging to think of both oral and written texts cross-culturally from the perspective of the anthropological theory of “entextualization”, namely, the “process of rendering discourse extractable, of making a stretch of linguistic production into a unit – a text – that can be lifted out of its interactional setting” (Bauman & Briggs 1990). The process implies that producers, owners, and users of texts render them as being detachable from the immediate context in which they appear. This “detachability” can be achieved by various means, such as quoting a text in performance, providing it a written and material form (scripturalization) that needs to be attended, and preserving and using the text in ritualized ways (Barber 2007). A text exposed to the process of entextualization will be “frozen” and treated as a coherent and separate entity or object with a specific identity, form and boundaries. The more detachable the text is made, the more it is perceived to be constant, shareable, and transmittable across different temporal and spatial borders (Urban 1991). When the entextualization process involves religious language, the texts are often attributed to suprahuman authors and presented as having capacities to evoke and mediate supernatural presences and powers whenever they are ritually displayed and used in particular social contexts. The contributions to this book will start from the perspective of written texts – scrolls, codices or inscriptions – and along the way illustrate divergent methods in which oral dimensions are deeply embedded in people’s perceptions and practices of texts. In the first place religious people may not recognize their sacred texts as “woven” by human agents from ordinary discourses, but will make various claims of a supreme origin, nature, and authority. Religious texts are attributed sacrality which points to something much greater beyond their worldly manifestation, whether they are believed to enshrine the original words of divine agents, a pristine teaching of the founder, and/or divinely inspired testimonies of pious devotees. The texts may be held sacred because people believe they contain



The Death of Sacred Texts

teachings with instructions on how to attain salvation, articulate godly plans for humanity, or because they are perceived as positive theophanies that embody and mediate divine presences. In Judaism, for instance, the Torah is assumed to contain the word of God and constitutes a “center of holiness,” which, in some contexts, is perceived as a replacement for the temple and a metonymy of God (Schleicher Chapter 1). Buddhist theories explain Dharma texts as an embodiment of the historical Buddha and his continually living teaching, which alongside his corporeal relics should be the central object of worship (Moerman Chapter 4). The Sikhs perceive the Guru Granth Sahib as a scripture which enfolds divine words and the teaching of historical human gurus and is simultaneously the now living Guru with authority to provide spiritual guidance (Myrvold Chapter 7). The chapters will illustrate a whole range of discourses, practices and behaviors that do not merely confirm dominant beliefs but also provide arenas for creating and negotiating conceptions of the texts and their sacredness. At the same time as sacred texts are attributed a cosmic status they are also recognized as worldly manifestations subjected to historical change. As a part of the entextualization processes, religious traditions often find it important to create revelation models, canonization histories, and categorizations of the oral and written aspects in efforts to explain and justify the sacred status of a particular text. Muslim interpretations, for instance, distinguish between three dimensions of the Qur’an as the divinely revealed “recitation,” the “book” (the archetype of which is residing with God), and the codex that enshrines the text in the present (Svensson Chapter 2). Many Hindus set the Rigveda apart from other texts as a sacred sound of a higher order that was “heard” by pious sages, in comparison to the “remembered” and written texts created at a later stage in history by human authors (Broo Chapter 5). Religious theories that explain how divine messages and sacred teachings were revealed and transmitted to humanity sometimes involve diachronic models that link together oral speech and written words through various types of relationships between divine agents, religious founders, texts, written objects, and followers. In religious historiographies, orality sometimes precedes writing and is given a high status as the original divine speech/sound or the pristine teaching of the founder, while the process of entextualizing words in written form has been deemed significant or insignificant by communities for a variety of reasons. In the case of Jainism, the production and preservation of written manuscripts was considered crucial for the survival of the Jain teaching, even if oral transmission of the “words of the Jinas” was, and continues to be, prevalent in worship. Transmission through writing was not always considered sufficient, but the texts were carved into temple structures to be stored indefinitely and used when required (Balbir Chapter 6). In Japanese Buddhism, sutra texts were characteristically exposed to this double entextualization. The texts were inscribed on different materials and buried as treasures to be safely preserved for a specified time in the future when the Buddhist prophecy foresaw a decline of the Buddha’s teaching (Moerman Chapter 4).

Introduction



Although religious people may attribute materiality divergent values, depending on their cosmological and soteriological frameworks, they do create distinct material cultures to produce, communicate, and remember individual and collectively shared values, ideas and practices in the present and the past. In this “world of things,” the text manifested in writing or other forms is perceived as a powerful artifact to be prepared and treated with the utmost care. Purely typographical issues, such as the size of the text, binding, structure of content, pagination, quality of paper and ink, can become a major religious concern. In Judaism, the Rabbinic tradition provides detailed prescriptions of how to create the physical form of Torah scrolls (Schleicher Chapter 1). The Jain scribes make sophisticated endeavors to embellish handwritten manuscripts by using paper in different colors and inserting calligraphies and paintings (Balbir Chapter 6). The texts are given a material competence in the sense that the physical form of the texts are believed to affect the content, transmission, use, and experience of them (Cartier 1995; Mackenzie 1999). Given this competence, religious people may engage in ongoing discussions on whether sacredness dwells in the content or the material form of the text, whether it is related to the status of the author or is bound to sacred words or the different surfaces on which the words are written or printed. In history people have assumed divergent religious, aesthetic and pragmatic stances toward the material aspects of sacred texts and diversely adapted their traditions in relation to new conditions and developments in the surrounding society. This concern for the material aspects becomes even more tangible when examining the ritual uses and behaviors towards sacred texts, and especially the ritual disposal of texts. Ritual Uses of Sacred Texts Sacred texts may emerge with a clear entextualized character, while religious people will re-embed the texts in specific ways and in particular social settings; that is, they always contextualize the texts. The essays in this volume pay special attention to the various ritual means by which people contextualize particular texts. A simple typology of rituals involving religious texts can distinguish between formalized and stipulated practices which aim to render and mediate the contents and practices which serve the purpose of venerating and worshiping the material form and presence of texts. Considering the first category, the special nature attributed to religious texts often forces a recitation, namely, a quotation of previously “frozen” and fixed texts. A distinguishing feature of the recitation genre is the stress on formal correctness and faithfulness to the stylistic and content-based features of the text. As several studies in this book highlight, many communities regard correct pronunciation of the sacred words as more important than understanding the contents and pursue knowledge of semantic meanings from other narrative and exegetical traditions that run parallel with the formal rendition. A correct recitation is often believed to preserve the original sancrosanct form of the words, and performances of the texts are usually embedded with verbal and



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non-verbal markers, such as chanting, praying, or the pasting of tulsi leaves on the inner cover of the book (Broo Chapter 5), to announce that what is to come next or what has been finished is different from ordinary human speech. Recitations and other methods to make the sacred words manifest in material form, such as the Muslim practice of writing Qur’anic verses on paper and dissolving the ink in water for ingestion (Svensson Chapter 2), are also believed to have strong performative powers to affect the spiritual and bio-moral conditions of humans, transform social categories, and act upon the human world in other ways. There are also ritual practices that seem to serve no other purpose but to venerate the physical form and presence of texts. In some traditions, such as Jainism and Sikhism, the sacred texts even have their own festival days in the religious calendar, when they are taken out in procession as objects of public display and worship (Balbir Chapter 6, Myrvold Chapter 7). Venerating the physical form of the texts is deemed a merit-bestowing act in itself, comparable to other religious activities. Physical places around the texts are usually manipulated and transformed into enchanting and significant spaces by means of ritual behaviors and symbols, whereas other public environments and social milieus are considered improper for the texts. Through culturally prescribed behaviors conducted within the texts’ temporal and spatial dimensions people may both create and confirm experiences and notions of sacredness and even respond to the environment as if nonhuman forces had shaped it. As Catherine Bell elaborates in her practiceoriented approach to ritualized acts, bodily acts and gestures of humans who are moving about within a specially constructed space actually project and define the cultural-specific qualities that order that space, and simultaneously re-embody the same cultural values and schemes (Bell 1992). Many religions have their own sets of regulative rules that constrain the devotees’ interactions and uses of the texts, such as restrictions of cleanliness and proper attire, avoiding exposing the texts to bodily fluids, and adopting certain behaviors and postures in the presence of the texts. Breaking the rules would be regarded as a form of offence towards the texts. Many rituals attempt to regulate the access and means of entry to the texts’ interiors by, for instance, revealing and concealing the scrolls or codices in regular opening and closing ceremonies, wrapping them in cloths and particular accessories, and storing or hiding the texts at special places only to make them accessible on a few selected occasions. Through these acts religious people think they secure and respond best to the sacred nature of the text, but their actions can also be viewed as the ritual management by which they impute sacrality to the texts and simultaneously underscore the ethos that these particular texts should be treated differently than others in the profane realm. As the chapters elucidate, both formal renditions of texts and rituals performed to the textual artifacts can be perceived as powerful means to conjure up supernatural powers. When the Gospel was displayed on altars in early Christianity it was an “avenue of invocation” believed to invoke Christ’s presence (Parmenter Chapter 3). In the synagogue, a reading of the Torah can be perceived as a “revelatory process” that evokes a divine presence (Schleicher Chapter 1). Given these beliefs, the religious elite have

Introduction



often displayed a keen interest in defining “orthodox” practices and stipulating ritual norms in attempts to control the transmission, access and use of their sacred text, while accompanied with competing claims for legitimacy and incongruities between what is prescribed and what is performed. Fascinating books have been written about religions and texts; however, this volume focuses exclusively on ritualized methods of disposing of sacred texts. It seems typical of many religions that they lack formal customs or prescriptions that can provide authority to certain practices of text disposal. In the textual traditions of many religions one will find only a few or no references to the normative conducts for disposing of texts. Nevertheless, the meanings religious people attribute to sacred texts have forced them to develop considerations about what they should do with their old and damaged texts. To simply throw away texts that are believed to enshrine divine words and teachings would be considered an act of desecration. The fear of contamination and human neglect can be sufficient reasons for engaging in practices that are believed to ensure a respectful treatment. The chapters describe and analyze a wide range of discourses and practices that have developed in response to rather pragmatic problems of disposal. While some traditions have chosen one preferred method for the ritual discarding and make distinctions between the handling of texts of divine origin and those created by human hands, other religions display cultural variations and engage in dynamic discourses with an array of voices about proper conduct. In some religions, textual preservation is predominant, while more ritualized means of destroying texts have been used by the religious elite in their endeavors to censor illegitimate texts. As the title of the book indicates, religious people may at first be reluctant to obliterate sacred texts and, therefore, make a sincere effort to renovate the texts before subjecting them to disposal. In Judaism, for instance, the Torah should be buried only if it has been deemed impossible to restore the text to its physical perfection (Schleicher Chapter 1). The chapters illustrate how various religious beliefs and motivations are projected onto the preferred methods of disposal and evoke analogies to how the human body and sacred objects, such as icons and relics, are treated. In some cases there seems to be an explicit need to establish a balance between the spiritual content and the physical form of texts. The material body of non-restorable texts can be presented as being “dead”, even “martyrs” (Svensson Chapter 2), with a “spirit” that is believed to reincarnate in newly produced books (Parmenter Chapter 3; Myrvold Chapter 7). Religious discourses pertaining to the “death” of sacred texts can be equally informative about perceived notions concerning the “life” of texts. Religious traditions sometimes present texts as having a life-cycle, similar to humans, which is marked by ritual events. Traditionally, scholars in anthropology and religious studies have used the analytical category “life-cycle rites” for ritual activities linked to biological or social transfers in the order of human life (Bell 1997). Considering the ways in which adherents of many religions handle their sacred texts, the term could be extended to encompass ritually marked passages in the “life” of textual artifacts which are attributed a sacred status and sometimes even treated as animated objects.



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At the junction of ritual and texts we also find a vital tension between tradition and modernity. Ritual practices do not fade away or disappear in the face of modernization, but rather transform and even become revitalized. Globalization and modernization processes in the twentieth century have entailed new formations of ritual acts, discourses, spaces and entrepreneurs, as well as the renewal and transformation of already existing rituals. People may reclaim tradition by inventing rituals that respond to their needs in a rapidly changing world. Several essays in this book illustrate how modern technologies have spurred religions to address the question of text disposal and adapt their traditions to new conditions. The Internet has especially become an important interactive arena in which people discuss and negotiate proper conducts and make endeavors to establish new ritual norms that should be valid for a global community. The new means of communication have enabled people to create transnational practices for support and assistance with the transportation and storage of old texts as well as the enactment of rituals. Digitalization has further made traditionally guarded texts accessible and triggered reflections on the nature of texts – if sacredness extends to the new digital forms – and how texts that have been used on computer or mobile phone screens should be taken care of. This book can be viewed as a preliminary survey about the ritual disposal and renovation of sacred texts in the world religions and will hopefully encourage further academic explorations of the material and ritual aspects in the anthropological study of texts. Bibliography Barber, Karin. 2007. The Anthropology of Texts, Persons and Publics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Baumann, Richard & Briggs, Charles. 1990. “Poetics and Performance as Critical Perspectives on Language and Social Life.” In Annual Review of Anthropology, Vol. 19, pp. 59–88. Bell, Catherine. 1988. “Ritualization of Texts and Textualization of Ritual in the Codification of Taoist Liturgy.” In History of Religions, Vol. 27 (4), pp. 366– 392. Bell, Catherine. 1992. Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. New York: Oxford University Press. Bell, Catherine. 1997. Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions. New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cantwell Smith, Wilfred. 2005. What Is Scripture? A Comparative Approach. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Cartier, Roger. 1995. Forms and Meanings. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.

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Coburn, Thomas B. 1984. “‘Scripture’ in India: Towards a Typology of the Word in Hindu Life.” In Journal of the American Academy of Religion, Vol. 52, pp. 435–459. Coward, Harold. 1988. Sacred Words and Sacred Texts: Scripture in World Religions. New York: Orbis Books. Folkert, Kendall W. 1989. “The ‘Canon’ of ‘Scripture’.” In Levering, Miriam (ed.), Rethinking Scripture: Essays from a Comparative Perspective. Albany: SUNY Press. Graham, William A. 1987. Beyond the Written Word: Oral Aspects of Scripture in the History of Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gyatso, Janet B. 1996. “Drawn from the Tibetan Treasury: The gTer ma Literature.” In Cabezón, José Ignacio & Jackson, Roger R. (eds), Tibetan Literature: Studies in Genre. pp. 147–169. Ithaca, NY: Snow Lion. Levering, Miriam (ed.). 1989. Rethinking Scripture: Essays from a Comparative Perspective. Albany: State University of New York Press. Mackenzie, D.F. 1999. Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Timm, Jeffrey R. 1992. Texts in Context: Traditional Hermeneutics in South Asia. New York: State University of New York Press. Urban, Greg. 1991. A Discourse-Centered Approach to Culture. Austin: University of Texas Press. Veidlinger, Daniel. 2006. “When a Word is Worth a Thousand Pictures: Mahayana Influence on the Theravada Attitudes towards Writing.” In Numen, Vol. 53, pp. 405–447. Walser, Joseph. 2005. Nagarjuna in Context: Mahayana Buddhism and Early Indian Culture. New York: Columbia University Press.

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Chapter 1

Accounts of a Dying Scroll: On Jewish Handling of Sacred Texts in Need of Restoration or Disposal Marianne Schleicher

In Judaism, holiness pertains to Torah to such a degree that numerous religious norms determine scriptural handling, not only during everyday rituals, but also when it concerns preparation, storage, renovation and disposal of this most central piece of Jewish scripture. By considering Torah as more than just a text, but as an artifact, that is, a manipulable object that attracts personal and cultural representations, this chapter will trace the practices of renovating and discarding sacred text fragments and scripture through history, from antiquity until today, to explain their function and significance in the Jewish religion. A limited amount of examples will be taken from normative religious works such as the Mishnah, the Babylonian Talmud (bTalmud), the Zohar, and Shulkhan Arukh, while sources of contemporary practices of restoration and disposal will stem from Internet sites as well as my interview with the Danish Chief Rabbi, who is head of the modern Orthodox community in Copenhagen. Conceptions of the Torah as a Text Until recently, scholars of religion have grouped scripture under the category of text. Various interpretative methods, often drawing upon the achievements of literary criticism, have been coined to access the oral or written discourse of scripture, while still taking account of scripture’s intrinsic claim to holiness based 

The interview was conducted in Danish on June 23, 2008 in the Copenhagen home of Chief Rabbi Bent Lexner. I owe him my gratitude for agreeing to this interview. Parts of the interview are rendered in this chapter in my translation.  When dealing with scripture as a text, I find Paul Ricoeur’s approach one of the most rewarding. He sees textual use as a matter of connecting “two discourses, the discourse of the text and the discourse of the interpretation. This connection means that what has to be interpreted in a text is what it says and what it speaks about, that is, the kind of world which it opens up or discloses; and the final act of ‘appropriation’ is less the projection of one’s own prejudices into the text than the ‘fusion of horizons’ which occurs when the

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on its revealed content; that is, transempirical knowledge (Smith 1989, 21, 36, 41–42; Levering 1989, 58; Holdrege 1989, 181–182). In this respect, the Torah is not different from any other piece of scripture within the world of religions. The Torah inherently claims to contain the words of God. From the first chapter of Genesis throughout the entire Pentateuch, God speaks as part of his formative and normative address to the universe and mankind: “And God said: ‘Let there be light.’ And there was light” (Gen. 1:3). A transempirical address like this, including its creative effect, transcends everything known and intelligible, which is one of the reasons why many religious people react to scripture with awe and fascination when, for example, analyzing it as a text. As the wholly other, the holy is fascinating because it induces the hope of possessing and appropriating the power which has caused one’s own awe of what lies beyond one’s human comprehension. The prospect of benefiting from the superhuman and numinous insight imbedded in scripture may explain why some religious people engage in textual use of scripture to consider whether its content is worth appropriating. Within a Jewish context, God’s speech also explains the intratextual hierarchy of the Hebrew Bible where the Torah is believed to be superior to the Prophets, which rank above the Writings. The supremacy of the Torah is based on its stipulated divine discourse. The Prophets consist of human renderings of further divine address, while the Writings merely contain human reflection upon God’s acts and words. Altogether, the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings are referred to as “TaNaKh,” an acronym of the Hebrew names for these three parts. God’s direct speech in the Torah provides one textual explanation for the supremacy of the Torah. Nevertheless, a thorough understanding of this hierarchy requires that one turns to the dominating ritual use of the Torah which is prescribed, sanctioned and encouraged by the Rabbinic tradition. It is through this ritual use that the holiness of the Torah is further established and maintained. In other words, an isolated focus on the textual content of scripture to explain its holy status is far from sufficient to elucidate its holy status and influence as a phenomenon within the world of religions. Accordingly, scholars of religion have recently taken steps to steer clear of the shortcomings of the textual conception of scripture. As this chapter will argue, religious specialists and some resourceful lay people may invest time and energy in interpreting the discourse of scripture and thus accessing world of the reader and the world of the text merge into one another” (Ricoeur 2003 (1975), 377–78). Ricoeur’s conception of text coupled with other theories influenced my work on the religious tales of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav, a Jewish mystic, where I considered the informative and performative function of intertextual references to sacred texts within these tales (Schleicher 2007).  Awe and fascination were the very terms that Rudolf Otto used in order to define “the holy” when he analyzed the numinous power of a god or a sphere (Otto 1987 (1917), 8–45). An endless list of scholars have dealt with the concept of holiness and criticized Otto for a Christian bias. However, René Girard and others have given the Ottonian notion a revival within the study of religion (Girard 1987 (1978), 42–43).

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the divine address imbedded in the text. However, most religious people acquaint themselves with scripture as a holy object, a holy artifact, in ritual or ritual-like settings where the textual discourse is drowned out by so many other aspects that interfere in the general reception of scripture. Conceptions of the Torah as a Holy Artifact To explain the various aspects that interfere in the general reception of the Torah, especially in ritual or ritual-like settings, it can be useful to employ the term “artifact” when referring to scripture, as introduced by anthropologist Brian Malley (2004). The term “artifact” paves the way for a psychological and sociological approach to the projections of personal and cultural representations onto scripture which arise out of individual and collective needs, experiences, and hopes. What allows for such representations to influence the reception of scripture seems to be that scripture is handled as a physical object, irrespective of the textual content, and treated as a manipulable symbol signifying whatever individuals, collectives and institutions project onto it. The projected meanings are subsequently associated with or subconsciously activated by scripture’s non-semantic and formal aspects, such as binding and embellishment, spelling, recitation and quotation, restoration, disposal and similar acts of ritual handling and regulations. Within Judaism, the easy recognition of the Torah is enabled by these formal aspects: When ritually used the Torah should always be bound, not in book form, but in scroll form. When the scroll is carried between the Torah cupboard and the elevated platform at which the Torah reading takes place, it is decorated with various symbolic silvery objects. Phonetically, the Torah can be recognized whenever it is recited due to the rules of cantillation, to which ritual reading of the Torah is required to conform. From an early age, children learn to distinguish and even quote passages from the Torah and express themselves by inclusion of its imagery in, for example, drawings, which indicates a belonging to Jewish culture. What is of even more importance to this chapter is that Torah scrolls and other Jewish sacred texts are restored according to meticulous rules and disposed of according to specific guidelines. These formal, artifactual aspects are not prescribed within the Torah text, but have come to characterize the handling of the Torah as a consequence of historical and cultural developments. Trajectories of the Artifactual Status of the Torah One significant factor in the holy status of the Torah as artifact appears to be the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 ce. As a consequence, Jews no longer had access to a sacred place, that is, an axis mundi, through which contact with 



For more on scripture as an artifact, see Schleicher 2009.

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God could be mediated. The Torah replaced the temple as the center of cultic activity. Accordingly, it became important to the early Rabbinic authors of the Mishnaic and Talmudic literature to provide prescriptions of how the Torah text should be conceived and handled in ritual contexts (see also Stern 2003, 231). The saying in Mishnah, “Pirkey Avot” 1:1, is one among many illustrations of this replacement. It encourages Jews to “make a fence round the Torah.” Segregating sacred space is a fundamental religious activity in that it marks the boundary between the sacred and the profane. When the temple was still standing it was constantly purified, that is, segregated from impurity and guarded in order to keep it in a state of perfection and completion. People officiating within it were likewise purified and the mundane world was fenced off from the temple precincts. When the Mishnaic tractate “Pirkey Avot” formulates this encouragement in its opening lines, it is hard not to interpret it as an attempt to promote the Torah as a new center of holiness equal to that of the temple, now lying in ruins. Detailed specifications for the artifactual aspects of the Torah scroll were formulated in what were to become the most normative corpora in early Rabbinic Judaism and onwards: the Mishnah and the Talmud. These prescriptions allowed for easy identification of the text and defined what was required in order for a Torah scroll to be considered holy, perfect and complete. According to Rabbinic literature, the holy status of the Torah had been achieved when the text was written in the Assyrian script, on parchment and in ink (Mishnah, “Yadayim” 4:5). The holy status furthermore depended on the parchment being made from the skin of a clean animal. The preparations of the hide had to be carried out with the conscious intent of turning it into parchment for the Torah (bTalmud, “Megillah” 19a). The parchment was prepared on both sides (bTalmud, “Shabbath” 79b) and cut into a square sheet, upon which lines were ruled in columns, leaving space for margins to surround and protect the holy letters to be written upon them. No vowels or accents were allowed if the scroll were to be fit for public reading. The sheets were then sewed together with threads of dried tendons from clean animals and “the Scroll of the Law closes at its middle, there being a cylinder at each end” (bTalmud, “Baba Bathra” 14a). Obviously, these prescriptions would lead to the production of a scroll – not a codex. Once written, inspected, accepted, and used for ritual purposes, the Torah had to be chanted aloud using a special melody (bTalmud, “Megillah” 32a). These artifactual prescriptions for the preparation and transmission of the physical text provided and continue to provide tools within the Rabbinic tradition for projecting a status of holy axis mundi onto the Torah scroll. In other words, the material culture and the ritual acts involving the Torah were and still are strategies for the Rabbinic elite to establish and maintain normative perceptions of the Torah. Holiness applies not only to the Torah as a text but also as an artifact. In line with this conception, the Torah is even referred to as God’s temple (mikdashyah) in medieval writings (Stern 2003, 233). According to Rabbinic tradition, every man must write a Torah scroll for himself (bTalmud, “Sanhedrin” 21b), but if unable to do so he can commission a scribe to write it for him (bTalmud, “Megillah” 27a). This commandment brought

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most Jewish males into contact with what they considered holy. Accordingly, they were required to obtain the ritual purity necessary for the handling of what was to become a holy artifact. Many of these requirements are formulated in the legal code Shulkhan Arukh devised by Joseph Caro in 1564. Following this code, a scribe – whether professional or lay – had to prepare himself mentally before writing a Torah scroll. Because of the numinous power of God’s names in the Torah text he had to say aloud: “I have the intent to write the holy name” before doing so. The writing was not to be interrupted and it had to remain within the protective margins of the sheet (Shulkhan Arukh, “Yoreh Deah” 22). Thus, every Jew writing a scroll had to remind himself of its numinosity and thereby contribute to the maintenance of the status of the Torah as a holy artifact. To further venerate and therefore maintain the holiness of the Torah, the scroll had to be handled according to special rules. It must not be held uncovered unless opened to be read. In the tradition of Ashkenazi Jewry the scroll is covered with a Torah mantle, while Sephardic Jews store it in a wooden box. People should not touch it with dirty hands or take it into impure places, and all should stand up when it is carried and must not sit wherever it is resting (Shulkhan Arukh, “Yoreh Deah” 22). The Torah scroll has different accessories which are known as keley qodesh, holy vessels. They are typically made in silver except for the two rollers which are made of wood (ets hayyim). The accessories include a breastplate (ephod) which connotes the breastplate of the high priest of the Jerusalem Temple. The Torah breastplate is decorated on each side with the temple’s two pillars ‘Boaz and Jachin’. Another accessory is the Torah pointer (yad torah) which prevents the reader of the Torah from touching the holy letters with his impure hands. The Torah crown(s) (keter/-im) which is placed on top of the rollers when it is either kept in the Torah cupboard or carried in a procession, evokes messianic hope and God’s kingdom. The bells (rimmonim), which are also placed on top of the rollers or attached to the crown(s), are similar to those carried by the high priest in antiquity to warn ritually impure people that he was coming and that they would have to keep their distance. The tradition of making the Torah accessories probably arose as an opportunity for community members to remember and honor family members by donating such equipment to the local synagogue (Elbogen 1993, 359–363). Not only have the accessories transmitted an aura of holiness associated with the Jerusalem Temple onto the Torah scroll but they have also served and still serve as a means to create transitivity between its holiness and individuals within the community. Here, the concept of transitivity is important as it signifies the numerous meanings which are transferred from one sphere to another. In this way, time and place are transcended. Individuals in one sphere become connected with other users of the Torah, historical events and symbolic  Ashkenazi literally means “German” and refers to ritual and cultural practices within German-speaking Jewry. Sephardic literally means “Spanish” and refers to similar practices originally stemming from the Iberian Peninsula.

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meanings in other spheres. When donating equipment to a scroll, an individual links himself to a particular artifact which has its own history, but also to all Torah scrolls through time, their settings, their significance and their role in the Jewish tradition, to which the individual wants to belong. While the abovementioned specifications contribute to the establishment of the Torah’s holiness within Judaism and define a legitimate way for the individual to form, handle, and appropriate this scriptural artifact prior to the ritual activity, the synagogical use of the scroll is central to the maintenance of its holiness. Since the Middle Ages, the Torah reading has taken place on Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays and constitutes the zenith of synagogue service. It is flanked by the reading and recitation of Biblical psalms, prayers, and blessings, all to be found in the Jewish Prayer Book (the Siddur) which emerged in edited form from the ninth century and onwards (see, for example, Elbogen 1993, 140). Inside the synagogue, the Torah scroll is stored in a cupboard placed on the wall facing Jerusalem. The cupboard is often referred to as aron ha-qodesh, the “Holy Ark,” above which God’s presence used to dwell inside the Holy of Holiest in the Jerusalem Temple. The authors of early Rabbinic literature, such as the Mishnah and the Talmud, were hesitant to compare the synagogue with the temple by using the name aron ha-qodesh for the Torah cupboard. Instead, they designated the Torah cupboard tebah, connoting the arks of Noah and Moses. The popular need for sacred places seems to have pushed aside politically correct conceptions of the elite along the timelines of history. In other words, the interior, along with the popular name for the cupboard, stresses the holy status of the Torah and even points to it as a metonymy of God. Given the metonymical character of the Torah and its general status of holiness among Jews, it is possible to interpret the act of Torah reading as a revelatory process. Once the holy artifact in the shape of a scroll is taken out of the cupboard, it is dressed in its garb or box, including its holy accessories. The adorned scroll is then greeted before it is carried to an elevated platform (bimah), where it must never be left unattended and from which it must be read. Tradition prescribes how the reading of the Torah should be divided into three parts to be recited by a Cohen, a Levite, and an Israelite. Together these three lines of descent represent the entirety of Jews and as such all Jews symbolically partake in the recitation. After the Torah reading has finished, the scroll is raised for all to behold, upon which it is rolled up and re-dressed and then accompanied to its place in the Torah cupboard (see Shulkhan Arukh, “Orakh Hayyim”). All in all, the ritual act of Torah reading and the physical presence of the Torah during a synagogue service appear to be a matter of revealing and concealing this holy artifact. Transmitting and recognizing the Torah as a phonetic object, that 

David Stern shares the impression that the Torah serves as a metonymy of God, that is, every word of God represents a part of God, even though he bases it not on the projected holiness but on the textually based conception of the Torah as divine speech (Stern 1987, 619; see also Holdrege 1989, 180–261).

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is, a special cluster of sounds, signifies the culmination of synagogue worship and ensures transitivity between the congregants and everything that the scroll denotes, including God’s presence. The Numinosity of the Divine Names The holy status which the Torah gains through Rabbinic prescriptions and ritual use does not suffice to explain Jewish handling of sacred texts in need of restoration or disposal. One also has to reckon with the attributed numinosity of the divine names that is reflected in the hosting text, whether scripture or text fragment. The vantage point for understanding this aspect is Deuteronomy 12:4 which reads: “Ye shall not do so unto the LORD your God.” The context of the sentence makes clear that while altars and graven images of idols must be destroyed, this is not the case with places and items associated with the name of God. As such, this biblical sentence becomes the point of reference for the numinous quality of divine names as in this later Talmudic specification: These are the Names which may not be erased, such as: “El”, “Eloha”, “Elohim”, “your God”, I am that I am, “Alef Daleth”, “Yod He”, “Shaddai”, “Zebaoth” – these may not be erased; but the Great, the Mighty, the Revered, the Majestic, the Strong, the Powerful, the Potent, the Merciful and Gracious, the Long Suffering, the One Abounding in Kindness, these may be erased! (bTalmud, “Shevu’oth” 35a).

The fear of erasing the divine names affects the rules concerning the disposal of scripture and text fragments. In a Talmudic discussion of what is to be saved on a Sabbath in cases of fire, all parts of the TaNaKh are mentioned, whether in Hebrew or in translation, to prevent them from being dishonorably burnt as something worthless (see bTalmud, “Shabbath” 115a). Also to be saved are the so-called phylacteries (tefillin), the two small black boxes with black leather straps attached to them that Jewish men don, one on their head and the other tied on their arm, each weekday morning. The reason why these phylacteries are to be reverently disposed of is that they contain tiny pieces of parchment citing Deuteronomy 6:4–9, Deuteronomy 11: 13–21 and Numbers 15:37–41 from the Torah, and thus represent divine names (see bTalmud, “Gittin” 45b). This Rabbinic source applies the same logic to the rules concerning the disposal of the doorpost cases, known as mezuzot, which Jews place on the doorposts of their home. These cases also contain the abovementioned citations from the Torah and divine names. Finally, other text fragments containing the divine names, such as prayer books, school  See also the description in bTalmud (“Sanhedrin” 102b) of the sacrilege of King Ahab: “He was engaged in erasing the Divine Names [from the Torah] and substituting [the names of] idols in their stead.”

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books and amulets, have come to be known under the name of shemot (literally meaning “names”) and must be disposed of in a reverent manner as well. According to bTalmud (“Shabbath” 115b) a fragment is to be considered holy if it contains either the name of God or 85 coherent letters stemming from the Torah. These examples illustrate the claim that people react toward the numinous with awe, which again points to the religious person’s dilemma when disposal becomes an issue. The dilemma, however, can be postponed as long as restoration is possible. Rules of Restoration The primary purpose of restoring a scripture is to bring its condition back to a state of physical completion and perfection, which are the basic requirements for it to be holy and remain holy. In the Rabbinic tradition, whenever the restoration of a scroll is to be argued for, references to one particular statement in the Talmud can always be given: “The Torah was transmitted entire” (bTalmud, “Gittin” 60a), meaning that Moses received the Torah as one perfect entity, which is why it has to be kept in a perfect state. If the Torah cannot be “transmitted entire” by restoring it, it must, as a consequence, be disposed of. In Jewish tradition, a clear line exists between an acceptable, yet restorable amount of mistakes and too many which will render the Torah scroll unacceptable for ritual use. Up to two mistakes per sheet are tolerable if the mistakes are corrected. However, if there are three mistakes on one sheet, the entire scroll cannot be trusted and should be disposed of (bTalmud, “Menachot” 29b). Moreover, if a mistake occurs in the act of writing the holy name on a Torah sheet or if the holy name, once written, transgresses into the margins, the sheet will have to be discarded (Shulkhan Arukh, “Yoreh Deah” 22). If damaged, worn, or no longer needed, the text fragments containing divine names, known as shemot, are simply disposed of. Scripture, however, is checked for mistakes as well as damages prior to the synagogue service by the person(s) responsible for reciting the weekly portion. Within Judaism, only Torah scrolls are restored to a perfect state, while other sacred texts, including the Prophets and the Writings, will be buried when they become too worn or flawed. Concerning the text fragments containing divine names, it was and still is the responsibility of the salesperson to check his own supply if it comes from a non-expert (see bTalmud, “Eruvin” 97a). In other words, there exists a clear distinction in Jewish tradition between Torah scrolls and other sacred texts regarding the issue whether they should be restored or respectfully disposed of when they are no longer fit for ritual usage. The distinction between restorable and non-restorable text objects is still made, also in modern Orthodox communities as becomes clear from the answer of Danish Chief Rabbi Bent Lexner to my question:

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MS: Would the rules pertaining to restoration of the Torah scroll pertain to a humash [the Pentateuch in codex form] or the Prophets? BL: No, only to the Torah scroll because it is not a requirement for the others that they are written as scrolls. They are merely books containing the holy idea. If you drop one of them, you have to pick it up and kiss it. If it is ruined, you make sure that it is buried.

Here, the logic of restoration does not follow from the holy status of a book. It follows from the Rabbinic prescription of keeping the Torah complete and perfect. The restoration of Torah scrolls is usually carried out by a so-called sofer, a trained scribe, whose profession is to write scrolls for liturgical purposes. The title sofer connotes the term sefer torah; literally the Torah scroll. Occasionally, he is also referred to as Sofer STaM (STaM is an acronym of sefer torah, tefillin, and mezuzot), which signals his broader activity of reproducing the Torah text in the form of a scroll or as parchment pieces for tefillin and mezuzot. Furthermore, he is responsible within Jewish communities for writing marriage contracts, divorce letters and other scrolls. The scribe has to undergo an apprenticeship to learn the craft of calligraphy and especially the many laws within Rabbinic literature and tradition which apply to the production and restoration of sacred texts. A small congregation, who cannot finance such apprenticeship for one of their members, must live up to their responsibility for restoration by sending their scrolls to specialists. Chief Rabbi Lexner enlightened me on this matter as part of his response to my question about who would be able, within the modern Orthodox congregation in Copenhagen, to restore mistakes and damages: BL: That depends on the kind of mistake or damage. Some are easy to correct, while others require that an entire new column is written. We do not have anyone with the training to perform the latter. Our young associate rabbi, Amichai Shoham, knows how to correct single letters if, for example, the ink has fallen out, but otherwise we would send them to Israel. During the last couple of years we have sent some to Israel for general authorization where they have certain computerized machines, through which they can run the scrolls. They scan them, correct what has to be corrected, and then, when I get the scrolls back, I receive a CD-R, where I can read what kind of Torah scroll it is, and what has been corrected.

Lexner’s answer indicates an interesting development within Judaism. Earlier, each community was committed to live up to Rabbinic prescriptions of how to produce and restore a Torah scroll. Today, modern facilities such as digital scanners and recordings, and cheap, reliable means of communication and transportation enable Jewish communities all over the world to assist each other in acting according to the prescriptions of the religious tradition.

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To gain insight into the Chief Rabbi’s considerations of how to keep the holiness of the scrolls untainted when transporting the scrolls to Israel, I asked him how he would pack the scroll for such a shipment. He answered: BL: Well, this is something that I did consider. The first time I made a special package and declared it as overweight excess baggage for the flight, on which I was boarding myself. To avoid any problems with custom officials in Israel, I gave the information about the scroll in advance and also wrote a note on the package that I had brought a Torah scroll into the country, but also wanted to bring it back with me to Denmark. The second and third time I simply detached the parchment from the wooden rollers and placed it in my suitcase. It gets a little easier in this way except for the fact that we had to stitch it on to the rollers, once it was returned to us. It only requires that one knows the proper material to use for sewing and the proper stitches to apply. MS: Have you considered why the hide and sinews for the Torah scroll have to come from a kosher animal? Why impose the idea of kashrut on to the scroll? BL: Probably due to the idea of the ritually pure animal!

Chief Rabbi Lexner’s considerations concerning the shipment of the Torah scroll reveals that the scroll is treated with as much respect outside the ritual room as is necessary to re-enter it. In other words, outside the ritual room, the holiness of the scroll is dormant. The main consideration is to either guard the scroll against becoming ritually impure through incompletion or imperfection or to re-establish it to a complete and perfect state so that the participants within a ritual setting will again obtain access to the attributed holiness of the Torah. This inference emphasizes the general rule within the world of religions that ritual space – whether temple or scroll in the case of Judaism – must constantly be kept in a state of perfection and completion to maintain its holiness. Storage and Disposal While the rules of restoration apply to scrolls alone, storage and disposal are the final stages granted to all kinds of sacred text objects and accessories, once they have become defective. In a Jewish context, these defective artifacts are often stored in a so-called genizah, literally “storing”, which designates either a  Kashrut applies to the hides used for Torah sheets. It is required “that the parchment [for Torah scrolls] has to be made of skins of animals permitted as food [for Jews]” (bTalmud, “Makkoth” 11a).

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storeroom in a synagogue or a special area in a cemetery where worn-out, heretical or disgraced scrolls, books and text fragments are placed. The proportions and the position of a genizah inside a synagogue differ from one community to another. As a storeroom inside a synagogue, the genizah can be a secret or clearly marked out chamber or alcove behind the Torah cupboard, in an underground cellar, or in the roof. Sometimes scrolls are even plastered into the walls. One reason why some genizot are sometimes sealed off may be to protect the ritually pure synagogue room from the imperfection of the defective artifacts. Burial of unfit scrolls has taken place in cemeteries from antiquity onwards. They have been placed in the graves together with a dead scribe in his coffin as a legitimate and respectful way of storing them away. During the Middle Ages, defective accessories of the Torah scroll were included in the specifications concerning disposal of unfit scrolls (see Shulkhan Arukh, “Yoreh Deah” 22). To act in accordance with the prescribed way of dispatching holy artifacts in a reverent manner, the contemporary modern Orthodox community in Copenhagen has designated new areas within one of the Jewish cemeteries to establish a new genizah. The aforementioned Chief Rabbi Lexner told me the following: BL: Earlier, when the funerals had finished, the undertaker used to appear and simply pour out pieces of paper, old books, and the like into the grave without any kind of solemnity. Therefore, I decided not to allow this to continue. I dedicated an area of the cemetery at Vestre Begravelses Plads as a genizah, and it has been supplemented by another area where I have arranged for a grave to be dug for the disposal of old books. MS: Can you open it whenever you please? BL: Yes, I constantly open it. It is simply covered with a wooden board. I haven’t buried any scrolls though. Still, there are plenty considering the amount of paper we use today, old books and siddurim. When people call, I tell them that they can place them in a designated room at the cemetery where I’ll arrange for its disposal. … MS: Was there a genizah inside the former synagogue in Læderstræde or in the present synagogue in Krystalgade? BL: I believe that only the cemeteries at Møllegade and Vestre Begravelses Plads have a genizah. … MS: Do you demarcate that here lies not a human being but a scroll or the like?  See “manuscripts” on the website www.jewishencyclopedia.com (retrieved June 2, 2008). This could also explain why so few biblical manuscripts have been preserved from ancient times.

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BL: You did at the cemetery at Møllegade. It was clearly indicated, but you do not do that at the cemetery at Vestre, because it is evident. The genizah there is isolated from the ordinary graves, and no graves are to be dug in the genizah area. MS: How do you demarcate it? What signs of demarcation exist? BL: As far as I know there is a tombstone at the cemetery at Møllegade – or rather a stone saying “genizah”. … MS: Is it only possible to consecrate areas within cemeteries for genizot? BL: I don’t believe that such a restriction exists and, furthermore, it is really not a matter of consecration. MS: So, you simply make a decision to demarcate an area? BL: Yes. MS: Would such an act have to be followed by a religious service? BL: No, it is merely an administrative decision.

Obviously, the Chief Rabbi wants to protect the semi-ritual act of dispatching holy artifacts by restoring an air of solemnity. However, various remarks indicate that the tradition of how to dispose of sacred books, fragments and objects is also taking a new direction away from the particularly Jewish toward something which reflects general religious concerns about the holy. As we shall see below, when I discuss the medieval mystical notions of how to treat the discarded Torah scrolls, it is shown that scrolls were buried together with a dead person, only if this person was an honorable and learned scholar or scribe. In this way, the perfection of the dead scholar or scribe guaranteed his ability to guard the holiness of the scroll. However, Lexner, as a religious person, thinks that what is holy must be segregated from what is impure. Dead people are considered impure, which is why the new genizot are dug, according to his decision, in an area away from the ordinary graves. He separates what is pure from the impure because this is the intuitively correct way to handle the defective, yet still holy scrolls. While the Danish Chief Rabbi had no experience of burying scrolls, such an act was forced upon the New Orleans Orthodox community in March 2006 when seven Torah scrolls were destroyed as a result of Hurricane Katrina crossing Florida in August the previous year. As part of the burial service, a rabbi provided words of inspiration, comparing the scrolls to Jewish men and women who are both receptacles of the Torah and in need of burial once they “die.” By stressing that the scrolls are only receptacles of the holy content, the rabbi wanted the congregants

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to obligate themselves to host the words of Torah and thus ensure the continued Torah lifestyle.10 The Danish Chief Rabbi had to demarcate new land for a genizah given the increased amount of paper containing holy names which modern communities use and produce today. So has the Orthodox congregation Adath Israel of New Jersey who consecrated a patch of synagogue land in December 2007 to sanctify it for scrolls and shemot to be buried. Contrary to the Danish Chief Rabbi, this congregation interprets the act as a matter of consecration. The need had arisen in the New Jersey congregation because a sofer had found too many mistakes and damages in one of the congregation’s seven scrolls, thus labelling it as irreparable. According to the burial speech of the local rabbi,11 the holiness of these text artifacts exists beyond their “death.” Their holiness is so “contagious” that even the cemetery, in which the genizah is placed, is declared to be eternally sacred to this particular congregation. At the same occasion in New Jersey, they buried worn Hebrew school books and prayer books that had been accumulating in the congregation for more than eighty years. As a preparation for the burial ceremony, the rabbi shrouded the worn books in pillowcases and cut the Torah parchment from the rollers. In a post hoc comment, the rabbi explained: You treat the Torah like a living person. You give it the respect to return it to the earth. The clay pot will dissolve. The books will dissolve. The parchment will dissolve. All of this will go back to nature, as it should.12

In a similar manner, Kathy Cohen compares the death of scrolls with the death of human beings: “As the Torah lives, so too a Torah scroll can die.”13 This is how she, as a rabbi of the Reformed Temple Emanuel congregation, explains to her congregants that one of their four scrolls has been labelled “beyond restoration.” She reminds her congregants of how important it is for them to participate in the restoration of the community’s remaining scrolls and thus contribute to the maintained holiness and the continued life of these scrolls and, in the end, of the congregation.

10 See, for example, http://www.ou.org/oupr/2006/katrinatorah66.htm (retrieved June 3, 2008). 11 The rabbi of the New Jersey congregation is Daniel Grossman. He says: “Today, we gather on this sacred ground to lay to rest holy objects that have conveyed a deep sense of holiness and meaning in our lives. … Here, they will rest for all eternity. This is now and forever a sacred cemetery of our people. … Now we place it in the ground in a place of rest, and we place beside it prayer books, tallesim [prayer shawls], and tefillin. They are forever a part of this community and this land” (Silverstein 2008). 12 See http://www.shaimos.org/press.htm (retrieved June 3, 2008). 13 See http://va007.urj.net/year.html (retrieved June 3, 2008).

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In case new land cannot be demarcated or consecrated for burials of sacred texts, another possibility has proved useful in the age of printers and photocopy machines and which can fulfil the commandment to dispose of shemot in a dignified manner without having to pay the Jewish cemetery a fortune to host and perform the burial. The invention is the so-called “shaimos box” – the Yiddish expression for a box made for the purpose of storing shemot temporarily.14 The box is made of cardboard (12 × 7 × 15 inches in size) and costs about US $10 to purchase. It is painted green to represent the earth as a way to legitimize the time during which shemot are stored until the box is full. Once full, it is mailed to a special burial site where it is buried for real during the high holiday of Tisha b’Av. The American Orthodox Union certifies the box and supervises the proper burial. Another way to dispose of shemot is to hand them over to a shaimos collector who will charge between $5 and $20 depending on the size of the bag containing the shemot. A rabbi evaluates the collected items and then recycles those still fit for use by sending them to yeshivot, libraries, and other institutions.15 The American practices of storing shemot in a shaimos box or recycling such objects has not yet been adopted by all Jewish communities around the world, and the question remains if it ever will be. I asked the Danish Chief Rabbi what he thought about the shaimos box as a solution. He answered that he found it interesting, but considered the Danish congregation too small to have the need for such a product. Concerning the American recycling initiative, I asked him if he would consider adopting it as an alternative to disposal. He said: BL: No, I wouldn’t. Now and then I receive old books which theoretically could still be used. But by whom? Those people, who want a Prayer Book or the TaNaKh today, aren’t interested in an old, worn copy. They would buy a new one for ten dollars, which is why I choose the practice of disposal. MS: We also talked about tefillin and prayer shawls. Would you let them be disposed of if, let’s say, a small town museum would benefit from them in order to make an exhibition about the few Jews who used to live in that town? BL: We always have such items at hand in case somebody should ask for them.

In other words, the new storage initiatives within American Jewry do not present themselves as adequate solutions for all Jewish communities. This is not due to some notional disagreement, but due to different living conditions. The Danish Jewish community is so small that demarcation of new land does not constitute a problem, and practically every Dane, Jew or non-Jew, will always have the 14

Cf. note 12. Cf. note 12.

15

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equivalent of US $10 to buy, for example, a Jewish Prayer Book or a Hebrew Bible if it seemed important to him or her. Finally, the cyber appearance of scriptural quotes and shemot on the Internet has caused some consideration. The dominant question was whether one transgressed the commandment to not erase the divine names or scriptural passages when one pressed the delete button on the computer. When the Chief Rabbi in Denmark addressed this issue, he referred to a consensus among contemporary rabbis who compare the computer screen with the classroom blackboard. These media have something transient about them – like speech – where nothing, from the divine names to the scriptural passages, will be left behind in an undignified way once the board has been wiped clean or the website has been closed down. The numinous is constantly out there, ready to be concretized. Apotrophaeic Practices Involving Defective Scrolls, Books and Shemot Since antiquity, it has been one practice among other Jewish customs to bury scrolls, shemot, and other sacred texts together with dead people. According to the medieval mystical classic Sefer haZohar (c. 1300),16 it is not only the perfection of the dead person in the grave that guards the holiness of the scroll. The scroll is considered able to intercede on behalf of the dead person to influence his fate in the world-to-come. When a man’s body is laid in the grave, the Torah keeps guard over it; it goes in front of his soul when it soars upwards, breaking through all barriers until the soul reaches its proper place; and it will stand by the man at the time when he is awakened at the resurrection of the dead, in order to defend him against any accusations. (Sefer haZohar I, 185a)

According to this passage, it seems that the numinosity of the scroll, despite whatever defect caused its burial, can benefit the soul of the deceased buried in the grave by warding off spatial obstacles of the transempirical kind and, possibly, accusations from the one who keeps track of the sins of the deceased, and so secure his access into the world-to-come. The scroll is attributed the role of an advocate who will present the accounts required to secure the end that the particular soul deserves. Furthermore, the authors of the Zohar interpret the presence of a Torah scroll at a cemetery as either a wake-up call directed at the dead to intercede on behalf of mankind when the world is in a desperate state, or as an attempt to mock the

16 For reflections on the difference between traditional and mystical Judaism, see Schleicher (2005).

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dead for not being able to study the Torah.17 In other words, if people bring the Torah, even a defective copy, to the graves of the dead, it reflects a belief in a still existing numinosity of the scroll despite its torn state. According to the Zohar, it is acceptable to draw upon this numinosity as long as one is prepared to repent, first of all, the improper act of bringing the Torah to such an impure place and, secondly, one’s shared responsibility for the state of the world which has forced the Torah into exile, symbolically expressed by its defect status and subsequent presence at the cemetery. It was customary, especially in the Orient, to arrange for the burial of genizah collections when exceptional occasions such as droughts occurred. By taking out shemot from the synagogal genizah and burying them solemnly in the Jewish cemetery, the congregation in Aleppo used to perform a ritual to induce a downpour of rain (Schechter & Adler, 2008). Similarly, a Torah scroll is used to induce rain according to the Zohar: R. Eleazar said: “The Companions have laid down that it is forbidden to remove a Scroll of the Law even from one synagogue to another, all the more to bring it out into the street. Why then do we do so when praying for rain?” R. Judah replied: “As we have explained, that the dead may be awakened and entreat for the world.” (Sefer haZohar III, 71b)

Once more, a scroll is attributed the numinous power to intercede – this time not for a soul, but for the living. In both cases, a good fate in the world-to-come and life-sustaining rain are the outcomes which reflect how the scroll is seemingly perceived to have an apotrophaeic function as its characteristic, that is, an ability to ward off something negative. Within the Eastern European tradition of hasidut ashkenazit, the idea of a golem developed and became a fascinating part of Jewish folklore.18 A golem is an artificial creature animated through incantations of holy names. According to this tradition, a Prague community animated such a creature in order to have it protect the contents of a genizah from a hostile takeover (Schechter & Adler, 2008). This reveals a reverse conception of the apotrophaeic function, that is, the numinous power of the holy artifacts could fall into the wrong hands and be turned against those Jews who had used the genizah content in a respectful way.

17 See for example Sefer haZohar III (71a): “One day R. Hizkiah and R. Jesse were going together when they came to Gischala, which they found in ruins. They sat down near to the graveyard, R. Jesse having in his hand the cylinder of a Scroll of the Law which had been torn. While they were sitting, a grave began to stir near them and to cry: Alas, alas, that the world is in sorrow, since the Scroll of the Law comes into exile hither, or else the living have come to mock us and to shame us with their Torah!” 18 For a thorough analysis of the golem, see Idel 1990.

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Conclusion Within Judaism, rules of restoration and disposal relate to the artifactual aspects of the Torah and are not prescribed within the Torah text itself. By leaving textual conceptions of scripture on hold and focusing on scripture as an artifact, it is possible to reflect on how the scriptural holiness of the Torah is established and maintained, also because such establishment and maintenance serve as a premise to understand Jewish rules of restoration and disposal. At the beginning of Rabbinic Judaism, religious texts such as the Mishnah and the Talmud promoted the Torah as a new center of holiness equal to that of the Jerusalem Temple which had been destroyed. During the Middle Ages, legal codes continued to provide guidelines on how to establish and maintain this holy status of the Torah. Theoretically, the establishment and maintenance of the scriptural holiness were the responsibility of every male Jew and enabled him to come into contact with the holy, something which is “democratic” and unique in the history of religions (Assmann 2006, 124, 127, 136). However, reality was more elitist, and so it was and remains the sofer who typically writes and restores the Torah and as such secures its complete and perfect state. Nevertheless, scripture still ensures a bond between the individual and the holy, even though such transitivity is secured in a communal setting such as, for example, in the synagogue service. The inner architecture of the synagogue room, the symbolic significance of the scriptural accessories, and the revelatory and communal process of the Torah reading make every congregant contribute to and witness the scriptural holiness. Outside the ritual room, the holiness of the Torah is dormant but still treated with as much respect as is required for it to re-enter the room. This sheds light on the rules of restoration as a means to re-establish the complete and perfect state of the Torah, in that completion and perfection define its holiness. Nevertheless, the standard conception that holiness requires completion and perfection must be supplemented by the Jewish notion that the presence within the text of divine names projects numinosity onto it even when it is deemed beyond restoration. This notion thrives in accounts stemming from mystical and folkloristic sources which reveal popular belief that the holiness is inerasable and clings to defective text artifacts, through which their numinosity can still be accessed even when they have been disposed of. However, rules of disposal generally aim at handling the scriptural artifacts in such a way that respect is expressed for their contribution to religious life and for the source of their numinosity – God. This respect is most likely a point of reference for the basic fascination and awe that most religious people have for the holy, including occasions when the object is scripture.

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Bibliography Primary Sources bTalmud. See Kantowitz, David (ed.). 1991–1996. Soncino Classics Collection. The CD-Rom Judaic Classics Library. Davka Corporation. New York: Judaica Press. Hebrew Bible. See the Jewish Publication Society’s 1917 edition of the Hebrew Bible in English, available online at http://www.mechon-mamre.org. Mishnah. See Kantowitz, David (ed.). 1991–1996. Soncino Classics Collection. The CD-Rom Judaic Classics Library. Davka Corporation. New York: Judaica Press. Sefer haZohar. See Kantowitz, David (ed.). 1991–1996. Soncino Classics Collection. The CD-Rom Judaic Classics Library. Davka Corporation. New York: Judaica Press. Shulkhan Arukh. See http://www.torah.org/advanced/shulchan-aruch/archives. html. Secondary Sources Assmann, Jan. 2006 (2000). Religion and Cultural Memory. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Elbogen, Ismar. 1993 (1913). Jewish Liturgy: A Comprehensive History. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society. Girard, René. 1987 (1978). Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World. Stanford University Press, Stanford. Holdrege, Barbara. 1989. “The Bride of Israel: The Ontological Status of Scripture in the Rabbinic and Kabbalistic Traditions.” In Levering, Miriam (ed.), Rethinking Scripture. pp. 180–261. Albany: State University of New York Press. Idel, Moshe. 1990. Golem: Jewish Magical and Mystical Traditions on the Artificial Anthropoid. Albany: State University of New York Press. Levering, Miriam. 1989. “Scripture and Its Reception: A Buddhist Case”. In Levering, Miriam (ed.), Rethinking Scripture. pp. 1–28. Albany: State University of New York Press. Malley, Brian. 2004. How the Bible Works: An Anthropological Study of Evangelical Biblicism. Oxford: AltaMira Press. Otto, Rudolf. 1987 (1917). Das Heilige: Über das Irrationale in der Idee des Göttlichen und sein Verhältnis zum Rationalen. Munich: Beck. Ricoeur, Paul. 2003 (1975). The Rule of Metaphor: The Creation of Meaning in Language. London: Routledge. Schechter, Solomon and Adler, Elkan N. 2008. “Genizah.” Retrieved from www. jewishencyclopedia.com

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Schleicher, Marianne. 2005. “Mystical Midrash.” In Trautner-Kromann, Hanne (ed.), From Bible to Midrash: Portrayals and Interpretative Practices. pp. 149–166. Lund: Arcus. Schleicher, Marianne. 2007. Intertextuality in the Tales of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav: A Close Reading of Sippurey Ma’asiyot. Brill: Leiden. Schleicher, Marianne. 2009. “Artifactual and Hermeneutical Use of Scripture in Jewish Tradition.” In Evans, Craig A. and Danny Zacharias (eds), Jewish and Christian Scripture as Artifact and Canon. pp. 48–65. London: Continuum. Silverstein, Marilyn. 2008. “Shul Buries Its Holy Books.” Retrieved June 3, 2008, from http://www.njjewishnews.com/njjn.com/011008/pmbShulBuriesIts.html Smith, W., Cantwell. 1989. “The Study of Religion and the Study of the Bible.” In Levering, Miriam (ed.), Rethinking Scripture. pp. 18–28. Albany: State University of New York Press. Stern, David. 1987. “Midrash.” In Cohen, Arthur and Paul Mendes-Flohr (eds), Contemporary Jewish Religious Thought. pp. 613–620. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Stern, David. 2003. “On Canonization in Rabbinic Judaism.” In Finkelberg, Margit and Guy Stroumsa (eds), Homer, the Bible, and Beyond: Literary and Religious Canons in the Ancient World. pp. 227–252. Leiden: Brill.

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Chapter 2

Relating, Revering, and Removing: Muslim Views on the Use, Power, and Disposal of Divine Words Jonas Svensson

In February 2008 the South African monthly Islamic magazine al-Ummah published a short article entitled “Respectable Means of Qur’an Disposal Now Available” (Anonymous 2008). The article related how a farmer from Durban called Baker Vahid had set out on a mission. On deciding that Muslims in the area did not treat their old, worn-out copies of the Qur’an with due respect, he started to collect them, together with general “Qur’anic material,” respectfully burying them on his own farmland. His services expanded to taking care of old newspapers and pamphlets which contained extracts from the Qur’an in Arabic. In the interview, he revealed his plans to organize a central drop-off point for texts of this nature. He further planned to expand his activities to restoring torn or damaged Qur’anic copies and other forms of literature on Islamic issues, and to distribute such material to poor Muslims who lacked the means to purchase it on their own. In 1992, in Quetta, Pakistan, Hajji Allah Noor Daavi visited a friend’s quarry. After a conversation with an old man in the vicinity who had taken on, to some degree, the same role as Baker Vahid, that is, burying worn-out copies of the Qur’an, Hajji Allah Noor Daavi had an idea. He commenced digging a cave in his friend’s quarry, in order to create a depot for old Qur’anic copies, packed in linen sacks. The cave system was inaugurated in 1992 and is continuously expanding. The Jabal-e-Noor-ul-Quran (literally “the Qur’an’s mountain of light”) Foundation, has since extended its activities to the restoration of damaged Qur’anic copies, voluntary work for the local population, and now has its own webpage in English. The caves are open to visitors three days a week, one day for women, one day for men and one day for families. It remains, however, that the main aim and purpose of the Foundation is the preservation of worn-out Qur’anic copies. The Foundation has acquired a bus for a mobile collection of old Qur’ans. Donations for the purchase of additional vehicles to be used for this purpose are most welcome, according to the website.  The name Jabal al-Nur, “the mountain of light,” has important religious connotations. According to Islamic historiography it was on the “Mountain of Light” near Makka that Muhammad received the first revelation of the Qur’anic text, around the year 610 ce.

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The examples above point to an issue of great importance in relation to the Qur’an, although it is an issue that, strangely enough, has received little attention in Western research on the Qur’an. It concerns how Muslims view and handle worn-out or defective copies, and other texts containing excerpts or words from the Qur’an. This, however, cannot be addressed without providing a more detailed presentation of how such texts have a role in Muslim religious life worldwide as objects of respect and veneration, and not just as vessels of divine-to-human communication. There is, of course, much scholarly research carried out on the Qur’an. However, this research has mostly concerned topics such as codification, style, basic themes, intertextuality, composition, contemporary and historical interpretation, and role in relation to Islamic legal traditions and theology, and as a source for the organization of ritual life and as a reference point in political discourse. In a commentary to the bibliography of his contribution to the article “Qur’an” in The Encyclopedia of Religion Mahmoud M. Ayoub states that “The role of the Qur’an in Muslim piety, although crucial, has been largely neglected in Western scholarship.” In the bibliography proper, he claims that “the only work in English thus far dealing with the place of the Qur’an in popular piety is the introduction to my study The Qur’an and Its Interpreters” (Ayoub 1987, 179). Some twenty years later, one can note that the main assertion Ayoub put forward in 1987 is still valid. There is very little academic research on the role of the physical Qur’anic text as an object of religious veneration and respect among Muslims, and the reasons for this situation may be manifold. One reason could be an inherited Protestant bias within the academic study of religions, uncomfortable with ritual and adhering to a restricted view on “religion” as first and foremost a set of beliefs, a message and ethics, for which sacred texts merely constitute sources for information (Douglas 1984, 18–19; Asad 1993, 27–54). Contemporary Muslim reformists, who are claiming the “modern” nature of Islam, also focus mainly on the content of the Qur’an, rather than on its role as a sacred object, and regard many (although definitely not all) activities based on the latter attitude as “superstitions” unworthy of attention. Whatever the reason, there is a need to address these other aspects of the Qur’an, and the following pages should be seen as a modest contribution in this respect. I would be bold to claim that for the majority of believing Muslims around the world, the personal relationship to the text is not primarily as a source of information on dogma, theological themes, morals and law. Most Muslims would subscribe to a view of the Qur’an as the basis for their faith and rituals, but that does not mean they actually know what the text contains, let alone can read and understand it. Literacy levels are low, and literacy in Arabic, the “sacred language”, is even lower. In addition, the Arabic of the Qur’an is not the Arabic of everyday communication. In general, the focus of attention is on the text, written down and  For an overview of contemporary scholarship on the Qur’an, see Rippin 2009 and McAuliffe 2001.

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recited, as a sacred object, in the Durkheimian sense of a sacred entity being “set apart and forbidden” (Durkheim 1965, 62). The Qur’an, as the direct speech of God, is believed to have a physical connection to the Divine, which is a link that transfers power, merits respect, and demands careful handling. The Qur’an as a Sacred Object The perception of the unique character of the Qur’an as the speech of God has consequences. The Qur’an is “the Book” (al-kitab) for which the archetype, “the mother of the Book” (umm al-kitab), resides with God. “The Book” has been previously conveyed to prophets preceding Muhammad, but its content was changed and perverted by the Jews and the Christians, who, nevertheless, are “the people of the Book” (ahl al-kitab). Implicit in the designation “the Book” is the notion of something recorded in writing and, as text “written down”, the Qur’an is considered perfect in language and style. The notion of the text as “inimitable” (i‘jaz) has led to discussions concerning the suitability and even the possibility of translating it into other languages from the original Arabic. Translations have been made into most vernacular languages of Muslims around the world, which has been important for Muslims who are literate but have not mastered Arabic. In most cases, however, Muslim translators will, in one way or the other, stress that their translations cannot convene the true message of the text; it is only an imperfect interpretation thereof (Cornell 1995, 390). The Arabic word “Qur’an,” on the other hand, is best translated as “reading aloud,” and relates to its use in ritual context in terms of recitation (qira’a), which some would claim is the most important aspect of the text. Historical sources indicate a conflict during the earliest period between those who stressed the primacy of oral recitation and others who emphasized the Qur’an as a written text (Afsaruddin 2002, 19–20). In a treatise called the Etiquette with the Qur’an by the famous scholar Imam al-Nawawi (d. 1278) of the Shafi‘i school of law (madhhab), the main theme is that of recitation, and the Qur’an as a written text receives only peripheral attention (al-Nawawi 2003). Introductory academic books about Islam generally give due attention to the ritual aspects of using the Qur’an and mention that Qur’anic verses are recited in the obligatory daily prayers (salat). In order to perform these prayers, the believer needs to be able to recite at least the introductory chapter, “The Opening” (al-fatiha), and a few other shorter passages. Recitation is a cherished art form and plays a central role in many ritual contexts,  Exactly what this connection is, and the nature of it, has been a source for theological reflection through the ages. Is the speech of God separate from Him, or a part of Him? If separate, what happens to the notion of the absolute unity of the Divine (tawhid)? Has the Qur’an been created by God, or is it eternal like Him? For an introduction to these aspects of Islamic scholastic theology, see, for example, Nagel 2000, Watt 1985, and Shnizer 2009.

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such as weddings, communal prayers, funerals and so on (Meri 2001, 494–495; Cook 2000, 77–88; Gade 2009). Many Muslims will bear witness to the emotions which these recitations invoke, and scholarly tradition notes that the shedding of tears is appropriate as a result of the beauty of the moment (Meri 2001, 494). Recitation, in a sense, entails the actual divine presence. In the introduction to The Qur’an and Its Interpreters, mentioned above, Ayoub provides many references to early Muslim scholars extolling the miraculous character of the text, both read and recited loudly, as having both material and spiritual effects (Ayoub 1984, 7–16). In early Islam there was a whole genre of religious literature devoted to the “merits of the Qur’an” (fada’il al-qur’an) in terms of divine reward for reciting, reading or merely glancing at the text (Afsaruddin 2002). The Qur’an is taught to children all over the Muslim world and many will gain, after some time in educational institutions such as Qur’anic schools, basic competence in reading the Arabic script, and have memorized parts or, in some cases, the whole of the book. In other words, they will know how to pronounce the words and how to recite them, even if many will not know the meaning of what they read and recite. Transmitting the text is a matter of learning by heart (Hefner & Zaman 2007). It should be noted that approaching the Qur’an mainly as an oral text with ritual functions has been the focus of internal Muslim criticism in modern times. Religious reformers have deemed competence in recitation without proper understanding to be a form of religious ignorance. During the fieldwork I conducted in Kisumu (Kenya) between 2003 and 2006 for a project on Islamic Religious Education (IRE), I repeatedly encountered such views: Teacher:  I know that some of the ‘ulama [religious scholars] don’t like the Qur’an to be translated into other languages [than Arabic]. But how can it be understood by those who do not know that language if it is not translated? Learning the Qur’an will then only be a matter of learning to recite it without understanding anything. I have said this several times. I don’t want you to be like babbling sheep, like parrots. I want you to understand what you are reading.

The word of God is thus both a “text” (al-kitab, that is, something written down) and a “reading” (al-qur’an). Furthermore, in everyday use it is also considered as a “book” in the sense of a codex, that is, a collection of pages with text written on both sides and placed “between covers.” The term mushaf refers to this physical form of the text as a “book.” In the form of a codex, the Qur’an will be found in gigantic and miniature forms, some of which are richly decorated with geometric shapes or floral symbols (Déroche 2009, 175). In his useful introduction to the Qur’an, Michael Cook states that the text probably existed as a codex at quite an early date, albeit that the Muslim historical account of the third Caliph ‘Uthman (d. 656) as being the one responsible for the first codification is beyond the possibility of historical verification (Cook 2000, 119–120). Nevertheless, around the Muslim world there have been physical copies associated with “heroes” of the religious

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tradition, such as the third Caliph ‘Uthman, or the fourth Caliph and the first Shiite imam ‘Ali. Devout people have viewed these copies as relics and made them objects of particular veneration (Déroche 2009, 182–183; Meri 2001, 497). The earliest complete codices which are still existent are from the second quarter of the ninth century, but fragments on parchment have been dated to the late seventh century ce (Déroche 2009, 172–174). The reproduction of codices before the use of the printing press was hard work. According to Cook, it would take around four months for a copyist to reproduce the whole text (Cook 2000, 23). François Déroche notes that the introduction of paper in the tenth century probably boosted the spread of Qur’anic copies, but it was not until the introduction of the technology of printing that the book became widely available (Déroche 2009, 181). The first printed copy was manufactured in Venice in 1537 or 1538, probably for the Ottoman market. However, printing in Muslim-dominated areas, such as Persia and in the Ottoman Empire, did not start until the nineteenth century (Cook 2000, 23–24; Déroche 2009, 183–184). Since then, the printing of the Qur’an has been “one of the major publishing successes of the [19th] century” (Cook 2000, 24). Saudi Arabia has been foremost in the production and dissemination of printed copies of the Qur’an, particularly since the 1970s. The King Fahd Complex for the printing of the Holy Qur’an had, by 2007, printed and distributed more than 150 million copies of the mushaf in the Arabic script alongside translations. Handling the Text and the Codex Take good care of the Qur’an. Look at how it is! [The student points to the classroom copy of a paperback translation of the Qur’an.] The pages are falling out. Take good care of it. It is the word of God, and it is dirty! You will be held responsible if you do not look after the Qur’an.

This is an example, derived from my fieldwork in Kisumu, of the attitudes towards the handling of individual codices of the Qur’an. The topic was a recurrent theme in classroom discussions, and involved issues such as how to make amends for accidentally dropping a copy of the Qur’an on the floor, where to place the Qur’an when not reading it, and, more commonly, who should be allowed to physically touch it and in what contexts. In the latter case, notions of ritual purity (tahara) formed the point of departure. In a questionnaire that I distributed to 137 Muslim students in secondary school, I asked them to rate “Islamic sins” from one to ten, where one designated the worst sin and ten the least bad. I provided the following options: sex before marriage, drinking alcohol, eating non-halal food, stealing, lying, taking bribes, fighting other Muslims, receiving interest from a bank, backbiting/slandering,  The figures are derived from the Complex’s homepage: www.qur’ancomplex.org (Arabic version).

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and touching the Qur’an while in a state of ritual impurity. While most rated sex outside marriage as the worst sin (39 percent), touching the Qur’an in a state of impurity took a clear second position (32 percent). The majority considered it to be a worse sin than stealing, drinking alcohol, or fighting other Muslims. The notion that ritual purity is a precondition for touching the Qur’an is widely held, although religious scholars (‘ulama) will differ among themselves concerning whether this precondition applies to the codex as such or only the text contained in the codex. The scriptural reference on ritual purity is often derived from the Qur’an itself and the verses 56:77–79: “That this is indeed a Qur’an most honourable. In a book [kitab] well-guarded, which none shall touch but those who are clean [mutahharun].” This verse has, at times, been written on the protective cover of mushafs to indicate the centrality of the notion of purity (Déroche 2009, 179). In the Kisumu context, as in general discourses among Muslim scholars, an important source for impurity is menstruation (hayd). Menstruating women, like any other ritually impure person, should not touch the codex. Whether or not they are allowed to recite the text from memory or read the text without touching it is a matter for debate. Scholars have often extended the notion of restricted access to the text when being impure to include excerpts from the Qur’an found elsewhere in other texts and as decorations (Meri 2001, 492). But divergent views do exist. Voices have been raised to claim that there is no clear scriptural evidence for prohibiting the “impure” from touching copies of the Qur’an. Therefore, it is not for human beings to make prohibitions. Authorities holding this view have also claimed that women who have their periods should only avoid touching the text inside the codex. A minority view among scholars has also suggested that the oft-quoted verses 56:77–79 in the sacred text do not refer to copies of the Qur’an which are present in this world, but to a heavenly “preserved tablet” (lawh mahfuz, verse 85:22). The “clean” in verse 56:79 then refers to angels and not human beings. The notion that only those who are ritually clean may touch the Qur’anic text (or the mushaf) has inspired further discussion. Do the restrictions apply to translations of the Qur’an as well? What about non-Muslims? May they touch the Qur’an? Since they are not Muslim, they cannot attain ritual purity. The scholarly views on these matters diverge and often emerge from rather pragmatic resolutions. Cook refers to a discussion in early Islamic history about trading with non-Muslims when coins were minted with Qur’anic inscriptions. Would this practice imply obstructions in the trade with non-Muslims, considering that the dealings would involve the transfer of coins? According to Cook, scholars discussed whether non-Muslims should be ordered to handle coins using a piece of cloth and not touch them with their bare hands, although the suggestion was not followed up (Cook 2000, 59–60). In the well-known legal manual of the Shafi‘i school, The Reliance of the Traveller by Ahmad ibn al-Naqib al-Misri (d. 1367), there is a clear differentiation made  For a lengthy discussion on the different views in this context, with the religious objective of finding the “correct” one, see the appendix in Zarabozo 1999.

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between the Qur’an which is used for study (dirasa) and the Qur’anic text to be used for “protection” in the form of amulets, embroidered on clothes and so on. The rules of purity do not apply in the latter cases, nor do they pertain to Qur’anic inscriptions on coins or books in which the sacred text is quoted, such as Qur’anic commentaries (tafsir), provided that the amount of quotations does not exceed the amount of commentaries (Ibn al-Naqib 1997, 74–75). Other Muslim scholars put forward similar distinctions, although with less certainty, by pointing out divergent views among the learned (al-Nawawi 2003, 114–115). A similar problem related to ritual purity concerns children and Qur’anic education. Children below the age of ritual maturity cannot perform the rituals needed to attain purity. This has lead to a problem pertaining to the teaching of the Qur’an if the children are not allowed to touch the sacred text. One solution has been to simply exempt education from the regulations on purity (Cook 2000, 57–59). Scholars of the Maliki school of law appear to be the most lenient among the four Sunni schools by exempting both the female teachers and students from rules of purity in case of menstruation (al-Nawawi 2003, 139–140). I observed a similar reasoning during my fieldwork when the question arose whether a girl, who had her period and was sitting for exams in Islamic Religious Education, could touch the examination papers if they contained a quotation from the Qur’an. Could she even attend class? Most of the students, but far from all, stated that in this case education was more important than adhering to the rules of purity. The discussions on the need for ritual purity bear witness to the special character attributed to the text. Regulations on the handling of copies of the Qur’an and excerpts from it, and especially how one should protect the text from impurities, are abundant and usually belong to a general “etiquette of the Qur’an.” Just a few examples of the theological discourses and prescriptions on the scriptural handling can be mentioned here: A copy of the Qur’an should not be placed on the ground nor be left open after readings. When stapled together with other books the sacred text should occupy the topmost position. In general, the Qur’an should be placed on a high level when not being used. It should not be used as a pillow. It should not be carried into impure spaces, such as the bathroom. Another discussion has highlighted the question whether the sacred text can be taken into non-Muslim lands, in face of the fact that it may be lost and come into contact with impurities (al-Nawawi 2003, 110–118; Ibn al-Naqib 1997, 74–75; Cook 2000, 54–61; Meri 2001, 492). One needs to be observant of an important fact when assessing the above information. While most believing Muslims will agree that there are strict rules concerning the handling of Qur’anic copies and excerpts of the text, this does not mean that they, as individuals in their everyday life, strictly adhere to the rules. In the field of religious studies, a careful distinction should be made between verbalized norms and prescriptions, and the actual behavior of people in everyday life. Quite often the discourses among religious scholars are purely theoretical. Legal scholars are traditionally under an obligation to find normative answers to

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all questions posed to them, regardless of their character or practicality. Attempts to adhere to all regulations pertaining to the handling of the sacred scripture would render everyday life almost impossible for an ordinary Muslim, especially in the contemporary world. Another aspect of the written and recited Qur’anic text, which is seldom addressed or noted in academic overviews, should be mentioned. For many Muslims around the world the connection between the recited or physical text (whether in a codex or not) and the Divine constitutes a source and a vessel for extraordinary power, or divine “blessing” (baraka). This idea becomes explicit in the many practices in which the Qur’an is used as a remedy for illness or as a protection against misfortunes and human or non-human malevolence (Meri 2001, 495–496). A generic term for this is ta‘widh, which is related to the introductory words of the last two chapters of the Qur’an (113 and 114) “Say: I seek refuge” (qul‘adhu). Traditionally, these two short suras are used as protection against the temptations of Iblis, the Devil who “whispers in the heart of men,” against evil spirits (jinns), and against the “evil eye” of human envy. The lines may be recited as protection, hung above the door posts of the house, worn as amulets, or embroidered on clothes. This type of use of the Qur’anic text is certainly not restricted to the two final chapters, but extends to other sections of the scripture as well and to the codex as a complete whole. In his book The Qur’an: A Biography, Bruce Lawrence provides an example from a Sufi healer in Indonesia, who promises to cure all diseases, including HIV/AIDS, over the Internet by using ta‘widh (Lawrence 2006). When visiting Kenya in 2006, I purchased the pamphlet Cures from the Qur’an (Anonymous undated) which provides clear instructions on how to use the Qur’an for diverse purposes, including healing, solving domestic conflicts and passing exams. Most techniques mentioned in the text involve reciting verses over edible objects/items to be consumed, preparing amulets to be worn, or writing down verses on pieces of paper which should be immersed into water to dissolve the ink and then imbibed. In Kisumu, I noted that the preparation of so-called kombe, that is, water in which the Qur’anic text has been dissolved, was a speciality of one of the more respected Muslim scholars in town and considered to be the best remedy for mental illness. It is noteworthy that the power or “blessing” contained in the Qur’an, whether written or recited, is believed to be transferred to other physical objects (such as food and water) which become invested with the same power. However, these practices are also contested in the Muslim world today. Religious activists who stress the “modern,” “rational,” and “scientific” nature of Islam and the semantic content of the Qur’an shun the practices of ta‘widh, even if the same practices constitute an important part of how Muslims all over the world relate to the Qur’an in their everyday life.

 For similar pamphlets and their popularity in Bangladesh, see the discussion on mas’ala texts in Huq 2003.

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Disposing of the Qur’an As Toby Lester points out in his article “What is the Qur’an?” in The Atlantic Monthly (1999), there is a widespread view among Muslim scholars that defective copies of the Qur’an should be taken out of circulation, in order for them not to be used, hence running the risk of distorting the message. The problem is: What should be done with the copies, considering that many believe the texts contain the speech of God? Just as Western scholarship has not paid much attention to the ritual aspects of the Qur’an, apart from recitation, there is a similar lack of studies on the handling and the disposal of Qur’anic copies which are no longer fit for use. Cook mentions that discourses among Muslim scholars on this issue have mainly focused on notions of purity and the need to protect the text from impurity. The forms of disposal that Cook mentions are: (a) burial, with the book wrapped in a piece of cloth, at a location where the ground would not generally be trampled upon; (b) wiping off the ink from the pages and then disposing of the pages themselves, as would be done with any other book; and (c) placing the worn-out copy in a “safe place” for safe storage, as echoed in the example of The Jabal-e-Noor-ul-Quran Foundation in Quetta (Cook 2000, 60–61). The latter is equivalent to the Jewish practice of the genizah, a theme also developed in an article by Joseph Sadan (1986). In presenting this method, Cook makes reference to one of the more spectacular discoveries in the modern study of the Qur’an. During a renovation of the Grand Mosque in Sana‘a, Yemen in 1972, the workers found, between the inner and the outer roof of the building, a large amount of old parchment and paper remains, of which many had been parts of Qur’an-copies, now rather tattered due to rodents. Among the fragments were some almost certainly dating back to the late seventh century. The space between the roofs had obviously been used as a depositing area for Qur’ans no longer in use, maybe for more than a millennium (Lester 1999; UNESCO 2007). Sadan notes other, similar discoveries in the great mosques in Damascus and Kariouan, Tunisia, but points out that this practice is neither general nor widely accepted by religious scholars throughout history (Sadan 1986, 41, 43, 53). When one tries to find information about different contemporary views on how to dispose of Qur’anic text, it becomes clear that there are no self-evident references in the scriptures themselves that scholars use, neither in the Qur’an nor in the reports on the sayings and actions of the Prophet (hadiths). That the Qur’an itself does not contain any reference to the matter is not that surprising. At the time when the hadith literature was collected, copies of the Qur’an were probably not plentiful. Furthermore, it is possible that the book, in the form of a written text, had not yet been ascribed all its extraordinary characteristics. Nevertheless, later Muslim 

Indeed, some scholars have even questioned whether there existed copies of the whole Qur’an during the first two centuries after the death of the Prophet (632 ce), or whether the collection of the Qur’an was actually a result of, and secondary to, an evolving genre of commentaries to the revelation (Wansbrough 1977). Sadan is sceptical, relying on

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scholars who are reflecting on the issue have advised of methods roughly within the range described by Cook above, expressing a general basic view that Qur’anic copies and other texts containing excerpts from the Qur’an (usually commentaries) must be treated with due respect and be kept out of the reach of impurity. In his article, Sadan provides an overview of the discourse among scholars in the Middle Ages and notes the existence of many divergent opinions: “the various solutions suggested by one of the jurists … may be considered sacrilege by another” (Sadan 1986, 36). In the following, I will relate his presentation to the contemporary discussion on methods for disposal of such texts. This discussion is, to a great extent, conditioned by a phenomenon related to modernity which was absent in the period that Sadan focuses on, that is, the mass production of religious texts. Excellent sources of information regarding both historical and contemporary discourses on this issue are the fatwas. A fatwa is a “response” from a religious scholar (‘alim) to a query posed by a believer. The use of fatwas as a source for information on Islam has become more important due to the expansion of print and other media in the contemporary world. Today, many fatwas are published on the Internet, providing ample material for the researcher, especially as they display divergent views on most topics. A fatwa is a “point of view” of the ‘alim, based on his (and in some cases her) interpretation of the sources, including the Qur’an, the hadith and the views of other scholars, in the past or in the present. When browsing through contemporary fatwas concerning the topic of how to dispose of worn-out copies of the Qur’an and other religious texts containing excerpts from the Qur’an, it becomes clear that the views converge to some extent, but not completely. One of the reasons for the nuances is that the views on what constitutes religious authority diverge. In many cases, there is also a clear differentiation made between copies of the Qur’an, that is, Qur’anic codices (or pages from such codices), and other texts containing excerpts from the Qur’an in the form of quotations or text which only contains the “names of Allah.” Sadan also stresses this distinction between different texts (Sadan 1986, 44–52) , which I will use here to structure the following presentation. Disposing of the Mushaf Among the historical and contemporary views, to bury a worn-out copy of the Qur’an in a “pure place” appears to be the commonly accepted practice, which is often proposed as the best alternative. What then is the suitable place for such a burial? Generally, a Muslim cemetery or the grounds of a mosque are the preferred alternatives. It is important that the ground above should not be habitually trodden over by people. The codex should be wrapped in a clean cloth so that it will not the findings in the Great Mosque in Damascus, where worn-out scrolls of parchment, not codices, containing the Qur’an were already stored in the first decade of the eighth century, hence after being in circulation for quite some time at that point (Sadan 1986, 41 n.17).

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be in direct contact with the soil, which is considered to be a polluting substance (Sadan 1986, 49–50, 53). In one fatwa, issued by Muhammad Ibn Adam al-Kawthari of the Dar ulifta (meaning “the fatwa giving house”) in Leicester, United Kingdom, there is a reference to the authorities within the Hanafi school of law, which is the largest and dominant school on the Indian subcontinent. The reference to past scholars in a particular school points to an interpretative strategy of “tradition,” in the sense that the scholar views himself as a part of a line of scholars stretching back in time. The answer to the questions posed should, therefore, be sought in the tradition of the school. According to al-Kawthari, the grave in which the codex should be buried must be dug for that very purpose. He outlines the style of the grave to be used, which is termed lahd. The characteristics of such a grave are that the niche is dug into the side of the grave proper, in the direction of the qibla, that is, towards Makka in Saudi Arabia. The codex should be placed in the niche, which is then sealed. This practice will prevent the soil from falling on the top of the text when the grave is filled up (al-Kawthari 2005). The Dar ul-Ifta in Leicester is connected to the Deobandi scholarly tradition in India, which is one of the most important centers for Sunni traditional learning worldwide, with a particular emphasis on the Hanafi tradition. Another scholar, well known for his excessive issuing of fatwas within the same scholarly tradition, is Mufti Ebrahim Desai of Camperdown, South Africa, who clearly advocates burial in the manner outlined above, and particularly stresses the need for wrapping the codex in a clean cloth (Desai 2001a). Noteworthy in this connection is the parallel to the burial of human beings – a similarity that is also noted among earlier scholars (Sadan 1986, 36, 39, 51, n.70). The lahd grave is also the preferred method for burying humans within the Hanafi madhhab (Sadan 1986, 49–50, n.62). Just like disposals of the Qur’an, the body of the deceased human should be shrouded and the direction of the niche should be the qibla. The analogy with a diseased person is also indicated in the context of The Jabal-e-Noor-ul-Quran Foundation mentioned above. The Foundation only accepts copies that they term as “shahid Qur’ans” – literally shahid means “witness” and is the technical term for a martyr – to be kept in the caves (see JNQQTA undated a and b). Those copies which can be bound again, or restored, are not put in the cave systems in Quetta, as they are not yet considered “dead.” The notion that burial is the appropriate practice is not questioned as such, at least not judging from the material that I have gathered. However, one commentator on a discussion list on the Sufi-oriented website Yanabi.com (Ya nabi, literally meaning “Oh, Prophet”) notes that in a non-Muslim dominated environment, seeking to bury the codex may receive unnecessary attention and it may even have legal consequences, particularly if the place where the “Qur’an grave” is dug is a cemetery (Yanabi.com 2008). In the sources which Sadan uses there are also indications of some hesitation towards burials due to the risk of polluting the text if it comes in contact with impure soil (Sadan 1986, 49–50).

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The “wiping off the ink” procedure that Cook mentions is not referred to as such in the fatwas which I have come across. However, there is another analogous method which seems to be widely accepted. Shaykh al-Kawthari mentions that one should attach a stone or a heavy object to the Qur’anic copy, and gently put it into running water (al-Kawthari 2005). This method, like the practice of “wiping off the ink,” indicates an important aspect of the sacredness of the text, which is also mirrored in the discussions about whether an impure person may touch the covers of the mushaf during the practices of preparing, for example, water imbued with Qur’anic verses (kombe). At least in some interpretations, the sacred character of the text is attached to the words, written or printed, rather than the physical codex. With the writing or the print removed, the copy is no longer considered a copy of the Qur’an. The Divine presence no longer exists or, to be more precise, is transferred into a new substance (Sadan 1986, 40). Sadan notes that, according to some earlier scholars, the practice of wiping or washing off the texts was recommended in addition to burial or other means for disposal. Some, however, discouraged the procedure of submerging the whole text in water, since water, even running water, may be impure (Sadan 1986, 51–52). Hence, the three methods of burial, the “putting away,” and the “wiping off the ink” appear to be accepted among historical scholars as well as in the contemporary discourse, albeit with individual variations between the scholars. A fourth method, not mentioned by Cook, is more controversial. In June 2005, a fire-damaged copy of the Qur’an was found on the doorstep of a mosque in Blacksburg, Virginia. At first this was interpreted as an Islamophobic hate-crime, but a month later it was revealed that the book, which had been placed in a plastic bag, had been put there by a Muslim student at Virginia Tech. He told the police that he was going abroad and had a copy of the Qur’an which had been damaged in a house fire. He did not know what to do with it and therefore left it at the local mosque, hoping that people there would know what to do (USInfo 2005). Burning worn-out copies of the Qur’an is a legitimate form of disposal according to some interpretations, even among those which Sadan presents, although many contemporary discourses would describe this practice as the “last resort.” Shaykh al-Kawthari strongly discourages the practice, with reference to authorities within the tradition of the Hanafi school. According to this view, burning can only be allowed if burial and immersion in water is not possible and there exists a fear that the Qur’an may be defiled. Shaykh al-Kawthari invokes the notion of “necessity” (darura) and emphasizes that the resulting ashes must be buried or scattered over water (al-Kawthari 2005). In a fatwa issued by the Dar ul-Ifta in Egypt, which is connected to the al-Azhar University, there is a differentiation made between copies which can still be recited from and those texts which are so damaged that this is impossible. According to Dar ul-Ifta’s instruction, the first category of texts should not be burned, while the second category may be (Dar ul-Ifta 2005). Once more, the discourse focuses on the “text” contained in the mushaf, and not the “book” itself. From this fatwa, it is possible to deduce a view that a Qur’an is only a Qur’an in a real sense

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when it can be recited from. If the text is defective the sacredness is considered somewhat lost. Sadan also notes that burning the mushaf, or pages from it, was a contested practice among ancient scholars. The treatise which he studies in detail recommended it, but other scholars had reservations for many reasons: fire was associated with Iblis or the Devil, and the burning of books was generally only appropriate for heretical texts. Furthermore, fire was associated with Zoroastrism, a rival religious tradition in the Persian regions (Sadan 1986, 51–52). While a reservation regarding the practice of burning is voiced in contemporary discourses, this is not a general standpoint. The different opinions about the practice can be attributed, at least partly, to differences in views on what constitutes the religious authority hinted at above. The Permanent Committee of Research & Islamic Rulings of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia (PCRIR) provides a fatwa in which burying the copy in the grounds of a mosque is deemed to be on a par with burning. The fatwa cites the Sunni caliph ‘Uthman, who, after having completed the task of collecting the Qur’an in an authoritative version, ordered that all existing divergent copies sent to Madina should be burnt (PCRIR undated). Regarding interpretative strategies, the PCRIR represents a quite different approach than the one of Shaykh al-Kawthari. While the latter searches for authoritative views within the Hanafi school tradition, the committee represents a Salafi position where authority is, at least ideally, limited to the “pious forefathers” (as-salaf as-salih), the Prophet, his companions and the first generations of Muslims. Later developments within the framework of the religious schools are disregarded in favour of this ad fontes perspective. Since ‘Uthman allowed and practiced burning, and he was one among the companions of the Prophet, it is possible to claim and prescribe burning as a religiously legitimate practice. On November 19, 2008, the Associated Press of Pakistan reported that the local authorities of Punjab had embarked upon a project of recycling worn-out copies of the Qur’an. The collection of such copies was already administered through the presence of “green boxes” in which old and useless pages of the Qur’an were placed. The number of such boxes was now to be expanded. The paper from the worn-out Qur’ans would be shredded, recycled and put into use in the printing of new Qur’ans. In contrast to the indications above, this case appears to reflect a notion of sacredness contained in the very paper on which Qur’anic text is printed, and not only within the text itself. However, to recycle pages of the mushaf for new cardboard covers that would be used for printed copies of the text is not a new practice (Déroche 2009, 180). Sadan mentions previous scholarly discussions on “recycling” when Qur’anic leafs were reused as protective covers for new Qur’ans, or the erased pages from the text were utilized as pages in new copies. The attitude towards this practice appears to have been quite restrictive and the permission to conduct the recycling is limited to religious texts other than the Qur’an proper. Sadan refers to one author who forbids the recycling practice, and thus the ban itself indicates that the practice was in use. The contemporary “shredding” practice, as indicated in the report from Pakistan, also has its historical counterpart. Sadan mentions the practice of cutting Qur’anic pages into strips and

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then disposing of them. This practice was probably also in existence in the Middle Ages, since the scholars warned against it (Sadan 1986, 49–53). Judging from the above discussion, there is no simple answer to the question of what to do with worn-out copies of the Qur’an. Simply putting the codices away would seem the easiest solution, given the reservations voiced about the other methods of disposal (Sadan 1986), unless they can be repaired, like the example of the recycling practice of Jabal-e-Noor-ul-Quran has shown. After all, the limited (albeit large) number of existing codices does make such practices possible. But the respect for the sacred text often stretches beyond the respect for the mushaf and makes the challenges of the correct handling of the text even greater. Other Texts Teacher:  Some believe that just because something is written in Arabic it is also something that should be honored. In earlier times, before, when we here found a piece of paper with Arabic writing on it, we would pick it up, kiss it, take it home and put it between the covers of the Qur’an. It could be anything. A manual for a radio or a medical prescription. Just because it had Arabic letters on it we thought we had to honor it. Such a notion should not be there. There are a lot of things that are not religious, but are written in Arabic. The Bible has also been translated into Arabic. We have to work against this attitude.

This advice was given to students by an IRE-teacher during my fieldwork in Kenya, and I have been able to observe the very action which he is criticizing. When a paper with Arabic writing is found it is immediately burnt or put away in a “safe place.” Arabic, in cultural settings where the language is not the everyday means of communication, in itself carries a sacred character. The underlying notion, which presumes that texts connected to the Divine should be honored and treated with respect, is generally not questioned, but has become problematic in the contemporary world. The word of God, in the form of excerpts from the Qur’anic text, is no longer to be found only in handwritten or printed books and pamphlets, but also on mass-produced posters, flyers, magazines, newspapers, bumper stickers, toys, gadgets, and so on. The reproduction of the word of God has both expanded and, maybe even more importantly, become decentralized. In the context of religious education, and in particular the basic education on the Qur’an, the traditional use of writing boards and chalk has been substituted by the use of paper and ballpoint pen, or even computers with desk-top printers. When using writing boards and chalk, the Qur’anic verses written down for memorization could easily be wiped off in a respectful manner, but in the latter cases the  André Möller has noted a similar way of handling sheets of paper with Arabic text, not necessarily from the Qur’an, on Java, Indonesia (2007, 24–25). Sadan make notes about the practice in relation to contemporary Turkey (1986, 44–45 n. 43).

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by-product of the learning process is less easily disposed of. A fatwa to the “Ask Imam” website from a concerned mother on how to handle the children’s old note books from Qur’anic school bears witness to this problem (Desai 2006). In discourses on how to relate to texts containing excerpts form the Qur’an, participants also extend their respect for the individual textual elements of the 99 names of God, the name of the Prophet and the angels. Sadan notes that, before texts could be disposed of, these textual elements needed to be erased or wiped off. The means for disposal after this procedure was burning, immersing in water, or recycling for the production of Qur’ans or Qur’anic commentaries (Sadan 1986, 38, 45–46). In Kenya, the Nairobi Central Mosque produces a weekly newsletter in English called The Friday Bulletin, which is distributed countrywide among affiliated mosques during the Friday prayers. It can also be downloaded and printed from their website. In every issue of this newsletter there is a small note at the bottom of the front page saying: “This Newsletter contains some of Allahs [sic] names. Please do not throw in the trash. Either keep, circulate or shred.” The notion that sacredness is contained in textual elements used in contexts other than the Qur’anic mushaf and in scripts other than Arabic (Sadan 1986, 38–44), raises new questions in the Muslim world, as illustrated by the diverse fatwas on the issue. How, for example, should one use the daily newspapers with sacred words and names? Can the paper be used to wrap foodstuffs or as a table cloth? According to the views of scholars and other participants in Muslim discourses, there is less reluctance to burn texts containing such excerpts than there is to burn the mushaf, albeit most will recommend burying or dissolving in water as the more preferable methods. Naturally, those who accept the burning of the mushaf will also accept the same method for other texts containing Qur’anic material. Shredding the paper with a paper-shredding machine is put forward by some as the equivalent to “erasing” the text (Islamonline 2003; al-Munajjid undated). What is underlying these diverse views is the notion that the sacred text needs to be protected from desecration. If the text is placed in a dustbin, for example, there is a risk that it may end up in a larger heap of rubbish and come into contact with impurity.10 There are also indications that some Muslims may find the prescribed disposal methods burdensome. On the discussion list on Yanabi.com a concerned believer testified that the sheer amount of textual material he possessed, in the form of classroom notes, printouts from the Internet, pamphlets, folders, and so on, made the suggested methods for disposal problematic. To dump them in the  The answer to the latter question is no, according to a fatwa given by the well-known Saudi Salafi scholar, Ibn Baz, distributed by the abovementioned King Fahd Complex for the Printing of the Holy Qur’an (Ibn Baz 2005). 10 As noted by some commentators, burning this type of material may be a less appropriate way of disposal. Burning paper, especially indoors, may constitute a fire hazard. Hence, a fatwa from al-Azhar accepts burning, but only as a last resort in order to protect the sacred text against desecration.

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river or to bury them was not feasible. He could, he admitted, shred the papers and put them into a recycling bin, but that procedure would then require some sort of guarantee that he would not commit any sin. At least one of the responses he received on the discussion list was positive, while the others were more hesitant and invoked the risk of having the recycled paper put into improper use (Yanabi. com 2008). A note should also be made of an interesting fatwa from Ahmed Desai concerning how to dispose of “heretical” literature (in this case written by the famous Islamist ideologue Abu ‘Ala al- Mawdudi), which contains verses from the Qur’an. While Desai advocates burial as the correct practice for discarding old copies of the Qur’an, he accepts that “such material” – that is, heretical literature – should be sent for recycling without any consideration (Desai 2001b). This indicates that the sacredness of the text may not only be a matter of the text itself, but also of its textual surroundings, its context in the narrow sense of the word. The issue of the sacredness of the Qur’anic text has thus been approached from an analog perspective. The queries and responses, the anxieties and the suggestions for diverse ways of handling and disposing of the sacred text have concerned the materialization of the text in the form of ink, carbon or chalk on parchment, paper or board. As voiced in many of these discourses, it appears as if the sacredness is bound mainly to the text (and its completeness), and not the surface on which the text is written or printed. In the context on recycling methods, however, concerns for the surface are also expressed. Although modernity has vastly expanded the reproduction of texts through the print media, and the material circumstances have resulted in new reflections on the sacredness of the text and the location of sacredness, there are also newer developments that may merit further considerations in this area: the digitalization of the Qur’an. The New Forms of the Qur’an On the Apple computer’s software download centre for the Iphone and the Ipod touch, Appstore, one can download the application iQuran, both in a free lite and in a pro version. The pro version (which I purchased during the ‘Id al-Adha sale in 2008) offers a searchable and bookmarkable Qur’an in Arabic script, together with five different translations into English, translations into eight other languages, transliteration into Latin script and recitation by six different reciters. The UKbased providers of the software, Guided Way Technologies Ltd, say that the aim is “to utilize the latest technologies available in order to spread the Word of Allah (SWT) and the Sunnah of the Holy Prophet (pbuh) to as large an audience as possible” (GWT, 2009). Hence, they are working at providing Islamic software solutions for all mobile and stationary devices. IQuran is but one example of a contemporary multitude of digital solutions offering the Qur’anic text in digital form, as a text or as sound files. The Qur’anflash is a stand-alone and web-based application that provides a beautiful 3D image of

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the mushaf,11 where the user can turn pages, accompanied by appropriate sound effects, by clicking the mouse. For quite some time now, the Qur’an has been available in interactive forms on CD-ROM, as well as recitations on cassettes and CDs, and more recently as MP3 and streaming audio. Ring tones for mobiles in the form of Qur’an recitations are readily available, and such recitations are integrated into a multitude of gadgets, such as alarm clocks, children’s toys, and key holders. How, then, do the notions of ritual purity and sacredness of the text relate to these new forms of the Qur’an? Judging from the contemporary discourses, both problems and possibilities surface in this connection. At an Islamic club meeting at Kisumu Boys’ High School in 2006, the question was posed on how to relate to Qur’anic software on mobile phones. May the device, for example, be carried when visiting the toilet? The consensus was reached that it may not, albeit some reservation was raised regarding the risk of theft if the device was left outside. Similar questions have been posed to religious scholars and have received answers in the form of fatwas, displaying the uneasiness and hesitation regarding purity in relation to these new forms of the Qur’an (Rippin 2005, 275; Déroche 2009, 184– 185). For example, at the website “Ask Imam” several questions of this character have been presented, and the fatwas issued provide an interesting perspective to query the location of sacredness. On a general level it is the display of Arabic letters/script on a screen that is perceived as problematic. Therefore, the fatwas assert that if a person is in a state of ritual impurity he or she should not touch the screen of the device (for example, mobile phone, PDA, or computer screen). There is no problem, however, in touching other parts of the device or the screen if the sacred text is not displayed at that moment (Moosa 2008). When asked about how to relate to the Qur’anflash, the developers Sahaba Media stated that the digital Qur’an should not be considered as a mushaf and hence the rules of purity did not apply, while simultaneously insisting that they were not ‘ulama and that their reply could not be taken as a fatwa. For example, placing a laptop containing the application on the floor did not constitute a disrespectful act. Instead of focusing on possible problems, they emphasized the possibilities of the new technology. The Qur’anflash may, for instance, prove useful for menstruating women who want to read the sacred text with a feeling akin to reading the mushaf, which they cannot touch due to their supposed impurity during their period.12 I have not come across any discussion on how to dispose of “new media” containing the Qur’an when these are broken or can no longer be accessed. One could expect questions such as whether the “new media” contain the Qur’an at all? How is one to discard of a CD-ROM containing the Qur’an when it no longer The Qur’anflash can be accessed online and downloaded at http://www.quranflash.

11

com.

12 This information was obtained through an e-mail correspondence by one of my students, Hanna Gunnarsson, for an assignment on the course “Islam and Media” at the Center for the Study of Religions, Lund University.

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runs on the new operating system in the computer? What if it is broken? In the abovementioned examples, the digital Qur’an in the form of a written text or a recitation exists only when it is run through a computer processor and the text appears on the screen or streams from the speakers. The pixels turned on or off or the vibrations in the speaker membrane provide the screen or the device with a sacred character that is temporary, instantly changeable and fluid, and quite opposite to the notion of the word of God as eternal, unchangeable and stable. Conclusion Scholars in the field of Islamic studies have noted that the expansion of the print media in the twentieth century, the general rise of literacy in the Muslim world, and the digital revolution in more recent years have resulted in important changes in the contemporary Islamic “ideoscape.” The scholarly discourse has primarily focused on how this development, as an integral part of modernity and globalization, has influenced Muslims’ perceptions of their religion in terms of the Islamic teachings, the interpretation of texts and its application in the private and the public spheres (Eickelman & Anderson 2003). As a result of modernity, Islam (with teaching, dogma and ritual practices) has increasingly become an “object” for reflection and, to a certain extent, a choice among believing Muslims. The multitude and accessibility of different Islamic “options” has opened up the questioning of existing beliefs and practices in different localities and diverse social contexts. Reformulations of the religious tradition have become multiplied and the traditional religious authority has eroded (Eickelman & Piscatori 2004, 37–45, 70). However, less scholarly attention has been directed at the ways in which the expansion and decentralization of print media and the development of digital media have influenced perceptions of the Qur’an as a sacred text. From the descriptions above, it is possible to draw some conclusions and point towards important areas for further research. It becomes clear that print technology, the modern notion of “recycling”, and the popular culture of consuming objects invested with blessings from the texts trigger reflections among Muslims on how to relate to, revere, and remove from circulation the sacred text of the Qur’an. Believing women and men will approach respected scholars and fellow believers with questions that display some uneasiness regarding these matters. Even if individual Muslims, like Baker Vahid in South Africa, attempt to collect all religious material which contains complete Qur’anic text or parts of it for burial or safekeeping, it would be difficult to completely succeed with this type of mission. Modernity, which has brought about a commodification of texts and new forms of textual uses, poses insurmountable challenges in this regard, even though modernity has provided new and more effective methods for disposal (such as shredding and recycling). With regard to some of the questions related to text disposal in the Muslim world there also exists a “cognitive dissonance” (Festinger 1976), in the sense that believers know that the Qur’an is sacred but

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simultaneously find it difficult to follow all the rules related to the handling of the text in their daily life. The descriptions of the sacredness of the Qur’an in this chapter were presented with the help of the Durkheimian distinction between the “sacred” and the “profane,” according to which the former refers to “things set apart and forbidden.” Some voices in contemporary Muslim religious discourses indicate the rapid and continuing extensive expansion of “things” which also makes the processes of setting apart and forbidding quite problematic. These issues are certainly not new, considering that religious scholars in pre-modern times put effort into differentiating between contexts in which the Qur’anic text appeared, explained how the text was to be used, and constructed rules for how humans should relate to it (for example, the distinction between Qur’anic text on amulets and text used for “study”). In most cases, it appears as if the sacredness of the Qur’an is located mainly in the actual text, namely the ink or the visual representation in the form of pixels on a computer screen. The latter example, in particular, mirrors a new feature of fluidity and temporality of textual manifestations which could influence contemporary views on the border between the sacred and the profane. It seems reasonable to argue that the new forms and contexts of the sacred text will create more diverse interpretations and wide-ranging pragmatic solutions for the handling of the text which opens up a Webarian “disenchantment.” A possible example of disenchantment already visible is the tendency to lay less stress on the immutability of the Qur’anic text, which makes available a greater diversity of how to understand and interpret its content. There are indications that the old notions of the text’s immutability, as direct, divine speech with a content eternally valid, are being challenged (Safi 2003). A few but controversial attempts towards a source-critical, hermeneutic approach have been put forward by Muslim reformers such as Muhammad Arkoun, Nasr Abu Zayd and Abdelkarim Souroush, who have claimed that parts of the Qur’anic text should be viewed as a result of the context in which it was revealed, and hence not eternally normative. Uncertainty concerning how to ritually relate to the ever-expanding presence of the text in divers media may benefit approaches that are open to a limited, albeit distinctive, questioning of its collective sacred character. At the same time, there are trends in contemporary Islam which indicate changes in another direction altogether. When discussing “neo-fundamentalism,” Olivier Roy notes that globalization and its consequences have produced a reaction among Muslim individuals and groups, in which the search for Islamic authenticity is strongly bound up with the need to uphold “purity” (in general terms) and the authority of the text, as a complete code of conduct (Roy 2004, 232–289). Roy places the abovementioned Salafi tendency within this “neo-fundamentalist” trend and perceives it as an example of the contemporary notion of “ritual purification of the self” and “sacralization of everyday life” (Roy 2004, 244). Such versions of Islam are often individualized, deterritorialized and deculturalized and hence particularly well adapted to late- or post-modern global society. The focus on

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purity could be expected to strengthen the perceptions of the Qur’an as a sacred text which only “the pure” may touch. Within the “neo-fundamentalist” paradigm, however, there are also voices rejecting “tradition” in favor of a “return to the basic sources” and the ways of the “pious forefathers.” This also makes the construction of boundaries for the sacred, and how to relate to the sacred text, less predictable and open to innovative solutions. Another development in contemporary Islam, which stands as the very opposite of a Weberian “disenchantment,” is the Islamic New Age spirituality which is connected to traditional Sufi practices (Roy 2004, 220–231). As mirrored in the example of on-line ta‘widh to cure AIDS, the Sufi mystic stresses the “power” of the text – its baraka – and puts the text to use in a way which satisfies contemporary demands for a re-enchantment of the world and is reflected in the individual search for health, well-being and prosperity within many contemporary religious movements, from New Age spirituality to Pentecostalism. In conclusion, one could emphasize the need for research of the manifold roles and functions of the Qur’anic text, not merely as a source for information but as a container of divine power and an object to be venerated. It is important to investigate how Muslims, both in the past and in the contemporary world, relate to the Qur’an in different cognitive and ritual ways, especially when contemporary Islamic discourses raise questions about how one should relate to the Qur’anic text as an object, either contained in a mushaf or manifested in other contexts. The answers to the queries about the handling, the preservation and the disposal of the Qur’an are certainly not unanimous, but are in a continuous process of reformulation due to the changes and developments of the contexts in which the text is found. Bibliography Afsaruddin, A. 2002. “The Excellences of the Qur’an: Textual Sacrality and the Organization of Early Islamic Society.” In Journal of the American Oriental Society, vol. 122 (1), pp. 1–24. al-Munajjid, M.S. Undated. Disposing of Papers in which Allaah’s Name is Mentioned. Retrieved November 19, 2008, from http://www.islamqa.com/en/ ref/islamqa/5390. Anonymous. Undated. Cures From the Qur’an. Delhi: Kutub Khana Ishayat-ulislam. Anonymous. 2008. Recycling of Worn Out Pages of Holy Quran. Associated Press of Pakistan. Retrieved November 19, 2009, from http://www.app.com.pk/en. Asad, T. 1993. Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Ayoub, M. 1984. The Qur’an and Its Interpreters. Albany: SUNY Press. Ayoub, M. 1987. “Qur’an: Its Role in Muslim Piety.” In M. Eliade (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion. pp. 176–179. New York: Macmillan.

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Cook, M. 2000. The Koran : A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cornell, V. J. 1995. “Qur’an: The Qur’an as Scripture.” In J.L. Esposito (ed.), The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Modern Islamic World. pp. 387–394. New York: Oxford University Press. Dar ul-Ifta. 2005. Burning Pages from the Qur’an. Retrieved February 2, 2009, from http://www.dar-alifta.org/Print.aspx?Type=1&ID=5612. Déroche, F. 2009. “Written Transmission.” In A. Rippin (ed.), The Blackwell Companion to the Qur’an. pp. 172–186. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Desai, E. 2001a. How do I discard old Qur’an or pages or flyers with Ayats from the Qur’an (most commonly Bismillah) written on? Retrieved December 7, 2008, from http://askimam.org/fatwa/fatwa.php?askid=9a099a4e21a5931746 a02e2bc90b0450. Desai, E. 2001b. I have some modernist Maududi, and wrong (modernist) translation and tafseer of Qur’an, I wanted 2 send it for recycle, is it allowed to do this, or to burn or bury it as it has Qur’anic ayats? Retrieved December 7, 2008, from http://askimam.org/fatwa/fatwa.php?askid=2880700ded13f5ebe 797bc3d5beee914. Desai, E. 2006. My children go to an Islamic school and they often bring papers home with the name of Allah ta’ala in English. Do we have to burn these papers? Retrieved December 7, 2008, http://askimam.org/fatwa/fatwa.php?as kid=7dae2db789c7dce8608707803bd15162. Douglas, M. 1984. Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Ark Paperbacks. Durkheim, É. 1965. The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life. New York: The Free Press. Eickelman, D.F. and Anderson, J.W. 2003. New Media in the Muslim World: The Emerging Public Sphere. Bloomington, IN.: Indiana University Press. Eickelman, D.F. and Piscatori, J.P. 2004. Muslim Politics. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Festinger, L. 1976. A Theory of Cognitive Dissonance. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Gade, A.M. 2009. “Recitation.” In A. Rippin (ed.), The Blackwell Companion to the Qur’an. pp. 481–493. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. GWT [Guided Way Technologies Ltd]. 2009. About Us. Retrieved February 16, 2009, from http://www.guidedways.com/aboutus.php. Hefner, R.W. and Zaman, M.Q. (eds). 2007. Schooling Islam: The Culture and Politics of Modern Muslim Education. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Huq, M. 2003. “From Piety to Romance: Islam-oriented Texts in Bangladesh.” In Eickelman, Dale F. and Anderson, Jon W. (eds), New Media in the Muslim World: The Emerging Public Sphere. pp. 129–157. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

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Ibn al-Naqib, A. 1997. Reliance of the Traveller: A Classic Manual of Islamic Sacred Law, trans. N.H.M. Keller. Beltsville, MD: Amana Publications. Ibn Baz. 2005. Using Newspapers Just Like a Tablecloth and Having Food on Them. Retrieved November 19, 2008, from http://www.qurancomplex.org/ qfatwa/display.asp?f=115&l=eng&ps=subFtwa. Islamonline. 2003. How to Dispose of Papers Containing Sacred Texts. Retrieved December 8, 2008, from http://www.islamonline.net/servlet/Satellite?pagenam e=IslamOnline-English-Ask_Scholar/FatwaE/FatwaE&cid=1119503544208. JNQQTA [Jabal-e-Noor-ul-Quran Foundation]. Undated a. Working Procedure. Retrieved December 8, 2008, from http://www.jnqqta.org/wp.html. JNQQTA [Jabal-e-Noor-ul-Quran Foundation]. Undated b. Introduction & History. Retrieved November 19, 2008, from http://www.jnqqta.org/index.html. al-Kawthari, M. 2005. How to Get Rid of Unwanted Islamic Literature? Retrieved October 20, 2008, from http://www.daruliftaa.com/question.asp?txt_ QuestionID=q-08570775. Lawrence, B.B. 2006. The Qur’an: A Biography. London: Atlantic. Lester, T. 1999. “What is the Koran?”. In Atlantic Monthly, vol 283, pp. 43–56. McAuliffe, Jane Dammen (ed.). 2001. Encyclopaedia of the Qur’an. Leiden: Brill. Meri, J.W. 2001. “Ritual and the Qur’an.” In McAuliffe, J.D. (ed.), Encyclopaedia of the Qur’an. pp. 484–498. Leiden: Brill. Moosa, I. 2008. Do You Have to Have Wudu When Handling a Digital Quran? Retrieved December 7, 2008, from http://askimam.org/fatwa/fatwa.php?askid =a9f79807245f6d361b19d338907416cd. Möller, A. 2005. Ramadan in Java: The Joy and Jihad of Ritual Fasting. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International. Nagel, T. 1999. The History of Islamic Theology. Princeton, NJ: Markus Weiner. al-Nawawi. 2003. Etiquette with the Quran: al-tibyan fi adab hamalat al-Qur’an. Chicago: Starlatch Press. PCRIR [Permanent Committee of Research & Islamic Rulings of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia]. Undated. “What Should be done with a Mushaf (a Copy of the Qur’an) that has within it errors (typos) or is ripped? How is a torn Mushaf disposed of?” Retrieved November 4, 2008 from http://www.salafyink.com/ quran/Mushaf.pdf Rippin, A. 2005. Muslims: Their Religious Beliefs and Practices. New York: Routledge. Rippin, A. (ed.). 2009. The Blackwell Companion to the Qur’an. Oxford: WileyBlackwell. Roy, O. 2004. Globalized Islam: The Search for a New Ummah. New York: Columbia University Press. Sadan, J. 1986. “Genizah and Genizah-Like Practices in Islamic and Jewish Traditions. Customs Concerning the Disposal of Worn-Out Sacred Books in the Middle Ages, According to an Ottoman Source.” In Bibliotheca Orientalis, vol 43 (1–2), pp. 36–58.

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Safi, O. (ed.). 2003. Progressive Muslims: On Justice, Gender and Pluralism. Oxford: Oneworld. Shnizer, A. 2009. “Sacrality and Collection.” In Rippin, A. (ed.), The Blackwell Companion to the Qur’an. 159–171. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. UNESCO. 2007. “Sana’a Manuscripts: Uncovering a Treasure of Words”. In The Unesco Courier, vol 5. Retrieved February 16, 2009, from http://portal.unesco. org/en/ev.php-URL­ID=37916URL­DO=DO­TOPIC&URL_SECTION=201. html. USInfo. 2005. “Burned Qur’an an accident, not a hate crime.” Retrieved November 19, 2008, from http://usinfo.state.gov/media/Archive/2005/Jul/06-417486. html. Wansbrough, J. 1977. Quranic Studies: Sources and Methods of Scriptural Interpretation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Watt, W.M. 1985. Islamic Philosophy and Theology: An Extended Survey (2nd edn). Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Yanabi.com. 2008. The Global Islamic Community Forums – How should one dispose Islamic material?. Retrieved November 19, 2008, from http://www. yanabi.com/forum/messageview.cfm/STARTPAGE=1&catid=4&threadid=44 986&forumid=1. Zarabozo, J.a.-D.M. 1999. How to Approach and Understand the Quran. Boulder, CO: Al-Basheer Co. for Publications and Translations.

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Chapter 3

A Fitting Ceremony: Christian Concerns for Bible Disposal Dorina Miller Parmenter

The primary concern for this chapter is the dilemma that many modern Christians face when the materials of their scriptures have worn out – when the body of a Bible has been used up to the extent that it is no longer a vehicle to convey the words therein. Unlike in Judaism, Islam, and Sikhism, Christianity does not have a formal tradition for scripture handling, including respectful scripture disposal. However, within the past ten years, many Christians have become increasingly concerned about disposing of their Bibles properly and have sought ideas from other religious traditions, sparking reflection and discussion about the materiality and function of scripture within a Christian worldview. The Materiality of Christian Scripture The book has been one of the most powerful tools in Christian history. Undoubtedly the pre-eminent Western book, the Christian Bible, has influenced more people than any other book in world history. But the foundations and legitimizations of actions, morals, and beliefs that are derived from this book are not only about the messages gleaned from the text, but also the power and authority that have been accorded to the Bible as a ritual object. This function is generally denied or ignored because of the tradition of anti-ritualism in Protestant Christianity that labels many revered material objects as idols. But, despite these aniconic and iconoclastic ideals, the Bible remains one of the few legitimate images and manipulable ritual objects in modern Protestantism. Present yet highly unremarkable, the Bible is prominently visible in churches where it is displayed on pulpits, altars, banners, and stainedglass windows. The Bible is ritually engaged in many church processionals, including wedding and funeral processions, but also in the more mundane ritual of walking to church with a Bible in one’s hand or tucked under one’s arm. These practices show that the Bible is more than an object of one’s private gaze. It is  For important distinctions with regard to the iconic use of scriptures in Christianity, Judaism, Islam, and Sikhism, see Watts 2009.  Which is also related to its underlying myths of divine origin; see Parmenter 2009, 298–309.

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also an image for social display and physical manipulation that contributes to community cohesion (Marty 1982). The Bible as a ritual and material object is also frequently overlooked in the academic study of religion, particularly in the study of Christianity. Religionswissenschaft, growing from its Protestant and philological roots in the ideas of F. Max Müller and others, has privileged words, concepts, or beliefs recorded in texts as the content of religion, and belittled actions and objects as “magical” or “primitive” in comparison. Thus the use of sacred writings has been a sign of “advancement” in civilization and religion; conversely, “less advanced” religions have been perceived to center around objects and actions rather than reading texts. A related element to this hierarchy is that advanced religions are oriented to an abstract god, while less advanced religions are oriented to the material world (see Bianchi 1995). Since these perspectives can be – and have been – used to justify the superiority of particular religions or cultures over others, both academically and politically, examining scripture as an object and not just a text is one way that new insights can be revealed about the roles of and relationships between texts, rituals, and myths in religious studies. More specifically, my concern is the hegemony of Protestant Christianity in religious studies and in modern colonialism. The latent attitude of superiority that creates the hierarchical binaries of text versus ritual and abstract versus material not only belittles those religions and cultures labeled less advanced, but overlooks the ritual and material aspects of Protestant Christianity itself. The Image of the Bible in Early Christianity The earliest Christians maintained that God’s revelation is a living gospel, with Christ as both message and messenger, and not a written text (Campenhausen 1972, 62–63). However, from a practical perspective, it is an undeniable fact that Christian scripture has been a pervasive material object: a written text, compiled and canonized to evangelize and combat perceived heresy, and by long-standing tradition bound in a single codex. Without Christ in the flesh, the heavenly Word became known through the book. 

One of Marty’s themes is that the image of the Bible provides a “carapace,” a “protective covering, the sort of cocoon that individuals, subcultures, and in their own way societies need for the structuring of experience. … The Bible, in American history and in much of present-day culture, provided and provides as an object a basic element in the carapace of images, and its presumed contents, that for which one would consult if one did consult it, remove the ‘just happening’ dimension from human existence” (Marty 1982, 6–7, 16).  This is similar to the Islamic notion that the Qur’an is primarily oral and secondarily written, see Svensson Chapter 2 and Graham 1987, 111, 155–162.  The classic study on the early Christian codex is Roberts & Skeat 1983.

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By the fourth century, in an increasingly bookish Roman Empire, Christians were generally unified by the image of their canonized scripture, as demonstrated by Eusebius’ report that one of the first acts of Constantine was to order “fifty volumes with ornamental leather bindings, easily legible and convenient for portable use, to be copied by skilled calligraphists well trained in the art, copies that is of the Divine Scriptures, the provision and use of which you well know to be necessary for reading in church” (Eusebius 1999, 79). “Reading in church” in Late Antique Christianity not only conveyed the semantic meaning of the text, but also generated meaning through ritual and its underlying mythological associations. As Christian liturgical spaces and practices were increasingly demarcated, it became standard for the Gospel to be processed through the congregation before it was read. From liturgical writings and also from the design of many of the extant Gospel bindings from this period, it seems that the Gospel was processed raised above the head of the deacon, priest, or bishop as a gesture of respect, and also to allow the Gospel to be seen, touched, and/or kissed by the most people (Lowden 2007, 28, fig. 5). By the fifth century we begin to have both visual and textual references to Gospels displayed on altars during the liturgy. Our best images come from the mosaics of the Orthodox Baptistery of Ravenna, which depict four altars that serve as pedestals for each of the four gospels (Rice 1957, color plate A; Kostof 1965, 77–81). Between the sixth and ninth centuries, when relics were removed from martyrs’ tombs and enshrined beneath altars, the initial part of the liturgy that involves the entrance of the Gospels was understood as a funeral procession, with the altar representing Christ’s tomb (Bogdanović 2002, 13). Perhaps more common than the association of the altar with the tomb is that of the altar with a throne. There were literal thrones in Byzantine and Roman churches – for the bishop and the emperor, if present – but the first enthroned in the liturgical procession was the Gospel when it was placed on the altar. The book on the altar, liturgically See also Paul the Silentiary, Descr. ambonis, lines 244–251, in Mathews 1971, 124–125.  Similar iconography can be seen at the Rotunda of St George in Thessaloniki (Kostof 1965, fig. 140), and the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem (see St Clair 1979, 130; Grabar 1957, fig. 94).  Comparison of three pyxides from the sixth century clearly shows this interpretation iconographically: the imagery of a visit to the tomb under a tabernacle-like canopy on one pyxis becomes translated on the others into a visit to a canopied altar that holds a gospel book (see St Clair 1979, 127–135).  Germanus of Constantinople described this act as Christ enthroned as “the ruler of all, [presiding] in the midst of his apostles” (quoted in Mathews 1971, 150). There is an image of an enthroned book on a door panel of St Sophia’s in Constantinople (see Walter 1970, fig. 114). The fact that the book precedes both the entrance and the seating of all other participants in the procession “gives it precedence of rank”, according to Thomas Mathews, since “the place of honor in Byzantine processional order is the first place” (Mathews 1971, 142). 

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and iconographically conflated into tomb, shrine, offering-site, and throne, ritually activates the space for the re-enactment of Christ’s death, resurrection, and rule in the next part of the liturgy that includes the Gospel reading and the Eucharist.10 This ritual of enthroning Gospels so that Christ might preside “in the midst of his apostles” also took place at ecumenical councils. This is illustrated in a representation of the Council of Constantinople of 381,11 and there is documentation of this practice in various other conciliar and legal records (see Walter 1970, 147, fig. 46, cf. fig. 44; Humfress 2007, 151). On the basis of this idea that Christ sanctioned the outcome of a dispute if the Gospels were present, the Justinian Code of 530 stipulates that courtroom proceedings would only be legal after the Christian scriptures had been “placed before the judicial seat, and remain[ed] there, not only during the beginning, but also throughout the entire examination, until the very end, and the promulgation of the final decision” (Codex Justinianus 3.1.14.1, in Krueger & Mommsen 1877, 148). In examples such as these it is clear that the Gospels were not present to be used as a textual reference, but to assure that Christ was present in the room and in any decisions that were made. The Gospel used in this way was not symbolic or commemorative, but, according to Caroline Humfress, was an “avenue of invocation” (Humfress 2007, 158; see also Kostof 1965, 80). If individual Christians possessed a Bible or Gospel-book, they thus had a potent tool, a repository of power that not only provided the narrative of God’s revelation in Christ, but effectively acted as a representative of Christ himself. Just as rituals of the book brought legitimacy to particular communal events such as worship services, councils, and legal hearings, private book rituals harnessed the same power for protection and healing from potentially destructive forces. Stories abound of Gospels putting out fires, being untouched by fire or water, and providing the antidote to snakebite or cures of other illnesses (Drogin 1989, 75–77; Rapp 2007, 199).12 Rather than relegating beliefs and practices regarding the material efficacy of Biblical scripture to the past, this study aims to demonstrate that the Bible continues to function as a potent material object and powerful image in the early twenty-first century. These material practices then affect Christian attitudes about how the Bible should be read and what its place should be in society.

10

According to St Germain of Paris, as the book is moved from the altar to the ambo to be read, “thus emerges the procession of the holy Gospels or the power of Christ triumphant over death” (quoted in Petrucci 1995, 24) and the Word of the Living Christ is read (Dilasser 1999, 134). 11 See the Manuscript of Gregory of Nazianzus (Bibliotheque Nationale MS Gr. 510, fol. 355) in Aĭnalov 1961, fig. 100. 12 For magical and mantic uses of scripture in British folklore, see Malley 2006.

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Contemporary Concerns for the Disposal of Christian Scripture The treatment of religious scriptures has played a prominent role in news coverage since the beginning of the century. Those events that have garnered the most attention involve disposal methods that intentionally desecrate a particular text or people associated with that text – such as the burning, shooting, urinating upon, or flushing of sacred texts – which often have resulted in widespread protest.13 But alongside, and perhaps because of, these malignant manipulations of sacred scriptures, many people have become aware of the proper care of holy books, exemplified in the prescribed etiquettes for the treatment of the Qur’an, the Torah, and the Guru Granth. If scriptures can be desecrated through material acts, there are also acts that respect and reinforce the perceived sacrality of particular scriptures; that is, acts of desecration imply their opposite – the possibility of acts of consecration. The focus of this essay is Christian – and particularly Protestant American – attitudes to how the Bible should be treated, explored through queries made by Christians in the past few years, generally in the form of internet discussions, about how one should dispose of Bibles whose texts are no longer usable. I will begin with comments made by the eminent scholar of American religions, Martin E. Marty, in a 2003 issue of the magazine Christian Century. In response to the question, “What do you do respectfully with old worn-out Bibles?” Marty replies, “Rules about disposing of the Qur’an and the Torah scrolls are distinct and fierce. But since we Christians have done less stipulating, it is time to brainstorm.” Marty’s subsequent brainstorming is a bit tongue-in-cheek. His first bit of advice is to “burn them … [p]eople often did,” referring to instances where particular Bible translations were burned in protest, as occurred after the publication of the Revised Standard Version of the Bible in 1952. Following his advice to burn Bibles, Marty admits that, due to the negative connotations of book burning, “even slightly liberal Christians” are probably going to be “nervous” about this practice. “So,” writes Marty, if the worn-out Bible in question is a modern translation, “have someone else do it [for you;] … phone your friendly neighborhood ultrafundamentalist and let him do the disposing.” Other slightly irreverent suggestions include mailing it to any “bookseller, who will promptly drop it into the black hole where millions of similar monetarily worthless scriptures have disappeared. It will be off your conscience.” Or, if the Bible contains a family tree, “ship [it] to the genealogical experts of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints” who will record your ancestors for baptism of the dead. In the mountain of genealogical records kept by the Mormons, writes Marty, “[t]here must be room for old Bibles there too” (Marty 2003, 71). Marty then raises the question of burying worn-out Bibles. “Bury them?” he asks, and continues: 13 For a survey of media coverage of scripture desecrations in the past years, see Watts 2009.

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The Death of Sacred Texts This can be done with a respectful ceremony. No doubt there’s an old liturgy appropriate for the occasion. Be sure to do this under rich, slightly damp forest soil so the books can quickly decompose and provide nutrients for new trees whose wood can be used for new Bibles. (Marty 2003, 71)

And lastly, Marty admits that he has “a particular problem” with getting rid of a bicentennial Bible that contains “a tiny cross of Christ and a large and bold US flag on the cover. Maybe,” writes Marty, “I could call the American Legion and pawn it off on them as a flag with a strange base” to be burned in a formal ceremony (Marty 2003, 71). My guess is that Marty’s questioner did not get the response that she was looking for in this column, and may even have felt mocked. Implied in Marty’s musings is a sentiment made more overtly by a representative of the American Bible Society when asked the same question: There is no Christian ceremony or procedure for the disposal of old, worn Bibles. Although everyone agrees that if a book is worn and no longer usable, it should be discarded; discarding a Bible is a difficult act for many people. [But it] should be remembered that a Bible is a book. While it can be called the word of God, it is still a book. (Quoted in Taylor 2004)

At the heart of the concern about proper Bible disposal is the dissonance between common yet perhaps unconscious material practices involving the Bible and the theology of the Word. The blog Here I Stand by the writer calling himself “Pastor David” is typical of the questions and comments generated by the question “How Do You Dispose of a Bible?” when posed in different forums on the Internet. David speculates thus: In the end, I guess the reason that churches don’t have liturgies or rites for Bible disposal is because God’s is a living Word, written on the hearts of his people, not simply in books. Yes, the Bible opens scripture up to us and it is where we encounter the revelation of Christ as Savior and Lord. But the written words on pages are not indestructible and the books do wear out. So in the end, I suppose [people] could burn their old worn Bibles, bury them, recycle them, or simply toss them out without worrying that they have committed a great sin. (David 2008)

It is apparent that attempts like this to divert attention away from people’s intuitions about the sacrality of the physical book are not immediately effective, for “anything goes” advice about Bible disposal, like Pastor David’s, usually results in responses like this one: “Oh gosh, I was just wondering about this last week … I did some major cleaning and I have a stack of Bibles I don’t use, but they are in too bad of shape to give to someone. But throwing them away feels SO wrong. *sigh*”

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Immediately followed by a second post: “I guess I should say, I DO have a Bible I use!! LOL” (Monika 2008). I have found that typically the topic of Bible disposal elicits comments that include a summary of how many or what kind of Bibles one has in one’s possession,14 an expression of the desire to get rid of the unused copies, and a reluctance to do so. For example, when I queried my colleagues at Spalding University to see if they knew of rituals for Bible disposal, I received the following responses: As a Christian/past Catholic, I know of no rituals. I have either given away to others or kept all my Bibles. (So I have at least 30 at my house!) (Personal email correspondence, September 17, 2008) How interesting that I should receive this email today. During our move [of an academic department to a] new building, the students and I came across a box of New Testament’s [sic]. We have been in a dilemma about what to do with them. If you can think of an appropriate way to dispose of them please let me know. [When I replied that I would inform her of the “appropriate way” when I discovered it, I also asked, “Will you keep the box of New Testaments in the meantime, or would you like me to keep it for you?” The reply was: “I will keep them. Thanks.”] (Personal email correspondence, September 17–18, 2008) I am not aware of any such practice at my church or in my family. I have noticed that most families pass Bibles down forever. I know we still have my grandfather’s and father’s Bible which are literally falling apart. I never really thought about it before, but it does seem awful to pitch a Bible. I know myself here in the library if a Bible was being discarded I often took it home no matter what the condition. (Personal email correspondence, September 18, 2008)

While responses like these are the most common, other types of comments on the topic of how to get rid of a Bible include those who agree with Pastor David that “The physical book itself is not what is important” (Art 2008),15 and others who acknowledge the dilemma and attempt a compromise solution by naming analogous practices that might justify a disposal ritual. Examples brought up include protocols for burning damaged American flags and liturgies for burning Christmas trees at Epiphany (Dwight 2008), a northern European custom that has survived in some Lutheran and Reformed practices, with burning trees symbolizing “the coming of Jesus as the light of the world” (Vanderwel 1987). 14

Often turning into a discussion about which translation is the best. For an example, see the discussion in “How many Bibles do you have …” 2006. 15 Other examples include this from strangeltfaerie: “I just throw it away. God’s word can’t be thrown away, so to me, the physical book is just a lot of paper and ink, it is not in any way sacred. I personally find treating the physical object as sacred rather peculiar, and Biblically un-founded” (strangeltfaerie 2007).

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I have found that in Protestant commentaries, this suggestion of burning wornout Bibles does not catch on. In Catholic blogs, the advice to burn Bibles is less problematic. These advocates of burning Bibles draw analogies with the Catholic tradition of disposing of objects that have been blessed and/or dedicated for divine worship, following Canon Law which states that dedicated or blessed items “are to be treated with reverence” and “not to be made over to secular or inappropriate use” (“The Sanctifying …” undated). Thus: A chalice which becomes “unserviceable” is not to be sold, but must be used for some other sacred purpose or melted. Vestments, altar cloths and linens must be destroyed. Polluted or excess holy water must be poured into the ground … [and so on]. In all, the underlying idea is that what has been dedicated to God should be returned to God. Never should one just “throw out” what has been dedicated to God. (Saunders 2003)

Similarly, in Orthodox traditions the materials of communion and other sanctified objects are treated with the utmost reverence. Every crumb of the holy communion is consumed, for “the very idea that a particle of Christ’s Body and Blood might be discarded is unthinkable” (“Communion with God” undated). The consumer’s blood and body, especially the mouth, are treated as sacred spaces – as Christ himself – for a day following communion. Anything that comes into contact with one’s mouth and then is removed, such as olive pits or other fruit seeds, “is not thrown into the garbage but burned,” as is a cloth to stop the flow of blood from a recent communicant, “since [his or her] blood and the Blood of Christ are united.” It would thus make sense that worn-out Bibles would be burned for disposal, for, according to some Orthodox church guidelines, “this way of dealing with the Mystery applies to anything sacred that needs to be ‘removed from use’ due to its being damaged. The ashes of such items are usually sprinkled in a place where they will not be walked on” (ibid.).16 In Catholic Ireland, a similar practice continues when worn-out or broken sacramentals are burned at the bonfires of the Nativity of St John the Baptist, a midsummer feast day related to the blessing of crops (Haggerty 2006). But, as mentioned above, American Protestant speculation on Bible disposal tends to stay away from book burning. Advice from a Lutheran minister on the disposal of unusable Bibles warns: “Don’t burn old Bibles because in our day this would signal just the opposite of what we want to say about the Bible,” presumably referring to book-burning as an act of defiance, judgment, or censorship rather than an act of reverence. However, this pastor’s advice does advocate Bible burials. Even though it is like “any other book,” and he reminds his readers that it is “how 16

The idea of not walking upon that which has been dedicated to God comes from Canons of the Council in Trullo 78, in Schaff & Wace 1989 (398). Thanks to Jamie Magruder for alerting me to this reference (personal email correspondence, November 13, 2008); see also Christian 2006.

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the Bible is used and treated when it is working that matters most,” he also writes that it would be a nice gesture toward cultivating a “sense of the sacred and holy around us” if Christians followed the example of “our Jewish friends” and buried Bibles in a coffin with a liturgy of committal (Weissenbuehler 2003). The Jewish tradition of housing sacred texts in a genizah, alluded to here, seems to be the most persuasive example for Bible burial among Protestants who speculate on the issue. Popular explanations for using Jewish models for text disposal look for a historical precedent that justifies a particular Christian attitude toward the materiality of the Bible without overtly discussing sacred matter. “Respect for the name of God” (SCOJEC 2006), “it is a sign of deferential regard for the Word of the Lord to dispose of it with respect” (eagleswings 2007), and “it’s what they used to do years ago … tradition and what not” (rockchick 2006), are sentiments that Protestants have expressed in admiration of Jewish customs of text burial. Appeals to Jewish traditions allow for a connection to be made to legitimate Christian practices of the burial of human beings, an outlet for the proper disposal of dead matter. Rabbinic prescriptions in Judaism state that worn-out Torah scrolls are to be buried alongside a Torah scholar, or set aside in an earthenware vessel (Fond undated; see also Schleicher Chapter 1 this volume). Many Christians have maintained analogous practices by burying an individual with her or his personal Bible. However, I have not seen this associated with worn-out Bibles; rather, being buried with a Bible is a symbolic accessory of the individual’s devotion (Ewing 2006). But the burial of Bibles by themselves – because the Bible itself is used-up, and not because of its association with a particular person – requires a different rationale. In contemporary discussions of Christian Bible disposal, this rationale comes in the form of an analogy between the Bible and the human body. For example, one blogger writes, “The practice of burial makes perfect sense. Our bodies are buried reverently at death, the Word of God should be treated reverently, I think, as well” (eagleswings 2007). And some find ways of bringing together the aforementioned idea that the “word of God is living” with the practice of burying that which is dead. The word of God is living. Since the bible you have in possession is no longer usable, you should bury it. This is a common practice among Christians and Jews. In fact alot [sic] of old scripture is found this way in Israel. Just dig a hole in your garden the next time you [are] out planting seeds. Get yourself a new one and read it everyday. (Nikk 2008)

This image of the Bible being “no longer usable” and the practitioner needing to “get … a new one” is effectively saying: “If the Bible is dead, bury it. Its spirit will be reincarnated in the new Bible that you use.”17 17 Following the rationale of the genizah, stories are told about the burial of Bibles during times of war or religious persecution for the purpose of preservation: see, for example, Caryl & Lee 2007; “The Night We Buried Bibles” 2001; and Wray 1997, 199–200. In each

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Let us return to Pastor David: After reading about analogous practices and suggestions for cremation and burial, Pastor David has a change of heart, and writes, “I think as a small project I will work on a simple liturgy for disposing of old Bibles,” for burial “does seem like a fitting thing to do” (David 2008). After reading this comment, I contacted Pastor David to see if he had followed through on his idea (Dori 2008). His response to me was: I have not had opportunity to develop a liturgy, but there are a few folks in my church who want to dispose of their old Bibles. I’m thinking on having such a service during Lent, but [I’m] not entirely sure how I’ll do it. I will make a post [on my blog] here when we do. (David 2008)

I have found one liturgy for Bible disposal. Daniel Benedict, of the General Board of Discipleship of the United Methodist Church, has composed A Service for Disposal of Old Bibles and placed it on-line with an introductory caveat: “This service was developed in response to requests for a rite for use at the disposal of old Bibles. It is an intial [sic] draft and has not been tested in actual use. We would like to hear from congregations that use it” (Benedict 1999, italics and parentheses omitted). Hoping for an abundance of data on liturgies of Bible disposal, I contacted Daniel Benedict to see if he had heard from congregations who had used his service. His response was that, in the nine years since he created the liturgy, he had received no feedback on the service, nor did he “know of any actual place or occasion of such a service” (personal email correspondence, February 27, 2008). Conclusion: Burying the Book My initial impression of this survey of contemporary Protestant-American concerns for Bible disposal is that many people acknowledge that “how to respectfully dispose of worn-out Bibles” is an issue. Despite an awareness that “Christians worship the Word who became flesh, not the words written on paper” (Christian 2006), as one commentator put it, many Christians express their intuition that the Bible, even in its mass-produced, utilitarian forms, is not like other books. This reverence for the Bible which emerges in the face of issues of disposal cannot be explained through the Jewish dictum that the sacred Name of God should not be destroyed, which derives from Deuteronomy 12:3–4 (see Schleicher Chapter 1). Christians who are concerned about Bible disposal do not have the same concerns about erasing the already written name of God, or disposing of non-Biblical books containing the name of God as these prohibitions apply to the Hebrew Tetragrammaton, and not all names given to the deity of Judaism and Christianity. However, the stumbling block for the proper treatment of Bibles is related to the perception that the Bible of these stories the Bibles are intact and wrapped in plastic before being placed in the earth, with the intention that they will be dug up at a later time and read.

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is the Word of God. Through a long history of Christian ritual practices, visual associations, and theological nuance, the Bible has functioned as a mediator between humans’ earthly embodiment and the spiritual presence and power of Jesus Christ. That is, the Bible has operated as an icon of Christ, particularly, I argue, in Protestant Christianity. Protestant epistemology converts all aspects of the visual and material world, including the Bible and the sacraments, into signs or symbols either pointing to or representing another unseen reality. But the Bible remains a manipulable physical object – one of the few legitimate ritual objects in Protestant practices. Thus while the Bible as object and image is theoretically diminished in favor of the words of the text, it is also at the center of the religion of the Protestants (Parmenter 2006). The second impression that I have from this survey, which warrants further exploration and data collection, is that this concern for proper Biblical disposal predominantly exists at a theoretical level. That is, the dissonance between the Bible as “just a book” and the Bible as the embodiment of the Word of God creates a gulf between people’s image of the Bible as deserving proper burial, and the actual practice of burying Bibles. While there are numerous forms of authorized ritual treatments of the Bible in American Protestant Christianity, such as waving floppy Bibles for emphasis, carrying Bibles tucked under one’s arm or clothed in protective vestments, or reading from a large pulpit Bible, Bible burial is not an authorized act of consecration. The “Americanness” of this conclusion warrants further study. A community ritual that buried nearly 500 Bibles did take place on the Isle of Lewis, Scotland, in 2006. Reports of this event contain rationale similar to those already presented, particularly with regard to genizah for Torah scrolls (“Bibles Buried …” 2006; SCOJEC 2006). But in the British Isles there is perhaps a different cultural orientation to religious objects, and books in particular, that relates to its history of the fusion of Roman Christian traditions with Celtic and Anglo-Saxon culture.18 Reports of this contemporary Bible burial in Scotland allude to Bible rituals that, based on the information gathered here, currently are less common and less accepted in American Christianity. Ness Ferguson, the charity shop manager who initiated the ceremony, explained that: “People sometimes bury bibles in their gardens but this was the first communal ceremony” (“Bibles buried …” 2006). The Reverend Kenneth Ferguson, the minister who performed the Gaelic and English ceremony, reported that the communal ceremony made sense because of the tradition where “the head of a household would quietly and reverently bury a tattered family bible in his field, rather than throw it among the common rubbish” (SCOJEC 2006). The image of burying Bibles, apart from any actual practice, plays an important role in reinforcing the Bible as an icon. In addition to the images generated by 18 The books of early Christians were more unabashedly treated like efficacious relics in the British Isles than on the Christian Continent, as has been shown by Brown 2003; see also Parmenter 2006.

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internet discussions such as those related above, a contemporary literary image occurs in Marilynne Robinson’s novel Gilead (2004). It is part of a childhood memory of the main character, Reverend John Ames, an elderly and dying American, Midwestern minister in the 1950s, who shares his thoughts with the reader as he is writing a series of letters (his “begats”) to his only child, a six-yearold son. The memory relates Ames to the ministerial legacy he received from his pacifist father and militantly abolitionist grandfather, the giving and receiving of the sacrament of Christ’s body and blood, the end of a long and deadly drought, and other images in the book of burial as a form of affirmation and preservation. Ames writes: I remember once when I was a young child my father helped to pull down a church that had burned. … All kinds of people came to help. … [W]e younger children lay on an old quilt under the wagon out of the way and talked and played marbles, and watched the older boys and the men clamber over the ruins, searching out Bibles. … And when they had gathered up all the books that were ruined, they made … graves for them …, and then the minister whose church it was … said a prayer over them. I was always amazed, watching grownups, at the way they seemed to know what was to be done in any situation, to know what was the decent thing. (Robinson 2004, 94–95)

Reverend Ames backs up from his memory to tell his reader, “Whenever I have held a Bible in my hands, I have remembered the day they buried those ruined Bibles under the tree in the rain, and it is somehow sanctified by that memory” (Robinson 2004, 96). This character’s explanation of how an image sacralizes the Bible that he holds is also taking place in contemporary discussions that conjure images of Bible burials as fitting treatments for this indispensable icon. Bibliography Aĭnalov, D.V. 1961. The Hellenistic Origins of Byzantine Art. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Art. 2008. Response to “How Do You Dispose of a Bible?”. Posted at Here I Stand, January 17. Retrieved October 17, 2008, from http://davenu.wordpress. com/2008/01/16/how-do-you-dispose-of-a-bible/. Benedict, Daniel T., Jr. 1999. “A Service for Disposal of Old Bibles or Devotional Books.” Posted at General Board of Discipleship: Preaching, July 1999. Retrieved February 26, 2008, from http://www.gbod.org/worship/default. asp?act=reader&item_id=1774&loc_id=1. Bianchi, Ugo. 1995. “History of Religions.” In Eliade, Mircea (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Religion, vol. 6. pp. 399–408. New York: Simon and Schuster Macmillan.

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“Bibles Buried in Sacred Ceremony.” 2006, July 3. BBC News. Retrieved February 28, 2008, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/1/hi/scotland/highlands_and_ islands/5140646.stm. Bogdanović, Jelena. 2002. “The Proclamation of the New Covenant: The PreIconoclastic Altar Ciboria in Rome and Constantinople.” In Athanor, vol 20, pp. 7–19. Brown, Michelle P. 2003. The Lindisfarne Gospels: Society, Spirituality, and the Scribe. London: British Library. Campenhausen, Hans von. 1972. The Formation of the Christian Bible (trans. J.A. Baker). Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Canons of the Council of Trullo (Quinisext Council). 1989 (1890–1900). In Schaff, Philip and Wace, Henry (eds), Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers NPNF, vol. 14 (2nd series). pp. 355–408. Grand Rapids: Eerdman. Caryl, Christian and Lee, B.J. 2007. “Prayer in Pyongyang: Activists Cast a Light on the Underground Church”. In Newsweek, September 17. Retrieved November 8, 2008, http://www.newsweek.com/id/40759. Christian, Van. 2006. “Right or Wrong: What to do with worn out Bibles?” Posted at Baptist Standard, March 3. Retrieved February 28, 2008, from http://www. baptiststandard.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=7907&I temid=134. “Communion with God.” Undated. Posted at Bluecoast. Retrieved November 16, 2008, from http://www.bluecoast.org/nonprofit/eastorthodoxy.html. David. 2008. “How Do You Dispose of a Bible?” Posted at Here I Stand, January 16. Retrieved October 17, 2008, from http://davenu.wordpress.com/2008/01/16/ how-do-you-dispose-of-a-bible/. Dilasser, Maurice. 1999. Symbols of the Church (trans. Mary Cabrini Durkin, Madeleine Beaumont, and Caroline Morson). Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press. Dori. 2008. Response to “How Do You Dispose of a Bible?” Posted at Here I Stand, November 13. Retrieved November 21, 2008, from http://davenu.wordpress. com/2008/01/16/how-do-you-dispose-of-a-bible/. Drogin, Marc. 1989. Biblioclasm: The Mythical Origins, Magic Powers, and Perishability of the Written Word. Savage, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Dwight. 2008. Response to “How Do You Dispose of a Bible?” Posted at Here I Stand, January 17. Retrieved October 17, 2008, from http://davenu.wordpress. com/2008/01/16/how-do-you-dispose-of-a-bible/. eagleswings. 2007. “Proper Bible Disposal.” Posted at Manna Cabana, January 31–February 1. Retrieved October 17, 2008, from http://www.mannacabana. com/cabanaboards/showflat.php?Cat=&Number=461110&Main=460873. Eusebius. 1999. Life of Constantine (trans. A. Cameron and S.G. Hall). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ewing, George Wilmeth, 2006. “Folksy, But Devout, Bookkeeping.” In Untiedt, Kenneth L. (ed.), Folklore: In All of Us, In All We Do. pp. 263–271. Denton, TX: University of North Texas Press.

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Fond, Devora. Undated. “To Recycle Photocopies of Sacred Writings or Bury Them in a Genizah? Preserving the Environment vs. Preserving the Holy Names of God.” Posted at Reconstructionst Rabbinical College. Retrieved March 3, 2008, from http://www.rrc.edu/atf/cf/%7B20710196-D749-4EA3AD29-CDB6DA6AF516%7D/WHIZIN%201%20EF.PDF. Grabar, André. 1957. L’Iconoclasme Byzantin. Paris: Collège de France. Graham, William. 1987. Beyond the Written Word. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haggerty, Bridget. 2006. “St John’s Eve in Old Ireland.” Posted at Irish Culture and Customs, October 18. Retrieved November 14, 2008, from http://www. irishcultureandcustoms.com/ACalend/StJohnsEve.html. “How Many Bibles Do You Have…” 2006. Discussion on Gamespot Forums, posted March 30 to April 3. Retrieved October 17, 2008, from http://www. gamespot.com/forums/show_msgs.php?board_id=909107420&topic_ id=24484288. Humfress, Caroline. 2007. “Judging By the Book: Christian Codices and Late Antique Legal Culture.” In Klingshirn, William E. and Safran, Linda (eds), The Early Christian Book. pp. 141–158. Washington: Catholic University of America Press. Klingshirn, William E. and Safran, Linda (eds). 2007. The Early Christian Book. Washington: Catholic University of America Press. Kostof, Spiro K. 1965. The Orthodox Baptistery of Ravenna. New Haven: Yale University Press. Krueger, P. and Mommsen, T. (eds). 1877. Corpus Juris Civilis, vol. 2. Berlin: Weidmann. Lowden, John. 2007. “The Word Made Visible: The Exterior of the Early Christian Book as Visual Argument.” In Klingshirn, William E. and Safran, Linda (eds), The Early Christian Book. pp. 13–47. Washington: Catholic University of America Press. Malley, Brian. 2006. “The Bible in British Folklore.” In Postscripts, vol. 2 (2–3), pp. 241–272. Marty, Martin E. 1982. “America’s Iconic Book.” In Tucker, Gene M. and Knight, Douglas A. (eds), Humanizing America’s Iconic Book. pp. 1–23. Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Marty, Martin E. 2003. “Bible disposal.” In Christian Century, vol. 120.6 (22 March), p. 71. Mathews, Thomas. 1971. The Early Churches of Constantinople: Architecture and Liturgy. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Migne, J.P. (ed.). 1878 (1844–1865). Patrologia cursus completus, series latina (PL), 221 vols. Paris: Garnier. Migne, J.P. (ed.). 1967 (1857–1866). Patrologia cursus completus, series graeca (PG), Series 1 and Series 2, 161 vols. Turnhout: Brepols.

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Monika. 2008. Response to “How Do You Dispose of a Bible?” Posted at Here I Stand, January 16. Retrieved October 17, 2008, from http://davenu.wordpress. com/2008/01/16/how-do-you-dispose-of-a-bible/. Nikk. 2008. Response to “A question about disposing of religious books?” Posted at City-Data.com, February 4. Retrieved October 16, 2008, http://www. city-data.com/forum/religion-philosophy/248402-question-about-disposingreligious-books.html. Parmenter, Dorina Miller. 2006. “The Iconic Book: The Image of the Bible in Early Christian Rituals.” In Postscripts, vol. 2 (2–3), pp. 160–189. Parmenter, Dorina Miller. 2009. “The Bible as Icon: Myths of the Divine Origins of Scripture.” In Evans, Craig A. and Zacharias, Daniel (eds), Jewish and Christian Scripture as Artifact and Canon. pp. 298–309. London and New York: T.&T. Clark. Paul the Silentiary. 1837. Descriptio ecclesiae sanctae Sophiae et ambones (ed. Immanuel Bekker). Bonn: Unknown Publisher. Petrucci, Armando. 1995. “The Christian Conception of the Book in the Sixth and Seventh Centuries.” In Radding, Charles M. (ed. and trans.), Writers and Readers in Medieval Italy. pp. 19–42. New Haven: Yale University Press. Rapp, Claudia. 2007. “Holy Texts, Holy Men and Holy Scribes: Aspects of Scriptural Holiness in Late Antiquity.” In Klingshirn, William E. and Safran, Linda (eds), The Early Christian Book. pp. 194–222. Washington: Catholic University of America Press. Rice, D. Talbot. 1957. The Beginnings of Christian Art. New York: Abington. Roberts, Colin and Skeat, T.C. 1983. The Birth of the Codex. London, Oxford University Press for The British Academy. Robinson, Marilynne. 2004. Gilead. New York: Farrar, Strauss, & Giroux. rockchick. 2006. “Bible Burial”. Posted at StornowayChat, July 7. Retrieved February 28, 2008, from http://www.stornowaychat.co.uk/chat/Blah/Blah. cgi?v-print/m-m-1152256068/. Saunders, William. 2003. “Disposing of Blessed Items.” Reprint from Arlington Catholic Herald in Catholic Education Resource Center. Retrieved November 16, 2008, from http://www.catholiceducation.org/articles/printarticle. html?id=3688. Schaff, Philip and Wace, Henry (eds). 1989 (1890–1900). Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers (NPNF), Second Series, 14 vols. Grand Rapids: Eerdman. SCOJEC [Scottish Council of Jewish Communities]. 2006. “Burial of Bibles on the Isle of Lewis”. In Newsletter Four Corners, Issue 10. Retrieved February 28, 2008, from http://j-scot.org.uk/Four_Corners/newsletters/06vii_4C_10.pdf. St Clair, Archer. 1979. “The Visit to the Tomb: Narrative Liturgy on Three Early Christian Pyxides.” In Gesta, vol 18 (1), pp. 127–135. strangeltfaerie. 2007. “Re: Proper Bible Disposal”. Posted at Manna Cabana January 31. Retrieved October 17, 2008, from http://www.mannacabana.com/ cabanaboards/showflat.php?Cat=&Number=461110&Main=460873.

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Taylor, Maureen. 2004. “Bless Them: Caring for Family Bibles, Part 2.” In Ancestry Daily News, posted June 23. Retrieved October 16, 2008, from http:// www.ancestry.com/learn/library/article.aspx?article=8712. “The Night We Buried Bibles.” 2001. Posted at Genovieva, January–February. Retrieved November 8, 2008, http://www.genovieva.org/jan01bb.html. “The Sanctifying Office of the Church”. Undated. In Canon Law Book IV, Part II, Title I, § 1171. Retrieved November 16, 2008, http://www.deacons.net/Canon_ Law/book_4.htm. Vanderwel, David. 1987. “The Burning of the Christmas Trees.” In Reformed Worship, issue 5. Retrieved November 16, 2008, from. http://www. reformedworship.org/magazine/article.cfm?article_id=195&id=5. Walter, Christopher. 1970. L’Iconographie des conciles dans la tradition byzantine. Paris: Institut français d’études byzantines. Watts, James W. 2009. “Desecrating Scriptures. A Case Study for the LUCE Project in Media, Religion and International Relations.” Published at Religion, Media and International Affairs Program, Maxwell School of Citizenship and Public Affairs at Syracuse University, Retrieved from http://sites.maxwell.syr. edu/luce/jameswatts.html. Weissenbuehler, Wayne. 2003. “Proper Bible Disposal”. In The Lutheran, April Issue. Retrieved February 28, 2008, from http://www.thelutheran.org/article/ article.cfm?articil_id=4106&key=16859234. Wray, Matt. 1997. “White Trash Religion”. In Wray, Matt and Newitz, Annalee (eds), White Trash: Race and Class in America. pp. 193–210. New York: Routledge.

Chapter 4

The Death of the Dharma: Buddhist Sutra Burials in Early Medieval Japan D. Max Moerman

The death of the founder presents a crisis of authority for all religious traditions. When the Buddha was asked who should succeed him after his passing, he is said to have responded that his teachings, the Dharma, would serve as the source of authority in his absence. The sutra is the literary form of such teachings: sacred texts containing discourses attributed to or inspired by the Buddha. The early sutra literature was first preserved orally and was only committed to writing around the turn of the millennium. Mahayana Buddhist traditions, movements that developed in India during the first centuries of the Common Era, place an increased emphasis on the materiality of such sacred texts. Mahayana sutras enjoin and celebrate their own veneration and reserve the highest praise for those who hear, recite, copy, and preserve them. Indeed, many Mahayana sutras claim an equivalency between the sacred text and the Buddha himself. In asserting that a sacred text is equal to or greater than a relic of the Buddha, Mahayana Buddhist traditions, employing a new theory of embodiment, equate or replace the Buddha’s corporal relic with his textual corpus. The Buddha’s word, rather than the Buddha’s relic, is recognized as the central object of veneration and, as such, is to be enshrined in a stupa, a reliquary previously reserved for the remains of a Buddha. In Mahayana traditions throughout Asia – in India, Tibet, China, and Korea – sutras have been enshrined in stupas. In Japan, however, the treatment of Buddhist texts was taken one step further. The enshrined sutras were buried in the ground as part of a complex ritual strategy to forestall the decline of the Buddhist teachings and preserve the Dharma for a future age. Beginning in the eleventh century, and continuing for more than five hundred years, sutras were copied, consecrated, enshrined, and then interred in the precincts of sacred mountains, shrines, and temples. The sacred texts, produced at great effort and expense, were not meant to be read, studied, or even seen for eons. Rather, they were deployed as ceremonial artifacts to assure the salvation of both the religion and the individual. The texts were given a memorial service following the same ritual protocols that the dead For example, the Lotus Sutra, the most influential Buddhist scripture in East Asia, asserts that “whatever place a roll of this scripture may occupy, in all those places one is to erect a stupa of seven jewels ... There is no need to even lodge a Buddha relic in it. What is the reason? Within it there is already a whole body of the Buddha” (Hurvitz 1976, 178). 

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would receive. This distinctive method for disposal of sacred texts appears to be without parallel in Buddhist Asia. This essay examines the burial of sutras in eleventh- and twelfth-century Japan, the period in which this unique practice originated and flourished. The practice and discourse of Japanese Buddhists in these centuries was profoundly informed by eschatological concerns. It was a time in which the Dharma was thought to be dying out and new rituals were developed to address the religious conditions of the age. Sutra burial was seen as one way in which the teachings might be saved. The death ceremonies for sacred texts performed in early medieval Japan thus differ from many of the other examples discussed in this volume. Sutra burial was less a matter of disposal than preservation; the interment was more a time capsule than a tomb. The concern with death, nevertheless, remained at the heart of the practice. The end of the Dharma presented a crisis at once institutional and personal; for both Buddhism and the individual Buddhist, it seemed as if time was running out. For Japanese Buddhists, the eleventh century marked the beginning of the end: the onset of the age of the “Final Dharma” (Japanese mappō) in which both the availability of texts and the ability of people to realize them would reach their lowest points. The Dharma would not be fully restored until 5.6 billion years after the death of Śākyamuni when the Future Buddha would descend from his heaven and inaugurate a new golden age. The ineluctable decline of the Dharma presented soteriological problems for both the tradition and the individual. The death of the Dharma challenged, of course, the very existence of Buddhism and required acts of protection and preservation to ensure its survival. But the age of the Final Dharma also had implications for Buddhists practitioners for whom individual salvation became increasingly difficult as the source of teachings receded into an inaccessible past and the spiritual capabilities of humans diminished. It was a time when history itself represented a profound religious problem and when Japanese Buddhists began to formulate specifically religious responses to the problem of history. The burial of sutras – as revealed in their contents, dedicatory inscriptions, material form, and locations – sought to address the twin religious challenges of the Final Dharma by establishing a link between the death and salvation of Buddhist texts and that of the individual believer.



Although a legend about the sixth-century Chinese Tiantai master Hui-ssu suggests the possibility of a Chinese precedent, no mounds have been discovered in China. The one possible example on the Korean peninsula, a fragment of a Lotus Sutra transcribed on paper and the remains of what might be a sutra receptacle, remains inconclusive (see Miyake 1987, 172).

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The Temporality of Sutra Burials The idea that the Dharma, the Buddha’s teaching, will pass through successive stages of degeneration and eventually disappear is found throughout the Buddhist tradition (Lamotte 1988, 191–202; Chappell 1980, 122–154; Nattier 1991). Although the Pali and Sanskrit texts that refer to this historical plan rarely agree on the precise details – the cause, nature, or timetable of decline – Chinese translations and commentaries address the issue with far greater specificity. Working from Indian sources, and perhaps influenced as well by native traditions, Chinese Buddhists of the sixth century first articulated the scheme of three distinct historical periods following the Buddha’s death. This cyclical chronology is comprised of the periods of “True Dharma” (Chinese zheng fa; Japanese shōbō) during which time Buddhist teachings and practices are available and enlightenment accessible; “Semblance Dharma” (Chinese xiang fa; Japanese zōbō) when teachings and practices are maintained but humanity’s spiritual capacity has seriously diminished; and “Final Dharma” (Chinese mofa; Japanese mappō) when true practice has disappeared and only the teachings remain, destined themselves soon to vanish. In this last age the capacity for enlightenment is at its nadir and the world will continue in its decline for some ten thousand years. The fact that this final age has little or no Sanskrit textual basis does not seem to have posed a problem for Chinese Buddhists. Whether canonical or apocryphal in origin, they found convincing proof of this prophecy in their immediate surroundings. Buddhist persecutions in the sixth century helped to make the Final Dharma a bitter reality and from the Sui and Tang dynasties, Chinese Buddhists believed they were living in the final age and began to formulate teachings appropriate to it. The concept of the Final Dharma was part of Japan’s early continental inheritance but did not gain popular currency until the eleventh century. Fueled in part by the growing influence of Tendai Amidism – a tradition that in Japan as in China presented itself as the most expedient path in the final age – many Japanese monks and aristocrats began to see their present era as one of acute historical and religious crisis. The precise date for the final age, however, was a matter of some debate. The four most common Chinese versions of the chronology measured the periods of True Dharma, Semblance Dharma, and Final Dharma as lasting 500, 500, and 10,000 years; 500, 1,000, and 10,000 years; 1,000, 500, and 10,000 years; or 1,000, 1,000, and 10,000 years. Variant dates for the Buddha’s death – usually 609 or 949 bce – also had implications for the onset of the Final Dharma (Taira  The first description of the tripartite system appears in the Li shih yuan wen attributed to Nanyue Huisi (515–577), see Nattier 1991 (110–111). The chronology also played a crucial role in Pure Land Buddhism. Such a provenance may help to explain the importance of mappō thought in the Tendai and Amidist traditions.  Although Japanese scholars have long assumed that mappō was a belief and a term (saddharma-vipralopa) found in Indian Buddhism, Nattier presents a compelling argument for its Chinese origins (1991, 91–118).

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1992, 144). By the tenth century, however, 949 bce was generally accepted as the year of the Buddha’s death and one thousand years were allotted for each of the intervening periods of True Dharma and Semblance Dharma. The age of the Final Dharma was thus most commonly understood to begin in the year 1052. Although there was less than universal agreement on the chronological details of the overall scheme, this tripartite model of religious history was acknowledged by numerous Buddhist authors of the eighth and ninth centuries. In 984, Minamoto no Tamenori (d. 1011) voiced the immediacy of the threat in the preface to his Buddhist tale collection, the Sanbōe: One thousand nine hundred and thirty-three years have passed since the Buddha Śākyamuni left this world. We may now be in the period of Semblance Dharma, but surely only a few years of this interim period remain to us. (Minamoto 1997, 4; Kamens 1988, 92)

The Materiality of Sutra Burials Buried sutras were transcribed on a variety of materials, most often on paper or silk scrolls in black, gold, or vermilion ink (the latter was occasionally mixed with blood). Yet there are also numerous examples of sutras inscribed on more permanent materials such as stone, ceramic tiles, or bronze plates, signaling perhaps an even more explicit concern with the preservation of the teachings. The silk or paper sutras would be placed into cylindrical stupa-shaped containers fashioned out of bronze, iron, ceramic, or stone that were often in turn encased in a second outer vessel of ceramic or stone. They were then buried in small underground chambers lined with stones and occasionally packed with charcoal to aid in preservation (see Figure 4.1). The chambers were sealed with stone and marked, like a grave, with an earthen mound and a stone stupa, lantern, or stele. The sutra containers themselves exhibit a great variety of styles from the detailed miniature treasure pagoda (hōtō) to the simple lidded cylinder. Yet, however elaborate or plain, all of the containers share the basic form of the stupa, a reliquary housing the remains of a Buddha. As death rituals for the Dharma body, sutra burials were in keeping with the origins of the tradition and were understood within the vocabulary of Japanese Buddhist practice as kuyō, or memorial services. As memorial services, sutra burials produced a great deal of symbolic value, yet the beneficiary of this merit – the Dharma, the sponsor, the sponsor’s family members – was by no means fixed. For a survey of mappō thought in the Heian period, see Marra 1988. Saichō (767–822), Anchō (763–814), and Annen (841–884) of the Tendai school; Gen’ei (c. 840) of the Sanron school; and Zan’an (c. 776–815) of the Hossō school were all concerned with the end of the Dharma and its soteriological implications (Marra 1988, 39–40).  For an example of such blood writing, see Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976 (60).  

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Diagram of Sutra Burials in Japan. Author’s illustration

The scripture most often interred was the Lotus Sutra (Japanese Myōhō renge kyō) which in the Tendai tradition included the Sutra of Innumerable Meanings (Japanese Muryōgi kyō) and the Sutra of Meditation on the Bodhisattva Universal Virtue (Japanese Kanfugen bosatsu gyōbō kyō) as its opening and closing chapters. The presence of the Lotus Sutra in the vast majority of such burials should come as no surprise. It was perhaps the most important scripture in the religious culture of the time and the principal text of the Tendai school, which in China had most explicitly articulated the theory of the Final Dharma and in Japan was credited with the origins of sutra burial. It was among those early Mahayana sutras that encouraged its own enshrinement and veneration and asserted an equivalence between the sacred text and the bodily relic of the Buddha (Schopen 1975). Indeed, the Lotus Sutra reserves the highest praise for those “who shall receive and keep, read and recite, explain, or copy in writing a single verse of the Scripture of the Blossom of the Final Dharma, or who will look with veneration on a roll of this scripture as if it were the Buddha himself” (Hurvitz 1976, 174). In carrying out these scriptural instructions, the sponsors of sutra burials enjoyed the combined merit of copying and protecting the sutra together with that of building a stupa in which to enshrine and venerate it. The enshrinement of the Lotus Sutra within stupa-shaped reliquaries is thus entirely in keeping with the sacramental logic of the Mahayana sutra cults. The transposition of the text for the relic, which took place in Indian Buddhism around the turn of the millennium, was part of Japanese Buddhism from its very beginnings. As early as the eighth century, relics traditionally deposited beneath the central posts of pagodas were replaced

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by sutra texts (Kidder 1972, 140). Such examples of bibliolatry, following the injunctions of the sutras themselves, underscore the significance of the materiality and performativity of religious texts, an understanding of the function of scripture that informs the practice of sutra burial as well. Although pre-eminent, the Lotus Sutra was neither the only text nor the only cult represented in sutra burials. As the Final Age was understood to portend political as well a religious troubles, the Lotus Sutra was also often joined by two additional scriptures held to protect the state, the Golden Light Sutra (Japanese Konkōmyō kyō) and the Benevolent Kings Sutra (Japanese Ninnō hannya haramitsu kyō). The other scriptures most commonly buried, and usually accompanying the Lotus Sutra, were the three sutras dedicated to the Buddha Amida – the Larger Pure Land Sutra (Japanese Muryōju kyō), the Smaller Pure Land Sutra (Japanese Amida kyō), and the Sutra of Meditation on Amida Buddha (Japanese Kanmuryōju kyō) – and the three sutras dedicated to the Future Buddha Maitreya, known in Japanese as Miroku, – the Sutra on Maitreya Achieving Buddhahood (Japanese Miroku jōbutsu kyō), the Sutra on Maitreya’s Rebirth Below [on Earth] (Japanese Miroku geshō kyō) and the Sutra on Maitreya’s Rebirth Above in Tusita (Japanese Miroku joshō tosotsu kyō). The Amida sutras describe the Gokuraku Pure Land and the Buddha Amida’s vow to guarantee rebirth there for all who call on him. The Miroku sutras describe Miroku, while still a bodhisattva, practicing in the Tosotsu heaven where, with the accumulation of sufficient merit, his devotees may also be reborn. They tell as well of a future golden age, 5.67 billion years after the death of the Buddha Śākyamuni when the Dharma will rise again to the apex of its historical cycle. At that time Miroku, also known as Jison in his role as the future Buddha, will descend to the earth and expound the Dharma at three assemblies to be held beneath the legendary Dragon Flower Tree. The Lotus Sutra, Amida, and Miroku cults were in no way mutually exclusive. The Lotus Sutra, for example, guarantees rebirth in Amida’s Pure Land to women who revere the sutra’s twenty-third chapter (Hurvitz 1976, 300). Elsewhere it promises that any male devotee “at life’s end … shall straightway ascend to the top of the Tosotsu heaven, to the place of the bodhisattva Miroku” (Hurvitz 1976, 335). Yet, while included within the ecumenicism of the Lotus Sutra, Miroku and Amida had their own followings as well among Japanese Buddhists. One significant difference nevertheless remained between the two cults. Miroku faith emphasized that heavenly rebirth can be gained through religious works, the most common of which in Japan at the time was copying the Lotus Sutra. This emphasis on scriptural production and displays of piety suggests another reason, beyond the eschatological, for the connection between the Miroku cult and the burial of transcribed sutras. The origin of sutra burial is traditionally ascribed to the Tendai patriarch Ennin (794–864) who copied the Lotus Sutra and enshrined it in a small stupa on  This is not to suggest that the cult of relics was unimportant in Heian Japan. On the significance of the cult, see Ruppert 2000.

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Mount Hiei in 831. Ennin’s method of copying, known as “according to prescribed method” (nyohō), was itself a major ritual undertaking and set the standard for sutra transcriptions thereafter. Although sutra copying as a religious practice goes back to the earliest period of Buddhist Japan, Ennin’s efforts were of a different ritual scale. He is said to have gone into retreat for three years to prepare for and carry out the transcription. He grew the hemp to make the paper on which the sutra was to be written, made his own brush of twigs and grass rather than animal hair, and made his own ink from graphite rather than using ink sticks containing animal glue. Combining ritual and writing, Ennin performed three full prostrations with the transcription of each character. He placed the completed sutra within a small wooden stupa, presented to it ten kinds of offering, and installed it in a hall at Yokawa later known as the Nyohōdō (Genkō shakusho 1930, 62). Ennin’s wooden stupa containing the sutra was placed inside a larger stupa made of bronze. Yet the sutra was not in fact buried until 1031, a full two centuries after Ennin’s transcription, when it was enclosed within a third bronze reliquary and interred in the earth beneath the Nyohōdō. The text chronicling the burial emphasizes the text’s performative power to save both Buddhists and Buddhism itself until the coming of the Future Buddha. In the Final Age, the head monk commanded that the gilt bronze sutra tube in the hall be moved and that the sutra be buried beneath the earth and stones of the mountain to await the coming of Miroku. This is in accordance with the Master’s original vow. [The sutra] dwelling inside a seven-jeweled stupa will assuredly be transmitted to the age of Miroku and thus Śākyamuni’s Dharma will save people. People will rely on this sutra until the age of Miroku arrives. (Eigaku yōki 1959–1960, 549b)

The Spatiality of Sutra Burials The eleventh and twelfth centuries were both the earliest and the most active period of sutra burial. Although the practice continued into the eighteenth century, more than half of all sutra burials date from these first two hundred years.10 Sutra burials from these early centuries are more extravagant than those of later periods and include many examples of gold ink transcriptions on indigo paper. The period is also distinguished by the greater number of sutras interred at a single site and  On Ennin’s transcription and the copying procedures of later Heian examples, see Seki 1990, 29–30; Tanabe 1988, 44–49; Kawada 1987, 169; and Miyake 1987, 173–174. The ten kinds of offerings are traditionally presented to a Buddha not to a text. As listed in the Lotus Sutra they are: flowers, incense, ornaments, powdered incense, unguent, burning of incense, canopies and banners, clothing, dancing and music, and joining ones hands in worship. 10 See the chronological table in Seki 1999, 709–739.

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by the inclusion of other items such as mirrors and swords.11 Yet these burials speak to more than the historical and soteriological anxieties of the age. They also locate the sites where such anxieties were expressed and where, it was hoped, they could be conquered as well. In an age so closely identified with the imperial court, it is significant that the majority of these sites were located outside of the imperial capital of Heian-kyō (see Figure 4.2). Some of these sites were relatively close by, such as Daidōji and Mount Inari to the south, Mount Kurama to the north, Hatogatake, and Mount Hiei to the north-east of the capital.12 Others, such as Makiosan in Izumi Province, Mount Kōya and Kumano in Kii, and Mount Asakuma in Ise, were somewhat farther from the capital. Numerous other Heian period sutra burials have been found throughout the north-east, from Mount Fuji to as far north as Dewa and Mutsu. By the early twelfth century sutra burials were being carried out in every province.13 It is western Japan, however, that reveals perhaps the most surprising examples. In the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries, when the practice was at its height, more than 60 percent of known sutra burials took place in the northern part of Kyushu (Chijiwa 1987, 426).14 The sutra mounds of northern Kyushu differ from those of other regions in a number of respects. Many of the cylinders housing the sutras are made of stone rather than bronze and those made of bronze show a far greater variation in form. But it is the ceramic examples that are most distinctive. Although ceramic containers were used throughout Japan for the outer casings of metal sutra tubes, the use of Chinese ceramics is unique to the island. Brown glazed earthenware and porcelain sutra containers from western China are found nowhere else in Japan. These ceramic vessels, moreover, were not limited to the outer containers of sutra tubes. Porcelain stupashaped jars were often used on their own, in place of metal reliquaries, to house the scriptures. These were imported from China to Kyushu for the sole purpose of sutra burials; they were put to such use in neither China nor elsewhere in Japan. They represent but one item in the complex network of exchange, both cultural

11

These extra-scriptural materials are usually interpreted as representing the donor’s concern with the protection of the sutra, see for example Sekine 1968 (281). Chijiwa, however, has suggested that they may also represent a form of offering directed more toward local deities than the Buddhas (1987, 444). 12 On the sutra burials at Mount Inari see Fushimi 1966. For those at Kurama, see Hosaka 1971 and Naniwa 1977. On sutra burials in Fukushima, Tochigi, Yamanashi, Aichi, Mie, Gifu, Yamaguchi, and Ehime prefectures, see Miyake 1983, 69–93, 117–144, 178–206. 13 For the chronology and locations of these sutra mounds see Seki 1990, 37–53. 14 For example, 173 sutra burials (of known location) were performed in the hundred years between 1064 and 1163. Of these, 104 took place in Kyushu (Seki 1990, 710–724).

Figure 4.2

Map of Sutra Burial Locations. Author’s illustration

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and economic, between Japan and China from the tenth through twelfth centuries (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 2000, 4).15 Although sutra burials have been discovered throughout Kyushu, the vast majority of these burials – including sutras inscribed on stone, tile, and bronze – have been unearthed in the northern provinces of Buzen and Chikuzen (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 338). Within this region, the three areas with the greatest number of sutra mounds are Usa, home of the powerful clan of the same name and site of the Usa Hachiman-Mirokuji complex; Dazaifu, the political center of the island; and the mountains extending from Hikosan to the Kunisaki peninsula, which served as the ritual arena of Tendai-affiliated mountain ascetics. Usa was an early center for the cult of the Future Buddha, linked as it was physically and institutionally with Mirokuji, the temple of Miroku, built beside the Usa shrine in the early eighth century. Shrine traditions link the preservation of the Dharma to the local landscape, asserting that the region’s sacred mountain will “protect the country by housing the sutras through the three ages of True Dharma, Semblance Dharma, and Final Dharma” (cited in Chijiwa 1987, 43).16 The mountains and temples of the Dazaifu region were the sites of numerous sutra burials. Indeed, half of the sutras buried in Kyushu in the twelfth-century period have been excavated from Mount Shiōji and its immediate environs (Oda 1970, 133; Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 2000, 9).17 Shiōji (Temple of the Four [Heavenly] Kings) was built in 775 and statues of these four protective deities were enshrined on the mountain’s peaks in the four cardinal directions. As the name of the mountain and temple suggests, this was a religious site dedicated to maintaining the centralized power of the court. The mountain temples of the Dazaifu region – Shiōji, Kanzeonji, Buzōji, and Hōmanzan – were the sites of state protecting rituals, mountain ascetic practices, and numerous sutra burials concerned with preserving the Dharma until the coming of the Future Buddha. Two sutra burials performed at Buzōji around the turn of the twelfth century, for example, contain inscriptions expressing the wish that the sponsors be present at “the descent of Miroku” (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 21a–b, 27b–28a, nos. 33, 42). As at Usa and Dazaifu, the cult of the Future Buddha was a prominent element at Hikosan. The inscription on a sutra tube buried there in 1110 refers with anticipation to the “three sermons of Miroku” (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 32, no. 52). The forty-nine caves of Mount Hiko were homologized with the forty-nine chambers of Miroku’s Inner Palace in the Tosotsu heaven (Grapard 15

As the gateway to Japan from the continent, Kyushu was the first area to receive and incorporate Korean and Chinese forms of knowledge and practice. Yet the influence of Chinese or Korean Buddhist practice on Japanese sutra burials is unclear. 16 See also Shigematsu 1986. For a discussion and analysis of this text, see Grapard 1986. 17 For examples, see Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 49b, no. 84; and Takeuchi 1947–1968, 189, no.195.

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1986, 225). According to the Hikosan ruki, a religious history of the mountain written in 1213, the mineral formations found on the mountain were “used to erect the Great Lecture Hall in which Miroku would give his sermons upon becoming the Future Buddha” and were themselves said to constitute Miroku’s metaphoric body, whose function it is to protect the Dharma throughout the Final Age (cited in Grapard 1986, 225). Also indicative of an anxiety over the permanency of the teachings are two sets of the Lotus Sutra engraved on thin bronze plates excavated from Chōanji in Kunisaki and from Kubotesan, north-east of Mount Hiko.18 The two sets, made of a material designed to outlast the Final Age itself, were created within a year of each other in the mid-twelfth century. The Motivations for Sutra Burials Scholars have suggested a variety of reasons for eleventh- and twelfth-century sutra burials. Some see the practice linked to the rituals of Tendai mountain asceticism, some to the hope for rebirth in Amida’s or Miroku’s paradise, some to the desire for enlightenment and benefits for oneself and others. Nearly all, however, agree that the primary motivation was the concern to preserve the sutras throughout the Final Age until the coming of the Future Buddha Miroku, who will use the buried sutras in his three inaugural sermons beneath the Dragon Flower Tree (see, for example, Gotō 1937, 702; Hosaka 1957, 73; Ishida 1929, 30–31; Kurata 1936–1937, 14–21; Miyake 1958, 47; Yajima 1936–1937, 2–3). The locations of major sutra burials – such as the mountains of Hiei, Kōya, Kinpusen, and Hiko – were believed to be the sites of Miroku’s future descent. Moreover, dedicatory inscriptions included with the deposits appear to support the claim that an anxiety over the Final Dharma constituted the central motivation for sutra burials in this period. The term Final Dharma appears often in inscriptions, as if attesting to the timeliness of the rites. It seems to function both as chronological notice and theological rationale for the burials. A Lotus Sutra inscribed on tile and buried in 1071 is dated “the third year of the Enkyū era in Final Age of the Buddha’s Dharma” (Takeuchi 1947–1968, 127, no. 123). In 1082, thirty years after the calculated beginning of the Final Dharma, the monk Jōe buried a Lotus Sutra that he dated “at the beginning of Śākyamuni’s Final Dharma Age.” He explained his reason as follows: I have erected a three-shaku [90 cm.] high statue of Miroku on Yasugamine, one of the seven great mountains of Japan, and have transcribed a Lotus Sutra to be buried there. My prayer is that it will be used when Miroku comes to preach the Dharma beneath the Dragon Flower Tree. (Takeuchi 1947–1968, 131, no. 130)

18 The Hikosan ruki mentions a third bronze plate Lotus Sutra engraved at Hikosan in 1145 (Seki 1999, 720).

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Numerous other sutra burials are dated “in the age of the Final Dharma of Śākyamuni” (Takeuchi 1947–1968, 357, 394, nos. 407, 449). Some are even more specific, counting off the exact number of years that have elapsed since the Buddha’s passing. The inscription on a sutra reliquary buried in 1103 is dated “2052 years after the death of the Buddha Śākyamuni” (Takeuchi 1947–1968, 161-162, no. 163; Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 83–84, no. 168). Although a preoccupation with the age of the Final Dharma clearly informs the practice of sutra burial, the preservationist impulse was not necessarily the sole motivating factor. Inscriptions also express the hope that, due to this meritorious act, the donor (or another individual to whom the merit is being transferred) will be reborn, in the interim, in Amida’s Pure Land or in Miroku’s Tosotsu heaven. These two goals, one concerned with the salvation of the Dharma and the other with the salvation of the self, address the dual challenge of the Final Dharma and were often combined in the logic of practice. Even the burial of sutras inscribed on tile – a medium intended to withstand the test of time – reveals such multiple intentions. Perhaps the most significant burial of tile sutras was performed in the years 1143 and 1144 at Gokurakuji in Harima Province by six monks under the leadership of Zenne, the abbot of the temple (Takeuchi 1947–1968, 265–278; Taira 1992, 115–118). Nearly five hundred ceramic tiles were inscribed with some thirty different sutras, images of Buddhas and bodhisattvas, and various mandalas were interred to last throughout “the ten thousand year period of the Final Dharma” (Takeuchi 1947–1968, 269). Zenne calculated that, “20,160 years have passed since Shakyamuni entered nirvana and it is still 5.67 billion years before Jison’s advent” (Takeuchi 1947–1968, 268). Zenne then asked for “tranquility in this life, good health, and longevity … rebirth in the upper realms of the Gokuraku Pure Land and presence at the coming of Jison” (Takeuchi 1947–1968, 274). In addition he prayed for a felicitous rebirth for his ancestors, his teachers, the retired emperor Ichijō (980–1011), for “the tranquility of the [present] Emperor,” and for “the protection of the state” (Takeuchi 1947–1968, 270). The other monastic sponsors of the burial, however, make no mention of Miroku or the chronology of the Final Dharma but ask only for rebirth in Amida’s Pure Land for themselves, their teachers, and their parents. Indeed the salvation of one’s parents was not an uncommon motivation. A burial at Shiōjisan was made in 1116 expressly “for the benefit of my mother” (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 44b, no. 74), and another at Kurodani in Echizen Province in 1157 “so that my father and mother may attain rebirth in the Pure Land” (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 117b, no. 233). Thus, even in the age of the Final Dharma, people buried sutras to save more than just themselves. Such multiple intentions, moreover, characterized sutra burials from the very beginning. The sutra burial performed by Fujiwara Michinaga in 1007 at Kinpusen in Yamato Province is usually considered the first documented example of the practice. Kinpusen had long been associated with Miroku and his realm (Miyake 1988, 15). The Daigoji monk Sonshi (832–909) identified the deity of Kinpusen

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as a manifestation of Miroku and described the mountain as the inner realm of the Tosotsu heaven (Shugendō sōsho 1985, 62, 80). The sutra burial of Michinaga, the most powerful figure of the age, was an enormous ritual production. He had an elaborate sutra case cast in gilt bronze and inscribed with a lengthy dedicatory inscription and twelve Sanskrit characters praising the Lotus Sutra. He then began a seventy-three-day period of purification.19 As he climbed the mountain, with sixteen other aristocrats in attendance, he stopped to make offerings of silver and silk at fertility shrines along the way. Once at the central sacred area, he presented lamps and parasols, one hundred copies of the Lotus Sutra, one hundred copies of the Benevolent Kings Sutra, one hundred fascicles of the Heart Sutra, and eight fascicles of the Essential Meaning of the Heart Sutra to “the thirty-eight gods” of the fertility shrine. These dedications were performed for the benefit of the sovereigns Reizei (950–1011) (whose consort was Michinaga’s sister Chōshi) and Ichijō (whose consorts included Michinaga’s eldest daughter Shōshi and niece Teishi), and the Crown Prince, the future Emperor Sanjō (son of Reizei and Michinaga’s sister Chōshi).20 Michinaga then dedicated a set of eight scriptures in fifteen rolls that he had copied out himself in gold ink. These are listed in his inscription as including “one copy of the Lotus Sutra in eight rolls together with the Sutra of Innumerable Meanings and the Sutra of Meditation on the Bodhisattva Universal Virtue, and one copy each of the Essential Meaning of the Heart Sutra, the Amida Sutra, the three Miroku sutras, and the Heart Sutra.” He described these actions as “burying the relics of the dharma body … in anticipation of the dawn of Miroku’s age.” Michinaga worshiped both Amida and Miroku, stating that “the Amida Sutra promises that one who calls on Amida on one’s death bed will be reborn in his Gokuraku Pure Land [and] the Miroku sutras allow one to avoid an inauspicious rebirth and to be received at Jison’s advent.” Michinaga asked to be reborn in Amida’s Pure Land but only until Miroku’s advent: “When Jison becomes a Buddha, may I journey from the Gokuraku realm to the place of Miroku Buddha, listen to his lectures on the Lotus Sutra, and attain Buddhahood.” Michinaga prayed that at that future time his “buried sutras would spontaneously well up out of the earth” and be used by Miroku in his inaugural sermons (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 6b–7a). The multiple motives for Michinaga’s burial exceed even the explicitly stated soteriological equivalent of having one’s cake and eating it too. The glory and preservation of Michinaga’s lineage relied on his daughter’s production of an 19 Midō Kampakuki, Kankō 4 (1007) 5/17. Although Michinaga’s dedicatory vow, inscribed on the exterior surface of the sutra tube, refers to one hundred days of purification, the standard period lasted around seventy. Ritual preparations for pilgrimages to Kinpusen could last for twenty-one, fifty, or one hundred days. Michinaga began the rites on the seventeenth day of the fifth intercalary month and ended them on the first day of the eighth month. Michinaga’s dedicatory vow is reproduced in Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 6b–8a, no. 10, and Takeuchi 1947–1968, 89–90, no. 86. 20 Midō Kampakuki, Kankō 4/8/2-11.

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imperial heir. By the year 1007 Shōshi had been Ichijō’s consort for eight years but had yet to conceive a child. If Shōshi were to produce a son he would become Crown Prince and Michinaga would become grandfather to an emperor. The gods of Kinpusen’s fertility shrines were worshiped as child-granting and childprotecting deities and the deity of Kinpusen to whom Michinaga addressed his prayers also assured the prosperity of descendants. Early sutra burial donors such as Michinaga and those that followed for close to two centuries expressed a wide range of desires. They prayed for the salvation of the Dharma, themselves, and their family members. Michinaga dedicated the merit from some of his pious exertions on Kinpusen to his brother-in-law Reizei, his son-in-law Ichijō, his daughter Shōshi, and his nephew the Crown Prince. Thus, although the sites, scriptures, and dedicatory inscriptions indicate an anxiety over the death of the Dharma, the death of the individual received an equal if not greater degree of attention. Fujiwara no Moromichi (1062–1099), for example, the great-grandson of Michinaga, followed his forebear’s practice of burying sutras on Kinpusen. In 1088 Moromichi dedicated a large number of memorial transcriptions to an equally large number of family members.21 In the colophon of his gold ink copy of the Lotus Sutra, Moromichi, who at the time was suffering from earache, reveals some of his motivations: In copying this sutra during the period of ritual purification for my pilgrimage to Kinpusen, I pray for the purification of my inner ear, one of the Six Roots, and thinking of the importance of the daughters of this house, hope that the merit of [copying] the One Vehicle of the Lotus will provide them with the karmic bond to be present at the three sermons beneath the Dragon Flower Tree. (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 20b, no. 30)

Another dedicatory inscription included in the sutra mound speaks also to a concern with the future glory of Miroku and of Moromichi’s lineage as well. The final section begins with this statement from Moromichi: I have copied out the Three-fold Lotus Sutra, the Heart Sutra, and the Diamond Life Span Sutra by hand in gold letters and buried them at Kinpusen in a bronze vessel in order to advance the noble teachings of the One Vehicle of Shaka and to establish the karmic bond to be present at Jison’s three assemblies. With faith that these offerings will surely enjoy the longevity of metal and stone, I present them to the mountain god with reverence for his miraculous powers, and to the fertility deities of the Thirty Eight Sites.

Yet it concludes with a prayer “for those born into this hereditary house to quickly rise to the Third Rank, for the past karma of its deceased fathers and grandfathers, 21 Go-Nijō Moromichi ki, Kanji 2 (1088) 7/1. This was the first of two sutra burials on Kimpusen. Moromichi again journeyed there two years later in 1090.

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and for the prosperity of its descendants” (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 19b–20a, no. 29). To these ends Moromichi offered one copy of the Diamond Life Span Sutra for the reigning sovereign Horikawa and his consort; one copy each of the Benevolent Kings Sutra for the longevity and prosperity of his brother-in-law the retired sovereign Shirakawa, his sister Fujiwara no Kenshi, and their four sons; ten copies of the Lotus Sutra, five copies of the Benevolent Kings Sutra, and one hundred rolls of the Diamond Life Span Sutra for the longevity and prosperity of his father Fujiwara no Morozane; five copies of the Lotus Sutra, five copies of the Benevolent Kings Sutra, and one hundred rolls of the Diamond Life Span Sutra for the health and longevity of his mother Fujiwara no Reiko; three copies of the Benevolent Kings Sutra and one hundred rolls of the Diamond Life Span Sutra for his son Fujiwara no Tadazane; and for his wife Fujiwara no Hiroko, one roll each of the Kannon Sutra, the Essential Meaning of the Heart Sutra, the Heart Sutra, the Diamond Life Span Sutra, the Sutra of the Eight Secret Dhāranīs and the Sutra of the Eight Spells of Heaven and Earth together with five copies each of the Lotus Sutra, the Benevolent Kings Sutra, and the Diamond Life Span Sutra. These offerings were all in addition to his personal gold ink transcriptions of Lotus Sutra, the Heart Sutra, and the Diamond Life Span Sutra. The disproportionate range of sutras that Moromichi dedicated to his wife suggests that the principal reason for this sutra burial was, like that of his grandfather Michinaga, to pray for the birth of descendants. Hiroko had given birth to one son, Tadazane, in 1078 and another consort had produced a second son two years later. But Moromichi was still without a daughter to marry into the imperial line, which was essential to the Fujiwara strategy for maintaining their political power. Moromichi explained as much in his prayer: “I am a young man in the prime of my life and yet I have not been blessed with many children. This I bemoan. My prayer is that I might have another” (Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 1976, 19a). The motivations for sutra burials were, like their contents and locations, so various that no single explanation can be meaningfully applied to all. The stated intentions of the donors exceeded a concern with the salvation of the Dharma to include the salvation of oneself and of one’s family members both living and dead. This range of religious desire is reflected in the scriptures chosen and the goals to which they were directed: rebirth in Miroku’s Tosotsu heaven or Amida’s Gokuraku Pure Land. Gokuraku rebirth was seen not as a means of final escape but as an intermediary stage in a larger eschatological plan: a place for the fortunate to wait before returning to earth to attend Miroku’s sermons ushering in the next age. Other donors who asked for rebirth in the Tosotsu heaven understood their goal also as a temporary station from whence to descend with Miroku in the far distant future. There remains, however, a fundamental tension between these two motives; a difference in the way they approach history. The preservationist aspect of sutra burial, saving the Dharma in its material forms for the Future Buddha, represents an act of historical responsibility, an investment in the future. The

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advent of Miroku’s golden age cannot be accelerated; its eventual appearance after a long period of decline can only be prepared for. The other intention of sutra burials, saving oneself and one’s family through immediate future rebirth in either Amida’s or Miroku’s paradise, follows a different model entirely. Although retaining a this-worldly emphasis (the petitioner would continue to amass spiritual capital to assure his future reward) its goal has become “severely dehistoricized.”22 Buddhism’s cosmological timetable, the grand historical model to which the Final Dharma belongs, is circumvented. The Pure Land path of personal salvation with its eschatology of the immanent seems to obviate the need for institutional preservation. This divergence is born out in the sutra burials themselves. A preoccupation with preserving the sutras throughout the age of the Final Dharma in anticipation of Miroku’s advent was largely limited to the eleventh and twelfth centuries (Kurata 1961, 150). Later sutra burials rarely mention Miroku’s age and are more directly related to the fate of the individual after death. As their ritual function changed from preservation to memorialization, devotion to Amida came to replace the cult of Miroku. In Japan, as in China, Miroku’s paradise cult was absorbed and superseded by that of Amida, and the transformation of sutra burials may have been part of this larger religious shift (Kitagawa 1987, 246). Rather than the Miroku iconography of early examples, later burials exhibit far more pronounced Amida imagery. The engraved mirrors and hanging bas-reliefs that often accompanied the sutras were decorated with scenes of Amida descending to welcome the dying into his Pure Land, rather than portraits of the Future Buddha. Yet, as we have seen, sutra burials from their earliest examples were concerned with the postmortem salvation of both the religion and the religionist. The Pure Land faith was not limited to a single temporal orientation. Concern with a future rebirth, nostalgia for a past golden age, and visions of a paradise in the present world were in no way mutually exclusive. Such multiple intentions may explain the combined presence of the Miroku and Amida cults as well as the ambiguous place of the age of the Final Dharma in the sutra burials. For, although presented, both implicitly and explicitly, as the ostensible reason for the practice, the discourse of the Final Dharma appears on closer examination to have functioned more as a rhetorical center around which other personal, familial, and political anxieties converged. If the practice of sutra burial reveals anything about the role of eschatology in early medieval Japan it is the range of concerns that are contained within this discourse. As an umbrella term, the Final Dharma is able to embrace a variety of religious desires while at the same time charging them with a heightened sense of historical urgency.

22 Nattier 1988 has analyzed these two models as the “here/later” and the “there/ later”.

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Conclusion In the age of the Final Dharma, history and salvation presented a formidable set of interrelated problems. To many monks and aristocrats of the period the practice of sutra burial provided a solution of sorts. It offered the ritual strategies and material means whereby the end-time could be prepared for and paradise secured. For historians of Japanese Buddhism, however, the evidence of sutra mounds can address another set of problems and provide another kind of buried treasure. Sutra burials, like so many time capsules, offer materials for a geography of religious aspiration. They identify the desires, the individuals, the cults, and – perhaps most significantly – the sites central to Japanese Buddhist practice. As such they may offer a map to a new sort of history, a spatial history that might begin to explore the vast and less charted landscape of the Japanese religious imagination. For scholars of religion beyond Japan, the history of sutra burials offers other lessons as well. The practice reveals that the meanings of sacred texts are not limited to their narrative content. Although the particular sutras selected were certainly relevant to the aspirations of those who buried them, the texts themselves did not bear the communicative or pedagogical function usually attributed to scripture. Great care and expense went into the production of these texts: carved in stone, clay, bronze, and copper; inscribed on precious indigo-dyed paper, costly silk, or in ink mixed with one’s own blood; enshrined in reliquaries of figured gilt bronze and imported Chinese porcelain. Yet the texts were never to be recited, studied, or taught, or at least not for 5.6 billion years. The value of their production and use lay in their media as much as in their message: what mattered most were the time, place, and materiality of their deployment. They were created expressly to be hidden from sight, buried so as to outlast time and overcome death. These were not aged or exhausted scriptures in need of disposal but rather newly created ones buried in order to extend their life into a future age of renewal and renovation. They represent an example of how the power of sacred texts lies not only in their words and ideas but in their materiality and instrumentality as well. Bibliography Printed Primary Sources Eigaku yōki. In Gunsho ruijū. 1959–1960. vol. 16. Tokyo: Zoku Gunsho Ruijū Kankōkai. Fusō ryakki. 1999. In Shintei zōho kokushi taikei. vol. 12. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Genkō shakusho. 1930. In Kokushi taikei, vol. 31. Tokyo: Kokushi taikei kankokai. Go-Nijō Moromichi ki. 1952. In Dai Nihon kokiroku. vol. 7. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten.

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Midō Kampakuki. 1952. Fujiwara no Michinaga. In Dai Nihon kokiroku, vol. 1. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Ojōyōshū. 1991. Genshin. In Genten Nihon bukkyō no shisō, vol. 4. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Sanbōe. 1997. Minamoto Tamenori. In Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei, vol. 31. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Seki Hideo (ed.). 1985. Kyōzuka ibun. Tokyo: Tōkyōdō. Shigematsu Akihisa (ed). 1986. Hachiman Usagū Gotakusenshū. Tokyo: Gendai Shinchōsha. Shugendō sōsho. 1985 (1916). In Nihon daizōkyō. 3 vols. Tokyo: Meichō Shuppan. Takeuchi Rizō (ed.). 1947–1968. Heian ibun, vol. 12, Kinseki ibun. Tokyo: Tōkyōdō. Secondary Sources Chappell, David. 1980. “Early Forebodings of the Death of Buddhism.” In Numen vol. 27, no. 1, pp. 122–154. Chijiwa Minoru. 1987. “Hachiman shinkō to kyōzuka no hassei – mappō shisō kōchō no yuin zokkō.” In Tadashi Saito (ed.), Funbo to kyōzuka. Nihon kōkogaku ronshū 6. pp. 426–445. Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Fushimi Inari Taisha Shamusho. 1966. Inarisan kyōzuka. Kyoto: Fushimi Inari Taisha Shamusho. Goodwin, Janet. 1977. “The Worship of Miroku in Japan.” PhD dissertation. University of California, Berkeley. Gotō Shuichi. 1937. Nihon rekishi kōkogaku. Tokyo: Shikai Shobō. Grapard, Allan G. 1986. “Lotus in the Mountain, Mountain in the Lotus: Rokugō Kaizan Nimmon Daibosatsu Hongi.” In Monumenta Nipponica, vol. 41, no 1, pp. 21–50. Guth, Christine M.E. 1988. “The Pensive Priest of Chūgūji: Maitreya Cult and Image in Seventh Century Japan.” In Sponberg, Alan and Hardacre, Helen (eds), Maitreya, The Future Buddha. pp. 191–213. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hiraoka Jōkai. 1958–1960. Nihon miroku jōdo shisō tenkai shi no kenkyū. In Tōdajii sōsho shōnin no kenkyū narabi ni shiryō (3 vols.). Tokyo: Nihon Gakujitsu Shinkōkai. Hosaka Saburō. 1957. “Sotoba to kyōzuka.” In Kōkogaku zasshi, vol. 41, no. 4, pp. 57–75. Hosaka Saburō. 1971. Kuramadera kyōzuka ibutsu. Tokyo: Chūō Kōron Bijutsu Shuppan. Hurvitz, Leon (trans.). 1976. Scripture of the Lotus Blossom of the Fine Dharma. New York: Columbia University Press. Ishida Mosaku. 1929. Kyōzuka. Kōkogaku kōza. Tokyo: Yūzankaku Shuppan.

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Kamens, Edward. 1988. The Three Jewels: A Study and Translation of Minamoto Tamenori’s Sanbōe. Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies, University of Michigan. Kawada Sadamu. 1987. “Decorative Art.” In Kurata Bunsaku and Tamura Yoshirō (eds), Art of the Lotus Sutra. pp. 160–170. Tokyo: Kōsei. Kidder, J. Edward. 1972. Early Buddhist Japan. New York: Preager. Kitagawa, Joseph. 1987. “The Career of Maitreya, with Special Reference to Japan.” In Kitagawa, Joseph, On Understanding Japanese Religion. pp. 233– 249. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kurata Osamu. 1936–1937. “Maikyō.” In Bukkyō kōkogaku kōza, vol. 1. pp. 237– 326. Tokyo: Yūzankaku Shuppan. Kurata Osamu. 1961. Kyōzuka no shomondai. Nihon kōkogaku taisei 4. Lamotte, Etienne. 1988. History of Indian Buddhism (trans. Sara Webb-Boin). Louvain: Université Catholic de Louvain, Institut Orientaliste. Marra, Michele. 1988. “The Development of Mappō Thought in Japan (I).” In Japanese Journal of Religious Studies, vol. 15, no. 1, pp. 25–53. Miyake Hitoshi. 1988. Ōmine shugendō no kenkyū. Tokyo: Kōsei Shuppansha. Miyake Toshiyuki. 1958. “Kyōzuka zōei ni tsuite – Fujiwara Kanezane no maikyō o chūshin to shite.” In Shigaku zasshi, vol. 67, no.12, pp. 36–50. Miyake Toshiyuki. 1983. Kyōzuka ronkō. Tokyo: Yūzankaku Shuppan. Miyake Toshiyuki. 1987. “Sutra Mounds.” In Kurata Bunsaku and Tamura Yoshirō (eds), Art of the Lotus Sutra. pp. 171–174. Tokyo: Kōsei. Naniwada Toru. 1977. Kuramadera kyōzuka ihō oboegaki. Kyoto: Kurama Kyōkō Sōhonzan Kuramadera Shuppanbu. Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan (ed.). 1976. Kyōzuka ihō. Nara: Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan. Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan (ed.). 2000. Kyūshū chihō ni maikyō sareta yakimono. Nara: Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan. Nattier, Jan. 1988. “The Meanings of the Maitreya Myth, A Typological Analysis.” In Sponberg Alan and Hardacre, Helen (eds), Maitreya, The Future Buddha. pp. 23–47. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nattier, Jan. 1991. Once Upon a Future Time: Studies in a Buddhist Prophecy of Decline. Berkeley: Asian Humanities Press. Oda Fujio. 1970. “Kyūshū no kyōzuka.” In Bukkyō geijutsu, vol. 76, pp. 133– 144. Ōita Kenritsu Usa Fudoki no Oka Minzoku Shiryōkan (ed.). 1986. Hachiman daibosatsu no sekai. Usa: Ōita Kenritsu Usa Fudoki no Oka Minzoku Shiryōkan. Ruppert, Brian. 2000. Jewel in the Ashes. Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center. Schopen, Gregory. 1975. “The Phrase ‘sa prthivipradesas caityabhūto bhavet’ in the Vajracchedikā: Notes on the Cult of the Book in Mahāyāna.” In IndoIranian Journal, vol. 17, pp. 147–181.

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Seki Hideo. 1990. Kyōzuka to sonno ibutsu. Nihon no bijutsu 9, no. 292, pp. 1– 198. Seki Hideo. 1999. Heian jidai no maikyō to shakyō. Tokyo: Tōkyōdō. Sekine Daisen. 1968. Mainōkyō no kenkyū. Tokyo: Ryūbunkan. Taira Masayuki. 1992. “Mappō matsudaikan no rekishiteki igi.” In Nihon chūsei no shakai to bukkyō. pp. 110–154. Tokyo: Hanawa shobō. Tanabe, Willa J. 1988. Paintings of the Lotus Sutra. New York: Weatherhill. Yajima Kyōsuke. 1936–1937. Kyōzuka, Bukkyō kōkogaku kōza, vol. 10. Tokyo: Yūzankaku Shuppan.

Chapter 5

Rites of Burial and Immersion: Hindu Ritual Practices on Disposing of Sacred Texts in Vrindavan Måns Broo

The aim of this essay is to examine ways in which Hindus dispose of worn-out or damaged copies of sacred texts. Since Hinduism is an ocean of widely differing beliefs and practices, which has induced some scholars to avoid the term as a label for the multiple Hindu traditions (Flood 2003, 1–17), the chapter will focus on one case of practices among Caitanya Vaiṣṇavas in the north Indian pilgrimage town of Vrindavan (also spelled Vṛndāvana, Brindavan or Vrindaban). As the Caitanya Vaiṣṇavas of Vrindavan take great pride in their orthopraxy (Case 2000), the material presented below could be applicable to Sanskritic Hinduism in general. Hinduism and the Question of Sacred Books Among the world religions, Hinduism has perhaps the largest and most multifaceted collection of sacred texts, stretching from the hoary hymns of the Rgveda (1200 bce) to the reformist teachings of the Mahānirvāna Tantra from the eighteenth century. But what constitutes a sacred text in Hinduism? Generally, Westerners conceive sacred texts as scriptures, that is, as books or “holy writs,” but such a notion is not at all self-evident in Hinduism. This is particularly so with regard to the Veda, the most ancient and venerable of the Hindu sacred texts. An oftquoted passage of the late Vedic Aitareya Āranyaka (5.5.3) states that “a pupil should not recite the Veda after he has eaten meat, seen blood or a dead body, had intercourse or engaged in writing.” Placing writing on a par with such extremely polluting activities as eating meat or having intercourse makes it apparent that the idea of writing down the sacred word was not consistent with the worldview of the Vedic Indians. The Mahābhārata (13.24.70) is even more explicit when it states that those who sell, corrupt, or write the Vedas will go to hell. Statements like this prompted Frits Staal to write that “strictly speaking, there are no books in Hinduism” (Staal 1979, 123).  For a discussion of the term Sanskritic Hinduism, see, for example, Lipner 1998 and Pollock 2006.

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In practical terms, such prohibitions mean that the Vedas were orally transmitted from father to son or teacher to pupil, following complicated mnemonic devices to ensure that the text remained unchanged from generation to generation (Graham 1987, 72). As Philip Lutgendorf has pointed out, the Vedas were not only considered too sacred to be written down, they were also too powerful to be made publicly available. Only members of three so-called “twice-born” varnas or social classes were allowed to hear or recite the Veda (Lutgendorf 1994, 56). Such an extremely negative view of writing may seem irrational to Westerners, who are accustomed with the notion that words are not complete or fixed unless they are put down on paper. Different hypotheses have been suggested for this Vedic antipathy to writing. According to Staal, the art of writing was not known among the composers of the Veda (1500–700 bce), but arrived later in around 600 bce, perhaps from the Middle East, and was thus considered alien and suspect (Staal 1979, 121). Maurice Winternitz purported that the main reason for the ban on writing down the Veda was to safeguard the “lucrative monopoly” of the Brahmins (Winternitz 1927, 35). An oral tradition does not always mean a public tradition; rather, as in the case of the Vedas, the ban on their writing can be seen as an effective way of controlling their availability. However, such a “profit theory” of orality may not be the most fruitful way to understand its emphasis. Orality has its own intrinsic values. As Cheever Mackenzie Brown points out, bookish learning lacks a living teacher, a person who can explain difficulties, reveal esoteric meanings and – of even more importance in the Vedic instance – impart the correct way of pronouncing the sacred texts (Mackenzie Brown 1986, 72–73). The form or sound (śabda) of the Veda is much more important than its meaning (artha), and the sound is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to learn by silent reading. The Brahmins’ task of learning the Veda by heart is thus less the study of its meaning than that of preserving its sound for posterity. If the form is correct, the words will have the right effect and one may also find out the meaning; if the form is lacking, the Vedic recitation is deemed not only useless, but positively harmful (Kane 1997, 347). A second reason for the emphasis on orality lies in the way in which the Veda was viewed – not as a book, but as a body of “knowledge.” As Harold G. Coward and K. Kunjunni Raja explain: It is not the dead and entombed manuscript but the correct and clear enunciation of the word in the here and now that makes for a living language and scripture. Large numbers of “The Living Bible” stacked in bookstores or reverently placed on personal bookshelves are not true language or living scripture … Only when a passage is so well learned that it is with one wherever one goes is the word really known. In such a state the words become part of or, even more exactly, are one’s consciousness in the act of speaking. Books and all written forms are not knowledge in this sense of the word; rather they represent a lower, inferior, second order of language suitable only for the dull or the uneducated. (Coward & Raja 1990, 37)

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A popular Sanskrit proverb articulates a similar thought: “As for the knowledge that is in books, it is like money placed in another’s hand: When the time has come to use it, there is no knowledge, no money” (quoted in Graham 1987, 74). In contrast with the reason mentioned above, this reference does not completely rule out written texts; they may be of some use as learning tools, but when the text is internalized, the physical book loses its function. The Vedas are only one part of the Hindu holy texts. One traditional way of making sense of the Hindu canon is to divide it into śruti and smrti. The former term śruti, literally meaning “heard,” is often used as a synonym for “Veda,” and refers to the four parts of the four Vedas (the samhitās, brāhmanas, āranyakas, and upanisads of Ṛg-, Yajur-, Sāma-, and Atharvaveda), texts which are all considered a direct revelation of the divine word. According to most systems of Indian philosophy, the śruti texts are considered eternal and without an author (apauruseya). One criterion for being an orthodox Hindu is to accept the authority of the śruti – an acceptance which in practice means very little, considering the extent of this canon and the various ways in which it can be interpreted (Broo 2006; Hiriyanna 1956, 135–150). Even more voluminous than the śruti is the second category of scripture, the smrti or remembered texts. These texts are believed to be authored by named persons under divine inspiration and are (at least in theory) dependent on the Veda. Smrti includes the epics (Mahābhārata and Rāmāyaṇa), the purānas, the law books and the tantras. Unlike the śruti, these texts are available to all classes of men and women. The art of writing was not unknown in ancient India. The inhabitants of the enigmatic Indus Valley civilization (2600–1900 bce) appear to have had some kind of a script, although this script has not yet been convincingly deciphered (for what is perhaps the most widely accepted attempt, see Parpola 2005), nor proved to have been a real script at all (Farmer, Sprout & Witzel 2004). However that may be, the art of writing was known by the upaniṣadic sages (Olivelle 1998, 541), and by at least the end of the third century bce, Brahmins in “the heartland of India” were literate (Hiltebeitel 2005, 91). There is an ongoing scholarly debate about whether the epic Mahābhārata has an oral or written origin (see Brockington 2000 and Hiltebeitel 2002 for opposite views), but from at least the time of the purānas (c. 300–1500 ce) Hinduism is in full possession of written sacred texts. It is, therefore, of little surprise that it is in the purānas that the idea of a sacred book is developed (Mackenzie Brown, 1986). Referring to another purāna, the Agni Purāna (272.6–7) states: “Whoever writes out a copy of the Bhāgavata, places it on a golden throne and presents it to a worthy recipient [on an auspicious day] will attain the supreme destination.” Even the person who provides the cords for binding the leaves, the leaves themselves and the cloth for wrapping the manuscript attains heaven (Agni Purāna, 383.69–70). From being reprehensible in the Vedic tradition, the act of writing down holy text is now deemed greatly meritorious.

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According to Mackenzie Brown, this shift in the attitude to writing is generally more concerned with a change from the emphasis on the form (śabda) to that of meaning (artha). The development of “the cult of the book” may perhaps be linked to devotional bhakti cults in which the Brahminical authority was reinterpreted or questioned and the religious worship of images became widespread (Mackenzie Brown 1986, 78). Other reasons may also be found. Max Müller had already noted that the Buddhist tradition lacks the Vedic antipathy towards writing (Müller 1968, 476). Moreover, with the evolution of Mahāyāna traditions, Buddhism received a full-fledged book cult, and not only the copying and presentation of sacred books were enjoined, but also their ritualistic worship with items such as flowers and incense. According to the Buddhist scholar Gregory Schopen, this cult arose from antagonism towards the cult of the Buddha’s relics and facilitated the founding of new and permanent centers of cultic activity (quoted in Mackenzie Brown 1986, 79–80). Engaging with Sacred Books Whatever the reasons for the shift from orally transmitted texts to written books, the fact is that modern Hinduism acknowledges the concept of a sacred book. A sacred book is treated with reverence and esteem. Devotees are forbidden to touch the book before ritually cleansing themselves, will never place it on the ground, touch it with their feet, or pollute it by licking their fingers before turning its pages. But what makes the book holy? Mackenzie Brown suggests that the sacred book is a physical form of the deity. When a god is thought to manifest his divine self on earth through the agency of the temple image, the image itself also becomes holy (Mackenzie Brown 1986, 81–82). Similarly, the body of a saint is generally considered holy not because of its physical particularities, but because of its being a vessel for the saint’s true self (ātman). Thus, when the sacred sound manifests itself in the physical form of a printed book it is no longer considered an ordinary book. In fact, such a book may even be seen as more important than the deity himself. As the Bhāgavata Purāna (1.3.43) says, “Now that Kṛṣṇa has returned to his own abode along with dharma and wisdom, this Bhāgavata-sun has arisen, to guide those blinded by the darkness of the Kali age.” Here, the idea seems to be that while God may or may not be present, the sacred book always remains accessible to the devotee. However, when one studies Hindus interacting with sacred texts, one will quickly notice that these texts are still predominantly oral documents. The kind of silent, private study that Westerners generally associate with the word “reading” is far from what many Hindus see as reading in a religious context. The reading of holy texts within Hinduism is still very much an oral, public exercise. This can be illustrated by the following example, a reading from the Bhāgavata Purāna that I witnessed at the Bhajan Ᾱśram, a Caitanya Vaiṣṇava temple in South Kolkata, in February 2002 (Broo 2003, 216–217).

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The reading was conducted by a Brahmin Goswami from Vrindavan. The Goswami sat on a raised seat towards one side of the temple room of the ashram, with the sacred book wrapped in a colorful cloth on a table in front of him. Beside the book was a pot with a small tulasī-plant (occimum sanctum), a small brass water cup with a spoon, a brass plate with a small bell, three sticks of incense, a few marigold flowers, tulasī-leaves, and sandalwood paste in a small cup. After some introductory chanting of religious songs (kīrtana), the Goswami cleaned his hands and mouth with the water cup and the spoon, carefully removed the book from its cloth, worshipped it with the flowers and incense, and pasted a few tulasī leaves on the inner cover of the book with the help of the sandalwood paste. He then bowed his head towards the book. Next, he recited some introductory, benedictory prayers by heart, after which he started reading aloud from the sacred book itself. In general, he read the Bengali translation of the text, in which the book had been printed, but when he came across verses he found to be particularly important, he read them in Sanskrit as well. He never read more than two or three verses in a row, but interspaced his readings with lively commentary, often breaking into song. After continuing with great energy for more than two hours, he ended with more congregational singing, thanked the hosts and carefully replaced the book within its protective wrapping. While the gathering described above may, at first glance, seem very much centered around the book, the main focus of the proceedings was actually the reader, in this case the Goswami. The perception that the texts are only living when being internalized and performed is one of the reasons for a continued and alive oral transmission of religious texts in modern Hindu traditions. As we shall see, this perception affects the way in which Hindus treat their holy books. The rituals afforded to the sacred book are by no means unique, but the same that could be given to a visiting saint or the image of a god. Just as images of gods only truly come alive in the context of their ritual worship (Davis 1999), sacred books seem to derive at least as much sacrality from their use as from their contents. This can also be seen from the lack of special rituals at the birth of a sacred book. In ancient times, such texts were assiduously copied by hand, while today they are mass-produced on printing presses. In neither case does the creation of the material form of the text differ in general from that of any other book. Nag Publishers, for example, one of the main publishers of Sanskrit editions of the purānas, publish poetry and Indological literature beside their directly religious material, and print their books at a regular printing house. The sacred books are priced and sold just like any other literature. In what follows, I will examine two different ways which Caitanya Vaiṣṇavas in Vrindavan consider appropriate for disposing of worn-out, damaged or otherwise ritually non-usable sacred texts. The case study will illustrate the analogy between the ritual disposal of sacred texts and death practices for deceased humans.

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Burials of Deceased Humans and Sacred Texts Caitanya Vaiṣṇavism is a tradition (sampradāya) of devotional Hinduism focused on the worship of Kṛṣṇa. It stems from the Bengali mystic and religious reformer Śrī Kṛṣṇa Caitanya (1486–1533), and can be found primarily in Bangladesh and the Indian states of West Bengal and Orissa. Because of its Bengali origin, this tradition is also known as Gauḍīya or Bengali Vaiṣṇavism. Śrī Caitanya left next to no written legacy himself, but the so-called Six Gosvāmins, predominantly Bengali ascetics who migrated to Vrindavan on the order of their master, compensated for this by creating a voluminous corpus of erudite Sanskrit texts. These texts eventually came to form the unifying canon of all of Caitanya Vaiṣṇavism. Since their time, Vrindavan has been an important center for this tradition. Vrindavan is a small town of approximately 60,000 inhabitants, located around 15 kilometers north of Mathura in the north Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. Mathura is one of the oldest cities in India, with a recorded history stretching back to the fourth century bce, alternately a stronghold of Hinduism, Jainism, or Buddhism. Because of its association with the Kṛṣṇa legend, the Vrindavan area became a center of Vaiṣṇava Hinduism in the sixteenth century, and is now one of the major places of pilgrimage in northern India, full of temples and āśramas (Corcoran, 1995, Entwistle, 1987 & Haberman, 1994). As is well-known, the general custom within Hinduism is to cremate deceased humans and then commit the ashes into a holy river, lake or the ocean. However, there are exceptions. Quoting various Smṛtis and Purāṇas, P.V. Kane lists aborted foetuses, still-born children, very young children and ascetics (sannyāsins) as persons that were not to be cremated but buried or immersed into a sacred river or sacred spot in the ocean (Kane 1991, 227–228). Out of these two options, let us here look at that of burial. The rituals quoted by Kane for the burial of a sannyāsin include digging a pit, as deep as his ascetic’s staff, to the north or east of the village under a palāśa tree, on a river bank or on some other pure spot, sprinkling water into the pit and spreading darbha grass on the bottom, decking the dead body with garlands and sandalwood paste, depositing the body into the pit with Vedic mantras and placing the sannyāsin’s paraphernalia in the pit together with other mantras. According to some authorities, the crown of the head should be pierced with a conch or an axe, and the pit finally filled with sand or salt (Kane 1991, 229– 230). Quoting the Brhad-parāśara Smrti, Pandey adds that a mound should be raised above the buried body, to protect it from carnivorous animals (Pandey 1998, 271).

 For a general introduction on Caitanya Vaiṣṇavism, see, for example, De 1986 and Eidlitz 1968.

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Within Caitanya Vaiṣṇavism, the Samskāra-dipikā, attributed to Gopāla Bhaṭṭa Gosvāmin, contains a short passage on the rites for a sannyāsin that has passed away. It merely affirms that a mantra is to be written on his body and then states: the body may be placed in sacred water or in a hole in the earth, which should be one step larger than the height of the person. If the body has been burnt, the ashes or bones should be taken to a holy place and there placed in earth. (Gosvāmī 1999, 334)

In modern cases, the body of a deceased sannyāsin is washed, dressed in new clothing, decorated with sectarian markings (tilakas), sandalwood paste and flower garlands, and placed in a sitting posture at the bottom of a pit approximately three meters deep. A final worship ceremony (pūjā) is then offered to the body, after which it is covered with several sackfuls of salt. Finally, the pit is filled in with earth and a small mound constructed above it, marking the spot where a tomb or monument (samādhi) will later be built. But why is the sannyāsin buried rather than cremated? Kane opines that it is because part of the procedure of becoming an ascetic consisted of giving up the sacred fires. Since the sacred fires were used for cremation, this lack of fire meant that he could not be cremated (Kane 1991, 231). Jonathan Parry writes that the reason for burial is that ascetics perform their own mortuary rites at the time of initiation (Parry 1994, 184). However, since hardly anyone nowadays keeps up the Vedic sacred fires and few ascetics undergo elaborate initiatory rites, the explanation of Pandey seems the most appropriate to the modern age: The funeral of the Parivrājakas, retired ascetics and mendicants, forms another class by itself. They are persons, who have given up all worldly attachments and have realized the Brahman or the Universal Soul. Their goal in life is not the attainment of the Pitṛloka [abode of the ancestors] nor of the Svarga [temporary heaven], but the acquirement of Brahmaloka or salvation. Therefore, both socially and religiously, they are above the ordinary householders. Hence, their last sacraments must be different from that of those who are after worldly pursuits and heavenly pleasures. … The Sannyāsins are not cremated, because being purified by the fire of spiritual knowledge and merged in Brahman, they do not require material fire to sanctify their body and convey the soul to the next world. (Pandey 1998, 271–272)

In other words, the reason that the funeral rituals of ascetics and saints differ from those of ordinary people is that saints transcend the need for either the ordinary religious rituals or the purifying fire associated with the standard rites of cremation. In fact, cremation is sometimes prohibited for such people (Pandey 1998, 271), since the presumption that their bodies require purifying by fire is considered positively disrespectful. Besides, the bodies of holy people are not

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considered dead in the ordinary sense. The saints continue to be present within or in the vicinity of their bodies, in mysterious ways (Swami 1993). Graves or funeral monuments for the ashes are previously described in the late Vedic Śatapatha Brāhmana and Kātyāyana Śrauta Sūtra (see Kane 1991, 246– 255). They may be seen as a development of the earthen mound over the grave mentioned above, but the kind of burial monuments that one finds in Hinduism today are probably influenced by Buddhist stūpas. These graves or monuments are often known as samādhis. The word samādhi generally refers to the deep meditation – or “enstacy”, to use Eliade’s (1969) classic term – of a living yoga practitioner. These burial monuments have the same name, since the departed saint is thought to have attained eternal samādhi of union with divinity. Within Caitanya Vaiṣṇavism, not all samādhis contain the buried body of the person commemorated, but may instead hold some ashes from his cremated body, flowers worn on his dying body or simply his name (Swami 1993, 20–22). Since “full body” samādhis are often considered to require formal, daily worship, most Caitanya Vaiṣṇava ascetics today are not buried but cremated, after which their ashes are placed in a simple samādhi. Sacred books have been compared to the body of saints, and that comparison is relevant here as well. Throwing out the pure book among impure garbage would be most disrespectful, as would book burning. If the cremation was performed with rituals, it would imply that the sacred text required purification by fire, and if no rituals were carried out, it would suggest that the holy book could be burnt like old newspapers. Like the bodies of saints, such books should instead be buried or immersed in water. The custom of burying a sacred text can be exemplified by the “book tomb” at Vrindavan. The imposing sixteenth-century red sandstone temple of Madana-Mohana stands on top of the Dvādaśāditya Hill by the old bank of the River Yamuna in north-west Vrindavan. On the south-west side of the hill is an enclosed area, shaded by large trees and overrun with throngs of mischievous monkeys. This is the samādhi area of the Madana-Mohana Temple, which holds the monument of Sanātana Gosvāmin (c. 1488–1558) and perhaps the oldest of all Caitanya Vaiṣṇava samādhis in Vrindavan. Smaller shrines of lesser luminaries are found, around his samādhi, usually containing only a token relic of the saint in question or simply their name. However, there is one other structure of note in this area: the Grantha Samādhi or the “book tomb.” The Grantha Samādhi stands in the south-west corner of the samādhi area, near the boundary wall but at an adequate distance for devotees to include it within their route of respectful circumambulation. The tomb is a simple, unadorned, octangular brick structure, plastered and white-washed and approximately two meters in height and one-and-a-half meters in breadth (see Figure 5.1). At a little over half of its height, the octangular shape planes off into a similarly octangular pyramid, with a lotus and a miniature spire on top. The only other decoration of the tomb is a barely noticeable marble plaque simply stating “Grantha Samādhi” in Bengali letters. The monument is kept in tolerably good condition and given a new layer of paint every few years.

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Figure 5.1

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The Grantha Samādhi in Vrindavan. Author’s photograph

There are two legends about this strange tomb. As the first story goes, Rūpa, Sanātana and Jīva Gosvāmin, three of the famed “Six Gosvāmins of Vrindavan” (see, for example, Kapoor 1995a; Rosen 1991a) wrote several books that they eventually deemed too esoteric or “high” for general readership, and chose to inter the secret texts in a stone or iron box at this place, rather than risking people misunderstanding them. This is a common story, often told to visitors to the Grantha Samādhi. As may be expected, rumors abound about the details of these texts. The other story is somewhat less mysterious and thought-provoking, though perhaps more credible. Eager to disseminate the theology of the Vrindavan School of Caitanya Vaiṣṇavism to Bengal, Jīva Gosvāmin sent his three students, Śrīnivāsa Ᾱcārya, Śyāmānanda, and Narottama, eastwards in or around the year 1600 with a box full of original Gosvāmins manuscripts. While the students traveled through the kingdom of Viṣṇupur in Bengal, these scriptures were stolen by the local king, Birhambir. Fortunately, copies of the originals had been made and these were sent to Bengal as replacements for the stolen manuscripts. However, when Śrīnivāsa Ᾱcārya later converted King Birhambir to Caitanya Vaiṣṇavism, he regained the manuscripts. Having no need for them in Bengal, Śrīnivāsa Ᾱcārya sent the  This story is retold in dramatic detail in Kapoor 1995a, 276–280, and Rosen 1991b, 36–48.

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manuscripts back to Jīva Gosvāmin in Vrindavan. Unable to properly care for these sacred, original texts, which perhaps had also been damaged, Jīva Gosvāmin had them entombed in the Grantha Samādhi (Swami 1993, 10). Irrespective of the historical truth of the legends explaining this book tomb, it represents one way of disposing of sacred books among the Hindus of Vrindavan. In the same way as the remains of a saintly person could be enshrined and given samādhi, holy books have been buried here. Devotees who circumambulate and bow down to the monuments of buried saints perform similar acts at the Grantha Samādhi. However, while the samādhis of the Gosvāmins themselves are afforded formal, daily worship, no grand ceremonies are conducted at the Grantha Samādhi. A path winds through the Madana-Mohana samādhi area for devotees wishing to circumambulate all the tombs. Most visitors will follow the path, paying their obeisance at the beginning and stopping only at the samādhi of Sanātana Gosvāmin. At the other tombs, visitors generally do not stop to read the inscription or perform any special devotions. All are seemingly taken care of by one bow and circumambulation. Being larger and more conspicuous than the others, some devotees will touch the Grantha Samādhi with their fingers or their heads, but that is generally the only act of veneration this monument receives from individual devotees. Despite its mysteries, the book tomb at the MadanaMohana Temple does not attract any special religious attention among Hindus in modern Vrindavan, but yet can be considered as one of its kind. Through the ages, countless religious texts have been buried in the sands of the town, however by a more simple performance: people dig a hole and place the book inside, wrapped in a cloth, and cover it up. As far as I know, no monuments have been raised above any of these texts. Water Immersion of Deceased Humans and Sacred Texts Another option for disposing of sacred texts is to immerse them in water, and again one can draw attention to the analogy between death practices for deceased humans and rituals for worn-out religious texts. Pandey (1998) gives five different reasons for why people are immersed rather than cremated. The first is convenience and is doubtless a reason for disposing of poor people in this way (a practice noted already by Abbé Dubois 1906, 499). No priest, costly firewood or ceremonies are needed; one simply puts the corpse into the river and lets the stream take it away, or more commonly, weights it with stones so that it will sink to the bottom. The second reason is the fear of ghosts: for example, a murderer may throw his victim into a river, since water is considered a barrier against evil spirits. The third is the lack of relatives, as cremation requires the presence of a son. The fourth reason is innocence – small children and saints do not require purification, and can therefore just as well be lowered into a river or the ocean as be cremated. The final reason is health: in the case of epidemics, the bodies of those killed by disease are thrown into the water (Pandey 1998, 239). To these reasons Parry adds that other persons

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whose “bad death” disqualifies them from cremation, such as suicides and victims of violence or sudden accidents (Parry 1994, 184–187). However, in this last case, the standard rituals of cremation are performed later on with an effigy. In Vrindavan, books are consigned to the River Yamuna for water burials. The Yamuna is the main tributary of the Ganges. It originates at the Yamunotri glacier high up in the Himalayas, and winds its way through the land of Vrindavan from the north-west to the south-east, finally merging with the Ganges further downstream at Allahabad. Today, the Yamuna is a heavily polluted river, but for many Hindus it is still holy. For followers of Vallabhācārya (1479–1531), the founder of the Puṣṭi Mārga School of Vaiṣṇavism, the devotee finds his way to Kṛṣṇa only by the way pointed out by the River Yamuna. As in the case of giving deceased humans a water-burial, the ritual of placing a worn-out text into the Yamuna is very simple. The devotee may bow down before the Yamuna, recite prayers to the holy river (such as the famous Yamunāstaka by Vallabhācārya) and ask the river to receive the particular book into her bosom, but more probably the book will simply be placed solemnly into the stream. If the body of a book or a deceased human is deposited in a stream of water, it will sink down to the bottom or be carried away downstream. That does not mean that the body will disappear. Countless tourists boating on the Ganges at Varanasi have been horrified by the gruesome sight of a bloated, decomposing body floating past them on the river. The process of dissolution may not be quite that shocking with regards to a book, but it can still be messy. In the case of cheaply bound or glued books, the water will dissolve the binding first, and the loose leaves will soon end up on the muddy banks of the river. Following the river downstream from Keśī Ghāṭ, a popular place for riverside rituals in the north of Vrindavan, I have seen countless pages of cheap editions of Tulsidāsa’s Rāmcharitmānas, perhaps the most popular holy text of northern India (see Lutgendorf 1994), the Bhagavadgītā, and other books lying on the riverbanks, soiled and bleached by mud, water and the sun. Jonathan Parry mentions an exceptional type of water burial. If a person dies of snake-bite, the body is not weighted down, but placed on a small raft. The idea here is that the heat of the snake’s poison will thus be “cooled” by the water so that the victim may revive and be saved from drowning by the raft (Parry 1994, 185). Since holy books that are interred are also generally not weighted down, some may similarly be revived. O.B.L. Kapoor tells the following story of Haridāsa Dāsa, an early twentieth-century Caitanya Vaiṣṇava savant who dedicated his life to finding and publishing old manuscripts: [Haridāsa Dāsa] tried his best to find Sanātana Gosvami’s Śrī Krsna-līlā-stava, but could not. Then there was no end to his grief. He lost his sleep and cried day and night. One day while he sat on the bank of Yamunā, weeping and crying, “Ha! Prabhu Sanātana! Ha! Prabhu Sanātana!”, he saw a bundle of something 

For an introduction to Vallabha’s teaching, see Narain 2004.

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flowing in the river near the bank. Out of curiosity he ran and picked it up. On opening the bundle he saw in the midst of many other papers a very old copy of Śrī Krsna-līlā-stava. He was overwhelmed with joy. He touched it with his forehead and hugged it again and again with tears streaming out of his eyes and tremor and horripilation appearing all over his body. Later he translated and published it. (Kapoor 1995b, 389–390)

According to Parry, the ritual immersion of bodies or items in a sacred river can be seen either as sacralizing or as de-sacralizing them. The examples he gives of the second function include the immersion of temporary festival images of a deity and sacred books which have begun to disintegrate. By immersion, these ritually charged items are returned to a more ritually neutral state (Parry 1994, 188). This explains why pages of holy books scattered on the riverbanks are not perceived as a ritual offense or problem. Similarly, one may see, in Varanasi and other places, people piling up decaying trunks of temporary images on the riverbanks and eventually removing them to unknown locations. They may not be ordinary rubbish, but most of their sacrality has, as it were, been washed off. Conclusion In the two cases studied above, we have seen that sacred books are afforded death rituals similar to those given to holy or innocent people: that is, burial in the earth or immersion in water. The book considered sacred is not cremated, since it does not stand in need of either conventional religious ceremonies or purification. Similarly, just as the birth of holy people in no way differs from that of ordinary people, so the creation of holy books does not differ from that of ordinary books. We have also seen differences. With the single exception of the Grantha Samādhi, buried books are not given any monuments, but simply interred and forgotten. In the case of the Grantha Samādhi, the manuscripts buried there derive more sanctity from their writers than from their particular content. While Caitanya Vaiṣṇavas do have a hierarchy of sacred texts, the manuscripts awarded the highest respect are those written by saints within the tradition. I have never seen Caitanya Vaiṣṇavas offer eatables to the Bhāgavata Purāna, as they will to images of Kṛṣṇa or a deceased master. Neither do they, like the Sikhs, for example, provide the book a regular ministration (Myrvold 2007). There are some books that are revered more than others, such as a copy of the Krsna-prema-taraṅginī at the Pāṭbāḍī temple in Barahanagar (Dāsa 1987, 1983), but their holiness stems from the saintly person who wrote the particular manuscript in question, not from the text itself, and they are treated as other relics rather than specifically as books.

 With the Bhāgavata Purāna occupying the highest position, see, for example, Kapoor 1994, 72–75.

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There may of course be different reasons for this apparent lack of respect for the sacred book, but I think the following two are the most important. Firstly, despite the fact that Hindu sacred texts today are embodied in revered sacred books, the scriptural tradition of Hinduism is still predominantly oral. The text truly comes to life only through the person reading it aloud, and personal, oral instruction is always considered more important than learning from books. This means that, though books are important, they can never rival the importance of the living teacher (guru), something that also pertains to the respect offered to them. Secondly, when a saint dies, he or she is not reborn but attains liberation (or in the case of Caitanya Vaiṣṇavism, the eternal service of Rādhā and Kṛṣṇa in their supramundane abode). However, in some way the saint simultaneously remains within his or her spiritualized body, blessing devotees who come to offer their respect at the samādhi. Scriptures, on the other hand, are reborn, as it were, through the agency of the copyist or the printing press, and are widely available for the respect and study of the faithful, even after the destruction of one particular copy. This removes the need for a burial monument, that is, a focal point of their remembrance. If we accept the first story of the Grantha Samādhi, this would explain its exclusive status: the texts entombed there are unique and never copied, so that devotees cannot offer them their respect at any other place. The immersion of books in a river also parallels the immersion of temporary images of gods. The image is sacred and thus cannot be simply thrown away, yet it needs no monument, since the particular god that it embodied has not died, but will rather be embodied in a fresh image in the due course of time. After immersion, the image or the book loses most of its sanctity, and the remains can eventually be picked up from the riverbank and cleared away. Therefore, it seems more prudent, even in the case of the smrti texts, to see the oral form of the text as the embodiment of divinity rather than the physical book. The book is indeed revered, but not differently to most other items held sacred. Caitanya Vaiṣṇavas dispose of offered flowers, broken prayer beads (japa-mālas), damaged temple images and worship paraphernalia in exactly the same ways as they do worn-out books. These religious items all share the qualities of purity and sanctity that demand special treatment even when they are being disposed of, but they lack the uniqueness that would justify the creation of a memorial monument. To say that there are no books in Hinduism is thus a gross exaggeration, but not completely false. The text is only truly alive in its oral form for which there is neither physical birth nor death.

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Parpola, Asko. 2005. Study of the Indus Script. 50th ICES Tokyo Session. Available at http://www.harappa.com/script/indusscript.pdf. Parry, Jonathan P. 1994. Death in Banaras. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pollock, Sheldon. 2006. The Language of the Gods in the World of Men: Sanskrit, Culture, and Power in Premodern India. Berkeley: University of California Press. Rosen, Steven. 1991a. The Six Goswamis of Vrindavan (revised edition). New York: Folk Books. Rosen, Steven. 1991b. The Lives of the Vaishnava Saints. Shrinivas Acharya, Narottam Das Thakur, Shyamananda Pandit. New York: Folk Books. Staal, Frits. 1979. “The Concept of Scripture in the Indian Tradition.” In Juergensmeyer, Mark and Barrier, N. (eds), Sikh Studies: Comparative Perspectives on a Changing Tradition. pp. 101–135. Berkeley: Graduate Theological Union. Swami, Mahanidhi. 1993. Gaudiya Vaisnava Samadhis in Vrindavana. New Delhi: [publisher not mentioned]. Wintermitz, Maurice. 1927. A History of Indian Literature. Vol I. Calcutta: Calcutta University Press.

Chapter 6

Is a Manuscript an Object or a Living Being?: Jain Views on the Life and Use of Sacred Texts Nalini Balbir

The original transmission of the Jain doctrine, which goes back to the word of the Jinas or Tīrthaṃkaras, especially Mahāvīra who preached in Magadha (Eastern India, modern Bihar) in the fifth century bce and was thus a contemporary of the Buddha, was primarily oral. Mahāvīra is said to have delivered his message live to a group of disciples who were in direct contact with him. The tradition (paramparā) was a chain of human beings who carried the teaching from one generation to the next. Mendicants, both monks and nuns (sādhus and sādhvīs), are the main carriers of the teaching, but it could not have survived without the material support of the lay community (men and women, or śrāvakas and śrāvikās) to which it is also imparted in various ways. On the other hand, Jainism, which still survives today in India, is probably one of the most important “manuscript cultures” of the subcontinent. In the course of time (see below), writing and reproduction by copying became vital to the survival of the teaching. The global word of the Jinas was distributed in a large variety of different works which came to be organized into various categories. Jain literature is therefore an exceptionally vast field. Historical beginnings of Jainism were difficult and were progressively marked by group separations. The main division between the Śvetāmbaras, whose mendicants wear white monastic robes, and the Digambaras, whose monks are nude, must have occurred in the first centuries of the Common Era. It was a fact in the fifth century ce, the time when the religious meeting of Valabhī (Gujarat) was held and the Śvetāmbara scriptures were put into writing. Drawing on both Śvetāmbara and Digambara sources, this essay will try to define the patterns of Jain behaviors towards manuscripts and the discussions which they have produced in history. What stands out in Jain discourses is the importance attached to preserving and respecting the material form of the text as represented in the manuscripts (or, in modern times, the printed books). This respect is justified by the fact that the manuscript is a container of the teaching and a material support of the teachers’ voice. It is manifested in special cases through worship and celebration. Discordant voices or practices showing that the tradition is manifold will also be heard. The greatest part of available information comes from the medieval texts (twelfth century onwards) and from pre-modern authors

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(sixteenth century) who reflect either on practices contemporary to them or on the earlier history of their tradition. What we know of early Jainism is mostly what is mirrored in sources of much later dates. The Trauma of Loss, the Manuscript as a Safeguard The religious teachers representing the medieval Śvetāmbara perspective are well aware that their teaching, what they call “the Jinas’ word” (Jinavacana), has suffered considerable loss due to a turbulent history and events which have led to migrations, separations of groups, and so on. This is the reality referred to by the expression “bad times” (duhsamākāla) which they use in this context. Under these circumstances writing and manuscripts were considered to be guarantees that whatever remained could be preserved. Nāgārjuna and Skandilācārya are the two religious teachers who are seen as responsible for having recorded the teaching in written form. The history of this scribal event, which is supposed to have happened in Valabhī (Gujarat) in the fifth century ce, is adduced as an argument for encouraging the respect of books: “Therefore the person who has respect for the Jain teaching should get it copied in manuscripts and worship (them) with cloth and other things” (Hemacandra 1977, 571). At the same time, the tradition is fully conscious that a manuscript is something fragile, subject to decay. A passage found in the Mahāniśīthasūtra, a book which belongs on the edge of the Śvetāmbara canon, narrates how the leaves of its palm leaf manuscript were eaten by white ants so that the mutilated text had to be restored. Accidental destruction of manuscripts is, indeed, frequent in India, where the proliferation of insects is favoured by the dampness of the climate. The Digambaras, too, have comparable views on the history of their scriptural tradition. They ascribe the origin of the Satkhandāgama, a lengthy book which they consider as containing essentials of their tradition, to a similar process: It is based on the oral teaching of a monk called Dharasena (approximately midsecond century ce) who, in alarm at the gradual dwindling away of scriptural knowledge, summoned two other monks, Puṣpadanta and Bhūtabali, to the Cave of the Moon, his retreat on Mount Girnār in Gujarat, and communicated what he remembered out of the originally vast extent of the sacred writings which they were afterwards to turn into the [Satkhandāgama]. (Dundas 2002, 63–64)



But the term connotes more than that, as it is also a technical word referring to a descending cycle in the Jain understanding of time.  Berckwitz 2009, 39, and Hartmann 2009, 97, recall similar well-known ideas from the Buddhist tradition.  A very similar statement is found in Ratnaśekharasūri’s Śrāddhavidhiprakarana, section 6 (1960, 42a).

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Thus the Jain accounts, whether they come from Śvetāmbara or Digambara backgrounds, show a tension between the superiority of oral teaching going back to living teachers and the desire to preserve this teaching for a long time which requires putting the teaching to writing. The written document is seen both as a pis aller and a guarantee that, to some extent, no more is going to be lost. The Concept of Disrespect and Respect to Manuscripts The concept of disrespect in the Jain context is expressed by the Sanskrit word āśātanā (āsāyanā in Prakrit) which is used as a technical term. It is built on śātana “causing to decay” and śāta “sharpened, made thin, attenuated” (Sanskrit), which are based on the causative form of a root meaning “to fall.” In classical Sanskrit, however, the word does not seem to be attested with the preverb ā-. At the stage of the Śvetāmbara canonical texts, āśātanā refers to thirty-three occasions for lack of respect shown by a junior monk to an older one in the context of performing the vandanaka ritual, that is, the salutations as a manifestation of homage. They imply impolite and derogatory behaviors such as laughing, yawning and so on, in front of the teacher. But this category has found new applications and has been subject to elaborate developments in the medieval literature meant for the codification of the Jain layman’s way of life. In Ratnaśekharasūri’s work Śrāddhavidhiprakarana of the fourteenth century, for instance, which can be taken as a reliable source, the āśātanās relate to areas which are classified as “knowledge” (jñāna), “deity” (deva), “religious teacher” (guru), and “substitute teachers” (sthāpanācārya). The manuscript, both as an object and as a symbol embodying the teaching, is implied in some of these prohibitions, three levels of which are distinguished: inferior, medium, and high. Letting a drop of spittle fall on a manuscript is the lightest mark of disrespect toward knowledge, whereas dropping a book on the ground or touching a book with one’s foot are among the medium ones. Wiping the characters on manuscripts with spittle, and sitting or lying on a manuscript are the most serious offences. Such warnings are echoed in various ways in modern times. Books sold at the Jain Ashram of Agas (Gujarat), a sacred place connected with the twentieth-century thinker Śrīmad Rājacandra, contain stickers which instruct the potential readers on what they should avoid doing while reading these religious books. English books contain the following recommendations: “Jain religion forbids reading religious literature/books whilst: wearing shoes, keeping on the floor, by ladies during menstruation cycle.” The vernacular books (Hindi 

There are however discussions on the exact form of the root to which these words are connected (śad-, śī-, or śat-).  Williams 1963, 228–229, following Ratnaśekharasūri, Śrāddhavidhiprakarana (section 1, 155–156): pustaka … japamālāder vadanottha-nisthīvana-lava-sparśah … pustakādeh pramādāt pādādisparśah bhūmi-pātanam … nisthyūtena pattikāder aksaramarjanam, upary upaveśana-śayanādih.

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or Gujarati) use the traditional formula: “Please do not show disrespect to this book in any of the following ways: do not put any mark on it, do not tear it and do not put it low on the ground.” The significance of such instructions lies in the fact that the book is not regarded as an ordinary object but as the container for the sacred word and therefore should remain pure. More generally, a frequent scribal maxim appearing at the end of manuscripts, which is not specific to Jain manuscripts, personifies the manuscript and makes it speak so: “`May he [the reader] protect (me) from oil/from water, may he protect me from the ground, may he protect me from being loosely bound. I should not be given in the hand of a fool (variant: in another’s hand)’, so the manuscript speaks.” Such statements clearly tend to suppress the distinction between the source of the teaching (the teacher as a person or as a Jina) and the material support of the teaching, the manuscript. Such conceptions explain that the same list of āśātanās can be applied to both irrespectively and can be extended also to the wooden tripod (sthāpanācārya) on which the manuscript or the book is placed while teaching and which is regarded as a “substitute-teacher” in the literal meaning of the word. The traditional temple libraries organized by the Jains since the medieval period in the areas where they were active are positive manifestations of this prescriptive frame which recommends that the manuscripts should be taken care of. In his above-mentioned treatise, Ratnaśekharasūri takes note of illustrious examples, which the Jains like to quote, referring to the enormous expenditure made by the minister Vastupāla (in twelfth-century Rajasthan) and by another person who established so-called “knowledge-treasures” (jñānakośa or the more usual synonym jñānabhandāra) or places for storing manuscripts (Ratnaśekharasūri 1960, section 6, 42a). Indeed, several of these libraries were in temple basements for increased protection, especially from the fear of destruction by Muslims in medieval Western India, to the extent that they remained inaccessible and their contents were unknown until around the end of the nineteenth century. A kind of traditional library science was developed by the Jains which reflects their interest and concern for the preservation of manuscripts. Such are the normative prescriptions and the ideals that should be followed. But practice can be another matter. Jains are not above manuscript destruction out of carelessness or for financial interest, as we know from Western scholars who toured western India at the end of the nineteenth century in search of material. Georg Bühler (1837–98), one of those who played an important role in increasing the manuscript collections of European libraries, writes: After I had been working for some years in Gujarāt, I found that the number of MSS. offered for sale, especially those of the Jainas, was so large that it was Krpayā is pustak kī kisī prakār se āśātanā na karem. jalād rakset sthalāt rakset rakset śithila-bandhanāt mūrkha-haste na dātavyā evam vadati pustikā. There are slight variants to this rather common statement; for example, Kapadia 1938.  

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impossible to purchase with the funds at my disposal more than a small fraction of them. Moreover, it seemed to me that the acquisition of the majority of them for Government was undesirable, because they contained over and over again the same works which had already been purchased. Knowing that unsalable MSS. in Gujarāt usually find their way into the hands of Borah paper-manufacturers and are destroyed, I informed several friends in Europe and India of the facts and asked them to use the opportunity to add to the stock of MSS. in other libraries. (Bühler 1888, quoted in Caillat 1999, 21–22. Italics mine)

Thus, although Jain codes of conduct prescribe that the manuscripts are objects in need of preservation, and though the existence of well-organized Jain libraries shows that these norms are put into practice, there is also counterevidence which suggests that manuscripts are sometimes viewed as merely perishable objects that can be destroyed if they are considered to be superfluous, as it is the case with duplicates. A positive, yet contradictory, effect of the existence of a specific category dealing with disrespect to the book is the development of ceremonial manifestations of respect. Both the Digambaras and the Śvetāmbaras have ritualized the respectful behavior towards manuscripts in the form of a special day devoted to the formal worship of the book, which is called Jñānapañcamī or Śrutapañcamī, that is, “Knowledge Fifth.” Whereas jñāna is a general word for “knowledge” in Sanskrit, śruta more specifically refers to the variety known as “scriptural knowledge,” which is the one directly connected with manuscripts and books. In the Śrāddhavidhiprakarana, Ratnaśekharasūri considers these festival days of manuscript worship on a par with pilgrimage or other pious activities which should be undertaken by the good layman: Simply worshiping the scriptural knowledge, which is deposited in manuscripts, with camphor and other things on all occasions is easy. But it is appropriate that the layman perform a special worship with good cloth and other material every month on the fifth day of the bright fortnight. In case this is not possible the worship should be done at least once every year.

As a matter of fact, the annual date when this celebration should be performed is the fifth day of the bright fortnight of the month of Kārttika (October–November). It coincides with the end of the Divali festival and is also recognized as a day for restarting commercial activity. Like most of the celebrations it is connected with special stories (vratakathās) that are known at least from the tenth century (in Prakrit or Sanskrit) and are still narrated on that day in their original languages Ratnaśekharasūri 1960, section 5, 25b–26a: śrutajñānasya pustakādisthasya karpūrādinā pūjā-mātram sarvadāpi sukaram. praśasta-vastrādibhir viśesa-pūjā tu pratimāsam śukla-pañcamyām śrāvakasya kartum yujyate. tathāpy aśaktau jaghanyato ‘pi sā prati-varsam ekaika-vāram kāryā. 

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or in vernacular renderings. The worship is performed in places connected with learning, such as schools, libraries, and monastic complexes. Cort describes a performance in Patan: At each location a table was set up with a tiered display of religious books. Standing before the display, people first recited some verses to jñān [“knowledge”]. Then they put some money on a platter containing vāskep [a mixture of scented powder which is sprinkled for blessing or worship] and sprinkled some more vāskep onto the books. (Cort 2001, 164)

Sprinkling of a sacred substance on the books on this special occasion is a manifestation of worship. Although all religious texts can be subject to celebration, there are special cases which attract more attention, as the next section will show. Ornamentation and Worship of Manuscripts: The Example of the Kalpasūtra Among the Śvetāmbara Jains, the text Kalpasūtra is a good instance of how the material form of a specific text is endowed with a ritual function and perceived as a sacred object. In some aspects the ways in which the book is treated, as object for ornamentation and veneration, can be compared to the book-cult surrounding the Asta sāhasrikāprajñāpāramitā in Buddhist contexts.10 Because of its contents the Kalpasūtra, which is part of the so-called Jain canon and is written in Ardhamāgadhī Prakrit, can be seen as embodying all that is central to the Jain identity in the eyes of the followers. Its first part (Jinacaritra) gives essentials on the founders by narrating the life of the twenty-fourth Jina Mahāvīra at length and the lives of Pārśva, Nemi, and Ṛṣabha in lesser detail, as well as supplying concise information about the remaining twenty Jinas. The second part of the Kalpasūtra (Sthavirāvalī) gives Jainism its spiritual genealogy by unfolding the succession of its early teachers. The third part (Sāmācārī) is a detailed exposition of rules which have to be observed by mendicants during the rainy season, a time of the year when Jains should pay special attention to the concept of ahimsā and not injure any life-form. There are several manifestations of the treatment of the Kalpasūtra as a ritual object. For instance, most, though by no means all, of the paper manuscripts of the text, available since around the fourteenth century onwards in Western India (modern Gujarat and Rajasthan), appear remarkable when compared to the great majority of manuscripts of other texts (see Figure 6.1). The materials used are one noticeable feature. In several cases golden or silver ink is made use of instead of  See Chojnacki 2001 and Cort 2001, 174, for the traditional narrative connected with the celebration of Śrutapañcamī. 10 See Emmerich 2009, 141 ff., for the “elaborate cult centred on the public reading of the text” and for the fact that manuscripts of this work may be inscribed in golden letters.

Figure 6.1 Folio from the Kalpasūtra/Kālakakathā manuscript, British Library I.O. San. 3177 (dated 1427 courtesy of the British Library

ce).

Reproduced by

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the normal black ink. In preference to the usual white or cream plain paper, the manuscripts consist of papers painted in different colors which also can alternate in one and the same manuscript: one folio having a red background, the next one a black background, and so on. Written in Devanāgarī script, these manuscripts are the only available instances in Jain milieus of a more calligraphic kind of script, one characterized by square angles and of a size larger than usual. Another manifestation of the special role ascribed to the copying of a Kalpasūtra manuscript is the frequent presence of detailed colophons in which all the parties involved in the production of the manuscript are named and details of the production process are given. In their most complete form these colophons include the following information: the date when the manuscript was completed by the scribe; the name and religious genealogy of the mendicant who is the spiritual teacher of a given family and the source of inspiration for getting the manuscript produced; and the name of the main lay person who acts as the financial sponsor along with this person’s genealogy. When the Jains enrich the manuscript with miniature paintings, use painted paper, and write the text in silver or gold lettering, the process is likely to involve considerable expense (although precise details are lacking) and cannot be fulfilled unless several family members share the cost. Although detailed colophons are by no means typical only of Kalpasūtra manuscripts, they are much more frequent in these manuscripts than in copies of other texts. There is no doubt that the utmost care is given to all their material aspects in order to impart a special solemnity to their production. What is unique to the Kalpasūtra manuscripts in comparison to other Jain texts is the combination of paintings, calligraphic script, and highest-quality paper and ink. For instance, the manuscripts of the Uttarādhyayanasūtra, a very important Śvetāmbara canonical work, are among those texts which are often illustrated with miniature paintings but not written in calligraphic Devanāgarī. The tradition of having ornamented texts continues today in the form of printed editions of the Kalpasūtra, which are published almost every year. The ornamentation in these modern copies either uses the traditional painting style of manuscripts or the same vivid colors that are very familiar to worshippers and spectators of Hindu religious images and icons. Numerous ornamented manuscripts of the Kalpasūtra are found in the Jain libraries in India and some remarkable copies are also preserved in the libraries of the West. Their abundance is not simply an expression of imagination and creativity. The Jain manuals of conduct meant for the layman, which developed as a specific literary genre culminating in the medieval period (twelfth century onwards), provide a theoretical frame and encouragement for such practice among the lay community. In the Yogaśāstra, a classic manual of conduct, the polymath Jain monk Hemacandra from Gujarat (twelfth century) coins a new category of codes known as “seven fields” (saptaksetrī), which recommends that a pious layman should “sow” his wealth. Paying for Jain images (Jinabimba) and Jain temples (Jinabhavana) are the first two normative conducts of the list, while the third is called Jināgama and refers to the Jain teaching and manuscripts (pustaka) which

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preserve the teaching. The prescription by Hemacandra is, however, brief as he states that the layman’s task is “to give copied manuscripts respectfully to learned mendicants for their preaching and to listen daily with worship to them when they preach.”11 In a section of the Śrāddhavidhiprakarana devoted to the topic “copying and reading of manuscripts,” the fourteenth-century Ratnaśekharasūri is obviously inspired by his predecessor whose wording he repeats, but interestingly expands his statements in what is clearly a specific reference to Kalpasūtra manuscripts: Getting copied manuscripts relating to the lives of the Jinas such as the Kalpasūtra through money earned dutifully, with special leaves and special perfect letters and getting them read by learned and advanced monks every day on the occasion of the beginning or the progression of festivals and getting these monks preach after having honoured (them) with full respect must be prescribed in order to awaken various people who qualify for that. Secondarily also clothes and other things should be given as supportive gifts to those who read and recite these (texts).12

Both Hemacandra and Ratnaśekharasūri quote Sanskrit stanzas (one of them verbatim) underlining in general terms the rewards, which people conforming to such behavior could expect in this life or the life hereafter. It is probably significant that Ratnaśekharasūri refers to the Kalpasūtra manuscripts whereas Hemacandra does not. The production (and to some extent mass production) of such manuscripts seems to have been parallel to the increased use of paper instead of palm leaf, which occurred precisely in the interval separating these two authors. It remains to be investigated how the practice of calligraphy and painting was influenced by similar tendencies in Islamic traditions, especially with regard to ornamented copies of the Qur’an, which the Jains in medieval Gujarat probably could not ignore. Modes of Ritual Display and Uses One of the reasons for the privileged situation of the Kalpasūtra among contemporary Jains is that both handwritten and printed editions of this text are more than objects intended for mere reading or private use. They are meant for 11 Hemacandra 1977, 572 (on III 119): likhitānām ca pustakānām samvignagītārthebhyo bahumāna-pūrvakam vyākhyānārtham dānam, vyākhyāyamānānām ca pratidinam pūjāpūrvakam śravanam ceti. 12 Ratnaśekharasūri 1960, section 6, 41b: pustakānām śrīKalpādy-āgamaJinacaritrādi-satkānām nyāyārjita-vittena viśista-patra-viśista-viśuddhāksarādi-yuktyā lekhanam tathā vācanam samvignagītārthebhyah prodha-prārambhādy-utsavaih pratyaham pūjādi-bahumāna-pūrvakam vyākhyāpanam aneka-bhavya-pratibodha-hetur vidheyam. upalaksanatvāt tad-vācana-bhananādi-krtām vastrādibhir upastambha-pradānam ca.

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public display and celebration in the context of a collective festival that is central in the Jain calendar, the Paryushan, which marks the climax of the four months of the rainy season. As several ethnographers have reported, and I myself witnessed in Ahmedabad in 1979, it may happen that a copy of the Kalpasūtra is taken out in a procession, although it is not a compulsory component of the ceremony. Laidlaw gives the following vivid description of what he observed at Jaipur in Rajasthan: On the evening of the second day a Prakrit text of the Kalpa Sūtra is taken in procession (julus) from each temple to the home or office of one of the wealthy lay families. The whole community is invited to see it garlanded and anointed, and long into the night the crowd holds a vigil (ratri jagaran), with enthusiastic singing of devotional songs led by a group of professional musicians. A young girl gives an occasional display of rather folksy classical dancing. Next morning the sūtra is taken in another procession to an upashraya, and formally presented to the renouncers. (Laidlaw 1995, 276)

Additional elements from another description based on fieldwork in Patan (Gujarat) are details which underline the solemn treatment of the book/manuscript: it is carried “by a young girl dressed in pure clothes in a tray atop her head, while water from the morning pūjā at the temple is sprinkled before her to purify the ground” (Cort 2001, 151; 1992, 175ff; see also Folkert 1993, 190). On the other hand, the manuscript is taken to the house of people who have gained the right or privilege to have it at their home after having won an auction that is usual among the Mūrtipūjak Śvetāmbaras who practice temple worship. Once the manuscript or the printed edition of the Kalpasūtra has reached the temple, it is placed on the wooden tripod (sthāpanācārya). The text will be in the center of public attention during several successive days and made present either by readings or recitations “by heart” and by providing the textual base for ex tempore narrative elaborations, which often go beyond the content of the old text and draw on legends in other sources relating the lives of the Jina. Of the eight days which constitute the festival Paryushan, the final one is the most important: the Prakrit text is read loud at a rapid pace by one or two monks in turn, and painted folios of handwritten or printed editions are shown to the audience who generally gathers in large numbers on this day. Hence the Kalpasūtra is an instance of “scripture as spectacle” (Dundas 2002, 65) and an object of collective worship. Inscriptions of Jain texts on temple walls or temples dedicated to the Jain scriptures (Āgamamandira), which cover several walls in succession, are yet another example of the worship of text as materiality in a process where the meaning of the words is not the main focus. In several temples the texts are inscribed so high that they cannot be meant for readings by individuals of ordinary human size. However, observations conducted on the spot show that devotees perform a simple type of worship (pūjā) addressed to the text much as they would worship a Jina image by applying sandalwood paste or various sacred powders (Balbir 2011; briefly Cort 1992, 182–183). Even if these temples are very limited

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in number, their existence exemplifies a form of respect towards the scriptures in their material form. In contrast to the public display of Jain texts, restricted access and concealing of manuscripts – the very opposite of display – may equally reflect a special type of behavior toward texts. Such is the case with the manuscript Satkhandāgama preserved at Moodbidri in Karnatak. For several centuries it was kept only to be viewed by selected individuals and venerated. In this case, the auspicious sight (darśan) of the manuscript was both a form of worship and a way to restrict access to the material manifestation of the text. It was forbidden to touch it and to read it. Eventually the text was copied into modern script and published in printed form in different historical stages (Dundas 2002, 64–65). Nowadays, the manuscript is usually kept in the private room of the head of the monastery and enshrined in a large display case. This example shows again how materiality and spirituality are closely connected in the Jain tradition and influence people’s behaviors towards religious manuscripts. The material form of manuscripts is treated as ritual objects invested with sacrality. More generally speaking, those who want to access and study the many Jain manuscripts preserved in temple libraries may face difficulties because of this concept. In the eyes of many followers, a manuscript is considered to be a sacred object which cannot be put into the hands of just anybody, and preservation of its sacred nature becomes the most prevalent concern. Modern technologies, such as photocopying, photography, and the Internet, raise new challenges related to the material form and the content of Jain texts, as well as questions about public accessibility and worship of texts. Should the old manuscripts be preserved and worshipped as they are, or should they be made accessible in a strategy to make Jain teaching and values known to a global world? Among contemporary Jain religious teachers, who represent the moral authority for followers, one can find advocates of various and opposing views. Is a Manuscript an Object or a Living Being? The question about veneration and worship of manuscripts has historically been a point of contention in some sectarian Jain debates. An example is provided by the “eighty-four points of contention” (cauryāmsī bol), which is a work in Rajasthani, known from a unique manuscript and written by a Digambara whose aim is to pinpoint certain views of the Śvetāmbaras on various topics that he finds untenable. The seventy-seventh point of contention addresses the issue of veneration to a book: (The Śvetāmbaras) hold the view that there is no such thing as veneration etc. towards scriptures (śāstras) as they are insentient (acetana jada) material objects. We refute this: If you call the scriptures insentient, you will have to call the images (pratimās) also insentient [and also that there is no need to respect

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The Death of Sacred Texts them]. You might say that images become worthy of worship because they have received the rites of consecration through the sacred chants (mantras). Our answer is that the scriptures are not really different from images. It is well known that in all [Jain] sects (mat) there is a description of showing proper veneration and so forth to the devas (i.e. the Jinas), the scriptures (śāstras), and the teachers (gurus, i.e. sādhus/sādhvīs) according to their status. Moreover veneration is an important part of the Jain religion, and showing of respect and so on and so forth to these (Jinas, etc.) helps to develop manifold qualities. You might ask, what precisely is gained by showing respect to the scriptures and so forth, since they are material objects? … To this we say the following: Scriptures do provide the conditions necessary for wholesome states of mind and the actions to be undertaken. This is because karma is not bound (with the soul) without the assistance of auspicious or inauspicious efficient causes (nimitta). We are all aware that such objects as the wish-fulfilling tree, … the fourteen kinds of gems, medicines and varieties of mantras and tantras, etc., do bring about to those persons who possess them, varieties of pleasures, wealth, good health and qualities conducive to happiness. They too yield their results according to their qualities when a person keeps them near to himself, propitiates them and uses them according to the proper rituals. All of these are insentient: so how is it that they yield results according to their qualities? We therefore conclude that the Jinas, the scriptures, the teachers and the images of the Jinas and so forth which are all the limbs of the Jain religion, are worthy of respect, devotion, worship and veneration as it befits each one of them.” (Trans. in Jaini 2008, 124–125)13

We cannot be certain whether the accusation against the Śvetāmbaras that scriptures should not be venerated, which provides the starting point, rests on sectarian bias from a Digambara’s side or refers to direct observations made by the author in his own time. Although other historical documents do not seem to support this type of accusation (instances given earlier in this chapter show that Śvetāmbaras do venerate scriptures), the arguments presented by the Digambara author are nevertheless interesting in themselves as they reveal an idea which has surfaced in the discussion above – that is, the parallel between a manuscript/ book and an image/icon. Both of them contain the same contradiction as they are material objects invested with some power and sacrality. In the Jain tradition, the manuscript and the image are not considered to be beings (a teacher, a god, or a Jina), although there is the old metaphor which views scriptural knowledge as a man (śruta-purusa), and the two main categories of texts as the “main parts” (anga) and “secondary parts” (upānga) of his body. The manuscript and the image represent the beings for which they stand. However, the boundary between what they are and what they represent is extremely thin 13 As noted by Jaini, the Digambara author of this text relies heavily on the seventeenthcentury Caurāsī Bol by Hemrāj Pāṇḍe (published in Jaini 2004), but book-worship is not addressed as a point of contention in this latter work.

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and sometimes justifies notions and acts which place the manuscript on a par with a person or deified being. On the other hand, the analogy between a manuscript/ book and a religious image/icon explains why some Jains who refuse the worship of images cannot admit the veneration of manuscripts. Loṅkā, a layman who lived in Gujarat sometime between 1415 and 1489, was a powerful advocate of this position. He rejected the practice of image-worship, because it implied violence and attachment to property, and was influential in the development of an aniconic Jain tradition. One of his pamphlets provides a list of fifty-four questions addressed to image-worshippers, and two of these questions (numbers thirteen and sixteen) relate to the issue at stake: “to cause the worship of religious books, whose tradition is that?” and “to give books during Paryushan, whose tradition is that?” (Flügel 2008, 236–237). No further explanation is adduced in this reference, but the motivations behind statements like these are likely to be grounded in notions that seek to perceive manuscripts and books as merely ordinary objects, devoid of sacrality. Manuscript Disposal and Destruction Although the previous discussion has shown that the Jains tend to view a manuscript as different from an ordinary material object and as an embodiment of the Jinas’ teaching, they do not extend this notion to actually treat manuscripts as persons or icons by, for instance, ritually installing them, dressing them in clothes, and offering incense. The Hindu environment, in which the Jains live, displays several examples of how images and icons that will no longer be used in worship are discharged of power and divine presence through immersion in the water, as for example during the Ganesh Caturthi festival. I have not been able to trace any information on similar practices within the Jain community, nor do I know of ritualized ways by which the Jains dispose of manuscripts by methods such as cremation, burial, and so on. Similarly, the Jain stūpas, such as the legendary one at Mathurā, did not enshrine manuscripts in the same way as the Buddhist equivalents. It seems that the Jains did not elaborate formal rules for the handling of manuscripts which had to be disposed of. A deliberate and ritualized destruction of manuscripts is thus not an inherent feature of the Jain tradition, neither is the idea that a text becomes outdated and has to be destroyed and replaced by a new copy. The Jain tradition is cumulative. The multiple changes that are made from one text to another are seldom radical (the opposite would imply an erasure of the past) and hence there is no intellectual reason for destroying a text and its manuscripts because they are considered obsolete. At the same time, one can question why only one or two manuscript copies of some important Jain works have been preserved. Were the manuscripts less frequently copied because they were unpopular and did not find an interested audience? Or were there deliberate attempts to suppress the reproduction of manuscripts? In most cases it is impossible to give a substantiated

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answer to these questions. When the rarity of manuscripts concerns a literary work, such as the extremely elaborate and refined Prakrit novel Kuvalayamālā written in 779 ce, the high level of the work and the lack of audience are likely to be plausible explanations. There are, however, clear instances of deliberate destruction of texts in the premodern period, and it appears that immersion of the pages in water is one of the preferred methods. A popular image shows the Jain merchant poet Banarāsidāsa (seventeenth century) sitting in a boat. The caption says: “As soon as he changed his look (on life) he drowned his work Navarasa in the river Gomatī.”14 In this case, the dramatic gesture of the author destroying his own work of his own accord symbolizes his decision to take a new direction. After having led a life of pleasures, he realizes its emptiness and turns to meditation and reflective introspection. In the next stage of his life the books he writes will not be about pleasure or love, but are religious compositions based on tradition and scriptures that deal with essentials of Jain thought, such as meditation, karma theory, illustrious figures of Jain mythology, and so on. The picture emphasizes the author’s radical change more clearly than the text of Banarāsidāsa’s autobiography (the Ardhakathānaka) and is in tune with the way Jain followers like to imagine this man’s spiritual progress. On the other hand, medieval or early modern Śvetāmbara Jain sources show that the manuscript played an increased role as a tool of reference in monastic learning, discussions, and arguments, especially in the context of sectarian rivalries. Granoff (1993) has given convincing examples from narratives elaborated among the Kharataragaccha, which is an important monastic order of Western India with prominent teachers and writers. In this tradition, the manuscript is considered as a valid proof, even the only legitimate proof, for an argument in a debate. Desire to have access to it or, conversely, to suppress it is attested in the lively accounts of these texts. For instance, making fun of a book because it was written in Prakrit, an arrogant individual “grabbed the book out of the hands of the man who was holding it and tore it right in two. He was out of control. There wasn’t a thing anyone could do to stop him” (Granoff 1993, 323). Later on, a second copy of the work is made and read by this person who now “grabbed the book and the more he read the greater was the delight that filled his heart.” Manuscripts become objects for contention between rival groups. In another story, monks of a given group withhold the manuscripts which they do not want to be read by a teacher belonging to a different group. In yet another, a monk tears out two pages of a text when it does not support his opinion and cheats by reading from another text (Granoff 1993, 319). Such attitudes became essential to some Śvetāmbara groups who came to consider that no statement could have any authority unless it was present explicitly in a text. In their discussions several learned monks even gave precise references (in the modern way) to a specific manuscript of a particular work. 14

This picture is reproduced in Petit 2008, 42.

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This led to vivid discussions where those “advocates of a bookish tradition” (pustakaparamparāvādins) were targeted. The main attacks were voiced by the Śvetāmbara monk Dharmasāgara (sixteenth century), a highly controversial personality who belonged to the Tapāgaccha but was expelled from his group as heretical (Dundas 2007, especially chapters 3 and 4). Materiality of the manuscript is again the starting point of the issue. Dharmasāgara resorts to a mode of analysis of concepts that is traditional to Jainism, namely by establishing a distinction between the physical or material aspect (dravya) of a given notion and its spiritual, mental or abstract aspect (bhāva). He applies it to “authoritative teaching” (siddhānta). From the external point of view, it is written in a manuscript (Dharmasāgara 1936, verse 43 yah punah pustake likhitah siddhāntah sa dravyata eva siddhāntah, and commentary, 13b). In his opinion, this is precisely where the problem lies because it means the teaching has a source which is human and therefore fallible, namely the scribe (lekhaka) (Dharmasāgara 1936, verse 64 and commentary, 20a; compare Dundas 2007, 99). Since the latter is mostly a “fool”, he relies completely on the document he uses for copying and does not read it with a critical eye. Dharmasāgara’s criticism is addressed to the literalists who trust the letters that form the text more than its real teaching or spirit. The passage intends to demonstrate that no teaching can be authoritative and properly transmitted without the guidance of a living teacher who has the faculty to discuss and question the words. It provides an interesting example of how voices emerged within the Jain tradition to oppose the prevalence of materiality which by some was considered to ruin the “true” teaching. In the Śvetāmbara Jain tradition there are instances of manuscripts having been partly or totally destroyed because they were disturbing to some. “The Light on the Major Entities” (Gurutattvapradīpa), also called “The Spade to Dig Up the Roots of the Deviant” (Utsūtrakandakuddāla), is a case in point (Dundas 2007, 106–116). According to the colophon (praśasti) of the printed edition, it underwent a troubled and confused history, during which it seems to have been suppressed and then “resurrected” by being copied quickly from an old palm leaf manuscript which belonged to a library and had to be returned. Further, it is probably not a coincidence that several Jain works with clear polemic intentions are frequently known by a unique manuscript: because of their contents the manuscripts were probably not favored by the religious authorities and had to remain more or less confidential. Finally, fate is also ironic. The same Dharmasāgara who fought against the supremacy of the manuscript, was the victim of censorship performed by his colleagues of the Tapāgaccha order who regarded him as a heretical thinker. Not only were his virulent works the target of attacks and responses, but an official proclamation was issued by the dominant Tapāgaccha hierarchy. Vijayadānasūri, the head of the order, “publicly consigned to water (Gujarati jalaśarana kīdhum) the work known as ‘The Spade to Dig Up the Roots of the Deviant’ and considered

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this work as being without any authority.”15 Immersion in water seems to be a preferred way for disposing of texts in Indian traditions, even considered more effective than, for example, destruction by fire (Aldis 1916). For those who practice water-burials, the method also has the advantage of being a “natural” solution in comparison to book-burning which requires a specific act to produce fire. From a Jain perspective, burning is considered to be an act involving “violence” (himsā), while water is believed to be the purifying agent par excellence. Conclusion Seen from various angles, the Jain tradition displays a strong analogy between the treatment of the manuscript and the treatment of the religious image. Both imply the same contradiction in that they are material objects but yet different from ordinary things as they contain a specific power, which they get, firstly, from religious teachers, and, secondly, from the Jinas. From this perspective it is not surprising that manuscripts and images are subjected to similar treatment. The concept of disrespect or profanation (āśātanā) applies to both the teacher and to the manuscript. Worship (pūjā) can be adressed to both the manuscript and to the image. Medieval and pre-modern Jain sources, in which icon worship became a feature of sectarian identity, show how the materiality of both religious manuscripts and religious images could become a topic of vivid discussion. Bibliography Printed Primary Sources Dharmasāgara. 1936. Paryusanādaśaśataka. Publ. Śrīratnapurīya (Ratlam) Śreṣṭhi Ṛṣabhadevakeśarīmala-nāmaka-Jaina-Śvetāmbara-Saṃsthā. Surat: Jain Vijayānanda Printing Press. Hemacandra. 1977. Yogaśāstra with Vṛtti. Edited by Muni Jambuvijaya. Jain Sāhitya Vikāsa Maṇḍala, Mumbai. The Kalpasūtra of Bhadrabâhu. 1879. Edited with an Introduction, Notes and a Prâkrit-Saṃskrit Glossary by Hermann Jacobi. Leipzig: Abhandlungen für die Kunde des Morgenlandes. Ratnaśekharasūri. 1960. Śrāddhavidhiprakarana with auto-commentary. Revised by Paṃnyāsa Śrīvikramavijaya and Gaṇī Muniśrībhāskaravijaya. Surat : Śreṣṭhi-Devacanda-Lālbhāī-Jaina Pustakoddhara Fund No. 106. Śubhavijayagaṇi. 1988 (Vikrama samvat 2045). Praśnaratnākarah (ŚrīSenapraśnah). Mumbai: Śrī Jinaśāsana Ārādhanā Trust. 15 This proclamation is quoted in, for instance, Śubhavijayagaṇi 1988, 121a. See also Balbir 1999, 5, and Dundas 2007, 117.

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Secondary Sources Aldis, Harry G. 1916. The Printed Book. The Handling and Mishandling of Books Part 1. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Balbir, Nalini. 1999. “About a Jain Polemical Work of the Seventeenth Century.” In N.K. Wagle and O. Qvarnström (eds), Approaches to Jaina Studies: Philosophy, Logic, Rituals and Symbols. pp. 1–18. Toronto: University of Toronto, Centre for South Asian Studies. Balbir, Nalini. 2011. On the Role and Meaning of the Śvetāmbara Canon in the History of Jainism. London and New York: Routledge. Berckwitz, Stephen C., Schober, Juliane and Brown, Claudia (eds). 2009. Buddhist Manuscript Cultures. Knowledge, Ritual, and Art. London and New York: Routledge. Berckwitz, Stephen C. 2009. “Materiality and Merit in Sri Lankan Buddhist Manuscripts.” In Berckwitz et al. (eds), Buddhist Manuscript Cultures. pp. 35– 50. Bühler, Georg A. 1888. “Two Lists of Sanskrit MSS. Together with Some Remarks on My Connexion with the Search for Sanskrit MSS.” In Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, vol. 42, pp. 550–559. Caillat, Colette. 1999. “Luigi Pio Tessitori and International Cooperation in the 19th–20th Century.” In Tessitori and Rajasthan. Proceedings of the International Conference, Bikaner, 21–23 february 1996. pp. 7–27. Udine: Società Indologica Luigi Pio Tessitori. Chojnacki, Christine. 2000. “La Célébration de la Connaissance: normes et pratique d’un voeu jaina.” In Marie-Luce Barazer-Billoret and Jean Fezas (eds), La norme et son application dans le monde indien. pp. 117–128. Paris: EFEO. Cort, John E. 1992. “Śvetāmbar Mūrtipūjak Jain Scripture in a Performative Context.” In Timm, Jeffrey R. (ed.), Texts in Context. Traditional Hermeneutics in South Asia. pp. 171–195. New York: SUNY Press. Indian print 1997, Delhi: Garib Dass Oriental Series No. 223. Cort, John E. 1995. “The Jain Knowledge Warehouses: Libraries in Traditional India.” In Journal of the American Oriental Society, vol. 115, pp. 77–87. Cort, John E. 2001. Jains in the World. Religious Values and Ideology in India. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dundas, Paul. 2002. The Jains. London and New York: Routledge. Dundas, Paul. 2007. History, Scripture and Controversy in a Medieval Jain Sect. London and New York: Routledge. Emmerich, Christoph. 2009. “Emending Perfection: Prescript, Postscript, and Practice in Newar Buddhist Manuscript Culture.” In Berckwitz et al. (eds), Buddhist Manuscript Cultures. pp. 140–156. Flügel, Peter. 2008. “The Unknown Loṅkā: Tradition and the Cultural Unconscious.” In Colette Caillat and Nalini Balbir (eds), Jaina Studies. Papers of the 12th World Sanskrit Conference. pp. 181–278. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.

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Folkert, Kendall W. 1993. Scripture and Community. Collected Essays on the Jains. Edited by John E. Cort. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press/Harvard University, Centre for the Study of World Religions, Harvard University. Granoff, Phyllis. 1993. “Going by the Book. The Role of Written Texts in Medieval Jain Sectarian Conflicts.” In Rudy Smet and Kenji Watanabe (eds), Jain Studies in Honour of Jozef Deleu. pp. 315–338. Tokyo: Hon-no-Tomosha. Hartmann, Jens-Uwe. 2009. “From Words to Books: Indian Buddhist Manuscripts in the First Millennium ce.” In Berckwitz et al. (eds), Buddhist Manuscript Cultures. pp. 95–106. Jaini, Padmanabh S. 2004. “Hemaraja Pande’s Caurāsī Bol” In M.A. Dhaky and J.B. Shah (eds), Jambū-jyoti (Munivara Jambūvijaya Festschrift). pp. 373– 398. Ahmedabad: Sharadaben Chimanbhai Educational Research Centre. Jaini, Padmanabh S. 2008. “Jain Sectarian Debates. Eighty-four Points of Contention (Cauryāmsī bol) Between Śvetāmbaras and Digambaras (Text and Translation).” In Journal of Indian Philosophy, vol. 36, pp. 1–246. Kapadia Hiralal Rasikdas. 1938. “The Jaina Manuscripts.” In The Journal of the University of Bombay, vol. VII, Part 2 (September), pp. 1–30. Laidlaw, James. 1995. Riches and Renunciation: Religion and Economy among the Jains. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Petit, Jérôme, 2008, “La vie du laic jaïn à travers les mémoires d’un marchand” in “Le jaïnisme religion de la non-violence”. In Religions & Histoire, no. 21 (juillet–août), pp. 42–45. Salomon, Richard. 2009. “Why did the Gandhāran Buddhists Bury their Manuscripts?” In Berckwitz et al. (eds), Buddhist Manuscript Cultures. pp. 19– 34. Williams, R. 1983 (1963). Jaina Yoga. A Survey of the Medieval Śrāvakācāras. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass.

Chapter 7

Making the Scripture a Person: Reinventing Death Rituals of Guru Granth Sahib in Sikhism Kristina Myrvold

What remains unique to Sikhism, as the religion is lived and practiced today, is the supreme status and authority that the Sikhs attribute to their sacred scripture Guru Granth Sahib. The scripture is believed to enfold words of an ontologically divine nature and mediate the revelatory experiences and teaching of ten human Gurus. Simultaneously, the sacred text is considered to be the living Guru with the authority to provide spiritual guidance and establish human–divine connections. In scholarly studies, the Sikh scripture has been approached primarily from a textual and exegetical viewpoint, while little light has been shed on the living, devotional traditions applied to venerate the book and use the sacred words enshrined in the text. In response to modernization processes in the twentieth century, the Sikhs have developed scrupulous ritual practices in connection with printing, conveyance, and installation of scriptures in private and public worship. When printed volumes of Guru Granth Sahib become old and worn-out and can no longer be used, they are solemnly transported to the town of Goindwal Sahib in Punjab, or some other established cremation center in northern India, to be ritually consigned to fire. This essay will examine how contemporary Sikhs have re-created funerary services for Guru Granth Sahib and explains the religious theories underlying this practice. The construction of a particular death ceremony, or “life-cycle rite,” for scriptures can be approached as one among many religious strategies by which the Sikhs personify their scripture as a living Guru. The organization and ritual design of the new funerary practice in Punjab is a self-conscious enterprise that attempts to set the standards for the Sikh handling of Guru Granth Sahib and forcefully underscore traditional values about the scripture’s identity and status to a global Sikh community.  Following the textual paradigm, contemporary scholars have generated monumental contributions on the genesis and compilation history of the Sikh scripture (Pashaura Singh 2000; Mann 2001), the poetic form and metrics of the scripture (see for example Kaur 1995), and exegetical analyses (see for example Kaur-Singh 1993; Singh 1998; Shackle 2008), while fewer studies have focused on the ways in which the Sikhs in India and beyond conceptualize and use their sacred scripture in worship (Myrvold 2007; Mann 2008; Singh 2008).

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The Scripture as a Guru By treating the Guru Granth Sahib as a living Guru, the Sikhs have maybe taken the concept of a sacred scripture much further than any other religious community. As Harold Coward writes, “in no other religion can one find a human Guru founder, followed by a series of human Gurus living parallel with a collection of scripture, ending in a breaking of the human succession and the scripture attaining full authority as Guru” (Coward 1988, 130). Wherever the Sikhs have settled in the world, their scripture is displayed at the core of devotional congregations. The Sikh place of worship, or the gurdwara (literally the “Guru’s door”), is by definition a space in which the scripture is installed daily on an elevated throne, draped in cloth and decorated with symbols, to be read from and to receive worshippers. Almost every Sikh ceremony is conducted in the presence of the physical book and the living performance traditions of reciting, singing, and expounding the sacred hymns cast a haze of quotations over the whole of Sikh life. The Sikh conceptualization of the term “guru” conjures up several images that go well beyond its common meaning and application in the Indian culture. The word is used as a designation of the formless God – the true Guru (satiguru) – and the primordial Word (bani, shabad) which was revealed historically to humans. The term guru has also come to signify ten historical persons, from Guru Nanak (1469–1539) to Guru Gobind Singh (1666–1708), who operated in northern India as spiritual preceptors and worldly leaders of the Sikh community for a total period of 239 years. Subsequent to the developments at the turn of the eighteenth century, the term is more strongly associated with the Sikh scripture – Guru Granth Sahib – and the Sikh community – the Guru Panth – the first of which now embodies spiritual authority as the personal Guru of the Sikhs while the second signifies the temporal power of the Sikh collective as represented by religious institutions. For believers, the categories evoked by the word “guru” are often perceived as interrelated: human Gurus were born into the world in a concrete moment of history to mediate and teach a divine message of truth, which continues to live through the scripture and the community. The utterances and teaching of the human Gurus (gurbani) is believed to have emanated from a divine source and shared the same spiritual essence. A widely accepted interpretation emphatically stresses that the first, Guru Nanak, heard the voice of God and was imparted the authority to be a Guru for the world. When the For example, the tenth chapter of the hagiography Puratan Janam-sakhi embroiders a narrative scenery of how Guru Nanak disappeared in the River Bein for three days and was encased in a divine presence, experiencing a direct and aural revelation of God: Nanak heard the voice of God and was given a celestial bowl from which to drink the immortal nectar (amrit) of the divine name. By ingesting the godly name he was invested to the office of the Guru for the world and received a robe of honor from the divine court that confirmed and sanctified the bestowal of spiritual authority (see Bhai Vir Singh 1999 (1926), 40–43; and the analysis of Kaur Singh 1992). 

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divine words mystically descended to Nanak, he was placed in an immediate state of meditation and conveyed the words through song. The revelatory experiences are believed to have continued with the successive Gurus, who were preordained teachers and messengers of God, graced with the power to hear and comprehend the divine voice. The words and knowledge that flowed from the mouths of the human Gurus are often referred to as “speech from the sky” (akaz bani) or “words from God” (dhur ki bani). Although Sikhs would make an epistemological distinction between the Word of God (shabad) and the utterances of human messengers (gurbani), the ontological difference involves merely a process of progression: The words of Guru Nanak and the following Gurus emanated from a divine source and became accessible to humanity when their speech was transformed into writing. Sikh historiography has characteristically confirmed an early textual authority in the tradition and developed different theories on how the Gurus’ attempted to preserve and entextualize their divinely inspired words in writing. References to the scripture itself are often rephrased to confirm that the Sikh Gurus regarded manuscripts with sacred hymns as an abode of the divine and the act of inscribing sacred words was a devotional act in which people should engage. Guru Nanak is said to have carried a “book” (pothi) containing sacred poetry during his extensive travels and handed over a manuscript with compositions when his successor, Guru Angad (1539–1571), ascended to the office of the Guru. According to the traditional account, the collection of written gurbani achieved canonical form with the fifth Guru, Arjan, who in the beginning of the seventeenth century compiled the devotional poetry of the first five Sikh Gurus as well as verses by like-minded Hindu and Muslim saint poets and bards in the Sikh courts. Under the guidance of the Guru, the scribe Bhai Gurdas wrote down the compositions in the Gurmukhi script (literally “the mouth of the guru”) and when the compilation was completed in 1604 the scripture was solemnly installed in the Golden Temple at Amritsar. Only the human Guru was an authoritative agent to set the boundaries of the text and provide it with a specific identity. A century later, the status of the scriptures was further enhanced when the tenth Guru, Gobind Singh, added his father’s hymns and completed the canon of what became the Adi Granth, literally “the original book.” On his deathbed in 1708, Guru Gobind Singh transferred his own authority to canonized scripture by declaring it to be the eternal Guru of the Sikhs and performing a formal installation ceremony. The event signaled the end of the human Gurus’ line of succession when the scripture, which hereafter was to be called the Guru Granth with an added suffix of reverence (Sahib), succeeded to the office of a Guru with the same spiritual authority endowed to the human preceptors.

 For an extensive analysis of the early manuscripts and their uses, see Mann 2001, 32–50, and 2008, 44–45.  A textual reference to the ritual installation of the scripture as a Guru is found in the popular Suraj Prakash by Bhai Santokh Singh (see Gian Singh 2004, 577).

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As many Sikhs would interpret this shift of authority, the Guru Granth Sahib became the living Guru who enshrines the total knowledge of the historical Gurus and inhabits the same spiritual essence of its human predecessors. In colloquial speech, a distinction is often made between the “light” or “spirit” (jot) of the words and teaching of the human Gurus and the “form” (rop, sarop) of their physical bodies which were subjected to birth and death and operated as a temporary “clothing” to conceal the divine illumination. The relationship between the human Gurus presumes doctrinal and spiritual continuity and corporeal diversity, in the sense that all of them inhabited the same spiritual composition, while their bodily manifestations posited transformability as the authority of the office was passed on to ten different persons. When a human nominee ascended to the Guru-post his body was thus mystically empowered with the same spirit of his predecessor. Similarly, at the succession of Guru Granth Sahib the outer appearance of the Guru was merely transformed to a scriptural body, whereas the interior composition remained the same. According to this theory, the scripture is regarded as a complete whole and no distinction is made between the “spirit” and the authority of the Guru enshrined in a human being or a text, since both categories encapsulate and mediate divinely inspired words. The Guru Granth Sahib is believed to embody the total knowledge of the human Gurus and is simultaneously the current living personal Guru with the spiritual authority to communicate the divine message and guide human beings. To develop and sustain a devotional and didactical relationship – even a social relationship – to the scripture and the teaching it enshrines is what makes people Sikhs, or disciples of the Guru. Religious Uses of Guru Granth Sahib The epistemological distinction between the internal and external dimensions of Guru Granth Sahib can be significant when analyzing the form and function of Sikh practices involving the scripture. In Sikh life there are devotional measures by which disciples activate and engage in the words of the text to manifest the spiritual teaching and establish devotional links to the invisible divine. Passages of the interior text are rendered daily in recitation (path) and devotional singing (kirtan), and explicated and interpreted in oral expositions (katha). In the morning hours the Sikhs seek a divine “command” (hukam) by opening the scripture at random and reciting aloud the first hymn that appears at the top of the left-hand page, which is perceived as the Guru’s order or proclamation for the day. The oral transmission of the text stands at the heart of Sikh worship and is believed to mediate the original, sacrosanct content and form of the Gurus’ speech. To emphasize the eternal and suprahuman dimensions of this speech, the written symbols of the text are always converted into sound by quotation – an exact rendering that remains faithful to the content and style of the text and de-emphasize the individual human reciter who is merely reproducing the sacred words within temporal and spatial parameters.

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Comprehension of referential meanings is an important and legitimate motive for undertaking recitations and devotional singing of the sacred hymns in the Guru Granth Sahib, even if oral reproductions of gurbani in congregational worship are often executed in overly formalized ways to impart knowledge to listeners who are not already familiar with the text. A popular means to explore the semantic properties of Guru Granth Sahib is to listen to live or recorded oral exegeses by professional expounders who interpret, explain, and reflect upon the scriptural content in order to reveal the interior teaching and accommodate it to contemporary human circumstances. When individuals want to pursue knowledge of the scriptural content they often devote themselves to straightforward readings from so-called sanchi, the scripture published in two or more volumes which, unlike the text printed in one single volume, does not require any formal installation and can be placed on a wooden stand. Since many Sikhs, especially in the diaspora, do not always have sufficient knowledge to understand the linguistic wealth of the text it is equally common to use translations in printed or digital form for comprehension side-by-side with the more formal oral renderings. In many gurdwaras outside of India, for instance, the congregation will sing and recite hymns in the original language while the English translation on PowerPoint is simultaneously projected on a white screen. On an individual level, Sikhs may download mobile applications containing the whole Guru Granth Sahib and other religious texts in order to search and display gurbani wherever they are (www.sikhitothemax. com; www.gurbanianywhere.com) and receive daily SMS messages with sacred hymns (http://sms-seva.blogspots.com). The ideal Sikh should thus read, recite, sing, listen, and continually dwell on the content of Guru Granth Sahib so as to develop understanding of the Guru’s guidance within the text and implement the teaching in everyday life. In Sikh worship there are also religious practices which primarily aim to venerate the manifested form (sarop) of Guru Granth Sahib. Given that the scripture inherited the authority of a Guru in a human line of succession, the same devotional stances and modes of practices that, presumably, existed in the courtly culture of the ten human predecessors were valid for contexts in which Sikhs interacted with their scripture. The exterior life of the scripture was imposed by a set of defined habits of human culture which, in a new historical setting, were to be furnished and actualized through various devotional acts executed by the Sikhs. The eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Sikh historiography provide accounts on how the Gurus and their closest disciples embedded the scripture in courtly symbolism and stipulated models for a future ministration that would conjure up imaginaries of the text as a worldly sovereign. When Guru Gobind Singh ritually The nineteenth-century text Sri Gurbilas Chhevin Patshahi, attributed to Sohan Kavi, relates how Guru Arjan brought manuscripts (Goindwal pothis) from Goindwal to Amritsar before compiling the Sikh scripture. To honor the manuscripts the Guru placed the texts on a palanquin decorated with precious stones that was borne by devotees, while he marched behind barefoot in company with musicians and devotees. The text also describes 

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installed the scripture to the office of the Guru and decreed that devotional stances, which disciples had adopted towards the human Gurus, would likewise apply to the scripture, he established a tradition of venerating the corpus of the text. Manuals of the Sikh code of conduct from the eighteenth century onwards came to stipulate normative instructions on how to treat the text in worship and transport it in a respectful way from one place to another. For contemporary Sikhs, these textual references legitimize a careful choreography of action in the presence of the Guru Granth Sahib. What the human Gurus and pious disciples did in the past provide paradigmatic models for what Sikhs should do in the present. Each morning in a gurdwara begins with “the light” (prakash), the opening ceremony when the robes covering the Guru Granth Sahib are removed and the scripture is installed on a royal throne under a canopy before it is ceremonially opened. Throughout the day Sikh devotees humbly attend the sacred book to present prayers and offerings as if they had obtained audience in the court of a royal sovereign. Before entering the gurdwara, men and women remove their socks and shoes, wash their hands and feet, and cover their heads to mark the transition to an area of greater purity and sanctity. Upon entering, devotees may touch the threshold with their hands and take its “dust” to apply to their foreheads as a blessing, and walk up to the space immediately in front of the scriptural throne upon which the Guru Granth Sahib is elevated, to pay homage by performing matha tekna – the bodily act of going down on one’s knees and bowing deeply until the forehead touches the ground. During acts of worship devotees will wave a flywhisk, a key symbol of royalty, over the book to confirm its supreme status, and whenever the scripture is not being read from it is covered with embroidered robes suited to the seasonal weather. A day in the gurdwara is concluded at nightfall with the ceremony of “the comfortable posture” (sukhasan), during which the Guru Granth Sahib assumes a closed position, is wrapped in robes, and carried in procession to a special bedroom (sachkhand) for nightly rest on a decorated four-poster bed. Whenever the scripture is transported from one location to another the book is mounted on a bedecked palanquin or carried on the head of an attendant walking barefoot, while other devotees sprinkle water and flower petals on the ground. In the present Sikh calendar (Nanakshahi samat jantri or “the calendar of the great Nanak era”) the Guru Granth Sahib has its own calendric rituals when the community commemorates important events in the scripture’s history. In the beginning of autumn two festival days celebrate the compilation and the first installation and opening of the scripture at the Golden Temple in 1604. A few weeks later, yet another festival remembers the day of coronation when how the scripture was installed at the Golden Temple (Harimandir Sahib) in 1604 when Bhai Buddha, the newly appointed custodian of the scripture, carried the text on his head to the temple and Guru Arjan walked behind waving a whisk over it (for a review, see Fauja Singh 1990, 45–50). A popular reference to Guru Gobind Singh’s ritual installation of the scripture as a Guru in 1708 is found in the nineteenth-century text Suraj Prakash by Bhai Santokh Singh (see Gian Singh 2004, 577).

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the scripture ascended to the office of the Guru (gurgaddi) in 1708. On these occasions local Sikh congregations take the scripture out on lavish processions – the traditional means to honor an esteemed person and celebrate a fortuitous event – and traverse the neighborhoods of their city or village, singing gurbani hymns and displaying communal activities. Anniversaries of the Guru Granth Sahib, such as the tercentenary of the scripture as a Guru in 2008 (see for example Sachdev 2008), are especially celebrated with great pomp and pageantry by the global Sikh community with religious programs extending several weeks. The careful ministration of the bodily form of Guru Granth Sahib is perceived to be humble and selfless “service to the guru” (gurseva) by performing voluntary deeds that are transformed to religious acts by means of the actor’s subjective experience of devotion and surrender. Gurseva may encompass a wide range of deeds directed at Guru Granth Sahib, such as dusting and polishing the scriptural throne, offering the scripture new robes suitable for the season, and organizing processions for the transportation of scriptures. Although the Sikhs are cognizant of the fact the scripture is not alive in any biological sense and the true Guru is ultimately the teaching dwelling within its pages, they transform the mere “book” to a superior object by integrating it in daily routines and publicly displaying it as a “person” of exalted status. If a Sikh family has enough space in their house, they are likely to construct a special room solely for the Guru Granth Sahib and arrange a formal installation when the Guru enters the new space to be incorporated in the socio-religious life of the family. Devotees attribute to the scripture the identity of an honored guest who requires careful and devout ministration. Even if individual Sikhs fail to understand the teaching enshrined in the text, they will still serve and venerate the scriptural body because it embodies the Guru invested with the authority to bestow spiritual knowledge and mediate links between human beings and the divine. The physical book should be venerated in the same manner as the bodily manifestations of the human preceptors once were. For believing Sikhs, the notion of gurseva is not considered to be symbolic in the sense that the acts performed are representing something else. Many acts have been molded from culture-specific symbolism to confer authority and regal splendor on the scripture, but the ministration is perceived as real merit-bestowing services which permit actual physical interactions between the Guru and devotees. But, even if the Sikhs treat the Guru Granth Sahib with respectful care in their daily worship, and protect it from dust and dirt, the scriptural body will eventually become old and damaged. A printed volume of the scripture in the gurdwara may have a relatively long life-span of forty to fifty years. When the scriptural body loses its vigor and the bindings become loose, the scripture will be deemed “aged” (biradh) and should then be exchanged for a new volume. Religious theories about the Guru’s embodiment in the scripture imply a constant renewal of the Guru’s corporeal manifestation: The interior and invisible “spirit” of Guru Granth Sahib is embodied when the complete text becomes visible in material imprints during the typographical process. This is the moment when spirit and material object become fully integrated and the book assumes the identity and status of Guru

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Granth Sahib. A physical manifestation in the shape of a book is however bound to temporality and destruction and can only provide the Guru with an honorable attire for a limited time. As the following description will illustrate, the introduction of mass-produced printed volumes of the Sikh scripture accelerated the need to establish ritual procedures by which the scriptural body of the Guru was given due respect after completing a worldly existence. The Challenge of Print Culture When printing technology was introduced in the Punjab during the nineteenth century, the Sikhs welcomed the process of committing the Guru’s words to print, believing that it would not endanger nor eliminate the sacred status of Guru Granth Sahib. The new print culture was perceived as an opportunity to create, once and for all, an authoritative and homogenized version of the scripture and thereby provide the text with a physical completeness. Whereas handwritten manuscripts had been copied in varying sizes and styles, enclosed texts with deviant content and structure, and sometimes included comments, errors, and corrections by the scribe (Singh 2005), the new technology made it possible to duplicate a standardized text derived from sanctioned manuscripts, omit scribal dialogues, and paginate the whole text in one fixed and impressive volume of 1,430 pages. Printed copies of the text were also modernized and adapted for contemporary readers by using, for example, the so-called “break-word” (padchhed) system which, unlike the traditional style of writing in continuous lines without any breaks, separated the words and made for easier and more accurate reading. At the same time, the printing technology facilitated large-scale production of standardized copies at a reasonable cost which made the Sikh scripture accessible to the literate masses and to congregations at distant locations. Apparently the first lithographic reproduction of Guru Granth Sahib in the gurmukhi script was published in the 1860s at Lahore (Mann 2001, 125). Three decades later at least a dozen additional reprints had come into existence and the number of printing presses in the Punjab exceeded one hundred (Oberoi 1995, 275; Pashaura Singh 2000, 232ff.). As a city preserving historical places and narratives about Guru Arjan’s compilation and veneration of Guru Granth Sahib in the early seventeenth century, Amritsar developed into a leading center for the distribution of Sikh sacred literature with private and public publishing houses. To control the production of Guru Granth Sahib the Shiromani Gurdwara  For instance, the publishing house Chattar Singh Jiwan Singh was established in 1875 and grew into a major producer of the scripture, initially reproducing handwritten manuscript and later adopting the new print technology (www.csjs.com). Other Amritsarbased publishers are Jawahar Singh Kirpal Singh and The Singh Brothers, the latter of which started in the 1940s and has specialized in religious literature in Punjabi and English (www.singhbrothers.com).

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Parbandhak Committee (SGPC), a Sikh organization formed in 1925 to provide a self-reliant system for the management of religious shrines, printed four different editions of the scripture in the mid-twentieth century and established its own printing press – Golden Offset Press – at Amritsar. As the representative body of the Sikh community, the SGPC is today the main publisher of scriptures and has attempted to control and monopolize the production, stating that the Guru should not be exposed to market interests and the printing procedures must protect the sanctity of the scripture by strictly complying with the Sikh code of conduct. After prolonged controversies with private publishers about the right to print Guru Granth Sahib, the Punjab government intervened in 2007 and imposed a ban on printing, storing, and distributing volumes of the scripture by any publisher other than the SGPC (World Sikh News 2007). Mass-production and the public use of printed volumes of Guru Granth Sahib, however, confronted the Sikh community with a new and practical issue of disposal: What was to be done with the large quantities of printed editions that had become flawed and could no longer be used in religious worship? In what way should the “aged” and damaged scriptures be taken care of? To simply throw away the sacred pages and the scriptural volumes like secular books would be considered an extremely blasphemous act that exposed the guru-scripture to disrespect (beadbi). The Sikh response to the modern challenge of print culture was a reinvention of cremation ceremonies for the Guru Granth Sahib and other religious texts containing gurbani so as to ensure respectful disposal of the Guru’s printed words and guarantee that the sacred pages would not get into the wrong hands and be exposed to negligence. Apparently, there existed solemnized disposal of worn-out handwritten copies of Guru Granth Sahib in the preceding manuscript culture, probably by submerging manuscripts in a watercourse to dissolve the writing of the text (Mann 2008). The normative Sikh code of conduct (rahit), which carefully stipulates the ritual installation and handling of Guru Granth Sahib, provides no formal regulations that specify how worn-out texts should be taken care of. In practice, however, the preferable method in modern times has been burning. Since at least the beginning of the twentieth century the pilgrimage site at Goindwal Sahib in Punjab – a Sikh center which developed under the third Guru Amardas during the seventeenth century – has laid claims to preserve an ancient tradition of cremating old Sikh religious texts. In connection with the partition in 1947, for instance, the SGPC entrusted the pilgrimage center with formal responsibility for cremation of printed editions which individual Sikhs and the military had brought from the Pakistani side to the new independent India. In other areas the handling of old and damaged 

For details of the scripture’s editions and the controversies they instigated in the Sikh community, consult Mann 2001, 125ff. Golden Offset Press is situated in a basement of Gurdwara Ramsar at Amritsar, which according to the Sikh tradition marks the spot where the fifth Guru Arjan and his scribe Bhai Gurdas compiled the scripture in the early seventeenth century.

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texts was probably more pragmatically resolved by local congregations. During my fieldwork in Varanasi, for example, I was told that the local Sikhs had collected a large number of “aged” volumes of Guru Granth Sahib which had been brought to the city by Sikh and Sindhi emigrants from Pakistan. In the 1970s and 1980s these scriptures were ceremonially burnt in huge metal pots in the garden of the gurdwara complex and the ashes were collected in large ornate urns that were taken in solemn processions to the River Ganga for immersion (Myrvold 2007, 225). In a similar fashion other Sikh communities in India and in the diaspora have at different times and places taken measures to dispose of scriptures and prayer books by ceremonial burning, even if these practices have not been documented by ethnographers. Developments in the Sikh community during the last two decades have displayed more deliberate endeavors to collectively organize and institutionalize ritual practices that can solve the problem of scriptural disposal and confer respect to Guru Granth Sahib in the best possible way. At Sahaspur outside Dehradun in Uttarakhand, for instance, the local congregation has for the last twenty years collected thousands of scriptures, prayer books, and loose papers – calendars, wedding cards, posters, fliers, and other documents containing gurbani – from all over the world and arranged cremation ceremonies at least twice or thrice a year at a gurdwara named “the respected pyre” (Gurdwara Angitha Sahib). The gurdwara has built 28 hearths on each of which 13 scriptures can be burnt together after having been washed and dressed in white cloths. What is particularly remarkable about this institution is that the local congregation has extended its services to encompass scriptures of other religious traditions and thus burn copies of the Bible, the Bhagavadgita, the Ramcharitmanas, the Qur’an and other sacred texts as well (Goel 2008). Thus, a practice which the Sikhs themselves have found to be the most appropriate way for dealing with damaged copies of Guru Granth Sahib is used for assisting other religious communities with disposal of their sacred texts in acts of mutual tolerance and respect. An even more elaborate organization for funerary services of Guru Granth Sahib developed in Punjab during the 1990s under the leadership of Narinder Singh, a Sikh businessman from Ludhiana. As the following description will illustrate, his organization created a detailed death ceremony for scriptures and established cremation centers based on voluntary work termed Agan Bhet Seva or “the selfless service for the fire sacrifice.” The increasingly popular organization did not merely meet the need for disposing of old printed texts but made it possible to define normative conducts to a global community and reclaim tradition by endorsing essential Sikh notions of the scripture’s identity and supreme status. The newly established cremation practice could forcefully confirm beliefs in the living Guru dwelling within the pages of Guru Granth Sahib by solemnly marking out the moment when the “aged” scriptural bodies died and dissolved.  For instance, the Malaysian Sikhs at Sungei Siput have established a special place within the gurdwara to dispose of scriptures. Information is provided at the discussion forum Gurmat Learning Zone, Digest Number 5285.

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Reinventing Funerary Services In 1988, Narinder Singh founded a religious center in his home town of Ludhiana for the purpose of collecting and cremating damaged volumes of Guru Granth Sahib. The reason and justification for this initiative was his personal criticism of existing burning practices that did not grant the scripture appropriate respect. At the center Narinder Singh built a specially constructed cremation chamber with iron beds called “the respected pyre” (angitha sahib). To provide old texts with a suitable place to lie in state before cremation he also constructed a hall, furnished with a large number of four-poster beds and canopies, to function as a hospice for scriptures. A new cremation ceremony named “the rite of the fire sacrifice” (agan bhet samskar) was created by combining conventional Sikh symbols and ritual acts. Subsequently Narinder Singh and the burgeoning congregation around him constructed special buses that were suitable for a respectful conveyance of volumes of Guru Granth Sahib and began to collect old texts at different locations in northern India. In the 1990s he requested to take charge of the existing burning practice at Goindwal Sahib and, after due negotiations, he was entrusted with this responsibility. Voluntary workers constructed two cremation chambers at the pilgrimage center and erected Sri Guru Granth Sahib Bhawan – a gurdwara with a repository hall for scriptures which contained more than a hundred beds (Pritpal Singh 2000a). According to the organization’s own statistics in the year 2000, about 80,000 printed volumes of scripture were cremated in Ludhiana between 1988 and 2000, and 40,000 at Goindwal Sahib from 1996 to 2000. It was estimated that 2.5 million prayer books had also been burnt (Pritpal Singh 2000a). The printing press of SGPC at Amritsar has also established routines to reverently collect up waste material that is then taken to Goindwal Sahib, since scriptural pages with misprints or other typographical errors cannot simply be thrown in rubbish bins along with the normal paper waste. Today, the total number of cremated volumes of the scripture must exceed several hundred thousand copies, considering that the organization has rapidly expanded its activities to other areas in northern and southern India. By 2004 a third cremation place was constructed at a local gurdwara in the outskirts of Delhi (Gurdwara Majnu da Talla). In the followings years two additional centers were established in the villages Nathwan and Ramgarh Bhullar, in Haryana and Punjab respectively. To coordinate the ritual enterprise at five different locations the voluntary workers at the organization conduct the fire sacrifice on the first Sunday of each month in Delhi, on the second Sunday in Ludhiana and Goindwal Sahib, and on the third Sunday at Natwan and Ramgarh Bhullar. Since Goindwal Sahib is a historical pilgrimage center an additional ceremony is staged at this place on the fourth Sunday of each month. The time schedule has been chosen to suit public convenience but also to ensure that the fire properly consumes all the pages of the scriptures and the ashes cool off in a natural way. Thirteen days should elapse before the doors to the cremation chambers are opened and the ashes are collected for immersion a nearby river.

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In southern India the first fire sacrifice under the guidance of Narinder Singh was carried out in 2007 at Gurdwara Barambala Sahib in Hyderabad (“Agan Bhent Seva Today” 2007). The following year the congregation in Hyderabad constructed a cremation chamber and arranged a second ceremony during which scriptures and prayer books collected from Sikhs in Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Kerala, Maharashtra, and Tamil Nadu were consigned to fire (Madra 2008). However, by no means all the books that are dispatched to these centers will be cremated. When the scriptures and prayer books arrive a team of five Sikhs check the pages twice. Texts that are flawless are provided with new covers and donated to a gurdwara or Sikh organization. The routine inspection also aims to preserve handwritten manuscripts of historical value that will be forwarded to the reference library at Amritsar or the Sikh Heritage Foundation at Hyderabad. The organization is thus responsible for recycling printed volumes not yet considered “aged” or ready for the fire sacrifice and conserving handwritten texts which because of their exceptional age can be treated as historical remnants of a collective past. A contributing factor in the growing popularity of the funerary service is that the fire sacrifice is perceived to be a respectful and merit-bestowing “selfless service” (seva) to the Guru embodied in the printed texts. In view of an imaginable disrespectful treatment of scriptures in the past, the new and collectively shared funerary service appears to be the most proper way of renovating, conserving and discarding Guru Granth Sahib through acts of devotion, submission, and loyalty to the Guru. Every day, the organization around the centers engages a large number of devotees who sew clothes for the scripture, organize transportation, prepare the cremation chambers, collect donations, and the like. The ceremonies are open to the public and generally attract hundreds of devotees and curious visitors. As a cultural entrepreneur, Narinder Singh has been conscious of the importance of mobilizing public support for a local funerary service and utilizing modern media to make it known to the global Sikh community. The organization has, for instance, created a website on the Internet to publish updated information about cremations organized in different parts of India (www.prabhusimran.com). Visitors at the cremation centers can also purchase a DVD documentary about the history, religious motivation and ritual conduct of the new service to the Guru. Wherever they are in the world, Sikhs should thus be able to watch an example of the fire sacrifice from a distance and be assured that their old volumes will be treated with proper respect if sent to India for disposal. As opposed to perceptions that religious traditions are immutable in character, the funerary service stands as a living example of how a religious community actively transforms collective practices in response to modern challenges. A closer look at the cremation ceremony will also demonstrate that the ritual created attempts to revive central religious presumptions about the scripture that are approved by the authoritative tradition.

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The Fire Sacrifice The choreography of spaces and acts in “the rite of the fire sacrifice” (agan bhet samskar) are carefully arranged to create a religious atmosphere and give due reverence to the Guru Granth Sahib. When printed scriptures, prayer books, and loose sheets with gurbani hymns arrive they are wrapped in white robes and placed on royal beds with cushions to await the last ceremony in the air-conditioned scriptural hospice. The cremation chamber (agnita sahib) where all texts will be consumed by open fire behind closed doors constitutes the focal center of the ceremony. The room, specially constructed with elevated iron beds, is considered to enclose a pure space into which only a few selected people are allowed to enter. Other participants are expected to remain on the outside and pay their respects to the chamber by bowing deeply until the forehead touches the threshold of the room. The place where scriptures are consigned to fire has become an object of worship in itself. Throughout the whole ceremony a group of female devotees are positioned beside the entrance of the chamber to sing gurbani hymns and traditional songs of praise to Guru Granth Sahib. The fire sacrifice usually lasts between four to five hours. It begins shortly after sunrise when the congregation gathers in the gurdwara to receive a divine order (hukam) and read the Sikh supplication (ardas) to sanctify the event. Subsequently, the participants begin “the last journey” (antim yatra) during which all books are ceremonially transported from the hospice to the cremation chamber. During a ceremony I observed in Ludhiana in the year 2000, men and women broke up into groups of five and took turns at collecting the texts from the resting place and carrying them on a small cushion on top of their heads, one volume at a time. As is customary for any conveyance of the Guru Granth Sahib, five armed men in traditional uniforms (panj pyare) walked ahead and led the way with upraised swords. The line of bearers was accompanied by people holding umbrellas and waving peacock feathers over the scriptures, while the attending congregation created a pathway for the procession. All were melodiously chanting in chorus the standardized formulae representing the name of God (satnam vahiguru), and when each group of bearers reached the cremation chamber people were exhorted to exclaim the Sikh salutation (sat sri akal) which in this context functioned as a verbal marker announcing the scriptures’ departure. When I revisited Goindwal Sahib in 2008 the arrangement of the procession had expanded considerably owing to the increasing popularity of the funerary service. Outside the scriptural hospice the bearers first gathered in two genderdivided rows, with twenty to forty people in each, facing the group of five armed men. On a signal the two files of men and women slowly walked along a pathway, The panj pyare or the “the five beloved” represent the first five Sikhs who underwent the Khalsa ceremony in 1699 and embody the ideal of a saint-soldier. Sikh gurdwaras will either have a permanent group of initiated male members who act as “the five beloved” in ceremonies or select men of stable character for each event. 

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lined with devotees waving peacock feathers, until they reached the cremation chamber and handed over the scriptures one by one (see Figure 7.1). The same ritualized procedure was repeated several times during the morning hours and involved hundreds of devotees. One novelty was the inclusion of children who were allowed to carry prayer books, probably as an attempt to foster them in selfless service to the Guru. The procession also displayed a hierarchy of the texts: in the first rounds single-volume copies of the Guru Granth Sahib were transported by male and female adults and placed side-by-side on a separate place inside the crematorium, while copies of the scripture in several volumes (sanchi), breviaries (gutka), and loose sheets with gurbani hymns (waste from the printing press, cards, posters, pamphlets, and so on) were borne by people of all ages and sited on other iron beds. I was told that at least 250 “forms” (sarops) of Guru Granth Sahib and more than 10,000 prayer books were disposed of during this event.

Figure 7.1

Agan Bhet Samskar at Goindwal Sahib in 2008. Author’s photograph

A few selected attendants, including Narinder Singh, opened the scriptural robes and soaked the covers with clarified butter (ghee) for purification, while smaller books and sheets were sprinkled with the fluid. When all the texts had been installed on the iron beds and received the anointment they were again covered with colorful robes. The whole congregation assembled outside the entrance of

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the crematorium to present the Sikh prayer, after which Narinder Singh, having lit a large steel torch, entered the chamber to offer the fire at different places. At this juncture, all participants were loudly and repeatedly crying out the Sikh salutation as the fire increased, until all attendants made their exit and sealed the door to the burning room. The ceremony concluded with a final prayer, devotional singing, religious discourses, and the serving of food from the communal kitchen (langar). Thirteen days were to pass before the door to the crematorium was opened and in the meantime the community arranged a recitation of the whole Guru Granth Sahib (khulla path) in the adjacent gurdwara. In the afternoon of the thirteenth day devotees collected the ashes in big plastic bags and urns with wooden sticks and washed and scraped the iron grills with water and milk. The remnants of the books were carried on their heads and placed on trolleys to be transported in procession to the nearby river or canal. After a reading of the Sikh prayer, the ashes were poured into a large pipe placed in the middle of the stream to disperse in the water (see also Pritpal Singh 2000b). Devotees attending the cremation ceremony emphasize that it is not Guru Granth Sahib which is being consigned to the fire but the “volume” (bir) or the manifested “form” (sarop) of the Guru. In line with the Sikh theory of the Guru’s embodiment, a clear distinction is made between the internal/spiritual and the external/material dimensions of the scripture. It is the temporal vessel – the scriptural form made up of paper, ink, and book cover – that will be burnt to ashes after having completed a worldly existence, while the true Guru abiding in the text is considered eternal and immortal. People attending the ceremony assert that the cremation ritual returns the revealed words to the divine origin when the aging printed books can no longer provide an appropriate abode for the Guru. With each scripture burnt the “spirit” of Guru Granth Sahib is temporarily divorced from materiality until new volumes are created on the printing presses at Amritsar. The analogy to notions of the human composite and destiny after death is close at hand in this and similar religious interpretations of the fire sacrifice. The inner and god-like self of human beings (atma) is believed to pass through cycles of births and rebirths, each of which is cocooned with a physical body and mind/ heart. Just as the human soul leaves the body at the time of death and travels to a divine abode before rebirth, the scriptural Guru seems to be subjected to a similar regenerating process, although with a worldly form in the shape of a text that is not subjected to the laws of karma but pre-ordained by the historical Gurus. It is noteworthy that the same metaphor which is used to imply the divine “light” (jot) that was passed on from one Guru to another and now lives in the Guru Granth Sahib is also employed to signify the human soul which leaves the body at the time of death. In particular, the death of a person deemed to be liberated while remaining alive (like the human Gurus) is said to be a moment when “light merges into light” (joti joti samae) – in other words, the liberated soul unites with the divine. Although the spirit of the Guru is believed to be likewise divine and eternal, the Guru Granth Sahib is bound to assume a temporal and material

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body since the scripture was selected as the Guru of the world to reveal the divine message. Religious expositions of the fire sacrifice want to draw attention to the inner identity of Guru Granth Sahib by distinguishing the moment when the scriptural abode perishes and the “spirit” of the Guru proceeds to come alive in new historical settings through devotional practices enacted by the Sikhs. The resemblance to human culture is even more striking when regarding the ritual elements and the internal structure of the Agan Bhet Samskar. The ceremony appears to have drawn much of the symbolic fabric from a typical death ceremony for human beings and organized these elements into a new ritual structure suited for the cremation of scriptures (see Figure 7.2).10 Just as the human corpse, dressed in new clothes, is carried in a procession to the cremation ground to be anointed with clarified butter (ghee) before being consigned to the fire, old scriptures are wrapped in robes and solemnly transported to the “the respected pyre” (angitha sahib) to be purified before they are offered to the flames. Ritual acts which normally frame a human cremation – such as the reading of the Sikh prayer and recitations of the complete Guru Granth Sahib – have become constituents of the death ceremony for scriptures. And, just as the remaining bones of the cremated human body, or the “flowers” (phul), are washed in milk and consigned to water, the ashes of the text will be immersed in a water course thirteen days after cremation. Throughout the ceremony of the fire sacrifice Narinder Singh and his closest male attendants are presented as key actors with ritual roles comparable to mourners in human death ceremonies. Like the chief mourner, usually the eldest son or some other male relative, whose duty is to anoint the deceased with clarified butter and “offer the fire” (agni bhaint), they are responsible for performing similar acts to the scriptural bodies inside the cremation room. The women standing on the outside performing devotional music during the program wear white suits and shawls, the traditional mourning color in Punjab. With their bodies, dresses, and acts the participants of the fire sacrifice thus behave as if they were mourning the worldly extinction of an honored person. The Agan Bhet Samskar presents itself as a “life-cycle rite” for the temporal form of Guru Granth Sahib. A set of well-known and formalized acts derived from a typical human death ceremony have been combined within the framework of a new ritual event that marks the scripture’s social transfer and departure from the world and community of disciples.

10 For descriptions of the ritual structure of Sikh death ceremonies for humans, see Myrvold 2006 and 2007.

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1.

The body is dressed in clean clothes.

The book is dressed in robes.

2.

The body is placed on a bed at the house.

The book is placed on a four-poster bed.

3.

The Sikh prayer is read before the body leaves the house.

The Sikh prayer is read before the book leaves the bedroom

4.

The body is carried to the cremation ground.

The book is carried to the crematoria.

5.

The body is placed on the pyre.

The book is placed on the grill.

6.

The body is smeared with clarified butter.

The book is smeared with clarified butter.

7.

An attendant from the gurdwara performs the Sikh prayer beside the pyre.

Narinder Singh or some other attendant performs the Sikh prayer outside the crematoria.

8.

The eldest son lights the pyre.

Narinder Singh lights the pyre.

9.

The mourning family arranges a continuous reading of Guru Granth Sahib for two days.

The congregation arranges an open reading of Guru Granth Sahib for thirteen days.

10. On the fourth day after cremation the family collects the ashes for immersion in water.

Thirteen days after cremation the ashes of the book are collected and consigned to water.

Figure 7.2 Ritual Structure of Human versus Scriptural Cremations Making the Scripture a Person To religious Sikhs the careful ministration of Guru Granth Sahib during the fire sacrifice is perceived as the type of action that responds best to the sacred nature and status of the text. From an analytical perspective one can also argue that these ritual acts and behaviors are religious measures to personify and make the scripture a “social other,” invested with sacrality, agency, and the authority of a personal Guru. When people perform ritual actions they do not merely express or communicate latent beliefs but actively create and define cultural meanings, values and ideologies through their bodily movements (Bell 1992). In general terms, personification refers to the common tendency to endow non-human entities with qualities of personal traits. The object personified is treated as if it was a “person” or “superperson” imbued with extra power and status of higher rank (Bird-David 1999), who/which inhabits a soul, is socially alive, possesses capacities to communicate ideas and exchange gifts, and in other ways expresses

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the underlying relationality that defines its position (Harvey 2006; De Castro 2004). In instances of active personification: objects are frequently represented as if they are human, are involved in processes which are recognizably human, are treated in ways that humans are treated – and in particular are in themselves subjects of rites of passage, other rituals and attitudes, which are usually reserved for humans. (Ellen 1988, 225) As anthropologists have alleged, ritualized routines and behaviors in the human environment surrounding the material objects are external strategies by which religious people actively create this personhood and confer “social agency” on inanimate objects. The objects are protected, hidden, and kept inactive in order to regulate the access to its ascribed powers and are, on appropriate occasions, ritually activated and presented to mediate relationships between the world of humans and the world of God, spirits, or ancestors. From this perspective, personification of material objects is not measured by biological qualities but is relational and occurs in the context of social relationships. By enmeshing the objects in a variety of ritual activities, people invest the objects with social agency and transform them into subjects that can be thought and spoken about as if they are alive, inhabit a soul, and operate as social mediators (Gell 1998). Although the Sikhs are more than well aware that Guru Granth Sahib is a book and cannot come alive in a human sense, they treat and speak of their scripture as if it was an agentive entity endued with “personhood.”11 Instead of objectifying the scripture as a spiritless object, they attribute a maximum of social agency to the text and regard it as a spiritualized person of exalted status. The funerary service for old printed volumes of Guru Granth Sahib is just one among many examples of ritual and social behaviors by which the Sikhs create and confirm perceptions of the identity and status of the text. The scripture is displayed as a “social other,” whose physical form is a target of devout ministration, even when it becomes old and blemished. Designed as a life-cycle rite for the scripture, the fire sacrifice defines the moment when the eternal “spirit” of the Guru separates from the scriptural body and the Guru’s temporal manifestation ceases to live. To burn undamaged scriptures, by accident or intention, is, in contrast, considered the most sacrilegious act, comparable to burning a human being alive. This notion was illustrated by a fire incident in East London in March 2009 when 11 Perhaps the most illustrative case in point of the Sikh attribution of personhood to the Guru Granth Sahib is the official recognition of the text as a “juridical person” with legal rights to receive donations and possess land properties. In March 2000 the Supreme Court of India decreed that the properly installed scripture should be treated as a living Guru and “juristic person” who can hold property that has been given in acts of charity (see for example Jangveer Singh 2000; “Guru Granth A Juristic Person” 2000). For other examples of how the Sikhs personify the scripture, see Myrvold 2007.

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a gurdwara burnt to the ground and eleven volumes of the Guru Granth Sahib were destroyed. In the days that followed the local community expressed their sorrow in the media and stressed, to British authorities and their own members, that their scripture is an embodiment of all the ten human Gurus. Since the eleven books had not yet completed a life-time in congregational worship they were designated as “martyrs” (shahid) who had their “limbs” (angs) burnt while still alive. Drawing parallels to the historical twin martyrdoms of Guru Arjan in 1606 and Guru Tegh Bahadur in 1675, the books were said to have sacrificed their lives to awaken the Sikh community in England. The fire-damaged volumes were not sent to India for disposal but instead the community consulted Narinder Singh at Goindwal who instantly dispatched three of his close workers to arrange a cremation chamber and conduct a ceremony at a local Sikh college at Chigwell in Essex on the Sunday following the blaze. The ashes of scriptures were solemnly immersed in the Thames a month later (www.neverforgetbow09.co.uk). But by no means all Sikhs would agree with these and similar interpretations of the identity of Guru Granth Sahib. When a newspaper article about the funerary practice at Goindwal Sahib was published on the Internet in 2007, comments on discussion forums clearly displayed a spectrum of religious stances among the Sikhs in India and in the diaspora (Ramanathan 2007). While some praised the activity as a respectful and necessary way to dispose of scriptures and papers on which the divine word had been written, others questioned the validity of the funerary service and emphasized that, without true comprehension of the teaching within the Guru Granth Sahib, ritual acts performed to the body of the text were meaningless and could easily relapse into bibliolatry. Contradictory to the Sikh teaching, the physical form of the scripture rather than the teaching it contains becomes the primary object of worship.12 Modernist interpretations like these stress the doctrinal aspects of the text and perceive the increase of ritual activities within the Sikh community as a degeneration of the Gurus’ pristine teaching. The scripture is a “holy book” comparable to other scriptures in the world religions, one which contains a sacred teaching that should be protected from cultural influences and practices. Although these and similar ideas are voiced in discourses within the Sikh community, they do not seem to exert any major influence on collective worship and behaviors towards the Guru Granth Sahib. Conclusion This essay describes how contemporary Sikhs have recreated cremation rituals for printed versions of Guru Granth Sahib when the scriptures are considered “aged” and inappropriate for worship. The Sikhs showed an early appreciation for writing and adopted print technology as it was believed to provide a physical completeness to their sacred text. In response to the modern challenge of mass-production of 12

Discussion on www.sikhchic.com (retrieved April 3, 2009).

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religious texts in the twentieth century the need arose to create ceremonies that could dispose of scripture in a proper and respectful way. The chapter examines the ritual arrangement of a recently invented death ceremony for Guru Granth Sahib in the Punjab which has gained increasing popularity among Sikhs worldwide. The religious theories underlying the ceremony suggest a distinction between the inner “spirit” of the text, which is considered eternal, and the body-form of the scripture, which is subjected to a regenerating process similar to humans and, therefore, should be reverentially obliterated when it becomes old and broken. The ritual construction and enactment of the cremation ceremony can also be viewed as religious measures by which contemporary devotees attempt to personify the scripture and reclaim traditional values about the text’s identity and status in a global community of Sikhs. The ceremony is presented as a “life-cycle rite” for scriptures and strongly emphasizes that Guru Granth Sahib is not an ordinary book, but enshrines the living Guru who continuously assumes the temporal bodyform of a scripture to mediate divine messages to the world. Bibliography “Agan Bhent Seva Today”. 2007. In The Hindu, October 7. Retrieved April 4, 2009, from http://www.thehindu.com Bell, Catherine. 1992. Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. New York: Oxford University Press. Bird-David, Nurit. 1999. “Animism Revisited: Personhood, Environment, and Relational Epistemology.” In Current Anthropology, vol. 40, pp. 67–91. Coward, Harold. 1988. Sacred Word and Sacred Text: Scripture in World Religions. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. De Castro, Eduardo Viveiros. 2004. “Exchanging Perspectives: The Transformation of Objects into Subjects in Amerindian Onthologies”. In Common Knowledge, vol. 10:3, pp. 463–484. Ellen, Roy. 1988. “Fetishism.” In Man, vol 23:2, pp. 213–235. Gell, Alfred. 1998. Art and Agency: An Antrhopological Theory. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Goel, Asheesh. 2008. “Gurudwara Angitha Sahib Cremates Old Volumes of Guru Granth Sahib.” Posted at Mynews.in, November 24, 2008. Retrieved April 3, 2009, from http://www.mynews.in. Gurmat Learning Zone. 2008. “Digest Number 5283.” Posted at the discussion forum November 24. Retrieved from email subscription. “Guru Granth Sahib a Juristic ‘Person’.” 2000. In The Tribune, April 3. Retrieved April 23, 2009, from http://www.tribuneindia.com. Harvey, Graham. 2006. Animism: Respecting the Living World. New York: Columbia University Press. Jeudy-Ballini, Monique and Juillerat, Bernard (eds). 2002. People and Things: Social Mediations in Oceania. Durham, NC: Carolina Academic Press.

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Kaur, Guninder. 1995. The Guru Granth Sahib: Its Physics and Metaphysics. New Delhi: Manohar Publishers. Kaur-Singh, Nikky. 1993. The Feminine Principle in the Sikh Vision of the Transcendent. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kaur-Singh, Nikky Guninder. 1992. “The Myth of the Founder: The Janamsakhis and the Sikh Tradition,” In History of Religions, vol. 31:4, pp. 329–343. Kohli, Surinder Singh. 1992. Guru Granth Sahib: An Analytical Study (A Critical Study of the Adi Granth). Amritsar: Singh Brothers. Madra, Amandeep. 2008. “Old Holy Texts Consigned to Flames.” In The Hindu Newspaper, January 28. Retrieved April 4, 2009, from http://www. punjabheritage.org. Mann, Gurinder Singh. 2001. The Making of the Sikh Scripture. New York: Oxford University Press. Mann, Gurinder Singh. 2008. “Scriptures and the Nature of Authority: The Case of Guru Granth in Sikh Tradition.” In Wimbush, Vincent L (ed.), Theorizing Scriptures: New Critical Orientations to a Cultural Phenomenon. pp. 41–54. New Brunswick, NJ, and London: Rutgers University Press. Myrvold, Kristina. 2006. “Death in Sikhism.” In Garces-Foley, Kathleen (ed.), Death and Religion in a Changing World. pp. 178–204. New York: M.E. Sharpe. Myrvold, Kristina. 2007. Inside the Guru’s Gate: Ritual Uses of Texts among the Sikhs in Varanasi. Lund: Media tryck. Myrvold, Kristina. 2008. “Personifying the Sikh Scripture: Ritual Procession of the Guru Granth Sahib in India.” In Jacobsen, Knut A. (ed.), South Asian Religions on Display: Religious Processions in South Asia and in the Diaspora. pp. 140–156. London and New York: Routledge. Neki, J.S. (ed.). 2007. Guru Granth Sahib and Its Context. New Delhi: Bhai Vir Singh Sahitya Sadan. Oberoi, Harjot. 1995. The Construction of Religious Boundaries: Culture, Identity, and Diversity in the Sikh Tradition. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Ramanathan, Jaya. 2007. A Grand Funeral. Retrieved April 3, 2009, from www. sikhchic.com. Sachdev, Jaswant Singh. 2008. “300 Saal, Guru De Naal.” Posted at World Sikh News, October 15. Retrieved April 23, 2009, from http://www.worldsikhnews. com. Shackle, Christopher. 2008. “Repacking the Ineffable: Changing Styles in Sikh Scriptural Commentary.” In Bulletin of SOAS, vol. 71:2, pp. 255–277. Singh, Bhai Vir. 1999 (1926). Puratan Janam Sakhi Sri Guru Nanak Dev Ji. New Delhi: Bhai Vir Singh Sahitya Sadan. Singh, Fauja (ed.). 1990. The City of Amritsar: An Introduction. Patiala: Publication Bureau Punjabi University. Singh, Gian (ed.). 2004. Bhai Santokh Singh ji Rachit Itihasik Granth: Suraj Prakash. Amritsar: Bhai Javahar Singh Kripal Singh.

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Singh, Gurnek. 1998. Guru Granth Sahib: Interpretations, Meaning and Nature. Delhi: National Book Shop. Singh, Jangveer. 2000. “‘Where Will We Go?’ Ask Udasis: SGPC Hails SC Ruling on Guru Granth Sahib.” In The Tribune, April 4. Retrieved April 23, 2009, from http://www.tribuneindia.com. Singh, Jasmer. 2005. Sri Guru Granth Sahib: A Descriptive Bibliography of Punjabi Manuscripts. Patiala: Publication Bureau Punjabi University. Singh, Pashaura. 2000. The Guru Granth Sahib: Canon, Meaning and Authority. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Singh, Pashaura. 2008. “Scripture as Guru in the Sikh Tradition.” In Religion Compass, vol. 2:4, pp. 659–673. Singh, Pritpal. 2000a. “Birap Saropan da Samskar (Part 1).” In Ajit, September 18. Singh, Pritpal. 2000b. “Birap Saropan da Samskar ate Jal-pravah (Part 2).” In Ajit, September 25. World Sikh News. 2007. “Banning the Granth Law and the Absence of Logic.” Editorial posted November 7. Retrieved April 3, 2009, from http://www. worldsikhnews.com.

Chapter 8

Disposing of Non-Disposable Texts: Conclusions and Prospects for Further Study James W. Watts

The chapters of this volume document that many religious communities practice rituals for disposing of sacred texts and that even more exhibit some concern for their proper disposal. The fact that such rituals regularly take the form of funerals points to widespread recognition of an analogy between sacred texts and people. I think the attention these traditions devote to the disposal of sacred texts brings to light a typical way of thinking about many other kinds of books and texts as well, though certainly not all. As one way of analyzing the practices and beliefs documented so thoroughly in these chapters, I will discuss the general problem of book disposal as well as the analogy between humans and texts in the context of a theory of textual ritualization. This will lay the basis for suggesting some directions for future research to build on the path breaking contributions of the studies presented in this volume. Non-Disposable Books Books are hard to throw away. Though produced in mass quantities at low prices like so many other disposable commodities, books exert a grip on our imaginations that ensures special treatment. Many families socialize their children from an early age to cherish and collect books, even before they are able to read them for themselves. Public education reinforces and universalizes this socialization. Libraries are venerated as the “hearts” of schools and universities. Mass media celebrates authors for their creativity and scholars for their expertise, documented by the titles and, often, display of their most recent book. Governments invest resources in archival depositories to ensure that all the books produced in their countries are preserved. Disposing of books thus transgresses inhibitions reinforced by family, school, media, and government. Nevertheless, books must be thrown away. They are produced in such quantities that they cannot all be preserved nor are they all needed. Their pages and bindings wear out or, more commonly these days, their contents go out of date. It is cheaper to buy a new copy than repair an old one and more useful to buy a revised edition than to continue using the old version. Yet the ubiquity of old reference books and tattered paperbacks in rummage sales and used book stores testifies to the

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cultural inhibition on disposing of books. A librarian tells me that, because of public outrage at reports of libraries throwing out books, they have carried their worn-out, duplicate, or out-of-date copies to the dumpster at night, under the cover of darkness (Wendy Bousfield, personal communication). Destroying books arouses deep antipathies stoked by memories of political and religious suppression by book burnings. Such concerns do not just reflect modern political history, such as the bonfires of the Nazi party. Memories of ancient book burnings lie at the roots of Chinese culture (Shiji 87:6b–7a, in De Bary 2009, 117–18) as well as the Jewish (1 Maccabees 1:56–57) and Christian religions (Sarefield 2007). Less frequently remembered is the fact that suppression of books succeeded in virtually destroying the Manicheans (Gulácsi 2005, 30). Concerns over the possible loss of texts have manifested themselves historically in the apocalyptic eschatologies of both Indian Jains and Japanese Buddhists, as Balbir and Moerman point out in this volume. Older yet are the anathemas inscribed in ancient Near Eastern royal inscriptions and religious epics against anyone who might destroy or modify their texts – evidence that concern for textual preservation may be as old as the textualization of narrative itself. Contemporary expressions of outrage over the intentional or unintentional destructions of libraries – such as the burning of the library of ancient Alexandria in 48 bce or the collapse of the Cologne city archives in 2009 (Curry 2009) – usually focus on the loss of information. To address this concern, university and government libraries build more and larger buildings to house collections exploding in size due to the growth in late twentieth- and twenty-first-century publishing. These have recently come to include warehouses for off-site storage that measure shelf-space by the kilometer (Jeffries 2007). One commentator noted the inaccessibility of books in such facilities and opined that “they’re our era’s equivalent of pharaonic tombs … time capsules” (Manaugh 2007). The urge for book preservation is not much constrained by the fact that some texts are so ubiquitous that their complete loss is unimaginable (for example, the scriptures of several large religions). This observation suggests that factors other than information preservation are at work here. The concern for book preservation involves respect for culture(s), veneration of traditions, and, at its root, the preservation of cultural values. There is therefore an inherent tension in most literate cultures between the idea of a book or enduring text on the one hand and the possibility of its disposal or destruction on the other. Of course, there are certain kinds of media, some in book (codex) form, that are designed to be disposable and are easily treated that way: newspapers, magazines, telephone books, and so on. Thinking about such disposable media casts the distinctive iconic nature of non-disposable books into sharper relief. There is nothing new about disposable written media. They have existed since the invention of writing. In fact, writing was probably invented in ancient Sumer with short-term use in mind, namely to produce sales receipts in malleable and reusable clay. Ancient scribes also wrote letters and receipts on broken pottery shards (ostraca). Other transient written media have included

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wax tablets and chalk-boards. The invention of movable-type printing in Europe was quickly employed to mass-produce disposable broadsheets containing news, advertisements and songs. The mutability of contemporary electronic texts therefore has very old precedents. Why can some texts and books be disposed of easily while others cannot? The telephone book provides an instructive example of the difference between disposable and non-disposable books. The difference does not lie in either the number of copies published or in the degree to which they are instantly recognizable. The phone book’s physical and economic ubiquity over the past century is undeniable, as Paul Collins noted in Slate Magazine: The humble phone book spent the 20th century as the prince of print jobs. … The phone book is the one book guaranteed to be present in every household, no matter how little else the occupants read. Even in a vacant apartment, you’ll still find old phone books in the kitchen cabinet. … Last year, according to the industry group the Yellow Pages Association, approximately 615 million directories were printed in the United States alone, generating revenues of $13.9 billion. (Collins 2008)

But Collins points out that “the phone book’s ubiquity has given it an invisibility. … [D]espite being the most popular printed work ever, there’s never been a single scholarly monograph on the phone book” (Collins 2008). Those observations go to the heart of what makes a book iconic. It is cultural attention focused by rituals. By “ritual,” I mean practices that draw attention, in this case to books, to make people conscious of how they are using and reading them (following the ritual theory of Jonathan Z. Smith 1987a, 193–95; 1987b, 109). Religious processions with scriptures, political oath ceremonies, and textual amulets all ritualize the physical form and image of books or other texts. But people also ritualize books – that is, they draw sustained and conscious attention to them – by interpreting their meaning (in scholarly articles and monographs, among many other media) and also by performing the text through recitations, songs, art, theater, and film. People in different cultures, times, and places ritualize different books to different degrees along each of these three iconic, semantic, and performative dimensions (Watts 2006). Phone books, however, are ritualized in none of these dimensions. Not only does their semantic form and cultural significance remain uninterpreted, but the idea of “performing” their text or contents is ludicrous. As to their physical form, no one protests if they are burned, mutilated, or otherwise destroyed (unless it is out of concern for environmental impact). By the analysis employed here, phone books are among the most disposable of books. Disposable books may also help us grasp the likely effects of transforming texts into digital media. To the degree that a book simply serves as an information source, it can be replaced by computer searches without readers feeling any loss. Online phone directories have become readily available and will likely replace

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material phone books entirely within a generation. Sacred texts have also been adapted for the new media but with very different prospects for the material books. Biblical texts, for example, were digitized and marketed in electronically searchable forms even sooner than phone books. The difference between phone books and Bibles lies not in the degree to which they have been transformed and accepted in electronic form, but rather in the fact that the disappearance of physical Bibles is unimaginable because of their ritual uses. It is impossible that e-readers will ever replace traditional codices in liturgical processions and other ritual uses along the iconic dimension, because computers and other kinds of e-readers do not represent particular texts but are generic containers for any content. As a result, the transformation of scripture into electronic texts has elicited no protests from the devout that I can find, unlike the widely voiced concerns that meet the transformation of literary texts into electronic form. To the degree that people ritualize books and other texts along the iconic dimension – that is, to the degree that they pay conscious attention to how they look and feel, how they carry them and their own posture as they read them – such iconic books will remain major features of human cultures. The iconic status of various kinds of material books preserves and even enhances their appeal in an age of digital information. Non-disposable books are supposed to preserve their contents for the future. In contrast to disposable texts, concerns for their preservation have always motivated the production of iconic texts. These concerns appear explicitly in many ancient texts that prohibit their own destruction and mandate their preservation and even oral reproduction (see Moerman Chapter 4 on the Lotus Sutra and Balbir Chapter 6 on such colophons in medieval Jain texts). By offering the possibility of preserving knowledge, culture, and religion, books play a central role in forming and reproducing individual and corporate identity. Authors create in their works an authorial voice that replaces their embodied personas in the minds of readers and has the potential to long outlast them. Cultures establish and perpetuate the canon of their “greatest” authors to claim their voices as authentic representatives of the culture. Sacred texts establish the authoritative voice of a religious tradition and implicitly or explicitly represent it as the voice of deity. By internalizing and reproducing these voices, readers identify themselves with that culture and/or religion. By claiming the books, they define their own identities. Preserving books then seems vital to preserving religious and cultural identity. Texts by their nature reinforce a widespread human tendency to distinguish material form from essential nature. Readers distinguish the “contents” of a text – its linguistic form and thematic message – from the particular material in which they find it. We usually discuss Shakespeare’s Hamlet, for example, without much attention to which edition we read it in or whether it was bound

 See also the conclusion of the ancient Babylonian Erra epic; Deuteronomy 6:6–9 and 31:11–12 in the Hebrew Bible; and the New Testament book of Revelation 22:18–19.

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with other pieces of literature. In this sense, texts readily transcend the material book in which they are read. Such textual transcendence bears a more than analogous relationship to religious transcendence. Though individual copies of texts may wear out or be destroyed, the transcendent texts can last forever so long as copies are reproduced and/or preserved. Their potential for infinite reproduction and eternal preservation provides a practical and demonstrable form of immortality. Conscious of our heritage from previous generations, we cherish old texts as relics that connect us to the past. Conscious of our own mortality, we hope that “our” books will live on indefinitely. Depending on the kind of texts in question, they represent an author’s hopes for immortality, a nation’s desire for permanence, or a religion’s claim to eternal truth. The traditional codex book makes that realistically possible and verifiably true of many texts that have been preserved for centuries and even millennia. One might think that this transcendental quality of texts would render their individual material manifestations inconsequential, that when texts appear in very many copies, destruction of individual copies would not threaten their existence and so receive little resistance. This practical observation conflicts, however, with the deeply engrained socialization that books represent essential cultural and religious values. Therefore calculation of a book’s utility has very little to do with its symbolic value. That is true not just of individual iconic books but of the category of non-disposable books as a whole. Most human societies inculcate in people the belief that books incarnate the values of their culture and religion, and should therefore be cherished, preserved, and reproduced. The Ritualization of Sacred Texts In contrast to disposable books and texts, even secular books such as novels and encyclopedias gain their non-disposable status by being ritualized. They may be ritualized along one or more of three dimensions. In the case of novels, it is their interpretation (the semantic dimension) that is most frequently ritualized through exposition in school and university classes and commentary in book reviews and other forms of literary analysis. The more a particular book receives such semantic ritualization, the greater its status as literature becomes. Poetry is frequently ritualized in the performative dimension by readings. Publication of collectors’ editions of “classic” literature in leather bindings or the like ritualizes works of literature in the iconic dimension by making them appear valuable and venerable. Other genres also elicit one or another of these kinds of ritualization to establish their texts as worthy of preservation and dissemination. Religious communities ritualize particular books as sacred texts or scriptures (I use the terms as synonyms here), but with this difference: they tend to ritualize them in all three dimensions. That is a distinguishing feature of scriptures/sacred texts. Sermons, study classes, and oral and written commentaries ritualize

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their semantic dimension. Readings, recitations, drama, and art ritualize their performative dimension. The iconic dimension can be ritualized by decoration of the book itself through calligraphy, illuminations, and special covers of various sorts, and also by displaying, processing and venerating it. Of course, there is great variation in how and to what extent people ritualize scriptures both within particular religious traditions as well as between them, and practices change over time. My claim is simply that religious communities ritualize their sacred texts in all three dimensions in one way or another and it is this that distinguishes them functionally as sacred texts/scriptures (Watts 2006). As Schleicher also observed about Jewish practices: It is through this ritual use that the holiness of the Torah is further established and maintained. In other words, an isolated focus on the textual content of scripture to explain its holy status is far from sufficient to elucidate its holy status and influence as a phenomenon within the world of religions. (Schleicher Chapter 1)

The rituals of disposal described in this volume ritualize the iconic dimension of sacred texts. The chapters document both a widespread concern for ritual disposal of scriptures as well as the great variety among religious traditions regarding both the form of the rituals and the frequency with which they are actually performed. And, as several chapters note (Svensson Chapter 2; Parmenter Chapter 3; Balbir Chapter 6), expressing concerns about how to dispose of sacred texts does not necessarily translate into routine performance of disposal rituals. Nevertheless, some common themes show up in discussions of scripture disposal from almost every religious tradition surveyed in this volume. The most prominent is an analogy commonly drawn between the disposal of a sacred text and of a human body. Muslims, Jews, and Christians urge burial of worn-out sacred texts because burial represents the respectful ritual for treating the dead. Sikhs provide a “respected pyre” for cremating sacred texts in a ceremony explicitly analogous to a funeral. When Jains, Hindus and some Jewish rabbis distinguish scripture disposal from human burial on purity grounds, the analogy to funerals nevertheless remains operative in how they distinguish the disposal rituals from ordinary funerals. In the case of medieval Japanese Buddhism, concerns for the afterlife often motivated the elaborate reproduction and preservative burial of sacred texts. Ordinary funerals provide a ritual means for emphasizing the continuing value of this particular human life and of human life in general despite the destruction of the material body. Its destruction raises anxieties about the preservation of the person’s transcendent soul or value. The habit of treating books as material incarnations of transcendent meanings makes them particularly powerful emblems of this conundrum. Therefore the ritual establishment of transcendent value despite material destruction also lies at the heart of scripture disposal ceremonies, so they tend to take funerary form. Conversely, afterlife beliefs often invoke the trope of textual permanence in the form of a heavenly “Book of Life” or something similar

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that preserves the names of the saved and/or a record of every human’s deeds. This theme of afterlife expectations permanently inscribed in supernatural texts appears among Jews, Taoists, Christians, Muslims and Sikhs (see Parmenter 2009). The original union of transcendent value and immanent form presents less of a problem, whether in the form of people or of books. Hence neither birth nor book creation are as often ritualized as are disposals of bodies and sacred texts. While Jews, Sikhs, and Japanese Buddhists ritualize the creation of at least some sacred texts, Muslims, Hindus, and Christians rarely do so. Regardless of the circumstances of the book’s creation, however, all the traditions surveyed here use rituals to establish and maintain the status of scriptures/sacred texts. Most such rituals take place within regularly scheduled services of worship, but several traditions also set aside annual festivals for celebrating their scriptures (for example, Judaism’s Simhat Torah and Islam’s Lailat al Qadr; for the Jains’ celebrations, see Balbir Chapter 6, and for those of the Sikhs, see Myrvold Chapter 7). Disposal of sacred texts therefore evokes certain typical religious themes regarding spiritual transcendence and physical immanence. That said, it is surprising that the dichotomy of body versus mind or soul does not show up frequently in this volume’s discussions. Perhaps that is because adherents of these traditions have put relatively little effort into theorizing the nature of sacred texts. The contrast between transcendent contents and immanent material form has rather been worked out in practice through ritual. As a result, two themes that crop up repeatedly in the preceding chapters have to do with rituals involving purity and with relics. Pollution and purity practices remain undertheorized in religious studies. Forty years ago, Mary Douglas famously defined pollution as “matter out of place” (Douglas 1966, 44). That summary works especially well for sacred space which, in very many religious traditions, must be protected from polluting substances in order to preserve its holy state. Thus the purity of people and objects, including sacred texts as Schleicher noted above, must be maintained in order that they can be brought into the sacred space. However, the holiness of certain objects can be so conventional that their relationship to sacred space does not come into consideration. Then the issue becomes instead the relative place of sacred and profane matter, with concern that the former always receive the more honorable place and reverent treatment. In the case of some scriptures, the relationship between sacred object and sacred space can even be reversed. Jews, Muslims, and Sikhs often claim that what makes a space sacred is precisely the presence in it of scriptural texts.  This is especially the case for Sikhs who define their house of worship, a gurdwara, precisely by the presence in it of the Guru Granth. The Ark containing the Torah scrolls is also the holiest part of a Jewish synagogue, whose space is frequently defined as sacred because of their presence. The Muslim case is much less obvious because a masjid functions fundamentally as a house of prayer whose rituals emphasize recitation of Qur’anic verses, rather than physical manipulation of the book. Nevertheless, a recurrent theme in news stories

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Scriptures are by definition “sacred” texts, a classification which therefore inevitably raises anxieties over their potential desecration (see Watts 2009). Svensson (Chapter 2) describes above the widespread Muslim belief that one must be ritually pure to touch a Qur’an. Balbir (Chapter 6) points out that Jain books come with colophons or, more recently, stickers instructing readers to show them respect by preserving their purity. Broo (Chapter 5) notes that Hindu scriptures should not be burned because, in contrast to human bodies, they are considered pure. They should therefore be buried on analogy to the funerals of some saints. Parmenter (Chapter 3) points out that suggestions for proper disposal of Christian Bibles draw explicit analogies with the ritual disposal of other consecrated objects, except among Protestants, who have no such analogues but must cite Jewish practices or customs for disposing of national flags and Christmas trees instead. Yet invariably the authors in this volume who mention purity concerns for sacred texts also emphasize the diversity and inconsistency of purity practices involving scriptures, as well as frequent disagreements among religious authorities over their importance and application. These inconsistencies and disagreements stem from the fact that purity concerns over sacred texts tend to be generated by pious laity. The mostly ad hoc pronouncements of religious authorities reflect their origins in responses to lay concerns. The three-dimensional model of scriptures can help illuminate this situation by drawing attention to the fact that the iconic dimension is most accessible to laity. Whereas scholars and clergy control the semantic dimension of interpretation by virtue of their expertise, and skilled speakers often dominate the performative dimension of public reading, recitation, and dramatization, lay people can readily access a physical book, especially in the modern era of mass publication. The material book comes under their complete control, unlike interpretation and even performance which to a lesser or greater degree are monopolized by experts. Even illiteracy does not interfere with ritual manipulation of the material text. As a result, devout lay people often feel particularly responsible for the physical treatment of sacred texts in their possession. Scholars, clergy and liturgists, by contrast, feel greater responsibility to the semantic and/or performative dimensions of scriptures which fall under their purview and which they regard as more important. Therefore their rulings on reverent treatment of physical scriptures are usually afterthoughts prompted by lay concerns. The other common theme in most of the essays presented here involves analogies between sacred texts and bodily relics, in which books are treated ritually like relics. The most pervasive employment of these practices seems to be in Mahayana Buddhism where texts are frequently placed in the foundations of stupas in place of bodily relics of the Buddha (see Moerman Chapter 4). Hinduism, by contrast, downplays the significance of material books, yet Broo (Chapter 5) is about mosques damaged or destroyed in recent years due to warfare in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Pakistan have been protests that complain most bitterly about the destruction not of the buildings but of the Qur’ans that they contained.

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able to draw attention to at least one example of a Hindu temple site surrounded by shrines (samādhi) for relics that includes a book samādhi as well. If one disposes of sacred texts by storing them, such storage sites may themselves attract worshipers as shrines, as has happened to a cave containing thousands of worn-out Qur’ans in Pakistan (Boulat 2001). Parmenter (Chapter 3) describes a ritual variation on this theme: in early Christian worship, the procession of the Gospel book to the altar containing holy relics reproduced a funerary procession. Of course, many traditions regularly display bodily relics for veneration rather than or in addition to burying them in shrines. In the same way, books associated with particular saints may be treated as relics of that saint just like their bodily remains. Broo describes this kind of Hindu relic book which is displayed as a relic of the saintly person who wrote, copied or owned it. Svensson (Chapter 2) notes similar displays of Qur’ans owned by important Muslim figures. In medieval Ireland, Gospel books associated with venerated saints were encased in book shrines and also displayed for the veneration of Christian pilgrims (Brown 2003, 77). I must observe here that such practices are hardly limited to religious traditions. Secular institutions regularly treat particular books (and other objects) in precisely the same manner, though they avoid the religious vocabulary of “relic” and “veneration.” The most prominent secular reliquaries are museums and libraries, though private collections also perform this function. The objects they collect and display or store attain their status either as intrinsically rare or important (the first kind of relic mentioned above) or from their association with important people and events (the second kind of relic), but they call them “collector’s items” instead. Historically, of course, museums and secular libraries developed out of religious institutions which they continue to imitate, for the most part unconsciously. As has often been observed, they function as shrines of national or secular culture. Books put on exhibit by museums and libraries are removed from ordinary use, just like sacred texts treated as relics. Display ritualizes their iconic dimension to the point that the text can no longer function in the semantic or performative dimensions (Watts 2006). Nobody, for example, labors to interpret a Guttenberg Bible or tries to perform a play from an original First Folio of Shakespeare. Here belief in the transcendent nature of a book’s contents allows people to distinguish it from its particular material incarnation. So long as the contents are readily available in non-relic copies, the relic text can be exhibited for its historical importance and/or distinctive material form. Sellers of rare books often behave like traders in relic body parts: just as saints’ bodies get dismembered and widely distributed, so also rare manuscripts get separated into single pages and sold individually. Books in codex form present notorious problems for exhibit since only one pair of pages can be displayed at any one time. Dismembering them not only maximizes profits for dealers but also allows collectors to frame and display one side of every page like a work of art. The proper treatment of books is also a secular concern, though again expressed in non-religious vocabulary about their “defacement” or “damage” rather than “desecration.” The belief that books serve as containers for preserving cultural

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values generates anxiety over their malicious or accidental mutilation. Librarians in particular have reason to advocate careful treatment of the books in their care and so display warnings against marking in books. Instances of intentional mutilation of rare copies either for purposes of profit or spite catch the attention of news media. However, the widespread availability of a particular book can allay concerns for its mutilation to the point of recommending annotations of personal copies. That is common practice with textbooks, but some religious groups also approve of underlining, highlighting and annotating personal copies of sacred texts. In some communities of evangelical Christians, for example, marking up personal Bibles is such a common practice that those holding clean copies may be suspected of insufficient attention to their devotions. In this case, the personal alteration of Bibles has also become ritualized. My point is that the book practices of religious communities can be understood as extensions of the book practices of their wider cultures. These practices reflect the inherent understanding of books and other texts as physical repositories of meanings and values that transcend their particular material form. Religious communities generally elaborate and exaggerate the ritualization of books found in secular culture, but not always in the same ways. Traditions for handling other sacred objects without desecrating them inform how sacred texts get handled. Religious groups with established traditions of relic veneration find such practices particularly applicable to relic texts. One might suppose, however, that the ritual production of sacred texts purely for the sake of burying them must exceed any possible secular analogue. In his chapter on Japanese Buddhism, Moerman describes the medieval practice of writing elaborate copies of the Lotus Sutra in order to bury them in funeral ceremonies. The goal was to preserve them through the coming time of ignorance of the Dharma, as well as to offer the individual who sponsored their creation hope for an afterlife. Burial in this case represents not disposal but eschatological preservation, a kind of “time capsule” as Moerman notes. However, exactly the same language was used by Manaugh (2007) of the British Library’s new warehouse to store “nil to low use material.” The Guardian described it as “262 linear kilometres of highdensity, fully automated storage in a low-oxygen environment … meticulously constructed to house things that no one wants,” hence a “tomb of tomes” (Jeffries 2007). The stated rationale behind laws establishing copyright libraries is, of course, the preservation of information, which though currently unwanted might someday be needed. The status of “someday” in that rationalization is more than vaguely eschatological. Positively apocalyptic is the Long Now Foundation’s efforts to preserve a record of 1,500 human languages etched microscopically on a nickel “Rosetta disk” designed to last 50,000 years – ten times the entire history of written language to date (Rose 2008). By the labels “eschatological” and “apocalyptic,” I do not mean to imply that the fears of information loss motivating these projects are unrealistic: as a fully socialized member of twenty-first-century Western culture, I too find the prospect of an information apocalypse very likely and am convinced of the real harm of

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widespread language extinctions. Just like medieval Japanese Buddhists, we who inhabit contemporary secular cultures fear the loss of our cultural capital in the near future and are making expensive and time-consuming efforts to preserve it in more or less inaccessible forms. Applications of modern technology and engineering to these problems are not new. In the early years of the nuclear arms race, the US Constitution and Declaration of Independence were moved into the Rotunda of the National Archives in Washington, DC, where they could be displayed under protective glass during the day and lowered into bomb-proof vaults under the building at night. The Ancient Biblical Manuscripts Center in Claremont, California, stores archival copies of its microfilm and digital files in a vault deep in the Sierra Nevada mountains. These facilities were built to withstand both natural and human threats to the documents’ preservation. I suspect that such examples of extreme measures for text preservation could be multiplied many times over. These examples are not meant to disparage modern efforts at text preservation but rather to show that veneration and preservation of the material text remains an essential aspect of the cultural function of books. Preservation of physical books and other texts remains a secular as well as religious eschatological concern. Lay and scholarly interests unite around the cause of text preservation, though often the particular books of interest to them are different. While the American public is more likely to be interested in the manuscripts of the nation’s founding documents in the elaborate Rotunda, professional historians are more likely to be interested in more obscure documents in the vaults of the National Archives. The financial stability of libraries and museums often depends on their skill at catering to both interests. Thus the Archives building in Washington was built with two main entrances: on one side is the grand entrance for tourists while on the opposite side of the building is an equally impressive entrance for researchers. The Socio-Politics of Book Disposal The three-dimensional model of scriptures thus permits a socio-political comparative analysis of the “death of sacred texts” in various cultures. The difference between professional and lay interests in sacred texts can provide a framework for understanding criticisms of book veneration practices within religious communities. Critiques of using books as amulets and relics date back to antiquity (for example Jerome in the fourth century ce) and do not reflect uniquely modern presuppositions, but rather the interests of scholars and educated clergy who emphasize the importance of the semantic interpretations of sacred texts in which they themselves are experts. I suspect that the scholarly and non-scholarly sides of this dispute are easier to distinguish in earlier eras than in modernity when mass education obscures the distinction between them. The values of literary scholarship have now been internalized by many but hardly all members of the

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public. Thus the debate among Sikh bloggers that Myrvold summarizes in Chapter 7 reflects a long-standing dispute in many traditions. Despite their interpretive authority, scholars have rarely been able to enforce attention to the semantic dimension of scriptures alone. Powerful lay interests usually insist on some socially privileged book rituals, such as their use for political and judicial oath ceremonies, because manipulation of the iconic text conveys political and religious legitimacy. Though political legitimacy does not seem to be at stake in book-disposal rituals, several chapters of this volume nevertheless mention significant lay involvement in them. A Sikh businessman took the initiative to develop and fund an institution for reverently cremating sacred texts of the Sikh and other religious traditions (Myrvold Chapter 7). In many other traditions, lay sponsors supply the funding to create and maintain sacred texts, often in hopes of specific recognition both in this life and/or the next. They also play key roles in the rituals surrounding the disposal of such texts. Further research should test this observation about the typical interests of lay people in ritualizing the iconic text in contrast to scholars’ focus on ritualizing its semantic dimension through interpretation. Does field observation of particular communities confirm the lay-orientation of purity concerns for scriptures and other sacred texts, or not? Tensions within communities and traditions over veneration of sacred texts also bear closer scrutiny. Are criticisms from clergy and/or scholars aimed at all iconic ritualizations of texts, or particularly at private rituals over which they have no control? That is, are public scripture rituals exempt from aniconic criticisms? This essay’s claims regarding continuity between secular book practices and religious ones should also be checked against the distinctive practices of different cultures. Do those differences between cultures and traditions carry over from religious texts to secular ones and vice versa? That is, can the claim of continuity between secular and religious book practices be demonstrated at the level of the life of a religious community within its specific cultural contexts? Finally, the clear analogy between books and humans that is drawn by the book-disposal rituals of the many traditions documented in this volume bears further research. Is it expressed in other book rituals or practices? If so, do these practices confirm that the root of the analogy lies in the recognition that books, like humans (it is believed), have a transcendent as well as material nature? Bibliography Boulat, Alexandra. 2001. “Keeper of the Koran.” In Time, October 3. Retrieved from http://www.time.com/time/photoessays/koran/. Brown, Michelle P. 2003. The Lindisfarne Gospels: Society, Spirituality, and the Scribe. London: The British Library. Collins, Paul. 2008. “The Book of the Undead: Why won’t phone books die?” In Slate Magazine, March 21. Retrieved from http://www.slate.com/id/2187035/.

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Curry, Andrew. 2009. “Archive Collapse Disaster for Historians.” In Spiegel, March 4. Retrieved from http://www.spiegel.de/international/ germany/0,1518,611311,00.html. De Bary, William Theodore (ed.). 2008. Sources of East Asian Tradition: Premodern Asia. New York: Columbia University Press. Douglas, Mary. 1966. Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Gulácsi, Zsuzsanna. 2005. Mediaeval Manichaean Book Art. Leiden: Brill. Jeffries, Stuart. 2007. “Inside the Tomb of Tomes.” In The Guardian, November 24. Retrieved from http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2007/nov/24/architecture. Manaugh, Geoff. 2007. “The Future Warehouse of Unwanted Books.” Posted at BLDG/BLOG, December 1. Retrieved from http://bldgblog.blogspot. com/2007/12/future-warehouse-of-unwanted-books.html. Parmenter, Dorina Miller. 2006. “The Iconic Book: The Image of the Bible in Early Christian Rituals.” In Postscripts 2 (2–3), pp. 160–189. Parmenter, Dorina Miller. 2009. “The Bible as Icon: Myths of the Divine Origin of Scripture.” In Evans, C.A and Zacharias, H.D. (eds), Jewish and Christian Scripture as Artifact and Canon. pp. 298–310. London: T.&T. Clark. Rose, Alexander. 2008. “Macro to Micro Etching.” Posted at The Long Now Foundation, November 3. Retrieved from http://blog.longnow.org/2008/11/03/ macro-to-micro-etching/. Sarefield. Daniel. 2007. “The Symbolics of Book Burning: The Establishment of a Christian Ritual of Persecution.” In Klingshirn, W.E. and Safran, L. (eds), The Early Christian Book. pp. 159–173. Washington: Catholic University of America Press. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1987a. “The Domestication of Sacrifice.” In R.G. HamertonKelly (ed.), Violent Origins. pp. 191–235. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1987b. To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Watts, James W. 2006. “The Three Dimensions of Scriptures.” In Postscripts 2 (2–3), pp. 135–159. Watts, James W. 2009. “Desecrating Scriptures. A Case Study for the LUCE Project in Media, Religion and International Relations.” Posted at Religion, Media and International Affairs Program, Maxwell School of Citizenship and Public Affairs at Syracuse University. Retrieved from http://sites.maxwell.syr. edu/luce/jameswatts.html.

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Index

Abu Zayd, Nasr 49 access to sacred texts 6, 12–13, 27, 148 and digitalization 8 restrictions on 117 for women 36 Adath Israel synagogue (New Jersey) 23 Adi Granth 127 see also Guru Granth Sahib afterlife 152–3 agan bhet samskar 137–40 Agan Bhet Seva 134–6 Agas (Gujarat) 109 Agni Purāna 93 ahl al-kitab 33 Ahmedabad (India) 116 Aitareya Āranyaka 91 ‘Ala Al-Mawdudi, Abu 46 al-Azhar University (Egypt) 42 Aleppo congregation 26 al-fatiha 33 ‘Ali (fourth Caliph) 35 al-Kawthari, Muhammad Ibn Adam 41, 42 al-kitab 33, 34 al-Nawawi, Imam 33 alters 57–8 American Bible Society 60 American Orthadox Union 24 Amida Buddha 76, 82, 83, 85, 86 Amritsar 132–3, 135, 136, 139 see also Golden Temple amulets 18, 37, 38, 149, 157 Angad, Guru 127 aniconic traditions 55, 119, 158 anthropology of texts 1–2, 3, 13 apotrophaeic practices 25–6 Arabic language/script 32, 34, 44 digitization of 46, 47 Arjan, Guru 127, 129–30n5, 132 Arkoun, Muhammad 49 arks 16, 153n2

aron ha-qodesh 16 artifacts, texts as 2, 11, 13 āśātanā 109, 110 ascetic (sannyāsin) 96–8 ashes, disposal of 42, 62, 96, 97, 98 see also under Guru Granth Sahib Ashkenazi Jews 15, 26 “Ask Imam” (website) 45, 47 Assyrian script 14 authorship 3 awe 12, 18, 27 Ayoub, Mahmoud M. 32, 34 “Baba Bathra” (bTalmud 14a) 14 Babylonian Talmud see bTalmud Banarāsidāsa 120 Bangladesh 96 baraka 38 Barber, Karin 2, 3 Bauman, Richard 3 Bell, Catherine 6, 7 Benedict, Daniel 64 Benevolent Kings Sutra 76, 83 Bengal, West (India) 96 Bhagavadgita/Bhagavadgītā 101, 134 Bhāgavata Purāna 94–5 Bhai Gurdas 127, 133n7 Bible 44, 55–66 burial of 59–60, 63, 65–6 buried with deceased 63 burning 59, 62, 134 as “carapace” of images 56n3 carrying 55, 65 digital versions of/Internet and 59, 60–61, 64, 150 disposal of 59–66 in early Christianity 56–8, 65n18 Hebrew 12 and Jewish customs 63 and legal procedures 58

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liturgy for disposal of 64 personal alteration of 156 preservation of 63–4n17 protective/healing power of 58 Revised Standard Version 59 as ritual object 55–6, 57–8, 61n15, 150, 154 as Word of God 64–5 bibliolatry 76, 111–15, 143 bimah 16 bindings 5, 13, 14, 57, 101 Bird-David, Nurit 141 Birhambir, King 99 Blacksburg (Virginia) 42 blogs 60–61, 62, 63, 64, 129, 158 blood 74, 87 Blossom of the Final Dharma, Scripture of 75 bodily fluids 6, 74, 87 book-cults 112, 157 see also bibliolatry books 147–51, 155–6 as information source 148, 149–50 love of 77, 143, 147, 155, 157 problem with disposing of 147–8 and text 150–51 ubiquity of 149 Brahmin caste 92, 93, 95 Briggs, Charles 3 Britain (UK) 41, 46, 65, 142–3 bTalmud 11, 14–15, 17, 18 Buddha Amida 76, 82 Buddhism in China 71, 72n2, 73 oral tradition in 2, 71 written tradition in 94, 112 Buddhist texts Dharma in see Dharma as embodiment of Buddha 4, 71, 75 Hikosan ruki 81 inscriptions of 4 within Buddha statues 1 see also sutra burials Bühler, Georg 110–11 buildings, texts walled into 1, 39 burial of Hindu texts 95–100, 102, 103 along with dead bodies 96–8 in book tomb 98–100, 102, 103

rituals of 100, 154 burial of Jewish texts 1, 7, 19, 21–6, 63, 65 with dead person 22, 25–6 demarcations for 22, 23, 24 and holiness 22, 23 and human bodies 22, 25–6, 152 preservative function of 4 burial of Qur’an 1, 31, 39, 40–42 analagous to human bodies 41, 152 rules for 41–2 burning sacred texts 1, 17, 42–3, 45, 59, 62, 98, 152 accidental 142–3 disposal of ashes see ashes and political/religious repression 148 social agency and 142 see also under Guru Granth Sahib Buzen province (Japan) 80 Buzoji, Mount (Japan) 80 Caitanya, Śri Krsna 96 Caitanya Vaisnavas 91, 94–103 writings of 96, 99–100, 101–2 Caliphs 35, 43 calligraphy 5, 57, 114, 115, 152 see also scribes canon 2–3 canonization histories 4 Canon Law 62 cantillation rules 13 Caro, Joseph 15 cassette tapes 47 caste system 92 Catholicism 62 CD-ROMs 19, 47–8 cemeteries, Jewish 1, 7, 9, 21–6 cemeteries, Muslim 1, 31, 39, 40–41 censorship 121–2 chalk writing 44, 46 chanting 6, 14 Chikuzen province (Japan) 80 children 34, 37, 96, 147 China 71, 72n2, 73, 75, 78, 86, 148 Christ and communion 62 and liturgy 57–8 Christianity 56–8, 65n18, 153, 155 early 56–8, 65n18

Index liturgical writings of 57–8, 64 written tradition of 2 see also Bible Christmas trees, burning of 61 Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints 59 Church of the Nativity (Bethlehem) 57n7 cleanliness see purity/impurity Codex Justinianus 58 codices 3, 4, 34–5 Cohen, Kathy 23 Collins, Paul 149 colonialism 56 colophons 114, 121, 150, 154 communion 62 computers 46, 47–8 consecration 59 Constantine 57 Constantinople, Council of (381) 58 Cook, Michael 34, 35, 39, 40, 41 Copenhagen (Denmark) 11, 19, 21–2 copyists see scribes Cort, John E. 112 Coward, Harold G. 92, 126 cremation of dead bodies 96, 97, 100, 101, 139–40, 152 cremation of texts see burning sacred texts culture and texts 1–2, 5, 148, 149, 150, 151, 155–6, 157–8 damaged manuscripts 39, 108 Damascus Great Mosque (Syria) 39, 40n7 Dar ul-Ifta 42 David, Pastor (blogger) 60, 61, 64 Dazaifu (Japan) 80 death of texts 7, 41, 63 Delhi (India) 135 Denmark 11, 19, 21–2, 24–5 Deobandi tradition 41 Déroche, François 35, 36 Desai, Ahmed 46 Desai, Mufti Ebrahim 41 desecration of sacred texts 7, 45, 59, 155–6 detachability of texts 3 Deuteronomy 17, 64 Devanagari script 114 Devil (Iblis) 38, 43 Dharma (Buddhism) 71, 72, 156

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ages of 73–4, 76, 77 Final 72, 73–4, 75, 80, 81–2, 85–6, 87 see also Future Buddha Dharmasāgara 121 Diamond Life Span Sutra 85 Digambaras 107, 108–9, 111, 117–18 digitization of texts 2, 8, 25, 44–5, 46–8, 117, 129, 149–50 and correction of mistakes 19 and information loss 156–7 disposable written media 148–9 disrespect of texts 98, 109, 110, 133 Divali festival 111 divine names 15, 16, 17–18, 27, 40 digitized 25 erasing 17, 45 writing, mistakes in 18 divinity and texts 3–4, 11, 33 divorce 19 Douglas, Mary 153 dropping/mistreating sacred texts 19, 35 Dubois, Abbé 100 Durban (South Africa) 31 Durkheim, E. 33, 49 education 34, 37, 147, 157 use of writing boards/chalk in 44–5, 46 Egypt 42 Eight Secret Daranis, Sutra of 85 Eight Spells of Heaven and Earth, Sutra of 85 Eliade Mircea 98 elites, religious 6–7, 14, 16, 27, 92, 154, 157 Ellen, Roy 142 Ennin 76–7 entextualization 3, 4 ephod 15 “Eruvin” (bTalmud 97a) 18 eschatology 72, 76, 85, 86, 148, 156 Eusebius 57 evil spirits 38, 100 fada’il al-Qur’an 34 fatwas 40, 41–2, 45, 46 on digital technology 47 festivals and texts 6, 111–15, 116, 153 fire, sacred 97 fire sacrifice 139–40, 141, 144

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flag-burning 61, 154 Flügel, Peter 119 formal aspects of texts see material bodies of texts fragments of sacred texts 17–18, 40 Fujiwara no Moromichi 84–5 Fujuwara Michinaga 82–3 funerals 34, 55 entrance of Gospels as 57 of texts 125, 134–5, 152–3 Future Buddha (Maitreya/Miroku) 72, 77, 80–81, 85–6 sutras on 76, 82–3 Ganesh Caturthi festival 119 Ganges, River (India) 1, 101 genealogies 59, 114 Genesis (Torah) 12 genizah 20–22, 26, 39, 63, 65 Germanus of Constantinople 57n9 Gilead (Robinson) 66 Girard, René 12 “Gittin” (bTalmud) 17, 18 globalization 8, 48 Gobind Singh, Guru 126, 127, 129–30 Goindwal Sahib (Punjab) 125, 133, 135–40, 141, 143 Gokurakuji (Japan) 82 Gokuraku Pure Land 76, 82, 83, 85 Golden Light Sutra 76 Golden Temple (Amritsar) 127, 130, 130n5 golem 26 Gopala Bhatta Gosvamin 97 Gospels 57–8, 155 Graham, William A. 93 Granoff, Phyllis 120 Grantha Samādhi book tomb 98–100, 102, 103 graves, Hindu see samādhi Gujarat (India) 107, 108, 109, 111, 112, 115, 116, 118 gurbani 127, 129, 131 gurdwara 126, 130, 134, 135, 153n2 Gurmukhi script 127, 132 gurseva 131 Guru Granth Sahib 1, 59, 102, 125–44 accidental burning of 142–3

ashes from, disposal of 134, 135, 139, 141, 143 calendric rituals of 130–31 centrality of, in Sikh worship 126 cremation of 125, 133, 134, 135–40, 141, 144 daily rituals of 130, 131 gurseva deeds for 131, 136 handwritten versions of 132 as living guru 4, 125, 126–8, 129, 131–2, 139–40, 141–3, 152 mass-produced versions of 125, 129, 132–4, 139, 143–4 and oral tradition 128 publishers of 132–3, 132n6 recitations/songs of 126, 128–9, 139 recycling 136 religious uses of 128–32 Guru Panth 126 Gurus 126–7, 141 hadiths 39 Hanafi school of law 41, 42 Haridāsa Dāsa 101–2 hayd 36, 37 healing 38, 58, 84 Heart Sutra 83, 85 Hemacandra 114, 115 Here I Stand (blog) 60–61, 64 heretical literature 46 hierarchies of religions 56 Hikosan-Kunisaki region (Japan) 80–81 Hikosan ruki 81 Hinduism burial rituals (dead bodies) 96–8, 154 disposal of religious items in 103 oral tradition in 2, 91–3, 103 reading tradition in 94–5 written tradition in 93–4 Hindu texts 1, 91–103, 127, 154–5 burial of see burial of Hindu texts handling/reading rituals 94, 95 “heard”/“remembered” (śruti/smrti) 4, 93 and Indus Valley civilization 93 printing/selling 95 revival of 101–2, 103 water immersion of 100–102, 119

Index see also Caitanya Vaisnavas HIV/AIDS 38, 50 holiness of texts 3–5, 6, 11–12, 27 and burial 22, 23 condition of text and 42–3 and transportation 20, 27 and water immersion see water immersion humash 19 Humfress, Caroline 58 Hurvitz, Leon 71n1, 75, 76 Hyderabad (India) 136 Iblis 38, 43 Ibn Baz 45n9 iconic dimensions of texts 55, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 154, 155, 158 iconoclasm 55 identity see culture and texts illness/healing 38, 58, 84, 101 illustrations in texts 5, 13, 114, 115, 152 image-worship 117–19 immersion in water see water immersion India 41, 71, 93, 133, 135–6 manuscript market in 110–11 water immersion in 100–102, 103, 119, 120, 122 see also Hinduism; Hindu texts; Jain texts; Sikhism Indonesia 38, 44n8 Indus Valley civilization 93 ink 5, 14, 74 erasing 39, 41–2, 46 gold 77, 83, 84, 112–14 ingestion of 6, 38 mixed with blood 74, 87 Innumerable Meanings, Sutra of 75 inscriptions from sacred texts 3, 4, 36–7, 81, 116–17 Internet 8, 41, 117, 143, 149–50 Bible and 59, 60 blogs 60–61, 62, 63, 64, 129, 158 fatwas on 40, 45, 47 Jewish sacred texts and 11, 25 and New Age spirituality 38, 50 Qur’an and 31, 38, 40, 45 interpretative methods 11–13 Iphones/Ipod 46

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iQuran 46 IRE (Islamic Religious Education) 34, 37, 44 Ireland 62, 155 Islam 32–3, 153 rules/rituals of 37–8 scholars of see ‘ulama Islamic sacred texts 31–50, 127 disposing of 44–6 erasing issues with 39, 41–2, 44–5 fada’il al-Qur’an 34 heretical literature 46 and modernity 40, 46, 48–9 and Muslim piety 32, 50 and neo-fundamentalism 49–50 in newspapers 31, 44, 45 and purity rituals 35–8, 41 and written/oral tradition 2, 33, 56n4 see also Qur’an Jabal-e-Noor-ul-Quran 31, 39, 41, 44 Jaini, Padmanabh 117–18 Jainism and Hindus/Muslims 110, 115, 119 oral tradition in 107 patriarchs of (Jinas) 107, 112, 118, 122 sectarianism in 107, 117–18, 120, 122 teaching tradition in 107, 108, 109–10, 117, 120–21, 122 Jain temples 110, 114, 116–17 Jain texts 4, 107–22, 150 accidental damage to 108 buying/selling 110–11 canon of 112 and codes of conduct 114–15, 154 copying, tradition of 108, 114–15, 119–20 disposing of 119–22, 152 festival/worship of 111–15, 116, 117–19, 153 ink/paper for 112–14 language/script for 112, 114, 120 as living beings 118–19 manuals of conduct 114–15 and modern technology 117 preservative function of 108–9, 111, 148 public display of 115–17 and respect/disrespect 109–12, 117–19, 122

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restrictions on access to 117, 120–21 temple libraries for 110, 114 typographical tradition in 5 water immersion of 120, 122 Jaipur (India) 116 Japanese Buddhism 72, 73 see also Dharma; sutra burials Jeffries, Stuart 156 Jerusalem Temple 16, 27 destruction of 13–14 pillars of 15 Jewish Prayer Book (Siddur) 16 Jinas 107, 112, 118, 122 Jīva Gosvāmin 99–100 Jōe (Japanese monk) 81 Judaism 11, 148, 153 and Christianity 63 and digital technology 19 folklore/superstitions of 25–6, 27 hierarchy of scriptures in 12 see also Jerusalem Temple; Talmud; Torah Justinian Code (530) 58 Kalpasūtra 112–16 public display of 115–16 Kane, P.V. 96 Kannon Sutra 85 Kapoor, O.B.L. 101–2 Kariouan (Tunisia) 39 karma 84–5, 118, 120 Katrina, Hurricane (2006) 22–3 Kātyāyana Śrauta Sūtra 98 keley qodesh 15 Kenya 34, 35, 38, 44, 45, 47 keter/-im 15 King Fahd Complex (Saudi Arabia) 35, 45n9 Kinpusen (Japan) 82–4, 83n19 kirtan/kīrtana 95, 128 kissing sacred texts 19, 44, 57 Kisumu (Kenya) 34, 35, 38, 44, 47 Kolkata (India) see Caitanya Vaisnavas kombe 38, 42 Korea 71, 72n2 kosher 20 Krsna 95, 96 Krsna-prema-taraṅginī 102

Krystalgade synagogue 21 Kurodani (Japan) 82 Kuvalayamālā 120 Kyushu (Japan) 78–80 lahd 41 Laidlaw, James 116 Larger/Smaller Pure Land Sutra 76 lawh mahfuz 36 Lawrence, Bruce 38 Leicester (UK) 41 Lester, Toby 39 Lewis, Isle of (Scotland) 65 Lexner, Chief Rabbi Bent 11n1, 18–20, 21–2, 23, 24 libraries 1, 24, 110–11, 112, 114, 147, 148, 155, 156 digitized 157 literacy/illiteracy 32, 48, 154 liturgy 57–8, 60, 61 for Bible disposal 64 Long Now Foundation 156 Lonka 119 Lotus Sutra 71n1, 72n2, 75, 76–7, 81, 83, 150, 156 offerings to Buddha in 77n9 see also sutra burials Ludhiana, Sikh community in 134–6, 137 Lutgendorf, Philip 92 Mackenzie Brown, Cheever 92, 94 Madana-Mohana temple (Vrindavan) 98–100 Mahabharata/Mahābhārata 93, 95 Mahāniśīthasūtra 108 Mahāvīra 107 Mahayana Buddhism 71, 94, 154 see also sutra burials Maitreya Buddha see Future Buddha Makka (Saudi Arabia) 41 Maliki school of law 37 Malley, Brian 13 Manaugh, Geoff 148, 156 Manicheans 148 mappō 73 (Final Dharma see sutra burials) marriage contracts 19 Marty, Martin E. 56n3, 59–60 martyrdom 7, 57, 143 martyrs, texts as 7, 41, 143

Index mass-produced texts 2, 40, 48, 95, 143–4, 147–8, 154 see also printed texts material bodies of texts 2, 4–5, 13 life/death of 7 ritual and 6 Mathews, Thomas 57n9 Mathura (India) 96, 119 meditation 98, 120, 127 Meditation on Amida Buddha, Sutra of 76 Meditation, Sutra of 75 “Megillah” (bTalmud) 14–15, 18 menstruation 36, 37, 109 Methodism 64 metonymy 16 mezuzot 19 Michinaga 82–4 Minamoto no Tamenori 74 Miroku see Future Buddha Miroku’s Inner Palace (Hikosan) 80–81 Mishnah 11, 14, 16, 27 mobile phones 46, 47, 129 modernity/modernism 1–2, 8, 40, 46, 48, 143 and neo-fumdamentalism 49–50 see also digitization of texts; massproduced texts Mormons 59 Moromichi, Fujiwara no 84–5 Moses 16 mosques 39, 40, 153–4n2 MP3 technology 47 Muhammad 39, 43, 46 Müller, F. Max 56, 94 mushaf 34–5, 36 digital text as 47 disposal of 40–44, 45 Muslims see Islam Muslim scholars (‘ulama) 33–4, 36–8, 39–40, 41–2 Møllegade synagogue/cemetery (Denmark) 21–2 Möller, André 44n8 Nairobi Central Mosque (Kenya) 45 names of God see divine names Nanak, Guru 126–7 Nanakshahi calendar 130

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Nara Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan 84–5 Nathwan (India) 135 Nativity of St John the Baptist 62 New Age spirituality 38, 50 New Jersey (US) 23 New Orleans (US) 22–3 newspapers 31, 44, 45 New Testament 60 Noah 16 Numbers 15:37–41 17 numinosity 17–18, 26, 27 Nyohodo 77 opening/closing ceremonies 6 oral tradition 2–3, 33, 71, 91–3, 107, 128 and elites 92 prohibitions in 91–2 status of 4, 56n4 Orissa 96 ornamented text 5, 13, 114, 115 Orthodox Christianity 57, 62 Ottoman Empire 35 Otto, Rudolf 12n3 pagination 5 pagodas 75 Pakistan 31, 43–4, 132, 133, 155 palanquins 129n5, 130 Pali texts 73 Pandey, Rajbali 96, 97, 100 paper 21, 23, 35, 46, 77, 114 color 5 shredding/cutting 43–4, 45 parchment 14 and kashrut 20 Parry, Jonathan 97, 101 Paryushan festival 116, 119 Patan (India) 112 PCRIR (Permanent Committee of Research & Islamic Rulings of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia) 43 PCs 46, 47–8 Pentateuch 12, 19 performative dimensions/functions of texts 6, 12, 77, 149, 151, 152, 154, 155 Persia 35, 43 personification of objects 141–2 phone books 149

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photocopying 24, 117 phylacteries 17 pilgrimages 83n19, 84, 91, 96, 111, 155 “Pirkey Avot” (Mishnah 1:1) 14 place and texts 6, 13–14, 16 poetry 95, 125n1, 127, 151 practice-oriented approach see ritual Prakrit texts 111–12, 120 prayer books 17–18, 23 prayers 6, 33–4, 95 preservation of texts 7, 31, 63–4n17, 72, 148, 150, 151, 156, 157 printed texts 35, 95, 125, 129, 132–4, 143–4, 149 pronunciation of sacred words 5–6 Prophets (Judaic text) 12, 18, 19 Protestantism 32, 55, 56, 59, 62–3, 64, 65, 154 psychological approach 13 public/private spheres 6, 14, 48, 111–17, 125, 131 pūjā (Hinduism and Jainism) 97, 116 Punjab (India) 1, 125, 132, 133, 134, 135, 140 purānas 93, 95, 96 Pure Land Buddhism 73n3, 76, 82, 86 purity/impurity 6, 15, 35–8, 42, 153–4 and digital technology 47 and disposal of sacred text 41, 45, 152 and neo-fundamentalism 49–50 observance of rituals 37–38 pyxides 57n8 Quetta (Pakistan) 31, 41 Qur’an 4, 31–50 Arabic language of 32, 34 archetype of (umm al-kitab/lawh mahfuz) 33, 36 burial of see burial of Qur’an burning of 1, 42–3, 45, 134 as codex (mushaf) 34–5, 36 copying 35, 39–40, 115 cutting/shredding of 43–4, 45, 48 deposition/storage of 31, 39 digitized versions of 46–8 erasing ink from 39, 41–2, 45 fatwas on 40, 41–2, 45, 46 handling 35–8

immersion in water of 42, 45 ingestion of ink from 6, 38 and Islamic Religious Education (IRE) 34, 37, 44 mass-produced 40, 48 Muslims’ relationship with 32–3 and modernity 35, 40, 46, 48–9 Muhammad’s revelation of 31n1 preservation of 31 printed versions of 35 recitation of 33–4 recycling 43–4, 45–6 as relics 35 and ritual purity 35–7, 41, 154 sacredness of text of 42–3, 45, 46, 49 as sacred object 32, 33–5, 153–4n2, 155 supernatural power of 34, 38 three dimensions of 4 translations of 33, 34, 46 transportation of 37 women and 36, 37 Qur’anflash 46–7 Qur’anic commentaries (tafsir) 37 Qur’anic education 34, 37, 44 Qur’an and Its Interpretors (Ayoub) 32, 34 Rabbinic tradition 5 restoration rules 18–20 rules for production of Torah 14–15 scriptural hierarchy in 12, 27 Raja, K. Kunjunni 92 Ramayana/Rāmāyaṇa (Valmiki’s) 93 Ramcharitmanas/Rāmcharitmānas (Tulsidasa’s) 1, 101, 134 Ramgarh Bhullar (India) 135 Ratnaśekharasūri 108n3, 109, 110, 111, 115 Ravenna, Orthadox Baptistery of 57 reading 94–5 and printing technology 132 prohibitions on 109 public 151, 152, 154 rebirth 76, 82, 83, 86 reincarnation of sacred texts 63, 101–2, 103, 139, 140 recitation of texts 5–6, 13, 16–17, 33–4, 43 and ritual purity 36 recycling of sacred texts 24, 31, 39, 41, 43–4, 45–6, 48

Index Reformed Temple Emanuel congregation 23 relics 35, 57, 75–6, 94, 151, 153, 154–5, 156, 157 Religionswissenschaft 56 religious studies 1, 37–8 and Protestantism 32, 56 renovation of texts 11, 13 respect/disrespect 109–12 restoration of Jewish texts 11, 13, 18–20 and community 23 restoration of Qur’an 41 revelation 4, 16–17, 31n1, 126–7 Ricoeur, Paul 11–12n2 Rigveda/Rgveda 4, 91, 93 rimmonim 15 ritual and sacred texts 2, 3, 5–8, 11, 32, 149, 151–7 and clothing 6 and elites 6–7, 14, 158 invoking supernatural powers 6–7, 26 material aspects 5, 13 and modern practice 8 norms of 7, 8, 11, 37–8 observance/non-observance of 37–8 opening/closing ceremonies 6, 33 and place 13–14 and postures 6 and purity see purity/impurity recitation see recitation three dimensions of 151–2 and transcendence 151, 152–3 ritualization of texts 147, 151, 156 Robinson, Marilynne 66 Roman Empire 57 rote-learning 34 Roy, Olivier 49 Sabbath 17 sacred texts analytical categories of 2–3 buying/selling 110–11 historical aspects of 4 holiness of see holiness of texts re-embedding of 5 religious conceptions of 2–5 socio-political aspects of 157–8 transmission media of 2

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Sadan, Joseph 39, 39–40n7, 40, 41, 42, 43–4, 45 sādhus/sādhvīs (Jain monks and nuns) 107, 118 Sahaspur, Sikh community of 134 St Germain of Paris 58n10 saints 94, 96–8, 100, 102, 103, 154, 155 St Sophia’s (Constantinople) 57n9 Salafi 36, 43, 49 samādhi 96, 97, 98–100, 102, 103, 155 Samskāra-dipikā 97 Sana‘a Grand Mosque (Yemen) 39 Sanātana Gosvāmin 98, 99, 101–2 “Sanhedrin” (bTalmud 21b) 14–15 sannyāsin 96–8 Sanskrit texts 73, 83, 95, 96, 111–12, 115 Śatapatha Brāhmana 98 Satkhandāgama 108, 117 Saudi Arabia 35, 41, 45n9 PCRIR fatwas 43 Saunders, William 62 school books 17–18, 23 Schopen, Gregory 94 Scotland 65 scribal maxims 110 scribes 14–15, 19, 22, 27, 35, 114, 127 scriptualization 3 scripture 3 as artifact 13 conceptions of 11–12 scrolls 1, 3, 5, 6 production of, rules for 14–15 see also Torah secular books 151 Sefer haZohar see Zohar semantic ritualization 152 Sephardic Jews 15 SGPC (Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee) 132–3, 135 “Shabbath” (bTalmud) 14, 17, 18 Shafi’i school 33 shaimos box/collector 24 shemot 17–18, 24–5 “Shevu’oth” (bTalmud 35a) 17 Shioji, Mount (Japan) 80 Shiojisan (Japan) 82 Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee see SGPC

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shōbō “True Dharma” 73, 74, 80 shrines see pilgrimages Shulkhan Arukh 11, 15, 18 Siddur 16 Sikhism 125, 153, 158 code of conduct of 130, 133 community of (Guru Panth) 126, 134, 136 diaspora 129, 134, 142–3 gurseva of 131 Gurus of 126–8 historiography of 127, 129–30 and other religions 127, 134 sacred texts of 127, 129–30n5, 132, 134, 135, 136 SGPC organization 132–3, 135 teaching tradition of 131 temples of (gurdwara) 126, 130, 134, 135, 153n2 written tradition of 127, 143 see also Golden Temple; Guru Granth Sahib Singh, Narinder 134–6, 139, 140, 141, 143 singing 95, 116, 126, 128 see also kirtan/ kīrtana smrti 4, 93, 96 social agency/actors, texts as 2, 142 sociological approach 13 socio-political aspects 157–8 sofer/Sofer STaM 19, 27 Sohan Kavi 129–30n5 soil and purity 41 soteriology 83 Souroush, Abdelkarim 49 South Africa 31, 41 spellings in texts 13 spirit of texts 7, 63, 65, 117, 126, 128, 131, 139, 140, 142, 144 Śrāddhavidhiprakarana 108n3, 109, 110, 111 Sri Gurbilas Chhevin Patshahi 129–30n5 Śrīnivāsa Ācārya 99–100 śruti 4, 93 Staal, Frits 91, 92 Stern, David 16n6 storage of texts 11 defective artifacts 20–22, 24, 31, 39 streaming technology 47

stupas 71, 74, 75, 77, 98, 154 Jain 119 Sufis 38, 41, 45, 5 Sunni Muslims 37, 41, 43 supernatural power and sacred texts 6–7, 25–6, 27, 34, 38, 58 sutra burials 4, 71–87 at Gokurakuji 82 ceramic vessels for 78–80 donors/patrons of 82–4 as embodiment of Buddha 4, 71, 75 and eschatology 72, 76, 85, 86 and Final Dharma 72–5, 80, 81–2, 86, 87 inks for 74, 77, 83, 84, 87 items included with 78, 86 and lineage/heredity 82–5, 86 locations of 77, 78–80, 82, 87 materiality of 74–7 memorial services for 71–2, 74 origin of 76–7 performative power of 77, 84 preservationist function of 72, 74, 81–2, 85–6, 87, 148, 156 reasons for 81–6 and rebirth 76, 82, 83, 86 rituals surrounding 77, 77n9, 83, 83n19 scriptures used in 75, 76, 85 and Semblance Dharma 73–4, 80 spatiality of 77–81 structures/mounds described 74, 75, 78 stupa for 71, 74, 75, 77 temporality of 73–4, 76 transcription media for 74, 77, 82, 83, 87 and True Dharma 73–4, 80 see also Lotus Sutra Śvetāmbaras 107, 108, 109, 111, 120–21 book-worship by 112–15, 116, 117–18 destruction of texts by 121–2 synagogues 16, 27, 153n2 storerooms in see genizah tafsir 37 Takeuchi Rizo 81, 82 Talmud 14, 16, 27 see also bTalmud TaNaKh 12, 17 Tapagaccha order 121–2

Index ta‘widh 38, 50 Taylor, Maureen 60 teaching in texts 4 tefillin 17, 19 temple libraries 110, 114 temples 4, 98–100, 110, 114, 116–17 see also Golden Temple; gurdwara; Jerusalem Temple Tendai Amidism 73, 75, 76–7 text defined 3 size 5 transcendence of 150–51 theophanies 4 Tīrthamkaras 107 Torah 11–27 accessories for 13, 15–16 as artifact 11, 13–17 burial of see burial of Jewish texts conceptions of 11–13 defective, storage of 20–22 formal aspects of 13 holiness of 4, 11–12, 14–16, 27 and Internet 11 and Jerusalem Temple 13–14, 15, 16 kashrut parchments 20 as metonymy of God 16 names of God in 15 preservation of 7 production of, rules for 14–15 reading 16–17 restoration of see restoration of Jewish texts transporting 19, 20, 27 typographical tradition of 5 writing, mistakes in 18, 19 Torah breastplate 15 Torah crown/s 15 Torah cupboard/mantle 13, 15, 16 Torah pointer 15 Tosotsu heaven 80, 82, 83, 85 transcendence 151, 152–3, 155 transitivity 15–16 translations of sacred texts 33, 129 transporting sacred texts 19, 20, 27 tulsi/tulasī leaves 6 Tunisia 39 Turkey 44n8

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typographical issues 5 ‘ulama 33–4, 36–8, 39–40, 41 umm al-Kitab 33 United States (US) 59–60 Jewish community in 22–3, 24 Protestantism in 59, 62–3, 65 upanisads 93 Usa (Japan) 80 ‘Uthman 35, 43, 45n10 Uttarādhyayanasūtra 114 Vahid, Baker 31, 48 Vaisnavas see Caitanya Vaisnavas Vallabhācārya 101 vandakana ritual 109 Vanderwel, David 61 Varanasi (India) 1, 101, 102, 134 Vedic texts, oral tradition in 91–3 Vestre Begravelses Plad synagogue/ cemetery (Denmark) 21–2 Virginia (US) 42 Vrindavan (India) 91 book tomb at 98–100, 102, 103 Six Gosvāmins of 96, 98, 99 walls, texts placed within 1, 39 washing of sacred texts 42 water and deceased bodies 96, 97 immersion 100–101, 122 water immersion of texts 42, 45, 98, 100–102, 120, 122 de-sacralizing effect of 102, 103, 119 weddings 19, 55 Western models 3, 32 Winternitz, Michael 92 women 36, 37, 76 worship of manuscripts 77, 111–15, 143 writing 93–4 as impure activity 91 mistakes in 18, 19, 132, 135 writing boards/chalk 44–5, 46 Writings (Judaic text) 12, 18 “Yadayim” (Mishnah 4:5) 14 yad torah 15 Yamuna River 101 Yemen 39

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yeshivot 19 Yokawa (Japan) 77 “Yoreh Deah” (Shulkhan Arukh 22) 15, 18, 21

Zenne 82 zōbō (Semblance Dharma) 73, 74, 80 Zohar 11, 25–6