The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ (Wiley Blackwell Companions to Religion) [1 ed.] 1394160577, 9781394160570

Table of contents :
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
List of Contributors
Preface
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Francis X. Clooney, SJ, and the Discipline of Comparative Theology
Comparative Theology and Theological Scholarship and Education
Comparative Theology and the Study of Religion
Other Introductory Texts
Content
Conclusion
Notes
References
Part I Theories and Methods in Comparative Theology
Chapter 1 Five Insights on Method from Comparative Theology
Academic Rigor
Scholarly Positionality
Learning from Tradition
Grounded in Particulars
The End of Comparison
Conclusion
References
Chapter 2 Imagining Religion, Intuiting Comparison: Comparing the Roles of Inner Sense in the Scholarship of Jonathan Z. Smith and Francis X. Clooney, SJ
Introduction1
Inner Sense in the Scholarship of Francis X. Clooney, SJ
Inner Sense in the Scholarship of Jonathan Z. Smith
Inner Sense Compared
Scholarly Value of Inner Sense
Epilogue
Notes
References
Chapter 3 Resisting Religious Relativism in Comparative Theology
Introduction
The Question of Relativism in Transreligious Theology
Comparative Theology as Resistance to Relativism
Conclusion
Notes
References
Chapter 4 Grounding Theology of Religions in Comparative Theology: A Fulfillment Model in Reverse
Christian Theologies of Religions: Retracing the Steps
Insights from Recent Ventures in Comparative Theology
“Creation” in Buddhist–Christian Dialogical Encounters
The Meaning of Christ
The Spirit in the World
Triune Mystery in the Religious Experience of Other Traditions
Reconfiguring Theology of Religions: Toward a “Fulfillment Model in Reverse”
Notes
Chapter 5 Beyond the Text: Comparative Theology and Oral Cultures
Oral Theology
Example: Gurna Daay as Possible Source for Theology
Forms of Gurna
Gurna kag-ré (Chicken gurna)
Gurna fiirí (Goat gurna)
Gurna daay (Cow gurna)
Threats to the Gurna and Theological Opportunities
Notes
References
Chapter 6 Faith Seeking Understanding or Understanding Seeking Faith?
Prologue
The Opening
The Main Event
The Response
Conclusion
Notes
References
Chapter 7 Kinesics, Proxemics, and Haptics: A Sakta Method for Comparative Theology
Introduction
Kinesics
Proxemics
Haptics
The Infrastructure of Sakta Rituals
Sakta Method for Comparative Theology
Conclusion
Notes
References
Part II The Spirituality, Vocation, and Formation of the Comparative Theologian
Chapter 8 “The One Who Prays Is a (Comparative) Theologian”: The Spirituality of Francis X. Clooney’s Comparative Method
Comparative Theology: Acts of Faith Seeking Understanding
The One Who Prays Is a (Comparative) Theologian
A Kind of Conclusion (for now)
Notes
References
Chapter 9 Settling the Seer: “Deep Learning” and the Yoga of Slowness
Notes
References
Chapter 10 Comparative Theology Embodied: The Mentorship, Methodology, and Ministry of Francis X. Clooney
Mentorship
Methodology
Divine Mother, Blessed Mother
Identity Interrogation
Critiques and Cautions
Ministry
References
Chapter 11 Performance and Engagement: Reconsidering Religious Experience in Contemporary ComparativeTheology
Helplessly Ignatian? Francis Clooney on Religious Experience(s)
Annihilating the Mind? Swami Tejomayananda’s Talks on Ramana Maharshi
Performance and Engagement: Rethinking Religious Experience in Advaita Vedanta
Conclusion: Performing a Comparative Self
Notes
References
Chapter 12 A Fowlerian Perspective on the Faith of the Comparativist
Fowlerian Pastoral Psychology as an Alternative to Theology of Religions
An Overview of Fowlerian Stage Theory
Individuative-Reflective Faith and Religious Rigidity
Conjunctive Faith and Comparative Theology: Clooney’s Conjunctive Mysticism
Conjunctive Faith and Comparative Theology as Public Witness
Conclusion
Notes
References
Chapter 13 Comparative Theology as Process Not Conclusion: Francis Clooney on the Proper Formation of Comparative Theological Readers
Notes
References
Part III Comparative Theology and the Society of Jesus
Chapter 14 Comparing Jesuits: Roberto de Nobili, Henri de Lubac, and Francis X. Clooney
Roberto de Nobili, SJ
Reason and Its Uses
Henri de Lubac, SJ
A Comparison of Two Jesuits
Paradoxes of Grace
Shadows and Remembrance
Notes
References
Chapter 15 Francis X. Clooney, SJ: Jesuit, Scholar, Missionary
Jesuit Missionaries in India
Critically Appropriating the Jesuit Missionary Tradition
Examples from Comparative Theology
Concluding Question
Personal Anecdote
Notes
References
Chapter 16 The Ignatian Tradition and the Intellectual Virtues of a Comparative Theologian
Attentiveness to Text
Discernment of True Religion
Dialogical Openness
Conclusion
Acknowledgment
Notes
References
Chapter 17 Wonder Grasps Anything: Punctuation and Patristic Theology in the Early Colonial Philippines
Preface
Introduction
Demons in Parenthesis
The Story of Gregory Wonderworker, the Temple Custodian, and Gregory’s Note to Demons
The Patristic Text
Wonderworking in the Philippines
Conversion by Miracle or by the Mundane?
The Catolona as Spiritual Warrior and Wonder Worker
Conclusion
Acknowledgments
Notes
Part IV Expanding on Francis X. Clooney’s Corpus
Chapter 18 The Interpretation of Scripture in the Comparative Theology of Francis X. Clooney
Introduction
The Second Vatican Council
Theology After Vedanta
Seeing Through Texts
Divine Mother, Blessed Mother
The Truth, the Way, the Life and Beyond Compare
His Hiding Place Is Darkness
Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics
Conclusion
Notes
References
Chapter 19 “Good Dark Love Birds, Will You Help?”: Comparative Reflections on Clooney’s His Hiding Place Is Darkness
Notes
References
Chapter 20 “Paradoxology”: The Srvaisnava Art of Praising Visnu
Notes
Chapter 21 Hymns on Mary in Hindu–Muslim–Christian Dialogue
Critique of Political Theology
Mary as Gate of Salvation?
Cosmic Harmony and Deep Incarnation
Notes
References
Chapter 22 Mary and Motherhood – A Comparatively Informed Reconsideration
Hymns to the Goddesses
Turn to Mary: A Decisive Feminist Re-Visioning
Another Pass at Mary
The Luminous Density of Historical, Material Being
Notes
References
Part V Exercises in Comparative Theology
Chapter 23 Transformational Liberation in the Age of COVID-19: A Comparative Theology of “the Good Woman”
Introduction
Biopolitics, Necropolitics, and COVID-19
The Cilappatikaram and the “Good Woman”
Gendered Power in Third-Gender Religion
Transforming Gender and Liberation in Meena Kandasamy’s Ms Militancy
Concluding Reflections
Notes
References
Chapter 24 And the Angels Wept: How Jewish and Hindu Narratives May Enrich Each Other
Introduction
Part I
Part II
Part III
References
Chapter 25 Modification, Emanation, andParinama-Vada in Medieval Theistic Vedanta and Kabbalah
Notes
Chapter 26 Advancing the Ritual-Liturgical Turn in Comparative Theology: Good Friday as a Case Study
Introduction
The Challenge of the Good Friday Liturgy
Re-encountering the Good Friday Liturgy
Revising the Good Friday Liturgy
A Difficult Remainder: Baptized Jews in the Liturgy
Conclusion
References
Further Reading
Chapter 27 Creative Fidelity in Expanding the Canon
The Book of Deuteronomy
The Politics Behind Josiah’s Accession
The Formation of Texts and Traditions into Scripture
Moses the One and the Many
The Present Shapes the Past
The Tibetan Book of the Dead
Backstory: Padmasambhava and Terma
Discovery of the Tibetan Book of the Dead
Evaluating These Traditions Together
Chapter 28 Slow Reading of Beautiful Writing: Calligraphy as Vehicle for Comparative Theology
Sacred Scribing
Readers’ Challenges
Reading Handwritten Scriptures Interreligiously
Close Reading of Calligraphed Display Items
Slow Reading’s Rewards
Notes
Chapter 29 Joy in the Earth: A Christian Cosmology Based on Agapic Nondualism
Mentor and Mentee
Divine Interdependence Sustains Cosmic Interdependence
God’s Expansive Love Invites Our Expansive Love
God Mediates All Blessings Through Time
The Trinity’s Loving, Internal Relatedness Expresses Itself in the Natural Universe as Interdependence
What is Nondualism?
Nondualism Is Not Monism
Nondualism Is Active Correlation
Contrasts Are Not Opposites
The Net of Indra
Holiness Is Relatedness
Nondualism Is Not Nihilism
Nondualism Is Not a Perennial Philosophy
God Embeds Beauty Within the Universe
Cosmic Evolution Fosters the Experience of Beauty
Natural Law Is Unbreakable to Allow Human Agency
Moral Law Is Breakable to Allow Human Freedom
Our Trustworthy God Sustains a Trustworthy Universe
References
Further Reading
Chapter 30 Perceiving Divinity, Cultivating Wonder: A Christian–Islamic Comparative Theological Essay on Balthasar’s Gestalt
Prologue
The Beautiful
Balthasar’s Gestalt, the Spiritual Senses, and His Hermeneutics
The Gospel Passage in the Context of Later Christological Debates
Concealing and Restricting Divinity: An Interreligious Reading with the Islamic Tradition
Conclusion: Comparative Insights
How Do Certain Christologies Conceal God?
In What Way Do We Treat Christ Like a What?
How Do We Remain Dualistic in Our Christology and Theological Anthropology?
How Do We Refuse the Wonder and Bewilderment of God’s Revelation?
How Does Our Physical Relationship with the Material Order, with Power, Blind Our Spiritual Senses?
Epilogue
Notes
References
Chapter 31 Paradoxes of Desire in St John of the Cross and Solomon ibn Gabirol: Thinking with Poetry in Comparative Theology
Francis X. Clooney and Sacred Poetry: Prolegomena
Confessions of a Guilty Bystander
John of the Cross and Solomon ibn Gabirol: Brief Introduction
Cántico Espiritual A1/B1
Ibn Gabirol’s ršut: verses 1 and 2
Cántico A 12/B 13
Ibn Gabirol’s ršut: verses 3–5
Some Reflections
Acknowledgment
Notes
Part VI Comparative Theology Beyond the Discipline
Chapter 32 Locating the Self in the Study of Religion: Francis Clooney and the Experiment of Hindu–Christian Studies
Introduction
Why Compare Religions?
Constructing Tradition
The Gaudya Vaisnava Lineage
Sr Vaisnava and Catholic Lineage
Conclusion
Notes
References
Primary
Secondary
Chapter 33 Learning Interreligiously as Public Theology: Limits and Possibilities for Institutional Leaders
Learning Interreligiously
The Article
Initial Methodological Learnings
What Happened Next?
Conclusions
Notes
References
Chapter 34 Comparative Theology and Public Theology: In Search of a Responsible Theology Today
A Mentor and Friend
Comparative Theology and Public Theology
Comparative Rationality
Spirituality: Personal and Public
Affectivity
Concluding Remarks
Notes
Chapter 35 God Meets Us There: Prison as True Home for the Christian Comparative Theologian
References
Part VII The Past, Present, and Future of Comparative Theology
Chapter 36 Comparative Theology Beyond Religionization
Comparative Theology as Rectification
Religionization as an Analytical Concept Enhancing the Critical Potential of Comparative Theology
Comparative Theology: Old and New
What is Religionization?
The Work of Rectification
Conclusion
Notes
References
Chapter 37 Asking an Unusual Question of Kabir and Kazi Nazrul Islam
Nazrul’s Mixed Style
Nazrul the Pioneer of Muslim Regeneration
The Hindu-Saturated World of Nazrul Islam
“I Have Done It, Aware of the Consequences”
Notes
References
Chapter 38 Comparative Theology avant la lettre?: A Muslim “Deep Reading” of the Ramayana in Early Modern South Asia
Notes
References
Chapter 39 Creativity and Resistance in Comparative Theology: Lessons from Eighteenth-Century Korea
Confucian–Catholic Encounter: A Narrow Window for Comparative Learning (1784–1801)
A Fierce Middle: Dasan’s Confucian–Catholic Comparative Theology
Acknowledgment
Note
Chapter 40 In Praise of Artisans: Ramon Marti, Georges Anawati, and the Importance of Languages
Note
References
Chapter 41 Lectio Divina and Comparative Reading in the History of Christian–Muslim Encounters
Medieval Latin Readers of the Qur’an
Modern Lectio Divina of the Bible and the Qur’an
Notes
Chapter 42 Vicarious Voyage: What Difference Does Comparative Theology Make for Theology?
Comparative Theology and Reception
Modes of Reception of Comparative Theology
Comparative Theology as Contemplative Theology
Reception of the Fact of Comparative Theological Practice
Notes
References
Chapter 43 Is There or Shall We Need a “Home” for Comparative Theologies?: A Ru (Confucian) Response to Francis X. Clooney
Enthusiasm
Terms
Critique
Construction
Conclusion
Notes
References
Chapter 44 Comparative Theology After Clooney
Notes
References
AUTHOR INDEX
SUBJECT INDEX
EULA

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The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology

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The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ Edited by

Axel M. Oaks Takacs Joseph L. Kimmel

This edition first published 2024 © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd 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, except as permitted by law. Advice on how to obtain permission to reuse material from this title is available at http://www.wiley.com/go/permissions. The right of Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel to be identified as the authors of the editorial material in this work has been asserted in accordance with law. Registered Offices John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, USA John Wiley & Sons Ltd, The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester, West Sussex, PO19 8SQ, UK For details of our global editorial offices, customer services, and more information about Wiley products visit us at www.wiley.com. Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats and by print-­on-­demand. Some content that appears in standard print versions of this book may not be available in other formats. Trademarks: Wiley and the Wiley logo are trademarks or registered trademarks of John Wiley & Sons, Inc. and/or its ­affiliates in the United States and other countries and may not be used without written permission. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners. John Wiley & Sons, Inc. is not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty While the publisher and authors have used their best efforts in preparing this work, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this work and specifically disclaim all warranties, including without limitation any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives, written sales materials or promotional statements for this work. This work is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering professional services. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a specialist where appropriate. The fact that an organization, website, or product is referred to in this work as a citation and/or potential source of further information does not mean that the publisher and authors endorse the information or services the organization, website, or product may provide or recommendations it may make. Further, readers should be aware that websites listed in this work may have changed or disappeared between when this work was written and when it is read. Neither the publisher nor a ­ uthors shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages. Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Clooney, Francis X. (Francis Xavier), 1950- honouree. | Takacs, Axel M. Oaks, editor. | Kimmel, Joseph L., editor. Title: The Wiley Blackwell companion to comparative theology : a festschrift in honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ / edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs, Joseph L. Kimmel. Description: Hoboken, NJ, USA : Wiley-Blackwell, 2024. | Series: The Wiley Blackwell companions to religion | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2023010337 (print) | LCCN 2023010338 (ebook) | ISBN 9781394160570 (hardback) | ISBN 9781394160594 (adobe pdf) | ISBN 9781394160587 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Religion–Study and teaching. | Clooney, Francis X. (Francis Xavier), 1950—Knowledge and learning. Classification: LCC BL41 .W57 2024 (print) | LCC BL41 (ebook) | DDC 200.71–dc23/eng/20230510 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023010337 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023010338 Cover Design: Wiley Cover Image: © agsandrew/Getty Images Set in 9.5/12pt Photina MT Std by Straive, Pondicherry, India

Contents

List of Contributors

ix

Preface xiv John B. Carman and William A. Graham Acknowledgments xvi Introduction xvii Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel

Part I  Theories and Methods in Comparative Theology

1

1 Five Insights on Method from Comparative Theology Jason W. Smith

3

2 Imagining Religion, Intuiting Comparison: Comparing the Roles of Inner Sense in the Scholarship of Jonathan Z. Smith and Francis X. Clooney, SJ Joseph L. Kimmel 3 Resisting Religious Relativism in Comparative Theology Catherine Cornille 4 Grounding Theology of Religions in Comparative Theology: A Fulfillment Model in Reverse Ruben L.F. Habito

13 21

32

5 Beyond the Text: Comparative Theology and Oral Cultures Nougoutna Norbert Litoing

43

6 Faith Seeking Understanding or Understanding Seeking Faith?  Bennett DiDente Comerford 7 Kinesics, Proxemics, and Haptics: A Śākta Method for Comparative Theology Pravina Rodrigues

51 63

vi

Contents



Part II The Spirituality, Vocation, and Formation of the Comparative Theologian 77   8 “The One Who Prays Is a (Comparative) Theologian”: The Spirituality of Francis X. Clooney’s Comparative Method  Christopher Conway   9 Settling the Seer: “Deep Learning” and the Yoga of Slowness  Michelle Bentsman 10 Comparative Theology Embodied: The Mentorship, Methodology, and Ministry of Francis X. Clooney Katie Mahowski Mylroie 11 Performance and Engagement: Reconsidering Religious Experience in Contemporary Comparative Theology  Reid B. Locklin 12 A Fowlerian Perspective on the Faith of the Comparativist  Erik Ranstrom

79 89

95

104 115

13 Comparative Theology as Process Not Conclusion: Francis Clooney on the Proper Formation of Comparative Theological Readers  John J. Thatamanil

129

Part III  Comparative Theology and the Society of Jesus

139

14 Comparing Jesuits: Roberto de Nobili, Henri de Lubac, and Francis X. Clooney  James Fredericks

141

15 Francis X. Clooney, SJ: Jesuit, Scholar, Missionary  Christian S. Krokus

151

16 The Ignatian Tradition and the Intellectual Virtues of a Comparative Theologian  Peng Yin

162

17 Wonder Grasps Anything: Punctuation and Patristic Theology in the Early Colonial Philippines 173 Maria Cecilia Holt

Part IV Expanding on Francis X. Clooney’s Corpus

185

18 The Interpretation of Scripture in the Comparative Theology of Francis X. Clooney Leo D. Lefebure

187

19 “Good Dark Love Birds, Will You Help?”: Comparative Reflections on Clooney’s His Hiding Place Is Darkness 198 Kimberley C. Patton 20 “Paradoxology”: The Śrīvaiṣṇava Art of Praising Viṣṇu 209 Vasudha Narayanan 21 Hymns on Mary in Hindu–Muslim–Christian Dialogue Klaus von Stosch

225

22 Mary and Motherhood – A Comparatively Informed Reconsideration Mara Brecht

235



Contents

vii

Part V Exercises in Comparative Theology

247

23 Transformational Liberation in the Age of COVID-19: A Comparative Theology of “the Good Woman” Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier

249

24 And the Angels Wept: How Jewish and Hindu Narratives May Enrich Each Other Arvind Sharma

260

25 Modification, Emanation, and Pariṇāma-Vāda in Medieval Theistic Vedānta and Kabbalah 268 Ithamar Theodor 26 Advancing the Ritual-Liturgical Turn in Comparative Theology: Good Friday as a Case Study Daniel Joslyn-Siemiatkoski

280

27 Creative Fidelity in Expanding the Canon Scott Steinkerchner, OP and Martin Badenhorst, OP

291

28 Slow Reading of Beautiful Writing: Calligraphy as Vehicle for Comparative Theology Lucinda Mosher

302

29 Joy in the Earth: A Christian Cosmology Based on Agapic Nondualism Jon Paul Sydnor

313

30 Perceiving Divinity, Cultivating Wonder: A Christian–Islamic Comparative Theological Essay on Balthasar’s Gestalt Axel M. Oaks Takacs

326

31 Paradoxes of Desire in St John of the Cross and Solomon ibn Gabirol: Thinking with Poetry in Comparative Theology Luis Manuel Girón-Negrón

345

Part VI  Comparative Theology Beyond the Discipline

371

32 Locating the Self in the Study of Religion: Francis Clooney and the Experiment of Hindu–Christian Studies Jonathan Edelmann

373

33 Learning Interreligiously as Public Theology: Limits and Possibilities for Institutional Leaders Michelle Voss Roberts

389

34 Comparative Theology and Public Theology: In Search of a Responsible Theology Today Albertus Bagus Laksana

400

35 God Meets Us There: Prison as True Home for the Christian Comparative Theologian Mark J. Edwards

411

Part V   II  The Past, Present, and Future of Comparative Theology

419

36 Comparative Theology Beyond Religionization Marianne Moyaert

421

37 Asking an Unusual Question of Kabir and Kazi Nazrul Islam Rachel Fell McDermott

431

viii

Contents



38 Comparative Theology avant la lettre? A Muslim “Deep Reading” of the Rāmāyaṇa in Early Modern South Asia Shankar Nair

442

39 Creativity and Resistance in Comparative Theology: Lessons from Eighteenth-Century Korea Won-Jae Hur

449

40 In Praise of Artisans: Ramon Marti, Georges Anawati, and the Importance of Languages Wilhelmus Valkenberg

460

41 Lectio Divina and Comparative Reading in the History of Christian–Muslim Encounters 470 Rita George-Tvrtković 42 Vicarious Voyage: What Difference Does Comparative Theology Make for Theology? S. Mark Heim 43 Is There or Shall We Need a “Home” for Comparative Theologies? A Ru (Confucian) Response to Francis X. Clooney Bin Song

480

491

44 Comparative Theology After Clooney Hugh Nicholson

501

Author Index Subject Index

510 513

List of Contributors

Martin Badenhorst, OP, STL, St. Augustine College of South Africa. Martin lectures in Scripture, ecumenism, and interreligious dialogue. His special interest is in the development of the canon in the Second Temple Period. Michelle Bentsman, MDiv, Harvard University. Michelle is a doctoral candidate in comparative religion specializing in song healing rituals. Her primary traditions of study and practice are Judaism, Hinduism, and indigenous Amazonian Shipibo. Mara Brecht, PhD, Loyola University Chicago. Mara is a Catholic theologian and a feminist. Her primary research interest is in Christian faith formation in various contexts of diversity including religious, racial, and philosophical. John B. Carman, PhD, served as the director of the Center for the Study of World Religions at Harvard Divinity School from 1973 to 1989 and is the emeritus Parkman Professor of Divinity at HDS. His scholarly focus has included Hindu traditions, comparative theology, and Christianity in South Asia. Bennett DiDente Comerford recently completed his PhD in the Committee on the Study of Religion at Harvard University. Christopher Conway, PhD, College of Saint Benedict and Saint John’s University. Chris is a comparative theologian focusing on spirituality and devotion in Hindu and Christian traditions. Catherine Cornille, PhD. Catherine is a professor of comparative theology at Boston College where she holds the Newton College Alumnae Chair of Western Culture. She is the founding editor of the series Christian Commentaries on Non-­Christian Sacred Texts. Jonathan Edelmann, PhD, University of Florida. Jonathan is an assistant professor in the Department of Religion. He has published in the areas of Hindu studies, Indology, and science and religion. Mark J. Edwards, PhD, is a lecturer in religion at Princeton University, an adjunct professor at Princeton Theological Seminary and The College of New Jersey, and on staff at the Nassau Presbyterian Church in Princeton, New Jersey. He is the author of Christ Is Time: The Gospel According to Karl Barth (and the Red Hot Chili Peppers) (Cascade Books, 2022).

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List of Contributors



James Fredericks, PhD, Reverend, Loyola Marymount University. Jim is a specialist in Buddhist– Christian dialogue and comparative theology. He and Francis Clooney lived in Gerald Manley Hopkins Hall as graduate students at the University of Chicago. Rita George-­Tvrtković, PhD, Benedictine University. Rita is a Catholic historical theologian specializing in medieval and contemporary Muslim–Christian relations. She was appointed by Pope Francis to be a consultor for the Vatican’s Dicastery for Interreligious Dialogue. Luis Manuel Girón-­Negrón, PhD, Harvard University. Luis is a historian of religions and a comparative literature scholar with expertise on the cultural archives of Jews, Christians, and Muslims in medieval and early modern Iberia. William A. Graham, PhD, is the Murray A. Albertson Professor of Middle Eastern Studies and University Distinguished Service Professor, emeritus, at Harvard University, and he served as the dean of Harvard Divinity School from 2002 to 2012. His scholarly focus has been Islamic and comparative religious studies. Ruben L.F. Habito, DLittC, STL, Perkins School of Theology, Southern Methodist University. Ruben teaches interfaith studies, comparative theology, and spirituality, and serves as guiding teacher of the Maria Kannon Zen Center, Dallas, Texas. He previously taught Buddhist philosophy at Sophia University in Tokyo, Japan. S. Mark Heim, PhD, is the Samuel Abbot Professor of Christian Theology at Andover Newton Seminary at Yale Divinity School. He has written extensively on theology and religious pluralism. His books include Salvations: Truth and Difference in Religion (Orbis Books, 1995), Saved From Sacrifice: A Theology of the Cross (Eerdmans, 2006), and Crucified Wisdom: Christ and the Bodhisattva in Theological Reflection (Fordham University Press, 2018). Maria Cecilia Holt, ThD, Harvard Divinity School. Maria has been active in the preservation and promotion of the works of James Purdy and Anne Blonstein. From 2015 to 2019 she assisted James Purdy’s literary executor, John Uecker, in the fulfillment of Purdy’s desire to have his ashes buried by the grave of Dame Edith Sitwell. As part of Holt’s explorations of kairos and grief, Holt has worked with experimental playwrights, translators, and directors at, among others, the Alexandrinsky Theatre in St. Petersburg, Russia (2021), and the Grand National Theatre in Groningen, Netherlands (2023). Holt is currently involved in a collaborative project in comparative literature based at the University of Copenhagen. Won-­Jae Hur, PhD, is an assistant professor of comparative theology in the Theology Department at Xavier University. His research focuses on Indo-­Tibetan Buddhist–Christian comparative theology, theology of bodies, and theories and practices of contemplation. Daniel Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski, PhD, Boston College. Dan is an Anglican comparative theologian specializing in Jewish–Christian comparative theology. He is the Kraft Family Professor and director of the Center for Christian-­Jewish Learning at Boston College. Joseph L. Kimmel, PhD, Harvard University and Boston College. Joseph recently completed his PhD at Harvard University (Study of Religion). His scholarly interests reside at the intersection of early Christianity, Indo-­Tibetan Buddhism, comparative religion/theology, and posthumanism. He is currently a part-­time faculty member at Boston College and serves as an Episcopal priest. Christian S. Krokus, PhD, University of Scranton. Krokus is a professor in the Department of Theology/Religious Studies, where he teaches and writes about Catholic–Muslim comparative theology and spirituality.



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Albertus Bagus Laksana, SJ, PhD, Sanata Dharma University. Laksana is a Jesuit priest and theologian, currently serving as president of Sanata Dharma University in Yogyakarta, Indonesia. He received his PhD in comparative theology from Boston College (2011) with a focus on Muslim– Christian encounters. Leo D. Lefebure, PhD, Georgetown University. Lefebure is the inaugural holder of the Matteo Ricci, SJ, Chair of Theology at Georgetown University and the author of the award-­winning Transforming Interreligious Relations: Catholic Responses to Religious Pluralism in the United States (Orbis Books, 2020). He is the past president of the Society for Buddhist-­Christian Studies, a research fellow of the Chinese University of Hong Kong, and a trustee emeritus of the Council for a Parliament of the World’s Religions. Nougoutna Norbert Litoing, MA, Harvard University. A Jesuit priest from Cameroon, Nougoutna is completing a PhD in the study of religion at Harvard University in the field of comparative theology, researching on Muslim and Catholic pilgrimage practices in Senegal. Reid B. Locklin, PhD, University of Toronto. Reid is an associate professor of Christianity and culture at St. Michael’s College and the Department for the Study of Religion, University of Toronto. He publishes on contemporary comparative theology, the nondualist Hindu tradition of Advaita Vedanta, and the scholarship of teaching and learning. Katie Mahowski Mylroie, PhD candidate, Boston College. Katie is a Catholic comparative ­theologian working with Hindu and Christian liberation theologies, particularly in the intersection of ecological and feminist analyses. Rachel Fell McDermott, Phd, is a professor of Asian and Middle Eastern cultures at Barnard College. Her research interests focus on Bengal. She has published extensively on the Hindu goddess-­centered religious traditions from that part of the subcontinent and is now involved in a research project on Kazi Nazrul Islam, both the “rebel poet” of India and the national poet of Bangladesh. Lucinda Mosher, ThD, Hartford International University for Religion and Peace. Lucinda is an Episcopal moral and comparative theologian who has authored or edited some twenty books on multireligious concerns. She is also the senior editor of the Journal of Interreligious Studies and the rapporteur for the Building Bridges Seminar. Marianne Moyaert, PhD, Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies, KU Leuven. Marianne is a Catholic comparative theologian and interreligious studies scholar specializing in Christian– Jewish relations. She has a special interest in the material and ritual dimensions of interreligious relations. She is also the editor-­in-­chief of the Brill series, Currents of Encounter. Shankar Nair, PhD, University of Virginia. Nair’s general field of interest is the religious and intellectual history of South Asia, including broader traditions of Sufism and Islamic philosophy, Qur’anic exegesis, and Hindu philosophy and theology. His research centers on Muslim–Hindu interactions and the encounter between Arabic, Sanskrit, and Persian intellectual cultures in early modern (Mughal) South Asia. Vasudha Narayanan, PhD, is Distinguished Professor, Department of Religion, at the University of Florida and a past president of the American Academy of Religion. She is the author or editor of several books and numerous articles, chapters in books, and encyclopedia entries. Her research has been supported by grants and fellowships from many organizations, including the Center for Khmer Studies,  the  American Council of Learned Societies,  the  John Simon Guggenheim

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Foundation, National Endowment for the Humanities, the American Institute of Indian Studies/ Smithsonian,  and  the  Social Science Research Council. She is currently working on the Hindu traditions in the United States and on a book focusing on the importance of the churning of the ocean of milk story in Cambodia.  She was recently elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Hugh Nicholson, PhD, is a professor of comparative religion at Loyola University, Chicago. He  is  the author of  Comparative Theology and the Problem of Religious Rivalry  (Oxford University Press, 2011), The Spirit of Contradiction in Christianity and Buddhism (Oxford University Press, 2016), and  Buddhism, Cognitive Science, and the Doctrine of Selflessness: A Revolution in Our ­Self-­Conception (Routledge, 2023). Kimberley C. Patton, PhD, is a professor of the comparative and historical study of religion at Harvard Divinity School. Her research focuses on the religions, archaeology, and material cultures of the ancient Mediterranean. Additionally, her work engages the challenges of the comparative study of religious themes across cultures. She and her colleague in comparative theology, Francis X. Clooney, SJ, co-­chair the doctoral program in comparative studies in the Committee on the Study of Religion at Harvard University.  Her book  Religion of the Gods: Ritual, Paradox, and Reflexivity (Oxford University Press, 2009) won the 2010 American Academy of Religion Award for Excellence in the Study of Religion in the Analytical-­Descriptive Studies category.  Her most recent book is the edited volume  Gemini and the Sacred: Twins and Twinship in Religion and Mythology (Bloomsbury Academic, 2023). Erik Ranstrom, PhD, Fairfield University. Erik’s current research interests are moving toward the intersection of contemplative studies and theological reflection in dialogue with psychological and recovery perspectives. He has also published on the thoughts of Raimon Panikkar. Pravina Rodrigues, PhD, Jesuit School of Theology of Santa Clara University. Pravina is a Hindu– Christian comparative theologian and interreligious studies scholar. She specializes in theology and ethics, Śākta studies, yoga, ecowomanism, and sustainability. She is the associate editor of the Journal of Dharma Studies (Springer) and the assistant editor of a 34-­chapter volume at the intersection of ecology and religion titled Religion and Sustainability: Interreligious Resources, Interdisciplinary Responses (Springer, 2022). Arvind Sharma, PhD, McGill University. Arvind is the Birks Professor of Comparative Religion in the School of Religious Studies at McGill University, where he has taught for over 35 years. He has published extensively in the fields of comparative religion, Indian religions, and women in religion. Jason W. Smith, ThD, Mercer University. Smith is an assistant professor of religion at Mercer University in Macon, Georgia. His research focuses on the relationship between religion and literature in Tamil-­speaking South India. Bin Song, PhD, Washington College. Bin works on Asian and comparative philosophy, religion, and philosophy. He is the past president of the North American Paul Tillich Society and the ­co-­chair of the Confucian Traditions Unit at the American Academy of Religion. Scott Steinkerchner, PhD, OP. Scott is a comparative theologian and Catholic systematician who works across disparate thought systems. He is particularly interested in metaphysical questions within Tibetan Buddhism and Catholic Christianity.

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Jon Paul Sydnor, PhD, Emmanuel College, Boston. Jon Paul is a progressive Christian theologian. He is currently developing a systematic theology based on agapic nondualism, utilizing Hindu and Buddhist thought to inform a liberating social Trinitarianism. Axel M. Oaks Takacs, ThD, Molloy University. Axel is a Catholic comparative theologian with expertise in Islamic studies and interreligious studies. He specializes in Arabic and Persian classical and postclassical Islamic intellectual, poetic, and commentarial traditions. His research focuses on theological aesthetics, theopoetics, and theologies of the imagination and revelation. In addition, he teaches in the areas of religious pluralism, Islamophobia, race and religion, and historical and  contemporary Catholic theologies of Islam. He is also the editor-­in-­chief of the Journal of Interreligious Studies. John J. Thatamanil, PhD, is a professor of theology and world religions at Union Theological Seminary, New York. He is the author, most recently, of Circling the Elephant: A Comparative Theology of Religious Diversity (Fordham University Press, 2020). Ithamar Theodor, PhD, Zefat Academic College. Theodor is an associate professor of Hindu studies at Zefat Academic College, Safed, Israel. His publications include Exploring the Bhagavad Gītā: Philosophy, Structure and Meaning (Routledge, 2010), Brahman and Dao: Comparative Studies in Indian and Chinese Philosophy and Religion (Lexington Books, 2014), The “Fifth Veda” in Hinduism: Philosophy, Poetry and Devotion in the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a (Bloomsbury Academic, 2016), Dharma and Halacha: Comparative Studies in Hindu–Jewish Philosophy and Religion (Lexington Books, 2018), and The Bhagavad-­Gītā: A Critical Introduction (Routledge, 2021). Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier, PhD, Loyola Marymount University. Tracy is a comparative theologian who focuses on gender in Asian and Asian American theology and (inter)religious contexts. She is also the Catholic co-­chair of the Los Angeles Hindu-­Catholic Dialogue. Wilhelmus Valkenberg, PhD, The Catholic University of America, Washington DC. Pim studied theology and religious studies in the Netherlands. He specializes in Christian–Muslim dialogue and comparative theology. Klaus von Stosch, ThD, Bonn University. Klaus is Schlegel Professor for Catholic systematic ­theology and head of the International Center for Comparative Theology and Social Issues. His areas of research include comparative theology, faith and reason, problem of evil, Christian ­theology responsive to Islam (especially Christology), and theology of the Trinity. Michelle Voss Roberts, PhD, Emmanuel College, Toronto School of Theology. Michelle is a ­comparative theologian who works in Christian and Hindu traditions. Her teaching and research explore how the particularities of embodiment  – such as gender, racialization, dis/ability, and ­culture – matter religiously. Peng Yin, PhD, is an assistant professor of ethics at Boston University School of Theology. He is completing a manuscript tentatively entitled Persisting in the Good: Thomas Aquinas and Classical Chinese Ethics.

Preface

It is a privilege for us to join in this large volume of tributes to our friend and colleague, Francis X. Clooney, SJ. All the contributors are in some sense colleagues in scholarship. The two of us have also been Clooney’s institutional colleagues at Harvard Divinity School (HDS), each in a distinctive way. John Carman was Clooney’s predecessor as Parkman Professor of Divinity and as director of the Center for the Study of World Religions (CSWR); he also shares Clooney’s interest in Christian exploration of the Srivaishnava tradition. Bill Graham was the HDS dean who initiated the invitation to Clooney to join the Divinity Faculty and later asked him to serve as director of the CSWR; his specialization and interests are different from Clooney’s, but he, like John, shares with him a commitment to comparative studies in the history of religion. Francis Clooney’s contributions in his time at Harvard Divinity School have been many, not least his resolute devotion to serious interfaith engagement in his scholarship and teaching. As a teacher he has inspired a new generation of HDS graduate students by his own work and its challenge to engage in comparative theological thinking. His deft hand with textual analysis and comparison has been an earmark of his classes every term that he has taught Harvard students. His commitment to dealing honestly and openly with Indian scholars in exploring Srivaishnava texts and thought has kept him returning to India when not teaching so as to remain in direct contact and conversation with these scholars. As director of the CSWR for seven years, Clooney devoted himself to continuing and building on its first half-­century of comparative programs and training as the sole dedicated research center located primarily at the Divinity School. His organizing of sessions bringing outstanding outside scholars to interact with and inspire Harvard students and faculty was notable, as were special initiatives such as his sponsorship of substantial evening discussions of new publications by his Harvard colleagues with scholars both inside and outside the university. His tenure was further marked by his welcoming of interested HDS colleagues to occupy offices in the CSWR and especially by his attentiveness to involving students in the life and scholarly activity of the center. It is unusual at HDS to have a professor who continues and expands the scholarly interests of his predecessor in an endowed chair, but as John Carman’s successor in the Parkman chair, Clooney has done just that, notably in his focus on both Tamil and Sanskrit texts, his work on the Srivaishnava tradition, and his comparative theological concerns.



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Clooney’s scholarship can be seen to fall into three general areas. In the first, he has contributed to the modern study of Vedic ritual, to the understanding of the most influential interpretation of the Upanishads (Sankara’s Advaita Vedanta), and to the theistic interpretation of both the Vedanta and Vaishnava temple rituals. This work has required the reading of both Sanskrit and Tamil texts as well as works in the mixed language of Manipravalam. Clooney’s second area of scholarship is smaller, but it is an important link to the third. This is a review of the studies of Indian culture and religion by Jesuit missionaries, especially the pioneer missionary Roberto de Nobili, who adopted the lifestyle of a Hindu ascetic. While Clooney is not a proselytizer, he has honored the scholarly work of those who were, and his own Indological path has included a Jesuit lifestyle and a Catholic pastoral vocation. Clooney’s third area of scholarship is what has attracted the interest and admiration of most of those contributing to this volume. He has developed and encouraged a new form of comparative theology. It is based on the parallel reading of Hindu and Roman Catholic texts, and it challenges the increasing secularization of cross-­cultural religious studies in Western scholarship. His comparisons began with his own intuitive connections between Christian commentaries on the Song of Songs and Tamil Vaishnava commentaries on the poetry of the Alvars in which the usually male poet takes the female role of lover-­worshiper of Lord Vishnu. For the last decade or more, Clooney has spent much time and effort encouraging many scholars with various religious backgrounds and interests to develop their own comparative theologies. A common feature is the great respect accorded to the other tradition being studied, including its approach to its own history. We are happy to join our colleagues in recognizing Francis Clooney’s multiple scholarly achievements and their ongoing influence. The many contributions in this large volume are all clear ­testimonies to those achievements and to their influence. John B. Carman and William A. Graham

Acknowledgments

The editors would like to thank the contributing authors of this Festschrift for their eager participation in this project, along with the staff at Wiley Blackwell for their exemplary efforts over many months to bring this volume to fruition.

Introduction Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel

When the sincere disciple enters under obedience of the shaykh, keeping his company and ­learning his manners, a spiritual state flows from within the shaykh to within the disciple, like one lamp lighting another. The speech of the shaykh inspires the interior of the disciple, so that the shaykh’s words become the treasury of spiritual states. The state is transferred from the shaykh to the ­disciple by keeping company and by hearing speech. Shihāb al-­Dīn Abū Ḥ afṣ ʿUmar al-­Suhrawardī (d. 1234) (ʿAwārif al-­Maʿārif, Vol. 1, p. 252)

Francis X. Clooney, SJ, and the Discipline of Comparative Theology Ascribed to a highly influential, thirteenth-­century Persian Sufi, this quote concerns the relationship between the disciple and the teacher (shaykh) in the specific context of Sufism. In this tradition, the inculcation of Islamic spiritual and embodied disciplines and knowledges guides the wayfarer toward greater taqwā, that is, greater consciousness and cognizance of God, along a series of mystical stations (maqām) punctuated by spiritual states (ḥ āl). In practice, Suhrawardī is underscoring the consensus opinion among many Sufis in the Islamic classical and postclassical period, namely, that rarely can the wayfarer successfully travel the spiritual path (ṭarīqa) without the guidance of someone who has journeyed along it already.1 More generally, this passage demonstrates how experience and knowledge are passed on from one to another, “like one lamp lighting another.” Francis X. Clooney, SJ, would likely not consent to being likened to a Sufi shaykh, of course. Indeed, doing so decontextualizes conceptions of Sufi authority. However, the analogy Suhrawardī employs can be extended to the relationship between Clooney, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, the discipline of comparative theology along with the various scholars (theologians, scholars of religion, South Asian studies scholars, and more) who have learned from him and his innovative and deeply attentive scholarship. His teaching, scholarship, and mentorship throughout the past 50 years have lit many candles, from St. Xavier’s High School in Kathmandu (where he taught English for his Jesuit regency) to Harvard Divinity School (HDS) in Cambridge, Massachusetts (where he remains the Parkman Professor of Divinity and Professor of Comparative Theology).

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From 1973 to 2023, Clooney has kept the company of students, scholars, and parishioners. After earning his BA from Fordham, his MDiv from Weston School of Theology, and his PhD in South Asian Languages and Civilizations from the University of Chicago, Clooney began his university teaching career at Boston College before moving over to HDS; he likewise served as academic director of the Oxford Centre for Hindu Studies (Oxford University) and the director of the Center for the Study of World Religions (HDS). At these various institutions, he mentored dozens of doctoral students as either primary dissertation adviser or reader for projects concerning comparative theology, theology of religions, South Asian studies, Indology, Hindu studies, and comparative religion, and advised still more master’s degree students. Moreover, let us not forget that he has also served as a parish priest throughout his career and is currently an associate priest at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Sharon, Massachusetts, where he no doubt offers pastoral guidance shaped by his deep learning in the Catholic faith in conversation with other religious traditions. However, it is the discipline of comparative theology – and specifically confessional comparative theology (Cornille 2020, p. 18) – where Clooney’s impact and lasting legacy is most strongly felt. When he began teaching at the Theology Department of Boston College in 1984, Clooney recounts how some were still of the position that the disciplines of theology and the study of religion were sharply distinct in their focus and even stood in opposition to one another. Yet, he considered himself “both a theologian and a scholar of Hinduism” (Clooney 2010b, p. 19); he was doing Catholic theology through a “double learning” (p. 19) with the classical Hindu traditions. His work was theological and comparative. While there are many scholars and disciplinary trends related to comparative theology or offering methods and goals differing from Clooney’s style of confessional comparative theology (meta-­confessional comparative theology comes to mind; Cornille 2020, p. 25), nearly all engage his scholarship either constructively or critically. Hence, we can safely say that Clooney’s place in the history of theology, comparative theology, and the study of religion has been securely established for generations to come. For decades scholars have preceded “the discipline of comparative theology” with the qualifiers, “the burgeoning” or “the emerging” or “the young.” However, we can confidently aver, with S. Mark Heim in his “Comparative Theology at Twenty-­Five: The End of the Beginning,” that comparative theology “has grown to have a distinct status within both theological and religious studies scholarship” and that “the questions and the substance of comparative theology have become a permanent feature of theology itself ” (Heim  2019, p.  180). Indeed, many hundreds of articles about comparative theology or doing comparative theology have been published in journals ­dedicated to the study of religion, such as, inter alia, the Journal of the American Academy of Religion, to ones dedicated to theology, such as Modern Theology and Theological Studies, and to those ­straddling both fields, such as Buddhist–­Christian Studies, Journal of Hindu–Christian Studies, Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, Interreligious Studies and Intercultural Theology, and Journal of Interreligious Studies. The number of books dedicated to comparative theology is likewise impressive, too many to list here. Indeed, we no longer need to precede “comparative theology” with adjectives denoting its infancy; the discipline is thoroughly in its adulthood, or at least in its ­adolescence (Moreland 2022), as it continues to grow in creative ways. Within the discipline of theology, be it narrowly Catholic, broadly Christian, or generally of any religious tradition, it is becoming increasingly difficult to justify doing theology while restricting oneself to a single discursive religious tradition, however defined. Within the Christian traditions, the integration of comparative theology into systematics, theological ethics, constructive theology, fundamental theology, and other branches, as well as into the various contextual and liberation theologies, is becoming a disciplinary imperative. This is the case even if it remains a messy task and even if the discipline is at times marginalized from ecclesial or other religious communities and their institutions. Furthermore, we are at a point in the study of religion and interreligious



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studies where we can unequivocally state that all religious traditions have been interreligious and intercultural; religious communities and indigenous societies, theologians (of the elite), and the subaltern (of lived religion) have always – if only implicitly – been comparative thinkers, if not theologians (Takacs 2022). Whether it is hybridity and syncretism, or the mestiza/nepantla theory of Gloria Anzaldúa, or Homi Bhabha’s Third Space, or Mikhail Bakhtin’s proposal that all sociocultural and linguistic structures are a product of syncretism, or Kathryn Tanner’s Theories of Culture (1997) – we must ask ourselves, “when has theology ever not been interreligious and intercultural, and thus comparative theology?” Today’s comparative theologians are arguably performing explicitly what their predecessors  – and human societies generally  – have historically done implicitly. This historical fact does not take away from the originality of Clooney’s comparative theology, a discipline that in the context of late twentieth-­century Euro-­American theology was certainly innovative and challenging. Indeed, arguments placing the discipline within the larger histories of theology and the study of religion – and within “the older comparative theology” – are often in response to the critiques comparative theology faced at its inception. In effect, some theologians argued (and some still do) that the discipline ignores the boundaries of tradition and is therefore outside of tradition. But the retort is simple: tradition has always been in interreligious and intercultural conversation, and boundaries have always been porous. To imagine otherwise is to reject how human societies and religious and cultural traditions mutually shape each other. Nonetheless, the discipline continues to receive other forms of critique and sometimes sharp censure. In a recent volume comprising seven essays from a colloquium that took place at the Faculty of Protestant Theology of the University of Geneva (Chalamet et  al.  2021), Clooney (2021, pp.  113–175) responds directly to the perduring critiques of comparative theology, namely, that it is elite (and ignores lived religion), hegemonic in reading non-­Christian religious traditions, apolitical and thus void of practical theological conclusions, not sufficiently theological, too subjective, ineffective in shaping confessional theology, lacking a unifying method and goal, and unclear of its relationship to theology of religions. Indeed, it is one of the few places – perhaps the only – in which one can find nearly all of Clooney’s systematic rebuttals to these critiques in a single publication (of course, he has responded piecemeal in his many articles throughout his career). These critiques inadvertently suggest that comparative theology is an accepted field of academic study precisely because many of the critiques can be applied to academic theology tout court. Other scholars (many of whom are comparative theologians themselves and included in this volume) have critiqued the discipline generally – sometimes Clooney’s work specifically – from a postcolonial/decolonial and post-­Holocaust perspective. Essays in the 2010  volume edited by Clooney, The New Comparative Theology: Interreligious Insights from the Next Generation, uncover the supersessionist, hegemonic, Orientalist, and colonial residue of comparative theology. In that volume, Nicholson, Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski, Voss Roberts, and Sayuki Tiemeier, inter alia, sharpen the discipline of comparative theology through constructive critique. Elsewhere, Judith Gruber offers a more direct postcolonial critique of comparative theology (Gruber 2016) by noting how exercises in comparative theology often occlude hybridity and syncretism – common features among all religious traditions  – by assuming fixed, reified boundaries between religions. Most recently, Sayuki Tiemeier has critically assessed the field in “White Christian Privilege and the Decolonization of Comparative Theology”: “Western academic comparative theology reinforces White Christian supremacy rather than subverting it. A full-­scale decolonization of the field is necessary” (Sayuki Tiemeier  2021, p.  86). Drawing from An Yountae’s decolonial theory of religion and Afro-­ Caribbean decolonial thinkers such as Édouard Glissant, Sayuki Tiemeier rightfully critiques Western comparative theology, but does not lose hope entirely. Comparative theology must “confront its colonial history and ongoing coloniality, self-­divest and abandon its colonial self to the

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abyss, align with the comparative cosmopolitical theology of colonized, creolized peoples, and commit to new ways of being in the world that prioritize relational solidarity and justice” (Sayuki Tiemeier 2021, p. 89). It must be noted that her critiques stand for any theology that privileges elite, White, Western voices over those of the subaltern. While comparative theology is surely past infancy, it still needs to be decolonized like all theological disciplines. There are too many publications to address in this introduction and Paul Hedges summarizes many of the critiques with a question: “whether comparative theology is a subaltern voice or does it give space for subaltern voices, or is it simply a vehicle for main/malestream discourse and rhetoric?” (Hedges  2017, p.  22). Indeed, comparative theology may be “enmeshed in hegemonic and apologetic identity politics” (Cornille 2020, p. 67; emphasis added), but it is not essentially so. From a Christian perspective, Clooney’s innovative, confessional comparative theology remains promising because it has embedded within it the tools and mechanisms interreligiously and interculturally to redraw the boundaries of Christian identity and tradition through the careful study of non-­Christian knowledges, themselves deposits of challenging truths. Sayuki Tiemeier herself notes the strengths of Clooney’s comparative theology even while she critiques it from a decolonial perspective: it attends to particularity and difference and resists constructive conclusions that merely “consume and instrumentalize others” (Sayuki Tiemeier 2021, p. 91). It does this while being attentive to the ways in which the Christian tradition has always been relational, dynamic, and mutable vis-­à-­vis local and global religious and cultural traditions – historically and presently (Takacs  2022). By incorporating a liberating praxis into exercises in comparative theology, the discipline becomes an ally in the work of liberation with the oppressed and marginalized. This is but one example of how comparative theologians have taken Clooney’s method and critically expanded and adjusted it in ways Clooney may not have anticipated, but surely would not contest (he would likely even be pleased with these new directions). Institutionally, comparative theology has been integrated into many departments of theology and religious studies, divinity schools, and seminaries, along with their majors, minors, and graduate-­level degrees from masters to doctoral. There is, of course, the original PhD program in comparative theology offered by the Department of Theology at Boston College. Alongside the other four areas of specialization, graduate students there can also minor in comparative theology. They have also integrated comparative theology into their undergraduate programming, from major to minor and the core in theology. Many other North American and European graduate programs in theology/religious studies now offer comparative theology as an area of specialization and/or require multireligious explorations of critical theological questions: Notre Dame, Georgetown, many of the Loyolas, Catholic University of America, the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, Emmanuel College of Victoria University (Toronto), Harvard Divinity School, Drew Theological School, Claremont School of Theology, Hartford International University for Religion and Peace, Duquesne University, and others, including several programs and faculties in Europe, such as Germany’s University of Bonn (International Center for Comparative Theology and Social Issues) and University of Paderborn (Center for Comparative Theology and Cultural Studies), Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam’s Faculty of Religion and Theology (which has a chair in comparative theology and hermeneutics of interreligious dialogue), KU Leuven’s Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies (which now hosts a comparative theology chair), inter alia.2 While it is true that most of these institutions are Catholic or Protestant, there is an increasing number of non-­Christian theologians doing the work of comparative theology. We should continue to work for Christian institutional support of non-­Christian confessional scholars and scholar-­practitioners in their departments and schools. To that end, though, many faculty job listings now include “comparative theology” as a requirement or one area in which the posting is seeking to hire. Once



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again, the integration of comparative theology into the academy is evident. Clooney and the Boston College program in comparative theology granted PhDs to many comparative theologians in the 1990s and 2000s; they, in turn, joined other institutions across the North American academy, and Clooney’s “deep learning across religious borders” spread, from teacher to disciple, now another teacher to other students, “like one lamp lighting another.”

Comparative Theology and Theological Scholarship and Education Clooney was the 2022–2023 president of the Catholic Theological Society of America and so had the honor to set the theme for the 2022 Annual Convention: “Thinking Catholic Interreligiously.” Consequently, many – if not most – papers across all program units were generally drawing from multiple religious traditions or were specifically exercises in comparative theology. The fruit of doing theology interreligiously was evident, and so we encourage readers to peruse the CTSA proceedings for that year (Brown 2022). However, it was the team plenary by Mara Brecht, Reid B. Locklin, and Stephanie Wong that skillfully offered the “state” of the discipline in this third decade of the twenty-­first century: “Comparative Theology: Present Experience, Remembered Pasts, Imagined Futures.” They write, “the task we set for ourselves in this essay – as a collaborative effort of Gen X and Millennial theologians  – is to think together about the question of generational change in comparative and interreligious theology in the Catholic Church” (Brecht et al. 2022, p. 43). Their essay is too rich and complex to summarize here. We bring attention to it only because, once again, despite sharp critiques leveled against comparative theology  – or perhaps precisely because of these sharp critiques that in turn inspire constructive reimaginings  – the discipline shaped by Clooney is blending with all theological discourses. It is becoming increasingly difficult to do theology without at least some attention given to the discourses and communities of non-­ Christian religious traditions. Theologians must therefore bring together the discipline of comparative theology with what Christine Hong (2021) describes as the decolonial futuring of theological education and scholarship. Her book is not about comparative theology, but it certainly offers insights for a continued creative reimagining of the discipline. Hong sharply critiques Euro-­American Christian models of learning that prioritize mastery and competency in theological education and scholarship. In Hong’s view, these learning aims discipline students into being colonial masters themselves, seeking at worst the control, classification, and subjugation of peoples, cultures, traditions, and religions, and at best their appropriation. To subvert these colonial models and imagine something new, she suggests “intercultural and interreligious intelligence” as an aim for theological education and scholarship. She defines this intelligence as an intellectual posture of curiosity, imagination, justice-­oriented critical thinking, and humble modesty that nonetheless requires interreligious and intercultural proficiency and literacy as a baseline. Hong attends critically and constructively to the decolonial future of theological education and scholarship, and thus it need not be reproduced here. We bring it up only because Clooney’s comparative theology, marked by vulnerability and humility while remaining intellectually sharp, has the tools and mechanisms to incorporate this decolonial intelligence; indeed, Clooney often speaks of his style of comparative theology in terms of an intellectual and spiritual posture similar to Hong’s. The directions into which comparative theologians are taking the discipline underscore this potential. But perhaps we can say more: many theologians in general are beginning to seek what we can creatively define (extending Hong’s constructive intervention) as comparative theological intelligence and proficiency and sharing it in the classroom and in their scholarship.

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Comparative Theology and the Study of Religion What is the place of comparative theology relative to the academic study of religion? Here, we prescind from the discipline of critical religion (CR), a methodological school that claims, “religion as an analytic category results in reification and naturalization and is unduly normative” (Watts and Mosurinjohn 2022, p. 317) and therefore must be abandoned. CR scholars are not interested in defining religion, explaining what religion does, or how religion may or may not function positively or negatively in local and global histories and present-­day societies. Rather, CR attends to “the effects of designating certain things as religion” (McCutcheon 2015, p. 131). In other words, CR merely studies how humans, societies, and communities deploy the category of “religion” and historicizes all uses of the term. According to CR, then, theologians and even many scholars of religion are not critical enough (as CR defines “critical”) because they implicitly or explicitly propose normative claims and are therefore ideological in their pursuits. However, late twentieth-­and early twenty-­first-­century trends in the study of religion question the usefulness of such narrow conceptions of “criticality.” The academic study of religion – while being a scholarly enterprise that seeks objectivity – nonetheless has ideological and even normative claims and values. Yet, it remains “critical” in the broader sense, namely, analyzing discourses in terms of knowledge and power to uncover how authority functions, how discourses variously benefit or harm certain groups and shape structures and institutions, and how historical genealogies of these discourses shape present-­day ideas and structures. Trends in, inter alia, feminist, Black studies, queer, subaltern, Indigenous, Africana, Chicana, and Asian approaches to the study of religion attend to lived religion and embodiment in ways that not only critique but also construct theoretical and methodological interventions for the coloniality of White, Euro-­American models in the study of religion; they even speak to sociopolitical solutions for injustice, inequity, and inequality. Indeed, this reads very closely to constructive, contextual, and liberation theologies. Here we see how comparative theology is perhaps running parallel to, if not crisscrossing, the study of religion understood in this way. Some scholars critique and reject this affinity, others support and affirm it, and others simply analyze it to understand better the purpose and function of each discipline. Often, where one falls on this spectrum depends on how one defines theology and the study of religion. We cannot list the many articles in the last decade from the Journal of the American Academy of Religion debating the shared genealogies of theology and the study of religion. Instead, we will attend to one recent publication that underscores the thick – if not tense – relationship between these disciplines. Shankar Nair’s Translating Wisdom: Hindu–Muslim Intellectual Interactions in Early Modern South Asia is selected for this purpose for two reasons. First, the book is an excellent example of how we can learn from the historical interactions among religious traditions and communities, as well as from the intellectual projects of historical figures, to craft novel theories and methods for the study of religion – and, if one is so inclined, comparative theologies  – related to the exploration of interreligious engagement. Second, Nair studied with Clooney and, in our view at least, one can therefore see sparks of the latter’s comparative theology in the former’s study of South Asian religious and intellectual life. Nair studies the Jūg Bāsisht, which was translated in the late sixteenth century by a Hindu– Muslim team of scholars working together to craft “a novel vocabulary with which to express Hindu Sanskrit philosophical ideas in an Islamic Persian idiom” (Nair 2020, p. 1). Nair demonstrates how the confluence of Hindu Sanskrit and Islamic Persian and Arabic traditions come together in the context of the Mughal “translation movement” – using this particular text as a case study  – to produce something new: “a cosmopolitan, interreligious lexicon in the Persian language” (Nair 2020, p. 2). We skip the details of Nair’s fascinating and intellectually rigorous study



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and instead jump to the conclusion, which offers sharp insights for – and critique of – the Euro-­ American academic study of religion. Nair engages very recent scholarship on the role and purpose of the study of religion, including its theories and methods, to make a case for “taking religion seriously” not in the style of critical religion, but rather in a way that allows the likes of his early modern scholars, such as Madhusūdana (fl. ca. 1600), Muḥibb Allāh (d. 1648), Mīr Findiriskī (d. 1641), and the unnamed translation team, “to … find themselves on the ‘theory’ side of the enterprise” (Nair  2020, p.  178). That is, these discourses are not just objects of study for the scholar of religion, but should be sources of new theories and methods for the study of religion. [R]ather than rejecting out of hand the idea that there is something to learn from such historical precedents [as the case study of the Jūg Bāsisht], I would encourage the study of religion today, bearing [in mind] the admonitions [Nair details in this section], to be willing to try to think with (rather than simply about) this historical case study of encounter between two disparate religio-­ philosophical traditions. In order to facilitate similar cross-­civilizational learning within the contemporary academy, we would do well to reflect on the processes through which the translation team found the words and the means to put their respective intellectual traditions into a certain conversation with one another. (Nair 2020, pp. 182–183)

Nair is speaking of the limits not merely of critical religion, but of a study of religion that ­continuously marks us (modern/postmodern, Western scholars) as the theorists and them (­nonmodern, non-­Western thinkers  – or “religious people”) as the subjects of study (see also Chakrabarty 2000). Surely, for example, the theories and methods of Hindus and Muslims participating in cross-­cultural/cross-­civilizational and interreligious conversation – and doing so relatively successfully  – have something to add to the conversation about what is religion, how it functions, the meaning and value of intergroup relations, the nature of “tradition,” comparative theologies, and so on. In his conclusion, Nair paints a future picture in which the study of religion welcomes both confessional, non-­Western scholars and also nonmodern thinkers (through careful textual study) to contribute to the theories and methods of the study of religion. He then adds, [If not the study of religion,] perhaps theology would be a more hospitable disciplinary home for such developments to take place: I would certainly welcome the development if insights from this study might take on a life within the realm of theological inquiries, though I must leave such explorations to other scholars better trained within that discipline. (Nair 2020, p. 183)

Indeed, this is just what comparative theology – which is often a contextual theology – is doing, at least from a Christian perspective: taking the theological claims of non-­Christian and/or nonmodern religious thinkers seriously enough to challenge, shape, subvert, and construct a more liberating Christian theology. Scholars of religion are likewise drawing from traditions of lived religion, subaltern communities, feminist approaches, indigenous lifeways, Queer experiences, and so on, to shape the direction of the discipline critically by rendering it less implicitly (or explicitly!) White, male, cis-­heteronormative, and Christian. The goals of (decolonizing) comparative theology and the decolonial approach to the study of religion mesh and flow together. We are not arguing that the goals, methods, theories, and audiences of the study of religion and of comparative theology are the same. To the contrary, confessional comparative theology à la Clooney speaks to a different audience and has different goals in mind; in addition, its theories and methods are notably distinct. As Moreland (2022) reminds us, Clooney’s comparative theology – and those of many other confessional comparative theologians  – maintain or at least strive to maintain their ecclesial moorings and commitments. Their disciplinary framework is thus

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different than the study of religion’s. Rather, we are suggesting that the global, decolonial, interreligious, and intercultural directions each are taking can be mutually beneficial. Given the interreligious and intercultural context of the world, it behooves the study of religion – with careful caution – to welcome rigorous, carefully contextualized exercises in comparative theology into its discourses, just as comparative theologians have greatly benefited from rigorous, critical approaches to the study of religion. How might departments of religion benefit from diversifying their faculty and scholarship by taking confessional approaches to the study of religion seriously, so long as they are not exclusionary and hegemonic? It is the hope of this Festschrift’s editors that the diverse chapters of this volume – some of which are written by scholars of religion and not theologians – might offer potential starting points in this endeavor.

Other Introductory Texts We note for readers the many monographs and edited volumes (and a few major articles) introducing the discipline of comparative theology. Here, we exclude exercises in comparative theology and restrict ourselves to publications concerning theories, methods, and aims of the discipline. Scholarship presenting and critiquing Clooney’s comparative theology began to appear in a more consistent manner around 2010 with the publication of a volume he edited: The New Comparative Theology: Interreligious Insights from the Next Generation (Clooney 2010a). This volume coincided with the publication of his own introduction to the discipline: Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders (Clooney  2010b). Hugh Nicholson approached comparative theology within the context of the study of religion from the nineteenth to the twenty-­first centuries in his Comparative Theology and the Problem of Religious Rivalry (Nicholson 2011). In 2014, Marianne Moyaert published In Response to the Religious Other: Ricoeur and the Fragility of Interreligious Encounters, which, while not a book explicitly about comparative theology, attends to Ricoeur’s philosophy of religion, hermeneutical anthropology, and ethical hermeneutics, and concludes by exploring Clooney’s comparative theology as a concrete, disciplinary manifestation of Ricoeur’s hospitable spirit and vulnerable hermeneutics. Later, she published an argument proposing comparative theology as Catholic theology: “Theology Today: Comparative Theology as a Catholic Theological Approach” (Moyaert  2015). By now the discipline had migrated to the European academy and Clooney coedited a special issue of Religions with John Berthrong: European Perspectives on the New Comparative Theology (Clooney and Berthrong 2014), a product of the five-­ year, European research project led by Norbert Hintersteiner (2015), Translating God(s): Comparative Theology in Europe (https://cordis.europa.eu/project/id/249264/reporting). While necessarily passing over many other publications, by 2015 comparative theology was being integrated within the discipline of theology and critically examined from the perspective of the academic study of religion, both in Europe and North America. From 2016 to 2019, a flurry of publications emerged that expanded and critically responded to the discipline. Michelle Voss Roberts edited a volume aiming to further embed comparative theology into systematic and constructive theological projects: Comparing Faithfully: Insights for Systematic Theological Reflection (Voss Roberts 2016). That same year Mara Brecht and Reid Locklin coedited a volume on pedagogy and teaching strategies for comparative theology in classrooms comprising students who were religiously disaffiliated, hybrid, or “spiritual but not religious” – in other words, decisively not representing fixed, reified religious identities/traditions: Comparative Theology in the Millennial Classroom: Hybrid Identities, Negotiated Boundaries (Brecht and Locklin  2016). Paul Hedges later released a useful examination of comparative theology that offered both an overview of previous studies and original, critical insights into the discipline’s



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origins and hermeneutics and how it engaged religion, gender, and the subaltern: Comparative Theology: A Critical and Methodological Perspective (Hedges 2017). Dialogue among European and North American scholars continued with the publication of How To Do Comparative Theology, a volume coedited by Clooney and Klaus von Stosch in 2018. All these publications invited Mark Heim to publish his aforementioned “Comparative Theology at Twenty-­Five: The End of the Beginning” (Heim 2019). Two major works have appeared between 2020 and the publication of this Festschrift honoring Francis X. Clooney. The first major work is Catherine Cornille’s Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology (2020), which provides a comprehensive overview of the field of comparative theology in two major ways: first by surveying the full breadth of comparative theological scholarship and thereby offering a detailed assessment of the present state of the field, and second through her analysis and discussion of the challenges faced perennially by comparative theologians. In terms of the latter, such challenges include the relationship between comparative theology and theology of religions, hermeneutical difficulties raised by comparative theology (e.g., issues of syncretism and hegemony), and comparative theology’s relationship to both confessional and “meta-­ confessional” theologies. In her essay, “Comparative Theology: A Wellness Checkup” (2022), Anna Bonta Moreland critically and constructively reviews this book alongside Veli-­ Matti Kärkkäinen’s Doing the Work of Comparative Theology: A Primer for Christians (2020), John J. Thatamanil’s Circling the Elephant: A Comparative Theology of Religious Diversity (2020), and a ­volume edited by Cornille, Atonement and Comparative Theology: The Cross in Dialogue with Other Religions (2021). While she still describes comparative theology as a “young discipline” (Moreland 2022, p. 121), she considers this perhaps a virtue with concomitant risks. Comparative theology is both integrated in theological disciplines and is marginalized: “It might be that Comparative Theology belongs on the corners of Christianity, as it trespasses borders and challenges its center. It is a risky place for a field to be, but the risk is unavoidable” (p. 129). Moreland notes how Cornille includes confessional comparative theology and meta-­confessional (or transreligious) theology within the umbrella of comparative theology generally, thereby underscoring the multiple pathways that the discipline is taking. On the one hand, for Moreland (a Catholic theologian with ecclesial commitments), when comparative theology abandons ecclesial moorings, the discipline becomes difficult to distinguish from the study of religion or becomes even newly “anchor[ed] in progressive political values of the West, ones that would be foreign to most religious believers around the globe” (2022, p. 130). This is an arguable, though valuable, criticism; quite a few contributors to this volume would challenge this thesis, some would agree, and nearly all would at least engage it critically and constructively. On the other hand, she concludes with a note of hope and promise: “Comparative Theology might be a perpetual teenager – tugged by the possibilities of conversion, of multiple religious belonging, of moving outside of one’s ecclesial ­community. The restlessness of the discipline makes it creative” (p.  130). With this we wholeheartedly agree. The second major work, published in 2022, is the multiyear project, A Companion to Comparative Theology, edited primarily by Pim Valkenberg with Marianne Moyaert, Kristin Johnston Largen, James Fredericks, and Bede Benjamin Bidlack. The volume offers a systematic introduction and critical survey of comparative theology in 32 chapters under seven parts: Comparative Theology before 1985, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Chinese Religion, and New Perspectives in Comparative Theology. An impressive array of scholars contributed to this volume with clear guidance from the editors, and it is thus a necessary feature of any comparative theologian’s reading list. What all the above texts betray, however, is a predominantly Christian – and in many cases Catholic – perspective and grounding of comparative theology. This remains largely the case for this volume, with a few notable exceptions (Ithamar Theodor, Michelle Bentsman, Pravina

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Rodrigues, Arvind Sharma, Bin Song, Vasudha Narayanan, and Shankar Nair). On the one hand, the parochial nature of confessional comparative theology is unsurprising given that it is a discipline that emerged from Catholic systematic and constructive theological engagement with non-­ Christian religious traditions. On the other hand, we hope for a future in which non-­Christian scholar-­practitioners (i.e., “theologians” in the broadest sense of the term) offer their own meaning and method for comparative theology. Even if the above publications represented the actual number of texts published over the past dozen years (and it does not!), it is apparent that Clooney  – to recall the epigraph opening this introduction – has inspired many scholars, has granted a treasury of theological wisdom, and has lit hundreds of candles. His mentoring and corpus have ignited flames of theological and religious studies scholarship whose glow will shine for generations.

Content As editors, we did not seek to reproduce the contributions of these publications. Rather, we invited scholars to reflect on any aspect of comparative theology and its related disciplines (i.e., comparative religion, comparative literature, theology of religions, and of course theology in general, including comparative theology in relation to Islamic, Hindu, Buddhist, Ruist, Jewish, and other non-­Christian traditions). More importantly, however, we asked authors to engage Clooney’s comparative theology, his style and method, and his corpus, in a way that honors his incredible contributions to the theological and religious studies academy. In so doing, we gave authors relatively free rein in choosing subjects for their chapters. After receiving authors’ respective abstracts, we then organized their contributions into the seven parts of this Festschrift. Specifically, Part I (Theories and Methods in Comparative Theology) examines specific methodological facets of comparative theological analysis, including such issues as doing comparison without texts (i.e., based on oral accounts), comparing without endorsing religious relativism, and the role of “inner sense” (i.e., intuition, imagination) in the comparative process. Part II (The Spirituality, Vocation, and Formation of the Comparative Theologian) explores selected intellectual and spiritual disciplines (e.g., slow reading, comparative study as “prayer”) which shape the comparative theologian. In a more focused manner, Part III (Comparative Theology and the Society of Jesus) centers on the particularly Ignatian dimensions of comparative theology, including the interreligious work of Jesuits stretching back to Roberto de Nobili and the specifically Ignatian aspects of the “intellectual virtues” espoused in Clooney’s oeuvre. Part IV (Expanding on Francis X. Clooney’s Corpus) then builds on Clooney’s comparative achievements by highlighting their applicability to proximate fields like scriptural interpretation, feminist theology, and even personal devotional relationships with the Divine. Part V (Exercises in Comparative Theology) features several focused comparative studies which apply comparative methodologies in analyzing specific Hindu, Jewish, Christian, and Islamic texts and traditions. Part VI (Comparative Theology Beyond the Discipline) expands comparative theology beyond its standard focus on texts to consider its relevance for such venues as postsecondary theological pedagogy, public theology, and prison ministry. Finally, Part VII (The Past, Present, and Future of Comparative Theology) examines the practice of comparative theology in diverse contexts across time, from examples of learning across religious borders in eighteenth-­century Korea to the application of Clooney’s comparative methods to traditions (e.g., Ruism [Confucianism]) in which it is rarely utilized. The volume then concludes with a final chapter which considers the dependency of comparative theology on particular institutional, intellectual, and theological prerequisites, along with the future of comparative theology as these supports inevitably change.



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Conclusion To return to the quotation with which we opened this introduction, by “keeping company” with Francis Clooney, “hearing [his] speech,” and, to add a third, reading his seminal texts, Clooney’s students, colleagues, and readers have benefited tremendously from his “light.” Clooney has undoubtedly served as a beacon for many by illuminating a path forward and toward the “deep learning across religious borders” to which he has dedicated so much of his professional life. It is the sincere hope of the editors of this Festschrift that this volume, in commemorating Clooney’s remarkable career, may add one more light to the path. While the exact future of “Comparative Theology After Clooney,” the title of this volume’s final chapter, remains yet unknown, the formative legacy of Clooney’s comparative theology shines with clear and enduring brilliance.

Notes 1 This conviction is, of course, evident in other traditions as well, such as Buddhist and Hindu ones in which the role of the guru is considered absolutely essential to the disciple’s spiritual progress. 2 In the European context, we commend the research project carried out by Norbert Hintersteiner, Translating God(s): Comparative Theology in Europe (2015), which explores the “transatlantic transfer and reception [of Anglo-­American comparative theology] in Europe.” Dr. Hintersteiner is based in the University of Münster (Westfälische Wilhelms-­Universität Münster). See https://cordis.europa.eu/ project/id/249264/reporting.

References Brecht, M. and Locklin, R. (2016). Comparative Theology in the Millennial Classroom: Hybrid Identities, Negotiated Boundaries. London: Routledge. Brecht, M., Locklin, R.B., and Wong, S. (2022). Comparative theology: Present experience, remembered pasts, imagines futures. Proceedings of the Catholic Theological Society of America 76: 42–66. https:// ejournals.bc.edu/index.php/ctsa/article/view/15581. Brown, K. (ed.) (2022). Proceedings of the Catholic Theological Society of America 76:. https://ejournals. bc.edu/index.php/ctsa/issue/view/1289). Chakrabarty, D. (2000). Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Chalamet, C., Jaillet, E., and Palasciano, G. (eds.) (2021). La théologie comparée: Vers un dialogue interreligieux et interculturel renouvelé? Geneva: Editions Labor et Fides. Clooney, F.X. (2010a). The New Comparative Theology: Interreligious Insights from the Next Generation. London: T&T Clark. Clooney, F.X. (2010b). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2021). La théologie comparée en question. In: La théologie comparée: Vers un dialogue interreligieux et interculturel renouvelé? (ed. C. Chalamet, E. Jaillet, and G. Palasciano), pp. 113–175. Geneva: Editions Labor et Fides. Clooney, F.X. and Berthrong, J. (eds.) (2014). European Perspectives on the New Comparative Theology. Basel: MDPI. Clooney, F.X. and Von Stosch, K. (2018). How To Do Comparative Theology. New  York: Fordham University Press. Cornille, C. (2020). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Cornille, C. (2021). Atonement and Comparative Theology: The Cross in Dialogue with Other Religions. New York: Fordham University Press.

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Gruber, J. (2016). (Un)silencing hybridity: A postcolonial critique of comparative theology. In: Comparative theology in the Millennial Classroom: Hybrid Identities, Negotiated Boundaries (ed. M. Brecht and R.B. Locklin), pp. 21–35. New York: Routledge. Hedges, P. (2017). Comparative Theology: A Critical and Methodological Perspective. Leiden: Brill. Heim, S.M. (2019). Comparative theology at twenty-­five: The end of the beginning. Modern Theology 35 (1): 163–180. https://doi.org/10.1111/moth.12450. Hintersteiner, N. (2015). Translating God(s): Comparative Theology in Europe [Report], Westfälische Wilhelms University, Münster, Germany. https://cordis.europa.eu/project/id/249264/reporting. Hong, C. (2021). Decolonial Futures: Intercultural and Interreligious Intelligence for Theological Education. London: Lexington Books. Kärkkäinen, V.-­M. (2020). Doing the Work of Comparative Theology: A Primer for Christians. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. McCutcheon, R. (2015). The category “religion” in recent publications: Twenty years later. Numen 62: 119–141. Moreland, A.B. (2022). Comparative theology: A wellness checkup. Modern Theology 39 (1): 121–130. https://doi.org/10.1111/moth.12805. Moyaert, M. (2014). In Response to the Religious Other: Ricoeur and the Fragility of Interreligious Encounters. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Moyaert, M. (2015). Theology today: Comparative theology as a Catholic theological approach. Theological Studies 76 (1): 43–64. Nair, S. (2020). Translating Wisdom: Hindu–Muslim Intellectual Interactions in Early Modern South Asia. Oakland: University of California Press. Nicholson, H. (2011). Comparative Theology and the Problem of Religious Rivalry. New  York: Oxford University Press. Sayuki Tiemeier, T. (2021). White Christian privilege and the decolonization of comparative theology. In: The Human in a Dehumanizing World: Reexamining Theological Anthropology and Its Implications (ed. J. Coblentz and D.P. Horan), Vol. 67, pp. 85–95. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Shihāb al-­Dīn Abū Ḥ afṣ ʿUmar al-­Suhrawardī. (1971). ʿAwārif al-­Maʿārif [Gifts of gnosis] (ed. ‘Abd ­al-­Halim Mahmud and Mahmud ibn al-­Sharif), 2 vols. Cairo: Matba’at al-­Sa’ada. Takacs, A.M.O. (2022). Comparative theology and interreligious studies: Embracing and transgressing the dialogical relationships among religious traditions. In: A Companion to Comparative Theology (ed. P. Valkenberg), pp. 563–582. Leiden: Brill. Tanner, K. (1997). Theories of Culture: A New Agenda for Theology. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Thatamanil, J.J. (2020). Circling the Elephant: A Comparative Theology of Religious Diversity. New York: Fordham University Press. Valkenberg, P. (2022). A Companion to Comparative Theology. Leiden: Brill. Voss Roberts, M. (2016). Comparing Faithfully: Insights for Systematic Theological Reflection. New York: Fordham University Press. Watts, G. and Mosurinjohn, S. (2022). Can critical religion play by its own rules? Why there must be more ways to be “critical” in the study of religion. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 90 (2): 317–334.

PART I

Theories and Methods in Comparative Theology

1 Five Insights on Method from Comparative Theology Jason W. Smith 2 Imagining Religion, Intuiting Comparison: Comparing the Roles of Inner Sense in the Scholarship of Jonathan Z. Smith and Francis X. Clooney, SJ Joseph L. Kimmel 3 Resisting Religious Relativism in Comparative Theology Catherine Cornille 4 Grounding Theology of Religions in Comparative Theology: A Fulfillment Model in Reverse Ruben L.F. Habito

3

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5 Beyond the Text: Comparative Theology and Oral Cultures Nougoutna Norbert Litoing

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6 Faith Seeking Understanding or Understanding Seeking Faith?  Bennett DiDente Comerford ́ 7 Kinesics, Proxemics, and Haptics: A Sākta Method for Comparative Theology Pravina Rodrigues

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CHAPTER 1

Five Insights on Method from Comparative Theology Jason W. Smith

I first met Francis X. Clooney in the fall of 2009 when, as a recent college graduate, I made my way over to Boston College to attend a lecture on comparative theology and interreligious dialogue. Arriving at a lecture hall nearly filled to capacity, I sat on the floor at the back of the room, ensconced between a pair of recycling bins. As I considered my surroundings, I noticed a man in glasses sitting next to me on the floor, reading a text in a language that was totally foreign to me. While at that point I knew of Clooney’s work, I had only a vague sense of what he looked like in person, and it was only after the lecture when I saw him greeting students and colleagues that I realized I had been sitting next to him the entire time. I introduced myself briefly, not knowing then that I would go on to become his student and that he would serve as my adviser, mentor, and guide for nearly a decade of study at Harvard Divinity School. Though I know Clooney now much better than I did in 2009, the image of him sitting on the floor with a text in hand has stuck with me over the years as a fitting symbol of his scholarly persona: someone who gets down to work whenever and wherever the opportunity arises. This readiness to work characterizes his approach to comparative theology as well; in much of his writing and teaching Clooney eschews dwelling at length on theory and method, preferring instead that students learn how to do comparative theology by actually doing it. As he argues, “comparative theology is fruitful primarily in practice” (Clooney 2010, p. 154). Even in his most robust account of the discipline (see Clooney 2010), while there are clearly certain principles that animate his work, there is no step-­by-­step guide for doing comparative theology like one can find in the work of other comparativists (see, for example, Smith 2000; Lincoln 2012). In his classes as well, the bulk of the time is spent reading primary sources in translation and building a comparative analysis from the ground up by reading slowly back and forth. For some this inattention to questions of theory and method may seem like a weakness. Yet, as I hope to demonstrate, Clooney’s research and teaching are very much grounded in an implicit set of methodological principles and a strong sense of what good comparative work looks like. In what follows, I draw from Clooney’s work and my experiences in the comparative theology classroom as The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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both a student and instructor to outline five methodological principles that have emerged over the course of many years studying and thinking about comparative theology in dialogue with Clooney: (1) a commitment to scholarly rigor that comes from the slow, painstaking study of languages, texts, and their contexts over time; (2) an honest account of one’s scholarly positionality vis-­à-­vis the research material; (3) an embrace of learning with and from the wisdom of tradition; (4) a conviction that good academic work is grounded in particulars rather than generalities; and (5) a view that comparative work should always drive toward some end goal in which new insights are ­generated. For each principle, I ground my discussion in concrete examples taken from my own experience teaching comparative theology, for I have found that these methodological insights bear just as much fruit in the classroom, where they inform and elevate my pedagogical choices, as they do in my research and writing.

Academic Rigor The first methodological principle that emerges from Clooney’s work is a clear commitment to scholarly rigor in terms of the preparation and training needed to do comparative work well. Most obviously, the ideal comparative theologian should be an expert in both traditions under study. As Clooney notes, this dual expertise is essential “if comparative theology is to be faithful to text and language, history and context, and not mistaken or lazy in (mis)using what is known about the religion in question” (Clooney 2010, p. 12). Acquiring such expertise often translates into years of study to master the languages needed to read texts in their original languages, in addition to commentaries and other scholarly writings. Even when all of this preparatory work is finished, doing comparative theology simply takes time. As Clooney puts it, “we need to pick up the text and ­actually read it, spending a great deal of time with it. We need to study what it says with loving attention, follow its clues when it points beyond itself to textual and historical contexts. In all of this, the reading should be patient and persistent, careful and committed, privileging insights strictly indebted to the reading” (Clooney 2010, p. 60). In this way, the rigor of comparative theology lies in the amount of preparation required and the time needed to spend on the comparative analysis itself, engaging with two texts and their respective traditions. In my comparative theology courses, students confront the rigor of comparative theology early on in the semester when I have them read excerpts from 1 Corinthians and the Chandogya Upanishad. While these texts make for a fruitful dialogue on Christian and Hindu conceptions of human existence, it is nevertheless a demanding task to read each text on its own given that each presumes some prior knowledge of the tradition on which it builds. For example, Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians addresses a range of issues facing the Corinthian community, from marriage and sexual relations to circumcision. Paul writes: “Was anyone at the time of his call already circumcised? Let him not seek to remove the marks of circumcision. Was anyone at the time of his call uncircumcised? Let him not seek circumcision. Circumcision is nothing, and uncircumcision is nothing; but obeying the commandments of God is everything” (1 Cor. 7:18–19, NRSV). Students are often puzzled by these verses, which seem to dwell extensively on the issue of circumcision. In teaching 1 Corinthians, I try to remind students that Paul is writing in the context of a nascent Christian community composed of both Jews and Gentiles, and Jewish laws and customs were at the center of a debate over what it meant to be a follower of Christ. In other words, these lines from Paul’s letter make sense only when read against the backdrop of the Jewish tradition of which Paul was a part and in light of God’s instructions to Abraham in Genesis: “You shall ­circumcise the flesh of your foreskins, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and you” (Gen. 17:11). Making this connection requires us to put in the time needed to arrive at such



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i­ ntertextual insights, and in reading 1 Corinthians students feel the full weight of what is required of them to make sense of Paul’s letter in its broader context. A similar moment of recognition occurs when students read the Chandogya Upanishad. The text is difficult on its own as a literary and philosophical document, and first-­time readers are often puzzled by its circuitous approach to teaching the audience about the nature of the self. In one passage, a student named Narada approaches a teacher with a lengthy summary of all that he studied, including the four Vedas, the corpus of histories and ancient tales, mathematics, and so on. The scope of Narada’s list of accomplishments borders on the excessive until he ends on a strikingly somber note: “Here I am, a man who knows all the vedic formulas but is ignorant of the self. And I have heard it said by your peers that those who know the self pass across sorrow. Here I am, sir, a man full of sorrow. Please, sir, take me across to the other side of sorrow” (Olivelle  1996, pp. 156–157). Part of the work of making sense of the Upanishad requires one to have some prior knowledge of earlier Vedic tradition with its emphasis on ritual and recitation. When the Upanishad is understood more fully within its broader tradition, students start to see the truly radical claim made by Narada: he knows all of the Vedas by heart, but it is still not enough. He needs something more that only his teacher can provide, and it is knowledge of the self. Thus, by reading the Upanishad in dialogue with its inherited tradition, students arrive at a more complete sense of the radical paradigm shift effected by the text and the ways in which it introduces a remarkably new vision of human existence. Again, arriving at this insight requires us not just to read the Upanishad but also to familiarize ourselves with the broader historical context in which it operates. These are merely two examples from each tradition, but it is clear just how much work is required of the comparative theologian even at an introductory level to acquire the expertise needed to be able to read texts like 1 Corinthians and the Chandogya Upanishad and understand the broader contexts in which they emerged. There are, of course, many more examples that could be cited in addition to the ones mentioned here, and I have not even begun to scratch the surface of what it would look like to read these texts comparatively once they have been understood on their own terms. Nevertheless, I hope that even these brief examples illustrate the academic rigor demanded of the comparative theologian and offer some sense of how extensive preparation and slow, careful reading emerge as guiding methodological principles of the discipline. All of this takes time, but for the comparative theologian it is time well spent.

Scholarly Positionality A second methodological insight that emerges from Clooney’s work is the critical value of providing an honest account of one’s positionality in relation to the research. As Clooney argues, we need “to know ourselves as discerning and reflective readers, so as to understand the limits and capacities of our reading. Our history matters: we come to any of our new reading projects with literacy in our own traditions, and what we have read affects how we read and make sense of what we read in another tradition” (Clooney 2010, p. 60). The emphasis on both the capacities and limitations of who we are as individual readers plays a central role in much of his work, and Clooney asserts the need for comparative theology to be autobiographically grounded in practice. In his own words, he comes to the study of Catholic and Hindu traditions as “an Irish-­American Roman Catholic, born in Brooklyn, New York, in 1950” (Clooney 2010, p. 16). In disclosing his personal history, we gain a sense of what perspectives he brings to his work and the context that has shaped his intellectual trajectory. Of course, this sort of critical self-­reflection has been much discussed in the study of religion, and I am not claiming that comparative theology invented the practice of self-­disclosure or naming one’s positionality as a scholar. Yet, by foregrounding the autobiographical nature of

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c­ omparative theology in much of his work, I would argue that Clooney has modeled how naming one’s subjectivity can work in practice and how it can be used toward particularly productive and even ethical ends. The benefits of centering oneself in relation to the research topic emerges most saliently in my teaching when I have students compare Christian and Hindu theologies of liberation in which the stakes of one’s personal engagement in the research are particularly high. I typically assign chapters from Ada María Isasi-­Díaz’s Mujerista Theology and Anantanand Rambachan’s A Hindu Theology of Liberation so that students can see how two scholars put this principle into practice in a way that enhances their scholarly efforts. In the case of Isasi-­Díaz, she highlights the importance of naming oneself insofar as it “provides the conceptual framework, the point of reference, the mental constructs that are used in thinking, understanding, and relation to a person, an idea, a movement” (Isasi-­Díaz 1996, p. 35). Isasi-­Díaz speaks in particular about her own experience as a Latina woman invested in mujerista theology and how that experience shapes her theological p ­ erspective. Contrary to any notion that theology should strive toward neutrality or objectivity, Isasi-­Díaz powerfully argues against the assumption that naming oneself or acknowledging the limits of one’s perspective undermines the research: “Mujerista theology denounces any and all so-­called objectivity. What passes as objectivity in reality merely names the subjectivity of those who have the authority and/ or power to impose their point of view. So instead of objectivity what we should be claiming is responsibility for our subjectivity” (Isasi-­Díaz 1996, 42). For Isasi-­Díaz, there is no such thing as an “objective” theology or perspective; all theology is inherently subjective and must therefore start from a point of self-­disclosure. A core ethical tenet of mujerista theology, then, is taking responsibility for one’s subjectivity and bringing it to the fore of one’s writing. In a similar vein, Rambachan grounds a Hindu theology of liberation in his personal experiences and encounters with oppression. In a chapter focused on caste, he recounts a story about his time as a Hindu guest at the Assembly of the World Council of Churches in 2006: “The presence and participation of Hindus in the assembly were vigorously challenged and denounced by a Christian bishop from South India. He passionately chastised the World Council of Churches for giving legitimacy to Hindus and their tradition by inviting us to the assembly” (Rambachan 2015, p. 167). Later, Rambachan learns that the bishop “came from the Dalit (oppressed) community, the name preferred by many who have been relegated historically to the lowest rungs of the hierarchical caste ladder” (Rambachan 2015, p. 167). In sharing this anecdote, Rambachan addresses two related issues around caste. First, he confronts the issue of caste as it is experienced individually. As he notes, “I had never before heard anyone describe me as an oppressor, and I never struggled with the fact that I am perceived as an oppressor in the eyes of another” (Rambachan 2015, p. 168). This encounter invites Rambachan to consider more deeply the implications of his own relationship to caste and caste privilege. Second, Rambachan recognizes the ways in which caste is experienced differently around the world. Raised in Trinidad and Tobago, caste was a minimal feature of Rambachan’s daily life: “We never thought that identifying with a caste was necessary or central to what it meant to be Hindu. Our experience of the Hindu tradition was, by and large, caste free” (Rambachan 2015, p. 168). Yet, the bishop he encountered in 2006 clearly had a very different experience of caste, and this experience forced Rambachan to contend with caste as it is experienced by Dalits themselves. Only by centering his personal experiences and contending with limits of his perspective could Rambachan fully come to terms with the past and present forms of caste injustice and recognize how critical the issue of caste would be in crafting a Hindu theology of liberation. In the work of both Isasi-­Díaz and Rambachan, acknowledging one’s subjectivity and recognizing the limitations inherent in any individual perspective is a central part of crafting a liberative theology. Even more, this practice of self-­disclosure has deep ethical ramifications. For Isasi-­Díaz,



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the ethical impulse to claim our subjectivity emerges in her effort to combat the assumption that there can be any form of objective theology. For Rambachan, the ethical ramifications of his work emerge in his deeply personal encounter with a Dalit Christian bishop, forcing him to reconsider his experience of caste in light of how others have experienced it and thus take it seriously as a form of oppression. In showing how two scholars working in very different traditions have used an honest account of their own positionality to enhance their work, I also hope that the scholarly advantages and ethical benefits of self-­disclosure in comparative theology can be better appreciated for their methodological contributions to religious studies as a whole. In this way, self-­ disclosure becomes not just a key practice and core methodological principle of comparative theology, but also one of its major ethical impulses.

Learning from Tradition A third methodological practice I have learned from Clooney is the idea that all scholarly endeavors should draw from and contribute to a longer tradition. For Clooney, this engagement most often occurs in the form of reading the commentaries that have been produced on a text, but even in cases where no commentaries exist we can still seek out conversation partners to guide our interpretive engagement with the texts. As he argues, “religiously and interreligiously, we ought not to read alone, as if we need no guidance in interpreting classic texts of our own or another tradition” (Clooney 2010, p. 60). Comparative scholarship is enhanced when the scholar interprets texts in dialogue with others, whether they are the colleagues who engage with our work today or the scholars of centuries past whom we read and consult in forming our analysis. I have tried to preserve a sense of the dialogical nature of textual study in my teaching by emphasizing both the primary source texts themselves and their longer reception histories. In particular, I have found that the Ramayana is a productive point of departure for thinking about both text and tradition. Even when read alone and in translation, the earliest Sanskrit version of the Ramayana, attributed to Valmiki, offers plenty of episodes that raise questions about the meaning of human life and the nature of dharma (“ethics” or “duty”). Students are drawn to the scene in which Rama shoots an arrow and kills Vali, a monkey king, while he is engaged in physical combat with Sugriva, another monkey king whose throne he has usurped. The scene raises difficult questions about whether Rama’s action was ethical, given that he shot Vali from behind while he was engaged in combat with another, and it prompts a debate within the text between Rama and the dying Vali. There are no easy answers to the questions raised, but the scene invites its audience to ask questions about what message the epic wants to convey about ethics. Students are similarly struck by Rama’s repeated attempts to test the virtue of his wife, Sita, later in the narrative after he rescues her from captivity. This test of her sexual purity, known as the agniparı ̄kṣa ̄ (“trial by fire”), is one of the most harrowing episodes in the narrative, even though Sita ultimately emerges unscathed. Even on their own, these scenes are deeply compelling and instructive to students in the comparative theology classroom. Yet, our understanding of the Ramayana is enhanced when we read these scenes in dialogue with the long tradition of retelling the Ramayana story in different regions, languages, and religious contexts. To name two of the most famous examples, there is the twelfth-­ century Tamil-­language version composed by Kampan and the sixteenth-­century Hindi-­language version composed by Tulsidas. Both narratives depart from the Sanskrit version in striking ways. The Tamil version offers a more sympathetic portrayal of Ravana, the demon king who kidnaps Sita and holds her captive in the kingdom of Lanka, while Tulsidas presents a much more fully divinized version of Rama at the center of the story. For class, I typically assign a translation of the

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Ramayana that hews closely to the Sanskrit original so that we have a shared starting point to explore the epic and the questions it raises. However, I have students compare the same scene across two or more retellings to see how authors reimagine the characters, plot, pacing, and other aspects of the narrative. When we see how elements of the Ramayana are reinterpreted across time and space, we can better understand how later authors grappled with the ethical issues at the heart of the story and adapted them to suit their own literary and theological aims. Reading texts like the Ramayana in dialogue with their longer reception tradition also encourages us to be thoughtful about more recent retellings, such as Nina Paley’s controversial a ­ nimated version of the story, Sita Sings the Blues. Though it has been criticized by many Hindus for its irreverent tone and sexually explicit portrayal of Sita, it is easier to sympathize with Paley’s creative take on the story when it is seen as but one more recent example in a long tradition of Ramayana retellings. Of course, no retelling, however old or new, is immune from critique if we feel that the narrative has been abused or misunderstood. Yet, by attending to the ways in which texts are in conversation with each other and by explicitly bringing the perspectives of later ­tradition to bear on our own interpretation, we attune ourselves more thoroughly to the possibilities inherent to learning with and from others, and we enhance our comparative insights as a result. As Clooney describes it, learning requires that “we do more listening and less judging. Interreligious learning requires all the more that we not rush to impose our values on their ­theological traditions before long and patient study makes us able to speak to some good purpose” (Clooney 2010, p. 61). In this way, learning from the scholarly tradition that precedes us and contributing to this longer tradition are core methodological practices of comparative theology. In both our scholarly work and our teaching, we can draw from the interpretive insights of others who have thought deeply about the material we are working on, and we can use those insights to enhance how we engage the material in our own way. The examples cited above show how even one Hindu text like the Ramayana can be read in the context of its broader tradition of reinterpretation. By comparing different retellings of the narrative over time, we arrive at a deeper understanding of what each text aims to accomplish on its own terms and how our own insights fit into a much longer tradition. By making this practice a central aspect of comparative theology, Clooney grounds his work in yet another key methodological principle.

Grounded in Particulars A fourth principle of Clooney’s work is that comparative theology should be grounded in the particulars of the texts at hand rather than assume traditions are monolithic. In my teaching, I find that students often want to start at the level of the whole, asking questions like “What does Hinduism say about gender?” Much of my energy in the early part of a new course is spent trying to steer students away from such large-­scale questions, which are impossible to answer. I remind students that religious traditions do not “speak” or “say” things; only specific religious thinkers or texts share their perspectives with us. I find that Clooney models this emphasis on particular arguments built on readings of specific texts in ways that are productive for thinking about how to do comparative work well. Though his work is framed with an eye toward what can be learned from traditions as a whole, he argues that “we learn best when we learn in detail, in small options and choices we make in the face of the vast possibilities of our religiously diverse world” (Clooney 2010, p. 16). This requires not only a specific sense of ourselves and what we bring to our research, as noted above, but also a focused study that brings together two different texts in a way that emphasizes their nuanced particularities.



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Framing comparative work as an exercise in particularities, of “moving to ever more precise and particular cases for closer study” (Clooney 2010, p. 73), has shaped my pedagogical framework for designing courses in comparative theology. For example, I often have students compare the writings of Julian of Norwich, a fourteenth-­century anchoress who received revelations from God, and Mirabai, a sixteenth-­century woman who composed devotional poems to the Hindu deity Krishna. I typically assign these texts together, about halfway through the semester, because I think they offer a glimpse of how two different women worked within the confines of a patriarchal social context to construct theological visions that are extraordinarily subversive. Of course, one of the major threads that will have emerged at the halfway point of any Hindu–Christian comparative course is that both traditions tend to have rather abysmal views of outsiders, whether it be the anti-­Jewish sentiments found in medieval Christian writings or the prescriptions against low-­caste “Untouchables” found in many premodern Hindu texts. It is thus easy to assume that most medieval Christian texts are “bad” for Jews and most Hindu texts are “bad” for Dalits. Yet, these assumptions obscure the nuances that can be found in a more focused study of textual particulars. Take, for example, Julian’s account of her vision of hell. At one point, Julian asks God for a complete vision of hell and purgatory so that she “could learn everything belonging to [her] faith that could help [her] to live to the greater glory of God” (Julian of Norwich  1998, p.  87). She affirms that it is not her intention “to put to the test anything which belongs to our faith” and that she “firmly believed that hell and purgatory have the purpose taught by Holy Church” (Julian of Norwich 1998, p. 87). Yet, what is striking about her vision of hell is how radically it departs from Church teaching at the time. In the vision, Julian sees the Passion of Christ in several revelations, and then she makes the following admission: “I did not see the Jews who did him to death specified individually, although I knew by my faith that they were cursed and damned for ever except for those who are converted through grace” (Julian of Norwich 1998, p. 87). Though Julian affirms her acceptance of Church teaching, her vision of hell is striking in its implicit departure from Church teaching at the time and in Julian’s inclusion of that detail in her written testimony. It is impossible to know what, if anything, Julian meant to suggest to her readers by sharing this vision. Yet, by focusing on one particular fourteenth-­century theological account and mining its subversive possibilities, we find the seeds of a radical vision of universal salvation that pushes against our common assumptions about medieval Christian theology. This same radical departure from what one might expect also occurs in Mirabai’s poem about a low-­caste Bhil woman who pollutes her fruit offerings to Krishna by tasting them before offering them to him. As Mirabai writes, “her family was poor, her caste quite low, her clothes a matter of rags” (Hawley and Juergensmeyer 2004, p. 137). The Bhil woman is in multiple ways marginalized: she is poor, low caste, poorly dressed, and a woman. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine anyone who would have had less access to traditional forms of Hindu worship and textual study. Understanding her outsider status makes Mirabai’s next line all the more striking: “Yet Ram took that fruit – that touched, spoiled fruit – for he knew that it stood for her love. This was a woman who loved the taste of love, and Ram knows no high, no low” (Hawley and Juergensmeyer 2004, p. 137). By referencing a well-­known story from the Ramayana, in which a low-­caste woman tastes fruits before offering them to Rama, Mirabai suggests that Krishna will do the same for his most loyal devotees regardless of their position in the social hierarchy. In this radical vision of Hindu devotion, the pure love of the devotee supersedes the social structures that exclude some people from more traditional forms of Vedic study and temple worship. By comparing these brief passages from the writings of Julian and Mirabai, we see how working at the level of particulars enhances the comparative insights that can be drawn from the texts and nuances our understanding of both religious traditions overall. It is impossible to know what,

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if anything, Julian meant to suggest to her readers by sharing this aspect of her vision. Yet, we can find in her vision hints of the possibility of universal salvation that push against common assumptions about medieval Christian theology. Likewise, we can never fully inhabit the mind of the historical Mirabai, but we can glimpse moments in her poetry where she seems to subvert what would have been the traditional view of caste in her time. Grounding our study in the particulars of the texts at hand – in what Julian and Mirabai say, individually, instead of what Christianity or Hinduism say as a whole  – thus becomes another methodological principle that we learn from Clooney’s work and field of comparative theology as a whole.

The End of Comparison The final methodological principle that emerges from Clooney’s work is the sense that the comparative method should always drive toward an end goal in which new interpretive insights are gained. One of the pitfalls of comparative work, especially for those just learning to do it, is the tendency to engage in what I call “useless” comparison – that is, summarizing the similarities and differences between two texts without pushing the analysis toward some new interpretive insight. By contrast, good comparative work starts with a sense of how the texts are similar and different but then works with those similarities and differences in some creative way that pushes the analysis toward a larger insight that could only be gained through comparative study. Indeed, Clooney outlines this dimension of comparative theology in his very definition of the discipline in which the learning from one or more other faith traditions “is sought for the sake of fresh theological insights that are indebted to the newly encountered tradition/s as well as the home tradition” (Clooney 2010, p. 10). Comparative theology as defined here explicitly encourages the comparative scholar to drive toward larger insights without allowing the sheer act of comparison alone to serve as a substitute for this analysis. This principle emerges most clearly in my teaching when I have students read excerpts from the book of Genesis alongside hymns from the Rig Veda to compare Christian and Hindu accounts of creation. In discussion, we focus especially on the creation account of Genesis 1: “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters. Then God said, ‘Let there be light’; and there was light. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day” (Genesis 1:1–5, NRSV). Even this brief opening passage provides some sense of the literary and theological dimensions of the text. God creates the heavens and earth out of a formless void and does so by speaking them into existence, thus underscoring the creative power of speech and God’s mastery over this power. God creates light before anything else, and as soon as light is created God sees that it is good and gives it a name. Thus begins a seven-­day creation narrative that culminates in God’s finishing the work he had done and resting on the seventh day. This vision of creation contrasts sharply with that of the Nāsadı ȳ a Sūkta, a well-­known creation hymn from the Rig Veda. The hymn begins: “There was neither non-­existence nor existence then; there was neither the realm of space nor the sky which is beyond. What stirred? Where? In whose protection? Was there water, bottomlessly deep?” (Doniger 1981, p. 25). Already from the opening verse, it is clear that the hymn is markedly different in style from Genesis. Whereas God’s existence is presupposed in Genesis, the Nāsadı ȳ a asserts that there was nothing in the beginning – neither non-­existence nor existence. The hymn then poses a series of questions about the nature of creation, asking how, when, where, and by whom (or what?) this world was brought about. This inquisitive tone continues throughout the hymn and culminates in the final verse: “Whence this



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creation has arisen – perhaps it formed itself, or perhaps it did not – the one who looks down on it, in the highest heaven, only he knows – or perhaps he does not know” (Doniger 1981, pp. 25–26). This brief comparison of Genesis and the Rig Veda offers a particularly salient example of how comparison can facilitate a deeper understanding of both texts when used productively. The similarities and differences between the two creation accounts are clear enough to see, and, indeed, any comparative analysis must begin with some assessment of what the texts share and how they differ. On the one hand, both texts address the issue of creation and acknowledge that something more was formed out of something less. On the other hand, they offer a strikingly different account of creation. Genesis utilizes a prose structure to portray God as a clear actor on creation, while the Vedic hymn is a poetic account of creation that asks questions about the nature of creation without ever providing clear answers. Yet, one key insight that emerges when teaching these texts is just how much the narrative form of these texts illuminates the content of their creation narratives. In Genesis 1, the narrative sequence unfolds rather straightforwardly, thus mirroring its deliberate and methodical account of creation. In the Rig Veda, the poetic structure of the text flows without any clear sense of narrative continuity; the hymn invites its audience to ask questions and linger on the impossibility of answering them. The clear and deliberate literary style of Genesis actually mirrors its more assertive account of creation, while the ambiguous and ambling literary style of the Rig Veda mirrors its more contemplative and inquisitive account of creation. Yet, it is only by reading these creation accounts comparatively that we can recognize how much work the literary structure of each text does in terms of conveying its vision of creation. In this way, Clooney’s definition of comparative theology encourages us to draw new theological insights out of comparison in a way that pushes our understanding of each text forward and could not have been gained by reading each text on its own.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have attempted to outline five methodological principles that emerge from Clooney’s contributions to comparative theology and to show how I have integrated those principles into my own thinking and teaching. I do not pretend to offer a holistic account of the methodological insights that can be drawn from Clooney’s work; indeed, there are no doubt many others that could be mentioned here, and I focus only on those principles that have emerged most saliently for me over the course of my years of study and teaching. I also readily acknowledge that many of these methodological principles are not merely the features of good comparative theological work, but of good religious studies scholarship in general. In fact, that is precisely the point. While Clooney may not dwell on questions of theory and method in the way that other scholars of religion have done, his work is nevertheless deeply informed by methodological principles that speak to the broader study of religion. By learning to see how these principles are evident in his work, and by building on them to enhance our own work, we can become better comparative ­theologians, better teachers, and ultimately better scholars of religion.

References Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Doniger, W. (trans.) (1981). The Rig Veda. London: Penguin Books. Hawley, J.S. and Juergensmeyer, M. (trans.) (2004). Songs of the Saints of India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press.

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Isasi-­Díaz, A.M. (1996). Mujerista Theology. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Julian of Norwich. (1998). Revelations of Divine Love (trans. E. Spearing). London: Penguin Books. Lincoln, B. (2012). Gods and Demons, Priests and Scholars: Critical Explorations in the History of Religions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Olivelle, P. (trans.) (1996). Upaniṣads. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rambachan, A. (2015). A Hindu Theology of Liberation: Not-­Two is Not One. Albany: SUNY Press. Smith, J.Z. (2000). The “end” of comparison: Redescription and rectification. In: A Magic Still Dwells: Comparative Religion in the Postmodern Age (ed. K.C. Patton and B.C. Ray), pp. 237–241. Berkeley: University of California Press.

CHAPTER 2

Imagining Religion, Intuiting Comparison Comparing the Roles of Inner Sense in the Scholarship of Jonathan Z. Smith and Francis X. Clooney, SJ Joseph L. Kimmel

Introduction1 Despite numerous oft-­quoted quips from such intellectual luminaries as Albert Einstein2 about the superior importance of imagination – relative to knowledge, logic, and dry rationality – this utterly essential aspect of all scholarly work largely goes unremarked in methodological analyses. While scholars readily account for the resources (e.g., texts, images, persons) that inform their conclusions, and extensively detail the theoretical underpinnings of their interpretations, the crucial catalyst of the imagination, or the scholar’s personal “inner sense,” generally receives much less attention. Indeed, this essential factor often receives barely any acknowledgment whatsoever, or even worse, is criticized in others’ scholarship as a way to position one’s own work more favorably (e.g., others’ “imaginative” assertions corrected by my own “rational” scholarship). But this all-­ too-­typical omission obscures an immensely important piece of the methodological process of learning, for without a series of “inner-­sense” acts (including those guided by one’s imagination and intuition) many scholarly projects would never take shape in the first place nor be guided ­step-­by-­step toward their conclusions. With respect to religious studies scholarship in particular, David Gordon White concludes his recent trailblazing, pan-­Eurasian study of daemons with an alluring appeal for a more explicitly imaginative approach to religious scholarship, as he writes: “The portals to those lifeworlds [of inhabitants from contexts different from our own] will open to us if we will but allow ourselves to freely deploy the most powerful tools we have at our disposal: our imaginations” (White 2021,

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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p. 212). Indeed, the role of a scholar’s imagination is a crucial component in any piece of meaningful scholarship. It certainly is essential for any scholarship which is impactful enough to conceive new ways to think about old problems, to illuminate new perspectives on ancient topics, or to shift established paradigms in new directions. Yet, despite its crucial importance, scholarly imagination is perhaps the most overlooked and undervalued factor behind a scholar’s accomplishments. Significantly, however, imagination – or put more broadly, a scholar’s “inner sense,” encompassing not only imagination but also intuition, scholarly “hunches,” and the like  – features notably in the methodologies of two of the most prominent comparative scholars of the past half-­ century: Jonathan Z. Smith in the field of comparative religion, and Francis X. Clooney, SJ, in that of comparative theology. Despite the relative dearth of scholarly reflection and methodological analysis of the role of the scholar’s own imagination in comparative scholarship, both Clooney and Smith underscore the importance of scholarly “inner sense.” While not identical in their respective discussions of this crucial factor, both Clooney and Smith nevertheless espouse resonant views in regard to the importance and the role of a personal inner sense guiding one’s comparative research. Inspired by this intriguing resonance, this chapter pursues the following questions: How, for Clooney and Smith, does this inner sense operate in scholarly study? Why is it so important? In what ways are their respective insights compatible, and where might we note areas of dissonance? In discussing questions such as these, this chapter aims at the same time to argue more broadly for the value of attending to such “inner-­sense” forces as intuition and imagination in the study of religion. Though often regarded suspiciously among scholarly methodologies as excessively subjective, intuition and imagination, I argue, are extremely valuable vehicles for bursting the bounds of the thinkable, in order to reach insights that are truly creative, groundbreaking, and paradigm-­ shifting. In pursuing this argument, this chapter will first consider the role of inner sense in the methodologies of Clooney and Smith respectively, before discussing areas of both resonance and dissonance between them. It will then offer a short reflection on how these two scholars’ emphasis on inner sense illuminates a promising way forward for scholars who wish to write something meaningful in a postmodern, and perhaps even post-­truth, age. Finally, however, this chapter – as part of its Festschrift purpose – will shift gears to conclude with an epilogue of sorts: this final section will pivot from the chapter’s celebration of Francis Clooney’s scholarship to share a story about his remarkable altruism and compassionate concern for “the least of these” that we all would do well to emulate. Indeed, even more impactful than Clooney’s groundbreaking scholarly accomplishments or pedagogical influence, it was the events of this story which glimmer in my memory as one of the most astounding experiences and unforgettable memories of my student years at Harvard Divinity School.

Inner Sense in the Scholarship of Francis X. Clooney, SJ As is well known, inner sense – namely, the “intuition” of the comparative scholar themself – is a hallmark and foundational starting place in the comparative methodology of Francis Clooney. As Clooney has famously written, Comparative in this context [i.e., that of “comparative theology”] marks a practice that requires intuitive as well as rational insight . . . It [i.e., comparative theological reflection] ordinarily starts with the intuition of an intriguing resemblance that prompts us to place two realities  – texts, images, practices, doctrines, persons – near one another, so that they may be seen over and again, side by side. In this necessarily arbitrary and intuitive practice we understand each differently



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because the other is near, and by cumulative insight also begin to comprehend related matters differently. Finally, we see ourselves differently, intuitively uncovering dimensions of ourselves that would not otherwise, by a noncomparative logic, come to the fore. (Clooney 2010, pp. 10–11; emphasis added, except for the first italicized word)

This brief overview of the comparative process both summarizes and explicitly highlights – no less than four times – the fundamental importance of the comparativist’s personal intuition for the whole comparative endeavor. Clooney acknowledges plainly that any comparative project stems not from an explication of a fixed or absolute relationship between entities (“texts, images, practices, doctrines, persons”), but rather from careful and repeated “seeing” of two entities in light of one another based on the scholar’s “intuition” of an “intriguing resemblance” between them. In Clooney’s words, this pairing is necessarily “arbitrary and intuitive,” but far from hamstringing one’s comparative analysis as a liability to be overcome, the analysis itself is enabled to proceed because of the intuition which brings the seemingly random comparands together in the first place. Moreover, this intuition then guides the comparativist’s practice of observing each entity in light of the other, leading to three distinct, yet interrelated, levels of insight: most immediately, each entity, newly illuminated in the other’s unknown – but strangely familiar – light, can be appreciated in ways previously unrecognized by the comparer; at a secondary level, “related matters” (e.g., a broader phenomenon or category, such as devotional poetry or goddess hymns, of which both entities are representative examples) are seen in new ways by the comparativist; and finally, at a tertiary level, the scholar sees themself differently through an “intuitive” recognition of personal facets and “dimensions” brought to light by their comparative practice. Thus, for Clooney, comparative study is fundamentally an intuitive process, with the individual scholar’s inner sense guiding the analysis the whole way through: from the first intuitive recognition of an “intriguing resemblance” which provides the initial spark for the rest of the comparative process to the analysis’ ultimate effects on the comparer themself.3 From start to finish it is personal intuition that sparks the analysis, guides it, and then ultimately is itself affected by one’s comparative study as the scholar “intuitively uncover[s]” dimensions of the comparands – and themselves – that had previously gone unrecognized.

Inner Sense in the Scholarship of Jonathan Z. Smith A scholar’s inner sense also plays a seminally important, though somewhat different, role in the methodology of comparative religious analysis advocated by Jonathan Z. Smith. Some of Smith’s most explicit and well-­known comments on this inner sense and the role it plays in religious study appear in his two monographs, Imagining Religion and Drudgery Divine. Early in the former, Smith states directly that “religion” is a creation of a scholar’s “imaginative acts of comparison and generalization” (Smith 1982, p. xi; see also Martin 2000, pp. 45–56, esp. 48–49). He then underscores that this use of scholarly inner sense is not for “poetic fabrications” (in the words of Luther Martin) but rather for properly academic, “analytical purposes.” Smith details such purposes a bit more fully in his 1990 publication where he explains the relationship between comparative religious study and scholarly imagination in the following classic formulation: “the enterprise of comparison . . . brings differences together solely within the space of the scholar’s mind. It is the individual scholar, for his or her own good theoretical reasons, who imagines their cohabitation” (Smith 1990, p. 115; emphasis added). In a related manner, earlier in this same work, Smith defines comparative religious study as a “disciplined exaggeration in the service of knowledge . . . provid[ing] the means by which we ‘re-­vision’ phenomena as our data in order to solve our theoretical problems” (Smith 1990, p. 52; emphasis in original).

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Thus, for Smith, scholarly inner sense (“imagination”) plays arguably just as important a role in comparative analysis as this inner sense (in the form of intuition) does for Clooney. As in the latter’s methodological framework for comparative theology, Smith sees comparative religious study not as the analysis of absolute relationships between entities (e.g., texts, images, persons), but rather as a kind of scholarly thought experiment. In Smith’s explication of comparative religious analysis, variables which are not naturally connected are artificially forced to “cohabitate” in the mind  – the ­imagination  – of the scholar as a theoretical move employed to address the scholar’s theoretical problems. While not discussed explicitly by Smith, the selection of any particular comparands appears – as in Clooney’s framework – to be a matter of scholarly intuition: because there is no inherent or natural reason (according to Smith) why certain “religious” data (i.e., comparands, variables) ought to be placed together for comparative consideration, this forced pairing appears to be guided, as in Clooney’s comparative theology, by the tried-­and-­true scholarly hunch – in other words, by intuition. Thus, scholarly inner sense plays just as much a role in Smith’s framework as it does for Clooney: while Clooney explicitly identifies the role of “intuition” throughout the various stages of a  comparative theological project, Smith employs somewhat different terms (i.e., “imagination,” “the scholar’s mind”), but nevertheless endorses with resonant intensity the central role of the scholar’s inner sense in both sparking and then guiding the process of comparative religious study.

Inner Sense Compared While both Clooney and Smith thus underscore the critical importance of scholarly inner sense for comparative projects, a more metalevel comparison of their respective comparative methodologies – specifically in regard to their respective views on inner sense – yields illuminative areas of both resonance and dissonance. For example, in terms of resonance, both Clooney and Smith explicitly highlight the forced pairing (or “cohabitation”) of comparands which are not naturally linked. This common methodological emphasis suggests something inherently productive and powerful about the shared procedure. Both Clooney and Smith appear to have noticed something inherently generative in the process of placing two entities side by side and then regarding each in light of the other. While reaching this insight independently, both scholars nevertheless voice a very similar message about the methodology’s value, and when each scholar’s voice is paired with the other, this common message is amplified all the more.4 In addition, both Clooney and Smith describe this comparative pairing as an inner-­sense process: for Clooney, one that is sparked by an intuition regarding an “intriguing resemblance” between two possible comparands, while for Smith the process is explicitly an imaginative one stimulated by the conviction (and perhaps intuition?) that one has “good theoretical reasons” for pursuing the imaginative experiment (1990, p.  115). Moreover, both openly acknowledge that their comparands are, at least to some extent, arbitrarily selected. Clooney, for example, states plainly that comparative theological reflection is a “necessarily arbitrary  .  .  .  practice” (2010, p. 11). This arbitrary quality of comparison is similarly endorsed by Smith through his insistence that comparison, particularly with “religious” comparands, is an exercise performed by the scholar for that scholar’s own ends – not because of any natural or fixed relationship between the entities selected by the scholar for the comparison. Smith stresses this arbitrary and provisional appropriation, for instance, when presenting comparison as a “re-­visioning” of the comparands as “our [i.e., the scholar’s] data in order to solve our theoretical problems” (1990, p. 52; emphasis in original). Comparands, in this view, are artificially removed from their “natural” contexts, forcibly placed side by side, and then considered in each other’s light – a process marked by a certain arbitrariness but one that, nevertheless, can yield useful theoretical insights.



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But here we begin to detect a certain amount of dissonance in Smith’s and Clooney’s respective uses of inner sense in the comparative process, because although they both endorse its value while acknowledging the necessary arbitrariness of its comparative choices, the way in which they justify these choices notably differs. More specifically, when comparison’s arbitrariness prompts the “so what?” question (e.g., “what is the point of comparison if the comparands are arbitrary and guided only by one’s personal inner sense?”), the argument in favor of comparison differs between these two comparative scholars in a manner illuminative of a difference between their respective comparative fields (i.e., comparative theology versus comparative religion). For Clooney, since comparison serves a fundamentally theological purpose  – “faith seeking understanding” (2010, pp. 10–11) – the point of utilizing one’s intuition ultimately appears to be both the deepening of one’s personal religious commitments along with an expansion of Catholic ­theology more generally. If others are aided in nontheological ways (e.g., scholarly ones) through the comparative insights generated by the application of the scholar’s intuition, then that is all for  the better. But most basically the goal of comparison is not a theoretical, scholastic, or ­intellectual one; rather, the point is the comparativist’s own theological-­spiritual growth and the theological development of the comparativist’s home tradition. As Clooney himself has written, the learning that occurs via the comparative theological process “is sought for the sake of fresh theological insights” (2010, p. 10). Smith, by contrast, expresses no interest whatsoever in “faith seeking understanding.” For him, the application of one’s imagination in comparative endeavors occurs in order to solve “theoretical problems.” These are, most immediately, the theoretical problems faced by the scholar themself, and so in the comparative use of scholarly inner sense for both Smith and Clooney, a major (if not the primary) intended outcome is the comparativist’s own personal illumination. But while for Clooney this illumination is primarily theological in nature, for Smith the goal instead is the application of comparatively generated insights for the resolution of intellectual conundrums. Importantly, neither of these outcomes is necessarily solipsistic: if others are willing to accept the comparative choices made by the scholar (and willing to accept their inherent arbitrariness), then they too might benefit theologically and/or intellectually from the comparativist’s provisional conclusions. Moreover, the differences in the nature of the fruit yielded by Clooney’s and Smith’s respective applications of their inner-­sense methodologies parallel a basic difference in their two fields: whereas the comparative theology of Clooney tends (at least implicitly) to endorse certain faith-­based assumptions from the outset (e.g., the existence of God/gods), comparative religion as practiced by Smith presupposes that “religion is solely the creation of the scholar’s study” (1982, p. xi). Naturally, given their significantly different starting points (i.e., their different sets of assumptions and the differing goals of their respective disciplines), the outcomes toward which Smith and Clooney each apply their inner-­sense methodologies differ considerably.

Scholarly Value of Inner Sense Having considered the value accorded to intuition and imagination by Clooney and Smith respectively in pursuing comparative analysis, and having discussed both resonances and dissonances in how these two scholars apply inner-­sense methods in their scholarship, what can be said about the scholarly value of inner-­sense tools? How might the scholarly importance of imagination and intuition be summarized? The use of these tools by Clooney and Smith suggests, I contend, at least three main ways in which their value is highlighted. First, grounding comparative insights in a scholar’s personal inner sense helps to underscore the provisional nature of these insights and “conclusions.” As stated explicitly by Clooney and as

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(at the very least) implied by Smith, such insights are clearly not intended as absolute discoveries of universal truth. Rather, in harmony with our postmodern (and even post-­truth) age, Clooney’s and Smith’s emphasis on personal inner sense indicates that such insights can be embraced, tried out for a time, and perhaps even eventually discarded, based on whether the provisional discovery rings true to a given individual’s own inner sense. Moreover, this provisionality allows for the scholar themself to change their mind over time: insights that are compelling, helpful, and generative in one stage of life might need to be renovated, or even rejected, when one’s inner-­sense ­capacities perceive and interpret data differently years later. Thus, grounding comparative insights in inner sense allows for a certain plasticity and a helpful amount of flexibility in one’s assertions, enabling them to remain open to revision and change as new insights and intuitions emerge. A second major benefit in attending to inner sense appears in how this attention illuminates a crucial, yet largely overlooked, factor in virtually any kind of learning. The illumination of intuition and imagination, by Clooney and Smith respectively, helpfully draws attention to one of learning’s critical first steps, i.e., paying attention to one’s own inner reactions: what is happening at the level of imagination and intuition when one encounters a particular text or image or experience? We scholars tend to jump too quickly to analysis, interpretation, and critique (­especially of the critical questions of power dynamics in the production of knowledge), but how much more deeply might our engagement with such phenomena advance if, as highlighted by Smith and Clooney, we first paid greater attention to our internal reactions and our inner-­sense responses? A third and final benefit in highlighting inner sense is how this approach indicates an ethical avenue for comparative learning: stressing the importance of inner sense  – which everyone ­possesses – is a profoundly humble, leveling approach to learning. While both Smith and Clooney are obviously deeply erudite scholars with vast linguistic abilities, their comparative methodologies, founded on the key factors of intuition and imagination, open comparative learning to anyone willing to apply their minds to religious and/or theological phenomena. While scholarly training (e.g., in foreign languages) is certainly helpful, it is not strictly necessary or required. Instead, the inner-­sense capacities that are required are abilities accessible to nearly everyone. Such abilities may certainly be developed, sharpened, and honed with practice over time, but everyone has at least an ounce of imagination and, therefore, in principle everyone can be a comparative scholar.5 By thus stressing this dimension of comparison, Clooney and Smith highlight just how accessible this method of learning can be and how, far from being the exclusive domain of a few ivory-­tower scholars, it is instead an eminently inclusive way to learn.

Epilogue The last point above regarding comparison’s inherent accessibility, openness, and inclusivity as a method of learning provides a bridge to this chapter’s epilogue in which I wish to highlight inclusivity of a different kind. As this chapter is a contribution to a Festschrift in honor of Francis X. Clooney, I want to conclude by sharing a story that pertains not so much to Clooney’s scholarly insights or achievements as much as it does to his remarkable altruism, humility, and compassionate concern for others. While as a religious studies scholar I have undoubtedly been influenced by Clooney’s significant scholastic contributions (including the methodological ones discussed above), his personal example of humility, compassion, and selflessness has been even more impactful. Frankly, for all the fashionable and politically correct talk of “justice” and “inclusivity” (in all its various permutations) in academia, it is the rare individual who approaches Clooney’s actual day-­to-­day commitment of engaging others with respect and living out in practical terms the



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“­justice” and “inclusivity” about which we so like to speak. Clooney’s commitment to just such a lifestyle appeared in a crystal-­clear manner to me through a seemingly unremarkable interaction which I had the privilege of observing some years ago. One evening Clooney and a few other professors were speaking on a panel at Harvard Divinity School (HDS) about the future of religious studies. The panel discussion was held in a large auditorium on campus, and the room was packed wall-­to-­wall with attendees. In the front few rows sat various HDS dignitaries, with myself sitting in the row behind them. At the far-­right corner of the first row there was a single empty chair until just a few minutes before the event began, when a disheveled man, possibly experiencing homelessness (as many do in and around Harvard’s environs), rushed into the auditorium and practically fell into the open seat (it is, in fact, a regular occurrence for a few of Cambridge’s unhoused to attend events at Harvard). Then, shortly before the panel was scheduled to start, Clooney walked into the room, paused at the entrance, scanned the rows of dignitaries, and then, turning, made a beeline for the disheveled man in the corner. Clooney introduced himself, warmly greeted the man, and then emphasized how welcome the man would be to attend any events at the Center for the Study of World Religions (where Clooney was serving as director). After first ensuring that this man in the corner felt accepted, Clooney then turned to greet his faculty colleagues and to take his seat on the panel. Witnessing this remarkable event made a tremendous impression on me about the kind of welcome and inclusivity we should share with those we tend to overlook, or perhaps even quietly denigrate. While many of us in academia possess a well-­hewn expertise in vocally endorsing whichever justice initiatives are presently in vogue, very few are so truly inclusive as to actually welcome the marginalized stranger before greeting one’s polished colleagues. We all would do well to learn from Clooney’s example of not just speaking about justice but actually living in a manner that performs justice, that loves compassion and mercy, and that walks humbly with and for others.

Notes 1 Let me begin by stating plainly that the Epilogue (the final section) is by far the most important part of this chapter; if you read nothing else, please read that. 2 For instance: “The intuitive mind is a sacred gift, while the rational mind is only its faithful servant . . . [but] our society honors the servant and has forgotten the gift” and “I believe in intuition and inspiration. Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited, whereas imagination embraces the entire world, stimulating progress, giving birth to evolution.” See Class (2022) and Hayes (2007). 3 Numerous examples of this process from Clooney’s work may be cited. See, for example, his description of one possible impact on the reader themself through a comparative reading of St. Francis de ́ Vedā nta Deśika’s Essence of the Three Auspicious Mysteries: Sales’s Treatise on the Love of God and Srı̄ “In this context [of comparative ‘double reading’ guided by personal intuition] no reader should imagine herself or himself standing back so as to make neat comparisons of selected themes or methods; rather, we are exercised within, inside, the encounter of texts, pushed along . . . toward the ideals of loving surrender they promote” (Clooney 2008, p. 27). 4 This compelling similarity begs an obvious question, which though fundamentally important is beyond the scope of this chapter: “why and how does comparison work?” In other words, “why and how does a forced ‘cohabitation’ of comparands yield personal and/or theoretical insights?”; “how exactly does considering one variable ‘in light of the other’ illuminate previously unappreciated ­facets?” Addressing such questions could encompass dimensions of learning ranging from the ­philosophical to the neurophysiological, but regardless of the specific vantage point, imagination, intuition, and other “inner-­sense” capacities very likely would be involved.

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5 Certainly other abilities like literacy (which, unfortunately, is not enjoyed by all) are also very helpful for comparative learning, but even these are not absolutely required in order to compare two ­phenomena in a meaningful, illuminative way. At the same time, one might legitimately object that just because anyone can be a comparative learner via imagination, it does not follow that imagination alone enables one to be a good comparative learner. That is, following one’s personal inner sense certainly can lead to dead ends along with completely erroneous conclusions, if one’s inner hunches are not informed by (or at least checked against) the careful, responsible study and training (e.g., linguistically, historically) emphasized and practiced by Clooney. While this is a fair and accurate point, I would reiterate that, strictly speaking, comparison remains a very accessible, even inclusive, way to learn, since it is a method and ability that comes naturally to nearly all human beings.

References Class, B. (2022). Revisiting education: On the role of imagination, intuition, and other “gifts” for open scholars. Frontiers in Education 7: article 846882. ́ ̄ Vedānta Des ́ika on Loving Surrender to Clooney, F.X., SJ. (2008). Beyond Compare: St Francis de Sales and Srı God. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X., SJ. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Oxford: Wiley Blackwell. Hayes, D. (2007). What Einstein can teach us about education. Education 35: 143–154. Martin, L.H. (2000). Comparison. In: Guide to the Study of Religion (ed. W. Braun and R.T. McCutcheon), pp. 45–56. London and New York: Cassell. Smith, J.Z. (1982). Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Smith, J.Z. (1990). Drudgery Divine: On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. White, D.G. (2021). Dæmons Are Forever: Contacts and Exchanges in the Eurasian Pandemonium. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

CHAPTER 3

Resisting Religious Relativism in Comparative Theology Catherine Cornille

Introduction A new approach to theological reflection, comparative theology faces some challenges, both from within and from without. As it involves a classical understanding of theology as “faith seeking understanding” through engaging other religious traditions, “from within” refers to the traditional theological community and framework in which theological reflection takes place, while “from without” includes the other religious traditions engaged in such constructive theological reflection. The challenges coming from other religions mainly involve the instrumentalizing of their religious ideas or practices for the purposes of alien or foreign religious systems and the sense of religious hegemony that may be associated with it. The appropriation and transformation of certain cherished beliefs and practices by other religious traditions may be experienced as ­distortion, loss, abuse, or theft. Some religious communities may even experience it as a threat to their very existence.1 The challenges coming from within the tradition have often focused more on the purported dangers of syncretism and relativism. Having discussed the question of syncretism elsewhere (Cornille 2021), we will here reflect on whether comparative theology presupposes or generates an attitude of religious relativism. In general, relativism involves the claim that “what is true or false, right or wrong, logical and rational, is relative to a culture, belief system, conceptual scheme, or the psychological makeup of different people” (Baghramian 2010, p. 35). In the context of religion, one may distinguish conceptual or epistemic relativism in which knowledge is always relative to particular reference frames and a statement may be “true relative to one frame and false [or inexpressible] relative to another frame,” from ontic or alethic relativism, which rejects the very notion of a unified conception of truth and regards all truth as constituted by language and reference frames (Krausz 2010, pp. 20–22).

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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While religious relativism may emerge as a result of various historical and cultural factors,2 it is in particular the confrontation with religious plurality in the modern world that has led to its proliferation: The intensive form of pluralism generated by modernity not only means that any shared culture is thinned out by virtue of the sustained presence of multiple cultures, it also means that the plausibility structures that provide the social support for belief are also fragmented and weakened. In the end, strong belief and conviction cannot be sustained by fragile plausibility structures. Uncertainty is imposed upon us because no belief is protected from the claims of alternative beliefs; no conviction is left unchallenged by other equally held convictions. (Hunter 2010, p. 25)

Awareness of the existence of various religious worldviews, each with their own internal coherence and plausibility but mutual irreconcilability, inevitably leads to questions about the absolute claims of any one religious tradition. Since there are no common or objective criteria for adjudicating the various claims to truth, all religious claims may come to be regarded as equivalent, and as simply arising from their various historical and cultural contexts. The added realization of the contingency of one’s personal religious identity only adds to the doubt about the absolute claims of any religion, and to the tendency toward relativism. Such religious relativism often goes hand in hand with subjectivism, where religious truth becomes a purely personal matter with individuals selecting from various religious traditions what they find true and valuable, and recognizing that what is true for one person may not be true for another. It is clear that relativism forms a threat to religious traditions. It contradicts the self-­ understanding of religions as grounded in ultimate claims to truth, and it jeopardizes commitment to established religious teachings and practices. While religions may recognize the historical and cultural conditioning of some of their teachings and practices, they still present them as the highest expression of ultimate truth, which in turn generates surrender and commitment on the part of believers. The reduction of religious traditions to their historical and cultural contexts would inevitably lead to an erosion of religious confidence and to a weakening of religious traditions. The idea that “what is true for us may not be true for them,” Lesslie Newbigin states, “is the sign of approaching death” (Newbigin 1990, p. 135). No one has been more critical of religious relativism than Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, emeritus Pope Benedict, who spoke of the “dictatorship of relativism that does not regard anything as definitive and whose ultimate goal consists solely of one’s own ego and desires” (Ratzinger 2007, p. 453). In the introductory paragraphs of the document Dominus Iesus, which has been mainly attributed to him, Pope Benedict worries that “The Church’s constant missionary proclamation is endangered today by relativistic theories which seek to justify religious pluralism, not only de facto but also de iure (or in principle)” (Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith 2000, introduction).3 Relativism is thus perceived as one of the main obstacles to the health and dynamism of religious traditions. There are various reasons why comparative theology may be suspected of relativism. It engages other traditions in a constructive way, open to the possibility of learning from them. It may thus be thought to question the ultimate claims of a particular religion and to acknowledge the relative truth of various religious traditions. Comparative theologians are moreover not always clear and transparent about the theological or philosophical presuppositions supporting their engagement with other traditions. All this may lead to suspicions that all religions are regarded as mere products of the historical and cultural contexts in which they emerged and as roughly equivalent with regard to questions of truth and validity. While the possibility of relativism in comparative theology is not entirely imaginary, this does not mean that relativism is endemic to comparative theology, or that all types of comparative



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theology presuppose or generate relativism. Francis Clooney’s life and work are clear evidence of this. Though he often speaks of identifying with certain aspects of Hinduism, he is unambiguous about his commitment to the Christian tradition as a Jesuit and a priest. I will here discuss various ways in which comparative theology may avoid or resist suspicions of relativism, and distinguish various approaches to the discipline, some of which may be more susceptible to relativism. While the term comparative theology is often used generically to refer to the systematic theological engagement of religious diversity, it has in fact developed into different approaches, ranging from a clear and explicit grounding in a particular religious tradition (confessional comparative theology) to the attempt to derive theological insight from various religions without privileged adherence to any (meta-­confessional comparative theology or transreligious theology). Rather than succumbing to relativism, I will here argue that confessional comparative theology may in fact represent a safeguard against relativism. By actively engaging other religions (rather than ignoring them, as is often the case in traditional forms of theology), comparative theology may demonstrate how it is possible to acknowledge the challenges of religious diversity while remaining committed to a particular religious tradition.

The Question of Relativism in Transreligious Theology Deep engagement with the reality of religious plurality has led some theologians to approach the discipline of theology itself as an attempt to generate an understanding of ultimate reality untethered to the sources of any particular religion. Since this approach claims to go beyond the confines of any existing tradition, while still drawing from its sources, I have labeled this approach as meta-­ confessional comparative theology (Cornille 2020, pp. 25–30). However, it is also referred to as transreligious theology, interreligious theology, or even nonreligious theology. Wesley Wildman, one of the protagonists of this approach, describes it as a “postreligious theology, or nonreligious theology – that is, theology that makes intellectual sense with no specific religious tradition at its root and remains socially viable with no living religious tradition for support” (Wildman 2016, p.  247). Using the designation interreligious theology, Perry Schmidt-­Leukel defines it as “that type of doing theology that reflects on the major issues of human life by drawing on insights from more than one religious tradition” (Schmidt-­Leukel 2017a, p. 113). This approach to comparative theology has found a home in the Theology Without Walls (TWW) group of the American Academy of Religion.4 Jerry Martin, the main organizer of this group argues that “if the aim of theology is to know and articulate all that we can about the divine or ultimate reality, and if revelations, enlightenments, and insights into that reality are not limited to a single tradition, then what is called for is a theology without confessional restrictions, a Theology Without Walls” (Martin 2019, p. 1). While many transreligious theologians still recognize their indebtedness to particular religious traditions, some adopt a more combative attitude. Bin Song, for example, states that transreligious theology seeks to “tear down . . . the creedal attitude toward what concerns human individuals ultimately, as well as the sovereign role that conventional religious institutions play in bolstering this attitude” (Song 2022, p. 6). Whether or not transreligious theology reflects or contributes to religious relativism may be open to debate. Transreligious or interreligious theology tends to be grounded in a theological pluralism that regards various religious traditions as in principle equivalent sources of truth and that denies the legitimacy of judging the truth of one religion according to the criteria of another.5 John Hick, who is generally regarded as the main philosopher of religious pluralism, regarded “the  great world religions as different human responses to the one divine Reality, embodying ­different perceptions which have been formed in different historical and cultural contexts”

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(Hick 1973, p. 131). From a Christian theological and soteriological perspective, Perry Schmidt-­ Leukel defines the pluralist position as one “according to which salvation and knowledge of the reality designated by Christianity with the word ‘God’ is witnessed to and mediated by various religions in diverse but equally valid ways, such that no religion is uniquely superior to all the ­others” (Schmidt-­Leukel 2017b, p. 26). The document Dominus Iesus closely aligns relativism with theological pluralism and with transreligious theology when it states that: The roots of these problems [relativistic attitudes] are to be found in certain presuppositions of both a philosophical and theological nature, which hinder the understanding and acceptance of  the revealed truth. Some of these can be mentioned: the conviction of the elusiveness and ­inexpressibility of divine truth, even by Christian revelation; relativistic attitudes toward truth itself, according to which what is true for some would not be true for others; the radical opposition posited between the logical mentality of the West and the symbolic mentality of the East; the subjectivism which, by regarding reason as the only source of knowledge, becomes incapable of  raising its “gaze to the heights, not daring to rise to the truth of being”; the difficulty in understanding and accepting the presence of definitive and eschatological events in history; the metaphysical emptying of the historical incarnation of the Eternal Logos, reduced to a mere appearing of God in history; the eclecticism of those who, in theological research, uncritically absorb ideas from a variety of philosophical and theological contexts without regard for consistency, systematic connection, or compatibility with Christian truth; finally, the tendency to read and to interpret Sacred Scripture outside the Tradition and Magisterium of the Church. (Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith 2000, introduction)

Though the principles of religious pluralism may indeed suggest a certain relativism, transreligious theology may also be regarded as an attempt to overcome relativism by pursuing a truth beyond the particularity of religious traditions. As Baghramian points out relativism is not one but several loosely interconnected doctrines  …  unified more by what  they  deny  – absolutism, universalism, and monism  – than by what they endorse (Baghramian 2010, p. 31). Religious relativism denies the absolute and universal claims of any existing religion. But this may lead to either the rejection of the very existence of ultimate reality; to the affirmation of the possible existence of an ultimate reality, but the impossibility of any privileged access to it; or to the relative access of particular religions to certain aspects of ultimate reality, but not to its entirety. It also tends to involve a radical subjectivism in matters of religion, insofar it is believed that what is true for one person may not be true for another.

Transreligious theology forms an interesting variation on, or combination of, these types of ­relativism. It certainly does affirm the existence of ultimate reality or ultimate truth, and it also recognizes the possibility of knowing and articulating this truth, at least to some extent. While it denies the single authority of any religious tradition, it does presuppose the ability of the transreligious theologian to approach and articulate this truth, generally drawing from the teachings of different religions (see also Hedges 2022). As such, various religions may be relatively true, or true with regard to certain teachings and practices. And transreligious theologians will argue for the truth or validity of their own particular insights. Insofar as transreligious theology is still concerned with questions of truth, it cannot be accused of radical relativism. Peter Byrne also makes



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a distinction between the pluralism that grounds transreligious theology and relativism. He argues that pluralism cannot, on pain of incoherence, ally itself to any doctrine affirming that all thought, or all religious thought, is through and through culturally relative or determined. It needs, instead, an account of how religious truth is culturally limited and hence relative to a degree. A more thoroughgoing relativism is out for two reasons. First pluralism says of the major traditions that they make reference to a sacred, transcendent focus. They could not do that if human thought is too radically determined by its cultural background  …  Second pluralism is a theory about the religions which itself claims to rise above the culturally set bounds of human thought … Pluralism itself makes global, universal claims. (Byrne 1995, p. 22)

Pluralism is rather based on what he calls a “mitigated relativism” which “must find a large measure of relativity in extant traditions, but one that is redeemed by a partial, limited escape toward cognition of an object of knowledge which not only transcends circumstance but the human altogether” (Byrne 1995, p. 110). In her lengthy study of relativism, Maria Baghramian also distinguishes conceptual and religious pluralism from relativism: Pluralism … agrees with relativism on the issue of conceptual diversity but parts company from it by insisting that not only are there limits to the scope of such diversity but also that in many instances we can distinguish between better and worse, or more and less fruitful or productive, conceptual systems. The pluralist, unlike the relativist, believes that there are culture-­transcendent constraints on what is an acceptable belief-­or value-­system. (Baghramian 2004, pp. 304–305)

Pluralists still pursue a truth that is not merely reducible to historical and cultural contexts and that may serve as the criterion for assessing the various historical claims. While the transreligious theologian may believe in the possibility of approaching or articulating elements of ultimate truth, it is not clear what the criteria are for discerning such truth. J.R. Hustwit also admits that in this regard “the best we can do are ‘better’ or ‘worse’ judgments, cobbled together from various indirect and worldview-­contingent truth criteria” (2016, p. 241). He proposes that the criteria of truth might derive from the inner coherence of theological insights or from “the relative consensus of a community of experts” (Hustwit 2014, p. 115), without specifying how such a community would be constituted. The challenge for transreligious theology is thus how to avoid religious subjectivism and establish its relevance beyond a relatively small group of like-­minded theologians. John Thatamanil and Bin Song have suggested that transreligious theology may come to ­represent the theological underpinning and home for the “spiritual but not religious” (SBNR) (Thatamanil 2016, p. 362; see also Song 2022).6 TWW and SBNR individuals share a ­distrust of established institutions and of doctrinal impositions, and draw from various sources without fully identifying with any. However, as Linda Mercadante points out, the spiritual but not religious are not in search of a “spiritual home but of a spiritual experience,” and “an open theology which encourages multiple sources and engages important questions is still unlikely to create what SBNRs seem to want” (Mercadante 2022, p. 80). Though some may “welcome guides who show them how the realization of their goals may well require these theological tools” (Mercadante 2022, p. 82), the spiritual but not religious are in essence an amorphous group where each individual determines their own spiritual goals and path, and where the idea of personal authenticity and originality is more important than communal discernment and truth.

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The sense of connection between transreligious theology and the spiritual but not religious points more to the mitigated relativism of both approaches to religion and theology than to their common purpose. They both reject the very religious traditions or systems on which they rely for  the development of their own spiritual and theological nourishment. The absence of any grounding in a tradition, and of any sacred or revealed criteria of discernment, cannot but lead to a radical subjectivism in matters of religious truth, in which each transreligious theologian becomes the author of their own theology. Though transreligious theology may avert accusations of radical relativism, it does little to resist the subjectivism that is closely aligned with relativism.

Comparative Theology as Resistance to Relativism Unlike transreligious theology, confessional comparative theology remains grounded in a particular religious tradition. This is also reflected in Francis Clooney’s definition of comparative theology as marking “acts of faith seeking understanding that are rooted in a particular faith tradition but which, from that foundation, venture into learning from one or more other faith traditions” (Clooney 2010, p. 10). It is the focus on the truth claims of a particular tradition as the implicit or explicit epistemological and normative starting point and end goal that distinguishes this approach of comparative theology and allows it to resist relativism. It is true that confessional comparative theology also recognizes the historical and cultural relativity of the ways in which ultimate reality is captured and expressed in various religious traditions. It is this sense of doctrinal and epistemological humility that drives comparative theologians to learn from the ways in which other religious traditions have captured ultimate truth. However, this does not mean that all religions are equally true, or that they can be reduced to their historical contexts. Comparative theologians submit to the truth claims of a particular religious tradition, seeking to further deepen and enrich those claims as a service to a particular faith community. There are various theological and methodological ways in which comparative theology may resist relativism. Comparative theology is grounded, implicitly or explicitly, in a theology of religions that affirms the existence and truth of other religious traditions on the basis of the theological presuppositions of a particular religious tradition. The question of the relationship between comparative theology and theology of religions has been extensively debated. While some argue that comparative theology is naturally and necessarily grounded in a certain theology of religions which should be made explicit (Kiblinger 2010), others, Francis Clooney included, argue that this unnecessarily limits an open and unprejudiced engagement with other religions. As James Fredericks puts it, “the a priorism of theologies of religion can function ideologically by protecting Christians from the necessity of changing their minds, at least about theologically significant matters, in response to the encounter with the Other” (Fredericks  2010, p. xv; this is only one among four reasons advanced by Fredericks for taking up comparative theology as an alternative to theology of religions). This preference for an open and unprejudiced engagement with other religious traditions has often been advocated by individuals who are themselves firmly planted in a particular religion (such as Fredericks and Clooney) and therefore less concerned with the specter of relativism. However, suspicions of relativism in comparative theology can be assuaged only by acknowledging the theological presuppositions informing one’s understanding of the status and truth of the other religion. It is in the theological method and in the epistemological foundations that the question of relativism may be decided. Confessional comparative theologians tend to start from a position of theological inclusivism, in which the truth of other religions is always understood in relation to the theological and epistemological presuppositions of one’s own tradition. This expresses itself in various ways in the concrete practice of comparative theology.



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First, the comparative theologian will select texts, teachings, or practices in the other tradition that have some relevance for one’s own tradition. One of the challenges for comparative theology is the seemingly endless possibility of choice (see Cornille 2018). The selection of material for comparative theological reflection may thus at times seem random, or simply based on the chance expertise and intuition of the theologian. While there is indeed a certain degree of arbitrariness in the traditions of expertise of a comparative theologian, the choice of texts and topics within that tradition will be guided by the questions of one’s own tradition and the points of connection that can be established with one’s own texts, teachings, and practices. The work of comparing religious traditions starts from the recognition or the establishment of a common denominator (a tertium comparationis) which forms the basis for further study of similarities or differences. In confessional comparative theology, this tertium comparationis will typically be derived or abstracted from one’s own tradition. For example, Francis Clooney’s books have focused on the topics of loving surrender (Clooney 2008), the feminine divine (Clooney 2005), arguments for the existence of God (Clooney  2001), and the theme of divine absence (Clooney  2014), all topics that have some bearing on or relevance for the Christian tradition. Clooney’s latest book Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters (2019) claims to start from the other, Hindu tradition as the point of departure for studying Christian texts. Precisely this has led Jon Levenson to raise the question of relativism in relation to his choice of texts to be engaged in comparative work: If the Catholic Church does offer such guidance, and Frank obediently accepts it, then I think he needs to acknowledge that this is an important limitation on his advice to “seek to be instructed and transformed by sustained acts of reading.” If it does not offer such guidance, or Frank rejects it, then I think the result is something closer to relativism or to subjectivism with little public ­relevance. (Levenson 2021)

Besides grounding in a particular religion as the point of departure and reference for selecting texts and topics for comparison, the norms or criteria for discerning value and truth in the other tradition are also derived from one’s own tradition. If there is truth to be found in the other tradition, this will typically be judged on the basis of its compatibility with established religious teachings and practices. This means not only that one’s choice of elements for engagement, but also that one’s interpretation and accommodation of the other, will be colored by certain religious convictions. As such, one’s own tradition remains the epistemological and the normative framework for engaging other religious traditions. One submits one’s own judgment to that of a given tradition which remains the touchstone for determining what might become a source of inspiration and enrichment in the other tradition. All this points to a strong resistance to a relativism that would reduce all religious teachings and practices to their historical context. In addition to remaining faithful to the revealed teachings of a certain tradition as the touchstone for engaging the other, the ultimate goal of comparative theology is the enrichment and development of that tradition. This may occur in various ways. The comparison of similar texts, teachings, and practices in another tradition may lead to the intensification or reinforcement of the meaning and truth of one’s own texts, teachings, and practices. This didactic and theological focus on intensification characterizes the work of Francis Clooney. While he generally leaves systematic theological conclusions to his readers, the very juxtaposition of similar texts and ideas from Christianity and Hinduism are seen to reinforce their truth and potency for Christian readers. Besides intensification, the discovery of similar ideas or practices in another religion may also lead to the recovery or rediscovery of forgotten or marginalized elements within one’s own tradition. Similarities may finally also lead to a reconsideration of traditional prejudices toward, and

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denunciations of, the other tradition and to a rectification of prior misconceptions. The discovery of elements of truth and value in teachings or practices that may be different from one’s own, however, may at times lead to the reinterpretation of one’s own tradition through the hermeneutical framework of the other. It may also lead to the appropriation of certain new teachings and practices. Or it may lead to the reaffirmation of the truth and validity of one’s own teachings in light of the other (for a more detailed discussion of these types of learning, see Cornille 2020, ch. 4). All of these types of learning do not question the basic teachings and practices of one’s tradition, but aim at their further enrichment. In the process of learning, comparative theologians grounded in a particular tradition also remain accountable to their respective community, either through submission of their findings to relevant authorities or through a sense of responsibility for the faith of ordinary believers. Though the study of, and engagement with, another religious tradition is somewhat solitary and demanding (requiring in-­depth study of at least two religious traditions), the comparative theologian remains cognizant of the target audience of their work. When done with a sense of accountability for and solidarity with a tradition, the value or validity of comparative theological insights are no longer based on the insights of a single individual, but on a community who themselves base their discernment on a set of normative teachings that are believed to derive from a transcendent source. The reception of the work of comparative theology may often be challenging and slow, as Clooney has also argued, since traditions are not always ready for the innovative approaches and insights of comparative theologians. And it is not always evident how the work is to be assessed and passed on to the faithful. Moreover, not all traditions have a hierarchical structure with an established teaching authority. But every tradition has at least a community of thinkers or theologians who may critically engage one another’s work and assess its validity. The larger community of faith can also become the arbiter of the work of comparative theologians as certain theological ideas and religious practices naturally filter down into communal beliefs and practices. Though comparative theology is generally viewed as the creative work of a theologian, who brings texts, beliefs, and practices of two traditions together for the purpose of new theological insight, it may also proceed from the ground up as a second-­order reflection on experiences and practices of the faithful, who spontaneously integrate elements from other religious traditions. Here, comparative theologians may offer a more systematic discussion of the meaning, context, and compatibility of certain beliefs and practices derived from various religious traditions. In general, it is the sense of faithfulness and accountability to a tradition with its particular structures of authority and accountability that saves comparative theology from suspicions of relativism. Rather than reflecting or generating relativism, comparative theology may in fact be regarded as an important defense against relativism. Often relativism is regarded as the only alternative to traditional forms of absolutism. In confrontation with the reality of religious plurality, traditional claims to uniqueness often tend to crumble, or are regarded as just various historically and culturally particular claims to ultimacy. Here, comparative theology provides a middle way which actively and consciously engages the reality of religious plurality without compromising the truth claims of a particular religion. It also circumvents possible charges of relativism associated with postliberal particularism which approaches different religions as various self-­contained and irreconcilable grammatical systems.7 This may at times be seen as a capitulation to the fact that each religion reflects on theological matters from within its own relative sources of revelation, without needing to confront and engage with different theological perspective. In engaging other religions in a constructive way, comparative theology may be seen to break out of this purely internal logic, and overcome also this type of relativism.



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Conclusion In opening itself up to the truth of other religions, comparative theology inevitably exposes itself to suspicions of relativism. The desire to engage the religious other without set prejudices opens the comparative theologian to questions about how they might consider the status of truth of the various religions involved. Some comparative theologians, like Francis Clooney, SJ, are clearly rooted in a particular religious tradition, and may thus feel less of a need to clarify their theological and epistemological presuppositions. But for other comparative theologians, an account of their theology of religions, or conception of the epistemological status of the other religion they engage, may be necessary to avoid undue suspicions of relativism. Some, who engage with various religious traditions from a transreligious perspective and are grounded in a pluralist understanding of religious truth, may not find the idea of religious relativism particularly problematic. They reject the absolute truth claims of every religious tradition, and draw insights from any according to the question at hand. Insofar as the goal of transreligious theology is still the “understanding and articulation of ultimate reality,” it cannot be regarded as a form of radical or alethic relativism. But as there are few, if any, ultimate criteria for determining this truth, it cannot avoid ending up in a subjectivism where all understanding of ultimate reality is relative to the particular insight of the theologian. What distinguishes comparative theology from transreligious theology is its grounding in a particular religious tradition which provides the theological, epistemological, and normative basis for engaging the other. Insofar as the truth claims of a particular tradition thus form the basis for selecting, judging, and integrating elements from another tradition, comparative theology is therefore anything but relativism. While it recognizes the relativity of the ways in which ultimate truth may be expressed, both in one’s own tradition and in the other, it is still guided by the fundamental religious claims of a particular religion. The ultimate judgment of the truth and relevance of the insights of comparative theologians is moreover not simply the opinion of the theologian, as is the case with transreligious theologians, but is subject to the discernment of a community of theologians and believers, who themselves are faithful to a revealed tradition. Comparative theology thus recognizes the relativity of religious expressions without falling into the trap of religious relativism. The term relativism itself has been subject to considerable debate in the humanities. While in some disciplines, such as anthropology and religious studies, a certain degree of relativism is an inevitable part of methodological presuppositions, it is essentially opposed to theology, which is still based on a set of normative principles and beliefs that are to guide theological reflection. Traditional religious or theological approaches often attempt to avoid relativism by simply ignoring the reality of religious diversity. Theologians remain within their traditional framework without even attempting to understand other religious traditions or the challenges that they represent to their claims of ultimacy and/or universality. Comparative theology possesses the tools to overcome the relativism that rejects the claims of any particular religion as well as the absolutism that denies the very reality of religious plurality.

Notes 1 I have discussed this challenge at some length in chapter  3 of my book Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology (Cornille 2020). 2 It is often seen to emerge in the West from the development of scientific reasoning, the desire to attain similar certainty in matters of faith, and the impossibility of attaining such certainty.

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3 He was wary of the practice of interreligious prayer (including the world days of prayer organized by Pope John Paul II in Assisi) as possibly engendering relativism (see Ratzinger 2003, pp. 106–109). And he sought to combat religious relativism by drawing broad contrasts between Christianity and other religious traditions. His book Truth and Tolerance: Christian Belief and World Religions (2003) may be regarded in its entirety as a refutation of relativism. 4 It has organized panels at the annual conference of the American Academy of Religion (AAR) since 2014. 5 Though Martin denies the association of transreligious theology with theological pluralism (since the latter involves intra-­religious discussions of the question of salvation), it is unmistakably grounded in a pluralistic epistemology that affirms the possible presence of truth in various religious traditions. 6 Perry Schmidt-­Leukel also argues that interreligious theology represents “at an extremely high level of theological sophistication” what takes place on a more popular level among individuals with “­multireligious identities” (2017a, p. 11). 7 The critique of relativism has also been leveled by Avery Dulles against George Lindbeck’s postliberal approach to doctrine which approaches religions as various cultural-­linguistic systems in which the truth of certain propositions is determined according to the internal grammar of the system.

References Baghramian, M. (2004). Relativism. London: Routledge. Baghramian, M. (2010). A brief history of relativism. In: Relativism: A Contemporary Anthology (ed. M. Krausz), pp. 31–50. New York: Columbia University Press. Byrne, P. (1995). Prolegomena to Religious Pluralism: Reference and Realism in Religion. London: Macmillan. Clooney, F.X. (2001). Hindu God, Christian God: How Reason Helps Break Down the Boundaries Between Religions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008). Beyond Compare. St. Francis de Sales and Śrῑ Vedanta Deśika on Loving Surrender to God. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2014). His Hiding Place is Darkness: A Hindu–Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. (2000). Dominus Iesus: On the Unicity and Salvific Universality of Jesus Christ and the Church. Vatican City. Cornille, C. (2018). The problem of choice in comparative theology. In: How to Do Comparative Theology (ed. F.X. Clooney and K. von Stosch), pp. 19–36. New York: Fordham University Press. Cornille, C. (2020). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Cornille, C. (2021). The question of syncretism and comparative theology. Japanese Mission Journal 75 (3): 147–158. Fredericks, J.L. (2010). Introduction. In: The New Comparative Theology (ed. F.X. Clooney), pp. ix–xix. London: T&T Clark. Hedges, P. (2022). Why the Theology Without Walls program fails both as scholarship and a resource to the SBNR: A friendly condemnation. Journal of Interreligious Studies 34: 18–33. Hick, J. (1973). God and the Universe of Faiths. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Hunter, J.D. (2010). Fundamentalism and relativism together: Reflections on genealogy. In: Between Relativism and Fundamentalism (ed. P. Berger), pp. 17–34. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Hustwit, J.R. (2014). Interreligious Hermeneutics and the Pursuit of Truth. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books.



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Hustwit, J.R. (2016). Myself, only moreso. Conditions for the possibility of a transreligious theology. Open Theology 2: 236–241. Kiblinger, K.B. (2010). Relating theology of religions and comparative theology. In: The New Comparative Theology (ed. F.X. Clooney), pp. 21–42. London: T&T Clark. Krausz, M. (2010). Mapping relativisms. In: Relativism: A Contemporary Anthology (ed. M. Krausz), pp. 13–30. New York: Columbia University Press. Levenson, J. (2021). Reading the Hindu and Christian classics: Why and how deep learning still matters [video]. Center for the Study of World Religions, January 21. https://cswr.hds.harvard.edu/ news/2021/1/12/video-­reading-­hindu-­and-­christian-­classics-­why-­and-­how-­deep-­learning-­still-­ matters (accessed March 14, 2023). Martin, J. (2019). Theology Without Walls: The Transreligious Imperative. London: Routledge. Mercadante, L. (2022). Do the “spiritual but not religious” (SBNR) want a theology without walls? Journal of Interreligious Studies 34: 77–82. Newbigin, L. (1990). Religion for the marketplace. In: Christian Uniqueness Reconsidered. The Myth of a Pluralistic Theology of Religions (ed. G. D’Costa), pp. 135–148. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Ratzinger, J. (2003). Truth and Tolerance: Christian Belief and World Religions (trans. H. Taylor). San Francisco: Ignatius Press. Ratzinger, J. (2007). Appendix: Homily Pro Eligendo Romano Pontifice. Common Knowledge 13 (2–3): 451–455. Schmidt-­Leukel, P. (2017a). Religious Pluralism and Interreligious Theology. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Schmidt-­Leukel, P. (2017b). God Beyond Boundaries: A Christian and Pluralist Theology of Religions. Munster: Waxmann. Song, B. (2022). Introduction to the special issue: Spiritual but not religious and theology without walls. Journal of Interreligious Studies 34: 1–11. Thatamanil, J. (2016). Transreligious theology as the quest for interreligious wisdom. Open Theology 2: 354–362. Wildman, W. (2016). Theology without walls: The future of transreligious theology. Open Theology 2: 242–247.

CHAPTER 4

Grounding Theology of Religions in Comparative Theology A Fulfillment Model in Reverse Ruben L.F. Habito

A new era of Christian engagement in dialogue with people of other religions was launched with the promulgation of the Second Vatican Council’s Nostra Aetate (1965) and further bolstered by the publication of the World Council of Churches’ Guidelines for Dialogue with People of Living Faiths (1979). With the heightened interest and active participation in interreligious dialogue among Christians in different parts of the world in the wake of these official declarations, the theological question of how Christians are to relate with other religions and their adherents became a topical theme in Christian theology. Since Alan Race laid out three categories of exclusivism, inclusivism, and pluralism as basic “patterns in theology of religions” (Race 1983), many theologians subsequently engaged in lively debates on the these categories, refining, critiquing, adding to, providing further theological grounding, and making the case for one or other of these three models of Christian ways of relating to Religious Others (D’Costa  1986,  1990; Knitter  1985,  2002; Hao 1990; DiNoia 1992; Ogden 1992; Heim 1995, 2000; Fredericks 1999; Knitter and Hick 1987; Race  2013; Ensminger  2014; Schmidt-­Leukel  2009,  2017a,  2017b; Brockman  2011; Harris et al. 2016; Knitter and Race 2019, among the more notable ones). Citing inadequacies in each of the three positions laid out by Race for a viable and ­authentically Christian approach, James Fredericks has famously called for a “moratorium” in the theology of religions that relies on a priori principles. He recommends instead that we “throw away our (­theological) maps” and move forward with dialogue and engagement with Religious Others with an open heart and open mind, toward forging new frontiers in Christian theology (Fredericks 1999, 2004).1 Francis X. Clooney’s monumental work in the field of comparative theology has set the pace for moving forward in engaging sacred texts of Religious Others without explicitly declaring an a ­priori position in theology of religions, leading to enhancement and deepening of theological understanding for both sides.2 Many other Christian theologians have also taken this direction of theologically engaging Religious Others with fruitful outcomes (see Cohn-­Sherbok 2001).

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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Paul Knitter reviews the strengths and weaknesses of the three positions of exclusivism, i­nclusivism, and pluralism, which he renamed as the “replacement model,” “fulfillment model,” and “mutuality model,” respectively, and offers a fourth option, which he calls the “acceptance model,” a stance which engages Religious Others with acceptance and openness without making a prejudgment on their truth or salvific value. He cites Fredericks’s and Clooney’s contributions in comparative theology, among others, as examples of this acceptance model (Knitter 2002).3 Perry Schmidt-­Leukel has critiqued Clooney, Fredericks, and other comparative theologians for taking an “undeclared” inclusivist position, as he himself takes an unabashedly pluralistic stance for interreligious engagement, continually refined in his many writings through the years, culminating in his recent proposal for a “fractal theory” of religions (Schmidt-­Leukel 2017a, 2017b; Knitter and Race 2019). There are many other notable theological works that have sought to go beyond the impasse in the three classic options, endeavors which have yielded fruit in deeper and broader understanding on both the Christian side as well as on the part of the Christian’s partners in interreligious dialogue.

Christian Theologies of Religions: Retracing the Steps Since early Church times, the prevailing Christian position toward Religious Others has been phrased in the dictum, extra ecclesiam, nulla salus (outside the Church, there is no salvation). The dictum is traced to Cyprian of Carthage (d. 258) in the context of validity or nonvalidity of baptisms being conducted in an era of Christian persecution, and is enshrined in the Papal bull Unam Sanctam issued by Pope Boniface VIII in 1302. This exclusivist position came to be the generally prevailing one among Catholics and other Christians until the mid-­twentieth century. However, Christian theologians in history, such as Thomas Aquinas (d. 1274), in considering the issue of salvation of those who never had the opportunity to encounter the Gospel in their lives in various regions of the world and in different historical epochs, sought ways around this dictum. They introduced categories like “baptism of desire” to allow for the possibility of those outside the ­ecclesial body of the Catholic Church to be included in God’s saving grace. Karl Barth is credited as having given theological articulation to the exclusivist position, in affirming that only Divine Revelation, and not “religion,” can be relied on for salvific value and truth. He defines “religion” as the human attempt to reach God, which by its nature is ineffectual and worthless both for achieving salvation and for accessing truth. It is by God’s grace alone, received through faith in the Word of God manifest in Jesus Christ, that salvation is granted (Barth 2007).4 One must note, however, that Barth was also targeting the Christian religion of his day, pointing out that many of those who called themselves Christian, including church leaders themselves, were in fact subjecting the Gospel to human ideologies and institutional structures under the sway of political forces during those turbulent times with growing Nazi influence (Pauck 1928; Lochhead 1989; Ensminger 2014). Karl Rahner, emphasizing that “Christianity understands itself as the absolute religion, intended for all people, which cannot recognize any other religion beside itself of equal right,” also affirms that other religions contain “supernatural elements arising out of the grace given to all as a gratuitous gift on account of Christ” (Rahner  1966, cited in Brockman and Habito  2010, pp.  92–93). The stance taken by Nostra Aetate reflects this theological view, referred to as an “inclusivist” position. Opened to the possibility of truth and salvation in religions other than Christianity, the question of the relationship between dialogue with Religious Others, on the one hand, and Christian mission vis-­à-­vis non-­Christians, on the other hand, thus emerges as an important theological question to be addressed.

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However, Christians who have engaged in serious dialogue on different levels with Religious Others have been quick to realize and confess that having a “missionary intent” in engaging others is an obstacle to genuine dialogue, an intent that is easily detectable by their dialogue partners in the process. Attempting to engage in dialogue while having an attitude of superiority, implicit or explicit, not only impedes, but also subverts the entire enterprise, forestalling a mutually beneficial engagement with Religious Others. For there to be genuine, open-­hearted, and productive dialogue between adherents of different religions, participants in the dialogue must be able to acknowledge one another as equal partners in the search for truth, an attitude that is requisite for generating mutual respect. A stance that recognizes this parity and equality among religions is referred to as a “pluralistic” theology of religions. There are different varieties of this pluralistic stance, as many writings in the past two or three decades demonstrate, but the basic principle is this acknowledgment of parity and c­ elebration of diversity among religious traditions, abandoning “the myth of religious superiority” (Knitter and Hick 1987). Christian theologians who advocate this stance were among participants in the so-­called Rubicon Conference, held in 1986  in Claremont, California, so named for advocating “crossing the Rubicon of Christian absolutism” and adopting a pluralist standpoint in relating with Religious Others (Knitter and Hick 1987). Many Christians, however, balk at such a move as “crossing the Rubicon,” and critique those who have done so as having abandoned a core affirmation of Christian faith, namely, the uniqueness of Divine Revelation and the salvation wrought in Jesus Christ as valid for all, and as falling into “relativism.”5 There is thus an “impasse” described in the theology of religions, admitting the untenability of each of the three given options, each in their particular ways, for grounding Christian engagement in genuine and viable dialogue with Religious Others. The Christian seeking to go forward in interreligious engagements is stalled between the Scylla of “absolutism” and the Charybdis of “relativism.” Notwithstanding, there have been many notable ventures by Christians in engaging Religious Others in dialogue on different levels over the past two or three decades. This chapter will go over some of the fruits of active and deep engagement in dialogue with Religious Others, and on this basis, sketch the contours of a reconfigured model in theology of religions that may serve as grounding for comparative theology, while making the case for the latter as a central Christian task of “faith seeking understanding” in our contemporary multireligious global society.

Insights from Recent Ventures in Comparative Theology “Creation” in Buddhist–Christian Dialogical Encounters The theology of Creation addresses existential questions that we humans confront as we become aware of the problematic of our human condition. Who am I? Where do I come from? Why am I here? The Buddhist responses to this question on the surface seem to be in direct contrast to Christian ones. Acknowledging the variety of “Buddhisms,” as seen in early Pā li texts, Abhidamma commentarial literature, to early Mā dhyamika and later Mahā yā na versions, there is a common strand that denies a separate entity to which or to whom is attributed the function of creator of this universe of existents. It can be demonstrated that Buddhism in its various forms does affirm an ultimate, unconditioned reality, referred to as nirvāna (nibbāna in Pā li), but is univocal in its  denial of an ultimate cause or “creator” that is also understood as a personal being (­Schmidt-­Leukel 2016, p. 3).



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What does Christian theology stand to learn in its dialogical engagement with Buddhism, with the latter’s clearly differing stance on the question of the origin/s of the universe, other than ­countering by critiquing Buddhism as “atheistic” and therefore materialistic, and nihilistic and world-­denying, and reaffirming its creedal statement, “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth”? Perry Schmidt-­Leukel (2016) closely examines the arguments on the Buddhist side, clarifying that rather than being “atheistic,” more appropriately Buddhism is to be regarded as “nontheistic,” a distinction that enables us to avoid the materialistic and nihilistic charge. He further offers a way of “bridging the gulf ” between the two apparently divergent views about the origin of things. First, the well-­known scriptural text about the Buddha’s silence when posed with fourteen questions about the world, the self, and the status of the Awakened One, specifically on the question of whether the world had a beginning in time or not (i.e., whether it is eternal or not), provides a starting point in reflecting on the comparison. Citing Thomas Aquinas’s understanding of the Christian doctrine on creation out of nothing (creatio ex nihilo), Schmidt-­Leukel notes its primary intent as to emphasize the world’s total dependence on God, and not as asserting that the world had a beginning in time (as opposed to not having had a beginning) (Schmidt-­Leukel 2017a, pp. 219–220). Further, the Buddhist view of interdependent co-­arising provides another perspective on the origin of things, not through mediation of an outside Power, but through a web of karmic c­ ausality that envelops each and every thing in this existing universe. This view, seen in its full implications, conveys a vision of the intimate kinship of each and everything that exists, and brings forth a response to the questions of “Who am I? Where do I come from? Why am I here?” that highlights this intimate interconnectedness and kinship. “I am everything, I come from everything, I am here so that everything else can be.” This grounds an attitude and way of life of caring for everyone and everything in the universe as one’s very own kin, as indicated by a verse in the Treatise on Lovingkindness (Sutta Nipā ta) found in early Pā li scriptural texts: “As a mother would give her life to protect her only child, have this boundless heart in you toward all beings.” This attitude and way of life also grounds a stance of lovingkindness and compassion for all, as well as an acute sense of ecological responsibility. As I am enabled to see what is happening to our Earth not as happening to something outside of me, but precisely as happening to my very own self, I am motivated to be vigilant regarding our global ecological well-­being in all aspects of my day-­to-­day life. Such a Buddhist perspective on the origin and the nature of things, as leading to an experiential realization of my kinship with all, may seem to be in stark contrast with a Christian response to the same questions. “I am a creature made in the image of God. I come from God totally dependent on God. I am here because of God, will be going back to God as my ultimate destiny.” If we allow the Buddhist response to shed light on this response, however, a resonant theme may emerge: not only I, but the same can be said of everyone and everything else in the universe! Thus, I am able to understand that my origins in God and my being created in the image of God are precisely what bring to me this realization of intimate kinship with all people and all things that likewise come from God. This is what grounds me in an attitude of caring for creation as my own home, as a gift from God to me that I am called to protect and nurture and ensure its fullness of well-­being, in a much more effective and deeply engaging way than the current re-­emphasis on the notion of stewardship and its concomitant human responsibility that recent theologies of ecology have tended to bank on.

The Meaning of Christ The affirmation of Jesus Christ as both fully human and fully Divine, proclaimed in the early Councils of the Church, stands at the cornerstone of Christian faith. This dual affirmation, together with its corollary doctrine of the Triune nature of God, which on logical grounds appears to be conceptual

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contradictions, has been expounded through categories and concepts from Greek ­metaphysical thought and culture that formed the lived world (Lebenswelt) of the early Church thinkers. John P. Keenan’s groundbreaking work, The Meaning of Christ: A Mahāyāna Theology, points out the dichotomy that arose in Christian thinking that separated the theological/doctrinal dimension of Christian outlook from the spiritual, experiential, and mystical aspect of the message of Jesus, and seeks to heal this rift through a recasting of categories that we use in addressing the question of Jesus to Peter, “Who do you say that I am?” (Matthew 16:15). Keenan, an Episcopal (former Roman Catholic) priest and lifelong scholar of Mahā yā na, and specifically of Yogā cā ra Buddhism, which is a philosophical strand that emerges from contemplative praxis, offers an understanding of Jesus Christ taking key notions from these Buddhist traditions as his framework (Keenan 1989, 2011, 2015). A central notion in Mahā yā na Buddhism is in the term translated into English as Emptiness (śū nyatā). Volumes have been devoted to unpacking this notion through centuries of Buddhist tradition (see Streng 1967 among others), and we can only slightly skim the surface here, but one way of conveying what this notion is about is to describe it as an “emptying” of one’s idea of a substantial self (the “egoic self ”) that occupies central place in an individual’s conscious life, thus paving the way for an experiential realization of the intimate interconnectedness (pratı̄tya samutpāda, “interdependent co-­arising”) of all things in the universe as constituting this now-­ emptied “self.” A related key notion of Mahā yā na is the doctrine of Two Truths, which lays out how the ultimate dimension, which is beyond ideas, images, and words, and thereby ineffable, is rendered and made manifest in this contingent, interdependently co-­arising world of discourse in skillful ways meant to lead those living in this contingent world to a realization of that ultimate dimension (Keenan 1989, pp. 174–178). Taking this framework, Christ embodied ultimate meaning in his contingent, dependently co-­arisen living and dying. Hence Jesus was confessed as Christ and God … [t]he ultimacy of Jesus as Christ flows from his identification with the Father and constitutes Jesus as Spirit-­filled and as the word and wisdom of God. (Keenan 1989, p. 233)

In other words, Jesus is the spoken Word of the ineffable Abba, and is thus worthy of our hearing (Matthew 17:5), so that the hearer may come to an awareness of Abba, who remains in the realm of the unknown (Matthew 11:27). The “fully Divine” and “fully human” sides of Jesus are thus affirmed and understood with these categories of thought that renders what the term homoousios (consubstantial) sought to convey without using these Greek thought categories. There have been a good number of comparative ventures taking Jesus the Christ, on the one hand, and the Buddhist ideal of the Bodhisattva, on the other hand, in a way that both sides are given new light of understanding through the comparative enterprise (Heim  2019; Lopez and Rockefeller 1987).6

The Spirit in the World Hyo dong Lee’s Spirit, Qi, and the Multitude: A Comparative Theology for the Democracy of Creation mines the wealth of Daoist and neo-­Confucian thinkers in laying out the manifold and complex but integrating modes by which the psychophysical energy (Qi) is at work in the world, and manifests and enables human beings to embody the Way (Dao) in their individual lives and social relations. It is through this Spirit that God’s immanent presence is manifested as a liberating, equalizing, and pluralizing power in the world and in the cosmos as a whole, giving people the vision and



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e­ mpowerment to overcome oppression, inequality, and marginalization, toward the “resurrection of the crucified multitude,” to the reconfiguration and reconstitution of “the Kindom of God, ­however much it stands under the shadow of the cross in its present historical moment” (Lee 2014, p. 255).7 Amos Yong’s many works also highlight the work of the Holy Spirit in the religions of the world, reconfiguring the dynamic activity of the Third Person of the Triune Mystery in multifaith c­ontexts. “[T]o the extent that the non-­Western world is religiously infused with Hindu, Daoist, Confucian, Buddhist, and other traditions of belief and practice, the gospel itself will be read and reread through these lenses” (Yong 2003, p. 189). Yong takes the image of the Spirit poured-­out-­ on-­all-­flesh (Acts 2:17) as a starting point for a pneumatological approach to other religions, toward a “thoroughly reconstructed Christian theology that will have passed over into the other faiths and returned home transformed in such a way as to be able to speak the gospel effectively and meaningfully in a world context generally and in the context of the diversity of religions in particular” (Yong  2003, pp.  190–191). Yong is here referring to the image of “passing over,” ­provided by John S. Dunne in his work, The Way of All the Earth, depicting someone venturing into another country with its different culture and language and becoming familiar with this new ­context, and then returning to one’s homeland, renewed and transformed through the sojourn (Dunne  1978). Yong takes his pneumatological perspective further in his work that includes ­science in a trialogue with Buddhism and Christianity as the other two participants, generating a renewed consciousness and transformation on all sides, toward greater commitment to our shared ethical and ecological tasks in healing our broken world (Yong 2012).

Triune Mystery in the Religious Experience of Other Traditions An early venture in what we refer to as comparative theology was made by Brahmabandhav Upadhyaya (1861–1907), a Bengali member of a Hindu reform movement who was attracted to Christianity, and received baptism in the Catholic Church in 1891. Upadhyaya re-­read the sacred scriptures of the Hindu tradition in which he had been formed to shed light on the central Christian doctrine of Triune Mystery. He took the three features of Brahman, a term for ultimate reality that exhibits both an impersonal and a personal character, namely Sat (infinite Being), Cit (unlimited Consciousness), and Ā nanda (unmitigated Bliss), as clues to understanding the dynamic of the Three Persons of the Trinity and their interrelations (Tennent 2000). The success of Upadhyaya’s work is up for debate, but this became a precursor of such dialogical engagement with Hindu ­scriptures that Francis Clooney himself followed with fruitful outcome. Raimon Panikkar’s work, The Trinity in the Religious Experience of Man (1973), together with his other highly dense works, including The Cosmotheandric Experience: Emerging Religious Consciousness (1993) and The Rhythm of Being: The Gifford Lectures (2010), a crowning piece of his career and published in the year of his death, remain classics that call for further unpacking and elucidation. John P. Keenan’s work mentioned earlier (The Meaning of Christ) includes a chapter on “The Mahā yā na Meaning of Trinity” (1989, pp. 240–259), presenting the Triune Mystery not as an exercise in metaphysics, not “as an item of arcane lore, unintelligible to ordinary people,” but as “the shape of Christian lived experience” centered in Christ, drawn to Abba, and transformed by the Spirit into selfless action in the world (p. 259). There are more works to cite and explore on this theme of Triune Mystery which we will leave for now (e.g., Knitter and Corless 1990; Ives and Cobb 1990). This is a theme I will be continuing to reflect and write on in light of my own longtime engagement with Buddhism in its different

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forms and with Zen practice in particular, in a way that aspires to integrate comparative ­theological reflection with multifaith spiritual praxis (Habito 2016, 2017, 2022).

Reconfiguring Theology of Religions: Toward a “Fulfillment Model in Reverse” The above provides only a very selective outline of new insights gained through the various kinds of theological engagement with Religious Others over the past few decades that have shed new light on and have advanced our collective understanding of central themes in Christian theology: the theology of Creation, Incarnation, Christology, Pneumatology, and the theology of the Triune Mystery. These new insights call for a renewed appreciation and “relocation” of comparative theology from being a mere “subfield” to becoming a key and indispensable resource for addressing central questions of Christian theology especially in the context of our contemporary multifaith global society. In concluding, let us revisit Karl Barth’s schema on Revelation and Religion, upon which those who take the position of Christian exclusivism base their claims. Granted that Revelation is found in the Christian faith tradition, the question arises: is Revelation also to be found in the religions outside of Christianity? As noted earlier, to answer “No” to this question would be to arbitrarily limit the freedom of God, illegitimately claiming to speak on behalf of God. Regretfully, this is a pitfall that Christians all too often tend to fall into, namely, taking the Christian Gospel message in an absolutistic way that summarily and arbitrarily dismisses the very possibility that God may have chosen other ways of Revelation within the multifaceted and complex tapestry of human history which is the field of activity of God’s Spirit “which blows where it will” (John 3:8). One who is able to encounter the Divine Mystery beyond all human conceptualization, even in one experiential glimpse, can only respond to the above question in this way: but who can fathom and presume to know God’s mind? Who can speak on God’s behalf, and (dare to) say No to this question? (see Romans 11:33–36). Affirming the Christian Gospel as the vehicle of God’s Revelation, logically speaking, should not and does not negate, but rather opens the possibility that God, in God’s unfathomable Wisdom and Love as we understand in the Christian tradition, may have also freely granted Revelation outside of the Christian dispensation (Ogden 1992). The only viable way of taking this question of whether there is Revelation outside of the Christian historical tradition seriously is to say, “Let’s explore and find out!” This is what David Lochhead, himself a disciple of Barth, invites Christians to pursue in his work, The Dialogical Imperative, also providing methodical theological guidelines for Christians to pursue this Christian imperative (Lochhead 1989, pp. 38–39). Encountering Religious Others in dialogue and actually exploring and walking the terrain from within those religions then is the only way one can ascertain an answer to this question of whether, and how, Divine Revelation may or may not be present in the world’s religious traditions, instead of dismissing them outright. A Christian, faithful to the living God, without clinging to a merely conceptual idea of “God,” is enjoined to maintain openness to the possibility of encountering this Divine Mystery in other religions. In this process of exploration, a Christian who engages with Religious Others must not fall into hubris and assume an attitude of superiority vis-­à-­vis others, lest they might miss the still, small voice that beckons deeper into the Mystery being encountered in and through the Religious Other. Joseph O’Leary, in his work, Conventional and Ultimate Truth: A Key to Fundamental Theology, suggests: While Christ no doubt grasps, manifests, indeed embodies the complete truth about God, this does not justify Christians in bluntly declaring, “We have the full truth about God.” Faith that embraces



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Christ embraces the full truth, but this faith is always in search of fuller understanding of what is grasped in principle, and it is on this plane of the quest for understanding that the complementary give-­and-­take of interreligious dialogue becomes not only rewarding but necessary – the way the fathers’ recourse to Platonism or the scholastics’ use of Aristotle was necessary. (O’Leary 2015, p. 322)

O’Leary presents a proposal for a theological method based on his own deep learning and ­ ialogical encounters with Mahā yā na Buddhism, taking the Buddhist doctrine of the Two Truths, d the intertwining of the ultimate truth of emptiness and conventional, worldly truth, as a grid for setting up criteria for reflective judgment in theological statements.8 In the open-­hearted engagement with Religious Others, affirming the fullness of revelation in Christ does not give Christians the right to claim superiority over those others, but they are rather enjoined all the more to listen humbly and await with patience, and allow for the further emergence of the Word of God in the process. This may lead to a living encounter with Mystery, something so tremendous and fascinating (Otto 1931), before which we are left in prayerful silence and all our theological concepts melt away. But here is the point: we are not consigned to remain in this silence forever. At the same time as immersing us in a Living Mystery, this encounter moves us to deconstruct the old wineskins of our conceptual frameworks, as new wine gushes forth, calling for new wineskins, that is, for renewed theological articulations and frameworks that are better able to point us and others back to the Mystery, rather than get us sidelined in metaphysical systems concocted by human thought (see Prevot 2015). Raimundo (Raimon) Panikkar provides a hint in his book, The Unknown Christ of Hinduism, read in a new light. It can easily be read within an “inclusivist” framework of Christian superiority, that “Hinduism” can find its fullness in what to it is an “unknown Christ.” But a later edition shows a marked shift in the author’s theological vision and emphasis. God is at work in all religions: the Christian kerygma does not proclaim a new God, but the ­mirabilia of God, of which the Mystery of Christ hidden in God is the alpha and the omega. This very expression in fact is declaring that Christ is not yet “finished,” not “discovered,” until the “last moment” or the “end” has come. The process is still open-­ended. (Panikkar 1981, p. 168)

This is an invitation for Christians to engage “Hinduism” (mutatis mutandis, other religious t­raditions of the world), without the condescending thought that the latter will be “fulfilled” by what we Christians have received in the historical revelation of Jesus Christ. It is rather the reverse, that is, to engage Religions Others is to work unceasingly toward fulfilling and making better known what is yet hidden especially to Christians whose eyes are beclouded by their attitudes and claims of superiority. This is not to take “Hinduism” as an “anticipation that is fulfilled by the revelation in Christ” (as the “Old Testament” is taken), but the reverse, as a locus where the revelation of the yet unknown Christ is to be made more fully manifest and fulfilled, in still open-­ended ways. In other words, rather than other religions being “fulfilled” by what is revealed in Christian tradition, Christian engagement with Religious Others (be it through interreligious dialogue on various levels or through comparative theology) promises fulfillment of the Christian message itself. In the examples above, Buddhist and other wisdom traditions are not “fulfilled” by Christianity, but, rather, encounters with these traditions, through multi-­leveled dialogue or through comparative theology, contribute to the fulfillment of Christianity, as these encounters lead to the deepening and broadening of the understanding of the Christian Gospel message, seen and lived in new light through these encounters. Humble and respectful engagement with Religious Others is about “gathering together all the scattered pieces” (John 6:12), as “creation waits in great expectation for the children of God to be revealed” (Romans 8:19) (Panikkar 1981, p. 169).

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What I have tried to sketch here are the contours of a Christian theology of religions that is neither “inclusivist” nor “pluralist,” but which may be called a “fulfillment model in reverse.” This model seeks to break the impasse and enable us to course through Scylla and Charybdis without being destroyed by the monsters that lurk in the passage forward. In engaging Religious Others with respect and humility and open-­heartedness, seeing in them possible vehicles whereby God’s Word may become more fully manifest in new ways, Christians are able to set aside any claims of superiority and, instead, in all humility, render ourselves vulnerable to new encounters with Mystery toward our own and our dialogue partners’ greater and greater mutual fulfillment. In down-­to-­earth terms, this theology of “fulfillment in reverse” can also be conveyed by the Nguni Bantu term ubuntu: “I am because you are.” And if done with due care, this goes both ways, in fact, all ways, ultimately, “that God may be all in all” (1 Corinthians 15:28).

Notes 1 Ingram (2015) takes the case of Buddhist–Christian encounters and names four areas in which interreligious dialogue can be fruitful for both parties: in the theological realm, in spiritual practice, in socio-­ecological engagement toward shared tasks in our global society, and in the dialogue of ­religion with science. 2 Clooney has admitted that the closest position to what he has taken is the “inclusivist,” though not as one advocating “superiority” of Christian tradition over others, but as an “includer” who is open-­ minded and continues in search for new horizons in Christian theology from the encounter with and mutual learning from other religious traditions. Given that this volume is in honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, I will not list his numerous works that comprise his monumental contribution to the field, as this information is readily available. 3 Knitter (2002) describes three very different expressions of this model, namely, postliberal theology, citing George Lindbeck, Joseph DiNoia, Paul Griffiths, and others, the “many religions = many ­salvations” proposal of S. Mark Heim, and comparative theology. 4 In this new translation of Barth’s classic, Green translates the German Aufhebung, rendered in earlier translations as “abolition,” instead as “sublimation.” This opens up new nuances in reading Barth’s theology, as also noted by Ensminger (2014). See also Lochhead (1989). 5 Renowned theologians who have openly taken on this pluralistic stance have been questioned, ­censured, or silenced by their Church authorities. 6 See also the Buddhist and Christian responses to this collection in Buddhist–Christian Studies (1996, pp. 169–193). 7 In other places in his book (see Lee 2014, pp. 124–125), Lee refers to the “kingdom of God,” but in this particular passage, whether it was intentional or a typo, the word “Kindom” (capitalized) appears, without reference. I take this term with this express intent of signifying the state where all of us ­created beings vivified by Divine life and grace come to acknowledge and celebrate our kinship with one another, taking cue from the late Latinx theologian Ana Maria Isasi-­Diaz, who brought this term into theological discourse (Isasi-­Diaz 2010, pp. 171–190). 8 See the insightful review of Thomas Cattoi (2019).

References Barth, K. (2007). On Religion: The Revelation of God as the Sublimation of Religion (trans. G. Green). London: T&T Clark. Brockman, D. (2011). No Longer the Same: Religious Others and the Liberation of Christian Theology. New York: Palgrave McMillan.



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Brockman, D. and Habito, R. (2010). The Gospel Among Religions: Christian Ministry, Theology, and Spirituality in a Multifaith Society. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Buddhist–Christian Studies. (1996). Interreligious encounter in Korea (several articles), 16: 169–193. Cattoi, T. (2019). Conventional and Ultimate Truth: A Key for Fundamental Theology by Joseph O’Leary (review). Buddhist–Christian Studies 39: 327–331. Cohn-­Sherbok, D. (2001). Interfaith Theology: A Reader. Oxford: One World. D’Costa, G. (1986). Theology and Religious Pluralism: The Challenge of Other Religions. Oxford: Wiley Blackwell. D’Costa, G. (ed.) (1990). Christian Uniqueness Reconsidered: The Myth of a Pluralistic Theology of Religions (Faith Meets Faith Series). Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. DiNoia, J. (1992). The Diversity of Religions: A Christian Perspective. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. Dunne, J.S. (1978). The Way of All the Earth: Experiments in Truth and Religion. South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Ensminger, S. (2014). Karl Barth’s Theology as a Resource for Theology of Religions. New York: T&T Clark. Fredericks, J. (1999) Faith Among Faiths: Christian Theology and Non-­Christian Religions. Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press. Fredericks, J. (2004). Buddhists and Christians: Through Comparative Theology to Solidarity. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Habito, R.L.F. (2016). Exploring new horizons in trinitarian theology: World Christianity in i­ nterreligious encounters. In: World Christianity: Perspectives and Insights: Essays in Honor of Peter Phan (ed. J. Tan, and A. Tran), pp. 161–181. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Habito, R.L.F. (2017) Triune Mystery as Christian Koan. Japan Mission Journal 71 (3): 186–198. Habito, R.L.F. (2022). Zen eye on Triune Mystery: Buddhist light on Christian faith. In: The Dialogical Evangelical Theology of Veli-­Matti Kärkkäinen (ed. P. Heltzel, P. Oden, and A. Yong), pp. 183–198. Minneapolis, MN: Lexington Books. Hao, Y.K. (1990). Doing Theology in a Pluralistic World. Singapore: Methodist Book Room. Harris, E., Hedges, P., and Hettiarachchi, S. (eds.) (2016). Twenty-­first Century Theologies of Religions: Retrospections and Future Prospects. Leiden: Brill. Heim, S.M. (1995) Salvations: Truth and Difference in Religions. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Heim, S.M. (2000) The Depths of the Riches: A Trinitarian Theology of Religious Ends. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Heim, S.M. (2019). Crucified Wisdom: Theological Reflection on Christ and the Bodhisattva. New  York: Fordham University. Ingram, P. (2015). The Process of Buddhist–Christian Dialogue. Eugene, OR: Cascade Books. Isasi-­Diaz, A.M. (2010). Kin-­dom of God: A Mujerista proposal. In: In Our Own Voices: Latino/a Renditions of Theology (ed. B. Valentín), pp. 171–190. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Ives, C. and Cobb, J. (1990). The Emptying God: A Buddhist–Jewish–Christian Conversation. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Keenan, J.P. (1989). The Meaning of Christ: A Mahāyāna Theology. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Keenan, J.P. (2011). I Am/No Self: A Christian Commentary on the Heart Sutra. Leuven: Peeters. Keenan, J.P. (2015). The Emptied Christ of Philippians: Mahāyāna Meditations. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock. Knitter, P. (1985) No Other Name? A Critical Survey of Christian Attitudes Toward World Religions. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Knitter, P. (2002). Introducing Theologies of Religion. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Knitter, P. and Corless, R. (1990). Buddhist Emptiness and Christian Trinity. Mahwah, NY: Paulist Press. Knitter, P. and Hick, J. (eds.) (1987). The Myth of Christian Uniqueness: Toward a Pluralistic Theology of Religions. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Knitter, P. and Race, A. (2019). New Paths in Interreligious Theology: Perry Schmidt-­Leukel’s Fractal Interpretation of Religious Diversity. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Lee, H.-­D. (2014). Spirit, Qi, and the Multitude: A Comparative Theology for the Democracy of Creation. New York: Fordham University.

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Lochhead, D. (1989). The Dialogical Imperative: A Christian Reflection on Interfaith Encounter. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Lopez, D. and Rockefeller, S. (eds.) (1987). Christ and the Bodhisattva. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Ogden, S. (1992). Is There One True Religion, or Are There Many? Dallas, TX: Southern Methodist University Press. O’Leary, J. (2015). Conventional and Ultimate Truth: A Key for Fundamental Theology. South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Otto, R. (1931) The Idea of the Holy: An Inquiry into the Non-­Rational Factor in Religion, and its Relation to the Rational. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Panikkar, R. (1973). The Trinity and the Religious Experience of Man: Icon–Person–Mystery. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Panikkar, R. (1981). The Unknown Christ of Hinduism, rev. and enlarged ed. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Panikkar, R. (1993). The Cosmotheandric Experience: Emerging Religious Consciousness. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Panikkar, R. (2010). The Rhythm of Being: The Gifford Lectures. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Pauck, W. (1928). Barth’s religious criticism of religion. Journal of Religion 8 (3): 453–474. Prevot, A. (2015). Thinking Prayer: Theology and Spirituality amid the Crises of Modernity. South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Race, A. (1983). Christianity and the Challenge of Religious Pluralism: Patterns in Theology of Religions. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Race, A. (2013). Making Sense of Religious Pluralism: Shaping Theology of Religions for Our Times. London: SPCK. Rahner, K. (1966). Christianity and non-­Christian religions. In Theological Investigations. Volume V: Later Writings. Oxford: Helicon Press. Schmidt-­Leukel, P. (2009). Transformation by Integration: How Interfaith Encounter Changes Christianity. London: SCM Press. Schmidt-­Leukel, P. (2016) Buddhism, Christianity, and the Question of Creation: Karmic or Divine? New York: Routledge. Schmidt-­Leukel, P. (2017a). Religious Pluralism and Interreligious Theology: The Gifford Lectures  – An Extended Edition. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Schmidt-­Leukel, P. (2017b). God Beyond Boundaries: A Christian and Pluralist Theology of Religions. Münster: Waxmann. Streng, F.J. (1967). Emptiness: A Study in Religious Meaning. Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press. Tennent, T. (2000). Building Christianity on Indian Foundations: The Legacy of Brahmabāndhav Upādhyāy. Delhi: ISPCK. Yong, A. (2003). Beyond the Impasse: Toward a Pneumatological Theology of Religions. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock. Yong, A. (2012). The Cosmic Breath: Spirit and Nature in the Christianity–Buddhism–Science Trialogue. Leiden: Brill.

Further Reading D’Costa, G. (2009). Christianity and the World Religions: Disputed Questions in Theology of Religions. Oxford: Blackwell. Knitter, P. (1996). Jesus and the Other Names. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Knitter, P. (2005). The Myth of Religious Superiority: Multifaith Explorations of Religious Pluralism. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Race, A. and Hedges, P. (2008). Christian Approaches to Other Faiths. London: SCM Press.

CHAPTER 5

Beyond the Text: Comparative Theology and Oral Cultures Nougoutna Norbert Litoing

Oral Theology I had the privilege of living in the same Jesuit community as Francis Clooney for five years while studying with him. This gave me the opportunity to appreciate the seamless continuity between the scholar and the man. His work reflects who he is as a person, and his way of being and interacting with those around him is clearly informed by his work. This continuity points to something important about comparative theology, especially in its confessional form, namely, its autobiographical dimension. The comparative theologian’s enterprise is deeply rooted in their life story – especially their faith identity  – and their work constantly challenges them to explore new dimensions of their identity. Beyond the text they study and in the text that represents the fruit of their theological undertaking, the comparative theologian’s life becomes a lived theology of sorts, an open book which all those who encounter them can read. As such, the theologian has a story to tell, and that story is their life story. The true theologian is a teacher, not so much because they have mastered a body of knowledge and are able to pass it on, but because of the ways in which their pursuit of knowledge has shaped them. This fact offers an opportunity for envisaging a different take on the role of the theologian in cultures like those of sub-­Saharan Africa which remain profoundly oral in character despite a now well-­established written tradition following the introduction of Arabophone and Europhone literary traditions. Here, orality is not just about the spoken word as preferred mode of communication. It is more about the primacy of interpersonal relationship. In this regard, on several occasions, I have made the experience of standing in front of a bulletin board with a few others in Africa, all of us able to read and all of us having read what was on display but one could suddenly turn to the person next to them and ask: “What are they saying?” This question should be understood as “How do you interpret what they are saying?” As if the written text on the bulletin board only made sense when it became part of a conversation, a lived encounter with others. As such, beyond the text, the spoken word helps establish a relationship where meaning making takes place. Regarding oral communication, in traditional Africa, no one was more qualified to hold the floor than those who belonged to the caste of griots.1 They were depositories of oral tradition, The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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custodians of a people’s memory. As such, their responsibility within society was an important one. They were historians, albeit not in the modern sense of the word. The African proverb according to which the death of an elderly individual is akin to torching a library could not be truer in the case of griots. Among the Wolof of Senegal, the griot (“gewel” in Wolof) enjoyed a special status and elicited fear, disdain, but also admiration. Among the Abidji people of the south of Côte d’Ivoire, the griot was known as Loubouôlap or kokoba, the name of an instrument used to amplify one’s voice. Translated literally, Loubouôlap means “the one who shouts,” who awakens others from their slumber, announces. The Loubouôlap is a type of megaphone, a messenger. What they say comes from someone higher and opens a horizon where individual stories find a collective meaning. Among the Mandinka, just as the blacksmith (numun) is the artisan of metal, the griot (djéli) is the artisan of the word. However, it is important to specify that there were different categories of griot and, consequently, different levels of speech and the corresponding importance attached to the spoken word. In effect, in some cultures, different terms are used depending on the category of “griot” one is dealing with. For instance, the Fulani make a difference between, on the one hand, the mabo (historian) who specializes in recounting epics and the stories of rulers who had distinguished themselves through their leadership skills or through conquests, and, on the other hand, the gawlo (praise singer), the bambado (musician), and the clown. In like manner, the Mandinka refer to the poet or musician griot as dyeli and the Islamized griot as finé; they call the royal griot belentigi, and the hunter griot is known as ninfo. As bearer of a word greater than themselves and as a mouthpiece of those desirous to give an account of the hope that is in them (1 Peter 3:15), might the theologian be a Loubouôlap, a griot of God? Might they play the music of their life and tell the story of a faith community in a way that allows individual stories to find meaning in a shared narrative? Might Clooney be a griot, a bearer of the spoken word despite his engagement with written texts? Clooney’s approach to comparative theology entails the close study of texts drawn from at least two different faith traditions. Yet, certain aspects of orality are not totally absent from such an enterprise. In effect, the texts he reads, be they Hindu or Christian, are born of oral contexts and many of them were meant to be listened to. Regarding the Bible, for instance, Paul Béré argues that the presence of auditors in the text tends to be overlooked in many of the interpretative approaches applied to the reading of the biblical text. Yet, the aural finality of the biblical text dictates formal constraints to the written text. Ignoring these constraints will undoubtedly skew the outcome of one’s reading. The people of biblical times remain a people of the oral word despite the adoption of writing (see Béré 2006, 2010, 2022). Béré further argues that the reduction of “text” to writing has highlighted the place of the author or editor as far as the production of text is concerned, and the role of the reader as far as reception is concerned (Béré  2022, p.  75). However, there are numerous examples in the Bible where the reception of the text occurs aurally.2 For instance, Jeremiah asks Baruch to communicate the words of the Lord orally to the people: “And Jeremiah ordered Baruch, saying, ‘I am prevented from entering the house of the LORD; so you go yourself, and on a fast day in the hearing of the people in the LORD’s house you shall read the words of the LORD from the scroll that you have written at my dictation. You shall read them also in the hearing of all the people of Judah who come up from their towns’” (Jeremiah 36:5–6; emphasis added). The words in the scroll are written following a spoken word (“oral text”) and the transmission of the written text to the people is done so that they welcome it aurally. The unfortunate neglect of aurality in biblical exegesis is grounded in an evolutionary perception of writing well captured by Bossard who describes a spectrum that goes “from times of illiteracy and of orally delivered literature  – lost as soon as spoken, or mangled in mis-­remembered



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versions – to the surer, greater time of literate authors producing texts that would be preserved in print for appreciation by astute, critical, privately reading readers” (Bossard 2016, p. 16). Private reading is, however, not the only way to which scripture is related. In Africa, for instance, scripture is experienced in sermons, songs, and other oral forms of communication. Not only is it received aurally, but it is also interpreted and applied to people’s lives using oral methods. This transmission process is the locus for the elaboration of an oral theology. Oral theology can be understood as “the varied religious expressions of an oral community based on their underlying faith experiences” (Naudé 1996, p.  22). It is stored in memory and transmitted via dancing, singing, storytelling, art, and other similar nonwritten forms of transmission (Prior 2011, p. 146). For instance, the Lomwe people found in Mozambique and Malawi who have embraced Christianity express their theology in songs. Their reflections on scripture can  be perceived in vocal prayers, songs, testimonies given at services, and sermons (Foster  2008, p.  130). In the Pentecostal tradition which is the fastest-growing version of Christianity in Africa, “The theology of the oral Church is automatically more pragmatic, more experiential, less c­ ritical, less logical, and more personal. It relies, if you will on testimony, and less on written texts. Written texts – even the Bible itself – are judged according to this different set of expectations, and they play a fundamentally different role in the daily life of the Church than they do in the technical world of scholarship” (Camery-­Hoggatt 2005, p. 249). Even though many Africans have produced written works of theology, some of which have received recognition beyond the boundaries of the continent, perhaps the genius of African theology is still to be found not in those texts, but in the daily articulations of the Christian faith in ways that cannot be captured by the written text. In this regard, the Ghanaian theologian John S. Pobee states that, even though some have asserted that churches in Africa have no theology, when one probes what is meant by this remark the response is that they have not produced ­theological treatises and tomes, systematically worked out in volumes which stand on the shelves of libraries. But it is not exactly true. Sermons are being preached every Sunday, which are not subsequently printed. Such sermons are the articulations of the faith in response to particular hopes and fears of peoples of Africa. They are legitimately called Theology, Oral Theology. This oral theology and oral history may be said to be the stream in which the vitality of the people of faith in Africa, illiterate and literate, is mediated. (Pobee 1989, p. 89)

As such, oral forms of theology cannot be ignored. Oral theology needs to be taken seriously in Africa (Parratt 2004, p. 151) or else there would continue to be a dichotomy between the book-­ based conceptual theology taught in Western-­styled schools of theology on the continent and the actual theological perspectives that shape the faith experience of most Africans. This type of theology is not taught through books but personal (face-­to-­face) contact. It values testimony (experience) more than texts. Rhetorical skills are more important than the ability to write, interpersonal interactions trump abstract concepts, the community is more important than the individual. Oral theology has a strong personal cachet and is context specific. The images, proverbs, sayings, and maxims speak to a particular cultural setting. Who a person is and what they have done for the community is ultimately what gives them the authority to speak and to be listened to. The kind of theology elaborated orally will undoubtedly frustrate professional theologians as they cannot engage with it based on a written text as is customarily the case in the canonized way of doing theology. Besides, as aptly articulated by the Kenyan theologian John Mbiti, “Oral theology cannot sustain a long theological argumentation of discourse. The audience of oral theology is generally very limited, very confined to local groups and situations, as well as occasions to which it addresses itself. It is difficult, if not impossible, to transport specific formulations of oral theology

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from one place to another, from one period to another, without changes and alterations that go with oral transmission” (Mbiti 1978, p. 50). These limitations notwithstanding, paying attention to oral theology remains a vital necessity for the sub-­Saharan African context. It is consequently expedient to explore ways of making oral theologies an integral part of theological inquiry. In this regard, engaging with oral theology would require entering the spaces where it is being elaborated and sharing in the experience of those who articulate their faith orally. Among other things, this would entail giving theology an ethnographic component. This requires getting out of one’s comfort zone, the comfort of well-­ established canons of theology, especially engagement with text, to venture into the fluid world of orality with the vulnerability and provisional character it gives to any theological statements. Indeed, because it is a faith response to specific historical circumstances, oral theology evolves as the context changes and people make different experiences.

Example: Gurna Daay as Possible Source for Theology Both as a word and institution, the gurna originates from the Massa people, the neighbors of the Tupuri, my ethnic group of origin. Gongora (plural: grosgryona) means child in Massa. Likewise, gorjoriona is used in Massa to refer to a young man. The word gurna has the same root as gongora and gorjoriona. They all come from the root gor, which means “son of ” in Massa. This root word is meant to convey the idea of youth (Koulandi 2010, p. 17). The gurna is precisely an institution relative to youth and organized around dairy cows. It is a periodic organization of young men encamped with dairy cows outside the village under the supervision of adults. Those who usually head these camps are from Tupuri clans which trace their origins to the Massa people. These clans are known as Bããré or Baygaaré. Igor de Garine underscores the fact that the gurna is a Massa import by arguing that singing the praises of dance or of dairy cows, as well as expressing love for cattle heads, for one’s son who drinks milk well, and so on, is proper to the Massa. Furthermore, those who can sing in Massa during the gurna are held in high esteem and a real gurnaman was usually one who could sing in Massa, and the vocabulary of the gurna is still heavily influenced by Massa (De Garine 1964, pp. 196–197). The Tupuri claim that even though they adopted it from their Massa neighbors, they have perfected the gurna by imbuing it with their own cultural genius as evidenced by the fact that the gurna is more elaborate than the guruna, its Massa predecessor. However, going by the comparative study of the two institutions carried out by Dumas-­Champion, the Massa guruna is equally very elaborate (see Dumas-­Champion 1983). A basic difference between the two would be the fact that members of the Massa guruna identify primarily as wrestlers, while members of the Tupuri gurna identify primarily as dancers, even if both institutions involve dance and wrestling. Despite their claim to originality, the Tupuri do not negate the Massa heritage of the gurna. This is well expressed by Clare Ignatowski who observes that: Although the Tupuri made significant modifications to the Massa guruna, they retained many of the essential principles: The value of collective herding, the glorification of the milk-­giving cow, the fattening of the body for public display, especially for courtship. The Tupuri gurna is inflected with many aspects of Massa culture, and these are seen as prestigious. For example, Tupuri gurna  members take on Massa sobriquets, and Massa phrases pepper Tupuri gurna song. (Ignatowski 2006, p. 44)

At the origins of the gurna there are geographical, climatic, economic, and cultural factors. Massa and Tupuri dwell in a region spread across two plains: Logone and Mayo-­Kébi, stretching from the



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northeast of Cameroon to the west of Chad. During the rainy season, these plains are inundated and the pinfolds literally become quagmires with the proliferation of all kinds of disease-­giving bugs. These insalubrious conditions put the animals at risk. Cows, sheep, and goats, which are measures of wealth, thereby become the preoccupation of the entire community during the rainy season. The young men of the village were instructed to take the cattle heads and the flocks of sheep outside the village in search of non-­inundated and more salubrious land where they remained with the animals until the village was no longer inundated. This usually went from mid-­ August to mid-­October. During this period, the young men would feed abundantly on the milk of the cows with the avowed intention of fattening.3 They were also taught how to fight against eventual thieves who might want to snatch the animals. They were taught cultural, moral, and spiritual values that would shape them into responsible men. The songs that were composed and sung during this time were a primary mode of instruction. Dances were performed at the pace dictated by drums. In October, the waters gradually withdrew. Those in the village prepared for the return of the animals. Families with five or more animals would build a pinfold next to the compound. The animals returned on the day of the Feast of the Rooster, known as Féo-­Kagé, which marks the Tupuri New Year. If the animals had survived, this day was a day of great joy and the young men who had watched over them were heartily congratulated. The young men were expected to return much more athletic than when they left. They sang and danced to showcase their new attributes. The fatter the young man, the prouder his parents were. Although it began as a response to contingent factors, the gurna would develop in time to become a sophisticated organization with different forms and rules. It is noteworthy, for instance, that prior to the advent of formal schools in the 1950s and 1960s, the gurna served as school. It ensured the formation of young men, preparing them to take up responsibilities in the village.

Forms of Gurna At the origin, there were three different forms of gurna corresponding to different stages in life: gurna kag-­ré for children below the age of reason, gurna fiirí for teenagers, and gurna daay for adults. Each of these three forms has an animal symbol, which is an essential part of the gurna (Koulandi 2010, pp. 20–21). Those who join the gurna fiirí are graduates from the gurna kag-­ré. Likewise, those who join the gurna daay are selected from the best graduates of gurna fiirí. Age alone was not enough to qualify for gurna daay. There was therefore fierce competition to move up the ladder.

Gurna kag-­ré (Chicken gurna) This gurna was meant for boys and girls aged between 4 and 6, who did not yet have a precise role in the family due to their young age. They would sometimes keep watch over the house or their younger siblings or take care of the poultry. This last job is the reason for the animal symbol of this gurna, the chicken. When teenagers and adults left the house to go farming or shepherd the flock, kids from the same neighborhood would gather and build mini huts. They also made mini drums out of pieces of shattered pottery. They then spent the better part of the day imitating gurna dances. When the parents returned, they would disperse, and each child would return to her home.

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Gurna fiirí (Goat gurna) This gurna was for those aged 7 to 15. It was organized in the vicinity of the village, not too far away from the gurna of adults or gurna daay. Unlike gurna kag-­ré, only boys could officially be part of the gurna fiirí. However, girls who were at the age of puberty (12–14 years) could take part informally. They spent the day at the gurna fiirí (siili jag gurna) and returned in the evening for the vigil known as Bilgi nen jag gurna. The members of the gurna fiirí already had a precise role assigned to them in the family. They oversaw animal husbandry, specifically sheep and goats. They also gave a helping hand to their parents on the farm. They built huts in their gurna encampment, more durable than those of the previous stage. They spent the night at the gurna  encampment. Nowadays, gurna fiirí has completely disappeared, because all those who have the right age for gurna fiirí are in the formal school system, either in elementary or junior high schools.

Gurna daay (Cow gurna) This covers the age group from 16 to 45 years and beyond. It is the apex of the gurna and the only surviving form of gurna. It is organized in an encampment outside the village with dairy cows (daay = cow, whence the appellation gurna daay). These cows constitute an important component of the gurna, not least because their milk will be consumed with the avowed goal of fattening the participants to give them the physical stamina needed for cultural and socioeconomic activities. The gurna camp is generally set under a big tree, next to a source of water, be it a well, a pond, or a river. The camp is usually delineated with a fence made from millet stalks.

Threats to the Gurna and Theological Opportunities More than 60% of Tupuri are Christians, mostly Roman Catholics. Catholic missionaries and, more recently, evangelical pastors have spoken against various aspects of the gurna: dance, animal sacrifice, nudity, and fattening (Ignatowski 2006, p. 57). The critique varies from one Christian denomination to the other. All take offense with animal sacrifice offered to the Jak-­Jin, the fetish placed at the entrance of the gurna camp (Jak Kaw). The Tupuri argue that animal sacrifice is necessary since it takes blood to activate the powers of the fetish. However, Christian leaders state that the death of Jesus on the cross renders all other sacrifices obsolete. Pentecostals are forbidden from attending the dance on the grounds that it distracts from God and because of the heavy drinking involved. Catholics have no such express proscription. On the contrary, the gurna dance is sometimes performed in the context of Catholic liturgies, notably to process with the lectionary and during the offertory procession. Gurna members see the fattening process, with all the resources it requires, as a display of wealth and prosperity. However, its Christian critics see such “waste” of resources as promoting gluttony, but also hampering the economic development of the region, given that famine can sometimes hit very hard from one year to the next, when the rains do not fall sufficiently. Some Tupuri now refrain from the gurna on religious grounds. Their number remains, however, insignificant. Another threat to the gurna is its commodification. Indeed, nowadays, the gurna dance performed for cultural tourists, be they outsiders or Tupuri from the diaspora desirous to recapture their cultural roots, leads to a commodification of this important cultural form. This takes place through a decontextualization process that defies all the rules and regulations governing the  gurna. It is often performed out of season because tourists cannot visit Tupuriland during the ­designated season for gurna daay in the Tupuri calendar, given that the whole area would be



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inundated. Rules of membership are equally not respected. The songs are performed and the dances are modified for the onlookers and their numerous cameras and tape recorders. This process of  selection accelerates the commodification of the gurna since “the customer is king.” This ­commodification of the gurna has prompted Koulandi, a Tupuri himself, to sound the alarm, highlighting the fact that the gurna has been shaken to its foundations with multiple performances of the gurna dance in urban centers. His words are worth quoting: The gurna discipline is no longer respected. Milk is no longer consumed in abundance, and this could spell the very end of cattle husbandry, that is, the main way of saving in the rural area. Instead, bili-­bili [local millet beer] and argè [local liquor] are sometimes consumed abusively. Up to 80% of the youth is turned toward modern schools. Song composers are more and more politically manipulated, and no longer play their former role of moralizing society. The power of  money imposes itself to all, and some Tupuri thugs succeed in having their praises sung. (Koulandi 2006, p. 29)

Koulandi thus paints a bleak portrait of the state of gurna. Among other elements, he underscores commodification, through the power of money, as one of the factors leading this centuries-old institution to its ruin. However, this crisis moment can become a Kairos, and theology can contribute in salvaging the meaning of the gurna daay. For instance, a reflection on Christian initiation that starts from the gurna could help redeem its educational role in a context where this role has been taken over by the now well-­established French system of education. This would require centering ethnographic work in comparative theology. The songs, dances, and symbols that are part and parcel of the gurna would thus become the ‘text’ for theological reflection. Understood properly, the different stages of gurna could enrich the understanding of the different stages of Christian initiation. This would go beyond the mere insertion of gurna dances in liturgical celebrations to actually letting it inform Christian theological discourse. This could enrich Christian theological discourse as carried out in Tupuri context, but equally help salvage the spirit of gurna which seems to get diluted in the context of the growing urbanization of Tupuri populations. Such an engagement will only be possible if comparative theology ventures beyond the text.

Notes 1 The appellation “griot” is a generic term used to refer to the members of a cast of storytellers and praise singers, found in several African societies, particularly in Sahelian cultures, from Senegal all the way to Chad. 2 See, for example, Exodus 24:3–8; Deuteronomy 31:9–13; Joshua 8:32–35; Nehemiah 8; 2  Kings 23:1–3; Jeremiah 36. 3 A fattened body is seen as a big advantage in courtship. It is a sign of health and strength. An able-­ bodied man will be able to defend his family and village. Also, both for the Massa and Tupuri, milk offers a status of nobility.

References Béré, P. (2006). Auditor in Fabula – la Bible dans son contete oral: Le cas du livre de Ruth. Old Testament Essays 19 (3): 1089–1105. Béré, P. (2010). De magistro: La parabole du prochain en Lc 10, 25–37 et son auditeur. In:Bible et ­promotion humaine: Mélanges en l’honneur du Professeur P.-­M. Buetubela Balembo (ed. A.K. Mukenge), pp. 113–128. Kinshasa: UCC-­Mediaspaul.

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Béré, P. (2022). L’auralité des Saintes Écritures: Un autre regard exégétique sur le texte biblique. In:  Cooperatori Della Verità: Scritti in onore del Papa emerito Benedetto XVI per il 95˚ compleanno (ed. P.L. Azzaro and F. Lombardi), pp. 73–117. Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana. Bossard, M.T. (2016). From orality to aurality. Lendemains 41 (164): 16–24. Camery-­Hoggatt, J. (2005). The Word of God from living voices: Orality and literacy in the Pentecostal tradition. Pneuma 27 (2): 225–255. De Garine, I. (1964). Les Massa du Cameroun: Vie économique et sociale. Paris: Presses universitaires de France. Dumas-­Champion, F. (1983). Les Masa du Tchad: Bétail et Societé. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Foster, S. (2008). Oral theology in Lomwe songs. International Bulletin of Missionary Research 32 (3): 130–134. Ignatowski, C. (2006). Journey of Songs: Public Life and Morality in Cameroon. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Koulandi, J. (2010). Quelques Aspects de la Culture Tupuri. Garoua: BERAS. Mbiti, J.S. (1978). “Cattle are born with ears, their horns grow later”: Towards an appreciation of African oral theology. In: All African Lutheran Consultation on Christian Theology and Christian Education for the African Context (ed. A. Bares), pp. 49–50. Geneva: Lutheran World Federation. Naudé, P. (1996). Theology with a new voice? The case for an oral theology in the South African context. Journal of Theology for Southern Africa 94: 18–31. Parratt, J. (ed.) (2004). An Introduction to Third World Theologies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pobee, J.S. (1989). Oral theology and Christian oral tradition: Challenge to our traditional archival ­concept. Mission Studies 6 (1): 87–93. Prior, R. (2011). Orality: The not-­so-­silent issue in mission theology. International Bulletin for Missionary Research 35 (3): 143–147.

CHAPTER 6

Faith Seeking Understanding or Understanding Seeking Faith? Bennett DiDente Comerford

Prologue In a Festschrift honoring Francis X. Clooney, it is worth our while to attend to a friendly debate among two major schools of comparative theology, a debate Clooney can largely be credited with inspiring. This reference to “schools” is meant in two senses, first, as a way of indicating persistent distinctions between two prominent approaches to the discipline and, second, as a literal reference to two neighboring institutions of higher learning in the greater Boston area, both of which share their city’s namesake: Boston College (BC) and Boston University (BU). While the debates between these two schools of comparative theology are long-­standing, it was perhaps in 2017 that the fullest expression of their distinctions came to be crystallized courtesy of Robert Neville, who also christened their corresponding designations. Neville draws on the work of Catherine Cornille to identify the BC school of comparative theology as distinctively “confessional” or pertaining to tradition specific internal reflection. As a professor at Boston University, Neville’s own allegiance to the BU school of comparative theology balks at confessional constraints in the interest of a transreligious approach reminiscent of his own “Comparative Religious Ideas Project.”1 Neville’s 2017 lecture exemplifies the extent to which Clooney’s comparative theology has facilitated robust discussion and debate. This itself should give us pause to marvel at the immense contributions so characteristic of Clooney’s living legacy. Clooney is a tireless scholar with an overwhelming record of publications that even his most dutiful students have trouble tracking. His academic work and teaching have influenced far too many individuals to name, and I proudly include myself among their ranks. As this chapter will show, many scholars have sought to engage with comparative theology not by doing it, but rather by writing about it. In honor and celebration of my cherished teacher and mentor, I hope the present reflections may serve to inspire hitherto unexpected contributions to comparative theology in its actual practice. As a modest contribution to a volume celebrating the life and work of Francis X. Clooney, I focus my reflections on this lecture foremost to highlight how Clooney, in his invitation and response to The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Neville, but also throughout his life and work, teaches us something important about intellectual humility and a commitment to open and honest dialogue. Along the way I consider the possibility of holding what could be called a “tension”: that of embracing Neville’s suggestion that theology can be understood along the lines of “understanding seeking faith” while still maintaining Clooney’s insistence on the necessity of personal religious commitments as a starting point and foundation for work that is theological. I conclude with some tentative propositions regarding the relevance of comparative theology for Catholic theology more generally and how comparative theology contributes to the broader academy.2

The Opening On March 6, 2017, Professor Robert Cummings Neville gave the Annual Comparative Theology Lecture at Harvard University’s Center for the Study of World Religions. His talk, entitled “On Comparative Theology: Religion-­Specific or Trans-­Religious?,” addresses a range of topics pertaining to comparative theology, with a particular emphasis on forwarding his own position that “religion-­specific” belonging ought not be required for those interested in contributing to the field. Students and scholars of comparative theology will immediately recognize Neville’s perspective on comparative theology as at odds with the approach to the discipline that Francis X. Clooney has advocated and modeled for decades. Yet it was Clooney himself who organized the event and welcomed this public critique of his work. Before proposing some common ground between Neville’s and Clooney’s conceptions of comparative theology we must first consider some crucial points that were raised during the talk. The evening began with Professor Clooney’s welcome, opening remarks, and introduction of the keynote speaker. Clooney warmly describes many years of friendship and professional collaboration with Neville and provides ample examples that illuminate Neville’s impressive erudition and productivity as a scholar. Particularly striking to me was a final, heartfelt observation Clooney shared regarding Neville’s humane simplicity and humility. Clooney states, Despite his impressive accomplishments, his many publications, and his leadership in many fields, he’s also one of the most wonderfully humane, down to earth, simple people I know . . . always gracious unfailingly welcoming, respectful of ideas very different from his own, and always helping to move forward the conversation by including people in it and finding the best in what people have to say. (Neville 2017, 6:55–7:38)

Clooney sums up his praises by calling Neville “a person who is highly admired.” Neville likewise reciprocates the affectionate introduction and, despite hints of disagreement to come, extends sentiments of gratitude to Clooney for a “treasured and respected treatment of my own work.”

The Main Event Neville began his lecture in earnest with the following statement: “I believe and will argue tonight that any theology whatsoever ought to rest upon a base of comparative theological erudition” (Neville 2017, 10:06). I will say more about the merits and implications of this sentence (as I understand them) in the third portion of this chapter, but we might at present more cursorily contemplate the boldness of the claim. Neville goes on to offer several important insights regarding comparative theology in his lecture. Early on he mentions that “to do serious theology requires



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loosening the holds of bias, not tightening them.” Another of Neville’s most perceptive observations comes during his discussion of comparative theology as an art. He first draws directly on Clooney for this idea: Frank gives the best characterization of my position, quoting him again, “due perhaps to the combination of his areas of expertise” (talking about me), “American pragmatism, process thought, and Confucian tradition, Neville values comparison as a process of increasingly refined approximations crafted wisely. Words, methods of comparison, and the substantive of tenets of a tradition achieve a certain balance in comparative study, but they are still always open to adjustments as further insights occur across culture and religious borders. The expert comparativists master both the particular and the general and can explain the rules by which we learn interreligiously. Comparison is ultimately an art.” (Neville 2017, 44:30–45:10)3

Neville indicates that Clooney’s rendering of his own approach to comparative theology is acceptable to him.4 He provides no direct criticism of this proposition.5 Neville advances a compelling case for the relevance of philosophy for theology and comparative theology. He reminds us that “It has been the philosophical considerations that have driven theological ideas to greater sophistication regarding their meaning in actual religious life” (2017, 41:47–42:04). He goes on to advocate that others take up more robustly philosophical orientations in their comparative theological work.6 Indeed, while Neville reminds us that so much theology is indebted to philosophy, I am not aware of much disagreement among comparative theologians on this particular point. Though a valuable insight, I perceive a deep philosophical resonance in comparative theology, especially with the philosophical hermeneutics of Hans-­Georg Gadamer and others.7 In this sense, it seems a defensible assertion that comparative theology is already a profoundly philosophical practice, or at least one that is remarkably compatible with an important philosophical tradition that has impacted and continues to influence a wide range of scholarly disciplines beyond the fold of religious studies. I am unclear what Neville means when he states that, only a philosopher, such as Frank, could keep things straight when comparing Christian notions of love with Hindu bhakti notions. Most of our great religious-­cultural traditions have not distinguished theology from philosophy as much as the Western ones have. And it is important to take pains to involve philosophy in comparative theology.

All honorific intentions aside, this recognition of Clooney as philosopher not only nominally resolves Neville’s own complaints that comparative theology is not philosophical enough, but more penetratingly reveals an inherent contradiction with the opposing assertion that comparative theology need to be more philosophical. While Neville may not be misguided in his illumination of such a paradox, it is unclear if he grasps the associative implications that may undermine key elements in his argument. Clooney engages directly with wide-­ranging examples of philosophical thinking and even draws on several philosophers to enrich and inform his comparative theological projects. Yet, since Clooney almost exclusively identifies himself and his work in theological, not philosophical, terms, I think we can more reasonably take Clooney’s self-­designation at its word and settle on the important recognition that comparative theology is clearly amenable to the incorporation of philosophical elements and may even serve as a vehicle for philosophical insight. Neville is content to define comparative theology in terms of its subject matter rather than in terms “of the antecedent theological commitments of the comparativists.” For Neville, “a good comparativist is anyone who can do the job well.” But as for a personal religious commitment, Neville thinks “this

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is wholly unnecessary so long as one has the depth necessary to do a good job at whatever it is one is doing in comparative theology.” He expounds upon this idea in the following way: If a comparativist does want to come to measured, critical, and committed theological truth, even systematic theological truth of the sort to which I aspire, commitment to a faith community is not necessary, at least not at the beginning. It is not “faith seeking understanding” but “understanding seeking faith.” Given the enormous variety of forms of theological forms of theological and practical religious companionship, many quite far from common denominational membership or tradition adherence, a comparativist’s spiritual companions can be of just about any sort and connected in just about any way.

I will address the notion of “understanding seeking faith” at greater length below, but here we might pause simply to wonder what exactly Neville might have in mind by the phrase. His subsequent sentence does not unpack in much detail his inversion of Anselm’s widely embraced definition of theology. With little else to go on, it seems a good bet that by foregrounding “understanding” Neville wishes to de-­emphasize religious belonging as a prerequisite for theological work. Earlier on Neville suggests that “to consider theology to be faith seeking understanding might itself be a profound mistake.” Here too we are left with little sense of the nature of such a mistake. Neville tells us, “In a trivial sense of course, everyone’s theological journey if it has any punch at all, is faith seeking understanding from childhood onward. He then draws on Augustine, suggesting the fourth-­century theologian was “a faith seeking understanding theologian from his mother’s knees.” The point, Neville specifies, is that Augustine “adopted himself into Christianity and commenced to transform its theology probably more than any Christian theologian before or since.” It is unclear whether Neville highlights Augustine’s conversion as a way of suggesting his theological contributions somehow preceded it or that his adult adoption of the Christian faith, in Neville’s view, somehow complicates the fullness of his Christian belonging. Neville’s stronger point is that, He did not immerse himself especially in what Christians believe theologically, but rather in what they should believe, all things considered. All things considered included Platonism, Neoplatonism, Manicheanism, comparatively understood. His comparative theology came before his Augustinian Christian theology.

I find it perplexing that amidst Neville’s invocation of Augustine, which serves to exemplify how defining theology as faith seeking understanding “might itself be a profound mistake,” Neville describes Augustine as “a faith-­seeking-­understanding theologian.” It is further unclear whether he supposes Augustine’s transformative theological contributions might have been equally conceivable had he never converted to Christianity. The question as to why Augustine’s engagement with Platonism and Neoplatonism ought best to be understood as comparative theology rather than philosophical theology is also left unaddressed. Even if we were to consider the more promising possibility that Augustine was invested in something akin to Christian–Manichean comparative theology, works such as “Against Secundinus the Manichee” (405 ad) and Augustine’s reference to Secundinus’s positions as “pestilence” in his Retractiones raises serious doubts about meaningfully associating Augustine with comparative theology at all, especially considering the repeated emphasis Neville places on the importance of mitigating bias. On that note, and to reiterate, Neville’s concerns with bias are, in my view, among the most important points he raises in his lecture. Neville first mentions bias in reference not to comparative



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theology, but to all theology. He tells us, “Some in the academy would delegitimate theology as special pleading. The answer to that deligitimation is to be responsive to every criticism of bias.” He goes on to suggest, “We have to be respectfully accountable, otherwise we do theology a disservice.” Neville does not unpack this much, and I wonder what examples of such criticisms of bias might be. Does every criticism merit an equally serious response? Might comparative theology itself function in some sense as a response to the long-­standing bias of Christian theological supremacy? Neville does not address such questions. Neville draws on denominational differences to explain a core distinction between his and Clooney’s approach to comparative theology. Unlike for Catholics, who are often taught to revere the Church as a vessel of God, Neville’s default position, he tells us, is to be critical of his Protestant heritage.8 He assumes such a critical position precisely to limit certain biases inherent in any confessional approach. He tells us, “To undertake serious theology requires loosening the holds of the biases in the home tradition, not tightening them by deeper participation.” But must loosening the holds of bias always and inevitably entail loosening one’s sense of belonging to a particular tradition? Does deeper participation in a given tradition always and necessarily involve a tightening of the biases “in” or associated with the home tradition? Neville proposes additional strategies for mitigating bias, such as pursuing collaborative approaches to comparative theology, which he suggests would help “correct for both bias and shallowness,” although he also admits to finding collaborative comparative theology “too difficult.” He also repeatedly alludes to his own “Protestant bias.” Neville is quite earnestly committed to avoiding bias and offers innumerable insights that demonstrate a masterful grasp of comparative theology and long-­standing tensions and debates in the discipline. While I have only touched on a handful of Neville’s contributions in this instructive lecture, the respondents at the lecture help extend and deepen the conversation.

The Response The thought-­provoking responses by Bing Song, Shoshana Razel, and Won-­Jae Hur that followed Neville’s lecture combined with the more recent publication of Catherine Cornille’s Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology (2020), offer a clear statement of the so-­called Boston College school of comparative theology. In this section I highlight select insights from the junior scholar respondents and extend the implications of two important points that Neville addresses, at least in part, both of which merit our deeper consideration. The first point pertains to mitigating bias. The second point pertains to Neville’s inversion of Anselm’s definition of theology, which he employs, I believe, as a means for de-­emphasizing religious belonging as the widely accepted foundation for comparative theological work. While Neville’s charges of bias in confessional comparative theology are, in my view, more or less resolved by the three respondents, the second point regarding Neville’s rendering of comparative theology as “understanding seeking faith” is given far less attention. To begin with the first point, all three respondents express agreement with Neville’s emphasis on reducing bias. Bin Song, then a doctoral student at Boston University and now an assistant professor at Washington College, even called out Neville’s own potential bias in neglecting to distinguish between “Confucianism” and “Ruism.” Song also offered some perceptive reflections on the multiple meanings of “bias.” He says, In my view there are two kinds of biases. One is beneficial and the other is harmful. The beneficial bias is the horizon of one’s understanding for anything or any tradition, just as Gadamer has

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­ rilliantly argued. This kind of biases are the necessary facility by which a pursuer of religious b truth . . . learns from the other tradition . . . In contrast, the harmful bias is the one that a comparativist, despite its constitutive role, would not give it up even when he or she is urged by the rectifying force, released by continued interreligious studies and dialogue.

Song’s response to Neville boils down to an admission, on the one hand, that one’s personal commitment to a home tradition or culture is a form of bias (but the good kind). On the other hand, and in clear contradistinction from Neville, Song stresses “how important one’s personal commitment to a home tradition or home culture is for interreligious studies and comparative theology.”9 Shoshana Razel, doctoral candidate at Harvard University, follows suit with Song by addressing Neville’s concerns about the risks of bias in the Boston College school of comparative theology. To this end she insists that, “Neither Robert Neville nor Frank Clooney has any intention of engaging in any such hegemonic reductionist scholarship. Both scholars are acutely sensitive to the need for purity of motive and to the need for repeated self-­examination and critique.” Razel also addresses how certain of Neville’s strategies for mitigating bias may in fact miss the mark and dampen otherwise promising opportunities for interreligious dialogue. In reference to Neville’s sensitivity about the term “theology” due to Jewish perceptions of the term as inherently Christo-­centric and exclusionary, Razel responds with a “why bother?” Speaking from a Jewish perspective she explains, I find no threat whatsoever in terms such as theology nor in terms such as sacramental. What is an encounter with any term, religion, legal, ritual system but an opportunity to examine its parameters and to bring it home so to speak to see if it might chafe within or fit in or look strained in a Rabbinic sentence. In the worst case it won’t fit. In the best case it might solve a particularly vexing rabbinic case.

If Song suggests there is more to be said about bias, Razel indicates how an overemphasis on mitigating bias might in certain cases actually hinder interreligious dialogue. WonJae Hur, then a doctoral student at Boston College and now an assistant professor at Xavier University, rounded out the responses by raising a set of questions, all of which relate in some way to the issue of bias in some way. Hur rhetorically wonders: Does orienting comparative theology according to subject matter through the continued refinement of comparative categories prevent importing bias more effectively than Clooney and Cornille’s approach. For Clooney and Cornille are also concerned about avoiding bias. Yet they address this problem by making explicit their religious vocation and the normative interests and concepts that form their basic theological framework. I do not read them as setting up an idealized notion of a static home tradition, although I think that is a danger that needs to be addressed more fully in the so-­called Boston College comparative theology school . . . Instead I read them as taking a critical stance toward their own situatedness in order to clarify their biases from the outset.

Hur concludes his remarks with three important questions, contextualized with his own critical commentary. Hur quite appropriately, in my view, calls into question whether Neville’s approach serves to reduce bias more than the confessional approaches of Cornille and Clooney. Razel and Song explain and model additional ways that bias in comparative theology needs to be addressed. The second point worthy of our deeper consideration is, in my view, analogous to the proverbial conundrum of the chicken and the egg. What comes first for theology, faith or understanding?



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Neville inverts Anselm’s celebrated definition of theology and proposes that theology might just as well be thought of as “understanding seeking faith.” Although not a central point of contention in his lecture, Neville’s appeal to theology as “understanding seeking faith” serves to bolster his ­primary aim of creating space in comparative theological practice for “transreligious” orientations. In other words, claims Neville, one need not be grounded in a particular theological “home” tradition to contribute to comparative theology. For Neville, foregrounding understanding is meant to de-­emphasize religious belonging as an imperative not only for comparative theology, but for theological studies more generally. Song is the only respondent who addresses the “Anselmian inversion” directly. But while he titles his response “understanding seeking faith versus faith seeking understanding,” he only briefly addresses Neville’s reformulation of Anselm. Song seeks to levels the debate regarding which should take precedent in comparative theology, understanding or faith. He states outright that, “although I fully endorse the impartial non-­confessional approach of comparative theology that is fully committed to scholarly critical thinking, please allow me to equally emphasize how important one’s personal commitment to a home tradition or home culture is for interreligious studies and comparative theology.” According to Song, Anselm’s traditional definition of theology is as important as its inversion. Although he suggests meaningful ways for how this might work from a Ruist perspective, we are left wondering how generalizable such an approach to comparative theology might be. Furthermore, how amenable might other religious traditions be to placing equal emphasis on non-­confessional impartiality and an expressed confessional standpoint? Although she pushes back on Neville’s charge of bias in confessional approaches, Razel seems to affirm Neville’s proposal as to the problematic nature of “religious belonging.” Razel affirms Neville’s concerns about community and that belonging to a particular faith community can may be off-­putting or difficult for scholars who may not belong to a community. She also tells us, I as well as Professor Clooney, Catholics, and Rabbinic Jews, are all aware of the fraught nature of belonging to any community. I don’t think that anyone truly belongs to a home community and I think that if we engage in the mission of this kind of scholarship and seeking the truth everywhere and in all humanity then that mission inevitably puts us in a situation where we are not always anchored truly in a home community.

Razel does not extend this line of thinking to suggest that a home tradition is therefore unnecessary as a starting point for comparative theology. In associating Clooney with an awareness of the fraught nature of any form of religious belonging, Razel, to my ears, challenges us to think beyond essentialized notions of “true belonging” that contributors to both schools of comparative theology sometimes take for granted.10 Even if we grant the possibility of a wide spectrum of belongings, this does little to resolve the conundrum of how theology might work or what it might mean outside a foundational rootedness within a home tradition, however imperfectly embraced or understood. Hur offers a happy medium to his counterparts in his acknowledgment of the complexities of religious belonging and the cruciality of belonging to the confessional school of comparative theology. He affirms, “it is important to heed Neville’s reminder that the notion of a home tradition can be a very ambiguous thing, fraught with internal conflicts . . . he is right that we have to problematize the notion of a unified home tradition and take into account its internal diversity and complexity.” I could not agree more with Hur on this point. And yet, problematizing the notion of a home tradition need not require total eschewal of religious belonging to begin with. Hur more than adequately defends and substantiates the perspective that confessional comparative

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theology, as exemplified by the work of Cornille and Clooney, addresses the challenge of bias precisely by means of its acknowledgment of a home tradition. Neville offers little in terms of a rebuttal to this point. Although Song is the only respondent to directly reflect on the Anselmian inversion, all three scholars address religious belonging in ways that raise crucial questions about Neville’s “transreligious” rendering of “understanding seeking faith.” While I question the tenability of Neville’s broader take on comparative theology, I continue to be captivated by his engagement with the Anselmian inversion. Of course, simply inverting Anselm’s most celebrated sentence in this way is far from an achievement in its own right. Having playfully experimented with this ordering of phrases in the past, my assumption is that this has long been a well-­worn thought experiment in confessional theological studies.11 Some quick digging reveals “understanding seeking faith” to be firmly on the radar of none other than Karl Rahner and expounded upon at length by Franz Jozef van Beek.12 I recall my surprise and slight consternation when it quickly became clear that what Neville had in mind by “understanding seeking faith” was quite distinct from how I had so often imagined it, which is also distinct in certain respects from Rahner’s rendering. While my concerns with Neville’s unique interpretation of “understanding seeking faith” persist, we might productively conceive of the Anselmian inversion in ways that constructively respond to some of the most pressing questions for the study and practice of comparative theology today, namely: Where is comparative theology grounded? Where does one stand while doing it? How does acknowledgment of a “home tradition” in comparative theology mitigate charges of bias? In what ways might we conceive of comparative theology as functioning in service to the broader field of theological studies? And what, if anything, might comparative theology have to offer the greater academy at large, especially to nontheological areas of inquiry? One thing that I find striking about Neville’s appeal to a comparative theology that is rooted in “understanding seeking faith” is the “direction” he moves in to explain exactly what he has in mind. By understanding seeking faith, Neville advocates greater attention to universal or, at least, interreligiously translatable “topics” that seem somehow to transcend ties to historically situated locations. This appeal to increasingly abstract foundations for theological understanding is simply in line with Neville’s emphasis on generality versus particularity. My sense of “understanding” in the Anselmian inversion skews in a rather different direction, namely as a deeper probing of the historical location that Neville only goes so far to address. Neville rightly refers to “home tradition” as “not an easy phrase.” He tells us, At stake here is what is meant by being a member of a tradition, by having a home tradition. That’s not an easy phrase. Religious membership is itself an important comparative category and the methodological discussions of comparative theology commonly have been insensate to the various meanings that membership can have. Generally, we have taken membership to be a matter of religious identity.

But simply to render “membership” and “religious identity” as interchangeable is still to say precious little about either. Neville seems implicitly to embrace the importance of a “home” tradition even as he more explicitly balks at it. After all, he does tells us time and time again he is a Methodist from Missouri. He recognizes the likelihood of his unchecked biases while simultaneously eliding the embrace of a “home tradition” as requisite. All the while, he repeatedly refers to his own home tradition as undeniably influential on his scholarly positionality, even where philosophical matters are concerned.



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While I believe Neville intends “understanding seeking faith” to de facto imply a non-­ confessional theological starting point, I find good reason to resist such an implication. Pragmatically speaking, insofar as theology is fundamentally a written practice, linguistic understanding is imperative for its production. In this banal (but not inconsequential) sense, theology is always and quite obviously a practice of “understanding seeking faith.”13 Highlighting the language of theology in this way carries important implications. Doing so helps us to recognize that most theology, at least when we limit the claim to North American theology, already rests on a theology of religions in its occupation and navigation of spaces and places that have long held spiritual significance to Native peoples for millennia. In this admittedly narrow sense, the operative theology of religions of much, if not most, North American theology is exclusivist. Stating as much is not foremost to wager a critique. Rather, such an observation stems from consideration of how exactly comparative theology might be understood as foundational for all theology. By “understanding seeking faith” I have in mind to emphasize “understanding” as, pragmatically speaking, the natural starting point of all theology insofar as theology is linguistically constituted. This is simply to propose, what I take to be a truism, namely, that a person must first be able to understand a language (quite possibly any language) in order to meaningfully contribute not only to comparative theology, but to any theology. The language of choice for North American theology is English. It therefore ought to not be a great reach to include “English language speaking” among the sociohistorical locations implied in “Missouri Methodist” proffered by Neville. And it might go without saying, but the same specification ought to apply equally to the case of Clooney as well as any other comparative theologian working within the North American context. This admittedly simplistic observation reveals an avenue by which theology might rightly be understood as rooted in, beginning in, and anchored by a particular (sociolinguistic) understanding that either precedes or coincides with the foundational experience of faith that is so essential for both religious belonging and theological reflection. An additional step, then, is to interrogate the underpinnings of recognized geographic locations such as “Missouri” (Neville) or “Brooklyn” (Clooney). To bring this geographical comparison to scale, we might extend Neville’s story of origin and upbringing to the city of St. Louis specifically. While examples to this effect are sure to vary widely, this one is instructive in that it presents us with the Christian terminology of “saint” in reference to Louis IX (1214–1270) who reigned as King of France from 1226 to 1270, an individual who has been considered the model Christian monarch and who was canonized as a Roman Catholic saint by Pope Boniface VIII in 1297.14 But in light of the present reflections on comparative theology, we must reckon with the possibility that our operative understanding of such a starting place is likely to benefit from still deeper probing into the limitations of such labels to account for their relatively recent imposition on places that quite often were known by other names formulated through other languages prior to the incursion of English on the continent. Neville’s St. Louis was once called Cahokia.15

Conclusion It may already be clear, but the implications of the points raised immediately above apply not only to theological study and practice, but also to North American situated academic study and practice more broadly. In this we are able to identify a common need for greater self-­interrogation that pertains both to theological studies and to scholarly inquiry at large.16 What is unique about comparative theology’s potential contribution to other academic disciplines is that it offers a

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­ articular framework for claiming responsibility for one’s biases and situatedness while focusing p attention outward on what can be learned from cultivating a deeper understanding of other cultures, communities, and traditions. Clooney himself opens nearly all his exercises in comparative theology with an acknowledgment of his positionality, including an account of various aspects of his identity. I wonder if scholars from other fields of study that venture beyond stereotypes of theological inquiry as “special pleading” (as Neville renders the common critique) might actually stand to benefit from exposure to this model of comparative theology. Neville suggests that all theology ought to rest on a base of comparative theology. Yet how could comparative theology, the modern rendition of which only relatively recently has emerged in US college and university curricula (most typically at Catholic institutions), be a requisite for “any theology whatsoever,” especially such theologies that far predate comparative theology? To ­suggest that any theology ought to operate from a base of comparative theology would put this staggeringly new discipline at the heart of all theological inquiry. I embrace Neville’s basic point here, though my interpretation of it differs markedly. I submit that all North American theology already owes its existence to the theologically plural grounds on which its formulation has long depended. Anglophonic North American Catholic theology is inherently interreligious in its connection, so often unaccounted for, to cultures and communities that have persisted for thousands of years prior to the Puritan landing. It is the responsibility of all theologians to recognize this, namely, the interreligious implications of any theological study conducted on colonized landscapes. In sum, embracing comparative theology as “understanding seeking faith” might involve tracing the earlier, precolonial origins of one’s geographical locations and the interreligious implications of such knowledge. I concede such matters may be approached and explored in a multiplicity of ways. I would suggest, however, that greater emphasis on the deeper geographic and linguistic rootedness of the comparative theologian is called for, even among members of the so-­called Boston College school. Furthermore, attentiveness to the religious and traditional spaces and speech patterns on and through which North American comparative theology is practiced can lead to deeper examination of the biases (both positive and negative) that inevitably accompany comparative theological reflection. Fortunately, we are living at a time in history when such concerns have become increasingly urgent in the minds of so many, especially members of the academy across disciplines, worldviews, and politics. It strikes me that there may be an unprecedented opportunity for comparative theology to represent theological studies more generally at the academic table and to provide a perspective that could help reframe and reinvigorate the aims and initiatives so central to critical theory, ones which Hur tells us have grown tired in certain respects. As a final appeal I simply wish to reiterate the unique strengths of comparative theology for modeling the recognition of one’s positionality and that comparative theological methods and practices function in deeply complementary ways to wider scholarly trends invested in inquiry about subject positions and their relation to objects of study. While I accept the basic contours of Neville’s opening statement regarding the call to understand comparative theology as the “base” for all theology, my interpretation of such a proposal falls in contrast to what Neville seems to have in mind. My perspective here has been influenced by Clooney’s comparative theology in myriad ways. In a volume such as this, what better way to honor Clooney than to consider seriously the ways that all (North American) theology may already be comparative. Any hope of solidifying such a claim is far less likely to lean on Neville’s understanding of comparative theology than on how Clooney himself has envisioned the field and modeled its practice. And yet I see little value in insisting Neville resides firmly outside the fold of comparative theology. Notably, neither does Clooney, or so it would seem. And this returns us to where we began by recognizing the empathetic and welcoming ethos Clooney emanates toward an interlocutor with a



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fundamentally distinct conception of the practice that Clooney has so painstakingly shepherded. To illuminate Clooney’s own contributions toward solidifying comparative theology as inextricable from tradition-­specific theological discourse more broadly no doubt does him honor. But we might also celebrate such a living legacy through voices other than Clooney’s own, as I have here sought to do, ones that exemplify the enduring impact of an invitation to search for and find meaning across and beyond religious borders.

Notes 1 The “Comparative Religious Ideas Project” is often evoked as foundational to recent discursive developments described as “Theology Without Walls.” 2 My reflections on this lecture are based on my attendance at the event and publicly available video recording, which can be found at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q97PgQG4HT8, which includes comments from the audience as noted throughout the chapter. 3 Neville goes on to say: “The upshot of this art, I hope, is the increasing perfection of the comparative categories so that we can understand the various perspectives brought upon it in concrete theological thinking. Seeing the strengths and weakness of all, and finally coming to understand the topics in subtle, critical, terms. This kind of understanding of the topics that theologians treat is getting at the truth about those topics. Any understanding of the topic, enriched by comparative precision is still fallible. With comparative theological art, however, it is possible to get at some very profound truths. I myself have come to believe that in the end theological fallibilism tips over into theological apophasis, but getting there is where the guiding truth of theology lies” (2017, ca. 45:00). 4 From my perspective, that Clooney, by Neville’s account, formulates such a proposition in tandem with his (Clooney’s) appraisal of Neville’s comparative theology could be counted among one of Neville’s greatest contributions to the field. 5 The idea of comparative theology as an artform reflects an area of inquiry that I find particularly intriguing (and promising), especially as it intersects with my own ongoing comparative study of art, namely dramatic literature. I take written literature to be but one of many linguistic forms of artistic expression. 6 I indicate below the likelihood that event participants representing the BC school are in agreement regarding the feasibility of what Neville proposes on this point, and that many examples already can be found of such contributions among comparative theologians. 7 For more on such connections and compatibilities see the work of Paul Hedges. An admittedly simplistic explanation for the way that Neville seems almost to be speaking past, rather than directly addressing Clooney and Cornille’s approach to comparative theology may simply hinge on the notable absence of Gadamer among the philosophers whom Neville cites as key influences on his own perspective. I wonder to what extent the apparent limitations in his understanding of the so-­called Boston College school may simply hinge on the notable absence of Gadamer among the philosophers Neville cites as key influences on his own rich perspective. 8 Even so, we might wonder whether a theological default position that casts a critical eye toward one’s own tradition resolves Neville’s complaints regarding confessional comparative theology, especially insofar as critique of one’s own tradition implies recognition of a home tradition. 9 Song’s endorsement of the expressed prerequisite for confessional comparative theology does not come with a compromise of Neville’s core position, however. Wishing to “equally emphasize” both positions, Song also claims to “fully endorse the impartial non-­confessional approach of comparative theology that is fully committed to scholarly critical thinking.” Although Song highlights examples from his own Ruist tradition to substantiate his point, we are left wondering how generalizable such an approach to comparative theology might be. Furthermore, it remains unclear how amenable other religious traditions might be to placing equal emphasis on non-­confessional impartiality and expressed confessional standpoint.

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10 Whatever “true belonging” entails (in theory and in practice) is a larger issue at stake here, but one that must be treated elsewhere. 11 Neville does not illuminate the history of this inversion strategy, and I therefore presume may also have formulated it independently. 12 “‘Faith seeking understanding’ encompasses, in Rahner’s theology, the quest for human intellectual integrity (Wahnheitsgewissen); conversely, Rahner regards ‘understanding seeking faith’ as the openness that must characterize any existential self-­awareness in the presence of absolute mystery” (Van Beeck 1989, p. 28). In Van Beeck’s assessment of Rahner’s theology in terms of Anselmian and invertedly so, we are also presented with a succinct description of Rahner’s theological anthropology, which highlights humanity’s natural openness to, and orientation toward, divine transcendence. 13 An additional question pertains to the relationship between faith and linguistic understanding in human development and the extent to which experiences of faith are contingent on one’s understanding of language or whether faith is better understood as somehow preceding or not requiring language. 14 Since Saint Louis lived before the Reformation and Neville, tongue in cheek, claims Augustine for the Protestants, I wonder: might he also claim Saint Louis for his tradition? 15 The term “Missouri” poses some interesting complexities to the type of interrogation I am invested in here. Missouri is not originally English, but an Anglicized iteration of the name for the Missouri or more commonly rendered “Missouria” tribe of the Great Lakes region. The tribe also leans on its particular Chiwere Siouan language system to articulate its emic self-­understanding as Niúachi, which can also carry the spelling Niutachi. Here we find, as is so often the case, that when we consult the original inhabitants of a particular North American space, in this case the region Neville identifies in terms evocative of “home,” there are differences of opinion regarding what to call such a location. Neville does not address these complexities in claiming Missouri as his home place, which leads us to the assumption that what Neville means by Missouri is primarily the namesake of a particular state within the greater United States. I should be clear that I am not singling out Neville to pick on him or with any ill intention. I confess a comparable situatedness. My own grasp of origins and the communities of people on whose land I work and reside is far too shallow and burdened by an education of neglect. In recognizing this connection between Neville and myself, I emphasize the cruciality of comparative theology for North American Christian comparative theology at large, rather than the more specific Catholic comparative theology. The North American specification is important. 16 We might consider the question whether this burden is dispersed equally across such divides. While there may be some credence to the perspective that a particular imperative ought to be place on Christian universities and communities to address uninterrogated aspects of their history that have so effectively, and often in ways resulting in incalculable devastation, bound Christian theological understanding to settler colonial and segregationally delineated ideologies, I find better reason to postpone comparisons regarding responsibility (which ultimately must account for whether innocent inheritors, including beneficiaries of historical injustices, are somehow retroactively culpable for acts they themselves did not commit) and rather emphasize the question of who continues to benefit from such fraught pasts (which I firmly submit includes innumerable non-­Christian communities) and what must be done to claim responsibility for such inheritances and to work tirelessly to account more fully for them and strive consistently to alleviate them wherever and however possible.

References Cornille, C. (2020). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Neville, R.C. (2017). Annual comparative theology lecture: Religion-­ specific or Trans-­ religious? Harvard Divinity School, March 6 [online]. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q97PgQG4HT8 (accessed March 15, 2023). Van Beeck, F.J. (1989). God Encountered. Vol. 1: Understanding the Christian Faith. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press.

CHAPTER 7

Kinesics, Proxemics, and Haptics A Sā́ kta Method for Comparative Theology Pravina Rodrigues

Introduction I would like to begin by acknowledging the pioneering work of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, in ­establishing comparative theology (CT) as an academic discipline, his voluminous efforts in modeling how one might examine the traditions other than one’s own, and his tireless dedication to take the d ­ iscipline of CT forward. This chapter presents a Śākta response to the question of method in CT by drawing on classical ́ Sākta textual hermeneutics, Śākta ritual studies, and first-­person auto-­ethnographic understandings of the tradition. This is a work of constructive theology in that I take traditional Śākta categories and apply them to current theological concerns of our day. The references to primary and secondary source literature mentioned in this chapter are orthodox ways in which śakti has been revealed and interpreted in Śākta texts, which are not in opposition to the extension of the ideas presented here. Even though I specialize in Hindu–Christian comparative theology, I chose to present a method for CT from a Śākta perspective for several reasons. First, I believe that Śākta studies offers a broader and richer approach to engaging the somatic body by presenting an alternate mode of reinscribing textual activity within the logistics of the body–mind–sense complex. Second, Śākta thealogies use the body’s auditory–gestural interface to touch material substrates by creating vibrotactile feedback through perception, physical gestures, affective imagination, and melopoeia (melodic poetry) that results in granting the adept an intricate layered perception of the self, nature, and the world as ­noncontradictory and intertwined. Third, to the best of my knowledge, there has been no previous work in the area of a Hindu method for comparative theology. Most importantly, my Roman Catholic upbringing  and my initiation into a Śākta Bhakti tradition that is rooted in Dakṣiṇācāra (right-­ hand) Tantra allows me to understand the concerns of methodology from a Hindu–Christian emic perspective.

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Sā́ ktas are devotees who worship śakti, which means the divine force, energy, potency, or the innate dynamism that is both within the devotee and pervading the cosmos. The term śakti comes from the Sanskrit root “śak-­” with a suffix “-­ktin,” indicating the “feminine gender” which means “to have power to effect” (Timalsina 2010, p. 843). In Hindu history, this power or śakti is seen as nonseparable from its possessor (p. 843). Thus, anthropomorphically, the female deity Pā rvatı̄ is the śakti of the male deity Śiva, and the female deity Laxmi is the energy or the creative capacity of Vis ́nu. However, in the Devı̄ Mahā tmyam (henceforth DM) we see an independent form of Śaktism in that the Great Goddess Durgā who slays the malignant forces both within the devotee and in the cosmos is not dependent on a male deity (Bhattacharyya 1996, p. 96). She is depicted as the Sole Ultimate One, the most superior, while all the other gods and goddesses are portrayed as being integrated with her (Pintchman 1994, pp. 119–120).

Kinesics For Sā́ ktas, dynamism is the intrinsic nature of the world. The world (jagat), as revealed in the triple secrets of the DM, is a “realm of motion, life, and activity” (DM 1.56; Kā lı̄ 2003, p. 53). From the whispering wind, to our pulsating heartbeat, movement is part and parcel of everything in the world, no matter how inert objects may seem. Even the rise and fall of our thoughts as they respond to external and internal stimuli are all characterized by movement. Dynamism, or śakti, is the ́ is not constrained by any particular religion, although it is ­historically ­cosmological condition. Sakti revealed to sages in India and its revelation is claimed by Hindus, specifically Śā kta Hindus, yet ́ śakti is the universal condition. Sakti is the nature of the universe and may be experienced in ­various ways and at various levels consciously and unconsciously. These levels are interlaced, entangled, and bleed through one another. First, śakti occurs naturally and phenomenologically in form and matter. At this level śakti is part of physical creation (Kā lı̄  2003, p. 17).1 While all existence, including the human and the more-­than-­human world draw and subsist on śakti, śakti manifests herself through cosmological, topographical, environmental, and bio-­diverse hylomorphism (DM 1.64, 1.78; Kā lı̄ 2003, p. 17). ́ is the “mutable, morphogeneic, and material” physical world of genus and species (nāmarū pa) Sakti (Sherma 2000, p. 43). Śakti is both form and matter, substance, nature, and character that contains aspects of potential energy and kinetic energy. The triple secrets (rahasyas) of the DM reveal how śakti as the “primordial matter” (prādhānikam) goes into “subsequent modifications” (vaikṛ tikam) and self-­mutation to transform into the world of form and matter (mū rti) (Coburn 1991, p.  109). Thus, pure potential energy and kinetic energy are entangled and not separate from one another. Second, form-­śakti manifests as a specific instantiation, a visible material entity in a physical reality that is “unrepeatable, singular, and unique” (Rodrigues 2023, forthcoming). Form-­śakti allows “ontological difference and irreducible entities,” it allows “permutation and combination, shape and color, cosmological and terrestrial, marine and eco-­diversity” (Rodrigues 2023, ­forthcoming). Form-­śakti enables uniqueness of shape, size, and essence among individual ­species, insects, mammals (including humans), and reptiles (Rodrigues  2023, forthcoming). Form-­śakti permits distinction, a multifaceted, paradoxical, diverse ontology that may not be “conflated, s­ ublated, or flattened into a homogenous indivisible mush” at the cosmological level (Rodrigues 2023, forthcoming). Third, matter-­śakti is deeply intertwined and inseparable with form-­śakti (Kā lı̄  2003, p.  17). In fact, Sā́ ktas would argue that they are one. Matter-­śakti is energy contained in the very essence



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of our form. All creation, including sentient beings, humans, physical nature, and all substances, store śakti. Even at the most static level when no activity is observed, form contains energy and dynamic capacity. This is the ontological nature of all entities in the Śā kta worldview. This fundamental, potential energy stored in entities, called cit-­śakti, allows the production of kinetic movements that are required for basic life processes, such as the ability to move, respond to stimuli, and grow and derive nutrition in the case of sentient beings (Kā lı̄ 2003, p. 50). This power-­ability to act at will and to allow oneself to be acted upon, both by the entity herself, or by her surroundings, is essentially śakti stored in matter. Fourth, each entity comes with essential modes of processing its individual matter-­śakti, called kinetic-­śakti. Entities process their stored śakti through various means by internal kinetic mechanics or by interacting with other entities and their surroundings to transform, channel, or draw śakti for survival purposes. This means that śakti is interpenetrable and porous. In kinetic-­śakti, the reservoir of stored matter-­śakti that is found in individuated forms is actualized through functional processes of action, locomotion, reciprocity, and interdependence. Although śakti is the ontological condition of all physical reality, entities contain the capacity to manage, absorb, and mutate śakti for homeostasis, which is delimited and determined by factors of ­matter-­śakti and form-­śakti. Thus, kinetic-­śakti is determined and limited by the individuation of matter-­śakti and form-­śakti. By this we mean that kinetic-­śakti’s performance differs from entity to entity. Thus, for example, the latent capacity of movement in a rose that is actualized via kinetic-­śakti is noticed as it gently blooms, spreading its fragrance, and looks radically different compared to the kinetic movements of the flexing muscles of a lioness as she charges after her prey. Rose matter-­śakti will have the essence of rose fragrance along with the form-­śakti that grants her a thorny exterior being. Rose matter-­śakti grants the rose a different kind of kinetic-­ śakti, a different mode of reacting to her external stimulus as she penetrates soil, water, and light. A lioness’s kinetic-­śakti, however, needs her to interpenetrate entities with fierceness in a contrasting manner as determined by her form-­śakti and matter-­śakti. A lioness’s kinetic movements contain, produce, absorb, penetrate, and transmute entities differently than a rose even in her basic need for survival. Finally, we have Ma-­śakti, which is the mother of all śaktis. She makes possible the existence of all other śaktis: matter-­śakti, form-­śakti, and kinetic-­śakti.2 All other śaktis function, operate, and subsist from within Ma-­śakti, which has a triadic nature. She grants physicality, individuation, knowledge, and the power to act according to its form. This tripartite function is traditionally called (1) icchā-­śakti, the power of volition; (2) jñāna-­śakti, the power of knowledge; and (3) kriyā-­śakti, the power of action (Kā lı ̄ 2003, p. 50). For example, Ma-śakti’s power of icchā-­śakti grants each entity the capacity to act, move, change, direct, and transform itself, others, and their environment at will. Ma-­śakti endows individual entities with self-­determination and agency to follow their desires and act according to their capacities. In doing so, they move according to the knowledge (jñāna) they have been bestowed with and perform acts (kriyā) that are in proportion to their own form-­matter-­kinetic-­śaktis. These qualities of icchā-­śakti, the power of volition, jñāna-­śakti, the power of knowledge, and kriyā-­ śakti, the power of action, are the fundamental nature, the threads that interweave sentience into all physical reality, that is, the material and the phenomenal world. This quality of consciousness is called cit-­śakti. ­Ma-­śakti is cit-­śakti, pure potency, the innate capacity of intelligence and expansive consciousness that grants entities the ability to perceive, think, feel, and cognize at various levels as experienced through the sense organs.3 “Even eating, seeing, breathing, or hearing the spoken word is accomplished through me alone,” it says in the Ṛ g Veda 10.125, also known as the Devı ̄ Sū ktam (Griffith  1963, pp.  571–572). The lack of

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awareness of this all-­pervading potential force both within and without does not distance one from it, as it says in the same mantra: “Even the non-­perceivers amongst you dwell near me. Hear me, for I reveal the truth (verse 4)” (Griffith  1963, pp.  571–572). We are intimately entwined with śakti. The entire matrix of our being gravitates, swings in a flux that is inherently rhythmic. Sometimes we are thrust and propelled, sometimes restrained, but never are we insulated from the currents of the flow of śakti. We are in constant communion with the flow of śakti; in fact all is śakti.

Proxemics Not all beings perceive their proximity with this primal potential energy called śakti ­consciously.4 Neither do they perceive śakti’s kinetic presence in the structures of nature (Sherma  2023, passim). Sā́ ktas would argue this is due to avidyā, ontological ignorance. Ontological ignorance is the lack of knowledge of one’s true nature as śakti, of one’s unity and interconnectivity with all entities in the cosmos, from individual life forms to what is often ­considered inert matter such as earth, water, fire, air, and space. This lack of knowledge makes one think of oneself as an individual entity that is innately separate from all other life forms and the cosmos. Like the fish who is on a quest to find the ocean only to be told by an older fish that she is literally swimming in it, we are blind, as it were, to the realization that we are constantly surrounded by śakti. Matter, physicality, and our subjective individual experiences are not a separate phenomenon that exist apart from cit-­śakti, expansive consciousness. Distance and division are inherently built into the universal experience to grant individuality, which is also one of the functions of śakti described by the term māyā. Māyā comes from the root, ma, which means to measure. Consciousness (cit) measured gives rise to form, the aspect of śakti that both veils pure potency and gives rise to the “mutable, morphogeneic, and material” world of genus and s­ pecies (nāmarū pa) (Sherma  2000, p.  43). However, when the veil is torn one ­perceives never being detached, disconnected, or discrete at any given moment in time. One realizes that the “­exclusive concentration of consciousness, an exclusive self-­identification of the soul with a particular temporal and spatial action which is only a part of its own play of being,” is linked to divisibility, so that it is occupied with “the moment, the field, the form, the movement so as to lose the rest” that is its connection to the “indivisibility of Time, the indivisibility of Force and Substance” (Aurobindo 2005, pp. 178–179). Knowledge or vidyā helps one see the deeper unifying structures of the cosmos, its interdependence, its power, and symbiosis. Vidyā does not flatten difference. Rather, in some schools of Śā kta thought, vidyā holds difference. Vidyā means gaining the knowledge or developing the vision that, despite the indivisibility of the cosmos and the entities therein, there is division and differentiation without separation. This means that śakti, everything, including reality and the divine, possesses both simultaneous ­difference and nondifference (bhedābheda), making it neither one nor two (advaita) (Brooks 1990, p. 88). Śakti and the natural physical world are not juxtaposed nor is one absorbed by the other, but they are in continuous relation as kinetic energy flows in and through one another in a complex, knotted, interwoven network. The emergence and maintenance of the world do not deplete śakti’s infinite energy or potency, which is inexhaustible. This experiential language of proximity molds and shapes experience while providing the impetus for individuals to see, touch, and behold this beatific vision of potential and kinetic energy and how it interconnects entities to one another and the world. Considering śakti’s intimate presence both within the devotee and in the cosmos, how does one touch śakti?



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Haptics Tapping into śakti within the self and elsewhere means arriving at a somatic understanding of the vibratory presence of potency as it empowers our instruments of perception, which include sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch (Bhattacharyya  1953, p.  57).5 Touching śakti means seeing its ­permeating presence within one’s own internal instruments of perception (antaḥ karaṇ a), such as one’s mind (manas), intellect (buddhi), ego (ahaṃ kāra), and substratum of personal consciousness (citta) (Bhattacharyya 1953, p. 57). This form of touching, realizing, and enlivening internally the presence of śakti in one’s own body, sinews, tissues, and nerves is called awakening the Kuṇdạ linı̄ śakti. While not all Sā́ ktas practice Kuṇdạ linı̄ Yoga, a form of yoga that teaches raising one’s śakti energy from the base of one’s spine (mulādhāra) to the crown of one’s head (sahasrāra) to attain liberation, it would be accurate to say that all Śāktas have an experiential knowledge of śaktis movements within their somatosenses. This process of touching śakti is inaugurated by being touched by śakti. Although this procedure could be initiated through a million ways, proximity with one’s guru is one concrete manifestation in which Ma-­śakti commences to touch the devotee as she places herself in a tangible and material way in the path of the devotee. Viewed through this lens, being in the presence of a guru may not be considered accidental. Determined by many lifetimes of acts and functioning within the meta-­structure of karma (the principle of cause and effect), the absolute necessity of a guru is understated. This external stimulus is essential to pierce one’s soul to the depths of subtle reality through śakti. When the guru first touches, not so much in a tactile or a cutaneous sense but with the power of śakti, she “stimulates,” inspires (prerakā), and “impels” the “would-­be devotee” as she describes the heights of attainment the soul is capable of (Feuerstein 2001, pp. 11–12).6 Through her clairvoyance she prescribes the exact spiritual discipline (sādhana) the devotee needs to soar on wings like eagles.7 She “explains” and “expounds” how the spiritual journey unfolds and its “objective” to the practitioner (Feuerstein 2001, pp. 11–12). She tailors her teachings as per the adept’s spiritual desires and level, revealing not just the teachings, the depths of subtle reality, and the “details of the process” (Feuerstein 2001, pp. 11–12). Through śakti she inscribes the light of “mental and spiritual knowledge” in the devotee’s very being (Feuerstein 2001, pp. 11–12). Thus, the guru touches the adept with her words, inspiration, and knowledge. This nonphysical method of touching is prevalent in the Śā kta world. During one’s initiation, called śaktipāta or dı̄kṣā, psychic energy is transferred from guru to disciple not always through cutaneous touch but through the passing on of the mantra, through the mere force of the guru’s will to initiate, and sometimes through their loving gaze. During dı̄kṣā, the adept who is being welcomed into the fold experiences being pierced with the grace of śakti through the conduits of the guru, through objects like flowers, food, fruit, or the celebratory hymn played during her initiation service. Touched by grace (anugrahā) the adept surrenders to the spiritual prowess of her guruma, her grace, and the faith that her guruma will pull her through the ocean of misery (saṃ sāra), the crocodile-­infested stream of life (Atmananda 2022, verse 5). The adept surrenders to the interplay, the tempo of the human social movements between the guru and herself, which may take the form of physical, virtual, or subtle haptics. The adept develops the capabilities to see the wide implications of these interactions in the cosmic schema. For a Śā kta, a guru is the active, living presence, the very manifestation of Ma-śakti, the Divine Mother, indispensable for liberation. Therefore, proximity is maintained with the utmost faith (śraddhā) in regard to personal and public space; however, in terms of intimacy, sometimes a verbal and a definite nonverbal clinging occurs which is unavoidable as the soul fuses to one’s guru in the subtle realm. The external manifestation of this worshipful surrender is seen in guru pū jā (­worship), which may be done through individual visualizations, in the castle of one’s heart, or literally and physically to one’s guru in a ritualized ceremony. This internal, sometimes external, ritual becomes

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a way of actively touching the Divine Mother, Ma-śakti’s pure potency, through the form, matter, and kinetic channels of one’s guru. Along with this attachment occurs a simultaneous smoldering of gross and subtle realities that change the dynamics of proximity for the disciple in their immediate surroundings. The adept’s relationship with her friends, family, and her very own being, her mind, body, intellect, and senses morph. Sometimes she is vigorously snatched out of adharmic (unrighteous) currents, at other times gently placed in realities that burn negative karma, attachments, and desire. All the while the adept feels the haptics, the tangible presence of being held in the arms of the multi-­dexterous Divine Mother, Ma-­śakti.

The Infrastructure of S ā́ kta Rituals Śākta rituals use the techniques of kinesics, haptics, and proxemics to act in, with, and upon ­material substrates to inscribe and re-­inscribe textual activity within the logistics of the body– mind–sense complex by placing them in a nonhierarchical fashion on their being. Here I delineate three ways in which Śā kta adepts use their tactile sense perception, physical gestures, affective imagination, and melopoeia (melodic poetry) to carve on their very beings what may be deemed texts from a Christian perspective. This has been noted by Śā kta thinkers including the early translator of the Tantra, Sir John Woodroffe aka Arthur Avalon. First, I turn to the practice of the mantra. Avalon notes the distinction between prayer and mantra as follows: “A Mantra is not the same thing as prayer or self-­dedication (Ā tmā-­nivedana)” although in some instances a mantra may be prayer, for example, the Gā yā tri mantra (Woodroffe 2009, p. 455). Further, he notes, Prayer is conveyed in the words the Sā dhaka [or the Sā dhikā ] chooses. Any set of words or letters is not a Mantra. Only that Mantra in which the Devatā [deity] has revealed his or her particular aspects can reveal that aspect, and is therefore the Mantra of that one of his or her particular aspects. The relations of the letters (Varṇa), whether vowel or consonant, Nā da and Bindu, in a Mantra indicate the appearance of Devatā in different forms. Certain Vibhūti or aspects of the Devatā are inherent in certain Varṇa, but perfect śakti does not appear in any but a whole Mantra. All letters are forms of the Śabda-­Brahman, but only particular combinations of letters are a particular form, just as the name of a particular being is made up of certain letters and not of any indiscriminately. The whole universe is śakti and is pervaded by śakti. Nā da, Bindu, Varṇa are all  forms of śakti and combinations of these, and these combinations only are the Śabda ­corresponding to the Artha or forms of any particular Devatā [deity]. (Woodroffe 2009, p. 455)8

Specific mantric combinations of vowels (nāda) and consonants (bindu) are revelatory aspects of specific deities. The mantra is not a form of the deity but is in fact the deity. A mantra is the deity ensouled in a sound structure. Chanting the mantra not only brings the aspirant into an immediate proxemic distance with one’s deity but the mantra becomes a tangible interface between the adepts own kinetic vibratory frequency and the pure potency of the deity as śakti. This tangible presence of śakti as mantra can be manipulated in various ways as an energetic force field which plays on the presence of the divine, somatically located in the form, matter, and kinetic energy of one’s own body. The Tantras say that the soul in the body is the very self of the letters of the Dhvani (sound). The Mother, the embodiment of the fifty letters (Varṇa), is present in the various letters in the different Cakras (vortices of the body). Like the melody which issues when the chords of a lute are struck, the Mother who moves in the six Cakras and who is the very self of the letters awakens with a burst of harmony when the chords of the letters (Varnas) are struck in their order. (Woodroffe 2009, p. 455)



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“The meaning, the meter, the tone, and the vibrations all make the mantra [a] powerful” i­nstrument of liberation (Saraswati 2022). Liberation means purifying and burning all the dross in one’s body and awakening the presence of Ma-­śakti within oneself. The mantra does both as it cleanses the aspirant to make them a vessel worthy of divine presence. Depending on the time of the day, the energy of the aspirant, and their determination or their zeal, the mantra may be chanted aloud verbally (vaikharı̄ japa), it may be whispered (upamśu japa), or recited mentally (mānasika japa) (Farrand 2006, pp. 11–12). Some adepts write their mantra down on paper (likhita japa) in complete silence, some others place mantras on parts of their body during visualizations, still others render them doubly potent by sandwiching a mantra within another mantra (saṃ puṭa). Each of these auditory-­haptic tactics are known to create a different effect on the somatic body. The vibrotactile quality of mantras combined with “sitting (āsana), breathing (prāṇ aȳ āma), chanting (pāth ̣ a)” may lead to “the bhāvana, the feeling, the attitude, the understanding, the realization” (Saraswati 2019, p. iv). Indeed, there are a million ways of deploying mantras, too large to enumerate, the point being that a mantra is an auditory-­haptic tangible interface between one’s own kinetic vibratory frequency and the pure potency of the deity as Ma-śakti. Second, I turn to the practice of pū jā (worship). Śā kta pū jā, like all other Hindu forms of ­worship, incorporates the somatic body to the fullest. Through perception, physical gestures, affective imagining, and melopoeia, a person’s tactile senses interact directly with their environment as part of the ritual’s movement activities. A basic sixteen-step pū jā is as follows: The puja vidhi (methodology or procedure) consists of sankalpa (pious resolve) and the shoda upchar (sixteen forms of hospitality): avahana (welcome); asana (seat offering); padya (washing of feet); arghya (rice and flowers); achmana (water to drink); snan (ceremonial bath); vastrab (clothing); upvastra or yajyopaveet (sacred thread); gandha (anointing with chandan, saffron, and vermilion); dhoop (fragrance, incense, and perfume); deep (light offering); naivedya (food offering of cooked sweetmeat, fruits, and betel leaves and nuts); dakshina (money and clothing offering); arti (light offering) and pradakshina (circumambulation); pushpanjali (devotion for the fulfillment of desires); and visarjana (farewell). (Gosine 2013, p. 325)

One cannot but notice the material aspect of the ritual as the adept invites, presents, and dismisses the deity in the ritual. From the blowing of the conch shell (śaṅkha), the offering of flowers, the presentation of perfume (dhū pam), the offering of cooked sweets (naivedyam), to the presentation of sandalwood paste (candanām), and so on, Śā kta pū jā incorporates all of the corporal psychosomatic body. Through rhythmic auditory-­haptic movements that are embedded in mantric sound, material substrates are offered as symbols of the devotee’s care and affection for the deity. As mantras are being chanted, the icon (mū rti) comes alive. The sensory aspects of the ritual transform movement to emotion (bhāva), which is central to Śā kta worship. Each of the material substrates offered in worship corresponds to the senses. Thus, for example, a commonly used framework in Śā kta initiations is as follows: The blowing of the conch shell (śaṅkha) corresponds to hearing, the offering of flowers to vision (puṣpām), the presentation of perfume (dhū pam) to smell, cooked sweets (naivedyam) to taste, and the sandalwood paste/powder (candanām) to touch. While these are being offered, specific deities who channel these powers within the host’s body are invoked through the chanting of mantras. For hearing, Gaṇes ́a is invoked, for vision Mahā sarasvatı̄, for scent Mahā lakṣmi, for taste Canṇḍi, and for touch Śiva. (Rodrigues 2023, forthcoming)9

The many kinds of tangible objects and substances used in Śā kta initiations represent different senses. The  ritual matrix of sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch, along with the offering of

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­ aterial substrates as well as audio-­haptics, provides a vibrotactile feedback which when received m by the adept transports them from the form to the formless, the consciousness field of Ma-­śakti. Although experienced practitioners no longer need form to reach the formless, they acknowledge and appreciate the all-­pervading sacred presence of Ma-­śakti accessible in matter and form including all sentient beings and physical forces. Third, I turn to the practice of nyāsa (depositing). Along with the auditory-­haptic interface, Śā kta pū jās focus on the gestural interface. Specific ritualistic gestures (mudrā) are made with the eyes, body, and breath that symbolize and “lead to the states of consciousness that they symbolize” (Hirschi 2000, p. 2; emphasis added). Not only is the body a pool of consciousness, but specific finger, hand, and body positions serve as tools to facilitate union with the cosmic body or pure potency. “The power of the microcosm and the macrocosm are intertwined and mutually fructify each other” in the body (Hirschi 2000, p. 4). As a result, anybody who does the “do not fear gesture” (abhaya mudrā) is believed to be liberated from their own fears. This gestural interface between the individual body and the cosmic body interacts haptically through the process of nyāsa. In nyāsa, one ritually “deposits” or energizes within oneself dimensions of deities, subtle p ­ owers, energies, and forces that facilitate transformation within one’s being (Padoux 2011, p. 54). Since the deities (cosmic forces or śaktis) are technically already existing within one’s own being, “depositing” may not be a true description of a nyāsa practice hence, I prefer to use the term “energizing” rather than depositing. Indeed, the body is the place where “All the gods reside … as the cows in a cowshed” (Atharva Veda XI, 8, 32; Padoux 2011, p. 56). Gods and goddesses are the cosmic metaphysical principles such as rivers, mountains, wind, fire, trees, animals, and sacred pilgrim sites that are present within one’s own being. The human body is a mini goddess, a microcosm, a replica of everything contained in the macrocosmic universe as a whole. Through nyāsas one energizes and synchronizes the vibrations already present within the body to those that are externally present in the universe. It is a “cosmicizing” of the body by “placing on it the different parts or ‘worlds’ (kalās or bhuvanas) constituting the cosmos” (Padoux  2011, p.  7). In nyāsa, a “transference is accomplished by placing – generally but not necessarily – the fingers, hand, or hands on the part of the body, or on the object or substance, where the entity must penetrate and by which placing it is transformed. The operation is thus both mental and corporeal” (Padoux  2011, p.  54). This matrix of auditory–gestural–haptic interface uses vibratory sound, ritualistic gestures (mudrā), and visualizations to transform the adept to move from the gross reality, to the subtle, and finally to the causal body (sthū la, sū kṣma, kāraṇ a śarı̄ra). By granting multimodal methods that may be tailored as per the adepts’ somatic impulses, Śā kta rituals permit a nonhierarchical placement of texts on one’s being. To be sure, what I am calling textual activity may not be entirely classified as texts in the Hindu world. Mantras are definitely not texts from a Hindu standpoint. They are a sonic epiphany of deities, revelation in sound. They may or may not contain philosophy, myth, poetry, or short narratives. For example, on the one hand, we have the sacred aum that is a short mantra, while, on the other hand, we have a huge body of longer complex mantras infused with specific musical notations which are the canonical revelation of the Hindus, the Vedas. Just as any music on YouTube may not be considered a text, but rather should be listened to, chanted, or perhaps sung with accurate musical notes, mantras may not be viewed as lithic texts. Since there exists no other parallel category to revelation or scriptural texts in the Hindu tradition, I label the activity of placing mantras on one’s body as textual activity.

Sā́ kta Method for Comparative Theology The inclusion of Śā kta methods in CT would mean the incorporation of the auditory–gestural– haptical interface. This, in turn, would require a shift from plain philological, hypertextual linguistic activities to the inclusion of other forms of knowledge that engage the body–mind–sense



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complex. In my forthcoming publication titled Upside Down, Inside Out: A Śākta Mnemopraxial Methodology for Comparative Theology (Lexington Press), I map these somatic engagements on a scale while offering an integrated method to establish communion (yoga) with the Other. Below is a summary of this integrative method that combines three levels of somatic interaction with the world. Yoga comes from the root “yuj” which means to yoke with the Supreme Divine Energy in Śā kta theology  – Ma-­śakti both within and without. A Christian equivalent may be “communion,” derived from the Latin word “communio,” which means “sharing in common,” which finds its roots in the Greek concept of κοινωνία (koinonia). This Greek concept encompasses all types of collaborative ventures undertaken for the common good of society. These endeavors could be between ­various members of society at a legal or political level, between partners in marriage, between friends, or between people in a relationship with the divine (Lynch and Ninon 2006). First, there is Karma Yoga. A Śā kta form of Karma Yoga comes from a place of necessary engagement in the world. Before initiation, one’s physical circumstances such as friends, family, work, nation-­state, and so on, act as instruments to cleanse the devotee and bring her to deeper levels of perfection. After initiation those same realities are not to be shunned but to be shaped to make them more habitable for the divine light to penetrate. Aurobindo, the nineteenth-­century yogi, philosopher, and poet, demonstrates the interdependence between the role of the individual and the collective. The individual is still necessary to the action of the Transcendent in the universe and that action in him does not cease to be possible by his illumination. On the contrary, since the conscious manifestation of the Transcendent in the individual is the means by which the collective, the universal is also to become conscious of itself, the continuation of the illumined individual in the action of the world is an imperative need of the world-­play. If his inexorable removal through the very act of illumination is the law, then the world is condemned to remain eternally the scene of unredeemed darkness, death and suffering. And such a world can only be a ruthless ordeal or a mechanical illusion. (Aurobindo 2005, p. 43)

Aurobindo is attempting to present here that one’s personal empowerment and liberation become “means” for the Light to effectively mold, shape, and transmute the material universe for the greater good through the conduits of an enlightened body and mind (Aurobindo 2005, p.  43). Once the adept witnesses the ripple effects of their speech, acts, and thoughts in the ­universe, their engagement with the world becomes conscious, intentional, caring, and positive. Through unselfish acts that are “ethically fine-­tuned,” they engage in social justice activities that might be related to climate justice, ecological justice, ecological restoration, health care, race, gender issues, and so on. Śā kta karma yogins are driven by “equanimity” and “balance” (Bilimoria 2014, p. 302). With “dispassion, disinterest,” they avoid “one-sidedness, fear, c­ raving, favoring self or one group or clan, self-pity, self-aggrandizement or any form of extreme reactiveness” (Bilimoria 2014, p. 302). A Śā kta karma yogin engages in the world to effect real change. Change means to actively protest in the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement, to fight environmental racism and its effects on minoritized-­group neighborhoods, on people of color, and members of low socioeconomic groups. Second, there is Śā kta bhakti (devotional love) Yoga. A Śā kta yogin is to remain in a constant state of devotion while engaging in Karma Yoga or Jñāna Yoga. Unfazed by the individual and structural evil in the world, her faith looks beyond the present darkness into the Light. Since the whole universe is śakti and is pervaded by śakti she is constantly walking on hallowed ground. Her inner dispositions, emotions, and motivations are cleansed and pure. No longer controlled by her own ego which contains the seeds of desire, anger, greed, pride, jealousy, and delusion, she can listen to the scriptural stories of other deities as other forms of Ma-śakti.10 She can stomp her feet

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in ecstatic praise with her Black sisters and brothers, she can contemplate on the mystery of the Real Presence in the quiescence of a Catholic Eucharistic celebration, and delight as she watches the gestural-­haptics in salat with her Muslim sisters. Since all is nothing but a permutation or a combination of śakti, she reveres every dynamic moment in the universe even if it looks like society is regressing instead of progressing. With devotional love she engages in communion with the Other, realizing that they are never Other. Śā kta Bhakti becomes the fuel, the catalyst that undergirds all Karma Yoga and intellectual (Jñāna Yoga) activities. Without bhakti, the well has run dry and all activities end up in despair and disillusionment. With bhakti she can love endlessly and hope against hope. Third, there is Śā kta jñāna (contemplative-­intellectual) Yoga. Śā kta jñāna Yoga is not dry intellectual thinking but is always performed in the setting of contemplation and prayer.11 In the setting of ritual and contemplation, truths come alive with force and animation. When one ­listens with one’s whole being, the universe presents answers to deep questions sometimes ­situationally, sometimes contextually, as one sits before an enlightened soul such as one’s guruma. A Śā kta yogin soaks in theology, philosophy, and other ritualistic details with the intention of learning deeper truths. A Śā kta yogin does not engage at the surface level; as a yogin she interacts to reach states of realization and to lift up other beings and the world to those very enlightened states.

Conclusion How might kinesics, proxemics, and haptics support and enrich CT methods?12 I have shown how the human auditory–gestural–haptic interface is key to a Śā kta method for CT.13 By supplementing the academic and textual forms of doing CT with the approaches that arise from devotional love, social justice activities, and deep contemplation, one is able to advance toward social ­enlightenment and cosmic liberation. While there is no substitute for somatic, embodied, in situ (in  context) learning, one may integrate other methods in the university classroom setting. Integrating the arts and architecture, musicology and dance, contemplation and ritual practice into our ­curricula, along with their academic comparative study, will make CT richer. Recently, I have experimented with the Śā kta karma, bhakti, and jñāna integrated model in a small way at the Jesuit School of Theology, the Graduate Theological Union, and Starr King School for the Ministry in California. By incorporating a Śā kta karma, bhakti, and jñāna model in my Hindu-­Christian CT classes, which overlaps with and extends beyond a contemplative studies methodology, I have found students understand class materials better. The six-­to-­seven minutes dedicated in the beginning of each class uses audio-­gestural haptic such as hymns, poetry, anecdotes, koans, pū jā, and even prāṇ ayama breath work to create somatosensory vibrations that are felt even over Zoom. The framework of contemplation as students hear the Benedictine chants alongside the chanting of mantras sets the tone for the course materials. Students have shared how they love these ­audiovisual embodied moments as they help them shift gears and align themselves with their own bodies. Indeed, there are a million ways to add a vibrotactile embodied integrative method to CT depending on one’s individual context. Meanwhile, CT might adopt the Śā kta bhakti devotional love framework that views all “things in the Cosmos as one seed arranged by the universal Energy in multitudinous forms” (Aurobindo 2005, p. 205). With this knowledge comparative theologians may traverse boundaries without fear, knowing that the whorl of movement felt as collective effervescence during a football match or during a BLM protest is all Ma-­Śā kti, dynamic and potential energy.



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Notes 1 In this work, Śakti with a capital “S” indicates the primal, Supreme, Being, the Great Goddess, while śakti with a lower case “s” indicates an aspect of the Great Goddess. 2 Classical Śā kta thealogy does not use terms such as matter-­śakti, form-­śakti, kinetic-­śakti, or ­ Ma-­śakti. The term prakṛ iti is used to describe the presence of śakti in form and matter. I coin these terms since they allow a deeper analysis of śakti as revealed in the triple secrets of the DM. 3 Notable scholar of yoga philosophy, Ian Whicher, observes a variety of meanings to the term citta in Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtra, such as “mind,” “mind-­stuff,” “mind complex,” “consciousness,” “awareness,” “psyche,” “psychic nature,” “thinking principle,” or “internal organ” (1998, p. 93). Citta is sometimes termed “cosmic intelligence” or the “cosmic mind” that governs all form and phenomena. 4 Based on semiotics, the study of signs and symbols that communicate meaning, the study of proxemics investigates how humans construct the space around them and what this implies in terms of behavior and spatial needs (Steadman 2016, p. 14). Edward T. Hall, invented the term “social and personal space and man’s [human] perception of it” (Newman  1984, p.  216). Proxemics has expanded to include the distances at which people regularly stand (or sit) apart and the angles at which they interact when communicating (Newman 1984, p. 216). “Proxemics” also refers to the subject of territoriality, or the appropriation and defense of space regarded to be private or one’s personal possession, as evidenced in statements such as “that’s my seat,” “I’m not permitted to go there,” “that’s the ladies’ room,” or “the boss’s private office” (Newman  1984, p.  216). Seating arrangements, a modest symptom of territoriality, have affected the well-­being of the entire planet, as evidenced in international peace conferences (Newman 1984, p. 216). In many cases, personal space and interpersonal distance communicate as much as words (Newman 1984, p. 216). 5 “The word haptic should be understood as an umbrella term denoting one or more of the following experiences: touch (the active or passive experience of the human skin, subcutaneous flesh, viscera and related nerve-­endings); kinaesthesis (the body’s sense of its own movement); proprioception (the body’s sense of orientation in space); and the vestibular sense (that of balance, reliant upon the inner ear)” (Garrington 2013, p. 16). 6 A guru takes on several roles as mentioned in the Kulā rṇ ava Tantra: 1. preraka – the “impeller,” who stimulates interest in the would-­be devotee, leading to his or her initiation (also called codaka in the Brahma-­Vidya-­Upanishad 51). 2. suchaka – the “indicator,” who points out the form of spiritual discipline (sadhana) for which the initiate is qualified. 3. vacaka – the “explainer,” who expounds the spiritual process and its objective. 4. darshaka – the “revealer,” who shows the twelve. 5. shikshaka – the “teacher,” who instructs in the actual spiritual discipline. 6. bodhaka – the “illuminator,” who, as the text has it, “lights up in the disciple the lamp of mental and spiritual knowledge” (Feuerstein 2001, pp. 11–12). 7 In this role she acts as sū chaka, “the indicator” (Feuerstein 2001, pp. 11–12). 8 For a detailed explanation on mantra, see Arthur Avalon’s chapter titled “Śakti as Mantra” in Woodroffe 2009. 9 This is illustrative and not comprehensive due to the diversity of Śā kta praxes. 10 In the DM, the central demon Mahiṣā sura represents one’s ego, and his attendants are the demons of desire, anger, greed, pride, jealousy, and delusion. The destruction of the ego generates a ­universal appreciation of diversity in all forms, cosmic, terrestrial, marine and eco-­diversity. There are nine types of bhakti sadhana translated by David Haberman as: 1. Sravana – listening to scriptural stories of the Deity; 2. Kirtana – praising in ecstatic group singing;

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3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.



Smarana – remembering or contemplating on the Divine; Pada sevana – rendering service; Arcana – worshiping an image; Vandana – paying homage; Dasya – servitude; Sakhya – friendship; and Atma nivedana – complete self surrender (Haberman 2001, pp. 133–134).

11 Jñāna yoga of the Advaitins consists of the following three practices: 1. Sravana  – Sravana literally means hearing and active engagement through discussions, questions, answers, ideas, and concepts aided by a spiritual director or a guru. 2. Manana – means thinking and contemplating on the discussions that one has engaged in. 3. Nididhyāsana – refers to realization achieved through meditation of truths that one has thought through meditation (Indich 1995, pp. 10–11). 12 After my criticism of Francis Clooney’s CT methodological approach in an article written in my first year of graduate school, Dr. Rita Sherma showed me how Hindu methodologies might complement and supplement, but not substitute or replace, Clooney’s method. For this I am grateful. 13 Recently, Marianne Moyaert in “Towards a Ritual Turn in Comparative Theology: Opportunities, Challenges, and Problems,” presents a compelling argument to go beyond texts to include other forms of “mediation” such as “scripture, nature, symbols, sacred sites, ritual performances, images, statues, paintings, music, dance, and food, to name a few” (2018, p. 12). By supplementing textual activities with “material and ritual practices” of religions one will “reveal aspects of the divine that remain invisible when one stays within the limits of textual study” (Moyaert 2018, p. 1). To this end, she argues for the practice of cross-­fertilization, “cross-­riting or cross-­ritual participation” across traditions (Moyaert 2018, pp. 16–20).

References Atmananda, S. (2022). Guru Paduka Stotram (trans. A. Telugu). https://www.andhra-­telugu.com/files/ Bhakti/AT-­2014/Shiridi%20Sai/gurupadukastotram_meaning.pdf (accessed October 22, 2022). Aurobindo, S. (2005). The Life Divine: CWSA 21–22. Pondicherry: Sri Aurobindo Ashram Press. Bhattacharyya, H. (1953). The Cultural Heritage of India, 2nd ed. Calcutta: Ramakrishna Mission, Institute of Culture. Bhattacharyya, N.N. (1996). History of the Śākta Religion, 2nd ed. New Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal Publishers. Bilimoria, P. (2014). Ethics and virtue in classical Indian thinking. In: The Handbook of Virtue Ethics (ed.  S. van Hooft), pp. 294–305. New York: Routledge. Brooks, D.R. (1990). The Secret of the Three Cities: An Introduction to Śākta Tantrism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Coburn, T.B. (1991). Encountering the Goddess: A Translation of the Devı̄-­Māhātmya and a Study of Its Interpretation. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Farrand, T.A. (2006). Chakra Mantras. San Francisco, CA: Weiser Books. Feuerstein, G. (2001). The Yoga Tradition: Its History, Literature, Philosophy, and Practice. Prescott, AZ: Hohm Press. Garrington, A. (2013). Haptic Modernism: Touch and the Tactile in Modernist Writing. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Gosine, R. (2013). Hinduism. In: The Encyclopedia of Caribbean Religions (ed. P. Taylor and F.I. Case), 2 vols, pp. 315–366. Urbana: University of Illinois Press.



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Griffith, R.T.H. (1963). The Hymns of the Ṛ gveda. Varanasi: The Chowkhamba Sanskrit Series Office. Haberman, D.L. (2001) Acting as a Way of Salvation: A Study of Raganuga Bhakti Sadhana. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Hirschi, G. (2000). Mudras: Yoga in Your Hands. York Beach, ME: Samuel Weiser. Indich, W.M. (1995). Consciousness in Advaita Vedānta. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Kā lı̄, D. (2003). In Praise of the Goddess: The Devı̄māhātmya and its Meaning. Berwick, ME: Nicolas-­Hays. Lynch, R.P. and Prozonic, N. (2006) How the Greeks created the first age of innovation: Tracing the roots of synergy and co-­creativity, version 1.3. http://www.robertporterlynch.com/How_the_Greeks_Created_ the_First_Age_of_Innovation_V1.3.pdf (accessed November 13, 2022). Moyaert, M. (2018). Towards a ritual turn in comparative theology: Opportunities, challenges, and problems. Harvard Theological Review 111 (1): 1–23. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0017816017000360. Newman, J.B. (1984). On the counterverbality of “nonverbal” as a verbal term. In: Language and Cognition: Essays in Honor of Arthur J. Bronstein (ed. L.J. Raphael, C.B. Raphael, and M.R. Valdovinos), pp 203–240. New York: Springer. Padoux, A. (2011). Tantric Mantras: Studies on Mantrasastra. New York: Routledge. Pintchman, T. (1994). The Rise of the Goddess in the Hindu Tradition. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Rodrigues, P. (2023, forthcoming). A Śā kta theory on religions in a linguistic pluralism. In: Beyond Babel: Religions in a Linguistic Pluralism (ed. A. Vestrucci). Sophia: International Journal of Philosophy and Tradition. Saraswati, S.S. (2010). Caṇḍ ı ̄ Pāṭhaḥ : She Who Tears Apart Thought. Napa, CA: Devi Mandir Publications. Saraswati, S.S. (2019). Samaṣṭi Chaṇḍ ı ̄ Tantra Bı̄jamantrātmaka. Napa, CA: Devi Mandir Publications Saraswati, S.S. (2022). Mantras, Japa, and Malas. Devi Mandir. https://www.shreemaa.org/mantras-­ japa-­malas (accessed November 3, 2022). Sherma, R.D. (2000). SA-­HAM – I am she: Woman as goddess. In: Is the Goddess a Feminist? The Politics of South Asian Goddesses (ed. A. Hiltebeitel and K.M. Erndl), pp. 24–51. New York: NYU Press. Sherma, R.D. (2023). Radical Divine Immanence: A Hindu Ecological Theology of the Divine Feminine. New York: Bloomsbury. Steadman, S.R. (2016). Archaeology of Domestic Architecture and the Human Use of Space. New  York: Routledge. Timalsina, S. (2010). Śakti. In: Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism (ed. K.A. Jacobsen), Vol. 2, pp. 843–847. Leiden: Brill. Whicher, I. (1998). The Integrity of the Yoga Darsana: A Reconsideration of Classical Yoga. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Woodroffe, J. (2009). Śakti and Śakta: Essays and Addresses on the Śā kta Tantra Śā st́ ra. London: Celephaïs Press.

PART II

The Spirituality, Vocation, and Formation of the Comparative Theologian   8 “The One Who Prays Is a (Comparative) Theologian”: The Spirituality of Francis X. Clooney’s Comparative Method  Christopher Conway   9 Settling the Seer: “Deep Learning” and the Yoga of Slowness  Michelle Bentsman 10 Comparative Theology Embodied: The Mentorship, Methodology, and Ministry of Francis X. Clooney Katie Mahowski Mylroie 11 Performance and Engagement: Reconsidering Religious Experience in Contemporary Comparative Theology  Reid B. Locklin 12 A Fowlerian Perspective on the Faith of the Comparativist  Erik Ranstrom 13 Comparative Theology as Process Not Conclusion: Francis Clooney on the Proper Formation of Comparative Theological Readers  John J. Thatamanil

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“The One Who Prays Is a (Comparative) Theologian” The Spirituality of Francis X. Clooney’s Comparative Method Christopher Conway

Francis X. Clooney, SJ, had already crossed the Charles by the time I arrived at Boston College to study comparative theology. Nevertheless, I had the good fortune to take several of his courses at Harvard Divinity School and have him sit on my dissertation committee. The semester I spent studying the devotional poetry of the āḻvārs with him remains the most intellectually and spiritually impactful class I have ever taken, and I was just an auditor for it. While a celebratory occasion such as this might warrant some hyperbole, I hold the following as heartfelt truth: much of what I have accomplished professionally and personally, accidently or providentially, are indebted to Clooney and his work. And like the first footnote in many publications, “the errors remain mine.” My path to comparative theology began when I read Hindu God, Christian God during my senior year as a theology major, awkwardly straddling the line between the theology and religious studies areas of my department. I remember thinking, “wait, you can do this?!” To see the small, still-­ unformed pieces of thought I had been working on put together so clearly and confidently left me wondering, “wait, can I do this?!” I also remember quite vividly a moment of serious self-­doubt during my doctoral studies that left me asking that same question now with much less joy and optimism. Like a skilled director, spiritual or doctoral, Clooney read me and then gave me something to read: the Bhagavad Gı̄tā. I had read it a few times before in a couple different academic settings, but this was really the first time I came to it with any true degree of despondency and no real sense of how to go forward. The idea of doing nothing or perhaps even renouncing my student life seemed more inviting than risking failure. In the end, this particular reading proved to be absolutely necessary for me to pick up my project again. I truly felt the grace in Kṛṣṇa’s teaching to Arjuna and his loving command – mā s ́ucaḥ, do not grieve. Of course, there are plenty of inspiring passages from the New Testament that he could have recommended, but Clooney gave me the Gı̄tā. Perhaps his having just published The Truth, the Way, the Life (Clooney 2008a) made it the reading most on his mind or maybe this is what he r­ ecommends The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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to everyone going through an existential crisis. Regardless, I see it now as a charge to read in a way that is truly attentive and vulnerable to the text, ready and open to being shaped by a teaching that intends to form a person in an ultimate way. It was an invitation to do comparative theology. And so, I write this in deep gratitude and love for Clooney as well as in a humble joy for getting to shine ever-­ so-­slightly among the many bright stars who are his colleagues, friends, and students.

Comparative Theology: Acts of Faith Seeking Understanding With the publication of Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders (2010), Clooney provides readers an accessible introduction to comparative theology and his particular method. Especially helpful is his definition of comparative theology. He writes: “Comparative Theology” – comparative and theological from beginning to end – marks acts of faith seeking understanding which are rooted in a particular faith tradition but which, from that foundation venture into learning one or more faith traditions. This learning is sought for the sake of fresh theological insights that are indebted to the newly encountered tradition/s as well as the home tradition. (2010, p. 10)

As a short summary, this definition offers someone unfamiliar with the practice an orienting starting place. For one more familiar with it (especially scholars), this definition provides an easy gloss for capturing and commenting on Clooney’s project (it is his definition in his introductory text, after all). However, like most efforts to define a complicated concept concisely, the definition is helpful until it is not. It provides a brief statement on method – the “how” of comparative theology, which is the “comparative” of comparative theology – and concludes with a quick comment on its “why.” The means and end of it are clearly established, but what about the “theology” of comparative theology? I realize that this question can be a frustrating one to ask especially as he has answered it many times in many ways in many different places. I raise it here not to reassess comparative theology’s theological credentials, but rather to explore a dimension of Clooney’s theology that at its core is seldom centered in these kinds of discussions. As it enters its fourth decade and is well into its second generation, comparative theology and its practitioners still find themselves needing to justify it as a proper theological discipline.1 Such repeated calls may have led Clooney to write in 2013 that, “it seems now Comparative Theology cannot fight the battle for theological legitimacy on its own” (Clooney  2013, p.  175). Perhaps receiving the John Courtney Murray award in 2017 from the Catholic Theological Society of America (CTSA) and serving as the society’s president in 2022 provide the necessary bona fides to help legitimize his comparative theology. Likewise, although the fruits of his organizing the 2022 CTSA meeting around the theme “Thinking Catholic Interreligiously” remain on the vine at the time of writing, this too may alleviate some of the need for repetitive justifications as several theologians, who probably otherwise would have avoided comparative reflection, will have taken the opportunity to think comparatively and interreligiously. Nevertheless, if such questions persist, Clooney and others will be ready to answer them. One such response can be found in his essay “Is Comparative Theology Catholic?” Here Clooney takes a more defensively apologetic approach to answering the question (2014). The tone is similar to that in his response to the often-­asked question on the relationship between his comparative theology and theology of religions. There is clear recognition of the stakes involved in answering rightly – avoiding the relegation of comparative theology to a “secondary, adjunct discipline” and/ or its exclusion “from basic theological conversations” as well as a kind of fatigued hope that this



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response will put the question to rest (for now) (Clooney 2014, pp. 18, 19). While Clooney ­concludes that, like any other theology, comparative theology should be judged by its fruits and fruitfulness for the community, he begins by first problematizing efforts to define theology. He notes that there is no agreement “on a single definition of theology,” that “‘theology’ is not one single thing,” and that while “definitions matter . . . it is not necessary that every instance of theology fit a single definition of theology” (2014, p. 18). In supporting his embrace of the “fluidity of ­meaning” that theology permits, I’d like to complement what has become Clooney’s standard “classic” definition of comparative theology with another classic definition that recognizes, alongside him, the limits of such efforts. Definitions matter, and one might reopen a door that another inadvertently has closed. Throughout his work and as displayed in his definitive definition from Comparative Theology quoted above, Clooney often connects his understanding of theology with the famous maxim given by Anselm (d. 1109 ce), viz., theology is fides quaerens intellectum – faith seeking understanding. Alongside “God-­talk,” this statement is one of the simplest and most helpful ways of defining theology. I imagine most introductory theology classes offer it to their beginner students, and so it ought not be surprising that when introducing comparative theology Clooney calls on it as well. It is a logical starting place. This connection to a classic definition of theology also serves a subtle apologetic purpose. Rather than needing to take a defensive stance, he is able to take a more declarative position here by glossing matter-­of-­factly the “theology” of comparative theology as “acts of faith seeking understanding.” In drawing this connection, he highlights the intellectual dimension of comparative theology and draws attention to both the scholarly demands of the practice as well as the scholar’s necessary rootedness in a particular faith tradition. By defining the “theology” of comparative theology as “faith seeking understanding,” Clooney is able to address preemptively the concerns someone might have about doing theology comparatively. First, it makes clear that its starting place is faith. One need neither abandon one’s faith nor try to figure out a way to compartmentalize it in order to do comparative theology. Faith remains the point of departure and the point of return, one’s “foundation” and “home” (2010, p. 10). Second, it taps into a familiar way of thinking about how a theologian goes about “seeking understanding” by presenting comparative theology as an intellectual and academic undertaking akin to other methods of doing theology. It strives to meet the same “scholarly goals” that his Harvard Divinity School colleague and past-­CTSA president Francis Schüssler Fiorenza identifies as the aims of any academic project, theological or otherwise: “historical exactitude, conceptual rigor, systematic consistency, and interpretive clarity” (Fiorenza 1991, p. 5). It does so by calling on the same “constants” that aid the theologian in seeking understanding: scripture, tradition, and community experience. If the “comparative” of comparative theology feels unfamiliar or exotic, Clooney minimizes this sentiment by building on a shared understanding of theology and its core building blocks. This move is evident in his earliest efforts to justify his then soon-­to-­be-­named project to colleagues. Commenting on the critiques he and his approach received at the beginning, Clooney states: My response to their assessment was that my work is, in fact, fundamentally theological, and that the only difference between my work and theirs was that instead of focusing on philosophical Greek and Latin texts as they were, I was focusing on Sanskrit texts. My project, therefore, was every bit as theological as theirs. More than comparative religion, I reasoned, it was – I think I came up with this term on the spot – “comparative theology.” It was “faith seeking understanding,” as Anselm put it, except that I was seeking not simply with the Catholic context but rather across religious boundaries. (2019)

From an apologetics point of view, it is a brilliant move. Although the particularities and perhaps peculiarities of comparative theology may make it seem like a risky novelty, as a theological

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method Clooney is able to establish it as just another case of doing theology in the classical way. For folks that might be concerned that the “constants” of theology have been abandoned for something alien and non-­Christian, Clooney is able to appeal to tradition – “even conservatively stated” tradition – for support. If Nostra Aetate’s declaration that the “Catholic Church rejects nothing that is true and holy in these religions” remains too unclear concerning the theological legitimacy of other religious traditions, he is able to cite Dominus Iesus to “affirm . . . that the Word of God can be found at work in non-­Christian texts” (Clooney 2014, p. 21). While faith seeking understanding is certainly an appropriate as well as clearly useful way for thinking about the theology of comparative theology, turning to another classic definition may prove beneficial in further drawing out its practical and spiritual dimensions.

The One Who Prays Is a (Comparative) Theologian The fourth-­century ascetic and monk Evagrius of Pontus offers this reflection on theology and the theologian: “If you are a theologian you truly pray. If you truly pray you are a theologian” (Evagrius and Bamberger 1981, p. 65). For me, this is the classic definition that most truly gets at the heart of Clooney’s comparative theology. While a simple reading  – shaped by views that split the ­theological/intellectual from the spiritual/practical – might see this as an exhortation for the theologian to be prayerful and to cultivate a spiritual life (rightly so, theology cannot just be an intellectual pursuit or mental gymnastics), Evagrius intends something more radical. Commenting on Evagrius’s maxim, David Fagerberg writes: The understanding of prayer and theology in the Desert Fathers is different from ours, and we are tripped up by the very bluntness of Evagrius of Pontus . . . Prayer and theology are very nearly convertible as terms . . . They are not two activities to be coordinated . . . they have an inherent connection. (2008, pp. 117–118)

For Evagrius, prayer properly practiced culminates in theology. The would-­be theologian passes through two preliminary stages, praktike and physike, in order to arrive at the pinnacle: theologia. Praktike is a preparatory ascetical stage that allows for the cultivation of dispassion, “the door to contemplation” (Fagerberg 2008, p. 123). Physike culminates in “contemplation of the world.” Fagerberg writes, “it is a marvel to see a mediated God in the thousand mirrors of a thousand creatures, but it is penultimate to the third and final stage, the one Evagrius calls theologia” (2008, p.  131). Theologia ends in prayer understood as contemplation of God. It entails more than a ­“reasoned” knowing, which can be a common, if reductive reading of “faith seeking u ­ nderstanding,” and denotes participating in the triune life of God. Alongside its practical aspects, Evagrius’s definition also highlights the experiential and transformative dimensions of theology. Through the experiences that arise in theology prayerfully and contemplatively undertaken, the theologian is transformed. Clooney’s comparative theology also emphasizes these dimensions even as his favored gloss might inadvertently obscure them. One could be excused for thinking that Clooney is not one for extended excurses on method. In his essay “Reading Religiously Across Religious Borders,” a title which perfectly sums up his approach, he writes, “I like to think of myself as methodical and attentive to the best practices with regard to method, but . . . I am not much for method per se . . . much of what I do is practical, short on theory” (Clooney 2018, pp. 3, 5). However, one would be hard-­pressed to identify another contemporary theologian who has thought and written about reading as much as he has, and reading is the heart of his practical method.2 Reflecting on and refining the practice of reading is the thread



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that runs throughout his comparative work. The call for close, skilled, attentive, deep, patient, humble, and vulnerable reading is present from its very beginning, and the recognition of the need to recover such reading practices remains the impetus for his recent Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics (2019). He writes: [W]e are in danger of losing our bearings as individuals and communities and whole societies, because we are no longer in sufficiently deep and dense living intellectual contact with our religious traditions – because we no longer read the great books that have formed our traditions, and because we no longer have the patience, humility, and dispositions to read slowly, for as long as it takes, without craving for immediate results. (2019, p. xix)

The urgent tone of this argument could seem reactionary (“kids these days!”) if Clooney did not temper and contextualize it by recognizing the “medieval roots of our modern uncertainties,” particularly in scholastic theology’s eclipsing of monastic theology (2019, p. 23).3 Here he brings in the work of Phillip Rosemann, who juxtaposes the two approaches by paying attention to their respective learning and reading practices. In monastic theology and especially in the practice of lectio divina – “‘divine’ reading or reading as part of greater quest for God” – “the author is . . . less a controlling, mastering ‘subject’ than a being ‘subjected’ to the text that lectio divina has inscribed in his mind and body.” In scholastic theology, “the masters of High Scholasticism . . . read their sources less intimately, less holistically . . . with their increased sense of privacy and ‘mastery’ over the text” (Rosemann 1999, cited in Clooney 2019, p. 23). Clooney concludes this brief overview by noting that: This quicker, efficient, systematic reading was prone, in the wrong hands (let us say), to skipping over the in-­depth study of older texts; summaries, distillations, and more pointed questions and debate styles keep knowledge focused, digestible, but also replace the classic texts, excuse readers from reading texts, and also deprive them of the many benefits of (re)learning the tradition in a traditional way. (2019, p. 24)

The shift in reading practices that occurred during the medieval period also demarcates a significant shift in how theology is defined, and Anselm proves to be a pivotal figure in this transition. For Jean Leclercq (1961), the emergence of scholastic theology is marked by the ascendence of a new theological pedagogy. In the monastic approach, lectio (reading) is aimed toward meditatio (meditation) and oratio (prayer) and seeks wisdom and appreciation. In the scholastic approach, it is aimed toward quaestio (questioning) and disputatio (disputation). He writes, “the reader puts questions to the text and then questions himself on the subject matter . . . the objective of [the scholastic lectio] is science and knowledge” (p. 89). Leclercq ultimately avoids categorizing Anselm as either a monastic or scholastic theologian, and in the appendix to The Love of Learning and the Desire for God he provides this classification: In all truth, it is difficult to place him in any particular category; he is a genius and therefore beyond classification. He is a monk and clings with every fiber of his being to the Patristic tradition which gives life to monasticism. At the same time, he is passionately devoted to formal logic . . . It is precisely because he belongs in no category, since he is an exception, that he confirms the normal standards for differentiating between monks and scholastics. (Leclercq 1959)

Anselm is rooted in the Patristic tradition, which is itself formed by Evagrius’s dictum, “the theologian is the one who prays truly.” The scholastic tradition to which he is a precursor will continue to develop his definition of theology as “faith seeking understanding” through the method of

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questioning and disputation. Even as Anselm may be able to inhabit a place between or beyond categorization, the subsequent trajectory of scholastic theology marks a major change in the practice of reading, which has cascading consequences for how theology is done – positive and ­negative. The tension between the monastic/practical/spiritual and the scholastic/intellectual methods cannot hold unless the theologian is attentive and intentional in maintaining it. Clooney and his comparative theology show well how this tension can and should be maintained. In “Reading Religiously Across Religious Boundaries,” Clooney provides “four rules or practical habits” that guide and shape his theology: “leges credendi, orandi, quaerendi, legendi: believing, praying, seeking, reading” (2018, p. 5).4 He notes that credendi and orandi are what he means by theology being “faith worked out in practice” and in prayer. The practical and spiritual dimensions of theology enjoy a privileged position in this arrangement. This emphasis helps protect theology from becoming simply an “academic discipline” or “theological in a secondary sense.” However, he also lifts up the intellectual dimension recognizing the necessity for seeking through “open questions.” Seeking  – questing and questioning – keeps one’s theology alive and capable of responding to the signs of the time. Finally (or firstly), reading is the means by which these three are worked out and realized. Clooney has remained consistent throughout his career concerning the kind of reading and reader that his comparative theology requires. In Beyond Compare, he describes three features of an “attentive reader” (Clooney 2008b, p. 2). Two of these three concern the kinds of expertise the reader should possess, including the necessary historical, cultural, linguistic, philosophical, and theological training as well as the ability to communicate their learning to a wider audience. The third feature entails a different kind of skill set. He writes, “[the reader] would also be open to the full powers of the text, vulnerable to being changed in the reading, and determined to write in accord with truths discovered in the reading, and with new purpose after this radical shift in perspective.” As he writes in one of his earliest pieces on comparative method, “this change may ultimately be more significant than any research I manage to convey” (1990, p. 6). Taken together these are pretty radical statements concerning the ultimate end of comparative theology. What matters most may not be the constructive theological end product, but instead the transformation of the reader-­scholar-­theologian. Clooney works hard to maintain this tension between the intellectual and spiritual dimensions of his work, but at times it can be an uneasy effort. When researching this chapter and reviewing several of his many writings, I wanted to focus on and bring to the fore the spiritual dimension of his practice. I had a sense that at times this dimension could be obscured by his efforts to defend comparative theology as a properly intellectual discipline – addressing a set of critics that would see spirituality as less than a discipline, if not one at all. However, one passage from Seeing through Texts (Clooney 1996) that presents the desired disposition of the ideal reader/comparative theologian initially left me with a kind of methodological whiplash with the quickness he moves from “spiritual possibility” to “intellectual virtue.” He writes: [Such a reader is] someone who reads like prapanna  – like someone who does prapatti, who ­surrenders completely, somewhat desperately, having run out of strategies and plans: surrendering to the text and its meaning after attempting and abandoning every skillful strategy by which to make something certain and safe of it . . . this is a spiritual possibility, to be sure, but it can also be described as a carefully cultivated intellectual virtue which extends the scholar to the limit and which can profitably inform the whole comparative enterprise. (Clooney 1996, p. 310)

Such a reading can be (and should be) spiritual, but it also can be (and should be!) intellectual. Likewise, in wanting to highlight the spiritual dimension of his comparative theology’s t­ heology, and given the central role reading plays in his practice, I tried to think back on instances in which Clooney discusses the spiritual practice of lectio divina and its relationship to ­comparative theology. There is a paucity of references made, and while I do not doubt that I may have missed some, such



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a connection does not figure largely in his work. However, other theologians are ready to make it. Recently, Michael Barnes, SJ (2018), and Thomas Cattoi (2020) both gloss comparative theology as “interreligious lectio divina,” and Jerry Martin (2016) develops the connection further, writing: The Clooney paradigm is not just a scholarly model, or even just a way of doing richer theology. Comparative reading is itself a spiritual discipline. It is a form of lectio divina, of the prayerful reading of the scriptures. The meticulous care with which Clooney insists on entering into the second tradition is, in my understanding and perhaps his, a way to hear the divine voice in its texts. He is not trying to pluck ideas out, but to listen attentively. Hence the tender care with which he explicates passages. Returning to the “home” text allows one to hear the divine voice there, but in a slightly different register.

But Martin concludes, “I don’t know if Clooney ever explains it in exactly these terms.” He does, but the instances are rare and qualified. In a 2007 Commonweal piece on Pope Benedict’s Regensburg address, he writes: Dialogue requires practice, patience, and perseverance, and I am sure that were I an administrator, I would have almost no time for the kind of dialogue I have in mind. But as a theologian who studies the religious traditions of India, I have the good fortune to be able to spend much of my time studying Hindu texts, a study that in some ways is a sapiential reading (or lectio divina) that keeps changing, deepening me. (Clooney 2007)

The reasons for hesitating to make the connection to lectio divina more frequently and explicitly may be related to wanting to maintain the tension between the spiritual/practical and intellectual dimensions of comparative theology. During a Q&A following a panel discussion of Clooney’s Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics, Mark Massa, SJ, asks, “how is the close reading of texts you’re proposing different from the Catholic monastic tradition of lectio divina? Or is it substantially the same thing?” (2021). Clooney responds that “it is very much in the lectio divina tradition,” but cautions that the practice must necessarily extend to the other tradition as well. He adds that a practice that does not engage both traditions in this way, but rather takes only one’s own tradition “seriously, deeply, and meditatively”  – engaging the other through a strictly academic lens  – “ruins” the practice from the start (2021). Reading one tradition spiritually and the other academically does not cut it comparatively. In a footnote in Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics, he gives another response that seems to state definitively comparative theology’s relationship with lectio divina. As Rosemann situates the practice within medieval monasticism, Clooney footnotes, “I mention lectio divina only here in this volume. While I highly favor this slow, contemplative study, I do not wish to co-­opt the term for the intellectually intense manner of study I have in mind here” (2019, p.  166). Here his concern appears opposite to the one above. Lectio divina refers to a very particular kind of practice, and although comparative theology’s approach to reading may have some affinity to it – and a deep respect for it – the one ought not be superimposed on the other. Alongside the spiritual dimension of its reading practice, comparative theology also entails “an intellectually intense” undertaking, gaining the expertise necessary to do the reading in a meaningful way. Does Clooney contradict himself? Maybe. He contains multitudes as does his comparative theology. Or maybe it is simply trying to fit a Jesuit scholar into a Benedictine practice. The intuition to connect comparative theology to lectio divina makes sense given the role reading has in its method. The connection is made not simply because reading is privileged, but because of the kind of reading that is privileged. A reading that is learned, reasoned, and expert for sure, but a reading that is also deep, contemplative, open, and vulnerable – a reading that seems to be

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part of a “greater quest for God” (Rosemann), but also a “greater surrender” to God (Clooney 1996). In Seeing through Texts, Clooney lifts up the prapanna, the one who surrenders completely, as representing the ideal model for the reader. As noted above, the reader as prapanna represents a real “spiritual possibility,” but also a “carefully cultivated intellectual virtue.” He continues: It is the ability to suspend, for a time, the quest for a practical and theoretical system, to plead a kind of helplessness, at least for now. It is the cultivation of an openness not only to questions, but also to events, encounters, inclusions, and without protection. It is to let slip the careful boundaries between what one thinks, how one feels, what one does, all without certainty about some ultimate coherence. It is letting one’s beliefs intrude into scholarship, and risking them there, without having something ready and wise to say in summation. (1996, p. 310)

For comparative theology to be fruitful, the whole person – what one thinks (intellect), how one feels (memory), what one does (will) – must be present to the reading and readied to be relinquished. Seldom is surrendering immediate.5 Ignorance, sin, desire, fear, and self-­centeredness often prove to be formidable obstacles. Alongside these anthropological concerns is the recognition that comparative theology can be a grind – joyful, meaningful, grace-­filled for sure, but still, sometimes a grind. The intellectually intense work that must be completed in order to then engage both (or more) traditions seriously, deeply, and meditatively with a vulnerability that risks everything can be trying. Clooney admits that given these demands “the paucity of readers willing to  undertake a double reading is unsurprising,” but he also hopes/trusts that “though fewer in  number, readers speaking, writing, and acting from these more intense sensitivities may in the  long term have a deeper and more enduring influence on the communities involved” (2008, p. 209). Lastly, comparative theology comprises “acts.” Each individual exercise helps the practitioner advance deeper in their knowledge of God. Clooney can say alongside Anselm, credo ut intelligam (I believe so that I may understand). However, as the end of understanding is approached, another dimension of theology begins to emerge. Here, Clooney can say alongside Bernard of Clairvaux, credo ut experiar (I believe so that I may experience) (Leclercq  1961, p.  263). In the monastic ­tradition, prayer and theology become intertwined and culminate in the experience of contemplation, the practitioner’s participatory experience of the life and love of God. The exercises may be accompanied by experiences of desolation and consolation, “fears and ecstasies which accompany study across religious boundaries” (Clooney 1996, p. 309). Or they may be more subtle, requiring the theologian to be attentive to the smallest and slightest of stirrings discerned in and through the silence. Regardless, there are no guarantees that further insights will follow each subsequent exercise. Every new practice entails a bold risk sustained in a faith that God is a God who is in all things – “expressed, caught, hidden in the tangles of different sacred languages” (Clooney 2022, p. 20). In the end, Clooney becomes the voice crying out not in the wilderness, but in the garden: tolle lege (take and read).

A Kind of Conclusion (for now) Some may find Clooney’s embrace of “evocative reticence” frustrating (2002, p. 89). In his preaching this means that, “experiences must be allowed to reach beyond confident words  .  .  .  words must sometimes be held in abeyance if the listener is to encounter the living God here and now.” In his writing – lex praedicandi, lex scribendi (“how we preach shapes how we write”) – it appears in qualified conclusions comprising mays and mights, perhapses and possiblys, for-­ nows and in-­the-­meantimes. Much is said, but much (more?) is left unsaid, leaving his endings feeling more like beginnings. His work is done (for now), and the reader is just starting. Here he seems to be very



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much like Ignatius Loyola, about whom Clooney says, “seems intentionally to have left to exercitants much of the work of ‘filling the gaps’” (Clooney 2005, p. 367). There are gaps to be filled here, but admittedly I cannot say all mine are intentional. ́ vaiṣṇ ava āḻvār Saṭ ́ akō paṇ that I continue to find There is one verse from Tiruvāymoḻi by the Srı̄ extremely fruitful to sit with and meditate on: Accessible to those who love him, hard to find for others, the amazing one in whom the lady in the lotus delights, he whose feet are so hard for us to gain is bound to the grindstone, his firm wait is tied because he stole the butter from the churn what is this? how pitiful, how vulnerable. (Tiruvāymoḻi I.3.1, quoted in Clooney 1996, p. 133; emphasis added)

According to his hagiographies, for the first sixteen years of his life Śaṭakō paṇ existed in a state of perpetual meditation as the Tiruvāymoḻi took shape within him. The Divyasūricaritam describes the moment when the songs finally spring forth as follows: When sixteen years had come to an end, his overwhelming happiness burst forth from within him like water from a full lake, appearing in the form of his poems. When he had composed the various songs which were lovely by virtue of the Lord’s qualities, he immersed himself in the ocean of His bliss, swooned and then recovered. (Hardy 1979, quoted in Clooney 1996, p. 23)

In class Clooney shared another hagiographical account of the Tiruvāymoḻi’s composition. In this ́ akō paṇ, but now the recitation is not entirely, persecond account the songs also burst forth from Saṭ ́ fectly continuous. When Saṭakō paṇ arrives at the story of Yaśodā having to tie Kṛsn ̣ ạ down in order to complete her chores, he interrupts his perfect recitation with the interjection, “what is this? how pitiful, how vulnerable.” In this moment he is blown away by the willingness of the Supreme Lord of the universe to be bound this way. In the scene, Yaśodā is exasperated by Kṛsn ̣ ạ ’s relentless hijinks, which here includes his feeding her hard-­made butter to the monkeys. Having exhausted all other means to control him, she decides to tie him down.6 Finding a cord, she begins to wrap him up, only to realize the cord is just a bit too short to knot. Tying another cord to it, she attempts a second time, then a third, and fourth. The outcome remains the same. Seeing the sheer exhaustion on her face, Kṛsn ̣ ạ has compassion for her, and allows himself finally to be tied down. Theologians, not unlike Yaśodā, seek to tie God down. Rather than cords, we use words. Most times even the best of these efforts come up short. Yet occasionally practice, patience, and perseverance prevail, and acknowledging the pitifulness of our predicament, God compassionately condescends to be bound willingly by words which God ultimately remains beyond. What vulnerability! Like Śaṭakō paṇ, may we have the ability to recognize it and appreciate it – even when we are at our most inspired and eloquent.

Notes 1 The need to self-­justify is of course not unique to comparative theology. Liberation theologies have been at it for nearly twice as long. 2 One contender would be Paul Griffiths, but Clooney has written about reading Griffiths’s writings on reading. If there is a tie, it goes to the reader. 3 Clooney’s take is not all negative. He does recognize “many enduring values” emerging from these medieval roots as well as the promising possibilities new technologies provide for learning. 4 Clooney references a fifth rule/habit, “the work of service, laborandi.” As someone who wrote their dissertation on service, I am quite intrigued by the addition. He may intend something similar to

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Evagrius’s praktike or the yamas and niyamas of the Yoga Sūtras where laborandi prepares one for and sustains one in the subsequent practices. Regarding his own laborandi, my favorite yet-­to-­be verified anecdote that someone shared about Clooney concerns his deep practice of ahiṃsā: While a student at Chicago, he lived in one of the neighboring Jesuit houses. When his confreres left for a holiday, he went from mousetrap to mousetrap setting them off so no mice would be injured. 5 “Don’t Worry” by Mary Oliver (2016) “Things take the time they take. Don’t/ worry./ How many roads did St Augustine follow/ before he became St Augustine?” 6 My sympathy for Yaśodā has grown exponentially since becoming a parent.

References Barnes, M. (2018). Living interreligiously: On the “pastoral side” of comparative theology. In How to Do Comparative Theology (ed. F.X. Clooney and K. von Stosch), pp. 301–323. New  York: Fordham University Press. Cattoi, T. (2020). Interreligious lectio divina: Reflecting on the transfiguration with Maximos the confessor and the Bhagavad Gı̄tā. Teaching Theology & Religion 23 (1): 44–48. ́ vaiṣṇavas of South India. Albany, Clooney, F.X. (1996). Seeing Through Texts: Doing Theology Among the Srı̄ NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (2002). On the wisdom of reticence at the crossing of spiritual borders. In: Spirituality Across Borders (ed. E.J. Harris), pp. 86–95. Oxford: The Way. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Passionate comparison: The intensification of affect in interreligious reading of Hindu and Christian texts. Harvard Theological Review 98 (4): 367–390. Clooney, F.X. (2007). Learning to listen. Commonweal, January 8. Clooney, F.X. (2008a). The Truth, the Way, the Life: Christian Commentary on the Three Holy Mantras of the Śrı̄vaiṣṇava Hindus. Leuven and Grand Rapids, MI: Peeters and Eerdmans. Clooney, F.X. (2008b). Beyond Compare: St Francis de Sales and Śrı̄ Vedanta Desika on Loving Surrender to God. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2013). In the balance: Interior and shared acts of reading. Modern Theology 29 (4): 172–187. Clooney, F.X. (2014). Is comparative theology Catholic? Expectations regarding the comparativist. Studies in Interreligious Dialogue 24 (1): 18–39. Clooney, F.X. (2018). Reading religiously across religious borders: A method for comparative study. Religions 9 (2): article 42. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Interview: Comparative theology through the eyes of Francis X. Clooney, SJ. Theology Research News, June 19. Clooney, F.X. (2022). On the power of imperfect words: An inquiry into the revelatory power of a single Hindu verse. Sophia: International Journal of Philosophy and Traditions 61 (1): 9–21. Evagrius and Bamberger, J.E. (1981). The praktikos: Chapters on Prayer (Cistercian Studies Series, 4). Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications. Fagerberg, D.W. (2008). Prayer as theology. In: A History of Prayer: The First to the Fifteenth Century (ed. R. Hammerling), pp. 117–136. Leiden: Brill. Fiorenza, F.S. (1991). Systematic theology: Tasks and methods. In Systematic Theology: Roman Catholic Perspectives (ed. F.S. Fiorenza and J.P. Galvin), pp. 1–88. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Leclercq, J. (1961) The Love of Learning and the Desire for God: A Study of Monastic Culture. translated by C. Misrahi. New York: Fordham University Press. Leclercq, J. (1959). Richesses spirituelles du XII siècle. La Vie Spirituelle 100: 298–306. Martin, J. (2016). Clooney’s paradigm. Theology Without Walls. http://theologywithoutwalls.com/ clooneys-­paradigm (accessed August 8, 2022). Oliver, M. (2016). Felicity. New York: Penguin Books.

CHAPTER 9

Settling the Seer “Deep Learning” and the Yoga of Slowness Michelle Bentsman

Now then, the next teachings of yoga . . . (Yoga Sū tras I.1)1

It is the Spring of 2017 and I am a second-­year master’s student taking Professor Clooney’s course on Patañjali’s Yoga Sū tras. Professor Clooney greets us, briefly reviews the prior week’s materials, and plays a sung Sanskrit recitation of ten to twenty sū tras assigned for class. It is always like this: arrive, review, and quietly listen. Most of us have meager Sanskrit capacities, if any. We can hear the text, but we cannot cognitively process its meaning. We may recollect it from our translated readings and follow along in English, but the language we are here to learn is yoga, not Sanskrit. So, what are we listening to? The original sonic shape of the sū tras? The sensation of sound? The settling of our nervous systems? This simple practice completely changes my experience of the text, providing a grounding point from which to observe language and culture, sense and cognition, materiality and abstraction. Short sets of verses open into greater unknowns. The recording ends: silence meets stillness. And then, the next teachings of yoga. It is always like this: settle in and quietly listen. And then, delve deeply into the big ideas and the finer details of the text, read slowly over the semester. This is a small snapshot of Clooney’s pedagogical approach, which is connected to a practice he has recently called “deep learning.” This practice involves slowly and carefully reading a single text at a time, across religious traditions, and is the subject of his 2019 book, Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters. I have experienced this multiple times in communities of committed learners, and twice while reading Patañjali’s Yoga Sū tras with Professor Clooney, first as student and then as his teaching fellow. This text about a practice is one that, I believe, illuminates Clooney’s pedagogical practice. The simplicity of slow, careful r­ eading is matched by the simplicity of sitting in stillness and quieting the mind. Deep learning can be understood as a form of meditative yoga through two elements found in the Yoga Sū tras: (1) the slowing

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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of the mind (Yoga Sū tras I.2), and (2) its outcomes (Yoga Sū tras I.3), which may be especially helpful in an increasingly fast, globalized, and interreligious world. Yoga is the stilling of the spinning mind. (Yoga Sū tras I.2)

Clooney prefaces Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics with a warning bell and a call to read slowly: we are in danger of losing our bearings as individuals and communities and whole societies, because we are no longer in sufficiently deep and dense living intellectual contact with our own religious traditions – because we no longer read the great books that have formed our traditions, and because we no longer have the patience, humility, and disposition to read slowly, for as long as it takes, without any craving for immediate results. (Clooney 2019, p. xix)

Slow reading is presented as an anchor for a restless milieu, intellectually and religiously unmoored, pushed to and fro by the dictations of the times, as many race to stay relevant to ever-­expanding scrolls of information, moving with lightning speed but questionable integrity. Prior to the practice of slow reading is a recognition that the ideas and expressions of lived religion have roots that stretch long and deep, far and wide, and that attending to the nodes and lines of such root systems is a way of securing and sustaining oneself individually and collectively. Slow reading provides a pathway for revealing and connecting to these buried structures, allowing them to provide a sense of continuity and guidance through a currency of values much richer than the consumptive click, scroll, click. This work begins with oneself but has the potential to radiate outward to communities that practice religious traditions and those that do not, since so many feel the effects of such rootlessness. Deep learning is not a retreat into the past, but rather a means of carrying refreshing wisdom forward. It is apt “to use new technologies and welcome the new ways of learning they make possible, even as seeds of a new dawning and global human consciousness, yet without unreflectively leaving behind the religious communities to which we belong” (Clooney 2019, p. 25). These reflections may be developed while looking “both back and forward at the same time” (Clooney 2019, pp. 23–24). Indeed, casting down into the past and connecting to our interwoven root systems is an opportunity to lift nutrients up from the underground and into our present day. The Yoga Sū tras are dated inconclusively to the first century of the common era, with Indian commentaries emerging between the fourth and fifteenth centuries (Bryant 2009, pp. xxiv–xlii). By the tenth and eleventh centuries, extensive commentaries emerged written in Arabic and Old Javanese. The Yoga Sū tras were subsequently forgotten for hundreds of years until British Orientalists took an interest in the nineteenth century as an outcome of imperial aims to master Indian law and culture, after which the text was popularized across the world, largely due to the efforts of Swami Vivekananda (White 2014, pp. 16–17, 53–55, 142). This text, lifted torturously out of the murky waters of obscure literary history, has now been translated into over forty languages, and is a common reference point for modern postural yoga teachers and trainings everywhere. The second verse, which defines yoga, has become an intellectual cornerstone for this new global tradition; I still recall its brief but authoritative mention in my own hat.ha yoga training. It remains relevant to our restless condition, even – especially – now. In the second verse of the Yoga Sū tras, yoga is defined simply as the stilling of the spinning mind. These mental movements are given a fivefold delineation, including valid cognitions based on



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­ erception, logic, and testimony, errors, and empty concepts. Daily life involves an endless swirl of p such thoughts, accelerated in the digital age. These cognitions are cultivated within intellectual disciplines, which usually seek to stabilize and clarify mental movements, in accordance with Patañjali’s definition of yoga. However, the extent to which such mental movements are meant to be stilled may be variable between yoga and intellectual disciplines. The operative word in this definition of yoga is nirodhah., which can be glossed as control, restraint, or suppression. This allows for a variable intensity. Do the movements of the mind slow, still, or cease? Patañjali’s distinction between cognitive and noncognitive meditative states may offer an answer. In the cognitive meditative state, the mind is focused on gross or subtle forms, including language and its meanings. Meanwhile, the noncognitive meditative state eventually aims toward a mind empty of all language and form. The former state seems to slow or still mental movements, while the latter seeks stillness or cessation. If nirodhah. can be applied to even gentle cognitive control, then each instance of such effort qualifies as a yoga practice that can gradually slow the mind with greater intensity over time. As such, deep learning can be understood as a form of cognitive meditation. There is a continuity between the work of honing the intellect and the practice of yoga: both require cultivating control of the contents of the mind, thereby transforming it. While a refined intellect is often lauded for its swiftness, deep learning, like yoga, lauds the pause and honors slowness. This “is the necessary work that leads to [inner] change, in religious and interreligious reading” (Clooney 2019, p. 113). As Clooney (2019, p. 118) reflects “more deeply and widely on the practice of close reading, slowly done, as a necessary manner of study,” he attunes to a common dynamic among religious texts in which readers are drawn into participatory practices, into modes of re-­enacting and experiencing the mysteries of the text first-­hand, beyond words. Clooney closely reads Louis de Montfort’s eighteenth-­century Admirable Secret of the Most Holy Rosary and is impressed by Montfort’s emphasis on picking up the rosary practice. The reader is meant to listen to simple instructions, inspiring stories, stated benefits of the practice, and then go forth and practice the rosary. Clooney confesses that although the rosary was a part of his Catholic upbringing, and he still owns one, he has not yet been persuaded by Montfort to return to this practice. Nevertheless, he says he is listening, and goes on: I have been touched by, and cannot forget, the deep fervor and solid learning and intelligence underlying his appeals . . . If his book has not already done the work of drawing me back to the daily practice of rosary, perhaps later on the connections may be made complete. After all, slow reading’s effects too take their time. (Clooney 2019, p. 135)

Clooney’s slow reading of Montfort’s appeals to practice reinforce and reveal Clooney’s continued commitment to the practice of slow reading. In some ways, his book is similar to Montfort’s: the reader is meant to listen to simple instructions, inspiring insights gleaned from the practice, and go forth and read slowly, learn deeply. This is a book about a practice of reading books and may also lead to experiences prompted by, yet occurring beyond, words on a page. To some extent, the Yoga Sū tras mirror the meta-­reality of reading a book about a practice of reading books, since it requires mentally processing a text about a practice of restraining mental processes. This is to say that Clooney’s deep learning and Patañjali’s yoga are extremely focused on the cultivation of a practice. So much so that even an encounter with these texts is an opportunity to practice the practice. Indeed, the Yoga Sū tras explain that nirodhah., mental restraint, is accomplished through repeated practice and a desireless disposition (Yoga Sū tras 1.12). Clooney’s call to deep learning echoes the urgent necessity of these two elements, appealing to us to regain “the patience, ­humility,

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and disposition to read slowly, for as long as it takes, without any craving for immediate results” (2019, p. xix). Entering into such texts slowly, through deep learning, has the capacity to restructure one’s experience of reality. However, in order for it to enact its transformational capacity, “readers must cultivate a certain indifference to what they might ordinarily want to know first” (Clooney  2019, p.  22). This humble indifference allows for an opening into the wisdom of the unknown, unveiling pathways to new experiences. Meanwhile, continuous, careful practice grounds such experiences: “that [practice], carefully cultivated for a long time, uninterrupted, is firm ground” (Yoga Sū tras I.14). So too, “as we study, we become more deeply rooted in the traditions to which we belong” (Clooney  2019, p.  17). Whether through slow reading or a steady ­posture accompanied by a focused mind, practice is the antidote to rootlessness. “Then, the seer settles into its proper form.” (Yoga Sū tras I.3)

Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics demonstrates how to be taught by a text, as well as how to teach with and through a text. Clooney is at once a student of the texts he has chosen to read deeply, and a teacher, instructing his readers in the practice of deep learning. He focuses his efforts on six texts arranged into three couplets thematized by instruction, doctrine, and participation, respectively. The texts of instruction inform his thinking, reading, and teaching. The texts of doctrine allow for him to simultaneously hold multiple truth traditions in his mind. The texts of participation provide devotional models for intense focus, pulling Clooney toward practice (Clooney 2019, pp. 20–22). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics also partakes of these three categories. I have described this book as a text of instruction, in step with the first verse of the Yoga Sū tras, as a text of practice, in step with the second verse of the Yoga Sū tras, and now turn to this text’s connection to traditions of truth, in step with the third verse of the Yoga Sū tras. The benefits of deep learning and meditative yoga go beyond the grounding that their regular practice provides. As Clooney (2019, p. 17) writes, “Slow reading is indeed a virtue and a precious habit to cultivate, but it is not merely an end in itself. Content matters, and its truth confronts us.” Confrontation commonly indicates a challenge, and one is likely to encounter many rounds of personal resistance in practice, indicating a potential transformation is near. Slowness opens space to recognize resistance when it arises, to consider its reasons until resistance softens, and, then, to meet what is new or uncertain, on its own terms, thereby reconfiguring the initial resistance into a field of expanded awareness. The practitioner subjects themselves to what is encountered, without imposition, for the sake of increasing insight: “we submit to the power of the truth in texts, learning how the truth has been accessible to those who study and come to understand claims of truth over centuries and millennia” (Clooney 2019, p. 30). Such world-­opening experiences are stabilized by the grounding structures of practice. Through these processes, there arises greater understanding of oneself and one’s traditions of study, leading to mature and thoughtful engagement with multiple traditions and multiple selves. There is no “clash of truths, but the several truths being learned more deeply” (Clooney 2019, p. 31). The Yoga Sū tras convey some approximation of this experience through descriptions and observations about accomplished meditative states. The cognitive meditative state that Patañjali calls samāpattih. emerges when the movements of the mind have been diminished or exhausted. At this point, the mind is likened to a clear crystal colored by whatever it stands on or near (Yoga Sū tras I.41). The mind becomes a means to apprehend lucidly whatever is encountered, without projection, interference, or misunderstanding. The mind thus attuned is one expression of the



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c­ ulmination of the yogic process, spotlighted in the third verse of the Yoga Sū tras: “the seer settles into its proper form.” From this state of supremely slow mind, anything can be perceived properly, with crystal clarity. The noncognitive meditative state  – or super-­cognitive meditative state  – involves a more advanced variation on this theme: when the mind is emptied of its own contents, then it shines forth simply as it is (Yoga Sū tras 1.43). This calls for an increasingly subtle awareness of that which is behind and beyond perception, beyond language and form. This results in the realization of a “truth-­bearing wisdom” (Bryant 2009, p. 158) that is distinct from the wisdom of the teachings of traditional texts. The mind submits to the power of a truth beyond it. However, commentators on the Yoga Sū tras emphasize that this accomplishment still requires studying traditional texts. Vyāsa, the first and most canonical commentator, writes that yoga is perfected through the study of traditional texts, the use of inference, and the practice of meditation. To reinforce Vyāsa’s point, Hariharānanda (Ā ran.ya 1983, p. 105) refers to the Upaniṣadic injunction to listen, contemplate, and concentrate, perhaps as corollaries to study, inference, and noncognitive meditation. Thus, study remains essential to the practice of yoga and the realization of truth. Clooney describes the repeating loop of practice that characterizes deep learning, experienced through multiple texts and traditions: We learn twice over . . . we will have twice over allowed ourselves to be instructed, simply by the careful and patient work of reading. As in each instructive tradition by itself, we will become able to observe how we are to think and speak . . . informed and transformed in a double learning that prepares us for still further learning. (Clooney 2019, p. 78)

This models the humility of the practice of deep learning and the transformative outcomes of committing to its discipline, again and again. Clooney’s instruction is always undergirded by and simultaneous with his learning. Learning this way creates possibilities for unprecedented relational depth, both within oneself, as one comes to observe the growth of the practicing mind, and with other people, texts, and traditions, as one is informed and transformed by them. This learning expands our capacity to interact thoughtfully and reverently with the many voices of multiple traditions. It is the Fall of 2020, and I am a third-­year doctoral student serving as the teaching fellow for Francis X. Clooney’s course on Patañjali’s Yoga Sū tras. We are in peak pandemic and gather weekly on-­screen, settling into our Zoom squares, before listening to our assigned verses and then discussing them. Despite the circumstances, this course feels like a breath of air; the students show up with enthusiasm and care. After I teach my first full class session, I send Clooney a note of thanks for his guidance, and he throws me a pearl: “The secret of teaching is to just do it and do it again and again and again, always with the attitude that you have much to learn from your students. After a few decades, it becomes easier, though never easy.”2 Like much good advice, this sounds simple. As I wait for wisdom to percolate into practice, I repeat Clooney’s response to Montfort (2019, p. 135): “I am listening.”

Notes 1  My translations of Yoga Sū tras I.1–I.3, etc., are strongly informed by Francis X. Clooney’s unpublished instructional translations, as are my interpretations of the Yoga Sū tras throughout this chapter. 2  Personal correspondence, November 7, 2020.

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References Ā raṇya, S.H. (1983). Yoga Philosophy of Patañjali (trans. P.N. Mukerji, comm. Vyāsa). Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Bryant, E.F. (2009). The Yoga Sū tras of Patañjali, 1st ed. New York: North Point Press. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics, Vol. 2017. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. White, D.G. (2014). The Yoga Sutra of Patanjali: A Biography. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

CHAPTER 10

Comparative Theology Embodied The Mentorship, Methodology, and Ministry of Francis X. Clooney Katie Mahowski Mylroie

Mentorship During my undergraduate studies as a religious studies major in an institution without a theology department, I was introduced to the topic of theology and the name “Francis Clooney” by Vasudha Narayanan, my senior thesis advisor. She was the first to mention theology as a potential field of study to me, as a practicing Catholic interested in pursuing academic studies of religion, and she directed me toward Boston for graduate studies. Dr. Narayanan spoke of Francis Clooney, a Catholic priest who was also passionate about Hinduism and the new-­to-­me field of comparative theology. Upon matriculating to Boston College for my master’s degree I enrolled in a class at Harvard Divinity School with Professor Clooney, and while my first years of graduate studies were a bit like drinking from a fire hose in general, it was Clooney who was the first person to ask me whether I had considered pursuing comparative theology as a career. Ten years and countless overwhelming intellectually hydrating moments later, Professor Clooney is an advisor for my dissertation in Boston College’s PhD program in which I am constructing an ecofeminist Hindu–Christian framework for comparative theology. As I prepared to write this chapter in his honor, I searched back through our decade-­plus paper trail of emails and was deeply moved by the arc of mentorship I am grateful to have received over the years. During my master’s coursework, Clooney was my professor and also a thoughtful spiritual resource as I attended retreats and was discerning my next life path. There are emails about class conversations, paper edits, and where to go for long walks while at certain retreat centers that were new to me. Then, when beginning the PhD coursework, the academic emails continue along with more p ­ ersonal life events, including multiple miscarriages I suffered, the joyous births of three children, and the agonizing death of my dear sister. Consistently, Clooney is a support and resource for me, my family, and for many others as we navigate graduate programs and the complexities of life. Despite his own busy schedule and full calendar, not to mention the fact that I am not a Harvard student, he always

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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responds to communication promptly and with words of encouragement, prayers of support, helpful academic criticism, and sometimes all of the above at once. His prolific career and writings are impressive and powerful manifestations of his brilliance. However, his quiet and steadfast commitment to serving as a mentor to many is equally emblematic of Francis Clooney. As coursework ended and I began preparing for comprehensive exams, Clooney was my examiner for Hinduism. Together we compiled the exam reading lists and he wisely gave me advice to be creative with my sources. While triangulating my passions for ecological theologies, goddesses, feminist theologies, and liberation theology, we ended up circling around the question of a framework for a Christian–Hindu ecofeminism. Clooney told me openly that while this is a topic with which he was not as familiar, he believed it to be a necessary and interesting one that I should pursue. He also suggested I read around the questions and authors that I had already identified and told me to expand my idea of what goes into an examination list. Why not include voices like that of Arundhati Roy, a brilliant author, yet one who is not in the academic academy per se? She offers well-­researched, riveting commentary on Indian and Hindu culture, and in The Cost of Living (1999) she delves into the Vedas, anachronisms, dam and water projects across India, and a host of other issues that apply toward an ecofeminist paradigm. Clooney’s inspiration, imagination, and creativity push me to explore always beyond the boundaries of what I think I know, and how I think I know. Although his work is not explicitly feminist, ecofeminist, or ecowomanist, Clooney’s line of questioning is aligned with these perspectives and continues to support and encourage my work. Thus, his mentorship is intimately linked to his methodology and to furthering methodological growth in the field of comparative theology as a whole.

Methodology As discussed above, the methodology of Francis X. Clooney is intertwined with his mentorship and ministry. This represents a true cura personalis approach to comparative theology. For example, in his dedication of Divine Mother, Blessed Mother, he writes for “women everywhere who have been silenced, ignored, denied their rightful place and voice –particularly by clergy, religious communities, and religious leaders” (Clooney 2005, p. vi). He offers this book in the hope that his “work contributes in some small way to righting the wrongs we have done, and to allowing everyone’s voice to be heard, even listened to.” This powerful dedication highlights Clooney’s deep commitment to learning from the “other,” which in his case is typically Hinduism. This book also focuses on the divine (and not divine) feminine, so that he is engaging a theological other in addition to another gender. Not only does Clooney himself seek to learn from these others, but he implores humanity as a whole to do the same, as in Learning Interreligiously (2018) where he posits learning about other religions as a necessity for all in this globalized and interconnected world that we live in. This section will highlight the most impactful aspects of Clooney’s methodology, which includes those that are key for a comparative ecofeminist theology. It will begin with insights from Divine Mother, Blessed Mother (2005) (after all, writing about Francis Clooney and his methodology necessitates close reading of at least one text) that shed light on how this work contributes to a foundation for comparative ecofeminisms, and then will trace key themes in Clooney’s overarching method.

Divine Mother, Blessed Mother In Divine Mother, Blessed Mother (2005), Clooney’s method is emblematic of his theological style  overall. He establishes the need for deep comparative work across religious traditions and diversities of identity, both as personal practice with intuitive leaps that ultimately enhance one’s



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faith and devotion, and as a way to learn more about the divine. What should come first in comparative work according to him is “loving attention to concrete particularities, keeping our eyes open, a willingness to leap intuitively from one possibility to the next, [and] seeing ourselves differently in light of the new” (Clooney 2010, p. 106). Through cultivating these skills and producing comparative work, it is the faith of the theologian that will be intensified. It is not new theological truth that the comparative journey primarily produces, but “fresh insights into familiar and revered truths, and new ways of receiving those” (Clooney 2010, p. 112). As Clooney recounts his experiences witnessing worship to the Hindu goddesses and reading hymns to goddesses back and forth with Marian hymns, he offers a personal and compelling example of this journey. Through this text, he explores “how those of us who are not Hindu can learn . . . about Hindu goddesses, about what it means to worship a goddess, and about how gender matters in a cross-­ cultural study of divinity” (Clooney  2005, p. ix). He intends to “chart a path back and forth” between Christian identity and the faith of goddess traditions, while engaging in gender-­based theological analysis (Clooney 2005, p. viii). This type of journey is emblematic of his methodology, where he begins from his identity as a believer in Christ and ventures forth, usually without a map, both to create a map and method, and to explore the new territory of another religious tradition. Clooney also encourages others to accompany him as a travel companion and/or to put the map he creates to good use in exploring for ourselves and then charting more paths. Although feminist theology is certainly not the focus of most of his work, Clooney articulates that it is indeed the “right time for a theological reconsideration” of gender and divinity within Christianity in particular (Clooney 2005, p. 4). He published this book in 2005, and I would argue that in the years since we are still working toward a full-­scale theological reconsideration of gender and divinity in the Christian tradition, making this topic a pressing one that comparative theology needs to continue to address. When raising the idea of delving into feminist and ecological theologies for my dissertation project, as mentioned earlier, Clooney was very encouraging and supportive, even as he remarked that he would be learning a lot along the way as these are not his particular foci throughout his work. Here again we see the confluence of his mentorship and methodology, and his unwavering humility. Since the publication of Divine Mother, Blessed Mother (Clooney 2005), the field of ecofeminism, which explores the intersectionality of women and ecology, continues to expand across traditions. While Clooney has not continuously addressed feminism, nor as of yet delved into ecofeminism, he continues to support and mentor theologians like myself who are pursuing these lines of inquiry. In Divine Mother, Blessed Mother (2005) in particular, the outlines and key themes of ecofeminist thought are visible, as when he writes “A birth-­and life-­oriented perspective also suggests a this-­ worldly and life-­affirming rereading of familiar concepts such as truth, evil and good, salvation and God. Once the field is reimagined, women’s experience and a life-­oriented inquiry will no longer appear odd or theoretically irrelevant in the philosophy of religion discussion” (Clooney  2005, p. 12). Here Clooney is addressing a fundamental concern in the field of ecofeminism: epistemology. Vandana Shiva, Ivone Gebara, Rita D. Sherma, Melanie Harris, and other ecofeminists and ecowomanists challenge the norms around knowledge, and assert the necessity of highlighting women’s experience of life and the divine, instead of marginalizing or erasing it altogether. Also like ecofeminist and ecowomanist traditions, which are inherently intersectional, Clooney critiques studies that are conducted in the context of a single cultural setting, and instead advocates for inclusivity in global conversations. Comparative learning is a way to “correct the cultural and social myopia that is almost inevitable” when research is conducted in a noncomparative, single-­setting way (Clooney 2005, p. 13). Ecofeminism is likewise based in intersectionality, primarily in ecological, feminist, and womanist theologies. Moreover, theorists like Melanie Harris also advocate for including race, as in the case of ecowomanism, and other frameworks that

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need to be examined altogether for a comprehensive theological analysis that points toward the interconnectedness of all life and creation. Throughout this chapter, I will draw on the works of ecofeminist Ivone Gebara and ecowomanist Melanie Harris as dialogue partners in whose work we can find many resonances with Clooney’s comparative theology. In the figure of Mary, Clooney articulates a potential and a hope for overcoming the binaries and mutual exclusivity within the Christian tradition across categories like life and death, human and divine, and “perhaps even female and male ways of salvation” (Clooney 2005, p. 184). While he includes a critique of the Catholic treatment of Mary, which alienates her from being fully a mother, as a virgin, and fully a human, as in her assumption which deprives her of human death, Clooney also notes that it is Mary who gives birth to Jesus, and then is still there as He dies. Just like  the Hindu god Shiva is powerless without the goddess Devi, both of these traditions hinge on the relationality between male and female figures, where the male simply cannot be without the female. This is a long-­standing truth in Hindu theological traditions, and one that is rarely emphasized in Christianity. By examining goddess and Marian hymns in light of one another, Clooney is able to articulate the need for, and then intensify our understanding of, the mutual and dynamic relationship between the feminine and the divine. This interconnectedness is at the core of ecofeminist and ecowomanist theologies, where binaries are transcended through a realization of the true, interconnected nature of all creation. One of these particularly harmful binaries is the denigration of the physical body, along with the association of the physical realm of experiences with women, that is inherent in patriarchal worldviews. Clooney offers the Hindu goddess hymns as examples that affirm the body, materiality, and sensorial experiences, and value them more positively than in Marian or other Christian hymns and practices (Clooney  2005, p.  222). In fact, Clooney critiques the Marian hymns for ­continuing and deepening a binary between the divine and all that is not divine. The concluding insights from reading the Christian and Hindu hymns comparatively include increasing awareness for Christians of “the choices made in moving between a God who transcends all matter and is not  gendered and a Mary who, though not God, seems to resemble and stand in for the divine female, even as she is declared not divine” (Clooney 2005, p. 230). Thus, he calls into question the binaries in Christian theology that starkly separate material and spiritual, female and male, human and divine. While he does not ultimately suggest an eschewal of all binaries like ecofeminist and  ecowomanist theologians, the critiques he offers here and his turn to Hindu examples for inspiration are directly aligned with these perspectives. Clooney also suggests that Hindus can see the significance in reverencing a mother who is ­powerful and central to Christianity, even if she is not a goddess (Clooney 2005, p. 230). This insight points to how comparative theology can be mutually beneficial across religious traditions. In ecofeminist and ecowomanist thought, interfaith and interreligious dialogue is key to their foundations, where mutual learning can combat dangerous binaries, elitism, and ultimately the subjugation of women and earth. Even as his work is primarily based in deep textual reading, he advocates for an incorporation of experiential accounts into textual analysis to enhance the dialogue. In particular, he suggests including “women’s narratives of the divine person as male or female, of religious and theological apprehensions of the divine, and of the advantages and disadvantages for full human living of the various ideas we have about the divine” (Clooney 2005, p.  233). He hopes and suggests that his work can provide a fresh foundation for feminist ­studies and, in my case, it absolutely was part of my inspiration to engage ecofeminist thought comparatively. This methodological claim he makes is an example of where his mentorship and methodology are interconnected, and he guides his students and their theologies past the boundaries both of his methodologies and of his goals, as he encourages intuitive leaps in ­materials and methods as we “wait with our eyes open for Her arrival” (Clooney 2005, p. 237).



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Identity Interrogation In all of Clooney’s books, he clearly states and discusses his identity as a Catholic theologian, and his name on the covers includes the suffix “SJ,” further identifying him as a Jesuit within the Catholic tradition. The explicit and visible acknowledgments of his own faith commitment place him squarely within the category of confessional comparative theology, where he is definitively rooted in a home tradition from which he ventures forth to do comparative work before returning home again. It also demonstrates his commitment to incorporating the identity of the theologian and their community, which he extends to the other religious tradition and their community in his theology. This openness is part of the comparative theological process today, which was not always the case decades ago, and Clooney both models and encourages other comparative theologians to articulate and include their home tradition and theology in their process. In fact, Clooney emphasizes the importance of one’s identity throughout each aspect of comparison, from the questions one is asking, to the methods and types of conclusions that are drawn. This is not to say that Clooney sees the category of identity as static and fully formed in a permanent way, however. Comparative work complicates this notion, and Clooney articulates a sense of “falling, mostly by choice, into the somewhat obscure and unstable place lying between traditions,” instead of insisting on a more rigid structure of selfhood (Clooney 2013, p. xi). While he does not articulate or advocate for dual belonging to traditions, he does account for a responsibility to each tradition that one is in dialogue with throughout the comparative journey. It is this opening of one’s identity that is translatable across theology, where the multifaceted reality of our selfhood is held and accepted in a way that is not always true in other areas of theological inquiry. The intersectionality in today’s discussions of race, gender, ecology, sexuality, and so on is a dynamic that comparative theology can be methodologically helpful to dialogue with as we explore questions that consider more than one facet of identities. The back-­and-­forth comparative course that Clooney charts between one’s home tradition and the other is an exercise that “involves a balance between fully mobilizing one’s pre-­understanding and keeping it in check by means of the self-­understanding of the other, and between acknowledging and engaging one’s own religious presuppositions and engaging and studying the other tradition on its own terms” (Cornille 2020, p. 89). This tension for Clooney is key, where “If we do our work well, grounding scholarly commitments in faith, we will always be on the edge of failing in scholarship or failing in faith. Then we will be properly conflicted theologians, comparative theologians,” doing work that is “never more than partially done” (Clooney 2010, pp. 30, 156). Here he articulates the vulnerability of this work, where we are deeply engaged with our own faith and our scholarship simultaneously. This conflicted identity closely mirrors our lived realities as people with multifaceted identities and commitments throughout our lives, that endure changes and growth over the years. The process of navigating this in-­between space that comparative theologians occupy is not something done alone or as isolated individuals. Clooney is clear that the community, which in his case is the Catholic Church, also factors in discerning his identity and accountability as a Catholic theologian (Clooney 2010, p. 157). Thus, it is not only the identity of the individual theologian but also the broader community of believers and theologians that is impacted by comparative theology and the work of these scholars. Clooney employs the term “cultivated hybridity” to describe this conflicted and in-­between space in which comparative theologians exist, one that is not so clearly defined (Clooney 2010, pp.  158–160). This uncomfortable and unclear position with porous boundaries is necessary according to Clooney, and is something to be cultivated and curated. He is pointing us toward a messy and unpredictable understanding of religious identity and relationships with others that  more closely mirrors variable life experiences and allows ample space for creativity and

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c­ onstant reflection. To do comparative theology in an authentic and responsible way, therefore, means involving one’s self in the fullest sense, and also engaging the other in their complete ­self-­understanding. This is of course a complex and unpredictable situation to foster. Clooney’s comparative methodology thus gives us a way to do theology through potential discomfort and uncertainty in a way that values this tension positively. Doing theological analysis from the starting point of a multifaceted identity is another intersection between Clooney’s methods and those of ecofeminism and ecowomanism. For example, Gebara’s use of narrative in Out of the Depths: Women’s Experience of Evil and Salvation shows “how everyday life can reveal aspects of evil that are somehow not included in the theories enunciated by philosophy and religions” (Gebara  2017, p. 68). Then, Harris’s practice of beginning with ecomemory, and “acknowledging and uncovering” African American people’s connection with the earth are two examples of how reflecting and incorporating one’s identity in their theology can provide a completely different starting point, and a necessary one (Harris 2017, pp. 108–109). As Clooney, Gebara, Harris, and others point toward a full identity inventory to begin theological analysis, they do so in order to make the particularities of individuals and communities visible and relevant for theological reflection in ways that the mainstream tradition does not acknowledge or necessarily value. In fact, to “know God better” through studying “traditions in their particularity” is the heart of comparative theology, where both diversity and tradition are respected (Clooney 2010, pp. 8–9). The category of imagination is key for Clooney, where comparative theology allows for different and more expansive ways of imagining than other disciplines (Clooney 2010, p. 148). Our ability to meet God, “who promises to adjust to us, accommodating us as we are” is dependent on this open imagination (Clooney 2010, p. 149). While an open imagination and tenuously borderline position of faith is certainly not easy or comfortable, Clooney deems this tension between faith and religious diversity as providential and “where God wants us to be today” (Clooney 2010, p. 152). Again, both Gebara and Harris insist that interreligious and interfaith dialogue are necessary and foundational for a worldwide ethics that will allow us to maintain our survival (Gebara 2014; Harris 2017). Clooney, along with ecofeminist and ecowomanist traditions, declares that it is not a PhD that provides the foundation of interreligious learning, but instead insists that powerful theological and spiritual learning occurs without such titles (Clooney 2010, p. 163). Indeed, a core component of ecofeminist thought includes a rejection of patriarchal epistemologies, and instead values what we know from our own bodies and experiences, and also allows for a multiplicity of ways of knowing. The theologian thus “always knows more than she puts into writing,” where in Clooney’s case this work “finally discloses a still deeper encounter with Jesus Christ” that “only intensifies the commitment to learn from the religious diversity God has given us” (Clooney 2010, p. 165). Throughout his methodology and work, Clooney is constantly and humbly pointing beyond to something transcendent. In today’s polarized world, and within our inherited Platonic dualism of Christianity, insisting on a messy and unclear borderline identity and practice is a bold and fresh look at the discipline of theology and academia as a whole. For example, in Learning Interreligiously (2018), Clooney encourages readers to incorporate meditative processing of one’s response to babies along with the image of the newborn Christ and baby Krishna in order to enter and delight in another religion’s stories imaginatively, instead of focusing only on questions of doctrine (Clooney  2018, p.  20). Similarly, Gebara draws on the Trinity as unitive multiplicity, whereas Harris builds on African holistic and interconnected cosmologies, to complicate and inspire our theologies as we seek to grow closer to God. While Clooney’s explicit focus is comparative learning, Gebara and Harris are creating paradigms that particularly combine feminist and ecological, and womanist and ecological perspectives, respectively. While these thinkers may at first seem incongruent, this section shows how each interrogates the category of identity in ways that are harmonious.



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Critiques and Cautions Clooney spends most of his time and effort delineating and practicing comparative theology, although he also outlines the potential negative ramifications of comparative work. He is especially critical of theologians who impose their own agenda on the texts of another tradition in a way that does not leave enough space for the meanings endorsed by the text’s own tradition (Clooney 2008, p. 8). He instead encourages a stance of responsibility toward more than one tradition, where the theologian is not only respectful, but is responsible toward each, albeit in a “different but real way” (Clooney 2010, p. 112). This level of attentiveness to, and maintaining of, an authentic relationship with the other is key, especially in today’s academic discussions of decolonial, indigenous, feminist, womanist, and other lines of inquiry where much of the work that needs to be done is recovering voices, experiences, and resources that were and are not treated responsibly or faithfully. The religious other in comparative theology is not merely a data set that is to be manipulated, but instead a living tradition comprising human communities. To combat this type of problematic relationship with another tradition, Clooney suggests we “[admit] a kind of elitism, confessing what we have and have not chosen” as “the best way to keep open wider possibilities that stretch beyond our books and writing” (Clooney 2010, p. 68). The “mutually critical conversation” of comparative theology is key for Clooney, where theologians across traditions can agree and disagree with each other in a process that is formative to all (Clooney 2001, p. 172). This happens both through and for the purposes of dialogue, and also for a critical analysis and reexamination of one’s own tradition. This level of humility, which engages with the other in a way that opens one’s own identity, is a powerful example of how comparative theology can contribute to and foster interconnectedness. Both ecofeminists and ecowomanists are strong advocates for mutual conversations and dialogue as a way to counter patriarchal and hierarchical ways of knowing, dialoging, and doing theology. Although Clooney does not focus on liberation or feminist or ecological theologies, he is adamant that it is “not acceptable” for comparative theology to be “something white guys do in their offices, while most of the Church happens elsewhere” (Clooney 2010, p. 100). Instead, it must “remain in living connection with the tradition and faith experience of particular communities” (2010, p. 114). Clooney is clear that comparative theology should be and can be “more than narrowly academic,” where the telos is “greater knowledge of God” via “not only an intellectual exercise but also a spiritual event that will keep overflowing our expectations” (Clooney 2010, p. 152). Thus, Clooney critiques the field of comparative theology as needing to be more diverse in terms of who is doing the work, and methodologically demands that there be relationships and experiences with living communities of believers (in addition to his emphasis on deep and focused reading of texts). His central idea of a spiritual event that is part of this academic exercise highlights Clooney’s faith in God, and the ultimate mystery of such belief, which for him opens up space to experience the divine in surprising ways and to invite others into his reflections in a way that directly relates to ecofeminist and ecowomanist methods and how they critique and counter mainstream patriarchal norms as a whole. Not only does Clooney’s mentorship and methodology bolster these lines of inquiry, but he embodies these dynamics in his ministry as well, which will be briefly discussed in the next section.

Ministry This chapter, and indeed this book, demonstrates Clooney’s methodology and how he interrelates two (or more) traditions and perspectives as he seamlessly weaves his way back and forth between traditions; moreover, the ministry, mentorship, and methodology that Clooney embodies are also

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not separate or mutually exclusive dimensions of himself. He embodies intense fluidity between these aspects of himself and gives students like myself a model as well as guidance to do the same. He has served as a resource for Catholic students at Harvard University by being a dedicated faculty supporter of their Catholic student group over the years, sharing meals and saying Mass in a welcoming atmosphere at a non-­Catholic school. As a Jesuit priest, Clooney has not only mentored countless students over the years but has served as a parish priest as well, ministering to a community of worshippers for decades. In Learning Interreligiously (2018), he includes excerpts from public blog posts he wrote over the years in dialogue with Hindu thinkers as he implores all people to become more educated about religious diversity in order to foster deeper dialogue. These public ministries are invaluable and are a primary facet of the comparative theology that Clooney embodies. On a less public note, when my husband and I were considering godparents for our second child, we knew that a dear Hindu friend would be godmother. She has been, for me, a source of constant inspiration and a theological home for over twenty years. We were delighted to ask her to be godmother, and she was moved by the request. But then, she was skeptical and nervous about the baptism itself. Would she be asked to lie, and profess a renunciation of Satan and belief in Jesus Christ? We assured her that this would not be the case, that only the Catholic godparent would profess these beliefs, and we immediately knew that Francis Clooney would be our celebrant. After discussing the situation with him, he was happy to baptize our son and to include a Hindu godmother, even inviting her to trace the symbol of Ōm on the baby’s forehead while the Catholic godparent traced a cross. She felt welcome, honored, and included in the baptism in a powerful way that celebrated her Hindu identity. Just as she has been a support for me in my Christian identity, she committed to doing so for our son. This is exactly the heart of comparative theology. The clear invitation to a religious “other” to be present, involved, and play a key role in a Christian baptism was the most palpable example of comparative theology in which I have participated. Here I directly experienced the intersection of Clooney’s methodology and ministry. As if this were not powerful enough, he also invited me to speak during his homily about my experience as a Catholic woman baptizing her child. Our community was deeply moved by Father Clooney’s words and example of inviting other voices into the sanctuary instead of only amplifying his own. I am eternally grateful to have him as a mentor, methodological guide, and minister in my life and in the life of my family, and I had no idea of the transformation that would begin as I embarked on the comparative theological journey over a decade ago. Clooney not only shows us how to do comparative theology, but how to be through comparative theology, and he constantly opens the way for us to chart our own paths, take intuitive leaps, and trust our insight as we hope to grow ever closer to the love that is divine.

References Clooney, F.X. (2001). Hindu God, Christian God: How Reason Helps Break Down the Boundaries between Religions. New York: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary. New  York: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008). The Truth, the Way, the Life: Christian Commentary on the Three Holy Mantras of the Srivaisnava Hindus. Leuven: Peeters. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2013). His Hiding Place is Darkness: A Hindu–Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.



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Clooney, F.X. (2018). Learning Interreligiously: In the Text, in the World. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Cornille, C. (2020). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley Blackwell. Gebara, I. (2014). Daily life challenges as the criterion for biblical and feminist theological ­hermeneutics. In: Faith and Feminism: Ecumenical Essays (ed. B.D. Lipsett and P. Trible), pp. 203–216. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Gebara, I. (2017). Women’s suffering, climate injustice, God, and Pope Francis’s theology: Some insights from Brazil. In: Planetary Solidarity: Global Women’s Voices on Christian Doctrine and Climate Justice (ed. G.J.-­S. Kim and H.P. Koster), pp. 67–80. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Harris, M.L. (2017). Ecowomanism: African American Women and Earth-­Honoring Faiths. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Roy, A. (1999). The Cost of Living. New York: Modern Library.

CHAPTER 11

Performance and Engagement Reconsidering Religious Experience in Contemporary Comparative Theology Reid B. Locklin

In a provocative early article entitled “A Universal Religious Experience?” James Fredericks critiqued the so-­called turn to experience in addressing questions of religious diversity (1995). In this piece, Fredericks traces the idea of a universal, “ineffable” experience at the foundation of particular religious claims from Friedrich Schleiermacher in the nineteenth century to late modern thinkers such as Bernard Lonergan, John Hick, Nishida Kitarō, and Fazlur Raman, among others (pp. 68–75). Fredericks acknowledges the irenic and apologetic allure of an appeal to experience. Ultimately, however, he finds it unsupported by empirical evidence, unhelpful in fostering interreligious relations and logically incoherent (pp. 75–77). As a more fruitful alternative, Fredericks highlights the potential of a then-­nascent  – or, at least, apparently nascent (see Locklin and Nicholson 2010) – discipline of comparative theology (Fredericks 1995, pp. 82–87). Frederick’s fellow Jesuit and comparativist, Francis X. Clooney, shares many of these suspicions about universalist theories. In his landmark 1993 study, Theology after Vedānta, Clooney delimits the contemporary discipline of comparative theology in part by its “resistance to generalizations about religion,” and he famously calls for a “patient deferral of issues of truth” (Clooney 1993, pp. 8, 187–188). Similarly, in his more recent Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics, he draws on Wittgenstein to propose a method of study that resists “generality,” “explanation,” “myth-­ making,” and artificially precise definitions (Clooney 2019, pp. 107–111). It seems fair to venture that Clooney has not wavered from a conviction first articulated in 1991, and quoted approvingly by Fredericks, that “it is the idea itself of the grand explanatory theory – and not any particular version of it, liberal or conservative, theological or secular – that is a real contemporary stumbling block” to full and fruitful engagement with religious pluralism (Clooney  1991, p.  483; Fredericks 1995, p. 84). Certainly, then, Clooney resists the tendency to universalize. But what about the narrower question of religious experience? Here, it would seem, Clooney’s resistance to generalities extends The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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not only to what he affirms, but also to what he is willing to rule out. For, across his writings, he frequently appeals to the possibility, and sometimes even the necessity, of some form of experiential transformation. Thus, at the conclusion of his comparative reading of Louis de Montfort and Maṇavāḷamāmuni in Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics, Clooney exhorts his audience to “be instructed twice over, learn the truth twice over, be smitten twice over by beauty” and, in short, to become “caught up in the loves they have read” (2019, p. 150). This is not a general theory of religious experience – note the plural “loves” – but neither does it seem hostile to making an appeal to such experience as a possible bridge across boundaries of religious difference. In this chapter, I attempt to shed new light on the place of religious experience in Clooney’s work and the contemporary discipline of comparative theology. In the first section, I dig a bit more deeply into religious experience in Clooney’s comparative work. Then, in two subsequent sections, I attempt a creative retrieval of “liberative” or “nondual” experience in the Hindu tradition of Advaita Vedānta, focusing on the ongoing reception of Ramana Maharshi’s Upadeśa Sāram and its possible reinterpretation as a form of performance, in terms made familiar by Judith Butler. Finally, I return to Clooney’s work and the contemporary discipline of comparative theology to rethink experiential transformation as a critical element in the performative construction of a new, comparative self.

Helplessly Ignatian? Francis Clooney on Religious Experience(s) One of the chapters of Clooney’s introductory survey, Comparative Theology, consists of a lightly edited plenary address given at the 2003 annual meeting of the Catholic Theological Society of America (2010, pp. 87–108). In this address, revealingly titled “Learning to See,” Clooney draws from the book he was writing at that time (2005) to offer a meditation on Mary in Catholic devotion, informed by Hindu goddess traditions, the Qur’an, and the writings of Sojourner Truth. At one point, midway through this meditation, he stops to reflect on his learning process: “I did not find in the [Marian hymn] Stabat Mater a theory about how Mary, her son, and God are to be understood. Rather, after thinking about Laksmi and Devi, I found a path of transformative vision” (Clooney 2010, p. 95). This characterization of the learning process, in turn, resonates with one of the “presuppositions” of comparative theology as a scholarly discipline, enumerated elsewhere in the same volume: The intellectual and affective dimensions of a relationship to God are accessible through words, in language. Coming to know God in this richer way proceeds valuably through the study of our own tradition, but also in the study of other traditions. (Clooney 2010, p. 115)

Together, the themes of “transformative vision” and “intellectual and affective relationship” ­provide useful entry points for engaging Clooney on the question of religious experience. Both passages speak about the consequences of interreligious study in vivid, experiential terms, while also highlighting the importance of textual mediation in effecting such transformation. Clooney develops these themes most fully in relation to the particular Hindu tradition that, arguably, has preoccupied him most throughout his scholarly career: that is, the south Indian tradition of Śrıv̄ aiṣṇavism. In the early study Seeing Through Texts (1996), for example, Clooney focuses on the “desire to see” the divine beloved, in the ninth-­century Tamil devotional poem, the Tiruvāymoḻi (pp. 109–111, 127–144). Slowly, step by step, he draws the reader into this text and its commentarial tradition with the intention that they “might indeed experience what one has been talking about, and one might then have to respond accordingly, or at least consciously refuse

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to do so” (p. 309). Again, in his treatment of Andal in the popular volume Hindu Wisdom for All God’s Children, Clooney writes of longing for God, and the possibility that such longing might manifest “a palpable experience of God,” as it did for the Hindu saint (1998, p. 63). In Beyond Compare (2008a) and His Hiding Place is Darkness (2014), Clooney returns to Śrı ̄vaiṣṇava tradition to develop a more systematic strategy of “intensification,” whereby one’s own spiritual practice and affective surrender to God are deepened through interreligious study (see esp. Clooney  2008a, pp. 182–188; Cornille 2020, pp. 116–121). “Now unsettled by both texts,” he writes with reference to Francis de Sales and Vedānta Deśika, “she or he comes closer to the precipice of a real act of loving surrender” (Clooney 2008a, p. 186). It should be noted that Clooney never generalizes these reflections into a universal theory. “There is no overarching theory,” he writes in Hiding Place, “that can entirely stabilize the intense poetic and dramatic particularities of traditions” (Clooney 2014, p. 44). He is even more explicit about this in Seeing Through Texts, denying “an experiential basis for interreligious communication” or even any particular interest on his part in “large questions about mystical experience.” Instead, My concern here is to invite interested readers to enter into this project of reading back and forth across religious boundaries, with texts as powerful and inviting as these; these readers can then estimate the possibilities and limits of such commitments, in practice. (Clooney 1996, p. 277)

Stated differently, Clooney does not aim to talk directly about religious experience(s); he intends to provoke such experience(s) in the persons of his readers. This has the paradoxical effect of rendering such experience even more profoundly “ineffable,” as Fredericks would have it (1995, pp. 70, 76–77), insofar as it is positioned beyond even Clooney’s own scholarly prose. In terms he develops to talk about the quite different tradition of Advaita Vedānta, the implied religious experience(s) emerge “after” the text, lurking beyond the reach of language and yet accessible through skillful, engaged textual interpretation (1993, pp. 119–129). I will have a bit more to say about Clooney’s account of Advaita in the next section. To conclude this discussion, however, it may be useful to ask why experiential transformation, ineffable as it may be, looms so large in his comparative project. In part, this can simply be attributed to the texts he chooses to study and their particular vision(s) of experiencing God (e.g., Clooney  1996, pp. 127–132). But it may also have something to do with his Jesuit formation. Clooney frequently appeals to early Jesuit missionaries as important exemplars for contemporary interreligious ­dialogue and study (2002, 2010, pp. 26–30, 2017, pp. 21–46). More deeply, in Seeing Through Texts, Jesuit founder Ignatius of Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises is introduced as a significant Christian “intertext” engaging questions of spiritual vision (1996, pp.  277–284). And, in “Learning to See” – where we began this section – Clooney reflects that: Sojourner’s enlightenment and her words about it . . . can hardly be surpassed in their power to illuminate the whole of our Christian experience. She explains to me very clearly what we Jesuits have been trying to say for centuries about the discernment of spirits and the freedom God gives to those who pay attention. (Clooney 2010, p. 103)

Finally, in the introduction to Beyond Compare, Clooney describes his first encounter with the Tiruvāymoḻi in terms of its resonance with his Jesuit vow, as well as the famous prayer of St Ignatius (2008a, pp. 3–4). References like these, though passing, suggest that Clooney attends to experience and affective transformation in his comparative work because they stand at the core of his own traditioned



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identity, shaped by the Spiritual Exercises and Ignatius’s vision of contemplative discernment. “Even as I was writing Seeing Through Texts,” he reflects a decade later, “I was also (re)discovering dimensions of my own experience” as a Catholic, and especially as a member of the Society of Jesus (2008a, p. 3).

Annihilating the Mind? Swami Tejomayananda’s Talks on Ramana Maharshi Be this as it may, the fact remains that Clooney gives significant attention to experiential aspects of Christian and Hindu traditions, individually and in comparison. This is true, moreover, not only in his treatments of Śrıv̄ aiṣṇa theism, but also in his engagement of the nondualist tradition of Advaita Vedānta. In two places, for instance, Clooney draws attention to the lavish account of the realized, liberated consciousness in the Advaita classic, the Vivekacū ḍāmaṇi (1998, pp.  20–30, 2001). In Hindu Wisdom, moreover, he identifies the celebrated sage Ramana Maharshi (1879– 1950) as an example of such nondual realization in practice (1998, pp. 30–32). Ramana came to know his identity as the ever-­liberated self of all beings not through any “mere intellectual process” but suddenly and “vividly as living truth, a matter of indubitable and direct experience” (quoted in Clooney 1998, p. 31). Clooney draws a comparison from Ramana to the biblical figure of Saul of Tarsus, whose unexpected experience of Christ on the road to Damascus transformed him into the Apostle Paul (1998, p. 32). Clooney appears to take Ramana Maharshi’s account of his experience more or less at face value, as a transparent illustration of general Advaita claims about liberation. On the one hand, this comports well with how Ramana is represented by many of his disciples and scholarly admirers. Arvind Sharma describes him as “the chief spokesman of experiential Advaita” (1993, p. xiv), and Mahadevan writes that, “To know Ramaṇa is to be Ramaṇa. To be Ramaṇa is to have the plenary experience of non-­duality” (1967, p. 153). Thomas Forsthoefel takes this a step further, identifying the transcultural appeal of Ramana Maharshi with the intrinsic character of his experiential claim: What we see is a genuine universalism that follows from a harmony of Advaita theory and practice: the theory is the metaphysic of non-­dualism and the practice is a decisive internalist epistemology of religious experience. The result is a form of Advaita that transcends the social and cultural settings of South Asia. (Forsthoefel 2002, p. 155)

On this reading, even if Ramana may not be fully representative of Advaita Vedānta as a social movement, he uniquely embodies its universal appeal through his teaching on direct, interior experience. Indeed, among the Advaita teachers that have gained a global following, Ramana is somewhat unique in “authorizing” several teaching lineages in the West with little or no historical connection to him or the ashram community that grew around him (see Lucas 2011). On the other hand, if Ramana’s appeal to nondual experience is truly universal, one might expect some consistency in the ways that it is received and represented in the wider Advaita tradition. But it turns out that this is not at all clear. To get a sense of how Ramana has been received, inspired both by the limitations of space and Clooney’s own scholarly practice, I turn to one particular example: namely, a lecture series by Swami Tejomayananda of the Chinmaya Mission, under the title Talks on Upadesha Sara of Bhagavan Ramana Maharshi (2006). First, some context. The Upadeśa Sāram or Essence of the Teaching consists of thirty verses, which Ramana Maharshi composed in Tamil in 1927 and subsequently translated into Sanskrit, Telugu, and Malayalam (Ramana 2011). Devotees and commentators emphasize that these verses are not

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based on “second-­hand knowledge” but on Ramana ’s “direct experience” (in Ramana 2011, p. 87; emphasis in original). More interestingly for my purposes, the Upadeśa Sāram is regarded as a distinctively authoritative record of this experience, because – unlike Ramana’s other writings – it was composed in a single sitting (Sastri 1989, pp. 1–2). Its unique stature is attested, at least in part, by the role that it has come to play beyond the direct legacy of Ramana Maharshi. Thus, the founder of the Chinmaya Mission, Swami Chinmayananda (1916–1993), included the Upadeśa Sāram alongside the Upaniṣads and other classical Advaita texts in his public teaching and in the distinctive “scheme of study” he developed for lay members of his movement (see Chinmayananda [1975] 2000, p. 192). It is this process of reception that sets the stage for Swami Tejomayananda’s Talks. In these six lectures, delivered in Jacksonville, Florida, before an audience of devotees in mid-­July 2005, Tejomayananda  – at that time, head of the global mission  – offers a brief account of Ramana Maharshi’s life, praises him as among the greatest saints of the twentieth century, and characterizes the Upadeśa Sāram as a concise summary of the whole Advaita teaching, parallel to such classical treatises as Ā tma Bodha and Vivekacūḍāmaṇi (2006, Disc 1, introduction). A photograph of Ramana, adorned with an oil lamp and flower garland and reverenced along with Swami Chinmayananda at the beginning of each talk, presides serenely over the discussion from a position slightly to the left of Swami Tejomayananda’s raised platform. Visually, the silent sage has been folded seamlessly into the Chinmaya teaching tradition. In substance, Tejomayananda’s interpretation of the Upadeśa Sāram coheres at many points with what one would expect from direct disciples of the Maharshi. For example, Tejomayananda notes that the text takes a broadly inclusive view of different spiritual paths, suitable for different temperaments, while also insisting that the goal of all such paths is self-­knowledge and mental abidance in ātman (2006, Disc 1, v. 1, Disc 3, v. 10, Disc 6, introduction). Likewise, he employs the analogy of sun and clouds to illustrate how the divine self of all beings emerges spontaneously upon the cessation of the “I-­thought” and sense of individual identity (2006, Disc 4, v. 20), which is a frequent theme in Ramana’s teaching (e.g., Sastri 1989, 24, 47). At the same time, Swami Tejomayananda also translates Ramana’s teaching into language that is more amenable to the middle-­class lay devotees that define the Chinmaya movement. The Updeśa Sāram speaks at several points about achieving a serene meditative state, and the commentators specify this state as nirvikalpa samādhi, the highest level of mental concentration in the discipline of yoga (e.g., Ramana 2011, pp. 107–108, 113–114). Tejomayananda, however, compares this contemplative state to coming home exhausted after a busy day at work: eventually, the thought of sleep overpowers and even “swallows” any other thoughts (2006, Disc 3, v. 9). Similarly, he describes the “vision of truth” that follows from self-­knowledge as a kind of “sleepless sleep . . . where the mind is totally withdrawn from everything, but not gone to sleep – awake” (2006, Disc 4, v. 16, quotation at 11:13). These analogies do not directly contradict anything in the Upadeśa Sāram, but they do have the tendency to domesticate liberative, nondual experience by reducing it to familiar categories. When it comes to accounting for the precise character of this experience, more tension emerges between text and interpreter. For, in Upadeśa Sāram, Ramana Maharshi describes the experience of liberation in terms of the mind’s “annihilation” (vināśana), its “going to destruction” (nāśam-­eti), or the attainment of a completely “destroyed mind” (naṣṭa-­mānasa; Ramana 2011, pp. 112–114). Similarly, the divine “I-­I” is described as shining forth in its own self-­illuminating nature upon the collapse (pat-­) or annihilation (nāśa-­bhāj) of the individual sense of “I” (Ramana 2011, pp. 119– 120). Commentators in Ramana Maharshi’s direct legacy tend to take such descriptions quite literally. “When by repeated practice we are able to maintain self-­scrutinizing attentiveness without forgetfulness,” writes Michael James in his commentary on the Tamil original of the text, “our



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mind will eventually sink into the core of our being, where we will experience the infinite clarity of true self-­knowledge” (in Ramana 2011, p. 50). Swami Tejomayananda is more reserved. Where Ramana describes a mind that is “annihilated” or “dead” (mṛta) in verse 13 of the Upadeśa Sāram, for example, Tejomayananda draws a critical distinction between the “factual” mind, which processes the data of the senses, and the “ignorant” or “problematic” mind, which “goes on searching for all happiness in the outside world” and is consumed by likes and dislikes. It is only the problematic mind that dies with self-­knowledge, not the factual mind. This permits self-­knowers to continue recognizing their spouses and children and receiving paychecks to support them. “The destruction of mind,” he explains, “does not mean that the very perception [and] recollection is gone, but [that] the search is gone” (2006, Disc 3, v. 13, quotation at 57:30). The true enlightened yogῑ is one whose mind is “awakened to its own true self, so this problem-­making mind is gone” (2006, Disc 3, v. 15, quotation at 1:04:10). So also in his comment on another verse, Tejomayananda notes that there is no difficulty with our empirical mind, except for our assumptions about its enduring reality. “So when it is said that there is no mind, what you mean is that there is no mind that is absolutely real.” The empirical mind remains unchanged, as it were, except that it no longer needs to be preoccupied with its many problems (2006, Disc 4, v. 17, quotation at 25:31). The Upadeśa Sāram’s teaching on the annihilation of the mind appears, on the face of it and in the commentaries in Ramana Maharshi’s direct lineage, to refer to a particular experiential state of mystical detachment, achieved in the process of self-­inquiry. In the teaching of Swami Tejomayananda, through his commentarial practice, the account of this experiential state has been transposed into an entirely different register – a more cognitive and psychological idiom of firm conviction, mature detachment, and the serenity that follows therefrom. One’s thoughts and sense of individuality do not actually cease, experientially; they just cease to be troubling for the authentic knower of the self. To conclude the present discussion, we can briefly note a further movement along this trajectory by another prominent Advaita teacher, Swami Dayananda Saraswati (1930–2015). Dayananda received his formation with Swami Tejomayananda in the Chinmaya Mission but eventually broke away to found his own movement. In his own Talks on Upadesa Sāram, first published in 1975, he goes to great lengths to refute any purely experiential interpretation of Ramana Maharshi’s teaching. “Elimination of thoughts is not knowledge,” he contends in one place, “it is not self-­discovery” (1987, p.  79). At another point, reflecting on Ramana’s description of the mind’s annihilation, Dayananda introduces and disposes of a possible objection: How to remove self-­ignorance? They say, “You transcend the mind and the Self will reveal itself.” Self is unopposed to ignorance; it is already revealed but is not recognised. That you are ignorant, is known to you. By transcending the mind, you get stoned or fall asleep . . . Thoughts are never totally transcended. Even if they are transcended what happens after transcending the mind? Nothing. (1987, p. 65)

It is hard not to read Dayananda here as contending more or less directly against Ramana ’s received legacy, if not the great sage himself. Indeed, Dayananda writes derisively about what he calls “‘submarine’ philosophy,” a school of thought that imagines the divine ātman as “a submarine to surface out from the debris of thoughts” (1987, p. 92). “Neither absence of thoughts is enlightenment nor their presence bondage . . . Negating all thoughts is a good experience but does not enlighten” (1987, pp. 92–93). So much, it would seem, for the “genuine universalism” of Ramana Maharshi and his appeal to direct, interior experience as a means of liberation.

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Performance and Engagement: Rethinking Religious Experience in Advaita Vedānta Of course, there are multiple ways to account for the differences among Ramana Maharshi, his direct disciples, Swami Tejomayananda, and Swami Dayananda on the interpretation of nondual experience. It is possible that Tejomayananda and Dayananda have failed to understand Ramana or to verify his teaching in their own experience.1 Or, perhaps, precisely because the experience of liberation is ineffable, it will generate such diverse descriptions that they inevitably seem to contradict one another. “Any conception that we may form in our mind about this state of true self-­knowledge is inaccurate,” insists the Ramanasramam commentator Michael James, “because it is an attempt to conceive the inconceivable. Likewise any words that we use to describe it are inadequate, because they are an attempt to define the indefinable” (in Ramana 2011, p. 41). Both of these explanations – which basically ask us either to make an arbitrary preferential judgment or to suspend judgment altogether – are possible. But they are uncreative. It seems more useful to me to attempt some positive, constructive account of religious experience in this Advaita debate, inclusive of teachers’ diversity and difference. To do this, I suggest, we might make productive use of a category that Clooney occasionally deploys in his own work: that is, “performance.” Now, Clooney often invokes the language of “practice” to describe his scholarly approach, arguing that comparative theology is fundamentally a practical discipline, in which new insight is found in the doing of comparison rather than through the a priori construction of grand theories (e.g., Clooney 1993, pp. 9–14, 2010, pp. 57–68). At points, he takes this characteristic emphasis a step further. In Seeing Through Texts, for example, he muses that “a full understanding of Tiruvāymoḻi is a very practical affair, a matter of desire, conversation, insight and service to be achieved in one’s present moment, for this is a text to be performed, not merely admired” (1996, p.  253). And, through the three-­act structure of Hiding Place (2014), readers are invited to engage the comparative study in the explicit mode of poetic performance. So far, so good. But what about a debate over ineffable, interior experience, played out in public across the thirty verses of the Upadeśa Sāram? Might this also be fruitfully approached through the lens of performance? Few thinkers have probed the connection between subjective interiority and exterior performance more deeply than the American philosopher Judith Butler. In her famous – or infamous – Gender Trouble (1990), Butler argued for a performative understanding of gendered or sexed identity. In an earlier article, she offers the following concise summary of her claim: [G]ender is in no way a stable identity or locus of agency from which various acts proceed; rather it is an identity tenuously constituted in time – an identity instituted through a stylized repetition of acts . . . Significantly, if gender is instituted through acts, which are internally discontinuous, then the appearance of substance is precisely that, a constructed identity, a performative accomplishment which the mundane social audience, including the actors themselves, come to believe and to perform in the mode of belief. (Butler 1988, pp. 519–520)

Butler does not mean by this emphasis on performativity that “one woke in the morning, perused the closet or some more open space for the gender of choice, donned that gender for a day, and then restored the garment to its place at night” (1993, p. ix). At some risk of oversimplification, one might venture that, for Butler, persons are indeed embodied in specific ways, and that we receive our bodies inscribed within a “framework of intelligibility” that assigns gender to these particularities (Brady and Schirato 2011, p. 47).



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At the same time, this framework is not ontological but social and performative, consisting of a continual repetition of “bodily gestures, movements, and enactments of various kinds” that “constitute the illusion of an abiding gendered self ” (Butler  1988, p.  519). Hence, it is ambivalent, discontinuous, and unstable, as also are the gendered bodies and the subjectivities it manifests (Brady and Schirato 2011, p. 48). “My account of myself is partial,” reflects Butler in a later work, “haunted by that for which I can devise no definitive story . . . There is that in me and of me for which I can give no account” (2005, p. 40). Setting aside for another day the remarkable congruence between Butler’s account of personal subjectivity and Advaita teachings on the empirical self, the link she draws between performance and identity offers a fruitful lens for reconsidering nondual experience in contemporary Vedānta. Butler’s own interest, particularly in earlier works, is gender identity. But there is no reason that the same analytic tools could not be applied to other aspects of self-­construction. Thus, Saba Mahmood has drawn creatively on Butler to explore how members of a mosque movement in Cairo embody female modesty or shyness (al-­ḥayā’) as a performative practice of self-­cultivation (2006). Mahmood argues that this kind of performance is neither purely docile nor intentionally subversive, as some versions of Butler’s theory might require; instead, it presupposes a distinctive “model of subjectivity” (2006, p.  192). On the one hand, this model reverses common sense notions of “interiority and exteriority,” insofar as “a modest bodily form (the veiled body) did not simply express the self ’s interiority but was the means by which it was acquired” (2006, p. 199). On the other hand, it also takes shape through public contestation in which all parties agree on modesty but disagree about such particulars as the role of the veil in its embodied performance (2006, pp. 192–193). Helpfully for the theologian, one purpose of Mahmood’s intervention is to divest Butler’s thought of its tendency toward reductionism and to approach informants’ efforts to cultivate a “pious self ” with seriousness and respect (Mahmood 2006, pp. 178–180, 182–187). So too in the case of Swami Tejomayananda’s Talks, I believe it is possible to think about a trope like the “annihilation of the mind” in terms of performativity, without thereby invalidating its religious value or reducing it to a purely social phenomenon. Here, the ineffable experience of liberation emerges as a site of negotiation in a shared project of cultivating an Advaita self, that is, a selfless self whose self-­identity rests completely in the divine self of all beings (see Todd 2013). That such a model of subjectivity would have profound experiential consequences seems obvious and inevitable. This is evident in the extraordinary life pattern of Ramana Maharshi, revered by all the Advaitins treated in this chapter, and even Swami Dayananda appeals in an oblique way to ordinary and extraordinary experiences of nonduality to make his case (see Dayananda 1987, pp. 13–14, 47–48, 68). Liberative experience is real, but its reality is performative, manifested in and through embodied practices of self-­enquiry, meditation, public lecture, scriptural commentary, and even spirited debate about the place and purpose of experience itself. In her own critical appropriation of postmodern cultural theory, the Anglican theologian Kathryn Tanner has proposed thinking about Christian identity not in terms of shared values or beliefs, but in terms of the shared task of discipleship and an “extended argument” about the significance of Jesus and the life of faith (1997, pp. 123–124, 151–155, quotation on p. 154). Put succinctly, the “materials of tradition” are “less a focus for common agreement in Christianity than a focus of common investment and engagement” (Tanner 2002, p. 309). So, too, we can think of the experience of nonduality as a shared “focus of common investment and engagement” in Advaita tradition. Advaitins do not agree on the nature of such experience or its importance on the path of liberation. Instead, they offer diverse interpretations, and they argue with one another, and in so doing they engage in a shared, transformative performance of the Advaita self.

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Conclusion: Performing a Comparative Self Some readers may wonder if I have wandered too far into the realm of theory and thereby violated the precepts set down by Clooney and Fredericks at the beginning of this chapter. Perhaps. Yet, it is worth noting that Clooney does not hesitate to deploy theory if and when it genuinely advances his engagement of the Hindu traditions under investigation. He is judicious in making such interventions, but they occur at crucial points in his interpretations. The list of theorists given pride of place is eclectic: the theologian George Lindbeck in Theology after Vedānta (Clooney  1993, pp.  115–118); the literary theorist Charles Altieri in Beyond Compare (Clooney 2008a, pp. 133–139); the poet Jorie Graham in His Hiding Place is Darkness (Clooney 2014, pp. 36–44); and, of course, the philosopher Wittgenstein in Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics (Clooney  2019, pp.  105–117). In one commentarial volume, he even authorizes the construction of theologies of religions, so long as such constructions remain strictly local, rooted in particular texts and comparative engagements (Clooney  2008b, pp. 183–185). To recall the title of Clooney’s 2003 plenary address, comparativists can and should use whatever tools help them to “learn to see.” Theory only becomes problematic when it fails to function properly as theoria – that is, when we get so lost in the realm of pure theory that it distracts us from truly seeing the particularities of another tradition. What, then, does the theory of Judith Butler and her interlocutors help us to see more clearly? In the case of an event like Swami Tejomayananda’s Talks, it encourages us to seek the experience of liberation in the performance, in the embodied space created by the teacher on the raised platform, the presiding mūrtis of Ramana Maharshi and Swami Chinmayananda, the recitation of the Upadeśa Sāram verses, the commentarial discourse, and the gathered assembly of lay disciples in northern Florida. In this sense, it is perhaps too simple to locate the “experience of nonduality” beneath or beyond the performative practice of commentary, dialogue, and debate. On the contrary. Nondual experience is what shapes Advaita practices of teaching and intertextual citation, while also being continually reinvented by them. Advaita Vedānta is, from one point of view, nothing other than a perduring, experiential, and productively unstable performance of the nondual self (see Locklin  2018). There is no separating the experience of nonduality from its embodied performance.2 If this rings true as a description of Advaita Vedānta, it also has significant consequences for understanding contemporary comparative theology, at least as envisioned by Francis Clooney. At one point in Seeing Through Texts, Clooney steps out of the main exposition to narrate his own personal history, leading up to and informing the comparative study. At the conclusion of this section, he reflects that “this book is biographical and bibliographical at the same time and, after a manner of speaking, even biological. It is about how one is alive, or enlivened, by reading and seeing” (1996, p. 47). Reading this reflection with the help of Swami Tejomayananda and Judith Butler, one might venture to say that the practice of comparative theology evokes and constructs a certain form of embodied selfhood. The question of transformative experience arises not as something that happens to this self, but as that which constitutes or “enlivens” it in a sense not far from biological. In this sense, experiential transformation is both absolutely central to the comparative theological project, and  – precisely because of its centrality  – impossible to define or isolate from other elements. One becomes a comparative self through an experiential process of performance and engagement, a process of “reading and seeing” across boundaries of religious difference. Religious experience neither transcends nor emerges as the endpoint of such comparative engagement. It is part and parcel of the practices themselves, as a continual, embodied performance of the comparative self.



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Notes 1 Though, for the record, this reader finds the accounts of Tejomayananda and Dayananda far more persuasive, relative to those teachers in Ramana Maharshi’s direct lineage. 2 For a vivid and persuasive example, see Joël Dubois’s excellent ethnographic study of Advaita practice at the influential Śṛṅgeri maṭh (2013).

References Brady, A. and Schirato, T. (2011). Understanding Judith Butler. London: SAGE. Butler, J. (1988). Performative acts and gender constitution: An essay in phenomenology and feminist theory. Theatre Journal 40 (4): 519–531. Butler, J. (1990). Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge. Butler, J. (1993). Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex.” New York: Routledge. Butler, J. (2005). Giving an Account of Oneself. New York: Fordham University Press. Chinmayananda, Swami. ([1975] 2000). A Manual of Self-­ Unfoldment. Mumbai, India: Central Chinmaya Mission Trust. Clooney, F.X. (1991). The study of non-­Christian religions in the post-­Vatican II Roman Catholic Church. Journal of Ecumenical Studies 28 (3): 482–494. Clooney, F.X. (1993). Theology after Vedānta: An Experiment in Comparative Theology. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (1996). Seeing Through Texts: Doing Theology Among the Śrīvaiṣṇavas of South India. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (1998). Hindu Wisdom for All God’s Children. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Clooney, F.X. (2002). A charism for dialogue: Advice from the early Jesuit missionaries in our world of religious pluralism. Studies in the Spirituality of Jesuits 34 (2): 1–39. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary. New  York: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008a). Beyond Compare: St Francis de Sales and Śrı̄ Vedānta Deśika on Loving Surrender to God. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008b). The Truth, the Way, the Life: Christian Commentary on the Three Holy Mantras of the Śrı̄vaiṣṇava Hindus. Leuven, Netherlands: Peeters. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2014). His Hiding Place Is Darkness: A Hindu-­Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2017). The Future of Hindu–Christian Studies: A Theological Inquiry. London: Routledge. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Clooney, F.X. with Nicholson, H. (2001). To be heard and done, but never quite seen: The human condition according to the Vivekacuˉḍāmaṇi. In: The Human Condition (ed. R.C. Neville), pp. 73–99. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Cornille, C. (2020). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Hoboken, NY: Wiley. Dayananda Saraswati, Swami (1987). Talks on Upadesa Saram (Essence of the Teaching) of Ramana Maharshi. Rishikesh, India: Sri Gangdhareshwar Trust. Dubois, J.A. (2013). The Hidden Lives of Brahman: Śaṅkara’s Vedānta through His Upaniṣad Commentaries, in Light of Contemporary Practice. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Forsthoefel, T.A. (2002). Knowing Beyond Knowledge: Epistemologies of Religious Experience in Classical and Modern Advaita. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate. Fredericks, J.L. (1995). A universal religious experience? Comparative theology as an alternative to a theology of religions. Horizons 22 (1): 67–87.

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Locklin, R.B. (2018). Ritual renunciation and/or ritual innovation: Re-­describing Advaita tradition. In: Ritual Innovation in South Asian Religions (ed. A. Allocco and B. Pennington), pp. 91–108. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Locklin, R.B. and Nicholson, H. (2010). The return of comparative theology. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 78 (2): 477–514. https://doi.org/10.1093/jaarel/lfq017. Lucas, P.C. (2011). When a movement is not a movement: Ramana Maharshi and Neo-­Advaita in North America. Nova Religio 15 (2): 93–114. https://doi.org/10.1525/nr.2011.15.2.93. Mahadevan, T.M.P. (1967). Ramaṇa Maharshi and His Philosophy of Existence, 2nd ed. Tiruvannamalai, India: Sri Ramanasramam. Mahmood, S. (2006). Agency, performativity, and the feminist subject. In: Bodily Citations: Religion and Judith Butler (ed. E. Armour and S. St Ville), pp. 177–221. New York: Columbia University Press. Ramana Maharshi (2011). Upadesa Saram (The Essence of Spiritual Instruction) The complete version in four languages composed by Sri Bhagavan (in Tamil, Sanskrit, Telugu, and Malayalam), with transliteration, word-for-word meaning, paraphrase and commentary. Tiruvannamalai, India: Sri Ramanasramam. Sastri, D.M. (1989). Sri Maharshi’s Way: A Translation and a Commentary on Upadesa Saram. Tiruvannamalai, India: Sri Ramanasramam. Sharma, A. (1993). The Experiential Dimension of Advaita Vedanta. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Tanner, K. (1997). Theories of Culture: A New Agenda for Theology. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Tanner, K. (2002). Editorial symposium: Roman Catholic theology of tradition. Horizons 29 (2): 303–311. Tejomayananda, Swami. (2006). Talks on Upadesha Sara by Bhagavan Ramana Maharshi (DVD), 6 discs. Langhorne, PA: Chinmaya Publications West. Todd, W.L. (2013). The Ethics of Śaṅkara and Śāntideva: A Selfless Response to an Illusory World. Burlington, UK: Ashgate.

CHAPTER 12

A Fowlerian Perspective on the Faith of the Comparativist Erik Ranstrom

James Fowler’s (1940–2015) influential stage theory of faith development, made prolific in the landmark text Stages of Faith (Fowler 1995), offers key insights into the psychospiritual profile of the comparative reader. A case will be made in this chapter that Fowler’s exposition of Stage 5, known as Conjunctive Faith, illuminates Clooney’s description of the comparative theologian functioning religiously (in relationship to the faith tradition), spiritually (in relationship to the ultimate reality in its vertical and horizontal dimensions), and psychologically (in relationship to the self). It will be argued that these dynamics of the comparative theologian are more readily visible through the psycho-­cognitive-­social lens of Fowler’s faith development theory than through either systematic theology or theology of religions, the latter of which is frequently paired to Clooney’s work. Reading Clooney in light of Fowler also substantiates the argument that a certain stance toward the religious other is expressive of a mature Christian identity. Fowler moves in this direction in his later works on pastoral theology that extend the salience of his faith stages into the praxis of Christian living in a public context. In addition to serving as a hermeneutical resource, Fowler’s stage theory, which has had its critics, stands as well to be challenged by Clooney’s comparative theology. This is especially the case in relation to the problematic norming of the neoliberal “view from nowhere” arguably embedded within Stage 6, Universalizing Faith. The objective is not to assimilate Fowler’s system in its entirety to comparative theology, but to highlight where mutual enhancement is discernible. This study has been part of an ongoing theological reflection that began after transitioning from Assistant Professor of Theology and Religious Studies to a spiritual adviser in psychiatric and behavioral care. Grateful mention must be made of my collaboration with Donald Marks, Psy.D., of Kean University, for our edifying conversations and joint clinical work on human and faith development. As a theologian, I invariably do theology wherever I am, similar to the instinct that leads to interreligious or comparative work for those who cannot but carefully think through the meaning of their faith in religiously plural contexts. Doing theology within the behavioral health ambit,

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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I was drawn toward Fowler as a theologian who was in dialogue with developmental psychology, and attracted to his respectful learning of that tradition that brought him near to the spirit of a comparative theologian. Also similar to the comparative theologian, his research emanated from who he was as a person: a theologian with an open and capacious mind, eager to learn from intellectual systems beyond his Methodist identity, even outside of Christianity and theology, yet returning to that context with a fresh perspective. Fowler’s relevance to Clooney is made more intriguing by his alluding to a transformative encounter with the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius of Loyola that was, in part, the impetus for unearthing the very stage of faith in his system most resonant with comparative theology (i.e., Stage 5: Conjunctive Faith). The above bespeaks the appropriateness of interpreting Fowler as a scholar at home within the concerns and goals of Clooney’s comparative theology. My hope for this chapter is to show how Fowler offers a unique language and conceptualization for the integrity and complexity of the experience of faith undergirding and empowering the act of comparative theology, and how this model unveils the healing potential of comparative theology as a communal psychospiritual process in a time marked by increased polarization. Despite having defined myself more as a theologian of religions than a comparative theologian, I have utilized my training in comparative theology to make sense of my work in psychological contexts. There is a twofold realization in this movement. First, it highlights the profound and formational impact of Clooney’s comparative theology in my operative theological awareness, despite the latter not being foremost in my research. Second, my point of departure in theology of religions affords a unique vantage point on its limitations as a functional specialty to understand the concrete task of the comparative theologian. For this, a psychological insight into faith behavior is necessary, as opposed to a systematic understanding of religious truth claims. The Fowlerian perspective is capable of highlighting important contours of the functional specialty of comparative theology in its theological method, particularly as it pertains to the constitutive role of the comparativist’s psychospiritual condition. In what follows, I will first explain why theology of religions historically has been unable to appreciate the phenomenology of the faith act of comparative theology. Then, I will exposit salient aspects of Fowler’s Conjunctive Faith, and demonstrate how it enriches and expands an understanding of the comparative theologian as spiritual actor. Finally, I will propose how the Fowlerian perspective is itself challenged by Clooney, suggesting that comparative theology may represent a unique instance of the socially engaged Christian maturity extolled in Fowler’s later publications.

Fowlerian Pastoral Psychology as an Alternative to Theology of Religions As the relationship between theology of religions and comparative theology remains a contested issue despite newer proposals from Thatamanil (2020) and Schmidt-­Leukel (2017), it is instructive to re-­examine their differences through the prism of Fowlerian stage theory. Beginning with an acknowledgment of the central task of comparative theology as holding together a particular religious commitment and an openness to other traditions (Clooney 2010, p. 8), it becomes clear that the systematic, conceptual priorities of theologians of religions take precedence over maintaining this tension. Alleviation is pursued through recourse to various theological systematics that resolve a narratival void or doctrinal friction between Christianity and the religions, variously achieved through appeals to Scripture, metaphysics, modern or postmodern hermeneutics, or for inclusivists, some combination of the preceding elements.1 Thus, in the work of Protestant theologian George Sumner, there is a characteristic opting for relief from narratival ambiguity with appeal to Christian revelation and Scriptural “final primacy” (Sumner 2004, p. 16). Comparative



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theology, meanwhile, is not concerned with a description of reality using internal faith criteria that completes a world picture, but of maintaining the space of tension between self and other, between one’s home tradition and that of another tradition, in ways that render difference ­irreconcilable to a singular perspective. This, in turn, is required for the expansion of the comparative theologian’s imagination and experience of their own tradition, buoyed by conversion within the space of difference and recognition that must, by definition, remain an unresolved, and hence generative, tension. Fowler’s Conjunctive Faith, as will be shown below, delights in this paradox and unfurls additional layers of meaning that may be informative for comparative theology. This introduction of an alternative dialogue partner for comparative theology is not to denigrate the value of theology of religions, but to demonstrate that the Fowlerian perspective is more congruent with the importance of perspectivality for the comparativist. Clooney has written openly, and with sophisticated comment, on his own transformational experience reading texts from other traditions, drawing from these encounters a portrait of the spirituality of the comparativist. A prominent feature of comparative theology, classically distinguishing it from comparative religion, is the conscious awareness of how the comparative theologian is drawn to greater faith in one’s tradition through the study of another religious tradition. It is therefore concerned with the subject of the study as a theological locus of meaning (the scholar’s faith and development of faith) and not only the object of study (the religions compared). In other words, the spirituality of  the comparativist and their theological method are one and the same. A careful reading of Clooney’s comparative examples from across his canon bears this out; for example, he moves back and forth in the same text (Clooney 2005, 2008) between surrender in Christianity and Hinduism as the theme of the comparative theological study, to the comparative study itself as a form of surrender. Meanwhile, the theologian of religions as a spiritual actor is largely irrelevant to the production of theological meaning. To invoke Clooney’s use of the Anselmian formulation, it is the person of faith seeking understanding (fides qua) that defines the comparative theological pursuit, as opposed to faith – “the faith” (fides quae) – seeking understanding as its own ideational entity. The latter denotes an a-­personal ecclesiological abstraction but says little about the actual place that human persons find themselves in, the givenness of the world of plurality and religious difference. Another related difference lies in how the paradoxical action of committed openness and the evocation of this paradoxical space in the rhetoric of comparative theology stands in contrast to many theologies of religions and their foregrounding of the fulfilled, eschatological action of God. The “mutual asymmetrical complementarity” of Jacques Dupuis (2006, p. 136) comes close to naming this paradox within an eschatological Christology, but tilts decidedly in the direction of fulfillment Christology to the detriment of interreligious learning. More broadly for Dupuis and theology of religions, it is the theological systematics and not the person of the scholar and their psychological-­spiritual processes that are at stake in reflecting on other religions, unlike Clooney’s emphasis in comparative theology on the phenomenology of the reader existing within the texts of two or more religious traditions. Catherine Cornille (2019, p. 57) draws attention to a range of proposals in theology of religions under the category of “open inclusivism” that principally resist the foreclosure of the Christian narrative as predicated on incarnational (Panikkar 1981) or futurist eschatological (DiNoia 1992) foundations. Even still, such incarnational, ecclesiological, and eschatological considerations are primarily an attempt to revise systematic categories to stretch the Christian worldview to encompass other religions – a theological dilemma. The concern for comparative theology is the unfolding of commitment and openness in the person of the comparativist – a psychospiritual dilemma, which is also theological, but as a “praying theology.” Clooney enunciates the conditions for his comparative theology not in a prolegomenon ­justifying his study of other religions on systematic grounds, but in the asceticism of the comparativist. This asceticism is one of disciplined attentiveness in remaining available for comparative

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learning while continuing to affirm the fullness of the Christian creedal confession, preserving a nonreductive fullness in both the home and visited tradition. Clooney’s works are replete with this kind of ascetical discipline, and corresponding exhortations toward this discipline, particularly in popular texts and addresses to audiences of spiritual seekers or persons of faith (Clooney 2018). Significantly for the dialogue with Fowler, Clooney in these texts engages public readers who may be approaching comparative theology from various levels of openness to religious difference, or from a Fowlerian perspective, various levels of faith development. Encouragement to remain open to transformational learning through encounter with other religions may appear as an implicit theology of religions, but a closer look shows that, in actuality, they are affirmations of Christian identity expressed through negation relative to the possibility of comparative learning. In other words, they tell the reader what does not need to be believed if one holds to particular religious truths in the act of comparative theology. For example, when reflecting on the birth of Krishna during Advent, he states: “there is no reason why a Christian, pondering the meanings of Christ’s coming this Advent season, cannot learn greatly from how Hindus have interpreted the coming of Krishna into the world” (Clooney  2018, p.  11), and again, “the unique, irreplaceable truth of Christ cannot be damaged by the genuine and vulnerable appreciation for the wisdom and insight of Ramanuja into Krishna’s birth” (Clooney 2018, p. 9). Interestingly, Clooney leaves the tension unresolved about “what must be believed” about the religious other if the faith claims of one’s tradition are believed as truth, or if the other tradition is taken seriously as a theological resource. As will be outlined below, this apophatic move is fundamental to the logic of both comparative theology and Fowler’s Conjunctive Faith. Clooney’s restraint, I will argue, in prescinding from ontological and metaphysical judgments about one’s own tradition and other traditions is even more rigorously upheld than in Fowlerian theory, which is a remarkable conclusion given that the former, unlike the latter, robustly identifies itself as a theology. It is worth noting that Fowler describes something akin to a Christian theology of religions in the case study of a person transitioning to Conjunctive Faith in a “composite statement” synthesized from several of his interviewees: I have begun to understand in new ways that in Christ, God shows forth the divine purpose for all persons and nations. But paradoxically, this may not mean that all people have to come to know God in the way I, and we Christians, do. I believe that in Christ the character and purpose and love of God are made accessible to us in an unsurpassable way. Realizing this, and being committed to this, strangely opens me to the possibility that the character, purpose, and love of God – who is truly universal, may be expressed also in the profound parts of other religious traditions. (Fowler 2000, pp. 53–54)

What distinguishes this articulation of Christian faith in the context of religious plurality from most theologies of religions is the narratival focus on the development of the person. This could be a possible point of discernment in assessing whether theological proposals on other religions function to shore up religious boundaries in a rigid and defensive manner, or if they serve to increase principled interreligious flexibility. Clooney’s comparative theology is an even more fitting example of Conjunctive Faith as it enfolds within its own theological method an account of the comparativist in their psychospiritual movements, while also looking beyond this actor to the mediating textual worlds that transform the reader through surrender. Conjunctive Faith articulates this surrendered positionality within the context of an ego that has undergone effacement in relation to a mediating subconscious world manifest in symbolic language and primarily expressed through text, as in the capital “T” text of Clooney’s comparative milieu.



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In what follows below, I will outline a summary of the stages proximate to Conjunctive Faith in Fowler’s thought, and then bring Conjunctive Faith and Clooney’s comparative theology into mutually enriching conversation.

An Overview of Fowlerian Stage Theory Fowler had discussions with the major developmental psychologists of his time in writing his major text, Stages of Faith (Fowler 1995). His faith development theory synthesized Erikson’s psychosocial developmental model, Piaget’s cognitive developmental model, and Kohlberg’s moral developmental model, as these models in turn illuminated aspects of field interview data conducted with Christians along the life spectrum. Although Fowler’s modern bias in universalizing his theory to encompass all cultures and religions has been justly criticized, along with questions about the reliability of his research method, and the waning pertinence of stage theory in developmental psychology overall, he has, I would argue, a limited but valuable theological-­anthropological insight for comparative theology. For faith-­stage theory provides an intelligent mapping of the developmental spectrum for Western late modern and postmodern Christian self-­consciousness in a world of religious plurality. Following Piaget, Fowler’s faith model is less about the ideational content of faith and more about the structuring agency of the ego in interpreting faith experience. This brings faith-­stage theory under the critique of a propositionalist model of religious education for its lack of emphasis on the transmission of doctrine, but this lack is the precise point of contact for its connection to comparative theology. Comparative theology privileges not sola doctrina, but the transformational nature of the encounter whereby the reader structures, or better, is structured by, the comparative text. For Fowler, the “how” of faith behavior is privileged over the “what” of belief content; in this vein, use is made of Cantwell Smith’s distinction between “faith” and “belief ” (Fowler  1995, p.  10). The theological wisdom embedded in this distinction is an implicit argument on the unity of the “how” and the “what” in Christian life, for it is the “how” of love that is the “what” or ideational content of Christian belief. There are Trinitarian implications to be mined here, but Fowler invokes instead the Gospel summons to love of neighbor. A Fowlerian framework for faith development runs along horizontal lines coextensive with finding the ground of being in all things, God. Owing to the synthesis of Erikson and Kohlberg, the directionality of faith development gradually transcends self and group interests in the direction of regnocentric engagement with the larger world, culminating in agapeic realization.2 The social and moral valence of faith stages concurrently condition how faith is cognitively structured, with higher stages transcending egoic forms of internal control around belief content as social generosity and consciousness expands. The widening of vision increasingly free of egoic constriction and oversight is a criterion for faith maturity, directly involving the capacity to embrace the wisdom of diverse faith traditions as God is encountered in loving engagement with the world. This widening of perspective-­taking is an epistemological fruit of faith maturity, for in the advanced faith stages, “the circle of ‘those who count’ expands” (Fowler 2000, p. 55). This emphasis on the widening of perspective-­taking bears notable resemblance to Clooney’s frequent appeals, particularly earlier in his career, for Christian systematic theologians to widen their purview and consider how other traditions grapple with similar theological problems as those of the Christian tradition around grace, rational arguments for God’s existence, and so forth (Clooney 2001). Such is the particular type of inclusivism peculiar to Clooney among the more common varieties of inclusivist interreligious theologies. That is, comparative theology is itself the act of including others in theological reflection, as opposed to a meta-­theory assimilating other traditions (Clooney 1990). Fowler, for his part, sees in perspective-­taking a “decentration from self,” which is the “ability and readiness to

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balance one’s own perspective with those of others in an expanding radius” (Fowler 2000, p. 55). The manner of how one engages spiritual and religious sources outside of one’s faith tradition then becomes indicative of the stage of faith development. In sum, the basic trajectory in Fowler’s faith-­stage theory is from a primal and undifferentiated spiritual enchantment in childhood, shifting toward the development of the individual faith-­ego shaped by the rational, enlightenment milieu, and culminating in that same egoic self dying and giving way to a re-­enchantment and integration into the wider, interconnected mystery. There is a progression toward humility, love, and openness not primarily in the formation of a self, but in the surrendering of that same self to the mystery encompassing self and other. The spiritual task in each stage is to not obstruct the intrinsic developmental movement and synergy of the Holy Spirit as it tends toward the apex of the system, Stage 6, Universalizing Faith, which is full participation in the love of God.

Individuative-­Reflective Faith and Religious Rigidity As with other developmental theorists, for Fowler there is the possibility of stunted development in a particular faith stage. The Individuative-­Reflective stage, above others, is this potential developmental hazard in Fowler’s system because it represents the “birth of the ego” and a propensity for religious entrenchment in ways that tend toward rigidity, perfectionism, and high need for control (Beck  2016; Kashdan and Rottenberg  2010; Hewitt and Flett  2002). The stage belongs to late adolescence and young adulthood with the individual breaking from the larger faith group and exercising individual autonomy and agency over values and beliefs. Possible outcomes include increased zeal for one’s faith tradition on rational grounds or a skeptical distancing from it. This assumption of self-­responsibility for one’s identity is its developmental achievement. It does not take long, however, for the shadow side of this achievement to appear in strained internal self-­ experience and social relationships. A person in the Individuative-­Reflective stage, in this case emerging as an “I” within one’s faith community, may feel shame toward past religiousness and what is perceived as the precritical or naïve thinking of Stage 3, Conventional Faith, and the earlier stages of mythic or intuitive faith. These stages are not capable of measuring up to the rigorous and exacting standards of convictions asserted through voluntarist and intellectual decision, which Fowler attributes to the “executive ego” (Fowler  2000, p.  49) or the  “imperial self ” (Fowler 1989, p. 63). The “imperial self ” has a totalizing quality that not only scorns earlier, seemingly less sophisticated aspects of development, but also initiates rivalry with alien individuated and reflective frameworks, including those of other religions. Individuative-­Reflective Faith has a separative consciousness of self from earlier faith instantiations, from one’s own community in the heroic self-­concept attached to individuation and judgmentalism toward mere convention and, most pronouncedly, toward others to whom one is different. Here it is common for Individuative-­Reflective Faith to form factions around ideological causes and exhibit oppositional faith behaviors, like apologetical argumentation or polemicizing. Such operations are experienced as vital to the systemic functioning of Stage 4. The inherent fragility of this stage is its reduction of faith-­beliefs to what the individual assents to as true, and of trying to conform the mystery of self, God, and others to an egoic procrustean bed. Vigilance and surveillance of ideological threats that pose an unacceptable challenge to the ­solidity of the insecure faith-­ego issue in covert or direct hostility toward those of other faith traditions. Corrosive effects include, at best, a lack of empathy, and at worst, the formation of authoritarian and emotionally abusive persons. For Fowler, this leads to emotional as well as interpersonal friction, along with subconscious resistance to the mystery of one’s transcendental belief. The



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conflict is untenable. The lack of acceptance of the pluralistic world as it is, or of making peace with “life on life’s terms” according to the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous (Alcoholics Anonymous 2001, p. 418), is then unable to anticipate the vital transition from the egoic faith self to dialectical faith until surrender is made to the state of things as they are in themselves.3 The active thrust of this stage is not self-­assertion, but relaxation into the “wisdom evolved in things as they are, before seeking to modify, control, or order them to fit prior categories” (Fowler 1995, p. 185). There is something of a spiritual benefit to accepting “religious plurality on religious plurality’s terms” in Clooney’s comparative theology, where the oppositionality between pluralism de jure and de facto is somehow rendered moot, as though it were not the appropriate question for Christians living in the midst of religious difference. Clooney (2018, p. 75) often ­critiques the defensive reactions of Christians unwilling to reconcile to the diversity of the contemporary spiritual landscape and learn from its critique of, essentially, maladapted forms of Individuative-­Reflective Faith. This confirms and places in a new light Knitter’s placement of Clooney under the typology of interreligious theologies known as the “acceptance model,” with his chapter of the same fittingly titled “Making Peace with Religious Difference” (Knitter 2002, p. 173). The struggle against acceptance brings individuative-­reflective selves “to a place of emotional burnout due to the burdens of the continual conscious process of maintaining the self and its boundaries” (Fowler 1996, p. 64). The flexibility to allow faith boundaries, or for Clooney, “religious borders” (Clooney 2010), to be stretched to accommodate wisdom and truth outside of one’s egoic confines comes at the cost of “confident clarity about the boundaries of self and faith which the previous stage worked so hard to achieve” (Fowler 1996, p. 64). This is the “vertigo of relativity” (Fowler 1995, p. 187), or the disorientation that ensues when the solid ground of theological ­certitude is lost.4 Comparative theology makes its home in this liminal space where the itinerancy of the comparative reader is not afforded the benefit of stable identity, whether human or divine. It is also the internal tension that Clooney’s comparative theology maintains in the abeyance of prohibitive boundary setting, and in proposing how to cross religious boundaries without erasing them, while making room for needful ambiguity in the act of comparison. The egoic attempt at securing the self against the incursions of the world resists this ambiguity. Fowler speaks to this protective reaction: “when we are grasped by the vision of a center of value and power more luminous, more inclusive . . . we initially experience the new as the enemy or the slayer – that which destroys our ‘god’” (Fowler 1995, p. 31). In the individuative-­reflective stage, the fact of religious plurality, and the dawning of Conjunctive Faith, cannot but be a threat to the integralism of one’s worldview which admits no ambiguity and no rivals. The graced movement in this predicament is that the attempt to reinstate security will end in frustration, thus rupturing the ego. Ego attachments rooted in faith “must be relinquished in the move to the Conjunctive stage” (Fowler  1989, p.  71), which Fowler calls the “sacrament of defeat” (Fowler 1995, p. 198). This disposes the self for a broader field of contact and valuation, experienced in the ground of all being, and hence in other cultures and religions, too. In surrendering to the reality that has been stifled and avoided by “the conscious self, overconfident in its illusions of self-­knowledge and control,” what arises are “depths of unrecognized hungers, voices of inspiration and guidance, and sources of disruption in the unconscious that insist upon inclusion” (Fowler 1996, p. 71). Fowler locates this developmental moment in middle age, when the p ­ rojects, ambitions, and confidence of young adulthood are chastened and personhood is made whole through failure. Of course, it is not necessary for comparative theologians to trace through this fraught and conflictual developmental journey in their particular vocation, and it is entirely possible to make the transition from Individuate-­Reflective Faith to Conjunctive Faith in a more peaceable manner. Nonetheless, this depiction of transition does reveal the distinctiveness and contrast of particular

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stances toward religious plurality, setting in bold relief the form of comparative theology among other possible modes of religiousness in a faith context defined by religious plurality.

Conjunctive Faith and Comparative Theology: Clooney’s Conjunctive Mysticism Fowler’s choice of the word “conjunctive” for Stage 5 faith was inspired by Nicholas of Cusa and Carl Jung and their wisdom regarding “the coniunctio oppositorum – the ‘conjunction of opposites’” (Fowler 2000, p. 50). Fowler credits David Tracy as another influence for a dialectical, Christian approach to other religions (Fowler  1996, p.  186). Tracy notably is himself a bridge between Fowler and Clooney, acknowledged by the latter as an early proponent of “comparative theology” (Clooney 2010, p. 42). Conjunctive Faith highlights what Panikkar identifies as the “and” dimension of existential interreligiosity for its fecundity in generating new religious consciousness (Panikkar 1981). The “and” between opposing faith perspectives allows for an interreligious coupling that coalesces within the self in nonreductive and transformative ways. Conjunctive Faith does not inhabit a space, as in previous stages defined by either the sheltering care of the family and community, or the confining parameters of the ego, but rather is the space that offers hospitality for paradox and connectedness. This happens in part by its not demanding a zero-­sum rational agreement between faith perspectives. Fowler sums it up thus: it “is alive to paradox and the truth in apparent contradictions” (Fowler 1995, p. 198). Comparative theology, similarly, does not overlook differences between religions, and indeed acknowledges them, while moving toward transformational learning through the paradoxical conditions of their conjunction. Doctrinal differences in this vein are neither equivocated nor subjugated to egoic security; the conditions for paradox are therefore present as there is no rationalistic solution outside their mutual tension. Paradox overcomes the dissipation of nihilistic constructivism as well as the strictures of an either–or mentality, all while purifying wisdom and truth from the taint of narrow self-­referentiality. We find such statements readily throughout Clooney’s texts, as he does not afford his audience the ease and convenience of simplistic solutions concerning the relationship between Christianity and other religions. As dissimilar as proponents of relativism and absolutism may appear to be to each other, what they share in common is the deployment of a strategy that excuses them from the terrain of encounter. In other words, the theological and intellectual rhetoric of these kinds of positions mitigate against vulnerability and relationship. A spiritual charism of Conjunctive Faith, and comparative theology as well, is the tenacity to maintain the state of tension within religious paradox for the possibility of connection. “Comparative theology,” Clooney offers, “is a manner of learning that takes seriously diversity and tradition, openness and truth, allowing neither to decide the meaning of our religious situation without recourse to the other” (Clooney 2010, p. 8). Reminiscent of Clooney, Conjunctive Faith must “learn to maintain the tensions between these multiple perspectives, refusing to collapse them in one direction or another” (Fowler 1996, p. 65). Comparative theology and Fowlerian theory would agree, contra foreclosed theologies of religions, that “truth is more multidimensional and organically interdependent than most theories or accounts of truth can grasp” (Fowler 1995, p. 186). Clooney’s suspicion of systematized explanations of religious diversity for their tendency to weaken the impetus to seek interreligious learning is at home with Fowler’s psychospiritual insight. In words that anticipate Clooney’s own dialectic of faith commitment and openness, Fowler writes of Conjunctive Faith combining “deep, particular commitments with principled openness to the faiths of other traditions” (Fowler 2000, p. 54). This openness to transformation through encounter with diverse religious traditions is explained in language startlingly similar to Clooney’s



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comparative theology; it is a “disciplined openness to the truths of those who are ‘other,’ based on the experience of a deep and particular commitment to one’s own tradition and the recognition that truth requires a dialectical interplay of such perspectives” (Fowler  2000 p.  52). Dialogue with other faith traditions opens up the possibility to “correct and complement perspectives” (Fowler 1995, p. 187) and “is confident that new depths and corrected perceptions of truths of its own tradition can be the result” (Fowler 1989, p. 73). When interacting with Cornille’s classificatory outline of comparative theological paradigms, Fowler seems to align with the rectification and intensification models (Cornille  2019, pp.  116–123). The epistemological norm for Conjunctive Faith is not the assimilative knowing of the “imperial self,” but “dialogical knowing” (Fowler 1995, p. 185). The dialogical self emerges from the permeable boundaries of the self and one’s faith tradition, an expanse that is no longer feared as egoic self-­annihilation or psychological nonexistence. Fowler borrows from Kegan the notion of an interindividual self (Fowler 1995, p. 73) that continues to have a definite place of belonging (i.e., a home tradition), but is now gifted with the freedom to move flexibly between spiritual traditions, comparable to the classic interreligious paradigm evident in Clooney as well, of the dynamics of crossing over and crossing back (Dunne 1977). Conjunctive Faith rests in doctrine without the outward movement toward the other becoming arrested by its demands. The ego surrenders its fallacious claim to ownership of the truth while subsisting in the truth of one’s home tradition, vulnerable to noticing cohesions with other truths. A similar effect to this subsisting obtains in comparative theology, where theological realities within one’s own tradition are experienced and communicated with a certain passivity and enjoyment, accompanied by an eagerness to delight in the truths of other traditions. This is “ironic consciousness and commitment” (Fowler 2000, p. 54), which is the “capacity to see and be in one’s or one’s group’s most powerful meanings, while simultaneously recognizing that they are relative” (Fowler 1995, p. 198).5 Clooney’s admission that as a comparative theologian and Jesuit, he is “evangelising Christians” (Frontline 2005) is emblematic of ironic commitment. Conjunctive Faith heralds a return to the primal enchantment and oceanic fusion of early childhood faith experiences, outlined in the beginning stages of Fowler’s theory. It does so, however, with an awareness chastened by its having undergone the egoic atomization of Individuative-­ Reflective Faith. The atoms themselves, so to speak, have not lost their reality, but are now apprehended as part of a larger whole that need not be managed and protected. Stated a different way, Conjunctive Faith relates to religious differentiation without losing the wholeness of the undifferentiated, which amounts to a paradoxical conjoining of spiritual truths irreducible to either monism or dualism. There is a disinterestedness to this process as the self is no longer identified with the surveilling, vigilant ego striving to protect its identity and retain control over a threatened epistemic safety. This self has been surrendered and, hence, guided from beyond its ken. For this reason, Conjunctive Faith has more in common with childhood religious experiences than those of the rationalistic stage of faith development, which Fowler identifies with the social-­ historical moment of the Enlightenment. In Conjunctive Faith there is a “strange mixture of continuity and sameness with one’s younger self ” (Fowler  1989, p.  73), due to the recovery of a suprarational sensibility. The reader of Clooney’s works will know that encounters with the Hindu tradition in text and temple often evoke for him memories of childhood Catholic devotional pieties, such as Marian processions (Clooney 2010, p. 94). The fact of childhood is also prominent in the originating inspiration for Clooney’s later comparative study in his recollection of teaching school-­aged children moral education during his regency in Nepal, where he taught from their own Hindu and Buddhist stories and rituals, rather than the Western moral philosophical curri­culum. As can be seen in this example, Clooney’s very nascent comparative theology was already gravitating toward a post-­Enlightenment, postcritical compass informed by

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imagination, narrative, and  symbol. These are the precise modalities characterizing childhood faith in Fowlerian theory. Clooney’s preference for text and poetry in comparative theology, in fact, may be read as a reclamation of the symbolic in interreligious theology consistent with Fowlerian priorities. The non-­totalizing nature of stories, in contrast to the modernist hubris of concepts, allows Conjunctive Faith to link its stories and symbols with “other plots” (Fowler 1995, p.  29), offering a new gloss on comparative theology’s practice of associating one’s own texts with a seemingly endless number of texts from the other tradition. Both are led by the instinct that “that things are organically related to each other, it attends to the pattern of interrelatedness in things, trying to avoid force fitting to its own prior mind-­set” (Fowler 1995, p. 185). The aesthetic intuition of Clooney’s comparative theology, in knowing where, and how, to bring traditions together, is an example of this psychospiritual openness to the patterns discoverable by the willing reader. Intentionally choosing linkage with other religious texts rather than arguing against them, Clooney’s comparative theology effectively disarms, from a religious perspective, the threat-­detection removal impulse described by the psychologist Paul Gilbert (2015), creating an affiliative system of association and compassionate solidarity between one’s own faith tradition and other traditions. The Conjunctive Faith self is therefore less directive in its actualization of faith practice and more attuned to the subtle movements of being led by that same practice, highly evocative of the act of comparative reading. Fowler calls this mystic detachment; it “characterizes Conjunctive Faith’s willingness to let reality speak its word, regardless of the impact of that word on the security or self-­esteem of the knower” (Fowler 1995, p. 185). According to Fowler’s own biographical statement, his making of the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius of Loyola during midlife was consequential in this epiphany. He charts the journey from a self-­described Protestant reading of Scripture, summarized as rationally determining the meaning of biblical text through analytical study, to the Ignatian charism of surrendering to the presence of God in the subconscious and the imagination through text. This is “to enter into symbolic realities, allowing them to exert their illuminating and mediating power” (Fowler 2000, p. 65). The reversal of self-­placement between the individuate-­reflective and conjunctive stages is seen clearly in the following description of the latter: “instead of ‘reading’ and ‘analyzing’ the symbols, metaphors, and narratives, they learn to submit to the ‘reading’ and illumination of their situations that these and other elements of tradition can offer” (Fowler 1996, p. 65). Surrendered accommodation, rather than egoic assimilation, is Conjunctive Faith’s stance toward the text of one’s own tradition, and those of others (Fowler 1996, p. 72). Comparative theology, too, accommodates the other through deep listening, hospitality, and reverence, following the pace of the text and allowing its currents to bring the reader into loving surrender and adoration, similar to how Conjunctive Faith “learns in this stage to be receptive, to balance initiative and control with waiting and seeking in order to be a part of the larger movement of spirit or being” (Fowler 1989, p. 73). In comparative theology, Clooney is not making claims on the text that are then claims to be made on the reader, but unveiling and allowing a glimpse into the way texts from one’s own tradition and texts from another tradition move from within their own conjoined dynamism in him, all the while inviting others to embark on their own adventures. The doctrine of the authorlessness of the Veda, apauruṣeyā, provides an intriguing entryway into this discussion, for without an identifiable author of a text, there can be no egoic appeal to appropriating the intentions of that author, thereby opening the tradition for infinite play. That Clooney paired the Vedic doctrine of authorlessness and postmodern hermeneutics in an early essay is a fascinating convergence on the postcritical penchant for the premodern and corroborates the instinct of Conjunctive Faith: “Religion includes meaning and values appropriate to human beings, but the sum of its meaning necessarily exceeds the human perspective” (Clooney 1987).



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Fowler’s correlation between Conjunctive Faith’s access to the unconscious and the analytical mind’s loosening of its hold on religious truth relates interestingly to Cornille’s insight that contemporary comparative theology is a conscious theologizing with the religious other, as opposed to premodern traditions characterized by frequent but unacknowledged learning from other traditions (Cornille 2019, p. 10). Perhaps comparative theology could be understood as a conscious, accepted, and acceptable thematization of comparative learning by the self, whereas in previous epochs, interreligious borrowing occurred, but was screened out by the conscious mind which could not tolerate the ambiguity of surrendering its hold on truth. This may account, psychologically, for the splitting in social and existential contexts typical of premodern religious attitudes and behaviors toward religious otherness, where interreligious borrowing occurred at the same time as rhetorical and physical violence toward other traditions. There is also an interesting parallel between Clooney’s comparative meditation on the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises and the devotee’s search for Narayana (Clooney  2010, pp.  128–153) and the centrality of the unconscious in Fowler’s Conjunctive Faith influenced as well by Ignatius. For Fowler, and for Clooney, the spirituality of the comparativist is rooted in the God who offers us the hospitality of meeting us in our desires, even the desires inflamed by interreligious reading, as the stranger of the unconscious within is also the stranger of the religiously diverse world without. Comparative theology and Conjunctive Faith are each willing to be close to that which is strange and other (Fowler 1995, p. 198). In a comparative theological reflection on a Hindu creation text, it is the “unacknowledged hungers” of Person from the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad that when come into awareness, lead to a greater integration, or expansion, of reality (Clooney 2005, pp. 1–16).

Conjunctive Faith and Comparative Theology as Public Witness Having exposited the Fowlerian stages meaningful for this chapter for the sake of appreciating the psychospiritual features of Clooney’s comparative theology, where “we ourselves are part of the detail that needs to be noticed” (Clooney 2010, p. 16), this chapter turns next to comparative theology as a social-­theological practice in a pluralistic and postmodern context. This, once more, echoes Fowler in intriguing ways, while also contributing a supplementary perspective to Fowler’s discussion of the sociological import of Conjunctive Faith. Both Fowler and Clooney moved toward social concern and an application of their theological methods to the dichotomizing approaches to religious diversity in their respective contexts. Fowler, in his socio-­theological analysis, recommends Conjunctive Faith as the antidote to the conflict between a skeptical perspective defined by secularism which he locates in the individuative-­reflective stage, and the Stage 3 conventionality of traditional believers. Several decades removed from Fowler’s socio-­theological analysis, it may be argued that the situation has reversed; there are religious reactionary movements that Pope Francis has critiqued as gnostic for their self-­aware intellectualism supposedly freed from the conventionality of twenty-­first-­century secular ideology. In a study of psychological covenantal typology, Fowler appreciates the public nature of covenant for a theological account of sociology and questions the legitimacy of any covenantal religiosity that positions self or group above others. He maintains that covenantal existence moves affect “beyond the finite ego and the need to secure the worthwhileness of a group” into an affiliation where “one is welcomed into a structure of meaning that includes one’s own potential and contribution but . . . joined with others in a larger tapestry of purpose and intentionality” (Fowler 2000, p. 90). Instrumental and self-­justifying rationalizations of identity in religious affiliation, such as the contemporary Catholic gnosticism decried by Pope Francis, are neither covenantal nor vocational as defined either by the more advanced stages of Fowler’s faith development schemata or by his reading of the norms of biblical and Christian tradition.

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This begs the question: If comparative theology transcends egoic motivation for elevating one’s faith tradition above others, and the covenantal task is to do this transcending, does the comparative theologian then have a covenantal vocation? If so, toward whom, and what does this look like? Is the comparative theologian in a covenant relationship with the religious other? With one’s own tradition? With the greater public? The answer, I propose, is all of the above. Here it is worthwhile to understand the missional dimension of comparative theology as essentially covenantal in light of the higher faith stages, which are not at the service of the ego but a participation in the excess of divine love and the needs of others. This can be seen in light of Clooney’s above statement that he is a “missionary to Christians,” where his theological labor is an offering of the fruits of his interreligious learning out of love of the Church. This reality has a more sobered side in Clooney’s academic engagement and service, where there is less of an evangelical tone but nonetheless an owned covenantal responsibility. Fowler may have been talking about Clooney’s decades of service to higher education through his work in comparative theology when he writes of the responsibility of “public churches and political leaders who are called to create and maintain campuses where civility in exchange and depth in debate can be modeled and learned” (Fowler 1996, p. 178). Both dimensions, passionately loving God through other traditions while witnessing to that love, out of love, and in order to love one’s own tradition more fully, as well as responsible academic leadership and modeling of respectful, civil learning, are part of Clooney’s legacy, exemplifying Fowler’s pastoral application of faith-­stage theory to the publics of church and society. Clooney also takes Fowler’s clarion call for a consideration of individuals to adopt Conjunctive Faith one step further, proposing actual religious conjunctive communities in his proposal for Hindu–Christian shared learning circles. The above, it must be acknowledged, can produce unsettling effects for those invested in a more stable egoic faith security. This distress can itself be provoked by a religiously plural society, where religious affiliation and unanimity of worldview are no longer available in the broader plural, public life. Rather than become a seedbed for reactionary forces that insist on certainty and a rigid understanding of truth, Fowler believes these societal conditions can instead nurture a Conjunctive Faith provided “holding spaces” are made available through wise and capable pastoral interventions (Fowler 1996, p. 74). “Holding spaces” are spaces formed in relationships where a trusted mentor gives room for faith identity to undergo the pain of loss, lack of definition, and rebirth into newness. There is a parallel in the psychologist James Marcia and his research on identity reconstitution through moratorium (Marcia 1966). Comparative theology is a possible intellectual and spiritual practice that can serve as a “holding space” and “moratorium” to “help us pace our reentry and reintegration in a new stage or place” (Fowler 1996, p. 74). The midwifing of this new, irenic, and flexible identity typical of Conjunctive Faith leads to “new symbols and stories to guide in action and response” (Fowler 1996, p. 103) or, alternatively, for comparative theology, the rediscovery of familiar stories through linkage to unfamiliar stories, forging bonds of gratitude between self and other through appreciative spiritual connection. Clooney’s consistency in honoring the dignity of particular religious commitment, as opposed to Fowler’s Stage 6, Universalizing Faith, may offer a theological and spiritual method that not only preserves, but enhances, what is perceived as most under siege by religious plurality in the reactionary segments of postmodernity: particularist religious identity. Fowler’s Universalizing Faith envisages a break from all institutional commitments and loyalties and comes close to erecting a metaphysics despite his postcritical leanings. Clooney, however, in neither erasing religious difference nor establishing a metaphysic resolving this difference, offers a more radical form of Conjunctive Faith, and importantly in this context, an assurance to those troubled by religious plurality that comparative theology honors and respects particular faith-­beliefs in their integrity. For this however, there is need for a spiritual guide who will “not panic in the face of aimless waiting or who [does] not have an obsessive need



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to clean up messiness [and] can help make time in the neutral zone less lonely” (Fowler 1989, pp. 110–111). I would like to submit that Francis X. Clooney, SJ has been that ­spiritual guide for countless college and university students, undergraduate and graduate, as well as many more persons through his writings, over many dedicated years of teaching, scholarly, and priestly service.

Conclusion The above study was an attempt to shine new light on Clooney’s comparative theology by way of an in-­depth consideration of Fowlerian faith-­stage theory. Certain aspects of comparative theology may be appreciated more fully as a result of this insight into the transformational journey of the comparativist as a spiritual actor, situating comparative theology within a developmental ­psychological tradition on faith maturity. Perhaps, too, this study will encourage the adoption of some form of comparative theology as a wise, just, and reconciliatory psychospiritual and social practice for the sake of our common good.

Notes 1 It is instructive to hear Clooney voice a similar concern in an early work: “The ‘philosopher,’ if I may use the word loosely, understands the ‘other’ by assigning it a place in her or his already sketched out plan of the universe, usually giving it a hierarchically reduced and off-­center slot, which respects its particularity but without upsetting the general plan” (Clooney 1991, p. 133). 2 Fowler’s understanding of the Christian vocation is reliant on the theology of a just governance of creation, reflecting God’s own character and concerns. It is owed to mid-­to late twentieth-­century Protestant theologians such as H. Richard Niebuhr and Walter Brueggemann. 3 For the purposes of this chapter, “dialectic” and “dialectical” refer to the capacity to hold together diverse and, at times, opposing truths within the unity of the self. This understanding is consistent with Fowler’s Conjunctive Faith and Marsha Linehan’s dialectical behavior therapy, otherwise known as DBT (Linehan 1993), which is the therapeutic perspective best aligned with Stage 5. DBT is also closely associated with acceptance and commitment therapy (ACT), whose foremost practitioner and theorist is Steven Hayes (Hayes 2005). ACT is oriented toward initiating committed action freed from attempts at conscious management of self and other. 4 Clooney both prepares and extols the prospective comparative reader for this “vertigo” experience as ultimately salutary: “Comparative theologians may even find that research complicates the case for their faith, by making it easier to appreciate faith claims professed in other traditions. This complication is good, and faith need not suffer from the fact that comparative study does not quickly confirm dearly held beliefs or smoothly understand what others believe” (Clooney 2010, p. 13). 5 It is doubtful that what Fowler means by “relative” is identical to what Pope Benedict XVI and others have criticized as relativism. It suggests, instead, a dialectical position that relates Christian truths toward others.

References Alcoholics Anonymous. (2001). The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, 4th ed. New York: Alcoholics Anonymous World Services. Beck, A.T. (2016). The Self in Understanding and Treating Psychological Disorders. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Clooney, F.X. (1987). “Why the Veda has no author: Language as ritual in early Mīmāmsā and post-­ modern theology,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion LV (4): 659–684. https://doi.org/ 10.1093/jaarel/lv.4.659. Clooney, F.X. (1990). Reading the world in Christ: From comparison to inclusivism. In: Christian Uniqueness Reconsidered: The Myth of a Pluralistic Theology of Religions (ed. G. D’Costa), pp. 63–80. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Clooney, F.X. (1991). Praying through the non-­Christian. In: A Hunger for God: Ten Approaches to Prayer (ed. W.A. Barry and K.A. Maloney), pp. 130–143. Kansas City, MO: Sheed & Ward. Clooney, F.X. (2001). Hindu God, Christian God: How Reason Helps Break Down the Boundaries Between Religions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Hindu Wisdom for All God’s Children. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock. Clooney, F.X. (2008). Beyond Compare: St Francis and Sri Vedanta Desika on Loving Surrender to God. Washington, DC: Georgetown Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2018). Learning Interreligiously in the Text, in the World. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Cornille, C. (2019). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley Blackwell. DiNoia, J.A. (1992) The Diversity of Religions: A Christian Perspective. Washington: Catholic University of America Press. Dunne, J.S. (1977). The Way of All the Earth: An Encounter with Eastern Religions. London: Sheldon Press. Dupuis, J. (2006). Christianity and the Religions: From Confrontation to Dialogue (trans. P. Berryman). London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Fowler, J.W. (1989). Faith Development and Pastoral Care. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Fowler, J.W. (1995). Stages of Faith: The Psychology of Human Development and the Quest for Meaning. New York: HarperOne. Fowler, J.W. (1996). Faithful Change: The Personal and Public Challenges of Postmodern Life. Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press. Fowler, J.W. (2000). Becoming Adult, Becoming Christian: Adult Development and Christian Faith. San Francisco: Jossey-­Bass. Frontline. (2005). “I am evangelising Christians” [Interview], September 23. https://frontline.thehindu. com/arts-­and-­culture/article30206349.ece (accessed October 16, 2022). Gilbert, P. (2015). The Compassionate Mind: A New Approach to Life’s Challenges. London: Robinson. Hayes, S. (2005). Get Out of Your Mind and Into Your Life: The New Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. Oakland, CA: New Harbinger. Hewitt, P.L. and Flett, G.L. (2002). Perfectionism and stress processes in psychopathology. In: Perfectionism: Theory, Research, and Treatment (ed. G.L. Flett and P.L. Hewitt), pp. 255–284. Washington, DC: American Psychological Association. Kashdan, T.B. and Rottenberg, J. (2010). Psychological flexibility as a fundamental aspect of health. Clinical Psychology Review 30 (7): 865–878. Knitter, P. (2002). Introducing Theologies of Religions. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Linehan, M. (1993). Skills Training Manual for Treating Borderline Personality Disorder. New  York: Guilford Press. Marcia, J.E. (1966). Development and validation of ego-­identity status. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 3 (5): 551–558. Panikkar, R. (1981). The Unknown Christ of Hinduism: Towards an Ecumenical Christophany. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Schmidt-­ Leukel, P. (2017). Religious Pluralism and Interreligious Theology: The Gifford Lectures–An Extended Edition. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Sumner, G.R. (2004). The First and the Last: The Claim of Jesus Christ and the Claims of Other Religious Traditions. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Thatamanil, J.J. (2020). Circling the Elephant: A Comparative Theology of Religious Diversity. New York: Fordham University Press.

CHAPTER 13

Comparative Theology as Process Not Conclusion Francis Clooney on the Proper Formation of Comparative Theological Readers John J. Thatamanil

Francis X. Clooney is well-­nigh universally recognized, alongside Robert Neville and Raimon Panikkar, as among the founders of contemporary comparative theology. But if one asks after the content of Clooney’s theology, despite reading through over a dozen of his books, the inquirer will find no answer. Neville offers a radical theology of creatio ex nihilo (Neville 2013), and Panikkar offers a theology of cosmotheandrism (Panikkar  2019). In both these figures, innovative constructive theological conclusions emerge out of rich comparative theological work. No such theological motif or motifs can be derived from Clooney’s decades of theological labor – no statement of divine nonduality, no adjudications between competing conceptions of divinity as personal or transpersonal, no integration of wisdom derived from Hindu and Christian traditions. Does this conspicuous absence mark a failing on Clooney’s part? Is it a bug or a feature? After all, what is a theologian without a theology? Why is Clooney so abstemious in propounding a particular theological vision? In this chapter, I will argue that this “lack” is far from accidental but instead quite intentional; it is most certainly a feature and not a bug. Why? Because Clooney is a theologian not of conclusions but of process. Clooney insists without hint of compromise that the essential labor of comparative theology consists in producing a competent community of theological readers. One becomes a comparative theologian not by arriving at conclusions derived from cross-­traditional reading but rather by acquiring the skills, habits, dispositions, and literacy gained by the process of reading across traditions. Still more, the properly trained comparative theological community does not merely read materials from a tradition other than the theologians’ own but also learns to read otherwise – to read the texts of others as they read them. Most Clooney monographs are thus exercises in staging a very particular set of comparative readings. The kind of particularity depends on The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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the kind of texts being read. Theological poetry invites a mode of reading that is quite different from theological argumentation. Once selections are made, readers are then carefully guided through just those readings; Clooney reports on and replicates his own reading process and then invites the reader to go and do likewise. Clooney operates, therefore, as an expert textual tour guide, one long acquainted with certain textual terrain. Why does this text matter to the locals? What meanings have the locals invested in this textual landscape and why? To jump to Clooney’s final chapters in search of theological conclusions is to mistake the destination for the journey, a grave error indeed if the journey is meant to be a pilgrimage. Hence, readers turn in vain to the final chapters of Clooney books if they seek to find what the book “is all about,” an aspiration that Clooney insistently sabotages. There is nowhere to be found grand constructive summations. Clooney refuses to write climactic final chapters that would substitute for and bypass the patient work of close reading. The point of a Clooney book is the book itself – to follow a certain disciplined itinerary of careful theological reading. This chapter maps out Clooney’s method, its intentions, and offers a largely positive assessment of Clooney’s theological goal, namely, to form properly prepared communities of comparative readers. Nonetheless, this (impatient) author will suggest that Clooney’s own insistence that comparative theology is not merely the act of comparing theologies, but is itself decidedly normative and theological through and through, requires a willingness to offer constructive theological proposals. Those proposals will of necessity be provisional, hypothetical, and hence to be refined over decades and even centuries (yes, Clooney really does think about the historical long haul) of reading, but apart from substantive proposals it is difficult to see how comparing theologies ever becomes comparative theology. Moreover, I will insist – I have no reason to suppose that Clooney would contest this further step – that Clooney’s own method has broader implications. Where reading, perhaps by working through commentaries and subcommentaries, is itself the core religious mode of proceeding within a given tradition, then learning to read as the other does and learning to read what the other reads just is the way the comparative theologian must proceed. But what if reading is not itself the only or even a primary mode by which a given tradition proceeds? What if contemplative practices are primary pedagogical tools in a given tradition? A comparative theological encounter with such a tradition – Zen for example – could not grant to reading the same place or status that reading occupies in Christian encounters with say Advaita Vedanta. Scholastic methods for scholastic traditions, contemplative methods for contemplative traditions, and methods of disputation and debate in traditions that privilege agonistics. This is not a challenge to Clooney’s readerly mode of proceeding; on the contrary, we might argue that it is a further exemplification of his “process not conclusion” mode of comparative theology. In making my argument, I will focus largely on one of his most recent books, namely Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics (2019). Focusing as it does on the work of reading and why reading matters, attending primarily (but not exclusively) to this text is one viable way of dealing with the practical difficulties of navigating Clooney’s prodigious and daunting corpus. I must begin with some chagrin by musing that I am the kind of comparative theologian that Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics (hereafter RHCC) is arguably written against. Again and again, scattered throughout the text, Clooney refuses to anchor his work in some general pluralist theology of religions or any general theory of religion.1 He notes also his refusal to construct a comparative theology based on questions or themes brought to religious texts prior to reading them. But I confess that I am guilty of every one of these transgressions. My recent Circling the Elephant offers a particular relational pluralist theology of religious diversity as the most capacious theological framework for interreligious learning (see Thatamanil 2020). It commends work in genealogy of religion for the sake of breaking down reified concepts of



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r­ eligion that get in the way of interreligious learning. It offers in its stead a new theory of the ­religious in which communities and traditions can be shown always to have been learning from each other and, finally, it offers a new interreligious reading of the Trinity. To say that my book is theory heavy is an understatement. RHCC is, by sharp contrast, a resolute and (almost)2 complete refusal of theory. Clooney is unambiguous on this front. Writing about his practice, he states, In the reading that has led up to this book, I recognized over and again that there is little prospect of “mastering” the texts, so as to support a single thesis, or contribute neatly to a theory about religions or comparative study and then be done with the texts. I have rather traced a path through incongruencies and side matters – whole worlds of learning diverted into the notes, as it were – that make improbable a single smoothly crafted set of conclusions or a well-­refined theory. Coherence arises in the work of reading, not after it by the acquisition of larger meanings that can be carried away. (Clooney 2019, p. 105)

The refusal of theory is unequivocal. So is the refusal of “larger meanings that can be carried away.” A theological conclusion that can be stipulated without reference to the texts, a conclusion that now makes returning to the texts unnecessary, must also be refused. Nothing must short-­ circuit the never to be completed work of living with the specific texts encountered in other traditions. What is at stake here is a process of readerly formation. Think of it: properly trained Christian theologians have invested decades in the work of reading the core texts of their tradition – from the Bible, to Augustine, to Thomas and Von Balthasar. Theologians’ identities are inseparable from the particular readerly itineraries that they have traversed. Theologians have become very particular “biblio/biographical selves”  – a revealing Clooney phrase to which I shall return in a moment. Now imagine bypassing the long and loving labor of learning to dwell with comparable texts and figures in other traditions! To be clear, Clooney is not issuing a mandate that the comparative theologian must arrive at an equivalent competence in a second tradition. He is soberly aware of the dangers of setting the bar so high that entrance into comparative theology is rendered impossible ab initio. Theological readers only have one life and most cannot hope, unlike Clooney, to have invested roughly as much time in reading Hindu texts as Christian ones. But the impossibility of that maximal goal offers no excuse for shortcuts. Formation is an open-­ended time-­intensive work akin to pilgrimage. There is no sense in rushing a pilgrimage; it takes whatever time it takes. The focus for any attentive reader of Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics must be on the first word of the title, namely reading. If I understand RHCC and his entire oeuvre rightly, Clooney’s work is committed to the double claim, “You are what you read,” and “You are how you read.” You and I are transformed by and become what we read – intellectually, socially, and, I believe, also spiritually, although this last adjective will require some especially careful attention. Clooney, citing two of his comparative sources, puts it with lucid economy: “For those willing to learn, both Manavālạ māmuni and Montfort have the same message: read with your heart, and you will become part of what you read” (Clooney 2019, p. 147). This steadfast and unwavering commitment to reading is a consistent theme throughout Clooney’s corpus. What has not perhaps been sufficiently recognized is that reading amounts to a special kind of practice, a practice that produces a particular kind of self. This point is articulated with a winsome lucidity in one of Clooney’s earlier monographs, Seeing Through Texts: Doing Theology among the Śrıv̄ aiṣṇavas. Therein Clooney readers find a particularly lucid way of articulating the central goal of his writing. That goal is, as he puts it, “composing a biblio/biographical self ” (1996, p.  255). Clooney’s writerly objective is to form theologians who are so shaped by their reading that they are unable to think any given theological question or genre of theological text

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without recalling texts encountered when reading across traditions. His goal is to cultivate the  conditions under which theologians engage in “thinking that occurs across religious boundaries, when carefully chosen texts are brought into what is  – or eventually becomes  – a ­single conversation instead of two parallel monologues adorned by occasional reciprocal bows” (Clooney 1996, p. 248). A sustained consideration of this statement should generate in readers a sense of astonishment at the sheer grandeur of Clooney’s goal. As a dedicated Clooney reader, I must confess (now with embarrassment) to a measure of disappointment about Clooney’s minimalism with respect to theological conclusions. After all, who better to offer us constructive reflections about the nature of ultimate reality than someone as profoundly tutored in several Vedanta traditions as Clooney is? What I failed to appreciate is that Clooney’s minimalism with respect to theological conclusions is more than matched by the maximalism of Clooney’s aspirations concerning process. His intention is not just individualistic – he means to do more than to develop competent theological readers who are cross-­trained in the reading practices and texts of more than one tradition. His intentions are communal – to generate through those properly cultivated individual readers communities of theological inquiry in which a critical number of Christian readers and Hindu readers are unable to think any theological question without just as readily calling to mind The Tiruvāyamoḻi as The Song of Songs. That is what Clooney means by generating certain kinds of biblio/biographical selves – selves who are not merely solo operators, but new braided communities of theological readers. It is a goal that is breathtaking in its scope, one that might even require thinking in g ­ enerational time. This far-­reaching aspiration amounts to nothing less than to bring about change by steadily transforming the reading habits of theologians who are willing to invest and risk themselves in and through new reading practices and new texts. For Clooney, comparative theology can be understood [as] offering something new primarily because of the specific practical possibilities it opens for us through its production of new relationships, and not because of the data it offers about another religious tradition …. To see through texts is a reflexive activity, where the major changes occur in those who take seriously traditions other than their own while yet remembering where they are coming from. (Clooney 1996, p. 251)

Clooney’s unwavering emphasis on process, on the dedicated work of slow reading, ought to drive his readers to a rethinking of the very nature of the theological task itself. Clooney is explicit in working with a broadly Anselmian understanding of theology as “faith seeking understanding.” It is imperative to understand that faith seeking understanding is simply not the same thing as faith seeking conclusions. Clooney’s goals are to generate readers who are “cross-­trained” in reading across different textual canons, a training that requires genuine relationships with expert readers in other traditions, even if those relationships are textually mediated through commentarial traditions. Moreover, Clooney insists that only after a community of properly skilled readers is cultivated are the conditions in place for systematic theological reflection. But what does one select to read and why? Are there criteria for selection of texts? If Clooney is right, if we are indeed profoundly transformed by the act of reading, it would seem that the choice of reading materials would and should matter a very great deal. And this brings me to a puzzle about how Clooney understands reading in RHCC. Clooney’s opening chapter appears to permit a certain measure of arbitrariness on the question of what and how we choose what we read: One day then I was sitting at my desk, surveying my shelves for books that might help instigate my next project. I often start out this way, picking a book, not a theme, studying the book, and seeing where it leads. I have enough on my shelves to fuel a writing career over many lifetimes. My eyes



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soon rested upon a set of three nineteenth-­century volumes from India, once sturdily bound, but now rather brittle: the Jaiminı ̄yanyāyama ̄lā (the Garland of Jaimini’s Reasons, henceforth the Garland) of Mādhavācārya. (Clooney 2019, p. 1)

What if his eyes had fallen slightly to the left or to the right? What turgid and dusty volumes might he have seen there? Would that have mattered? Would Clooney say no? A no seems implied in his claim, “I have enough on my shelves to fuel a writing career over many lifetimes.” It is striking that Clooney reports on this rather prosaic and apparently arbitrary moment of decision; after all, this is no momentous autobiographical tolle lege moment, although at least this reader was prompted to recall that great moment in the history of reading. What seems essential to this narrative is precisely its apparent arbitrariness. Is that not why Clooney offers this report? To eliminate or even to reduce arbitrariness from the question of selection would require an extra-­textual turn to some theory that justifies one’s decision a priori. One can imagine such a rule: “Comparative theologians in our generation should stick to scriptures and commentaries, not subcommentaries for example; given how little even the major canonical texts are known and studied, begin there.” Clooney seems uninterested in any rule-­bound or theory-­ bound constraints. The proof is in the pudding. What justifies a selection is what one learns in and through the hard labor of reading and subsequent writing. Hence, the how matters far more than the what. I find myself not entirely knowing what to do with Clooney’s way of staging the beginning of his book project. Nor is leaving room for a measure of arbitrariness confined to RHCC alone. The readerly itinerary we have followed before our comparative turn, and after, can never be preprogrammed; it is a matter of how a life happens to be lived, rather than theoretical constraint. Hence, however unsatisfying it might be, arbitrariness is unavoidable. Presuming that I am right that there is necessary arbitrariness in the work of selecting comparative projects, I should also note that at least in this case, the selection of Jaiminı ̄yanyāyamālā is a particularly good fit for broader claims that Clooney wants to make about comparative reading. Here is the longer quotation: There is no smooth sequence of cases, merely illustrative of a theme. Nor are later cases merely further specifications of preceding cases. Every new case serves a purpose that cannot be entirely predicted by an understanding of the case or cases preceding it. Students must therefore work through the cases, one by one, in the given sequence, if they are to learn properly. This case reasoning also sheds light on the project of Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics. I chose the six texts and the examples from each with care, but not with the idea that they all prove the same general point. Like Mīmāṃ sā cases, my examples move forward precisely as case reasoning, extending or stretching or standing as exceptions to one another. There is rarely a theme that is simply being illustrated; nor do the examples add up to a proof of this or that tenet meant to be demonstrated. Rather, each example, small and large, does its work, challenging readers to read this way, then that way, and perhaps also to double back and try again. It is a wonderfully educative process that at first may also be terribly frustrating. But the  key point will, I hope, be clear: while Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics has turned out not to be a book about the Garland, my deep appreciation for its case reasoning is at work everywhere in it. (Clooney 2019, pp. 6–7)

So, maybe the selection of the Garland was not arbitrary at all? Or was it arbitrary but nonetheless and by happenstance a wonderful instantiation of a text that requires just the sort of reading that RHCC calls for?

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Clooney is not unaware of the risk in giving the appearance that text selection for the ­comparative theologian is an entirely arbitrary process. He writes later on in the first chapter, But we must be careful not to stop short, lest an emphasis on slow learning among many religions leave the impression that we need to care only about method and interpretation, as if slow ­learning is no more than character building: as if to say, read anything, just read it well. Slow reading is indeed a virtue and a precious habit to cultivate, but it is not merely an end in itself. Content matters, and its truth confronts us. Claims about the world and its truth ought not be passed over. (Clooney 2019, p. 17)

So the choice of what we read cannot be arbitrary after all. Clooney’s eyes might have come to rest on Mādhava’s tome but that apparent happenstance belies the fact that Clooney has stocked his shelves with great care, with texts that do indeed make profound claims to religious truth. Indeed, the texts that RHCC subsequently engages include profound texts that have exercised enormous influence over centuries even if presently neglected. Peter Lombard’s Sentences which is read in pairing with Appaya Dı̄kṣita’s masterful Siddhāntaleśasaṃ graha, is just one of the pairings staged for us in this book. While Clooney invites readers to make their own choices, he makes it clear that he has not made a wholly random selection. He writes, With instruction, doctrine, and participation in mind, I chose texts that I have found able to  ­represent ably the pertinent strengths of their traditions, and with the goal of succinct ­presentation of the essentials. By the Garland and the Catechism, we are instructed; through the Perspectives and the Sentences, we learn doctrine; immersed in the Admirable Secret and the Linked Verses, we become participants. By the fact of their presence individually and together, they instruct, teach, and invite, and in different ways. Read together, the six foster the difficult work of learning deeply in a tradition, and then across the boundaries of traditions. They refine one another, even as c­ ontraries that, upon reading, force us to go back and reread what we thought we had already finished with. (Clooney 2019, p. 20)

Here, Clooney readers are placed in something of a conundrum. How are comparativists to choose what to read and why? RHCC oscillates between arguing for making good and deliberate choices – not any old book after all, but the classics  – and “clearing a path that must remain ill-­defined because of my refusal to allow theory to predict before or apart from reading the route to be taken or destination reached” (Clooney 2019, p. 20). We have what appears to be an unresolvable bind. Will not a rigorous abstemiousness with respect to theory lead inevitably to arbitrariness? Do  we not need reasons given to us prior to reading that offer at least some criteria for text ­selection? Even choosing to read “religious” texts requires some measure of differentiating between texts that are religious and texts that are not. But how to make even that distinction when the traditions in question do not operate by appeal to that relatively modern Western bifurcation (see Asad 1993)? There may be simply no theory-blind way to proceed in comparative theology even if one agrees with Clooney that theory cannot be permitted to take the comparative ­theologian away from the work of reading. Without appeal to theoretical warrants, RHCC appears to stage itself in such a way that it suggests the possibility of arbitrariness with respect to the question of selection, but then proceeds to suggest that there really are substantial reasons (established prior to reading) to select classics that carry some heft, make weighty claims to religious truth and authority, and have transformed generations of readers inside their respective traditions; texts that now might also transform diligent outsiders who are willing to put in the time and effort necessary to learn from them.



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Now, let me turn to the matter of the how of reading. As I read Clooney, entering attentively into the process of reading and letting that process unfold as it should at its own methodical and deliberate pace – that is central to Clooney’s entire corpus. But that theme receives perhaps its strongest sounding in RHCC. That is why reading, in particular, slow reading, matters so very much. A quick search of a digital edition of RHCC shows that the word “slow” occurs 100 times in the book. It occurs in a number of formulations: slowness, slowing down, and so on. “Slow reading” occurs 34 times; slow learning occurs 24 times. The word is paired in one very telling instance with “slow praying” – a phrase that captured my special interest. More on that in a moment. As to how seriously Clooney means “slow” when he says “slow,” he is not just talking about the speed at which texts are read. He means far more. He also has in mind the intergenerational time it will take to develop a community of well-­trained readers who can then and only then get on with the work of engaging in genuinely constructive comparative theology: But serious readers need to be patient and not indulge in assertions that are hasty and do no good. It may take a very long time – in this century or the next or one after that? – until enduring habits of interreligious learning find their place in the new scholasticism wherein issues of truth can be confronted with both eyes open. (Clooney 2019, p. 75)

Talk about slow! Others like Michelle Voss Roberts have spoken about whether we can afford to be quite so slow. She has argued that some communities of readers – particularly among those marginalized – just do not have that kind of time. Speaking about feminist comparativists in particular, she writes, “feminist commitment impels constructive work even while we keep our eyes on the horizon of greater understanding…. Feminist theologians refuse a permanent deferral of issues of truth and look for ways to employ the comparative enterprise to liberative ends” (Voss Roberts 2010, pp. 123–124). Indeed, given the ever-­accelerating rate of cascading climate crises, it is not clear that Homo sapiens will be around in the next century with time on our hands for scholasticism of any sort. Voss Roberts suggests the possibility of a both–and. Venture constructive conclusions but do so provisionally and for the sake of liberative ends while also recognizing that truth-seeking is a long-­ haul operation that requires both the transformation of theologians and their communities. Something like this both–and seems worthy of consideration. To take seriously texts committed to the pursuit of truth would seem to require nothing less. Clooney is surely right to refuse a focus on conclusions that dispenses with process, with the work of reading and inhabiting texts, but with Voss Roberts, I see no compelling reason to defer truth judgments for centuries! At any rate, it is clear that more is at stake for Clooney than a matter of readerly speed. Clooney issues a more general invitation: “Let the reading proceed, and see where it leads” (Clooney 2019, p. 117). The word “slow” is a stand-­in for letting each text teach the reader how it wants to be read. If you want to learn how to read in the Mı̄māṁ sā tradition, there is no shortcut for learning how  to read and think through cases and then deriving from those cases broader reasons and principles. That is how that text wants and demands to be read. But that is not how we are to read Tiruvāymol ̱i Nūṟṟan̄ tāti. This is a devotional text that wants to be sung, a text that invites the readers into devotional participation. So, you learn how to read a text by letting the text teach you how it wants to be read. In this particular case, Maṇ avālạ māmuni’s text “is to be sung with a vulnerable heart and mind, so as to be drawn into the Holy Word itself, to which it defers as the real destination” (Clooney 2019, p. 20). Here again, I must cite Clooney: Repetition is key in both cases, since neither the rosary nor a garland of verses has an ending. The rosary is never recited for a final time, just as the mysteries enunciated in its living words never

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become merely past items of historical interest only. What is needed are patient readers vulnerable to the implications of what they read over and over. These are readers who are willing to slow down, patient in returning again and again to the texts, to be reformed and transformed by them. (Clooney 2019, p. 149)

And lest anyone wonder, the kind of transformation that Clooney has in mind is religious: At this point in Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics, the virtues of slow learning turn out to be holy virtues. Instructed in the faith (chapters 1 and 3) and drawn critically into its truth (­chapter  2), readers can now participate too, by a slow reading that is nothing but loving ­attention to these words and the practices they inspire. We can, with due respect, read our way into each and then into both of these religious universes, when we have available to us texts such as the Admirable Secret and the Linked Verses. (Clooney 2019, p. 150)

At this point, without saying so, it appears to me that Clooney is issuing an implicit invitation to multiple religious participation (MRP). What else does it mean to practice the holy virtues of more than one tradition? If I do as Clooney invites me to do, when I engage in specific kinds of reading as exercises in holy virtue, am I not invited to become a kind of Hindu-­Christian? Having written recently a fair bit about MRP as a means to interreligious wisdom, I find this invitation to reading as holy virtue profoundly appealing. But I note that Clooney does not in fact name the nature of his invitation as MRP. Still, it would seem that Clooney opens the door to MRP by inviting readers to become dedicated and devoted readers of more than one corpus of religious texts in intimate and participatory detail. Risking readerly vulnerability before ecstatic mystical texts is not to require from the reader that they change their religious identity. But that risk most certainly obtains. It cannot be avoided. Clooney might not script a call to MRP, but he most certainly leaves that door wide open. In a recent essay, Martin Ganeri observes that Clooney explicitly opens the door to multiple religious belonging in one of his essays, namely in his contribution to Catherine Cornille’s book on the same topic (see also Ganeri 2022). Ganeri cites Clooney as writing, “My choice has been to stress rather that multiple religious belonging is in important ways as accessible and ordinary as any process of attentive reading. Reading across boundaries is not entirely different from religious reading within particular religious traditions” (Ganeri 2022, p. 117). Multiple religious belonging simply takes place as an “accessible and ordinary” result of “attentive reading.” Ganeri’s essay recognizes that Clooney valorizes multiple religious belonging as a possibility that opens out from just the kind of diligent, open-­hearted, participatory reading that Clooney has called for over his decades of writing. And how could it be otherwise? After all, for the traditions that Clooney studies, reading has always been either a devotional practice or a practice that opens out into knowledge (jñāna). In these traditions, there is no such thing as reading that might be accounted as merely academic. While Clooney argues insistently for the vital disciplines of scholarly and philological reading, he does not seek to end there. On the contrary, the transformation of readers and their communities is a consistent throughline in all of his writing. Hence, it should hardly be surprising that Clooney leaves open the door to multiple religious belonging. What I wish to affirm here is that Clooney’s insistence on a participatory mode of proceeding – comparative theology must be defined by how it proceeds rather than by its products – necessarily entails that multiple religious participation and belonging might also arise though disciplines other than reading. Textual practices are central to the textually rooted strands of Christian and  Hindu traditions. But if practice is to be shaped by the specific character of the traditions under study, then Clooney’s own commitment to comparative process will have to be differently inflected when the traditions under consideration are not textually driven. Hence, if Christian



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c­ ontemplatives are engaged in comparative encounter with Nyingma or Zen Buddhism, reading cannot be accorded the same degree of centrality as in Hindu traditions. We might even say that Clooney’s own commitments can be understood to require a turn away from reading in such cases. Practice matters in every case, but which practice will necessarily vary. Regardless of what kind of practice is commended by a tradition, to know as the tradition knows – always Clooney’s point of emphasis – will require practicing as the tradition commends. Theological truth-seeking in every case requires the transformation of theologians who are themselves committed to a vision of theology as sapiential activity, rather than the articulation of propositional claims that can be severed from the traditions from which those claims emerge. Clooney’s demanding fidelity to knowing as the other knows by learning to read as the other reads also appears to entail learning to meditate as the other meditates. In religious knowing, means and ends are inseparable. Hence, Clooney’s aversion to any attempt to sever the two. But learning from and being convinced by Clooney on this score need not require that Clooney’s readers must also accept his centuries-long deferral of truth. One can affirm both the truth that one knows in and through practice and also the fallible and contingent expressions of that truth in constructive proposals that do not bypass the always unfinished labor of reading that retains its perennial character as spiritual quest.

Notes 1 Note for example his almost playfully mocking note of refusal when he writes, “Because I have studied medieval classics of doctrinal theology (and not because I have a better theory, as if I were a theological pluralist), I now hold two strong traditions of truth in my mind at the same time. Because I have read two great devotional works of synthesis and intense focus, I feel strongly the tug (though not necessarily in different directions) of two invitations to participate, a Catholic call to praying the rosary and a Śrı̄vaiṣṇava call to share passionate songs evocative of still more passionate songs. This learning bears its own spiritual as well as intellectual cost” (Clooney 2019, pp. 21–22). 2 I add the parenthetical “almost” to point to Clooney’s appeal to Wittgenstein to mount a theoretical defense against theory (see Clooney 2019, ch. 4).

References Asad, T. (1993). Genealogies of Religion: Disciplines and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Clooney, F.X. (1996). Seeing Through Texts: Doing Theology among the Śrı̄vaiṣṇavas of South India. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters [Kindle e-­book]. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Ganeri, M. (2022). The comparative theology of Francis X. Clooney SJ and the question of t­ heological dual belonging. In Hindu–Christian Dual Belonging (D. Soars and N. Pohran, eds.), pp. 106–121. New York: Routledge. Neville, R.C. (2013). Ultimates: Philosophical Theology, Vol. I. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Panikkar, R. (2019). Trinitarian and Cosmotheandric Vision: Opera Omnia, Vol. 8. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Thatamanil, J.J. (2020). Circling the Elephant: A Comparative Theology of Religious Diversity. New York: Fordham University Press. Voss Roberts, M. (2010). Gendering comparative theology. In: The New Comparative Theology: Interreligious Insights from the Next Generation (F.X. Clooney, ed.), pp. 109–128. New York: T&T Clark.

PART III

Comparative Theology and the Society of Jesus

14 Comparing Jesuits: Roberto de Nobili, Henri de Lubac, and Francis X. Clooney  James Fredericks

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15 Francis X. Clooney, SJ: Jesuit, Scholar, Missionary  Christian S. Krokus

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16 The Ignatian Tradition and the Intellectual Virtues of a Comparative Theologian  Peng Yin

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17 Wonder Grasps Anything: Punctuation and Patristic Theology in the Early Colonial Philippines 173 Maria Cecilia Holt

CHAPTER 14

Comparing Jesuits Roberto de Nobili, Henri de Lubac, and Francis X. Clooney James Fredericks

The monk attempts to copy the book of Scripture, first in his own body and soul, and then in the books that he himself eventually produces. Hence, in the monastic culture of the Middle Ages, writing is an e­ xtension of reading . . .. Moreover, this writing, which is always a rereading, is an ethical, even religious activity. Phillip Rosemann (1999, p. 97)

My friend and classmate, Francis Xavier Clooney, SJ, copied these words from a book by Phillip Rosemann as he was preparing a lecture on “Remembering How to Learn in a Forgetful World” (Clooney 2019, p. 23). Clooney first spoke to me of the virtues of “patient reading” and the writing of theology as we sat opposite one another at the table in the kitchen of Hopkins Hall. We were graduate students at the University of Chicago. As I look over his publications on my bookshelf, I am not at all surprised that Clooney would seize on the idea that “writing is an extension of reading” and that this writing, “which is always a rereading” is, in fact, “an ethical and even religious activity.” I am grateful to Clooney for his patient reading and the ethical and religious quality of the writing that has come from it. Across that kitchen table, Clooney and I also discussed how theological reading and writing are inextricably rooted in the tides of history. Theological writing inevitably hides within itself a genealogy of forgotten ancestors. Our forebears are never far from us when we read and when we write. These genealogies cannot be denied, at least not gracefully. Neither are we required to show obeisance to these shadows. We do well, however, to at least acknowledge that they are constantly at work within us. In this chapter, let me pay tribute to my friend and conversation partner of many years by reflecting on Clooney’s genealogy as a Jesuit, an Indologist, and as a theologian. I wish to compare two Jesuits who are part of Clooney’s genealogy: Roberto de Nobili and, much less obviously, Henri

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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de Lubac. Like Clooney, these two Jesuits engaged in the practice of patient reading of texts that were not their own. I will argue that De Nobili and De Lubac are always at work, in different ways, in Clooney’s patient reading and in the ethical and religious quality of his writing.1

Roberto de Nobili, SJ Clooney wrote the first of several essays on Roberto de Nobili in 1988. The writing of these essays, I think, must be seen as an exercise in self-­understanding. In these essays on De Nobili, Clooney is recognizing De Nobili as an ancestor casting a shadow over his own reading of Hindu texts who needs to be remembered. Roberto de Nobili (1577–1656) trained as a Jesuit in his native Italy and went to India in 1605. A year later, he was in Tamil Nadu, developing what has come to be recognized as an “accommodationist” or “adaptationist” approach to the Jesuit missionary effort in India. De Nobili presented himself first as a kshatriya (a high caste noble) and subsequently adopted the practices of a sannyasi (a renouncer). He also mastered Sanskrit, Telugu, and Tamil and began an extensive study of Hindu texts and practices. This led him to present Christ as a “divine guru” (divya guru), not the crucified savior, a strategy designed to appeal to his Indian neighbors.2 It also brought him into conflict with his fellow missionaries in Goa and his religious superiors in Rome. De Nobili defended his methods of evangelization in a series of Latin texts. Clooney has written extensively on one Latin text in particular, the Informatio de Quibusdam Moribus Nationis Indicae (the “Report concerning certain customs of the Indian nation”; hereafter Report), composed in 1613 (De Nobili 2000, pp. 53–231). His basic claim about this text is that De Nobili makes a distinction between the “learning” of the Indian nation and its “superstitions.” The distinction is justified, De Nobili argued, because the Church adopted the same procedure in dealing with the Roman Empire. At the beginning of the third chapter of the Report, for example, De Nobili cites Gregory Nazianzen, Ambrose, Augustine, and Jerome as examples of Church Fathers who distinguished between pagan superstition and pagan learning. The Indian nation has its own learning. The ­sciences of the Brahmins include grammar, ethics, and dialectic. De Nobili also goes on to claim that, among the learned Brahmins, there are “the wise” who offer rational arguments against the ­atheism of the Buddhists and the polytheism of the “idolators.” I take these “wise” Brahmins to be analogous to the (neo)Platonists embraced by the Church Fathers. In the tenth chapter of the Report, De Nobili argues that any cultural practice that is not ­specifically “oriented by idolaters for the veneration and worship of an idol” is not to be condemned (10.9). In addition, when Christian missionaries come upon practices that have become “reprehensible” by means of an “overlaying” of “incantations or rites of a superstitious character,” these practices “are not to be condemned, as theologians say, regarding their substance, but solely regarding the objectionable mode connected with it, and that offensive mode is surely to be discarded.” Moreover, “[t]hese principles are confirmed by the practice of the church from earliest times through long ages until today” (10.10, 11). The fourth chapter of the Report holds special resonance for Clooney. In this chapter, De Nobili argues that the practices of the Indian nation fundamentally reflect a rationality that is universally human. For all its appreciable differences with Europe, Indian culture has been crafted by the same human reasoning that has shaped Europe. The cultural practices of the Indian nation, therefore, are intelligible to European Christians and require Christians to recognize them as a natural good. De Nobili was confident that he could use reason to distinguish between what is a natural good in Indian culture and what he calls the “overlay” of superstition and religious error. This means that Indians will not be required to abandon their cultural traditions in order to



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accept divine revelation. The goodness of their culture, based as it is in reason, provides a natural foundation for receiving the supernatural revelation of the Gospel. Clooney sees De Nobili as a scion of Renaissance humanism who looked on India as a “classical society” analogous to the Greco-­Roman society encountered by Christians as they ventured out of Palestine into the Hellenic world.

Reason and Its Uses De Nobili’s confidence in the universality of human reason shows itself continually in Clooney’s writing. It is part of Clooney’s genealogy as a Jesuit, an Indologist, and as a theologian. For example, I think it is no exaggeration to say that De Nobili is Clooney’s muse in Hindu God, Christian God. Throughout this text, Clooney refers and defers to his fellow Jesuit’s confidence in reason. Clooney introduces his own comparative work by proposing De Nobili’s reliance on reason as a model for bringing Christian and Hindu theologians together. De Nobili’s writings and conversations offer a tantalizing prospect of a real meeting of minds, a conversation in which people of different religious traditions reason together and manage to discuss matters of great religious weight and importance in a way that could alter what the participants believe and how they live (Clooney 2001, p. 6). But Clooney also recognizes the limits of reason in his comparative work. Take, for example, his treatment of Saint Francis de Sales and Sri Vedanta Desika in Beyond Compare, published seven years after Hindu God, Christian God (Clooney 2008). Without mentioning De Nobili’s confidence in reason, Clooney reflects in depth on how these two figures were “deeply ambivalent” about the role of reason in adjudicating religious questions of truth about God without launching “broad attacks on reason.” Instead, “they commit themselves to a diagnosis of reason’s ailments.” For all their differences, according to Clooney, De Sales and Desika agree that, When reason is properly disciplined, it sheds a bright light on the human condition and discloses the incongruities of our ways of living; this clarity prompts a new assessment of those unreflective lives, now shown to be untenable in light of how we should live, in accord with who we are and who God is. (Clooney 2008, p. 33)

De Nobili, a trained neo-­scholastic theologian, certainly recognized the limitations of reason. But this is not a prominent theme in the Report. Neither is it a prominent theme in Hindu God, Christian God, although Clooney is certainly aware that this issue must be finessed. Take, for example, this statement of purpose in Hindu God, Christian God. Restoring cogency to religious reasoning in a comparative context is key to this book. I wish to revive, in a way that is plausible today, the project of Roberto de Nobili and others in fashioning an interreligious discourse that is both religious and reasonable, as faith and reason richly shape one another. (Clooney 2001, p. 14)

The “cogency” of religious reasoning needs to be restored, if comparisons are to be skillful. In keeping with De Nobili, Clooney is calling for an interreligious discourse that is both religious and reasonable. How is reason, especially in an era of algorithms talking to one another in a disenchanted cosmos, to be tutored by the transcendent so as to be of service in bringing religious believers together? The intertextuality of Hindu God, Christian God and Beyond Compare bears witness to Clooney’s complicated relationship with his predecessor in India. In these two texts, quite as much as the essays on De Nobili, Clooney is wrestling with his genealogy.

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Henri de Lubac, SJ Henri de Lubac (1896–1991), in a letter to his friend and fellow Jesuit, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, wrote that his recent work was just “peanuts about subjects which are really outside my competence” (De Lubac cited in Teilhard de Chardin  1972, p.  422). De Lubac was referring to his ­publications on Buddhism. In fact, these publications display remarkable erudition, insight, and attention to detail. De Lubac, like De Nobili, was a patient reader of texts from outside his own tradition. De Lubac’s writings on Buddhism, however, are largely overlooked today. This is understandable. The importance of his publications on the theology of grace, ecclesiology, Christian mysticism, and medieval exegesis are of such brilliance that the works on Buddhism have been lost in the glare. In this chapter, I hope to demonstrate that De Lubac’s theology of grace was a decisive factor in his reading and writing about Buddhism. More ambitiously, I will argue that this theology of grace is at work in Clooney’s reading and writing as well. De Lubac, quite as much as De Nobili, is a part of Clooney’s genealogy. To be clear, Clooney mentions De Lubac infrequently in his writing and, in my recollection, has never mentioned De Lubac’s writings on Buddhism. Thus, I admit at the outset that the working of De Lubac’s theology of grace is less obvious in Clooney’s reading and writing than De Nobili’s confidence in the universality of reason. De Lubac, however, is never far from the surface in Clooney’s comparisons. In his Mémoire sur l’occasion de mes écrites (1989), De Lubac tells the story of being asked by his dean at the Catholic University of Lyon to teach a course on the history of religions shortly after joining the faculty. “The wider public is coming to be informed on this subject,” the dean said. “It cannot be allowed that our young priests become doctors in theology while remaining ignorant of this discipline.” Moreover, in a way that seems auspicious for comparative theologians today, the dean thought it important that the students “consider these problems within the light of Christian faith” (De Lubac 1989, p. 29; see also Ducor 2007, p. 81). The dean’s request would mark the beginning of a study of Buddhism that would continue for more than thirty years. De Nobili gained access to religious texts in India after he embraced the practices of a sannyasin and befriended Brahmins. In Lyon, De Lubac was faced with a deplorable paucity of resources. His friend, Abbe Jules Monchanin, who would later join Henri Le Saux in India, initially provided him with a French translation of a Mahayana sutra (De Lubac 1951, p. 261, 1989, p. 30). In addition, De Lubac had the good fortune to hear a lecture by the accomplished Buddhist scholar Paul Mus on Borobudur, an important Buddhist monument in Indonesia (Ducor  2007, p.  82). Unlike De Nobili, De Lubac never lived outside of Europe and was unable to read his Buddhist texts in their original languages. De Nobili mastered Sanskrit, Telugu, and Tamil. De Lubac was unacquainted with Sanskrit, Pali, Prakrit, Classical Chinese, and the Kanbun of the Japanese Pure Land Buddhists he came to love. But like De Nobili, De Lubac was a meticulous and patient reader (Ducor 2007, p. 88; Von Balthasar 1983, pp. 80). In 1950, De Lubac was accused of promoting what had recently been called the “new theology” (nouvelle théologie). At the time, in Rome at least, this was by no means a compliment. De Lubac and three of his colleagues in Lyon were relieved of their teaching duties and forbidden to teach or publish in the area of Christian theology. Three of De Lubac’s books were withdrawn from library shelves. De Lubac himself was transferred to Paris (De Lubac 1989, p. 75). However, his provincial, Paul Ravier, SJ, gave De Lubac permission to write on Buddhism (De Lubac  1989, p. 73). In Paris, De Lubac had access not only to the considerable resources on Buddhism at the Bibliothèque Nationale, but also at the library of the Musée National des Artes Asiatiques Guimet. After the move to Paris, three books on Buddhism appeared in rapid succession: Aspects du bouddhisme (1951), Le rencontre du bouddhisme et de l’Occident (1952), and Aspects du bouddhisme: Amida



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(1955). The timing of these publications contributes to the misapprehension that De Lubac turned to Buddhism only after being forbidden to teach Christian theology. De Lubac was planning to write a fourth book on Buddhism but this was not to be. The situation in Rome began to thaw in 1956. De Lubac was able to return to Lyon and partially resume his teaching duties. Then, in 1959, he resigned his position in Lyon and went to Rome to assist in the preparations for the ecumenical council that had been called by John XXIII (De Lubac  1989, pp. 88–89). De Lubac published only one essay on Buddhism after the Second Vatican Council. “Foi et devotion dan l’amidisme” originated as an address to the Secretariat for Non-­Christian Religions in Paris in 1970.3

A Comparison of Two Jesuits De Lubac quickly developed a deep respect for Buddhism as a religion. Take, for example, statements that he makes about Buddhism in his treatment of Buddhist compassion (karuṇā). De Lubac expresses an “admiring sympathy” for Buddhist practices of compassion, which he compares favorably, at least initially, with the practice of Christian charity (De Lubac 1955). He insists that Buddhist compassion cannot be dismissed as a “superficial altruism.” De Lubac is also profoundly impressed with the hymns of Asan· ga and S´ ¯a ntideva which extol the achievements of the bodhisattvas, embodiments of compassion. In Aspects du bouddhisme, in regard to the bodhisattva teaching, he writes, “we encounter here the summit of Buddhism and one of the summits of humanity” (De Lubac  1951, p.  25). In the Mémoire, De Lubac (1989), places Buddhism “among the greatest human achievements,” citing its “originality” and “spiritual profundity” (De Lubac 1989, p. 30). This cannot be said of De Nobili’s view of what we today call Hinduism. Clooney began to read De Nobili’s Tamil writings, where De Nobili addresses his Indian neighbors, only after his study of the Latin writings, where De Nobili defends his accommodationist approach to Indian culture to his religious superiors. Clooney expected to find a receptivity to the teachings of Hinduism in these texts but was disappointed. He reports that, in the Tamil texts, De Nobili engages in unrelenting apologetics and polemics (Clooney 2020, pp. 5–6). But in these texts, it is also true that De Nobili does something that De Lubac does not do. He presents the Christian Gospel in what Clooney calls a “de-­Europeanized form able to attract learned Hindu readers and challenge them to think seriously about religious truths and values.” Borrowing language from Wilhelm Halbfass, Clooney observes that De Nobili’s strategy was to “understand in order to be understood” (Halbfass 1988, pp. 42–43).4 But in seeking to be understood by “the wise,” De Nobili constructed a revisionist theology of Christian faith based on his understanding of India. Take, for example, De Nobili’s construction of Christ as the “divine guru” in the Tūṣaṇa Tikkāram (Refutation of Calumnies), an important Tamil text (Clooney 2020, pp. 19–36). In this text, De Nobili appropriates the Hindu doctrine of saṃ saˉra to explain the Augustinian view of the human condition as disordered desire to his audience of “the wise.” The Incarnation of the Word is God’s response to the disordering of the human condition by sin. God has sent his Son to be a “divine teacher” (divya guru) so that we might learn the true dharma of the Gospel and renounce (saṃ nyaˉsa) our disordered desires. Commenting on the Tūṣaṇa Tikkāram, Clooney cautiously suggests that De Nobili’s Christology may have been inspired by a study of S´ aiva Siddha¯nta theology. In support of this interpretation, Clooney notes that De Nobili cites S´ aiva sources more than Vaiṣṇavite or other lineages of Hindu theology. S´ aiva Hindus developed a sophisticated theology of S´ iva, the transcendent and immaterial God, who has come to save humanity in the form of the divine guru. In effect, Clooney is suggesting that De Nobili has constructed a Christian theology tutored significantly by Hindu theological thinking.

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De Lubac’s response to his study of Buddhism is quite different. He certainly was not interested in constructing a Christian theology that would be accessible to “the wise” in China and Japan. But neither was De Lubac interested in revising his understanding of Christian faith in light of what he was learning from his reading of Buddhist texts. Instead, De Lubac (1989) reports in Mémoire sur l’occasion de mes écrites that his research brought to him a “precious good”: As a result of his ­reading, “I was confirmed, in an ever more convincing clarity, of the extraordinary uniqueness of the Christian Fact [Fait chrétien] amid the immensely fertile ground the spiritual history of our humanity presents to us” (De Lubac 1989, p. 30; see also De Lubac 1951, pp. 8–9, 234). Far from revising his understanding of Christian faith in light of Buddhist teachings, De Lubac is reassured of the essential unity and coherence of the “Christian Fact” which has been set in high relief for him by his reading of Buddhist texts. This should not suggest that De Lubac is uninterested in making comparisons. To the contrary, De Lubac’s writings on Buddhism abound with comparisons that are in depth, extended, and carefully crafted. For example, he writes insightfully about the mysticism of Hōnen and Shinran’s paradoxical understanding of faith. Hōnen and Shinran are two of the great Pure Land masters of Japan, and De Lubac compares them with Christian figures like Thérèse de Lisieux and François Fénelon.5 De Lubac also wrote a lengthy comparison of Buddhist compassion with Christian charity (De Lubac 1951, pp. 27–37). Based on material he found at the Musée Guimet, De Lubac even compared Buddhist and Christian art. But in none of this comparative work does De Lubac suggest that the encounter with Buddhism might require, or even just enable, a revision of our theological understanding of Christian faith. Often, especially in his earlier publications, these comparisons can be quite polemical. Thus, my comparison of De Nobili and De Lubac in their responses to the encounter with another religious tradition leads to an odd state of affairs. If Clooney is disappointed by the polemical tone of De Nobili’s Tamil writings, I hope he will join me in recognizing a paradoxical irony that links these two Jesuits. In fact, I think this irony binds De Nobili and De Lubac to one another as a part of Clooney’s genealogy: it is the seventeenth-­century Jesuit missionary to India who revises his Christian theology in light of the religious Other, not the twentieth-­century Jesuit student of Buddhism who made so many skillful and erudite comparisons without ever leaving his carrel in the Bibliothèque Nationale. In truth, I am not being entirely fair to De Lubac. When De Lubac writes (1989), in his Mémoire, that his study of Buddhism has confirmed his appreciation of the Fait chrétien, he is assessing his initial encounter with Buddhism in the 1930s. Forty years later, after the Second Vatican Council and its call for interreligious dialogue and, as we will consider in greater depth, after years of reflection on the Christian theology of grace, De Lubac gave a lecture in Paris on the topic of “Faith and Piety in Amidism” (translated from “Foi et devotion dan l’amidisme” in De Lubac 1984, p. 355). In this lecture, De Lubac once again compares Pure Land teachings to the faith of Christians. But now, he can come to no simple conclusion and certainly no polemical opposition (De Lubac  1984, p. 358). Amida Buddha is not like the God of Christian faith. Amida’s power to save has been generated by meritorious practice, not the mystery of the cross and resurrection. Amida is but one of many Buddhas. Yet, the faith of Pure Land Buddhists confronts Christians with what De Lubac calls a “moral theism” which cannot be ignored. He tells his audience that Amida is a God to whom one prays and who inspires a pure existence. Let us say that Amida’s religion is a kind of moral theism. Judging not only from texts but also from long and keen observation, we find it unquestionable that many Amidists perform acts of contrition and love that are very beautiful; that no other prayer has ever resembled Christian prayer as closely as theirs, since they pray so humbly, fervently and with such deep sincerity. (De Lubac 1984, p. 358)



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Then, De Lubac makes an observation that reveals much, not only about himself as a reader of Buddhist texts. What he says next also reveals much about what would become the future course of Catholic theology. We shall not go beyond this analogy. But let us say at least that, in certain Amidist prayers, there is an expression of religious feeling whose value could remain unacknowledged only by a theology that is excessively severe and hardly in conformity with Catholic tradition. (De Lubac 1984, p. 359)

De Lubac, writing in 1970, is unwilling to go beyond analogizing Pure Land Buddhism as a moral equivalent to Christian theism. Yet he also cautions against any Christian theology that fails to recognize the religious depth of the prayers offered by Pure Land Buddhists as contrary to Catholic tradition. De Lubac’s observation reveals much about how far he had come as a reader of Buddhist texts over the course of forty years. His observation also reveals much about a generational transition that was going on in Catholic theology when he gave his lecture. The transition I wish to identify has to do with a generation of theologians whose formation took place before the Second Vatican Council and a new generation of theologians whose theological education was completed after the council. Twenty years after De Lubac’s last lecture on Buddhism, Clooney gave a lecture in Washington DC on what he saw as a generational shift in Catholic thinking about other religions. He noted that a new generation of Catholic theologians was impatient with “grand systematizations” of the theological status of other religious traditions. He argued that this “divide – between those who have faith in large theories and those who do not – is the one likely to dominate the theological debate about religions over the next generation.”6 In 1970, De Lubac was willing to think that Pure Land Buddhism (“Amidism”), as a kind of “moral theism,” was like Christianity, but “we shall not go beyond this analogy.” Clooney, of course, and the new generation that he spoke about in 1990, argued that we must go beyond merely analogizing the religious Other to our own religious self-­understanding. We must be willing to revise our understanding of Christian faith in light of our reading of texts that belong to others. My point is not simply that De Lubac is a point of departure for Clooney and myself and, for that matter, a post-­Conciliar generation of comparative theologians. He certainly is. I also want to claim that De Lubac’s patient reading of Buddhism, a sojourn of forty years, is a part of Clooney’s genealogy and, indeed, the genealogy of the generation of comparative theologians he spoke of in his lecture in 1990. To make this point, I must turn to De Lubac’s theology of grace.

Paradoxes of Grace Clooney has shown us that De Nobili’s accommodationist methods were based on a distinction between Indian culture and the “superstitions” that he considered an “overlay” on this culture (De Nobili 2000, sect. 10:9). In Clooney’s reading, De Nobili looked on the Indian nation as a “classical society,” analogous to ancient Rome, that is ready to serve as a natural foundation for the supernatural edifice of Christian revelation. Clooney, despite all his admiration for De Nobili’s accommodationist methods, resists this aspect of De Nobili’s theological understanding of India. Troublingly, De Nobili’s distinction between culture and religion is the theological basis for his accommodationist project. Reflecting on how he has responded to De Nobili’s separation of culture from religion, Clooney writes, In those Tamil writings, he showed himself to be better informed than many a missionary, but  not very clearly more respectful of the distinctly religious dimensions of the Hinduism

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he ­encountered: culture yes, religion no. My goal was then to appreciate his insight and erudition, without romanticizing it as an early instance of the benevolent dialogues very much prized in the decades of my writing. (Clooney 2020, p. 6)

Here, Clooney is once again wrestling with his genealogy. I want to propose that De Nobili and De Lubac are engaged in a complex conversation beneath the surface of Clooney’s reading and writing. If this is the case, what is De Lubac saying to De Nobili? In his years on the faculty of the Catholic University of Lyon, quite apart from his work on Buddhism, Henri de Lubac published important works in Christian theology having to do with grace and the supernatural. Among the most controversial of these publications was Surnaturel: études historiques (De Lubac 1946; see also De Lubac 1938, 1944a, 1944b, 1945). Surnaturel was written while De Lubac was being hunted by the Gestapo during World War II and was finally published in a limited edition, due to a shortage of paper, in 1946. This text was immediately controversial and accounts in no small way for his removal from Lyon. In it, De Lubac criticizes the established neo-­scholastic theology of his day. After his rehabilitation in the late 1950s and his monumental contribution to the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965), De Lubac published The Mystery of the Supernatural, a more complete theological reflection on his earlier, more historical, work (De Lubac [1965] 1998). In The Mystery of the Supernatural, De Lubac argues that the natural and supernatural constitute a paradox. They are heterogeneous and intimate at the same time. The natural order must be seen as always already opened up to the supernatural, which itself has always already been bestowed in some way. Even still, the event of grace remains forever a gift not reducible to the principles of the natural order. In exploring this paradox of heterogeneity and intimacy, De Lubac argues against the neo-­scholastic theology of “pure nature.” This theology held that the human person has a purely natural finality separate from any supernatural telos. This means that the human person is completely intelligible in se, apart from the working of grace. De Lubac traces this view to Cajetan (1468–1534) who looked on the human person as “a closed and sufficient whole” (De Lubac [1965] 1998, p. 146). De Lubac is concerned that this theology marginalizes the supernatural as merely a miraculous intrusion from outside the natural. The human person would seem to live in two separate orders. There is the order of redemption through supernatural grace and the wholly separate order of human culture which has a natural finality and intelligibility apart from the supernatural. The theology of pure nature implies, therefore, that the supernatural is simply added on to the natural order as an overlay. Grace comes to human persons from without as a stranger. In keeping with the program of ressourcement in the Nouvelle Théologie, De Lubac looks past the neo-­scholastics to the Church Fathers and the scholastic theologians themselves. Aquinas does not defend a purely natural order that is intelligible in itself apart from grace (De Lubac [1965] 1998, p. 16). There is but one order of history where the human person always finds themself already touched by grace and invited to participate in divine life. The human person, therefore, must be affirmed as a “spiritual being” that cannot be reduced to the purely natural order. The natural order is always already opened up to a supernatural fulfillment in a way that does not make grace automatic (De Lubac [1965] 1998, p. 41). There is no natural order that is sufficient unto itself ([1965] 1998, p. 58). De Lubac’s theology of grace leads us back to De Nobili. His rejection of the theology of pure nature would seem to put him at odds with De Nobili’s separation of culture and religion in India. Hinduism cannot be neatly separated from the culture of the Indian nation as an overlay of “­superstition.” In Le Rencontre, De Lubac (1952) claims that “Buddhism explores, with a passionate curiosity, a great human fact – of all human facts the most vast and, along with the Greeks, the most human” (p. 163). Later in this text, he speaks of Buddhism as “one of the living spiritual



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forces which presents itself to the conscience of Europe” (1952, pp. 262, 272). In his Mémoire, De Lubac writes that Buddhism is “the most vast and complex spiritual fact [ fait spirituel ] in the entire history of the world, with the exception of Judeo-­Christian revelation” (1989, p. 94). Is not Roberto de Nobili required to say something similar of the religious genius of India? The Indian nation cannot be simply a “classical society,” intelligible in itself as a potential receptacle for a supernatural revelation arriving from overseas with the coming of the Europeans. Hinduism, like Buddhism, is a “vast and complex spiritual fact” that addresses De Nobili and requires a response. De Nobili, as Halbfass observed, was certainly trying to understand in order to be understood, but he was also being confronted by truths in texts that were not his own. In his reading of De Nobili’s Tūṣaṇa Tikkāram, Clooney goes out on a limb to suggest that De Nobili may have been guided by S´ aiva theology in de-­Europeanizing Christ as the crucified Messiah and reconstructing Christ as the divine guru. In a similar spirit of adventure, I want to suggest that De Nobili may have imbibed Cajetan’s theology of pure nature while in theological studies in Rome. He certainly shared in the Renaissance’s positive view of Rome as a “classical society” based in the natural light of reason. If this historical linkage between Cajetan and De Nobili is correct, then the genius of De Nobili’s program of accommodation was based on what De Lubac, centuries later, would criticize as a theological error. Moreover, I am also suggesting that this troubled conversation between De Nobili and De Lubac is part of Clooney’s genealogy. It provides a hermeneutic for understanding not only Clooney’s retrieval and ambiguous admiration of De Nobili, but for understanding his patient reading and writing about India as a whole. Clooney is unable to do what De Nobili did: separate the natural from the supernatural, Indian culture and Hindu religion, in his encounter with the “Spiritual Fact” of Hinduism (Clooney 2020, p. 6). If Clooney is of a different generation than De Lubac, he is all the more of a different generation than De Nobili. Both of these great Jesuits, however, remain a part of his reading and writing.

Shadows and Remembrance Let me return to Clooney’s lecture on “Remembering How to Learn in a Forgetful World” (Clooney 2019, p. 23). In this lecture, Clooney reflected on how it is that “writing is an extension of reading,” and how “this writing, which is always a rereading, is an ethical, even religious activity” (Rosemann 1999, p. 97). Looking back on our many conversations, beginning in the kitchen of Hopkins Hall during our days together as graduate students, I think that this must surely be the case. Every writing is a rereading in which we are required to make sometimes difficult decisions about our ancestors and their working within us. Certainly, this is true of my friend of so many years. When we first began our conversations, Clooney and I tried to think about those who had gone before us and the shadows they cast. We certainly did not spend time thinking that we would cast our own shadows on those who would come after us. But this has been the case with Clooney. In his work as a teacher, mentor, and friend, Clooney has accompanied not only myself, but a new generation of comparative theologians who are doing their own patient reading of texts. The genealogy continues.

Notes 1 The notion of a “genealogy,” of course, is conflicted. It can be traced back from various contemporary postmodern and deconstructionist thinkers to Fredrich Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morals. There are, however, other ways to approach this aspect of ourselves as readers and writers struggling to i­ nterpret

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texts. As a graduate student, chatting with Clooney in our kitchen, I was wrestling with Hans-­Georg Gadamer’s notion of a “wirkungsgeschichtliches Bewußtsein” (historically effected consciousness). Gadamer claimed that the finitude of our actual situation and its history are always at work in our reading of texts. When we interpret texts, our forgotten ancestors are with us in the form of a ­tradition. In truth, even in our days together in Hopkins Hall, I was already wondering about Clooney’s Wirkungsgeschichte. Others, of course, may have a different view of Clooney’s Bewußtsein. The reflections that follow, therefore, can only be a limited experiment in comparison. 2 De Nobili’s most important text in regard is his Tūṣaṇa Tikkāram (The refutation of calumnies). See especially chapters 6–12. For Clooney’s treatment of this aspect of De Nobili’s theology, see Clooney (2020, pp. 19–36). 3 This lecture was subsequently published and is now available in English translation as “Faith and Piety in Amidism,” see De Lubac (1984, pp.  355–370). The Secretariat is known today as the Dicastery for Interreligious Dialogue. 4 Clooney cites Halbfass in Western Jesuit Scholars (2020, p. 9). 5 On Ho¯nen, see De Lubac (1955, pp. 155–174). For Shinran, see De Lubac (1955, pp. 199–225). 6 Clooney’s lecture was subsequently published as “The Study of Non-­Christian Religions in the ­Post-­Vatican II Roman Catholic Church” (Clooney 1991).

References Clooney, F.X. (1991). The study of non-­Christian religions in the post-­Vatican II Roman Catholic Church. The Journal of Ecumenical Studies 28 (3): 482–494. Clooney, F.X. (2001). Hindu God, Christian God. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008). Beyond Compare: Saint Francis de Sales and Sri Vedanta Desika on Loving Surrender to God. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Clooney, F.X. (2020). Western Jesuit Scholars in India: Tracing Their Paths, Reassessing Their Goals. Leiden: Brill. De Lubac, H. (1938). Catholicisme: Les aspects sociaux du dogme. Paris: Éditions du Cerf. De Lubac, H. (1944a). Corpus Mysticum: L’eucharistie et l’église au Moyen Âge. Paris: Aubier. De Lubac, H. (1944b). Le drame de l’humanisme athée. Paris: Éditions Spes. De Lubac, H. (1945). De la connaissance de Dieu. Paris: Témoignage chrétien. De Lubac, H. (1946). Surnaturel: Études historiques. Paris: Aubier. De Lubac, H. (1951). Aspects du bouddhisme, 1st ed. Paris: Éditions du Seuil. De Lubac, H. (1952). Le rencontre du bouddhisme et de l’Occident. Paris: Aubier. De Lubac, H. (1955). Aspects du bouddhisme: Amida, 2nd ed. Paris: Éditions de Seuil (New edition, 2012, Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf). De Lubac, H. ([1965] 1998). The Mystery of the Supernatural. New York: Herder and Herder. De Lubac, H. (1984). Faith and piety in Amidism. In: Theological Fragments (trans. R. Howell Balinski). San Francisco: Ignatius Press. De Lubac, H. (1989). Mémoire sur l’occasion de mes écrites. Namur: Culture et Vérité. De Nobili, R. (2000). Preaching Wisdom to the Wise (trans. and intro. A. Amaladass and F.X. Clooney). St Louis, MO: The Institute for Jesuit Resources. Ducor, J. (2007). Les écrits d’Henri de Lubac sur le bouddhisme. Les cahiers boudhiques 5 (5): 81–110. Halbfass, W. (1988). India and Europe: An Essay in Understanding. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Rosemann, P. (1999). Understanding Scholastic Thought with Foucault. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Teilhard de Chardin, P. (1972). Lettres intimes de Teilhard de Chardin à Auguste Valensin, Bruno de Solages, Henri de Lubac. Paris: A. Montaigne. Von Balthasar, H.U. (1983). Une oeuvre organique. In: Le Cardinal de Lubac: L’homme et son oeuvre (ed. H.U. von Balthasar and G. Chantraine). Paris: Lethiellieux.

CHAPTER 15

Francis X. Clooney, SJ Jesuit, Scholar, Missionary Christian S. Krokus

Francis X. Clooney usually explains in the introductions to his books the various identities and contexts that inform his ways of observing and thinking. We know, for example, that he is a New Yorker, an Irish American, a Roman Catholic priest, a University of Chicago-­trained scholar of Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava Hinduism, and a theologian teaching at Harvard Divinity School. We also know, as he writes in Comparative Theology: “The Society [of Jesus] is . . . the intellectual and faith tradition to which I personally belong” (Clooney 2010, p. 27). Francis X. Clooney is a Jesuit. While significant scholarly literature exists about the method and details of his Catholic-­Hindu comparative theology, relatively little has been written about Clooney’s Jesuit identity per se. However, understanding his particular relationship to the Jesuit missionary tradition in India is one key for understanding his comparative theological project as a whole. As he observes: “Like my Jesuit ancestors, I am a Jesuit thinking about Brahmins” (Clooney 2006, p. 166b). My thesis is that Clooney’s scholarly work is an extension and a critical appropriation of the long tradition of Jesuits engaged with India and Hinduism, but with Clooney that tradition enters a new stage of religious interiority such that the Jesuit–Hindu encounters are theological rather than cultural and take place primarily within the missionary himself, i.e., within the Jesuit. My elaboration of that thesis proceeds in four ­sections. First, I summarize Clooney’s historico-­developmental reading of the Jesuit missionary tradition in India. Second, I note instances of his critical appropriation of that tradition. Third, I consider two of Clooney’s comparative theological books, indicating how they partly embody and extend the Jesuit missionary tradition, highlighting the shift to interiority. Fourth, I conclude with a question about Clooney’s own religious experience. I do all of this briefly, without sufficient expertise in either Hinduism or Jesuit history, drawing on too narrow a slice of his corpus of writings, and shamelessly plucking for myself Clooney’s encouragement in a very different context: “We must be  imperfectionists, so to speak. Imperfect study and learning must be welcomed, lest we thwart  Hindu-­ Christian learning by holding only to the highest standards of perfection” (Clooney 2020, p. 237).

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Jesuit Missionaries in India For all its successes and failures the Society of Jesus has possessed from the beginning what Clooney calls a distinctive “charism for dialogue” (Clooney 2002), and he is convinced, as a Jesuit, of the need to examine his community’s history of encounter with religious others: “[J]ust as the Society has profited greatly by a retrieval of the basic Ignatian charism in the Exercises and Constitutions, today we can also profitably reflect on the insights, experiments, opinions, and hopes of the missionary scholars, reading the signs of our times in light of theirs” (Clooney 2002, p. 4). As a result, Clooney has been researching and writing about the experience of Western Jesuit missionaries in India for a long time. The volume Western Jesuit Scholars in India, from which I mainly draw, is a collection of fifteen previously published essays that span from 1988 through 2016, but the work continues. In 2022 he published a book about the eighteenth-­century Italian-­Jesuit scholar in South India, Constanzo Beschi (1680–1747) (Clooney  2022). The chapters of Western Jesuit Scholars in India are never merely historical: “These essays are, obliquely, essays about myself and other Jesuits living today, either in India or in the West, who have an interest in Hinduism” (Clooney 2020, p. 4). Clooney continues: “Inscribed in these essays is . . . a search for balance, a middle space between hagiographical pieties and Jesuit self-­congratulation on the one side, and a dismissal of missionary learning and the theological framing of missionary work on the other” (2020, pp. 4–5). His “search for balance” reveals an effort at critical appropriation, deliberately continuing some features of the missionary tradition while reimagining or even dismissing others. It is helpful therefore to begin by considering Clooney’s historico-­developmental reading of that tradition.1 There is first the period of the early Jesuits, extending from Francis Xavier (1506–1552) through the mid-­to late seventeenth century and exemplified by the life and work of Roberto de Nobili (1577–1656). Clooney demonstrates enormous affection and admiration for this period of Jesuit–Hindu encounter, which is marked by a distinct combination of missionary zeal, prodigious learning, confidence in reason, flexibility, and creative improvisation, even more so for De Nobili himself who personally embodied those virtues: “[It was] confidence in a shared rationality . . . that enabled De Nobili and the other early Jesuits to make a particular, significant contribution to the missionary and intellectual work of the church in their time” (Clooney 2020, p. 86). De Nobili “mastered Tamil, the local language, and developed a Tamil writing style far surpassing the minimal requirements of the colloquial; he learned Sanskrit, Hinduism’s classical language, and was probably the first European to read Sanskrit texts; he became familiar with a wide range of popular and technical religious ideas, with popular myths, the legal codes of Manu, and so on, and the literature of sectarian Hinduism, of the Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava and particularly the Śaiva communities” (Clooney 2020, p. 37). Beyond prodigious learning and technical mastery, De Nobili also made an important and creative distinction between culture and religion, a distinction that allowed him to see South India as on par with other classical civilizations such as Rome. Although he “conceded no ground on his Catholic faith,” still “it was no little thing, no moderate gesture, to suggest that there were admirable non-­European cultures, as equally suited as his own to the full embodiment of Christian values” (Clooney 2020, pp. 38, 48). De Nobili’s conviction was based on a tremendous “confidence in reason,” its divine origins, and its human universality, which contributed to a deep respect for South India and a largely successful inculturation of the Gospel there (Clooney 2020, p. 52). All of that, according to Clooney, has made De Nobili “a hero for those in the Christian churches who want to divest the Christian Gospel of an overly European appearance and deepen its roots in the non-­European societies where it is present” (Clooney 2020, p. 37). A key Jesuit in the following transition period roughly from the late seventeenth century through the mid-­eighteenth century is Jean Venance Bouchet (1655–1732): “To generalize



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greatly . . . De Nobili stands at the boundary between medieval and modern views of the world, while Bouchet stands at the boundary between Christian and secular readings of the world. If De Nobili is largely a progressive figure, out of a conservative background, Bouchet is a more conservative figure, seeking to use new knowledge to defend and restore old values” (Clooney 2020, p. 171). Gone is the enormous praise for Indian culture. Instead, Bouchet “seeks to derive what is good in India from the Biblical realm,” going so far as to suggest that Hindu figures and ideas may be derivative of biblical and classical Greek counterparts – e.g., “It is not a long way to go from Brahma to Abraham” (Clooney 2020, pp. 155–156, 197). Bouchet at times seems less interested in understanding India either for its own sake or even as fertile ground for sowing the Gospel than he is in “interjecting himself on the Catholic side of a [European] Enlightenment struggle between skepticism and Catholic orthodox faith, aiming to bring to bear a persuasive force rooted in his eyewitness testimony from India” (Clooney 2020, p. 148). Whereas De Nobili wrote in Tamil with and for South Indians, Bouchet wrote in French, intending a European audience. He and his ­contemporaries remain impressive thinkers, still confident in reason, but their learning is less theologically original and creative. With Bouchet the “missionary argument with learned Hindus was giving way to an incipient Indological discourse among learned Europeans about India” (Clooney 2020, p. 199). The third period corresponds with the years following the restoration of the Jesuits in 1814 after their 1773 suppression: “My hypothesis on the shift occurring in the post-­reestablishment period . . . is that the nineteenth century witnessed an inward turn in Jesuit Indology, such as it was. It was repatriated to its European roots and answered a European set of intellectual as well as religious concerns” (Clooney 2020, p. 202). The shift of focus from India to Europe that began with Bouchet and his contemporaries accelerated and hardened with the restoration of the Society. Clooney has written less about this period than the others, but he has highlighted key figures such as Joseph Bertrand (1801–1884) and August Thébaud (1807–1885). He has written more about the next period, which took place mainly in the first half of the twentieth century. The Calcutta Jesuits included such luminaries as Pierre Johanns (1882–1955), George Dandoy (1882–1962), and Robert Antoine (1914–1981). Partly what made the Calcutta Jesuits distinctive was their sincere effort, in contradistinction to the restorationists, to understand Vedānta thinkers on their own terms, even if they kept an eye on reconciling Hindu doctrines with faith in Christ. The Evangelical-­Anglican missionary and convert to Catholicism William Wallace (1863– 1922), himself deeply influenced by the Christian-­Hindu figure Brahmabandhab Upadhyay (1861–1907), was an important influence on the Calcutta Jesuits and on Clooney himself, who credits Wallace’s “xenophilia” with generating a context in which “reciprocity [between Catholic and Hindu religious worldviews] becomes crucial, in a way not seen in the writings of the early Jesuits” (Clooney 2020, p. 234). For Wallace, “if Christianity offered a priceless gift to the East – the risen Christ – the East equally gave to the West a precious gift: a spiritually mature manner of receiving Christ” (Clooney 2020, p. 224). We begin to see the possibility of Christianity fulfilling rather than destroying the Hindu other (2020, p. 235). Wallace’s conversion narrative is complicated, but Clooney appreciates his “love for the radically other” and his willingness to take “an emotional and social risk” in displaying that love (p. 228). Wallace’s example marks a revival that led to the Calcutta Jesuits’ “restoring in the twentieth century the intellectually and spiritually ambitious sensibility of the earliest Jesuits” (Clooney 2020, p. 227). With Richard de Smet (1916– 1997) there emerges the further goal of establishing “an honest argument among collegial equals” (Clooney  2020, p.  238). It is no wonder Clooney observes that the Calcutta Jesuits’ approach “certainly influenced my own earliest learning from Hindu traditions” (p. 227). In summary, the Jesuits began their South Indian missionary endeavor with a creative and energetic approach. They mastered Sanskrit and Tamil in order to conduct detailed research and

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to communicate directly with their new interlocutors; they displayed a genuine openness to ­discovery and a flexible willingness to implement the Gospel in India-­centered ways, and they marveled at the rich, brilliant treasures of South Indian culture. Eventually that creative openness dissipated, and the Jesuits, now writing mainly in European languages, instrumentalized their knowledge in support of Western intellectual debates. Whatever was good about South India could already be found in Western sources. The Calcutta Jesuits recaptured their early predecessors’ intellectual ambition, once again attending to particulars and reveling in new discovery, but they went further, seeking mutual, scholarly collegiality with their Indian counterparts. However, the later stage is marked by a decline in evangelico-­apologetic motivation: “[T]he first foreign Jesuit scholars in India were primarily apologists, the last primarily Indologists” (Clooney 2020, p. 143). In his own scholarship Clooney appears to hold in tension the best of each stage while transforming or even dismissing other elements.

Critically Appropriating the Jesuit Missionary Tradition Clooney embodies the enthusiasm, curiosity, and improvisational positivity of the early Jesuits in India, and clearly he shares their confidence in reason as a means of intercultural and interreligious understanding and communication. Like those early predecessors he has mastered Sanskrit and Tamil, and it is not lost on him that he is “working with some of the same Sanskrit and Tamil texts studied by De Nobili and other Jesuit scholars throughout the centuries of Jesuit presence in India” (Clooney 2020, p. 2). His comparative theological work entails close reading, comparison, and even argumentation across religious lines, and the subtitle of Hindu God, Christian God directly makes the point: How Reason Helps Break Down the Boundaries Between Religions (Clooney 2001). Clooney is inspired by the “delicate and uneasy balance of scholarship and apologetics” that De Nobili, Xavier, and others achieved (2020, p. 143). However, Clooney is more aware than his Jesuit predecessors of how reason can be misapplied. He asks us to notice, for instance, “how deliberately and systematically [De Nobili] identified an irreducible surd, a small set of beliefs and practices that could not be assimilated into a Christian worldview and had to be rejected as superstition, idolatry in theory and practice” (2020, p. 125). The shadow side of De Nobili’s praise for South Indian culture and his creative culture-­religion distinction was a refusal to appreciate anything specifically religiously Hindu, as opposed to culturally Hindu, about his interlocutors. That failure was for lack of neither intellectual ability nor available or adequate data. Rather, in Clooney’s estimation, De Nobili’s limitation was the result of bias. The missionary logic under which he operated rendered him either unable or unwilling to ask further relevant questions: “His lack of understanding occurs when (consciously or not) he no longer wishes to improvise” (Clooney 2020, p. 125). The bias extends into the next generation with a thinker like Bouchet, who “seemed never to defer judgment on the grounds that he did not know enough; he never seemed in doubt that more knowledge would always be knowledge supportive of his position” (Clooney 2020, p. 184). Clooney maintains the uneasy balance the early Jesuits achieved, but with different parameters. Whereas for De Nobili “it is in the pairing of the acceptable and unacceptable – enormous praise for the culture, accompanied by smaller but intensely focused areas of rejection – that the distinctive Jesuit missionary achievement lies,” for Clooney the creative tension is largely between scholarly and apologetic motivations (Clooney  2020, p.  126). If the early Jesuits treated their learning as the means for converting Hindus to Christianity  – “understanding in order to be understood” (p. 113) – modern Jesuits sometimes forget “that we still, always, have a Gospel to proclaim” (Clooney 2002, p. 36). At the beginning of Hindu God, Christian God, Clooney (2001, pp.  7–12) therefore explains how his theology resists premature resolution of the tension by



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remaining simultaneously interreligious, comparative, dialogical, and confessional, and in Comparative Theology he writes: “[B]y using together ‘comparative’ and ‘theology’ I seek to preserve the creative tension defining this discipline” (2010, p. 11). There is another dimension of the tension. Unlike De Nobili, Clooney does not automatically reject specifically Hindu, religious values. Instead, like the Calcutta Jesuits, he seeks mutuality in the dialogue between Catholics and Hindus ́ v̄ aiṣṇava), working to understand and to appreciate, on their own terms, the (in his case mainly Srı religious teachings found in Hindu texts and thinkers. Unlike the Calcutta Jesuits, however, Clooney resists the notion that “only Thomism’s higher viewpoint could bring the fragmentary truths of Vedanta to wholeness” (2010, p. 38). That is, he resists any premature reconciling of Catholic and Hindu religious values in an overarching Christian theology of religions. As we saw, his theology remains not only confessional (apologetic-­evangelical) and comparative (scholarly Indological), but also dialogical and interreligious. Catholic and Hindu religious claims must remain in creative tension with each other. Recall that Clooney encourages study of the Jesuit missionary tradition in order to interpret our times in the light of theirs. Today the Jesuits find themselves in the unsettling context of postmodern religious pluralism – no longer easily confident about the superiority of Catholic teachings, even while remaining committed to them. Unlike De Nobili, Bouchet, or De Smet, today a Jesuit may find the more he studies another religious tradition, the less certain he becomes about where the Church stands in relation to it. Therefore, in his comparative theological work Clooney insists on slowing down, resisting the pressure to proclaim, adopting the approach of a Jesuit missionary from a very different context than he normally studies, namely the French Jesuit in North America Jean de Brebeuf (1593–1649), who “seems to have made no sweeping judgments, but to have nuanced his position by innumerable smaller assessments” (Clooney  2002, p.  22). As Clooney remarks in Hindu God, Christian God, “theologies not engaged in comparative work are quite often willing to be tentative in their conclusions, which remain open to revision and correction, and there is no reason to demand speedier progress of comparative theologians” (Clooney 2001, p. 12). Refraining from judgment leaves one in a vulnerable position  – without the security of the superiority of Catholic teaching and practice – but vulnerability has always been the lot of the missionary. Few European Catholics in the sixteenth century were prepared to make the arduous and dangerous trek to India, and today many Catholics will shy away from the dizzying array of possibilities for interreligious learning, retreating to local, seemingly noncomparative concerns. Yet in every age, there is an urgent need for some Catholics deliberately, fully, sustainably, and on behalf of the wider Church, to plant themselves in new, unfamiliar territory, immersing themselves, observing, understanding, recording, and sharing discoveries. Jesuit missionary scholars have played this role in the past, and they may continue to do so: “At the beginning of the twenty-­first century Jesuit scholars such as myself must redefine ourselves as missionaries again – apart again, no longer working with large numbers of my Jesuit brothers, yet meeting all kinds of new sisters and brothers, all in the light of Christ” (Clooney 2006, p. 174b). Today the Jesuit engaged with Hinduism may be stationed in a North American office or classroom, but Clooney already learned as a young Jesuit teaching in Kathmandu that “scholarship” itself can be “an intense way of openness, vulnerability” (Clooney 1996, p. 9). In that case the vulnerability is less about exterior threats than it is about interior uncertainty. How to respond to the truth, goodness, and beauty of another tradition’s religious claims? Must we control the other with a Christian narrative? Must we disengage completely, because there are too many possibilities? More intimately, will I allow the other tradition to have a claim on me? Do I have a choice? Clooney demonstrates the point about vulnerable uncertainty visually in the chapter he contributed to the volume Jesuit Postmodern titled “Francis Xavier and the World/s We (Don’t Quite) Share.” After a brief introduction, he splits the page in two columns. On the left side are quotations

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from early Jesuit missionaries or from Clooney’s previous studies of them. On the right side are first-­person statements from Clooney, either drawn from previous writings or composed for the article at hand but related to the material immediately facing it from the left. The intention is to represent the following insight: “The reader cannot read all the larger and smaller Jesuit stories all at once, but must make choices about where to read – which column, which narrative – and how to make connections. Only by such choices can a reader construct a sense of the Jesuit story/stories. The whole is indeed larger and more fully instructive than the parts, but the parts resist, and are never smoothly blended into a unified whole that tells just one story” (Clooney 2006, pp. 157– 158). Rather than force the myriad narratives into one single controllable story, the Jesuit must patiently, partially, and imperfectly learn what he can while observing the effects those narratives are having on him and thereby coming to understand his own Jesuit story. What is true of Jesuit stories particularly is even more true of religious stories generally. In the unsettling context of postmodern religious pluralism, the Jesuit engaged with Hinduism must be every bit as serious as his predecessors in terms of training and attention to primary sources. The Jesuit must be just as open and appreciative of new discoveries. He must be equally rooted in commitment to the Gospel. However, in a way that Wallace anticipated but many early Jesuits could not have imagined, the Jesuit missionary today is called to take “an emotional and social risk,” to notice, to reflect on, and to report about the Catholic–Hindu encounter taking place within himself. In that sense Clooney has pushed the tradition into a new stage of interiority.

Examples from Comparative Theology The Truth, the Way, the Life, as the subtitle suggests, is a “Christian commentary on the three Holy Mantras of the Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava Hindus” (Clooney 2008a, p. 27). Much of what Clooney does is to exposit for his Christian readers a commentary by the Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava thinker Vedānta Deśika (1268– 1369), namely the Auspicious Essence of the Three Mysteries. The book is a “micro-­project” whereby Clooney explicates the three mantras, a “macro-­project” whereby he enters a long Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava commentarial tradition, and finally, “all of this is written with an eye toward the Christian tradition of faith and worship, theology and prayer” (Clooney 2008a, p. 23). He dedicates each of the four main body chapters to one of the mantras, opening each with a brief Christian verse, followed by the mantra and a brief Christian reflection. (Early in the book Clooney justifies his unprecedented decision to separate the two lines of the Carama Śloka.) Next, he introduces the mantra, providing etymological background and historico-­religious context. He then explicates Deśika’s commentary, interspersing relevant Christian reflections. Then there is a “Reading  .  .  .  from a Christian Perspective,” in which Clooney identifies theological insights and concerns that may arise for a Christian reader, explores specific resonances in the Christian, biblical tradition, highlights previous relevant Catholic–Hindu theological comparison by figures such as Bede Griffiths (1906–1993) and Henri le Saux (1910–1973), and finally engages the possibility of a Christian praying with the mantra. In the concluding chapter of the book, titled “After Commentary,” Clooney examines potential theological openings, parsing what seems accessible and what seems inaccessible to a Christian as Christian. Throughout the book Clooney’s Indological expertise is on full display, as are his Christian ­commitments and desire for mutually informed, interreligious reflection on the mantras. His main method is to pair biblical verses with each of the mantras. He pairs the Tiru Mantra (Aum, obeisance to Nārāyaṇa) with Jesus’s address of God as “Abba, Father” (Rom 8:15). With Carama Śloka 1 and 2 (Having completely given up all dharmas, to Me alone come for refuge . . .; From all sins I will make you free. Do not grieve) he pairs the two parts of Jesus’s invitation to the rich



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young man: “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give the proceeds to the poor” and “You will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow Me” (Matt 19:21). He pairs the Dvaya Mantra (I approach for refuge the feet of Nārāyaṇa with Śr ı ̄, obeisance to Nārāyaṇa with Śr ı ̄) with Jesus’s resolution on the cross: “Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit” (Luke 23:46). The point is not to establish one-­to-­one equivalencies between biblical verses and mantras, suggesting they play exactly parallel roles in Christianity and Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava Hinduism. Nor is it to suggest that the mantras express what we already know to be Christian truths. The interesting resonances between the Bible and the mantras may or may not be reconciled, but Clooney’s goals are different. One is for the Christian at least to acknowledge the likelihood that “God intends there to be the three mantras as enduring spiritual realities that speak of the truth, the way, and the life, mantras possessed of a wisdom that does not disappear or appear as mere shadow to the light of Christian revelation” (Clooney 2008a, p. 185). Another goal is to allow for the possibility that Christians “can find ourselves in the position of searching out and pondering possible ‘mantras’ of our own tradition”; “The newly recollected New Testament texts,” for example, may be “posited  .  .  .  as Christian Mantras” (pp. 189, 190). In other words, immersion in the study of Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava worship and commentary may yield new ways of being Christian: “We can pray with Abba, Father, of course, just as Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇavas can and do pray with Aum, obeisance to Nārāyaṇa. But now we can also profitably pray Abba, Father mindful of the Tiru Mantra, remembering and uttering highly revered words of our tradition mindful of these sacred religious words drawn from another tradition” (Clooney 2008a, p. 72). Although Clooney hesitates to speculate about the results of such mutuality, he has invited the reader into new and uncertain territory, wherein Christian and Hindu stories interact with each other within the reader, who is accordingly called patiently and vulnerably ­simply to pay attention, learn, record observations, and share findings with the wider community. Clooney frequently raises the question of whether a Christian can appropriate the mantras for their personal prayer and understanding of God, and he consistently offers a response along the lines of probably and probably not. Regarding the Tiru Mantra, for example, “If we focus on the universal meanings detected by Deśika, we can pray with the mantra; if we focus on the specific density of the mantra as praise of Nārāyaṇa as a specific divine person who is exclusive of other deities and incompatible with God as understood in the Jewish and Christian traditions, then praying with the mantra becomes nearly impossible. More likely, though, we will find ourselves on a difficult middle ground . . . and for us, finding where to stand is the key factor” (Clooney 2008a, p. 73). Regarding Carama Śloka 1, “Insofar as Kṛṣṇa’s word really means simply God alone, then it can easily be taken as speaking to us as well. But if Me alone specifically intends Kṛṣṇa and not ‘God in general’  .  .  .  then the idea that we are Kṛṣṇa’s audience becomes more problematic: Christians may for the most part not want to be that audience, or find ourselves unable to be among those listening to Kṛṣṇa” (Clooney 2008a, p. 104). Rather than De Nobili’s culture-­religion distinction, Clooney distinguishes between the religiously general and the religiously specific. Insofar as the mantras communicate general understandings of God, Christians may profitably employ them in their own prayer. Insofar as the mantras demand allegiance to a specific understanding of God exclusive of others, a Christian will likely remain an outsider to the tradition. Finally, even though he characterizes the situation of a Christian accepting specific worship of Nārāyaṇa with Śr ı ̄ as highly improbable and very difficult to imagine, he never completely forecloses on the possibility. Notice Clooney’s emphasis: “[F]inding where to stand is the key factor.” It is no accident that Clooney turns to Griffiths and le Saux as Christian interlocutors and guides. Although they were Benedictines and not Jesuits, they famously, and sometimes painfully, struggled to find where they stood, or rather where Catholicism and Hinduism stood within them. They were pioneers in seeing the missionary path as an interior journey through vulnerability and uncertainty on to further insights into the truths of Catholic Christianity and Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava

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Hinduism. Clooney often uses Jesuit texts as his Catholic comparative partners, such as the Jesuit vow formula, which he compares with the Dvaya Mantra (Clooney  2008a, p.  142), and the Spiritual Exercises, whether the Suscipe (Clooney 1996, pp. 28–30) or Ignatius’s treatment of meditation (Clooney 2010, pp. 144–148). ́ ̄ Vedānta Deśika on Loving Surrender to God is the fulfillBeyond Compare: St Francis de Sales and Srı ment of a two-­book project: “In a world where readers would have great patience along with interest in my work, The Truth, the Way, the Life would be taken as the groundwork of a project completed in this book, as close reading is resolved and fulfilled in a recognition of the act of loving surrender as a value not constrained within solitary religious boundaries” (Clooney  2008b, p. xii). In it Clooney compares the Treatise on the Love of God by De Sales (1567–1622) with the Essence of the Three Auspicious Mysteries by Deśika. After introducing the two classics, he studies the way both authors present the possibilities and limits of reason, the nature and potential of religious reading, surrender to God, and life after surrender to God, along the way comparing insights as well as bringing modern philosophers and literary theorists into the conversation. Ultimately, as the subtitle explains, Clooney invites the reader to consider the possibility of “loving surrender to God,” making explicit the disorienting and unsettling interreligious context of that invitation. He writes: “This project is ‘beyond comparison’; it is concerned rather with the further step occurring when a reader (who may also become a writer) takes the texts of two traditions to heart, reading them together with a vulnerability to their power and purpose precisely so as to be doubly open to the transformations their authors intended to instigate in readers” (Clooney 2008b, p. 27). The goal is not comparison; it is surrender. As he does in The Truth, the Way, the Life and elsewhere, Clooney juxtaposes Catholic and Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava texts and lets them resonate with each other, and he considers whether and how thoroughly a Catholic reader might appropriate the Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava material. However, even more strongly than in The Truth, the Way, the Life, in Beyond Compare Clooney resists any urge “to reduce either [religious classic] to a component of some later and settled ‘higher’ viewpoint” (Clooney 2008b, p. 79). Rather, if the book is successful, the reader will experience a profoundly unsettled condition: We are . . . left in a vulnerable, fruitful learning state, engaging these powerful works on multiple levels and, paradoxically, learning more while mastering less; we have more teachers and fewer masters. It may appear that by this practice we acquire a surfeit of scriptures, yet have no Scripture; multiple languages and words and images, yet no tested, effective manner of speaking; a wealth of theological insights, yet no sure doctrine; not one but two rich religious traditions from which to benefit, and yet – because we know too much – no single, normative tradition that commands our attention. (Clooney 2008b, p. 209)

Of course not everyone is equipped for such unsettling: “[T]his situation will not be to everyone’s liking, it is something that a smaller group of readers can do for the communities involved” (p.  209). The missionary is still Catholic and Jesuit, still engaged with Hinduism, still doing his work on behalf of the Church, but now even less certain about the status and relationship among the various truth claims and devotions that he encounters. Although they turn to very different sources and traditions to make the case, both Deśika and De Sales argue that in order to surrender authentically and lovingly to God one must be stripped of other more proximate sources of security. Whereas Deśika intends primarily to remove intellectual attachments and obstacles to surrender, De Sales means to move one’s will toward affection for God above all. In the process one becomes uncertain about previous, relative convictions or loves,



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an uncertainty that is essential for authentic and loving surrender to God. The reader has, ideally, allowed themself to become vulnerable to the aims of both classics and so has become doubly unsettled: “Now unsettled by both texts, she or he comes closer to the precipice of a real act of loving surrender” (Clooney 2008b, p. 186). Here the evangelical edge of Clooney’s work emerges. It is precisely within the vulnerable uncertainty that one is more likely to meet God. The reader does not shed their Catholic commitments; rather, Clooney invites them to shed their premature conviction about the superiority of those commitments. If one remains faithful to the experience of double-­unsettling, then Clooney holds out the prospect of a distinctly Ignatian result: “Eventually, our reading may open again into joy, as constrained rationalism and detached writing, relativism and fragmentation, fear and neglect all give way to the more intense insight and love that arises when we know two (or more) traditions together, in a learning that proceeds without limit or guarantee, unafraid, growing still more intense, a consolation beyond compare” (Clooney  2008b, p. 210). If God is to be found everywhere, then surely God is to be found in the consolation that follows the vulnerability Clooney recommends. It is the job of the Jesuit missionary in this new phase of Catholic–Hindu engagement to lead us there.

Concluding Question Where is Clooney in his own interior journey? His own answer is sometimes relatively cautious. In The Truth, the Way, the Life, for example, Clooney writes that he has personally been using both his suggested biblical verses and also the holy mantras themselves in prayer. His reports about the experience are suggestive but not quite revealing: “There seems to me to be no reason why a Christian cannot still venture to appropriate the piety, theology, and practice of the three mantras, as well as the insights and theology of Deśika’s Essence, for the sake of a deeply Christocentric manner of prayer”; “In the processes I have been describing, we pray as Christians with a widened understanding and possibly with hearts moving in two directions at once” (Clooney  2008a, p.  191). Has Clooney appropriated the piety, theology, and practice of the ­mantras? What are the results? Is his heart moving in two directions? What does that look like concretely in his own life? At other times Clooney is more explicit. In an early article, he writes of his two visits to the Temple of Tirupati: “Now this was indeed a moment of interreligious encounter. Nothing dramatic or outstanding  – no visions, voices, ecstasies, nothing of that sort – it was just that I met God there, I was found by God there. Although I did not then, nor now, know exactly what I saw, or how I was seen, there was a kind of holy darshan that I cannot forget” (Clooney 1996, p. 28). And in his 2003 Catholic Theological Society of America (CTSA) plenary address Clooney describes visiting a shrine to the goddess Lakṣmı ̄ in a temple at Chennai: “I was face to face with a reality – a kind of real presence – from within a living religious tradition other than my own. I knew that according to the Hindu tradition I was also being seen by Her. I did not have, nor do I have now, some easy words by which to explain this concrete and in some ways very foreign moment of encounter.” He continues: “I suppose I might even have worshipped Her, because I was already there, as it were seeing and being seen. But Christians do not worship Goddesses, so I did not. I just stood there, looking” (Clooney 2010, p. 88). I cannot be alone in hoping that our Jesuit missionary continues struggling to find words – however imperfect, and though they may never be easy – for exploring further and even explaining to the rest of us the convictions at which he has arrived on the basis of his religious experiences, the pulls to worship and not to worship, the enduring effects of that real presence, and the meaning of not only ­seeing but of being seen in two traditions.2

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Personal Anecdote I have a personal devotion to St Francis de Sales, so I was pleasantly surprised years ago to learn that my t­ eacher and then-­doctoral thesis committee member, Francis X. Clooney, SJ was writing a book in which De Sales’s Treatise on the Love of God was the Catholic pole. I was honored to connect Clooney with a comember of the Salesian Scholars Seminar, Alexander Pocetto, OSFS, who would provide feedback and a blurb. Honestly, I do not recall much from my first reading of Beyond Compare except that De Sales’s Treatise was ripe for comparison. Probably I read too fast, contradicting Clooney’s insistence on slow, careful, patient study. However, I re-­read Beyond Compare for this project, this time slowly, taking notes, pondering, reflecting, and it resulted in an unexpected experience. At Mass on January 24, 2022, the memorial of St Francis de Sales, during the elevation of the host and the chalice, when our pastor proclaimed, “Through Him, with Him, and in Him” I also heard, not audibly but interiorly, the Dvaya Mantra: “I approach for refuge the feet of Nārāyaṇa with Śr ı ̄, obeisance to Nārāyaṇa with Śr ı ̄.” It was not a wholly unfamiliar experience, since I find myself professionally and personally between Christian and Muslim worlds, but I was surprised by it. My Eucharistic worship and Salesian devotion were interwoven and resonating with South Indian Śr ı v̄ aiṣṇava devotion such that I glimpsed the possibility of loving surrender in another (and new for me) tradition. Is this how one approaches Nārāyaṇa with Śr ı ̄? Had I done so? Should I? I also glimpsed new possibilities for surrender within the Catholic Mass. Was I approaching the “feet” of the Father with the Son and the Spirit? Was I seeking “refuge”? Should I? I found myself wondering what De Sales might think about all of that, but I also felt confident that Francis X. Clooney would appreciate the interreligious ways my imagination had been unsettled, enriched, and probably opened to God’s joy and consolation.

Notes 1 Clooney’s reading bears an intriguing, but loose, correspondence with the proposal of John O’Malley, SJ, namely, that there have been four “foundings” of the Jesuits (see O’Malley 2014, pp. 116–117). 2 John Dadosky and I published an article, in which Clooney figures significantly, on the good of comparative theologians objectifying their interreligious conversions (see Dadosky and Krokus 2022).

References Clooney, F.X. (1996). In ten thousand places, in every blade of grass: Uneventful but true confessions about finding God in India, and here too. Studies in the Spirituality of Jesuits 28 (3). Clooney, F.X. (2001). Hindu God, Christian God: How Reason Helps Break Down the Boundaries between Religions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2002). A charism for dialog: Advice from the early Jesuit missionaries in our world of religious pluralism. Studies in the Spirituality of Jesuits 34 (2): 1–39. Clooney, F.X. (2006). Francis Xavier, and the world/s we (don’t quite) share. In Jesuit Postmodern: Scholarship, Vocation, and Identity in the 21st Century (ed. F.X. Clooney), pp. 157–180. Lexington, KY: Lexington Books. Clooney, F.X. (2008a). The Truth, the Way, the Life: Christian Commentary on the Three Holy Mantras of the ́ ̄vaiṣṇava Hindus. Leuven: Peeters. Srı ́ ̄ Vedānta Deśika on Loving Surrender to Clooney, F.X. (2008b). Beyond Compare: St Francis de Sales and Srı God. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press.



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Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Oxford: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2020). Western Jesuit Scholars in India: Tracing Their Paths, Reassessing Their Goals. Leiden: Brill. Clooney, F.X. (2022). Saint Joseph in South India: Poetry, Mission and Theology in Costtanzo Giosetto Beschi’s Tēmpavāṇi. Vienna: University of Vienna Press. Dadosky, J. and Krokus, C. (2022). What are comparative theologians doing when they are doing comparative theology: A Lonerganian perspective with examples from the engagement with Islam. Studies in Interreligious Dialogue 32 (1): 67–93. O’Malley, J. (2014). The Jesuits: A History from Ignatius to the Present. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield.

CHAPTER 16

The Ignatian Tradition and the Intellectual Virtues of a Comparative Theologian Peng Yin

The chapter addresses a discrepancy between the attitudes taken in early modern Jesuit missions by Matteo Ricci and José de Acosta toward indigenous culture. Matteo Ricci is widely regarded in China as the rare exception to European aggression. He is remembered as the lost possibility of what the Sino-­European relationship could have been had it not been cut short by the Rites Controversy or tainted by the Opium War and ensuing invasions. By contrast, De Acosta was implicated in the Spanish colonial project. He constructed theological justifications for a violent entry into the “New World,” argued for the establishment of reducciones for evangelical success, and devised a racial hierarchy as a theological basis for conversion by force. Rather than treating the failures of De Acosta on these counts as intrinsic to the Ignatian tradition, this chapter underscores the rectifying authorities within the tradition as an antidote. I will propose three intellectual virtues or exemplary practices – attentiveness to text, dialogical openness, and discernment of true religion – as such antidotes. The chapter places Francis X. Clooney, SJ, in an instructive Ignatian genealogy for respecting religious difference, whose members include Matteo Ricci, Francis Xavier, Roberto de Nobili, Ippolito Desideri, Constantine Beschi, Bartolomé de las Casas, and, most recently, Jacques Dupuis and John Courtney Murray (for an account of Murray’s place in this genealogy, see Wolfteich 2003).

Attentiveness to Text The Jesuit commitment to humanist education produces text-­loving persons and treats the reading of ancient Mediterranean classics as a process of ethical formation. The moralization of the study of words is also a long-­standing Confucian tradition. In Mencius, “insight into words” is paired with “the ability to cultivate floodlike qi” as a moral ideal. This insight into words enables one to discern four kinds of misleading speech and their associated character defects: “From biased speech I can see how one is occluded; from excessive speech I can see how one is trapped; from false The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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speech I can see how one has strayed; and from evasive speech I can see how one has reached one’s limits. [These four types of speech] arise from the heart-­mind, and their harm extends to politics, and from there, extends to concrete affairs” (Mencius, 2A2).1 Speech can be easily corrupted. One may utter biased speech out of a deliberate, willed lack of knowing rather than a less culpable ignorance. One may speak without moderation because one has lost a certain kind of positive freedom to be responsible for one’s own words. One delivers false speech because one has strayed from the true Dao. And one resorts to ambiguous words to conceal ignorance by way of vagueness. Bias, excess, falsehood, and evasion in speech betray individual defects, and they undermine the very foundation of politics. Matteo Ricci knows this passage well. Indeed, it was the intellectual disposition with which he engaged daily with late Ming literati after his arrival in China. The virtue of attention to text is exemplified in Ricci’s effort to prepare the first translations of Confucian classics into Latin. This is a tall order. The linguistic demand of the task is high for the first European learners of the language without ready-­made dictionaries. The demand also extends to a willingness to do justice to the text, to not read one’s theological agenda into a text, at least at the stage of translation. Ricci knows that words can do more than transmitting facts – words can convey the Dao. This principle of 文以载道 (words carrying the Way), one of the two traditional Chinese theories of writing, is a distinctive feature of Chinese theology. “Comparative theology” for Ricci was not an idiosyncratic theological subfield, but a daily reality, especially as he negotiated with Buddhism, Daoism, and neo-­Confucianism. The text of True Meaning itself was, along with earlier catechisms and Ming intellectual writings, inspired by Chinese Jewish and Islamic writings (Starr  2016, pp.  26, 286). Drawing from the theological notion of “ancient religion,” Ricci approached the words found in Confucian texts as layered bearers of transcendent truths. For example, in the middle of Ricci’s famous catechism, True Meaning of the Lord of Heaven, he undertook an unusual project of coining intellect and will as fundamental moral categories: The great merit of the office of illumination [intellect] is righteousness (yi 義), and the great ­foundation of the office of love [will] is humaneness (ren 仁), therefore the great concerns of the cultivated person are ren and yi. These two need each other; neither can be abandoned. (Ricci 2014, para. 451)2

This passage uses loaded terms to invoke a constellation of meanings in the authoritative texts of both the Chinese and European traditions. The will is translated as the faculty of love and its crowning virtue is ren. Ricci has in mind both Augustine’s close association of voluntas and amor and the same association in neo-­Confucian philosophy between ren and ai. The intellect is translated as “the office of illumination.” Here again we find a double invocation. The intellect as an illuminating light is an appeal to claritas in Thomistic aesthetics, which Ricci ties to the Confucian language of an illuminating mandate (mingde), the imperative to exercise one’s heavenly endowment for the good. Naming both will and intellect as a political “office,” Ricci condenses three layers of ­meaning: (1) the analogy of harmony in the soul and in the polis after Plato’s Republic, (2) the conception of a Christian life as a duty after Ambrose’s adaptation of Cicero’s De Officiis, and indeed after the Jesuit’s own paraphrase of De Officiis in the Constitutions (Padberg 1996), and (3) the late Ming literati’s reverence for the complex working of imperial bureaucracy. Even if  the textual background of the first two is not immediately legible for Ricci’s reader, the last  is  sufficient to make the point that moral cultivation is as intricate and indispensable as ordering a state.

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Having introduced intellect and will as moral faculties, Ricci appeals to the insatiable human desire for goodness as a precondition for the Catholic faith: If the  …  will is oriented toward goodness, then the larger its goodness, the more filled up the will.  The goodness of the Lord of Heaven has no boundaries, so our virtues can be enlarged ­without fixed boundary, and thus it is only the Lord of Heaven who can fill up our nature. (Ricci 2014, para. 468)

This account of unbounded human capacity for goodness invokes both the long-­ standing Confucian perfectionism – one never ceases from learning, never ceases from growing in virtue – and theological notions of capax dei and epektasis, that is, the human intrinsic capacity for God and human unending striving toward God’s infinite goodness. The convergence of the two traditions on this point led Ricci to argue a consequential conclusion: Confucian virtues are to be affirmed, not simply because they pursue true if proximate ends, but because in “natural” human desire for the good, there is already transcendence built into it. Ricci here implicitly indicates that any Confucian striving for virtue is already in via toward God (see Yin 2022, pp. 557–558). Ricci’s textual virtue evinced the Confucian value of textual truthfulness and Ignatian habit of philological responsibility. Furthermore, Ricci allowed the text to speak more than the surface meaning, drawing from both the Chinese commentarial tradition of deliberate “misreading” and the analogical reading of Christian scriptures. In comparison, De Acosta saw Chinese language as the exact opposite, a language mired in immediacy. In his Natural and Moral History of the Indies, De Acosta claimed that the Chinese people undeniably possess great cleverness and skill, but it is of very little substance, for the whole science of the Chinese amounts merely to knowing how to read and write. They do not grasp the higher sciences, and even their reading and writing is not genuine reading and writing, for their letters do not serve to make words but are little pictures of any number of things, which they learn by means of infinite labor and huge expenditures of time … the writing of China is merely a form of painting and making signs. (De Acosta 2002, pp. 338–339)

This is one of the early instances of a long-­running misunderstanding of Chinese scripts as pictorial. It is also a theological gloss on the state of a people. The Chinese language, in De Acosta’s mind, tells of the story of the Fall. The Chinese and other non-­European languages represent a fall from unity and simplicity of vision to a realm of dispersal, multiplication, and sensuality. Because the Chinese language is so preoccupied with the immediacy of the material world, so burdened by the need for direct representation, it never achieves any abstraction capable of bearing transcendent truth. Given the heated debate about whether indigenous languages can bear the names of divinity, this is quite a consequential pronouncement (for a comparative analysis of the issue in Peru and China, see Hosne 2013, pp. 145–157). De Acosta placed the Chinese people, thanks to their possession of written language, as the first rank of three levels of “barbarians.” In this hierarchy of humanity, below the Chinese are the Mexicans and Peruvians who lack language and philosophy and those deemed lacking humanity. These lowest two classes need to be compelled to faith by force while the Chinese might be exempt from such a coercion.3 This glaring mistake should be judged as an aberration of the tradition. Indeed, De Acosta, who knows no Chinese language and who only has recourse to flimsy documentary reports, might well benefit from some fraternal correction from Roberto de Nobili in India: “It’s risky to pronounce on the customs of the people here, unless a person has first diligently gone through their books and familiarized oneself with these same customs and usages, guided by knowledge of their origin and



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source” (De Nobili 2000, p. 139). For Ricci, once one vowed to leave one’s homeland and stay in a new country until their last breath, the relationship to the new land cannot stop with abstract binaries. One must make a home in the new world, one word at a time, one text at a time, one friendship at a time. This physicality of encounter induces a virtue of close-­reading of the Chinese classics, as well as the local customs, political dynamics, and religious varieties. In this way, Ricci could jettison the cultural-­essentialist way of thinking in De Acosta, which continued through Enlightenment idealizations and denunciations, well into twentieth-­century sinology. Ricci was able to go beyond the predominant binaries of the European reception of China: sinful versus good human nature, open versus organismic cosmology, conflictual versus harmonious universe, personal versus impersonal deity. These essentialist descriptions of cultures obscure the care that Ricci took to engage the inherent ambiguity of classical Chinese texts and their complicated commentarial traditions. Since the time of Ricci, especially since Nostra Aetate, Catholic theology has made notable advances in interreligious engagement.4 These efforts can be told in terms of advances in Jean Daniélou, Henri de Lubac, and Hans Urs von Bathasar making space for comparison within doctrines of systematic theology, and advances through concepts such as Karl Rahner’s “anonymous Christians,” Raimon Panikkar’s “Unknown Christ,” Hans Küng’s “ways of salvation,” and Gustave Thils’s “meditations of salvation” (Dupuis  1997, pp.  130–157). Among this luminous lineage, Clooney’s attention to texts is his most distinctive contribution. Clooney has devoted significant time to the undervalued work of translation. In his Divine Mother, Blessed Mother, for instance, three Hindu goddess hymns, their commentaries, and Marian hymns are juxtaposed, not primarily conceptually, but textually. “Insights occur because we are reading actual texts instead of merely considering concepts about goddesses or Mary … As we immerse ourselves in texts – ideas, images, emotions, insights – of a hitherto unfamiliar tradition, from that newly acquired vantage point we can return home and discern the powers and possibilities latent in our familiar traditions” (Clooney 2005, p. 23). The words in the hymns generate various images and sounds and sustain various modes of meditation and worship. The words also travel in a flow of enjoyment: “from the poet to Her and Him, to the deities and saints, to every listener and worshiper who takes seriously what is heard  – and to contemporary readers, possibly even readers of translations.” Words, if taken to heart, thus transform the reader, bring about an actual encounter, or even conversion (Clooney 2005, p. 234). Clooney not only attends to words on the page, but also to their liturgical context where reading sacred texts in circular repetition might even be the means of exiting the realm of Samsara. That is, performing a text might have soteriological consequences (e.g., Clooney 2022). The outsider, a Catholic devotee for example, may come to her home tradition with renewed appreciation for Mary – seeing more nuances than a mere technical distinction of Mary as non-­divine and yet closest to divine (Clooney 2005, p. 229). Clooney and his Jesuit predecessors approach their text, Christian or otherwise, both speculatively and mystically, with an abiding expectation of gain. This confidence issues from the humanist orientation in Jesuit education, which is premised on the power of non-­Christian texts to foster religious and moral inspiration (O’Malley 1993, p. 242). To expect textual labor to yield both speculative and mystical fruits is also a premise of the Exercises (Ignatius of Loyola 1991), reading the Gospels as intimate conversations with Jesus, Mary, the disciples, and others in the life of Christ. Clooney extends this textual affirmation to other traditions. If one could read the Christian Bible in the mode of lectio divina, it is difficult to deny that texts from other traditions can transform the reader in the performance of texts.5 The ideal Jesuit life, as captured by John O’Malley invoking Jerome Nadal, involves always “acting in the Spirit, from the heart, practically.” This means referring all things to God, never to act only speculatively, but always bringing feelings to bear on whatever is done and doing everything

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for the sake of the common good.6 In the life of a Jesuit comparative theologian, this is displayed in terms of seeking truth in texts, in one’s own tradition and others’, opening oneself to their affective impact, and moving from solitary contemplation to public teaching. This “way of preceding” in a textual realm implies an attention to interiority, discerning a text’s effect on the innermost movement of the heart. Interreligious reading, which lies at the heart of Clooney’s comparative theology, is “dangerous work, love’s burden,” yielding an interreligious imagination not from a safe distance, but extending to a realm that is “passionate, uncertain, and dangerous” (Clooney 2014, pp. xii, 28). These inward movements require a discernment of spirits with the hopes that they open vistas to greater truths.

Discernment of True Religion Thomas Aquinas’s conception of religio as a virtue is featured prominently in Ratio Studiorum.7 In this framework, true religion is a pious disposition, an interiority, rather than “mere creed, code, or cult” (O’Malley 2018), rather than competitive and discrete entities. This commitment to discern true religion in the host culture enabled Ricci to refrain from seeing Chinese religions as an all-­or-­ nothing matter, to appreciate their practices as a form of true piety. This understanding of religion, coupled with Renaissance humanist esteem for Greek and Roman antiquity, enabled Ricci to study ancient Chinese religious texts as propaedeutic to the Gospel. If Ricci deployed a theology of the ubiquity of grace, De Acosta favored a ubiquity of the Devil’s influence as manifested in the proliferation of idolatry. The Devil is active, “never ceases to [seek equality with God] in the blind nations of the world, those that the light and splendor of the Holy Gospel has not yet illuminated … inventing so many kinds of idolatries with which he held most of the world in subjection for so many ages that God retained scarcely a fragment of his people in Israel” (De Acosta 2002, pp. 253–254). This sense that the whole world, save a small fraction of the elect, is subjected to the Devil, is a drastic departure from the Jesuit injunction to find God in all things, an injunction which envisions a world filled with the signs or intimations of divine providence. Changed too is the Jesuit practice of discernment of spirits. St. Ignatius’s steadfast attention to the battle with the Enemy within the individual soul is transported externally by De Acosta as a drama of colonial encounter between peoples. The movements of consolation and desolation, in a furious battle with the “ancient enemy” within one’s soul, turned into distinctions of humanity, designating a whole class of human beings wholly captive to the Devil.8 Again here, De Acosta might benefit from the fraternal correction from his fellow missionary Ippolito Desideri in Tibet. In his Inquiry concerning the Doctrines of Previous Lives and Emptiness, Desideri writes: to encounter another tradition that accords greatly with one’s own tradition and to understand them both is like having two butter lamps burning in a single room, or one gold or silver ring shining with the light of two diamonds. Again, if a tree receives the appropriate amount of water from separate sources – rainwater and water from a stream – its roots will grow large, and the tree will be more and more firmly fixed in the earth. In the same way, by moistening one’s mind with the complete instructions and essential points of one’s own religion as well as another religion that accords with it, one’s body, speech, and mind will become most conducive to religion and one will, like a thick nail, abide with a firm aspiration to religion. (Desideri 2017, p. 89)

The metaphor of light and botanic growth aligns religion closely to the cultivation of virtue as habituation. Formation into true religion is a grace-­enabled process that admits of degrees and effort. Religion as a virtue, for Aquinas, Ricci, and Desideri, describes an interior disposition, rather



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than simply a religious membership or an ability to recite precisely formulated dogma. One can gradually grow into greater appetite for truth and goodness. Here the interior attention to the shaping of one’s soul instructed by the Exercises are conjoined seamlessly with the outward call for mission instructed by the Constitutions (Padberg 1996). For Ricci, the appreciation of true religion yields a particular disposition of humility in comparative conversations. It is grounded in God’s abiding sovereignty. Following a Thomistic principle, humans have no access to the narrative resolutions of our lives, the most important of which, one’s state of grace, we can only glimpse by conjecture. The same applies, a fortiori, to judgments about the state of grace in another person. True religion finally calls one to decenter oneself and take up the ever-­renewed attempt at finding God in all things, to see every religious encounter as stepping onto a new holy ground. This epistemic humility does not mean a denigration of reason in interreligious encounter. Another expression of the ubiquity of grace is the intelligibility of the world. On this point, Clooney draws from De Nobili, “who finds reason to be a true friend to revelation and authentic religion” (Clooney  2001, p.  161). The discernment of true religion involves a dynamic give-­and-­take between interlocutors. “If I demonstrate the plausibility of my beliefs, this should persuade listeners to change the way they think, and this may lead them to refashion their piety as well” (Clooney 2001, p. 127). The reverse is true for one’s own beliefs. In the Jesuit tradition, this process requires that the confessional comparative theologian remain accountable to the community, to the superior general9 and, by extension, the good of ordinary believers.10

Dialogical Openness The major works of Ricci’s writing in classical Chinese, especially True Meaning and Ten Chapters of an Eccentric Person, are written as dialogues. The ad hoc and miscellaneous features of the dialogue allow the interlocutors to determine the agenda for theological thinking rather than imposing one’s concerns on the dialogue partners. The questions that arose for Ricci – priestly celibacy, procreation’s potential hinderance to filial piety, the debate over the transcendent or historical-­textual source of morality – are specifically Confucian problematics intrinsic to its ethics and cosmology. Another dialogical feature of Ricci’s writing is collective authorship. For example, all of Ricci’s books include prefaces by his literati friends, reflecting the prevalent literary practice in the late Ming period, but also echoing the Jesuit practice of communal discernment of spirits. These endorsements propel a vision of theology as evolving and collective rather than the work of a singular mind dispensing discrete demonstrations from above. These prefaces are often added on as later editions appear, offering novel ideas, addressing a new context, or adjudicating emerging controversies. By contrast, De Acosta’s Natural and Moral History of the Indies adopted a new genre of the time: ethnography in the early modern sense, distinguished by its peculiar interests for racialization. In the preface, De Acosta expresses a wish to improve previous works on the “New World.” These works, in De Acosta’s estimation, only “disclose new and strange things.” What he wants to do is to move beyond mere “disclosure,” to “deal with causes and reasons for these new things and natural wonders, and make a discourse and investigation” (De Acosta, 2002, p. 8). In this genre of discourse and investigation, De Acosta established a hermeneutic of idolatry as a key to unlock the hidden realities of the visual world, and thereby erecting several hierarchies that are ethno-­racially indexed. For example, in critiquing idolatry in Peru, De Acosta says ancient Rome and Greece contained similar ignorant and diabolical customs, but they had superior courage and natural intelligence. By contrast, “heathen peoples [were not only] deprived of supernatural light, they also lacked philosophy and natural doctrine” (De Acosta 2002, p. 251).

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This judgment was consequential. Ricci, Las Casas, and other Jesuit theologians maintained an account of natural law that insisted on a shared human nature, a universal human soul capable of reason and free will. But De Acosta erased this grounding of human equality; he instead misused an Aristotelian theory of habituation to conclude that enduring diabolical customs become habits, and habits become second natures. Such differing human natures amounted to an immobile, ethno-­racially indexed human difference. Clooney’s writing resembles Ricci’s dialogical form in contradistinction to De Acosta’s “ethnography,” given the repeated juxtaposition of translated Hindu and Christian texts, sometimes in columns on the same page. The former’s posture of mind is openness, humility, and curiosity; the latter assumes the position of a commanding gaze looking at inert native subjects as waiting to be interpreted. This dialogical form is in tune with the Jesuit “way of proceeding” on at least three levels. First, the dialogical form mimics the Spiritual Exercises, which was an innovation in the history of Christian spiritual literature. The exercises encourage an intense give-­and-­take not just in spiritual direction but also in the colloquy at the end of each exercise, which are decidedly not mere confession and penance. Discernment of the director requires a deep attention to the one undergoing the exercises. This explains the autobiographically charged nature of Clooney’s writing: the porous self is a privileged space to examine the theological effect after a comparative reading. In this sense, Clooney’s writing resembles the genre of “life writing” as a site of practicing Jesuit spirituality: examining one’s internal dialogue and movement,  cultivating attention and discernment. Second, the commitment to the common good is inscribed into the Constitutions of the Jesuits by way of a paraphrase to Cicero’s De Officiis when discussing the qualities of the superior general. This commitment is to the good of the city, to the temporal order, to the world as such. This service attends to the particulars and remains flexible to the local context. Careful readers of St Ignatius’s letters often find a generative tension between centralized authority and local flexibility. They contain many escape clauses: do this unless you see something better in the local context. This commitment to public service and attunement with local context enabled Ricci to speak to late Ming scholar-­officials on their concerns with education, technology, and state bureaucracy, and enabled Clooney to speak intelligibly to a wide range of academic fields and diverse students across multiple continents. Third, Renaissance humanist attention to rhetoric is dialogical in its inception. The orator’s first task is to attend to the feelings, aims, and fears of her audience. Similarly, the Jesuit’s first task in pastoral ministry was the discernment of spirits for their interlocutors. As John O’Malley argues, this sensibility and sensitivity amounted to a new way of thinking, a new forma mentis, that both coincided with and promoted the pastoral style of accommodation, enjoining the Jesuits constantly to adapt their speech and action in order to “associate with a great diversity of persons throughout … varied regions” (Constitutions, #414; O’Malley 1993, pp. 255–256). Indeed, in the post-­apostolic age, it is not by miracles, but by virtue and persuasion, that one accomplishes the showing of true religion. In Clooney, the dialogical form takes a dual expression. At the doctrinal register, the comparative theologian might have two starting points: either from some general religious questions about the world or from one’s particular belief. In the former, general questions such as the origin of the world press the believer to increasingly specific beliefs. In the latter, “the primary trajectory of theology is not a journey toward the exclusive, increasingly specific beliefs internal to a community. Rather, one proceeds from the community’s core convictions as the starting point toward an ever more broadly accessible conversation about God in relation to life in the world and views of the world” (Clooney 2001, p. 170; on this account of “theology as dialogical,” see pp. 168–172). At the devotional register, the comparative theologian might sit between two sets of poetry



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e­ xpressing the holy uncertainty afflicting those who love the God who sometimes hides, as Clooney has done by studying Song of Songs and the Holy Word of Mouth side by side. This process requires discernment, to arrive at “a grounded but open imagining to our reading of Hindu mystical poetry, neither harmful nor subservient to Christian theology” (Clooney 2014, p. 29). In this discernment, the particularities of one’s faith are split open and disclosed for inquiry. One retains a ­discipline for “respective reading” for other religious traditions, whose beauty “merit[s] our unshielded gaze and imaginative play” (Clooney 2014, pp. 30–31). Chastened by a reading back and forth between two utterances for the absent beloved, by noticing the doubled pain, the return of the beloved may be felt more intensely.11 While this mode of comparative reading may be unsettling, unruly, unpredictable, open-­ended, and irreducible to systematic propositions, one returns to the particularities of Jesus, whose Spirit enables “a gentle song that does not deafen us to other such words of love, as if there are no other reports of the beloved, or as if one love defeats all others” (Clooney 2014, p. 141). In this dialogical openness, in this devotional journey, the devotee to Mary might be unsettled to hear another love, might lose the innocence and purity of her love, and might lose the old assurances – “the beloved is to be found just where he was found before, his absence is our fault, he is returning any day now” (Clooney 2014, p. 87). This acknowledgment of risk in comparative quest, this counsel for courage, this privileging of traveling across borders, this passionate ascesis (training or exercise) in epektasis is also rooted in the Ignatian tradition. Jesuits are expected to show “permanent availability and readiness to change locations and cultures.” They are exhorted constantly by the vow of ad maiorem Dei gloriam, by the constant spiritual striving for “more.” This spirituality of magis sustains “a pious attitude of constant availability, openness to sudden reassignment, and alertness to spiritual distress” (Friedrich 2022, p. 70). The Jesuit is at home in the world and always in motion, always traveling (peregrination). “The whole world is our abode” means that one is forever poised in a dialectic between a sure rootedness in one’s home faith and preparedness to ecstatically stepping outside of oneself for new and unknown beauties.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have sought to address the troubling discrepancy between Jesuit missions in Latin America and China by way of an immanent critique, using De Acosta’s fellow Jesuits to correct his missteps. This approach is chosen in favor of three possible alternatives: (a) to essentialize these missteps as characteristic of the tradition, and their errors as evincing an epistemic crisis of the tradition; (b) to attribute these missteps to external causes, such as Spanish colonial power, or to the indigenous culture’s varying proximity to European civilization – the former denies the agency of the Jesuits, the latter replicates certain colonial imaginations of varying degrees of civilization with a singular trajectory; (c) seeing Jesuit accommodation as expedient pragmaticism, or the result of a “distinction between religious and social, spiritual and cultural spheres” (Friedrich 2022, pp.  557–558). The three virtues proposed in this chapter issue directly from the literature and centuries-­long practice of Jesuit spirituality, and trace a continuous line from Ricci to Clooney whose work carries the tradition forward to this day.12 This juncture in Jesuit history is a distinctively opportune moment for undertaking confessional comparative theology for mending the historical wounds inflicted by the missteps that I name. The polemic of the Reformation hardened and simplified all sides  – intramural conflicts between Protestants and Catholics often spilled over to Christianity’s treatment of other religions. The loss of continuity and broken memory occasioned by the 1773 suppression of the order has been remedied by recent Jesuit scholarship which recovers the earlier sources. Advances in the

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study of religion, the closer proximity of people of different faiths, and new understandings of ­mission in Jesuit theology all bolster efforts in comparative theology. The three intellectual virtues or exemplary practices that I propose echo strongly with the moral virtues of magnanimity and courage expected of the superior general and, by extension, held as ideal for all Jesuits. The confessional comparative theologian needs to cultivate a particular character, always striking a mean between pride and pusillanimity, rashness and cowardice in interreligious encounters. The greatness of soul enables one to search for divine beauty beyond one’s home tradition without prideful instrumentalization or meek abdication of responsibility. Courage enables one to bear the danger and vulnerability intrinsic to the loving surrender to God, and acutely so in inwardly appreciating the paths of surrender beyond one’s habitual routes.13 The open and vulnerable comparative reading finally brings one to affirm one’s theological authorship in a highly qualified sense. The abdication of possessive authorship is intrinsic to any theological writing because of one’s submission to the Gospel and accountability to the community of believers. In the case of a confessional comparative theologian, this is doubly so because, while beholden to the given data of one’s own faith, one is further indebted to the neighbor’s sacred texts. It is through this double dispossession that the comparative theologian can begin to reflect the radiating beauty of a greater glory.

Acknowledgment I am grateful to the audience at the 2022 “International Symposium on Jesuit Studies” at Boston College for probing questions on an earlier version of the chapter and to Chloë Starr and Claire Wolfteich for comments on the text. I dedicate this chapter to the memory of John O’Malley who made one final appearance at the conference.

Notes 1 Citing Mencius by book number, book section, and passage number in Lau and Chen (Mencius 1995; my translation). 2 Citations refer to the paragraph numbers of Tian zhu shi yi jin zhu (2014); my translations. 3 For an analysis of De Acosta’s debate with Alonzo Sánchez on the plausibility to use just war theory to invade China, see Üçerler (2022, pp. 151–158). 4 For a perceptive account linking the theological achievement of Renaissance Humanism and Vatican II, especially with regard to interreligious openness, see John O’Malley (2019, pp. 256–270, 263–269, 268), indicating a striking parallel between Erasmus’s “Godly Feast” and Nostra Aetate. 5 On this point, Jon D. Levenson and Sarah Coakley have recently queried a potentially slippery conception of canon in Clooney’s work that is voluntaristic and arbitrarily extensive  – Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters (2019), panel discussion at Harvard Divinity School on December 14, 2020. A brief Christian theological rejoinder might be the following: In the wake of the Incarnation, all human textual transmission is taken up into a fallen-­yet-­already-­in-­process-­of-­being-­redeemed project. The continuation of incarnational teaching after the ascension of Christ infuses value on all human teaching by virtue of incarnation’s own fragile dependence on bodily, textual, and ritual transmission. Incarnation occurred at a particular time, requiring thereby the affirmation of a long, providentially enabled history of pedagogical preparation among the Israelites and, by extension, all other communities of learning. Therefore, the permeable boundary between the Christian canon and other sacred texts flows from the logic of divine teaching.



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6 Affirmed throughout the Constitutions, for instance #629 as the task of missionaries, and #725 “charity towards all neighbors” as a requirement for the superior general. This is also a staple of Jesuit schools, which are for the good of the city and open to non-­Catholics. 7 Summa’s account of religio is taught in the first year in the four-­year course of theology. Ratio Studiorum (Pafur 2005, para 7.12). 8 Comparing De Acosta here with St. Ignatius’s acute description of the workings of the Devil within the soul in his letter to Teresa Rejadell (Ignatius of Loyola 1991, pp. 333–338). 9 The Constitutions #653, on the need to examine “the books useful for the common good.” 10 For a helpful typology which counts Clooney as a “confessional comparative theologian,” see Cornille (2020, pp. 18–25). 11 For a helpful description of Clooney’s interreligious learning as “intensification,” see Cornille (2020, pp. 116–121). 12 This appreciation invites attention to similar generosity in other theological frameworks. To give an  intramural example, Dana Robert (2009) has argued that “the Catholic inculturation and Protestant venularization were parallel approaches” to indigenization. The issue of biblical interpretation engulfed the Catholic and Protestant traditions during the Reformation, for the ­latter generated an idea that each person should read and interpret the Bible in their own language. The “translatability” of the Bible and its Gospel messages serves as an imperative to respect local languages and cultures (see Robert 2009, pp. 33–34, 38). 13 On vulnerability as a theme in Clooney’s comparative reading of loving surrender to God, see Clooney (2008, pp.  208–210) and on Clooney’s autobiographic reference to the surrender as a Jesuit vow, see Clooney (2008, pp. 1–6).

References Clooney, F.X. (2001). Hindu God, Christian God: How Reason Helps Break Down the Boundaries between Religions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008). Beyond Compare: St. Francis de Sales and Śrī Vedānta Deśika on Loving Surrender to God. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2014). His Hiding Place is Darkness: A Hindu-­Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2022). Hindu poetry and Christian particularity: Translation, disruption, revelation (Cole Lecture), Vanderbilt Divinity School, October 10. Cornille, C. (2020). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. De Acosta, J. (2002). Natural and Moral History of the Indies (ed. J.E. Mangan, trans. F. López-­Morillas). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. De Nobili, R. (2000). Preaching Wisdom to the Wise: Three Treatises (ed. A. Amaladass, trans. F.X. Clooney). Saint Louis, MO: Institute of Jesuit Sources. Desideri, I. (2017). Inquiry Concerning the Doctrines of Previous Lives and Emptiness in Dispelling the Darkness: A Jesuit’s Quest for the Soul of Tibet (ed. D.S. Lopez and T. Jinpa). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Dupuis, J. (1997). Toward a Christian Theology of Religious Pluralism. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Friedrich, M. (2022). The Jesuits: A History (trans. J.N. Dillon). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Hosne, A.C. (2013). The Jesuit Mission to China and Peru, 1570–1610. London: Routledge. Ignatius of Loyola. (1991). The Spiritual Exercises and Selected Works (ed. G. Ganss). New  York: Paulist Press. Mencius. (1995). Mengzi zhuzi suoyin: A Concordance to the Mengzi (ed. D.C. Lau and F.C. Chen). Hong Kong: Shangwu yinshuguan. O’Malley, J. (1993). The First Jesuits. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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O’Malley, J. (2018). The new spirituality of St. Ignatius (Dahlgren Chapel Sacred Lecture), Georgetown University, October 4. O’Malley, J. (2019). Theology before the Reformation: Renaissance Humanism and Vatican II. Theological Studies 80 (2): 256–270. Padberg, J.W. (1996). The Constitutions of the Society of Jesus and Their Complementary Norms. St. Louis, MO: Institute of Jesuit Sources. Pavur, C. (2005). The Ratio Studiorum: The Official Plan for Jesuit Education. St. Louis, MO: Institute of Jesuit Sources. Ricci, M. (2014). Tian zhu shi yi jin zhu. Beijing: Commercial Press. Robert, D.L. (2009). Christian Mission: How Christianity Became a World Religion. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. Starr, C. (2016). Chinese Theology: Text and Context. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Üçerler, M.A.J. (2022). The Samurai and the Cross: The Jesuit Enterprise in Early Modern Japan. New York: Oxford University Press. Wolfteich, C. (2003). The American experiment: Religious liberty, Roman Catholicism and the vision of John Courtney Murray. Journal of Human Rights 2 (1): 31–47. Yin, P. (2022). Matteo Ricci’s legacy for comparative theology. Modern Theology 41 (3): 548–567.

CHAPTER 17

Wonder Grasps Anything Punctuation and Patristic Theology in the Early Colonial Philippines Maria Cecilia Holt

Preface In the early modern period, Christian forms of exemplarity and religious imitation were often ­elaborated in and through negotiations of empire, cultural encounter, translation, and conversion. Indeed, when the apostle Paul wrote to the church in Corinth, “Be imitators of me just as I am of Christ” (1 Corinthians 11:1), he did so already in the context of empire. Since the earliest years of Christian mission, the act and rhetoric of imitation has thus been used to subvert, contest, authenticate, and assert “colonial” authority in Christ’s name, however unwittingly or unjustly. We can then read exhortations by sixteenth-­century missionaries to Asia to imitate Christ, the apostles, and saints only against such a complex textual history. Insofar as my research in this field has been dedicated to interpreting and troubling discrete moments of religious and cultural imitation performed by indios subjected to colonial rule during the first years of the Spanish missionary effort in the Philippines, I am also compelled to return, time and again, to what many postcolonial critics take as already settled – namely the discourse of imitation by Roman Catholic missionaries themselves. An investigation of the mimetic acts of the convert as well as the missionary enriches contemporary understanding of imitation in the early modern period and offers glimpses into the ways that Jesuits in particular have grappled with their mission to spread the Gospel. In this endeavor, I have been helped tremendously by the example of Clooney’s scholarship on Roberto de Nobili (1577–1656), a Jesuit priest and missionary from Italy who lived for 40 years in Southern India beginning in 1606. According to Clooney, while De Nobili “set no limits to his ­adaptation to the externals of Indian society, he also conceded no ground on the content of his Catholic faith” (Clooney 1990, p. 26).

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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It is possible that De Nobili’s study of Sanskrit and Tamil, as well as Hindu folklore and customs, were part of his rationale regarding the existence of classical societies in addition to that of Greece and Rome. According to Clooney: The conversion of Rome in the time of Constantine showed not only the adaptability and universality of the new religion, but also the basic rectitude of Roman society. Its natural perfection made it ready to be lifted by God into supernatural perfection. What happened in Rome was a model for what should and could happen everywhere. (Clooney 1990, p. 28)

Although Clooney doubts whether De Nobili was an “ecumenist” or an anthropologist (in the contemporary sense of these terms), De Nobili’s practice of adaptation in his decades of ­missionary work (that included understanding local languages and legal codes) nevertheless upends an all-­too-­simplistic view of “Renaissance men” as standard bearers for the violence wrought upon forms of indigenous knowledge and voice (see Mignolo 2003, pp. 29–43). The call ad fontes that coincided with new translations of works by patristic and classical authors – once available only through medieval compendiums  – precipitated the reemergence of a ­storehouse of exempla with which to critique and reevaluate the past. Given the necessity to negotiate ancient questions in the light of “new” encounters, there came revived interest in imitation as a form of rhetorical persuasion as well as a foundation of learning and moral formation. In the case of Jesuits in the Philippines, reference to patristic and classical sources alongside their studies of b­aybayin script and customs are in keeping with De Nobili’s example as interpreted by Clooney. “The missionary, in effect, repeats the Incarnation,” Clooney argues. “To live as a renunciant was for de Nobili simply his imitation of the Incarnation, not ‘Hinduization’” (Clooney 1990, p. 31). For Jesuits in early colonial Philippines, documenting the conversions of their religious counterparts among indigenous catolonas or babaylan1 – as will be examined in Pedro Chirino’s explicit reference to his imitation of St Gregory Wonderworker – was not simply about setting down an historical record, but recasting the wonderful, regarding a new world of readers. In this way, Jesuits went about the work of imitating Christ and His followers through ancient and novel means – including making use of printing and punctuation to serve the Word of God.

Introduction In the Relación de las Islas Filipinas compiled in Rome by Pedro Chirino, SJ, in 1604, we find Gregory Thaumaturgus (ca. 213–270) invoked as model, exemplar, type: one worthy of imitation as well as mild criticism. We might think that the publication of the works of St Gregory Wonderworker in the same year was a matter merely of scholarship. In Chirino’s case, however – and no doubt others – these publications were of contemporaneous value, enabling missionaries to understand their own experiences by drawing comparisons and analogies between the late classical world of the eastern Roman Empire and the early modern world of the Spanish Empire. The year 1604 saw the printing of Gregory Thaumaturgus’s works and Chirino’s Relación. The former was a bilingual text in Greek and Latin by the Roman Catholic scholar, Gerardus Vossius Borghlonius (1547–1609), the latter was in Spanish by a Jesuit vice-­provincial procurator  – ­finding many readers far beyond the Catholic world. The Jesuit Relaciones were widely read as wonder books – sources of information about unknown peoples and territories. In Chirino’s Relación, readers would come across Gregory Thaumaturgus and be introduced to a typological mode of  understanding Christian history and missionary life. In what follows we shall look closely at a



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passage of Chirino’s text and how punctuation marks (specifically parentheses) may have played a role in further highlighting the Jesuit’s imitation of the saint’s battle against idolatry. Jesuits arrived in the Philippines in 1581, a little more than a decade after Spain established its colonial presence in Manila. Pedro Chirino (1557–1635), arrived in the Philippines in 1590 and preached his first Tagalog sermon in 1591. In the eighth chapter of the Jesuit Relación de las Islas Filipinas from 1604 Pedro Chirino writes: Diré sólo ahora que al cabo de diez años yo solía decir (á imitación de San Gregorio Taumaturgo) que daba á nuestro Señor muchas gracias, porque cuando entré allí hallé apenas cuarenta ­cristianos, y al cabo deste tiempo no había cuatro infieles I will say for the time being that, at the end of ten years, I used to say (in imitation of St Gregory Thaumaturgus) that I gave thanks to our Lord, for when I entered the place, I found hardly forty Christians, and at the end of that time there were not four infidels. (Chirino 1969, p. 22)

A parenthesis has many functions for both writer and reader. In the example above, it clarifies for his readers who might not readily guess the reference. It also suggests that Chirino and other Jesuits could have read St Gregory of Nyssa’s Vita et Encomium Sancti Gregorii Thaumaturgi included in Vossius Borghlonius’s edition of Thaumaturgus’s works (Thaumaturgus  1604, p.  234). However, the words that Chirino imitates come from the Roman Breviary of Gregory Wonderworker’s Feast Day on November 17. Thus, we cannot be certain that Chirino read Nyssa’s life of Gregory. Yet there are parallels to be drawn between Chirino’s ensuing narrative and legends associated with this early Christian saint and bishop from Pontus. Chirino’s sojourn in the Philippines as a missionary imitates that of his predecessor on ­several counts – and, in the first instance, it does so typographically: Gregory Wonderworker’s successful transformation (by accommodation) of a pagan temple – where allegedly demons were worshiped – into a place where a Christian might spend the night is represented visually by the lunulae or parenthetical marks. These very marks were converted by Pedro Chirino (á imitatio de S. Gregory Taumaturgo) into lodgings for the wonderworker’s name in order to indicate to the reader whose example he has been following and perhaps to signal the work of accommodation in the n ­ arrative to come. A parenthesis2 can be thought of as a space set apart – almost a temple, a space that can be expanded indefinitely, though not by too much. We might think of a parenthesis as the punctuational manifestation of accommodation. It serves as a hermetic enclosure for words that are held as separate yet together with the text. One of the rules of the parenthesis is that it can be removed without damaging or even affecting the syntax of the sentence that contains it. Thus, into parentheses one can put demons, cage them as it were, for both containment and display: which is to say, to offer them accommodation. While a rhetorical parenthesis is an aside, often indicated by a lowering of the voice, graphic parentheses tend to draw attention to the words within, so that though of least importance semantically they are highlighted on the page through the prominence of the bracketed frame. In light of Gregory Wonderworker’s story, we can see its antitype in the conversion of one indigenous female catolona. Her conversion highlights concerns of spiritual power especially as it relates to idolatry (the antithesis of true Christian worship) and male, Catholic priestly authority (the antithesis of female shamanic practice). The differences between the third and fourth century and the late seventeenth century may be located in the advent of punctuation and the printing press.3 This makes possible opportunities for subtleties of expression, even typographical spaces and meeting places wherein to negotiate difficult and awkward topics.

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Jesuit accommodation is a difficult term. In contemporary scholarship about Jesuits, “­accommodation” brings to mind the Jesuit missions in Japan and China, especially the figures of Alessandro Valignano (1539–1606) and Matteo Ricci (1552–1610). Scholars uphold an all-­too-­ simple view of Ricci and Valignano. They also fail to appreciate the complexities faced by José de Acosta (1540–1600) in Peru whose own proemium to De Procuranda Indorum Salute refers to the word accommodaté when describing the missionary’s task. That is to say, not that a missionary might sometimes have recourse to accommodation, but that accommodation is the very modus vivendi of a missionary (De Acosta 1670). Ricci’s accommodation of Confucian philosophy and other Chinese customs as a way to appeal to the scholarly elite of China has often been acknowledged, as has Valignano’s missionary strategy of adapting to cultural differences. His “awareness of the Jesuits’ impotence in Japan” (Hosne 2013, p. 68) is taken as motivation and even as justification. This has led to an idealized understanding of accommodation and how it might serve as a rhetorical category in argument. In other words, how might a missionary adapt their speech and self so as to speak well and aptly (dicere aptius) to and about others in an inhospitable place in order for the Gospel to bear fruit. By confessing the difficulty of “speaking well and aptly” in his prologue to De Procuranda Indorum Salute, José de Acosta was not merely making a complaint about fellow missionaries. He was submitting the missionary project to the moral and literary demands of vir bonus dicendi, the Perfect Orator dreamed of by Cicero whose education was outlined by Quintilian (see Provost-­Smith 2002).

Demons in Parenthesis In recounting St Gregory Thaumaturgus’s first “conquest,” his ancient biographer Gregory of Nyssa wrote that the saint had “felt an inner impulse toward the city in which he would have to organize a church for God. He knew that the whole region was held fast by the deception of demons” (Thaumaturgus 1998, p. 56). Likewise in the Philippines, Chirino and other missionaries strove to build churches to rival the little houses dedicated to local anitos (sacred ritual objects) and to perform rites and cures to rival those of the catolonas or indigenous healers and priestesses, many of whom were women. While Gregory won converts with marvelous deeds – bidding a huge rock to move, drying up the waters of a lake to settle a dispute, and commanding demons to come and go where he chose – Chirino and his fellow missionaries worked miracles through the sprinkling of holy water and the use of relics and other holy objects including the printed image of Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Society of Jesus, who at the time had not yet been made a saint (Blair and Robertson  1906, p.  189). Indeed, at Chirino’s behest, the inhabitants of an entire village – church, cross and all – moved to higher ground. And they did so with great speed, not only for practical reasons, but as Chirino reports, for fear of sleeping in the old village which was now presumably occupied by demons (Chirino 1969, p. 256).

The Story of Gregory Wonderworker, the Temple Custodian, and Gregory’s Note to Demons These stories echo the many wonders associated with Gregory Thaumaturgus. According to the Vita by Gregory of Nyssa, Gregory Thaumaturgus – traveling on a night of heavy rain – sought shelter in a pagan temple. Invoking the name of Christ, the wonderworker drove the temple demons away and, with the sign of the cross, purified the air polluted by pagan sacrifice



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(Thaumaturgus  1998, p.  56). The following day, the temple custodian arrived to find demons ­complaining about how they had been barred entrance into the temple by Gregory. To prove the power of God to the temple custodian, Gregory proceeded to tear a piece of paper from a book in order to write a note to the demons to allow them to enter into the temple again. With words that Gregory inscribed on a section of a book, the demons re-­entered the temple to the amazement (and ­eventual conversion) of its former guardian (Thaumaturgus 1998, p. 58).

The Patristic Text In the Vita, Gregory of Nyssa4 details the conversion of the temple custodian as a result of Gregory’s note (Nyssa 2014, vol. X, book 1, sect. 38). What Gregory Thaumaturgus is reported to have written on is taken from a “small section” or “part” of a book, a τμῆμα from a βιβλίον. Gregory then “inscribed” or “wrote” (χαράξαντα) on this part of a book, a command or “a certain imperative statement,” the “letters in this phrase” (the γράμματα in this λέξις). The command: GREGORY TO SATAN: ENTER (ΓΡΗΓΟΡΙΟΣ TΩι ΣΑΤΑΝΑι, ΕΙΣΕΛΘΕ). Since the event took place in a pagan temple, could Gregory have inscribed his command on a section of a pagan religious text? Is it possible that Gregory might have torn a page with words already on it? Indeed, it could have been a blank page, or part of a blank page, or the verso side of a page that had text only on the recto side. While there are uncertainties regarding the book on which Gregory Thaumaturgus had written, there is nothing to indicate in Nyssa’s text that it is a pagan book. However, there is no question that Gregory wrote (χαράξαντα) the phrase “Gregory to Satan: Enter.” One further matter, although one may suppose Gregory would have uttered the command as well as written it, this may not have been the case. According to the Vita the book was placed back on the altar and the temple custodian was converted. If we allow that there are no words uttered, only written on paper or a “part” of a book, one question to ask may be how the “meaning” or “force” (δύναμις) of the words of the saint was understood, and whether this could be Gregory of Nyssa attesting to the power of writing against “pagan” and spoken rhetoric?

Wonderworking in the Philippines Chirino, writing in Rome about Jesuits in the Philippines, and inspired by the example of Thaumaturgus, also composed what might be considered a “message to demons” when he writes of how he dared them to enter the old village. Chirino is sure of God’s power and secure in the knowledge that the custodians of the village (that is, the chiefs or datus that govern different districts) will move with him and abandon their old “idolatrous ways.” This is a demonstration of Chirino’s spiritual and ecclesiastical authority since the Relación does not shy away from acknowledging the continued presence of native idolatry. The act of reporting these events in the Relación is for Chirino a rhetorical exercise whose purpose is to win the approval and support of the superior general, and a wider European readership. Indeed through the writing and storytelling of conversions and miracles, he assures the superior general of the Jesuit order that “All are freed from error,” that in particular villages there is no trace of idolatry left and that in fact “they have now turned their false superstitions into true religion and Christian piety” (Blair and Robertson 1906, p. 72). The act of writing is thus in two respects a battleground for authority itself. On the one side the Relación asserts authority on behalf of the mission in the Philippines and seeks the approval of

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those who read it. On the other, writing is itself an instrument of Christian mission and of spiritual authority within the Philippines. Chirino praises the indigenous Tagalogs (both men and women)5 for their ability to write in baybayin script as well as in “ours” (Chirino 2009, p. 40) and yet he is keen to demonstrate that writing must have a purpose, a Christian purpose, in order to be truly wonderful. Chirino cites José de Acosta’s advice regarding the challenges of learning a new ­language and the joy that results from accepting or swallowing (se han tragar) its peculiarities (Chirino 2009, pp. 36–37). As Chirino lauds the Tagalogs for their attachment to books – ­including books of “sacred poetry they themselves wrote” (Chirino 2009, p. 41) – the sense of rivalry over language and spiritual authority remains fierce.

Conversion by Miracle or by the Mundane? The method by which Gregory Thaumaturgus eventually wins the conversion of the temple ­custodian (for he was duly impressed by Gregory’s first feat but desired more proof) is to ­perform yet more wonders so that a pagan should “be convinced of the faith through an event” (Thaumaturgus 1998, p. 58). Hence in the New World and in the Philippines, the proliferation of the marvelous and the miraculous include accounts of women recovering the power of speech (Blair and Robertson 1906, p. 135) and a spectacular vision of the cross that was ­witnessed by inhabitants of more than one village (Blair and Robertson 1906, pp. 154–155). These are but a few of the many recorded wonders that result in conversion or occur as a result of an act of faith, either by the indio, the priest, or both. However, perhaps the true “wonder” performed by Chirino is in mission and (the resulting) conversion itself. The work of conversion is ongoing, and subject to constant negotiation, accommodation, re-­assessment, purgation, and control. It is the persistent ministry of the fathers, their sincere concern for the welfare of both body and soul that wins converts, but this is not enough. The community must be built up through translation, transculturation, and friendship in which missionaries and converts can share experiences of genuine trust and intimacy. “Accommodation” thus recognizes the persistent value and danger of the sacred in pagan terms, even among those who have converted. Just as the missionaries practice accommodatio, so they do not expect their converts to renounce all non-­Christian values, only those deemed to be directly in conflict with Christian values. This can be traced to Pope Gregory’s letter (Epistola 76) to Mellitus in 600 about the mission to the Angles: tell him [Augustine] that I have long been considering with myself about the case of the Angli; to wit, that the temples of idols in that nation should not be destroyed, but that the idols themselves that are in them should be. Let blessed water be prepared, and sprinkled in these temples, and altars constructed, and relics deposited, since, if these same temples are well built, it is needful that they should be transferred from the worship of idols to the service of the true God. (Gregory I 1956, p. 199)

Note that for Pope Gregory there is to be no deliberate use of the “miraculous” in converting pagans; the missionaries should use only the ritual means of purification, liturgy, and sacrament. Therein, still, a thousand years later, lies Chirino’s “wonderworking” and his own subtle but ­significant critique of his patristic exemplar and predecessor. Thus, the ecstasy of conversion is checked and the wonderful is tempered by the ordinary. Although miracles and wonderworking fill the pages of Jesuit reports, there are many more pages that recount anxiety, encounter, and ­negotiations between and within oneself and others. For Chirino, the real work of the missionary is not to be found in miracles, but in ministry to the poor, the sick, the dying, and most importantly, in the difficult, anxious labor of eradicating



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“idolatry” by means of preaching and setting a proper Christian example. In particular, he uses the case of “idolatry” and its “relapse” as an opportunity to teach prospective missionaries about what kind of life awaits them in Spain’s furthest colony as well as to “temper the fervor of the new ministers” (Chirino 2009, p. 80). Chirino compares these to gold-­diggers who come to India in search of riches: such impassioned but uninformed men “think that one only has to arrive and baptize millions.” Chirino goes on to argue that gold is not found easily, and neither is faith: lasting faith springs forth from the more mundane work of mission, which apparently Saint John Chrysostom deemed the genuine miracle (Chirino 2009, p. 80). In this way, Chirino deftly positions his own narrative in terms of both his ancient exemplar and his local situation. We can begin to see just how the imitation of Gregory Wonderworker in early colonial Philippines is not simply a grafting of old onto new: authority might also be established by withholding (or moderating) the condemnation of idolatry. It is here that we find accommodation and the new forms that it might take. Specifically, we shall investigate an instance wherein spiritual authority is converted for Christian purposes. The report of the event and the part that punctuation plays in the account of conversion offers readers a multivalent view of how Jesuits worked with existing social hierarchies even as they attempted to eradicate “idolatry” as part of their Christian mission.

The Catolona as Spiritual Warrior and Wonder Worker In the town of San Juan del Monte, Chirino reports, “This most secret plague continue[d] enslaving the town to the point where there was no sick person whom [the catolonas] did not immediately visit.” Chirino writes of an entire group of priestesses, but focused his attention especially on one of them, a woman of tremendous prestige, power, and family connections in the community, who could “lure the timorous and  …  make even the resolute dissemble with her so much as not to expose her guilt for fear of personal harm” (Chirino 1969, p. 302). It took another Jesuit’s zealous persistence and the dismantling of her very house to discover her anito hidden in the bamboo pole that supported the roof of her home. Even though the priestess eventually converted, Chirino seemingly deviates from the ancient narrative of Gregory Wonderworker, by recounting how the catolona continued to be tormented by old demons while becoming a Christian. Despite her efforts to convert, Chirino writes: Desta vez quedò vencido el que podia mas que todos: por que hallado (como los de mas) quitado el  oro, para el servicio del templo; fue con los de mas al fuego. Quedò tan afrentado, i sentido desta burla; que (no pudiendo hazer mas para vengança) diò en atormentar la noche siguiente (acompañado de otros muchos) con visiones, i amenazas crueles, a la pobre Catolona; que ya desegañada del poco poder de su Idolo, tratava de convertirse, i aborminarle, pidiendo misericordia. Mas con una cruz, que se le diò por defensa: aunque continuò los assombros, no executò las amenazas; i finalmente la vino a dexar, como ella a el. (Chirino 1604, p. 58) This time the most powerful of them was left vanquished because he fled (like the others) ­leaving  the gold, for the service of the temple; entered with the others into the fire. He was so  disgraced and aggrieved by this ridicule; that (unable to do more by way of retribution) the  following night he (and many others with him) started tormenting with visions and cruel threats the poor Catolona; until she, dismayed by the meager powers of her Idol, began to convert, and abhor him, seeking mercy. With a cross, that she had been given for her defense: although the assaults continued, they no longer threatened; and finally he abandoned her, and she, him.6

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In contrast to other conversion stories wherein sick unbelievers are cured and converted, or the mute are converted and regain the power of speech to preach the Gospel, the catolona does not appear to receive any immediate benefit. Instead, she pleads for mercy and, more importantly, it is as if the Relación itself has served as a visual record that allows the old demons to re-­enter the catolona’s body (her temple, as it were) to torment her  – a rather negative twist on Gregory Thaumaturgus’s command for Satan to enter the pagan temple. Indeed, the temple and temple custodian in the story of Gregory Wonderworker are conflated in the very body of the catolona. As a person of local spiritual authority who does convert to Christianity, she can be identified with the temple custodian of the Thaumaturgus story; as a woman beset by demons, she is also the very temple in whom and through whom pagan rites were once (and it seems once more?) being performed. It is important to note that in the Vita by Nyssa, the temple custodian, asking for proof, “marveling and yet dismayed at the magnitude of his [Gregory’s] power, summoned him to show his power by these things and to make the demons enter the temple again.” Gregory’s note written thus: “Gregory to Satan: Enter!” provides (temporary) accommodation to the demon in the pagan temple. It is this wonder, recorded by Gregory of Nyssa in the fourth century, that wins the custodian as a convert to Christianity. Through the marvels of printing and through parenthesis in the seventeenth century, readers are made to wonder at history being rewritten in new worlds and other contexts and made to serve as a palimpsest for spiritual warfare. In Chirino’s Relación, the story of the temple custodian retold in the context of a Philippine shaman’s conversion seems less wonderful than painful. Although her conversion was ultimately successful, at its inception she seems to suffer for her decision and is momentarily undercut by her former anito’s cruel threats and visions. What could have been an example of a new convert’s triumph over the “demon,” exemplifying a new Christian’s ­courage (especially female courage), could instead be read as an act of judgment from two forces – both former and new allies. From Chirino’s perspective the conversion relays all elements of the wonderworker story ­succinctly, and, more importantly, any lingering presence of “idolatry” must be read as an indication of Christian power. Indeed, as with Gregory, Chirino has appropriated and inverted “pagan” religious presence to serve Christian ends. In this case, the presence of demonic power within the catolona, and the persistence of idolatry within the margins of the Jesuit missions, is less a proof of Christian weakness than a show – perhaps even divinely ordained – of Christian strength. Chirino reports that armed with a cross the catolona is able to convert. Specifically, he writes “tratava de convertirse” – trying to convert – and “mas con una cruz que se le diò por defensa” – armed with a cross. While it appears as if she has been abandoned by male Roman Catholic clergy in her hour of trial, Chirino’s report shows his female counterpart conducting her own spiritual warfare. As a person of influence in the community, the catolona’s conversion is an event that is given appropriate space and a passionate narrative. Even the reference to “evil vestiges” from the breast may have less to do with the denigration of indigenous women than with upholding the ancient analogy between nursing and eloquence (see Quintilian 2001, book 1.1, ln. 4), as well as milk and morality (see 1 Cor. 3:3 and Heb. 5:12). Indeed, Chirino may have intended for his readers to be nourished by the miraculous interweaving of divine power and human will, the kerygma of the written Relación illumined by the command of the written word. This command is amplified by punctuation which matches what intonation provides to speech. This is especially the case when the writer – Chirino like Gregory Wonderworker – is not there. Pauses and sighs, gestures, asides, and digressions are given their individual strands in curves and dots on the page. The Jesuit narratives are rich sources of ­punctuation that in their own way attest to Jesuit accommodation.



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The passage from 1604  makes use of parentheses, commas, semicolons, and colons. Their practical purpose – specifically that of parentheses – is to mark off subordinate clauses. The text would be comprehensible without them, yet they create a visual representation of the supposedly secondary details and context that the author has phrased into his narrative. Distinguishing what here is “set off ” by parenthesis “sets out” the juxtaposition and combination of both exemplarity and accommodation in the work of conversion. Jesuit accommodation is vividly displayed within and without the parenthesis, but its wondrous work is most cunningly demonstrated within the punctuational and rhetorical device. When one reads the passage and reads exclusively passing over the subordinate clauses in parenthesis, one reads of a different event: He was so disgraced and aggrieved by this ridicule / that the following night he started tormenting with visions and cruel threats the poor Catalona / until she, dismayed by the meager powers of her Idol, began to convert, and abhor him, seeking mercy / With a cross that she had been given for her defense: although the assaults continued, they no longer threatened. (Chirino 1604)7

That is to say, the power of the demon lay outside of the parenthesis and was permitted to conduct spiritual warfare; or alternatively, the demon was released from the newly converted temple where he was found, lurking at its borders, attempting to transgress, complaining and unruly. Notably, outside of the parenthesis, the demon is only one; whereas the parenthesis contained many. However, if we look at the catolona’s conversion event within the parenthetical marks, a different story emerges. The parenthetical demons are plentiful but powerless against the catolona then already disillusioned with her former idols and engaged in conversion. Here we must view the parenthesis as the pagan temple itself where they have been “sent back” (represented in writing, in the Jesuit Relación) by virtue of the catolona’s very decision to convert, armed with the cross just as in Gregory of Nyssa’s story of the wonderworker. Indeed, in so doing, she is already in the midst of transferring her allegiance from her former spiritual allies as well as converting the very space she had once bid them enter and take possession. (como los de mas), (no pudiendo hazer mas para vengança), (acompañado de otros muchos). (Chirino 1604, p. 58) (like the others), (unable to do more by way of retribution), (and many others with him).8

The effect is that demons in number are contained and impotent. The parentheses and parenthetical phrases here serve to contain and curtail demonic power and action against the female shaman without robbing her of the opportunity to reveal her spiritual strength in battle. Indeed, in allowing the catolona to fight the demons herself and to convert, armed only with the cross and without the interference of male clergy, two things are achieved: she is enabled to follow Gregory’s example in driving out the demons; more importantly, it is ultimately God who works the wonder of conversion, not the priest. As in the example of St Gregory, it is God’s power that is made manifest, even though it is the missionary, the priest, who reports the story and who does the writing. What we have then is both the female catolona, or priestess, and the Jesuit priest negotiating the tense space of spiritual authority within and outside boundaries formed by parenthetical (re)marks. If we are to follow the example of the wonderworker’s night spent in the pagan temple, we observe that his stay as described by Gregory of Nyssa is not of one seeking peaceful slumber. Rather, it is described as “conquest” and Gregory himself as “like a noble soldier through whom the momentum is changed when he joins the battle line” (Thaumaturgus 1998, p. 56). Moreover, after terrifying the demons and purifying the air with the name of Christ and the sign of the

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cross, he passes the night, but does so “keeping vigil in prayers and hymnody so that a house made abominable by the blood on its altars and its images was transformed into a house of prayer” (Thaumaturgus  1998, p.  56). In similar fashion, the accommodation made to indigenous r­ eligious practice is far from passive. However, it shows us that on closer reading, Chirino acknowledges the example of Gregory Wonderworker in the conversion of a powerful female catolona – but the wonder that Chirino works may be seen in the representation of her ordeal with demons in parenthesis.

Conclusion In this chapter, we have examined the value of ancient Christian sources in the hands of an early seventeenth-­century Jesuit missionary in the Philippines. Following the example of Roberto de Nobili and other Jesuits in Asia in the early modern period, Pedro Chirino’s act of self-­patterning and imitation of St Gregory Thaumaturgus not only enables him to learn and seek validation from the Christian canon, but to find analogies within his own circumstances in the Philippines. We can see how Chirino’s treatment of female catolonas fits into a scenario whereby male spiritual authority is threatened by female power, and the question of who ultimately has the right to command and to heal is dealt with (seemingly) swiftly and decisively.9 As we have seen, however, Jesuits, even in the Philippines, prove to be accommodating in surprising ways. For Chirino, accommodaté is not simply to be read as finding a “safe space” for oneself or “others” but as transforming topoi or loci filled with the Word, words, and persons in contrast and in constant tension with each other. Their implicit presence in these parenthetical phrases, inner states, and contexts further suggests that those who would be intimates of God must believe, as Gregory of Nyssa writes, that “the divine is where the rational understanding does not reach” (Nyssa 1978, sect. 46) and that while the concept of authority is perpetually contested, idealized, and perhaps even idolized, “wonder grasps anything.”

Acknowledgments For my brother Gregory (W. Walker Trimble). This chapter is based on a lecture delivered at the Russian Christian Humanitarian Academy, St  Petersburg, Russia, on December 7, 2017. Irina Maksimova served as simultaneous ­translator.  The event was arranged by Dr Walker Trimble, then teaching at St Petersburg State  University. In 2005, Francis Clooney served as an external member of Walker Trimble’s ­dissertation committee at the University of Pennsylvania for a dissertation entitled “Principles and Development of the Brahāmanical Sū tra Genre.”

Notes 1 In this chapter, the author will refer to indigenous female shamans as catolonas in keeping with the term recorded in the Jesuit text under consideration. However, in contemporary Philippine culture, babaylan or katalonan are the preferred terms for shaman or healer. 2 The parenthesis was first rendered in manuscript in 1399 by Coluccio Salutati (1301–1406) as [ > and a hundred years later the pair – they always come in pairs – was termed lunulae by Erasmus of Rotterdam.



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3 Although we do not know how Chirino chose to punctuate his manuscript, or whether he examined proofs, he worked on compiling the Relación during his time in Europe and in Rome from circa 1601– 1604 (see the introduction in Chirino 2009). 4 The observations about Gregory of Nyssa’s “Vita of St Gregory Wonderworker” were made in the course of correspondence (in 2015) with V. Rev. Archimandrite Maximos Constas, PhD, Professor of Patristics and Orthodox Spirituality, Hellenic College Holy Cross Greek Orthodox School of Theology, formerly Professor of Patristics and Orthodox Theology at Harvard Divinity School. This author is grateful for the guidance of her former teacher. 5 See chapters 9–10 of Chirino (2009). 6 Translated by M.C. Holt. 7 Translated by M.C. Holt. 8 Translated by M.C. Holt. 9 Contemporary evidence suggests that Roman Catholic missionaries failed to remove all traces of female spiritual authority and that the catolona or babaylan continues to assert herself in indigenous religious practices and rituals that endure as a result of transculturation and hybridity. According to Philippine scholar and essayist Luis H. Francia, there are religious sects that have organized around female priests in the region of Banahaw. See Francia (2001, pp. 24–33).

References Blair, E.H. and Robertson, J.A. (ed.) (1906). The Philippine Islands, 1493–1803, Vol. 13. Cleveland, OH: A.H. Clark Company. Chirino, P. (1604). Relación de las Islas Filipinas. Madrid: Joachin Ibarra. Chirino, P. (1969). Relación de las Islas Filipinas (trans. R. Echevarria). Manila: Historical Conservation Society. Chirino, P. (2009). History of the Philippine Province of the Society of Jesus (ed. J.G. Abella, trans. J.S. Arcilla), Vol. 2. Manila: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Clooney, F.X. (1990). Roberto de Nobili, Adaptation and the Reasonable Interpretation of Religion. Missiology: An International Review 18 (1): 25–36. https://doi.org/10.1177/009182969001800103. De Acosta, J. (1670). De promulgando Evangelio apud Barbaros: Sive de Procuranda Indorum Salute, Libri Sex. Lugduni: Laurentii Anisson. Francia, L. (2001). Eye of the Fish: A Personal Archipelago. New York: Kaya Press. Gregory I. (1956). Epistle LXXVI. In: Nicene and Post-­Nicene Fathers, Second Series II. Volume 13: Gregory the Great, Ephraim Syrus, Aphrahat (ed. P. Schaff), p. 59. Grand Rapids, MI: Christian Classics Ethereal Library.https://www.ccel.org/ccel/s/schaff/npnf213/cache/npnf213.pdf (accessed October 7, 2022). Hosne, A.C. (2013). The Jesuit Missions to China and Peru, 1570–1610: Expectations and Appraisals of Expansionism. London: Routledge. Mignolo, W. (2003). The Darker Side of the Renaissance. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Nyssa, G. (1978). The Life of Moses (ed. A. Malherbe and E. Ferguson). Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press. Nyssa, G. (2014). De vita Gregorii Thaumaturgi. In: Éloge de Grégoire le Thaumaturge: Éloge de Basile (ed. G. Heil, O. Lendle, and P. Maraval). Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf. Provost-­Smith, P. (2002). Macau, Manila, Mexico and Madrid: Jesuit strategies over the Christianization of China (1580–1600). PhD dissertation. Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, MD. Quintilian (2001). The Orator’s Education (trans. and ed. D.A. Russell). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Thaumaturgus, G. (1604). Sancti Gregorii Episcopi Neocaesariensis Cognogmento Thaugmaturgi: Opera Omnia (trans. G. Vossius). Mainz: Balthazar Lipp. Thaumaturgus, G. (1998). St Gregory Thaumaturgus: Life and works (trans. M. Slusser) In: The Fathers of the Church: A New Translation. Volume 98: St Gregory Thaumaturgus (ed. T.P. Halton). Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press.

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Further Reading Ignatius of Loyola. (1970). The Constitutions of the Society of Jesus (trans. G.E. Ganss). St Louis, MO: Institute of Jesuit Sources. Parkes, M.B. (1993). Pause and Effect: An Introduction to the History of Punctuation in the West. Berkeley: University of California Press.

PART IV

Expanding on Francis X. Clooney’s Corpus

18 The Interpretation of Scripture in the Comparative Theology of Francis X. Clooney Leo D. Lefebure

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19 “Good Dark Love Birds, Will You Help?”: Comparative Reflections on Clooney’s His Hiding Place Is Darkness 198 Kimberley C. Patton ́ 20 “Paradoxology”: The Srīvaiṣ ṇava Art of Praising Viṣṇu 209 Vasudha Narayanan 21 Hymns on Mary in Hindu–Muslim–Christian Dialogue Klaus von Stosch

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22 Mary and Motherhood – A Comparatively Informed Reconsideration Mara Brecht

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CHAPTER 18

The Interpretation of Scripture in the Comparative Theology of Francis X. Clooney Leo D. Lefebure

Introduction The comparative theology of Francis X. Clooney is one of the most creative and influential implementations of the call of the Second Vatican Council to respect what is true and holy in other religious traditions and to “recognize, preserve and promote those spiritual and moral good things as well as the socio-­cultural values which are to be found among them” (Second Vatican Council 1990). Clooney has accepted this mission with particular insight and expertise into Hindu traditions, developing a creative program for comparative theology through reading religious classics interreligiously (Clooney 2019). His work has immeasurably enriched the understanding and practice not only of Catholics and Hindus, but also of practitioners and scholars of a wide range of religious paths. In a programmatic statement, Clooney proclaims the central importance of reading for his project: “We are what we read, and if we read in complex ways we become persons with complex religious identities” (Clooney 2010, p. 147). To improve the quality of our reading, he proposes the ideal of becoming a boundary-­crossing homo lector through a process of “self-­effacement before the text, patience, perseverance, and imagination” (Clooney 2008a, p. 9). He proposes the hopeful adage: “solvitur legendo” (it is solved by reading; Clooney 2014, p. 22). Rejecting the quest for an all-­encompassing vision of interreligious issues, Clooney locates his scholarship explicitly within the Roman Catholic tradition. He consistently draws on his extensive expertise in Hinduism, but moves beyond usual academic boundaries by including personal, imaginative, and affective dimensions in his scholarship, hoping for what he calls “a ‘post-­objective’ empathy and engagement” (Clooney 2008b, p. 5). Clooney hopes that reading works from one tradition from the perspective of a committed practitioner in another tradition can bring benefits beyond those accessible to allegedly neutral, objective scholarship or those gained through the study of a single text by itself. In support of this project he cites Psalm 42, trusting that there is a deep point of contact between the mystical strands of the Hindu and Christian traditions: “The intense resonance The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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I found will not be surprising for a reader who understands how mystical traditions, though never the same, often end up resonating: ‘Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your cataracts; all your waves and your billows have gone over me’ (Psalm 42)” (Clooney 2020, p. xxviii). This chapter will examine some of the ways in which Clooney has interpreted the Christian scriptures and some of the problematic issues that challenge any Catholic theologian.

The Second Vatican Council Clooney locates his comparative theology within the Roman Catholic tradition, specifically in the wake of the Second Vatican Council (Clooney  2016). In the Dogmatic Constitution on Divine Revelation, known by its first Latin words as Dei Verbum (DV), the Second Vatican Council described the study of the sacred page of scripture as the “soul of theology” and called for attention to the original languages, genres, and contexts of the biblical texts (DV 12, 24). While Dei Verbum affirmed the continuity between the Bible and the later Catholic tradition, its call for renewed study of the biblical texts brought the potential to profoundly transform the Church’s teaching authority, which, Dei Verbum affirmed, serves the Word of God and is not above it (DV 10). For centuries the leaders of the Catholic tradition had interpreted the Bible as placing collective blame on the Jewish people of every age for the crucifixion of Jesus, and claimed that God had rejected the Jewish people as a whole because of their rejection of Jesus (Flannery  2004; Nicholls 1995). The Declaration on the Relation of the Church to Non-­Christian Religions, known by its first Latin words as Nostra Aetate (NA), quietly but powerfully reversed earlier Catholic interpretations of the Bible by rejecting the traditional practice of blaming all Jews for the death of Jesus and by affirming that the Jewish people continue to be dear to God and should not be viewed as rejected or accursed (NA 4). In deploring all forms of hatred and anti-­Semitism directed against Jews from any source, the council was publicly deploring the long, sad history of Catholic interpretation of the Bible against the Jews (Lefebure  2014). Gregory Baum, an adviser to the Second Vatican Council who came from a German family with Jewish ancestors, commented that the council’s greatest transformation of the ordinary Magisterium involved the teaching regarding Jews (Baum 1986, p. 87). Philip A. Cunningham described this change as “a Catholic act of metanoia [conversion]” (Cunningham 2007). Nostra Aetate invited Christians and Jews to engage in biblical and theological studies together in a way that would promote “mutual knowledge and esteem” (DV 4). The council called Catholics to an unprecedented practice of interpreting the Bible in search of values shared with Jews as well as followers of other religious paths. Because the council affirmed that the study of scripture is the soul of theology, this revolution has important implications for every aspect of Catholic theology. During his visit to the Great Synagogue of Rome in April 1986, Pope John Paul II acknowledged that Catholics have an intrinsic relation to Judaism.1 In a 1980 address to the Jewish community in Mainz, Germany, this pope affirmed that the covenant of God with the Jewish people has never been revoked (numquam revocata).2 In 2015 the Pontifical Commission for Religious Relations with Jews commented on the implication of this principle: From a theological perspective, Christians need to refer to the Judaism of Jesus’ time and to a degree also the Judaism that developed from it over the ages for their own self-­understanding. Given Jesus’ Jewish origins, coming to terms with Judaism in one way or another is indispensable for Christians.3

Clooney acknowledges in principle: “How Catholics relate to Hindus and Buddhists must be framed by our relationship to Jews and Muslims” (2016, p. 59n3). However, in practice he devotes



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little attention to the implications for comparative theology of Catholics’ changed relations with Jews and the Jewish tradition, including the interpretation of scripture in dialogue with Jewish scholars.

Theology After Vedanta In engaging with the Advaita Vedanta tradition, Clooney reflects on the potential impact of knowledge of these Hindu perspectives on our understanding of the role of the Bible in the theology of Thomas Aquinas. Clooney proposes that “the broadened context established by comparative theology and by the specific experiment of a reading of Advaita makes Aquinas’ use of the Bible more interesting and not less, for the example of Advaita urges us to notice attentively his ways of reading and the expectations his writing [places] on his readers” (Clooney 1993, p. 180). He rightly emphasizes Aquinas’s role as an interpreter of the Bible and proposes that a Christian theologian who has examined how Advaitin commentators interpret the Upanishads can better appreciate how Thomas Aquinas interpreted the Bible in relation to the commentators whom he knew (Clooney  1993, pp.  179–183). Clooney finds in the Hindu tradition reasons for a far-­reaching assurance in the Catholic commentarial tradition. Regarding the assessment of truth claims in Christian and Hindu scriptures, Clooney in this work defers judgment, trusting that the truth will emerge through patient reading (1993, p. 188). In addition to his fundamental confidence in the scriptural and scholastic commentaries of the Hindu and Christian traditions, he notes the disorienting power of comparisons and calls for an openness to new and unpredictable interpretations, but he does not directly challenge the received Catholic tradition (Clooney  1993, p.  203). Thomas Aquinas shared the widespread medieval Catholic view that all Jews were responsible for rejecting Jesus Christ and had lost their status as the true Israel and were sent into exile as a result (Hood  1995). Clooney does not express any ­questions over the adequacy of Thomas Aquinas’s interpretation of scripture or any sense that a contemporary Catholic interpretation of the Bible and scholastic tradition would need to be significantly different.

Seeing Through Texts In Seeing Through Texts, Clooney launches a comparison of the biblical Song of Songs with the Tiruvaymoli that will occupy his attention for many years. Both texts present experiences of human love, including the yearning of a woman, painful times of absence, and the anguished search for the beloved, in ways that have long been understood to apply to experiences of divine love (Nammalvar 2020). By weaving together passages from the Song of Songs and the Tiruvaymoli, Clooney hopes for mutual enrichment through repeated cross-­reading (Clooney 1996, p. 262). Clooney notes that the Song of Songs says nothing directly about God, but he does not devote much attention to the original context in ancient Israel and the Hebrew Bible or to the history of Jewish interpretation; instead he moves quickly to the history of Christian interpretations of the Song of Songs from Origen through Bernard of Clairvaux, where the literal meaning of the text opened onto spiritual interpretations. Clooney esteems the spiritual interpretations as offering “a school of self-­discovery” (Clooney 1996, pp. 260–261). Clooney turns also to the encounter of Jesus with the Samaritan woman at the well in the Gospel of John (John 4), juxtaposing this biblical text with passages from the Tiruvaymoli where similar themes are in play, inviting readers “to use words in a way that moves through those words

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to an encounter and intimacy which reach beyond them: from word to vision, promise to glory” (Clooney 1996, p. 268). Clooney notes briefly the history of division between Jews and Samaritans, but does not explore the implications of Jesus’s involvement in this troubled relationship for contemporary interreligious reflection. Clooney suggests a similarity between John 4 and the Tiruvaymoli in the movement “from word to vision, promise to glory,” but he is noncommittal on the outcome of his experiment in comparative reading (Clooney  1996, pp.  268, 277). Clooney encourages readers to undertake the work that this project involves, all while insisting on the ultimate need for grace (Clooney 1996, p. 296). In and through this process of comparative reading of scriptures and other classic religious texts, he expects a change will occur that will be hard to name. “The Bible, Bonaventure, Ignatius: for a Christian who has studied the Srivaisnava tradition, these are still there, still central, but they do not mean now what they did before” (Clooney 1996, p. 304). Clooney does not completely spell out exactly how he sees the meaning of biblical texts as having changed, inviting the reader to reflect further.

Divine Mother, Blessed Mother In Divine Mother, Blessed Mother, Clooney proposes a comparative study of female Hindu deities and Mary of Nazareth. He is always careful to note that according to Catholic theology the Blessed Virgin Mary is not divine, though she is venerated as the Mother of God (Clooney 2005, p. 227). Clooney does not reflect on the Jewish identity of Mary or study the biblical texts concerning Mary directly; instead he discusses three hymns to Mary from the later Christian tradition, one of which, the Stabat Mater, is rooted in the Gospel of John’s presentation of Mary at the foot of the cross at Jesus was being crucified (John 19:25–27). The Gospel of John presents “the Jews” in a problematic light, and Clooney quotes the Stabat Mater expressing the common medieval Catholic view that Jesus was crucified for the “sins of His own people” (Clooney 2005, p. 182). Attention to the Jewish identity of Mary is one of the most powerful antidotes to this poisonous perspective, but Clooney mentions Mary’s Jewish identity only in passing (Clooney 2005, p. 20), and he passes over the problem of blaming the Jewish people as a whole in silence. Clooney interprets Mary in this scene as an intermediary, as “the person through whom we share the saving power of Christ’s death” (Clooney 2005, p. 228). Clooney cites the Akathistos hymn of Eastern Christianity, which draws on the infancy narratives in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, venerating the divine descent to Mary’s womb as “the tabernacle of God” and hailing Mary as the “unwed bride” (Clooney 2005, p. 147). The third Marian hymn that Clooney studies is the Mataracamman Antati from South India. This hymn honors Mary as queen of Mylapore, who blesses the town (in present-­day Chennai) and helps it flourish. The hymn honors Jesus as the savior active already in the narratives of the Hebrew Bible, saving Jonah, assisting Joshua, and empowering Samson; Mary is a sacred woman identified with the woman who combats and destroys the serpent in the books of Genesis and Revelation without being harmed (Clooney  2005, pp.  209–211). The hymn praises Mary for being able to provide the assistance against delusion and evil that the Hindu deities are unable to offer (Clooney 2005, p. 213). Now dwelling in Mylapore, Mary bridges the spatial and temporal distance to Jesus who lived in Palestine long ago. By contrast, Apirami, the Hindu goddess to whom Clooney compares Mary, is herself divine and is present everywhere, especially in the inner place where she is manifest and gracious to her worshipers. In both cases, humans find an intensity of religious experience in devotion. Clooney acknowledges the limitation of his comparison: “There is no plausible way for a Christian simply to affirm the existence of goddesses or to participate easily in worship of them. Those of us who are Christian cannot simply incorporate goddess worship and theology into



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Christian practice” (Clooney 2005, p. 223). Protestants have long criticized Catholics for attributing quasi-­divine powers to Mary, and Clooney’s language at times may give them pause. While Clooney is careful to avoid full divinization, his language about Mary ascribes to her the most intimate relation to divinity: “In Mary we see the other side of God’s becoming human in Jesus. The overall effect is to assimilate Mary to the likeness of God, in a particularly intense fashion” (Clooney 2005, p. 229). Clooney goes so far as to affirm Mary as “nearly divine,” and he draws the conclusion that Hindu goddesses and Mary “serve as mirrors in which humans see their own potential for divinization and its possible fulfillment, and are thus guided toward their fulfillment as complete human and even divinized persons” (Clooney 2005, pp. 148, 230). While Clooney cites Elizabeth Johnson’s work, he does not take up her critique of Catholic veneration of Mary as quasi-­divine and her proposal that it is more helpful to think of Chokmah (Sophia, Dame Wisdom) as the biblical female manifestation of God (Johnson 1993).

The Truth, the Way, the Life and Beyond Compare In The Truth, the Way, the Life: Christian Commentary on the Three Holy Mantras of the Srivaisnava Hindus, Clooney offers an interpretation and detailed Christian reflection on three Hindu mantras, with particular attention to how they were interpreted by the fourteenth-­century Hindu theologian Sri Vedanta Deshika. In a closely related work, Beyond Compare: St Francis de Sales and Śrı̄ Vedaˉnta Desˊika on Loving Surrender to God, he then explores the relation between the noted Reformation-­era Catholic bishop of Geneva and Deshika. In The Truth, the Way, the Life, Clooney seeks to advance our understanding by juxtaposing passages from the New Testament with the Hindu mantras. He compares a Hindu mantra expressing complete dependence on Narayana (God) to the confession of faith of the doubting Apostle Thomas, “My Lord and my God” (John 20:27–28), as well as Mary’s acceptance of the angelic invitation at the Annunciation (Luke 1:38), and also Jesus’s prayer in the garden of Gethsemane to be spared the cup of suffering (Luke 22:41–42) (Clooney  2008a, pp. 67–68). Clooney follows the example of the Benedictine monk, Henri Le Saux, also known as Swami Abhishiktananda, in comparing the Hindu expression of obeisance to Narayana in “Aum” (also written as OM) to Paul praying, “Abba, Father” (Romans 8:15–17; Galatians 4:4–7) (Clooney  2008a, p.  68). Clooney trusts that the resonances between the Hindu mantra and the biblical texts create a new framework where each takes on fresh significance. Clooney also reflects on the proposal of another Benedictine monk, Bede Griffiths, to read together Krishna’s call to abandon reliance on dharmas and take refuge in him (Bhagavad Gita 18:66) and Paul’s invitation to freedom from the Jewish law in the Letter to the Galatians (5:1–26) (Griffiths 2001, p. 322; Clooney 2008a, pp. 102–105). Griffiths identified Krishna’s exhortation to give up all the dharmas with Paul’s alleged view of giving up the Jewish law: “This is exactly what St Paul means by the ‘law’” (Griffiths 2001, p. 322). Clooney is quite properly more cautious about this claim, insisting on the contextual difference, but nonetheless agreeing with Griffiths that at least some Christians can appropriately hear Krishna’s invitation to abandon dharmas for Krishna as resonating with their own tradition (Clooney 2008a, pp. 102–105). The remarks of Griffiths reflect an earlier era of biblical awareness and do not do justice to the current state of scholarship. As Jewish scholars have become involved in the study of Paul’s letters, there has been considerable discussion of the apostle’s view of Torah, which invites more careful reflection in light of the contemporary discussion (e.g., Fredriksen 2017, pp. 94–130). In Beyond Compare, Clooney continues this project by exploring the meaning of loving surrender to God in Francis de Sales’s Treatise on the Love of God and Deshika’s Essence of the Auspicious Three Mysteries. Clooney follows the devotional invocation of scripture of Francis de Sales closely,

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noting how the spiritual director hoped to guide people’s imagination by invoking biblical figures and narratives (Clooney  2008b, pp.  86–94). As in the earlier works, he does not reflect on the original contexts of the biblical passages being invoked.

His Hiding Place Is Darkness In His Hiding Place Is Darkness: A Hindu-­Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence, Clooney develops further his engagement with the Tiruvaymoli and the Song of Songs. Clooney reads the Song of Songs primarily as a Christian text, following the medieval Cistercian interpretations offered by Bernard of Clairvaux, Gilbert of Hoyland, and John of Ford (Clooney 2014, p. 19). He takes note of recent studies of the original Hebrew text by biblical scholars J. Cheryl Exum and Elie Assis, but for the most part he relegates their work to the endnotes (Clooney 2014, pp. 18, 19). His main approach to the Song of Songs continues the traditional Christian practice of appropriating Jewish texts of the First Testament as Christian. For Clooney, as for the medieval Cistercians, the beloved in the Song is Jesus Christ (Clooney 2014, p. 140). As guides to theopoetics, he invokes Hans Urs von Balthasar and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Clooney finds a particular resistance in these texts themselves to relating them to each other: “Nor do they want to be read together. Each invites us to enter its world and stay only there, each shines inward, a world tolerating no other” (Clooney 2014, p. 46). Regarding the Song of Songs, this judgment applies to the hermeneutical world of the twelfth-­century Cistercians; but there is no reason to apply it to the original text of the Song of Songs, which was included among the wisdom texts of the Hebrew Bible and traditionally ascribed to King Solomon, who famously entertained the Queen of Sheba (I Kings 10). The work draws freely on the love literature of the Ancient Near East (Pope 1995). The wisdom teachers of the Ancient Near East were aware of each other, recognized wisdom in other religious traditions, and felt free to borrow (Levenson 1985). Attention to the original context and to the Jewish heritage would open a broader horizon more inviting to interreligious reflection. In an endnote Clooney acknowledges a problem presented by Bernard of Clairvaux’s approach to the Song of Songs: “Unbelievers, sinners, and Jews – in scripture and outside it – are noted as representing alternative narratives, but they are reduced to types useful in furthering a spiritual Christian reading of the Song” (Clooney 2014, p. 155n110). It is true that Bernard had relatively little direct contact with Jews of his day; however, actual Jewish lives were powerfully affected by Bernard’s preaching, including on the Song of Songs. Bernard famously preached that Jews were not to be harmed during the preparations for the Second Crusade, earning the gratitude of Jewish communities; but he fully shared the medieval Catholic hermeneutics of hostility toward Jews and interpreted biblical passages against them; he believed that Jews hated Jesus with particular venom and that Christians had displaced them as the true Israel (Berger 1972). In Sermon 14 on the Song of Songs, Bernard criticizes ungrateful Jews for being miserly in not sharing knowledge of God with others; he describes Jews as being blind and quarrelsome because they trust in their law, which is a burden they cannot support; and he concludes: “Hence the Synagogue is in the darkness still, enduring the pangs of hunger and disease” (Bernard of Clairvaux 1971, pp. 98, 101, 112). Even though Bernard did intervene to save the lives of many of his Jewish contemporaries, David Berger points out that he was also “an equally strong spokesman for anti-­ Jewish stereotypes and prejudices”; Berger concludes with a tragic irony: “Consequently, Bernard himself was not led to violence by his prejudices, but the hatred which he preached was fanning the flames of violence in lesser men. The great Christian protector of twelfth-­ century Jewry sowed seeds which would claim the life of many a Jewish martyr”



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(Berger 1972, p. 108). Bernard had many admirable insights and qualities; but for Catholics to invoke Bernard today as a resource in comparative theology, it is important to recognize and ­critique his tragic failings with regard to Jews and Muslims.

Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics In Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters, Clooney reflects on the process of interreligious learning through the comparative reading of three Catholic classics, The Sentences Articulated in Four Books of Peter Lombard (1100–1160), the Greater Catechism of Peter Canisius (1521–1597), and the Admirable Secret of the Most Holy Rosary by Louis Grignion de Montfort (1673–1716), in conversation with three Hindu classics, the Garland of Jaimini’s Reasons by Maˉdhava (1297–1388), the One Hundred Linked Verses on the Holy Word of Mouth by Manavalamamuni (1370–1450), and the Collection of Right Perspectives on Our Position by Appaya Dikṣita (1520–1593). Clooney calls for slow reading that honors tradition and delays theoretical speculation. His practice “offers a set of stepping stones in a dark, slippery space: each text is near enough to the ones before it and after it that readers can move along, a step at a time, without stopping, even if always in balance” (Clooney 2019, p. 20). Clooney wagers a fundamental confidence in the trustworthiness of these authors as guides and in their respective traditions as mediating truth and salvation. He expresses hope in the power of great books to reconfigure our world: “To study the great texts carefully is not to leave the world behind, as if to hide in the library. It is rather to reenvision the world within the frame of what we read, the world from, in, through the book” (Clooney 2019, p. 22). Clooney proposes a hermeneutic of trust in the classics: “The great texts of many cultures and religions, however different from one another, converge in the work of successive generations of good readers who trust in the underlying human and divine foundations of the intelligibility of what we read: God is known through study” (2019, p. 157). He notes the need to form a “recognized canon reaching across traditions,” but thinks it is too soon to establish this now: “At the moment we can only participate in the great corrective demanded of us, the return to the practices of study that have sustained our many religions and civilizations for millennia” (Clooney 2019, p. 159). Praising the approach of Philipp Rosemann to reading Peter Lombard as an example of slow reading, Clooney recommends the confidence of the medieval tradition that “the extraordinarily patient and prolonged dedication to study and the conviction that patient reading was a way to gain insight into the world itself ” (Clooney  2019, p.  22). Rosemann’s historical scholarship is impressive; but in a constructive study Rosemann reasserts the traditional anti-­Jewish judgments and biases of the Catholic Church as still binding today: Horizontally, it [the Christian tradition] defines itself over against the Jewish roots from which it has historically arisen. Thus, it understands itself as the end of Judaism, in both senses of the term, that is, as the fulfillment of the prophecies of the Old Testament, but also as the supersession of a covenant now rendered old by Jesus’s “better promises” (Heb 8:6). Jesus’s word “I am come not to destroy, but to fulfill” (Matt 5:17) has all the power of a Hegelian sublation: the law that is aufgehoben in the Christian message is at once maintained, elevated, and – as elevated – canceled. (Rosemann 2018, pp. 2–3)

Rosemann continues the tradition of Christians defining their identity against the Jewish roots of their faith, and he endorses the patristic image of despoiling the Egyptians as framing Christian relations to other traditions (Rosemann  2018, p.  3). Clooney does not endorse Rosemann’s

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retrieval of medieval Catholic perspectives on Jews, but Rosemann’s envisioning of the world in light of medieval Catholic classics dramatically illustrates one danger in Clooney’s call for self-­ effacement before classic texts and his confidence that classic texts will mediate truth to us today. Rosemann’s assertion flows directly from his study of the classics of the medieval Catholic tradition such as Peter Lombard; it also directly rejects contemporary Catholic magisterial teaching regarding Jews and Judaism, especially John Paul II’s teaching that the covenant of God with the Jews is numquam revocata. Clooney quotes the Greater Catechism of Peter Canisius: “The true Christian is one who damns and detests all those cults and sects, which are outside the doctrine of Christ and outside the Church, wherever found among the nations, that is, Jews, Gentiles, Muslims, and heretics” (Clooney 2019, p. 81). After commenting on the credal statement that Jesus was crucified under Pontius Pilate, Canisius explained the Catholic practice of making the sign of the cross as a lesson that “we are reminded that we have nothing in common with Jews and pagans, but rather confess against them the Lord Jesus and this crucifix” (Clooney  2019, p.  85). On the following page Clooney endorses the confidence inspired by Canisius: “Every text leads to other texts, and in principle at least the whole of the tradition is gradually rendered useable by the readers” (Clooney 2019, p.  82). What the Second Vatican Council recognized, and what Pope John Paul II dramatically apologized for during his visit to the Great Synagogue of Rome, is that the whole of the Catholic tradition regarding biblical interpretation and interreligious relations is not usable, especially the ancient, pervasive tradition of detesting Jews and heretics. Clooney comments on Canisius: “Unfortunately, we see again a sharp edge to Canisius’s interpretation that today most of us cannot countenance, the cross as a kind of weapon to be used against Jews and pagans, and surely must prune his practical wisdom in light of practical concerns that hold our attention today” (Clooney 2019, p. 86). To frame the problem as involving “practical wisdom” and “practical concerns” is somewhat misleading. The anti-­Jewish comments of Canisius and Rosemann are not merely practical matters; they are in full accord with the doctrinal self-­ understanding of the earlier Catholic tradition and involve fundamental questions of biblical interpretation and Catholic identity that go back through the centuries to early Christianity.

Conclusion In 2010, Clooney edited The New Comparative Theology: Interreligious Insights from the Next Generation, which included an insightful essay by Daniel Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski on “Comparative Theology and the Status of Judaism: Hegemony and Reversals.” Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski warned that comparative theologians risk complicity “in a latent hegemonic view of Judaism in which a reflexive, subconscious form of supersessionism has operated” (Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski 2010, p. 89). He offered a brief overview of the history of Christian bias and violence against Jews, stressing the danger posed by supersessionist views and cautioning that “the supersessionist construction of the Jewish Other has been perpetuated for so long in Christian thought and life that even comparative theology scholars fall prone to producing Jews when it fits their needs and renders them and their tradition invisible when it does not” (Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski 2010, p. 93). In a comment relevant to Bede Griffiths’s interpretation of Paul’s view of the law, Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski warns: “These attitudes towards the futility of the Law and the uselessness of Jewish observance of it have been features of supersessionist theology for millennia. However, encountering traditional Jewish understandings of the meaning of the giving of Torah challenges these understandings” (2010, p. 106). David Tracy has written extensively on the constructive role of religious classics in Catholic theology and interreligious exploration, providing support for much of Clooney’s project



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(Tracy  1981; Clooney  1993, p.  170). However, in reflecting on the implications of the Shoah (Holocaust) for Christian theology, Tracy demands an assertive and vigorous critique of both the scriptures and also the classics of the later Christian tradition, insisting that “the hermeneutics of suspicion released by the Holocaust can and should become for Christians a demand for a Christian theological hermeneutics of suspicion upon both tradition and world” (Tracy  1982, p. 89). Tracy argues that problematic passages regarding Jews in the Gospel of John cannot be accepted as authoritative today, and he challenges Christian theologians to undertake a thoroughgoing critique of “radical ambiguities of the tradition – the whole tradition from its beginning to the present” (Tracy  1982, pp.  90, 94). In a 1995  lecture at Hebrew University in Jerusalem, Joseph Cardinal Bernardin, the Archbishop of Chicago, lamented the harsh rhetoric of the Gospel of John against “the Jews” and argued that this cannot be accepted by Catholics today (Bernardin 1995, p. 13). Christians can learn from the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks who draws on the Jewish tradition of wrestling with scripture to offer a challenge to all: “the very texts that lie at the root of the problem, if properly interpreted, can provide a solution. This, though, will require a radical re-­reading of those texts, through an act of deep listening to the pristine voice of monotheism itself ” (Sacks 2015, p. 24; emphasis in original). Sacks calls not for self-­effacement but for an active challenging of scriptural texts in multiple traditions: “Every scriptural canon has within it texts which, read literally, can be taken to endorse narrow particularism, suspicion of strangers, and intolerance toward those who believe different than we do. Each also has within it sources that emphasize kinship with the stranger, empathy with the outside, the courage that leads ­people to extend a hand across boundaries of estrangement or hostility. The choice is ours” (Sacks 2003, p. 207). In his retrieval of the scriptures and classics of the Christian tradition, Clooney does not acknowledge how dramatically Christian–Jewish dialogue has transformed our awareness. He is brilliant in relating later Christian interpretations of the Bible to Hindu texts, but he does not engage with contemporary scholarship on biblical texts regarding religious diversity or address the challenges of the systemic anti-­Judaism of the classical Christian tradition. Clooney evocatively reframes the understanding of classic Christian texts by juxtaposing them with appropriate Hindu texts, but he does not call for a radical transformation of the methods and practice of biblical interpretation or passing on the tradition. In sharp contrast, Christians involved in relations with Jews have frequently called for fresh attention to the original texts and contexts, as well as fundamental critiques and revisions of traditional ways of reading the Bible and interpreting the tradition (Boys 2000). Christian comparative theologians who are not involved in dialogue with Jews often express little sense of urgency in this area, as Catherine Cornille’s (2019) survey demonstrates. Attention to the importance of Jewish–Christian studies and contemporary biblical scholarship for all forms of theology can only enhance the practice of this developing field. Clooney’s confidence in the trustworthiness of the classics of the Christian tradition needs to be complemented and corrected by a critique of their systemic biases, especially regarding Jews and Judaism. Despite these limitations Clooney’s method and practice of comparative theology are a tremendous gift to all who are interested in improving interreligious relations.

Notes 1 Pope John Paul II, Address to the Jewish community of Rome, April 13, 1986, no. 4. 2 Pope John Paul II, Speech to the Jewish community of Mainz, West Germany, November 17, 1980.

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3 Pontifical Commission for Religious Relations with the Jews, “‘The gifts and calling are irrevocable’ (Rom 11:29): A reflection on theological questions pertaining to Catholic–Jewish relations on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of ‘Nostra aetate’ (No. 4),” December 10, 2015, The Catholic Church.

References Baum, G. (1986). The social context of American Catholic theology. Proceedings of the Catholic Theological Society of America 41. Berger, D. (1972). The attitude of Bernard of Clairvaux toward the Jews. Proceedings of the American Academy for Jewish Research 40: 89–108. Bernard of Clairvaux (1971). On the Song of Songs I (trans. K. Walsh). Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications. Bernardin, J., Cardinal (1995). Antisemitism: The Historical Legacy and the Continuing Challenge for Christians. Fairfield, CT: Sacred Heart University. Boys, M.C. (2000). Has God Only One Blessing? Judaism as a Source of Christian Self-­Understanding. Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press. Clooney, F.X. (1993). Theology After Vedanta: An Experiment in Comparative Theology. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (1996). Seeing Through Texts: Doing Theology among the Srivaishnavas of South India. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008a). The Truth, the Way, the Life: Christian Commentary on the Three Holy Mantras of the Shrivaishnava Hindus. Leuven: Peeters. Clooney, F.X. (2008b). Beyond Compare: St Francis de Sales and Śrıˉ Vedaˉnta Desˊika on Loving Surrender to God. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2014). His Hiding Place Is Darkness: A Hindu-­Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2016). Nostra Aetate and the Catholic way of openness to other religions. In: Nostra Aetate: Celebrating 50 Years of the Church’s Dialogue with Jews and Muslims (ed. P. Valkenberg and A. Cirelli), pp. 58–75. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Clooney, F.X. (2020). Preface. In: Endless Song: Tiruvaymoli (Nammalvar; trans. A. Venkatesan). Haryana: Penguin Random House India. Cornille, C. (2019). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley Blackwell. Cunningham, P.A. (2007). Nostra aetate: A Catholic act of Metanoia. In: Examining Nostra Aetate After 40 Years: Catholic–Jewish Relations in Our Time (ed. A.J. Cernera), pp. 160–175. Fairfield, CT: Sacred Heart University Press. Flannery, E.H. (2004). The Anguish of the Jews: Twenty-­three Centuries of Antisemitism, rev. and updated ed. New York: Paulist Press. Fredriksen, P. (2017). Paul: The Pagans’ Apostle. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Griffiths, B. (2001). River of Compassion: A Christian Commentary on the Bhagavad Gita. Springfield, IL: Templegate. Hood, J.Y.B. (1995). Aquinas and the Jews. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Johnson, E.A. (1993). She Who Is: The Mystery of God in Feminist Theological Discourse. New  York: Crossroad. Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski, D. (2010). Comparative theology and the status of Judaism: Hegemony and reversals. In: The New Comparative Theology: Interreligious Insights from the Next Generation (ed. F.X. Clooney), pp. 89–108. London: T&T Clark.



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Lefebure, L.D. (2014). True and Holy: Christian Scripture and Other Religions. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Levenson, J. (1985). The Universal Horizon of Jewish Particularism. New  York: American Jewish Committee. Nammalvar (2020). Endless Song: Tiruvaymoli (trans. A. Venkatasan). Haryana: Penguin Random House India. Nicholls, W. (1995). Christian Antisemitism: A History of Hate. Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson. Pope, M.H. (1995). Song of Songs. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Rosemann, P.W. (2018). Charred Root of Meaning: Continuity, Transgression, and the Other in Christian Tradition. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Sacks, J. (2003). The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations, rev. ed. London: Continuum. Sacks, J. (2015). Not in God’s Name: Confronting Religious Violence. New York: Schocken Books. Second Vatican Council (1990). Declaration on the relationship of the Church to non-­Christian religions. In: Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils: Trent to Vatican II (ed. N.P. Tanner), Vol. 2. London: Sheed & Ward. Tracy, D. (1981). The Analogical Imagination: Christian Theology and the Culture of Pluralism. New York: Crossroad. Tracy, D. (1982). Religious values after the Holocaust: A Catholic view. In: Jews and Christians After the Holocaust (ed. A.J. Peck), pp. 87–107. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press.

CHAPTER 19

“Good Dark Love Birds, Will You Help?” Comparative Reflections on Clooney’s His Hiding Place Is Darkness Kimberley C. Patton

Diagnosing the increasing pressure by global religious diversity on devout religious ­communities – apparently forced to choose between demonizing other religious traditions, or else relativizing their own – Francis X. Clooney offers comparative theology as a kind of medicine that can stabilize symptoms. If we are trying to make sense of our situation amidst diversity and likewise keep our faith, some version of comparative theological reflection is required. (Clooney 2010, p. 3)

A Jesuit scholar of both Christian and Hindu historical theologies, Clooney’s paradigmatic definition of comparative theology lifts up the classic idea of St. Augustine, St. Anselm, and many others throughout Christian history of “faith seeking understanding” (fides quarens intellectum). That the practice of comparative theology is predicated by commitment to one rather than two or more faith traditions, one that remains unshaken throughout the process of comparison, is a sine qua non of Clooney’s approach. He endorses acts of faith seeking understanding which are rooted in a particular faith tradition but which, from that foundation, venture into learning from one or more other faith traditions. This learning is sought for the sake of fresh theological insights that are indebted to the newly encountered tradition/s as well as the home tradition. (Clooney 2010, p. 10)

The language of learning and “fresh theological insights” promises a bridge from the current increasingly extreme climate of othering – perhaps in response to the fear of collective identity loss and attenuation – to a place where one could not only withstand the pressures of pluralistic

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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diversity, but illumine one’s own faith through what has been learned about the other. But is this all he intends? In the European academy, the formal discipline of comparative theology was preceded by that of comparative religion. Forms of both, however, have always been practiced “on the ground” – and below the ground, and on the sea – by living religious communities. This ongoing comparison has occurred in some cases organically through trade, assimilation, and historical diffusion, and in many cases malignantly through colonial conquest, evangelization, or racialized, compulsory conversion. Established as a science based on linguistic history by Friedrich Max Müller ([1873] 1882), comparative religion unsurprisingly suffered at birth from false evolutionary thinking and Christian triumphalism. In his four London lectures, published in 1870, Müller rendered the classical divide et impera as “classify and conquer”; by the second edition of Introduction to the Science of Religion in 1882, this accurate translation was revealingly softened to “classify and understand” (see Patton  2000, pp.  160–161). In his classification of world religions, he “understood” what he called “the religion of India” as “childish … to my mind like a half-­fossilised megatherion walking about in the broad daylight of the nineteenth century.” Through the work of Van der Leeuw and many thereafter, an attempt was made to address the prejudices that infected comparative religion through rigorous practice of Husserl’s epochē: “­cessation” in ancient Greek. This evasive philosophical idea, which describes a self-­conscious decision and action, dates to the late classical philosopher Pyrrho of Elis, often called the first Greek skeptic. Diogenes Laertius (1925, 9.11) reports that he traveled with Alexander the Great and Anaxarchus of Abdera to India where they encountered and conversed for several months with “naked sages” (Γυμνοσοφισται̃ς [nom., Gymnosophistai]: were these Jain Digambaras? Buddhist bhikṣuṇı̄? Hindu saddhus?), which “led him to adopt a most notable philosophy,” one “based upon suspension [epochē] of judgement” (αὐτòν κατὰ τòν τη̃ς ἐποχη̃ς λόγον), an idea whose meaning is still contested (Diogenes Laertius  1925, 9.11). Originally epochē may have referred to Pyrrho’s views that the senses cannot be trusted to offer true information about ­reality, or, more radically, that one cannot be certain of the reality of what is experientially ­perceived. Therefore, one’s response to them should be “held in check” (the literal meaning of epochē). His friends were said to have had to prevent him from walking off cliffs or into the path of oxen. For Pyrrho, perhaps responding to traditional Indian teachings on māyā  – the illusory nature of things and the detachment that should result in light of that epistemological revelation – epochē went hand in hand with ataraxia, a state of mental and emotional calm, that is, freedom from turbulence or, indeed, any kind of affective entanglement arising from events or conditions in one’s own life – as well as from judgments on an object of thought. Far from a Pyrrhonian skeptic, Husserl in Ideen 1 nevertheless proposed a cessation or “­bracketing” of pre-­existing conceptions that could impede a balanced consideration of phenomena, i.e., the world as experienced (Husserl [1913] 1983). A clearing of a priori knowledge and assumptions, a philosophical turning back of the self on the self, “reduction,” unblocks direct access to religious phenomena – by checking one’s own preconceived ideas about them, offering a way out of a maze of concern over how to establish the reality of its referents or truth claims. Value-­free epoche ̄ would allow for a true description of religious others, escaping the danger of ranking them vis-­à-­vis a metric of theological adequacy or sophistication. Husserl famously cried out for a return “to the things themselves,” setting aside “empty word analyses,” and the ideologies that scaffolded and ultimately shackled “the things.” Subjectivity being what it is  – inescapable  – phenomenology’s aspiration to epoche ̄ has proven  impossible, and comparative religion has undergone decades of critical self-­reflection to articulate more realistic goals: J.Z. Smith’s “redescription” resulting in a “rectification of categories”; William Paden’s “controlled, aspectual focus”; Oliver Freiberger’s “illumination,” reiterated

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by Barbara Holdredge. The emergence of critical reflexivity in literary theory, of autoethnography in anthropology and of positionality in ethics, now mandatory before engaging in any kind of hermeneutics – whether of generosity, sympathy, or suspicion – has seemed to disabuse both comparative religion and its energetic later relative, comparative theology, of the illusion that either approach could yield what John Milbank called “[an objective] vantage point from which it can locate and survey various ‘religious’ phenomena” (Milbank 2006, p. 143) or compare two religious facts. There is no possibility of a neutral subject who can encounter “the things” of religious experience, or can free themself from their own referential framework. The intentional critical destabilization of the tenets of religious narratives, inflected as they often are by cruel prejudices masquerading as theological ultimates, has reverberated in both forms of comparison. These need to be un-­masqued, and this is well underway. When all this justifiable problematizing, queering, decolonizing, and destabilizing is accomplished, though, what is left, either for the scholar or the believer? Relatedly, how can epoche ̄ and its partner ataraxia not lead to dissociative apathy? What or who is left to care about? Some enterprises in comparative theology seem to remain inflected by the methods of comparative religion – for example, Robert Neville’s team-­led Cross-­cultural Comparative Religious Ideas Project (CCRIP), resulting in the ambitious trilogy Religious Truth, Ultimate Realities, and The Human Condition (2001). Deploying a Peircian pragmatist “vagueness” to endow “vague categories of comparison,” dimensions of comparative theologies that would seem to mutually cancel out one another can, according to the findings of the project, coexist, leading to unabashed goals of distilling theological truths shared across traditions. Although this may be a less dogmatic form of comparative epoche ̄, CCRIP’s approach to incommensurable truth claims arguably belongs to  that original Husserlian move of phenomenology. In order to compare two or more entirely ­different theologies, or theological artifacts, some of the scholar’s (or group of scholars’) own knowledge – of their uniqueness, their particularity, their received revelations of the divine – must be suspended or set aside. Although Francis Clooney was part of the CCRIP team, as well as an editor and contributor to its publications, his vision of comparative theology has, in contrast to the methods of much of comparative religion, embraced the starting affirmation of one’s “home” theological commitments before entering the new world of another tradition. Gone is classification, conquering, or the kind of “understanding” that comes from a transcendentalized survey, even one represented as “objective” because of epoche ̄. As Marianne Moyaert describes it, Instead of probing after a grand narrative in which the religious other is grasped and contained, comparative theologians allow themselves to be challenged by the often ­ ­unsettling religious reality and belief of the other. Instead of “solving the problem of religious diversity” in a theological meta-­narrative, comparative theology accepts that learning from the other entails deranging experiences of alienation, disenchantment, and friction. (Moyaert 2012, p. 44)

“Deranging experiences of alienation, disenchantment, and friction.” Is epoche ̄ alive and well in such an encounter? Ataraxia surely is not. These are the opposite of what Moyaert means when she invokes Ricoeur’s désaissement, the “giving up” of “the human self in its will to mastery, sufficiency, and autonomy” (Paul Ricoeur 1995, p. 224, cited in Moyaert 2012, p. 44) to explain Clooney’s “close reading” – a form of commentarial work, “highlighting the fact that his personal and subjective commitments are bracketed” (Moyaert 2012, p. 44). But Clooney does not “bracket” to classify, or even neutrally to describe, but rather to wade into an unknown sea. Moyaert reminds us of Ricoeur’s words: “as a reader I find myself by losing myself ” (Ricoeur 1995,



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p. 224, cited in Moyaert 2012, p. 44). Clooney invites us to a very different mode of comparative encounter. Understanding means to understand oneself in front of the text. This imaginative appropriation of the strange or different text can be a creative theological source that warns the faith community that God cannot be fixed to or reduced to the familiar – just like, by way of a humbler analogy, the text cannot be fixed or reduced to the familiar. It is a way of giving form to the notion that it is not up to theology to determine a priori the limits of God’s activity. Or as Clooney would put it, being taught by a strange text entails undergoing a spiritual process, which changes the reader and perhaps reveals God in an unexpected way. (Moyaert 2012, p. 44)

Both Moyaert and Gavin D’Costa critique an entirely open hermeneutics, since both feel that at some point, the goal of interreligious study and dialogue must not be to remain deranged or alienated, or even awestruck between various gods, but to return home and produce theology relevant to one’s home tradition. Careful attention to Clooney’s work reveals that more than enhanced intellectum is sought. Fifteen years before he defined comparative theology as “deep learning across religious borders,” he wrote that it is “a theology deeply changed by its attention to the details of multiple religious and theological traditions, a theology that occurs only after comparison” (Clooney 1995, p. 522). The effect of engaged encounter with a religious tradition not one’s own must necessarily be an alchemical change whereby one’s experience and conception of the original tradition cannot remain as it was. The finish line never resembles the starting gate. Comparative theology, according to Clooney, should be a practice of making oneself “vulnerable to intellectual, imaginative, affective transformation” (Clooney 2008, p. 208). Yet the process goes deeper still. Metamorphosis through complete immersion in love is the goal. This study is a form of devotio, of religious practice: hence the expectation of metamorphic change. “The comparative theologian must do more than listen to others explain their faith; she must be willing to study their traditions deeply alongside her own, taking both to heart” (Clooney 2010, p. 13). Taking both to heart. Now we have arrived at the deepest level of comparative theology as Clooney has pioneered it. It is only by centering Clooney’s approach in the heart of the comparativist, and identifying their comparative theology as a crucible in which the contemplative study of another tradition can and should lead to personal transformation, that the deep structure of their work can be grasped. Not only should one’s original faith be changed by the encounter, but so also one’s personal experience of God. How does the comparative theologian effect such change? In Brill’s brave new collection, Doing Rebellious Research: In and Beyond the Academy, the ethnomusicologist of indigenous cultures Bernd Brabec de Mori underscores listening as a crucial form of comparison, “related to synchronization in a very distinctive sense compared to other perceptual domains. Vibrations, the basic events of acoustics, are in turn essential for synchronization, especially in a form known as entrainment: the ‘tuning in’ of two or more vibrating bodies towards each other” (Brabec de Mori 2022, p. 102; emphasis added). Entrainment, a form of mode-locking between two independent moving systems, was first scientifically described by the Dutch astronomer Christiaan Huygens in 1666. Huygens noticed that the pendulums of two clocks suspended from a wooden board between two chairs, even if they began swinging in opposite directions, soon started swinging in synch with one another. The key was the board, vibrating on top of the chairs; we know now that the physics involves rapid micro-­exchanges of energy until the dynamics of both systems mirror one another, an experiment repeated to the delight of introductory physics classes everywhere using metronomes sitting on a board, lifted and placed on empty soda cans placed on

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top of a table. Metaphorically, the two clocks could represent texts from two different religious traditions. Each is animated by its own set of religious tensions, relationships among gods, human beings, and the rhetorical intentions of the author – the movement of their separate pendulums. The texts (working clocks) are brought into synchrony in the form of theological resonance (keeping time at the same interval), by the board that suspends them both: the (heart of the) comparative theologian. This, I think, is much closer to what Clooney’s work actually does. The mind – in concert with the heart – of the comparing subject is not suppressed in its subjectivity. Their affinities do not cease and are not self-­consciously bracketed as in epoche ̄, despite its admirable but unattainable goal of suspending judgment. The theologian who has chosen to compare texts interreligiously is indispensable to meaningful comparison: instead of analyzing, however, they place themself as a linking, vibrating board between two distinct, independently moving modes of articulating divine nature, offering their own sensibilities to the process of entrainment. Their unique, particular movements create resonance until they synchronize. In this way, the “problem” of the subjectivity of comparison is recast and even perhaps resolved. The perfect synchronizations eventually shared by entrained clocks are not all the same; they vary in frequency according to which ones are suspended from the board – or which texts are in relationship, in this metaphor.1 With these possibilities in mind, we arrive at the courtyard of His Hiding Place Is Darkness: A Hindu-­Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. This is arguably Clooney’s most radical work. Hiding Place is an extended devotional exercise placing the third-­century BCE Shir ha-­Shirim, or Song of Songs, in its Latin Christian Vulgate translation, the Cantica Canticorum, in dialogue with the Tiruvāymol ̱i, or “Holy Word of Mouth,” of the ninth-­century CE South Indian Tamil saint-­poet Sathakopan-­Nammā l v̱ ār. Apropos of the above discussion, as the latter’s translator, A.K. Ramanujan, reminds us, the name āl ̱vār evokes one “immersed [or sinking, drowning, from the root verb ā l ̱] in god” (Ramanujan  1981, p. ix). None of the CCRIP volumes evoke Clooney’s methodology in His Hiding Place Is Darkness, including those authored by Clooney. Rather than systematically distilling its comparands into shared ultimates, the book entrains them, setting them into synchronous relationship with one another. Framed in the terms and consciousness of Von Balthasar’s “theodrama,” Clooney’s work seems to want to drown us too, or at least to break up any neutral interpretive raft that we have built on the waters. Although he invites us to read these two poems through the rich palimpsests of commentarial traditions, of the twelfth-­century Cistercians Bernard of Clairvaux, Gilbert of Hoyland, and John of Ford, and on the Srivaishnava side, of Nañjīyar, Nampil ḷ ạ i, and Periyāvāccaṉpilḷ ạ i, as well as in interplay with the poetry of Jorie Graham and other writers, Clooney’s rhetorical goal is much more immediate, resonating with that of Von Balthasar in the first volume (Seeing the Form) of his seven-­volume The Glory of the Lord: A Theological Aesthetics: “Before the beautiful  – no, not  really before but within the beautiful  – the whole person quivers. He not only ‘finds’ the  beautiful moving; rather, he experiences himself as being moved and possessed by it” (Von Balthasar 1998, p. 247). Thus Hiding Place will not allow its reader to retreat into aesthetics. Tossed into the dark ocean, at least we are in the heart of what matters. As a comparativist, Clooney sets aside the phenomenological goal of epoche ̄, of bracketing specific entanglements, histories, and viewpoints about “the real” when considering two devotional poems, two voices, two gods. Shockingly, he brackets bracketing and instead invites immersion – or even possession. These erotic songs sung by nameless individual women are heartbreaking in their beauty and despair, their frantic searching and the agony of their remembrance of the ecstasy of union with the beloved, agonizing because he has gone and the light has gone with him. Woven into a lush tapestry of natural imagery, set in Jerusalem and South India respectively, the songs express yearning



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by powerless women for a powerful, holy, yet somehow careless male lover who comes and goes. In the song’s moment, he is absent, perhaps forever; the singers do not know and neither do we. Whether he is the wandering bridegroom, the God of Israel, Jesus Christ, or Krishna, Lord of the dark rain clouds, even the birds cannot help. Good dark love birds, will you help? Won’t you help? He helps, protects, nourishes the seven worlds: Then why doesn’t He help me even despite my deeds? If you see that Narayana – Oh lovely little heron stalking your prey in the garden Where streams rush like the tears streaming from my eyes – Grace me by just a word from him. (Tiruvāymoḻi, 1.4.4, cited in Clooney 2013b, p. 3)

The comparative scholar of religion immediately notes further similarities between these texts: they are both devotional religious songs whose roots are in secular love poetry. The Tiruvāymol ̱i originated as Tamil songs that may date as early as the first century CE. The Song of Songs, with its “breasts better than wine,” surely never originally composed as an allegory for the love of God for Israel, as the rabbis had it. Each was written by an author, almost certainly male, in the voice and consciousness of a woman who has been ravished and left behind by a male beloved, one who seems careless of both her feelings and her well-­being, even as she longs for him, weakens, and threatens to die, or exposes herself to risk: “He has consumed my life … little by little my lovely body is losing its radiance,” which time and again she rationalizes: “But still, / May this bliss spread, climax, and everywhere flourish.” Each female protagonist sings in a kind of stichomythia with a chorus of others: first the birds, then the women: the gopis of Krishna, the daughters of Jerusalem of the Song of Songs. Both are taken up into the scriptural canons of their respective traditions, then sublimated; the dark young man of Shir ha-Shirim, hair dripping with myrrh, becomes God, becomes Jesus; the beautiful absent Tamil warrior, off fighting his wars, becomes Krishna. Can we distance ourselves from the direct agony of the loss of the beloved by noting that these poems, written by men, celebrate female love? Or that the nature of such love would today be described as co-­dependent and pathological? For whom, in world literatures arising almost exclusively from the imaginations of men, is love lethal? For women. Phaedra, Madame Bovary, Madame Butterfly. I had not consented, but He came and consumed my life. Day after day He came and consumed me altogether. Except for serving my Lord in southern Katkarai with its dark rain clouds, Is there anything else that my dear life could enjoy? (Tiruvāymoḻi, cited in Clooney 2013b, p. 100)

Or consider the escape into Jerusalem by the singer of the Song of Songs: I opened the bolt of my door to my beloved, But he had turned aside and was gone. My soul melted when he spoke. I sought him, and found him not. I called him, and he did not answer me. (Song of Songs 5.5–5.6)

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The woman of the Shir ha-Shirim (Cantica Canticorum) does deranged, self-­harming things; she searches for the lost bridegroom at night about the city. The consequences to her are disastrous, violent, close to rape: The keepers that go about the city found me: They struck me: and wounded me: The keepers of the walls took away my veil from me. (Song of Songs 5.7)

Of this passage about the lengths to which a human being will go for the sake of the one she loves, Gilbert of Hoyland makes these violent city-­keepers into painstaking physicians. They “search out the various affections of spirits and discover the passions and good qualities of each and the disease under which each labors: no one’s thought escapes their search” (Gilbert of Hoyland 1978, cited in Clooney 2013b, p. 86).2 Nothing is left but her desire, beyond, as Clooney notes of Gilbert, any pretense. We are reminded of the warrior Orual’s bitter speech in C.S. Lewis’s Till We Have Faces, deeply rooted in her narcissistic love for her sister Psyche, repeated trance-­like, compulsively before the assembly of the gods: “When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech that has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-­like, been saying over and over, you’ll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?” (Lewis [1956] 1984, p. 294). But this move toward interpreting the pain of separation as salutary, Clooney seems to say, while admirable, should not console us, nor dissuade us from the sea of danger. God’s absence and the absence of the beloved can be conflated not only in the vulnerable hearts of women, socialized to construe their identities through relationships rather than through works, but universally. People of all genders and sexual identities can suffer in this way, as does the voice of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 147: My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-­mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are, At random from the truth vainly express’d; For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

What about the commentaries and their overt sublimation of erotic yearning and madness? Is this a refuge from such possession? We are all familiar with, and perhaps too enamored of, the scholarly rhetoric that in the medieval tradition of courtly love so facilely lifts up the “spiritual productivity” of the loss of the beloved. There can be no question that the absence of God produces great askesis of the heart, and often a profound orientation to existence itself, offering the bereft a



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teleology where none was before. We might think: “It was not until Shams left that Rumi began to turn and to recite, and not until his death that he began to utter the Mathnawi.” “Dante Alghieri glimpsed the real Beatrice in the streets of Florence only once or twice, but let us rejoice in her unattainability, and in the yearning of the poet, informed by the conventions of courtly love, that resulted in her emplacement in his tri-­level cosmos as muse and guide.” And so on. Had Beatrice loved Dante in return, had they married, so the unspoken rubric goes, their love would have run its domesticated course; she would have grown middle-­aged and fat and died in her ninth childbirth, and the world would have been robbed of the Divine Comedy. Perhaps so. Human love attained rather than denied becomes attenuated, prosaic, and – so the endocrinologists tell us – loses its sexual heat after around 18 months. Yet how often does one of a pair of lifelong partners come unmoored and even die when the other drifts away? Despite the aesthetic view that exalts the love that is never consummated, or never lives long enough to be domesticated, the loss of love can be lethal at any stage of a “shared biography.” “At a loss,” Clooney writes, “we are possessed of no neat resolution to the drama of a beloved who hides from us, no matter how deep our faith” (Clooney 2013b, p. 87). It is not that tradition no longer matters; on the contrary, this problem is primarily for those who still find God in particular traditions and remain content where they have found love before. If we are Christians, it is our love for Jesus that makes it so unsettling to hear of her love for Krishna; it is because we love that our love risks losing its innocence and purity. A Srivaishnava may still think that the woman of the Holy Word is the only one who really knows where to find the beloved, Krishna, and it will be this believer, firm in faith, who is most likely unsettled by that woman’s search for him in the Song’s night. Familiar religious answers  – the beloved is to be found just where he was found before, his absence is our fault, he is returning any day now – may seem pale assurances besides the rich testimonies of these women so stubborn in their longing. But even if the flood of poetry and these troubled dramas are too much for us, we need not turn back or let go of the intense specifics of love. It is better that like these women we keep returning to desires that enflame just one particular love, over and again. If we have been reading well, their search will then be ours, the intensely present beloved who is at the same time the absent beloved – the singular beloved who is elsewhere too. We then have all the more to seek ways to draw on both traditions in order to write, in truth and in love’s dark night, with a certain patience for the unerring and precise determinations of love intensely imagined yet marked by the memory of other loves. (Clooney 2013b, p. 87)

What is beautiful and dangerous here is the experience of the absence of God, by which both poems and Clooney demand we allow ourselves to feel. But in this ferociously utilitarian age, uninitiated and insatiable in its thirst for constant distraction and meaningless data, few people, other than whatever mystics – or unmedicated madmen – remain unmedicated, seem as though they will be destroyed by the absence of God. We may despair at our core. But there is always survival to be attended to, as well as the social framework by which we are insidiously formed, constrained, and defined, with its momentum toward what seem like very practical, socially valuable ends meaning little to us personally, but from which we are afraid to unbind ourselves: chronic anxiety about the production of our lives and our good causes into books or media platforms, for example, lest our work not be impactful. Moyaert, among others, has recognized the power of this approach: “Clooney does not want to master the encounter with the religious other; his attitude is one of vulnerability” (Moyaert 2012, p. 46). But what about the absence of the one whom we loved for so long with every cell of our being, the one whose soul was intertwined with our own, the one without whom we thought we could not live? Through its insistence on this Von Balthasar-­like possession by divine absence, but

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not the kind that dwells only in shrines and commentaries – but rather, the kind that is refracted through particular embodied love and its shattering loss, the kind that wakes us – His Hiding Place Is Darkness will not allow its reader to be safe, to retreat. “Loving God is always a risk.” There is the particularity of loving Jesus; but this love that is safe for a celibate Jesuit priestly author draws us, as he writes in his epilogue, “perilously near to other such loves … I have been mindful,” he says, “not to forget that other woman’s love and her hiding, hidden beloved, Krishna” (Clooney 2013b, p. 140). We need to find words that rule out mere absence and presence, loves unshadowed by ambiguity, and theories about love and language that drain the vitality of both of them. The gap between what she expects and what does not happen is meant to bother us. Twice implicated, we cannot unread what we have been reading so vividly, and so we are caught. Perhaps for a moment we cannot neatly imagine the separation between the Hindu and the Christian, and can no longer say exactly who is the beloved for whom we are searching. (Clooney 2013b, p. 103)

Religious commitment makes such entrainment with other people’s gods perilous – but so, one might submit, do the traditions of secular love poetry that lie beneath these poetic genres, before mystics and their commentators reinterpreted them as songs of God. Entrained between the poetics of the Cantica Canticorum alongside the Tiruvāymoḻi, it is not only to Krishna the beloved that Clooney’s theodramatic spiritual exercises might lead the Christian, or, one could envision, the Hindu reader to Christ the bridegroom. It is also to the particular human loves that have captured our own hearts, exploded and transfigured them in the way that only love can, especially when those loves were lost. Through these mirroring mortal loves and losses, divine absence is refracted; they are, as Rumi shows, one and the same. For such ambiguity, Clooney’s form of comparative theology has been criticized for its refusal to articulate the theological grounds for its radical hermeneutical openness precluding soteriology, and to articulate in a normative way where one has arrived in one’s own tradition – what has theologically changed after the deep dive of comparison. In His Hiding Place Is Darkness, such ambiguity is pushed to its most extreme, a dangerous place to stand – lest we drown. As a work of comparative theology, His Hiding Place Is Darkness is extreme in how far he wants to push the comparing subject, the resonating plank between the two songs, the desperate women who search for the divine beloved, maddeningly self-­occulting. Although it develops themes that are recognizable in the rest of his work, the book is also arguably unique among Clooney’s oeuvre. The reader is pushed off the raft of interpretative safety. Clooney does not allow her overly to spiritualize erotic longing, which mystics have always seen not simply as a corollary or mirror of spiritual longing for God, but a portal into it. Nor can we distance ourselves from the deepest of human experience of the divine as we read voices from sexual identities other than our own. In Clooney’s vision, reading Cantica Canticorum alongside the Tiruvāymoḻi produces this impossible devotio: we must somehow live in the absence of the beloved, however he once appeared to us, however she is now absent, however the yearning for them saturates the present moment – live and not bracket, not escape. Live and not die. I am the soil Love seeds. Roses and lilies bloom from this mud. I ached from separation. I cloaked myself in night, Emerged a shining moon.



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Consumed in Love’s fire, I slip through any opening. I rise like smoke. Divan-­e Shams-­e Tabrizi, Rumi (G.1523; 2022)

Notes 1 To illustrate: Clooney (2013a) concludes his chapter in the volume Panentheism Across the World’s Religions by comparing passages in the same text, the Tiruvāymol ̱i, to Galatians 2:19–20, especially “it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me.” But the outcome is entirely different: the shared metronomic beat is a comparable theology of nondual theism, rather than a meditation on the God who withdraws. 2 This move by Gilbert closely resembles that described by Hopkins (2014). “One of the medieval Śrīvaiṣṇava commentators, Nañjīyar explains this agony of absence in terms of sickness and cure: just as a physician will forbid a sick person to eat anything, so the Lord wants to bring the saint to health through a curative withdrawal” (303).

References Brabec de Mori, B. (2022). Academic (in)discipline, research (in)sanity and the conundrum of ­(indigenous) timescapes. In: Doing Rebellious Research: In and Beyond the Academy (ed. P. Burnard, E. Mackinlay, D. Rousell, and T. Dragovic), pp. 99–113. Leiden: Brill. Clooney, F.X. (1995). Comparative theology: A review of recent books (1989–1995). Theological Studies 56 (3): 521–550. Clooney, F.X. (2008). Beyond Compare: St. Francis de Sales and Śrī Vedānta Deśika on Loving Surrender to God. Washington: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2013a). The drama of panentheism in Shatakopan’s Tiruvaymoli. In: Panentheism Across the World’s Religions (ed. L. Biernacki and P. Clayton), pp. 123–141. New York: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2013b). His Hiding Place Is Darkness: A Hindu-­Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Diogenes Laertius. (1925). Pyrrho. In: Lives of the Eminent Philosophers (trans. R.D. Hicks), Book 9, pp. 474–518 (The Loeb Classical Library 185). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hopkins, S.P. (2014). A rich and holy bewilderment: A review article of Francis X. Clooney, His Hiding Place is Darkness: A Hindu–Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. Journal of Vaiṣṇava Studies 22 (2): 301–308. Husserl, E. [1913] (1983). Ideas Pertaining to a Pure Phenomenology and to a Phenomenological Philosophy. First Book: General Introduction to a Pure Phenomenology (trans. F. Kersten), Vol. 2. Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic. Lewis, C.S. ([1956] 1984). Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold. New York: HarperCollins. Milbank, J. (2006). Theology and Social Theory: Beyond Secular Reason, 2nd ed. Oxford: Blackwell. Moyaert, M. (2012). Recent developments in the theology of interreligious dialogue: From soteriological openness to hermeneutical openness. Modern Theology 28 (1): 25–52. Müller, F.M. ([1873] 1882) Introduction to the Science of Religion: Four Lectures Delivered at the Royal Institution. London: Longmans, Green. Patton, K.C. (2000). Juggling torches: Why we still need comparative religion. In: A Magic Still Dwells: Comparative Religion in the Postmodern Age (ed. K.C. Patton and B.C. Ray), pp. 153–171. Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Ramanujan, A.K. (trans.) (1981). Introduction. In: Hymns for the Drowning: Poems for Viṣṇu by Nammāl ̱vār (Princeton Library of Asian Translations), pp. ix–xviii. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Ricoeur, P. (1995). Naming God. In: Figuring the Sacred: Religion, Narrative, and Imagination (ed. M.I. Wallace, trans. D. Pellauer), pp. 217–235. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Rumi, M. (2022). Gold (trans. H.L. Gafori). New York: New York Review of Books. Von Balthasar, H.U. (1998). The Glory of the Lord: A Theological Aesthetics. Vol. 1: Seeing the Form (trans. E. Leiva-­Merikakis). San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press.

CHAPTER 20

“Paradoxology” The Śrı̄vaiṣṇava Art of Praising Viṣṇu Vasudha Narayanan

Francis Clooney’s extensive and substantial work in the field of comparative theology has been a major contribution to religious studies and has transformed the lives of many scholars. In his work, he draws considerably from the Śrıv̄ aiṣṇava sampradāya (tradition), one that recognizes authoritative texts in both Sanskrit and Tamil. I met him when he was beginning his doctoral work at the University of Chicago, and I was starting my career teaching at DePaul University; one can say we have been good friends since we were both in our academic cradles. My work focused on the Śrı̄vaiṣṇava sampradāya, a prominent Hindu community with hundreds of temples all over the world, and one with a stellar array of texts. Our interests converged on several poets and theologians in this tradition, especially on the poetry of Nammā lv̱ ār (Figure 20.1), a ninth-­century “mystic” who composed in Tamil and whose works have been held as “revelation” by the Śrı̄vaiṣṇava community. Clooney has written numerous articles and books on Nammāl ̱vār, whose works play a substantial role in this chapter. It has been a blessing to have enjoyed a personal and professional friendship with him over the decades, discussing materials in conferences, classes, and over many meals in India, Italy, and the United States. This chapter is based on a talk I gave at the Center for the Study of World Religions (CSWR), Harvard University, in 2016. Clooney was then the director of the CSWR and it was at his invitation that I gave the inaugural “Hindu View of Life Endowment Lecture” in 2016.1 My talk and this chapter draw considerably from the Śrı̄vaiṣṇava tradition, especially the Tiruvāymoḻi (literally “sacred word of mouth”; that is, “sacred utterance”) of Nammālv̱ ār, a poem with 1,102 verses. The Śrı̄vaiṣṇava community considers the four poems of Nammālv̱ ār and other works of eleven more poets (ten men and one woman) as equivalent to the Sanskrit Vedas. The twelve poets, collectively, were called āl ̱vārs, or those who were “deep” (Tamil: āl)̱ in love with Viṣṇu. They lived and composed between the seventh and ninth centuries ce and hailed from different segments of society. As a road map for this chapter, I would like to suggest paradox as one way of thinking through multiple layers of Hindu culture and appreciating the poetry recited, in temples and at home, on Viṣṇu, that is, how paradox functions in Vaiṣṇava, particularly Śrı̄vaiṣṇava, culture in the praise of Viṣṇu. Specifically, we will explore how we can understand paradox seen in polarities as a primary, The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Figure 20.1  Fresco of the ninth-­century poet Nammāl ̱vār in the Srirangam temple. defining feature of a deity or at least of the way we human beings conceptualize and experience that deity. Studies on the Hindu traditions have focused on the institutions, philosophies, and theories which offer organizing principles through which we interpret the materials, the hermeneutics with which we can understand multiple strands. However, although philosophers and theologians have in a sophisticated way teased out the contradictions to present logical, coherent narratives, and some of us in academia further run these through the filters of Weber, Foucault, Derrida, and others to weave these materials into local discourses, I suggest that paradox and exulting in perceived contradictions to do with the deity still remains one very important way in which Hindus have historically related to, understood, enjoyed, and lived their traditions. In the second part of the chapter, I note other binaries within the larger swathe of the Hindu traditions, but conclude that these do not elicit the same kind of astonishment and joy that is achieved by some paradoxes seen in the very existence of the deity. I begin, however, with a later phase of Vaiṣṇavism outside of India. Suryavarman II built Angkor Wat, a temple dedicated to Viṣṇu, in the twelfth century ce. Here we find the largest bas-­ relief in the world, 49 meters long. It depicts a story seen in many Hindu texts: the churning of the ocean of milk, an activity from which rose many substances, including poison and ambrosia (Figure 20.2). Let us keep this story in mind while we consider a verse from Nammālv̱ ār’s Tiruvāymoḻi (TVM). Being poverty and wealth, hell and heaven, Being enmity and friendship, poison and ambrosia,



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Figure 20.2  Bas-­relief of the churning of the ocean of milk story in Angkor Wat.

my great Lord, diffused everywhere my ruler, I saw him in the sacred city, Viṇṇakar, A city of wealthy people. (TVM 6.3.1)

So sang Nammāl ̱vār in Tamil in praise of Viṣṇu-­Nārāyaṇa, the deity revered by the Śrıv̄ aiṣṇava community. The Tamil word for “ambrosia” is amudu and is cognate with “amṛta” in Sanskrit – the nectar of immortality. The twin words “poison and ambrosia” immediately brings to mind a well-­known Hindu narrative in which both of these substances rose in quick succession. This is the story of how the demons and the divine beings churned the ocean of milk for this elixir which would make them immortal. The narrative, found in the epics Rāmāyaṇa and the Mahābhārata, as well as in several Purāṇas, relates how the devas (celestial beings, gods) and the demons, consummate enemies, came together to churn an ocean of milk in search of the nectar of immortality. The devas, who were being harassed by the asuras or demons, by the command of Viṣṇu, allied themselves with their enemies, and, together, they churned the great ocean of milk to get amṛta, the nectar of immortality. The devas and the demons tied a huge snake, the serpent Vasuki, around a mountain to be a rope and started to pull on either side. The mountain began to sink to the ground. Viṣṇu, to save this enterprise, incarnated himself as a giant tortoise, dove into the ocean of milk, and held the mountain on his back. Viṣṇu “was present in other forms amongst the gods and demons … and in another vast body he sat upon the summit of the mountain. With one portion of his energy, unseen by gods or demons, he sustained the serpent king; and with another, infused vigour into the gods.” That is, as the Bhāgavata Purāṇa (n.d.) explains, “Viṣṇu entered into the Asuras in his demonic form  …  He stimulated the power and energy of the hosts of gods by entering into them in his godly form” (Bhāgavata Purāṇa 8.7.11).

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Out of this churning came a violent poison; Lord Śiva swallowed it to save everyone. The poison made his neck blue in color. And then from the ocean came the real rewards: Surabhi, the wish-­ fulfilling cow, Pārijata, the tree with fragrant blossoms, the apsāras, or the celestial dancers, emblems of royalty such as a white elephant and an umbrella, Śrı ̄ or Lakshmi, the goddess of all good fortune and prosperity, and, finally, Dhanvantari, the divine physician, holding the jar of amṛta, the nectar of immortality. The gods and demons shared the treasures. When Śrı̄, the goddess emerged, she was anointed and bathed with the waters of the world and praised by Indra. The goddess, however, was her own agent. No god or demon could claim her; she looked at all of them and decided that Viṣṇu alone was worthy of being her husband. The story continued with Viṣṇu appearing as an enchanting woman (Mohini) and distributing the ambrosia to the devas and excluding the asuras but this part of the narrative is never depicted in the Cambodian sculptures. The story exemplifies multiple paradoxes, and I will keep coming back to it in this chapter. I  use the word paradox initially in a fairly simple way: a statement that seems to contradict common sense and is yet perhaps true. People have used “paradox” in different ways: when we get contradictory answers even with logical reasoning or when we appear to get such contradictory answers or when we observe something that defies common sense. It is generally in this last sense that physicists use the word. Schrödinger’s cat, the three pigeons in two holes, and Yoda all thrive in a universe of quantum conundrums and paradoxes, and I begin in this unstable territory. In terms of vāstu, the traditional Hindu area of study focusing on the right land wherein we can build something as well as the rules for the propitious construction of homes and temples, this liminal space may or may not be the most propitious place for theological construction. In the Viṣṇu Purāṇa, a text possibly from the first half of the first millennium ce and one revered by Vaiṣṇavas from all over the world, Viṣṇu is referred to as the “purest of all pure spirits” and yet, in the churning story, he is depicted as one who with his demonic form (tathāsurān āviśad āsureṇa rūpeṇa teṣāṁ bala-­vīryam īrayan) enters the demons, the asuras (Bhāgavata Purāṇa 8.7.11).2 Further, he is in multiple, seemingly binary forms in this narrative: as an asura and as a deva as we just noted, in anthropomorphic and animal forms, and as a male and a female. And out of the churning comes poison and ambrosia – in many texts, they frame all that comes from the ocean, as being the first and the last to emerge, but in the Viṣṇu Purāṇa, as if to call attention to the paradox, they come immediately after one another. Many things that emerge from the churning, such as dancing girls, enhance the quality of life on earth; but Śrı ̄ and amṛta point in a different direction of liberation from the cycle of life and death. Indra glorifies Śrı,̄ saying she is the embodiment of “knowledge of the sacrifice, great knowledge, secret knowledge, and knowledge of the self … that confers eternal liberation” (yajña vidyā, mahavidyā, guhyavidyā ca śobhane/ātma vidyā ca devi tvam vimukti phala āyini; Viṣṇu Purāṇa, 1.9.117) and also as one from whom “men obtain wives, children, houses, companions, food, wealth” (Viṣṇu Purāṇa, 1.9.121). That is, auspicious blessings, in all possible ways, flow from God, as Louis Bourgeois says in his paradigmatic doxology. The remainder of this chapter will be in two parts. In the first, I primarily focus on Vaiṣṇava (especially Śrı̄vaiṣṇava), Tamil and Sanskrit poetry, narrative, and art to show how the deity is praised (doxology) through the use of paradox, how paradox is seen in hymns glorifying Viṣṇu. I will then turn to Nammāl ̱vār’s poetry, and will also work with three images in literature and art: Yaśoda who saw the seven worlds in Krishna’s mouth, the sage Mārkaṇḍeya seeing the baby Krishna on the waters of pralaya, and Akrura’s vision in the river Yamuna. In these visual scenes, responses of the witnesses (seen in an exaggerated form in the performing arts), there is adbhuta rasa, the sense of wonder and even enchantment, and enjoyment and



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engagement with the deity and with life itself. But it goes even beyond the adbhuta rasa; those who participate in this story – all of us who hear and are drawn into its wonder, experience what literary connoisseurs call camatkāra. Camatkāra refers to the way in which one enjoys and relishes a story or a poem. This is not, of course, to say that the Hindu tradition is the only one with such paradoxes, and I am not going to just list them out; rather, I focus on the ease – not tensions – with which views, seemingly contradictory or paradoxical, are simultaneously held by devotees of Viṣṇu in the stories we will be encountering. The Śrıv̄ aiṣṇava tradition, beginning in at least the eleventh century, considers Nammālv̱ ār’s Tamil poem, the Tiruvāymoli̱ , to be equivalent to the Sanskrit Vedas (Carman and Narayanan 1989). In his poem, Nammāl ̱vār speaks of the paradox of Viṣṇu in multiple ways. On one level, this supreme deity is poverty and wealth, joys and sorrows, poison and ambrosia, enmity and friendship. While most commentators say he is “beyond binaries,” what is striking in Nammāl ̱vār is that in an ecstatic mood he says of Viṣṇu: Being the ultimate body of light; param cuṭar uṭampu āy being a body crusted with filth. Alu̱ kku paṭitta uṭampu āy. (TVM 6.3.7)

To put this in context and to understand a statement where Viṣṇu, the supreme being, is said to have a body “crusted with filth,” one has to look at earlier texts that Śrıv̄ aiṣṇava and other Hindus revere. A statement like this contradicts what most Hindus may believe of Viṣṇu – that he is an embodiment of purity. Perhaps the statement that unequivocally emphasizes the purity of Viṣṇu is seen in a popular stotra (panegyric) that is recited by millions of Hindus from South India and one that is said to be from the epic, the Mahābhārata. This long panegyric, the Viṣṇu Sahasranāma or the thousand names of Viṣṇu, is ascribed to the group discussion between Yudhiṣt ̣hira, Bhıs̄ ̣ma, and others when Bhıs̄ ̣ma is on the bed of arrows in the Mahābhārata and has been one of the most popular paeans of praise to Viṣṇu in South India. The verses framing this prayer unequivocally praise Viṣṇu as “the purest of pure, most auspicious of the auspicious” (pavitrānām pavitram yo maṅgalānām ca maṅgalam; Viṣṇu Sahasranāma, introductory verses) And this is the main thrust of Rāmānuja’s religious philosophy, as is that of his cousin, Pillāṉ. Pillāṉ (twelfth century ce) was the first commentator on Nammālv̱ ār’s Tiruvāymol ̱i. Pillāṉ, commenting on Nammālv̱ ār’s line that Viṣṇu’s body is both pure and filthy, is clear in his theology and harmonizes the paradoxes by saying that the Lord himself is without filth but that he “has the filthy worlds as his body” (Pillāṉ’s comment on TVM 6.3.7; for translation, see Carman and Narayanan 1989, p. 225). There are also other binaries within the Śrı v̄ aiṣṇava tradition in talking about the deity. There are, in fact, texts that have these polarities as their titles. Kaylor and Venkatachari’s book (1981) is called God Far, God Near: An Interpretation of the Thought of Nammālv̱ ār; John Carman’s in his magnificent work, Majesty and Meekness: A Comparative Study of Contrast and Harmony in the Concept of God (1994), discusses Viṣṇu as being transcendent and immanent, male and female, good and evil, and personal and impersonal. In other Hindu traditions, we see other polarities such as eroticism and asceticism (see e.g., Doniger O’Flaherty 1973). In the twentieth century, Tagore, a poet par excellence, exulted in paradoxes. Radhakrishnan, a philosopher, educator, and former president of India, quotes and explains him: “In the spirit of the Upaniṣads he speaks of the Supreme as both super-­personal and personal; ‘Again and again have I sent my call to my God and He has revealed Himself both in Man and in the Formless, in Enjoyment as well as in

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Renunciation. The spirit of Man reveals Itself both in Personality and in the Inexpressible  …. There, where Man IS immortal, in that sphere do I want to live’” (Nagaraja Rao 1994, p. 88). But Radhakrishnan also notes in his lecture, which inaugurated the Center for the Study of World Religions at Harvard Divinity School, the harmonizing trend in Indian philosophy, and observes that we “cannot be content with formlessness, irrationality, uncertainty, chaos” (Nagaraja Rao 1994, p. 66). He could well have been thinking of Pillāṉ who, as we saw earlier, commenting on Nammāl v̱ ār, reconciles the paradoxes and says Viṣṇu is the antaryāmin, the inner controller of all these polarities, and transcends the dualities. But Nammāl v̱ ār, the poet, ostensibly in the middle of a union with the divine, revels in these paradoxes and pushes the point as far as the language lets him. Viṣṇu is truth and lies, has forms and is formless. Say he is, then he is: his forms are these forms. Say he is not, then these non-­forms are his formlessness. If he is and is not, if he has both qualities, these forms and non-­forms are his form and formlessness. In both states, he pervades And he is without end. (TVM 1.1.9)

And then Nammālv̱ ār comes up with the ultimate paradox, one that brings Schrödinger to mind; God both exists and does not exist: Being virtue and sin, union and separation, and all of these; Being memory, being forgetfulness; Being existence, being non-­existence; Being none of these, The Lord resides in the Sacred Celestial City that is surrounded by lofty mansions. See the sweet grace of Kannan, [Can this be] false?

Here, everything is fair game for questioning; the ultimate binary is existence and nonexistence, reminiscent of the nāsadiya suktam of the Vedas. While Viṣṇu exists and does not exist and is neither, the paradox is that the ālv̱ ār seems sure of one thing – that this deity has grace. In a later verse (TVM 6.3.6) he says that Viṣṇu is the three worlds – and naught. And the very paradox becomes a poem of praise to the deity. Viṣṇu is worlds and their negation; but Viṣṇu also contains the worlds, the entire universe within him. Periyāl ̱vār, another of the poet saints called āl ̱vārs, and other devotees over centuries have sung of an incident well-­loved in the Hindu tradition. This is the first of three stories that



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I will briefly talk about to illustrate the enchantment of paradox. Periyālv̱ ār, in the ninth century, writes about Yaśoda, the foster-­mother of Krishna: When she opened his mouth to scrape his tiny tongue She saw the seven worlds in the child’s mouth. Then said the simple lady who saw the seven worlds in his mouth “This isn’t a herder’s son; he’s an amazing god A boy of eminence, of fine quality, and character.” That lady said in rapture, “he is surely Māyaṉ.” (Periyālv̱ ār Tirumol ̱i 1.1.6 and 7, cited in Ate 1978)

The story Periyāl v̱ ār talks about is popular with children, with adults, with dancers, and with singers of classical Carnatic music (a system and tradition of music originating in South India). The context differs in the many versions, but in many texts, the kids playing with the child Krishna laugh because he is eating mud (Bhāgavata Purāṇa 10.8.35); Yaśoda questions him and Krishna denies it: “Mother, I have never eaten dirt. Friends complaining against Me are liars. If you think they are being truthful, you can directly look into My mouth and examine it.” Angry, Yaśoda commands the toddler to open his mouth. Let us consider the Bhāgavata Purāṇa: When Kṛṣṇa opened His mouth wide by the order of mother Yaśodā, she saw within His mouth all moving and nonmoving entities, outer space, and all directions, along with mountains, islands, oceans, the surface of the earth, the blowing wind, fire, the moon and the stars. She saw the planetary systems, water, light, air, sky, and creation by transformation of ahaṅkāra [ego, principle of ‘I-hood’, or individuality]. She also saw the senses, the mind, sense perception, and the three qualities, goodness, passion and ignorance. She saw the time allotted for the living entities, she saw natural instinct and the reactions of karma, and she saw desires and different varieties of bodies, moving and nonmoving. Seeing all these aspects of the cosmic manifestation, along with herself and Vraj [Vṛndāvana-dhāma], she became doubtful and fearful of her son’s nature. (Bhāgavata Purāṇa 10.8.37–39)

In short, she sees everything; but what she sees is the world with herself looking into Krishna’s mouth, looking into Krishna’s mouth, ad infinitum (Figure  20.3). She is astonished, delighted, filled with joy and wonder. She argues with herself: “Is this a dream, or is it an illusory creation by the external energy? Has this been manifested by my own intelligence, or is it some mystic power of my child?” (Bhāgavata Purāṇa 10.8.40). Her mind in a whirl, Yaśoda surrenders herself to the child, looking at him in awe and seeing her soul as not connected to any human being but only to the divinity she is facing – and praises him. Therefore let me surrender unto the Supreme God and offer my worship unto Him, who is beyond the conception of human speculation, the mind, activities, words and arguments, who is the original cause of this cosmic manifestation, by whom the entire cosmos is maintained, and by whom we can conceive of its existence. Let me simply offer my worship. (Bhāgavata Purāṇa 10.8.41)

And then – the yogamāya, a kind of cosmic delusion, takes over, she sees the child as a child again. What we have to note here is Yaśoda’s reaction: it is astonishment, a joy, a delirium, and we will come back to this soon. Two songs, illustrating this story and the astonishment, are particularly well known in the performing arts. Here, we move away from the Śrı̄vaiṣṇava tradition to another Vaiṣṇava tradition. Vyasarāya, a teacher in the Madhva school of Vedānta in the fifteenth century, composed one of the most popular classical songs on this theme. Known by the first few words of the song in the

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Figure 20.3  Yaśoda’s sense of wonder when she sees the entire universe in Krishna’s mouth. Picture courtesy of Vanitha Veeravalli, Bharatam Academy of Dance Arts, Naperville, IL, USA. Kannada language, Krishna nee begane baro (“Krishna, come quickly”) this song and story was made famous by Balasaraswati (1918–1984), a well-­known Bharata Natyam dancer, performing it for the Oscar-­winning film maker, Satyajit Ray. A whole generation of Hindus from South India in the twentieth century were enthralled by Ray’s documentary of this renowned artist, dancing this song (Ray 1976). And the last line lingers in everyone’s heart; this child Krishna, who miraculously and wondrously ate mud and showed the multi-­verses inside his mouth to Yaśoda, is enshrined in the Udupi temple, the place near which the lyricist, Vyasarāya, lived. This deity, the one who has the many worlds inside him is here; here, in the neighborhood, here in Udupi. The second song, Tāyē Yaśoda, is a Tamil song that Bharata Natyam dancers perform regularly. Oothukadu Subba Iyer wrote in the seventeenth century “Yaśoda, he is That God! When I picked him as a child and put him on my lap to admire his beautiful face, he opened his mouth and showed me the whole universe within it!” Here too, the singer and the dancer, singing the same refrain over and over, marvel joyously at the wonders of the many paradoxes: a little child who eats mud shows the universe in his mouth, he who is beyond the reach of yogis and sages is caught by a woman who spanks him, binds him with real ropes and the ropes of her love. The theme of the child Krishna holding the world inside him is also seen in a second story, which the āl ̱vārs and multiple poets all over India refer to, often in shorthand, as “he who lies on the banyan leaf.” This narrative is portrayed in popular art, painting, and jewelry, and refers to a story in the Mahābhārata and several Purāṇas. The universe has ended and there is nothing but Viṣṇu who is lying down in the form of a child on a banyan leaf (Figure 20.4). The immortal sage Mārkaṇḍeya, who is wandering inside Viṣṇu is thrown out and there perceives the waters of ­dissolution at the end of this cycle of time. Just then the child inhaled, drawing Mārkaṇḍeya within His body like a mosquito. There the sage found the entire universe arrayed as it had been before its dissolution. Seeing this, Mārkaṇḍeya was most astonished and perplexed. (Bhāgavata Purāṇa 12.9.27)



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Figure 20.4  The sage Mārkaṇḍeya has a vision of the baby Krishna lying on a leaf at the time of the dissolution of the universe. And inside the child was the entire universe. The sage saw the entire universe: the sky, heavens and earth, the stars, mountains, oceans, great islands and continents, the expanses in every direction, the saintly and demoniac living beings, the forests, countries, rivers, cities and mines, the agricultural villages and cow pastures. (Bhāgavata Purāṇa 12.9.29)

The image itself is curious in that it at once combines the Lord’s supremacy and accessibility. The picture of a little child playing on a banyan leaf, floating on the waters of dissolution, and holding the universe within himself, is paradoxical, to say the least. The paradox is intensified in another verse of Nammāl ̱vār where he juxtaposes the Lord’s act of swallowing the worlds with the one

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(in  the incarnation as Krishna) of stealing butter from the cowherd girls and swallowing it. The  contrast between might and mischief, between the all-­encompassing Being who contains ­everything as part of the cosmic process and a divine child who steals butter for his pleasure is emphasized in this whimsical verse: Lord of Wonder (Māyoṉ)! Long ago, you ate the seven worlds, you disgorged them and by your wondrous power (māyai), you entered them. And then, you took on the mean body of the lowly human. Even if the mud lingered in your system, from your swallowing of the worlds, was that butter an antidote to dissolve the mud that remained in your stomach, or to avoid the pain of being human? (TVM 1.5.8)

Nammāl ̱vār speaks with wonder about Viṣṇu, the wondrous one eating the worlds, expelling them from within him, entering them and being diffused through them (indeed, the very name Viṣṇu means “all pervasive”), and then, taking a human body as Krishna, inhabiting the world. In the Mārkaṇḍeya story, there is a description of the ultimate absorption of the universe into the Lord after the cataclysmic fires and floods suffered by the worlds at the end of one cycle of time. There is also a story of Viṣṇu swallowing Mārkaṇḍeya to soothe his agitation and to comfort him. The vision of Mārkaṇḍeya within the Lord is dramatic: the entire universe is contained within Viṣṇu, and Mārkaṇḍeya is self-­consciously aware of his being included and contained within the deity. He is outside and inside – a nice analogy for those of us who do ethnography or even think contemplatively about our own traditions – and it is in this liminal space that he praises Viṣṇu. There are other similar stories in the Vaiṣṇava corpus where we glimpse alternate realities and wonder. In one narrative, the elderly Akrura, a sage well respected by the community, is accompanying Krishna and his brother Balarama from Gokula to Mathura. He leaves them briefly in the chariot while he goes to the river Yamuna. Inside the river, he sees the brothers; he runs back, and they are in the chariot; going to the river again, he sees them in it. In the vision he sees in the river, Krishna appears as the supreme being, the all-­powerful Vāsudeva (another name of Viṣṇu) (Bhāgavata Purāṇa 10.39.39–57; Viṣṇu Purāṇa 5.18). A common reaction to all these incidents, by the participants within the story and by many of us who are drawn into them and are simultaneously inside and outside, is to have a sense of wonder, of marvel. This is the adbhuta rasa with its attendant expression of surprise and astonishment. Adbhuta means wonderful, marvelous; and adbhuta rasa is the feeling, the experience of wonder. But it is more than adbhuta; the word that comes close in describing it is camatkāra, a word connected with taste and consuming something delicious. David Shulman observes that “Within the poeticians’ discourse, more complete definitions of camatkāra stress the components of the pleasurable, physically signaled sense of wonder or amazement (purely mental effects are somewhat foreign to this tradition)” (Shulman 2010, p. 251). Quoting Gnoli, he says that camatkāra is an uninterrupted (acchinna) state of immersion (āveśa) in an enjoyment characterized by the presence of a sensation of inner fullness (tṛpti). It might be said indeed that camatkāra is the action proper to a tasting (cam) or enjoying subject, i.e., to a person immersed in the inner movement (spanda) of a magic (adbhuta) enjoyment (Gnoli [1968] 1985, pp. 68–74; quoted in Shulman 2010, p. 255).



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More precisely, this camatkāra “is something that continuously floods the learned connoisseurs with delight” (Shulman 2010, p. 261). To summarize: the astonishment, the wonder, and the delight at the marvelous paradox is an important part of the poetry, the stories, and the art that describe or depict the deity. The joy, the relishing, the participation in, and tasting of, this joy of the paradoxical deity is one meaning of camatkāra. But can paradox be found in other sectarian traditions and structures in Hindu culture? I have, thus far, suggested that paradox could be one important way of approaching and understanding Vaiṣṇava culture. But paradox can be a very useful heuristic device in other sectarian traditions within Hinduism as well. Śiva is both an ascetic and an amorous husband and embodies many contradictory traits; indeed, this polarity is explored at length by Doniger (Doniger O’Flaherty  1973). More recently, Doniger (2022) has explored how obsessive hate can lead to ­salvation – a theme seen in some Hindu narratives and where one encounters the idea that even hatred can lead to the procurement of the deity’s grace because one is always thinking of god. The goddess can be fearful and almighty as Kali, and of beneficent visage and gracious demeanor in other manifestations. And other forms of wonder make their way into global modernity in secular situations as well (Srinivas 2018). While we can see paradox as an important way of understanding some conceptions of the deity, whether we consider the oppositional binaries in other conceptual structures in Hinduism is a different question. Depending on how one interprets them and how one draws the connecting lines in pattern formation, we can see various concepts as paradoxes, or as something else. They may be viewed as parts of a large picture showing binaries, being opposites, or even as a temporal line of spiritual evolution. In other words, the examples I will discuss now are more easily interpreted as being “opposites” without eliciting the same response of astonishment and joy that we see when a devotee encounters the “paradoxes” of the deity’s qualities or behavior. To look at other oppositional concepts or polarities in other parts of Hinduism, let us go back to the story of the churning of the ocean of milk with which we started this chapter. From the churning came poison and then several bon-­bons: the wish-­fulfilling tree, a majestic elephant, a steed fit for the devas and royalty, dancing girls in the multitude (apsāras), the kaustubha gem, etc. Finally, we have the appearance of Śrı̄, more popularly called Lakshmi by Hindus, and amṛta, the ambrosia which gives immortality. As we can note, all the wonderful things and beings that emerge initially seem to enhance the quality of our earthly pleasures, wealth, power, glory, and sensual enjoyment – indeed, in some versions, sura or liquor also emerges. But amṛta is different; it is the nectar of immortality, it is happiness for keeps. The Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad from around the sixth century ce has the famous lines known by many educated Hindus: mṛtyormā, amṛtam gamaya, lead me from death to immortality. Thus, what emerges from that cosmic enterprise of churning is something for everyone: literally, wine, women, and song, on the one hand, objects of temporal pleasure (largely from an androcentric gaze) and that which gives immortality, on the other hand. And Śrı,̄ the goddess of good fortune, holds it all together. However, she can give power, glory, and wealth, and is adored by royalty as the personification of the kingdom, Rajya Lakshmi. But above all, she gives the greater fortune; the one that can be realized if we let go or, in some way, transcend the lesser fortune. She can bestow grace, the power to leave all this aside, to walk away from them to what is said to be the endless joy of liberation. This point is made in many stories in Hinduism and I will illustrate it with just one, an incident from the life of Vedānta Deśika, a thirteenth-­century theologian: It is said that a young man who was about to get married came to Vedānta Deśika (1268–1369) and asked for financial help. Deśika wanted to help but had no money of his own; he, therefore,

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with fervor, composed an ardent prayer to the Goddess Lakshmi and asked her for blessings. Pleased with the prayer, Lakshmi fulfilled his wish, and it is said that it began to rain gold coins. The young man, happy, picked them up respectfully, to use them for his wedding. Deśika, on the other hand, walked away from the gold and went home to his wife. Yes, he was a married person and like anyone else a little bit of extra cash would have always been welcome; but he was content and enough was enough. The young man was happy; Deśika, too, was happy. .

Wealth is a worldly blessing as is power and glory. But liberation, mokṣa, is also not just a laudable goal, but, from some perspectives, the only real goal. As Louis Bourgeois said in his famous doxology, it is “God from whom all blessings flow.” Indra, who glorifies Śrı̄ in the Viṣṇu Purāṇa, says she is the embodiment of “knowledge of devotion, great knowledge, mystic knowledge and spiritual knowledge which confers eternal liberation” and as one from whom “men obtain wives, children, dwellings, friends, harvests, wealth” (Viṣṇu Purāṇa 1.9.120 and 124). A very popular Sanskrit prayer that children, particularly in the diaspora, know by heart puts it succinctly; ­Śrı-̄ ­Lakshmi is hailed as “bhukti-­mukti pradāyini,” or she who grants all things to be enjoyed and consumed, as well as liberation from the cycle of life and death; in other words, auspicious blessings, in all possible ways, flow from God. We recognize this paradox of the two-­fold blessings in the articulation of the four puruṣārthas, goals of a human being: dharma (righteousness, duty), artha (prosperity and power), kāma (pleasure), and mokṣa (liberation). What is remarkable is that, despite strong textual statements, narratives, and teachings about how they are opposed to each other, most Hindus seem to hold these apparently contradictory aims, these oppositional values, with ease. Commentators say sometimes that while none of these are exclusive or wrong, there are hierarchies, and that dharma and mokṣa are better than the other two. However, even though these goals seem so different from each other, they are held together easily, almost naturally, as we see in the phala śrutis of Nammāl v̱ ār. The main texts of Nammālv̱ ār’s poems, including the Tiruvāymoḻi, speak of his intense journey to be with Viṣṇu; but as Clooney has discussed in some detail, the last verse in every set of ten poems (that is, about a hundred verses in the entire Tiruvāymoli̱ ) gives the rewards of mastering and reciting the verses. These verses are called the phala śruti, or the “fruits of listening.” In other words, there is a promise of a reward for hearing, saying, or singing the verses. These are traditionally found in many prayers in India. Some of these benefits seem to be what we would think of as “spiritual” – congruent with Nammāl v̱ ār’s focus on mokṣa. However, the spiritual rewards are not the only ones that Nammāl v̱ ār promises. “The rewards,” as Clooney notes, “range from the mundane to the ending of deeds and births, to the heavenly Vaikunta, or to liberation or to finding a place at the lord’s feet” (Clooney 1996, p. 72). There are also several earthly benefits; again, quoting Clooney, “freedom from affliction (I.5.11); abundant learning (I.10.11); good life and prosperity, fame (III.3.11; V I.2.11); lordship (III.10.11, IV.3.11, VI.7.11); ending of troubles (IV.1.11); to be like those whom doe-­eyed women love (V.8.11); becoming lovers of lightning-­waisted women (VI.1.11); heavenly pleasures (VI.6.11); to be fanned by women (VII.6.11), life on their own land, with good name, their own wives and children (VIII.10.11); to diffuse the fragrance of mallikai flowers (IX.8.11); to reach the bamboo shoulders of the woman (X.2.11),” and so on (Clooney 1996, p. 318). These earthly benefits felicitously fit in flow under the categories of artha and kāma. Radhakrishnan notes in his Hindu View of Life that “Artha takes note of the economic and the political life of man, the craving for power and property. The urge which gives rise to property is something fundamental in human nature. Unless we change the very constitution of the human mind, we cannot eradicate the idea of property. For most men property is the medium for the



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expression of personality and intercourse with others” (Radhakrishnan  1954, p.  80). And so, although Śrı ̄ gives amṛta, the earthly benefits that frequently (though not always) lead one away from the path to liberation are also held to be good. Theologians and philosophers have noted that human beings hold both spiritual and material desires in tandem, even though they seem to be opposites in many of the Hindu traditions. As Parāśara Bhaṭṭar, the twelfth-­century Śrı̄vaiṣṇava theologian, says, there are two kinds of auspiciousness, this worldly and that which leads to the ultimate good (śreyas; Raghavan  1983, pp. 25–26). Commenting on the Thousand Names of Viṣṇu (Viṣṇu Sahasranāma), Bhaṭtạ r also says that Ayurveda (the science of longevity or medicine) and other śāstras which deal with worldly benefits and spiritual welfare recommend the recitation of the thousand names of Viṣṇu. It can be recited for women at childbirth, and one recites it for the “purpose of getting rid of inauspicious and distressing troubles caused by poison, ghosts, diseases, planetary influence, bad dreams and omens. [The Thousand names are also used] for expiating grievous sins, gaining prosperity both here and hereafter, loosening the knot of the bondage of samsara and attaining Paramapada, the supreme abode of Viṣṇu” (Raghavan 1983, p. 15). Here, he makes explicit that the prayer is both for material and spiritual benefits, holding rewards that bind us to the cycle of life and death and that which leads us out of it to the supreme goal as worthy of petition. We started with Nammālv̱ ār’s poems that glorify the oppositional “qualities” of the deity where he is a male, female, has a form, is formless, and exists and does not exist, and also spoke about the awe, the sparkling wonder felt by devotees in three stories I recounted, stories echoed in Nammāl ̱vār’s poems. Here, I argued the reaction was close to adbhuta rasa, the flavor of wonder, and even transcended it, coming close to the awe, the numinous experience of camatkāra. But the binaries and oppositional concepts that I discussed later from the Hindu traditions do not induce this awe; we, and not just the theologians, recognize them as binaries and explain them in various ways. And this order, this harmonizing principle, is better known and recognized in the scholarship on Hinduism. The argument, perhaps one can even call it a “plea” in this chapter, is to valorize the importance of paradox and the reaction of wonder it elicits in the poems and stories we encounter as children and enjoy through our lives. At first glance it may seem that the appeal of paradox and the intellectual satisfaction of coherence can be attributed to the potential and functions of different kinds of literature. Thus, one can see and enjoy paradoxes in poetry and narrative and, to some extent, one can leave the logic and harmonizing trends to philosophers and theologians. Such a natural divide seems almost self-­ evident, and the Śrıv̄ aiṣṇava community has also recognized it at various times. The ritual, formulaic verse praising Vedānta Deśika, the prodigious writer, theologian, and poet, says that he is the “lion among poets and philosophers” (kavitārkika kesari), implying what it assumes is an inherent and self-­evident dichotomy. And indeed, the tendency to order and classify is very much there; there are innumerable categories. There are four castes, four goals of human life, four stages of (an upper-­caste male’s) life; and one can count categories in multiples of three also. Temples, sacred sites are all ­classified  and indexed. Order is also very much lauded. In oral tradition in the Śrı v̄ aiṣṇava ­community, we hear that Rāmānuja brings order to the way Vedic passages are understood; he untangles them, combs them out neatly with perfumed oil and puts them in tidy order, like a maidservant untangles and brings order to the queen’s tresses. Rāmānuja is the handmaiden of  śruti or the  Vedas because these compositions are the beloved of Viṣṇu.3 And this order is ­celebrated. Dr.  Radhakrishnan’s inimitable book, The Hindu View of Life, focused on harmony and order; commenting on Hindu society, he writes: “It stands for the ordered complexity, the harmonized multiplicity, the many in one which is the clue to the structure of the universe” (Radhakrishnan 1954, p. 105).

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But there is also chaos, there are also paradoxes, and a happy, pleasurable attitude in c­ ontemplating some of these instances. Despite all the organizing principles of philosophers in our narratives, poetry, arts, and in puruārthas, we live in this liminal state of paradox, praying for mokṣa but really wanting all the good stuff with this-­worldly prosperity. As I end this chapter, I would like to move beyond the idea of enjoyment and reveling in paradox suggested by camatkāra. I would like to suggest that this area of paradox, perhaps, has offered the liminal space for Hindus to engage constructively with our traditions, to choose and emphasize some aspects while holding on to multiple parts. When it comes to conjunctions, we Hindus have, in general, preferred “and” to “or.” The stories of Yaśoda looking into Krishna’s mouth, of Mārkaṇḍeya swimming in the waters of dissolution, makes us conscious of mind-­boggling notions of space and time, and our own place in the universe and of multiple visions. Poets and philosophers emphasize the importance of individuals, our individual lives, and our senses, reactions, feelings, emotions, and so on. The traditional Sanskrit blessing śaṭamānam bhavati wishes the recipient a long and happy earthly life. “May you live for a hundred years,” goes the blessings, with a hundred sense organs established and strong, and enjoy life in a hundred different ways. While the importance of each life here is emphasized, the stories of Yaśoda and Mārkaṇḍeya put it all in a different perspective; we are nothing more than a tiny speck of dust in the universe. It is all about location, location, location, and in zooming in and out, we are getting multiple perspectives of and within a situation, and being both a subject and an object. Yaśoda is outside, looking inside Krishna’s mouth at herself looking into Krishna’s mouth in an infinite progression. Mārkaṇḍeya sees the entire universe within the baby lying in the waters of dissolution – and then seems to go through the wormhole into an alternate reality and is gazing at himself looking at a universe which contains him. The different visions, the different darśanas, enable us, empower us to have the flexibility to think through issues, and literally think outside the mouth or body of god. Our problems and egos are important but the vision that Mārkaṇḍeya had can put them in perspective, just as we realize that we are in the stupendously large universe where we are but a speck in time and space when we encounter the images sent by the Hubble and, now, the James Webb Space Telescope. But this enormity does not, ought not, paralyze us into not acting – just as Yaśoda quickly slides back into her role as mother, as Arjuna gets back to being a warrior and friend in the Bhagavad Gita after his vision of Krishna in his cosmic form, our paths of action are also cut out, and our position, it is hoped, can give us the space and perspective to see other viewpoints. And depending where one is, one can see Viṣṇu in the churning scene in a godly form, or one with almost “demonic” power, or a turtle, or in anthropomorphic form, and as a man, and as a woman. Seeing Viṣṇu as the baby Krishna who is to be disciplined, who can be tied up, makes him a personal deity one can question, one can challenge. There is a whole genre of songs called ninda stuti in which devotees decry god or show their displeasure, all the while knowing, paradoxically, that he (usually a he) is supreme. Songs of such chiding are still composed; one a few years ago introduced the idea of environmental pollution and compared it to the idea of the poison released by the snake in the churning of the ocean of milk. And so, enjoying stories of Krishna and Mārkaṇḍeya, some of Nammāl v̱ ār’s verses are like wearing mental bifocal glasses that empower us to hold multiple visions simultaneously moving from one to another seamlessly. We see our place in the universe, and then see ourselves as the center; we desire money, wealth, and power, and we want spirituality. In holding these views which apparently seem different, we find the space for dharma, our space to consider multiple viewpoints, to clean the environment, and not dig in our heels. By having paradoxes, by holding different, sometimes binary views, it is also possible to valorize what may be important. Clooney, too, lives at times in a world of order; and at times, when working with both Christian and Hindu texts,



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Christian and Hindu theologies and poems, he finds the “space to consider multiple viewpoints,” in  order “to valorize what may be important.” In a way, Clooney’s method of reading across ­religious borders also operates on paradox. A Catholic priest, he is shaped by Hindu thought and shapes the thought of some Hindus. Clooney, too, seems to thrive in paradox, ambiguity, and “­double belonging,” as it were.4 I end this chapter with a verse of Tukaram, a seventeenth-­century Marathi poet-­saint, who in the last sentence of the quotation below felicitously alludes to the many objects that came out of the churning of the ocean of milk, the story with which I began this chapter. Tukaram tells God: That we fell into sin is thy good fortune; we have bestowed name and form on thee. Had it not been we, who would have asked about thee, when thou wast lonely and unembodied? It is darkness that makes the light shine; the setting that gives lustre to the gem. Disease brought to light Dhanvantari; why should a healthy man wish to know him? It is poison that confers its value on nectar. (Tukaram, quoted in Radhakrishnan 1954, pp. 29–30)

And paradoxically, this chapter is here because Clooney and I, and all of us academics, are in the business of creating order, and I am offering paradox as one alternative way of classifying and enjoying Vaiṣṇava traditions.

Notes 1 Since the talk on which this chapter is based was the inaugural one in a series that Francis Clooney called “The Hindu View of Life Endowment Lectures,” I made several references to Radhakrishnan’s book by that name. Clooney was the director for the Center for the Study of World Religions at Harvard Divinity School (where I was previously a student between 1975 and 1977) and gave focus to the lecture series with this name in 2016. It was also a way of honoring Dr. S. Radhakrishnan, philosopher-­statesman, author of several books on Indian philosophy and later president of India; he  had also inaugurated the CSWR in 1960 (see “Indian to Inaugurate World Religion Center” https://www.thecrimson.com/article/1960/11/21/indian-­to-­inaugurate-­world-­religion-­center). In this expanded version, I have retained those references to Dr. Radhakrishnan’s work. 2 Text and translation from the Bhāgavata Purāṇa are taken from the online version in Vedabase: https://vedabase.io/en/library/sb. 3 Various versions of these stories are seen in the writings of traditional scholars in listservs for the  community. See for instance, https://www.ibiblio.org/sripedia/oppiliappan/archives/jan07/ msg00130.html. For the original verse that gives rise to this interpretation, see Vedānta Deśika’s Yatirāja Saptati, verse 36 and the interpretation. Yatirāja Saptati is available at https://www.ibiblio. org/sripedia/ebooks/vdesikan/yatiraja_saptati/index.html. 4 I am indebted to Axel Marc Oaks Takacs for this observation and also for drawing my attention to the significance of paradox in the writings of Clooney.

References Ate, L. (trans.) (1978). Periyālv̱ ār’s Tirumoḻi: A Bālakṛṣṇa text from the devotional period in Tamil ­literature. PhD dissertation, University of Wisconsin. Bhāgavata Purāṇa. (n.d.). Bhaktivedanta Vedabase. https://vedabase.io/en/library/sb (accessed April 4, 2016). Carman, J.B. (1994). Majesty and Meekness: A Comparative Study of Contrast and Harmony in the Concept of God. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

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Carman, J.B. and Narayanan, V. (1989). The Tamil Veda: Piḷḷāṉ’s Interpretation of the Tiruvāymoli̱ . Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Clooney, F.X. (1996). Seeing Through Texts: Doing Theology Among the Śrīvaiṣṇavas of South India. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Doniger, W. (2022). Bhakti and accidental grace: Hate as love in the Hindu tradition. In: Faith, Hope, and Love: The Theological Virtues and Their Opposites (ed. T. DuJardin and M.D. Eckel), pp. 209–222 (Boston Studies in Philosophy, Religion and Public Life, 10). Cham: Springer. Doniger O’Flaherty, W. (1973). Asceticism and Eroticism in the Mythology of Śiva. New  York: Oxford University Press. Gnoli, R. ([1968] 1985). The Aesthetic Experience According to Abhinavagupta, 3rd ed. Varanasi: Chaukhamba Sanskrit Series Office. Kaylor, R.D. and Venkatachari, K.K.A. (1981). God Far, God Near: An Interpretation of the Thought of Nammalvar. Bombay: Ananthacharya Indological Research Institute. Nagaraja Rao, P. (1994). Dr. S. Radhakrishnan. New Delhi: Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India. Radhakrishnan, S. (1954). The Hindu View of Life, 9th impr. London: G. Allen & Unwin. Raghavan, S. (1983). The Vishnu Saharanama with the Bhasya of Parasara Bhattar. Madras: Visishtadvaita Pracharini Sabha. Ray, S. (1976). Bala [film]. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ak_a1RJ2DZc (accessed January 26, 2016). Shulman, D. (2010). Notes on Camatkara. In: Language, Ritual and Poetics in Ancient India and Iran: Studies in honor of Shaul Migron (ed. D. Shulman), pp. 249–276. Jerusalem: Israeli Academy of Sciences and Humanities. Srinivas, T. (2018). The Cow in the Elevator. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Further Reading Taylor, M. (trans.) (2021). The Viṣṇu Purāṇa. Acton: Australian National University Press.

CHAPTER 21

Hymns on Mary in Hindu– Muslim–Christian Dialogue Klaus von Stosch

One of the fascinating comparisons that Francis X. Clooney suggests in his book Divine Mother, ́ ̄ Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary (2005) is the comparison between the Srı ́ ̄ Lakṣmı ̄ by Parāśara Bhaṭṭar in the twelfth Guṇa Ratna Kośa, a hymn to the Hindu goddess Srı century, and the Byzantine Hymn of Akathistos dedicated to Mary. The dating of the Akathistos remains a matter of debate,1 but consensus among scholars strongly supports a fifth-­century ­composition (Peltomaa  2001, p.  216). However, there is a famous prooemium that was likely added right after the siege of Constantinople in 626. This introduction is left out of Clooney’s translation and discussion, but it has to be mentioned here because it gives us the opportunity to include the Qur’anic voice in the wonderful Hindu–Christian comparative theology that Clooney developed in his book. Hence, I will first start with the political use of the Akathistos in this chapter. Then, I will look at Mary’s role in salvation. In the last part, I will reflect on the idea of deep incarnation and how it is presupposed in the Byzantine text. Methodologically, I will begin with my own appreciation and problematization of the Christian theological ideas found in the hymn to Mary. I will then look at the Qur’anic critique and use Clooney’s insights on the Hindu hymn to find a response to the Islamic critique. In all three cases I seek to develop a Christian comparative theology that learns from the Qur’anic critique and that uses the Hindu text as a sort of third instance that renders the critique more productive for my own thinking (see Von Stosch 2021, pp. 19–20, for an explanation of this method).

Critique of Political Theology It is the second prooemium of the Akathistos that made the hymn famous and that brings it into direct dialogue with the Qur’an. The text says: “To you, our leader in battle and defender … Since you are invincible in power, free me from all kinds of dangers, that I may cry to you: ‘Hail, bride unwedded’” (Peltomaa 2001, p. 21). It is usually understood as a response The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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to the attack of Constantinople by the Avars in 626; “the erect Constantinopolitans sang this song in defense, turning resolute chant into an impenetrable wall” (Arentzen  2021, p.  6).2 Three contemporary sources have survived, all of which are in accord regarding the decisive role played by Mary in this military engagement: the sermon of Theodore Synkellos, the poem Bellum avaricum by the court poet George of Pisidia, and the Chronicon paschale (see Hurbanič̌ 2019, p. 3). All these sources agree that the Byzantine capital was only saved by the intervention of the Virgin Mary (see Hurbanič 2019, p. 248). After the battle, as a mark of gratitude, Sergios, the Patriarch of Constantinople, organized a great procession to Mary’s shrine (see Hurbanič 2019, pp. 269–270). This provided the impetus for annual liturgical festivals, all of which commemorated the invincible Mary (see Hurbanič  2019, p. 285). It seems that the Akathistos was used in this context. We do not know whether the proclaimer of the Qur’an or the early Muslim community was aware of this fact and whether they knew the Akathistos. Nevertheless, I argue elsewhere in some length that the theological idea of Mary’s invincibility and invulnerability is criticized explicitly by the Qur’an (see Tatari and Von Stosch 2021, pp. 82–100, 202–218). For our context I only want to mention one very significant verse for the Qur’anic critique: “Unbelievers indeed are those who say ‘God is Christ, the Son of Mary’. Say: ‘Who then has the power to prevent God, if he so desired, from destroying Christ, Son of Mary, and his mother and everyone else on earth, altogether?’ The kingdom of the heavens and the earth and everything between them belong to God. He creates whatever he will. God has power over all things” (Qur’an 5:17). The verse confronts us with the idea that neither Jesus nor his mother Mary has power over God. Both can be destroyed by God at any time if God so wished. In other words, calling upon them does not afford a person any protection whatsoever from God’s wrath. Dominion over the heavens and the earth and everything in-­between belongs to God alone. In contrast to this the political theology at the court of Constantinople conceived Mary as the one who guaranteed the emperor’s triumph. It was she who, as a military commander, put Constantinople’s enemies to flight in the field. In the eyes of the imperial historiographers, it was her invincibility, strength, and power that were solely responsible in and of themselves for vanquishing the enemy. When Theodore Synkellos, for example, claims that there was no force that could withstand the Virgin, the proclaimer of the Qur’an could now retort that no one has power over God and that Mary especially, as a created being, is entirely dependent upon him. This, of course, is not a direct contradiction to the Akathistos itself. However, within the hymn there are found some aspects of the political theology criticized by the Qur’an. For example, the Akathistos speaks of Mary as “unshakable fortress of the Church” and as “indestructible bulwark of the kingdom.”3 And Mary is venerated as the force that drives “the inhuman tyrant from his rule” (str. 9). Hence, Mary’s force is witnessed in a way that can be misused in an imperial context and the Qur’anic critique addresses this danger. ́ ̄ Guṇa Ratna Kośa, also praises the ruling power of the goddess Our Hindu hymn, the Srı ́ Srı  ̄ Lakṣmı ̄ (Clooney 2005, pp. 31–33). However, it never mentions her power independently from ́ ̄ are in a complementary relationship Her eternal consort Viṣṇu. Clooney shows how Viṣṇu and Srı ́ of mutual dependency. Viṣṇu’s independence relies on Srı ’̄ s willingness to depend on Him. Clooney ́ ̄ puts it this way: “He is ‘the one who is totally independent’ because he is also ‘the one on whom Srı confers full independence.’ Because She gives unfailingly, His independence [which is dependent on Her] can be counted as of His essence” (2005, p.  125) Viṣṇu’s sovereignty, absolute ruling ́ ̄ who allows it. power, and independence are only possible because of the complete surrender of Srı “She makes His protective power flourish” (Clooney 2005, p. 140). ́ ̄ from Viṣṇu. And in some sense this is also the This language makes it impossible to isolate Srı strategy of the Qur’an, which underscores Mary’s complete surrender to God as a critique of



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i­ mperial, political theology (Tatari and Von Stosch 2021, pp. 286–287). Mary is nothing without God and has no power independent of God. This might be something all three religious traditions agree on. But for the Muslim and Christian traditions it seems to be problematic to see any ­complementarity between God and a human. Of course, recent freewill theology explores the ­possibility of speaking about God as willingly being dependent on human cooperation (Sanders and Von Stosch  2022). And from a Christian point of view it might make sense that God is ­dependent on Mary’s fiat for his plan of salvation. But this dependency would be a freely chosen dependency and rooted in God’s free will. It cannot be conceived in mutual complementarity with a created being. That is why any attempt to use the Hindu concept of complementarity ́ ̄ as a response to the Qur’anic critique of Heraclios’s Byzantine political between Viṣṇu and Srı theology seems to lead to another concern: idolatry. Indeed, idolatry is also very prominently ­discussed in the context of the Qur’anic view of Mary and Jesus. We will deal with this concern in the next section by looking at the role of Mary in salvation.

Mary as Gate of Salvation? The Akathistos hymn calls Mary prominently the “gate of salvation” (str. 19). In the background of this title is a core idea of the hymn that Leena Peltomaa puts like this: “The basic theological idea of the Akathistos hymn is to praise the Theotokos [mother of God] for the sake of the incarnation, because it means redemption for mankind” (Peltomaa 1997, p. 25). As incarnation and salvation only become possible through Mary’s willingness to accept her pregnancy, she is the gate of ­salvation. She is also called the living temple (str. 23), which shows that for the Akathistos she replaces the salvific function of the Jerusalem Temple. Both metaphors are closely linked with her virginity in the theology and Mariology of the Church Fathers. The Eastern Gate of the Jerusalem Temple (the Golden Gate on the Temple Mount) was seen by the Church Fathers as the gate through which the Messiah would enter.4 And the Church Fathers associated the closure of this gate with Mary’s virginity (see Ghaffar 2020, p. 32). According to this interpretation, Mary – as the typological embodiment of the Temple and the Church – had the capacity to accept the Messiah into herself through the sealed Eastern Gate (i.e., in her intact state of virginity) and to bring him into the world. In a Christian–patristic context, talk of the Eastern Gate evolved as an allegory of the portals of heaven, through which our High Priest will descend to us – a typological interpretation which was applied in equal measure to the Virgin Mary and the Church, both seen, like Jacob’s Ladder, as joining heaven and earth.5 Attending carefully to the Virgin Mary’s function as bridge enables us to understand better why the Akathistos also calls her “my body’s healing” and “my soul’s salvation” (str. 23). Of course, this healing and saving function is conceived through her union with Christ. When “she leads everyone to divine knowledge” and when “she is the radiance enlightening the mind” (str. 21), these ideas are grounded in a high Christology. If the Akathistos agrees with the Hindu hymn that “it is through the female … that union with the divine is achieved” (Clooney 2005, p. 149), then this achievement is completely dependent on Christ who is the foundation of Mary’s significance. ́ ,̄ it is always clear that In contrast to the Hindu concept of complementarity between Viṣṇu and Srı she is subordinated to God. However, “she becomes the primary focus of veneration and devotion” (Clooney  2005, p.  148), because she surrenders herself so completely to God’s will that you encounter God’s will when you trust in her. God is also so delighted through her righteousness, beauty, and surrender that God is pleased by her veneration. Or as Clooney puts it: “God is glorified when she is the center of attention, for She is the delight of His heart” (2005, p.  151). She is ­venerated “more than theology can justify” (p. 222).

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The Qur’an shares with the Akathistos some of the fascination for Mary. “And remember when the angels said, ‘O Mary! Surely God has selected you and purified you. He has chosen you over all women of the world’” (Qur’an 3:42). The proclaimer of the Qur’an grants the greatest of all conceivable distinctions to Mary. But he does this only as long as this distinction does not compromise her status as a created being. It is important to him that these distinctions do not derive from human merit but are the result of divine acts of salvation. Humans do not gain God’s attention and election through their own efforts; rather, it is the case that election and cleansing by God set a person free and grant him or her beauty and purity. In the Qur’an’s eyes, this is unreservedly true for Mary too, and even from a Christian standpoint one can only agree with this. Indeed, the Church Fathers themselves would in all likelihood have concurred with the Qur’an’s critique here if they had been asked for their expert theological opinion. Notwithstanding their theology, their poetic texts frequently tend to be misleading, especially if they are not studied very precisely in context. They can lead to popular religious observances of the kind deplored by the Qur’an. Immediately after the angels’ remarkable eulogy to Mary, she is called upon by them to show humility and submission before God. Then she is expected to bow her head in communal prayer. At this point, the Qur’an is clearly alluding to Islamic ritual prayer, which involves both the act of bowing one’s head and ritual prostration. However, the text inverts the usual sequence of the ­ritual prayer: Mary’s act of self-­prostration precedes the bowing. The Muslim commentarial tradition acknowledges this peculiar feature without being able to convincingly explain it. If we look at Syriac intertexts, we are able to understand this inversion better, as Zishan Ghaffar (2021) has shown recently. As he demonstrates, it had become commonplace among the Syriac Church Fathers to believe that the angel must have prostrated himself before Mary during their encounter, because as the Theotokos she was ranked above the angels in the hierarchy. In Jacob of Serugh’s writings, for example, Gabriel has to prostrate himself in adoration before Mary before he announces God’s promise to her. The verb that is used for prostrating oneself is identical in both Jacob and the Qur’an (Syriac sjed; Arabic sajada) (Ghaffar  2021, p.  328). If one visualizes this scene, it becomes clear that the Qur’an carries out an inversion here which is meant to remind us that Mary is a human being created by God. Here, therefore, the proclaimer of the Qur’an is criticizing the patristic and imperial veneration of Mary and is attempting to sustain the idea of reverence for Mary while at the same time retaining her human nature and her humble subordination to God. His remedy is to take her into the community of believers. She should not be a separate entity before whom people prostrate themselves but should become part of the whole community that bows before God. Hymns like the Akathistos contain more details regarding the veneration of Mary and they, too, are challenged by the Qur’an. When the Akathistos calls Mary the “server of holy nourishment” (str. 11), the Qur’an makes clear that she gets her nourishment always directly through an angel, which shows her intimate relationship with God (Qur’an 3:37). When the Akathistos calls her the living temple (str. 23), the Qur’an shows how important it is that she was raised in the Temple and lives in close harmony with God (Qur’an 3:36–37). When the Akathistos identifies her body with the Eastern Gate of the Temple and makes a correlation between the closed gate and the virginity during the birth, the Qur’an defends Mary’s virginity before the birth (Qur’an 19:20), but is ­critical of some of the implications of the idea of virginity during the birth (Qur’an 19:23). The East remains the place where, from a Qur’anic perspective as well, the Virgin Mary is informed that she will give birth to a child (Qur’an 19:23), but Mary or her womb is not identified with the Eastern Gate. Hence the Qur’an tries to find a language that does not stop the veneration of Mary, but which always stresses her humanity and leaves salvation to God alone. In much the same way as happened at the Second Vatican Council, these Qur’anic i­ nterventions effectively liberate Mariology from Christology and soteriology and transform it into part of the



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doctrine of the community of believers. As one of the faithful, Mary is expected to perform the ritual prayer and prostrate herself before God like the rest of us. Mary appears as the ideal type of the believer, a fact now also made evident in her observance of prayer and spirituality. Interestingly, in the Qur’an her devotional practice does not take place in the privacy of her home – which is otherwise common practice for women. She also has no children to look after, which would prevent her from attending ritual prayers within the community. Instead, she is united with those praying beside her. And these fellow supplicants are designated in Arabic with the generic masculine noun, so that we can envision here a communal prayer session involving both men and women, of the kind that still takes place today in Muslim communities during the ḥ ajj. In this respect, Mary might become a bridging figure between the sexes, leading to a prayer practice that could bring together men and women more visibly than is currently the case in many places. In Qur’an 3:43, therefore, Mary is addressed as the typical Muslim woman, performing the same ritual prayer observances as her fellow supplicants. In other words, the hymns for Mary are picked up and Mary’s special honor is voiced, but this acknowledgment is not used as a springboard for praying to Mary, but rather for praying alongside her. To some extent this also picks up the idea of Mary as the archetype of the Church, except that she now no longer stands for just the Church but for every godly person. It is intriguing to note that, despite being incorporated into the community of believers, and for all the stress that is placed on her as a human being, she still remains the person whom the angels address as having been selected over all women and purified by God. One need not therefore immediately see in her the gate of salvation. But it is already striking that, although she does prostrate herself before God on the orders of the angels, conversely the angels proclaim her special distinction over all other women. Even if we are able to accept the Qur’anic interventions concerning Mary because Christians would not see her as divine, things become more problematic if we look at Christology (see Khorchide and Von Stosch 2019). But let us keep the focus on Mary in this chapter. Are there ways of following the Qur’anic concerns and should we find less misunderstandable ways to venerate Mary with the help of the Qur’an? Or can Clooney’s reading of the Hindu tradition help us to defend the legacy of some bolder Mariological claims? I think that Clooney mentions two paths that are worth exploring in more detail. The first is his interpretation of salvation as flourishing, which he learns from Grace Jantzen (1998). If we build religion around flourishing, not around salvation (Clooney 2005, p. 11), or if we understand salvation as flourishing, it becomes less problematic to accept that humans can help us in this process. As the love of my wife or a good friend will help me to flourish, it does not endanger God’s transcendence and sovereignty to accept that ́ ̄ has a unique role in human liberation. “She represents the ideal Mary can help me to flourish. Srı of divine and human flourishing, and in Her particular way She makes it possible to obtain the ideal” (Clooney 2005, p. 112). Such a liberating power could be attributed also to Mary as long as it is clear that she surrenders to God. In the Hindu spirituality engaged by Clooney, again the surrender is conceived as “a plunge into the divine couple’s delight” (Clooney 2005, p. 131). We should be careful to distance ourselves too quickly from this way of thinking. The author of the Hindu hymn Parāśara Bhaṭṭar is a theologian in the tradition of Rāmānuja (Clooney 2005, p.  109). This is a philosophical tradition that can be combined with a clear monotheistic ­interpretation. “The worshiper of a divine couple does not have to be a polytheist, since Hindu theologians have commonly sought ways to maintain divine and cosmic unity even in light of the ́ ̄’s surrender to Viṣṇu and their complementagender distinction” (Clooney 2005, p. 220). If Srı rity can be reconstructed within monotheism, it might be understandable how the complete ́ ̄ who becomes their everything” (Clooney 2005, p. 138) avoids idolatry. And for “surrender to Srı a Christian reading, it is extremely stimulating that the goddess who offers “protection and ref́ ̄ Guṇa Ratna Kośa, str. 2, cited in Clooney 2005, p. 29) and who counts alone as my uge” (Srı

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́ ̄ Guṇa Ratna Kośa, str. 60, cited in Clooney 2005, p. 41) is the same who “suffered refuge (Srı ́ ̄ Guṇa Ratna Kośa, str. 53, cited in Clooney 2005, p. 39) at the same time. much rejection” (Srı Such an approach helps to integrate the tradition of the mater dolorosa and the theology of the cross in the account of salvation as flourishing. And it would be fascinating to investigate how this is possible in the Hindu tradition. But even if a Muslim finds a way to relate to this kind of theology (e.g., Khorchide and Von Stosch  2019, pp.  184–201), the question remains why we should go in this direction with the help of Mary. What do we gain through this tradition and especially through her veneration? This leads me to the second path that Clooney suggests and that seems to me promising for modern theological reconstructions of the role of Mary. Clooney repeats several times that the hymns are “meant to be sung in acts of worship” (Clooney  2005, p.  24). We know that many monastics on Mount Athos, for instance, learn the Akathistos by heart and integrate it into their daily prayer life (see Arentzen 2021, p. 127). This way of integrating the text and its veneration of ́ ̄ Guṇa Ratna Kośa “is Mary helps one to have a personal encounter with her. Very similarly the Srı also an invitation to encounter Her personally” (Clooney 2005, p. 113). This personal encounter can be understood as an encounter with the one God either because the one God is understood as the integration of gender polarity or because Mary is understood as completely surrendered to ́ ̄ helps one to have a personal encounter with God. Thus, the personal encounter with Mary or Srı God. It makes this encounter easier and it highlights the “risk of becoming involved” (Clooney 2005, p.  25). Becoming involved in a personal encounter with God is the very foundation of human flourishing not only in Hinduism and Christianity, but also in Muslim tradition. Hence the “theoĺ ̄ ogy in direct address” (Clooney 2005, p. 24) that has been developed by the Akathistos and the Srı Guṇa Ratna Kośa can be extremely helpful for salvation understood as flourishing. The signifí ̄ in this context lies in their accessibility. Clooney puts it like this: it is “the cance of Mary and Srı ́ same Srı ̄ who is nearby, every day” (Clooney 2005, p. 137) who is the key and gate for salvation. And the same can be said for Mary who always represented the most accessible part of Christianity in popular piety. Clooney suggests that “[g]ender specification … is part of making the divine female and male into concrete, real beings” (2005, p. 132). This might be a way to understand why it is so important to integrate a female figure in popular piety if we want to encourage the search for a personal relationship with God. The fact that God has to be conceived beyond gender should not close our eyes to the many male metaphors that we are using in our approaches to God. These metaphors can be balanced by Mary – as Clooney shows very convincingly in his book. But, of course, this needs some more reflection on the benefits of integrating female characteristics in the talk of Divinity.

Cosmic Harmony and Deep Incarnation In an intriguing recent interpretation of the Akathistos, Thomas Arentzen develops an ecocritical reading of the Akathistos. He reminds us that from the very beginning of the hymn “the Akathistos evokes creation. Already the prologue to the Gospel of John had literally connected the birth of Jesus to the creation of the world in Genesis, but it did so without explicitly acknowledging a Marian presence. The Akathistos picks up the theme of creation but writes it into the limbs of the Theotokos” (Arentzen 2021, p. 9). The interpretation of the earth as something maternal is of course common to many indigenous religions and it shapes the veneration of Mary until today. We might just remember the importance of Pachamama in the Andean vision of the cosmos and how Mary takes over her role (Von Stosch 2018). It is obvious that this tradition also resonates with



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Hinduism. What we can learn from Arentzen is the fact that the imagination of the “earth as a personal and maternal figure was common in early Christianity” (Arentzen 2021, p. 9). If we reread the Akathistos with this association in mind, we will become aware how many ecomorphic metaphors are on stage in it. In some sense Mary’s humanity is so decentered that the whole creation is involved in her labor pains (Arentzen 2021, p. 10) – a theme which Paul picks up on and extends into the present in Romans 8:22.6 There is a “forceful resemblance between ­virginal mother and the broader created earth” (Arentzen  2021, p.  11). This parallel becomes exciting when we look at the idea of Mary as a new creation. It is undoubtedly not a new insight that the concept of Mary as second Eve is very dominant in the hymn (see Peltomaa 2001, p. 212). This well-­ known point becomes very thought-­ provoking if we understand how this typology is ­connected with the new creation as a whole. “When the genesis happens anew, it takes place as or in or through the Virgin” (Arentzen 2021, p. 11). The countryside becomes a Marian landscape (see Arentzen 2021, p. 12). Epiphanius of Salamis, for instance, “sensed that the Virgin had a distinctly spatial quality as a space that might be compared to the landscape (the sky and the earth) that was able to encompass and give shape to the Divine” (Arentzen 2021, p. 18). In this perspective Mary becomes the key for the vision of a new creation that is completely shaped by God, and she is not only the new Eve, but the sign for the new cosmos. She is the space, the chora of this new cosmos. When she is venerated as the place (Chorion) for the spaceless, “she reveals herself as ungraspable – formless, perhaps, as a creative space, a fertile void” (Arentzen 2021, p. 22). Hence, the very personal metaphors come together with a cosmomorphic metaphorology that opens up the possibility of a spatial ­understanding of Mary. “There is dark chora in the beginning, before creation, an undefined and vast and ungraspable spatiality” (Arentzen 2021, p. 24). And Mary’s veneration relates us to this cosmic opening for God’s presence. Mary, the gate of salvation, opens up the cosmic harmony, which is expressed so beautifully in the Akathistos, with Mary as “mother of lamb and shepherd” who defends us “against unseen wild beasts” and who is the “opening of Paradise’s gates!” (str. 7). However, it is God’s mystery and power that becomes present through this gate; they are “centered in her” – as Clooney states in his interpretation of the Akathistos (Clooney 2005, p. 147). What are the consequences for Christology if we follow this ecocritical interpretation of the hymn? Arentzen is convinced that the concept of deep incarnation in the sense of an all-­comprehensive taking possession of all creatures can be defended as background for the theology of the Akathistos. “Incarnation reaches deep into the dark soil, into the roots of the created world” (Arentzen 2021, p. 28). Thus, incarnation cannot be reduced to the incarnation in Christ. But through Christ we see the presence of God’s logos everywhere – a theology very prominent among the Church Fathers since Justin Martyr. All natural forces, even the thunder, serve this one goal of deep incarnation – as the interpretation of str. 21.8–9 suggests. This interpretation can also help in framing some of the bold claims of the hymn that were misused in political theology. And it helps the reader to get a broader understanding of the mystery of incarnation and the significance of Mary. “Early Byzantine Christians celebrated their liturgies in churches adorned with vines and meadows, ­flowery fields and animals, with mosaics of trees and birds and humans. If we take the Akathistos to have been performed in such a rich space, maybe we can start to imagine how the incarnation could be ­conceived of as something broader, something more deeply entangled, something less anthropocentric” (Arentzen 2021, p. 38–39). Arentzen even suggests that the repeated designation of Mary as “νύμφη unmarried” (for ­example in str. 1, 18) can be interpreted in this ecocritical framework. The term νύμφη cannot only mean bride, but it can also be understood as “some sort of nymph among trees and springs” (Arentzen 2021, p. 31). “Indirectly, then, the refrain situates the incarnation between trees, in the

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forest, adjacent to creeks” (Arentzen 2021, p. 33). It is interesting to compare this cosmomorphic interpretation with Mary as Pachamama in the context of all fertile forces of nature and Christ as cosmic force and power with the Qur’anic vision of the birth of Jesus at a remote place resembling the desert (Qur’an 19:22). Clearly, we cannot assume that the proclaimer of the Qur’an reacts to Thomas Arentzen’s ecocritical theology. But still, the Qur’anic intervention seems to have objections against such an interpretation. And Jesus who is affirmed as God’s logos in the Qur’an (Qur’an 3:45; 4:171) is not understood in the sense of deep incarnation, but integrated in a ­theology of God’s covenants with humanity. His word is first of all a very concrete one for Mary’s defense and shows God’s mercy for her. Perhaps the enormous importance of mercy in Qur’anic theology, especially when dealing with Mary and Jesus, can be a starting point to bring together the Qur’anic intuition at this point with ́ ̄ Guṇa Ratna Kośa again. Clooney explains that compassion is some of Clooney’s findings in the Srı ́ immeasurable in Srı ̄ and especially her patience with wrongdoers is stressed (2005, p.  113). Moreover, “compassion overflows into a vulnerability … Her vulnerability is suddenly also His” (Clooney 2005, p. 135). Hence, in the end it is God’s compassion and mercy that becomes visible ́  ̄ – and this is a kind of theology which is in some harmony with the and tangible through Srı Qur’anic vision of Jesus and Mary (see Tatari and Von Stosch  2021, pp.  107–110). However, the Qur’an does not claim vulnerability in God and will still distinguish sharply between Mary as a creature and her creator. ́ ̄ Guṇa Ratna Kośa disagrees here and develops a theolAs we have already seen above, the Srı ́ ̄. “Yours in Him, His in You” (Srı ́ ̄ Guṇa Ratna Kośa ogy of complementarity between Viṣṇu and Srı str. 33, cited in Clooney 2005, p. 35) is one of the poetical expressions of this complementarity in the hymn. One of the arguments for this complementarity that are reconstructed in Clooney’s careful reading of the hymn and its commentators is the following: the hymn wants to explore “the mutuality of enjoyment of a divine male and a divine female constantly taking deeper delight ́ ̄’s imporin one another” (Clooney 2005, p. 112). Hence, Parāśara Bhaṭṭar is very careful that Srı tance will never change “the maximality of the claims about Viṣṇu” (Clooney  2005, p.  112). Gender complementarity is simply used as a tool to describe divine perfection in an accessible terminology; “their gender differences exist for their own enjoyment” (Clooney 2005, p. 125). And what makes this idea theologically relevant is the following observation: “In gendered divine pleasure, alienation and exclusion are overcome” (Clooney 2005, p. 132). The dialectical relationship between dependence and independence as it is explained in the relationship of Viṣṇu and ́ ̄ opens up a way that includes human diversity in God’s simplicity  – just as a dialectical Srı understanding of gender polarity. I do not want to assert that this dialectical understanding has to be developed in terms of essentialized gender polarity. Hegel uses this dialectical understanding famously in his justification of the Trinity without the example of gender polarity (Von  Stosch  2017). And there are other ways than dialectical mediations of identity and ­difference. However, it remains a challenge for each monotheistic theology how to reconcile unity and diversity. And theology should be able to develop a convincing negotiation of the simplicity of  God’s essence and the diversity of God’s names before criticizing too quickly the traditional Hindu ways of dealing with these problems (Von Stosch 2010) – or before criticizing the doctrine of the Trinity (Tatari and Von Stosch 2013). If we ask how to understand and appreciate cosmic harmony and human autonomy in the light of divine simplicity and sovereignty, Parāśara Bhaṭṭar might simply say that “the pleasures of ́ ’̄ s” (Clooney 2005, p. 124) – the cosmos and of all its animals, humans, and divine beings are Srı which is a way of expressing their dependency and independence at the same time. It shows a kind of balance (see Clooney  2005, p.  139) which seems to be of utmost importance for Parāśara Bhaṭṭar and which is also expressed in the beauty of the hymns (Clooney 2005, p. 235).



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The beauty of the Qur’an is also of utmost importance for Islamic theology. It might be possible to use this beauty also to reconcile diversity, contingency, and unity in Islamic theology. At the least, balance is also a key concept within classical Islamic thinking. And perhaps it is the absence of such a balance in the Meccan understanding of Jesus and Mary which leads to some of the critique found in the Qur’an. However, it seems to be a dispute about “the ranking of Jesus in the pagan pantheon” (Neuwirth  2010, p.  492) that leads to the theological conflicts that the Qur’an addresses when criticizing Christology (Qur’an 43:58).

Notes 1 See Arentzen (2021, p. 5). I quote here from the postprint published by Johns Hopkins University Press, hence, the page number follows this reprint. 2 In the next sentences and in some other short passages of this chapter I reuse formulations from Tatari and Von Stosch (2021). 3 Strophe 23 of the hymn in Clooney’s translation (Clooney 2005, p. 48). I will quote these strophes from here on in parentheses in the text. 4 “The closed Eastern Gate of the Temple, through which, according to Ezekiel 44:1–2, God exited Jerusalem; it has remained shut ever since and, according to Jewish and subsequently Christian tradition, should only open again to permit the entry of the Messiah” (Neuwirth 2017, p. 612). 5 “The Church and the Virgin are the Ark of the Covenant, Jacob’s Ladder, heaven’s gate, and the Eastern Gate through which our High Priest will enter – the great gate that affords entry to the Lord of Israel” (Schmaus 1961, p. 294). 6 Creation’s “labor pains” are ongoing in Pauline theology. I thank Joseph Kimmel for this observation.

References Arentzen, T. (2021). The chora of God: Approaching the outskirts of Mariology in the Akathistos. Journal of Orthodox Christian Studies 4: 127–149. https://doi.org/10.1353/joc.2021.0011. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary. New  York: Oxford University Press. Ghaffar, Z. (2020). Der Koran in seinem religions-­und weltgeschichtlichen Kontext: Eschatologie und Apokalyptik in den mittelmekkanischen Suren (Beiträge zur Koranforschung, 1). Paderborn: Brill. Ghaffar, Z. (2021). Kontrafaktische Intertextualität im Koran und die exegetische Tradition des syrischen Christentums. Der Islam 98: 313–358. Hurbanič, M. (2019). The Avar Siege of Constantinople in 626: History and Legend. London: Springer. Jantzen, G. (1998). Becoming Divine: Toward a Feminist Philosophy of Religion. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Khorchide, M. and Von Stosch, K. (2019). The Other Prophet: Jesus in the Qur’an (trans. S. Pare). London: Gingko. Neuwirth, A. (2010). Der Koran als Text der Spätantike: Ein europäischer Zugang. Berlin: Verlag der Weltreligionen. Neuwirth, A. (2017). Der Koran: Das neue Gottesvolk: “‘Biblisierung’” des altarabischen Weltbildes. Volume 2/1: Frühmittelmekkanische Suren (comm. and trans. A. Neuwirth). Berlin: Verlag der Weltreligionen. Peltomaa, L.M. (1997). The Tomus ad Armenios de fide of Proclus of Constantinople and the Christological emphasis of the Akathistos hymn. Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik 47: 25–35. Peltomaa, L.M. (2001) The Image of the Virgin Mary in the Akathistos Hymn (The Medieval Mediterranian, 35). Leiden: Brill. Sanders, J. and Von Stosch, K. (ed.) (2022). Divine Action: Challenges for Muslim and Christian Theology (Beiträge zur Komparativen Theologie, 35). Paderborn: Brill.

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Schmaus, M. (1961). Mariologie. Munich: Kösel. Tatari, M. and Von Stosch, K. (ed.) (2013). Trinität – Anstoß für das islamisch–christliche Gespräch (Beiträge zur Komparativen Theologie, 7). Paderborn: Schöningh. Tatari, M. and Von Stosch, K. (2021). Mary in the Qur’an: Friend of God, Virgin, Mother (trans. P. Lewis). London: Gingko. Von Stosch, K. (2010). Selbst, Welt und Gott im Spannungsfeld von Einheit, Verschiedenheit und Nicht-­Dualität: Ein Gespräch zwischen Advaita Vedanta und christlicher Trinitätstheologie vor dem Horizont modernen Freiheitsdenkens. In: Selbstverhältnis im Weltbezug (ed. C. Bickmann and M. Wirtz), Vol. 1, 49–69 (Weltphilosophien im Gespräch, 4). Nordhausen: Traugott Bautz. Von Stosch, K. (2017). Trinität. Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh. Von Stosch, K. (2018). Apu Yaya Jesucristo – Suchbewegungen nach einer inkulturierten Christologie im andinen Kontext. Religionen unterwegs 24: 5–10, 17. Von Stosch, K. (2021). Einführung in die Komparative Theologie. Paderborn: Brill Schöningh.

CHAPTER 22

Mary and Motherhood – A Comparatively Informed Reconsideration Mara Brecht

For Catholics, Mary is a ubiquitous and dominant – perhaps even defining – figure, but who she is and what she means are anything but stable. Els Maeckelberghe calls Mary a patchwork quilt – a combination of images (Maeckelberghe 1994, p. 89). Elizabeth A. Johnson observes that “Mary” is probably best thought of as a collective, rather than a singular, noun (Johnson 2003, p. 4). She is rich and dynamic. She is highly malleable in the Catholic imagination. And as historical studies reveal, Mary’s interpretation is subject to the vicissitudes of time and place. She has been interpreted and venerated according to the value systems and theological sensibilities rooted in historical context. In this chapter, with resources offered by Francis X. Clooney’s comparative work on the Virgin Mary and Hindu Goddesses, particularly in Divine Mother, Blessed Mother (2005) I will ask: What new meanings do we find in this plural patchwork holy woman, when we look at her  alongside the holy women of Hindu traditions? What can comparative study do for our ­understanding of Mary? If you happen to be a mother and you happen to be Catholic, Mary figures somehow into your spiritual life. No, she may not be the lodestar guiding your every theological concern, but she is there somewhere. She might be a comfort and friend. Maybe she gazes lovingly down at you from her virginal pedestal, draped in soft folds of white and blue, leaving you heartened and encouraged under her merciful glance. Or, for a good number of Catholic women, her presence is fraught with guilt and anxiety. Perhaps you find her cold and distant on her virginal pedestal, an iconographic reminder of your own faults and imperfections. More likely, you find yourself somewhere in between, or swinging back and forth between the poles. How any Catholic mother relates to Mary likely changes with different stages of life and their challenges, and according to the spiritual needs and material demands of mothering life. In this chapter, I will think theologically about Mary from my own location as a mother who is Catholic. Certainly, you do not have to be a mother or Catholic to consider Mary, but it is from this

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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position that I have found a depth to my understanding of the Holy Mother, and this understanding may help others deepen their orientation toward her. Sometimes seeing the familiar  – or that which we assume to be familiar but which we have not taken time to think about thoroughly – through a new lens unlocks a completely new understanding. Generally speaking, Clooney is optimistic about the theological gains that can be made from looking across boundaries of religious traditions, but it must be done with care. Clooney develops a comparative theological method that prizes narrow focus, meticulous attention to the details of context, and a heightened sense of scholarly accountability. He is conservative in the connections he draws and any judgments he makes are provisional, not absolute. In one simple statement, Clooney beautifully captures the profound possibilities he sees in comparative exploration: “Every now and then, we find ourselves standing anew before God, in faces, voices, and words we did not know before” (Clooney 2010, p. 106). In Divine Mother, Blessed Mother, Clooney commends Hindu goddess traditions to Christian theologians, and especially feminist theologians, as a resource: “We have much to learn from Hindu writings on goddesses,” Clooney assures us (Clooney 2005, p. 15). This chapter is a reflection on standing anew before Mary after comparative encounter, which – as I will suggest – opens up space to lament a missed connection between her maternity and erotics. Some scholars see Mary, and devotion to her, as the defining feature of Roman Catholicism (Maeckelberghe 1994, p. 91). Sociologist of religion Andrew Greeley goes so far as to claim that the image of Mary “distinguishes the Catholic religious sensibility from all others” (Greeley 2001, p. 91). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother pushes against the assertion that Catholic reverence for Mary is in fact unique to Catholicism. Clooney’s comparative investigations bring Hindu divine female persons to life for non-­Hindu readers (such as myself), making them as vivid and strongly real as the Virgin Mary. Clooney confesses that his explorations of the goddesses Lakṣmı̄ and Devı̄ bred, in him, “renewed attention to the Virgin Mary” (Clooney 2008, p. 93). Like Clooney, I stand as a Catholic before Mary anew after having explored goddess theologies. Unlike Clooney, I stand before Mary as  a mother myself and with special concern for the nexus of Mary, motherhood  – in all its ­complexity – and God. It is in this way that I will honor Clooney in this volume: picking up where he leaves off, fulfilling in some small way his stated hope that his work will be “of use to feminist scholars and theologians” (Clooney 2005, p. 231).

Hymns to the Goddesses Comparison, Clooney explains, adjusts our frame. Mary appears differently when she appears alongside Ś rı̄, Devı̄, Apirāmi. Before positioning Mary in a new frame, I need first to build the frame. I will accomplish this just by summarizing Clooney’s textual and contextual work on three hymns to three goddesses: to Ś rı̄, Ś rı̄ Guṇa Ratna Kośa (“Treasury of the Jewels that are Ś rı̄’s Qualities,” twelfth century), to Devı̄, Saundarya Laharı̄ (traditionally maintained but unlikely to have been authored in the eighth century), and to Apirāmi, Apirāmi Antati (eighteenth century). I will briefly summarize Clooney’s expositions, drawing out features that I will need at hand later when I turn to my discussion of feminist approaches to Mary. Clooney first looks at Ś rı̄ in the Ś rı̄ Guṇa Ratna Kośa. This hymn addresses Ś rı̄ and explores the relationship between Ś rı̄ and Vishnu. It dwells on the “concrete particularity” of Ś rı̄’s embodied being, a being that both gives and seeks bodily pleasure. Importantly, it shows how Vishnu’s attention is drawn to her beautiful form. Take, for example, these lines directed to Ś rı̄:



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O Mother, O manifest Lakṣmı̄, can we describe the glory of Your glance? Glances made of bliss, by  which the Lord, drenched to the neck in love, becomes intoxicated and indolent. (Clooney 2005, p. 37)

The hymn expresses Ś rı̄’s magnetic pull on Vishnu and, with erogenous detail, draws the reader into her orbit as well: “Even now Your breasts have yet to reach unblemished perfection // … Your every limb // imparts a fragrance apt for plunging into your stream of pleasure // as you hold the hand of Your guide, Your lover” (Clooney 2005, p. 37). We find Ś rı̄ to be both pleasing and pleasure-­ taking herself, “Touching the tender place, transfixing streams of pleasure, Your slender form is disheveled by quivering acts of pleasure with Your lover” (p. 38). The hymn is very much about the delight the divine female and male take in one another (Clooney 2005, p. 112). Through their relationship they hold together a seemingly opposing set of truths, namely that both are worthy of the full attention of the devotees. The theology articulated by the hymn holds that “Vishnu alone is the one God” and, at the same time, that Ś rı̄ is “supreme Goddess” (p. 111). How can both male and female be primary, supreme, singularly worthy of worship? The solution to the puzzle is less philosophical than it is pragmatic. The hymn offers the readers both a vicarious experience and a model of how to relate to Ś rı̄. Vishnu shows devotees how to feel and act toward this beautiful, enticing mother and partner (Clooney 2005, p. 117). The difference between the divine male and female is but a premise for them to relate to each other, for, Clooney points out, difference enables the possibility of relationship (p.  112). We thus discover in their interrelationship a deep compatibility of Vishnu and Ś rı̄ – the heart of the Ś rı̄vaiṣṇava tradition. The goddess Devı̄, too, is a giver and receiver of pleasure. Her breasts are a focal point of the hymn Clooney translates and discusses: “Your breasts perspire and rub against Your armpits // then suddenly burst the garment covering them on each side” (Clooney 2005, p. 63). As Clooney tells us, Devı̄’s “radiant power lies in her breasts” (Clooney 2005, p. 175). Her breasts are visually pleasing, they draw devotees toward her, yet they are not, Clooney argues, “passive objects for gratifying the male gaze.” Rather Devı̄’s breasts are nourishing, generous, and life-­giving (pp. 174–176). The hymn portrays dramatic scenes of gods and humans being pulled into Devı̄’s fold and, as a blueprint for devotees saying or hearing the hymn, they too are pulled toward Devı̄. Whether within the world of this hymn or outside of it, Clooney tells us, no one can encounter Devı̄ as “mere spectator” (Clooney 2005, p. 170). The hymn to Apirāmi shares similar themes of confessing the goddess’ great beauty in specific and erotic detail. The hymn’s author “simply notices and rejoices in the details of her form” (Clooney 2005, p. 194), as exemplified in these verses, for example, “Adorned with pearls // Your firm yet tender breasts grown as large as hills . . . Your vagina is a fine cobra’s head” (p. 76). Clooney shows how the structure of the poem intensifies its commentary on her lovely form. As readers move through it, they are drawn more intensely into details of her beauty and invited into a fuller and more direct encounter with her (p. 205). At the same time, the poem speaks of Apirāmi’s transcendence, but more subtly. Her transcendent nature is established through the great range of names and titles that the poem gives her, and by detaching her description from any particular place or story (Clooney 2005, p. 195). Apirāmi is at once possessed of an alluring and beautiful body and, at the same time, is beyond and above all materiality. The source of this transcendent supremacy is her maternal power, which is double-­ edged. She is the giver of life and wisdom, she nourishes creativity and growth, she contributes to  the prosperity of her devotees and at the same time she reveals a destructive capacity (pp. 197–198). Apirāmi – supreme goddess, Mother of all – makes or breaks the flourishing of those who look to her, or choose to look away.

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Turn to Mary: A Decisive Feminist Re-­Visioning Let me step away from the world of the goddesses and Clooney’s discussion, and turn my attention to the world of Mary and another giant in contemporary Catholic theology: Elizabeth Johnson, CSJ. Johnson is by no means the only Catholic feminist theologian to engage deeply with the Marian tradition, but her project has enormous  – arguably decisive  – significance. As I hope to show, Johnson’s conclusions align with the conclusions of Clooney’s comparative visitation with Mary. (And, as an aside, Johnson’s work is not unlike Clooney’s in its breadth and perspicacity, and in the creative and courageous path it charts forward for Catholic theology in particular.) Even while Mary is a plural patchwork, some features are constant across representations and interpretations. She is virgin. She is mother. She is virgin mother. The Roman Catholic tradition maintains that Mary’s virginity extends even beyond the conception of her child, through his birth and for the remainder of her life (Johnson 2003, p. 28). The Catholic Church’s dogmatic teachings on Mary profess the following: she was conceived without sin (the immaculate conception), she herself conceived and gave birth virginally (perpetual virginity), she is the theotokos, the mother of God (divine motherhood), she was assumed into heaven (the assumption). It is worth pointing out, as Trent Pomplun does in his review of Catholic Mariology, that Mary’s “supernatural gifts” are all rooted in her “divine motherhood.” Her motherhood is thus foundational to the many titles and miraculous events that separate and define her (Pomplun 2007, p. 319). Mary is the one whom no other can be like (Johnson 2003, p. 40). For many feminists, Mary’s exceptionalism conveyed through her identity as Virgin Mother is a thorn in the side of ordinary women. As Johnson writes, “Picturing Mary as the most perfect of women, the patriarchal Marian tradition functions paradoxically to disparage all other women” (Johnson 2003, p. 7). Mary does not turn out to be just exceptional, she also turns out to be the standard for all women. As “Mother Undefiled,” she is perpetually virginal but so also perpetually inimitable, for (biological) mothers are by definition sexually engaged and non-­virginal. Rather than navigate around Mary’s exceptionalism, Johnson’s tack is to go directly at it, and – in so doing – to pull it apart. This is but one step in a much longer, and larger, strategy enacted by Johnson, which she initiates in her 1989 Theological Studies article, “Mary and the Female Face of God.” In this article, Johnson advances a single principle that she brings to full flourishing in her later work. The principle is this: Where the Marian tradition breaks biblical and traditional boundaries, there we find the source for female symbols for God (Johnson 1989, p. 501). If we look to the places where Mary’s faithful turn to her – where they lay needs at her altar, call on her intercession, fall to their knees pleading for her mercy and kindness – we will find the truth about God. Mary, Johnson argues, is not just holy mother, she is the ultimate “mother lode” for naming and knowing the divine. Johnson develops the two elements of this principle in her following projects: She Who Is (1992) and Truly Our Sister (2003). To accomplish her widest aim – to develop female symbols for God – Johnson argues that we must first bring Mary back down to this world and rehumanize her. Her faithful devotees ask too much of her. We must re-­root her in her own story. We must locate her in time and place. Through careful scriptural study and historical reconstruction, Johnson draws readers into “the luminous density” of Mary “as a graced human person” (Johnson 2003, p. 42). Truly Our Sister explores Mary as a genuine human being who lived according to the call of the spirit. The second element of Johnson’s principle takes us to theology proper. We must take the qualities that have been given to Mary and assign them to the place where they more properly belong, namely God (Johnson 1989, p. 501). She Who Is takes head-­on Christianity’s long-­standing tradition of exclusively using male imagery for God. Patriarchal thinking and androcentrism embedded in the tradition have stymied Christians from imaging God according to female imagery and



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­language. In She Who Is, Johnson elaborates the damaging effects of dominantly male symbolism for the divine and argues convincingly for the capacity of “female symbols … to bear divine presence and power” (p. 47). Johnson puts her finger on something like repression at work in the Christian tradition: “In devotion to [Mary] as a compassionate mother who will not let one of her children be lost,” Johnson writes, “what is actually being mediated is a most appealing experience of God” (Johnson 1992, p. 103). Again, the devotional turn to Mary bespeaks a deeply rooted, but repressed and stifled form of God-­knowledge. Mary takes on quasi-­divine significance not because Christians are mistaken about her prodigious mercy, love, and gentle power, but because patriarchy has convinced Christians that these are not associations suitable to God, a being presupposed to be male and so not (so the patriarchal thinking goes) by nature merciful, loving, and gentle. And so Johnson argues for the double action of rehumanizing Mary while at the same time predicating to God those qualities (associated with females and women’s experience) historically given to Mary. What strikes me as especially instructive, and worth drawing out, is the fact that Johnson makes these moves together, if not simultaneously then at least in a tight sequence: Mary must be “brought down” so that God can be raised up. And how precisely is God raised up? With female symbolism. It is important to note that Johnson does not advocate for replacing or denying male symbolism for God; in her words, she does not pursue a “strategy of subtraction, still less of reversal,” but instead “an investigation of a suppressed world directed ultimately toward the design of a new whole” (Johnson 1992, p. 57). “Mother,” I contend, is a crucial element of this suppressed world that must be brought to the surface, a point of wisdom offered by goddess traditions and which I will explore more fully below. When Johnson brings down Mary, she does not denigrate her, but gives her renewed meaning, depth, and humanity. She makes both God and Mary bigger, bolder, and more accessible to the spiritual lives of ordinary people.

Another Pass at Mary Just as Clooney looks to hymns that directly address the Hindu goddesses, so too does he explore hymns that directly address Mary, including a sixth-­century Orthodox Christian hymn (Akathistos), one more familiar to the Christian West (the thirteenth-­century Stabat Mater), and a Tamil hymn to Mary from the nineteenth century. He finds in these hymns a “rich multidimensional woman.” Set alongside the goddesses, we see Mary’s likeness to them. Mary and Ś rı̄, for example, are both mother and spouse. Mary is celebrated and worthy of veneration, just as Devı̄ and Apirāmi are. Their resemblances to each other are, Clooney writes, “material and imaginable – they are all honored as persons with bodies, as mothers, as defined in relation to the males in their lives but also as possessed of their own power” (2005, p. 227). Notable also is the fact that Mary is not a goddess. As Clooney concludes, Mary is the one about whom we need to be reminded: she is not-­God (Clooney 2005, p. 229). This is the crucial paradox, not only to Mary’s identity but to the Christian theological story itself: “Mary’s task is to do what even God cannot do, give birth to God” (p. 148). There is no competition between Mary and God; Mary’s power lies in her human capacity to bring forth God: “The woman who is not God is the one by whom God is most evident” (p. 228). This capacity of “bringing forth” is precisely, quintessentially, and exclusively maternal. Mary is celebrated and worthy of veneration, but she also points beyond herself to God. By positioning Mary near the “horizon of divinity,” the hymns “accentuate” her “nondivine nature” (Clooney  2005, p.  230). Again, she is not-­God. This makes her quite unlike the goddesses. Ś rı̄ draws the devotee to herself and gestures to Vishnu only as a map for how the devotee ought to

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relate to her. Likewise, Devı̄ and Apirāmi attract devotees to themselves, holding them to their very breasts. I view Clooney’s analysis as confirming two key aspects of Johnson’s project. First, both the goddess theologies and Johnson’s analysis trouble any binary that would suggest male belongs to God but female does not. On the side of Christianity, historicizing Mary is a crucial step toward exposing and disrupting the male–female binary that Christian theology, on the overwhelming whole, has depended on for imagining God. Second – but this time by way of contrast – considering the goddess theologies heightens Mary’s humanness. Johnson leaves us with tension between Mary and divinity. Mary is not-­God not because she is female; she is not-­God because she is human. There exists no such tension between, on the one side, Ś rı̄, Devı̄, and Apirāmi, and divinity, on the other. They are female and divine both. If we take Mary seriously as a human person  – as Johnson argues we must  – we in the Christian tradition are given the leeway to think about the human experience of motherhood more broadly. Clooney’s comparative explorations of Ś rı̄, Devı̄, and Apirāmi are telling conversation partners for this theologizing about this particular way of embodied being. Indeed, we have much to learn!

The Luminous Density of Historical, Material Being Mary’s real flesh-­and-­blood, Johnson argues, should “tether” every insight we have about her (Johnson 2003, p. 42). This act of tethering Mary to historical reality is not done for the sake of diminishing Mary but for the sake of giving God God’s due. Through responsible historical reconstruction, Johnson works out a portrait of how Mary – Miriam of Nazareth – likely engaged human life. Johnson takes us into the life of a first-­century, poor, Jewish woman whose marital relationship would be a “highly significant element of her life” (Johnson 2003, p. 192). Though possible to concoct a story of Mary’s relationships, including her most intimate ones, the historical record limits what we can truly say. Her family may have been composed in various ways. Whether that included other natural-­born children (as scriptural analysis suggests) or cousins adopted as children (as the Catholic tradition maintains), Mary and Joseph parented a sizable brood. We can imagine that Mary expended a great deal of physical energy and “all the reserves of energy and intelligence required in good childrearing” (Johnson 2003, p. 198). Thus we find in Mary a strong representative for artful maternal thinking. We find a woman who is truly our sister – tired, busy, perhaps happy in her fog (or in the moments emerging from it!). By knowing her story, we can imagine our way into how she, the mother, felt not only in the early years of Jesus’s life, but then in the decades following as she watched the unfolding of her child’s work in the world, when she witnessed his death. We can see and connect to her mercy, persistence, pain, love. We may even see in her virginity – as some feminists have – a resounding rejection of patriarchy. Her “yes” to God was also a “no” to men who would have her for their use. These are but some examples of ways that feminist scholars have “re-­interpreted” Mary in “empowering ways” (Ross 2008, p. 31). But, Johnson reminds us, we are “permitted only sober speculation” about the most intimate dimensions of Mary, including her relationships and interior life (Johnson 2003, p. 194). Johnson’s account of Mary reminds me of the experience of walking through a living history museum. The docents are dressed in period costume and doing antiquated activities like churning butter. Sure, there’s a realness and a materiality to it, but I also cannot quite fall under its spell. I  see an iPhone peeking out of an apron, or overhear the homesteaders talk about feeding the ­parking meter. There is something missing. Likewise, envisaging Mary’s motherhood through



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­ istorical reconstruction evacuates it of some of its magic. This is not, I argue, because Mary has h been stripped of her divinity, but rather because we do not – we cannot – access the full scope of her mothering experience, which importantly includes its erotic and sensual dimensions. Let me explain by taking a detour through contemporary philosophy. In his magisterial work The Intimate Universal (2016), philosopher-­theologian William Desmond explores what it means to be human. Desmond’s philosophical system is cosmic in scale and too complex to render here, but sketching some of the outlines is worthwhile. Desmond’s thought is marked by a consistent affirmation of the goodness of being. It is good to be. In the messy midst of being human, we are opened to a great communion of being and a vast transcendence – if we look. In opposition to ways of being that privilege competitive striving, grasping, and controlling, we have the possibility of another way. Desmond calls it the “patience of being.” We are endowed with being. We are given to be. And we can cultivate modes of thought that awaken in us awareness of our creative endowments, the gifts of being that only exist through being at all. Humans – enfleshed and embodied as we are – are participants in the “field of fleshed being” which is at the same time “saturated” with transcendent value (Desmond 2016, p. 255). Desmond’s deeply Catholic, sacramental perspective courses through his philosophy, most of all in his discussion of being. Being is fecund, lush, sensuously real, and sings of the ultimacy beyond it. Matter is charged with the sacred. Eros and erotic longing, Desmond contends, have the capacity to carry “us into the space of the universal” (Desmond 2016, p. 305). Rather than set logos (reason) and eros in opposition – with reason carrying us to universal reality and erotic longing driving us to material reality – Desmond constructs them as complements: We access universal truth and ultimate being in and through the intimate, incarnate, particular reality. (This is what his paradoxical title Intimate Universal also means to convey.) Desmond hopes to revitalize the erotic, erotic longing, and ecstasy as productive of the spiritual life. They encourage our appreciation for and astonishment at being. Erotics move us toward each other and toward God. Ecstatic energy, he explains with vertical spatial imagery, moves us up and down, both to God and into the deep depths of human intimacy (Desmond 2016, p. 306). And so erotics is a kind of pathway that runs in multiple directions: “a crisscrossing of the between where intimate participation in a partnership unfolds being in community, embodying and touching the universal” (Desmond 2016, p. 306). Without putting too fine a point on matters, Desmond seems to me to draw this tight line of connection: sex, child, God, being. When Mary is framed in relation to Ś rı̄, Devı̄, and Apirāmi, a gaping disjuncture becomes ­apparent: Their stories are about mothers who are also sexual agents, erogenously engaged. At the center of Mary’s story is a mother whose sexual agency, if present at all, is nearly always channeled through the narrow passage of virginity. Indeed, sexuality and virginity are inherently ­connected, and many feminist interpreters have discovered productive ways of thinking through her virginity, even in relation to sexual expression. And yet, the goddess traditions remind me of a line from Desmond’s writing on revivifying eros: “There is a dearth of images of the goodness of erotics” (Desmond 2016, p. 320). This is not to say that we should exchange one Mary for another, making her instead the ­seductive temptress or pleasure-­seeking libertine. No, as Desmond reminds us, erotics are not about just sex. Erotics as conceived by Desmond’s philosophical system – the erotics of the intimate universal – invite our appreciation for the “worth of beings.” Erotics summon the “restoration of creation” and dispose us to the glorious truth of things: it is “intimately worthy to be and to be participant in the great community of being” (Desmond 2016, pp. 309–310). Desmond affirms erotics as a medium for sacred being itself and as an act of affirmation of one’s own being: “The erotic relation to the other is moved by surplus … surplus affirmation of the ‘to

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be’ – in search of the other as offering it the good of its ‘to be,’ sometimes drawn in to serve the good of the ‘to be’ of the self, sometimes wondrously loved for itself ” (Desmond 2016, p. 324). Or, to put it more simply, “As we woo, we are being wooed” (Desmond 2016, p. 325). Do we not find just such movements – or better, do we not find festive accounts of such movements – in the goddess’ interactions with their consorts and devotees? Most striking of all is the vivid mothering imagery. Wooing and being wooed are revealed through the maternal. The goodness that is born of receiving and offering pleasure are revealed through the maternal. With each goddess Clooney tells us about, new vantages on the maternal are afforded: The body of the goddess to whom the devotee relates is not just an earthen vessel, but a material body and a sexual one. There are no clean lines separating their maternal being from their sexual being and, through these intermixed identities, the goddesses exercise their agency to build up and nourish. There seems also to be a current of pleasure – sensual and seductive – that electrifies the goddesses in their interactions with the world. Clooney’s own word captures the theme best, “It is by and in [the goddess’] pleasure that other beings come to life and find their place” (Clooney 2005, p. 157). The sexual agency of the mother is connected to – perhaps even the source of – the flourishing of all. Clooney observes that “Hindu theologians have found ways to take seriously both the divine mystery and a vigorously realist language about divine gender” (Clooney 2005, p. 15). This “vigorously realist language” about gendered embodiment is the fulcrum point of my concern, but less so for how it applies to divinity. Instead, I am struck by the paucity or dearth (to use Desmond’s term) of vigorously realist language about motherhood and its erotics in Christianity.1 I find, in the goddess traditions rather than my own tradition, an opportunity to reflect intimately on my own maternal experience: sexual and sensual as it is. The hymns to the goddesses are replete with imagery that revels in the goodness of erotics, but – on this score at least – the Marian tradition leaves me wanting.2 Clooney anticipates just this kind of concern. He suggests that the goddesses and Mary both “serve as mirrors in which humans see their own potential for divinization and its possible fulfillment” (2005, p. 230). While I affirm Clooney’s point that the holy women provide a mirror for humans to imagine their potential and fulfillment, the prospect for Mary to do so is dampened perhaps not by Mary’s exceptionalism, but by more broadly Christianity’s long history of marginalizing motherhood, of which Mary’s exceptionalism is a part. In her study of motherhood, Mary Dunn convincingly argues that Christianity has been widely uncomfortable with real maternal experience (M. Dunn 2015, p. 78). Motherhood fits uneasily in prevailing Christian visions of spiritual development. The demands of motherhood are as indefatigable as waves washing on the shore and leave precious little in reserve. Motherhood is not hospitable to pursuits needing quiet, steady dedication. It does not proceed at a regular pace. Time for a mother slips away as water through a sieve, or it lurches slowly along (what could last longer than a labor pain?), leaving in either case little space for quiet reflection. There are diapers full of pee – or poop. There are humans to feed and organize and dress and comfort. When, in the Middle Ages, the Christian tradition actually made room for maternity as spiritually significant, it came to be celebrated in metaphorical terms and through stories of the lives of the saints’ spiritual motherhood (M. Dunn  2015, p.  74). Mary is arguably paradigmatic of this tendency in Christianity. Her motherhood is lauded and celebrated in the tradition, but it is also a seriously qualified version of motherhood – virginal and exceptional. For some feminists, centering Mary’s motherhood  – whether conceived of as exceptional or ordinary – is a source of discomfort, as it seems to reinforce the patriarchal ideal of motherhood as the ideal or ultimate state of a woman’s life (Johnson 2003, p. 33). Other feminists find in Mary’s motherhood great potential. Mothers are creators, caregivers, nurturers. Mothers see not only two steps ahead, but also look two degrees to the left and right, constantly expanding the sphere of



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concern far beyond the pressing needs of one’s immediate company. It is possible to do as some feminists have and leverage “maternal thinking” as “boundless resources for social justice and peace” (Johnson 2003, p. 53). On such a model, Mary the Holy Mother models how to support the flourishing of all. But even this version strips the material-­maternal of its eroticism. Mary is mother, yes, but the aspects of her motherhood that are lifted out remain detached from the messy realities – sensual and erogenous, as well as sacrificial and exhausting – of actual mothering. Though there are streams in Christian thought and iconography that suggest a certain amount of compatibility between maternal experience and the Christian life, Dunn receives many of these with an exasperated “And yet!” She explains her “And yet!” further: Even at the moment of Christian history when the tradition “witnessed a recovery” of motherhood as compatible with spirituality, the “fact of motherhood continued to weigh uncomfortably on the bodies of Christian mothers” (M. Dunn 2015, p. 92). Motherhood may not now be associated with “corrupted, concupiscent, and mortal flesh” or regarded with hostility as it has at some points in Christian history. But, if and when motherhood is embraced, Dunn conjectures, it tends to be at the “the expense of actual motherhood experienced by decidedly non-­virginal women engaged in intimate physical relationships with real biological progeny” (M. Dunn 2015, p. 97). Dunn’s And yet! reverberates and resonates. Catching sight of Ś rı̄, Devı̄, and Apirāmi brings to the surface, for me, a feeling of lament, opening a corollary to what Krister Stendahl famously called “holy envy.” Stendahl introduced the idea of holy envy in a speech he gave on religious understanding, wherein he advised only that – when seeking to learn about another religious tradition  – we leave room for holy envy (Brown Taylor 2019, p. 45). Stendahl did not enflesh the concept, though his interpreters have. In her book Holy Envy, Barbara Brown Taylor explores holy envy especially by the way it functions, by what it drives someone to do. For example, Brown Taylor talks about Christians being inspired to pray more as a result of feeling holy envy at the prayer practices of devout Muslims (Brown Taylor 2019, p. 47). At its best, holy envy is an acknowledgment of the excellences of another’s tradition (Brown Taylor 2019, p. 49). I suggest holy lament as an acknowledgment of the deficiencies of one’s own tradition in light of the excellences of another. I do not lament that my tradition has no place for a female divine, for Johnson has made sense of that – God is profoundly in need of female symbolism and imagery. I do not lament that Mary is not in fact a goddess: again, I bow in Johnson’s direction and, with her, celebrate Mary in her luminous density as a historical person and appreciate, with Clooney, that “Mary is entirely here, all the more powerfully present” (Clooney 2005, p. 229). What I lament is the missing circuit running among motherhood, sexuality, and the goodness of being  – allowed for by the goddesses, little entertained by Christian conceptions. To Clooney’s mind, the comparative explorations of the holy women Ś rı̄, Devı̄, Apirāmi, and Mary allow us to ask “with fresh vitality” which “images of the divine are most cogent today?” (p. 148). To my mind, the comparative explorations of the holy women, placed into dialogue again with feminist theological analysis, push us to ask: Which images of human motherhood are most cogent today? In an essay that argues for incorporating lament into pastoral and ecclesiological practice, Bradford E. Hinze observes, “Addressing lamentations requires not only fostering a heightened awareness of them but also developing ways to interpret and assess them” (Hinze 2011, p. 472). Comparative theology, it seems to me, can foster our ability to develop the kind of awareness of which Hinze speaks. It is an axiom of comparison: By looking beyond ourselves, we become aware of what is particular to us and, I suggest, adept at identifying what is worth envying of the other and lamenting in ourselves. By lifting out the excellences of the goddess hymns and specifically their erotic-­maternal imagery, Clooney’s work in Divine Mother, Blessed Mother attunes me to both the excellences and deficiencies of my own tradition.

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Comparative theology also offers resources for interpreting and assessing those lamentations. Why? Simply because one has more to go on than what one’s own tradition affords. This is the unsettling, thrilling, beautiful potential of occupying an “in-­between” place. I can lament the ­privation of eros in Mother Mary because I have witnessed the goodness of erotics in Mother Ś rı̄. “When traditions are affirmed yet not compelled to yield exclusive choices,” Clooney writes, “we succeed in entering a middle space where the interreligious theological imagination works best” (2012, p.  315). Comparative theology can move one from lamentation to imagination to new creation. Of the theological method he helped to bring into being, Clooney explains: “Multidimensional and complex, comparative theology is a practice deeply rooted in particular faith communities; yet it is also generative of new configurations that challenge theologies and their established faith communities, and possibly move beyond them, too” (Clooney 2010, p. 663). Comparative work helps to expose limits. As theological, Clooney’s comparative method invites new possibilities. Lex quarendi – the sense that theology is unfinished, alive, and in search of answers – is a rule that guides Clooney’s method (Clooney 2018, p. 5). This is where the systematic theologian can step in, to search out answers from the fruits of comparative labor, to bring into being imagined configurations, to not just see but also to create – to birth – anew.

Notes 1 Mary’s breasts prove to be a contested site for depicting motherhood and its erotics with realism. Carrie Frederick Frost (2019) surveys iconographic and artistic images of Mary nursing in the Christian East and West. While Mary as “Milk Giver” is a fairly widespread icon in the East (Frost calls it “persistent but never popular”), the icon deliberately misrepresents Mary’s lactating breast, skewing its placement on her body (Frost  2019, p.  72). The Western tradition, particularly during the Renaissance, developed images of an “anatomically correct Mary,” including lactating breasts painted with realistic detail (Frost 2019, p. 73). However, as Frost documents, depictions of Mary with visible breast “fell out of use” after the Council of Trent “deemed [such images] as possibly inciting ‘lasciviousness’ or ‘lust’” (Frost 2019, p. 74). 2 The challenge is to maintain an orthodox stance on Mary’s virginity while also lifting up erotics, two poles that seem prima facie opposed. Is it possible to think of virginity and erotics together – and, to what end? Rose Ellen Dunn (2009) offers a phenomenological reading of the Annunciation that breaks ground in this direction. With tools from Husserl, Heidegger, Irigaray, and Derrida in hand, Dunn interprets the Annunciation as a joyous moment of “mutual releasement into transformative possibilities” (R.E. Dunn 2009, p. 345) in which both desire and agency are strongly at play. Mary becomes a clear actor in this account, offering to the divine at least as much as the divine offers to Mary, as Dunn’s interpretation suggests: “The desire of the divine, the ‘I desire you to desire me,’ beckons Mary to respond. Mary’s ‘let it be’ may be read as a response that desires the divine desire” (R.E. Dunn 2009, p. 345). Grace Jantzen’s work (1995) on Christian mystics and the theme of erotic union with Christ provides additional models. (I extend my great thanks to Nick Mitchell and Axel M. Oaks Takács for helping me to formulate this point, and moving my thinking in new directions.)

References Brown Taylor, B. (2019). Holy Envy: Finding God in the Faith of Others. New York: HarperOne. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008). Mary, mother of Mylapore: Symbolic engagement as an inter-­religious transaction. In: The Many Faces of Mary (ed. D. Irarrázaval, S.A. Ross, and M.-­T. Wacker), pp. 77–86. London: SCM Press.



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Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2012). Carefully uncertain: The limits of clarity at interreligious borders. Common Knowledge 18: 312–324. Clooney, F.X. (2018). Reading religiously across religious borders: A method for comparative study. Religions 9: article 42. Desmond, W. (2016). The Intimate Universal: The Hidden Porosity Among Religion, Art, Philosophy, and Politics. New York: Columbia University Press. Dunn, M. (2015). The Cruelest of All Mothers: Marie de l’Incarnation, Motherhood, and Christian Tradition. New York: Fordham University Press. Dunn, R.E. (2009). Let it be: Finding grace with God through the Gelassenheit of the Annunciation. In: Apophatic Bodies (ed. C. Keller and C. Boesel), pp. 329–348. New York: Fordham University Press. Frost, C.F. (2019). Maternal Body: A Theology of Incarnation from the Christian East. New  York: Paulist Press. Greeley, A.M. (2001). The Catholic Imagination. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hinze, B. (2011). Ecclesial impasse: What can we learn from our lament. Theological Studies 72: 470–495. Jantzen, G. (1995). Power, Gender, and Christian Mysticism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Johnson, E.A. (1989). Mary and the female face of God. Theological Studies 50 (3): 500–526. Johnson, E.A. (1992). She Who Is: The Mystery of God in Feminist Theological Discourse. New  York: Crossroad. Johnson, E.A. (2003). Truly Our Sister: A Theology of Mary in the Communion of Saints. New  York: Continuum. Maeckelberghe, E. (1994). Desperately Seeking Mary: A Feminist Appropriation of a Traditional Religious Symbol, 2nd ed. Kampen: Kok Pharos. Pomplun, T. (2007). Mary. In: The Blackwell Companion to Catholicism (ed. J.J. Buckley, F.C. Bauerschmidt, and T. Pomplun), pp. 312–325. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Ross, S.A. (2008). Mary: Human, feminine, and divine? In: The Many Faces of Mary (ed. D. Irarrázaval, S.A. Ross, and M.-­T. Wacker), pp. 27–33. London: SCM Press.

PART V

Exercises in Comparative Theology

23 Transformational Liberation in the Age of COVID-19: A Comparative Theology of “the Good Woman” Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier 24 And the Angels Wept: How Jewish and Hindu Narratives May Enrich Each Other Arvind Sharma

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25 Modification, Emanation, and Pariṇāma-Vāda in Medieval Theistic Vedānta and Kabbalah 268 Ithamar Theodor 26 Advancing the Ritual-Liturgical Turn in Comparative Theology: Good Friday as a Case Study Daniel Joslyn-Siemiatkoski

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27 Creative Fidelity in Expanding the Canon Scott Steinkerchner, OP and Martin Badenhorst, OP

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28 Slow Reading of Beautiful Writing: Calligraphy as Vehicle for Comparative Theology Lucinda Mosher

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29 Joy in the Earth: A Christian Cosmology Based on Agapic Nondualism Jon Paul Sydnor

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30 Perceiving Divinity, Cultivating Wonder: A Christian–Islamic Comparative Theological Essay on Balthasar’s Gestalt Axel M. Oaks Takacs

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31 Paradoxes of Desire in St John of the Cross and Solomon ibn Gabirol: Thinking with Poetry in Comparative Theology Luis Manuel Girón-Negrón

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CHAPTER 23

Transformational Liberation in the Age of COVID-­19 A Comparative Theology of “the Good Woman” Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier

Introduction Francis X. Clooney’s importance to comparative theology cannot be overstated, and his influence on my own thought is similarly significant (stretching back over twenty years when I was his graduate student). It is therefore an honor to participate in this volume, celebrating Clooney’s work and practicing the comparative theology that he taught me (and so many others). It was Clooney’s work on classical and devotional Tamil sources that inspired my own interest in Tamil literature. It also was Clooney who taught me the value of close reading within traditions of interpretation. Through practices of close reading (including comparative reading) in dynamic relation to commentarial and theological traditions, one realizes deeper nuances and theological insights. This lesson has stayed with me, even as I have sought to expand the circle of comparative sources and their communities of interpretation. This chapter follows in Clooney’s footsteps by engaging in a close, comparative reading (using the Cilappatikāram) within a text’s wider interpretive communities, namely, third-gender religion/practice and Tamil Dalit feminist poetry/activism. I first read the fifth-­century Tamil epic, the Cilappatikāram, in a graduate seminar with Clooney at Boston College. The text, which centers on a female heroine who saves her husband and the Tamil people through her power as a chaste woman-­turned-­goddess, has haunted my imagination ever since. The power of “good women” has been – and continues to be – celebrated across Indian traditions. Indeed, the Cilappatikāram draws together and reflects on multiple approaches to the “good woman” as liberatory of self, others, and nation. In fact, it was Clooney’s example of carefully listening to sources that allowed me to appreciate the multiplicities, complexities, and tensions of gender in the Cilappatikāram. However, even as traditions of the “good woman” are diverse and complex (in the Cilappatikāram and beyond), contemporary Hindutva (“Hindu-­ness”) nationalist rhetoric has constructed a The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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reductive view to serve its own religious and political ends. Scholar Debadrita Chakraborty (2021) argues that this reductive view of the “good woman” as religious and national hero undergirds systemic oppressions, oppressions that have widened during the COVID-­19 pandemic. Drawing on Michel Foucault’s notion of biopolitics and Achille Mbembe’s notion of necropolitics, Chakraborty highlights the ways Hindutva concepts of (Hindu) womanhood have been used to maintain power and exploit women throughout the pandemic. To deconstruct this reductive approach and to explore the possibilities of a more nuanced view, this chapter examines the ambiguous depiction of the “good woman” (satı̄) in the Cilappatikāram through a comparative theological engagement with Dalit (outcaste) feminist and kinnar (third-­ gender) religion. The chapter focuses particularly on the poetry of Dalit feminist writer-­activist Meena Kandasamy and the memoirs of kinnar activist Living Smile Vidya. In Kandasamy’s reimagining of Kaṇṇaki as “Ms Militancy,” and in kinnar dedication to another goddess with severed breasts (Bahucharā Mātā), the embodied power of severed body parts can lead to a fluid theology of gender that creatively appropriates, transforms, and empowers “good woman” traditions. The Cilappatikāram, in conversation with third-­gender and Dalit outcaste practice, may point to a ­transformational liberatory power for a (post) pandemic world.

Biopolitics, Necropolitics, and COVID-­19 As of May 2023, there have been over 700 million cases of COVID-­19 globally, with almost 7 million deaths attributed to the novel coronavirus. Given the vast upheaval we have all experienced in the last three years, it is tempting to frame the pandemic as a great equalizer, affecting us regardless of class, race, ability, nationality, or gender. In reality, the pandemic has had an outsized impact on marginalized communities. This is seen in India, for example, which has recorded close to 45 million COVID-­19 cases (and over 500,000 fatalities) (Worldometer 2022), and where emerging demographic data show that the coronavirus has been particularly destructive for women and marginalized religious and caste communities in India (Pinchoff et  al.  2020; Mondal and Karmakar  2021; Raju et  al.  2021). Far from being an equalizer, COVID-­19  has reinforced and even exacerbated systemic inequities across the globe. Chakraborty argues that interlocking gender, caste, class, and religious oppressions in India have been heightened during the pandemic to support Hindutva socioreligious and political goals. Hindutva, or Hindu-­ness, is no neutral category but instead is a social, political, and religious conflation of Indian and Hindu identity – specifically, a particular kind of Hindu identity. Chakraborty maintains that Hindutva politics has constructed a “repressive, high caste, chauvinist version of Hinduism that recognized the interests of the educated upper castes while ostracizing Adivasis, Muslims, Christians, and atheists who are seen as outsiders and a threat to the nation” (Chakraborty 2021, p. 332). This Hindutva construction ironically is an extension of the British colonial “establishment of homogenous hierarchical cultural and religious systems in India” (Chakraborty 2021, p. 334). Chakraborty draws on Michel Foucault’s notion of biopolitics and Achille Mbembe’s notion of necropolitics to examine the ways Hindutva concepts of (Hindu) womanhood have been used to maintain power and exploit women throughout the pandemic. Biopolitics and necropolitics are mutually reinforcing. For Foucault, biopolitics is a technology of power regulating processes of birth, death, production, reproduction, and health (Foucault 1997, pp. 242–243). Life is seized, fostered, and regularized through state interventions (pp. 246–247). Coronavirus restrictions, including mandatory quarantine, masking, and vaccination programs, all fall under state biopolitics. Within the logic of biopower is the need to control, diminish, or even destroy some people’s lives to guarantee the lives of others. Mbembe argues, however, that



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biopolitics does not fully explain the subjugation of life to the power of death (Mbembe  2019, p. 66). For biopolitics to function in an ongoing way, there must always be an expendable “other” whose subjugation and containment guarantees societal flourishing. This necropolitics is seen in slave plantations, prison camps, detention facilities, reservations, and more. It is also seen in the exploitation of so-­called “essential workers” during the pandemic, a majority of whom are women and people of color (Sandset  2021). Whether due to company policy or economic need, they endanger their lives to maintain the health of others and the economy. COVID-­19 practices that  designate some groups as expendable or even as deserving disease because of pre-­existing conditions, age, or assumed moral turpitude are also necropolitical in nature. Because of global structures of oppression, these groups overwhelmingly comprise marginalized peoples (Muniz et al. 2021). If biopolitics emphasizes regulating life (and eradicating some life for the “health” of others), necropolitics involves the ongoing mechanisms whereby those designated as degenerate, unhealthy, and “other” are reduced to an indefinite living death in order to maintain the continued “health,” “security,” and “good” of the state. The Hindutva heteropatriarchal casteist construction of Hinduism articulates a biopolitics of the ideal woman, a Hindu wife and mother who ensures the health, success, and longevity of her family and community. She is educated and modern as well as a “torchbearer of culture and tradition” (Jyothi 2021). This ideal woman is a goddess in the home and a hero of the state; she furthers the Hindu Indian nation, supposedly representing all women even as she reinforces caste, class, gender, and religious structures of power (Jyothi  2021). This is gendered biopolitics, where an essentialized upper-­class, upper-­caste Hindu woman is produced through imagined religion, a woman who then imposes the same idealized view onto other women. But the ideal is an impossibility for lower-­caste, working-­class, non-­Hindu, queer, nonbinary women. They can follow in the footsteps of the ideal woman, but they can never become her. Indeed, their marginalization is necessary to protect and maintain the boundaries around the ideal Hindutva woman. Their ongoing subjugation is a necropower that fuels the Hindutva state. Chakraborty notes that COVID-­19 biopolitics shifted this Hindutva construction. Under quarantine, public spaces vanished as people were confined to their homes. Upper-­class and upper-­ caste women were no longer seen as public heroes of the state, and their work at home was privatized. Lacking help from husbands and homecare staff, privileged women were suddenly “trapped within the confines of the domestic space” (Chakraborty 2021, p. 333). They maintained their jobs, taught children doing remote learning, and fulfilled most of the house duties. Reports of domestic abuse among upper-­caste and upper-­class women have skyrocketed in the last two years (Chakraborty 2021, p. 333). Indian biopolitical measures exposed the extent to which the romanticized Hindutva woman was neither national hero nor goddess. Even as upper/middle-­class and upper-­caste women faced gendered biopolitics during the lockdown, caste, class, and religious minorities experienced heightened necropolitical forces. Members of lower classes were hit especially hard by the economic slowdown (Deshpande 2021) and the digital divide meant that millions of students did not have access to remote education (Vegas et al. 2021). The pressures of intersecting oppressions led to a sharp increase in physical and sexual violence against minoritized women and girls, abuse already normalized in India (Chakraborty  2021, p.  334). In addition to physical confinement, they were also subjected to “invisible confinements” that left them unable to access helplines, hygiene products, food, education, and reproductive and sexual health services (Chakraborty 2021, p. 336). Adding fuel to the fire, minoritized groups were labeled as carriers of COVID-­19. Muslims and Dalit women in particular have been harassed and targeted for supposedly spreading the disease (Chakraborty  2021, pp. 333–335, 337). If the pandemic has been bad for upper-­caste and upper/middle-­class women, it has been catastrophic for minoritized women in India.

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The Cilappatikāram and the “Good Woman” I now turn to the Cilappatikāram to understand more fully the complex dynamics of the power of a “good woman.” The narrative centers on a female heroine, Kaṇṇaki, who saves her husband and the Tamil people through her power as a chaste woman-­ turned-­ goddess. Although the Cilappatikāram depicts the many religious traditions of fifth-­century Tamil Nadu, it reflects a decidedly Jain worldview. The main characters are all Jain. The attributed composer is also Jain. Finally, the pervasiveness of karma marks a strong Jain sensibility. Even so, the text is reflecting on multiple religious understandings of the power of a “good woman.” Embedded within the text is a concern about whether and how a “good woman” liberates herself, others, and nation. Kaṇṇaki was the perfect wife. She was beautiful and dedicated to her husband, Kōvalaṉ. Indeed, she remained devoted to Kōvalaṉ even after he left her for the accomplished courtesan Mātavi. And Kaṇṇaki took Kōvalaṉ back without complaint or hesitation after he squandered all their money. She offered to sell one of a pair of expensive anklets to recoup the losses, and she accompanied him on a dangerous journey to Maturai so they could sell the anklet. Kōvalaṉ was unjustly executed in Maturai for supposedly stealing and trying to sell the queen’s anklet, but Kaṇṇaki proved her husband’s innocence by opening her other anklet to show the matching jewels inside. Enraged by the injustice, Kaṇṇaki ripped off her left breast and summoned Agni, the god of fire, in order to destroy the city of Maturai. She ascended to heaven with her avenged husband and became the goddess of the Tamil people. The Cilappatikāram positions Kaṇṇaki as both a dedicated wife (pativratā) and good woman (satı̄) who devotes herself to her husband and family. The pativratā, through ritual practice and a life centered around husband and family, enables health and flourishing, extending from self to family, society, and Earth. As the Cilappatikāram says, “Don’t you know the old saying that in a land where women are virtuous, the rains never fail, prosperity never declines, and the triumphs of the king of this vast world never diminish?” (Parthasarathy 1992, p. 156). From her early life with Kōvalaṉ, to her accompaniment with him on their perilous journey, Kaṇṇaki remains dedicated and blameless as a wife. A woman’s body is rendered ritually powerful through vows, home rituals, and devotion to her family. This enables her to bless and protect her home, family, and all who enter/leave her home. Such a discourse bestows great ritual power on wives and mothers; it also leaves an opening for their blame should tragedy occur (Kelting 2003, p. 643). In such a case, a woman may make a satı̄ vow to ascend her husband’s funeral pyre, igniting it through the fire of her virtue. She then becomes a satı̄mātā, a goddess and subject of devotion who liberates herself, her husband, and the nation (Hawley  1994). Although infamously associated with widow-­burning, satı̄ means at its core a woman full of sat (being, goodness, truth).1 Even as Jain and Hindu pativratā narratives tend to be quite similar, the Jain satı̄ tradition is distinct from the Hindu satı̄ tradition. For both, the pativratā exemplifies chastity, courage, wisdom, and faithfulness (Kelting 2003, p. 645). However, “the Jain satı̄ is usually a renouncer of family, whereas the Hindu satı̄mātā is a family protector” (Kelting 2003, p. 642). Also, unlike Hindu narratives, there is no dramatic self-­sacrifice and death in the Jain satı̄ tradition (Kelting  2003, pp. 646–647). However, when it comes to memorializing Jain laywomen, it is the Hindu – and not the Jain – satı̄ tradition that is influential. Whereas the language of absolute renunciation works for monastic Jain notions of liberation, it does not work for lay Jains. As a result, memorialization for Jain laypersons therefore tends to focus on earthly flourishing and virtue (Kelting  2003, pp.  641–642). Thus, texts commemorating Jain laywomen tend to combine Hindu and Jain notions of the pativratā and satı̄.



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The Cilappatikāram seems to follow such an interreligious model, integrating a Hindu satı̄ narrative into a Jain pativratā framework. Kaṇṇaki, a dedicated wife (pativratā) is also clearly situated as a satı̄. She and her body, powerful due to her chastity, are able to summon Agni and rectify the wrong done to her husband. She curses those who have been unjust and she is able to ascend to heaven with her husband. Ultimately, she becomes a powerful satı̄mātā for the entire Tamil people. And unlike Jain satı̄ narratives, Kaṇṇaki never renounces her husband or becomes a nun. In this light, the epic could be read as a Jain memorial to Kaṇṇaki inspired by Hindu satı̄ motifs. Kaṇṇaki’s ritual of vengeance certainly has several similarities to traditional Hindu satı̄ narratives. There are blessings and curses, embodied proof of the wife’s virtue, an ascension of both wife and husband to heaven, and the final transformation of the satı̄ into a ritualized satı̄mātā protector of the people. Notably, however, Kaṇṇaki does not leave red handprints as a testament to her sacrifice (something typical in Hindu satı̄ narratives). Instead, she makes a bloody offering of her severed left breast, symbol and proof of her virtue.2 This graphic scene seems to emphasize the ritual power of Kaṇṇaki and the “good woman.” Through the lens of gendered necropolitics, however, it must be noted that this is at the expense of the woman’s body/life. It is her sacrifice that heals the world. Indeed, the narrative is not a straightforward triumph, and it remains deeply unsettling. Virtually every character’s story ends in death or renunciation. Even Kaṇṇaki’s ritual of vengeance is full of self-­mutilation, terror, despair, and rage. The goddess of Maturai explains to Kaṇṇaki that there is a broader context of all these events: karma. As the epic unfolds, karma complexly and simultaneously ripens for all those touched. Although Jain philosophy had not yet developed a full account of karma, eternal substances, and body, the narrative thread of karma is persistent. The unrelenting role of karma becomes clear when examining the role of bodily transformation in the text. There are many passages of transforming bodies in the epic, but I note here two. Kaṇṇaki and Kōvalaṉ, journeying with Kavunti, a Jain ascetic, are on their way to Maturai. They encounter an arhat3 who says, “karma is inexorable . . . When the time is ripe, it will be impossible to stop it” (Parthasarathy 1992, p. 101). The arhat then rises up, blesses Kavunti, and disappears. He is liberated, and Kaṇṇaki, Kōvalaṉ, and Kavunti leave. This divine teaching and event of liberation is followed by a negative transformation. The group enters a forest grove and encounters an immoral couple. The couple accuses Kaṇṇaki and Kōvalaṉ of being married siblings. Kavunti curses the immoral couple, turning them into jackals. If the arhat vanishes, being liberated from the cycle of karma, the immoral couple is transformed into lower forms of life as a demonstration of their own bondage to karma. The goddess of Maturai appears to Kaṇṇaki to teach her that all events (past, present, and future) and all beings are intertwined and governed by the cycle of karma. Kōvalaṉ himself failed to keep a vow of nonviolence in a previous lifetime, unjustly killing a man; that man’s wife cursed Kōvalaṉ. Thus, Kōvalaṉ’s unjust death is the cosmic result of his own previous unjust act. In response to the goddess, Kaṇṇaki declares that she will not rest until she has seen her husband. She wanders for fourteen days and then ascends to heaven with Kōvalaṉ. She becomes the goddess of the Tamil people. In her apotheosis, however, Kaṇṇaki is not liberated from karma. She has transformed into the divine, but she is not free. Anne Monius has argued that the tenth-­century Tamil Jain epic, the Cı̄vakacintāmaṇi, includes grotesque depictions of sex not to cultivate the erotic,4 but to condemn it and instead to cultivate disgust,5 which then leads to equanimity, peace,6 and ultimate liberation (Monius 2004, p. 135). Something similar seems to be occurring in the Cilappatikāram. Kaṇṇaki’s transformation from chaste wife to wild widow to national goddess is presented as a triumph. But it is also tragic, gruesome, and karmically conditioned. Thus, other prominent female characters choose renunciation (including Mātavi and her daughter, Maṇimēkalai) and one, Kavunti, takes the final Jain step of

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fasting unto death. Ultimately, the image of Kaṇṇaki’s severed left breast testifies to a deep paradox; even as her breast is the symbol of her womanly power, it is destroyed – along with her womanhood – as it is ripped from her body. It would seem that indeed there is great power for the satı̄, but it does not lead to liberation.7

Gendered Power in Third-­Gender Religion A comparison with third-­gender (tṛtı̄yāprakṛti) religion can be helpful for clarifying what may be occurring in the epic. I focus in particular on communities popularly called hijras (but usually self-­ identifying as kinnar, aravani, or another more appropriate local term). Kinnar today are usually persons assigned male at birth who may identify as female, “not-­male,” between male and female, or neither male nor female (Johari 2014). They are ritual dancers and singers, called on to bless newlyweds and newborns (Reddy 2005, p. 2). Within the context of a community and guru, they may “renounce sexual desire and practice by undergoing a sacrificial emasculation – that is, an excision of the penis and testicles” (Reddy 2005, p. 2). This ritual is called nirvāṇa, a deeply meaningful term in the Indian context that means extinction, but also correlates to liberation in many Hindu, Jain, and Buddhist traditions. Importantly, while the kinnar ritual of nirvāṇa may formalize and embody the extinction or renunciation of desire and gender, it is not required for community belonging or ritual performance (Tripathi 2015, pp. 156–179). The traditional patron deity of kinnar is Bahucharā Mātā, goddess of chastity and fertility, who brings prosperity, fertility, and long life. Those dedicated to her through nirvāṇa become “vehicles” of Bahucharā Mātā’s power (Nanda 1999, pp. 24–25). Of the countless stories about Bahucharā, many involve severed genitals and resulting ritual power. As one story says, “Bahuchara was a pretty, young maiden in a party of travelers passing through the forest in Gujarat. The party was attacked by thieves, and, fearing that they would outrage her modesty, Bahuchara drew her dagger and cut off her breast, offering it to the outlaws in place of her virtue” (Nanda  1999, p.  25). According to kinnar interpretation, the excision of the breast here is not the protection of female virtue but rather the rendering of ritual power through the removal of the breast and, therefore, gender (Reddy 2005, p. 91). Legends among the kinnar extend this lesson to themselves. For those called by Bahucharā Mātā to remove their genitalia, the goddess will “help them recover quickly and bless them with her power” (Reddy 2005, pp. 108–109). Those who undergo nirvāṇa may bury their severed genitals in the ground, a sacrifice of their individual powers of reproduction, after which Bahucharā Mātā grants them universal reproductive power that can be bestowed on others (Reddy 2005, p. 97). This includes the power to grant health, fertility, long life, and even rain (Reddy 2005, p. 97). In this, there seems to be a paradoxical connection between severed genitals, renunciation of gender and sexual desire, and universal creative ritual power.8 Something similar seems to be occurring with the paradoxical power of Kaṇṇaki’s severed breast. While Kaṇṇaki’s breast becomes ritually powerful through life as a satı̄, its excision is simultaneously a renunciation of gender and a universalization of gendered power to guarantee justice for her husband and flourishing for the Tamil land and people. Seen through this lens, the Cilappatikāram is celebrating Kaṇṇaki’s power while also clarifying that her path is not one of ultimate liberation. Kaṇṇaki’s partial renunciation is powerful, but true liberation lies in full renunciation. This message is notably different from the belief for at least some kinnar that the ritual of nirvāṇa correlates to ultimate liberation. For example, Dalit trans activist Living Smile Vidya, equates her nirvāṇa with both physical and spiritual liberation, calling it “the ultimate peace” and a “confirmation” of true Self as a transformed and, now, whole woman (Vidya  2013,



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pp. 8, 133). This self-­understanding and realization taps into Indian traditions of jı̄vanmukti, embodied liberation while still living. Reading Kaṇṇaki and the kinnar together, it is important to see the paradox of gendered power: it is most powerful in its destruction. Even as it is founded on gender, it ultimately requires its renunciation and transformation if it is to lead to liberation.

Transforming Gender and Liberation in Meena Kandasamy’s Ms Militancy How then might the gender transformation in the Cilappatikāram and in kinnar practice subvert a necropolitical Hindutva construction of gender? Meena Kandasamy, Dalit feminist activist and writer from Chennai, offers us a way to imagine gender transformation as liberatory power. In a collection of poems, Ms Militancy, Kandasamy takes on religion, collapsing the spiritual into the political. By resituating religious narratives and figures in profane contexts, she exposes the ways religion dispossesses the vulnerable and yet the vulnerable speaks back. She accuses the reader who would take offense that they have adopted the “conscience” of Hindutva (Kandasamy 2010, p. 8). Instead, she seeks to take these narratives to their “scariest extent” in order to “get back at” Hindu nationalism, and to “fight to get back to [herself]” (Kandasamy 2010, p. 8). In her poem “Moksha” (liberation), she rewrites the four traditional Hindu goals of life: dharma (righteousness) as “word-­plowers,” artha (success) as “war mongers,” and kāma (pleasure) as “womb-­raiders” (Kandasamy  2010, p.  32). In just a few words, Kandasamy exposes Hindutva rhetoric for its hypocrisy, violence, and misogyny. She leaves mokṣa (liberation) undefined, exposing its empty meaning today. In doing so, she confronts the reader with the question of liberation: liberation from what, and for whom? In another poem, Kaṇṇaki is reimagined as Ms Militancy. Ms Militancy is menopausal and angry. She forgave her “no-­money man” and “that bitch” (Kandasamy 2010, p. 36). Offering up her anklet, “A week later, she received his body bag / With the executioner’s seal on the toe tag” (Kandasamy 2010, p. 36). Although she no longer bleeds menstrual blood, blood flows through Ms Militancy’s anger. She throws her anklet, full of red rubies, on the “bloody throne” (Kandasamy 2010, p. 36). Unsated, Ms Militancy thirsts for more. She uses her left breast as a bomb to destroy the city. She is left bleeding and alone. But this is not the end of Ms Militancy. Watching that breast sprout back from its roots, the lone woman learnt to outgrow her loss. When the scars no longer showed and the faraway sea could be smelt between her legs, she dissolved in a mist of aftersmoke. (Kandasamy 2010, p. 36)

The theme of blood is central in this story of gender, disempowerment, and empowerment. The loss of menstruation is tied to Ms Militancy’s lack of power as a wife. The blood-­red rubies of her anklet and the blood of injustice are connected to Ms Militancy’s empowerment, which reinstates her blood flow from the severed left breast. Ms Militancy’s use of her breast as a bomb also situates her as a Tamil freedom fighter. Even as Ms Militancy’s gendered power leads her to avenge her husband and fight for the Tamil people, her own liberation is not found through the blood. Instead, the blood must stop, the breast must heal, and “the lone woman” must learn to “outgrow her loss.” She now smells of the sea between her legs. Once fully healed and on her own, she dissolves. Gendered power and blood are indeed powerful, but they are not liberatory. It is instead

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Ms Militancy’s liberation after the destruction of wifely power, and in the healing and transformation of a gendered body within and for herself. Kandasamy’s retelling of Kaṇṇaki’s story offers striking parallels to the Cilappatikāram in its recognition that Kaṇṇaki’s embodied power as satı̄ and satı̄mātā, while truly powerful, is not ultimately liberatory. But the last stanza offers Kaṇṇaki something the Cilappatikāram does not: healing, wholeness, and liberation as a transformed woman no longer defined by man or nation. Here, Ms Militancy is similar to the ways kinnar like Living Smile Vidya find liberation through renunciation and then transformation of gender. Whereas Vidya may see the renunciation of gender in nirvāṇa as itself the path of transformational liberation to womanhood, Ms Militancy finds the strength within to heal and grow. Both renounce gender and transform it into something else, a nonbinary embodied power that is gendered, but without requiring a binary “other” through which one’s realization occurs. It is healing and affirming of one’s own Self without needing a cis heteronormative relationship (whether with husband or nation) against which the Self is defined. Hindutva interpretation of gendered power essentializes one unambiguous notion of the satı̄ predicated on binaries of male and female, self and other. This reductive construction claims to uphold the power of women even as it fuels a gendered necropolitics that subjugates entire populations as an ongoing “contagion” in need of containment to further the well-­being of a pure Hindu nation. This “contagion” is seen as especially dangerous during the coronavirus pandemic, and the biopolitics of quarantining and social distancing have further entrenched notions of untouchability and pollution. But the Cilappatikāram, kinnar practice, and Kandasamy’s Ms Militancy together demonstrate a more complex picture of gendered power, its renunciation, its transformation, and final liberation. Through renouncing, and then transforming, gender, the body can heal from within to realize embodied liberation. In Hindu and Buddhist mythology, kinnaris are celestial musicians and dancers that are half woman and half bird.9 They embody female power of beauty and grace, and they watch over humans. Kinnar take their name from these heavenly kinnari, seeing themselves as ritual dancers and musicians who also bless and protect the wider community. Like kinnari, kinnar embody a female power beyond the cis heteronormative wifely framework of the satı̄. Like Ms Militancy, then, kinnar offer a model of gendered power that subverts binaries; a model that is fluid and transformational; a model that allows for, and even requires, ambiguity and paradox. It is such a nonbinary liberatory gendered power that does not depend on an “other” (to subject or to be subjected to) that can help resist Hindutva necropolitics in an age of COVID-­19.

Concluding Reflections In the end, an abstract or reductive retrieval of Ms Militancy and kinnar theology  – or any theology – is going to be unable to subvert the gendered necropolitics that many nations and institutions use to fuel their structures of domination. Spiritual liberation does not necessitate sociopolitical liberation. All kinds of beliefs and practices can be appropriated, essentialized, and weaponized for institutional biopower and necropower. Laxmi Narayan Tripathi, for example, a “dominant-­caste brahmin” leader of Kinnar Akhara, a kinnar religious order founded in 2018, has been criticized for caste-­ism and her support of Hindutva causes (Trans, Gender Nonconforming & Intersex Collectives 2018; Dixit 2019). In his own comparative theology of Dalit liberation, Joshua Samuel weighs in on the debate about whether the ambivalence of South Indian Dalit goddesses like Mariamman and Ellaiamman mean that they are not liberatory. Rather than looking for unambiguous evidence of liberation, Samuel instead asks, “if there are moments when the resistive elements of Dalit religions become



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(more) concretely explicit and visible” (Samuel 2020, p. 104). To that end, he focuses on concrete moments “when the goddess becomes ecstatically embodied in the chosen devotees” (Samuel 2020, p.  105) and compares them to Dalit Christian embodied possessions by the Holy Spirit, Virgin Mary, Baptism, and Eucharist (Samuel 2020, pp. 150–162). For him, the centering of the body and the embracing of the paradoxical possibility of divine initiative that leads to empowered human agency are key for imagining how possession can be liberatory for religious Dalits. As he says, it is “through their bodies that the oppressed (re-­)gain their voice, and find release. In a  context where the bodies of the Dalits are rendered untouchable and expendable, and where … resources … are denied (often violently), the body is perhaps the only resource available for survival and resistance” (Samuel 2020, p. 196). How much more is this true for Dalit women, kinnar, and other religious and caste minorities in India, and especially in a time of COVID-­19? As Samuel insists, a Christian theology of liberation done comparatively with Hindu and Christian Dalits demands that we fundamentally reimagine liberation (Samuel 2020, p. 194). The paradoxes of gendered power, its renunciation, and its transformation also call us to reimagine what liberation means for theology and activism. The transformational liberation found by kinnar like Living Smile Vidya and Kandasamy’s version of Kaṇṇaki, Ms Militancy, recognizes that the liberation of the “other” or the nation does not always lead to the liberation of the self. We must instead practice concrete moments of gender renunciation and transformational liberation to resist the necropolitics of today. We must instead hold together – even if paradoxically – personal and social, physical and spiritual, liberation.

Notes 1 A widow’s death by suicide was rare, even prohibited in Jain tradition, but the attitude about a widow’s inauspiciousness was common across India. Indeed, the Cilappatikāram addresses whether Kaṇṇaki is still virtuous for continuing to live after her husband’s death. The queen of Maturai actually falls dead after her husband dies from the shame of his injustice to Kōvalaṉ. However, the epic deems both women virtuous (Parthasarathy 1992, p. 223; Dhand 1995; Kelting 2009, pp. 18–19). 2 This blood sacrifice points back in the text to the Eyiṉaṉs, a people who make bloody human sacrifices and whose oracle compares Kaṇṇaki to the fierce goddess Aiyay. Although likened early on to the gentle goddess Lakṣmi, Kaṇṇaki ultimately is transformed into the ferocious Pattiṉi. 3 “Conqueror”; one who has conquered the passions. 4 The rasa of śṛṅgāra. 5 The rasa of bı̄bhatsa. The Tamil equivalent to bı̄bhatsa is iḷivaral (disgust). It is one of eight meyppātụ s (conditions of the body), roughly corresponding to the emotions of rasa theory (Cutler 1987, pp. 61–62). 6 Śānta. 7 Paul Dundas argues similarly in his own discussion of Kavunti (Dundas 2002, pp. 117–118). I thank my colleague, Christopher Jain Miller, for making this connection to Dundas. 8 Revathi, for example, has discussed the contentious role of desire in and through nirvāṇa. She sees her own journey as a continuity of sexual desire (Revathi 2010, pp. 92–100, 2016, pp. 21–22). 9 They are sometimes depicted as half horse, particularly in Hindu mythology and folklore.

References Chakraborty, D. (2021). The “living dead” within “death-­worlds”: Gender crisis and COVID-­19 in India. Gender, Work & Organization 28 (S2): 330–339. https://doi.org/10.1111/gwao.12585. Cutler, N. (1987). Songs of Experience: The Poetics of Tamil Devotion. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

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Deshpande, A. (2021). How India’s caste inequality has persisted  – and deepened in the pandemic. Current History 120 (825): 127–132. https://doi.org/10.1525/curh.2021.120.825.127. Dhand, A. (1995). Kaṟpu: The ideal of feminine chastity in the Cilappatikāram. ARC 23: 107–120. Dixit, K. (2019). Kinnar Akhara committed to Ram temple: Tripathi. Times of India, February 2 https:// timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/allahabad/kinnar-­akhara-­committed-­to-­ram-­temple-­tripathi/ articleshow/67800287.cms (accessed August 12, 2022). Dundas, P. (2002). The Jains, 2nd ed. New York: Routledge. Foucault, M. (1997). “Society Must Be Defended”: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1975–76 (trans. D. Macey). New York: Picador. Hawley, J.S. (ed.) (1994). Sati, The Blessing and the Curse: The Burning of Wives in India. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Johari, A. (2014). Hijra, kothi, aravani: A quick guide to transgender terminology. Scroll, April 17. https://scroll.in/article/662023/hijra-­kothi-­aravani-­a-­quick-­guide-­to-­transgender-­terminology (accessed August 12, 2022). Jyothi, S. (2021). The Hindutva challenge to women’s rights. The Indian Express, February 28. https:// indianexpress.com/article/opinion/the-­hindutva-­challenge-­to-­womens-­rights-­7208520 (accessed August 12, 2022). Kandasamy, M. (2010). Ms Militancy. New Delhi: Navayana. Kelting, M.W. (2003). Good wives, family protectors: Writing Jain laywomen’s memorials. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 71 (3): 637–657. Kelting, M.W. (2009). Heroic Wives: Rituals, Stories and Virtues of Jain Wifehood. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mbembe, A. (2019). Necropolitics (trans. S. Corcoran). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Mondal, S. and Karmakar, R. (2021). Caste in the time of the COVID-­10 pandemic. Contemporary Voice of Dalit . https://doi.org/10.1177/2455328X211036338. Monius, A.E. (2004). Love, violence, and the aesthetics of disgust: Ś aivas and Jains in medieval South India. Journal of Indian Philosophy 32 (2/3): 113–172. Muniz, R., Ferradas, F., Gomez, G., and Pegler, L. (2021). COVID-­19 in Brazil in an era of necropolitics: Resistance in the face of disaster. Disasters 45 (S1): S97–S118. http://doi.org/10.1111/disa.12528. Nanda, S. (1999). Neither Man Nor Woman: The Hijras of India, 2nd ed. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth Publishing. Parthasarathy, R. (trans.) (1992). The Tale of an Anklet, An Epic of South India: The Cilappatikāram of Il ̣aṛkō Atị kal ̣. New York: Columbia University Press. Pinchoff, J., Santhya, K., White, C., Rampal, S., Acharya, R., and Ngo, T.D. (2020). Gender specific differences in COVID-­19 knowledge, behavior and health effects among adolescents and young adults in Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, India. PloS One 15 (12): article e0244053. http://doi.org/10.1371/ journal.pone.0244053. Raju, E., Dutta, A., and Ayeb-­Karlsson, S. (2021). COVID-­19  in India: Who are we leaving behind? Progress in Disaster Science 10: article 100163. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.pdisas.2021.100163. Reddy, G. (2005). With Respect to Sex: Negotiating Hijra Identity in South India. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Revathi, A. (2010). The Truth About Me: A Hijra Life Story (trans. V. Geetha). New Delhi: Penguin Books India. Revathi, A. (2016). A Life in Trans Activism (trans. Nandini Murali). New Dehli: Zubaan. Samuel, J. (2020). Untouchable Bodies, Resistance, and Liberation: A Comparative Theology of Divine Possessions. Boston, MA: Brill Rodopi. Sandset, T. (2021). The necropolitics of COVID-­19: Race, class and slow death in an ongoing pandemic. Global Public Health 16 (8–9): 1411–1423. http://doi.org/10.1080/17441692.2021.1906927. Trans, Gender Nonconforming & Intersex Collectives (2018). Trans, gender nonconforming and intersex collectives strongly condemn Kinnar Akhara’s support for Ram Temple at Ayodhya, India. Round Table India, November 23. https://www.roundtableindia.co.in/trans-­gender-­nonconforming-­ gnc-­intersex-­collectives-­strongly-­condemn-­kinnar-­akhara-­s-­support-­for-­ram-­temple-­at-­ayodhya (accessed August 12, 2022).



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Tripathi, L. (2015). Me Hijra, Me Laxmi (trans. R.R. Rao and P.G. Joshi). New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Vegas, E., Lee, S., and Shrestha, U. (2021). How has education technology impacted student learning in India during COVID-­19? Brookings, August 23. https://www.brookings.edu/blog/education-­plus-­ development/2021/08/23/how-­has-­education-­technology-­impacted-­student-­learning-­in-­india-­ during-­covid-­19 (accessed August 12, 2022). Vidya, L.S. (2013). I Am Vidya: A Transgender’s Journey. New Delhi: Rupa. Worldometer (2022). India coronavirus statistics. http://www.worldometers.info/coronavirus/ country/india (accessed August 12, 2022).

CHAPTER 24

And the Angels Wept How Jewish and Hindu Narratives May Enrich Each Other Arvind Sharma

Introduction The association of holiness with folly (or naiveté) is an intriguing one, and we encounter it in the religious traditions of humanity. Sometimes it takes the form of the seeker after God becoming like a child in his or her innocence. There is an interesting feature of being a child that connects with that of a fool, namely, that both the child in their innocence and the fool, in their lack of sophistication, accept whatever they encounter at face value. In this very subtle sense, their reaction is not mediated by discursive thought. In some schools of mysticism, the very process of thought is supposed to be the primary obstacle to the intuitive realization of the ultimate reality. In fact, there is a saying in Hinduism that only two people enjoy unalloyed bliss – the fool (who does not think) and the saint (who has gone beyond all thought). We can see how childlikeness and foolishness, as attributes, may acquire a holy association. But this is also true of theistic literature and not just nondualism. In this chapter I will examine two such accounts – one from the Judaic tradition and the other from the Indic tradition – and compare them for the light they might shed on each other, and on our understanding of the association of holiness with folly. I shall first say a few words by way of introduction, then present the actual accounts, and finally compare them. These will constitute the three parts of this chapter.

Part I The first case concerns a Yiddish account, which deals with a person who lived and died almost anonymously, and who suffered a lot in life without complaining. After his death, his life was examined by a divine tribunal to determine whether he could find a place in heaven. It was ­concluded that there was nothing that could be held against him, even if, on the face of it, he seemed The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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to be an inconsequential figure. He was thereupon asked if he wanted anything in heaven. All he could bring himself to ask for was, simply, a roll of bread with butter. Here was somebody who could have anything he wanted, and yet could only think of a mild improvement on his situation. Do we hear in this the echo of the downtrodden Jew through the centuries, confined to a marginal existence in the ghetto, whose bar of expectations had been abysmally lowered by that demoralizing experience? The second example is from Hinduism and has a different background. It has to do with an incident in the life of Swami Vivekananda (1863–1902). Swami Vivekananda acquired this name after he became a monk; at the time of the incident his name was Naren. He was an eager student of Western knowledge which had been introduced into India under British rule, especially in Calcutta where he lived. He also had a passion for spiritual truth, and was in the habit of asking people, who claimed to speak on spiritual matters, whether they had seen God themselves – on this he always drew a blank. While in this frame of mind, he heard of a mystic called Ramakrishna who lived on the outskirts of Calcutta, and whose name had been mentioned by his English professor while discussing the British poet, Wordsworth. When he approached Ramakrishna with his usual question, namely, whether he had seen God, we get two slightly different versions of the reply. According to one, Ramakrishna said, “Not only have I seen him, I can show him to you.” According to another account, he said, “I see him more intensely than I see you now.” But soon there was trouble in this spiritual paradise. Vivekananda’s father died suddenly, and the financial fortunes of the family plummeted. He had, by now, become fairly close to Ramakrishna and so he sought divine relief from his situation through his master. As the reader will discover when he reads the fuller account, Ramakrishna began by saying that he could not ask for something like that from “God.” When Vivekananda insisted that he must do something, Ramakrishna offered to place Vivekananda himself in the presence of the goddess whom Ramakrishna worshipped, so that he could make the request himself.

Part II The Judaic account, to which we now turn, involves a Hasidic story of a person by the name of Bontzye Shweig. Bontzye is said to have lived and died quietly. He is said to have passed through our world like a “shadow.” It is stated that: No wine was drunk at Bontzye’s circumcision, no healths were proposed, and he made no beautiful speech when he was confirmed. He lived like a little dun-­coloured grain of sand on the seashore, among millions of his kind; and when the wind lifted him and blew him over to the other side of the sea, nobody noticed it. (Peretz, 1906, p. 171)

Even the little board on his grave is supposed to have been overturned by the wind. The entry of Bontzye Shweig in heaven, however, involved a great commotion when his case was presented before the Heavenly Court, for they could find nothing wrong with him. He was never heard, argued the advocate, “to complain of either God or man; there was never a flash of hatred in his eye; he never lifted it with a claim on heaven” (Peretz, 1906, p. 175). Even when his mother died, when he was thirteen years old, and he had to live with his stepmother who was a vixen, he did not complain but kept silent. He had to chop wood barefoot in the yard in winter; his feet became nearly frostbitten, but he never complained, even to his father. Even when his father grabbed him in a fit of drunkenness and threw him into the street in the snow, he did not complain – though convulsed by hunger.

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Once a carriage crashed and the driver was thrown onto the pavement with a cracked skull. The terrified horses would have caused a lot more destruction had they not been stopped by Bontzye. The man in the coach survived the disaster; he gratefully appointed Bontzye as a coachman and provided him with a wife. Bontzye kept silent. Even when he underwent a reversal of fortunes, he kept silent: He kept silent also when his protector became bankrupt and did not pay him his wages. He kept silent when his wife ran away from him, leaving him a child at the breast. He was silent also fifteen years later, when the child had grown up and was strong enough to throw him out of the house. (Peretz, 1906, p. 178)

The Heavenly Court could not find anything against Bontzye Shweig, and the presiding judge announced: My child, you have suffered and kept silent; there is no whole limb, no whole bone in your body, without a scar, without a wound, not a fibre of your soul that has not bled – and you kept silent. There they did not understand, perhaps you yourself did not know that you might have cried out, and that at your cry the walls of Jericho would have shaken and fallen. You yourself knew nothing of your hidden power. In the other world, your silence was not understood, but that is the world of delusion; in the world of Truth you will receive your reward. The Heavenly Court will not judge you; the Heavenly Court will not pass sentence on you; they will not apportion you a reward. Take what you will! Everything is yours! (Peretz, 1906, p. 180)

Bontzye was skeptical, but he was assured that everything in heaven belonged to him and was his for the asking. “Well, if it be so,” Bontzye smile[d]. “I would like to have every day, for breakfast, a hot roll with fresh butter.” The Court and the angels looked down, a little ashamed; the prosecutor laughed. (Peretz, 1906, p. 181)

In a version of this story of the Holy Fool, as it was narrated to me by a colleague, the ending is a bit more dramatic. When the Heavenly Court insisted that he ask for whatever he wants, Bontzye said: “Can I have a roll?” When further insisted upon that he have something more, he said: “Could I have some butter?” Then the angels wept. I would like to contrast this Jewish story with a Hindu account. This account pertains to the life of Swami Vivekananda but refers to a time before he became a Swami and was still a student in Calcutta. He had by now made the acquaintance of a mystic known as Ramakrishna. The turning point in the relationship came when Vivekananda’s well-­off father suddenly died, and the family was left destitute. The situation became so dire that the young student approached Ramakrishna for help. Vivekananda was aware, on the basis of his acquaintance with Ramakrishna, that Ramakrishna had a particularly close relationship with the goddess Kali, and so he implored Ramakrishna to ask Kali to help him in this crisis.



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Vivekananda’s account of what transpired next can be divided into four parts. It begins with a description of his forlorn state at the time: I began going from place to place now as before and made various kinds of efforts. I worked in the office of the attorney and translated a few books, as a result of which I earned a little money and the household was being managed somehow. But these were all temporary jobs; and in the absence of any permanent work no smooth arrangement for the maintenance of mother and brothers could be made.

The account then next describes the attempts of Vivekananda to persuade Ramakrishna to come to his help: I remembered a little later: “God grants the Master’s prayers. I shall make him pray for me so that the suffering of my mother and brothers for want of food and clothing might be removed; he will never refuse to do so for my sake.” I hurried to Dakshineswar [temple] and asked persistently that he must pray to the Mother that the pecuniary difficulty of my mother and brothers might be removed. The Master said to me affectionately, “My child, I cannot say such words, you know. Why don’t you yourself pray? You don’t accept the Mother; that is why you suffer so much.” I replied, “I have no knowledge of the Mother; please pray to Mother yourself for my sake. Pray you must; I will not leave you unless you do so.” The Master said with affection, “I prayed to Mother many times indeed to remove your sufferings. But as you do not accept Mother, She does not grant the prayer. Well, today is Tuesday, a day especially sacred to Mother. Mother will, I say, grant you whatever you would ask for. Go to the temple tonight and, bowing down to Her, pray for a boon, my affectionate Mother is the Power of Brahman; She is pure consciousness embodied. She has given birth to the universe according to Her will; what can She not do, if She wills?”

What we have next is an account of Vivekananda’s own experience of trying to make the request to the goddess: A firm faith arose in my mind that all the sufferings would certainly come to an end as soon as I prayed to the Mother, inasmuch as the Master had said so. I waited for the night in great expectancy. The night arrived at last. Three hours of the night had elapsed when the Master asked me to go to the holy temple. As I was going, a sort of profound inebriation possessed me; I was reeling. A firm conviction gripped me that I should actually see Mother and hear Her words. I forgot all other things, and became completely merged in that thought alone. Coming in the temple, I saw that Mother was actually pure Consciousness, was actually living and was really the fountain-­ head of infinite love and beauty. My heart swelled with loving devotion; and, beside myself with bliss, I made repeated salutations to Her, praying, “Mother, grant me discrimination, grant me detachment, grant me divine knowledge and devotion; ordain that I may always have unobstructed vision of you.” My heart was flooded with peace. The whole universe completely disappeared and Mother alone remained filling my heart. No sooner had I returned to the Master than he asked, “Did you pray to Mother for the removal of your worldly wants?” Startled at his question, I said, “No, sir; I forgot to do so. So, what should I do now?” He said, “Go quickly again and pray to Her.” I started for the temple once more, and, coming to Mother’s presence, became inebriated again. I forgot everything, bowed down to Her repeatedly and prayed for the realization of divine knowledge and devotion, before I came back. The Master smiled and said, “Well, did you tell Her this time?” I was startled again and said, “No, sir, hardly had I seen Mother when I forgot everything on account of the influence of an indescribably divine Power and prayed for knowledge and devotion only. What’s to be done now?” The Master said, “Silly boy, could you not control yourself a little and make that prayer? Go once

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more, if you can and tell Her those words. Quick!” I started a third time; but as soon as I entered the temple a formidable sense of shame occupied my heart. I thought what a trifling thing have I come to ask of Mother? It is, as the Master says, just like the folly of asking a king, having received his grace, for gourds and pumpkins. Ah! How low is my intellect! Overpowered with shame and aversion I bowed down to Her over and over again saying, “I don’t want anything else, Mother; do grant me divine knowledge and devotion only.”

Finally, we have Vivekananda’s own reflection on what had transpired: When I came out from the temple, it occurred to me that it was certainly the play of the Master, otherwise how was it that I could not speak the words though I came to pray to her as many as three times? Afterwards I insisted that he must ensure my mother’s and brother’s freedom from lack of food and clothing, saying, “It is certainly you who made me intoxicated that way.” He said affectionately to me, “My child, I can never offer such a prayer for anyone; it does not indeed come out of my mouth. You would, I told you, get from Mother whatever you wanted. But you could not ask Her for it; you are not meant for worldly happiness. What am I to do?” I said, “That won’t do, sir. You must utter the prayer for my sake; it is my firm conviction that they will be free from all sufferings if you only say so.” As I kept on persisting, he said, “Well, they will never be in want of plain food and clothes.” (Vivekananda, 1972, pp. 79–82)

Part III Just as the Holy Fool in the Jewish account could not ask for anything substantial, so also Swami Vivekananda could not make his request. Twice he forgot to ask the goddess when in her presence; the third time he remembered, but he considered the request to be as inappropriate as a beggar asking a king for a pumpkin. What is interesting here is the contrast in the legal situation which is depicted in the case of the Holy Fool, where a prosecutor is unable to make any case against him in the Heavenly Court as it were, and the “viceregal” manner in which the matter is resolved in the case of Swami Vivekananda. What I mean by viceregal is that Ramakrishna claimed that he was himself unable to ask the goddess, and instead sent Vivekananda as a sort of vice-­regent of his, to make the request. In both cases, the two parties are not any worse off in the sense that, despite the Holy Fool’s inability to cash in on the benefits of being in heaven, he nevertheless remains in heaven. Similarly, despite Vivekananda’s not being able to ask to be redeemed of his financial troubles, he is relieved of them when his master assures him that his family will never be in want of plain food and clothes. One can say that, in a way, the spiritual goals of both the religions are fulfilled; the Holy Fool ends up in heaven, which is the summum bonum (the ultimate goal) of religious life in some streams of Judaism, and Swami Vivekananda has a personal encounter with the goddess, which, in a way, is the summum bonum of devotional religious life in Hinduism. Both are unable to “exploit” their situation to the full, but both are in a redeemed situation, nevertheless. Now let us examine more closely some aspects of this situation. Both are in “heaven.” In the case of the Holy Fool, the prosecution was meant to determine whether he was fit for entry into heaven. In the case of Swami Vivekananda, the concept of “heaven” will have to be redefined, in the sense that heaven does not always represent the summum bonum in Hinduism, unlike some strains of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The concept of heaven in Hinduism is a bit complicated. There are two kinds of heaven in Hinduism – one for which we might use “h” in the lowercase, and another for which we might use “H” in the uppercase. The lowercase heaven is the heaven to which one repairs as a result of one’s



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good deeds performed while on earth, when the goodness generated by the virtue of the person is so great that the reward for it can only be given and received in a supersensuous realm – that is, when one repairs to heaven as a result of one’s good karma. However, the problem with good karma is that, like a good bank account, no matter how large the amount may be, it is limited. One’s stay in heaven progressively exhausts one’s good karma. In the end, one again returns to earth after having exhausted one’s good karma, just as one might return to work after a vacation. The goal of religious life in Hinduism is to give up the quest for such a heaven and seek Heaven instead. This Heaven is the residence of one of the gods of Hinduism, such as Brahma, or Vishnu, or Shiva, or of the Goddess (Devi). When a devotee wins the favor of one of these divinities, then, after death, he or she repairs to that divinity’s Heaven, where one resides perpetually in bliss. This is the goal of devotional life in Hinduism. The situation, however, gets more complicated, because according to a major school of Hindu thought known as Advaita Vedanta, even this should not be the goal of one’s life (Mahadevan, 1960, pp. 141–150). According to this school of thought, we are still not in contact with the ultimate reality; at the level of gods and goddesses one is in contact with only what is penultimately real. The ultimate in this system is an impersonal reality called Brahman, and the knowledge of this Brahman is the ultimate summum bonum in this school of thought, or what is called mokṣa. The Holy Fool’s situation in Heaven is one in which he is in Heaven, yet in a sense not in it – in the sense that he is not fully exploiting the opportunity of being in Heaven. In a similar sense, Swami Vivekananda is in “Heaven,” because he has had the realization of an ultimate personal reality in the presence of the goddess, but he has still not had the realization of the ultimate impersonal reality, called Brahman. His prayer to the goddess was as follows: “I don’t want anything else, Mother; do grant me divine knowledge and devotion only.” The word for devotion in Hinduism is bhakti and for knowledge is jña ̄na; it is only through jñāna that one reaches the summum bonum of the impersonal Brahman. Vivekananda had asked for both devotion and knowledge, but had not yet attained both. He had obtained the result of bhakti, which is the knowledge of the personal god or goddess, but had yet to achieve ultimate insight into the impersonal Brahman. According to the account of his life, this realization was given to Vivekananda by his master, Ramakrishna, later, but then withheld so that Vivekananda could continue to function in this world. There is the danger of getting zapped completely after attaining knowledge of the impersonal Brahman. Another interesting point of comparison is that although both are, in a sense, in “heaven,” both refrain from enjoying the “material” benefits of it. The Holy Fool is in Heaven, but is satisfied with bread and butter. Swami Vivekananda has a divine experience, but he and his family also must remain satisfied with simple food and clothing, which Ramakrishna obtained for them by interceding with the goddess. The point of convergence which emerges from the two accounts seems to be that one has to rise above material aspirations in order to have a higher spiritual experience. This is quite an interesting point, because one feature of foolishness is one’s inability to take full material advantage of a situation. For instance, if one had to choose between a job, which offered $10,000 as a salary, and another, which offered $15,000, and one opted for the lower amount, then one is likely to be criticized for having acted foolishly by not going for the more materially advantageous option. Of course, one’s choice could have a deeper reason underlying it. It could be that the job with the lesser salary also gave one more holiday time or offered other advantages. One can think of a similar situation in which a girl was offered the choice between marrying a rich person and a not-­so rich person, and she chose the latter option. She, too, might have to explain why she acted so “foolishly” to her friends. This aspect of the comparison, in which neither the Holy Fool nor Swami Vivekananda were tempted by the more positive material rewards, is instructive. Foolishness here seems to serve as a defense against temptation.

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Important to the comparison of the situations in Judaism and Hinduism is the concept of the human person entertained in these traditions. There is, of course, a great variety of positions within both the traditions on this issue. One would, however, perhaps not be off the mark to maintain that the concept of the human person in Judaism views the person as consisting of a body, which belongs to the realm of matter, and a soul, which belongs to the realm of the spirit. There is that famous line in Ecclesiastes (12:7): “Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto the God who gave it.” Or, in other words, the human being could be said to consist of both a material and an immaterial body, the latter being called the soul or spirit. One could then describe death as the separation of these two bodies. This way of putting it allows us to segue to the concept of the human person in Hinduism (Sharma, 2016, p. 178). Hinduism perceives the human being as consisting of three bodies, and also of something beyond the three bodies. The bodies are known as: the physical body (sthūla s´arı ̄ra), the subtle body (sūkṣma s´arı ̄ra), and the causal body (kāraṇa s´arı ̄ra). Beyond all these, is the ātman. What is conceived of as the subtle body consists of our thoughts and emotions, and the causal body consists of that ignorance, which is keeping us separate from the ultimate reality, and of which the physical body and the subtle body are evolutes. The ātman is beyond all these three and constitutes the ultimate reality about us. The complication in the comparison is introduced by the concepts of the subtle and the causal body in Hinduism. When the individual dies physically, then it is the subtle body which moves from the body which has just died to a new body, in which it is reborn. We could refer to this subtle body also as the soul, if by soul we mean that entity which connects one physical birth with another. But the word soul in English is ambiguous and can stand for both the subtle body and the ātman, or our ultimate constituent. Taking advantage of the writing system of the English language, we may once more describe the subtle body as the soul with a lowercase “s,” and the ātman with the capital “S.” Typically, the sojourn of the soul, in the sense of the subtle body, involves a residence in heaven until the good karma of the person, which produced this outcome, is exhausted. Thereupon the being returns to the earth to perform more karma. In terms of the eschatology involved in the account of the Holy Fool, the Judaic “heaven” combines the attributes of being rewarded for good karma, as well as of being in God’s presence forever thereafter – which in Hinduism is the outcome of realizing the true nature of the relationship of one’s ātman to God. These two dimensions get telescoped in the case of the Holy Fool in Judaism. Another difference between the eschatologies of Judaism and Hinduism lies in the concept of jı ̄vanmukti in Hinduism, a term which is often translated into English as “embodied liberation” or “living liberation.” This means that, in some forms of Hinduism, the fruit of the religious life can be realized in this very life without having to go to “heaven,” whereas in the Abrahamic religious traditions, the fruit of religious life is rarely fulfilled on this earth, even if the process may have commenced on this earth itself. The preceding discussion might create the impression that Judaism and Hinduism are, in some sense, far apart, but that would be misleading because, while being eschatologically apart, they still seem to be very close in terms of religious psychology. It is said that, in Judaism, one should accord greater value to mitzvot in this life, rather than in the other life. This is very close to the Hindu idea of yoga, one form of which valorizes living in the world. If it is true that the word mitzvot literally means “that which connects,” then this sense carries over very well into the idea of yoga itself, for one etymology of the word yoga which has been suggested is “that which connects.” The account of the Holy Fool in Judaism, and the Holy Wise Man in Hinduism, could then be related to forging this connection. I was led to undertake this comparison between Judaism and Hinduism by the work of Professor Francis Clooney, who has explored the interface between Hinduism and Christianity in many of his books (Clooney 1998). It is my hope that this initial effort will pave the way for an examination of



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Hinduism and Judaism along interreligious, comparative, dialogical, and confessional dimensions (Clooney 2001, pp. 190–195).

References Clooney, F.X. (1998). Hindu Wisdom for All God’s Children. New York: Orbis Books. Clooney, F.X. (2001). Hindu God Christian God. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mahadevan, T.M.P. (1960). Outlines of Hinduism. Bombay: Chetana Limited. Peretz, I.L. (1906). Bontzye Shweig. In: Stories and Pictures (trans. H. Frank), pp. 171–184. Philadelphia, PA: The Jewish Publication Society of America. Sharma, A. (2016). Hinduism: On Its Own Terms. New Delhi: DK Printworld. Vivekananda, S. (1972). Ramakrishna and His Message. Calcutta: Advaita Ashram.

CHAPTER 25

Modification, Emanation, and Pariṇa m ̄ a-­Va d̄ a in Medieval Theistic Veda n̄ ta and Kabbalah Ithamar Theodor

The term Kabbalah refers to the Jewish mystical tradition which has its origins in twelfth-­to thirteenth-­century southern France and Spain. At the heart of Kabbalistic mysticism lies the tension between the transcendent aspect of the Supreme, the Ein Sof,1 translated literally as “without an end” or perhaps the “unlimited,” and the “sefirot” which are the emanations or manifestations of divinity in the world. The Kabbalah’s point of departure for presenting the structure of the innermost divine realms is surprisingly similar to that of the rationalistic philosophers who were in the center of Jewish theological creativity between the tenth and the fifteenth centuries. The concept of an infinite, perfect supreme being that cannot change, a concept absent from Jewish thought in antiquity, is dominant in both philosophy and Kabbalah. This concept, which was expressed in the most powerful terms by Aristotelian thinkers when they discussed the primal cause or the unmoved mover, was accepted wholeheartedly by Jewish medieval thinkers. Kabbalistic terminology often used the term “Ein Sof ” – no end or infinite – in order to designate this supreme entity. The process of emanation that brought forth the system of the sefirot was the Kabbalistic answer to the questions, “How can anything different emerge from the unchanging and eternal divinity?” (Dan 2006, pp. 39–40). The medieval Vedānta tradition has also been much engaged with the relation between divinity and the world, the One and the many; as such it has been divided into two major worldviews: pariṇāma-­vāda and vivarta-­vāda. The pariṇāma-­vādins maintain that the world is a transformation or development (pariṇāma) of ultimate reality (Brahman), whereas the second group, the vivarta-­vādins hold that the world is a false appearance (vivarta) of ultimate reality. The pariṇāma-­vādins use the simile of the production of curds from milk to explain the existence of the world, whereas the vivarta-­vādins favor the analogy of a rope being mistaken for a snake to explain the world’s (false) existence. In many ways Kabbalah is similar to the concept of pariṇāma in Hinduism, according to which divinity descends into the world through transformation, thus enabling human beings to encounter the divine reality through matter. In many ways the Kabbalistic system of the sefirot is the counterpart of the Vedāntin pariṇāma-­vāda. The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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In general, Kabbalist thinkers envisioned divinity in two aspects: God or the supreme as absolutely transcendent, limitless and unknowable, and then God as revealed through his creation, manifested in this world and characterized inter alia through personal characteristics. The first or abstract notion of divinity is expressed through the term Ein Sof, whereas the second or the particular notion of divinity is expressed through the notion of the sefirot. One such example according to which Kabbalah aspires to visualize God or Godhead in various ways is Ilanot: these are literally maps of God, which in a Kabbalistic context means that they provide diagrammatic visualizations of the sefirot – the divine categories at the heart of this tradition. The Kabbalistic tree is fully ontologized: it is understood as the true “mystical shape of the Godhead” (Chajes 2019, p. 171). Apparently, these divine emanations or representations are accessible to human perception and reveal divinity through the gross and subtle aspects of the creation. The 10 sefirot are depicted vertically beginning with the Crown or Keter being the highest. These are: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

Keter (Crown) or Mahshavah (thought). Binah (understanding). Hokmah (wisdom). Gevurah (power) or Din (stern judgment). Gedulah (greatness) or Hessed (mercy). Tif ’eret (grandeur). Hod (splendor). Netsah (eternity). Yesod (foundation). Malkhut (kingdom).

One of the most common and meaningful descriptions of the system of the sefirot is the anthropomorphic one. Accordingly, the three upper sefirot represent the divine head, the next two are the right and left arms, the sixth is the body or the heart, which also represents the masculinity of this figure. The next two represent the legs; the ninth, the phallus; and the tenth represents a separate body, that of the female divine power (Dan 2006, p. 43). Apparently, Kabbalists held two main ideas as to the nature of sefirot; the view expressed in the Zohar and by important Kabbalists was that the sefirot constitute the essence of God and are therefore purely divine manifestations.2 Since the beginning of the fourteenth century some Kabbalists viewed the sefirot as vessels created by God to contain the divine efflux; accordingly these are the instruments by which God created the world and governs it (Idel 1993). One of these treatises, probably connected with the group of yordey ha-­merkavah but without making use of this term, had particular influence on the history of Jewish esotericism and mysticism. It is called Shiur Komah (The Measurement of the Height), and this short work, attributed to Rabbi Akibah and Rabbi Ishmael, seems to be an intensely anthropomorphic description of God. It does not convey a divine or mystical experience in the generally accepted terms, rather it comprises a list of God’s limbs, beard, forehead, eyes, and irises, each of which is designated by a series of obscure, strange, unpronounceable names, and each is measured in terms of miles, feet, and fingers. The author defines the measurements he uses, and the basic one is the length of the whole universe; each limb is trillions of times longer than this basic measurement. It is possible that this anthropomorphic text is actually a polemic against more radical views that derived from the Song of Songs’ simplistic human descriptions of God. Be that as it may, for Jewish esoteric tradition, the Shiur Komah defined the standard image of God for the next millennium and a half. Its impact was enormous, and the Kabbalistic system of the divine attributes, the sefirot, is described in terms

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taken from the Shiur Komah (Dan 2006, p. 15). As mentioned, the idea of a personified image of divinity is based on the mystical text the Shiur Komah in which the divine body of the creator is described, accompanied by secret names and measurements for each limb. Thus portrayed, the divine realm is conceived in mythical, dynamic terms, tending to emphasize processes that are expressed in erotic terms. The image of the sefirot as a gigantic anthropomorphic figure is a central one in many Kabbalistic works, including the Zohar, while other Kabbalists tended to marginalize these terms and use more “logical” ones (Dan 2006, p. 43). The idea of perceiving this world as personified divinity was also present among medieval Hindu thinkers; a famous example of such a doctrine is Rāmānuja’s doctrine of śarīra-­śarīri-­bhāva, according to which the souls and the world relate to God as the body to the ensouled. Accordingly, the entire finite universe of souls and material bodies is also the body of God; thus God is the only ultimately substantial reality, and reality may be viewed as Viśiṣṭādvaita – the nondual reality of that which is internally distinguished (Carman 1974, p. 212). It is not exactly clear how literally this analogy should be taken, as this metaphor could be taken in a more gross way or, alternatively, in a more subtle one. The traditional example of the grammatical relations between a subject and a predicate adjective hints at a more subtle type of relation.3 However, the example of a material body relating to its soul would be more concrete or gross. Whatever the case may be, this doctrine is no doubt central to Rāmānuja (Theodor 2016, pp. 74–75). It seems that one of the most interesting examples of this divine personification may be found in the earlier medieval text, the Bhāgavata Purāṇa (BhP). The Bhāgavata Purāṇa is a medieval Sanskrit purāṇa,4 considered to be one of the most sacred texts for some of the major Vaiṣṇava denominations. It contains 335 chapters, is approximately 14,100–14,400 verses long,5 and propounds the divinity of Kṛṣṇa, a theme expressed in a rather personal manner. The Bhāgavata Purāṇa combines Vedāntic philosophy, dramatic and aesthetic elements, and personal expressions in a unique manner, so much so that it is considered to be one of the foremost Hindu scriptures. One of its main themes is the systematic articulation of personal notions of divinity (Theodor  2016, p.  98); these notions of divinity represent the concept of pariṇāma in that these personal notions actually manifest in this world. One of these notions is the “Virāṭ Puruṣa,” a mystical universal form of divinity described in detail in the Bhāgavata Purāṇa’s second book.6 The description resembles the famous Puruṣa-­Sūkta7 as well as a similar section within the BhP.8 It examines a universal notion of God, who not only fills the entire universe, but also comprises it and is therefore physically perceived. This kind of “personal pantheism” resembles in some ways the concept of the sefirot and perhaps also the Shiur Komah; it is in one sense fictitious, as that huge figure does not display the full characteristics of a person, such as consciousness, desires, exchange of relationships, etc. However, it has the quality of being as it certainly exists physically and mentally and, moreover, once meditated upon, it exists in the mind of the meditator in a personal form. As scholarship has generally treated this notion either as mythology or as representing a Vedic orthodox worldview, we aim to shed light on this notion from a new angle, i.e., by emphasizing its theological significance in developing a personalistic awareness of divinity similar to the way the concept of the sefirot and Shiur Komah do. As the narrative unfolds, Parīkṣit has just retired to the bank of the river Ganges, having been cursed to die within seven days. He asks Śuka what should one who is about to die hear, chant, do, remember, and worship.9 The topic under discussion is therefore, how should one end one’s life; the purāṇa says that at the last stage of one’s life one should cast off all fear and sever all attachments to the body and its expansions, such as family, property, fame, and so forth. One should leave home and travel to a place of pilgrimage, bathe there, and sit in solitude. One should practice yoga, control one’s breath, and concentrate on the sacred syllable OṂ , should gradually detach oneself from sense objects, and fix one’s mind in meditation on Viṣṇu, a form of meditation which will



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soon yield bhakti or devotion. The object of meditation is the huge, gross, qualified form or body of God in which past, present, and future existence is experienced: 24 This particular body of the Supreme is all encompassing, and within it is seen the past, present and future of the entire phenomenal universe. 25 The Supreme Person in the form of a Universal Person whose body is comprised of this egg-­like universe, covered by seven layers, is the object of meditation. 26 Accordingly, the pātāla planets situated at the bottom of the universe comprise the soles of his feet, the planets named rasātala comprise his heels and toes, the mahātala planets form the ankles of the Universal Creator, while the talātala planets form the shanks of this Cosmic Person. 27 Sutala comprises the knees, while Vitala and Atala are the two thighs of this Universal Person. Oh King, they consider Mahītala, the earth to form his hips, and the vault of the sky to be his lake-­like navel. 28 The host of stars form the chest of this Primeval Person, the maharloka ­planets are his neck, the jana-­loka form his mouth, the tapo-­loka planets are his forehead, and the satya-­loka are the heads of Him who has a thousand heads.10

The description of the cosmic person starts with equating the entire universe to a gigantic person, starting from the lower planets, and going all the way up to the higher planets, representing his thousand heads. The text goes on to describe his senses: 29 The bright gods headed by Indra are his arms, the ten directions are his ears, the sound is his

sense of hearing, the two aśvinī kumāras, Nāsatya and Dasra, are the nostrils of the Supreme, fragrance is his sense of smell and the burning fire is his mouth. 30 The sky comprises his eyes, the Sun is his eyeball and his sense of seeing, the day and night are Viṣṇu’s eyelids, Brahmā is the movement of his eyelashes, Varuṇa is his palate while rasa is his tongue. 31 They say that the Vedic hymns are the head of the infinite Lord, Yama, the god of death is his fangs, feelings of affection are his teeth, the cosmic illusion, Māyā, which maddens the people is his laughter, and the unending creation of the world is the casting of his glance. 32 Bashfulness is his upper lip while greed is his lower lip, dharma is his chest and adharma is his back, Prajāpati is his penis while Mitra and Varuṇa are his testicles, the oceans are his belly, and the mountains are his heap of bones.11

Having heard about his senses and some of his organs, the text describes further bodily features along with subtle qualities – his movement,12 his action,13 his intelligence14 and his heart:15 33 Oh best of kings! The rivers are his veins, the trees are the hair of his cosmic body, the wind of infinite force is his breath, time is his movement, and the incessant flow of the three guṇas through the ages is his action. 34 Oh best of the Kurus, the wise know that the clouds are the Lord’s hair, the twilight is the garment of the all-­pervading Supreme Lord, the unmanifest pradhāna is his heart, and the moon which is the reservoir of all transformations is his mind. 35 It is known that the mahat16 is his intellectual power, and that Śiva is the internal organ17 of the Lord who dwells in the hearts of all, the horses, mules, camels and elephants are his nails; all beasts and deer are at his hips.18

Finally, his artistic qualities are described, along with the famous Vedic metaphor – his social body comprising the four varṇas (i.e., castes). The description ends by encouraging the reader to contemplate this form: 36 The various kinds of birds are his artistic expression, Manu is his depth of wisdom, the human race is his dwelling place, Gandharvas, Vidyādharas, Cāraṇas and Apsaras are his musical notes and

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the armies of asuras are his valor. 37 The Universal Soul has the brāhmaṇas as his mouth, the kṣatriyas as his arms, the vaiśyas as his thighs and the dark complexioned śūdras as his feet. The various hosts of gods are made up by him, and it is unto him that goods and works should be offered. 38 Such is the extent of the Supreme Lord’s form described to you by me. One should concentrate one’s mind and intelligence upon this huge body of the Cosmic Person, as there is nothing greater than this.19

This description no doubt resembles Ṛg Veda 10.90, the famous Puruṣa-­Sūkta.20 In regards to the Puruṣa-­Sūkta, Wendy Doniger highlights the cosmic giant’s mythological significance and the monistic worldview expressed thereby.21 We propose to add another scholarly dimension and look at this in theological terms as well. Moreover, we would like to highlight the similarity between Shiur Komah and the sefirot, and Bhāgavata Purāṇa’s concept of the cosmic person or the Virāṭ Puruṣa. The personification of the divine image is not only physical but ethical as well; as such, various Kabbalists described the sefirot as personifications of ethical values that are combined by God in order to govern the work by them. Others emphasized the philosophical pseudo-­rational character of the system, presenting it as an almost neo-­Platonic series of divine emanations. Others divided them or duplicated them into “worlds,” various layers of existence descending from pure divinity to more material, physical realms. Most Kabbalists presented intricate combinations of these sefirot and other elements (Dan 2006, p. 45). Similar to Judaism, Hinduism too links pariṇāma-­vāda not only to divine embodiment but to ethics as well. Accordingly, ethics represent the lower stages of a ladder leading to holiness, mystical union, and love of God.22 This requires a deeper look into the theologies of two notable eighteenth-­century thinkers who, in articulating their systems, have both offered interpretations to ancient classical texts. Viśvanātha Cakravartī was a Vaiṣṇava23 author who lived around the years 1640–1730;24 he grew up in present day West Bengal in the Nadia district, and later moved to Rādhā Kuṇḍa in the Mathurā district, which was an important center for Vaiṣṇava scholarship. He wrote about 20 books on Vaiṣṇava theology, and his book Sārārtha-­Varṣinī-­Ṭīkā is his commentary on the Bhagavad-­gītā.25 Rabbi Moshe Haim Luzzatto (known as the Ramhal) was his contemporary and lived in the years 1707–1746; he was an Italian Kabbalist and philosopher who wrote about 40 books. His book Mesillat Yesharim is his treatise on ethics and offers a commentary on a Baraitha26 attributed to Rabbi Pinhas. The ethical doctrine articulated by the Ramhal is grounded in the Kabbalistic doctrine of sublimating daily activities as a path for releasing the encaged sparks or souls from this material world and returning them to their divine origin; as such, elevation does not take place only through prayers, rather throughout one’s secular life and throughout one’s daily activities. Seen in this light, human life becomes a holy mission of discrimination and all one’s actions become sacred. Accordingly, each and every action performed, not only sacred or liturgical action, but daily and trivial as well, should be performed out of a deep spiritual intention and with a deep sense of a mission, of releasing the encaged sparks from this material world, and of returning them to their divine origin. Seen in this light, each and every action or work carries a mystical dimension to it, which is a scrutinization or discrimination of spirit from matter (Jacobson 1984, p. 60). Seen from this perspective, it seems that the Ramhal’s purpose in Mesilat Yesharim is to articulate or pave the path of devotion and holiness through the means of ethics (Shriki 2011, pp. 126–127). Similar to the Ramhal, whose book offers a commentary on an ancient work, Viśvanātha’s book also offers an interpretation of the ancient and classic Bhagavad-­gītā. Although there are various ways of reading the Bhagavad-­gītā,27 Viśvanātha’s commentary takes an approach quite similar to the Ramhal and highlights the doctrine of karma-­yoga. This doctrine is similarly grounded in daily



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activities and specifically activities which are grounded in dharma, or prescribed duties; it considers the daily activities to be a gate for liberation in that action could be gradually sublimated or purified. As such, the same prescribed duty which could be performed in an egoistic and self-­centered state of mind could also be performed out of a sense of duty and without attachment for its results or fruits. It could be further sublimated and performed as a dedication or devotional offering to the Supreme and when further sublimated and performed in the highest stage it could express pure devotion or a state of pure love of God. In examining the ethical doctrines of both Viśvanātha Cakravartī and the Ramhal, a striking similarity appears. Both ethical systems are grounded in a ladder-­like structure, having its root in the performance of the various religious commandments which are the mitsvot for the Jewish tradition and the Vedic commandments or viddhis for the Hindu tradition. These commandments, i.e., the mitsvot and viddhis, serve as the foundation for both Dharma and Halacha, respectively. Both ladders take these rules as points of departure and then ascend step by step until reaching the summit, which is deep absorption in holiness, or pure love of God. These two parallel worldviews are deeply grounded in an intricate set of rules which govern the individual and communal life. However, the focus of both systems is on a process of “self-­ transcendence,” a term referring to the transformation one undergoes in one’s progress from the finite realm to the infinite realm (Ward  1998, p.  153). In this process the individual gradually sublimates or purifies their attitude or internal position in regards to these rules; whereas a beginner would follow these rules in a somewhat self-­centered or egoistic state of mind, the more one makes progress in ascending this ethical ladder, the more one renounces these self-­centered and egoistic states of mind to be replaced by more contemplative and God-­conscious ones. In other words, both systems articulate a somewhat similar ladder or path which leads the individual step by step from worldly mindedness to holiness, or from a self-­centered and somewhat egoistic state of mind, through a transformation of being to a state of deep devotion to God. Ramhal’s ladder consists of nine stages and, as mentioned, is a commentary on a Talmudic text attributed to Rabbi Pinchas; this Baraitha appears in the chapter “Before Their Festivals”28 and reads: Thus we read in the oft-­quoted baraita of R. Phinehas ben Yair, “The knowledge of Torah leads to watchfulness, watchfulness to zeal, zeal to cleanness, cleanness to abstinence, abstinence to purity, purity to saintliness, saintliness to humility, humility to the fear of sin, and the fear of sin to holiness.” (Kaplan 1966, pp. 17–18)

Viśvanātha’s ethical ladder is less articulate or more implicit than that of the Ramhal; however, reading through his commentary definitely reveals that such a ladder indeed explicitly exists. His ladder consists of three main stages – sakāma-­karma, niṣkāma karma, and bhakti. Sakāma-­karma means literally to follow the Vedic rules with a desire for some gain, niṣkāma karma means literally to follow the Vedic rules without a desire for gain and bhakti means devotion or love of God. Viśvanātha’s ethical ladder contains also mixed stages, such as a state of devotion mixed with some desire for gain, devotion mixed with knowledge or scholasticism, and devotion confined to the realm of one’s nature. It also defines subtle distinctions such as the superiority of knowledge over action. The Ramhal opens Mesilat Yesharim by declaring the importance of the Mitzvot in the first chapter named “Of Man’s Duty in the World”: It is fundamentally necessary both for saintliness and for the perfect worship of God to realize clearly what constitutes man’s duty in this world, and what goal is worthy of his endeavors throughout all the days of his life. (Kaplan 1966, p. 22)

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We thus see that the chief function of man in this world is to keep the Mizvot, to worship God, and to withstand trial. (Kaplan 1966, p. 34)

This is quite similar to the Vedic or Dharmic worldview which considers human life to be grounded in the performance of the various Dharmic duties, regarding which writes Viśvanātha: One should boldly perform one’s duties, even though they may have some slight fault. This is better than performing other’s duties even if those duties are executed well and are full of good qualities. (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, p. 133)

Having emphasized the importance of performing one’s duties, which serve as the foundation for both Dharma and Halacha worldviews, the lower stages of both ethical ladders may first be examined; for the Ramhal, this represents a state of observation and contemplation of one’s bad habits and bad traits, let  alone sins or crimes. In chapter  3, “Concerning Some Phases of the Trait of Watchfulness,” he writes: In short, a man should be so attentive to his actions, and so watchful of his conduct, that he will not tolerate in himself any bad habit or evil tendency, much less any actual sin or transgression. (Kaplan 1966, p. 48)

For Viśvanātha, however, this lower stage represents an utilitarian state of performing one’s duties, or a stage in which one performs these duties with some ulterior motivation in mind. He states that the Vedic injunctions are in the realm of karma (action) and jñāna (knowledge), and that their realm is worldly or material. This is indicated by describing them as confining to the realm of the three guṇas or qualities of material nature. He writes: The Vedas have the ability to reveal only karma and jñāna and other topics composed of the three modes (traiguṇya-­viṣaya) for personal gratification. (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, p. 75) This verse speaks of the persons with wavering intelligence, involved in sakāma-­karma, who are very dull witted. They speak excellently pleasant words of the Vedas which are like a poisonous but attractive flowering plant. (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, p. 72)

This no doubt represents a strong critique of the Vedic injunctions which in their lower aspect are confined within the material nature and serve to fulfill human desires. The Ramhal looks into the higher state of Zeal in the pursuit of the Mitzvot, while overcoming human nature; in chapter 4, “Of Zeal,” he writes: To be zealous means to attend promptly to the performance of the Mizvot, and to fulfill all their particulars. Thus say our Sages, “Those who are zealous perform a Mizvah at the earliest possible opportunity.”29 In the same way that we must be ingenious and circumspect in order to escape the wiles of the Yezer,30 and to prevent the power of evil from having dominion over us or from meddling with our affairs, so must we be ingenious and circumspect in order to avail ourselves of every possible opportunity to fulfill the Mizvot and to prevent such opportunities from being lost. (Kaplan 1966, p. 96) It should be borne in mind that it is the nature of man to be inert, and that the earthiness of the physical element in him acts as a weight upon him. Man, therefore, seeks to avoid all toil and



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effort. Accordingly, a man who desires the privilege of worshiping the Creator, blessed be He, must be able to prevail over his own nature, and act with strength and energy. (Kaplan 1966, p. 98)

Apparently the Ramhal considers human nature to be an obstacle in the pursuance of the mitzvoth; the stage of zeal seems to represent a higher vision, a state where the practitioner gains a preliminary or vague sight of the creator, and as such becomes zealous and dexterous in the performance of the mitzvoth, seeing the goal beyond them. Viśvanātha’s ladder progresses further to the stage of disinterested action: There are two types of yoga explained in this section of the chapter; activities of bhakti, including hearing, chanting, and other such activities; and prescribed duties offered to the Lord without personal desire (niṣkāma-­karma-­yoga), which is expressed later in the verse karmaṇy evādhikāras te (Bhg 2.47). (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, pp. 67–68)

This stage of a disinterested performance of duty represents Viśvanātha’s version of cleanliness, or of following one’s duty without personal desires or ulterior motivations. Ramhal too ascends to the stage of cleanliness at this point of his ladder, and in chapter  10, “Cleanness,” he writes: Once a man has so trained himself in being watchful of his conduct that he has taken the first step toward being free from flagrant sin, once he has acquired the habit of zealously performing his religious duties and has developed a love and longing for his Creator, he will, by force of such training, learn to keep aloof from all worldly strivings and fix his mind on spiritual perfection, until he is altogether clean. The fire of physical passion will die out in his heart, and a longing for the divine will awaken in him. (Kaplan 1966, pp. 136–138)

Apparently, for Ramhal cleanliness represents not only extinguishing desires, but also a state of purity and clarity which allows a preliminary vision of God. Viśvanātha offers an interesting observation which considers knowledge to be higher than action. He writes: “Jñāna and karma cannot be said to be nistraiguṇya [i.e., above the guṇas of material nature, transcendental] because of the presence of sattva [goodness] in jñāna [knowledge], and rajas [passion] in karma [action]” (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, pp. 67–68). The implication is that Viśvanātha aspires to a higher state of mind, beyond action and knowledge, a state which is apparently transcendental. Ramhal describes saintliness to be grounded in separation in chapter 13, “Abstinence,” and writes: Abstinence is the beginning of saintliness. All that we have thus far set forth is what a man must do in order to be righteous; henceforth, we shall speak of what a man must do in order to be saintly. We shall find that abstinence bears the same relation to saintliness as watchfulness does to zeal. Abstinence and watchfulness constitute merely the shunning of evil; but saintliness and zeal constitute the doing of good. (Kaplan 1966, pp. 236–238)

Separation is somewhat similar to the stage of niṣkāma-­karma-­yoga, which has already been mentioned, in that it represents both a stage of detachment and absence of desire for material things and the foundation of devotion or love of God. Ramhal articulates a similar stage which he considers to be the stage of purity. In chapter 16, “Purity,” he writes: Purity consists in perfecting one’s heart and one’s thoughts. Thus David prayed, “Create in me a clean heart, O God” (Psalms 51.12). A man is pure when he does not give the evil Yezer an

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­ pportunity to influence his conduct; when wisdom and reverence rather than sin and lust govo ern all his actions, including those that pertain to the welfare of the body. A man may lead an abstinent life, insofar as he takes from the world only what is indispensable. But he must, in addition, purify his heart and his thoughts by seeking to derive from the little that he does take from the world, not pleasure and satisfaction of desire, but some intellectual and spiritual good. This teaching is conveyed in the verse, “In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths” (Prov. 3.6.). (Kaplan 1966, p. 270)

The Ramhal highlights separation or renunciation as necessary to develop closeness to the Divine Service. Viśvanātha looks on this somewhat differently and describes the state of karma-­jñāna-­ miśra-­bhakti, which refers to devotion mixed with work and knowledge: O Arjuna, because you cannot reject karma, jñāna and other processes in your present state, and are not qualified for the supreme bhakti, kevala-­bhakti, and because you should not degrade yourself to perform the inferior sakāma-­bhakti, you should perform bhakti, with a slight mixture of karma and jñāna (karma-­jñāna-­miśra-­pradhānī-­bhūta-­bhakti) but which is niṣkāma. (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, p. 325)

This is another way of examining separation or renunciation; from this point of view attachment to action and knowledge serves as an obstacle for bhakti or devotion and, as such, objects related to both action and knowledge should be renounced, as to open a space, so to speak, for pure devotion. In a footnote, Bhānu Svāmi explains this state: This is predominantly bhakti with some mixture of other elements. It is similar to karma-­yoga because activities are performed, but it is superior to karma yoga and niṣkāma-­karma-­yoga because all activities, even beyond prescribed duties, are offered to the Lord without desire. It is similar to jñāna-­miśra-­bhakti because the person has knowledge of ātmā and paramātmā. But it is superior to jñāna-­miśra-­bhakti because it has abundant appreciation of the personal features of the Lord. (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, pp. 325–326)31

Bhānu Svāmi highlights the various states of devotion; some are mixed and some are pure and, of course, the pure stage is the highest. Viśvanātha now explains a state of devotion which is performed according to one’s nature, and as such, is still not supremely pure: One should call this neither niṣkāma-­karma-­yoga nor bhakti-­yoga. The practitioners of karma-­yoga offer actions prescribed in the scriptures to the Lord, but not all of the actions they do in ordinary life. The devotees, however, offer to the Lord all the actions of their mind, prāṇas and senses. The method of bhakti is stated: “In accordance with the particular nature one has acquired in conditioned life, whatever one does with body, words, mind, senses, intelligence or purified consciousness one should offer to the supreme, thinking, ‘This is for the pleasure of Lord Nārāyaṇa’” (SB 11.2.36). (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, pp. 325–326)

Here Viśvanātha distinguishes karma-­yoga from bhakti or devotion which is performed according to one’s nature and disposition. The former relates to offering prescribed actions or viddhis to the Lord, whereas the latter relates to offering everything one does with body, words, mind, senses, intelligence, or consciousness to the supreme, thinking it to be for the pleasure of the Lord. Ramhal’s ladder now leads to love of God, which he considers to be the stage of Saintliness. In chapter 18, “Saintliness,”32 he writes:



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We see this occurring usually between friends, between husband and wife, and between father and son . . . The same is true of the man who loves his Creator faithfully, for such a man is, in a sense, a lover. The Mizvot which are explicitly commanded are to him merely an indication of the purpose which is willed and desired by God, blessed be His name. Such a man will say, “Now that I have discovered what God’s purpose is, it will guide me in going beyond the prescribed commandment, and in cultivating those phases of the commandments which, so far as I may judge, are pleasing to Him.” (Kaplan 1966, pp. 292–294)

Apparently, this stage represents pure love of God, a stage in which one performs all of the Mitzvot just for the pleasure of the Creator and out of love for him. Viśvanātha Cakravartī concludes his ladder with Pure Bhakti or pure and unmixed devotion to God: Before the discussion of niṣkāma-­karma, however, bhakti is discussed. Thus the statement nistraiguṇyo bhava to Arjuna (Bg 2.45) indicates that this section is about bhakti . . . Because bhakti alone, and no other process, is beyond the three modes, a person transcends the modes only by performing bhakti-­yoga. (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, pp. 67–68)

Viśvanātha emphasizes this point elsewhere where he states that bhakti is beyond material nature: “The nirguṇa nature of bhakti is also well supported by the statements of the Eleventh Canto of Bhāgavatam” (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, p. 67). At last Viśvanātha describes bhakti as a state of complete absorption in the Supreme: Or the phrase man-­manā bhava can mean: “Be situated with your mind completely absorbed in me, Śyāmasundara, with moon-­like face, with shining locks of hair and beautiful eyebrows, raining nectar in the form of glances of sweet mercy.” And then bhava mad-­bhaktaḥ can mean, “And give all your senses such as the ears to me.” Adore me (bhava mad-­bhaktaḥ) using all the senses with such services as hearing, chanting, seeing my mūrti, cleaning and anointing my temple, picking flowers, and offering me garlands, ornaments, umbrella and cāmara. Of these four – thinking of me with the mind, serving me with the senses, worshipping me with items, and offering respects to me with the whole body – do all of them or any of them, and you will attain me (mām eva eśyasi). Make an offering of your mind, your senses, or items of worship unto me, I will respond and give myself to you. (Bhānu Svāmī 2003, p. 609)

This state represents the culmination of Viśvanātha’s ladder, and it represents pure devotion, untouched by attachment to action and knowledge, spontaneous and above any conditioning of one’s nature. We have described the Ramhal’s ladder up to the point of saintliness. From here his ladder continues as follows: “Saintliness leads to Humility; Humility leads to Fear of Sin; Fear of Sin leads to Holiness; Holiness leads to the Holy Spirit, and the Holy Spirit leads to the Revival of the Dead.” However, we will leave it there and not develop this further, although no doubt much more could be said about both systems and their similarities.

Notes 1 Transliterated in Hebrew as “ēyn sōf”; translated as “without end,” “unlimited.” 2 Ancient Jewish mystical literature dated second–fifth centuries ce describing, among other topics, the journey of the soul to the higher realms of divinity or heaven.

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3 In this interpretation “the world” and “the soul” are the predicates of God in the same way that “blue” is the predicate of “sky” in the sentence “The sky is blue.” The blueness of the sky and the sky are in a sense undifferentiated, since one cannot separate the sky from its blueness. However, there is a distinction as “sky” is one thing and “blue” is another. This is Rāmānuja’s attempt to maintain the idea that reality is nondual but at the same time comprising varieties. 4 Presumably dated ninth century ce. 5 The exact number varies according to the edition. 6 BhP 2.1.23–38. 7 Ṛg Veda 10.90. 8 BhP, book 2, ch. 6. 9 BhP 1.19.37–38; this and other BhP quotes are my translation. 10 BhP 2.1.24–28. 11 BhP 2.1.29–32. 12 Time. 13 Existence. 14 Mahat. 15 Pradhāna. 16 The Sāṅkhya principle of intelligence. 17 Made up of manas, citta, ahaṁkāra, and buddhi. 18 BhP 2.1.33–35. 19 BhP 2.1.36–38. 20 Lit. “hymn to the puruṣa.” 21 Doniger O’Flaherty, The Rig Veda, p. 30. 22 Some of these ideas were published in my chapter Dharma and Halacha. See Theodor (2018). 23 Vaiṣṇavism is the largest Hindu denomination. 24 For a thorough discussion of his life period, see Burton (2000, pp. 13–22). 25 The “Hindu Bible,” one of the prasthāna trayī or triple foundations of the Vedānta tradition dated about fourth–second centuries bce. 26 A Talmudic text not incorporated in the Mishnah; dated about second–third centuries ce. 27 Such as Śaṅkara’s advaitin commentary. 28 Avodah Zara 20b. 29 Quoting Pesachim 4a. 30 Desire, evil inclination. 31 Note 11. 32 The Hebrew term denoted by the Ramhal is “Hasidut” which could possibly also be translated as “Devotion”.

References Bhānu Svāmī (trans.) (2003). Sārārtha, Varṣinī, Ṭīkā: The Bhagavad gītā Commentary of Śrīla Viśvanātha Cakravartī Ṭhākura, 2nd ed. Chennai: Sri Vaikuntha Enterprises. Burton, A. (2000). Temples, texts and taxes: the Bhagavad-­gītā and the politico-­religious identity of the Caitanya sect. PhD dissertation, Australian National University, Canberra. Carman, J.B. (1974). The Theology of Rāmānuja. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Chajes, J.H. (2019). Kabbalistic trees (Ilanot) in Italy: Visualizing the hierarchy of the heavens. In: The Renaissance Speaks Hebrew (ed. G. Busi and S. Greco). Milan: SilvanaEditoriale. Dan, J. (2006). Kabbalah: A Very Short Introduction. New York: Oxford University Press. Idel, M. (1993). Kabbalah: New Perspectives [Hebrew]. Tel Aviv: Schocken. Jacobson, Y. (1984). From Lurianic Kabbalism to the Psychological Theosophy of Hasidism (Hebrew). Tel Aviv: The Israeli Ministry of Defense Press.



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Kaplan, M. (1966). Mesilat Yesharim by Moses Hayyim Luzzatto. Philadelphia, PA: The Jewish Publication Society of America. Shriki, M. (2011). Or Haolam: The Life of Rabbi Moshe Haim Luzatto [Hebrew]. Jerusalem: Ramhal Institute. Theodor, I. (2016). Resorting to aesthetics: The gradual articulation of the Vaiṣṇava Vedānta tradition. Journal of Vaishnava Studies 25 (1): 65–84. Theodor, I. (2018). Dharma and Halacha. In: Dharma and Halacha: Comparative Studies in Hindu-­Jewish Philosophy and Religion (ed. I. Theodor and Y. Greenberg), pp. 73–92. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Ward, K. (1998). Concepts of God. Oxford: Oneworld.

Further Reading Dan, J. (1986). Jewish ethical literature. In: Encyclopedia of Religion (ed. M. Eliade), Vol. 8, pp. 82–87. New York: Macmillan. Theodor, I. (2010). Exploring the Bhagavad Gītā: Philosophy, Structure and Meaning. Farnham, UK: Ashgate.

CHAPTER 26

Advancing the Ritual-­Liturgical Turn in Comparative Theology Good Friday as a Case Study Daniel Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski

Introduction Over the past decade, there has been a ritual-­liturgical turn in the field of comparative theology. As a discipline, comparative theology developed with a focus on examining artifacts that are traditionally counted as theological – treatises, scriptures, learned commentaries, and other types of literary productions. While such textual focus yields valuable results, it ought not to stand alone. Comparative theologians have increasingly recognized the value of examining the lived and non-­ textual manifestations of religious traditions (Cornille  2020, pp.  93–96). Marianne Moyaert argues that “by opening up comparative theology to other sources, such as material and symbolic practices, we will discover different ways of thinking about our relationships to God” (Moyaert 2018, p. 3). Liturgical practices can also be textual in some form. For example in Christian contexts, this may consist of reading from the Christian Bible, utilizing to greater and lesser degrees written or set prayers, and employing hymnody. But these liturgies are also embodied and transient, with the deepest meaning found in the corporeal experiences of the liturgy that are by definition time bound and temporary. Recognizing that in liturgies exists the intertwining of “ritual performance and religious ideation and attestation” (Farwell  2019, p.  160), we see them already as sites of theologizing. Liturgies and rituals are not only events for religious insiders. People from other religious traditions can also be present, whether as people who attend these events in some way, as people who are subjects of the discourses and practices of these events, or as people who arise as objects of concern for those insiders who are participating. As such, the religious other is a topic for comparative theological reflection as part of the liturgical and ritual turn. SimonMary Aihiokhai argues that, “every Christian who takes seriously the demands of encountering persons of others faiths as shaped by the insights of comparative theology ought to begin to see the liturgical rituals

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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as moments of encounter with the God of the other, as well as the place of utmost generosity by which the gifts and problems of the religious other are brought before the God of utmost alterity” (Aihiokhai 2018, p. 507). In the Christian liturgical tradition, the Jewish people frequently appear as religious others about whom liturgical texts and rituals speak. An especially fraught moment for this in the liturgical year is the Good Friday liturgy. In this chapter I will use the example of the Good Friday liturgy and a revision process I applied to it informed by using the comparative ­theological method to illustrate the benefit of applying more broadly the ritual-­liturgical turn in comparative theology.

The Challenge of the Good Friday Liturgy In terms of the Christian liturgy, Jews are a “near other,” who frequently appear in services, especially in the liturgy of the word (Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski 2010, p. 92). New Testament readings commonly refer to Jews, even though it is difficult at times to perceive fully how the Jesus movement of the first few generations was meaningfully different from other Second Temple manifestations of Judaism (Fredriksen 2018). Historically, Good Friday is the day in the liturgical year when there is a heightened focus on Jews. Writing as an Anglican theologian, my focus here is on the Good Friday liturgy as it developed in the Latin West and was received into both Roman Catholic and liturgically oriented Protestant traditions. There are three particular points in this liturgy that foreground Jews as objects of concern: the passion reading from the Gospel of John, the Solemn Intercessions (or Collects), and the Reproaches (or Improperia). The earliest recorded liturgies for Good Friday included reading the passion narrative from the Gospel of John (Pierce 2002, p. 231). This account narrates the arrest of Jesus, his trial before Pontius Pilate, and his suffering, death, and burial. As with the rest of this gospel, the drama is heightened and the theological meaning of the events are foregrounded. The Gospel of John is notorious for its sweeping presentation of “the Jews” as the implacable enemies of Jesus and his disciples. The Gospel of John foregrounds the importance of properly perceiving the identity of Jesus and for the reader to make a choice about who Jesus is. The figure of “the Jews” serves as a negative foil for this choice throughout the Gospel. Much attention has been given to this enmity, with current scholarly consensus (though not unanimity) that this represents tensions between an early Jewish Johannine community and other Jews (Reinhartz 2018; Byers 2021). Regardless of its source, this depiction of Jewish hostility culminates with “the Jews” causing the death of Jesus through the manipulation of Pontius Pilate. During the medieval Good Friday service, Christians prayed for the “perfidious Jews” that God might “remove the veil from their hearts so that they would know Jesus Christ” (Wilson 1894). Such prayers reinforced the position of Jews as outside of God’s grace, removed from the covenant God made with Israel, and in need of severe moral and theological correction. At the end of the service a crucifix would be placed in front of the congregation so people could venerate the crucified body of Jesus. During this time, the liturgical chant known as the Reproaches was sung. In this piece, the voice of God accuses the Jewish people of faithlessness in rejecting Jesus as their Messiah and crucifying him instead (Pierce 2002, pp. 231–232). This ritual action was a means of embodying both the deicide charge and the supersessionist theology of the Church directed toward the Jewish people. With devotions before the cross at the dramatic center of this liturgy that all the laity were encouraged to engage in, this meant that alongside passionate devotion to Christ, the liturgy encouraged a deep hostility toward the Jewish people. Medieval Christians received the message on Good Friday that the Jews who lived in their midst were the enemies of Christians who had killed their savior.

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After the Holocaust, Christian churches admitted that their own teachings and practices had contributed to the Nazi genocide against the Jewish people. The Second Vatican Council’s decree Nostra Aetate declared that Jews should not be held responsible for the death of Jesus. Furthermore, it stated that it “deplores all hatreds, persecutions, displays of anti-­Semitism leveled at any time or from any source against the Jews” (Nostra Aetate, 4). As a result of this decree and similar statements by other Christian denominations, liturgical revisions were a key element in improving relations with the Jewish people. For instance, although some churches still use the Reproaches during Good Friday services, it is less common, and the negative language about Jews often has been removed from it. In the Roman Catholic Church, the most common version of the Good Friday service now has a new Solemn Intercession that recognizes the Jewish people’s ongoing relationship with God. This prayer replaces the ancient one that called for the ­conversion of Jews. Concerning my own Anglican tradition, the Church of England, utilizing the 1662 version of the Book of Common Prayer, prayed on Good Friday that Jews would convert from their blindness and hardness of heart. The collect reads: O merciful God, who hast made all men, and hatest nothing that thou hast made, nor wouldest the death of a sinner, but rather that he should be converted and live; Have mercy upon all Jews, Turks, Infidels, and Hereticks, and take from them all ignorance, hardness of heart, and contempt of thy word; and so fetch them home, blessed Lord, to thy flock, that they may be saved among the remnant of the true Israelites, and be made one fold under one Shepherd, Jesus Christ our Lord. (Cummings 2011, pp. 317–318)

This prayer focuses on people deemed to be outside of Christianity and needing conversion to conform to this vision of Christendom. Jews are the first people in this list since they are the fundamental group against which Christianity defined itself. The others in this prayer are themselves defined in relation to the core deficiencies of Judaism as perceived by Christians. The common supersessionist terms used to characterize the Jewish people – “ignorance, hardness of heart, and contempt of thy word”  – are then deployed against Muslims, non-­Christians, and Christian heretics. This collect makes the Jewish people a synecdoche for the faithlessness of all people on Good Friday. The 1662 Book of Common Prayer remains the official prayer book for the Church of England and many provinces of the Anglican Communion. However, contemporary revisions to Anglican prayer books in various provinces have included substitutions for this prayer. For example, the contemporary language Common Worship liturgical resources for the Church of England has a prayer for the Jewish people on Good Friday that follows the Roman Catholic Church in remembering the Jewish people as the first to receive God’s revelation. Moreover, it reverses the 1662 collect by praying that God might remove from the Church “our blindness and bitterness of heart,” a prayer of lament for past treatment of Jews by Christians (Church of England, n.d., Common Worship: Liturgy of Good Friday). The liturgies of Good Friday reveal the abiding power of embodied ritual to convey meaning. As Emma O’Donnell observes, “A collective religious experience communicates an element of the religious tradition that has been absorbed, reflected upon, practiced or acted upon, reflected upon again, and expressed in experiential terms” (O’Donnell 2018, p. 266). At its core, the Good Friday liturgy is a powerful experience of the suffering and death of Jesus Christ. The meaning of this event is mediated between texts, speech, and gestures that have been received over the centuries as a coherent and potentially transformative ritual for its participants. At the same time, the liturgical elements of Good Friday are manifold and the traditions that feed into them pluriform. As shown, one strand of these traditions is decidedly supersessionist and anti-­Jewish in nature. Over the



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c­ enturies, the Good Friday liturgy has had the potential to convey theological hostility against Jews. This potentiality has been actualized and further transposed into violence against Jews at various times in history. One ought not to see the tradition out of which liturgy arises as simply a static reality. Noting that there is a double causality in the dictum lex orandi, lex credendi, O’Donnell argues that “religious experience is shaped by tradition, yet it also exists in an interactive dynamic with the structure of the religious tradition” (O’Donnell  2015, p.  34). Understanding religious traditions as dynamic and not fixed creates the possibility for ritual (lex orandi) itself to become a site for revising teachings embedded within a tradition (lex credendi). “Rituals can be pioneering, rather than simply expressive; they can be the starting place of imaginative and creative thought, which may even challenge and contradict tradition” (Moyaert 2018, p. 15). The revisions to the Good Friday liturgy in the post-­Shoah era in a range of Christian churches illustrates this principle. The revised prayers mentioned above reveal a shift in thinking about the Jewish people. No longer are they framed as guilty of the death of Jesus or regarded as ignorant of or resistant to the true meaning of their Scriptures. Rather, they are affirmed as falling within God’s sphere of care and concern. These revisions to the liturgy are not only moral responses to the sins that Christians are guilty of toward the Jewish people. They also have a reflective and even comparative dimension to them because these liturgical revisions reveal attention to Judaism as a living religious tradition. These revised prayers began with leaders, theologians, and liturgists discerning truth in Judaism that required a revision of existing liturgy. This, in turn, informed new perspectives concerning teaching about Jews and Judaism.

Re-­encountering the Good Friday Liturgy In my home tradition of the Episcopal Church, the Good Friday liturgy as found in the 1979 Book of Common Prayer still retains the reading of the passion narrative according to the Gospel of John. It also has a prayer descended from the 1662 Book of Common Prayer. The Episcopal Church’s first prayer book from 1789 contained the prayer for Good Friday from the 1662 book. This prayer was revised in the Episcopal Church’s 1928 prayer book to read “Have mercy upon all who know thee not as thou art revealed, in the Gospel of thy Son. Take from them all ignorance, hardness of heart, and contempt of thy Word” (Hatchett 1981, p. 236). This prayer was further revised in the current 1979 Book of Common Prayer in the final Solemn Collect of the liturgy to read, “Have compassion on all who do not know you as you are revealed in your Son Jesus Christ; let your Gospel be preached with grace and power to those who have not heard it; turn the hearts of those who resist it; and bring home to your fold those who have gone astray” (Book of Common Prayer [1962] 1979, p. 280). The end of the Good Friday service concludes with devotions before a cross during which time the Reproaches are sometimes chanted, though mention of them are absent from the official liturgy itself. The 1979 Good Friday liturgy retains the challenge of language about Jews in Christian ritual. The reading of the Gospel of John remains with its repeated invocation of “the Jews” as enemies of Christ and the paradigmatic figures of unbelief. While the 1928 and 1979 Books of Common Prayer attempted to mitigate earlier negative language about Jews in the liturgy, they remain a spectral presence in this liturgy. The final Solemn Collect in its reference to those who have not heard or resist the Gospel or do not know God as revealed in Jesus Christ implies that Jewish unbelief remains a problem. Given that throughout the liturgical year, and especially in the season of Lent and Holy Week, Christians hear readings from the New Testament that situate the Jews of the time of Jesus as the first to both hear and resist his teaching and identity, Jews are

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an implicit primary referent even in this seemingly conciliatory prayer. The long tradition of Christian anxiety over Jewish unbelief is a palimpsest in this liturgy. These observations bring to mind Aihiokhai’s claim that the liturgy is a site of encounter with God who is also the God of the other. Because God’s encounter with humanity is graced, the Christian encounter with the other in the liturgy ought also to be graced. Thus the comparative theologian must ask how the concerns of the other as manifested in the liturgy become one’s own concern (Aihiokhai 2018, pp. 513–514). This has certainly been the case for me as a comparative theologian while participating in Good Friday liturgies over the years. It has been difficult for me to be present to the reading of the passion narrative and its negative presentation of “the Jews” when I knew contemporary Judaism to be a vibrant tradition full of the faith and goodness that the liturgy of that day denied. Moreover, as I would pray through the Solemn Collects of the day, I increasingly wondered how it was that these prayers, even when avoiding any obvious negative language about Jews, still had nothing affirmative to say about the Jewish people and their relationship to God. For me, the Good Friday liturgy became a site of encountering Jews – the textual Jews of the Gospel of John, the Jewish people as a rich and complex tradition, and the many Jews with whom I had personal relationships. The dynamic of that day became for me one of alienation from the liturgy and a desire for solidarity with Jews. The question that emerged for me was how the focus on Jews in the liturgy of Good Friday could move even further from a discourse of conflict and conversion to one that recognized the work of God in both the life of the people of Israel and of the Church. This question was further informed by my own comparative theological work found in the commentary I composed on the rabbinic wisdom collection Mishnah Avot (Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski 2018). In this commentary I explored what covenantal fidelity within Judaism means and how that informs a contemporary Christian theological understanding of Israel. A common claim made in historic Christian teaching was that the Church has replaced the Jewish people as Israel. One element in justifying this claim was the idea that the Law had a punitive dimension meant to constrain the Jewish people’s propensity to sin. In contrast, the Incarnation of Jesus Christ and his redemptive death and resurrection lifted the penalties of the Law for those who believed in him while condemning those Jews who continued to observe it. Outward observance of the Law in toto held no redemptive significance. My commentary shows that Judaism does not experience keeping Torah as restrictive, punitive, or lacking spiritual depth. Rather, for Jews the keeping of Torah is a graced activity and Israel is a graced community. There is an ongoing validity and vitality of the covenant between God and Israel. Jewish communities consistently experienced Torah observance as a gracious, faith-­filled experience that featured collaboration between humanity and God (Joslyn-­Siemiatkoski  2018, pp. 122–129). This insight then means that Christian teaching ought to affirm God’s ongoing covenantal fidelity to the Jewish people. This insight emerges not only in the study of rabbinic texts, but also by Christian observance of the lived experience of Judaism. Following the liturgical and ritual turn in comparative theology, I also must consider that I have observed and experienced in Jewish worship an abiding sense of Israel’s call by God into a covenantal relationship that is eternal and sure since it is grounded in God’s own faithfulness and love. For instance, the second blessing said after the recitation of the Shema, a daily part of the liturgy, declares: Deep is Your love for us, Lord our God, boundless Your tender compassion. You taught our ­ancestors life-­giving laws. They trusted in You, our Father and King. For their sake graciously teach us, Father, merciful Father, show us mercy; grant us discernment and understanding. Then will we study Your Torah, heed its words, teach its precepts and follow its instruction, lovingly



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fulfilling all its teachings. Open our eyes to Your Torah, help our hearts cleave to Your mitzvot. Unite all our thoughts to love and revere You. Then shall we never be brought to shame. Trusting in Your awesome holiness, we will delight in Your deliverance. Bring us safely from the ends of the earth, and lead us in dignity to our holy land. You are the Source of deliverance. You have called us from all peoples and tongues, constantly drawing us nearer to You, that we may lovingly offer You praise, proclaiming Your Oneness. Praised are You, Lord who loves His people Israel. (Harlow 1985, p. 104)

The Jewish self-­understanding that is encountered in its textual and liturgical traditions is that they are a people in a graced covenant with God. This does not align with the portrayal of Jews implied by the language used in the passion narrative of the Gospel of John. Any Christian prayer or other ritual action referencing or alluding to the Jewish people also ought to incorporate this Jewish self-­understanding.

Revising the Good Friday Liturgy Based on the above insights I set about developing a revised Good Friday liturgy for the Episcopal Church. I retained the majority of the structure and language of the liturgy and focused on the passion gospel and the absence of an affirmative prayer regarding the Jewish people. The problems of the Gospel of John’s passion narrative has already been noted. The repeated assertion that “the Jews” alone were responsible for the death of Jesus combined with the presentation of Pontius Pilate as a figure manipulated by Jewish leaders has had a profoundly negative impact on Jews over the millennia. A simple solution might be to simply read from a different passion narrative found in one of the synoptic gospels on Good Friday. But the 1979 Book of Common Prayer rubrically requires the reading of the Johannine passion narrative, and clergy are canonically bound to not deviate from these rubrics. As an alternative, I developed a version of the Passion from the Gospel of John for use on Good Friday that does not uniformly render the Greek hoi Iudaioi as “the Jews.” Instead, I offered another translation option for this word: “the Judeans.” In the ancient world, ethnic designation, regional belonging, and religious belief formed a cohesive unity. While today “Jew” functions primarily as a marker of religious identity, to be a Ioudaios in the ancient world was to have a reinforcing collection of identity markers, only one of which was religious. Indeed, it was Christian leaders in the patristic era that reduced Judaism to a mere religion as part of the ascendency of the Christian empire (Mason 2007). In the context of this gospel, a Jew in our contemporary religious sense could be a Judean, a Galilean, someone from the diaspora, and so forth. The tension in the Gospel of John is indeed an intra-­Jewish one, but the rivalry can also be viewed as one between Judean and Galilean actors. This rendition of hoi Iudiaoi offers congregants an alternative literal translation of the passion narrative where the opponents of Jesus are Judeans, specifically the Judean leadership. This foregrounds the struggle between a Galilean prophet and a Judean elite. Such a translation casts great irony upon the dialogue between Jesus and Pilate: Jesus cannot be the king of the Judeans because he is from Galilee after all. The sentencing of Jesus to death by Pilate becomes a case of willfully mistaken identity, an imperial miscarriage of justice against a Galilean Jewish prophet. Jesus’s kingdom certainly is not of this world, nor even of Judea (see John 18:33–19:16). There is good reason to be cautious about removing all reference to Jews in the Gospel of John (Levine 2006, pp.  159–166; Reinhartz  2018, pp.  93–108). Creating a Judenrein New Testament, as Amy-­Jill Levine calls it, would be a mistake. But, on Good Friday, when the tensions between Jews and

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Christians have led to bloodshed, this might be the day for nuance, context, and an ethically informed literal translation of the word hoi Ioudaioi. From a comparative theology context, this translation choice reflects the reality of engaging with Jewish people. If they do not recognize themselves in the language of Christian discourse, if they find themselves harmed by misrepresentations in it, part of the work of the comparative theologian is to then listen deeply to Jewish self-­understanding and ask how one can authentically present the Christian Scriptures without doing harm. One option is to attend closely to the scriptures themselves and to listen more closely to the complex narratives they reveal. And if resistance emerges around a verbal shift from “the Jews” to “the Judeans” on the part of Christians, this might reveal an unarticulated need for the presence of an other in the Good Friday liturgy that requires more theological reflection and pastoral or liturgical intervention. The other issue I addressed was a need for a positive presentation of Jews in the liturgy to counter the tensions presented in the passion narrative and the final Solemn Collect. My response was to compose a new Solemn Collect for the liturgy. It reads: Let us pray for the Jewish people who possess an eternal covenant with the Lord, who delivered them from bondage to freedom; For continued faithfulness to God’s covenant with them; For their flourishing in peace as witnesses to God’s sustaining love; For safety from all malice and harm; For the fullness of redemption for the sake of God’s Name. That unity and concord may exist between Jews and Christians, in obedience to God’s will. O God of Abraham, you planted your people Israel as the root and grafted Gentiles as wild branches into a single olive tree of praise to you: As we come near to the cross, we lament Christian acts of prejudice and violence against your faithful people, of whom Jesus Christ was born. Bless the children of your covenant, so that together we may attain the fullness of your blessing for the world.

This prayer grounds God’s redemptive work as beginning with the Jewish people from whom Jesus Christ was born. This collect states that God’s covenant with the Jewish people has never been broken and prays for their continued flourishing and safety as witnesses to God. This collect concludes with an acknowledgment of Christian harm done to the Jewish people and envisions a new life where Jews and Christians walk together in the life of God for the sake of the world. The final Solemn Collect was also revised to remove the language that prays for those who resist or are ignorant of the Gospel, language that has an implicit referent to Jews as part of the deep structure of the traditional liturgy of Good Friday. Instead it now reads: “Merciful God, the source of life and fountain of mercy, let the Gospel of your Son Jesus Christ be preached with grace and love; turn the hearts of the followers of Jesus who have harmed others in his name; lead all to repentance and amendment of life; and sustain by your loving grace all who lift their eyes to you.” This language carries the assumption that it is God who draws all people, that the Gospel of Jesus Christ can be a key means of doing that, but that there are other means to describe the work of God’s grace beyond a specifically Christian vocabulary. These prayers emerge out of a comparative theological engagement with Jews and Judaism that encounters their difference and subjectivity as meaningful on their own terms. Recognizing that Jews faithfully relate to God in terms that are both recognizable to Christians and yet with profound distinctions informs the composition of this prayer. Crucially, it seeks to affirm a shared grounding between Christians and Jews in a covenanted life with God, while also recognizing that the person and work of Jesus Christ is the paradoxical site of union and divergence. He is a site of union in so far as Christians understand him as the person who brings them into relationship with the God of Israel. But he is a site of divergence in so far as the vast majority of the people of Israel



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have not accepted the Church’s claims about his identity and work. These prayers accept this divergence not as a problem to be resolved (i.e., conversion of Jews) but as a mystery to contemplate in the context of God’s gracious activity in the world.

A Difficult Remainder: Baptized Jews in the Liturgy This intervention in the Good Friday liturgy of the Episcopal Church is an example of rectification as a type of learning in comparative theology. As Catherine Cornille describes it, rectification “involves the restoration of proper understanding of the other, and thus a new understanding of one’s own tradition in relation to the other” (Cornille 2020, p. 121). Through a comparative theology approach, I responded to specific aspects of the Good Friday liturgy that suggested Jewish culpability for the death of Jesus or the removal of Jews from their eternal covenant with God. I provided an alternate means of celebrating this liturgy while avoiding harmful discourse about Jews and Judaism. But these alternatives also involve questions regarding markers of Christian belonging. I think of these questions in terms of the category of “difficult remainders” that Francis X. Clooney encountered with his engagement with Mimamsa ritual thinking in Hindu and Vedic traditions. By difficult remainders, Clooney refers to questions concerning what to do with the remainders of sacrifices offered. But it also gestures metaphorically to the irreducible issues of particularity that are embedded within any specific tradition. Fittingly, Clooney encounters this question of difficult remainders while investigating liturgical practices (Clooney 2018). This is a value of the liturgical and ritual turn in comparative theology in that it provides another avenue for encountering the particularity of traditions that is at the heart of comparative reasoning. Here I focus on one difficult remainder, the presence of baptized Jews in the Good Friday liturgy. I had circulated this revised liturgy across a broad network within the Episcopal Church. One priest who celebrated this liturgy is a self-­described baptized Jew. This priest corresponded with me concerning an earlier iteration of the new Solemn Collect composed for Good Friday. Its final section originally began “O God of Abraham, you planted your people Israel as the root and grafted us as wild branches into a single olive tree of praise to you.” To anyone familiar with the contours of Jewish-­Christian dialogue, this refers to Paul’s metaphor in Romans 11:17–24 of the olive tree for Gentile inclusion in Israel’s covenant with God. This priest stated that as the one saying this prayer, they did not understand themselves to have ever been the wild branches of the Gentiles grafted into the olive tree of Israel. It would be better instead for this prayer to read “grafted Gentiles as wild branches.” This would then permit both baptized Jews and baptized Gentiles to offer this prayer. Crucially, the point was made to not assume everyone assembled for this liturgy was Gentile. Following this suggestion, I made this change to the prayer. For myself, I had been assuming that Jewish and Christian communities have firm boundaries. Jews are found in synagogues and Christians (or Gentiles) in churches. But this priest’s intervention upset that assumption. There is an operative assumption in Christianity that the irreducible difference of Jesus Christ means that any Jew who comes to confess him in some way ceases to be a Jew. And yet, in my experience of the Episcopal Church, it is not uncommon to find people who identify as Jewish to varying degrees and as Christian. Moreover, intermarriage and blended Jewish-­Christian families in parishes are not uncommon. Michael Wyschogrod reflected on baptized Jews in the life of the contemporary church in a 1989 letter he wrote to Jean-­Marie Lustiger, a French cardinal who famously self-­identified as a Jew. Wyschogrod affirms Lustiger’s own reflections that Jewish identity comprises both a religious and an ethnic-­national component. Indeed for Wyschogrod, the ethnic-­national component in itself is inherently religious since it is rooted in Israel’s covenant with God. Wyschogrod also

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f­ollows rabbinic opinions that a Jew remains a Jew even if they convert to Christianity, though viewed as wayward (Wyschogrod 2004, p. 205). Wyschogrod’s question then is if Lustiger identifies as both a Jew and a Christian, how ought he to proceed? For Wyschogrod, the covenantal claims of the Torah remain incumbent even on baptized Jews. And he believes that since the Roman Catholic Church in Nostra Aetate and later documents affirmed that it no longer desired the erasure of the Jewish people, but viewed their continued presence as a sign of God’s faithfulness, this means that the contemporary church needs to make space for baptized Jews to exist in both ethnic and ­religious terms (Wyschogrod 2004, p. 208). He points to the Jerusalem Council in Acts 15 for e­ vidence that “the Church is to consist of two segments united by their faith in Jesus” (Wyschogrod 2004, p. 209). Thus baptized Jewish Christians are obligated to follow the Mosaic Law while Gentiles must follow what the later rabbinic tradition identified as the Noahide commandments (cf. Genesis 9:1–7; Acts 15:19–21). Wyschogrod and Kendall Soulen have developed this line of thought to indicate that for Christianity this means fostering messianic Christian communities that encourage the full observance of halakhah and Jewish ritual and communal life while confessing Jesus Christ as Messiah and the Second Person of the Trinity (Wyschogrod 1995, pp. 236–239; Soulen 1996, p. 11). But even this neat division between Gentile and Jewish believers in Jesus is not so simple. Many baptized Jews do not opt for halakhic observance (nor do some other contemporary Jews). Moreover, there exist many interreligious households, making language about Jews in the liturgy a source of concern due to family connection rather than personal identity. These varying configurations bear witness to the complex reality of multiple religious belonging that exists in the ­contemporary world. This would make the prescriptions of Wyschogrod and Soulen difficult to fulfill. To assert that baptized Jews are simply required to maintain halakhic observance due to the findings of the Jerusalem Council is not obvious. For one, it does not contend with the tragic reality that this is perhaps the one conciliar teaching consistently ignored by the universal church. But it also does not make room for the unpredictable ways that God’s grace is active in people’s lives. If a baptized Jew finds a call for their religious life to be fulfilled in the contours of the Christian sacramental life outside of halakhic observance, is that illegitimate? What happens when baptized Jews reconfigure their religious identities outside of halakhah? The place of baptized Jews in the life of the Church is a synecdoche for the complexity of the identity of Jesus Christ as a Jew who is also the universal savior in Christian teaching. Jesus’s death and resurrection is the means by which those who believe in him are made part of the Body of Christ, a baptized body that comprises both Jew and Gentile, the particular and the general. This mirrors how Jesus Christ in his own human nature is Jewish in his particularity but this human nature is also universally representative for all peoples. A baptized Jew then carries the particularity of belonging to the people of Israel who possess a unique covenantal status and also belongs to the universal Body of Christ that is the Church, which itself has been engrafted into the life of Israel (see Romans 11:17–24). We see here a web of identities emerging out of the embodied experiences of the Good Friday liturgy that overlap and intermingle in ways that are graced, conveying new manifestations of difficult remainders.

Conclusion The liturgical-­ritual turn in comparative theology allows comparative theologians to consider more fully the embodied and enacted dimensions of religious life. As such, this allows deeper insights into the complex interactions between and within religious communities. In terms of the analysis of the Christian Good Friday liturgy, we see this in three ways. First, is the internal complexity of this liturgy and its practices itself. Ritual and liturgical expressions of believing and



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belonging vary widely and offer a broad range of possible enactments and interpretations. Second, the revisions made to this liturgy show the possibilities for interreligious and comparative learning across boundaries. The work of rectification within this liturgy in turn has implications for Christian teachings about Jews, the person and work of Jesus Christ, and the nature of redemption. Finally, the difficult remainder of baptized Jews in the Good Friday liturgy shows that rituals and liturgies are not sites of pure identity but rather spaces and events populated by people with religious identities that are potentially plural and fluid even while the formal register of a liturgy might assume a fixed and singular identity. Taken together, these insights indicate the ongoing value of developing the liturgical-­ritual turn in comparative theology.

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Pierce, J. (2002). Good Friday. In: The New Westminster Dictionary of Liturgy and Worship (ed. P. Bradshaw), pp. 231–232. London: SCM. Reinhartz, A. (2018). Cast Out of the Covenant: Jews and Anti-­Judaism in the Gospel of John. Lanham, MD: Fortress. Soulen, K. (1996). The God of Israel and Christian Theology. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. Wilson, H.A. (1894). The Gelasian Sacramentary: Liber Sacramentorum Romanae Ecclesiae. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Wyschogrod, M. (1995). Response to the respondents. Modern Theology 11 (2): 229–241. Wyschogrod, M. (2004). A letter to Cardinal Lustiger. In: Abraham’s Promise: Judaism and Jewish– Christian Relations (ed. K. Soulen), pp. 203–210. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Further Reading Boys, M.C. (2013). Redeeming Our Sacred Story: The Death of Jesus and Relations Between Jews and Christians. Mahwah, NJ: Paulist. Cohen, J. (1999). Living Letters of the Law: Ideas of the Jew in Medieval Christianity. Berkeley: University of California Press. Flannery, A. (1987). Vatican II: The Conciliar and Post-­ Conciliar Documents. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press. Little, L. (1978). Religious Poverty and the Profit Economy. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Nirenberg, D. (1996). Communities of Violence: Persecution of Minorities in the Middle Ages. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

CHAPTER 27

Creative Fidelity in Expanding the Canon Scott Steinkerchner, OP and Martin Badenhorst, OP

Francis X. Clooney pioneered interreligious learning through the close reading of texts. But what counts as an “authentic” text in any religious tradition is a complex question. This chapter will explore this issue comparatively, looking at two interestingly similar instances of canon expansion, one in First Temple Judaism and the other in Tibetan Buddhism. In about the year 622 bce, a scroll was discovered in the Temple in Jerusalem that was purportedly written by Moses six centuries earlier. Though it was contentious at the time, the scroll was eventually accepted as authentic and has become the heart of the book of Deuteronomy as we have it today. The Tibetan Book of the Dead is part of a text that was added to the scriptural canon of Tibetan Buddhism in the fourteenth century, excerpted from a set of texts called “terma” which are ­attributed to the Buddha through the mediation of the eighth-­century yogi Padmasambhava. After being written, these terma were allegedly hidden and then rediscovered by Karma Lingpa six centuries later. As one might imagine, not all Buddhists agree on the authenticity of these terma, but to Tibetans these texts have become as normative as any other scriptural source tracing back to the Buddha. Francis A. Sullivan used the phrase “creative fidelity” in explaining how to interpret various texts put forth by the magisterium of the Catholic Church. Seeking to be faithful to the sometimes-­conflicting assertions of various documents while also being relevant to the contemporary world often requires a certain amount of creativity, yet it is an essential process in applying the tradition to the present (Sullivan 1996, pp. 5–11). We are reappropriating this useful phrase in a new c­ ontext. Both of our studied texts go to lengths to demonstrate that they are faithful to their received tradition, yet they also expanded these traditions (i.e., were creative). They created ­something new by answering new religious questions while simultaneously asserting that they were nothing new. This balance of creative fidelity to the established tradition seems critical to moving it forward to address novel religious questions of a new age.

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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The Book of Deuteronomy In around 622 bce, during the reign of the Judahite King Josiah (reign ca. 640–609 bce), a scroll was discovered in the Temple in Jerusalem. The content of the scroll was validated by the prophet Hulda as a lost work of Moses, the historical lawgiver (II Kings 22). She commands the king to ­follow its precepts. This work is generally accepted to be a vorlage of the book of Deuteronomy as we know it today (Albertz 2018, p. 80). It also conveniently confirmed the process of Josiah’s religious reform already underway at a crucial moment of Jewish history.

The Politics Behind Josiah’s Accession Tensions between accommodation and exceptionalism were constantly at play in the reported ­narrative of the people of Israel in the north. They were conquered by Shalmaneser V in 722 bce, leading to the destruction of the northern capital around the Holy Mountain Gerizim. Judah in the south was eventually conquered by Nebuchadnezzar in the period of 597–587 bce, leading to the decimation of the capital Jerusalem. At the time of the destruction of the northern kingdom a reforming king, Hezekiah, ruled in the south. The Hebrew Bible reports that his piety and religious reform helped stave off the destruction of Jerusalem by the Assyrians under Shalmaneser V’s successor Sennacherib (II Kings 19:35– 36). The century between his reign and that of Josiah saw Judah fall back into accommodating polytheism, blurring the boundaries of culture and religion with those of surrounding peoples. This blurring is resisted by both the priestly and prophetic streams of Judahite religion, but more so by the prophetic, as the priestly caste living outside of Jerusalem often oversaw shrines which practiced syncretic religious rituals. The immediate events leading up to the eight-­year-­old Josiah gaining the throne of Judah was one of religious and political turmoil. Manasseh was Hezekiah’s immediate successor and reigned for 51 years. During his time syncretic practices regained a foothold and the second book of Kings reports that he set up altars for other deities in the Jerusalem Temple, established local sites which worshiped female deities, and practiced sacrificial immolation of children (II Kings 21:3–7), the latter accusation being probably more propaganda than history. Manasseh was followed by Amon, who exceeded his father’s excesses (II Kings 21:20). Two years into his reign he was assassinated by a local uprising in Jerusalem. Those assassins were then put to death by the general populace and the eight-­year-­old Josiah was proclaimed king (II Kings 22:1). By the time Josiah was 26 years old he ordered the refurbishment of the Temple, the destruction of pagan influences in the Temple, and the return of sole worship of YHWH. It is at this time the scroll is discovered (II Kings 22:8). Its contents lead to a national revival of the worship of YHWH, the destruction of all local sanctuaries (with their tendency to syncretism), and the ­concentration of the religious life of Judah on the Jerusalem Temple (II Kings 23:4ff.). At this time the liberation from Egypt emerges as a guiding mythos of the Judahite religion, ­giving a new emphasis to the Passover feast associated with that liberation, and a new emphasis on Moses its leader (Albertz 2018, p. 84). During this process of reform Josiah is supported by the prophet Jeremiah, himself a priest. Jeremiah went on to criticize Josiah’s successors who reversed the process, a reversal which would eventually end in the cultural, political, and religious crises of the Babylonian invasion, deportation of the Judahite population, and the destruction of Jerusalem and its Temple. In the face of this eventuality the scroll of Josiah, the book of Deuteronomy, renews hope for a return after disaster and capture, using the memory of Egypt to shape a renewed ­narrative of liberation and political independence.



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The Formation of Texts and Traditions into Scripture The early period of contemporary evaluation of Scripture formation in Judaism and Christianity accepted a process of development from oral transmission to written work. Julius Wellhausen offers a formulation of the formation of the traditions of the Pentateuch, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible, in his Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels in 1882. A key assumption is that writing is a creative process demanding a certain stability in the environment. This assumption lies behind some of the dating Wellhausen offered for the four streams he identified in the formation of the Pentateuch. This assumption has been subjected to much scrutiny. While not delving into the status of the current debate regarding Pentateuchal sources, there is a case to be made for texts emerging in times of great crisis and threat, where traditions have to be preserved for the future, but also need to be applied in new and effective ways to a current crisis. This gives rise to a variety of works and approaches needing to be collated, sometimes harmonized and sometimes amplified, in new sociocultural and political situations. It is the panic of loss which spurs the preservation of the religious traditions in these early days of scriptural formation, not the serene compositions of an artistic and religious class living in comfort with the means to contemplate high literature (Zenger 1998, p. 126). Even as the notion of “sacred book” starts to emerge, the oral tradition remains the primary way for the transmission of religious, social, and cultural capital. In the ancient world, the written word reminds, it does not inform de novo. Even as the later written reminders of teaching and transmission – the Mishnah and Talmud – are laid down, the oral transmission from rabbi to student remains the primary vehicle for the transmission and retention of knowledge and tradition. Central to this tradition is also the methodology of establishing conclusions, known as rib, or juridic argument. This process might offer a number of solutions, sometimes contradictory, which may be appealed to in different contexts. However, in matters religious, the appeal to a pure tradition from a blessed ancestor is central to validating innovation. In the book of Deuteronomy this ancestor is Moses.

Moses the One and the Many There is a plurality of tradition handed on from Moses. A legend holds that God spoke to Moses, Moses spoke to Aaron, Aaron spoke to the 70 elders (appointed in Numbers 11) and the elders spoke to the people. Thus, a plurality of speaking emerges – to each audience, with their specific needs, and to the needs of all (Jaffee  2001, p.  3). A plurality of views is also contained in that part of the tradition laid down in writing as insurance against ultimate loss. There is a plurality of  purpose, context, and audience over various historical contexts. Keeping the tradition alive and  flexible in changing circumstances is a greater purpose than the codification of a single ­ideology (Jaffee 2001, p. 23). Transmission of a written text to an audience of some literacy, but not complete literacy, is also performance based, drawing the listener into seeing and experiencing the tradition being transmitted. As Clooney points out, “Such texts appeal to the heart as well as the mind, as they break open, expand, and intensify psychological and bodily experiences, and induce committed readers to abandon neutrality and participate in what they are reading” (2019, p. 136). Karen Armstrong has popularized this participative approach in her work, The Lost Art of Scripture (2019). The final compilation of a written text holds many of these traditions and views together. We thus gain insight into the diversity of the tradition. Plurality of sources also spark deeper and more cogent

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responses of the tradition to changing circumstances which are then handed on. Other parts atrophy because they no longer serve the living reality of the people who receive the tradition. When the tradition then faces challenges, such as syncretism, the response to the challenge needs to carry the weight of the tradition, leading to an appeal to the past and great teachers of the past. So the plurality of responses leads back, in the case of Deuteronomy, to Moses.

The Present Shapes the Past We may discern from clear anachronisms that the past was edited to suit the needs of the present. Within Deuteronomy there are a number of clear references to both the Assyrian crisis and the Babylonian exile, neither of which have happened yet, as far as the actual setting of the narrative is concerned. These references are placed in the context of Moses and the people’s entry into the promised land. A clear material anachronism lies in Moses’s reference to iron. Even as the period attributed to  Moses in the Biblical narrative falls into the late Bronze to early Iron Age (Adler  1995), the working of iron for weaponry and structural use did not develop until Iron Age II. Early iron working produced ritual and decorative objects. Reference to iron as common to war and agriculture could only emerge during Iron Age II in the eastern Mediterranean and Levant. Deuteronomy places on Moses’s lips reference to an iron bed (Deut 3:11), iron stone working tools (Deut 27:11), a yoke of iron (Deut 28:48), and door fastenings (Deut 33:25). The last reference may point to the wealth present in Israelite society which was seen as the cause of its downfall by the seventh-­ century prophets. Not only is a later technology projected into the past, but the entire Exodus narrative and ­formulation of the laws form part of the attempt at religious and national coherence as the threat of Babylon began to parallel the Assyrian conquest of the northern kingdom of Israel. Later reworking of the texts would also project the experience of exile and return onto a foundational narrative of liberation from Egypt and conquest of Canaan. The experiences of small groups leaving Egypt over time, together with an occupation narrative as groups move into areas left vacant by the economic and cultural collapse of the thirteenth–twelfth centuries bce (Stieglitz 1990), are woven into a singular spectacular narrative of promise, liberation, and fulfillment, giving comfort to those ­facing national disaster that this cycle of promise, liberation, and fulfillment would again unfold. This projection into the past thus validates initiatives which arise to preserve national and ­religious coherence in changing circumstances. What allows for this to happen is the plurality of the oral tradition handed down, together with a growing need for a stable, written core. The core would later form the collection of sacred writings. The oral teaching is dignified by the same ­central figure, Moses, as the written tradition, allowing for plurality.

The Tibetan Book of the Dead Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, lived in the fifth or sixth century bce. About thirty years after his death, the First Buddhist Council was convened to preserve his teachings by oral recitation, gathering them into a collection in three parts, or baskets, called the Tripitaka. The Tripitaka was not committed to writing until the first century bce, at the Fourth Buddhist Council, for fear they might be lost due to famine and war. Though there are various versions, all major Buddhist schools look to the Tripitaka as the definitive source for the Buddha’s public teachings while he was alive. In Theravada Buddhist schools, the Tripitaka is seen as the definitive source of Buddhist teachings,



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coming as it does from the Buddha himself and having the guarantee of authenticity of the ­community of believers that has preserved it through the ages. While all Buddhists hold the Tripitaka as definitive, not all schools believe it is the only source of such teachings. Most forms of Mahayana Buddhism hold that the Buddha taught other things in secret, and that these secret teachings were preserved as well, awaiting a day when they could be made more widely known. The belief is that the secret teachings were more fundamental and went beyond what was taught publicly, but that most people were not ready for them, so that the secret teachings remained the preserve of the few until generally revealed. Thus, Mahayana Buddhism has a canon of definitive scriptures that goes well beyond the Tripitaka and which are more important in a practical sense. Also, while Theravada Buddhism venerates the teachings and memory of great masters, it recognizes only Siddhartha Gautama as the Buddha, who is now in his parinirvana, in ultimate peace, and does not continue actively to teach or guide his followers. In contrast, Mahayana Buddhism holds that there are an infinite number of buddhas, past and present, active in various realms, and that all of them, including the Buddha who manifested as Siddhartha Gautama, continue to guide the faithful. A Mahayana Sutra is typically tied to a particular place and time where the Buddha gave this teaching while he was alive. A classic example is the Prajnaparamita Hrdaya (The Heart of the Perfection of Wisdom or simply The Heart Sutra), which explains the fundamental emptiness of all things. This popular Mahayana scripture is said to have been given on Vulture Peak, a favorite retreat location for the Buddha while he was alive, when, through the power of the Buddha, one of his followers was able to ask Avalokitesvara, the Buddha of Compassion who lives in a different realm, about the perfection of wisdom. The Heart Sutra is said to thus come from the Buddha while he was alive, but was preserved in secret, apart from the Tripitaka, by those who were present at the time and passed it down through a secret lineage. The Heart Sutra has all the earmarks of a classic Mahayana Sutra, thus rejected by Theravada Buddhism. It speaks of an enlightened being appearing from another realm to give secret teachings on philosophical wisdom – wisdom that can turn its hearers into buddhas themselves. It was sanctioned by Siddhartha Gautama while he was alive, yet it goes beyond what is found in the public teachings of the Tripitaka and in some ways even contradicts it.

Backstory: Padmasambhava and Terma The Tibetan Book of the Dead is an English rendition of selections from the Tibetan sutra Bardo Thodol Chenmo, commonly translated as Great Liberation through Hearing during the Intermediate State, which is part of a larger work, The Profound Doctrine of Self-­Liberation of the Mind through Encountering the Peaceful and Wrathful Deities (Zab chos zhi khro dgongspa rang grol). “Bardo” literally means “between two” and it denotes what happens as a mind stream passes from one embodiment to another, a period that could be instantaneous or as long as 49 days. The Bardo Thodol explains the steps in the process, knowledge of which could be used to guide the next embodiment or to prevent it altogether. It is held as definitive teaching particularly by the Nyingma school of Tibetan Buddhism. It is generally held as sacred by all Tibetan Buddhist schools, but not held in the same reverence outside Tibet. The Bardo Thodol is a “terma,” a type of scripture that is unique to Tibetan Buddhism (for an expanded explanation of terma, see Gyatso 1998, pp. 153–161). Since Tibet was historically inaccessible and somewhat isolated from the world around it, Tibetan Buddhism has its own history of development that connects to the wider Buddhist world strongly only at specific points in time. It grew out of Mahayana Buddhism, but developed in its own unique direction with forms such as

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Vajrayana and Madhyamaka. Terma are a group of teachings that were set down in the eighth century by a pivotal figure in Tibetan Buddhism, Padmasambhava (also called “Guru Rinpoche”). The tradition tells us that King Trisong Detsen tried to establish Buddhism in Tibet by building a Buddhist monastery to house learned monks who could teach. But he could not build it because every night local demonic spirits would take apart whatever stones were laid for the monastery the previous day, and the monks were powerless against these local spirits. So the king called in Padmasambhava to quell the local spirits, which he did, not by killing them, but by forcing them to become servants of Buddhist dharma. For this task, he was awarded a consort, Yeshe Tsogyal, who was to have become the king’s wife. Padmasambhava and his consort/student Yeshe Tsogyal then proceeded to travel all over Tibet subduing local spirits to serve the dharma and practicing and teaching tantric forms of Buddhism. Padmasambhava had more wisdom to teach than the people of Tibet were ready to learn, and he could see that Buddhism would go into decline in Tibet, so he hid sacred objects and texts around Tibet to be discovered in the future when the time was right to reestablish the purity of the dharma. These hidden objects and the teaching they contain are called “terma” and those who discover such texts are called “tertons.” Though written in the eighth century, they do not begin to appear in Tibet until the eleventh century. The root text of the Tibetan Book of the Dead was discovered in the fourteenth century by the terton Karma Lingpa.

Discovery of the Tibetan Book of the Dead There are few historical records of Padmasambhava. Most of the details that paint him as a central figure in the unfolding of Buddhism in Tibet date from the twelfth century or later and come from terma texts rather than from independent literature. Terma themselves have no historical record before they were discovered. The Buddhist view of revelation allows for these texts to be held as definitive not based on the “historical” evidence as understood in a Western sense, but on the accepted history of the text as understood by Tibetans. Some scholars of Buddhism, such as Donald Lopez Jr, reject the authenticity of all terma and indeed all Mahayana sutras on historical grounds as they appear only centuries after they were purported to have been written (Lopez 2011, pp. 137–138). Nyingma Buddhist teacher and scholar Tulku Thondup Rinpoche offers an explanation of the general process of terma transmission that is completely in line with what has been stated above with no skepticism. As his name implies, Thondup is an insider – with titles “tulku” and “rinpoche” signifying that he is recognized as a reincarnate guardian of a particular lineage in the Tibetan tradition and is therefore precious to the tradition and its followers. For this study, it does not matter if the texts actually connect back to Padmasambhava or have any actual connection to the Buddha. We are examining their transmission as their proponents would have understood it when they were discovered in order to understand why they were deemed authentic, and room was made in the tradition for new definitive texts. In the case of the Tibetan Book of the Dead, the history of the text is found in several biographies of the terton Karma Lingpa (1326–1386), which reveal a complex and not altogether coherent narrative. We are following the middle path as related by Bryan J. Cuevas in his study, The Hidden History of the Tibetan Book of the Dead, in which he tells us, “This story offers a glimpse of how some Tibetan historians have envisioned the nature of certain religious texts and the power of scriptural revelation” (Cuevas 2003, p. 82). The story of the revelation that forms the basis for Peaceful and Wrathful Deities is found in an accompanying document possibly written by Karma Lingpa, the discoverer of the text, as well as in other, later histories (Cuevas 2003, p. 82). Such testimony was important, since tertons were always suspected of fraud and deceit and needed to prove their connection to Padmasambhava.



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According to this text, at the completion of the first Buddhist monastery in Tibet at Samye, which he was brought in to complete by taming the local spirits, Padmasambhava cautioned that all things fall apart, and that the king should think about what will happen in the future when people rebel against kings and knowledge of the dharma will fall away, asking: “Who then will gain the merit resulting from the fruition of past enlightened activities?” (Cuevas 2003, p. 85). In response to their despair at the possibilities, Padmasambhava offers to write a text so profound that “By simply being heard, this teaching will close the gates leading to rebirth in the lower realms; by simply understanding it, you will depart to the realm of Great Bliss [Sukhavati]; and by pondering its meaning, you will reach the level of nonregression” (Cuevas 2003, p. 86). This text is the Self-­ Liberated Wisdom of the Peaceful and Wrathful Deities, which Padmasambhava says he will hide on Gampodar mountain in Dakpo until the day when it is required. All Buddhist traditions are attentive to how teachings are transmitted from their primary source, typically the Buddha, to what we now have. The unbroken and complete transmission of teachings guarantees their authenticity. As Janet Gyatso notes, “In the Treasure tradition, transmission is usually divided into six moments, or types. The first three are the same as the three principal moments of transmission of the Old Tantras, and, ultimately, of all of the teachings of the Buddha” (Gyatso 1998, p. 158). The first three types of transmission are (1) direct mind-­to-­ mind transmission, as happens between enlightened beings in a pure realm; (2) transmission involving esoteric signs from an enlightened mind to an “awareness-­holder”; and (3) transmission into the ears of persons, as happens when a teacher teaches, either with words or through tantric practices. All three types must be involved as successive stages in all authentic transmission of dharma. In the standard narrative of the transmission of the Peaceful and Wrathful Deities, the first level occurs with “the silent but profound exchanges between the dharmakaya buddha Samantabhadra and the buddhas Vajradhara and Vajrasattva” (Cuevas 2003, p. 84). Then, in the second stage, the buddha Vajrasattva conveys the teachings to the siddha (a person who has achieved spiritual realization and supernatural power) Garap Dorje, who passes them along to Sri Simha using secret signs. Then, “sometime later, at the charnel ground Sosaling, Padmasambhava, together with the Pandit Vimalamitra and King Jnanasutra, come to sit respectfully at the feet of Sri Simha to receive his blessings. In a burst of pulsating light issuing from a stupa in the center of the charnel ground, the three humble disciples awaken to all the essential points of Dzokchen doctrine” (Cuevas 2003, p.  84). This, then, explains how Padmasambhava learned these profound doctrines through wordless transmission from the buddhas in enlightened realms. In the third transmission, ­ Padmasambhava then teaches his disciples these profound truths through tantric practices. Terma involve three more stages of transmission that are unique to Tibetan Buddhism. The first is a specific blessing of the future terton. Padmasambhava taught using tantric initiations. When what he was teaching was meant to be hidden and then rediscovered at a future time, he specifically articulated this intention to the initiate, who reciprocated with an aspirational wish to sustain this teaching over future lifetimes and reveal it at the proper time. Thus, this particular student is appointed to be the one to find this particular treasure in a future lifetime, and the power of Padmasambhava’s blessing sets up the proper karmic sequence to make it come to pass. The teaching is then transmitted to the student directly by accessing the pristine wisdom at the core of the student’s mindstream, and it is hidden there in an indestructible form. When the text is finally retrieved, it seems to be memorized, but it is more correct to say that the student regains access to the teaching by reentering the pristine state of wisdom wherein the teachings were hidden. After granting the teaching, Padmasambhava pronounces a prophecy about the discovery of the transmission. Often, it includes intimate details about the family, place and circumstances of birth, and other salient features about the terton’s life in which the text will be discovered, along

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with specific information about how this transmission will be discovered and how it should be revealed. This prophecy text is the primary legitimating device of the terton, singling them out as the only one who could discover it. Some terma do not have a written form and are simply conveyed mentally. But most terma have a written form that is buried by Padmasambhava to be discovered centuries later. The discovery of the written form awakens the teachings in the terton. The third type of transmission unique to these terma is their inscription on paper, usually by Yeshe Tsogyal, Padmasambhava’s consort, in a secret dakini script that only the terton will be able to decipher. This is a second encoding of the secrets, the first one being in the clear mind of the terton. Until the appointed time, the text remains hidden where it was buried by the master, protected by spirits. In the case of the Peaceful and Wrathful Deities, there are some disagreements about the exact prophecy, but they range from: “He will be handsome and, as a sign of his enlightened mind, will have a mole on his right thigh” to: “Perilous obstructions will originate from within this fortunate one’s own circle. [In the year of] the iron pig, beware of the violator of the samaya vows, the defilement of the black one!” (Cuevas 2003, p. 87). For Karma Lingpa, the initial prophecies pointed to him as the authentic revealer of the text, but they also specified a method and a timeline for how the texts were to be revealed, which Lingpa tried but failed to follow. Cuevas notes that there are multiple versions of Karma Lingpa’s life that do not agree among themselves, indicating that perhaps there is something being covered up, but that in all versions Karma Lingpa suffers greatly as his plans to reveal the text get thwarted. In one version, hearkening to the warning against “the violator of the Samye vows,” Karma Lingpa’s best student and his mistress have an affair and then murder him with poison to be able to run off together. “From that point on we learn nothing more about either the attendant or the mistress, other than the fact that the lineage transmitted through the student never flourished in Tibet because it had been irreparably defiled by the stain of broken vows” (Cuevas 2003, pp. 88–89). As one can see from this story, discovering the text is both a blessing and a curse. There is some disagreement about the priority of Karma Lingpa’s immediate disciples: his father, Nyida Sangye, and his son, Nyida Choje (Cuevas 2003, p. 120). In any case, it is his son who successfully passes on the entire Peaceful and Wrathful Deities to the next lineage holder, Nyida Özer (b. 1409 or 1421), who then passes them on to Gyarawa Namkha Chokyi Gyatso (b. 1430). Gyarawa was an abbot from the Memo monastery in Kongpo, and founded perhaps six or seven other monasteries during his lifetime (Cuevas  2003, p.  128). It is Gyarawa who brought these teachings out of obscurity by systematizing them and teaching them to a large number of s­ tudents, establishing at least five different lineages of teachings based on them, and in particular, encoding the Bardo Thodol into a funerary liturgy that became recognizably useful and easily replicable, and thus gained widespread use (Cuevas 2003, pp. 123–133). As much as any perceived strength of the teachings themselves, it was Gyawara’s imprimatur, adaptation, and enormous influence that gave them wide success and recognition (Cuevas 2003, p. 20). In terms of the Buddhist canon’s fundamental ability to reveal truth, the selection of texts themselves is as essential as what is contained in them. Thus, the history of their reception is as much a part of the revelatory process as their writing or their ultimate source.

Evaluating These Traditions Together Why did the book of Deuteronomy and the Bardo Thodol get added to their respective traditions’ canonical literature? The reasons are certainly complex, but there are some strong threads that run through both of these examples: they each applied the ancient tradition in new ways,



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e­ ffectively answering the new questions which were arising in a time of crisis. For the Bardo Thodol, it was how to effectively guide a rebirth to a better outcome, in an era when all of the old ways – the long hours of meditation and discipline  – seemed to be beyond the abilities of most people. For Deuteronomy, it offered the promise of the rebirth of the entire religio-­cultural system that promised ultimate salvation in the face of its ultimate demise at the hands of hostile invaders. Each of these writings were also rooted in the accepted tradition when they were discovered, both oral and written, and had advocates who authenticated them – the terton Karma Lingpa and the prophet Hulda respectively. What is created by this process of oral and sacred written tradition is a supple social and religious construct that can respond to the changing challenges of society and technology. In modern terms it is as political as it is religious, because it involves not only the aspirations of individuals, but also how these aspirations can only be met communally. The scroll that became Deuteronomy served to justify the reforms that King Josiah attempted to implement, giving hope to Judah that God would protect it, even if, for a little while, it might have to endure an exile, as happened in Egypt long ago. The Bardo Thodol spawned a movement of Nyingma practitioners who accompanied people through the process of death, guiding their trajectory through the bardo so that their next rebirth might be a better one – a fundamental concern of Buddhism. To take a third context for comparison, in the late medieval period the rediscovery of Aristotle could have undermined the Neoplatonic basis of Christian philosophy and theology. Instead, the  threading of traditions undertaken by Aquinas drew it into the inheritance of Christian ­philosophy and theology. The innovation offered by Aristotle was absorbed by the supple nature of the tradition even as it retained a tendency to become procrustean (Verschuuren 2016). However, at a time when people are looking for certainty and documentary evidence, tradition by contrast is associated with verbal communication. This impression does not reflect what theology understands by this term because, as the Spanish theologian Cesar Izquierdo notes, “the idea of tradition is to show the bond that is established between the roots, and therefore the source in the past, the present, and the future. In this way, it guards the identity of a given group and becomes necessary as a catalyst for assimilating new things without the threat of disintegrating what has been created so far” (cited in Roszak 2021, p. 254). The scroll found during the reign of Josiah and identified with Deuteronomy can thus be seen as a moment in the dialogue between Scripture and tradition. Deuteronomy fixes the tradition of the northern prophets and their warnings about the moral decay of the north – rendering them vulnerable to Assyrian empire building – into the context of Moses to emphasize that the building of a just society is a prerequisite for its survival. A program of reform is initiated after the prophet Hulda validates the document. The reform is never entirely successful as the innovation of a single national cult center challenges centuries of local, syncretistic shrines. As history unfolds, the defeat of the south by Babylon becomes the further catalyst for a codification of national, social, and religious capital. Now a society can be rebuilt after the devastation and face the future with a constantly regenerating tradition even as the scripture becomes codified and settled into what now remains a fixed inheritance. As the ­scriptural tradition becomes fixed it is accompanied by the supple tools of interpretation and tradition that plumb relevance from the fixed sources, so that the text itself retains a suppleness and renewing force throughout future generations. Whenever the tradition ossifies, it withers. This is a singular theme running through the ­diversity of Gospel accounts of the central figure within the Christian tradition, Jesus Christ. He constantly challenges ossified and self-­interested reliance on the written tradition. A literal fundamentalism grasping at select passages while ignoring the message is undermined by the words and works of Jesus. The oral traditions arising from the larger and more diverse group of disciples, not only around Jesus, but also present at the moment of singular inspiration known as Pentecost,

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allows for the personality and approach of Jesus to be handed on, while the written canon serves as a reminder of certain central themes. When the canon becomes a fixed code, the suppleness of the tradition atrophies. Within this tension and synergy of canon and tradition the followers of the spiritual path find nourishment, and it is this nurturing of their relationship with the transcendent and ineffable aspects of religion which then justifies the innovative expressions of the faith in ever-­changing contexts. Francis Clooney’s method of reading texts back and forth between different traditions is a move of creative fidelity, sparking new insights into our own sacred texts when seen in the light of other sacred texts. In this chapter, we have applied Clooney’s methodology not so much to the assertions of two texts from different traditions, but to their textual history. We have seen that the Jewish, Buddhist, and Christian communities recognize the transcendent source of these texts and validate them through an historical process. The community’s creative fidelity in expanding their canon creates a stronger, more vibrant faith better able to respond to the needs of the time.

References Adler, J. (1995). Dating the Exodus: A new perspective. Jewish Bible Quarterly 23: 44–51. Albertz, R. (2018). The recent discussion on the formation of the Pentateuch/Hexateuch. Hebrew Studies 59: 65–92. Armstrong, K. (2019). The Lost Art of Scripture: Rescuing the Sacred Texts. London: Bodley Head. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Cuevas, B.J. (2003). The Hidden History of the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gyatso, J. (1998). Apparitions of the Self: The Secret Autobiographies of a Tibetan Visionary. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jaffee, M.S. (2001). Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism 200 bce–400 ce. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lopez, D., Jr. (2011). The Tibetan Book of the Dead: A Biography. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Roszak, P. (2021). Can the pope change tradition? On tradition as a principle of progress in the light of Thomas Aquinas’ theology. Wrocławski Przegląd Teologiczny 29: 251–267. Stieglitz, R.R. (1990). The geopolitics of the Phoenician littoral in the early Iron Age. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 279: 9–12. Sullivan, Francis A. (1996). Creative Fidelity: Weighing and Interpreting Documents of the Magisterium. New York: Paulist Press. Verschuuren, G.M. (2016). Aquinas and Modern Science: A New Synthesis of Faith and Reason. Kettering, OH: Angelico Press. Zenger, E. (1998). Einleitung in das Alte Testament. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer.

Further Reading Ausloos, H. (2018). Transmission history and biblical translation: The case of Deuteronomy 9:24. Acta Theologica 26: 57–70. Baden, J.S. (2012). The Composition of the Pentateuch: Renewing the Documentary Hypothesis. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Blois, I.D. (2020). Formulas for (dis)honorable installation in Deuteronomy 26:19 and 28:37: The honorific implications of Israel’s covenant (un)faithfulness. The Catholic Biblical Quarterly 82: 381–406. Dozeman, T.B. (2000). Masking Moses and Mosaic authority in Torah. Journal of Biblical Literature 119: 21–45.



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Friedberg, A. and Hoppe, J. (2021). Deuteronomy 14.3–21: An early exemplar of rewritten Scripture. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 45: 422–457. Glanville, M. (2018). The gēr (stranger) in Deuteronomy: Family for the displaced. Journal of Biblical Literature 137: 599–623. Goswell, G.G.R. (2020). The Davidic restoration in Jeremiah 23:1–8 and Deuteronomy 17:14–20. Bulletin for Biblical Research 30: 349–366. Levison, J.R. (2003). Prophecy in ancient Israel: The case of the ecstatic elders. The Catholic Biblical Quarterly 65: 503–521. LiDonnici, L. and Lieber, A. (eds.) (2007). Heavenly Tablets: Interpretation, Identity and Tradition in Ancient Judaism. Leiden: Brill. Monroe, L.A.S. (2011). Josiah’s Reform and the Dynamics of Defilement. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pearce, S.J.K. (2013). The Words of Moses: Studies in the Reception of Deuteronomy in the Second Temple Period. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Rothstein, D. (2016). A textual history of Deuteronomy 11:4a and its place in traditions of the Reed Sea/crossing. Revue de Qumran 28: 157–173. Siegal, M.B., Novick, T., and Hayes, C. (eds.) (2017). The Faces of Torah: Studies in the Texts and Contexts of Ancient Judaism in Honor of Steven Farad. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Sommer, B.D. (1999). Reflecting on Moses: The redaction of Numbers 11. Journal of Biblical Literature 118: 601–624. Spurgeon, A.B. (2020). The covenantal protection of the innocent: Deuteronomy 24:1–4. Journal of Asian Evangelical Theology 24: 21–40. Swartz, M.D. (2012). The Signifying Creator: Contextual Sources of Meaning in Ancient Judaism. New York: NYU Press. Thondup, T. (1986). Hidden Teachings of Tibet: An Explanation of the Terma Tradition of Tibetan Buddhism. London: Wisdom Publications. Van Seters, J. (2015). The Tent of Meeting in the Yahwist and the origin of the Synagogue. Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 29: 1–10. Vârtejanu-­Joubert, M. (2005). Les ‘anciens du peuple’ et Saül: Temps, espace et rite de passage dans Nombres xi et 1 Samuel x. Vetus testamentum 55: 542–563. Wellhausen, J. (1882). Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels. Berlin: Reimer. Williams, D. (2003). Old Testament Pentecost. Scriptura 84: 498–511. Wollenberg, R.S. (2019). “A king and a scribe like Moses”: the reception of Deuteronomy 34:10 and a rabbinic theory of collective biblical authorship. Hebrew Union College Annual 90: 209–226.

CHAPTER 28

Slow Reading of Beautiful Writing Calligraphy as Vehicle for Comparative Theology Lucinda Mosher

“Each example, small and large, does its work, challenging readers to read this way, then that way, and perhaps also to double back and try again. It is a wonderfully educative process that at first may also be terribly frustrating” (Clooney 2019, pp. 6–7). In saying this, Francis Clooney has in mind a specific approach to studying Hindu and Christian classical thought and the six “small and large” texts with which he is demonstrating it (Clooney 2019, p. 151). Study of such texts is the core activity of comparative theology, defined by Clooney as an endeavor that “combines tradition-­rooted theological concerns with actual study of another tradition.” Among its tools is  a  “slow reading” methodology, the fruit of which, asserts Clooney, will be “deep learning” (Clooney 2010, p. 10). I suspect that most interreligious projects of comparative theological “slow reading” that proceed according to Clooney’s method make use of modern, fixed-­ ­ font editions (that is, the twenty-­first-­century equivalent of typesetting in the original language or in translation) of the works chosen for study. What if, instead, all of the items under study were scribed? How might we apply the principles of close, slow reading to the study of letter arts? In my exploration here, “sacred calligraphy” refers to religion-­specific letter arts of all sorts. I agree with Clooney’s ­assertion that “our time and place … urge upon us a necessary interreligious learning,” and that “diversity becomes a primary context for a tradition’s inquiry and self-­ understanding” (Clooney  2010, p.  5). Thus, letter-­arts practices from my own Christian tradition come into ­conversation with examples from Jewish K’tivah tamah (perfect writing), Islamic khaṭt ̣ (line), and Sikh scribing of Gurbani (words of the Gurus) using the Gurmukhi (Gurus’ mouth) alphabet. Interreligious study of sacred calligraphy can take fruitful advantage of Francis Clooney’s principles of “slow reading” in a m ­ anner that qualifies as an exercise in comparative theology, and with potential for “deep l­ earning” in any case.

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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Sacred Scribing “In our digital age, it is easy to forget just how fundamental writing is to human civilization,” notes Jonathan Homrighausen, an authority on a massive calligraphic enterprise, The Saint John’s Bible, produced by the esteemed letter artist Donald Jackson under commission by Saint John’s Abbey and Saint John’s University in Collegeville, Minnesota. “We forget,” says Homrighausen, “that in many cultures, the act of writing is invested with deep significance” (Homrighausen 2022a, p. 139). The very practice of religion-­informed letter arts is itself a topic for deep learning and comparative theologizing. In many religious traditions – and certainly, in the four to which I refer in this chapter – the concept of “ritualized writing” is prominent.1 In many traditions, sacred scribing takes place according to a process that is highly prescribed. We might even say that it is choreographed, or that it has a liturgical aspect – which raises the possibility that it is a vehicle of moral formation.2 Hence, the letter artist is expected to come to the project intentionally, to remain focused on the present moment, to pay great attention to detail.3 Some might see specialists in highly prescribed, ritualized writing as “craftspersons,” whereas “artists” are those who, from within a tradition, specialize in using lettering to explore and express a religion’s ideas. Many practitioners fall into both categories. Practitioners of sacred calligraphy sometimes speak of themselves as conduits: their scribing is a prayerful act; they are being “written through.”4 It is a devotional practice. When Clooney speaks of “a devotional practice – recitation, singing – that is partly replicated in slow and attentive reading,” he has in mind the close connection of “slow learning” to “slow praying” (Clooney 2019, pp. 131–132, 136). This suggests that the ritual/liturgical dimension of sacred scribing is indeed a topic for the comparative theologian’s consideration. The physical labor of handwriting of the Torah scrolls, the Gospels, the Qur’an, and the Guru Granth Sahib (the Sikh scripture) is considered holy work by their scribes and of great value by others. On its eighty-­first page, the Guru Granth Sahib declares: “Those who chant are sanctified. All those who listen are blessed, and those who write save their ancestors.” That is, those who scribe the holy book are blessed and a blessing. Calligraphic works benefit from “slow writing.” Especially when scribing a complete holy book, the letter artist draws deeply upon muscle memory. At times, this physical activity facilitates slow reading, which can, in turn, have collateral benefits. For example, Muslims commend scribing as an aid to memorizing their Qur’an; Sikhs likewise, as an aid to memorizing the Guru Granth Sahib. “The Jewish connection to the word and the art of the written word can be traced back to the very beginnings of Judaism,” explains scribe Izzy Pludwinski. “According to one interpretation of a famous midrash, the letters in the Torah received crowns because, at Sinai, God handed over his royal authority to the letters. Since then, understanding those letters, studying those words, and grappling with those texts have become paramount to spiritual development” (Pludwinski 2012, p. 4; see also Selzer 2017). As Meliha Teparić explains, Islamic calligraphy has always been seen as a sacred art – initiated by the Qur’an itself, with each Arabic letter as a sacred, living entity (Teparić 2013, pp. 297, 300). Relatedly, the Arabic word for “Qur’an-­verse” is ayah (sign). From an Islamic vantage-­point, calligraphers of Qur’an verses are making God’s very words – signs of God – physically present by means of ink on a surface. Gold and lapis lazuli, arabesque and geometric patterns may adorn that surface – which need not be paper. As S. Brent Plate notes, “the Word of God in Islam transcends the bounds of the book (muṣḥ af ), appearing on jewelry, pottery, epigraphy, wall hangings, mosaics, textiles, and coins, among other media” (Plate 2010, p. 71). By virtue of such positioning, words become more than mere words; they become bearers of sacred power – much as (in Islam, early Christianity, contemporary Buddhism, and other traditions) amulets are deemed to be. Whereas the tradition of hand scribing the complete canon of scripture is central to Judaism and has been sustained in Islam and Sikhi, for Christianity the situation is different. With the advent of the printing press, the need among Western Christians for the hand scribing of Bibles fell away.

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The practice of creating them has persisted in some parts of the world, as has Christian calligraphy in the service of other purposes. Nevertheless, among Anglicans, Protestants, and Roman Catholics in  Europe and the Americas, handwritten Bibles are rare. When, in 2011, The Saint John’s Bible (a  multivolume, physically large work begun in 1998) was completed, it was estimated that some five hundred years had elapsed since an illuminated manuscript of the entire Christian canon had been produced. The many illuminations created for it are strikingly beautiful and evocative. However, asserts Jonathan Homrighausen, this work’s uniqueness actually lies in the fact that it comprises 1,150 pages, handwritten on vellum, using medieval scribing techniques (Homrighausen 2022a, pp. 1, 11). His own experience of “the materiality of the written Torah scroll in synagogue” facilitated his appreciation of “just what The Saint John’s Bible was reclaiming in the Christian past: the Word made Flesh made book” (Homrighausen 2022a, pp. 139–140). About the choices he made for his own study, Francis Clooney says: “Each example, small and large, does its work” (Clooney 2019, pp. 6–7). Indeed, from the processes of religion-­specific letter arts come physical results that range widely in scale and purpose. From ritualized scribing ­traditions have come (and continue to come) handwritten books or scrolls containing hundreds of pages and thousands of words: scriptures, prayer books, other liturgical and instructional compilations, and illuminated documents (such as a ketubah). This is scribing meant for reading. From specialists in artistic or expressive forms of calligraphy come a plethora of items presenting a ­passage of scripture or even a single word: poster-­like wall hangings, framed pieces, plaques, ­banners – even scribing directly onto an object, a wall, the ceiling. For the most part, this is scribing meant for viewing. The boundary between these categories is fluid, but each offers many possibilities for slow reading in pursuit of comparative theological insights. Whether small or large, each item chosen for study in that way will, toward that end, do its work.

Readers’ Challenges Literally, calligraphy is “beautiful writing.” Beauty does not, however, guarantee legibility. Many calligraphic items do seem to challenge us to read this way, then that way, or to double back and try again. When one’s task is to produce an entire Torah scroll or a complete Guru Granth Sahib or Qur’an, legibility (or, at least, avoidance of confusion) is a concern. The Jewish mystical tradition discerns sacred meaning in every detail of a Hebrew letter. Jewish law demands that no letter be written in a way that could lead to its being construed as a different letter. Yet Jewish scribes have toyed with Hebrew letterforms for centuries, notes Pludwinski, pointing to ninth-­century micrography and medieval illuminated manuscripts as evidence (Pludwinski 2012, p. 4). A scribe may choose to obscure words and letters slightly, so that the onlooker must hunt for the meaning. Specialists in artistic or expressive forms of calligraphy, whatever their tradition, have ample opportunity to play with what Christian practitioner Timothy Botts describes as “the tension between legibility and creativity” (Botts 1986). By making the text even slightly less than legible, calligraphers change how the viewer’s eye processes visual information. Tension exists as well between legibility and readability; Brent Plate cautions against confusing one with the other. Legibility, he explains, “has to do with the ability to recognize the graphic appearance of particular characters or words.” A text can remain unreadable, even though it is composed of legible c­haracters (Plate 2010, p. 74n4). Commenting with regard to Islamic practice particularly, J.R. Osborn uses the neologism imagetext in order to convey that a scribed word, phrase, or passage can, simultaneously, be something written and something aesthetic. He stresses that “imagetexts do not always operate as legible linguistic signs from which to extract a specific meaning;” rather, Islamic “calligraphic displays offer an opening through which viewers may enter the contemplation of a visual image or the surrounding space” (Osborn 2008, pp. 107–108, 112, 113).



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Many elements are available for manipulation by the scribe. Thus, skilled practitioners of ­ rtistic or expressive forms of calligraphy can underscore aspects of a text’s theological import. As a Plate puts it, “interpretation itself is altered by the visual form that words take” (Plate 2010, p. 68). For example, when a text is well spaced, says Pludwinski, the eye is encouraged to “travel in a ­definite direction without ambiguity” (Pludwinski 2012, p. 14). When it is broken into sections, says Botts, the viewer is encouraged to read it all (Botts 1986).5 Letter style, size, position, texture, weight, color, character of brush strokes, and writing speed have roles to play in conveying the meaning of a text’s individual words or its overall emotion or attitude. The forms given to words make a difference. “The way words appear to their readers,” says Plate, “will change the reader’s interaction, devotion, and interpretation” (Plate 2010, p. 68). While such playing with the script is most common in calligraphic display items, books are not immune to the phenomenon. Letters in manuscripts like the Book of Kells (a collection of the four New Testament Gospels plus some other material, written in Latin circa 800 ce) are so heavily adorned that slow reading – proceeding this way, then that way, doubling back to try again – is by far the best way forward. As the flamboyant and richly illuminated Chi Rho monogram in the Book of Kells demonstrates, the appearance of letters may be just as important as what they spell.6 Plate observes that elegant scribing has the capacity to trigger “visceral, emotional responses before and beyond the intellectual capturing of verbal signification” (Plate 2010, p.70). Perhaps, then, sacred calligraphy is best approached, not by “slow reading,” but in “slow viewing.”

Reading Handwritten Scriptures Interreligiously Whatever the speed with which it will be conducted, close reading begins with a commitment to the item(s) to be read. Choices must be made. Therefore, initial skimming or glancing is an appropriate early step. Recalling that handwritten scriptures provide dimensions for consideration that a fixed-­ font edition cannot is another. We may, therefore, opt to engage interreligiously with handwritten copies of scripture (or facsimiles thereof). If so, we can proceed much as we would when engaged in dialogical close reading of fixed-­font copies. Comparative theology offers a plethora of themes to explore. We can be selective. We can use control strategies such as plan-­making, goal-­setting, question-­ asking, note-­taking, assessing our effectiveness, taking corrective action, and so on. Close reading involves critical thinking, which educational theorist John Chaffee likens to being “meticulous in examining our own thinking and that of others in order to improve our understanding” (Chaffee 1985, p. 51). Clooney would agree, asserting as he does: “our reading must be slow, patient, meticulous, and open-­ended” (Clooney 2019, p. 117). Such meticulousness includes self-­analysis and evaluation of the personal prejudices we the reader/viewer bring to the text. It demands that we examine our sources in a self-­disciplined manner, asking questions of the text, consulting experts as needed. In comparative theological efforts, I find that an interfaith adaptation of hevruta – the ancient Jewish custom of studying Torah in pairs – can be an effective methodology. By interfaith hevruta – a term I have borrowed from Rabbi Or N. Rose – I mean that two people whose religion identities differ agree to study scripture together. Accordingly, a Sikh and a Jewish person might meet regularly for dialogical close reading of the Torah and Guru Granth Sahib, bringing to each session their questions for each other as well as for the text itself. Scriptures in printed, fixed-­font form have plenty of capacity to provoke fruitful dialogical close reading; but handwritten items invite as well a consideration of how their meaning is enhanced by their very materiality: “the forms of its carbon-­black letters, the warp of its dead parchment surface, the keratin of the quills used to write it” (Homrighausen 2022a, p. xiv). Interfaith hevruta might give attention to the flow of the lines of text across the pages of handwritten scripture. A Sikh might, for example, explain to his Jewish or Muslim study-­partner that,

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when scribing the Guru Granth Sahib, the larrivar form of Gurmukhi script is preferred: no breaks between words until a full stop is reached. Until then, all words connect. What, he might ask, is the norm when scribing the Torah or the Qur’an? Do the choices made have aesthetic significance only, or is there also a theological aspect? The close reader of handwritten pages of scripture is confronted not only with the words, but also with empty spaces on the page. About those spaces, questions can arise. In my own experience, I have heard a sofer (Torah copyist) wax euphorically about the mystical meaning of the various shapes and positions of the empty spaces in a portion of the Torah; and I have heard a rabbi insist that those same empty spaces have no particular meaning at all. Explanations vary, but the spaces persist  – and therein is a metaphor for engagement with handwritten books and scrolls. The skills of critical thinking include the ability (and willingness) to acknowledge intangibles – the ability to approach the text with willingness to wonder, with willingness to tolerate the space between ­knowing and not knowing. Such “openness” allows for a sort of close reading of handwritten scripture, even if one does not know its alphabet. Over the centuries and around the globe, people who could not read scripture have “absorbed” it – a point made by Michael Patella in commenting on the mammoth calligraphic project, The Saint John’s Bible. Before the advent of the printing press, a church might have had a beautiful Gospel-­book (a compilation of the four canonical Gospels). Most ordinary Christian worshipers would have been incapable of reading its text; however, they would indeed have been able to “read” its illumination: “they could see the gold, lapis lazuli, knotted patterns, and images both illustrative and abstract. All these features made the Divine a present reality in their lives” (Patella 2005, p. 21). Something similar could be said of illuminated handwritten Qur’ans or copies of the Guru Granth Sahib. Illuminations of the latter – featuring much gold, red, and black – once were commonplace, especially in the early nineteenth century. From contemplation of handwritten copies of scripture (our own alongside someone else’s) can emerge both formal and functional comparisons that, in turn, may center on the iconicity of a sacred text itself: the book or scroll itself as a window through which to apprehend the meta-­ narrative of a story-­formed community. Discussion of iconicity might note that a Christian Gospel-­ book manuscript scribed on vellum is indeed a collection of “words made flesh” about the Word made Flesh; that Sikhi’s holy book is regarded as a living teacher, thus is enthroned and attended with great care; that Judaism’s holy scrolls are dressed and adorned before being stored. Rich theological discussion can flow from “slow reading” of ceremony: the manner in which the Guru Granth Sahib, which is regarded by Sikhs as a living teacher, is put to bed for the night; the Gospel procession by which, during a Catholic or Anglican/Episcopal or Lutheran Mass, the Word is brought into the midst of the people gathered – where it is read, then kissed before it is returned to the altar where Eucharist will be celebrated; or the moment in a Kabbalat Shabbat service when the Torah is removed from its Ark, is carried around the assembly (among whom may be those who regard it as the presence of God in their midst), and reverenced as it passes.7

Close Reading of Calligraphed Display Items This brings us to slow reading of other sorts of sacred calligraphy: scribed items meant for display. Calligraphic artworks may be simultaneously decorative and didactic. The text becomes an image – something meant to be looked at. Close reading of calligraphic artworks might proceed along the lines of lectio divina – a Christian monastic method of engagement with scripture which dates from the fourth century. Lectio divina consists of four moves: reading of a short passage of scripture, meditating on it (in order to bring fresh questions to it), praying about it, then contemplating it. “Contemplative readers may shift from viewing blocks of texts, to viewing individual words, to viewing patterns, to viewing specific letters,” J.R. Osborn explains. “Each mode provides another



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layer of meaning, as if one were constantly moving among the geometric levels of an arabesque” (Osborn 2008, p. 114). This four-­step process, which should not be rushed, may be undertaken interreligiously. When it is, it qualifies as a “spiritual and intellectual response to diversity,” which is one way that Clooney describes comparative theology (Clooney 2010, p. 8). What questions might the comparative theologian ask of calligraphic artworks, plaques, or banners, of objects adorned with beautiful script, of inscriptions on walls or ceilings? Discernment of the elements of belief, doctrine, or practice informing a work can lead to a consideration of how that work exemplifies “exegetical engagement” with a theological theme. Detection of multiple voices in a text can lead to observation of whether and how the scribing itself guides the reader to take note of them. What connections can be discerned between content and form? Calligraphy can enhance the “narrative, rhythm, rhyme, and sound” of a text, notes letter artist Ann Hechle.8 It has the potential to facilitate the visual exegesis of sacred texts or visual expression of theological concepts. Calligraphic items that highlight a portion of a larger text (which could be scripture or writings from the larger tradition or a liturgy) can be appreciated as “visual performance” of that text – much in the way a chant or a choral anthem is an aural performance thereof. In current Christian practice, visual performance might involve the arrangement of words on a surface in order to create “an impression of something” (like a temple) – “an atmosphere, rather than a literal representation.”9 In Islamic practice, such visual performance leads some to see in a calligraphed “Muhammad” (in Arabic) an imagetext of the prophet kneeling with hands raised in supplication. Islamic calligraphy often features words that swirl into or pile upon each other, as an abstract flourish or a recognizable shape. Examples include the shahada (declaration of bearing witness to God’s oneness and Muhammad’s prophethood) in the shape of a man kneeling in the midst of salat (ritual prayer); the Throne Verse (Qur’an 2:255) in Kufic script, with letters interlocking like a puzzle or brickwork; and the basmallah (the declaration “In the Name of God: the Compassionate, the Merciful”) in the shape of a pear; see Figure 28.1.

Figure 28.1  The Basmala (the invocation: “In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful”) scribed in the shape of a pear, by Shaykh Azı̄z al-­Rufā’ı̄ (1343 AH; 19224/1925 ce).

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For the devout letter artist, producing these items is an offering of beauty to God  – the One whose essence is beauty, who loves beauty, whose Names are beautiful, and who expects humanity to do the beautiful (see Mosher  2021; see also Chittick  1989, pp.  268–269; Dardess and Rosenthal 2010, p. 94). Indeed, some calligraphic artworks are best read – not letter by letter or word by word – but as images that function iconographically. The Islamic calligraphic tradition includes many examples of iconic freestanding letters, words, or phrases that have been reproduced by numerous letter artists over the centuries with the goal of “achieving the most perfect calligraphic writing,” says Meliha Teparić. “Purity and beauty of lines [are] considered as a parallel to the purity of the soul” (Teparić 2013, p. 298). Whatever we call them, such visual constructs invite contemplation. They are there to be looked at; they are also to be looked through, affecting what Brent Plate calls a “sacred gaze” (Plate 2010, p. 68). Calligraphed renditions of Allah (the [only] God), Hu (“He”; deemed God’s shortest name by virtue of being the final syllable of “Allahu”), in Figure 28.2, YHWH (which signifies God’s self-­ description “I will be what I will be” in Exodus 3:14), Ik Onkar (“One Creator” – the first words in the Sikh holy book; a graphic representation of the Infinite One achieved by combining a numeral with a letter and an arch), in Figure 28.3, IHS (in upper-­case Greek, the first three letters of “Jesus”), and other examples of nomina sacra commonly seen in icons, illuminated manuscripts, and a ­ rchitecture are reminders of (or conduits to) the story of a story-­formed community.

Figure 28.2  Hu (God’s shortest name). Blagaj Tekke, near Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina. Photo: Lucinda Mosher.



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Figure 28.3  Ik onkar (“One Creator”) – the opening statement of Sikhi’s Guru Granth Sahib (public domain image).

The same can be said of a medallion featuring the name “Muhammad” and surrounded by four smaller medallions, each bearing the name of one of the four Rightly Guided Caliphs (the series of leaders of the community of Muslims in the first decades after the death of the prophet);10 or of a hilye – a description of the Prophet Muhammad that is scribed in such a way that it calls to mind a person’s head, shoulders, and torso (Figure 28.4). Without knowing Arabic, one can “read” in these calligraphic constructs a reminder of the early history of Islam. In their study of Islamic calligraphy, George Dardess and Peggy Rosenthal suggest that, even when one cannot decipher it, one can sense its capacity to “direct worshipful attention,” thus to invite contemplation (Dardess and Rosenthal 2010, p. 91). The iconic calligraphic object can command us to look; it can also provoke us to listen. For example, letter artist Martin Wenham’s Magnificat (2008) features that single word painted on wood – the letters taking full advantage of the board’s 21.6 cm width as they tumble, one under the other, down the board’s 2.1  meter length. For participants in some streams of Christian ­practice, a beloved canticle from the Gospel of Luke 1:46–55, will come immediately to mind. So bold is Wenhan’s treatment of this single word that, in me, it provoked recollection of J.S. Bach’s exuberant setting of the canticle’s first phrase – in which a fanfare-­like utterance of “magnificat” is tossed around the choir from voice to voice.11

Slow Reading’s Rewards A slow, purposeful approach to letter artworks – especially those that prioritize being looked at over being read  – is well described by Jonathan Homrighausen as a “pilgrimage of the reading eye” (Homrighausen 2022a, pp. 2, 139). The path provides space for readers/viewers to find the words with which to explain how a particular example of letter artistry affects them. It is an approach well suited to examination of those marks on pages and other surfaces interreligiously, through the lens of “faith seeking understanding in a particular faith tradition but which, from that foundation, venture into learning from one or more other faith traditions” – that is, the lens of comparative theology as defined by Francis Clooney (Clooney 2010, p. 10). “If we want to take diversity and religious commitment seriously,” he says, “then there is need for comparative theology, a mode of interreligious learning particularly well suited to the times in which we live” (Clooney 2010, p. 4).

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Figure 28.4  Hilye-­i Şerif (narrative portrait of Prophet Muhammad), scribed by Mehmed Şefik (1820). Public domain image. Interreligious slow reading of calligraphy allows us to engage a work simultaneously as an object of scholarly analysis, a point of departure for meditation or contemplation, and a stimulus for deep learning.

Notes 1 Byran D. Lowe makes use of the term in his Ritualized Writing: Buddhist Practice and Scriptural Cultures in Ancient Japan (2017). 2 For a consideration of this as it relates to Buddhism, see Lowe (2017).



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3 For an account from a Jewish vantage point, see Friedman (2006–2014). 4 Christian letter artist Karen Gorst has made this point, as I mention in my “Writing the Sublime: Visual Hagiography and the Promotion of Interreligious Understanding” (Mosher 2018). 5 The pages of Doorposts: Sixty Great Bible Passages in Expressive Calligraphy with Notes by the Artist (Botts 1986) are unnumbered. Here I am referring to his remarks accompanying his calligraphic rendition of Mark 4:3 (pp. 14–20). 6 This is Folio 34R in the Book of Kells, available for viewing in the Digital Collection of the Library of Trinity College Dublin: https://doi.org/10.48495/hm50tr726. 7 For an interesting account of such phenomena, see Watts and Yoo (2020); see also Langer (1998). 8 Hechle is the focus of Jonathan Homrighausen in “A Pilgrimage of Words: Shaping Psalm 121 in Calligraphy” (2022b). 9 Botts (1986) – remark accompanying a calligraphy of 1 Kings 6–8. 10 Aya Sofia (Istanbul) offers exquisite examples of such medallions (or roundels). For images see https://hagiasophiaturkey.com/calligraphic-­roundels. 11 The artist himself was inspired, not by Bach, but by Monteverdi. For my commentary on the Wenham Magnificat and a photo of this work of art, see Mosher (2021).

References Botts, T.R. (1986). Doorposts: Sixty Great Bible Passages in Expressive Calligraphy with Notes by the Artist. Carol Stream, IL: Tyndale House. Chaffee, J. (1985). Thinking Critically. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Chittick, W. (1989). The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn al-­Arabi’s Metaphysics of Imagination. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Dardess, G. and Rosenthal, P. (2010). Reclaiming Beauty for the Good of the World: Muslim and Christian Creativity as Moral Power. Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae Press. Friedman, J.T. (2006–2014). Halakha for scribes. http://www.hasoferet.com/halakha-­ for-­ scribes (accessed September 13, 2022). Homrighausen, J. (2022a). Planting Letters and Weaving Lines: Calligraphy, The Song of Songs, and The Saint John’s Bible. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press. Homrighausen, J. (2022b). A pilgrimage of words: Shaping Psalm 121  in calligraphy. Postscripts 13 (2): 141–167. Langer, R. (1998). From study of Scripture to a reenactment of Sinai: The emergence of the Synagogue Torah Service. Worship 72 (1): 43–66. Lowe, B.D. (2017). Ritualized Writing: Buddhist Practice and Scriptural Cultures in Ancient Japan. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Mosher, L. (2018). Writing the sublime: Visual hagiography and the promotion of interreligious understanding. Crosscurrents 68 (3): 383–393. Mosher, L. (2021). Christian liturgy and the music of the page. The Henry Luce III Center for the Arts  & Religion. https://www.luceartsandreligion.org/christian-­liturgy-­and-­the-­music-­of-­the-­page (accessed September 13, 2022). Osborn, J.R.(W.). (2008). The type of calligraphy: Writing, print, and technologies of the Arabic alphabet. Unpublished dissertation, University of California San Diego. Patella, M. (2005). The theology of the Saint John’s Bible. ARTS Magazine 17 (1), 20–28. Plate, S.B. (2010). Looking at words: The iconicity of the page. Postscripts 6 (1–3): 67–82. Pludwinski, I. (2012). Mastering Hebrew Calligraphy. New Milford, CT: Toby Press.

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Selzer, J. (2017). Scribing: A recipe for a living tradition. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bkcgj3SKyp4 (accessed September 13, 2022). Teparić, M. (2013) Islamic calligraphy and visions. IKON: Journal of Iconographic Studies 6: 297–306. Watts, J.W. and Yoo, Y. (eds.) (2020). Books as Bodies and as Sacred Beings. Sheffield: Equinox.

Further Reading Plate, S.B. (2012). What the book arts can teach us about sacred texts: The aesthetic dimension of Scripture. Postscripts 8 (1–2): 8–25. ̇ (2008). The iconicity of Islamic calligraphy in Turkey. RES 53/54: 211–224. Schick, I.C.

CHAPTER 29

Joy in the Earth A Christian Cosmology Based on Agapic Nondualism Jon Paul Sydnor

Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad; let the sea resound, and all that is in it. Let the fields be j­ ubilant, and everything in them; let all the trees of the forest sing for joy. (Psalm 96:11–12, NRSV)

Mentor and Mentee “Students don’t repeat the work of their teachers,” Clooney said to me, at Boston College in the early 2000s. “They go on and do their own thing.” Clooney was training me to be a comparative theologian – to plumb the depths of the world’s religions so that we might better articulate the Christian vision. But he was not charging me with being a copy of Francis X. Clooney. He was charging me with being myself, and finding my own sources, and articulating my own vision. He was not practicing a pedagogy; he was practicing an andragogy, an educational approach based on equality, conversation, and exchange. Today, I would argue that his andragogy was nondual, more communitarian than hierarchical. And today, I fulfill his charge by developing a systematic Christian theology based on agapic nondualism, the belief that the Trinity is three distinct subjects of consciousness united by love into one God. Since the sustained bears the imprint of its Sustainer, we are invited into interpersonal ­community, dynamic relationality, and divine love. We are invited into the great open dance.

Divine Interdependence Sustains Cosmic Interdependence The universe is a womb for religious consciousness. Every evolution – the evolution of stars into elements, of elements into chemistry, of chemistry into biology, and of biology into consciousness – every evolution has led to increased complexity and increased capacity, culminating in the twin The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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blessings of self-­awareness and God-­consciousness. We can interpret this sprawling, magnificent process as a glorious accident that inexplicably produced us, or we can interpret it as a divine gift that begs gratitude toward the giver. If there is a giver, then our evolution into ever increasing enjoyment is no accident. It is God’s plan, mediated by matter. For this reason, “The spiritual life does not remove us from the world but leads us deeper into it” (Nouwen 1998, p. 73). The world that spiritual life leads us into is multitudinous. But this multitude is harmonious: the natural world is a cosmos, not a chaos. We should expect no less because the relational ­universe is sustained by the relational God. According to the Christian scriptures, God is love (1 John 4:8) and love only expresses itself through relationship. For this reason, God is internally related, three persons as one God. Moreover, the divine relationality is centrifugal, ever-­expanding. Like the love of a mother for her growing brood, it excludes nothing while always including more. Symbolically, the expansiveness of divine love expresses itself through the expansion of the universe, which itself expresses the nature of God (Boff 2005, p. 147). The apostle Paul agrees: “Since the creation of the world [God’s] eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things [God] has made” (Romans 1:20 NRSV; all translations are from the NRSV unless otherwise noted). Since the u ­ niverse is continually sustained by an internally related, Trinitarian God, we should expect the elements of the universe to bear the imprint of God and exist interdependently. We should expect them to exist with and through one another, as do the persons of the Trinity, within the Godhead. The concept of divine interdependence transforms our concept of divine consciousness. God cannot be pure consciousness, for even within God all consciousness is consciousness of. The Spirit is conscious of the Christ, who is conscious of the Sustainer, etc. All three are conscious of one another, while all three are conscious of creation and its inhabitants. Human consciousness, modeled on the divine consciousness, can also only be consciousness of. Our infinitely related consciousness discerns an infinitely related universe that expresses the mind of an infinitely related God.

God’s Expansive Love Invites Our Expansive Love God’s love is centrifugal. It expands because love, inevitably, presses outward. God’s love cannot be limited to any one locale or its inhabitants, nor does it favor any one locale or its inhabitants. The place and people with which we are familiar are no more divinely loved than the most foreign culture. The cosmic God loves our tribe and their tribe equally, which is absolutely. Likewise, God’s love invites our own affection to grow from the local to the universal. We find this invitation in the Bible, which enlarges allegiance from the neighbor to the stranger. The God of the Hebrews instructs: “When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. You shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God” (Leviticus 19:33–34a). Jesus himself restated this invitation through the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25–37). According to Hindu theologian Anantanand Rambachan, our kaleidoscopic cosmos is the “­celebrative multiplication of God” (Rambachan 2015, p. 12). This continual sustenance imprints God’s relational nature upon reality as connectedness. Nothing is separate from anything else; everything co-­arises and co-­originates. Expressing that openness, all aspects of material reality affect and are affected by the rest. The universe is not made up of solitary objects that bounce off each other; it is made up of waves and fields that flow into one another. Just as God is not God without any one person of the Trinity, nothing in the universe is what it is without the rest of the universe. Just as the persons of the Trinity are neither identical nor separate, but united, so the things of the universe are neither identical nor separate, but united. This union does not eradicate difference; this union joins difference.



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Hence, the difference within God is the source of the difference within the cosmos, and the harmony within God is the source of the harmony within the cosmos. For this reason, when we look to the stars and feel their unity, we sense God both within and beyond them: “Your mercy, O  LORD, is in the heavens; Your faithfulness reaches to the clouds. Your righteousness is like the  great mountains; Your judgments are a great deep; O LORD, You preserve man and beast” (Psalm 36:5–6, NKJV).

God Mediates All Blessings Through Time The continuing nature of this process suggests that it is more than just “creation.” If it is creation, then it is continuous creation or, as noted above, sustenance. The universe is not created as a single event, placed on a shelf, and forgotten. It does not and cannot continue of its own ontological momentum. Instead, its continuing existence relies completely on the good pleasure of our God who is love. Everything at every moment is being loved into existence. The natural world is an expression of God’s love, even when it erupts violently. So, God sustains all existents, while also sustaining the time through which they exist. Existence through time  – rather than timeless existence  – is a blessing. As the Buddhist philosopher Nāgārjuna observes, without time nothing new would arise and nothing old would cease (Siderits and Katsura 2013, p. 287). We could not elicit potential, act with consequence, create with inspiration, or develop beyond our current self (Cobb and Griffin 1976, p.  83). We may fear time, because “the grass withers, the flower fades, when the breath of the Lord blows upon it; surely the people are grass” (Isaiah 40:7). But time itself never withers or dies; instead, it confers potential on all things, thereby making all things continuously new. Within time nothing is permanent, so all things are changeable. Hence, in a dynamic universe sustained by a timeful God, our creativity, responsibility, and promise are unlimited. Change is a good, but change toward is a greater good. The feeling of movement needs the ­feeling of destination to sanctify it. Jesus provides that destination through his vision of the Kingdom of God, a place in which all are loved and none are excluded. Our collective entrance into the Kingdom is the future sacrament that, by anticipation, consecrates all our activity within time. For this reason, activists experience their activism as holy, whether they are religious or not, because God inspires all of God’s co-­creators.

The Trinity’s Loving, Internal Relatedness Expresses Itself in the Natural Universe as Interdependence Interdependence is not a raw theological assertion. It is a sentiment, a way of feeling life that we can find in many different contexts in many different times. The Buddha teaches the doctrine of dependent co-­origination, that everything is producing everything else, all the time. Heraclitus also discerns an underlying unity within difference: “From out of all the many particulars comes oneness, and out of oneness come all the many particulars” (Heraclitus 1991, fragment 10). The American naturalist John Muir, who immersed himself in the western wilderness, observes: “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe” (Muir [1869] 1998, p. 157). Simple physics also suggests the truth of interdependence. The philosopher Sydney Shoemaker notes that physics cannot define any aspect of the universe according to its intrinsic properties.

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Instead, everything is defined through its relationships. For example, mass is the property of ­matter that measures its resistance to acceleration, while matter is anything that has mass and takes up space. An electron is a stable subatomic particle with a negative charge, while a negative charge characterizes an atom that has gained an electron. An atom is the basic unit of a chemical element, while a chemical element is composed of atoms with an identical number of protons. All definitions rely on extrinsic, dispositional properties (how x relates to y), because x does not possess any intrinsic properties by which it can be defined (Shoemaker 2003, pp. 210–211). Nobel Prize winning physicist Richard Feynman, in a poem found in his personal notes, agrees: Principles You can't say A is made of B or vice versa. All mass is interaction. (Gleick 1993, p. 283)

These observations suggest that even the material universe is characterized by interdependence, connectedness, and co-­origination. These observations suggest that the material universe is nondual.

What is Nondualism? In philosophical terms, nondualism is a fundamental ontology of relation. It asserts that ultimate reality is interdependent and co-­originating, assigning primordiality to the Many which are called to unity as the One. This unity would not erase difference but would instead harmonize it. Indeed, the disjointedness of the Many, their dissonance and disarray, are the accidental properties of existence to be overcome. In this view, our godsends become balance and harmony rather than any eradicating absolute. Unity in diversity is the basis of all being and the ideal to which all being is summoned, through time, as becoming. We experience the co-­creation of the different elements of reality as contingency. Things are either contingent or necessary. If they are contingent, then they may or may not exist. If they are necessary, then they must exist. In other words, a contingent thing can be, but a necessary thing must be. Theologians have generally argued that only God is necessary. The universe, in contrast, is contingent on God’s sustaining grace. Nondualism goes one step further and argues that the elements of the universe are all contingent on one another. This horizontal contingency, best articulated by the Buddhist philosopher Nāgārjuna (2013), allows our continuous creation of one another by the grace of God. As the persons who are God – Sustainer, Christ, Spirit – arise through their relations, so the elements of the universe, which are sustained by God, arise through their relations. Anything related can be changed, and anything that can be changed can be improved. We are free, and because we are free, we can shepherd the universe into the Kingdom of God. Indeed, that is our calling.

Nondualism Is Not Monism “Nondual” is the English translation of the Sanskrit terms “advaita” or “advaya,” which literally mean “not-­two.” Sanskrit is the sacred language of the Hindu tradition. Some schools of Hinduism interpret “not-­two” to mean “only one.” They then propound monism, the belief that everything is



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just one thing, a pure unity, so that all differentiation is illusion. For example, the Ashtavakra Gita states, “I am always one/ without two” (Byrom 1990, p. 74, §20.2). The poem also declares: Two from one! This is the root of suffering. Only perceive That I am one without two, Pure awareness, pure joy, And all the world is false. There is no other remedy! (p. 9, §2.16) The world with all its wonders Is nothing. When you know this, Desire melts away. For you are awareness itself. When you know in your heart That there is nothing, You are still. (p. 30, §11.8)

The Ashtavakra Gita is a monistic text that rejects belief in a personal God. Instead, the Ashtavakra Gita teaches that all reality is Brahman: pure being, pure bliss, and pure consciousness. Only Brahman is real; everything else is illusion. The poem grants everyday life a certain provisional reality, like that of a dream. But in the end, salvation is the recognition of one’s own identity with Brahman. “Identity” is more than “unity.” If only Brahman exists, then your self is false, and the universe in which you live is an illusion. If Brahman is everything, then in truth, you are identical with Brahman; you are Brahman (Chāndogyopaniṣad 6.8.7). But nondualism, as we are interpreting it, is not monism. Instead, we are utilizing the nondualism of the Hindu theologian Rāmānuja, Viśiṣtạ ̄dvaita Vedānta, or Qualified Nondualism (Sydnor 2011, pp. 86–87). In this view, nondualism means indivisibly united yet internally distinguished. Nondualism discerns the unity in difference that underlies all things, as all things are grounded in God. For this-­worldly examples, we may think of the light and heat of a fire, which are distinguishable but inseparable. They are both one and two, at the same time. Physicists may think of space and time, which they call spacetime. Psychologists may think of memory, intelligence, emotions, and will, those various aspects that constitute one mind. Composers may think of the multiple notes that make up one chord – each note makes its gift, yet that gift is determined by the influence of the other notes, granting the chord its character of joy, sadness, or suspense.

Nondualism Is Active Correlation In a universe characterized by nonduality, everything is correlated to everything else. Nothing has “self-­identity” or any pure presentation without reference to context. While everything is unique and offers unique qualities to the play of relations, the effect of that uniqueness will change with context. If anything were so isolated as to be in a pure, self-­identical (imaginary) state, then it would be out of play and irrelevant. The only quality that is natural to all beings is the quality of being correlated. This correlation overflows all boundaries, so that total openness characterizes reality and everything in it. For humans, who are blessed with the freedom to interpret the universe as we wish, this

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openness can be forgotten, ignored, or denied, but only at great expense. Those who close ­themselves off will feel less. Those who open themselves up will feel more and access the inherent vitality pulsing within the universe. The assertions above may sound abstract, but they are daily experiences. For example, to continue with our musical analogy above, consider the musical note E. The note E has a defined wavelength (a unique quality) but no inherent identity; E is what it is through its relations. For example, E becomes a cheerful C major chord when played alongside the notes C and G. But E  acquires a certain sadness when played with C# and G#, forming the C# minor chord (see Chopin’s posthumous Nocturne in C# minor). Our experience of E changes, so that we do not know what E will be until we know its context. E always makes its own unique contribution, but the context influences the character of the contribution, just as the character of the contribution influences the context. Or, consider the atom. If isolated, an atom is perfectly free and absolutely inconsequential. The lone atom is constrained by its freedom. Without relations, it is without power. It can operate, but meagerly, because it cannot cooperate. But, if united with other atoms, it becomes more. It transcends its own potential. Hydrogen, for example, can combine with oxygen to form water, or nitrogen to form ammonia, or carbon to form methane. Each of these combinations is substantially different from hydrogen itself. Together, the new association exceeds even the aggregate potential of its constituent parts. Water serves purposes that neither hydrogen nor oxygen could serve alone. By combining, hydrogen and oxygen have become something new, greater than the sum of their parts. In fact, they have become other than the sum of their parts. By losing its isolation, the atom sheds its insignificance and transcends itself through synchrony. The freedom that offers the greatest transcendence is not freedom from, it is freedom for. The elements of the universe, including ourselves, are much like the notes in a musical composition. We are not simply arbitrary, nor are we fully determined by what comes before, or by what comes with. Instead, we are free to create through the relativity that time offers, thereby offering our own “unique and original form of Beauty” (Ward 1996, p. 303).

Contrasts Are Not Opposites The reciprocal relations within the Trinity charge the cosmos with dynamic reciprocity. In combination, everything co-­creates everything else, such that we can never determine where one thing stops and another starts. All transitions are gradual, as the river flows into the sea, the grassland transitions into the forest, or the plains meet the hills. The universe is one expansive continuum, without demarcation. If reality is a continuum without demarcation, if all boundaries are arbitrary and artificial, then opposites cannot exist. Difference does not oppose, and difference certainly does not annihilate. Instead, difference provides mutually amplifying contrasts that intensify experience. For fullness of life, safety needs danger, warmth needs cold, day needs night, and light needs darkness. We call the far shore of a river the “opposite bank,” but it opposes nothing. Instead, it cooperates with the near shore to grant the river its being and direction. We call the front and back of a coin “opposite sides,” but which could exist without the other? If we take away the front, the back ceases to be, and vice versa. They do not oppose; they co-­originate, like the three divine persons of the Trinity. The mutuality within God has become the mutuality within the cosmos. So thorough is this universal interdependence that, as Barbara Holmes observes, “The light … pierces but does not castigate the darkness” (Holmes 2004, p. 31).



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The Net of Indra The Buddhist tradition provides a powerful illustration of the dynamic reciprocity that we have been discussing. This provision is not surprising, since the Buddhist tradition is grounded in the doctrine of pratı̄tyasamutpāda, or “dependent co-­origination.” The Buddha taught that all phenomena co-­arise. Nothing exists self-­sufficiently, nothing stands separate from the rest, nothing has its own being. Everything comes into being with and through its relationships with all other things. Samsara is one interrelated nexus of cause and effect, wherein every cause is an infinitude of effects, and every effect becomes an infinitude of causes. To realize this interdependence is Nirvana. But how to illustrate this counterintuitive insight? The tradition offers the illustration of Indra’s net. To please the Hindu god Indra, his courtly artist resolved to create a work of stunning beauty. To do so, he spun a net throughout all universes, reaching forever in every direction. At every link in the net, he hung a sparkling jewel. Each jewel caught the light of every other jewel and reflected it, thereby containing within itself the sprawling splendor of the entire cosmos. At the same time, the light of each jewel was caught in all others, so that it was also active within them. Any one jewel would contain the universe, and be expressed throughout the universe, in one glittering cascade of light (Cook 1977, p. 2). In the vision of Indra’s net, we are the universe and the universe is us. Spiritual wealth lies beyond the bounds of any narrow ego. Instead, the infinity and exteriority of reality invite the self beyond the self into the whole. Abundance surges as the outer becomes the inner, until there is no outer and inner, only an open expanse of vitality (Siderits and Katsura 2013, p. 197). Restated in a Christian context: every element of the cosmos is perfectly open to all other elements of the cosmos, just as the persons of the Trinity are perfectly open to one another. Divine love is the lifeblood of the universe, and love expresses itself through matter as nonduality. Therefore, to live within matter is like living within God, because God has chosen to leaven matter with ­relationality. By way of consequence, any attempt to claim something for yourself, to separate it from the rest, is sin. Sin is separation. Vice tears, virtue mends, and apathy watches.

Holiness Is Relatedness The philosophical term for a metaphysics of separation is atomism. The word “atom” derives from the Greek root “a-­tom,” “uncuttable,” or “indivisible.” The Greek philosopher Democritus first conceptualized atoms, which he believed to be the most elementary particles, each possessing its own properties. Democritus theorized that the material universe, and all the change within it, could be explained as different atoms clustering together in different formations at different times. These ­differing clusters change our experience of the universe, even as the underlying atoms remain unaltered. Democritus’s atoms are much like the balls on a pool table, bouncing off each other into different formations, but never changing in themselves. Their relationships are mechanical, not organic. For Democritus, reality is composed of distinct, separable, and independent particles. Modern physics has grown well beyond Democritus’s atomism. General relativity and quantum entanglement suggest a much more interdependent universe than Democritus could have ­imagined. But in the West, metaphysics has not caught up with physics. We interpret the natural universe as deeply related to its core, but our morality remains atomistic. Workers are dollars, forests are lumber, animals are meat, and everything is dead. The illusion of separation always harms both poles of the relationship, precisely because they are inextricably related. Hence, atomism

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turns difference and distinction into shrapnel. But the sacred architecture intends for difference to harmonize, not cut. God intends distinction without separation. God intends nonduality. Nondualism denies separation, and so denies atomism. In the nondual view, God, humanity, and the cosmos are indivisible. Everything is holy because everything is intrinsically related. Indeed, holiness is relatedness.

Nondualism Is Not Nihilism Some philosophers have argued that nondualism is a form of accidental nihilism. Nihilism is the belief in nothingness. These philosophers argue that, if everything depends on its relations for existence, then nothing can exist, because things must exist before they come into relationship (King 1994, pp. 669–672). This argument belies our tendency to substantialist thought. Substantialism is the belief that everything has its proper substance, unchanging essence, or enduring nature. This substance is what relates to other substances. In this view, the ground of being is unchanging substances, not dynamic relationships. However, nondualism does not assert the nonexistence of objects; nondualism asserts the interdependence of objects. Things lack ontological independence or metaphysical autonomy. They exist contingently, based on their manifold relations. And any object’s self-­ expression will change based on its context, which means the object will change based on its context. Consider, again, the electron. As an elementary particle, an electron is absolutely simple. It is not composed of any other particles, unlike protons and neutrons, which are both made of three quarks. So, it does not depend on those other parts for its existence. All electrons share the same negative charge, the same mass, the same spin, etc. And, as an elementary particle, electrons last a very, very long time – perhaps 6.6 × 1028 years, according to the most recent calculations (“electron”; Penguin Books 2009). If electrons are perfectly simple, behaviorally identical, and vastly enduring, then don’t they refute our assertion of universal interdependence? Don’t they have independent being? Oddly, even though we may know all the properties of an electron, we cannot describe the behavior of any particular electron without knowing its context. If I ask you to imagine an electron and tell me what it is doing right now, you must imagine it in a situation. You know that, in general, it has a negative charge, but you cannot know if it is currently being attracted to a proton or repulsed by another electron. You know that, in general, it is immensely stable, but this particular electron may have just been birthed by a muon or may be on the verge of annihilation by a positron or may be about to fall into a neutron star, where it and a proton will be smashed together to create a neutron. You do not know if it is bound up in an atom or free, you do not know its energy level, etc. In other words, even though all electrons share the same properties, you cannot know anything about any particular electron until you thoroughly know its context. We learn the electron’s general properties, and we think we know the thing-­in-­itself. But there is no thing-­in-­itself. There is only the thing-­in-­relation.

Nondualism Is Not a Perennial Philosophy Some scholars of religion believe that all religions are fundamentally the same. In their view, differences between religions are accidents of history, geography, and culture, while similarities result from their shared sacred source. So, we should put away our differences and instead act together



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on our shared values to make the world a better place. These scholars frequently gather quotes from the mystical traditions of various religions, and these quotes do share a certain resonance. Since the scholars find these quotes in different times and places, they deem their collective ­teaching to be the “perennial philosophy,” the recurring, universal truth. For these scholars, the perennial philosophy is the eternal heart of all religion. There are several problems with this belief. Religions tend to be vast, long-­lasting, and literate. They produce a lot of writing, which makes it easy to find similar quotes in different traditions. By way of analogy, we can find similar rocks in each of the seven continents, even though the ­continents themselves are quite different. Moreover, the endeavor of the perennial philosophers is basically evaluative: “If we take the world’s enduring religions at their best, we discover the distilled wisdom of the human race,” argues Huston Smith (1996; emphasis added). Perennialists go to each religion, find that part within the religion that is most attractive to them, lift it out of context, and declare it to be the core truth. But this process simply reveals their own religious preference to which they ascribe transcendent authority. Anyone could do this in the way that pleases them most. The perennial philosophers tend to be mystics, but legalists could just as easily select legalistic passages from multiple traditions and declare legalism the perennial philosophy. Or, more dangerously, militants could select militant ­passages from different religions and declare militancy to be the perennial philosophy. The choice is that of the selector. Even worse, the perennial philosophy erases difference. If all religions are basically the same, then differences in thought, feeling, and practice are irrelevant. Nondualism, by contrast, finds wealth in difference. Their ritual practice, and the transformation that it offers, stimulates our ritual practice to reform. Their ethics give us a unique perspective and new insight into our own. Their thought-­worlds and lifeways open new perspectives onto our own. If all religions were the same, then no religion could challenge another. Religions frequently advocate transformation, and the engines of transformation are difference, disagreement, and debate. Sameness is impotent.

God Embeds Beauty Within the Universe Having discussed the relational nature of the universe, we will now explore a peak experience of relationship, the experience of beauty. Crucially, I have chosen to discuss beauty while discussing the cosmos. This placement is, in itself, an assertion. If we discuss beauty when discussing human experience, then we implicitly assert that beauty arises from our perception of the universe and does not pre-­exist that perception. Beauty would have no being independent of us. But if we discuss beauty before we discuss humanity, then we implicitly assert that beauty pre-­exists us in the ­universe and is waiting to be perceived. The Bible suggests that beauty, as an enjoyable quality of the universe, pre-­exists us. I follow the Genesis 1 account of creation where, after each day of work, and before the creation of humankind, God declares the result “good” (Hebrew: tov). God already enjoys the cosmos, even before humans join it. Yet, after God creates humans, God declares the universe “very good” (Hebrew: meod tov), because now humans can join God in that enjoyment. We can see the goodness that God sees, share that experience with one another, and “worship the Lord in the beauty of ­holiness” (Psalm 29:2b, KJV). But if the beauty of the cosmos is a gift, why is anything “achingly beautiful”? The experience of “aching beauty” is so common that writing programs identify “achingly beautiful” as a cliche. Why isn’t the experience of beauty an unalloyed pleasure?

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Because sin is separation – from God, one another, and the cosmos. Beauty is salt in that wound because beauty reminds us of our separation. The universe and its inhabitants are emanations of God, different expressions of the divine nature. Just as the sun produces light and heat, so God produces spirit and matter. God creates us for awareness of this primordial unity, but our capacity to perceive it has been lost, and our intuition tells us that we lost it. When we ache for beauty, we are aching for reunion. We sense the infinite within the finite and yearn for what we cannot fully receive. Sometimes, in a state of agitation, we may want to possess the beauty for ourselves. But we cannot extract anything from everything because it is all of a piece. Like clouds reflected in a stream, the object of desire cannot be extricated from its environs. We will come back empty handed and frustrated until we learn to revel in beauty, without possessiveness.

Cosmic Evolution Fosters the Experience of Beauty God blesses the universe with natural law, which allows the universe to develop through time. Philosophers define natural law as the rules that govern the interaction of mass, energy, space, and time. Discerning natural law is like discerning the rules of a game that we are watching people play. We cannot see the rules themselves, but we see that the game is ordered, and we infer the rules that provide that order (Feynman 1993, p. 13). In the human quest for understanding, the natural sciences seek to understand natural law. In the process, they have developed numerous symbol systems by which to analyze it – chemical notation, nuclear notation, gene nomenclature, mathematical physics, etc. Faith also calls us to study natural law, for within the cosmic order we encounter the mind of God. Hence, there can be no conflict between science and faith. They are nondual, twin aspects of one underlying quest for knowledge. The physical laws of the universe foster increasing complexity through time. According to physicists, the process of cosmic evolution began with the Big Bang, when an extremely dense bundle of energy suddenly expanded, producing space, time, and the four fundamental forces of the universe with it. After 370,000 years, the universe was homogeneous, a diffuse cloud of hydrogen with some helium and traces of lithium. But this pervasive simplicity possessed a disposition to complexity, an innate tendency to become more differentiated through time. Stellar evolution began when gravity condensed the hydrogen, helium, and lithium into stars. The gravitational pressure of those stars fused the initial three elements, sequentially, into carbon, oxygen, neon, magnesium, etc., culminating in iron. Once iron was formed, stars of a certain mass collapsed, exploding as supernovas. These explosions produced the table of elements, which began to combine in complex ways, initiating chemical evolution. On earth, about 3.5 billion years ago, some of these chemicals began to adapt to their environments, utilize energy for growth, and reproduce. Life appeared, and the process of biological evolution began. Living organisms developed increasingly sophisticated ways of sensing their environment, becoming responsive to hot and cold, light and dark, safety and danger, prey and predator. Eventually, the process of neurological evolution produced an expansive knowledge of the environment. But something surprising happened when organisms became aware, not only of their environment, but of themselves. Even more mysteriously, at the height of neurological evolution, organisms became aware of their awareness of themselves. They became conscious, and not only conscious, but conscious of consciousness. So conscious are we that some even deny the existence of consciousness, which is like a verbal argument against the existence of language.



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The cosmic evolution that began from a unitary seed of hyper-­concentrated energy has resulted in living beings who can contemplate their own existence, discern the origins of the universe, and celebrate the processes that brought them into being. Cosmic evolution has resulted in us. We can celebrate the beauty of an evolving cosmos, and thank God for that beauty, for at the height of all complexity lies God, one loving community of three persons, each of whom possesses their own memory, intelligence, will, and activity. God, who lures us toward experiential abundance, perfectly unites complexity and harmony. Our sacred vocation is to render our own complexity, both individual and social, harmonious. And for an exemplar, we have the divinely sustained universe itself (Cobb and Griffin 1976, p. 64).

Natural Law Is Unbreakable to Allow Human Agency In 1991, a vibrant eleven-­year-­old named Rossi was rehearsing for his school play in Virginia Beach. More vital than prudent, he decided to work his way across the support beam that hung 20 feet above the stage. He fell and landed on his head. They rushed him to the hospital, and his community prayed, and his doctors struggled, but on the third day, Rossi died. Many members of the boy’s church believed that Rossi’s death was the will of God, but their minister disagreed. He thought that it was a tragic accident over which God weeps with us. According to this minister, the purpose of natural law – the inescapable law of the physical universe – is the creation of freedom, consequence, and community. Natural law creates freedom because, within a cosmic order, we can anticipate the outcome of our actions, so that it matters what we do. Chaos would assign a random outcome to any action we took and deny significance to our activity, but natural law creates one shared backdrop against which all persons act out the cosmic drama (Buber 1996, p. 165). Without this cosmic reliability, reason could not be rational, virtue would have no virtuous outcome, and chaos would prevent the formation of society. Without natural law there could be no individual freedom or functioning community. Yet, if natural law is so essential to our well-­being, then why do we fantasize about escaping it? Why do we thirst for a magical universe in which we  – the individual superhero, the powerful wizard  – bear greater power than the actual universe would ever afford us? Certainly, we love stories and the occasional escape. But such thirst also suggests our own selfish desire to be unbound by that which binds us all. We want to break the divine law that provides for our common good. We want to rule as monarch rather than cooperate as partner. Or, maybe we want the laws to bend, just a little, to save the life of a beautiful eleven-­year-­old boy. Rossi’s pastor, Rev. Dr. Clement A. Sydnor III, wrote: “You might be thinking, as I have thought, ‘If only God had suspended, only for a second, natural law, the law of gravity, we would still have Rossi with us. His mother and brother and uncle and we who love him so, would not be hurting as we are.’ … But God does not suspend the laws that God has established. If God suspended those laws, then our universe would no longer be dependable and predictable. Anxiety and anarchy, confusion and chaos would mark our world and characterize our relationships” (Sydnor 1991). Order is the precondition for harmonious relationality (Cobb and Griffin 1976, p. 166). It is not a prison of predictability. It makes any activity consequential, hence meaningful, and frees us from the randomness that would make all relationship impossible. The will to power may crave freedom from the community-­creating order, and compassion may even want to bend the law on occasion, but (in the end) love accepts that order as the blessing it is.

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Moral Law Is Breakable to Allow Human Freedom In addition to unbreakable natural law, God has also impregnated the universe with breakable moral law. Moral law is that manner of conduct that grants us our greatest fulfillment, both as individuals and societies. And the moral law is love. Quoting his own Hebrew scriptures, Jesus counsels: “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments” (Matthew 22:37–40). Christ came to give us abundant life (John 10:10). Therefore, the purpose of the moral law is not to restrict our actions but to increase our vitality. As individuals, we come to the fullness of life through love. As a community, our joy increases as the cosmos evolves toward the divine pattern within it. Yet, unlike natural law, the moral law is entirely breakable. Instead of loving God or neighbor, we can hate both. Indeed, we can hurt both. We can choose evil. The inviolability of natural law makes our choices consequential, while the violability of moral law makes them free. If the moral law were unbreakable, then we would be puppets, but God has no desire to be a puppeteer. The persons within the Trinity act freely and consequentially toward one another, as do we, who are made in the image of God.

Our Trustworthy God Sustains a Trustworthy Universe Life is hard, too hard to be romanticized. Any wise person will accept that pain and disappointment are inevitable: “All go to one place; all are from the dust, and all turn to dust again” (Ecclesiastes 3:20). Still, life deserves our trust because the giver of life deserves our trust. For this reason, Jewish theologian Martin Buber advocates belief in the world as our pathway to God (Buber 1996, p. 143). Joy in the earth leads to faith in God, just as faith in God leads to joy in the earth. At times, such vulnerability will invoke terror. But after every night’s terror we will find ourselves in the arms of God, who wipes every tear from our eyes (Isaiah 25:8).

References Boff, L. (2005). Trinity and Society. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock. Buber, M. (1996). I and Thou. New York: Scribners. Byrom, T. (1990). The Heart of Awareness: A Translation of the Ashtavakra Gita. Boston: Shambhala. Cobb, J.B., Jr. and Griffin, D.R. (1976). Process Theology: An Introductory Exposition. Louisville, KY: Westminster Press. Cook, F.H. (1977). Hua-­Yen Buddhism: The Jewel Net of Indra. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Feynman, R.P. (2005). The Pleasure of Finding Things Out: The Best Short Works of Richard P. Feynman. New York: Basic Books. Gleick, J. (1993). Genius: The Life and Science of Richard Feynman. New York: Vintage Books. Heraclitus. (1991). Fragments: A Text and Translation with a Commentary (trans. T.M. Robinson). Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Holmes, B. (2004). Joy Unspeakable: Contemplative Practices of the Black Church. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. King, R. (1994). Early yogācāra and its relationship with the Madhyamaka School. Philosophy East and West 44 (4): 659–683.



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Muir, J. ([1869] 1998). My First Summer in the Sierra. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. Nouwen, H.J.M. (1998). Henri Nouwen: Writings. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Penguin Books (2009). Electron. In: The Penguin Dictionary of Physics (ed. John Cullerne), 4th ed. London: Penguin Books. Rambachan, A. (2015). A Hindu Theology of Liberation: Not-­two is Not One. New York: SUNY Press. Shoemaker, S. (2003). Causality and properties. In: Identity, Cause, and Mind, pp. 206–233. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Siderits, M. and Katsura, S. (trans.) (2013). Nāgārjuna’s Middle Way. Boston: Wisdom. Smith, H. (1996). Bill Moyers: The Wisdom of Faith with Huston Smith (TV series). WNET. This statement introduced each episode of the 5-­part PBS television series. Sydnor, C.A. (1991). Trust and tragedy. Unpublished sermon. Bow Creek Presbyterian Church, April 12. Sydnor, J.P. (2011). Ramanuja and Schleiermacher: Toward a Constructive Comparative Theology (Princeton Theological Monographs Series). Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock. Ward, K. (1996). Religion and Creation. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Further Reading Burton, D. (2001). Is Madhyamaka Buddhism really the middle way? Emptiness and the problem of nihilism. Contemporary Buddhism 2 (2): 177–190. https://doi.org/10.1080/14639940108573749. Morley, D. (2012). Serious play: Creative writing and science. In: The Cambridge Companion to Creative Writing (ed. D. Morley and P. Neilsen), pp. 153–170. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ́ karācārya (2000). Vivekacūḍa ̄maṇi (trans. S. Mādhavānanda). Calcutta: Advaita Ashrama. Saṅ Shriver, D.W., Jr. (1995). Three images of corporate leadership and their implications for social ­justice. In: On Moral Business: Classical and Contemporary Resources for Ethics in Economic Life (ed. M.L. Stackhouse, D.P. McCann, and S.J. Roels with P. Williams), pp. 521–531. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

CHAPTER 30

Perceiving Divinity, Cultivating Wonder A Christian–Islamic Comparative Theological Essay on Balthasar’s Gestalt Axel M. Oaks Takacs

Prologue The specific subject of one’s doctoral dissertation is a product of several factors, many often left to chance – or divine providence, if you will. While I had a general idea of the direction I wanted to take when I matriculated into my doctoral program, the specific path had yet to be determined. I began my doctoral program under Francis X. Clooney’s guidance around the same time he was completing His Hiding Place Is Darkness: A Hindu-­Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence (2014). Providentially – like many things regarding my relationship with Clooney – the work spoke to my own developing interest and expertise in the Persian poetic traditions and their Sufi-­ philosophical commentarial traditions. Theopoetics  – that was the word I was looking for to describe just what was going on in the Islamic poetic traditions. And who was this Catholic thinker Clooney was engaging? Hans Urs von Balthasar (d. 1988). I had of course encountered the Swiss theologian in my previous studies, but always in passing and never with careful ­attention. Besides, he was often the choice of “more conservative” Catholics, often situated as the dialogical sparring partner of another bulwark in twentieth-­century Catholic thought, Karl Rahner (d. 1984). Indeed, given Rahner’s inclusivism, he was typically pitched as the better friend for exercises in comparative theology. However, Clooney directed me to read Balthasar’s corpus more carefully; and so I did. I  ­incorporated him into my general exams and studiously examined his theopoetics and ­theo-­dramatics. I realized that Balthasar’s theological aesthetics and hermeneutics were ripe for constructive comparison with the Islamic poetic traditions and their Sufi-­philosophical

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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c­ ommentaries, despite Balthasar’s Eurocentrism (Carpenter 2021) and apparent exclusivism. Clooney explored Balthasar’s theology in a much earlier work, Seeing Through Texts (1996), and observed likewise: Balthasar had no announced comparative agenda. Indeed, given the dour fashion in which he contrasts the vain ambitions of “Eastern religions” with the subtlety and profundity of the Christian mystery, one might justly judge him to be unsympathetic toward comparative work. Nevertheless, his integral understanding of theology in relation to aesthetics and narrative opens a surprisingly rich set of possibilities by which we can understand what happens in an encounter such as the one proposed in this book: a sense of tradition and responsible analysis combine with an appreciation of the centrality of personal, affective transformation, and this opens into the possibilities of resolutions beyond what, in the end, one is capable of … Balthasar is then, and oddly enough, a most valuable ally [in this comparative enterprise]. (Clooney 1996, p. 289)

I have come to agree with Clooney’s assessment, especially regarding the Islamic traditions on the theologies of form, beauty, poetry, and imagination, that is, what is in effect an Islamic theopoetics (Takacs 2020). Balthasar, too, is a potential friend of comparative work. He writes at the end of his foreword to the first volume of his project on theological aesthetics: The overall scope of the present work naturally remains all too Mediterranean. The inclusion of other cultures, especially that of Asia, would have been important and fruitful. But the author’s education has not allowed for such an expansion, and a superficial presentation of such material would have been dilettantism. May those qualified come to complete the present fragment. (Balthasar 2009, p. 11)

While he leaves Islam unmentioned, one can assume that the diverse expressions of beauty in Islamic traditions and their theological interpretations would have caught Balthasar’s attention. This chapter first demonstrates the resonances between Islamic traditions on beauty and Balthasar’s theological aesthetics. I offer three short textual journeys from the twelfth, fourteenth, and seventeenth centuries before embarking on the close reading that this chapter intends to ­perform. Gospel and Qur’anic passages are read together along with their commentarial traditions to propose constructive insights into perceiving divinity and cultivating wonder – two goals for both Clooney’s comparative theology and Balthasar’s theological aesthetics.

The Beautiful The famous saying of the Prophet Muhammad, “God is beautiful and loves beauty,” combined with the classical twofold distinction among God’s beautiful-­and-­good names (al-­asmā’ al-­ḥusnā) in the Islamic traditions, namely, the names of Beauty (al-­jamāl) and of Majesty/Glory (al-­jalāl), gets at the heart of Balthasar’s theological aesthetics. Balthasar attempts “to develop a Christian ­theology in the light of the third transcendental, that is to say: to complement the vision of the true and the good with that of the beautiful (pulchrum)” (Balthasar 2009, p. 9). Transcendental beauty manifests as glory, and Balthasar examines Western metaphysics in terms of theology, ­philosophy, poetry, narrative arts, and other discursive traditions to recover aesthetics, the beautiful, in Catholic theology, which he suggests abandoned the third transcendental in modernity. Indeed, he goes so far as to say that “theology is the only science which can have transcendental beauty as its object” (Balthasar 2009, p. 69). He thus seeks to rehabilitate the beautiful in response

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to modern theology’s dismissal of aesthetics: “resuscitating ‘the beautiful’ (τὸ καλόν, pulchritudo) as a theologically significant category signals an overdue return to celebrating the glory (Herrlichkeit) of God’s revelation” (McInroy 2014, p. 136). As a transcendental, the Beautiful, along with the Good, the True, and the One, is predicated of God and permeates Being – they are thus transcendent from and immanent in the world qua being, hidden and manifest (“[God] is … the manifest [al-­zạ h̄ ir] and the hidden [al-­bātị n]” Qur’an 57:3). To use scholastic terms, the transcendentals are convertible with being. However, they are not the same – otherwise, what is the point of distinguishing them? Consequently, they describe different aspects of being. They do not add to the reality of being; however, they contribute to an understanding of being in ratione (notionally, conceptually). So what does the beautiful add? What is the ratio of the beautiful? McInroy has carefully examined Balthasar on this topic and insightfully notes that he draws from Bonaventure (d. 1274) to elaborate the ratio of transcendental Beauty. He cites the Franciscan theologian to elaborate: “All things are beautiful and in some manner delightful” and “Whatever has being has form, and whatever has form has beauty” (Balthasar 1984, p. 334).1 The One renders things numerable and unique from other things; the True renders things knowable; the Good renders things communicable and desirable (Balthasar 1984, p. 334). What of the Beautiful? “[The] beautiful is the basis of its physical appearing, because what is is not separated from being” (Balthasar 1984, p. 335). Bonaventure, being restricted by “the Platonic–Augustinian depreciation of sense-­perception” (Balthasar 1984, p. 335), would likely be unable to accept what Balthasar later proposes: “the distinctive ratio of the beautiful  …  is that the beautiful is shown” (McInroy  2014, p.  140) and “sense-­perception [is elevated] into the rank of irreducible being” (Balthasar  1984, p. 335). Transcendental Beauty is what permits perception – physical and spiritual sense-­perception – of God in the world, something the One, the True, and the Good do not provide Being. There are constructive possibilities for comparative theology with the Islamic traditions on Beauty, Loveliness, and theophany. Aḥmad Ghazālı̄ (d. 1123 or 1126, the little brother of the more famous Ghazālı̄) summarizes his Persian predecessors on love and beauty succinctly in his Savāniḥ, the first of three textual journeys functioning as a propaedeutic to this chapter’s primary exercise in comparative theology: The secret of the face of everything is the point of its connection (with God). There is a sign (ayātı̄) concealed in creation. Loveliness (ḥusn) is the trace (nishān) of creation. The secret of the face of that face is that which faces [God]. So long as one does not see the secret of the face, then he will never see the sign of creation and [its] loveliness. That face is the beauty of “what remains in the face of your Lord” (Qur’an 55:27). What is other than that is not a face, for “Everything on the earth will perish” (Qur’an 55:26). (Ghazālı̄ 1989, p. 15; emphasis added)2

Each entity in the world is marked by beauty and loveliness, thereby establishing a direct ­connection to God, because God is beauty and loveliness. The capacity to see beauty and loveliness enables one to perceive God. Ghazālı̄ offers what must be understood as a theological aesthetics in an Islamic idiom, and not merely an aesthetic theology or a this-­worldly theory of natural beauty, something Balthasar was careful to distinguish (Balthasar 2009, p. 77). That is, theological a ­ esthetics provides a theology of beauty that finds its source in God, in the gestalt or form of God’s revelation, which is Jesus Christ (for Christianity); therefore, it cannot be restricted by any worldly theory of aesthetics or judged by the standards of worldly beauty (indeed, Christ Crucified is folly to worldly reason: 1 Corinthians 1:23). Islamic revelation does not proffer a Christology that easily permits an interpretation of Jesus as concrete universal and measure of all beauty. But it does offer a theology of revelation grounded in cosmic theophany that suggests a theological aesthetics that disrupts worldly reason, placing



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the imagination and love as superior to the intellect and reason. The fourteenth-­century couplet from a love lyric by Ḥ āfiẓ Shı̄rāzı̄ (d. 1389) is our second textual journey: “Before time, a ray of your loveliness was breathed through theophany / Passionate love emerged, and set fire to the whole world” (Ḥ āfiẓ 1983, p. 610).3 Not merely the content of this love lyric, but also its form in terms of rhyme and meter suggests perpetual disruption and surprise. The steady meter propounds an unencumbered, monistic becoming of the phenomenal world, an idealism much lambasted by Balthasar too; however, throughout the lyric the rhythm is disrupted when Ḥ āfiẓ intentionally modifies the meter at key points, thereby startling the audience with an unexpected change. This is the theophany that opens the lyric, setting the world on fire, surprising us at every turn and drawing us in for more. The seventeenth-­century Persian commentary on this love lyric by a certain Abū al-­Ḥ asan Khatamı̄ Lāhū rı̄, a South Asian scholar who draws from Muslim, Sufi-­philosophical authors of the eleventh, thirteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries in his analysis, is the third textual journey rounding off this propaedeutic. Islamic theological aesthetics was an ocean without shore from which this author could draw infinitely for insight. For example, the commentary considers “­loveliness” to refer to “the [divine] attributes and the totality of the [divine] names … [which is] the totality of unveiling, that is, the manifestation of the degrees of being and the created loci of ­theophanies in accordance with ‘these affairs and considerations are distinguished judgements and variegated effects in spirit [rū ḥan], in images [mithālan], and in sense perception [ḥissan]’” (Lāhū rı̄ 1995, vol. II, p. 1047). Later, Lāhū rı̄ submits that the manifestation of loveliness, the coming-­into-­ existence of all things in noetic existence, “and the perceptual appearance of the immutable entities [in this phenomenal world],” as well as the emergence of passionate love and the enflaming of the whole world, is “singular” (wāḥid-­ast) or alternatively translated as “unique” (Lāhū rı̄ 1995, vol. II, p. 1047). I have merely dipped our toes in the vast ocean of Islamic theological aesthetics. But it is surely apparent that Balthasar would be pleased. Beauty, or loveliness, is God and appears in this world, perceptible to sense perception. Not only that, but it is revelatory, it disrupts the logical patterns of the rational sciences that so captivated not only modern philosophy but theology as well. One of Balthasar’s projects was to rehabilitate a theological aesthetics that rendered the Beauty of God perceptible to humanity. For this, one needed the spiritual senses. But the spiritual senses are not part of an elite capacity, the fruit of the final stages of mystical life; rather, they were the product of common grace, the result of Christian experience. This capacity, granted by grace, permits Christians to perceive the gestalt of God, that is, Jesus Christ, the Beauty of God, as McInroy (2014, p. 57) has successfully argued. How might Balthasar’s Christologically grounded spiritual senses theologically engage Islamic theological aesthetics? Qur’anic revelation and the later traditions decisively reject Christ’s unique divinity and sonship, challenge an Incarnational theology, and nuance the crucifixion and its soteriology. In short, Christ is not a concrete universal and ­redemptive savior for the Islamic traditions. In the remainder of this chapter, I will attend carefully to another set of textual journeys from the Christian and Islamic traditions. The bulk of scholarship on Muslim–Christian relations and theologies has attended to the “Jesus question.” This chapter examines this topic not through theo-­ logic but rather through theological aesthetics: how do we perceive God’s glory and manifestation in the Islamic and Christian traditions? First, I will offer a very brief overview of Balthasar’s gestalt, the spiritual senses, and his scriptural hermeneutics. Second, I will turn to a Gospel passage in which Jesus’s divinity is not seen by one of his interlocutors, namely, the rich man who asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” This passage is then examined in the context of later Christological debates in which it was deployed in the contestation over conciliar orthodoxy. Third, I will examine a Qur’anic passage that relates to Jesus’s divine-­human nature and how it was later deployed to

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make sense of Christological debates. Fourth, I will offer some tentative comparative insights. Balthasar is adamant that the corporeal senses are employed in the spiritual senses – that is, the spiritual employs the corporeal, “empowered” by grace, as it were. However, how might the material order – our relation to worldly goods, not merely in terms of attitude but also in terms of mere possession of excess wealth – preclude perception of divinity today, particularly in our neighbor? This is a modest attempt to jumpstart exercises in comparative theology with the Islamic ­traditions that feature Balthasar’s theological aesthetics as a starting point.

Balthasar’s Gestalt, the Spiritual Senses, and His Hermeneutics The incorporeal, incorruptible, and immaterial Word of God became present [paragínetai] to our world [in Jesus, the Son of God]; not that [the Word] was previously distant, for no part of creation is left deprived of [the Word], Who fills the universe. “On the Incarnation,” Athanasius of Alexandria (d. 373) (1971, p. 151)4

A key feature of Balthasar’s theological aesthetics is his deployment of the term and concept, gestalt. Form, figure, beautiful shape, historical figure, and more – Balthasar constructs his use of gestalt primarily from Aristotle, Aquinas, and Goethe. Being is revealed only in a perceptible form, and this form is the gestalt of God, who is Christ. The form is the Beauty of God because it is that which appears, thereby delighting our senses and allowing us access to God’s Beauty in the world: The form as it appears to us is beautiful only because the delight that it arouses in us is founded upon the fact that, in it, the truth and goodness of the depths of reality itself are manifested and bestowed, and this manifestation and bestowal reveal themselves to us as being something infinitely and inexhaustibly valuable and fascinating. The appearance of the form, as revelation of the depths, is an indissoluble union of two things. … We see form as the splendour, as the glory of Being. We are “enraptured” by our contemplation of these depths and are “transported” to them. But, so long as we are dealing with the beautiful, this never happens in such a way that we leave the (horizontal) form behind us … to plunge (vertically) into the naked depths (Balthasar 2009, pp. 115–116).

Balthasar is a Christocentric theologian, however, and so he “stresses the way the divine ‘form’” – the Beauty and Glory of God  – “is made available to human perception in Jesus Christ” (Nichols 2011, p. 14). The paragraph above is effectively an interpretation of John 1:14: “And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have beheld-­in-­wonder (ἐθεασάμεθα) his glory (δόξαν) … full of grace and truth.” For Balthasar, there is “one concrete historical event in which divine glory is fully present: in the beauty of the Christ-­form” (Van Erp 2004, p. 138). This Christocentric, theologically grounded understanding of gestalt has many consequences for Balthasar’s theological aesthetics. I will dwell on two consequences pertinent to this chapter: the spiritual senses and his scriptural hermeneutics. First, given that we no longer have the first-­ century Jewish teacher, Jesus of Nazareth, among us, how do we still “behold in wonder” his beauty, the gestalt of Divine Glory Incarnate? Furthermore, as Athanasius in the quote above suggests (like many early Christian writers, such as Gregory of Nyssa and Maximus Confessor, two of Balthasar’s favorite Greek thinkers), the historical Incarnation of the Word in the person of Jesus is not ­separated from the cosmological presence of the Word in creation before and after its temporal theophany. McInroy (2014) has convincingly argued that the spiritual senses – working in tandem with the corporeal senses through grace – renders the gestalt of God, Christ Jesus, perceptible to



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humanity even now. However, this is not an elite capacity granted at the end of the mystical life, but rather a common Christian experience. To use classical language of spirituality, they are not part of the third and final apophatic, unitive stage. Rather, “with the Word in Christ as their object, Balthasar reinterprets the spiritual senses such that they are situated in the second, ‘illuminative’ stage of spiritual development, where they find fullest expression in a cataphatic grasping of the Word, and are conjoined with the bodily senses of the human being” (McInroy 2014, pp. 56–57). Perceiving the splendor of Christ Jesus remains possible even now. Through the spiritual senses we do not perceive the transcendent, apophatic God, but rather the God who manifests His gestalt through the material order. This spiritual perception is activated in the corporeal senses through grace. Balthasar proposes a nondual perception in which both corporeal and spiritual senses are required to see the gestalt of Christ. Where do we see the form of Christ Jesus today? For Balthasar, Christ is present and is perceived in the world, Church, liturgy, and neighbor (McInroy  2014, p. 127). Regarding the world: If Christ is God’s epiphany in the world, then by the very nature of that epiphany, provision has been made to insure that this emergence of the divine glory does not occur only before a few chosen ones … but precisely, really and truly, before the whole world. … [W]hat Christ brings with him is not primarily his historical environment, but the world of creation and of redemption as a whole.  …The believer does not believe all of this; he sees it. He is allowed to see it when he believes.  …  This his sensory environment, in which he lives and with which he is apparently wholly familiar, is through and through determined by the central image and event of Christ, so that, by a thousand open and hidden paths, his wholly real and corporeal sense-­experiences bring him into contact with that central point. In this he stands in the same space and in the shared time of creation as the Prophets and the Apostles, and here it is almost a matter of indifference whether he possesses the sensory contemporaneity of the eyewitness: he stands in the world which has been determined and established by the appearance of God and which is oriented to that appearance. The reality of creation as a whole has become a monstrance of God’s real presence. (Balthasar 2009, pp. 409–410)

Through the spiritual senses we are co-­eyewitnesses to the experience of the apostles in our “­corporeal sense-­experiences” of the world. This is worthy of underscoring: the spiritual senses in effect allow a bending of space and time so that we witness Christ Jesus now in sense perception. This witnessing occurs in our encounter with our neighbor, another arena in which Christ is perceived: There is one image, however, which stands wholly by itself and which is like no other image instituted by the Son of Man, who bore and atoned for the guilt of all men on the Cross: this is the image of the fellow-­man we encounter. In his plight and guilt, our fellow-­man as we encounter him is in every case our neighbour, and this neighbour of man’s is Christ. In his neighbour man encounters his Redeemer with all his bodily senses. (Balthasar 2009, pp. 413–414)

McInroy (2014) has successively retrieved the “deeply ethical aspect of [Balthasar’s] doctrine of the spiritual senses” (p. 124). He points us to a striking passage that underscore the interpersonal aspect of perceiving God’s Beauty: In his love for his neighbour, the Christian definitively receives his Christian senses, which, of course, are none “other” than his bodily senses, but these senses in so far as they have been formed according to the form of Christ. Whether or not Christ’s historical form thereby becomes explicit

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to the lover is less important; love itself has this form within itself and communicates it. In a Christian sense, love is not “act without image”; on the contrary, love is what creates image and bestows shape absolutely. Love is the creative power of God himself which has been infused into man by virtue of God’s Incarnation. This is why, in the light of the divine ideas, love can read the world of forms and, in particular, man correctly. Outside of this light, man remains an incomprehensible and contradictory hieroglyph. Cross and Resurrection, understood as the love and the glory of God, bleeding to death and forsaken, render man decipherable. (Balthasar 2009, p. 414)

In this passage Balthasar, in a way, gets ahead of himself, gesturing toward his theo-­dramatics in which seeing the beautiful form demands doing the good. Connecting the arenas of world and neighbor together with Balthasar’s scriptural hermeneutics sets us up for a fruitful exercise in comparative theology as we continue these textual journeys. Balthasar’s nondual conception of spiritual perception, in which the corporeal and horizontal function together with the spiritual and vertical, mirrors his scriptural hermeneutics. The Gospels and other New Testament writings mediate the divine form, Christ’s Beauty in the world. All that Christ said and did, as recorded in the Gospels, reveals God’s glory and beauty, and nothing can be discarded for the sake of a “higher” or “spiritual meaning.” Neither should a hermeneutics dwell fundamentally on the literal meaning without encountering the spiritual. [The] much discussed relationship between the literal and spiritual senses of scripture is … Christological. …[The spiritual and literal] senses [of scripture] are to each other what the two natures of Christ are to each other. The human nature we come into contact with first; it is the medium covering yet revealing the divine element, becoming transparent in the resurrection, but never, in all eternity, to be discarded or disparaged. The spiritual sense is never to be sought “behind” the letter but within it, just as the Father is not to be found behind the Son but in and through him. And to stick to the literal sense while spurning the spiritual would be to view the Son as man and nothing more. All that is human in Christ is a revelation of God and speaks to us of him. There is nothing whatever in his life, acts, passion and resurrection that is not an expression and manifestation of God in the language of a created being. (Balthasar 1989, pp. 20–21)

Indeed, Balthasar’s hermeneutics was what originally attracted me to him because it echoes the Qur’anic hermeneutics of Ibn ʿArabı̄ (d. 1240). As for the faithful, the truthful, those of steadfastness among the friends [of God], they cross over [“interpret”], taking along with them the outward sense [of the Qur’an], [rather than going] from the outward sense to the inward sense [of the Qur’an]. [They cross over] it [i.e., “interpret it”] through the literal sense to get to the inner meaning; they do not express it [without the literal sense]. (Ibn ʿArabı̄ 1968, vol. III, p. 257, line 4)

Ibn ʿArabı̄ here is referencing the intra-­Islamic debate among the literalists and the esotericists. The former stuck to the letter without any spiritual meaning and the latter abandoned the letter for the sake of abstract, allegorico-­symbolic readings. Rather, Ibn ʿArabı̄ is suggesting a hermeneutics that considers together the literal and the spiritual meaning, similar to Balthasar: “Both demand the historical event and perduring meaning of a text to be considered equally crucial in grasping and enacting the significance of the text so that the practices and perceptions of the interpreter may be transformed” (Takacs 2017, p. 109). To that end, let us now journey to our Gospel and Qur’anic passages and their later interpretations. These texts bring together the manifestation of God’s Beauty in Christ Jesus, the world, and the neighbor – the objective revelation of the gestalt of God – with our in/capacity to perceive



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it – the subjective evidence of the gestalt of God. First, we turn to the Gospel passage in which a rich man, at least according to later interpreters, does not perceive Christ’s divinity, and so in Balthasar’s terms, only sees Christ the man and not the gestalt of God. If “nothing whatever in [Jesus’s] life, acts, passion and resurrection  …  is not an expression and manifestation of God,” then a close reading of this passage should reveal something about perceiving God’s Beauty, the gestalt of God, in the world and in one’s neighbor today.

The Gospel Passage in the Context of Later Christological Debates In Mark 10:17–29 (see also, Matthew 19:16–26 and Luke 18:18–26), a man “with many possessions,” or who was “very wealthy” in Luke’s rendition, runs up to Jesus and asks, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Before even answering the question, Jesus rebukes the rich man: “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.” He then lists the commandments to follow. The wealthy man proudly claims, “Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.” The passage continues: Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” When he heard this, he … went away grieving, for he had many possessions. Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” And the disciples were struck-­with-­wonder [ἐθαμβοῦντο] by these words. But Jesus said to them again, “Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” They were greatly astounded [ἐξεπλήσσοντο] and said to one another, “Then who can be saved?” Jesus looked at them and said, “For mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.” (Mark 10:21–27)5

The rich man reacts with grief while the disciples respond with wonder and astonishment at Jesus’s teachings. In fact, their original reaction of being “struck-­with-­wonder” derives from the same root as John 1:14, “we have beheld-­in-­wonder (ἐθεασάμεθα) his glory (δόξαν),” namely, θαῦμα: wonder, marvel, something strange. This affective reaction to Jesus’s Beauty and Glory is not just perceptible in his flesh but also in his teachings. Indeed, the second time they are “astounded,” which also has the meaning of “to be struck with desire, love, or admiration,”6 their spiritual senses permit them to see the glory and beauty of his teachings; rather than being terrified (or grieved), their desire, love, and admiration of the gestalt of God is increased. But what of the rich man? And why did Jesus correct him? Certainly Jesus, as Divine Glory Incarnate, Son of God, Divine-­Human Teacher, is good. This passage was a thorn in the sides of several Christian writers defending conciliar orthodoxy against various iterations of what is now known as Arianism, which contends that the Son of God is not co-­eternal with God the Father, is distinct from the Father, and therefore subordinate to God the Father. Gregory of Nyssa (d. circa 395) (in Contra Eunomium) and Gregory of Nazianzus (d. 390) (in Oration 30), for instance, each deal with this passage in their writings. The Cappadocians focus on the Christological debates in the context of just what the rich man was or was not perceiving in/through Jesus. Augustine (d. 430) (in De Trinitate and Confessions) also engages this passage vis-­à-­vis similar Christological concerns. Put briefly, they all must deal with the fact that Jesus responds to the rich man’s vocative “Good Teacher” with “no one is good but God alone.” How and why did Jesus say this? Does this not prove the Arian point? Jesus is not God. Intriguingly, all three authors deal with this prooftext by

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addressing the perception, belief, or witness of the rich man, who somehow could not behold Jesus’s divinity. In Balthasar’s terms, the rich man did not have the spiritual senses with which the disciples were graced – he responds in grief, they in wonder. In Contra Eunomium, Gregory of Nyssa is responding to Eunomius, who (at least according to the Nyssan) believed that Jesus the Son is subordinate to the Father, and that there is no essential resemblance or unity between Jesus and God (there is only a moral resemblance). God is unbegotten, an absolutely simple being, and if God generates a Son then this is a contradiction in the Godhead, producing a duality therein. Gregory of Nyssa argues against the alleged Eunomian contention that the Father alone is Good. “If he merely attributes the title ‘Good’ to the Father in an exceptional sense, he would be pitifully irrational, bestowing on the Father the sound of an empty syllable” (Gregory of Nyssa 1952, p. 265, 2014, p. 204). In other words, the meaning of “Good” becomes meaningless because what it means for God to be good has no relation (analogy) to what it means for humans or the rest of creation to be good. “[If] he says that goodness belongs properly only to the Father, he excludes from goodness every other thing perceived to exist apart from the Father, so that the Only begotten God [Jesus] is also shut out from goodness along with all the rest [of us, of creation]” (Gregory of Nyssa 1952, p. 265, 2014, p. 204). Gregory of Nyssa is effectively critiquing what will later be known as the equivocal and univocal use of language in theology, offering instead what will later be popularized by Aquinas: the analogical. This analogical use of language is grounded in the self-­revealing God, Jesus, the gestalt of God, of the world. Drawing on Balthasar, Jesus is the concrete, universal self-­revelation of God, but “any contact between God and the world, including the Incarnation, presupposes a similarity (however dissimilar) in the relationship of Creator and creation, and that sin profoundly disrupts, but does not annihilate this rapport” (Donnelly 2007, p. 86). Gregory argues that Eunomius is fundamentally destroying this rapport in his contention that God alone is good. There is just one problem: Jesus’s response to the rich man. Gregory of Nyssa must respond to Eunomius’s scriptural evidence defending the Arian position, namely, that only God is good, and hence Jesus the Son is not good (i.e., according to Eunomius, presumably not divine, not God): This [rich] man, when he heard that a teacher of eternal life had come to stay, in hope of p ­ erpetual luxury when his life was extended into eternity, approached the Lord with the flattering address, “good”; or rather, not perceiving the Lord, but the one appearing in the form of the servant. He was not a person able to open the curtains of the flesh and perceive (διϊδεῖν) the inner shrine of divinity (τὸ τῆς θεότητος ἄδυτον). The Lord therefore, who sees the heart, saw what was the intention of the young man’s petition, that the gaze of his soul was not steadily fixed upon the divine, but was softening up the human by calling him “Good,” in the hope of learning something by which he might expect to avoid death. That is why the one he had petitioned answered him suitably [with “No one is good but God alone”]. (Gregory of Nyssa 1952, p. 268, 2014, p. 206; emphasis added)

Gregory of Nyssa explicitly understands Jesus’s reply in terms of the wealthy man’s incapacity to “perceive the Lord” and “perceive the inner shrine of divinity” precisely because the “gaze of his soul was not steadily fixed upon the divine.” If we read this passage in terms of Balthasar’s theological aesthetics, we might say that the wealthy man’s spiritual senses had not been actualized by grace; he was seeing only corporeally. Gregory of Nazianzus, in Oration 30, similarly deals with this passage: “Regarding the words, ‘None is good,’ it is [Jesus’s] reply to the lawyer who was testing Him and [who] had testified to [Jesus’s] goodness insofar as [Jesus] was a human” (Gregory of Nazianzus  2002, p.  104, 1978, p. 254). The man had proclaimed Jesus good only insofar as he was human, presumably because he



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could not see his divinity; however, he does not engage the fact that the man was wealthy. Moving from the East to the West, Augustine of Hippo proffered a similar argument in De Trinitate, book V, likewise refuting Arian positions, or at least a version thereof. In a section arguing that one can predicate God, Good, Great, and so on, of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, he avers that this is predicated of God “qua substance” (substantialiter), that is, the Trinitarian substance. He then brings up the same Markan passage. When the Lord Jesus was accosted just as a human by the [the rich man] who said “Good teacher,” [Jesus] did not want to be taken for just a human, and so he significantly did not respond “no one is good except the Father alone,” but [rather] “no one is good except the one God” (Mark 10:18; Luke 18:19). The name “Father” signifies only the Father in himself but the name “God” includes him and the Son and the Holy Spirit, because the one God is a trinity. (Augustine 1991, p. 195, 2010a, vol. V, p. 8, lines 16–20; emphasis added)

Because the rich man perceived only the human, Jesus responds appropriately. He interprets the passage likewise in Confessions but recalls the prescription to sell his riches and distribute it among the poor, to “root out the wild clumps of avarice” (Augustine 1997, p.  359; 2010b, vol. XIII, p. 19, line 14). Remember the rich man in the gospel who was seeking guidance from a good teacher as to what he ought to do to win eternal life. …[The rich man believed Jesus] to be a [human] and no more, whereas Christ is good because he is God . …[So Jesus tells him to] go and root out the wild clumps of avarice, sell your possessions, get yourself rich fruit by giving to the poor, for you will have treasure in heaven. If you want to be perfect, follow the Lord in the company of those to whom he speaks wisdom. (Augustine 1997, p.  359; 2010b: vol. XIII, p.  19, lines 6–16; emphasis added)

Unlike the Nazianzen and like the Nyssan, Augustine does bring the man’s wealth into his ­exegesis. Does the man’s wealth, his many possessions, prevent his perception of Jesus’s divinity? Does it preclude the actualization of his spiritual senses? Is there somehow an inverse relationship between his love of the material order and his lack of spiritual senses? Indeed, together these ­passages underscore another detail: the man asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life,” which has ­nothing to do with the Beautiful, the Glory of God manifest in Jesus, but only with a quid pro quo understanding of salvation. Let us now continue our textual journey to the Islamic texts. Before proceeding, we should note that one of the polemical charges by Christians against the Prophet Muhammad and his companions was that he and his movement were just another strand of Arianism. They did not believe Jesus was God, but merely a prophet, a doctrine that superficially appears “Arian.”

Concealing and Restricting Divinity: An Interreligious Reading with the Islamic Tradition This textual journey continues with the Qur’an, surah 5 (al-­mā’idah), verses. 17, 72, 110. I offer my own translation based on the subsequent commentarial traditions on this textual journey. Indeed, those who say that God is the Messiah, the son of Mary, have-­disbelieved/are-­concealers [kafara]. (Qur’an 5:17)

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Indeed, those who say that God is the Messiah, the son of Mary, have-­disbelieved/are-­concealers [kafara]. The Messiah said, “O Children of Israel, worship God, my Lord [rabb] and your Lord. Indeed, whosoever renders [something/someone] a partner with [yashrik] God, then God has ­certainly declared paradise forbidden [ḥ arrama] to them, and his place-­of-­refuge/abode [ma’wa] will be the fire. And the unjust/oppressive [ẓālimı̄n] have no helpers.” (Qur’an 5:72) When God will say, “O son of Mary, remember my grace [niʿ mah] upon you and the-­one-­who-­ gave-­birth-­to-­you [wālidatuka], and when I supported you [Jesus] with the holy spirit so that you spoke to the people in your infancy and in adulthood, and when I taught you the book, and wisdom, and the Torah, the Gospel, and when you created from clay as it were the shape of a bird by my permission [bi-­’idhnı̄] and then breathed into it so that it became a bird by my permission, and when you healed the blind and the leper by my permission and when you brought forth the dead [to life] by my permission and when I held back the Children of Israel from you when you came to them with clear proofs and those who disbelieved/were-­veiled (kafarū ) said ‘this is clearly s­ orcery.’” (Qur’an 5:110)

These Qur’anic passages read as explicit rejections of conciliar orthodox Christology, namely, that Jesus is both human and divine, the Son of God, the Incarnate Word. Let us see how a commentarial tradition engages them. Muḥyiddin Ibn ʿArabı̄ is a well-­known Muslim thinker, formative of the later Sufi-­philosophical traditions. His Fuṣū ṣ al-­ḥikam (“Bezels of Wisdom”), which he claims was delivered to him as is by the Prophet Muhammad in a dream vision, became widely – and wildly – popular, earning many commentaries. Each of the 27 chapters is dedicated to explicating a unique wisdom – one might say charism – of a particular prophet. One chapter is dedicated to Jesus, whom Ibn ʿArabı̄ stated was his first teacher along the path (Ibn ʿArabı̄  1968, vol. I, p. 155; vol. III, pp. 43, 341; vol. IV, p. 77). Jesus, according to his theology of walāya (friendship with God, or sainthood), is the Seal of Universal Walāyah, a title that draws from the better-­known Seal of the Prophets (khatm al-­anbiyā’), who is Muhammad (Chodkiewicz 1993, pp. 116–127). Ibn ʿArabı̄ considered himself an heir to Jesus (Chodkiewicz 1993, p. 129). More could be said of Ibn ʿArabı̄’s relationship – one might say personal relationship – with Jesus but let us continue on the textual journey. In the chapter on Jesus, whose charism is “prophetic wisdom,” there is a passage related to those “gazing at Jesus.” It begins with the use of the phrase “he/not-­he,” which Ibn ʿArabı̄ deploys often throughout his corpus to signify the nondual relationship between the created world and God: creation is “He/not-­He” (huwa lā huwa) or “God/not-­God.” When [Jesus] was reviving the dead, it was said of him, huwa lā huwa. Bewilderment would come upon the one gazing at [Jesus], just as it would befall any intelligent person. [That is, any intelligent person] would become bewildered when, discursively contemplating (al-­naẓar al-­fikrı̄) an individual mortal (basharı̄ya min al-­bashar), would see him revive the dead, [rendering them alive] both rationally and physically, [because doing this] is a divine characteristic. Indeed, he would see the form [to be] a human (al-­sụ ̄ ra basharan) with a divine mark/vestige/effect (athar). And so this led some of them to profess divine alightment (ḥulū l),7 and [to profess] that [Jesus] is God, because through him the dead were revived. Consequently, they are attributed with unbelief (kufr), which is concealment (al-­sitr), because they conceal (satarū ) God, Who revived the dead, in the mortal human-­skin (bashara)8 of Jesus. Hence, God – exalted be He – said, “those who say that God is the Messiah, the son of Mary, have-­ disbelieved/are-­concealers (kafara)” (Qur’an 5:17, 72). (Ibn ʿArabı̄ 2015a, p. 214; emphasis added)9

Take note how those gazing, even contemplating (al-­naẓr) Jesus, are struck by bewilderment, or ḥayra, a word nearly equivalent to those Greek words that find their root in θαῦμα – to behold in



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wonder or be struck with amazement. There is a key difference, however: ḥayra also refers to the inability to choose between two positions, or to waver between two sides, in this case, huwa lā huwa. However, this indecision is a virtue for this Islamic tradition, in which ḥayra is the ultimate state of the mystical path. When you choose absolutely and definitively, you unnecessarily delimit God. Ibn ʿArabı̄ suggests that the reason why Christians are in unbelief is because they concealed God in the human skin of Jesus, or otherwise put, they restricted God to Jesus alone. This is how a commentary on the text explains it. Dawū d Qayṣarı̄ (d. 1350), in his Sharḥ Fuṣūṣ Al-­ḥikam, glosses at this point: “That is, it would happen to some of them gazing at [Jesus] that they would profess divine alightment (ḥulū l). They would say, ‘Indeed, God has resided (ḥalla) within the form of Jesus, and he revives the dead.’ And some of them would say, ‘The Messiah is God.’ And when they conceal (satarū ) God in the restricted form of Jesus alone they are attributed with unbelief” (Qayṣarı̄  1996, p. 865; emphasis added). The polyvalent meaning of the root word, ḥall, demands our attention. In Islamic philosophical tradition, it is related to ḥal̄ l, the Arabic technical term for an attribute inhering in a substance in a classical Aristotelian sense (as interpreted by Avicenna). Indeed, conciliar orthodox Christology decisively rejected that divinity inheres in Jesus as an accident in a substance. Even more illuminating is that ḥall can also mean solving or unraveling a puzzle – in other words, logically defining an experience such that wonder, amazement, and bewilderment are no more. Our Muslim authors can therefore underscore an important feature of Balthasar’s theological aesthetic approach to the gestalt of Jesus: we should never propositionally or logically define the Incarnation in such a way that we become blind to the wonder and bewilderment of the ongoing presence of God’s Beauty and Glory. Jesus is not a propositional statement. Ibn ʿArabı̄ continues: But [Christians] combined error and concealment (kufr) in the fullness of their expression: because they are not in error in their saying “Jesus is God,” and they are not in error in their saying “Jesus is the son of Mary,” rather they deviated in enclosing [taḍmı̄n] God, insofar as [God] revives the dead, in the mortal, human form [of Jesus.] … The one listening [to them] might imagine that they attributed divinity to a [human] form and made [divinity] the [human] form itself, but this they did not do. Rather, they made the divine ipseity (huwawı̄ya) to be the subject within the human form, which was the son of Mary. Hence, they distinguished between the form and its determination (ḥukm), but they did not make the form the same as the determining principle … This is why disputes take place among the various [Christian] communities concerning Jesus, [for they ask], “What is He?”10 … [Jesus] will be for the one contemplating him according to whatever predominates in that person. He is the Word of God, the Spirit of God, and the Servant of God, but this is not the case for sensible forms other than [Jesus] … All created [beings] are indeed words of God, which are inexhaustible, given that they are from “Be!” and “Be!” is the Word of God.11 Now, can the word “Be!” be ascribed to God in God’s self [i.e., to God’s Ipseity], so that the quiddity of [the word “Be!”] is not known [just as God’s Ipseity is unknowable]? Or, does God descend to the form of the one who says “Be!” so that the word “Be!” becomes the reality of the form unto which [God] descends and in which [God] manifests? Some mystic-­knowers adhered to the first view and some to the second, and some ­others became bewildered not knowing. (Ibn ʿArabı̄ 2015a, pp. 214–215; emphasis added)

This commentary on the Qur’anic passages illuminates once again the questions at play in both the Gospel passages and Balthasar’s theological aesthetics regarding the gestalt of God, Jesus Christ, and spiritual perception. Ibn ʿArabı̄ suggests that Christians enclose God in Jesus Christ. Whether conciliar orthodoxy does this or not is beside the point; however, historically the dominant expression of the Gospel message was – and for many remains – an exclusive and imperial interpretation. Christian theology may not enclose God in Jesus Christ, but certainly Christian praxis did – from anti-­Judaism to anti-­Semitism, from colonialism to racism, in practice Christian

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forces restricted the presence of God. Prescinding from these obvious points, one of Balthasar’s critiques of modern theology can also be understood in this manner: modern theology has ­forgotten how the Beauty and Glory of God’s gestalt, Jesus Christ, is encountered in the world, ­liturgy, neighbor, and Church, and through the spiritual senses. Indeed, Ibn ʿArabı̄ has a point: for they ask, “What is he?” Christians need to be ever on guard against treating Jesus as a what: a proposition to which one assents for eternal life. Balthasar once again lambasted the propositional theology of the neo-­scholastic manuals, dicing and splicing into ever sharper minutiae the details of dogma. Finally, there is a line that speaks to the Gospel passage: Jesus appears to the one perceiving him according to “whatever predominates in that person.” Here we have a critical insight from comparison: the rich man could only see the material, corporeal, human nature of Jesus because materialism (wealth, riches) predominated in him. Did his wealth render him among the ẓālimı̄n (unjust, oppressive) mentioned at the end of Qur’an 5:72? But what of the way in which Jesus is presently perceived through the world, in the neighbor? Qayṣarı̄ elaborates on the fact that Christians are in error neither in their saying Jesus is God nor in their saying Jesus is the son of Mary – but rather in saying both with a particular meaning: Because their saying, “he is God” or “God is he” is truthful (ṣāḍiq) insofar as the Ipseity of God is that which establishes and manifests in/through the form of Jesus, just as It manifests in/through the form of the world in its entirety. And their saying, “the Messiah the son of Mary” is also truthful, because he is the son of Mary without a doubt. However, the fullness of their expression and its combination is not correct, because it implies enclosing the Real (God) in the form of Jesus, and this is wrong, because the whole world – visible and invisible – is the Real’s (God’s) form, not just Jesus alone. (Qayṣarı̄ 1996, p. 865; emphasis added)

Here is a point of both disagreement and agreement, as it were. For even Balthasar would contend that the whole world  – visible and invisible  – is the gestalt of God. The Beautiful is that which appears, and that which appears is the gestalt of God, without which the other transcendentals would remain unknowable to our sense perception. However, Qayṣarı̄ is suggesting that there is nothing unique about Jesus’s form qua manifestation of the “Ipseity of God” (he is unique for other reasons, to be sure). Balthasar, Christocentric thinker that he is, reminds us that it is only through the Incarnation that the gestalt of God appears and remains present and perceptible to this day (although, like Athanasius, there is something about the Creator-­creation relationship that the Incarnation presupposes). Qayṣarı̄ then expands on the accusation of “enclosing” God: “they made God to be inside of (ḍimna) [Jesus’s] form” (Qayṣarı  ̄ 1996, p. 866; emphasis added). Once again, we can appreciate this accusation: how do we enclose God in the body of the first-­century Jesus, forgetting how God is present in the world, in the neighbor? How are our spiritual senses blinded by what predominates in us at any given moment? Balthasar’s points are augmented in this comparative reading: we have lost the ability to see, taste, smell, touch, and hear the perduring presence of Jesus Christ, the Beauty and Glory of God. One final passage is of import. Qayṣarı̄ discusses two possibilities about how Jesus revived the dead using the life-­giving divine command, “Be!” The details are outside our purview but can be summarized: is God the direct agent of revival (and Jesus merely the vessel), or is Jesus, as God’s servant, the agent of revival “by God’s permission” (God grants Jesus power to revive at that moment). Some “mystic-­knowers” adhered to the former, others to the latter. [But] some others became bewildered not knowing, like the mystic-­knower who does not distinguish between the levels and who knows the reality of the two [aforementioned] positions, and so is bewildered by the relation [between them] because he knows that reviving is one of God’s traits



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but witnesses [this trait] coming forth from a servant and he has faith in it/him. He is unable to relate [this trait] to God [alone] and [he is unable to relate this trait] to the servant [alone], since without experiencing [it himself] he is bewildered by it. (Qayṣarı̄ 1996, p. 870; emphasis added)

The two possibilities represent a version of the absolute, definitive knowing that restricts God or Jesus. The third option  – becoming bewildered  – is in fact the higher level for Qayṣarı̄. Just as beholding-­in-­wonder is the only proper aesthetic response to witnessing the gestalt of God, Jesus Christ. Later, Ibn ʿArabı̄ concludes that the only way to know the relationship between creation and Creator – or, for Christians we could gloss, the relationship between Jesus’s nature and God as well as between creation and Creator – is through dhawq, spiritual tasting, experience. Qayṣarı̄’s gloss: “for the one perceiving only perceives what they perceive through that which is in and from them” (Qayṣarı̄ 1996, p. 871). The ability to experience and recognize the bewildering affair, furthermore, is only through Jesus: “whoever reaches this station among the Friends [of God] does so through the spirituality (rū ḥānı̄ya) of Jesus” (Qayṣarı̄ 1996, p. 871).

Conclusion: Comparative Insights It seems that conciliar orthodox Christology is very nearly being affirmed by our Muslim interlocutors. While they are not of course making such an affirmation, their reading of the Qur’anic passages nevertheless illuminates some key aspects of the Gospel passage in conjunction with Balthasar’s theological aesthetics, spiritual senses, and the gestalt of God, Jesus Christ. I leave these insights open-­ended in the same manner of both Clooney and Balthasar. Clooney is known for keeping his insights after comparison tentative, unsettling, and challenging; rarely does he offer the definitive, absolute, and concrete lesson one must take after comparison. Balthasar’s theological aesthetics likewise suggest that we should eschew propositional statements after comparison, preferring instead lessons that keep us astounded, keep us open to the unexpected Beauty and Glory of God in manifold ways. Balthasar and Clooney together suggest that we cultivate wonder.

How Do Certain Christologies Conceal God? Balthasar endeavored to rehabilitate a cosmic Christology for the twentieth century, especially through his work on Gregory of Nyssa and Maximus Confessor. This culminated in his theological aesthetics. Indeed, popular Christian belief today in effect proposes a Christology that restricts divinity to Jesus Christ alone. Furthermore, in practice seeing and responding to Christ in the world, in the neighbor, is difficult – we are busy, we are stressed, we are overwhelmed with worldly concerns. The Islamic texts demand of Christians to be constantly on guard against delimiting divinity – however understood – lest we become blind to the unanticipated Beauty of God directly before us.

In What Way Do We Treat Christ Like a What? We do not encounter Christ as a what but as a thou. Jesus asked Simon Peter, “Who do you say that I am?,” to which he responded, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God” (Matthew 15:15– 16). In what way do Christians ask what – what must I do to be saved, what must I believe, what did Christ do for me? Instead, we should be seeing Christ as a thou in our neighbors and in the world – the living God – and acting accordingly. Indeed, this underscores Balthasar’s critique of Vatican I

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and neo-­scholasticism, which propounded that “Christianity can only be believed on the basis of authority” (McInroy 2014, p. 169) and through a dualistic extrinsicism that destroys and alienates the human subject – both rationally, psychologically, and aesthetically.12 But Balthasar does not want to go the modernist route of a Rahner, suggesting that “God’s revelation will be reduced to that which is already within the human being” (McInroy 2014, p. 170). These both suggest an easily accessible what as opposed to a living thou that enraptures, amazes, shocks, bewilders – and compels ethical action.

How Do We Remain Dualistic in Our Christology and Theological Anthropology? The Christological debates may have treated Jesus as a what, or perhaps they were and are ­sometimes received that way. However, they also uncovered a deep nondualism in the Christian tradition, something our Muslim interlocutors enable us to uncover in Balthasar’s theological aesthetics. He was deeply committed to Early Christian Christologies, especially those of the councils, which introduced necessary guardrails for Christian believers, despite their dicing-­and-­ splicing minutiae. Included in the canons of the Council of Ephesus, Cyril of Alexandria (d. 444) writes to Nestorius (d. circa 450) that “the one [μόνος / unus] and only Christ is not dual [οὐ … διπλοῦς / non … duplex], even though he be considered to be from two distinct realities [δύο νοῆται καὶ διαφόρων / ex duabus diversisque rebus], brought together into an unbreakable union [ἑνότητα / unitatem]” (Tanner 1990, vol. I, p. 55).13 The one is not two but two-­in-­one. The Council of Chalcedon, relying heavily on Leo’s Tome, professes “one and the same (ἕνα καὶ τὸν αὐτὸν / unum eundemque) Christ  …  acknowledged in two natures (δύο φύσεσιν / duabis naturis) which undergo no confusion, no change, no division, no separation (ἀσυγχύτως, ἀτρέπτως, ἀδιαιρέτως, ἀχωρίστως / inconfuse, immutabiliter, indivise, inseparabiliter);  …  the property of both natures (ἑκατέρας φύσεως / utriusque naturae) is preserved and comes together into a single person (ἓν πρόσωπον / unam personam) and a single subsistent being (μίαν ὑπόστασιν / unam … subsistentiam)” (Tanner 1990, vol. I, p. 86). Christ is not two (no separation), but not one (no confusion). Maximus Confessor takes conciliar Christology and transposes it into a cosmic Christocentrism in which “Jesus begins the end, the final integration (union-­in-­difference) of all things and inauguration of a ‘new creation’” (Blowers 2016, p. 146).14 Even Aquinas’s “grace does not destroy nature, but perfects it” (Summa Theologiae Iª q. 1 a. 8 ad 2) is arguably a nondual theological anthropology: nature and grace are not two (in which case grace would destroy nature  – Vatican I and neo-­ scholastic extrinsicism) and not one (in which case nature and grace would be the same – the modernism of Rahner). Balthasar’s approach, read through the Islamic texts here, is nondual. In this case, it remains bewildering, never settled: the gestalt of God, Christ Jesus, is perpetually encountered in unexpected ways in the Beauty and Glory of the world and in the neighbor. In this way, it should challenge the way we live, work, play, and build community  – it should not be restricted by the logics of other political, economic, and social ideologies, systems, and institutions, as Ibn ʿArabı̄ and Qayṣarı̄, mutatis mutandis, accused Christians of doing to God vis-­à-­vis Jesus. It should cultivate wonder.

How Do We Refuse the Wonder and Bewilderment of God’s Revelation? This is the danger of Rahner’s modernist approach, which is potentially too anthropocentric, such that what is true, good, and beautiful in God’s revelation is inchoately within the human person and the world already. God’s Beauty no longer surprises, but it is already within us. This leads to a second danger: God’s revelation no longer confronts our experiences, our social imaginaries and



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institutions, our political or economic systems, our modus vivendi, and so on. Rather, God’s ­revelation is subsumed under the logic and rationality of modern ideologies: Christ is a progressive, no – Christ is a conservative; Christ is an individualist, no – Christ is a socialist. Christ is anti-­ abortion, no – Christ is pro-­choice. Christ is a Republican no – Christ is a Democrat. In this way, we no longer remain bewildered but rather convince ourselves that we have solved (ḥall) the puzzle of Jesus: His divinity inheres (ḥall) in this particular – whatever it may be – worldly ideology. Balthasar warns against ideologies that become rationalistic and promethean: for they “attempt to ‘raise’ the earthly to the heavenly” (Carpenter 2015, p. 12). When we become assured that our ideological (pro)positions reflect Christ’s message perfectly, this is when we cease to “behold in wonder” the gestalt of God. Christ becomes a what that self-­assures us rather than a thou that perpetually bewilders and challenges the way we live, work, play, and build community. The Incarnation should form us; we should not restrict the Incarnation.

How Does Our Physical Relationship with the Material Order, with Power, Blind Our Spiritual Senses? Let us recall the original Qur’anic verse that associated certain Christian unbelief, or concealment (kufr), with oppressors (ẓal̄ imı̄n). Here we come full circle to the rich man, the wealthy ruler (in some readings). Balthasar is clear that “the human being does not have, already within his or her nature, an apparatus for encountering the fullness of God’s revelation. One cannot be utterly enraptured by the form without supernatural aid” (McInroy 2014, p. 178). Grace activates the spiritual senses through the corporeal senses, without which perceiving Beauty would be impossible. However, let us take this a step further: can our physical relationship to wealth and power occlude our spiritual senses too? I do not want to suggest that the natural order has power over grace – no, as Qur’an 5:17 continues, “And to God belongs the sovereignty (mulk: the supreme authority, power) over the heavens and the earth and what is between them. [God] creates what [God] wills and of all things God is capable (qadı̄r: all-­powerful).” While it is true that no human action can merit God’s grace or mercy (raḥmān), both Christianity and Islam developed spiritual disciplines (fasting, supererogatory prayer, abstinence, charity, etc.) to cultivate virtues such as iḥsān (doing-­the-­good-­and-­beautiful) and taqwā (God-­awareness); there remains a nondual tension here too, between the perennial question of grace/mercy and free will. How might wealth – wealth as a function of lifestyle, spiritual and material discipline – factor into this? Many Christians – historically and presently – persist in the idea that it is not wealth per se, but one’s relationship to wealth that is sinful. However, in our neoliberal, racial, and neocolonial capitalist world in which my material comfort relies in part on the material discomfort of someone else across the world in a near-­zero-­sum game, in which most profit is still gained in large part through exploited labor and extracted resources, surely, we need to nuance this position. What if the rich man’s actual wealth (“what predominated in him”) – as a function of his lifestyle and relationship to his community – prevented him from seeing not merely Christ’s Beauty, but also the Beauty of Christ in his neighbor? That the gestalt of God is perceived in the neighbor, especially the poor and oppressed, demands a radical transformation of the way I live, work, play, and build community in an unjust, inequitable, and unequal world: I must behold in wonder and bewilderment the Beauty of Christ in the neighbor and let it transform me. We should not “be grieved” like the rich man, but we should be struck with desire, love, and admiration (ἐξεπλήσσοντο) – and struggle with God’s Beauty perceived in the thou of the neighbor over whom we may be oppressors (ẓal̄ imı̄n). There is no singular way for this to happen; it varies from context to context. The only unchanging truth Balthasar, along with our Muslim interlocutors, can offer, is that we need to be perpetually challenged by the Beauty of God in the world – never settle, never sit still, always “behold in wonder” the Glory and Beauty of Christ in the world and neighbor.

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Epilogue Perhaps the reason why Clooney found Balthasar amenable to comparative theology is because of this cultivation of wonder and amazement at the infinite ways the gestalt of God is encountered in the world. As I have demonstrated, Balthasar’s theological aesthetics is ripe for comparative theology, especially with the Islamic traditions. In a way, comparative theology exercises the spiritual senses. Christ Jesus, the gestalt of God, cannot be delimited to any given cultural or historical context; rather, the Beauty and Glory of God can be encountered everywhere – even in the theological texts of other religious traditions – and they must bewilder and challenge us.

Notes 1 The first is from Bonaventure’s (1882–1902a) Itinerarium (Itin. vol. II, p. 10. Opera Omnia, vol. V, p. 302b) and the second is from his commentary (Bonaventure 1882–1902b) on Peter Lombard’s Sentences (II Sent. dist. 34, art. 2, q. 3, 6. Opera Omnia, vol. II, 814). 2 Translation from the Persian. For English, see Ghazālı̄ (1986, p. 33). 3 This is the first couplet of love lyric #148 in Ḥ āfiẓ (1983), my translation. The English can be found in Ḥ āfiẓ (2007, p. 369) and in Gray (1995, p. 93). 4 Modified translation from original Greek. 5 This follows the NRSV translation except for “struck-­with-­wonder” and the ellipses at “When he heard this, he  …  went away grieving.” The NRSV writes that “he [was shocked and] went away grieving,” but the Greek does not suggest an additional affective response beyond grief, distress, or pain (λυπούμενος) at v. 22. 6 See “ἐκπλήσσω,” in Liddell & Scott (1940). 7 The Arabic word ḥulū l is often translated as “incarnation” or “incarnationalism” in polemical or apologetical texts. I refrain from translating it as “incarnation” because ḥulū l does not, in fact, mean what conciliar orthodoxy means by the theological term “Incarnation.” The term ḥulū l refers rather to the act of dismounting, alighting, descending, coming down, or even taking up residence in a place; as such, it implies a dualistic understanding of how Jesus is God, namely, God enters Jesus as an object resides in a subject, almost like spirit possession, as it were. 8 The Arabic bashara refers to the outer skin, the epidermis, of the human being, and it has etymological connections with both humankind (basharı̄ya), a human being (bashar), bāshara (to touch, to have skin-­to-­skin contact, to have sexual intercourse), and bushrā/bushr (glad tidings, good news, viz., the word for “Gospel” in Arab Christian communities). Within the larger Islamic mystical tradition, a bashar (human being) is often how the mortal, unrealized individual is referred to, with insān (human person) being the term for the realized (muḥaqqiq) person with recognition (maʿrifa). Both Austin’s and Abrahamov’s translation of the Fuṣuṣ elect “human form” instead of human skin, but I argue that this ignores a crucial meaning intended by Ibn ʿArabı̄, and one that provides Christian theological discourse with critical insight: God is not enclosed within Jesus’s human flesh, but rather becomes flesh. 9 My translation. For English, see also Ibn ʿArabı̄ 2015b, p. 106; Ibn ʿArabı̄ 1980, p. 177. 10 Ibn ʿArabı̄ employs the inanimate interrogative pronoun mā rather than the personal man. 11 “[God] is the originator of the heavens and the earth. When [God] wills a matter, [God] simply says to it ‘Be!’ and it is” (Qur’an 2:117). There are other verses in the Qur’an employing this formula, kun fa-­yakū n (Be, and it is!). 12 Extrinsicism sharply separates the supernatural from the natural order to the point of creating a dualism, with the supernatural ultimately rendering the natural superfluous in terms of the Christian life. 13 This is from Cyril’s third letter to Nestorius: and merely one of manifold examples of not-­two-­but-­ not-­one statements therein. 14 Blowers extends Hans Urs von Balthasar’s own reading of Maximus; see Balthasar (2003).



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Ibn ʿArabı̄. (2015a). Fuṣū ṣ al-­ḥikam (ed. Niẓām al-­Dı̄n Aḥ mad). Cairo: Maktabat Miṣr. Ibn ʿArabı̄. (2015b). Ibn Al-­ʻArabi’s Fuṣuṣ Al-­ḥikam: An Annotated Translation of “The Bezels of Wisdom” (trans. B. Abrahamov). New York: Routledge. Lāhū rı̄, Abū al-­Ḥ asan Khatamı̄. (1995). Sharḥ-­i ʿ irfānı̄-­i ghazalhā-­yi Ḥ āfiẓ (ed. Jalāl Al-­Dı̄n Ā shtiyānı̄), 4 vols. Tehran: Nashr-­i Qaṭrah. Liddell, H.G. and Scott, R. (1940). A Greek–English Lexicon. Oxford: Clarendon Press. McInroy, M.J. (2014). Balthasar on the Spiritual Senses: Perceiving Splendour. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nichols, A. (2011). A Key to Balthasar: Hans Urs von Balthasar on Beauty, Goodness, and Truth. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. Qayṣarı̄, D. (1996). Sharḥ-­i Fuṣū ṣ Al-­ḥikam (ed. Jalāl Al-­Dı̄n Ā shtiyānı̄). Tehran: Sharikat-­i Intishārāt-­i ʻIlmı̄ Va Farhangı̄. Takacs, A.M.O. (2017). “An interpreter and not a judge”: Insights into a Christian–Islamic comparative theology. In: How to Do Comparative Theology (ed. F.X. Clooney and K. von Stosch), pp. 98–121. New York: Fordham University Press. Takacs, A.M.O. (2020). Transposing metaphors and poetics from text to world: The theo-­poetics of Lāhū rı̄’s “mystical commentary” on Ḥ āfiẓ’s love lyrics. Journal of Sufi Studies 9 (1): 106–144. Tanner, N.P. (ed.) (1990). Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils. London: Sheed & Ward; Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Van Erp, S. (2004). The Art of Theology: Hans Urs von Balthasar’s Theological Aesthetics and the Foundations of Faith. Leuven: Peeters.

CHAPTER 31

Paradoxes of Desire in St John of the Cross and Solomon ibn Gabirol Thinking with Poetry in Comparative Theology Luis Manuel Girón-Negrón

Francis X. Clooney and Sacred Poetry: Prolegomena Close readings of religious poetry figure prominently in Francis X. Clooney’s foundational ­contributions to the field of comparative theology.1 His comparative engagement with Hindu thought as a Jesuit priest formed in Catholic theology involves attentive, contrapuntal readings of both Hindu and Christian texts, including major works of sacred verse. In Divine Mother, Blessed Mother (Clooney  2005), an interreligious reflection on the Hindu goddesses tradition and Christian Marian devotion, all the primary sources for his comparative readings are sacred poems in either Sanskrit, Tamil, Latin, or Greek. Three devotional hymns to Hindu goddesses ́ vaiṣṇ ava or Saiva ́ from either the S rı̄ tantric traditions are read side by side with three poetic liturgical hymns to the Virgin Mary (Greek Orthodox, Western Catholic, and Indian Christian).2 Likewise, in His Hiding Place Is Darkness (Clooney 2014), a probing examination of the biblical Song of Songs – a Near Eastern poetic epithalamium – and the Christian commentaries embedded in a series of medieval Cistercian sermons in Latin goes hand in hand with a sustained exploration of the Tamil devotional song Tiruvyāmoḷi (the holy word of mouth) by the eighth-­century ́ vaiṣṇ ava poet-­saint Saṭ ́ akōpaṉ: the central text as well of Clooney’s (1996) Seeing Through Srı̄ ́ vaiṣḥavas of South India (this major study first ushered this Texts: Doing Theology among the Srı̄ particular cycle of comparative explorations involving sacred love literature).3 Finally, the rich juxtaposition of classical primary sources in His Hiding Place Is Darkness is further reinforced by

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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an interlaced reading of Jorie Graham’s poetry and probing reflections on poetics, theology, and imaginative writing in dialogue with Gerard Manley Hopkins and Hans Urs von Balthasar.4 How are all these poems read? Clooney’s interreligious readings of sacred poetry provide some exemplary case studies in method at the intersection of literary scholarship and deep theological learning. These readings are driven first and foremost by a theological will caught up in the fertile tension between the religious worlds of his textual comparands. They derive further cohesion from the thematic overlap among the latter. The poems chosen in most of these studies are grosso modo devotional love songs and as such they invite interreligious reflections on “the lyric and dramatic dimensions of divine-­human love, sought and suffered”: e.g., loving surrender to God, the ­sufferings of the love of God when God is absent or hidden, what does it mean to love the divine embodied as female. So yes, the primary goal of these studies is theological and his poetic comparands share thematic content. And yet Clooney also happens to be a superb close reader of sacred poetry as poetry. The religious poems he examines are not simply reduced to their propositional content for the purpose of a theological reading inattentive to language and form. For one, he is clearly sensitive to the beauty of these poems, both in their own terms as artful imaginative writing and within the religious frame of a theological aesthetics. Moreover, Clooney also showcases a deep appreciation for how poets “think” through poetry: how sacred bards enact in poetic language, with all its formal prosodic and structural conceits, complex articulations of thought and meaning, and do so with theological depth within the literary and religious traditions in which they are steeped.5 Poems come to life with such immersive attention to detail, to the concrete specificities of these texts, in his ­religious readings as a spiritual practice. We can even talk, if not about a method, certainly about a cohesive set of interpretive guidelines in his theopoetic excursus. In a recent essay on a single verse from the eighth-­century ́ akōpaṉ), Clooney (2022a) briefly sketches a Tamil Tiruviruttam (another major poem by S aṭ four-­pronged approach to reading religious poetry threaded in his theological explorations of Hindu sacred verse. Said approach does not amount to a rigid method, but a rather fecund set of vectors that informs how far interreligious readings of sacred poetry can go as one moves “from textual to intellectual to spiritual understandings” of even a single verse. It also shares an interpretive focus on Rezeptionsforschung with respect to “religious reading”: that is, reading such poems not as detached objects of aesthetic appreciation, but in terms of their readerly reception astride the personal and the academic, more precisely, the transformative impact they might have on careful readers who risk engaging the profound faith claims that these texts  make upon them with focus, openness, and deliberation. The four tiers of such an approach involve: 1. a close textual reading of a poetic fragment in its own terms – what it aims to communicate through its choice of language and imagery, its prosodic features and thematic/structural ­relationship to the rest of the poem that contains it; 2. an intellectual deepening of that close reading informed by the canonical literary traditions that lend significance to a poet’s choice of imagery and language (in this example, Tamil and Sanskrit sacred literature); 3. a reconnaissance of a poem’s deeper religious meaning, the spiritual insights it aims to ­communicate to Hindu readers as gauged against its reception within the tradition (in this ­particular example, the commentarial literature on this poem); and 4. the perspective of a “pilgrim reader” who commits to an in-­depth engagement with a sacred text from another religious tradition and then confronts, with comparable depth and attention, a pertinent comparand from their own.6



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Confessions of a Guilty Bystander Now, what I have reviewed so far about Clooney’s work and his approach to poetry is already well known among the theologians brought together in this Festschrift. But I do not come to this celebration as an academic theologian. I am a comparative literature scholar with a religious studies background and a historical expertise in medieval and early modern Iberia. I teach and write about the cultural exchanges between Iberian Muslims, Christians, and Jews and their literary archives, which include as well substantial corpora of religious poetry across the three traditions. Clooney’s multitiered approach to sacred verse thus dovetails with comparable styles of textual analysis from which I have drawn inspiration within Iberian studies.7 Moreover, I am a religion and literature scholar who happens to be Catholic, and a lay Franciscan, to boot. My theological self-­understanding has also been enriched by the range of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim sources that I teach about within the secular humanities. However, to be literate about theology is not the same as being an academic theologian, and I do not claim to be one. I have a healthy respect for the expertise and erudition of colleagues who have devoted their academic lives to theological traditions of scholarship. My dear friend has nonetheless gently prodded me for many years to take a leap beyond my comfort zone – beyond what he once described as the Enlightenment separation of mind and heart – and take my own comparative work as a Catholic scholar a step further with more explicit theological reflections on why these poems matter, especially as I move between my own tradition of faith, which I also study as a historian, and the Iberian Jewish and Muslim traditions for which I only acquired comparative expertise “by dint of slow learning” as a “pilgrim reader, neither native nor tourist” (Clooney 2022a, p. 18).8 Or to put it more succinctly: could I make it impossible for me as both a scholar and a person of faith “to stay put with words that hover safely above the realities of God and traditions” (Clooney 2014, p. 43)? The remainder of this chapter represents a small first step in that direction: a tentative effort to revisit a couple of sacred poems from the religious traditions of the Iberian Peninsula that I teach or write about, and engage with them not only comparatively, but also theologically.

John of the Cross and Solomon ibn Gabirol: Brief Introduction The two comparands I have chosen for this exercise are short poetic texts by two towering figures of the Iberian multireligious sphere: two short stanzas from St John of the Cross’s Cántico espiritual (the Spiritual Canticle) and a brief liturgical poem in Hebrew by Solomon ibn Gabirol. The Christian friar and the Jewish poet are both well known and deeply admired in their respective traditions. St John of the Cross (1542–1591), the Discalced Carmelite, stands out in both the history of Christian mysticism and the literary archives of Golden Age Spain as a revered Catholic saint, an influential mystic theologian, and a major Spanish poet. Solomon ibn Gabirol (1021/1022–ca. 1057/1058), an undisputed giant of the Hispano-­Jewish Golden Age, is equally admired as both a serious Jewish philosopher with significant impact even in Christian scholasticism,9 and, along with Judah Halevi, Samuel ha-­Nagid, and Moshe ibn Ezra, one of the greatest Hebrew poets of the Jewish Middle Ages. Why these two texts? This particular juxtaposition was first inspired by an earlier invitation to lead a literature workshop at the monastic school Sinclètica in Montserrat, Catalonia.10 I had ­chosen these comparands for my intervention – two poems which I have taught over the years in religion and literature courses – because they provided significant reflections on the assigned topic for that day: the desire for God. They also shared in common some significant features that had potential for side-­by-­side, interreligious readings.

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(a)  Both poems engage with the desire for God, the desiderium supernum, as an overarching theme, albeit from very specific angles within the Christian and Jewish traditions. John of the Cross’s Spiritual Canticle is a poetic paraphrase of the biblical Song of Songs anchored in the late medieval/early modern tradition of Christian love mysticism. Drawing from both his own spiritual life as a Carmelite friar and his learned engagement with mystical theology, John evokes in nuptial terms the “immediate consciousness of the presence of God”11 as summum bonum of the Christian life: the soul’s efforts to unite with Christ as Lover and Beloved do – the attainment of mystical union – evoked in a highly charged language derived from the biblical epithalamium interpreted as an allegory of divine/human love. His poem charts indeed a c­ ontemplative itinerary of mystical desire.12 Ibn Gabirol’s text, however, is a liturgical poem on the very possibility of prayer: what makes it ­possible for devout Jews to experience a personal encounter with the living God within the halakhic frame of canonical prayers in their daily religious observance. It interlaces Neoplatonic themes (­perhaps even Sufi ones) with the rabbinic understanding of prayer in a poetic meta-­reflection on the desire for God – the God of Israel, the God of the covenant – and what prayer is. He was, after all, a Jewish ­poet-­philosopher who was also exposed to Arabo-­Islamic spirituality with a deep ­contemplative bent.13 (b)  Both poems were written for liturgical or paraliturgical purposes with a pedagogical thrust. John sought to communicate some of his theological reflections and personal experiences as a Christian contemplative in his luminous poetry, but the Spiritual Canticle, along with his other major poems, came to play a role as well in the spiritual edification of Carmelite nuns and friars – both professed and in formation – entrusted to his care. His vernacular verse was not conceived as part of the liturgy proper, but we can envision John drawing from his poems in the religious formation of his charges. Moreover, John used his own poem as a template for an expansive treatise on contemplative prayer and the loving pursuit of mystical union written in the form of an interpretive commentary of the entire Canticle. It began as oral responses to the queries posed to him by the Discalced nuns in Beas, before completing its first written redaction during his first years in Granada (the work was dedicated to Ana de Jesús, prioress of the Granadine Discalced nuns). His three major poems (Noche oscura, Cántico espiritual, and Llama de amor viva) were indeed the ­exegetical bases for his four main works of mystical theology, all of them learned, commentarial reflections in full ­dialogue with the late medieval traditions of Christian love mysticism. Ibn Gabirol’s poem is a piyyuṭ, that is, a liturgical poem proper written as an expansion to the canonical prayers of the Jewish synagogal liturgy. More precisely, it is a rəšut, a short monorhyme piyyuṭ that served to introduce the Nišmat prayer on Sabbaths and festivals from the Jewish Morning Service proper (šaḥ arit): an ancient thanksgiving hymn prayed before the recitation of the Shema and its blessings.14 This Sabbath morning prayer began: “The breath (nišmat) of every living being shall bless Your name” (Elbaz et  al.  2019, pp.  538–539). These Hispano-­Jewish rəšuyyot often provided pedagogical reflections on the central theme of the prescribed prayer that they prefaced, their last lines serving as a textual bridge to the Nišmat prayer itself. They were both part of the liturgy and a poetic commentary on the latter. (c)  Both poems were written in contexts of suffering, imprisonment, or exile. John of the Cross was one of the first members of the male branch of the Discalced Carmelite reform spearheaded by Teresa of Ávila. Her reform efforts came to fruition, but only after surmounting the fierce opposition of the Calced Carmelites. John was one of the Discalced confessors



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of the Carmelite nuns at La Encarnación in Ávila when the latter elected Teresa as superior of their convent in 1577, in defiance of the Calced Carmelite provincial who had forbidden her consideration as a candidate in that election. His close association with Teresa and obvious support of the Discalced reform seem to have led to John of the Cross’s bitter incarceration in Toledo at the hands of the Calced Carmelites between 1577 and 1578 (the precise charge remains unknown).15 He wrote the bulk of his Spiritual Canticle during the almost nine months of grievous mistreatment and isolation while imprisoned in Toledo.16 Ibn Gabirol also endured much suffering and uncertainty during the years when he wrote the bulk of his mature poetry. He was born in Málaga from a Cordovan family. His family abandoned Málaga during the chaos that ensued from the disintegration of the Umayyad Caliphate in Cordova, resettling in Saragossa, one of the most culturally prestigious taifa kingdoms of the eleventh ­century. However, his parents died early on and his precarious economic situation forced him to look for patrons to support him. Ibn Gabirol was also forced to abandon the city in traumatic ­conditions, enduring a terrible exile compounded by intra-­Jewish struggles over his own engagement with the philosophical tradition. His poems were composed amidst these struggles in the turbulent course of a very short life.17 (d)  Both poems are masterpieces of their respective poetic traditions. In the Spiritual Canticle, John of the Cross draws from his extraordinary gifts as a Spanish poet in the learned Italianate tradition of the sixteenth century to rewrite the Song of Songs in Petrarchan liras of consummate aesthetic perfection.18 The Petrarchan lyre in his hands becomes a poetic vehicle for quasi-­musical experimentation. Moreover, it survives in two versions each of which has its own aesthetic integrity as a full poem: a rare feat in Spanish literary history.19 Ibn Gabirol’s rəšut consists in five monorhyme verses written with exquisite biblical diction in perfect quantitative meter (a Hebrew adaptation of Arabic prosody), his name inscribed as a Hebrew acrostic made up from the first letter of each of the first four verses. Artistically, it is also a small masterpiece within the rich corpus of Hebrew liturgical poetry from the Andalusian Middle Ages: one of the poetic jewels that enriched the Sephardic siddurim, the Jewish prayerbooks of the Sephardic diaspora.20 In what follows, I will alternate between close readings of two stanzas from St John’s Spiritual Canticle and Ibn Gabirol’s full piyyuṭ divided in two sections. We will conclude with a brief ­reflection on a theme that stood out for me in the interreligious reading of these texts: the role of contemplative prayer in Jewish and Christian religious life.21

Cántico Espiritual A1/B1 ¿Adónde te escondiste, Amado, y me dejaste con gemido? Como el ciervo huiste habiéndome herido; salí tras ti clamando y eras ido.22

Where did you hide, my Beloved, and left me moaning? You fled like the stag leaving me wounded; I went out after you clamoring, and you were gone.

John’s Spiritual Canticle begins in medias res with the anguished cry of an aching lover. ¿Adónde te escondiste, / Amado, y me dejaste con gemido? (“Where did you hide, / my Beloved, and left me moaning?”). This is an abrupt point of departure for a complex itinerary of desire. The poem begins without preambles with a cry of pain bemoaning a hidden Love, the absence of Him apostrophized at the beginning of the next verse, as if an enjambment could reenact his act of disappearance in language.

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What do we know about this aching Lover? For Christian readers already attuned to the poem’s roots in the Song of Songs, the lovestruck speaker would be immediately identifiable as the biblical Sulamite. However, unlike the bride in Šir ha-­širim whose physical beauty is graphically evoked with stunning imagery and figurative language, the utterer of these verses only appears as a ­disembodied voice, an elusive, incorporeal presence devoid of any physical traits. Indeed, aside from the external rubrics that label her the Esposa, gender markers as female only appear within the text after her first encounter with the Beloved, almost midway through the Canticle.23 Her body is never described anywhere in the poem. These opening verses rather establish a purely dialogical frame for the poem, a “discours dialogale entre un toi et un moi qui se cherchent à travers le langage” (De Certeau 1982, p. 224). Or, at least, an “I” that seeks a “Thou” awaiting a response in restless search for her absent Groom. Absent and unnamed. For Christian mystics might have read the Song of Songs in an allegorical key as the love story of Christ the Beloved and his earthly Lover – whether the Church as a whole or an individual soul – and St John himself, in his own commentary on this stanza, also spells out the explicit identity of the Beloved in this theological tradition (Cántico espiritual B1.2): In this first stanza, the soul, enamored of the Word, her Bridegroom, the Son of God, longs for union with him through clear and essential vision. She records her longings of love and complains to him of his absence, especially since his love wounds her. Through this love she went out from all creatures and from herself, and yet she must suffer her Beloved’s absence, for she is not freed from mortal flesh as the enjoyment of him in the glory of eternity requires. Accordingly she says Where have you hidden? (Kavanaugh and Rodríguez 2017, p. 478).24

God, however, is not even mentioned in the biblical epithalamium, nor is Christ ever named explicitly in the poem. Only in light of this tradition and against John’s re-­elaboration of its Scriptural source can the poem be read as an invitation to recognize Christ himself in the ­anonymous Beloved. And only then can we recognize ourselves in the wandering lover and allow ourselves to be drawn by her words, that we might partake in her anguish, in her pain, in her desperate search for Him whose absence fuels her desire for the comforting solace of His presence. We might not visualize ourselves as the biblical Sulamite of exotic beauty, but we can hear the voice of our restless hearts in John’s haunting evocation of her longings. So neither Lover nor Beloved are described, but she is clearly heard. When her Beloved went into hiding, he left her moaning (gimiendo). This visceral, wordless groan, as noted by López Baralt (1998, pp. 32–33), was completely foreign to the affective restraint of Petrarch and the discrete tears of Garcilaso: the literary models in secular love poetry for the type of amatory verse that St John was writing. Her groans give way, however, to the words of her complaint: Como el ciervo huiste / habiéndome herido / Salí tras ti clamando y eras ido (“You fled like the stag / leaving me wounded; / I went after You clamoring and you were gone”). What has happened here? Her Beloved fled like a deer, leaving her wounded. The image of the deer, the gazelle, or the stag is conspicuous in the Song of Songs (2:9, 2:17, 8:14, etc.), as John himself reminds us,25 and appears elsewhere in the Bible (e.g., Psalm 42[41]:2, etc.),26 as well as in the Christian tradition at large.27 Moreover, the fleeing stag wounded by a hunter was a popular image both in Italian and Spanish love poetry28 and in their classical Latin sources:29 the poetic traditions that would be all too familiar to contemporary readers – his Carmelite novices included – in sixteenth-­century Spain. And yet an attentive reader would have been unsettled by something odd: an inversion in St John’s recourse to an otherwise familiar image. In the local traditions of love poetry, the fleeing stags are wounded by their hunters, but, in this stanza, the Lover is a female hunter searching for the fugitive deer that left her wounded. The stag leaves unscathed, whereas the hunter is wounded by the flight of the Beloved.



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This enigmatic moment opens a poetic arc that will gain its full meaning when we reach the other stanza to be considered below. This is also the first time that John draws inspiration from his precise understanding of what his readers knew and how they might have reacted to these initial verses in his mystical pedagogy. Even before he glosses his own verse about possible ­spiritual ­meanings, John expects attentive readers to be drawn into a process of contemplative discernment by this subtle subversion of a familiar image. That sense of strangeness in his poetic reimagining of well-­ known tropes  – their “defamiliarization” (остранение) as Russian ­ formalists would famously call such an artistic technique30 – alerts readers repeatedly about the intrusion of the sacred in the imaginative landscape of his verses. Just as the divine Beloved left discernible traces of His passing for the wandering Lover to find, so the poet also leaves behind textual cues for us to decipher, that we might better accompany this restless figure into an unmediated encounter. A final point is in order. The Lover “went out” (salí) calling for him, but he was gone, in line with Song of Songs 3:1–2 where the Sulamite first fails at night to find her Beloved in bed (perhaps while in a dream?), and then (upon waking up?) she roams all over town searching for him, but he is nowhere to be found.31 Going out is a trope in Christian mystical literature for entering within, searching for the God who dwells, to echo Teresa of Ávila, in the inner castle of the soul. As Augustine’s famous dictum goes: Noli foras ire, in te ipsum redi. In interiore homine habitat veritas/“Do not go out, go back into yourself. Truth dwells inside the person” (De vera religione 39:72).32 John offers a commentary ad locum with a more ascetic reading of salí,33 but in his lengthy reflections elsewhere on the nature of God’s “hiddenness” the real scope of her journey is spelled out: ­plunging into an inward search for ecstatic union with the absent Beloved hidden within her. The rhyming scheme reinforces this sequence of events with expressive economy: gemido (her cry of pain …), herido (… wounded by the Groom …), ido (… who has gone missing). The absence of God is a wound that drives us out of ourselves in search of Him.

Ibn Gabirol’s rəšut: verses 1 and 2 .‫ ָּופ ַר ְש ִתי לְ ָך כַ ַפי וְ ַא ִפי‬/ ‫ְש ַח ְר ִתיָך ְבכָ ל ַש ְח ִרי וְ נִ ְש ִפי‬ .‫ׁשֹואל עֲ לֵ י ִפ ְת ִחי וְ ִס ִפי‬ ֵ ‫ לְ ַדל‬/ ‫ וְ ֶא ְד ֶמה‬,‫לְ ָך ֶא ְה ֶמה ְבלֵ ב צָ ֵמא‬ !‫קֹומָך ּתֹוְך ְסעִ ִפי‬ ְ ‫ וְ אּולָ ם יֵ ׁש ְמ‬/­—‫ְמרֹומֹות ל ֹא יְ כִ ילּוָך לְ ִש ְב ָתך‬ .‫ר־פי‬ ִ ‫וְ גָ ַבר ִח ְש ְקָך עַ ד יַ עֲ ָב‬/‫בֹודָך‬ ְ ְ‫ֲהל ֹא ֶאצְ פֹן ְבלִ ִבי ֵשם כ‬ .‫ֹלהים ַחי ְב ַא ִפי‬ ִ ‫בעֹוד נִ ְש ַמת ֶא‬/‫י‬ ְ ָ‫הֹודה ֵשם ֲאדֹנ‬ ֶ ‫ֲאנִ י עַ ל כֵ ן ֲא‬ Every morning and every evening I seek You / spreading out my hands, lifting up my face in prayer I yearn for you with a thirsty heart, and I resemble / a beggar at the threshold of my own door knocking. There is no dwelling place in the heavens that could contain You / and yet You have a place in my mind! I try to conceal Your glorious Name within my heart / but my love for You brims over until it spills out of my lips. Therefore I shall praise the name of the Lord / as long as the breath of the living God is in my nostrils.34 How is it possible for our prayer to reach God? Ibn Gabirol’s poem is precisely about the possibility of prayer. The poem advances a theological response to this query, developed in a series of ­paradoxical contrasts and twofold movements that lends it a coherent structure.35 In the very first line of the poem, the outward manifestation of prayer is expressed in a ­choreography of physical gestures accompanying both the morning and evening prayers of the

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speaking voice. šəḥ arti-­kha bə-­khol šaḥ ri wə-­nišpi (“Every morning and every evening I seek You”). The denominative verb šaḥ ar in šəḥ arti-­kha (I seek You) – a verse that echoes Psalm 63:2 (ašaḥ are-­kha) – is built upon the word for “morning” (šaḥ ar) almost as if to suggest that the diligent search for God begins the very moment one opens one’s eyes, day after day.36 And how is that search expressed in prayer? U-­farasti lə-­kha kappai wə-­appi’ (spreading out my hands, lifting up my face in prayer, lit. I offer you my outspread palms and my face). In the Nišmat prayer, Israel is depicted as a praying man endowed with superhuman qualities in order to convey, via hyperbole, how even then the supplicant would be unable to thank God and bless His name fully as befits Him: Were our mouth as full of song as the sea, and our tongue as full of joyous song as its multitude of waves, and our lips as full of praise as the breadth of the heavens, and our eyes as brilliant as the sun and the moon, and our hands as outspread [wə-yadenu fərusot] as eagles of the sky. (Elbaz et al. 2019, pp. 538–539)

Internalizing the psalmic image of the Davidic supplicant (e.g., Psalm 63:2–7, “I lift up my hands, invoking Your name”), along with a textual echo from the Nišmat itself, the speaker presents himself as a devout Jew standing up day and night, hands outstretched, his face upward in supplication that God might make Himself present in the sanctuary of his prayer. Of course, whereas in the Nišmat the praying man who addresses God speaks in the first person plural (Were our mouth [ finu] … and our tongue [u-­lešonenu] … and our lips [wə-­siftotenu] … and our eyes [wə-­’enenu] … and our hands [wə-­yadenu] …),37 the Jewish voice in Ibn Gabirol’s poem speaks these lines in the first person singular: I seek You (šaḥ arti), I spread my hands and lift up my face in prayer (both actions signified by the verb farasti). The precentor in the synagogue might be addressing God in the plural as the voice of the community of Israel (the rabbinic piyyuṭim were intended for communal, not individual, [self-­]expression), but Ibn Gabirol and his Andalusian peers introduced the voice of the individual supplicant – a voice in the first person singular – as a liturgical innovation. The rhyming scheme based on the enclitic pronoun -­i for “my” (my evening [nišpi], my face [appi], my threshold [sippi], my mind [səꜤippi], my mouth [pi], my nostrils [appi]) reinforces Ibn Gabirol’s insistent focus on the personal experience of the Jewish supplicant ­speaking throughout the rəšut. Coming back to the body of the poem, this outward manifestation of embodied prayer with outstretched palms and uplifted face is explained in the next verse as a physical expression of an inner experience that explodes toward God with centrifugal force. The first hemistich of the second verse begins Lə-­kha ehmeh bə-­lev tsame (lit. I moan for You with a thirsty heart), still drawing from Psalm 63:2 which also expresses the inner drive of a supplicant’s search for God as a thirsty soul (“God, You are my God, I search for You [attah ašaḥarekha], my soul thirsts for You [tsoma lə-­kha nafši]”): a quintessential image of religious longing in the Hebrew Bible. And a soul that groans with thirst, like the visceral gemido of John’s lovestruck Lover: ehmeh, not a sigh but a growl (Isaiah 59:11 ‫נֶ ֱה ֶמה כַ ֻּד ִּבים ּכֻ ּלָ נו‬/nehemeh kha-­dubbim kullanu, “We all growl like bears”), just like the daily s­ upplicant in Psalm 55:18, whose moans and complaints – we are assured – are heard by God throughout the day: ‫ ָא ִש ָיחה וְ ֶא ֱה ֶמה; וַ יִ ְש ַמע קֹולִ י‬,‫עֶ ֶרב וָ ב ֶֹקר וְ צָ ֳה ַריִ ם‬ Evening, morning, and noon, I complain and moan [wə-­ehmeh] and He hears my voice. The intensity of that inner impetus to reach out to God in prayer prompts a comparison that breaks the paratactic balance between hemistiches, with the speaker completing the first stich with “I resemble” [wə-­edmeh] which rhymes internally with “I moan” [ehmeh].



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To what can a praying man be compared, as he faces God in prayer? In the second stich we are told: lə-­dal šoel ‘aley pitḥ i wə-­sippi (lit. to a poor man at my own threshold, begging at my own door). Here Ibn Gabirol, just like Saint John of the Cross, indulges in an unexpected inversion of a well-­ known trope among his readers. The prayer of a supplicant is often described in rabbinic literature as knocking at God’s door like a beggar, a hackneyed image. In BT (Babylonian Talmud) Megillah 12b, for example, a rabbinic sage explains how Mordechai in the book of Esther was called “son of Shimei, the son whose prayers God heard (šamaꜤ), [and] the son of Kish because he knocked (hiqqiš) on mercy’s gates and they were opened to him.” Ibn Gabirol, however, subverts this pious image with a significant twist: the supplicant in the poem is at the threshold of his own door knocking (pitḥ i, my door; sippi, my threshold). Why? Because God is within him, within the compass of his own soul. God is in his mind: a philosophical twist rooted in the Neoplatonic view of the soul as God’s natural abode, a bold claim that anchors other Hispano-­Jewish piyyuṭim on prayer and ­contemplation.38 The Nišmat closes with a moving reflection on how we are able to reach out to God in prayer: how – in creating our limbs, our breath, and our mouth – God endowed us with the physical means of praising and thanking Him. Ibn Gabirol’s rəšut prefaces this exalted view on how God created us with the means to pray with an exploration of where prayer comes from: an exploration rooted on a philosophical call for mystical introspection, the search for God’s presence within the inner recesses of our being. We will come back to the Neoplatonic and Sufi parallels further below, but it will suffice to note how, while John dramatizes the path to God in contemplative prayer as the soul’s agonizing search for the absent God that can only be found inside herself, Ibn Gabirol’s Neoplatonic search for the living God within our mind already leads in these verses to a theology of prayer: one that takes as its point of departure the supplicant standing, in Scheindlin’s words (1991, p. 186), “like a beggar at his own door and at his own threshold in order to speak to God.”

Cántico A 12/B 13 ¡Apártalos Amado que voy de vuelo! esposo

Vuélvete, paloma, que el ciervo vulnerado por el otero asoma, al aire de tu vuelo y fresco toma

Cast them away, Beloved I am taking flight groom

Turn, my dove, for the wounded stag makes an appearance on the hill cooled by the breeze of your flight,

Between the first stanza and the one before us, the Canticle has told part of the story of the l­ovestruck’s Bride and her desperate search for an absent Groom, an unmediated encounter with Jesus the Beloved. Her various inquiries about his whereabouts (creatively aligned with Šir ha-­širim) has come to nothing so far in the poem. The intervening stanzas focus, instead, on her anguishing response to the hidden God veiled in darkness.39 However, at a pivotal moment in the previous stanza, in the stranglehold of despair, the Lover finally wishes that the crystalline ­fountain she suddenly stumbled upon (the ma’yan khatam / fons signatus of Song of Songs 4:12) were to reflect the eyes of the Beloved, which were already drawn and imprinted within her!40 It is at this juncture, with the implied suggestion that – in lieu of her reflection – she saw His eyes on the watery mirror, that she cries out: ¡Apártalos Amado / que voy de vuelo! (“Cast them

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away, Beloved, / I am taking flight”). And here we are once again plunged into John’s unexpected twist of the biblical source at hand. In Song of Songs 6:5, the lovestruck Groom, overwhelmed by the beauty of His Lover’s eyes, asks her to cast her glance away from him, for she is driving him wild.41 However, an attentive reader of the biblical text would immediately realize that, in the Spanish Canticle, the female Lover is the one speaking the words that Scripture assigns to the groom. The Lover is the one who is asking her Beloved to withdraw his eyes from her and look away.42 No mention of this switch is made in John’s commentary, but this is no inadvertent mistake. This apparent confusion rather anticipates one of the contemplative experiences about to be evoked a couple of stanzas later: the ecstatic moment of transformative union between God and the soul, which seems to blur the rigid boundaries of human self and the divine other in the ­intimate fruition of their love. In his commentary ad locum, John intimates that this flight is one of those ecstatic raptures that Teresa of Ávila has also written about with piercing insight.43 But  ­elsewhere in his poetry their mutual transformation is given apodictic expression  – the dark  night where the lovers meet brought together Amado con amada / amada en el Amado ­transformada (“[O night that has united] / the Lover with his beloved / transforming the beloved in her Lover”)44  – and he further expounds on this unitive experience of quasi-­deification in his ­treatises: e.g., Subida al Monte Carmelo (Ascent to Mount Carmel) 2.5.7: A soul makes room [for God]. When this is done the soul will be illumined by and transformed in God. And God will so communicate his supernatural being to the soul that it will appear to be God himself and will possess what God himself possesses. When God grants this supernatural favor to the soul, so great union is caused that all the things of both God and the soul become one in ­participant transformation, and the soul appears to be God more than a soul. Indeed, it is God by participation. Yet truly, its being (even though transformed) is naturally as distinct from God’s as it was before. (Kavanaugh and Rodríguez 2017, p. 165)45

So here in the Cántico, in deliberate anticipation of the lovers’ union, John once again guides his readers with a subversion of what they might know, that they may come to realize how, when God and his devotee come together in love, a profound transformation ensues as if their identities were interchangeable. A venerable trope of secular love poetry in Petrarch and his followers here becomes the aspirational goal of a devout Christian seeker.46 It is at this crucial moment that the Lover also hears for the first time the voice of her elusive Groom: “Turn, my dove / for the wounded stag / makes an appearance on the hill / cooled by the breeze of your flight.” When does this happen? Just as the Lover is about to take flight, the voice of the Beloved erupts in the very middle of a verse! His voice breaks asunder a hendecasyllable, ­splitting it in two parts: one spoken by the Lover, the other by the Beloved. ELLA ¡ … que voy de vuelo! SHE “I am taking flight …”

ÉL Vuélvete, paloma. HE “… Turn, my dove.”

Lover and Beloved are, indeed, united in a single verse that embraces their first exchange, an adumbration of their impending union at the center of the poem a few stanzas later. What does he say to her? The Bridegroom first addresses her as “dove” (paloma), echoing Song of Songs 4:1 and other analogues,47 along with a command that we will examine in a moment. Immediately following, his words in verse 3 reconnect with the very first stanza. At the very beginning, the Lover described him as a stag that fled away leaving her wounded. But now, he is the one



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comparing himself (verse 3) to a wounded stag (el ciervo vulnerado) who goes up the hill (verse 4) and seeks healing solace in the soft breeze fanned by her flight (verse 5). Christ is now the one wounded by his love for his loving devotee. As John explains it in his commentary on Cántico A12/ B13 (section 9): The Bridegroom now acts similarly. Beholding that the bride is wounded with love for him, because of her moan he also is wounded with love for her. Among lovers, the wound of one is a wound for both, and the two have but one feeling. (Kavanaugh and Rodríguez 2017, p. 323)48

As with her appropriation of his words in Song of Songs 6:4, Lover and Beloved are on the threshold of becoming indistinguishable in their mutual love. He is both the fleeing stag that wounded his frantic seeker with his absence and also the wounded stag who now seeks solace and refreshment in the love-­driven flight of his pursuer. And what did the Beloved ask of his Lover upon appearing? Vuélvete: the imperative form of volver that reverberates in both her words and his, reinforced by alliteration (¡ … voy de vuelo! / Vuélvete … vulnerado … vuelo). There are at least two possible subtexts in the Song of Songs for the Beloved’s command Vuélvete. First, in Song of Songs 7:1 (6:12 in the Vulgate), the Beloved tells her: ‫ ָ­בְך‬-‫ׁשּובי וְ נֶ ֱחזֶ ה‬ ִ ‫ׁשּובי‬ ִ ,‫ׁשּובי ַהּׁשּולַ ִמית‬ ִ ‫ׁשּובי‬ ִ šuvi, šuvi ha-­šulammit, šuvi šuvi wə-­neḥezeh bakh Turn back, turn back, O maid of Shulem, Turn back, turn back, that we may gaze upon you.49 (Vulgate: Revertere, revertere Sulamitis, revertere, revertere, ut intueamur te).

In Song of Songs 2:10, the Bride also tells us that her Beloved said:

Arise [qumi], my darling; my fair one, come away [u-­ləkhi lakh]! (Vulgate: surge propera amica mea formosa mea et veni).

‫­לָ ְך‬-‫ ּולְ כִ י‬,‫קּומי לָ ְך ַרעְ יָ ִתי יָ ָפ ִתי‬ ִ

The meaning of šuvi/revertere in the biblical song has invited extensive exegetical attention among Jewish and Christian interpreters, especially in connection to the religious ideal of repentance and conversion (təšuvah).50 But it suffices here to say that the Spanish vuélvete in itself invites at least three plausible translations: (1) “go back,” (2) “come [to me],” and (3) “turn yourself into something.” It is almost as if she were told to go away and come back to him at the same time, and in the process, turn herself into something else. The deliberate ambiguity between (1) and (2), which seems to echo the opposite commands in the two biblical references from Šir ha-­širim, anchors the liminal situation of the Bride and her first encounter with the Groom, whereas (3) – vuélvete as a call to conversion – moves beyond its penitential significance to yet another adumbration of the mutual transformation of God and seeker in the throes of ecstatic union, an intimation with fruitful analogs in Sufi mystical piety.51 In the immersive search for God the Beloved within ourselves, we are caught like the Lover in the impossible bind to both go back into the darkness of His self-­concealment and forward toward Him who awaits for her with open arms. Her ecstatic response to His appearance, the consummation of their union, the inebriation of love, and the Lover’s zigzagging drama amidst His unexpected arrivals and departures: all of these will unfold through the ambiguous end of the poem in almost oneiric fashion.

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Ibn Gabirol’s rəšut: verses 3–5 The profession of God’s presence within us segues into a poetic reflection on the related paradox of the transcendence and immanence of God. In verse 3, the speaker states məromot lo yəkhilu-­kha lə-­šivtakh (lit. the heavens are not a dwelling that could contain You), echoing 1 Kings 8:27: But will God really dwell on earth? Even the heavens to their utmost reaches cannot contain You (u-­šəmi ha-­šamayim lo yəkhalkəlu-­kha), how much less this House that I have built!

This verse expresses but one dimension of God’s radical transcendence, developed more fully, for example, in the first part of Keter malkhut, Ibn Gabirol’s poetic philosophical summa. A similar evocation of God’s unassailable grandeur and ubiquity is expressed in the soaring words of the psalmist: “Where can I escape from Your spirit? Where can I flee from Your presence? If I ascend to heaven, You are there; if I descend to Sheol, You are there too. If I take wing with the dawn to come to rest on the western horizon, even there Your hand will be guiding me, Your right hand will be holding me fast” (Psalm 139:7–9, JPS). So how could a transcendent God who overflows the ­heavens be contained within one’s soul? For this is precisely what the supplicant professes: wə-­ulam yeš məqom-­kha tokh səꜤippi (and yet, you have a dwelling within my mind). The same divine abundance that overflows the heavens cannot help but overflow the human heart and dwell in His thoughts. There are rabbinic traditions that dovetail with this image: e.g., Berešit Rabbah 68:9 (Theodor and Albeck 1965, vol. 2, p. 777): ‫למה מכנים שמו שלהקב״ה וקוראין אותו מקום שהוא מקומו שלעולמו‬ Why is the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, changed and represented as “The Place”? Because He is the place in which His world exists.

In Islamic tradition, there is also a ḥ adı̄th qudṣı ̄ (an extra-­Quranic saying in God’s voice) often invoked in Sufi writings that highlights most explicitly the indwelling of a transcendent God, ­unencompassed by the heavens, within the intimate precincts of a devotee’s heart: ‫ ووسعني قلب عبدي المؤمن‬،‫ما وسعني أرضي وال سماي‬

My earth and My heaven contain me not, but the heart of My faithful servant contains me.52

As noted by Schimmel (1994, p.  224), this ḥ adı̄th qudṣı ̄ buttresses, for example, mystical i­nterpretations of the Throne Verse (sūra 2:255) and of related ayāt on the Throne on which God dwells (7:54, 10:3, etc.) that deem the true Divine Throne to be, indeed, the human heart:

The heart of the faithful is God’s Throne.53

‫قلب المؤمن عرش الله‬

This formulation has, in turn, significant parallels in Hispano-­Jewish tradition: e.g., Halevi’s claim in the Sefer ha-­Kuzari 3.73 that the “upholders of the Torah are the righteous, and the Divine Throne dwells among them.”54 This Sufi emphasis on individual religious experience and the presence of God within – the interiorization of a mystical path as an inward journey into one’s heart (Schimmel 1975, pp. 189–190) – might have also influenced Ibn Gabirol, as it did other Hispano-­Jewish poets. Moreover, there is another spatial metaphor embedded in Ibn Gabirol’s intertext that nicely reinforces his poetic formulation of this paradox: a learned allusion for fellow Jews steeped in



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Scriptural knowledge. According to a well-­known rabbinic tradition, God has placed a Temple in heaven opposite the Jerusalem Temple, its perfect analog on earth.55 The contrastive conjunction wə-­ulam (and yet) uniting the two halves of verse 3 could also be read as a coded allusion to the miqdaš, for it is a Hebrew homonym of a word used elsewhere in 1 Kings (and in other parts of the Bible) in connection to Solomon’s Temple: e.g., 1 Kings 6:3: “The portico [‫וְ ָהאּולָ ם‬/wə-­ha-­ulam] in front of the Great Hall of the House.” This poetic allusion to the rabbinic tradition further anchors the spatial image of her mind and her heart as a Temple where God dwells.56 This theological paradox undergirds the central insight of the fourth verse: I might try to ­conceal God’s holy name within my heart, but hiding it is futile, for my love for Him cannot but explode outwards as an outpour of prayer through my lips.57 Should lovers keep the secret of love to themselves or should they rather disclose their names to the four winds? This ancient query in medieval love poetry seems to reverberate in this verse, as Ibn Gabirol argues that, out of the love for God, the human heart cannot hide His name. It rather brims with the divine presence, filled to capacity, and yet unable to contain it, until it spills its secrets in the language of prayer over the confines of the body.58 The theology of prayer in nuce that this verse encapsulates supports the textual link in the final line with the venerable Nišmat prayer. Verse 5 states that “I will praise the Lord’s name” (the s­ ervice of God in prayer which is the essence of ‘avodah, here expressed in the active agency of the speaker in worship)59 “as long as the breath of the living God is in my nostrils,” or, as Scheindlin renders it, “while yet He breathes the living soul in me” (yet another way of highlighting the divine origin of the soul).60 This final line echoes Job’s address to God in one of his speeches (Job 27:3): “As long as there is life [lit. breath] in me (‘od nišmati vi), and God’s breath is in my nostrils (wə-­ruaḥ eloah bə-­appi), / my lips will speak no wrong, nor my tongue utter deceit.” This intertextual nod to Job reinforces the supplicant’s commitment to speak only words of truth as he segues into the Nišmat. With this textual bridge in place, Ibn Gabirol seals the theological crux of his poetic argument. Prayer is God returning to Himself in the very words that bursts through our lips. It is an anticipation ante mortem of the Neoplatonic exitus et reditus, the soul’s ultimate return to its divine source whence it came.61

Some Reflections Is the pursuit of contemplative prayer a universal call for all Christians or only a spiritual path for a Christian elite? Theologians who have broached with any depth what Christian mysticism is and where a mystical path might fit among competing ideals of Christian perfection have fiercely debated this question.62 This chapter, of course, was not conceived at all as a vehicle to indulge in a more capacious theorizing on “mysticism” from a theological angle. It rather began as a modest comparative exploration on the desire for God in Jewish and Christian comparands drawn from the Iberian world. This framing question helped, however, to elucidate – at least to myself – how these selective ruminations on John’s poem refracted through the eyes of faith had been inflected in unexpected ways by a side-­by-­side, immersive close reading of Ibn Gabirol’s stirring verses.63 In the two stanzas by St John briefly commented upon, we are shown how contemplative prayer – dramatized as a sacred love poem on the restless pursuit of divine love – might bring a Christian seeker to the threshold of God’s presence in the fruition of love ante mortem: a love envisioned as the soul’s union with Christ (unio mystica) and the quasi-­transformation of the soul as Lover and Jesus the Beloved into each other (deificari). Now, St John of the Cross insists that Jesus the Beloved is moved by our efforts to seek Him, but the attainment of such a grace is still His ­prerogative. Moreover, his haunting apology for the mystical path through unio and deificari was

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written primarily with fellow Carmelites in mind, men and women in consecrated religious life. An elite readership, indeed, and yet his writings have also inspired Christian seekers from all walks of life in a prayerful search outside the cloister for the discernible presence of God in their lives. Moving from San Juan to Ibn Gabirol and back refocused my response to the Spanish liras in an unexpected direction. Deification and mystical union do not figure in how Ibn Gabirol envisions in his rəšuyyot the summum bonum of religious life for fellow rabbinic Jews. Such an absence does not mean, of course, that any such concept of mystical union was completely foreign to medieval Jewish tradition. Jewish allegorical readings of the Song of Songs might have centered on God’s covenantal love for the people of Israel as a whole – a reading that reverberates with intertextual echoes in medieval Hebrew poems, including Ibn Gabirol’s. However, there were, indeed, Jewish interpretations of dəvequt (the biblical mandate to “cleave” to God) as unio mystica, and even radical claims about the blurring of the boundaries between self and God in unitive ecstasy among such prominent Kabbalists as Abraham Abulafia (Idel 1988a, pp. 35–73, 1988b, pp. 1–31). Be that as it may, reading Ibn Gabirol’s rəšut inflected my reading of St John of the Cross along a different path. Ibn Gabirol’s liturgical poem engages with a central pillar of Jewish religious life: service to God through halakhic religious observance, which includes the liturgical tradition of daily prayer, as the central expression of Jewish loving faithfulness to God’s covenant with Israel. As a Neoplatonic philosopher he is also committed to the essential divinity of the soul as locus of the Divine presence and this commitment undergirds his spiritual approach to prayer. His poetic contributions to synagogue prayer, interlaced with Neoplatonic (and Sufi?) insights about the deep affinity between God and us, thus invests a core practice of traditional Jewish religiosity with a mystical dimension. In identifying the immanent presence of God within the compass of our soul as the very roots of all prayer, and liturgical prayer itself as a verbal outpouring of God back to Himself beyond the confines of our body, the daily rhythms of Jewish prayer reemerge in Ibn Gabirol’s poetry as a sustained contemplative activity, a continual occasion for attaining an ­immediate consciousness of God’s presence as an anticipation of the soul’s flight back into its Divine source. Looking back at Christian mystagogy, Ibn Gabirol’s innovative approach to Jewish liturgical prayer had first brought to mind the sacramental understanding of mysticism as experienced in the liturgy that is so expansively developed in Eastern Orthodox Christian theology.64 But within the narrower scope of this comparative exercise, Ibn Gabirol’s contemplative turn also prompted me to reimagine John’s mystical path to Jesus the Beloved beyond the numinous solitude of a Carmelite convent. Ibn Gabirol looms over my shoulder as I revisit John of the Cross’s contemplative pursuit of loving union with God for the light it might also cast from a Christian angle on the search for Christ present in all things and in loving outreach to others, lived out in everyday forms of service and every manner of prayer, individual and communal, private and liturgical. St John of the Cross and Solomon ibn Gabirol remap their respective traditions of prayer as paths of interiorization in Christian practice and Jewish observance, respectively, leading to an intimate encounter with God, who dwells in the human heart. Ibn Gabirol opens up daily Jewish prayer as a door to contemplation for any observant Jew. His contemplative reimagining of Hebrew ­liturgical poetry as a living encounter with the God of Israel sheds, in turn, a soft light with other words of love on the prayerful accompaniment of Carmelite mystical verse down its contemplative path to the fruition of faith in Christ. One could further pursue this line of reflection, on the Christian side, in connection with the role of contemplation in the vita activa, as it is explored by Teresa of Ávila in the seventh dwelling of The Inner Castle or by Gustavo Gutiérrez’s reflections on spirituality and liberation theology in Beber en su propio pozo (1983). One could also expand the comparative scope of this exercise with other pertinent traditions of Jewish thought or with a more sustained exploration of Arabo-­Islamic



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Sufi traditions in the Iberian and North African orbit. However, this is a good place to stop this Clooney-­inspired attempt at bringing together faith and scholarship in a comparative exercise. I  will end, instead, by echoing his touching words at the end of His Hiding Place Is Darkness (2014, p. 141): We need not decide things too firmly, as if faith needs an end to questing because it cannot suffer poetry and the drama of uncertain love. Better we say more only when we have more to say, in the meantime remaining on edge, holding our breath as we stop our words, love extended beyond its capacity for confident words. Loving God is always a risk.

Acknowledgment To Frank, with gratitude and affection.

Notes 1 For the purpose of this chapter, we are focusing on Clooney’s treatment of poetry in the narrow sense of artful imaginative writing endowed with the formal prosodic and structural features – rhyme, syllabification, meter, stanzaic structure, etc.  – that most classical literary traditions a ­ ssociate with poetry stricto sensu. Of course, many of Clooney’s “non-­poetic comparands” are also poetic in a broader sense, with sustained recourse to poetic imagery, figurative tropes, and stylized language that also invites aesthetic and theological reflection: e.g., his recourse in His Hiding Place Is Darkness (Clooney 2014) to Balthasar’s theopoetics and theodramatics in reconnoitering not only the Song of Songs, but also the prose Latin sermons of the Cistercian monks Bernard of Clairvaux, Gilbert of Hoyland, and John of Ford. ́ Guṇ a Ratna Kos ́a, the Saundaya 2 The three Hindu selections are the twelfth-­century Sanskrit hymn S rı̄ ́ Laharı̄ hymn traditionally attributed to the eighth-­century Vedanta sage Sankara, and the eighteenth-­ century Tamil hymn Apirāmi Antāti; the Christian comparands are the sixth-­century Akathistos ­kontakion in Greek, the medieval Latin trope Stabat Mater, and the nineteenth-­century Tamil Mātaracammaṉ Antāti. 3 Clooney (2014, pp. xii–xiii) refers to these three books as part of a series of interrelated projects that ́ Vedānta Deśika on Loving Surrender to God also includes his Beyond Compare: St Francis of Sales and Srı̄ (2008), a stirring theological meditation on loving God as absolute surrender whose Hindu and Christian comparands are, however, not poems but rather major prose treatises on spiritual theology. 4 Clooney’s most recent book (2022b), which I had not been able to peruse when I drafted this chapter, also engages with a Tamil Christian retelling in epic verse of the early life of Jesus, with a focus on Joseph, by an eighteenth-­century Italian Jesuit in South India. 5 On the intellectual demands of poetry as a style of thinking, see Vendler (2006). 6 There is much more to be said about Clooney’s theological engagement with poetry than can be fitted within the scope of this chapter. I will simply point out, as an example, his innovative recourse to Balthasar “who teaches us how to leave room within a Christian narrative for uncertain and undigested moments of poetic and dramatic import” as a conceptual resource for interreligious readings that can also bring us “from the theopoetic and theodramatic back to theology” (Clooney 2014, pp. 113–115). 7 When I first read Clooney (2021), it immediately brought to mind, for example, the first chapter of a superb study by T.A. Perry (1987) on the fourteenth-­century Old Spanish poem Proverbios morales by the bilingual Jewish writer Shem Tov de Carrión. In said chapter, Perry illustrates a similar multitiered approach to Hispano-­Jewish literature with a close reading of a famous passage from Shem

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Tov’s monumental contribution to wisdom poetry. Perry’s analysis also envisions three complementary takes on a poetic fragment, framed as an act of communication on the part of its author with three different audiences from his own time: (1) general Spanish readers with a modicum of literary sensibility able to appreciate its formal features as a poem; (2) learned readers also attuned to specific cultural referents, the type that could have recognized its Arabic and Hebrew intertextual allusions; and (3) religious Jewish readers steeped in biblical learning and rabbinic tradition, able to decode the message of hope addressed to them in particular by their fellow coreligionist. 8 In the fall term of 2010, Clooney organized a faculty colloquium at the Center for the Study of World Religions on what “comparative” meant in four disciplines that described themselves explicitly as such: i.e., comparative literature, comparative anthropology, comparative theology, and comparative ethics. I spoke on behalf of comparative literature and, per his instructions, shared in advance two readings around which to develop our conversations: a general one about the field and a particular contribution of my own. My own piece – now published (Girón Negrón 2012) – was a study in progress on four Ibero-­medieval poems – Jewish, Christian, and Muslim – that belabored an extra-­biblical/extra-­Qur’anic motif connected to the Joseph story and shared by all three traditions. After reading my piece, Clooney sent me an email on September 10, 2010, thanking me for my contribution, which he had found fascinating, but with the provocative caveat: “you could easily write a comparative theological piece on what you describe here; indeed, you should – since having done all that work, you do not say anything about how/why it matters today.” Of course, I have teased Clooney over the years with recurrent allusions to that email in public interventions when he is present, always appreciative of, and grateful for, what theologians do, while playfully defensive of the humanities in their own terms and not only as an instrument for the “queen of the sciences” (on the premodern context for this epithet, rarely used in the Middle Ages; see McGinn 2008). And yet, it is also true that what these texts may have to teach us in the present, beyond the cultural impact of their aesthetic power, and what they mean for me in particular as a person of faith wrestling with questions of truth and meaning are issues I might reflect on in conversation with close friends, but not in my published scholarship. I hope this heartfelt tribute provides a concrete first step in that direction in response to his email. 9 Ibn Gabirol is celebrated as the first Jewish philosopher of the Iberian Middle Ages thanks to a Neoplatonic treatise which he wrote in Arabic entitled YanbūꜤ l-­Ḥ ayā, “The Fountain of Life.” The Arabic original is lost, except for a few quotations in other Arabic sources. However, Ibn Gabirol’s Neoplatonic treatise survived in both a twelfth-­century Latin translation (Fons vitae) by Dominicus Gundissalinus and Johannes Hispanus, known among Christian scholastics as the work of an “Avicebron,” and a thirteenth-­century abridged Hebrew version Sefer Məqor Ḥ ayyim by Shem Tov ibn Falaquera. It should finally be noted that Fons vitae has no explicit Jewish content pointing to the religious identity of its author. It was only in the nineteenth century that Avicebron’s identity with Ibn Gabirol was finally established by Salomon Munk in his edition and study of Falaquera’s Hebrew version (1859, pp. 151–154). 10 I want to thank Sister Teresa Forcades i Vila OSB for her generous invitation to participate in Sinclètica (May 28, 2022). This enriching experience with her program offered me an unexpected opportunity to take a first stab at the comparative juxtaposition of these two poems in our exercise. 11 I am echoing here Bernard McGinn’s operative characterization of mysticism (1994, p. xix) in his magisterial history of Western Christian mysticism. I do so in full agreement with his exordial arguments for favoring the concepts of “consciousness” and “presence” over “experience” in tentative definitions. 12 Our reading of the two stanzas from St John will be focused on his poetic representations of unio mystica in Christian love mysticism while moving back and forth with the parallel reading of Ibn Gabirol’s poem. We will also be mindful, however, of the comparative efforts in Asín Palacios (1933) and López Baralt (1990, 1998) to reread the sanjuanista corpus in close relation to Arabo-­Islamic Sufi theology. For two authoritative overviews in English of St John’s works and thought, see Thompson (2003) and McGinn (2017, pp. 230–335). For a theological appreciation attentive to its aesthetic dimensions by a significant interlocutor in Clooney’s own work, see Balthasar (1986, pp. 105–171).



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13 Was Ibn Gabirol a mystic or mystic thinker? For the purpose of this exercise, I would answer with a qualified “yes.” Ibn Gabirol was, of course, not a Kabbalist. His life predates the ­crystallization of the great Catalan and Castilian traditions of historical Kabbalah – the better-­ known varieties of Jewish mysticism – that flourished in the Iberian Peninsula from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries onward. However, his philosophical engagement with Neoplatonic thought shaped his spiritual aspirations in ways that could be described with some precision as mystical: that is, the deep conviction, explored in his liturgical poems and those of other Jewish poet-­philosophers (e.g., Abraham ibn Ezra), that the search for knowledge of God can lead to the discovery of God’s presence within the inner precincts of the human mind. With respect to Sufism, Sufi love poetry in Arabic, as noted by Scheindlin (1994), pace Israel Levin, did not exert any significant influence on Ibn Gabirol’s primary innovations as a Hebrew liturgical poet, even if Sufi poets and thinkers and other Islamic pietists did influence later Jewish poets, especially Judah Halevi, both directly and through the mediation of such figures as Bahya ibn Paqudah (on Sufi language in Halevi’s Kuzari, see Lobel  2000; on Ibn Paqudah and Sufism, see Lobel 2007). However, his potential exposure to taṣawwuf – to the traditions of Islamic mystical piety that also envisioned the experiential realization of God’s oneness (tawḥ ı d̄ ) within the inner recesses of the soul (Schimmel  1975)  – could have further helped as well to bring his liturgical poems and their Neoplatonic themes within the spiritual orbit of a mystical sensibility: a theological exploration of mystical desire. His Neoplatonic and (perhaps) Sufi leanings align him, in sum, with a ­tradition of Hispano-­Jewish philosopher-­poets whose exploration of the soul’s nature has led to the characterization of their spirituality as a form of “philosophical mysticism” (on the liturgical piyyuṭim by Ibn Gabirol, Moshe and Abraham ibn Ezra, and Judah Halevi, and their respective expressions of such a contemplative outlook, see Scheindlin 1991, pp. 137–229; Tanenbaum 2002). 14 On the history of the nišmat prayer, see Elbogen (1993, pp. 96, 412n3). Our quotations from the Nišmat are from the Schottenstein edition of the Sephardic Siddur (Elbaz et al. 2019, pp. 538–543). 15 For a detailed account of John’s imprisonment and escape, see Rodríguez (2012, pp. 293–344). 16 As demonstrated by Eulogio Pacho (1998, pp. 127–150, 185–204, 280–304), John wrote the bulk of his Canticle through the stanza that begins Oh ninfas during those months of imprisonment. He added five more stanzas while in Granada (1580–1584) and yet another one in the revised version preserved in the Jaén codex (1585–1586). In the classic 1924 study by Jean Baruzi, Saint Jean de la Croix et le problème de l’expérience mystique, Saint John’s imprisonment is already adduced as a meaningful context for an interpretive appreciation of the Cántico espiritual (Baruzi [1924] 1999, pp.  243–244): “Le poème du Cántico de cela nous sommes assurés, a été partiallement composé dans la prison de Tolède. Et, dès lors, les œuvres de Jean de la Croix, abstraction faite de celles qu’il a pu créer dans la première partie de sa vie et, qui ont été détruites peut-­être au moment de l’emprisonnement, ont leur point de départ littéralement en un cri. Le ¿Adónde te escondiste Amado, y me dejaste con gemido?



à côté de tous les sens que l’exégèse lyrico-­mystique lui peut donner, a d’abord la valeur d’une confession. Si nous lisons les premières strophes du poème en évoquant l’atmosphère de torture où elles jaillirent, c’est une plainte douloureuse et ardente que nous voyons se propager et que soutient pourtant l’image d’un univers apaisé. Il nous importe, certes, de savoir que des vers qui réfléchissent le plus ample sérénité de la nature se sont élaborés en la dure misère d’un cachot: Mi Amado las montañas, los valles solitarios nemorosos, las ínsulas extrañas”

17 Ibn Gabirol reflects on all of these ordeals in his haunting autobiographical poem Niḥ ar bə-­qori gəroni  – see Schirmann (1960, Vol. 1/1, pp.  207–210, poem 74). Major fragment and English

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translation in Carmi (1981, pp.  308–310, “On Leaving Saragossa”). For a recent biographical sketch in English of Ibn Gabirol’s short life, see Laumakis (2014, pp. 9–14). 18 The lyre was an Italian strophic scheme first introduced in Spain in the sixteenth century by Garcilaso de la Vega. It consisted in five verses, three heptasyllables and two hendecasyllables, with two consonantal rhymes: aBabB. Sustained literary readings of the Cántico in Thompson (1977, 2003, pp. 95–115), and López Baralt (1998, pp. 25–145); see also Alonso (1958, especially pp. 150–159). 19 The primitive version, preserved in a codex from Sanlúcar de Barrameda (version A), is the text of 39 stanzas begun in jail in Toledo and completed with the five stanzas added in Granada between 1582 and 1585. The second, revised version in the codex from Jaén (version B) contains 40 stanzas and the order of the stanzas is also altered. For the two texts of the Cántico espiritual, see Pacho (1990, pp. 15–21 and 46–52, respectively); editio maior of both the poem and its commentary with detailed reconstruction of its composition history in Pacho (1981). 20 Exemplary close reading of this rəšut in Scheindlin (1991, pp. 182–187) and an abridged commentary in Scheindlin (1993, p. 151). 21 It should be noted, of course, for the benefit of non-­Iberianists that the choice of these two comparands does not imply any assumption of a direct historical connection between the Spanish Carmelite friar and the Hispano-­Jewish poet-­philosopher. Ibn Gabirol’s poetry, as far as we can tell, was completely unknown to Saint John of the Cross. 22 See Pacho (1990, pp.  15, 46). For English translations of both versions of the Spiritual Canticle, see Kavanaugh and Rodríguez (2017, pp. 44–50, 73–80). 23 In version A (Sanlúcar de Barrameda), aside from the Groom’s address to her as paloma in 12A (13B), the Bride first refers to herself as his esposa in stanza 18A (27B) and the first words gender-­ marked female in reference to her are the participial adjectives vista, hallada, enamorada, perdidiza, and ganada in stanza 20A (29B). In version B, with the drastic shuffling of stanzas, the first liras with gender-­marked references to the Bride as female are la que va in 19B (32A), la esposa in both 21B (30A) and 22B (27A) and desposada, reparada, and violada in 23B (28A). 24 Spanish original in Ruano de la Iglesia (1982, p. 574; also p. 442 for version A). “En esta primera canción el alma, enamorada del Verbo Hijo de Dios, su Esposo, deseando unirse con él por clara y esencial visión, propone sus ansias de amor, querellándose a él de la ausencia, mayormente que, habiéndola él herido de su amor, por el cual ha salido de todas las cosas criadas y de sí misma, todavía haya de padecer la ausencia de su Amado, no desatándola ya de la carne mortal para poderle gozar en gloria de eternidad; y así dice ¿Adónde te escondiste?” 25 See Song of Songs 2:9: ‫ אֹו לְ ע ֶֹפר ָה ַאיָ לִ ים‬,‫דֹודי לִ צְ ִבי‬ ִ ‫ּדֹומה‬ ֶ (domeh dodi li-­tsvi o lə-­’ofer ha-­ayyalim) (Jewish Publication Society): My beloved is like a gazelle or like a young stag. Vulgate: similis est dilectus meus capreae hinuloque cervorum.

John in his commentary on Cántico B 1.15 also quotes this verse (Kavanaugh and Rodríguez 2017, p. 484): “It is noteworthy that in the Song of Songs the bride compares the Bridegroom to the stag and the mountain goat: My Beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag”/Spanish original: “Donde es de notar que en los Cantares compara la esposa al Esposo al ciervo y a la cabra montesa, diciendo: Semejante es mi Amado a la cabra y al hijo de ciervos” (Ruano de la Iglesia 1982, p. 579). Unless otherwise indicated, English translations of scriptural verses from the Hebrew Bible will be from the new Jewish Publication Society version, Tanakh: The Holy Scriptures (Philadelphia, 1985). 26 See John’s quote of Psalm 42:2–3 in his commentary on the Cántico espiritual B12.9 (Ruano de la Iglesia 1982, p. 615; Kavanaugh and Rodríguez 2017, pp. 518–519). 27 Origen, for example, presents the biblical harts, stags, and deers of the Song of Songs as both allegories of Christ and scriptural symbols of the saints in his exegesis of Song of Songs 2.9 (Commentary on the Song of Songs 3.18). Augustine’s Homily on Psalm 41, one of his most famous reflections on



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mysticism, also expounds on the biblical comparison of the soul’s thirst for God with a deer that pants for running waters as an image of our desire for inner illumination (see McGinn  1994, pp. 238–240). Hagiography also provides memorable examples of deers as Christological symbols: e.g., the famous story of Saint Eustace’s conversion after the vision of a cross in between the antlers of a deer while he was hunting, a story preserved in Greek, Latin, and European vernacular vitae. Examples can be multiplied. 28 “Et qual cervo ferito de saetta, / col ferro avelenato dentr’al fianco / fugge” (Petrarca, Canzoniere 209, vv. 9–11 cited in Santagata 2006, p. 901); “Como el ventor que sigue al ciervo herido, / su sangre y sus pisadas rastreando, / y anda tras él, acá y allá ladrando, / hasta velle en el suelo ya tendido; / assí, señora, vos m’havéys seguido” (Juan Boscán, Soneto XCII, vv. 1–5), quoted by Manero Sorolla (1990, pp. 270–275). 29 For example, in the Aeneid 4:68–69 (Fairclough 1999, p. 426) with lovestruck Dido wandering like a wounded stag in her city (Uritur infelix Dido totaque vagatur urbe furens, qualis coniecta cerva sagitta/ Unhappy Dido burns and through the city wanders in frenzy, as a deer/hind smitten by an arrow), or as in the famous story of Actaeon and Diana in Ovid’s Metamorphoses 3.138–252 (Miller 1977, pp. 134–143), where Actaeon the Theban hero and hunter sees Diana naked, and in retribution she turns him into a stag, so that he is hunted down, mauled to death by his own hounds. Also compare Horace, Odes 1.23 (Bennett 1988, pp. 66–67): Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloë, / quaerenti pavidam montibus aviis / matrem (Thou shunnest me, Chloë, like a fawn that seeks its timid mother o’er trackless hills). See also Lida de Malkiel (2017: 52–99). 30 Concept developed by Victor Shklovsky in his 1917 essay “Art as Device,” reissued as the first chapter of his 1925 Theory of Prose (Shklovsky 1990, pp. 1–14). 31 On the drama of divine absence and the lover’s responses to such abandonment in both the Song of Songs and the Tiruvyāmolị , see Clooney (2014, pp. 49–103), with particular attention given to Song of Songs 3:1–2 and related passages among its Christian commentators in Clooney (2014, pp. 52–56, 66–72). Another poignant moment of divine absence in the Song of Songs figures in 5:5–6 where the Beloved is at the door, but by the time the Sulamite rises up to meet him, he is gone and she loses him again (“I sought, but found him not; / I called, but he did not answer”)  – see Clooney (2014, pp. 83–86). Finally, see Pope (1977, pp. 414–416) on competing interpretations of Song of Songs 3:1–2 in biblical scholarship. 32 In his commentary on Cántico B1.6, St John adduces an alternative passage with a similar ­sentiment from the Pseudo-­Augustinian Soliloquiorum animae ad Deum 1.30 (Patrologia Latina 40.888): “St Augustine, addressing God in the Soliloquies, said: I did not find you without, Lord, because I wrongly sought you without, who were within” (Kavanaugh and Rodríguez  2017, p. 480) – Spanish original in Ruano de la Iglesia (1982, p. 575). See also Confessions 10.27: Sero te amavi, pulchritudo tam antiqua et tam nova, sero te amavi! Et ecce intus eras et ego foris, et ibi te quaerebam, et in ista formosa, quae fecesti, deformis inruebam. Mecum eras et tecus non eram (Watts 1912, Vol. 2, pp. 146–147). 33 Cántico espiritual B1.20 (Ruano de la Iglesia 1982, p. 581): “Es de saber que este salir espiritualmente se entiende aquí de dos maneras para ir tras Dios: la una, saliendo de todas las cosas, lo cual se hace por aborrecimiento y desprecio de ellas; la otra, saliendo de sí misma por olvido de sí, lo cual se hace por el amor de Dios, porque, cuando éste toca al alma con las veras que se va diciendo aquí, de tal manera la levanta, que no sólo la hace salir de sí misma por olvido de sí, pero aun de sus quicios y modos e inclinaciones naturales la saca, clamando por Dios”; English translation (Kavanaugh and Rodríguez 2017, p. 485): “This spiritual departure, it should be pointed out, refers to the two ways of going after God: one consists of a departure from all things, effected through an abhorrence and contempt for them; the other of going out from oneself through self-­forgetfulness, which is achieved by the love of God. When the love of God really touches the soul, as we are saying, it so raises her up that it not only impels her to go out from self in this forgetfulness, but even draws her away from her natural supports, manners, and inclinations, thus inducing her to call after God.” 34 Critical editions of the Hebrew text can be found in Jarden (1971–1972, Vol. 2, pp. 461–462) and Schirmann (1960, Vol. 1/1, p. 238, poem 96, line 5). I have produced my own English translation, but

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mindful of the excellent range of options in Carmi (1981, p. 316), Scheindlin (1991, pp. 182–187), and Cole (2001, p. 130). 35 For a perceptive comparison on the problem of prayer as a theme of prayer in Ibn Gabirol and Halevi, Scheindlin (1993, esp. pp.  152–158). With respect to Ibn Gabirol’s penchant for paradoxes, Scheindlin (1993, p. 158) argues that, even though “both poets are grounded in Neoplatonic psychology with its idea of the continuity between the soul and God” in Ibn Gabirol, this idea “creates paradoxes around which many of his reshuyot are built, paradoxes that generally are resolved by the poem’s end.” Another scholar of Hebrew poetry, Reuven Tsur, in his expansive comparative explorations “toward a theory of cognitive poetics” adduces this very poem by Ibn Gabirol in a helpful taxonomic distinction between paradox as a rhetorical, mannerist device, and paradox as a conceptual figure or metaphysical conceit: “Poetry, in which the paradox resides in the figurative vehicle only, but not its tenor is Précieux; poetry, in which the paradox resides both in the vehicle and the tenor, is Metaphysical” (Tsur 2008, p. 332). He quotes therein verse 3, to be discussed below, as an example of paradoxical phrasing pertaining the divine attributes that “refers to some paradoxical modes of existence.” 36 The verbal form in Psalm 63:2 is piel (šiḥer) – the more common verbal derivation of this root in biblical Hebrew – whereas Ibn Gabirol resorts to the less common qal form (šaḥar) + pronominal suffix, with reduction of the propretonic vowel to schwa, in order to fit with the meter (– – – ˘). 37 Elbaz et al. (2019, pp. 538–539). 38 See Tanenbaum (2002, pp. 157–159), with reference to her close readings of Ibn Gabirol’s Šabbəḥi nafši lə-­tsurekh, Moshe ibn Ezra’s Nafši iwwitikha ba-­laylah, and Abraham ibn Ezra’s Imrat yəḥidah lə-­yaḥid yaatah – see Tanenbaum (2002, pp. 84–105, 106–131, 146–159). 39 The spiritual process dramatized in these intervening stanzas dovetails with a central theme in John of the Cross’s mystical theology: the protean image of the dark night – conceptual pivot of his affective take on the Pseudo-­Dionysian apophatic ideal  – as a complex cipher for spiritual purgation, sensual deprivation, and mystical unknowing (Girón Negrón  2009). The last dovetails, in turn, with a key theme in both the Cistercian commentators of the Song of Songs and the Hindu devotional comparands that also anchors Clooney’s theological reflections in His Hiding Place Is Darkness. 40 For a close reading of this stanza with a comparative engagement of its Sufi analogs centered on the polysemy of ‘ayn (Arabic ‫ ;عين‬Hebrew ‫ )עין‬as “eye,” “fountain,” and “identity,” see López Baralt (1998, pp. 42–53). 41 “Turn your eyes away from me, for they overwhelm me!” The Hebrew reads: ‫ ֶש ֵהם ִה ְר ִה ֻיבנִ י‬,‫ַח ֵס ִבי ֵעינַ יִ ְך ִמנֶ גְ ִדי‬

Jerome translates it: Avertere oculos tuos a me, quia ipsi me avolare fecerunt. Jerome, echoing the Septuagint’s translation of the rare Hebrew verb hirhib (to overwhelm, drive wild) in hirhibuni (LXX: ἀνεπτέρωσάν με), renders it me avolare fecerunt (they made me fly): the inspired “mistranslation” that John has in mind when his own interlocutor says que voy de vuelo – see a discussion of this passage in Girón Negrón (2001). 42 In the previous stanza, there was a reference to the Beloved’s eyes in a conditional sentence: ¡Oh cristalina fuente / si en esos tus semblantes plateados / formases de repente / los ojos deseados / que tengo en mis entrañas dibujados! (O crystalline spring / if only on your silvery faces / you would suddenly form / the eyes I have desired / which I bear sketched deep within me: our revision of Kavanaugh and Rodríguez’s translation [2017, p. 46]). Their sudden appearance prompts a change to the imperative ¡Apártalos! addressed to the Beloved, the divine Groom whose eyes, textually present in the enclitic pronoun -­los, are too much for her to bear. 43 In his synoptic overview of this stanza in Cántico B13.2 (Ruano de la Iglesia 1982, pp. 617–618; Kavanaugh and Rodríguez 2017, pp. 520–521), John suggests that her ardent desire to see his eyes drove Him to bestow upon her an ecstatic experience, an “arrobamiento” so overwhelming at first that she tells him to cast His eyes elsewhere. 44 Poem Canciones en que canta el alma, stanza 5, vv. 4–5 (Ruano de la Iglesia 1982, p. 33).



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45 Spanish original in Ruano de la Iglesia (1982, pp.  137–138): “En dando lugar el alma  …  luego queda esclarecida y transformada en Dios y le comunica Dios su ser sobrenatural de tal manera, que parece el mismo Dios y tiene lo que tiene el mismo Dios. Y se hace tal unión cuando Dios hace al alma esta sobrenatural merced, que todas las cosas de Dios y el alma son unas en transformación participante; y el alma más parece Dios que alma, y aun es Dios por participación; aunque es verdad que su ser naturalmente tan distinto se le tiene del de Dios como antes, aunque está transformada.” 46 The notion of the lover’s transformation into the beloved as the great miracle of love already figures, for example, in Petrarca (l’amante ne l’amato si trasforme: I Trionfi, “Triumphus Cupidinis” 3.162; Petrarca 2000, pp. 168n169–170) and the stilnovisti poets. St John’s poetic formulation in En una noche oscura gives mystical expression to this amatory trope. 47 Song of Songs 4:1 (JPS) “Your eyes are like doves behind your veil” (Vulgate: oculi tui columbarum absque eo quod intrinsecus latet) – see our discussion of this verse in Girón Negrón (2001). The Hebrew, indeed, could also be parsed as equating the eyes with the dove (‫עֵ ינַ יִ ְך יֹונִ ים‬/’enayikh yonim, your eyes = doves). The Beloved’s reference to his Lover as a dove thus connects, through this passage, with the eyes of the previous lira, which are here transmuted into a mystical dove about to fly. López Baralt (1998, pp. 63–67) has proposed another possible link with Arabo-­Islamic mystical lore based on the pun ḥamām (dove)/ḥammām (pool) that equates the mystical dove with the fountain in the earlier lira. 48 Spanish original in Ruano de la Iglesia (1982, p. 475): “y así hace ahora el Esposo, porque viendo a la esposa herida de su amor, él también al gemido de ella viene herido de el amor de ella, porque en los enamorados la herida de uno es de entrambos y un mismo sentimiento tienen los dos.” 49 Marvin Pope (1977, pp. 595–596) proposes to amend šuvi, šuvi in the Masoretic text as ševi, ševi (Leap, leap Sulamite), an invitation for her to dance. 50 For a selective overview of exegetical and philological commentaries in both biblical scholarship and among Jewish and Christian interpreters, all as context for a comparative reading with Sufi sources and ideas, see López Baralt (1998, pp. 55–62). 51 These multiple senses of vuélvete have evoked suggestive comparisons with Arabo-­Islamic mysticism in López Baralt’s reading of this complex lira (1998, pp. 54–62). Her reading dovetails with Sufi interpretations of the semantic field generated by the Arabic root Q-­L-­B, which interlaces the Arabic qalb for “heart” with a noun such as qalı̄b for “well” and, most significantly, with verbal derivations related to “change” such as qalaba (to turn) and taqallub (transformation): a link famously echoed in a verse from Ibn al-­’Arabi’s best known poem from his Tarjumān al-­’ašwāq: ‫ْبي قَاب ًِال ك َُّل ُصو َر ٍة‬ ِ ‫لَ َق ْد َصا َر قَل‬ la-­qad ṣāra qalbı̄ qābilan kulla ṣūratin (My heart can take on any form; Sells  2021, pp. 38–39, line 11).

As suggested by my admired colleague Axel Marc Oaks Takacs, her comparative reflections might also be strengthened by looking at the Sufi understanding of tawba (repentance, or turning [from sin/to God]) as the first major station on the Islamic mystical ṭarı̄qah (on repentance and the Sufi path, see Schimmel 1975, pp. 109–110). Finally, for a significant reading of this poem centered on its apophatic rhetoric, see also Sells (1994, pp. 63–115). 52 Furuzā nfar (1955, note 63); See also Schimmel (1975, p. 472). 53 Sufi reference in Septimus (1984, p. 614n46). 54 English translation of the Hebrew version in Korobkin (1998, p.  196), Hebrew text in Korobkin (1998, p. 428): ‫ וביניהם כסא הכבוד‬,‫ונושאים הם הצדיקים‬



Arabic original in Baneth (1977, p. 145, fol. 94a). Septimus (1984, p. 614) adduces this passage from the Kuzari to substantiate his interpretation of Halevi’s comparison of the heart to both the sea and the firmament (echoing BT Sotah 18a) at the end of his haunting sea poem Ha-­tirdof naꜤarut aḥ ar ḥ amiššim (Schirmann 1960, Vol. 1/2, pp. 494–497, poem 212).

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55 Bereshit Rabbah 55:1, Tanḥ uma Pequde 1 and 2 and other classical rabbinic sources identified in Ginzberg (1998, Vol. 5, p. 292n141). 56 Septimus (1984, p. 612n4) comments on vv. 3–4 as a moderate poetic formulation on divine immanence brought to fruition in Halevi: e.g., the following line from poem 170 in Jarden (1978–1985, Vol. 2, p. 418). ‫והוא נמצא בלב דכא ועם איש נענה‬/‫השם אשר שכנו ברום עולם‬

Scheindlin (1993, pp. 151, 153–154, 161n18), pace Septimus, analyses a different line by Halevi as a deliberate response to Ibn Gabirol’s poem. 57 There is a textual echo in this verse of Psalm 119:11: ‫ְבלִ ִבי צָ ַפנְ ִתי ִא ְמ ָר ֶתָך לְ ַמ ַען ל ֹא ֶא ֱח ָטא־לָ ְך‬

“In my heart I treasure [lit. I hide] Your promise; therefore I do not sin against You.” For the phrase šem kəvodekha (Your glorious Name), see, for example, Nehemiah 9:5 and Psalm 72:19 (“Blessed is His glorious name [šem kevodo] forever; His glory fills the whole world”). 58 As shrewdly noted by Scheindlin (1991, p. 187): “Although Ibn Gabirol’s language in this line does not derive from love poetry, the theme of the difficulty of keeping love secret was a commonplace of love poetry and theory, and it might have contributed to the emotional response of a medieval audience on hearing these lines.” For a classic Arabo-­Andalusian overview of the pros and cons of concealing versus divulging the secret of love, see the corresponding chapters in Ibn Hazm of Córdoba’s Ṭawq al-­Ḥ amāma (The Ring of the Dove) – English translation by Arberry (1953, pp. 76–86). 59 In his comparative study aforementioned, Scheindlin (1993, pp. 148–151) highlights how in Ibn Gabirol’s rəšuyyot the speaker is active, energetically disposed to prayer by acts of will, in stark contrast to Halevi. 60 See Scheindlin (1993, p. 157). 61 Ibn Gabirol reflects on our supernal destinies as the Neoplatonic climax of a path of intellectual perfection at the end of Fons vitae – Baeumker (1895, p. 338). D. Quae est via perveniendi ad hanc scientia dignissimam? M. Perveniendi ad hanc scientia duo sunt modi. Unus est per scientiam de voluntate secundum quod infusa est in totam materiam et formam; et secundum per scientiam de voluntate ­comprehendentem materiam et formam, quae est virtus altissima, secundum quod cum nihilo materiae et formae est commixta. – Sed ascendere ad scientiam huius virtutis, secundum quod non est permixta materiae et formae, poteris per suspensionem animi in virtute, secundum quod est permixta materiae et formae, et per elevationem tui per hanc virtutem gradatim, usque quo pervenias ad principium eius et originem. D. Quis est fructus quem consequemur ex hoc studio? M. Evasio mortis et applicatio ad originem vitae. D. Quid erit auxilium consequendi hanc spem nobilem? M. Sequestrari prius a sensibilibus et mente infundi intelligibilibus et suspendi totum a datore ­bonitatis; cumque feceris, respiciet te et largus erit tibi, sicut convenit illi. Amen. See also Gatti (2001, pp. 243–244, §73–74) for the corresponding passage in the Hebrew epitome Meqor ḥ ayyim and Laumakis (2014, pp. 260–261) for an English translation. 62 For a helpful excursus on theological approaches to mysticism, with particular attention to this question, see McGinn (1994, pp. 265–291). 63 The following comments revolve around my personal response as a Catholic scholar to such parallel readings of Jewish and Muslim texts side by side with Christian readings. It is not my intention,



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however, simply to instrumentalize non-­Christian materials for personal benefit without any corresponding appreciation for what they represent in their own terms as profound works of Jewish and Muslim theological genius. It is exciting as a historian to contribute in my scholarship toward a deeper understanding of the Ibero-­Jewish and Ibero-­Muslim cultural legacies. But in an exercise such as this – a novice attempt at comparative theology – I can only speak from a place of faith about the impact of Jewish and Muslim comparands on my theological self-­understanding, while hoping that some of my Jewish and Muslim friends might be drawn to teach me as well about their own theological responses to this type of comparative work. 64 See McGinn (1994, pp. 281–282) on Anselm Stolz’s theology of mysticism which he compares to Vladimir Lossky in his 1944 Essai sur la théologie mystique de l’Eglise d’Orient – English translation in Lossky (1957).

References Alonso, D. (1958). La poesía de San Juan de la Cruz (desde esta ladera). Madrid: Aguilar. Arberry, A.J. (trans.) (1953). Ibn Ḥ azm: The Ring of the Dove. London: Luzac. Asín Palacios, M. (1933). Un precursor hispanomusulmán de San Juan de la Cruz. Al-­Andalus 1: 7–79. Baeumker, C. (1895). Avencebrolis (Ibn Gebirol) Fons Vitae (Ex arabico in latinum translatum ab Johanne Hispano et Dominico Gundissalino). Beiträge zur Geschichte der Philosophie und Theologie des Mittelalters. 3 vols. Münster: Aschendorffsce Verlagsbuchhandlung. Balthasar, H.U. von. (1986). The Glory of God: A Theological Aesthetics. Volume III: Studies in Theological Style: Lay Style. San Francisco: Ignatius Press. Baneth, D. (ed.) (1977). Judah Halevi: Kitāb al-­radd wa-­’ l-­dalı̄l f ı̄’ l-­d ı̄n al-­dhalı̄l. Jerusalem: Magnes Press. Baruzi, J. ([1924] 1999). Saint Jean de la Croix et le problème de l’expérience mystique, 3rd ed. (a reprint of the revised and enlarged 2nd ed. of 1931). Paris: Salvator. Bennett, C.E. (trans.) (1988). Horace: Odes and Epodes, rev. reimpression. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Carmi, T. (ed.) (1981). The Penguin Book of Hebrew Verse. New York: Penguin Books. ́ vaiṣṇavas of South India. Albany, Clooney, F.X. (1996). Seeing Through Texts: Doing Theology Among the S rı̄ NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2014). His Hiding Place Is Darkness: A Hindu-­Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2022a). On the power of imperfect words: An inquiry into the revelatory power of a single Hindu verse. Sophia 61: 9–21. Clooney, F.X. (2022b). Saint Joseph in South India: Poetry, Mission and Theology in Costanzo Gioseffo Beschi’s Tēmpāvaṇ i. Vienna: University of Vienna. Cole, P. (2001). Selected Poems of Solomon ibn Gabirol. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. De Certeau, M. (1982). La fable mystique. Volume 1: 16th–17th Century. Paris: Gallimard. Elbaz, Y., Oratz, D., Hasbani, N., Lebhar, M., Zafrani, D,Ḥ., and Biderman, A. (eds.) (2019). The ArtScroll Sephardic Siddur: Weekdays/Sabbath. The Schottenstein Edition. Brooklyn, NY: Mesorah Publications. Elbogen, I. (1993). Jewish Liturgy: A Comprehensive History (trans. R. Scheindlin). Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society. Fairclough, H.R. (trans.) (1999). Virgil: Eclogues, Georgics, Aeneid I–VI(rev. G.P. Goold). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Furuzā nfar, B.O. (1955). Aḥ ādith-­e Mathnavi. Tehran: Dā nišgā h. Gatti, R. (ed. and trans.) (2001). Shelomo ibn Gabirol: Fons Vitae: Meqor Ḥ ayyim. Genova: Il Melangolo. (Critical edition and Italian translation of the Hebrew epitome).

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Ginzberg, L. (1998). The Legends of the Jews (trans. H. Szold and P. Radin). 7 vols. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Girón Negrón, L.M. (2001). “Your dove-­eyes among your hairlocks”: Language and authority in Fray Luis de León’s Respuesta que desde su prisión da a sus émulos. Renaissance Quarterly Studies 54 (4): 1197–1250. Girón Negrón, L.M. (2009). Dionysian thought in 16th century Spanish mystical theology. In: ­Re-­thinking Dionysius the Areopagite (ed. S. Coakley and C. Stang), pp. 163–176. Chichester: Wiley Blackwell. (First published in Modern Theology 24 [4] [2008]: 693–706.) Girón Negrón, L.M. (2012). Weeping over Rachel’s tomb: Literary representations of a Midrashic motif in medieval and early modern Spain. In: The Hebrew Bible in Fifteenth-­Century Spain: Exegesis, Literature, Philosophy, and the Arts (ed. J. Decter and A. Prats Oliván), pp. 13–40. Leiden: Brill. Gutiérrez, G. (1983). Beber en su propio pozo: En el itinerario espiritual de un pueblo. Lima: Centro de Estudios y Publicaciones. Idel, M. (1988a). Kabbalah: New Perspectives. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Idel, M. (1988b). Studies in Ecstatic Kabbalah. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Jarden, D. (1971–1972). Shire ha-­qodeš le-­rabbi Shelomo ibn Gabirol [The liturgical poetry of Rabbi Solomon ibn Gabirol], 2 vols. Jerusalem: American Academy of Jewish Research. Jarden, D. (1978–1985). Shire ha-­qodešh le-­rabbi Yehudah Halevi [The liturgical poetry of Rabbi Judah Halevi], 4 vols. Jerusalem: American Academy of Jewish Research. Kavanaugh, K. and Rodríguez, O. (trans.) (2017). The Collected Works of St John of the Cross, 3rd ed. Washington, DC: ICS Publications. Korobkin, N.D. (ed. and trans.) (1998). Yehudah Halevi: The Kuzari: In Defense of the Despised Faith. Jerusalem: Jason Aronson. Laumakis, J.A. (2014). Solomon ibn Gabirol (Avicebron): The Font of Life (Fons Vitae) (trans. from the Latin with an introduction). Milwaukee, WI: Marquette University Press. Lida de Malkiel, M.R. (2017). La tradición clásica en España. Madrid: Centro para la edición de los clásicos españoles. Lobel, D. (2000). Between Mysticism and Philosophy: Sufi Language of Religious Experience in Judah ­Ha-­Levi’s Kuzari. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Lobel, D. (2007). A Sufi-­Jewish Dialogue: Philosophy and Mysticism in Bahya ibn Paqūda’s Duties of the Heart. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. López Baralt, L. (1990). San Juan de la Cruz y el Islam (Estudio de la filiación semítica de su literatura mística). Madrid: Hiperión. López Baralt, L. (1998). Asedios a lo indecible: San Juan de la Cruz canta al éxtasis transformante. Madrid: Trotta. Lossky, V. (1957). The Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church. London: J. Clarke. Manero Sorolla, M.P. (1990). Imágenes petrarquistas en la lírica española del Renacimiento: Repertorio. Barcelona: Estudios de literatura española y comparada. McGinn, B. (1994). The Foundations of Mysticism: Origins to the Fifth Century. New York: Crossroads. McGinn, B. (2008). Regina quondam … Speculum 83: 817–839. McGinn, B. (2017). Mysticism in the Golden Age of Spain (1500–1650). Volume VI, Part 2 of The Presence of God: A History of Western Christian Mysticism. New York: Crossroad. Miller, F.J. (trans.) (1977). Ovid: Metamorphoses: Books I–VIII, 3rd ed. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Munk, S. (1859). Mélanges de philosophie Juive et Arabe. Paris: A. Frank. Pacho, E. (ed.) (1981). San Juan de la Cruz: Cántico espiritual. Madrid: FUE. Pacho, E. (ed.) (1990). San Juan de la Cruz: Obras completas, 2nd ed. Burgos: Monte Carmelo. Pacho, E. (1998). San Juan de la Cruz: Historia de sus escritos. Burgos: Monte Carmelo. Perry, T.A. (1987). The Moral Proverbs of Santob de Carrión: Jewish Wisdom in Christian Spain. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Petrarca, F. (2000). Trionfi, Rime estravaganti, Codice degli abbozzi (ed. V. Pacca and L. Paolino), 2nd ed. Milan: Mondadori.



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Pope, M. (1977). The Anchor Bible: Song of Songs. New York: Doubleday. Rodríguez, J.V. (2012). San Juan de la Cruz: La biografía. Madrid: San Pablo. Ruano de la Iglesia, L. (ed.) (1982). San Juan de la Cruz: Obras completes, 11th ed. Madrid: BAC. Santagata, M. (ed.) (2006). Francesco Petrarca: Canzoniere, revised ed. Milan: Mondadori. Scheindlin, R. (1991). The Gazelle: Medieval Hebrew Poems on God, Israel, and the Soul. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Scheindlin, R. (1993). Contrasting religion experience in the liturgical poems of Ibn Gabirol and Judah Halevi. Prooftexts 13 (2): 141–162. Scheindlin, R. (1994). Ibn Gabirol’s religious poetry and Sufi poetry. Sefarad 54 (1): 109–142. Schimmel, A. (1975). Mystical Dimensions of Islam. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Schimmel, A. (1994). Deciphering the Signs of God: A Phenomenological Approach to Islam. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Schirmann, H. (1960). Ha-­Shirah ha-­’Ivrit bi-­Sefarad u-­ve-­Provans, 2 vols. (subdivided in four). Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik. Sells, M. (trans.) (1994). Mystical Languages of Unsaying. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sells, M. (2021). Muhyddin Ibn ‘Arabi: The Translator of Desires (Poems). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Septimus, B. (1984). On the use of Talmudic literature in Spanish Hebrew poetry. Tarbiz 53: 607–614. Shklovsky, V. (1990). Theory of Prose (trans. B. Sher, intro. G. Bruns). Normal, IL: Dalkey Archive Press, Illinois State University. Tanenbaum, A. (2002). The Contemplative Soul: Hebrew Poetry and Philosophical Theory in Medieval Spain. Leiden: Brill. Theodor, J. and Albeck, H. (1965). Midrash Bereshit Rabbah, 2nd ed. 3 vols. Jerusalem: Wahrman. Thompson, C. (1977). The Poet and the Mystic: A Study of the “Cántico espiritual” of San Juan de la Cruz. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Thompson, C. (2003). St John of the Cross: Songs in the Night. Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press. Tsur, R. (2008). Toward a Theory of Cognitive Poetics, 2nd expanded and updated ed. Brighton: Sussex Academic Press. Vendler, H. (2006). Poets Thinking: Pope, Whitman, Dickinson, Yeats. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press. Watts, W. (trans.) (1912). St Augustine: Confessions, 2 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

PART VI

Comparative Theology Beyond the Discipline

32 Locating the Self in the Study of Religion: Francis Clooney and the Experiment of Hindu–Christian Studies Jonathan Edelmann

373

33 Learning Interreligiously as Public Theology: Limits and Possibilities for Institutional Leaders Michelle Voss Roberts

389

34 Comparative Theology and Public Theology: In Search of a Responsible Theology Today Albertus Bagus Laksana

400

35 God Meets Us There: Prison as True Home for the Christian Comparative Theologian Mark J. Edwards

411

CHAPTER 32

Locating the Self in the Study of Religion Francis Clooney and the Experiment of Hindu–Christian Studies Jonathan Edelmann

Introduction Francis X. Clooney, SJ, has introduced a new degree of complexity into the study of religion, by which I mean a display of the diversity and the detail that exists within and between Hindu and Christian traditions. Scholars working in religious studies can learn from Clooney’s work in ­comparative theology since his comparative work sheds light on important areas in the history of religion. For example, Clooney (1990) made contributions to pū rva-­mı̄māṃ sā, the “old theology,” by offering a retrieval of ancient and orthodox approaches to Vedic ritual and language, and also to uttara-­mı̄māṃ sā, the “new theology,” by offering (Clooney 1993) a detailed analysis of monism or nondualism (advaita-­vedānta) as a commentarial tradition that provides an explanation of how the texts should be read. On South Indian śrı̄vaiṣṇ ava tradition, Clooney (2006) provides an examination of Vedā ntades ́ika’s commentary on Rā mā nuja’s Gı̄tabhāṣya verse 18.66  in comparison with Christian notions of ritual and law. Regarding Indian and European interactions, Clooney (2016) examines the relationships between Jesuit and Asian philosophies of rebirth. For Indian studies, Clooney (1989, p. 548) explores the theology of karma, arguing that differences between it and other religions “make it possible for us to think across formidable boundaries of culture and experience. The specification of theories through the identification of their contexts and notice of how they cannot be extracted from those contexts makes possible a more useful summation of ­similarities and differences.” In addition to attention to intellectual history, at the 2018 Board of Governors Dinner for the Oxford Centre for Hindu Studies, a center that Clooney directed, he argued that the study of religion should include an understanding of the larger communal life of religious and academic communities in which religious texts are important.

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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This chapter explores how Hindu and Christian ways of constructing lineage are different from the normative expectations of a scholar operating within the discipline of the study of religion. Nonetheless, these differences are also informative to the discipline since the authors located themselves in a lineage, and thus made themselves an object of study. Moreover, by laying out the tradition behind them, they clarified their own intervention within it.

Why Compare Religions? Recently, Clooney (2022, p. 420) has argued that there are “good reasons for envisioning a global discourse about God,” and in this section, I have tried to summarize arguments for comparison, with a special focus on Hindu–Christian discourse: 1. Comparison clarifies translation 2. Comparison reveals presuppositions 3. Comparison creates conversations 4. Comparison is diversity examined 5. Comparison is the unification of selves. First, when we read today the Bible, the Veda, and so on, we have to learn the original l­anguages, and sometimes we have to translate the original languages into our own language. One must have a clear understanding of the meanings of these terms. The comparative method is beneficial in discerning the meaning because it allows one to explore the meaning of the original language and the meaning of the translation language in conversation with one another. Through comparison one can determine if and how translations are in accord with the meaning of the original language. A Sanskrit text like the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a or its commentaries has its own precise language, and thus it requires a precision of language to properly convey the sense and the meaning of it; but how are such understandings to be gained? In addition to ­understanding the original language’s meaning as the authors understood it at the time and as set within the intellectual context, one could argue a similar depth of understanding of the translation language is needed to convey the correct and full meanings of the original language. Comparative work is needed to create this understanding of both the original and the ­translation languages. If one does not solidify the meanings of the original and the translation languages through comparative analysis, then even a translator with a clear understanding of the original language risks inadvertently conveying an incorrect understanding in the translation language. Translation might be thought of as conveying meaning into discourse from a discourse by the process of comparison. Is the meaning of śraddhā to be translated as creed, faith, conviction, and so on? For example, although the Sanskrit word śraddhā is a cognate of the Latin-­based “crede” and the Greek-­based “heart,” it can mean a type of “faith” or “conviction,” but these terms have many meanings. Thus, an adequate translation of śraddhā would need to give special attention to its meaning in a Sanskrit text and the translation of śraddhā would need to be attentive to the meaning in English; this is comparative reasoning. One could object that a comparative project is unwieldy and thus detrimental to our understanding of India because dwelling on comparative issues distracts from essential reconstructive projects. This is especially the case with Hinduism, which remains insufficiently understood. Moreover, since there are complex and sophisticated issues at work within Indian texts, it is therefore unrealistic to suggest that one can gain the expertise to draw useful comparisons between India and Europe – one can become an expert in one tradition only. My solution to this tension here



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is to focus on specific issues, drawing focused and carefully constructed comparisons of the ­meanings of texts. No one doubts that a clear understanding of Indian texts is a necessary part of a good translation, and it is also clear that various Hindu discursive traditions require further clarification. The risk involved in neglecting a comparative project, however, is that translations would lack the intellectual structure and method to accurately engage the meanings of texts within the humanities and the sciences. Without comparison, the intellectual output of South Asian or Indian studies would remain inaccessible to these other disciplines. Second, a comparative approach reveals the presuppositions underlying the similarities and differences among religions; and this will illuminate the nature of both sides of the comparison. Based on the successes of comparative philology, Max Müller stated of religion, “He who knows one, knows none” (1873, p. 13; emphasis in original); all higher knowledge is comparative, in his view. He thought that we learn about ourselves by the study of another, and this might be compared to a traveler who reveals his assumptions to himself by contact with a foreign land. Toward this end, Müller developed the historical study of religion through the study of language and doctrine, and he argued for a theoretical approach to the texts, or a “psychological dimension that could not be reduced to its concrete historical manifestations.” It is the underlying psyche  – common to all ­people, and therefore common to all texts – that gives a common connection, since religions “all sprang from the same sacred soil, the human heart” (Van den Bosch 2017, p. 72). Comparative reflection can begin with the recognition that the one who is reading and interpreting a text outside their tradition requires self-­reflective consideration of the implicit biases brought to the study of the other text. A.P. Mandair (2009, p. 2) has argued that within the West the study of religion is underpinned by a theory that, “effectively took on the role of a blueprint for domination encoded in the structures of thought, practice, and order necessary for the maintenance of Empire in the nineteenth century.” Mandair, however, examines Sikh theology and philosophy as a means to reveal such presuppositions. Moreover, even the term “religion” is circumspect since, “every time an Indian responds to the word ‘religion’ s/he is obliged to speak (whether in English or Hindi) in another’s language, breaking with her own and in so doing giving herself up to the other” (Mandair 2009, p. 9). Mandair argues, then, that it is necessary to strip away the biases that have covered the study of Indian “religion.” Jose Cabezón (1998, p.  2; emphasis in original) also observes the danger of a comparative project to “read the cultural other in terms of static categories imported in toto from the culturally familiar,” and his antidote is to give “attention both to the similarities and to the differences.” Third, comparative religion might involve bringing traditions of different origins and natures into critical conversation and creative tension with one another, and thereby creating new conversations. This is important. Although the texts of the religions compared may have been composed independently of one another, today we encounter that these same texts dwell in a multicultural context that focuses on interdisciplinarity and cross-­cultural exchange. Clooney (2019, pp. 9–10), for instance, refers to this as a “third space” in which “intellectuals can meet, learn from one another fruitfully and in a way that demeans neither tradition, and facilitate a learning possible only in that shared space.” I have called this phenomenon of the intermixing of intellectual ­traditions the emergence of a “third language” that “forms a bridge between” traditions, one that is informed by, “the theological, ontological, epistemological, and teleological presuppositions” of those involved (Edelmann 2012, pp. 9–10). One could, however, object to this argument along the same lines as in the first point: the field of Hindu studies remains underdeveloped, and therefore we do not know enough about Hindu traditions to serve as one side of the bridge, so to speak. How is this language and space formed? And where? And does it or does it not already exist in the ­academic study of religion and philosophy? In responding to Clooney’s call for comparative work, Parimal Patil (cited in Clooney 2010, p. 185) argues that institutional realities make it difficult to produce,

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but he also says Clooney’s request of scholars of Hinduism to think about the Christian religion is, “welcomed, long overdue, and must be accepted.” The reason for the difficulty of doing comparative theology, argues Patil, is that, “there are very few Hindu institutions that correspond to the diverse academic and nonacademic institutions in which Christian theology is practiced today” (Patil, cited in Clooney 2010, p. 186). He concludes: “The participation of Hindu intellectuals in the project described in this work may come, therefore, at a very high professional price” (Patil, cited in Clooney  2010, p.  186). The tension here is that even if one admits that comparative ­projects are worthwhile and important for many reasons, until the place and the language in which to write them is created, such projects remain untenable. Nevertheless, comparative p ­ rojects do exist, such as Mandair mentioned above. Fourth, comparative thinking is diversity in conversation. All discourse today is diverse in the sense that it is inherently multicultural and multidisciplinary, and therefore enriched by many histories and languages. It is difficult to encounter any issue in the humanities without encountering comparative questions since one naturally, and perhaps necessarily, thinks about the other(s) in relation to one’s self. The methodology that I have adopted here gives structure and directionality to comparative thinking by attending to the language and to the context in which specific ­concepts – drawn from specific texts – are engaged within the Hindu and the Christian traditions, and from this similarity and difference are brought into sharper focus. My goal, then, is to create a conversation that is informed by deep historical reconstruction and careful analytic reasoning. Fifth, comparison is the unification of selves since the comparativist often is knowledgeable about the two (or more) traditions compared. This knowledge may have been received in many ways, but the result is often “cultivated hybridity, a multiple religious belonging accomplished through serious study” (Clooney 2010, p. 160). Clooney knows Hinduism1 and Christianity by study and by direct engagement, and comparison is a way to bring aspects of one’s self into ­objective discourse.

Constructing Tradition In this section I describe lineages constructed by Jı̄va (ca. 1517–1608 ce) and Vis ́vanā tha ( fl. 1690–1712 ce), two Gauḍı ȳ a Vaiṣṇava authors, which I compare with that of Vedā nta Des ́ika ́ vaiṣṇ ava and Roman Catholic authors (1268–1369 ce) and Francis de Sales (1567–1623 ce), Srı̄ respectively. In this comparison I argue that the reconstruction of lineage creates the space into which the author intervenes and that lineage is connected to larger structures outside itself within a general concept of reality.2

The Gauḍı ȳ a Vaiṣṇava Lineage Jı̄va’s conclusion to his Six Essays (ca. 1555–1561 ce) on the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a (ca. 1000 ce) includes various hierarchies that connect his work to cosmologies, histories, and ontologies within his intellectual context and clarifies his intervention within it: Thus, I conclude my final Essay on Divine Love, a study of the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a consisting in six essays. It is a sourcebook of our Indian tradition. I composed it under the instruction of Rūpa and Sanātana. It is for all devotees of Vishnu in the royal society of people who worship the God Caitanya – he is Krishna, the being of God fully manifest, whose goal as an avatar was to share in the adoration of himself in order to purify this dark age.3



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The passage highlights at least four of Jı v̄ a’s central interventions in the Indian tradition ­examined in his Six Essays, the text for which he is most well known. First, it concerns the cyclical and hierarchical history of the four ages, into the third of which Krishna descended, who left this world and returned to Vaikuṇtha, a world beyond matter, thus marking the beginning of this fourth and final age, after which the world is dissolved and the process starts again. Into this cycle, Jı̄va places Caitanya as an avatar, one not described explicitly in any of the texts of the tradition, but the six essays were nevertheless meant to demonstrate that this novel form should be accepted by the tradition. Second, Jı v̄ a assumes a multiplicity and hierarchy within the unitary being of God by identifying the Caitanya (b.1486 ce) known from his immediate instructors Rū pa and Sanā tana, members of the six Goswamis of Vrindavan (De  1961, pp.  146–165), and the Krishna and Vishnu known from classical texts and rituals. In his Ambrosia Ocean of Aesthetics of Bhakti (hence, Ambrosia), Rū pa said that in essence Krishna and Vishnu are the same, nevertheless aesthetic experience distinguishes the form of Krishna over that of Vishnu.4 Jı v̄ a turned the subjective argument of Rū pa into an argument about the objective nature of God’s being. He argued analogically in his Essay on Krishna that Vishnu is like a sunbeam and Krishna is like the sun to show that Vishnu is a divine part of Krishna. Insofar as an analogy can be used, it affirms the unity of Vishnu and Krishna since the sun is the cause of the sunbeam, but it also distinguishes Krishna since the s­ unbeam is distinct from and dependent on the sun for its being, whereas the sun’s being does not originate from the sunbeams.5 In some sense this claim is also an intervention since, as discussed below, the argument for Krishna as the source of Vishnu distinguished it from the southern ­tradition from which Jı v̄ a claims the ideas for his essays were originally derived. Third, Jı̄va offered a reason for the avatar (or descent) of Caitanya into the human world – to experience himself as both the subject and the object6 – thus speaking to the conversation about avatars.7 Jı̄va might have also meant that this avatar of Caitanya demonstrated the end or goal. Rū pa’s A Light Study of the Ambrosial of the Lord (Laghubhā gavatā m ṛta) offered a taxonomy of the many forms or bodies that the Lord had manifest.8 After summarizing his argument in earlier essays that the nondual consciousness of God is described as nondual being, as immanent and as fully manifest, Jı̄va argued in his Essay on Krishna that from the immanent there flows an infinite number of personal avatars. He then describes the 22 avatars from Bhāgavata Purāṇ a, but the ­statement that Krishna is the svayam (1.3.28), his own source of being, overrides and appropriates hundreds of other statements like an emperor overrides local kings.9 Moreover, the overriding statement allowed him to classify many types of avatars, like the personal, the qualitative, and the playful. Fourth, Jı̄va claimed that he had written his Six Essays with the instruction of his teachers Sanā tana and Rū pa,10 both of whom studied with Caitanya, and by this he created a lineage and assumed a value system about the way knowledge is acquired. In addition to the larger Puranic narratives and history, Jı̄va linked himself to Gopā la Bhaṭṭa, “who sketched this book called the Six Essays, after scrutinizing the writings of great Vaishnavas,” whom he named as Rā mā nuja, ́ dhara.11 Jı̄va qualified this with Srı̄ ́ dhara in particular: Madhva, and Srı̄ I wrote a commentary on the Tenth Book of the Bhāgavata called the For the Satisfaction of the Devotees of Vishnu, which should be studied, about those topics Śrı̄dhara Svāmin did not cover, or whatever he did not clearly state. Lest the devotees would be dissatisfied, I have written this ­commentary on Vaishnava doctrine with some degree of expertise. May it be tolerated that I did not write about the doctrine of non-­dualism by those for whom the only end of life is bhakti as revealed in the Bhāgavata.12

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Jı̄va prioritized bhakti at the exclusion of nondualism by appealing to an implicit hierarchy, that is, the five stratified ends of life (the puruṣârthas). In addition, he positioned himself in relation to the person who was the most noteworthy commentator on the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a, and for the most part he deals with him consistently in the way described in the passage above. Many have noted that Mā dhavendra is a connection between northern and southern bhakti traditions,13 and this is one Jı̄va noted favorably: “by Mā dhavendra that holy tree of devotion for Kṛṣṇa was sprouted in this world.”14 A sprout is, of course, a young plant or tree; this demonstrates that hierarchical concepts can be organic because a sprout is an incipient form of a fully grown ́ dhara, who used it to map tree. The sprout-­and-­tree analogy was likely known to Jı̄va through Srı̄ Bhāgavata Purāṇ a: Called the beautiful Bhāgavata, it is a spiritual tree, sprouted from the sacred sound aum, its root in the eternal. It floods the water basin by means of its twelve trunks (or books), and by pleasing love. It has three hundred and thirty-­two branches (or chapters) and it has eighteen thousand leaves (or verses), it is easily understood, and freely gives everything progressive.15

́ dhara herein maps the tree (its root, trunks, branches, leaves, and its water basin) onto the Srı̄ Bhāgavata Purāṇ a’s books, chapters, and verses, thus connecting the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a to a discussion of tree symbolism which is known throughout Hindu and Christian texts (Locklin 2006) The sprout as a symbol, then, positions Mā dhavendra as an originator of bhakti, albeit an incipient form of it; the implication is that Jı̄va (along with Caitanya, Rū pa, and others) had nurtured bhakti so that the incipient form manifested its full potential.16 Jı̄va names many other teachers from the land of Gauḍa, modern day Bengal, like Sā rvabhauma Bhaṭṭā carya,17 Vidyā Vā caspatı̄,18 and Vidyā bhū ṣaṇ a, Paramā nanda (or Kavikarṇ apū ra) whom he describes as a storehouse of rasa, Rā mabhadra whom he describes as a teacher of vocal music (vāṇ ı)̄ , Nityā nanda the eccentric, ́ nivā sa the great scholars. Describing him as Advaita the learned teacher, and Gadā dhara and Srı̄ an associate of Caitanya, he offers respect to Svarū pa Dā modara; and he gives regards to Vā sudeva Datta, Govinda, Mukunda, Murā ri Gupta, and others in the inner circle of Caitanya. Among the residents of Vṛṇdā vana, he praises Kā ś ı̄śvara, Lokanā tha, and Kṛṣṇa Dā sa. Jı̄va praises Gopā la Bhaṭṭa, the designer of Gauḍıȳ a Vaiṣṇava image worship still practiced today at the Rā dhā ramaṇa temple in Vrindavan, the establishment of which Kenneth Valpey calls the “embodied community” (2006, pp.  48–50, 54). Jı̄va praises Raghunā tha Dā sa, who is nourished by a special love for Rā dhā , the goddess associate of Krishna. The name dropping is more than an act of building a community around himself, but his characterization of them is a way of giving each person a place in the lineage, a practice that was extended by later Gauḍıȳ a Vaiṣṇava thinkers. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, many of the people named by Jı̄va were mapped onto characters who had surrounded the person of Krishna when he descended into the world at the end of the previous age. If Caitanya is Krishna, and if Krishna descended to this world with his friends and family to this work, then Caitanya would have done the same. This equivalence could be expanded to include new people as the religion grew while at the same time retraining the center around which new members could be added: “The retrospective work rationalized the earlier historical narratives to conform to the recently developed systematic theology of Gosvāmı̄s” (Stewart 2010, p. 335). The Gauḍı̄ya Vaiṣṇavas posited a hierarchy that underlies the equivalence in the sense that individuals were located as proximal or distal to the center and this can be ­conceptualized by the “unifying structure of the maṇḍala,” although this was “never addressed formally in the theological speculations of the Gauḍı̄ya Vaiṣṇava community” (Stewart  2011, p. 301). A maṇḍala is, one could argue, a type of hierarchy since it has a center, and items are arranged so as to draw attention to the center and to position items around that center in ­strategic



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ways. The maṇḍala of equivalence that connected Krishna’s community to Caitanya’s community is thus a historical argument as well: “History was repeated and repeatable, but the details of historical ­circumstance would always differ. What was significant was what was remembered, and what the tradition chose to remember was what was repeated” (Stewart  2010, p.  335). This  process of ­connecting a lineage to a larger structure outside itself is present in other ­traditions as well. Above I examined how Jı̄va included predecessors, texts, histories, and cosmologies; but a hierarchy also excludes. In the sixth introductory verse of the Essay on Truth, Jı̄va states his work is not for the non-­devotees since the goals and aims of his writing are to facilitate devotion and nothing else: This book should be seen only by those who only desire the lotus feet of Sŕ ı̄ Krishna; to everyone else, a curse is issued.19

The non-­devotee, then, is an interloper, an unwelcome guest in the royal society that Jı̄va envisioned because his goal is lower on the hierarchy of desires. Nevertheless, Jı̄va’s warning was not taken seriously by the later Gauḍıȳ a Vaiṣnạ va tradition, showing that even this hierarchy did not influence the social life of the religion. Ferdinando Sardella (2013, p. 65) notes that Jı̄va’s concept of a royal society was developed by Bhaktivinoda Ṭhākura or Kedāra-­nātha Datta (1838–1914), an inheritor of Jı̄va’s work, who formed the Viśva Vaishnava Rāja Sabhā or the Royal World Vaishnava Association in 1885 in Calcutta. This association led to a library and a journal that published the work of its members. Bhaktivinoda’s son, Bhakti-­siddhānta Sarasvatı̄ or Bimalā Prasāda Datta (1874–1937) revived the association in 1919, using it as a forum to review new literary works related to the teachings of Caitanya (Sardella 2013, pp. 92–93). Sardella characterizes the association as reflecting the “universal vision of the Six Goswamis [Rūpa, Sanātana, Jı̄va and others], who conceived of a religious society that could embrace all the peoples of the world, regardless of sectarian affiliations; this is indicated by the word viśva [universal] in the association’s title.” Nevertheless, Bhaktisiddānta developed a charter of six committees (maṇdạ lı̄) for the association that included allocations for image worship, missionary activities, new membership, festivals, apologetics, and sacred place maintenance (Sardella 2013, pp. 97–98). Sardella draws connections between these efforts of Bhaktivinoda and Bhaktisiddānta with contemporary and global Hindu Caitanya Vaiṣnạ va institutions (Sardella 2013, pp. 247–248), but one might see these approaches as a deviation from Jı̄va’s more inward-­looking approach that places the devotee in a unique category above the non-­devotee. Satyanarayana Dāsa (2015, pp.  20–23) argues that Jı̄va’s sixth verse of the Essay on Truth (quoted above) is an issue of qualification, a larger and more general topic in Indian religion. Dāsa notes that Jı̄va appears to “rule out the relevance of impartial philosophical investigation or study of the text for the purpose of comparative evaluation.” If true, Jı̄va would be at odds with his contemporaries and predecessors who seemed to encourage rational debate between and among the different schools of Indian philosophy. Dāsa replies that Jı̄va articulated “his metaphysics in relation to other major systems of Indian philosophy” because he wanted to speak to the religious and the nonreligious alike. If he had no interest in the world outside his community, then he would not have written about it, but he did, so there must be some other reason he cursed the non-­devotee reader. Why then did he censure the non-­devotee? The language of a curse, Dāsa argues, is not meant to deny impartiality and comparison, but to signal to the reader that his work is not for “mere ­intellectual stimulation,” and that it should not be read “from a detached or non-­participatory stance.” In addition, Jı̄va’s words of admonishment are “directed toward practitioners who presume themselves to be already surrendered but who still harbor egoic self-­reference and self-­interest,” and invite readers “to see through their own ego-­patterning and identity” (Dāsa 2015, p. 23).

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In this sense, Dā sa is making a division between the higher and the lower devotee, not between the devotee and the non-­devotee. Overall, Dā sa’s defense of Jı̄va is that he is not excluding the non-­ devotee, but claiming that everyone – devotee and non-­devotee alike – should use the Six Essays in the attitude of intellectual and identity formation. Does Dā sa show a way not to think of Jı̄va as anti-­philosophical and as anti-­comparative? There are three charitable ways of reading Jı̄va’s sixth verse. The first is to connect it to the idea that philosophy is the “remedy for the maladies of the human soul” or “therapeutic in intent,” a topic that is found broadly across religious and philosophical traditions (Ganeri and Carlisle 2012, p. 1; cf. Sorabji 2000; Nussbaum 2013). On this view, Jı̄va is not so much cursing the non-­devotee, establishing the view that the use of reason should be aimed at therapeutic development. A second charitable reading is that Jı̄va was articulating a broader notion of qualification or competence among other Vaiṣṇava and Vedā nta thinkers. Francis Clooney, for example, describes Vedā nta Des ́ika’s (1268–1369 ce) concept of competence: “what Des ́ika might call competence (adhikāra) marks a combination of innate capacities with prolonged study and spiritual practice. It requires self-­effacement before the text, patience, perseverance, and imagination; though a humble practice, it also engenders productive ways of thinking that change the reader who is inevitably drawn into the world of what she or he reads” (Clooney 2008, p. 78). On this view, Jı̄va would be inviting the reader into a deeper study and engagement with his work rather than a mere admonishment to the non-­devotee. Alexandro Graheli (2010, p. 308), however, argues that verse six of the Essay on Truth is indicative of Jı̄va’s circular reasoning since he accepted the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a as an authority because the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a and other Vaiṣṇ ava scriptures affirm its truth, which requires the reader to assume “at least some degree of preliminary faith.” Ravi Gupta (2007, pp. 63, 207) argued, “Jı̄va is writing for an elite audience of scriptural experts with deep knowledge of Vedā ntic postulates,” and that, “it is as if he [ Jı̄va] expects his reader to be a person of mild scepticism who will test the coherence of the system by introducing evidence from conflicting sources or by questioning the validity of the author’s sources.” In what sense, then, is Jı̄va a scholastic, which is a particular form of theology? I think it makes the most sense to classify Jı̄va as a scholastic, despite the unfortunate fact that scholasticism is often seen as a low point in Western thought stuck in between the heights of Greek philosophy and modern philosophy. For instance, Bertrand Russell (1945, p.  463) said Aquinas, whom he calls a scholastic, lacked the “true philosophic spirit” because he did not “set out to follow wherever the argument may lead.” Rather, he used reason if it can support faith, but if not, “he need only fall back on revelation.” However, finding arguments for a given conclusion is “not philosophy, but special pleading.” Based on a reflection on Indo-­Tibetan Buddhist traditions, Jose Cabezón (1998, pp. 4–6) characterizes scholasticism in eight features: (1) the author has a strong sense of being part of a specific tradition and lineage, (2) a concern with the exegesis of language and optimism that (sacred) language can express the nature of being, (3) the tendency to include rather than exclude textual traditions so as to cover all aspects of an intellectual problem, (4) a sense that the tradition is complete because all is contained in it and compact in the sense that nothing is extraneous within it, (5) the belief that the world and being is knowable, (6) the belief that the use of reason is meant to order and to systematize the subject matter, (7) a commitment to rationalism or the demonstration of the consistency of a system of thought and the removal of inconsistency in the system of thought for the purpose of liberation or salvation, and (8) scholasticism includes a second-­order reflection on the criteria as to what makes a reasonable argument according to hermeneutical principles or rules. The lineage consisting of Jı̄va, Rū pa, and Sanā tana was extended by Vis ́vanā tha in the early decades of the eighteenth century: I write this full commentary on the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a called On the Essential Meaning after I thoroughly studied Sanātana’s For the Satisfaction of the Devotees of Vishnu. I was informed of Caitanya’s thoughts from Jı̄va’s Six Essays. I was assisted by Sŕ ı̄dhara’s Sense and Meaning.20



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Vis ́vanā tha goes on to say his community inspired him to write, and in the late nineteenth ́ c­ entury, Vaṃ s ı́ d̄ hara Sarman expressed a similar attitude and claimed he had read the same books, 21 as well as a few more.

S ́rı ̄ Vaiṣṇava and Catholic Lineage The discussion above marks what is often called the Gauḍıȳ a Vaiṣṇ ava lineage, and I have looked at ́ Vaiṣṇava and Catholic lineages how it was characterized; similar patterns are to be found in the Srı̄ as discussed by Francis Clooney (2008). In his The Essence of the Auspicious Three Mysteries (Clooney 2008, p. 6) (Rahasyatrayasā ra), Vedā nta Des ́ika (1268–1369 ce) begins by laying out the vast learning that preceded him. He names the Ā ḷvā rs sages from the river called Tā miraparaṇ i ́ akōpan Nammā lvā r (c. 700), author of A Hundred Verses (Tiruviruttam). such as Kurukes ́an Saṭ Desí ka says he understood the real meaning of the Vedic tradition of the Upaniṣads, which is hard to understand, by means of the Tamil texts: [W]ith delight they recited beautiful garlands of Tamil, and we in turn sing them with clarity, now understanding clearly the unclear parts of the Vedas.

To the degree that Deśika’s lineage is normative it provides a means for understanding and ordering the texts within the tradition.22 In his Essay on the Fully Manifest Lord (Bhagavatsandarbha), Jı̄va used the Bhāgavata Purāṇa as Deśika used the garlands of Tamil texts, that is, as a means of understanding: Therefore, although the Upaniṣads say “God is without hands and feet,” he does have a body, one that is blissful, that is its own source, and is without limit; there is no other authorial intent here.23

The Bhāgavata Purāṇ a (10.87.28)24 also says God does not have senses or a body, seeming to ­corroborate the Upaniṣad, but Jı̄va disagrees with both because of his overarching theory of the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a’s intent, which allows and at times requires him to disagree with literal interpretations. The way that Jı̄va gets to his position is by saying that the body referred to in the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a and the Upaniṣad is the body as an extrinsic instrument, not the body as an inherent quality of God’s being. An instrument, he argues, is different from the agent who uses it, just as an ax is used by a woodcutter to cut wood. The sense organ or body is extrinsic in the sense that it is used by the self for particular goals, and in this sense it is not intrinsic to the self; it was made into an instrument of the self. Jı̄va contrasts the ax as extrinsic with heat and fire that are intrinsically related. Thus, for both Deśika and Jı̄va the interpretation of texts is justified by the authority they ascribe to other texts, thus creating an inclusive hierarchy. By positioning themselves in a tradition, were they precluding the innovation of free thought? As quoted above, Russell argued that scholastics lacked the “true philosophic spirit” because they followed texts and not arguments. Francis Clooney (2008, p. 10) notes that Des ́ika, “does not boast of originality or independence; what matters most is that he belongs to a tradition in which he was a humble learner before daring to teach.” Yet, Clooney sees Des ́ika as having a dual role as a traditionalist and innovator: “Yet we cannot ignore the fact that there is no text quite like [The Essence]: It is so full, complete in every way, in inscribing the mantras in a notably multidimensional framework,” and his work is “a cautious radicalism, traditional theology at the service of real change” (2008, p. 13). Likewise, while it is hard to see Jı̄va as a philosopher in the contemporary sense of the word for the reasons stated so plainly by Russell, it is also a fact that, although Jı̄va located himself in a tradition and used reason to interpret texts, he introduced novel doctrines such as the view that Caitanya descended to be both subject and object of bhakti.

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Des ́ika also sought to organize the three classical yoga paths, as when he argued that refuge is more effective than practice (karma), meditation (jñāna), and bhakti, the last of which he regarded as an arduous path “requiring practice over a long duration” (Clooney 2008, p. 8). Des ́ika expresses a hierarchical order here since taking refuge in the Lord does not negate the other paths, but it does rise above and subsume them. St Francis de Sales (1567–1623 ce) acknowledged in the preface of his Treatise on the Love for God (1616) people like St Thomas Aquinas, Bonaventure, Denis the Carthusian, and John Gerson, about whom Sixtus of Sienna said he “so worthily discoursed of the fifty properties of divine love which are described in the course of the Song of Songs, that he alone would seem to have taken proper account of the affections of the love of God” (De Sales cited in Clooney 2008, p. 19). De Sales asks, “who has ever better expressed the heavenly passions of sacred love?” than St Catherine of Genoa, Angela of Foligno, Catherine of Sienna, and Mechtilde. De Sales was thus setting his work in the context of a larger conversation that existed, but he speaks directly to his reader: And although, my dear reader, this Treatise which I now present you, falls far short of those excellent works, without hope of ever running even with them, yet have I such confidence in the favor of the two heavenly lovers to whom I dedicate it, that still it may be in some way serviceable to you, and that in it you will meet with many wholesome considerations which you would not elsewhere so easily find, just as again you may elsewhere find many beautiful things which are not found here. (De Sales cited in Clooney 2008, p. 20)

Having placed himself in a lineage, De Sales assures us he has something unique to say, but that is discernible only by those willing to undertake the effort of investigation: This Treatise then is made for a soul which is already devout, that she may be able to advance in her design. Hence, I have been forced to say many things somewhat unknown to most people, and which will therefore appear rather obscure. The depths of knowledge are always somewhat hard to sound, and there are few divers who care and are able to descend and gather the pearls and other precious stones which are in the womb of the ocean (Clooney 2008, p. 69).

De Sales expected much of his reader and did not issue a warning against the unqualified as in Jı̄va, but instead issues a challenge with the diver diving deep for a pearl in the ocean to describe the effort in a way that is reminiscent of Jı̄va’s characterization of divine love (preman): As a gem might be hidden by a covering, a mystery is a truth that is difficult to understand, a secret concealed as a more general truth from the view of the indifferent and the wicked. Thus, the Lord says, “The sages use indirect speech, which is dear to me.” Indirect speech should not just be given away; it is subtle language, and about an object of great importance.25

The secret teaching Jı̄va is talking about here is that, although God inherently is in possession of qualities like all power and an unthwartable will, God nevertheless is obedient to the will of his devotee, but this is a truth that needs to be worked out within the exegesis of the sacred text through intellectual effort, as he argues later in the same section of this essay: “The meaning ‘of the self ’ is ‘of me, the fully manifest Lord,’ and ‘one who desires to know’ refers to who wants to experience the secret truth of divine love.” He goes on to argue that such a truth should be studied with a teacher,26 after which Jı̄va enters a detailed discussion of different types of injunctions, grammar, and other topics related to the interpretation of texts.



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Des ́ika also argues that effort is required to understand the meaning of the tradition, but places more emphasis on the personal qualities the student must adopt, although this is likely not something with which Jı̄va or De Sales would disagree. He does this in his discussion of the five topics to be known: God, self, means, goal, and hindrances, the last of which is the infatuation with the senses (Clooney 2008, p. 111).

Conclusion Through careful attention to lineages, I have argued Clooney’s comparative theology is part of religious studies because he illuminates the history of religion, but one might question what “religion” means here. Bertrand Russell, quoted above, said even the best scholastic work was “not philosophy, but special pleading.” Is even the best theological work “not religious studies, but special pleading”? I have argued that for Jı v̄ a, De Sales, and Des ́ika lineage formation involved a classification or an ordering in accordance with a tradition into which they intervened. Jı v̄ a may be accused of special pleading to adherents of Vishnu bhakti, Des ́ika to Upaniṣadic knowledge, and De Sales to Catholic theology. Some doubt, however, whether this should be considered religious reasoning because the act of calling something religious “is itself a political activity, and one particularly related to the colonial and imperial situation of a foreign power rendering newly encountered societies digestible and manipulable in terms congenial to its own culture and agenda” (Arnal and McCutcheon 2012, p. 107; cf. Watts and Mosurinjohn 2022, p. 324). But what, then, of these pre-­colonial thinkers? It seems untenable to argue they were digesting and manipulating a foreign power to make it congenial to one’s own culture and agenda. While more elaboration is certainly required, the historical and comparative examination above alludes to a real and developed concept of religious lineage in ways that are similar across ­traditions, by means of which the doctrine, ritual, and community are created, justified, and interpreted. Clooney’s scholarly exercises in comparison often bring these religious aspects of theology to light. There is a second sense in which I think Clooney’s work contributes to the study of religion: he self-­locates in a way that benefits the study of religion. Contemporary scholars of religion note a need for self-­reflection in comparative religion. Fred Clothey (1996, p. 42), for example, argued that the discipline has often imported Christian concerns and concepts. But it is also true, as Francis Clooney (2021) argues, that recent attempts to put the teachings of Rāmakṛṣṇa (1836– 1886) as they are presented by Mahendranath Gupta (1942) into conversation with analytic philosophy highlights the need for the subject, the author, to make himself or herself the object of study, by asking, for example, why certain conversation partners are brought together. This has led some to argue that it is particularly important today to examine the role of the individual who constructs the comparative project by looking at “intersectionality,” or a “critical engagement with the ways in which race, gender, nationality and socio-­economic status, among other things” contribute to the construction of the individual (Largen 2022, p. 271). What is informative about the authors above – like the work and person of Francis Clooney himself – is that their motives, beliefs, and goals are made clear; one may disagree with them and believe that the study of religion should be wed to other goals and aimed at other groups or ideologies, but at least one knows why they are doing what they are doing and for whom they are doing it, and this is because they reflected on and wrote about their own subjectivity by setting themselves in a discursive tradition from which they derived new meaning.

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Notes 1 I summarize Clooney’s (cited in Valkenberg 2022, pp. 285–286) ten features of Hinduism: self is not the body but in relation to a body of some kind of which it has had an infinite number; ignorance is the greatest evil; there is a multiplicity of divinities that are substantively real, so it is fitting to say there are many representations of the one reality; living beings are in some sense one with that one reality from which our material and spiritual being was generated; at the highest level of analysis the self and God can be understood in various ways and “no one is a position to decide such matters.”; practice is prioritized over doctrine since the latter is in accord with the possibilities of birth; enlightenment will eventually be reached by all; these truths come from sacred texts passed in tradition; and last, all this is “received in accord with the capacities of the knower” and that this knower “need not strive beyond what makes sense to her or him at any given point.” Some differences with Christianity: the name and nature of the divine, and its relation to lesser gods; the divine feminine; one-­birth ­versus many-­birth; the multiplicity of paths; and the belief of some Hindus in the radical oneness of all reality. 2 For Jı̄va among the six Gosvāmı̄ns, see De (1961, ch. III) and Holdrege (2015, pp.  26–30); for a description of Des ́ika’s work see Chari (2008, pp. xxiii–xxv), and for a comparison, detailed here, of Des ́ika and De Sales, see Clooney (2008). 3 Unless otherwise stated, all translations are my own. Prı̄tisandarbha (§428): iti kali-­yuga-­pāvana-­ svabhajana-­v ibhā j ana-­p rayojanâvatā ra-­s ŕ ı̄s ŕ ı̄-­b hagavat-­k ṛ s ṇ a-­c aitanya-­d eva-­c araṇ ânucara­viśva-­vaisṇava-­rāja-­sabhā-­sabhā-­jana-­bhājana-­śrı̄-­rūpa-­sanātanânuśāsana-­bhāratı̄-­garbhe ṣaṭ-­ sandarbhâtmake s ́rı s̄ ́rı -̄ ­bhāgavata-­sandarbhe s ́rı -̄ ­prı t̄ isandarbho nāma ṣaṣṭha sandarbhaḥ (Haridāsas ́āstrı̄ 1986, p. 695; cf. Sardella 2013, p. 93). 4 Bhaktirasâmṛ tasindhu (1.2.59): siddhāntatas tv abhede’pi s ́rı̄s ́a-­kṛsṇ a-­svarū payoḥ | rasenotkṛṣyate kṛsṇ a-­rū pam eṣā rasa-­sthitiḥ ∥ (based on Lutjeharms 2014, p. 175). For a discussion of Rū pa’s aesthetics, see Pollock (2016, pp. 300–309) and Lutjeharms (2014, p. 176). 5 Kṛ ṣ ṇ asandarbha (§107): yadā guṇ āvatārasya bhagavato visṇ os tad-­a ṃ s ́atvād ras ́mi-­sthānı̄yasya kṛsṇ ākhyo bhānuḥ sū rya-­maṇ ḍala-­sthānı̄yo divaṃ prāpañcika-­lokāgocaraṃ mathurādı̄nām eva prakās ́a-­vis ́eṣa-­rū paṃ vaikuṇ ṭha-­lokaṃ gatas tadā kalir lokam āvis ́at | (Dāsa  2018, p.  614; cf.  Bhāgavata Purāṇ a 12.2.29). 6 See Stewart (2010, p. 195) for discussion of Caitanya descending from the eternal into the temporal with the purpose of experiencing himself as subject and object in Bengali texts that were likely inspired by Jı̄va’s thought. See Matchett (2001, pp. 161–174) for a discussion of the purpose of avatars in the Harivaṃ śa, Viṣ ṇ upurāṇ a, and Bhāgavatapurāṇ a as: (1) protection of dharma, (2) removal of burdens, (3) benefit the world, (4) destroy anti-­gods, (5) teaching liberation, and (6) spontaneous enjoyment (lı̄lā). 7 In his second invocatory verse to the Essay on Truth, Jı̄va also mentions Caitanya, but he does not mention the doctrine of God as both subject and object: “In the dark age, tradition says that refuge is found in Caitanya who is Krishna, who by the public praising of God’s names, who showed the beauty of his body, whose external appearance is golden and black within.” Antaḥ kṛsṇ aṃ bahir gauraṃ dars ́itāṅgādi-­vaibhavam | kalau saṅkı̄r tanādyaiḥ smaḥ kṛsṇ a-­caitanyam ās ́ritāḥ ∥2∥ (Dāsa 2015, p. 12). 8 See Stewart (2010, p. 195) for discussion of Caitanya as subject and object in Bengali texts that were likely inspired by Jı̄va’s thought. Holdrege (2015, pp.  45–46) calls Rū pa’s system the Light Study the  “Gaudı̄ya discourse of divine embodiment,” which provides a “hierarchical assessment of the Godhead,” and which serves to “domesticate and subordinate the ontologies, paths, and goals” of ́ other Hindu traditions like Advaita Vedānta, Pātañjala Yoga, Saiva, and rival Vaisṇ ava. 9 Kṛṣṇasandarbha §30: tad evaṃ kṛṣṇas tu bhagavān svayam ity etat pratijñā-­vākyāya mahāvı̄ra-­ rājāyevātmanaiva nirjityātma-­sātkṛta-­virodhi-­śatārthāyāpi śobhā-­viśeṣeṇa prekṣāvatām ānandanārthaṃ caturaṅginı̄ṃ senām ivānyām api vacana-­śreṇı̄m upaharāmi | Dāsa (2018, p. 165).



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10 Elsewhere, Jı̄va said that he wrote his commentary on book ten of the Bhāgavata Purāṇ a only by the strength Rū pa’s instruction, and the instruction of other qualified people: bhū yād idaṃ yad-­ādes ́a-­ balevaiva vilikhyate ∥ 17 cd ∥ svayaṃ vilikhitam kiñcit kiñcit yogyair vilehitam ∥ 18 ab ∥. 11 Tattvasandarbha (verse 4): ko’pi tad-­bāndhavo bhaṭto ̣ dakṣiṇ a-­dvija-­vaṃ s ́ajaḥ | vivicya vyalikhad granthaṃ likhitād vṛddha-­vaisṇ avaiḥ ∥4∥ Jı̄va comments on this in his Sarvasaṃ vādinı̄: ko’pı̄ti | vṛddha-­vaisṇ avaiḥ s ́rı̄-­rāmānuja-­madhvācārya-­s ́rı̄dhara-­svāmy-­ad ̄ ibhir yal likhitam tasmād uddhṛtasyety arthaḥ | anena sva-­kapola-­kalpitatvaṃ ca nirastam ∥4∥ For a discussion of Jı̄va’s relationship with Rāmānuja and Madhva, see R. Gupta (2007, pp. 63–65) and Okita (2011), respectively. 12 Laghu-­vaiṣ ṇ ava-­toṣ aṇ ı ,̄ verses 11–15: svāmi-­pādair na yad vyaktaṃ yad vyaktaṃ cāsphuṭaṃ kvacit  | ṭippaṇ ı ̄ das ́ame tatra seyaṃ vaisṇ ava-­toṣaṇ ı ̄ ∥11∥ vaisṇ avā ’paritoṣaḥ syād yatra yatra tatas tataḥ | lekhyaṃ vaisṇ ava-­siddhānta-­dākṣiṇ yenaiva kiñcana ∥12∥ s ́rı̄mad-­bhāgavata-­vyakta-­ bhakty-­eka-­puruṣārthinām | nābheda-­vāda ity eṣā nālekhi kṣamyatām idam ∥13∥  …  yeṣāṃ protsāhanenāsmi pravṛtto’tyanta-­sāhase | te dı̄nānugraha-­vyagrāḥ s ́araṇ aṃ mama vaisṇ avāḥ ∥15∥ (Kṛsṇ as ́aṅkara Sā́ strı̄ 1965, vol 1, pp. 4–5; Dāsa 2018, pp. 33–34). 13 A.K. Majumdar (1969, p.  50) said it is possible that the Caitanya’s preceptor’s preceptor, Mādhavendra Purı̄, was influenced by the Ā ḷvārs. Friedhelm Hardy (1974, pp.  23–24) notes ́ kara, Madhva, Rāmānuja, Nimbārka, and Vallabha) did not established an Caitanya (unlike Saṅ intellectual tradition (saṃ pradāya) through theological writings, which created complications later on. Kavi Karṇ pura’s Gauragaṇ oddeśadı̄pikā (ca. 1576 ce) attempted a connection between the Mādhvas and Gauḍıȳ as (Okita 2014, p. 47), although the authenticity is under discussion. 14 Laghu-­vaiṣ ṇ ava-­toṣ aṇ ı,̄ verse 3: s ́rı̄-­mādhava-­purı̄ṃ vande yatı̄ndraṃ s ́iṣya-­saṃ yutam | lokeṣv aṅkurito yena kṛsṇ a-­bhakti-­surānġ hripaḥ ∥3∥ (Kṛsṇ as ́aṅkara Sā́ strı̄ 1965, vol 1, pp. 4–5; Dāsa 2018, p. 32). ́ -­bhāgavatābhidhaḥ sura-­tarus tārāṅkuraḥ sajjaniḥ skandhair dvādas ́abhis tataḥ pravilasad-­ 15 Srı̄ bhaktyālavālodayaḥ | dvātriṃ s ́at tri-­s ́ataṃ ca yasya vilasac-­chākhāḥ sahasrāny alaṃ parṇ āny aṣṭa-­das ́eṣṭado ’tisulabho varvarti sarvopari ∥. 16 These are analogical terms like the tree of knowledge, the stadium, and the maṇ ḍala, as ­discussed below. 17 According to Chakravarti (1929, pp. 119, 123), he was a “well-­known Naiyāyika [logician] and teacher of Caitanya” who became a disciple. 18 According to De (1961, pp. 98n1, 147n2), Vidyā Vācaspatı̄ may have also been called Ratnākara, a younger brother of Sārvabhauma Bhaṭṭācarya, who had taught Sanskrit to Sanātana, and who wrote a commentary on the Tattvacintāmaṇ yāloka of Pakṣadhara. 19 Tattvasandarbha, verse 6: yaḥ s ́rı̄-­kṛsṇ a-­padāmbhoja-­bhajanaikābhilāṣavān | tenaiva dṛs ́yatām etad anyasmai s ́apatho ’rpitaḥ ∥. 20 Dṛṣṭvā vaisṇ ava-­toṣaṇ ım ̄ ̣ prabhu-­mataṃ vijñāya sandarbhataṣ ṭı k̄ āṃ svāmy-­anukampito’sya ­vidadhe sārārtha-­saṃ dars ́inı̄m ∥3∥ (Kṛsṇ as ́aṅkara Sā́ strı̄ 1965, p. 51). 21 “atha māthura-­vidvaj-­jana-­preraṇ ayā s ́rı̄-­vaṃ s ́ı̄dhara-­s ́armā māthura-­maṇ ḍalāvatı̄rṇ a-­s ŕ ı̄kṛsṇ a-­ prı̄taye s ŕ ı̄dhara-­svāmi-­bhāvārtha-­dı̄pikāraṃ bha-­kṛta” (Sā́ strı̄ 1965, p. 8). He also lists the authors which he had read before writing his own commentary, and it includes the commentaries of ́ dhara, Jı̄va, Visv́ anātha, as well as many others, some of which are known (like Vijayadhvaja’s) Srı̄ and many of which are unknown (like Citsukha’s) (Kṛsṇ as á ṅkara Sā́ strı̄ 1965, p. 13). 22 Desí ka (Clooney 2008, p. 49) also places the Upaniṣads below, so to speak, his Vaisṇ ava authorities: “Lest debaters disturb the Veda by the usual logic, lest good people be thoroughly upset when people teach this or that god is the first one, our forest-­teacher propound our Ancient One who abides with ́ , abiding in the lotus” (Clooney 2008, p. 49). His lovely Srı̄ 23 Bhagavatsandarbha (§48): tasmād apāṇ i-­pāda [Śvetāsv́ atara Upaniṣad 3.19] s ́ruter api sad-­ananta-­ svaprakās ́ānanda-­vigraha eva bhagavati tāt-­paryaṃ nānyatreti pratipādayatanti tvam akaraṇ aḥ svarāḍ akhila-­kāraka-­s ́akti-­dharas [Bhāgavata Purāṇ a 10.87.28] (Dāsa 2014, p. 476; Kṛsṇ as ́aṅkara Sā́ strı̄ 1965, bk.10, p. 1222). 24 Bhāgavata Purāṇ a 10.87.28 creates an analogous hierarchy between the one God and the many lesser gods of the Hindu pantheon, and the one emperor and the many kings of particular

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regions; the offerings made to the latter are given to the former. The gods and kings are in some sense instruments of the objects higher in the hierarchy; they are agents who use their powers to achieve an end; the Lord is without such a body in the sense that these instruments (the gods, which are like kings) are separate from his being. 25 Bhagavatsandarbha (§96): api ca rahasyaṃ nāma hy etad eva yat parama-­ durlabhaṃ vastu duṣṭodāsı̄na-­jana-­dṛṣṭi-­nivāraṇ ārthaṃ sādhāraṇ a-­vastv-­antareṇ ācchādyate | yathā cintāmaṇ iḥ sampuṭādinā | ata eva parokṣa-­vādā ṛṣayaḥ parokṣaṃ ca mama priyam iti [BhP  11.21.35] s ́rı̄-­ bhagavad-­vākyaṃ ca | tad evaṃ parokṣaṃ kriyate yad adeyaṃ virala-­pracāraṃ mahad-­vastu bhavati | (Dāsa 2014, p. 920). 26 Ā tmano mama bhagavataḥ tattva-­jijñāsunā prema-­rū paṃ rahasyam anubhavaitum icchunā etāvan-­mātraṃ jijñāsitavyaṃ s ́rı̄-­guru-­caraṇ ebhyaḥ s ́ikṣaṇ ı ȳ am | (Dāsa 2014, p. 925).

References Primary Dāsa, S.N. (2014). Śrı̄ Bhagavatsandarbha: God  – His Qualities, Abode and Associates of Jı̄va Gosvāmin (Sanskrit text, translation and commentary). Vrindavan: Jiva Institute of Vaishnava Studies. Dāsa, S.N. (2015). Śrı̄ Tattvasandarbha: Vaiṣṇ ava Epistemology and Ontology of Jı̄va Gosvāmin (Sanskrit text, translation and commentary). Vrindavan: Jiva Institute of Vaishnava Studies. Haridāsas ́āstrı̄ (ed. and trans.) (1986). Prı̄tisandarbha [Jı̄va Gosvāmin]. Vrindavan: Srigadadhara Gaura Hari Press. ́ bhāgavata Vidyāpı̄ṭha. Kṛsṇ as ́aṅkara Sā́ strı̄. (1965). Śrı̄mad Bhāgavata Mahāpurāṇ am. Ahmedabad: Srı̄

Secondary Arnal, W. and McCutcheon, R.T. (2012). The Sacred Is the Profane: The Political Nature of Religion. New York: Oxford University Press. Cabezón, J.I. (1998). Scholasticism: Cross-­cultural and Comparative Perspectives. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Chakravarti, C. (1929). Sanskrit Literature of the Vaisnavas of Bengal. Annals of the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute 10 (1/2): 114–126. Chari, S.M.S. (2008). The Philosophy of Viśiṣ tạ ̄dvaita Vedānta: A Study Based on Vedānta Deśika’s Adhikaraṇ a-­ Sārāvalı̄. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass Publishers. Clooney, F. (1989). Evil, divine omnipotence, and human freedom: Vedānta’s theology of karma. The Journal of Religion 69 (4): 530–548. Clooney, F. (1990). Thinking Ritually: Rediscovering the Pūrva Mı̄māṃ sā of Jaimini. Vienna: De Nobili Research Publications. Clooney, F. (1993). Theology after Vedanta: An Experiment in Comparative Theology. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. ́ Clooney, F. (2006). Surrender to God alone: The meaning of Bhagavad Gı̄tā in light of Srivaisnava and Christian tradition. In: Song Divine: Christian Commentaries on the Bhagavad Gı̄tā (ed. C. Cornille), pp. 191–208. Leuven: Peeters. ́ Vedānta Deśika on Loving Surrender to God. Clooney, F. (2008). Beyond Compare: St Francis de Sales and Srı̄ Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F. (2010). Hindu God, Christian God: How Reason Helps Break Down the Boundaries between Religions. New York: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F. (2016). Jesuit intellectual practice in early modernity: The pan-­Asian argument against rebirth. In: The Jesuits and Globalization: Historical Legacies and Contemporary Challenges (ed. T. Banchoff and J. Casanova), pp. 49–68. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F. (2019). The Future of Hindu–Christian Studies: A Theological Inquiry. London: Routledge. Clooney, F. (2021). How should we read Rāmakṛsṇ a? Guarded praise for Maharaj’s analytic turn. International Journal of Hindu Studies 25 (1): 93–99.



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Clooney, F. (2022). God, God’s perfections, and the good: Some preliminary insights from the Catholic-­ Hindu encounter. The Monist 105 (3): 420–433. Clothey, F.W. (1996). Hindu–Christian “studies”: Some confessions from the boundaries. Journal of Hindu–Christian Studies 9 (1): article 12. Dāsa, S.N. (2018). Kṛ ṣ ṇ a Sandarbha of Jı̄va Gosvāmin. Vrindavan: Jiva Institute of Vaishnava Studies. De, S.K. (1961). Early History of the Vaisnava Faith and Movement in Bengal: From Sanskrit and Bengali Sources. Calcutta: Firma K.L. Mukhopadhya. Edelmann, J. (2012). Hindu Theology and Biology: The Bhāgavata Purāṇ a and Contemporary Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ganeri, J. and Carlisle, C. (2012). Philosophy as Therapeia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Graheli, A. (2010). The Caitanya Vaịṣ nava Vedānta of Jı̄va Gosvāmı̄: When Knowledge Meets Devotion (review), by Ravi M. Gupta. Philosophy East and West 60 (2): 306–310. Gupta, M.N. (1942). The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna. New York: Ramakrishna-­Vivekananda Center. Gupta, R.M. (2007). The Chaitanya Vaịṣ nava Vedānta of Jı̄va Gosvāmı̄: When Knowledge Meets Devotion. London: Routledge. Hardy, F. (1974). Mādhavêndra Purı̄: A Link between Bengal Vaisṇ avism and South Indian Bhakti. Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 106 (1): 23–41. Holdrege, B. (2015). Bhakti and Embodiment: Fashioning Divine Bodies and Devotional Bodies in Kṛ ṣ ṇ a Bhakti. London: Routledge. Largen, K.J. (2022). Riches line the path: An introduction to Hindu–Christian comparative theology. In: A Companion to Comparative Theology (ed. P. Valkenberg), pp. 269–279. Leiden: Brill. Locklin, R. (2006). The cosmic tree, creation and eschatology: Soundings from Bhagavad Gı̄tā 15. In: Song Divine: Christian Commentaries on the Bhagavad Gı̄tā (ed. C. Cornille), pp. 165–190. Leuven: Peeters. Lutjeharms, R. (2014). Aesthetics. In: Caitanya Vaiṣ ṇ ava Philosophy: Tradition, Reason and Devotion (ed. R.M. Gupta), pp. 175–216. Farnham: Ashgate. Majumdar, A.K. (1969). Caitanya: His Life and Doctrine; A Study in Vaiṣ ṇ avism. Bombay: Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan. Mandair, A.P.S. (2009). Religion and the Specter of the West: Sikhism, India, Postcoloniality, and the Politics of Translation. New York: Columbia University Press. Matchett, F. (2001). Krishna, Lord or Avatara? The Relationship Between Krishna and Vishnu. London: Curzon. Müller, F.M. (11873). Introduction to the Science of Religion: Four Lectures Delivered at the Royal Institution in February and May, 1870. London: Longmans, Green, and Co. Nussbaum, M.C. (2013). The Therapy of Desire: Theory and Practice in Hellenistic Ethics. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Okita, K. (2011). Mesquita, Roque: Madhva’s quotes from the Purānas and the Mahābhārata: An ­analytical compilation of untraceable source-­quotations in Madhva’s works along with footnotes. Indo-­Iranian Journal 54 (2): 185–192. Okita, K. (2014). Hindu Theology in Early Modern South Asia: The Rise of Devotionalism and the Politics of Genealogy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pollock, S. (2016). A Rasa Reader: Classical Indian Aesthetics. New York: Columbia University Press. Russell, B. (1945). A History of Western Philosophy. New York: Simon & Schuster. Sardella, F. (2013). Modern Hindu Personalism: The History, Life, and Thought of Bhaktisiddhanta Sarasvati. New York: Oxford University Press. Sorabji, R. (2000). Emotion and Peace of Mind: From Stoic Agitation to Christian Temptation. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Stewart, T.K. (2010). The Final Word: The Caitanya Caritamrita and the Grammar of Religious Tradition. New York: Oxford University Press. Stewart, T.K. (2011). Replicating Vaisṇ ava worlds: Organizing devotional space through the ­architectonics of the maṇ ḍala. South Asian History and Culture 2 (2): 300–336. Valkenberg, P. (2022). A Companion to Comparative Theology. Leiden: Brill. Valpey, K.R. (2006). Attending Krishna’s Image: Chaitanya Vaishnava Murti-­Seva as Devotional Truth. London: Taylor & Francis.

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Van den Bosch, L. (2017). Friedrich Max Müller and the Science of Religion. In: Religion, Theory, Critique: Classic and Contemporary Approaches and Methodologies (ed. R. King), pp. 69–76. New York: Columbia University Press. Watts, G. and Mosurinjohn, S. (2022). Can critical religion play by its own rules? Why there must be more ways to be “critical” in the study of religion. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 90 (2): 317–334.

CHAPTER 33

Learning Interreligiously as Public Theology Limits and Possibilities for Institutional Leaders Michelle Voss Roberts

Francis X. Clooney, SJ, is best known for introducing and developing the discipline of comparative theology. I first encountered his work this way, as his books featured prominently in my doctoral examinations and dissertation methodology. I am one of the few contributors to this volume who did not study directly with Clooney, but I count him as one of my teachers.1 In the years since then, I have been honored to call him a colleague and peer. Since Clooney was the founding president of the Society for Hindu-­Christian Studies, we always sought his contributions and responses during my decade in its leadership. Those who have witnessed him as a respondent marvel at how closely he follows scholarly exchanges, how deftly he weaves connections (often without notes), and how respectfully he engages significant differences. I have valued our intellectual exchanges about Hindu-­ Christian Studies and comparative theology, especially related to gender, power, and embodiment in relation to how we choose sources for comparison and the accessibility of the discipline. Flowing from Clooney’s work as teacher and scholar, he has also taken up roles facing a wider public: as director of Harvard’s Center for the Study of World Religions (CSWR) and, if I may name it this way, as a public theologian. His robust programming at the CSWR was part of his public contribution, which I observed mostly from afar, but also as an invited guest presenter and conference participant. Alongside this form of public work, Clooney also maintained a steady practice of preparing homilies and blog posts that employed comparison to speak as a public theologian (Clooney 2018). Having made parallel moves into administration in a multireligious institution, I have been inspired by the ways in which he brings a public theological voice to our pluralistic context.2

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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I hope that comparative theologians will increasingly take up the mantle of public theologian. In truth, having received a bit of pushback on my decision to become the leader of a theological school rather than continue as a scholar (a false binary), I found it both a comfort and a challenge to see Clooney inhabiting both roles. He writes, I was finding in each post the opportunity to make the point that knowledge is fundamental to human and religious maturity, and expected of us by God; ignorance is a moral and spiritual failing that leads to escalating problems for individuals and society; much interreligious friction and hostility is due to ignorance; learning is a virtue and study a good spiritual discipline whether one is a scholar or not, everyone can learn more than they know already, if they take the time; and such learning is very often a remedy for harmful ways of thinking and acting. (Clooney 2018, p. xii)

Clooney beautifully articulates why a comparative theologian can, and perhaps should, also be a public theologian. Our intellect is a gift from God, so we must use it! Rather than resorting to generalizations and stereotypes about one another, rather than simply withdrawing into our own communities, and rather than watering down religious matters in a secular context, we must learn about one another  – both for our sake and for the sake of others. With these emphases, Clooney inspired me as I reoriented myself as an administrator and public theologian: the leading scholar in our field does not shy away from public writing, but he writes this way as a regular (and perhaps even spiritual) discipline. I reflect on his legacy from my role as an administrator not despite our professional connection as comparative theologians, but because of it. In multiple conference settings, I have witnessed Clooney encouraging colleagues to foreground actual instances of comparison when talking about comparative practice. Our methodological interventions should emerge from the patient practice of moving back and forth between examples, allowing them to speak to one another and to us. I have tried to allow this sensibility to inform my various roles in the academy – teacher, scholar, administrator, and public theologian. Therefore, in what follows, I use an actual instance of comparison to reflect upon how this work has alerted me to the creative edges of public institutional engagement with religious differences, as well as some limits of a comparative theological approach.

Learning Interreligiously Clooney’s 2018 book, Learning Interreligiously: In the Text, In the World (Fortress Press) arrived just in time for a shift in my role in the academy, from being the academic dean at an ecumenical school of divinity in the southern United States to principal at a multireligious theological school in Toronto. Of all of Clooney’s important roles and scholarly contributions, and of all that I have learned from him across his career, this book stays with me as particularly relevant for the next phases of comparative theology. Clooney’s own academic training sets a very high bar for entry, including proficiency in Latin, Greek, Tamil, and Sanskrit and expertise in several rich and complex Hindu and Christian sub-­traditions. Other theologians sometimes shy away from interreligious learning because they feel they lack a sufficient background in religious studies. However, in Learning Interreligiously, Clooney brings comparative theology to bear in popular and accessible genres as a blogger, preacher, and commentator on current events. In this collection of posts from the “In All Things” website of the Jesuit journal America, the reader sees him branching out of his usual focus on Hindu texts to contemplate traditions in which he is not a scholarly expert, including Islam and the Church of Latter-­Day Saints. We see him acting as a comparative theologian in real time.



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Because of the public nature of my new role, I was especially inspired by the second half of Learning Interreligiously in which Clooney shares his dialogical reflections in response to contemporary events. Throughout, he encourages readers to follow his lead by putting in the effort to learn about unfamiliar religious traditions. In fact, we must do this, if we are to resist the pull of polemics and stereotypes. This does not mean we will agree with everything we encounter. Instead, we are called to draw on reliable resources from within those traditions to understand the phenomena as well as we can (see Voss Roberts 2019, p. 95). He models important skills for any leader with a platform to talk about religious diversity. David Tracy has asserted that “any theology in any tradition that takes religious pluralism seriously must eventually become a comparative theology” (Tracy 2005, p. 9133). I accepted the position at Emmanuel College because I strongly believe that faculties of theology need to take religious pluralism seriously. Theological studies need the methodological insights that comparative theology offers, and theological students can therefore be shaped in the attitude of generous and diligent comparative engagement with religious neighbors. As I took up the role as the school’s lead administrator, I wanted to model and promote a comparative attitude and recognized that this would require some reimagination and reinvention of the comparative theologian’s role. My mandate was to “consolidate” the school’s multireligious programs. Our Christian Master of Pastoral Studies program had expanded, eight years earlier, to add a stream for Muslim students to the Christian stream, and three years earlier, to include a Buddhist stream. Together, the faculty reflected on our experience as a fledgling multireligious school. We were able to fill several positions appropriate for these growing programs. We revitalized our mission, vision, and values to include the comparative theological vision for students to “become more deeply rooted in their own religious or spiritual traditions while engaging the beliefs and practices of people of other traditions” (Emmanuel College 2022). We innovated a first-­year cohort course, in which students consider this vision in relation to their professional paths and practice skills of interfaith relationships and leadership. My new role also brought opportunities to do comparative theology in an accessible style, for a public audience, as a nonexpert, and in response to current issues – much like Clooney in his blogs. I relished the opportunity to do this when addressing the community at major academic events; preaching in our chapel; rolling out our new vision, mission, and values to student, alumni, and advisory groups; translating this work for other administrators in the university and the Toronto School of Theology; and writing for our newsletters and website. Behind the scenes, in my first semester at Emmanuel, other administrators made me aware that several alumni had contacted the school to protest the acceptance of a gift from Muslim donors. These alumni had objected to the news that the gift had been “placed in investments that are in compliance with Sharia law.” The Islamophobia in their remarks was evident, but these opinions were not being widely broadcast. Only a small circle at the university was aware of the situation. I proposed to approach this moment in our growth as a multireligious school as an opportunity to learn interreligiously. The gift was still recent. We could build on the good news by delving more deeply into the religious ethical dimensions of investing and show interreligious learning happens not only in the classroom, but also in our operations. My graduate assistant at the time was Esther Reiser, who is a Muslim comparative theologian. Neither of us knew much about how religious values inform investment guidelines, but we agreed to put our mutual backgrounds in comparative method to work in service of expanding the understanding of our multireligious community. We set out to write a piece for the alumni newsletter by researching investment guidelines in Islam and the Christian denomination the school’s Master of Divinity programs serve, including recent trends in each. In the spirit of Learning Interreligiously, I share the text that Esther and I drafted for the alumni newsletter.

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The Article Titled “Investing in Dignity: Ethical Investment in Sharia Law and the United Church of Canada,” the article highlighted significant similarities in historical and emerging investment guidelines, as well as some points of difference for further discussion. Nine years ago, Emmanuel College stepped out in a new direction. The ecumenical sensibilities of the United Church of Canada already made Emmanuel a welcoming place for students of diverse Christian backgrounds, for Jewish and Unitarian-­Universalist students, and for students who define their commitments more fluidly. With the creation of the Muslim focus within the Master of Pastoral Studies program in 2010, and the Buddhist focus in 2015, Emmanuel ­formally committed to the opportunities and challenges of interreligious learning. When students move in the same halls, study for the same classes, and prepare for s­ imilar postgraduation roles, they learn through encounter with their classmates’ traditions. It is not always easy to predict where this learning will occur. An unscripted dialogue, an unexpected question, or a chance encounter can transform insights just as profoundly as a carefully planned academic assignment. The monthly communal meal is as much a place of interreligious learning as the classroom! Similar surprise learning moments occur in the administration of the college. Our multireligious programs have implications for how we use resources: how to allocate space, how to arrange course schedules, and how to invest endowed funds. Values-­based investing is nothing new for the United Church of Canada. Some in the community found it intriguing that a recent gift to Emmanuel College’s endowment was to be invested according to Muslim values – that is, in keeping with Sharia. What does this mean, they wondered? And, for that matter, how do the ethical commitments of the United Church influence how the denomination allocates its investments? Our conversations, which grew out of Esther’s work with Michelle as a research fellow, led to the realization that we did not actually know which industries our respective religious communities supported and avoided. We decided to learn more about our own traditions and to share our learnings with one another. Esther explained that Sharia is a set of guiding moral principles derived from the Qur’an and the prophetic tradition (Sunna), which includes economics. The application of Sharia in any given society is determined through jurisprudence, which includes the law of the land and local customs and contracts. Muslim teachers therefore affirm different interpretations in different time periods and different parts of the globe, making Sharia relevant, flexible, and adaptive. Esther’s research turned up a range of economic issues covered by Sharia, including ownership, inheritance, limits on charging interest, working conditions, avoidance of market monopolies, and management of public resources. These concerns fall under the Sharia category of public interest (ḥisba). She zeroed in on the part of the inheritance system related to endowment (waqf). Historically, waqf would fund public institutions such as schools and hospitals. Today, charitable giving to such institutions falls into this category. Giving waqf endowments to Emmanuel College is a means for Muslims to support education and interreligious learning in a way that is congruent with Islamic tradition. Muslims are also highly discouraged from profiting from usury (ribā). As financial consultant Naveen Muhammad notes, usury is problematic from an Islamic perspective because it is earning based on unused capital and runs the risk of making debts impossible to repay by individuals and communities. To avoid profiting unethically, Sharia investments are usually subjected to financial and business activity screening.



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A variety of companies offer investment options that are in line with Islamic principles (halal). Broadly, these funds exclude activities prohibited to Muslims such as alcohol, tobacco, gambling, weapons, pork, and salacious materials. They exclude sectors that profit off debt, such as conventional financial services, bonds, and insurance. Some argue that trust certificates known as sukuk may be a Sharia compliant alternative to traditional bonds, though this position is controversial. Michelle learned that the United Church of Canada has implemented a Socially Responsible Investment Policy with the assistance of a not-­for-­profit organization that screens companies for environmental, social, and governance (ESG) practices. The 2017 Investment Policy, which is available online, includes an appendix that outlines the United Church’s specific priorities. These include minimum thresholds for Canadian government, corporate, and banking interests. Companies primarily engaged in weapons, pornography, tobacco, gambling, and fossil fuels are prohibited. The document mentions Indigenous rights in several places. The Church’s Responsible Investing Guiding Principles document emphasizes that ESG is about more than negative screening. It entails the active engagement of investors to influence corporate behavior related to governance, employment practices, community development, human rights, treatment of ­customers, sustainability, safety, “free, informed and prior consent,” and other factors. Comparing the two sets of guidelines, we noted a high level of consensus with respect to industries regarded as socially unethical. ESG screenings, a relatively recent development in Western investment practices, cover the range of concerns that Sharia has traditionally addressed – not only individual freedoms, but also the ethical and just functioning of society. As a matter of principle, neither religious tradition supports activities that exploit or harm human beings. Indeed, at the core of both economic systems is a deeply held respect for the dignity of all life. The transnational scope of Sharia investment principles stands in contrast with the United Church of Canada’s particular priority for Canadian interests and social concerns. However, the United Church’s ESG guidelines include not only Canadian law but international human rights and labor agreements. Both traditions think globally and adapt as the laws in local and international contexts change. Elements of Sharia such as the importance of contracts, treaties, and international law (siyar) can serve as ways to address issues facing Canadians, such as Indigenous and labor rights, from an Islamic framework. One emerging trend in ethical investing pertains to ecology and climate change. The United Church’s portfolio includes a commitment to divesting from fossil fuels. Although a survey of Wealthsimple’s Canadian Halal Investing portfolio reveals several oil companies, a debate has emerged in this regard. If the general principle of Sharia is to avoid technologies that may injure civilians or otherwise cause harm, should the Muslim belief in human dignity lead to supporting ecological practices? Scholars such as Sarra Tlili and organizations such as Green Halal think so. Socially responsible investing for religious investors is a growing field. SHARE, a local not-­for-­profit, is offering workshops for its member institutions next year related to climate change, cannabis, and investing in the Indigenous economy. Canadian Muslims such as Muaz Nasir of khaleafa.com are exploring the intersections of Canadian identity, Sharia objectives, and environmentalism. And just this past October, the Church of Scotland and the Islamic Finance Council UK issued the Edinburgh Finance Declaration, which outlines an interfaith shared values framework for an ethical economy. It is exciting to think that religious leaders are exercising their financial influence to create a just world, and that these conversations are happening across traditions. Our conversation was the occasion for each of us to notice things that we would not have noticed without the presence of the other. We may not have tried to learn about ethical investing at all! The process we followed when we reached this junction in our interfaith conversation replicates itself, rather intuitively, across the life of the college. When questions arise, we do what students do: we apply ourselves to learning more about the world and about one another, and in

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the process learn more about ourselves. There is much more to be said about these subjects. We encourage our readers to take up these conversations with one another and see where they lead. Esther Reiser (PhD student, Emmanuel College) and Michelle Voss Roberts (Professor of Theology and Principal of Emmanuel College)

Initial Methodological Learnings Our process in researching and writing this short piece resonates with several aspects of Clooney’s practice of writing the blogs and sermons collected in Learning Interreligiously. Like the posts in the second half of the collection, which address a range of current events, anniversaries, and controversies, ours was an occasional piece. We wrote it in relation to a current (though quiet) point of tension in our school’s alumni community. Like the Advent and Lent series in the collection, our process of research and conversation stretched over several months. Our piece is also, similarly, longer than a typical blog post, and it is slightly longer than a typical cover feature for our alumni magazine. It requires of the reader some effort and a bit of time to go beyond generalities and learn something new. We were inspired by Clooney’s demonstration of how to learn as a nonexpert. Several of his projects in Learning Interreligiously find him in unfamiliar territory, including a series on the Qur’an during President Donald Trump’s call to ban Muslims from entering the United States, and another in which he reads the Book of Mormon during Mitt Romney’s presidential campaign. He advocates “careful amateur reading” with good commentaries  – a method available to his readers as well. “My goal . . . has been to show that one can pick up a book of another religious tradition, read it carefully, and draw some meaning from that reading, and that this reading does not require a lifetime of study, such as I have devoted to Hinduism,” he writes (Clooney 2018, p. 193). Esther and I, each a nonexpert in one of the two traditions and on the subject of ethical investing, departed from Clooney’s practice of reading a single text for understanding. We sought a variety of contemporary sources on the topic. We also drew on one another and allowed our understanding to evolve in conversation. On the particular topic of ethical investing, we were surprised to see such major convergences between the United Church and Islamic ethical thinking – not only in historical perspective, but also related to urgent contemporary issues such as climate change. The knee-­jerk reaction of Christian alumni distressed by “Sharia law” governing a portion of a theological college’s ­investments reflects the kinds of generalizations and misunderstandings that popular media perpetuate, but which leaders can choose to counteract. In this task, we “keep away from vast generalizations about the faith traditions of others, study carefully, and attend to what [we] learn” (Clooney 2018, p. 181). By treating voices on the progressive end of each of our broader ­traditions, this project revealed possibilities for solidarity and joint action. A peaceful and upbeat tone is an important tool in the toolkit of a leader who wishes to build bridges and understanding, as both Esther and I aspire to do in our scholarship. Like Clooney, then, we took an irenic tone in for this piece. Clooney remarks about negative online feedback he received about this approach: I don’t mind the range of comments on my previous entries, even those that have been fierce and daunting. I am indeed irenic in my reading, because that is my approach and also fits with what I have been finding in [the Book of Mormon]. Since over and again I have recommended that readers do their own reading – the text is available in many forms – I am by no means pretending to monopolize how [it] is to be read. I read with a certain peacefulness, but others can read in the opposite way if they wish. (Clooney 2018, p. 194)



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We chose a similar path for our article. However, conversations with colleagues leave me unsettled about this choice. The irenic path meant that we bracketed the larger political landscape of Islamophobia and White Christian supremacy. We treated the alumni responses as a “learning opportunity,” but to view it this way was a marker of privilege  – my privilege, and that of the Christian alumni. The Christian members of the community had the option to learn, but they could also remain comfortably unchanged. Muslim members of community, however, remain in a defensive posture, subject to stereotyping and violence. I have often observed our Muslim students embodying peaceful responses to aggressive remarks and patience in the face of ignorance. In ­relation to Christian privilege, their irenic responses stand on the other side of the irenicism of Clooney’s comparative theology (and mine, in this case).3 The choices of what and how to compare can have a self-­insulating function. As someone responsible to Muslim students and faculty, I admit that my choice of an irenic path away from conflict and toward dialogue was insufficient in a context of clear inequality.

What Happened Next? What was the fate of this small experiment in public interreligious learning? What happened to this attempt to enlarge the religious literacy of our alumni base? It was never published. Emmanuel College is an embedded theological school; many of its outward-­facing functions fall under the administration of a university, including alumni communications. In the secular Canadian context, religious voices are not generally recognized as vital parts of public discourse as in the United States.4 There has been little reflection on the persistence and resurgence of spiritual interests (what some have called “religion after religion”).5 As a result, religion seldom appears in this university’s communications, except as historical references. This lack of facility and religious literacy, particularly related to minoritized and stigmatized traditions, stands behind the rationale provided to me, that the word “Sharia” in the article was too inflammatory.6 Upon appeal, a higher level of administration returned the decision: no revisions to the piece would be necessary. The piece would not appear in the newsletter, and we would draw no further attention to the issue. As it turns out, in the 2018–2019 academic year, any attention to investing was likely to raise eyebrows, regardless of the religious comparisons involved. An undergraduate student group dedicated to climate justice, including fossil fuel divestment, would soon undertake several awareness-­ raising actions on campus and pay a visit to a meeting of the board. Though nascent at the time of drafting the piece, the university would soon be grappling with the task of articulating its stance on responsible investing and environmental, social, and governance (ESG) practices. This active governance issue, combined with the secular Canadian context, was unlikely to create a friendly environment for adjacent theological discussions. Clooney’s teaching on the intellectual and moral responsibilities entailed in interreligious learning remains with me. Our university declined to lean into learning as a remedy for the f­ rictions and hostilities swirling around Islam and our theological school’s new multireligious o ­ rientation. I maintain that faculties of theology have a responsibility to reduce interreligious ignorance and hostility. Alumni newsletters are not the only means toward public comparative learning; Esther and I would live to teach another day. Nevertheless, the lack of institutional nerve to share even a pacifying take on the issues signals moral and pedagogical failure to heed the call of “human and religious maturity . . . expected of us by God” (Clooney 2018, p. xii). More than that, the article we drafted failed by skirting obvious issues of power and privilege (cf.  Hedges  2017, pp.  40–58; Nicholson  2009; Nicholson  2011). This irenic mode of public ­comparative theology was inadequate to address the Islamophobia and Christian privilege in our

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context. Similar hostilities that surfaced in the following years in relation to anti-­Black racism, Indigenous-­settler relations, and anti-­Asian violence during the COVID-­19 pandemic have provided further tests of educational leadership and comparative theology’s potential role in it.

Conclusions What might this comparison in its wider context teach leaders in theological education today when voices for understanding across lines of difference are so vital? I conclude with some initial learnings on being a comparative theologian in the role of administrator as public theologian, learnings which I will continue to contemplate as I step out of that administrative role to continue my research as a comparative theologian and resume teaching in Christian and multireligious classrooms. The quickly moving nature of administrative work in higher education means that much of the interreligious learning must respond to current concerns and will often require a “careful amateur reading” of situations (Clooney 2018, p. 193). As we saw, the resources for doing so may be texts, both ancient and emerging, and they also may be people within our communities who have the necessary backgrounds and the interest to study the issues together. Although leaders must often respond to a rapidly evolving public landscape, theologians and their academic departments can lay a solid foundation for such responses by cultivating ongoing interreligious relationships of accountability and scholarly collaboration.7 It is a commonplace of interfaith leadership today that good leaders of diverse communities develop the skill of crafting edifying public messages that are broad, accessible, and inviting (Patel 2016). As this directive translates to comparative theology, this means communicating to religious communities that may not ordinarily consider other traditions in much detail. Clooney offers worried Christian readers a theological perspective to put them at ease: I am hopeful about the possibility of our learning across religious boundaries.  .  .  .  [T]his has ­nothing to do with losing Christian faith, or learning things that are wicked and harmful; it is a matter of seeking truth where it is to be found, finding God in all things, and without undue fear, welcoming wisdom where I find it. . . . Reading can get you quite far in interreligious learning, respect, and wisdom – and hence in being a better Christian too. (Clooney 2018, p. 181)

The upbeat and inviting tone of the message for the alumni newsletter issued from a similar attitude. We hoped that readers might become better adherents of their own spiritual and religious traditions through a practice of truthfulness (see Exodus 20:16), and as a result, resist stereotypical, Islamophobic depictions of Islamic legal reasoning. The fate of this would-­be public act of comparative theology seems to validate the inviting and irenic approach. The piece could not be published because it did not ameliorate White Christian readers enough. Readers’ preconceptions about Sharia, which are regularly reinforced by media and xenophobic politics, could trigger negative reactions. What is more, the piece touched on one of the most sensitive topics of all: what to do with one’s money. This may have been the larger source of discomfort for the university. Even though the piece discussed investment ethics in two spiritual traditions to which the school is related, rather than the university’s own portfolio, active conversations about the latter were too close for comfort. How could we say “peace” where there is no peace? To what extent can institutions learn interreligiously? In the theological studies classroom, we instill practices of curiosity and fearless pursuit of wisdom, and we can teach students the habits



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of responsible comparison. We may hope that students bring those practices with them as they follow professional paths in a pluralistic world. We can advocate lifelong learning for our alumni through continuing education, and some may accept the offer. Nevertheless, institutional relationships change when students receive their degrees, from the posture of learners to potential financial supporters of the school. Institutions hesitate to take risks with that relationship. Institutional communications tend to revert to broad, accessible messages that make few demands on their audiences, just as, in the piece shared above, we used comparison as an apolitical tool and erased an unequal situation by framing a point of tension as a learning opportunity. By focusing narrowly on the issue (tradition-­based ethical investing), we circumvented the power at play and refuted stereotypes only implicitly. Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier urges that “White Christian comparative theologians and the Western academy must first contend with their own coloniality. They must be proactive and brutally self-­ critical. They must be honest about their power, privilege, and contexts. They must center voices other than their own and be in relational solidarity” (Tiemeier 2022, p. 91). In the spirit of brutal self-­criticism, I ask myself: Whom did it benefit to mute the response of certain Christian alumni to the generous gift from the Muslim community? Did this approach paternalistically “protect” our Muslim community members from the simmering conflict, or did it protect the institution from risk by downplaying it? Tiemeier draws on Khyati Joshi’s analysis of White Christian privilege to provide a sobering assessment of the capacity of comparative theology to “be a truly non-­hegemonic theology.” She writes, “White Christians can be confident that their practices and perspectives will be known and respected in all areas of . . . life. Indeed, they control these spaces. Even their desire to ‘make others feel included’ will betray their privilege, reinforce otherness, and maintain White Christian power” (Tiemeier 2022, p. 86). We included progressive, eco-­conscious Muslim voices in the conversation on ethical investing – the voices that most resemble the progressive values of the United Church of Canada’s public statements. We left our dominant framework untroubled. By focusing on this potential progressive alliance, we also participated in what Marianne Moyaert calls the reproduction of “good religion, understood as liberal, privatized and interiorized religion, which is distinguished from bad religion, understood as dogmatic, ritualistic and materialistic religion” (Moyaert 2018, p. 2). This dynamic affects Muslims in particular, and it stands in the way of comprehending the complexity and internal dynamics of Muslim self-­understandings (Mamdani 2005; Kazi 2021, ch. 4). Contrary to the “strong tendency to stress common humanity and similarities between religions,” Tiemeier advises, “For Christians who want to be in relational solidarity with marginalized religious communities,  .  .  .  [c]hanging foundational assumptions requires knowing, talking about, and appreciating differences” (Tiemeier 2022, p. 91). Interfaith learning must go hand-­in-­hand with deconstructing the implicit norms people bring to the conversation, so that we can resist the urge to recreate others in our own image.8 The irenic slant of much comparative theology may limit its capacity to elicit robust responses to injustice from our institutions. The encouragement toward interreligious learning, therefore, must also model humility and self-­criticism (Cornille 2008). In today’s plural society, at a time in which White Christian supremacy, replacement theory, anti-­Semitism, Islamophobia, and Asian hate are on the rise, our theological institutions have a responsibility to take a good look at themselves, and to take stand. White supremacy, Christian privilege, and the construction of religious stereotypes are part of the pluralistic context; they must also be prominent in our treatment of religious diversity. Comparative method offers some of the skills to do this well. In religious studies, comparative approaches explicitly grapple with the continued pull toward hegemonic, decontextualized, and essentializing treatment of traditions. Comparative theological studies add means of engaging

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one’s existing commitments and structures of meaning while learning well about others (see Freiberger 2019, pp. 40–42, 45–65). In the context of White Christian supremacy, interreligious learning can push against received, hegemonic knowledge about “the other.” This learning holds the possibility of transforming our institutional lives. I still hold out hope that institutions can learn interreligiously. I dream of this learning taking place not only in student-­facing activities, but also with all constituencies in multireligious educational institutions. Comparative theologians can contribute to this endeavor. To this end, comparative theologians who embody White and/or Christian privilege and take up the roles of administrators must ask themselves: what are we prepared to risk in making our comparative theologies public theologies?

Notes 1 Another such contributor, Marianne Moyaert, generously suggested the critical framework for this chapter. 2 As a Jesuit, Clooney embodies the mission to form students morally, spiritually, and intellectually for service through education. My motivation is similarly ingrained from my Calvinist upbringing, which emphasized Christ’s transformation of culture, though today my energy for transformative education derives from an inter-­worldview stance. 3 I am grateful for a personal conversation with Marianne Moyaert, May 13, 2022, on these dynamics. 4 In the era of Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which uncovered the profound abuses of Indigenous people who were institutionalized in the state-­funded, church-­run residential “schools,” public discourse related to religious institutions is even more negative than it may have been in ­previous decades. 5 However, Reid Locklin, a scholar at the University of Toronto, coauthored one of the significant ­articles on this topic (Locklin and Nicholson 2010). 6 Henceforth, the university would use language such as “investments that have an Islamic-­law ­compliance structure” or “responding to the expectations of Muslim donors regarding investment.” 7 Catholic comparative theologian Klaus von Stosch exemplifies this approach through research with Muslim colleagues (e.g., Khorchide and Von Stosch 2019). 8 Here, comparative theology can do more to interrogate the comparativist’s choices beyond the admission that these choices are perhaps idiosyncratic and subject to the limits of “the scholar’s personal, cultural, and academic situatedness,” as is sometimes argued. Oliver Freiberger adds the scholar’s agency as an important missing piece in such discussions (Freiberger 2019, p. 109).

References Clooney, F.X., SJ. (2018). Learning Interreligiously: In the Text, in the World. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Cornille, C. (2008). The Im-­Possibility of Interreligious Dialogue. New York: Crossroad. Emmanuel College (2022). Vision, mission, values, and strategic plan. www.emmanuel.utoronto.ca/ about-­emmanuel/strategic-­plan-­mission-­and-­vision (accessed May 3, 2022). Freiberger, O. (2019). Considering Comparison: A Method for Religious Studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hedges, P. (2017). Comparative theology: A critical and methodological perspective. Brill Research Perspectives in Theology 1 (1): 1–89. https://doi.org/10.1163/24683493-­12340001. Kazi, N. (2021). Islamophobia, Race, and Global Politics, updated edn. London: Rowman & Littlefield. Khorchide, M. and Von Stosch, K. (2019). The Other Prophet: Jesus in the Qur’an (trans. S. Pare). London: Gingko.



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Locklin, R.B. and Nicholson, H. (2010). The return of comparative theology. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 78 (2): 477–514. https://doi.org/10.1093/jaarel/lfq017. Mamdani, M. (2005). Good Muslim, Bad Muslim: America, the Cold War, and the Roots of Terror. New York: Three Leaves Press/Doubleday. Moyaert, M. (2018). Inter-­worldview education and the re-­production of good religion. Education Sciences 8 (4): article 156. https://doi.org/10.3390/educsci8040156. Nicholson, H. (2009). The reunification of theology and comparison in the new comparative theology. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 77 (3): 609–646. Nicholson, H. (2011). Comparative Theology and the Problem of Religious Rivalry. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Patel, E. (2016). Interfaith Leadership: A Primer. Boston: Beacon Press. Tiemeier, T. (2022). White Christian privilege and the decolonization of comparative theology. In:  The  Human in a Dehumanizing World: Reexamining Theological Anthropology and Its Implications (ed. J. Coblentz and D.P. Horan), pp. 85–95. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Tracy, D. (2005). Comparative theology. In: Encyclopedia of Religion (ed. L. Jones), Vol. 13, 2nd ed., pp. 9125–9134. Detroit: Macmillan Reference USA. Voss Roberts, M. (2019). Book review: Learning interreligiously: In the Text, in the World. Journal of Hindu-­ Christian Studies 32: article 16. https://doi.org/10.7825/2164-­6279.1742.

CHAPTER 34

Comparative Theology and Public Theology In Search of a Responsible Theology Today Albertus Bagus Laksana

A Mentor and Friend When I approached him in 2004 at the Weston Jesuit School of Theology to be my thesis adviser, Professor Francis Clooney, already at Harvard University, said yes, but with a caution: this would be the last thesis he directed on Jacques Dupuis, SJ! At the time he was directing a licentiate thesis on Dupuis done by my Jesuit colleague from Singapore, and he had directed other theses on Dupuis before. My own thesis was on pneumatological theology of religions by the Federation of Asian Bishops’ Conferences (FABC). I used Dupuis’s work to shed light on the relationship between the mission of the Son and the mission of the Spirit that lies at the heart of FABC’s pneumatological theology of religions. I also offered criticism of Dupuis’s work, using the paradigm of early Chalcedon theology. In retrospect, Professor Clooney might have assented to my request because he saw that I would also be interested in comparative theology. Eventually, he served as co-­director for my doctoral ­dissertation in comparative theology at Boston College; it was on Muslim–Christian practice of pilgrimage, the role of saints and walis (Friends of God, or the Muslim equivalent of saints), and the enrichment of the Catholic idea of communio sanctorum (Communion of Saints) through ­comparative work. I was surely proud to be among the first students of the comparative theology section in the Boston College doctoral program in theology. In a way, my work and friendship with Professor Clooney, as well as my engagement with the new comparative theology, are rather particular. As a young Jesuit priest from Indonesia who was sent to pursue graduate study in theology, I came to the United States with a clear goal in mind, namely, doing graduate work in Catholic systematic theology with perhaps a focus on modern Catholic theological themes, such as Christology and the Trinity. But I had also been interested

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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in  new ways of doing Catholic theology, such as liberation theology, interreligious theology, ­contextual Asian theology, postcolonial theology, and so forth. I deepened my immersion into Catholic systematic theology at the Weston Jesuit School of Theology (then still located in Cambridge, next to Harvard’s campus), but my theological horizon was enriched and broadened considerably by my interaction with professors at Harvard Divinity School and other schools in the Boston Theological Institute (BTI; now the Boston Theological Interreligious Consortium). This consortium is quite ecumenical and dialogical, and so Christian theology, Catholic theology, or any theology for that matter, are not done in isolation but in close connection with one another. Already in my licentiate thesis at Weston, I dealt with the question of the encounter of Catholic traditions with local culture. I have come to see culture as a rich theological context that is by nature plural because it is formed and shaped by different streams, including different religious communities, in a long historical process. Working with Francis Clooney has inspired me to do comparative theological work with the Islamic tradition. More particularly, I am inspired to place the Islamic tradition in relation with other cultural and religious traditions that have been historically important in the formation of Islam in Indonesia, such as Hinduism and Buddhism. To be sure, my study of Hinduism with Professor Clooney led me to a deeper study of Islam in South and Southeast Asia, not least because Hinduism and Islam have interacted with one another so intensely for many centuries and together have contributed to cultural formations in many contexts. In this regard, I have come to ­understand Islamic traditions in Indonesia better due to my study of Hinduism.

Comparative Theology and Public Theology As he himself often points out, Clooney’s works are responses to a complex global phenomenon of religious pluralism and the rise of religion in public life. In our days, religious pluralism has become an increasingly public and political reality, rather than an internal reality for each religious ­community. While comparative theology as understood and practiced by Clooney is deeply confessional, it is by no means merely private. In my view, this new comparative theology should also be part of the larger “social” life and significance of religions and religious communities for our world today. The way comparative theology works, including the multilayered results from this engagement, will affect public life where religions play crucial roles in our time, including our global engagement. Comparative theology should play a role in how the secular and the religious interact for the common good. In this regard, I also find the framework of public theology critical in relation to the practice and significance of comparative theology (see Laksana  2020a). Generally speaking, public ­theology is a name for a theology that retains its confessional character to a certain degree, yet is done for, and geared explicitly and largely toward, the common good. In the Christian context, “public theology refers to the church reflectively engaging with those within and outside its institutions on issues of common interest and for the common good” (Kim and Day 2017, p. 2).1 Public theology exists in many diverse forms and varieties. Harold Breitenberg ­understands public theology this way: Public theology is thus theologically informed public discourse about public issues, addressed to the church, synagogue, mosque, temple or other religious body, as well as the larger public or publics, argued in ways that can be evaluated and judged by publicly available warrants and ­criteria. (Breitenberg 2003, p. 66, cited in Kim and Day 2017, p. 4)2

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Furthermore, public theology is interdisciplinary, self-­critical, constructive, and done in a socially interactive manner, so as to engage with the public and with citizens who have agency in the ­creation of the common good. In the context of building up Asian public theology, Felix Wilfred argues: Asian public theological reflection needs to be open-­ended and should begin from the world. It will endeavour to respond with others to the question and issues thrown up from the life-­situation of the people and societies. Such a theology can be characterised as public theology which needs to be promoted increasingly. (Wilfred 2020, p. 79)

Here Wilfred differentiates between theology for public life and proper public theology. So far, there have been plenty of Christian theologies for public life in which theologians and the Church develop theologies that respond to larger societal issues from within the Christian faith (liberation theology, Catholic social teaching, Christian political theologies, and contextual theologies). Proper public theology begins from the common concerns and engages the questions through certain methods that allow for more significant roles of other parties, so that the results would be more easily recognizable and appropriated by the plural public. In this regard, for a public theology to emerge, Wilfred argues for a change in the Asian ­theological method: This methodology can be characterised as dialogical and open-­ ended, experimental and transformation-­oriented. The integral character of Asian theologising has come out also in the fact that it does not rely simply on reason. The reason is not the sole instrument. Theology involves other faculties and dimensions of human life. The sources of this Asian theologising include the religious traditions of the neighbours of other faiths, the riches of cultures as well as the new forces at work in the life of the Asian peoples. (Wilfred 2020, p. 78)

I concur with Wilfred’s point, particularly the interreligious aspect. In my view, this interreligious dimension can be part of an explicit or thematized methodology or at least part of the overall ­sensibility required for any confessional public theology in a pluralistic context. For, in this context, the common good, to be truly “common,” cannot be fully engaged only by a particular group in isolation from the other and the whole society. Pope Francis and the Grand Imam of al-­Azhar, Ahmed El-­Tayeb, have demonstrated a possible form of this interreligious public theology in the Abu Dhabi Document (“Document on Human Fraternity for World Peace and Living Together,” signed in 2019) wherein they take up the common question of human fraternity, using a combination of fundamental theological language shared by both traditions, as well as a plethora of insights and contextual analyses on the challenges faced by humanity. Comparative theology can help the formation of a public theology that explicitly and creatively makes use of the richness of religious traditions together based on comparative reason. This kind of public theology, informed and supported by interreligious sensibility, is urgently needed in a highly pluralistic society like Indonesia today, which is marked by the rise of ­conservative ­religious piety and the problematic role of religions in the public life of the nation. As I have argued ­elsewhere, this combination of piety and politics continues to bring much ­tension (see Laksana 2020a, 2020b). The situation is made so much worse with narrow identity politics, the low level of critical thinking, and the almost complete lack of real interreligious ­literacy. Definitely, societies in Indonesia, or Asia in general, for example, are not secularized in the way secularization used to be conceptualized in the West by, for example, Peter Berger.



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However, the problematic rise of religions in the public can result in the skepticism among many on the authenticity of faith and the true value of religious traditions. Furthermore, the rise of individualistic pietism can lead to an unhealthy privatization of religion at a time when religions need to be part of the common effort to create a more just society. In our time we definitely need a balanced and integral framework of engaging religions and the public. And for a deeply religious yet pluralistic society that lives in the context of late modernity, a combination of public theology and comparative theology can be a panacea. In my view, a post-­secular society, a concept proposed by Jürgen Habermas, needs both public theology and comparative theology, or a comparative theology geared for the public. As Habermas has argued, there is a growing awareness of the inadequacy of pure secularity, which tends to lack motivational and affective power, and yet requires pre-­ethical convictions of citizens. These ­pre-­ethical convictions often come from religious ways of life, which secularism increasingly ­suppresses and erases. Habermas himself used to think that, with the development of modern democratic society, “the socially integrative and expressive functions that were at first fulfilled by ritual practice pass over to communicative action; the authority of the holy is gradually replaced by the authority of an achieved consensus” (Habermas  1987, p.  77, cited in Reder and Schmidt 2010). In this framework, religions were perceived to block the process of reaching consensus based on rationality because religious persons are not free from their particular moral beliefs. Religions are set against supposedly freer and more neutral secular reason. However, in the wake of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, Habermas has come to insist that religious expressions should not be crowded out of public discourse, but the content of religious language needs to be translated into a secular one, thus making it accessible to all (Habermas 2010, ch. 2). Fair and just procedures of democracy need to be paired with the awareness that democratic majority decisions always depend on the prior ethical convictions of their citizens. Democracy depends on moral stances which stem from pre-­political sources, such as religions. Religions can play an important role for democracy as a background and a source of motivation, even though they cannot serve as normative guidelines for the democratic procedures (Reder and Schmidt 2010). Similar conceptions of the role of religions for the liberal state (religion as a thick conception of the good, and religion as a life-­giver to pluralism in democratic society) can be found as well in the thoughts of John Rawls (Pirner 2018). Given this situation, one of the most crucial questions we need to answer is how “in the light of the current social developments, the relation between the secular and the religious language games, between citizens and institutions, can be conceived” (Reder and Schmidt  2010). In this regard, comparative theology is a framework that would help conceiving this relation creatively and more deeply. For it retains the fundamental aspect of “communicative reason,” but adds to it a truly ­interreligious and theological dimension. Furthermore, it contributes in different ways to the transformation of the public sphere, which is constituted by religious pluralism and secular reason at the same time. Comparative theology might not always seek a consensus as such, but unexpectedly fresh connections between religious traditions surely have the real potential to forge deeper and longer lasting social consensus and cohesion of communities. In the long run these interreligious encounters can be a strong motivating factor for a better democratic life. Comparative theology helps the transformation of religious communities and theologians to be more “communicative,” to reach common understanding, through the use of “comparative reason,” a reason that is still rational in some ways but not completely secular. It is an interreligious reason that has the dynamic of widening openness, enriched by common concerns of humanity and society. In what follows, I offer some insights on how we can learn from Clooney’s works, especially in  terms of how dimensions of rationality, spirituality, and affectivity come together to form a set  of theological practices that engage different religious traditions, a process that becomes

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t­ heological/religious and public at the same time. Comparative theology can be arguably seen as a form of dialogue involving rationality and faith envisioned by Habermas in his concept of post-­ secular society. Comparative theology is a public enterprise because its very dynamic goes beyond the confines of any single religious tradition. Its deep concerns also stem not solely from the internal dynamics of religions and their respective communities of believers, but rather from the complexities of our public sphere, especially the reality of religious pluralism, the rise of religions in the public, and the impact of modernization and globalization, including the role of reason, science, secular politics, and so forth. As practiced by Clooney, comparative theology aims to transform the  significance of religions on the deeper level of the theologians and members of religious ­communities, and on the public domain as well.

Comparative Rationality In his works, Clooney takes up the theme of reason in comparative theological studies. In his study of Roberto de Nobili’s method of reason, for example, he notes that De Nobili’s use of reason was highly selective, elitist, and not dialogical. De Nobili employed a number of criteria for judging the truth of the Hindu conception of God, namely (1) this being (necessarily) exists, and is characterized by (2) oneness, (3) self-­existence, (4) a spiritual and nonmaterial nature, (5) omnipresence, (6) beginninglessness, (7) omnipotence, (8) infinite wisdom, (9) perfect intelligence, (10) unerring truth, (11) infinite justice, (12) infinite mercy, (13) happiness, and (14) holiness. This is De Nobili’s use of scientific data of his day to make judgments on religions (Clooney 2017, p. 27). Clooney clearly moves beyond this framework to construct a better category of “reason.” In his work Hindu God, Christian God, Clooney shows how reason helps us cross even the most firmly fixed religious boundaries: “My goal has been to show how even the more difficult and stubborn points of religious and theological difference remain places where the mind can willingly visit, think, speak, and thus infuse new vitality and insight into believing lives” (Clooney 2001, p. vi). Clooney is convinced of the role of intelligent argument and careful reasoning in guiding theologians of different traditions to engage in conversations: “even the views held most dearly and sacredly within traditions can be discussed theologically from differing angles in a conversation in which theological insights come from all sides. If my beliefs are intelligible, an unexpected audience may begin to listen in, offering opinions, suggestions, and improvements” (2001, p. 7). Along these lines, Clooney has shown how religious traditions do think similarly, and that God can be known by faith in cooperation with reason. “Reasoning is not everything, but it is indispensable in making possible a theology that is interreligious, comparative, dialogical and yet again confessional” (2001, p. 14). And for him: The commonality of theological reasoning is sufficiently broad and deep that we can still ­conclude that there is common reasoning in the Hindu and Christian traditions. This reasoning enables the most fervent believers to share a productive theological conversation that crosses religious boundaries, a reasoning that also makes it illogical not to. (Clooney 2001, p. 14)

In my view, what Clooney offers here is a form of fundamental reasoning, namely, “com­parative rationality” as a particular way to look at reality on a deeper level. In this comparative rationality, religions (or realities in general) are understood as fundamentally hybrid, or have the potentiality for genuine encounters that would lead to growth and transformation.3 For Clooney, religions and their theologies move and encounter the others, not primarily in terms of historical encounters, but through the constructive agencies of theologians and their communities.



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Clooney clearly moves beyond mere witnessing hybrid realities (historical connections between religious traditions) and potentiality, toward creating and constructing new hybrids in his comparative works. In Clooney’s work, hybridity lies first of all in our theological imagination, namely, that it is always possible to read different texts comparatively, together. This is the dynamic of the ever-­widening horizon of theological vision (Clooney 2010, pp. 87–107). The role of comparative theologians is surely crucial here. But this whole process also implies that every text has the potential to be read with other texts of other traditions. And, in fact, this potentiality has already been actualized historically. Every text is already situated in relation to other texts. Every text involves other texts already, and, I would say, this applies to other dimensions of religions, such as practices, lived experiences, popular religiosity, symbols, and so forth. In this dynamic, in some ways, the agent is both the comparativist and the texts. It is insightful here to note how Clooney would not typically choose the comparative theme first, but rather he would take a closer look at his book shelves, choosing certain books to begin to explore. In a way, the books avail themselves for an explicit comparative study, to be put next to other books or texts, for the benefits of the readers and their theological communities. This method might look random, but it is actually founded on the comparative reasoning mentioned before, that is, the belief that any text will qualify, due to their innate potential for comparative engagement. This comparative reasoning and act might result in unexpected and surprising correlations and meanings. Through the comparative theological process, one text has become connected to the other, also in the readers. The identity of the text is no longer isolated for certain readers only. The fruits of this dynamic of comparison might concretely illustrate the very process of refiguration in Paul Ricoeur’s theory of narrative. This is the moment where the lives of the readers are refigured due to the opening of a new world, new possibilities of life and actions, that happens in their encounters with the text or narrative. Similarly, after a comparative theological process, “texts become intertexts,” opening new possibilities of living in our pluralistic world. The theologians, the readers, as well as the wider religious communities are transformed to a real degree. Public theology operates in a framework of rationality and relationality too. Although Clooney has not dealt explicitly with public theology proper, his comparative reason should be part of a mature public reason, which, among others, has to be set against the tendency of isolationism and the politicization of religions. In order for religions and their communities to participate more meaningfully and authentically in public life, each religion and its community should be open to this comparative reason. The public life that comparative theology helps to create is the one that is built together, a complex yet fecund space of encounters based on the deeper connections between religions. There will always be disagreements and differences between religions and their communities, and comparative theology is not completely immune from the problem of religious superiority either. In fact, as Hugh Nicholson has pointed out, the new comparative theology has to cope with the problem of religious rivalry, namely, an increasingly acute sense of the politically ambiguous nature of comparing religious traditions. This problem stems from the tensions between two forms of pluralism, which either relativizes or essentializes the differences between religions. Today these two are considered to be politically and academically hegemonic discourses (Nicholson  2011, pp. x–xi). And, in response to Nicholson’s argument, Clooney emphasizes that indeed “there is no innocent, apolitical theology, no innocent encounter across religious boundaries, no scholar whose work does not have some political positioning at stake, no comparative theology that definitively leaves behind the mixed motives and messages of the past” (Clooney in “Foreword” to Nicholson 2011, p. viii). So, the practice of comparative theology today needs to pay attention to the “political.” In ­particular it should be critically aware of the political dimension, both in terms of its nature as a distinctive academic discipline with its own history and in terms of its relation to the concrete political situations of society. In many contexts, religions and religious identities have become more

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political than ever now. In Asian countries like India, Indonesia, Myanmar, and Sri Lanka, the need and urgency for a genuine politics of religious inclusivism and encounter should be made obvious for everyone through “reasonable” conversations across the board. Oftentimes, this political dynamic has to do with minority–majority antagonism, troubling colonial history, postcolonial conditions, racial injustice and discrimination, economic woes, and so forth. In a postcolonial context, in particular, politics of sameness should of course be avoided by ­comparative theology because it tends to be hegemonic and oppressive. Comparative theological reasoning will have to find more creative ways to make sense of the refreshing meeting points among religions, as well as genuine and persisting differences, within the overall logic of authentic and evolving encounters. All of this should be done, again, with critical and reconstructive awareness of the historical background of religious rivalries, colonialism, Orientalism, the old Western missionary paradigm, and so forth. In the end, comparative theology might still privilege one’s own religious tradition, but this is done in ways that involve deeper appreciation and do not ignore or denigrate others. As Clooney has shown, differences between religions become more engaging if we are able to truly employ comparative rationality. Ambiguities and complexities will remain, but they are no longer disturbing, but rather a genuine part of the dynamics of inclusive encounters. In this respect, it has to be noted that comparative theology does not operate in the framework of a neutralized “religion of reason” or the Enlightenment paradigm of religion which is devoid of particular theological and affective dimensions. Comparative rationality is definitely something that will make religions play a more constructive role in the public sphere. It is in line with, but also goes beyond, Habermas’s post-­secular framework. For, as we will see, religious affect and spirituality are considered crucial, but put on a learning curve with other traditions for the sake of the greater common good. Theological truths and meaningfulness are considered in a demanding process of encounters with others, rather than being depoliticized by the narrow scientific paradigm of religion with its own modern European biases (Nicholson 2011, p. xii). For its part, public theology needs to be grounded in this fecund space where religions come together and create structures and meanings of encounter. Here it is important to note that meaningful encounters between religions, made explicit in comparative theology, are actually part of cultural reproduction and transmission. “Comparisons,” with all their complexities, are in fact embedded in the ways human beings interpret their social world (Nicholson 2011, p. 201). So, the public sphere will be enriched by these acts of comparisons and creative encounters.

Spirituality: Personal and Public It is interesting to see how, in his conception of a post-­secular society, Habermas mentions the need for pre-­ethical convictions that are able to motivate people to act. Religions are part of this landscape of moral life that is crucial for the public. Surely, in comparative theology, religions and their theologies are considered to be a force able to move people to act, but it is certain that it would be better if they do this together and in encounters with one another. In this way, religions become a shared heritage and capital for the common good and enable citizens to deal more meaningfully and constructively with the complexities of public life. In the work of Francis Clooney, the distinctive power of comparative theology as a source of motivation for public life lies also in his attention to spirituality and affectivity. I would say that this aspect of theologies and religions enables believers and their communities to be more authentic, largely due to the balance between rationality and affectivity. Clooney deals with spirituality not merely as a private matter. It is indeed a part of the deeper personal life and identity of theologians and believers, yet it has public significance as a way to engage religious diversity in our time.



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An important part of this dynamic is the blend or integration between the personal and the academic (scholarship) in Clooney’s work. Clooney is a Jesuit priest, and he often mentions this personal identity as being an important dimension of his overall work: I speak from experience. I am a Catholic priest, a Jesuit, and for more than forty years I have studied, learned from, been transformed by my study of Hindu traditions. My work is for the most part the work of a scholar; and yet it has been intensely personal, words and ideas circumscribed in the entirety of a way of life. (Clooney 2017, p. 14)

Clearly, Clooney’s ever-­deeper involvement with Hinduism is part of his Jesuit and priestly vocation. He scrutinizes and learns from the works of Robert de Nobili, a well-­known Jesuit missionary in India who dealt quite deeply with Hinduism. Overall he finds De Nobili’s work to be rigorous yet lacking in sympathy for other religious traditions. However, for him, De Nobili’s work is still significant because it “is about the fashioning of a space – human, cultural, spiritual – in which substantive religious encounter could take place” (Clooney 2017, p. 24). Clooney deals with spirituality both as a crucial dimension and a theme or topic in comparative theology. He has written on specific themes in spirituality, such as the experience of God’s hiddenness, Marian and Goddess spirituality, as well as Ignatian spirituality (see Clooney 2005, 2010, 2014). As a crucial dimension of comparative theology, Clooney understands spirituality as deeply ­theological, because it is points to actual encounter and relationship with God: A fruitful Hindu–Catholic relationship is not merely a matter of necessity or convenience, but a truly spiritual opportunity with firm foundations. God is one; we are all the children of God; God wills the salvation and well-­being of all; God is a mystery, ever greater than our efforts at exact definitions and boundaries. (Clooney 2017, p. 13)

On this deeply theological dimension, Clooney argues further: “this complexification of religious identity is not just a human production. Rather, as in every instance where we grow spiritually because we continue to share a living relationship with God, this too is a response to God in interaction with a God who responds to us” (Clooney 2010, p. 149). Through comparative theology, where one undergoes “an attentive emptying,” true encounter with God also leaves the traditions unobstructed by one another in the minds of believers who draw on both traditions. And thus, for him, multiple (or complex) religious identities have a deeply spiritual foundation (2010, p. 149). As mentioned, in Clooney’s thinking, spirituality, or our personal encounter with God, is also very public, as he writes: To encounter (or not) the God who at times hides from us may be first of all recognized as an intimate event, personal to the seeker, even private. But the absence of God is also a matter of public concern and interest, in an age when a multitude of religious possibilities abound and when any particular religious love stands near to religious and secular alternatives. As such, the particularity of God and the possibility that God is real enough to be absent are also matters of public import, if we are still to think and talk about God in an intelligent way. (Clooney 2014, p. ix)

Overall, Clooney understands his project critically in terms of finding a balance between the intellectual and the spiritual, a correction to what he calls “the impasses of intellectual misrecognition and spiritual cannibalism” (2017, p. 16). More particularly in the area of Hindu–Christian studies, he believes that we need to resist “historical and political reductionism,” while insisting on the theological character (2017, p. 16). So, in this regard, an integration of comparative theology and public theology seems to be a way forward because it attends to both the theological and the social-­political.

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Affectivity As mentioned, philosophers like Habermas and Rawls give an important place to pre-­political sources of ethics and morality. Along the same lines, Jane Bennet, a political theorist and philosopher, emphasizes the role of the experience of enchantment in the modern world, especially its affective force in enabling ethical life. This attention comes from her weariness of the two images of modernity, namely, as a disenchanted place of dearth and alienation, and as a place of reason, freedom, and control. In contrast to these images, for her, ethics is not a code and a set of norms to which one is obligated, because it is closely linked to affect. In relation to politics in particular, she talks about noncanonical means of ethical will formation: The ethical turn encouraged political theorists to pay more attention to films, religious practices, news media rituals, neuroscientific experiments, and other noncanonical means of ethical will formation. In the process, “ethics” could no longer refer primarily to a set of doctrines; it had to be considered as a complex set of relays between moral contents, aesthetic-­affective styles, and ­public moods. (Bennett 2010)

It is very interesting that Bennett mentioned religious practices as part of political life and the modern enchantment experience. To a large degree, Clooney’s comparative theology also begins with moments of enchantment through heartfelt and personal encounters with Hinduism. He often traces his comparative theological works to this seminal moment of enchantment. For example, his work on the Hindu and Christian God is deeply related to his experience of visiting the great temple in Alvar Tiru Nagari, the home of Satakopan (a great Hindu saint from eighth-­century South India): “I felt as much at home as I ever had in India. To be in the temple, with the saint’s people and before Narayana, who he had praised, was a holy moment” (Clooney 2001, p. v). He also wrote about his formative spiritual experiences with Hindu goddesses in the Daksin Kali (Kathmandu), Bengal, Mumbai, Mysore, Madurai, Tirukkataiyur, and Chennai. One of the most memorable experiences here is when he was denied entry to a shrine dedicated to the goddess Sri, inside the Srirangam temple, outside Tiruchi, and he still could experience the goddess Sri: “Though at a distance, I could see Sri in the twilight and by the glow of oil lamps” (Clooney 2005, p. viii). So, as Clooney has shown, religious pluralism can serve as a very privileged milieu for enchantment, which at the end also helps the formation of ethical will crucial for public life. This point is highly important for public theology as well, and I want to emphasize how ­comparative theology can contribute to public theology through this category. In this respect, it is interesting that Clooney calls his comparative method “a hermeneutic of sympathy.” Sympathy is an inner disposition that opens up to moments of enchantment with other religious ­traditions. He writes: “As mentioned, I write from long experience, and I believe that my theological perspective, guided by a hermeneutic of sympathy, promises a potentially distinctive ­contribution” (Clooney 2017, p. 17). Furthermore, this hermeneutic of sympathy is done through slow learning with affect, a deep learning based on deeper connections between religious traditions. In this regard, Kevin Hart’s comment on Clooney’s work is very insightful: Also, comparative theology quietly draws, in its own way, from the long tradition of contemplation in the West, with its many correlatives in the East: “slow reading,” here, is not a matter of technique to make more of a text or to undo its philosophical claims; it is a response to other traditions and, perhaps, to the otherness of one’s own tradition. (Hart 2019, p. xviii)



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Thus, the hermeneutic of sympathy and slow reading is a way of “participating” more deeply in the other tradition, but also a way of being in touch with the hitherto hidden aspect of one’s own religious tradition. This way the whole process can be considered a continuing enchantment in both directions: to be enchanted by others and by self.

Concluding Remarks The discipline of the new comparative theology, pioneered and developed by Francis X. Clooney, was born out of the intensification of religious pluralism that arguably marks a post-­secular era in which religions and the public interact in different, new, and complex ways. This is an era where religions intensify their presence in the public sphere and cannot be relegated to the domain of the private. In contrast to the problematic ways in which religions appear in the public domain, such as fundamentalism and other exclusive religious ideologies, comparative theology presents itself as a deeper and creative engagement between religious traditions that is needed in our era. Comparative theology is a creative, timely, and responsible form of theology. In general, the discipline is organically connected to the public sphere. First, it responds to the deeply public concern, namely, religious pluralism in our complex modern time, marked by, among other things, globalization, rationalization, and secularism. Second, it contributes to the common good in this so-­called post-­secular era, especially the way it employs the category of reason, spirituality, and affectivity, including interreligious enchantment. Comparative theology is one of the creative avenues for religions (theologians, academia, their communities) to take a more constructive public role in our global world. Here the interconnection between comparative theology and public theology needs to be pursued further. These two disciplines can enrich each other to make sure that many dimensions and concerns of our public life are informed by the specificities of religious traditions, which are not separate but already brought together in our religiously plural world. Furthermore, the choice of engaging specific themes in comparative theology should be sufficiently informed by public concerns and geared toward addressing pressing public issues. This would help comparative theology attend to the political. On a personal note, I feel so privileged to have studied and worked with Professor Clooney. The categories of reason, spirituality, affect, as well as sympathy and spiritual aestheticism, are features that fascinate and sustain me in the study and practice of comparative theology. They help me make sense of the richness of religious pluralism of our time, in my visits, travels, and encounters with others, and they prepare me to always learn more, to be surprised, and to be awed.

Notes 1 In relation to the Catholic social teaching, I find the following understanding of the common good to be very useful: “The principle of the common good, to which every aspect of social life must be related if it is to attain its fullest meaning, stems from the dignity, unity and equality of all people. According to its primary and broadly accepted sense, the common good indicates ‘the sum total of social conditions which allow people, either as groups or as individuals, to reach their fulfilment more fully and more easily’” (Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace 2004, para. 164). 2 For an interesting discussion on public theology, interfaith perspectives, and religious education, see Pirner et al. (2018). 3 This is perhaps connected to the idea that religions travel and encounter others in many different ways throughout history. On this idea, see Tweed (2006).

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References Bennett, J. (2010). Preface. In: Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things [e-­book]. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2001). Hindu God Christian God: How Reason Breaks Down Boundaries between Religions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and Virgin Mary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2014). His Hiding Place Is Darkness: A Hindu–Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2017). The Future of Hindu–Christian Studies: A Theological Inquiry. New York: Routledge. Habermas, J. (2010). An Awareness of What Is Missing: Faith and Reason in a Post-­Secular Age (ed. M. Reder and J. Schmidt). Cambridge: Polity. Hart, K. (2019). Foreword. In: Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters (F.X. Clooney), pp. xi–xviii. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Kim, S. and Day, K. (eds.) (2017). A Handbook of Public Theology. Leiden: Brill. Laksana, A.B. (2020a). Being theological in a comparative manner in today’s Indonesia. International Journal of Asian Christianity 3 (2): 197–210. Laksana, A.B. (2020b). Signs of hope for Christian–Muslim relations in Indonesia. Concilium 4: 69–76. Nicholson, H. (2011). Comparative Theology and the Problem of Religious Rivalry. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pirner, M.L. (2018). The contributions of religions to the common good: Philosophical perspectives. In: Public Theology, Religious Diversity, and Interreligious Learning: Contributing to the Common Good Through Religious Education (ed. M.L. Pirner, J. Lähnemann, W. Haussmann, and S. Schwarz), pp. 66–78. New York: Routledge. Pirner, M.L., Lähnemann, J., Haussmann, W., and Schwarz, S. (eds.) (2018). Public Theology, Religious Diversity, and Interreligious Learning: Contributing to the Common Good Through Religious Education. New York: Routledge. Pontifical Council for Justice and Peace. (2004). Compendium of the Social Doctrine of the Church. Dublin: Veritas. Reder, M. and Schmidt, J. (2010). Habermas and religion. In: An Awareness of What Is Missing: Faith and Reason in a Post-­Secular Age (J. Habermas), pp. 1–14. Cambridge: Polity. Tweed, T. (2006). Crossings and Dwellings: A Theory of Religion. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Wilfred, F. (2020). Asian theological ferment (for doing theology in contemporary Indonesia: Interdisciplinary perspectives). International Journal of Indonesian Philosophy & Theology 1 (2): 73–90.

Further Reading Breitenberg, E.H., Jr. (2003). To tell the truth: Will the real public theology please stand up. Journal of the Society of Christian Ethics 23 (2): 55–96. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Habermas, J. (1987). The Theory of Communicative Action (trans. T. McCarthy), Vol. 2. Boston: Beacon Press.

CHAPTER 35

God Meets Us There Prison as True Home for the Christian Comparative Theologian Mark J. Edwards

Christ is with us today, not only in the Blessed Sacrament and where two or three are gathered together in His Name, but also in the poor. And who could be poorer and more destitute in body and soul than these companions of our twenty-­five days in prison? Dorothy Day, September 1957 (Day [1983] 2015, p. 287)

With Comparative Theology, Francis Clooney invited “adventuresome and bold” (2010, p. 155) theologians into God-­seeking investigation that extends “across religious boundaries” (p. 150), requires “attentive emptying,” seeks “true encounter” (p. 148), and forces us to return “home again” (p. 151) even as we reevaluate our “home citizenship” (p. 139). But where is this location of “first belonging” for the Christian comparative theologian? This chapter will explore and commend the prison, both in historical and contemporary manifestations, as a location for fruitful comparative theological work and as a site of divine favor. Quite simply, comparative theologians should go to jails, prisons, camps, and the variety of carceral locations. Being present in sites of internment, detention, and “relocation” promises not only to embark the comparative theologian on a challenging journey of fruitful comparative insight; even more so, it invites encounters with the divine agent in revelatory ways. Going to carceral sites in their manifold permutations is thus not simply a way to gain insight into other faith practices, religious traditions, or lived experiences and the ways in which they speak to one’s own; it is a way to meet God. Given the legacy of imprisoned minds within theological history, an arc which includes Socrates and the Apostle Paul, Boethius, Hallaj, Marguerite Porete, Gandhi, Dorothy Day, Elie Wiesel, Martin Luther King, Jr, Malcolm X, and detainees at Guantánamo Bay, not to mention the many martyrs of so many faiths, for comparative theologians inspired by Clooney to find divine activity beyond the boundaries of a domesticated tradition, the prison offers few rivals. Given the unique encounter with self, neighbor, and God which carceral sites afford, they may even deserve to be regarded as a theologian’s true home. The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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To begin, let us all too briefly explore the role prison, broadly construed, has played in Jewish and Christian lineages. Certainly, within the Hebrew and Christian scriptures, prison is a frequent site of action. Consider Joseph in Egypt, the mass incarceration of the Israelites under Pharaoh, the epic account of Daniel in the lion’s den, and the frequent lamentations of life (and death) in “the pit.” There are many more. As we move into the Gospels and the Epistles, from John the Baptist, to Jesus himself, to Paul, the apostles, and right through to the Book of Revelation, arrest, detention, imprisonment, exile, and execution are common occurrences. Why does so much biblical action happen in and around sites of captivity and control? Moving beyond the apostolic era into the early church, until the time of Constantine, some degree of persecution, whether cultural, political, or religious is a reoccurring and dominant theme. While not every early Christian goes to prison, is sent to the lions, or lives the confined ­hermetic life of a desert father, many traditions in early Christianity ferment within narratives of  repression, cultural exile, and imprisonment. Perhaps there is even an over-­eagerness to be oppressed as participation in the faith’s founding event of Christ’s arrest and execution. Yet even as Christianity rises to dominance on the European continent, East Asia, and North Africa, consider that Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy, written under confinement in the final days before his execution, remains among the Middle Ages’ most popular texts. “You have forgotten what you are,” is Lady Philosophy’s diagnosis to a man of privilege (Boethius 2008, p. 24). Reasoning with the former Master of Offices in Theodoric’s court, Lady Philosophy convinces Boethius that fame, power, wealth, beauty, knowledge, acceptance, and even family are all misguided ends. Freedom to do what one wants is also not an ultimate good, for this is simply to become subservient to one’s whimsical desires. “I don’t need a library with comfortable chairs, ivory gewgaws, and big glass windows,” she argues, “but rather the workroom of your mind” (Boethius 2008, p. 21). And for one focused on worldly advancement, the cell proves to be the optimal think tank for the fallen Boethius. The destination to which Lady Philosophy guides him is not remorse for his misfortune and a longing for escape, but rather acceptance of a providential mystery and gratitude for the prison cell as the best thing that has ever happened to him. Prison teaches him who his friends truly are, what the ultimate point of life really is, and who is eternally in charge of his fate and freedom. Amidst growing empire, cultural dominance, and intellectual acceptance, perhaps her redirection is aimed not only at the single individual Boethius, but also at the adolescent Christendom? Lady Philosophy, with raiment torn and darkened by misuse and arrogance at the hands of violent men, in her poetic, gracious, and Socratic way suggests that true wisdom, which is divine wisdom, can never leave behind difficulty, injustice, or even the suffering of faith. The youthful ruler ought not ascend the throne only to forget the bread-­maker and cupbearer with whom he suffered in prison. Indeed, according to Lady Philosophy, the providential Lord purposefully guides one through such difficulty in strength and joy while the wicked weakly succumb to hedonistic pursuits and the fickle wheel of fortune. And this is good. If God were prodigal, showering gold in answer to every prayer, and heaping honors on every head, they would not be content, never mind grateful. They’d take it for granted. Greed opens new maws. (Boethius 2008, p. 33)

As a look back on his own life, Boethius thus offers a prophetic voice to his ascending religion. The keys of the kingdom, and the jails, have been placed in Saint Peter’s hands. Yet to seek God at the height of comfort and power is to result in being banished from oneself. The true God is below.



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Add to Boethius’s shackled encounter St Thomas’s experience of being locked up by his family, Luther’s 300 days at the Wartburg Castle, and dungeon epics such as St John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul, John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, or the lives of Edith Stein, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Martin Luther King, Jr. Once one views Christian theology through prison bars, one begins to see that such authors and their texts offer a spine to much Christian scholarship and witness. George M. Anderson’s short history “Jesuits in Jail, Ignatius to Present,” for instance, clearly conveys that being jailed for the faith has served as a frequent if not essential thread of that faithful and trouble-­finding tradition. As Vietnam War protestor Daniel Berrigan argued, “Jesuits are supposed to be in trouble – it’s imbedded by now in the tradition” (Anderson 1995, p. 69). As potent example, Anderson considers Alfred Delp. Speaking of his trial, Delp writes, “The actual reason for my condemnation was that I happened to be, and chose to remain, a Jesuit. There was nothing to show that I had any connection with the attempt on Hitler’s life . . . There was one underlying theme – a Jesuit is a priori an enemy and betrayer of the Reich” (Anderson 1995, p. 6). Delp’s dilemma is, in basic form, a Christian dilemma. One can follow Christ or accept another führer. In Berlin’s Tegel Prison, Delp could write, “I was chained so loosely for the night that I was able to slip out of my fetters . . . I was able to say Mass with my hands completely free” (Gollwitzer 1956, p. 138). Berrigan and Delp both accepted the opportunity to be – echoing the Paul presented in Ephesians – an ambassador in chains. To some degree, then, this must be a core reason why so many influential Christian texts are born from prison encounters. Arguably, just as Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Siberian experience in the “House of the Dead” was formative for his subsequent life and career (The Brothers Karamazov or Crime and Punishment could not have been written without it), so has much Christian ­theology been reformed by, and destined for, encounters on the inside. Indeed, Friedrich Nietzsche is to some degree correct in On the Genealogy of Morals, though not exactly for his stated reasons, in calling Christianity a religion of cellars and captives, if “a religion” it is at all. What was it about entering prison that George Fox, even as he denied the value of other sacramental practices, could not resist viewing as a sacred act? Why would Dorothy Day pray, “Next year, perhaps, God willing, we will again go to jail; and perhaps conditions will be the same” (Day [1983] 2015, p. 286)? We could look for individual answers in each figure’s circumstance. The historical particularities are certainly necessary for a thorough analysis of each case. But perhaps, inspired by Clooney, we might find clues in individuals and traditions beyond those flowing from an arrested Messiah? Perhaps a line from a recent poem, written in Guantánamo Bay by the detainee Abdulaziz, speaks in some way for all? “My spirit is free in the heavens, while my body is overpowered by chains” (Falkoff 2007, p. 23). Is this not also what Socrates argues when he refuses escape saying, “Then give it up, Crito, and let us follow this course, since God leads the way” (Plato 2003, p. 96/54e)? With their midnight songs and prayers of Acts 16:25 (all scriptural references are from NRSV), do not Silas and Paul give voice to this same tune? We begin to perceive the power of prison. It is a site of pure freedom. It is a location of ultimate devotion. It is a site of deep gratitude and unmediated encounter. Imprisoned primarily because he is a Muslim, Abdulaziz still offers hopeful thanks. Far from expressing bitter remorse for his fate he writes, “Praise God who has granted me faith and made me a Muslim.” Why? We shall see below. To say prison is a site of freedom and gratitude may strike the reader as counterintuitive or even nonsensical. We must be mistaken. Surely we are idealizing the physically horrific because of a misplaced commitment to mind–body dualism. Surely we are sacrificing bodies for the sake of souls. Surely this is owing to an inherited Manichaean philosophy that has subverted a healthy understanding of humanity as physically embodied being. Surely this is Socrates’s fault as when he claims in the Phaedo, “Every seeker after wisdom knows that up to the time when philosophy takes it over his soul is a helpless prisoner, chained hand and foot in the body, compelled to view

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reality not directly but only through its prison bars, and wallowing in utter ignorance” (Plato 2003, p. 152/82e). Yet, two thousand years after the loud proclamations of Plato, the soft voice of Gandhi interrupts. Who can hear this silent man? What power can his frail Satyagraha convey? Let us follow the “still small voice” says Gandhi (Fischer 2002, p. 133). Let us go to jail for, “The cell door is the door to freedom” (p. 154). Having battled anger, hate, resentment, and cowardliness on a cold train platform in South Africa, Gandhi discovered a new way “as old as the hills” (Fischer 2002, p. xxv). Yes, it was a political strategy. But it was more. Ahimsa was the way of nonviolence. It was the way of truth. It was the way of love. Ahimsa was the way of God. The prison was not a detour in this way. It was the necessary destination. Devotees of Truth, insisted Gandhi, “invite imprisonment” (Fischer 2002, p. 143). Yes, this had a political dimension: “A government that is evil,” he reasons, “has no room for good men and women except in its prisons” (p. 154). But in many ways political reform was the consequence of reform in one’s own life, mind, heart, and hope. To change oneself was to change those around you. To suffer for others was to teach those sisters and brothers a purer way. To find God’s hand in prison was to find liberation from the iron grip of colonial arrogance and British hate. To go to jail was to unshackle oppressed and oppressor from fear and pride. Prison was not merely a situation room for political reformers, though it also became that. Prison was mandir, temple (Fischer 2002, p. 236). Prison was Gandhi’s site of prayer, studying the Gita, purifying one’s desires, learning to love those around you, attaining simplicity in community, and achieving communion with God. Prison life became the model for the ashram, Gandhi’s experiment in communal living. And the difficult but blessed life-­together of the ashram was replicated in the cells of Yeravda and Aga Khan Palace. The way of violent chaos, the way of useless wealth, the way of selfish concern, and the way of dark falsehood had been left behind. In prison and ashram alike, Gandhi taught, found, and learned the way of self-­renunciation for the sake of liberating both himself and his country from mechanical death, totalitarian fists, and Western greed. In prison Gandhi found truth. In dark chambers he found light. In crowded cells he found love. After 249 days in South African jails and 2,089 days in Indian ones, Gandhi could proclaim, “Jail for us is no jail at all” (Fischer 2002, p. 237). In his prison mandir, Gandhi found God. Following this spiritual strategy in Birmingham, Alabama, Martin Luther King, Jr and Ralph Abernathy would march to arrest on Good Friday in 1963. Confessing this as a method learned from Gandhi and employing it as a “faith act” trusting Christ, King would reflect on the loneliness, fear, and darkness of the prison cell. Echoing both Abdulaziz and Mahatma Gandhi, King c­ onfessed, “I had never been truly in solitary confinement. God’s companionship does not stop at the door of a jail cell. God had been my cellmate” (Carson 1998, p. 186). Here we should step back and inquire of ourselves and this discipline, what is it the comparative theologian seeks? Is it a natural law that gives reason and explanation for the varieties of religious experience? Is it doctrinal similarity with another tradition that justifies our views as correct? Is it cultural equivalence which overlooks the disparate contingencies of faith practice and which seeks some essential, timeless kernel? Is it interesting overlap for the sake of nonjudgmental familiarity with different cultures? Is it a preservative distinction which denies interaction and modification between traditions? None of these were Clooney’s goals. He commended rather the deepening of the self, the expansion of one’s mind, the growth of one’s faith, and the finding of one’s neighbor. A World War II prisoner-­of-­war camp offered Emmanuel Levinas the space to do such things. There he found others. And in truly finding the other as other-­than-­the-­self, Levinas found ­himself. Therein, so he argues, he is given time. “The other is the future.” Levinas suggests, “The very relationship with the other is the relationship with the future” (Levinas 1987, p. 77). Time, as he claims in the opening lines of his prison notebooks, delivered as lectures in Paris in the postwar era, “is in no way sociological” (p. 39). The very ontology of time, argues Levinas, is not psychologically or phenomenologically described. It is rather a true encounter, and hence a face-­to-­face



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encounter, with the alterity of another. Failing to encounter another, in an individual’s instantiated differentiation, stalls us in a present moment from which we cannot extricate ourselves. Only another can pull us out of any paused present and advance us into a future moment. This means we are meant to grow in humane discovery through relationships with each other. Levinas begs us to find in “the Other” that which our present world has yet to encounter. Therein we are given a future we could not have had on our own. Who is this Other? Where can such true and honest others be found? If this other is met in those around us, who and where is the other in whom we can truly find God? History speaks. Through the gates we ought to go. For we are asking, “For God’s sake, where is God?” Elie Wiesel’s painful enigma sears the answer: “Where He is? This is where – hanging here from this gallows” (Wiesel 2006, p. 65). If, as seekers of the divine, regardless of religion, the wise do not seek God in suffering, then they fail to query the one location where God’s existence really matters. If, as followers of Christ, disciples do not seek God in suffering, then they fail to follow their crucified Lord, the only Lord such followers proclaim there is. Either way, regardless of creed or confession, it is to the lowest, darkest, most painful places the seeking ought to descend. Has not the divine one, says Jonah, the Psalmist, and John done the same for us? Are we called to spectate from a distance or are we called to follow? At this juncture, the Christian comparative theologian carries a special burden. It is the burden of the cross. For He who bore that cross for the sake of the world calls followers to bear it for others. He who carried it says, “Follow me.” He who meets us in our future as Lamb, Love, Liberator, and Lord, says, “I was in prison” (Matthew 25:36). Did we meet Him there? Did we overlook Him there? Did we deny Him there? Worse yet, did we lock Him in that cage? In the age of mass incarceration, we certainly cannot claim to know the millions we lock up. Legal systems, even in the best of states, are not systems of relationship-­building, history-­knowing, individual-­loving, and comprehensive-­caring. Even in “just” manifestations, they are this-­for-­that exchanges of labels made, lives lost, time spent, and penalty endured (or sadly not!). And, certainly, most legal systems in human history have been manifestly unjust in their assignments. Considering the concentration camps, Gulags, colonial rules, re-­education camps, “filtration points,” and slave trades of recent centuries, we ought to conclude that race, creed, gender, political affiliation, place of birth, economic status, and/or faith commitments have been the basis for most forms of incarcerations. Is the rest of history any different? The human condition, to draw on Hannah Arendt, who knew the view from inside herself, is an imprisoned condition. Such a condition is witnessed in Piper Kerman’s prison memoir, Orange is the New Black (2011), when she recounts an airplane transfer mid-­sentence: Con Air is like a layer cake of the federal prison system. Every sort of prisoner is represented; ­sad-­looking middle-­aged upper-­class white men, their wire-­rim glasses sometimes askew or ­broken; proud cholos looking vaguely Mayan and covered in gang markings; white women with bleached-­out hair and very bad orthodontia; skinhead types with swastika tattoos on their faces; young black men with their hair bushed out because they had been forced to undo their ­cornrows; a skinny white father-­and-­son pair, obvious because they were the spitting image of each other; a towering black man in extra-­heavy restraints who might be the most imposing ­figure I have ever seen; and of course, me.

She continues, Some prisoners appeared to be fresh off the street, still in civilian clothes. They brought on a Spanish guy with long black hair who would have resembled Jesus were his face not so hard; he was so good-­looking, it was like a kick in the gut. (Kerman 2011, pp. 262–263)

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While not the most reverent description of an incarnate deity, for followers of a God who, as Christians openly confess, lived and died anonymously among sinner, prisoner, and colorful neighbor alike, perhaps such an account should be taken with a seriousness that outweighs theological etiquette. If, in fact, a pearl of great price is discovered in a prison yard, should we not sell all we have to gain that great treasure, no matter its unexpected and foreboding location? How much better if it sets captives free in the process? Francis Clooney proposed that comparative theologians must be seeking, if they are seeking the truth, a true home. Where is that true home? Is it a safe sanctuary? Is it a library with curated collections and comfortable chairs? Is it a golden ballroom with like-­minded conversation partners? Or should it be a location which forces upon the seeker a genuine “attentive emptying” and which crosses “real boundaries”? Why not then those lines set up by formidable, fortified, and well-­ guarded walls? As a location that breaks down and strips away, even as it can also purify and build up, the prison confronts chaplain, conscientious objector, confessor, resistor, reformer, and repentant with living faiths disclosed in times of trial and places of testing. As prison chaplain Cuong Lu attests, “Thanks to the Dharma, I saw prisoners find freedom while still incarcerated and experience joy for the first time in their lives. I met the Buddha in jail” (Lu 2019, p. 2). Could one find a more inviting location to encounter neighbor, belief, and God in an unveiled, face-­to-­face way? Preaching inside Basel prison, Karl Barth proclaimed that Christ crucified with the criminals was, “the first Christian fellowship, the first certain, indissoluble, and indestructible Christian community” (Barth 1978, p. 77). Given such testimony, should not we scholars and academics rush to jails, prisons, and detention centers for our own truth-­seeking sakes? The journey does not promise to be easy, but ought it be avoided? True, in some cases the excursion is short and painless. My own initial experiences teaching theology and philosophy in Garden State Correctional Facility in New Jersey have been among the most rewarding and engaging encounters I have had. Like the wilderness which I also love, there is beauty within the grit, joy within the pain, and honesty within shared suffering. I thirst for such pure and intense encounters with the questioning minds, the seeking souls, and the fiercely burning eyes of my neighbors. Though not always easy or pleasant, I wish for such pure encounters with myself. Such times must be seen as gifts from God. Of course, in other times and places the road to and through prison has, and will again, cost the lives of those who go there. But others have gone before us. Curiously, they seem to recommend that strange sanctuary. Susan B. Anthony, proclaimed to the court upon her conviction of voting, “I shall never pay a dollar of your unjust penalty.” Threatened with jail she then declared, “Resistance to tyranny is obedience to God” (Gordon 2005, p. 47). The judge did not jail her. She never paid the fine. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, writing from Tegel Prison in 1944, reflected over the past ten years and wrote, Freedom, long have we sought you through discipline, action, and suffering. Dying, now we discern in the countenance of God your own face. (Bonhoeffer 2010, p. 514)

For his part, Nelson Mandela wrote to his wife Winnie in Kroonstad Prison, in 1975, that “the cell is an ideal place to learn to know yourself ” (Mandela 2010, p. 211), while Corrie ten Boom could wonder daily in amazement of “new evidence of the care of Him who was God even of Ravensbruck” (Ten Boom 2006, p. 204). Paradoxically, upon France’s liberation from Nazi Germany, Jean-­Paul Sartre demanded, Never were we freer than under the German occupation. We had lost all rights, beginning with the right to speak. We were insulted to our faces every day and had to remain silent. We were



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deported en masse, as workers, as Jews or political prisoners. Everywhere – on the walls, on the screens and in the newspapers – we came against the vile, insipid picture of ourselves our oppressors wanted to present to us. Because of all this, we were free. (Sartre 2008, p. 3)

Russian poet and political prisoner Irina Ratushinskaya inverted her experience as she wrote, “For seven months now, I have been living like a queen: doors are flung open before me wherever I go – into cells, interrogation rooms, the courtroom . . . an impressive number of people are employed in ‘serving’ me” (Ratushinskaya 1988, p. 8). Perhaps most upturned is Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s post-­Gulag confession, “I have served enough time there. I nourished my soul there, and I say without hesitation: Bless you, prison, for having been in my life!” (Solzhenitsyn 1975, p. 617). In Comparative Theology Clooney emboldened us not to simply read and evaluate texts and traditions in “narrowly academic” ways as an “intellectual exercise” (2010, p. 152), but to “journey in faith” (p. 165) with “no shortcuts for the armchair theorist” (p. 152) to where “God graciously meets us” (p. 148). In “strikingly novel places” (p. 145), Clooney suggests, this ultimately “culminates in encounter with Jesus Christ” (p. 152). Yet, if Christ is the arrested one who says, “I was in prison” (Matthew 25:36) and who acts as divine agent “to proclaim release to the captives” (Luke 4:18), carceral sites await as a challenging location for novel comparative insights, just as our limited encounter with the above should challenge us to rethink the nature of freedom, time, gratitude, and what constitutes a holy mandir. Indeed, Clooney cites Richard Blake, SJ, that “prison may provide a more suggestive setting for meeting the Lord than Galilee” (Clooney 2010, p. 145). Prison may, hence, even be one’s true home, for God crucified “agrees to meet us there too” (p. 130) as the one “who is not confined” (p. 150). May we gain ears for the still, small voice which has led others there. Yes, this may be a difficult road, though Lady Philosophy reminds us, “nothing is inherently miserable, unless you think it is” (Boethius 2008, p. 40). Clooney encourages further, writing, “In Christ there need not be any fear of what we might learn; there is only the Truth that sets us free” (2010, p. 165). May we have the courage and hope to welcome these temporary quarters ourselves. For as Abdulaziz apocalyptically testifies in O Prison Darkness, Even though the bands tighten and seem unbreakable, They will shatter. (Falkoff 2007, p. 22)

References Anderson, G. (1995). “Jesuits in jail, Ignatius to the present.” Studies in Ignatian Spirituality 27 (4): 1–79. Barth, K. (1978). Deliverance to the Captives. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock. Boethius, A. (2008). The Consolation of Philosophy (trans. D. Slavitt). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bonhoeffer, D. (2010). Dietrich Bonhoeffer Works. Volume 8: Letters and Papers from Prison (ed. C. Gremmels, E. Bethge, and R. Bethge). Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Carson, C. (1998). The Autobiography of Martin Luther King, Jr. New York: Grand Central. Clooney, F. (2010). Comparative Theology. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Day, D. ([1983] 2015). Selected Writings (ed. R. Ellsberg). New York: Orbis Books. Falkoff, M. (2007). Poems from Guantánamo. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press. Fischer, L. (2002). The Essential Gandhi. New York: Vintage. Gollwitzer, H. (1956). Dying We Live: The Final Messages and Records of the German Resistance. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock.

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Gordon, A. (2005). The Trial of Susan B. Anthony. Washington, DC: Federal Judicial Center. Kerman, P. (2011). Orange Is the New Black. New York: Spiegel & Grau. Levinas, E. (1987). Time and the Other. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press. Lu, C. (2019). The Buddha in Jail. New York: OR Books. Mandela, N. (2010). Conversations With Myself. New York: Picador. Plato. (2003). The Last Days of Socrates (trans. H. Tredennick and H. Tarrant). London: Penguin Books. Ratushinskaya, I. (1988). Grey Is the Color of Hope. New York: Knopf. Sartre, J.-­P. (2008). The Aftermath of War (trans. C. Turner). London: Seagull Books. Solzhenitsyn, A. (1975). The Gulag Archipelago, vols. 3–4. New York: Harper & Row. Ten Boom, C. (with Sherrill, E. and Sherrill, J.). (2006). The Hiding Place. Grand Rapids, MI: Chosen Books. Wiesel, E. (2006). Night. New York: Hill and Wang.

PART VII

The Past, Present, and Future of Comparative Theology

36 Comparative Theology Beyond Religionization Marianne Moyaert

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37 Asking an Unusual Question of Kabir and Kazi Nazrul Islam Rachel Fell McDermott

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38 Comparative Theology avant la lettre? A Muslim “Deep Reading” of the Rāmāyaṇa in Early Modern South Asia Shankar Nair

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39 Creativity and Resistance in Comparative Theology: Lessons from Eighteenth-Century Korea Won-Jae Hur

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40 In Praise of Artisans: Ramon Marti, Georges Anawati, and the Importance of Languages Wilhelmus Valkenberg

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41 Lectio Divina and Comparative Reading in the History of Christian–Muslim Encounters 470 Rita George-Tvrtković 42 Vicarious Voyage: What Difference Does Comparative Theology Make for Theology? S. Mark Heim 43 Is There or Shall We Need a “Home” for Comparative Theologies? A Ru (Confucian) Response to Francis X. Clooney Bin Song 44 Comparative Theology After Clooney Hugh Nicholson

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While I belong to a generation different than Clooney’s and I never had the opportunity to sit in his classroom, I consider myself to be one of his students. In any case, my work has benefited greatly from his. I feel blessed that over the past fifteen years our paths crossed on a regular basis at conferences and expert seminars in Europe, the United States, and Australia. For several years, we also worked together in the steering committee of the Comparative Theology Unit of the American Academy of Religion, where we had many discussions about the scope and the future of the field. Particularly important for my own journey into comparative theology was the Luce seminar (2012–2013) on “Theologies of Religious Pluralism and Comparative Theology,” where, under the guidance of Francis Clooney as well as John Thatamanil, John Makransky, Mark Heim, Devorah Schoenfeld, and Najeeba Syeed, scholars from a wide variety of disciplinary backgrounds  – philosophy, history, theology, ritual studies – discussed key issues related to religious diversity. On all these occasions, I have been struck not only by Clooney’s erudition, but also by his generosity and his encouragement especially toward younger scholars. Clooney embodies the (interreligious) virtues of self-­reflexivity, humility, hospitality, and curiosity; he knows the value of suspending a  priori judgments about the meaning and significance of other religious traditions and urges theologians to first listen to and learn from what “another” has to offer before formulating grand theologies about “the problem” of religious diversity (Moyaert 2017b). One could say that Clooney does not simply engage in comparative theology, rather he performs his identity of a comparative theologian as a scholar, a teacher, a leader, and a preacher. Clooney’s detailed intertextual comparative reading practice is driven by an intellectual curiosity, by an eagerness to know more about other religious traditions, especially Hindu traditions (Clooney 2008, 2019). However, this intellectual curiosity, this fascination for what at first glance seems so far removed from what is familiar to us, takes root in a theological commitment to discern traces of God and uncover seeds of divine truth where one might least expect it. Taking the dialogical turn of the conciliar document Nostra Aetate (1965) seriously comes with a theological responsibility: if we accept that there is beauty and wisdom to be found in other traditions, we ought to The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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uncover it and theologize from it. Doing so “will always be a journey in faith. It will be from, for, and about God, whose grace keeps making room for all of us as we find our way faithfully in a world of religious diversity” (Clooney 2010, p. 165). Clooney’s more recent publications, which are sometimes written for a broader audience, indicate that his intellectual curiosity and his theological commitment also intersects with deeply felt societal responsibility. Clearly, “in our time,” we have much more access to other religious traditions than ever before, but that access also comes with a moral and spiritual responsibility. We can no longer hide behind the excuse of not knowing when we utter prejudices or make unnuanced claims about those of another faith, precisely because it is within our reach to learn about and from those of other faiths (Clooney 2010, pp. 4–6). In Clooney’s mind, ignorance can be a moral and spiritual failure. Considering, furthermore, that religious illiteracy contributes to interreligious friction and hostility, deep learning across traditions becomes even more urgent (Clooney 2018, preface). Comparative theology, in fact, speaks to this societal urgency: it seeks to correct stereotypes, move beyond false binaries, recognize wisdom in multiple traditions, and bring nuance and fresh insights to theological and societal debates. Where simplistic dichotomies prevail, it seeks to reveal complexities. Clooney translates this societal challenge into a pedagogical vocation of preparing students to live, love, and work in a world marked by diversity. The goal is to educate students to become interfaith readers and leaders. In Clooney’s words: “learning is a virtue and study is a good spiritual discipline; whether one is a scholar or not, everyone can learn more than they know already, if they take the time; and such learning is often a remedy for harmful ways of thinking and acting” (Clooney 2018, preface).

Comparative Theology as Rectification I can relate to a large extent to the profile of the comparative theologian as projected in Clooney’s work. I do not only recognize the intellectual curiosity, but also the sense of urgency which surrounds the work of comparative theology as our societies are not only pluralizing but also increasingly polarizing. I agree with Clooney, and many other interreligious scholars, that there is a need for interreligious leaders who are capable of building bridges between traditions and communities and who understand the importance of giving voice to nuance and subtlety in a context of binaries. I also concur that we need “multiple sources of wisdom,” that “we need to disabuse ourselves again of territorial control,” and that our “education must have breadth and depth and must be framed in familiar ways and in new ways too” (Clooney 2022, p. 289). As a comparative theologian specialized in Christian–Jewish relations and intent on subverting supersessionist theologies, I especially identify with Clooney’s commitment to the dismantlement of prejudice and his claim that this requires us “to see and interrogate this present moment, to learn from the past in order to live more freely, humbly and wisely in the present, and so to speak, creatively in the future that will stretch long beyond us” (Clooney 2022, p. 289). Reconciliation, also with God, is not possible if we do not reconcile with our religious neighbor, but reconciliation without repentance is meaningless and repentance without restoration is in vain. The assumption that undergirds my work is that Christians may only alter their troubled interreligious relations if they learn to make space for those of other faiths within their theological frameworks and if, even stronger, they are willing to consider changing their theological certainties based on what they learn from those of other faiths. The work of what Catherine Cornille calls rectification is a key part of this work of interfaith healing. In Cornille’s words: The encounter with different and competing religious systems often leads to a conscious or unconscious belittling and misrepresentation of the religious other in order to inflate the



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importance and truth of one’s own tradition. Typical forms of misrepresentation involve ­exaggeration and generalization of traits considered unpopular, projection of one’s own notions of heresy, and minimizing all similarities between one’s own religion and the other. . . . By ­studying other religions in depth, comparative theology may point to its internal complexity and diversity and thus correct self-­ interested forms of essentialization or reification of the religious other. . . . This type of comparative theology thus also involves significant theological learning affecting one’s own tradition. (Cornille 2020, p. 122)

To change our theologies, we must first see how our theologies have been crafted on the systemic ­delegitimization of Christianity’s others.

Religionization as an Analytical Concept Enhancing the Critical Potential of Comparative Theology Many comparative theologians, inspired by a hermeneutical-­ethical concern, commit themselves to rectify the way Christians in the past have misrepresented those of other faiths and promise to offer a new beginning. They can, however, only realize this promise when they recognize that they themselves are heirs of this past and take responsibility for it. To that end, they must scrutinize how and to what extent their own thinking – their conceptual and theological frame – is impacted by historical legacies of misrepresentation. David Nirenberg, scholar of Christian–Jewish relations, once said that “the peril of fantasizing our freedom from the past is great” (Nirenberg 2014, p. 6). Indeed, when we imagine ourselves to be free from the past, we give that past free play.1 In addition, the biblical scholar David Horrell rightly points out that “the shaping of our thought by” past misrepresentations of religious others “cannot be removed simply by declarations of intentions or personal conviction, just as, say, declaring ourselves committed to nonsexism or gender equality does not mean that forms of unconscious or unintended ideological or practical bias – and equally important, wider conventions and social practices – have thereby been eliminated” (Horrell 2020, p. 879). Good intentions, dialogical commitments, and even practices of comparative reading are not enough to realize the work of rectification. Comparative theologians also need to deconstruct those concepts that form the blue print for the way Christians throughout history have forged a normative sense of Christianness by discrediting those of other faiths.

Comparative Theology: Old and New In the scholarly literature, a distinction is often made between old and new comparative theology. Old comparative theology intends (a) to affirm the superiority of the Christian tradition (b) while disregarding the self-­understanding of the other tradition. (c) It is a form of comparing that knows in advance what insights (truths) the comparison will yield. One could say that old comparative theology takes root in the twofold imaginary process of selfing (the constructing of Christian identity) and othering (the construction of the alterity): typically Christianity’s others are projected as the counter-­image of normative Christianity. The overall aim of new comparative theology is to undo and overcome some of the problems of old comparative theology by centering in-­depth study of other traditions and recognizing the latter as theological conversation partners. Usually, old comparative theology is situated in the nineteenth century, when emerging European scholars of comparative religion were trying to make sense of the exploding quantity of

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data about the worldwide diversity of religious beliefs and practices – data which reached them via the colonies – while upholding the Christian claim to universality and finality (Masuzawa 2005). A Christian theological rationale permeated the work of these early scholars of religion and, as Hedges explains, many of them were not engaged in the study of religion for its own sake. Rather, their work served two main purposes: “the missionary endeavor to facilitate better conversion rates; and, colonial expediency to train a ruling civil service” (Hedges 2022, p. 51). The descriptive endeavor of old comparative theology – the effort to create a map of the different religions of the world – was, to a large extent, a redescriptive endeavor as these non-­Christian religious traditions were shaped and molded in such a way that they fitted into a larger Christian theological frame (Masuzawa 2005; Nongbri 2013; Said 2003). The world religions paradigm (WRP), which became the scholarly standard when dealing with religious diversity, was the outcome of that nineteenth-­ century endeavor (Fitzgerald 2000). Religions were “made” into world religions and were reified as bounded systems of belief revolving around a creed, sacred scripture, and a founding “father” in the course of this process.2 In previous publications, I have argued in favor of broadening the scope of old comparative theology to encompass most of the history of Christians’ dealings with non-­ Christians (Moyaert 2017a, 2022). While it is true that the specific terminology of “comparative theology” was used explicitly for the first time in the nineteenth century, from the very beginning Christian theologians have been engaged in efforts to compare their own tradition to those of other people in such a way that Christian claims to superiority and finality were reinforced. Indeed, for the most part of European history, Christians, in different sociopolitical contexts, tried to describe and organize the world and its people in distinctly Christian terms; they “relied upon their own ­theological orthodoxy to elaborate the contours of racial, cultural, religious, and geographical ­differences” (Berzon 2016, p. 3). The genre of heresiology is a case in point. A product of Late Antiquity, heresiology is a particular genre aimed at anatomizing, pinning down, and classifying Christians and those who fall ­outside of the Christian realm (Boyarin 2004). It divides, labels, classifies, and essentializes various social groups by setting them against the norm of Christian orthodoxy. While presented as a descriptive endeavor, heresiology is a comparative theological project of sorts. Like the comparative theologians and missionaries of later centuries, [these early Christian ­writers] described customs and habits through the contrast between orthodox center and heretical periphery, even when the two were located in the same exact space. In short, they elaborated an ethnographic foundation for the comparative Christian worldview. Heresiologists took great pains to define the heretics in the most effective terms for their own polemical purposes. It was their prerogative to define true Christianity from a place of knowledge about false Christianity, a knowledge they sought to control through their very descriptions of it. (Berzon 2016, p. 22)

I could give other examples (Moyaert 2023, forthcoming). In changing socio-­political contexts, Christian theologians sought to forge a sense of Christianness – this is true Christian religion – by simultaneously creating figures of otherness that represented deviation from this projected Christian norm. To that end, “they used theologically inflected groupism – the imagining of communal coherence – as a way of categorizing and analyzing . . . diversity” (Berzon 2016, p. 60). For now, however, it suffices to state that the mechanisms of old comparative theology extend far back and have been a key part of Christian identity construction. In my recent work, I have been considering a change of terminology to depict the way Christians, throughout history, have sought to “map the world” of religious diversity: more concretely, I suggest using the notion of religionization. In my understanding, the term religionization highlights



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the sense of process, the coming into being that underlies the perception of religious difference. This term also brings into focus that the way Christians have imagined the world of religious diversity is profoundly political – this means that it is related to things people do to gain or keep power or an advantage within their group.3 Arvind Mandair and Markus Dressler put it as follows: religionization is “a strategy from a position of power” and religion is “an instrument of governmentality, a means to legitimize certain politics and positions of power” (Mandair and Dressler 2011, p. 21). Historically speaking, Christian religionized images of “self ” and “other” have often been powerful: they were materialized into laws; in this mode, they impacted both private (e.g., sexual and marital relations) and public institutions, and even spatial ordering (e.g., where people could live, worship, and work). One may even say that religionized images have functioned as key social categories for the way European societies (and later colonies) were organized and stratified. Comparative theologians are committed to move beyond religious prejudice, misinterpretation, and ignorance, but until recently they did not always consider the politics of comparison, nor did they explore how theological imaginaries of self and other were instruments of governmentality. As a consequence, and using a phrase taken from Geraldine Heng, we could say that new comparative theologians tended to “destigmatize” and inadvertently depoliticize the impacts and consequences that some old comparative theological frames – or religionized images of self and other – have had on the bodies of real people. Accordingly, Nicholson states, this new discipline, despite good intentions, runs the risk of perpetuating the history it is trying to overcome (Nicholson 2009). More recently, several comparative theologians have begun to challenge the “depoliticized” nature of their discipline (e.g., Allocco et al. 2018; Thatamanil 2020; Takacs 2021; Tiemeier 2022). Introducing the notion of religionization contributes to this call to become more conscious of the political dimension of religionized comparison in the past and present.

What is Religionization? A growing number of scholars working in the field of critical religion, postcolonial, and feminist studies are exploring religionization as a topic of interest. As is often the case with an emerging field of study, there is no precise definition of the term yet. There is, however, agreement about the fact that religionization refers to the social construction of “religion” and its counterparts. It is the act of making something “religion.” This act assumes a counter-­image of what is not religion. Thus, religionization is always a process of boundary making; the aim is to reinforce the difference between what is religion and what deviates from it, thereby at once concealing any overlap, any fuzziness, and any hybridity. Demarcation is the goal. Many scholars focus on the modern religio-­secular dichotomy and the politics of redefining religion such that it was assigned to the private sphere (Cavanaugh 2009; Dreßler 2019), others zoom in on the abovementioned world religions paradigm as an expression of religionization: they highlight how religions were crafted as reified, textualized and creedalized, and transcendentalized (Thatamanil 2015) and how traditions that did not fit this norm were cast as primitive or tribal (Chidester 2014). In my own research, I use the term religionization to refer to the various processes whereby Christians, in different sociopolitical contexts throughout history, have laid an exclusive claim on the category of religion – Christians are truly religious – while simultaneously creating various figures of religious deviation or otherness. Compared to the Christian norm these figures of otherness, “the” Jew, “the” heretic, “the” pagan, “the” Saracen, “the” fanatic, “the” Semite, and so on were deemed not “­religious.” These figures of religious otherness are all socially constructed and thus imaginary categories; they redescribe the identity of “non-­Christians” and shape, mold, and craft their traditions in such a way that Christian normativity is reinforced.

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Religionization is akin to and intersects with ethnicization, gendering, and racialization, all of which are constructive processes of selfing (the construction of an imagined normative identity) and othering (the creation of a deviant and hence illegitimate other) that shape or frame the identity of social groups in a particular way. As critical scholars have recently pointed out (1) race, ethnicity, gender, and religion are all ascribed in a certain way to social groups; (2) this ascription includes the attribution of norms, behaviors, and roles. Furthermore, (3) people are divided, ­categorized, or dealt with based on their ethnicized, gendered, racialized, or religionized identity. In brief, these identities have an impact on social relations, that is, on how people engage with one another in their personal life, work context, and political relations. (4) Ethnicization, racialization, gendering, and, here, religionization are discourses of power, which strategically, epistemologically, and politically contribute to the establishment and legitimization of systems of structured inequality and exclusion. The act of making something religion feeds on the establishment of imaginary dichotomies between a Christian norm, on the one hand, and various expressions of religious deviation, on the other hand, for example, orthodoxy/heresy, Christian/Jew, Christian/pagan or idolater, and so on. Such dichotomies, which distinguish between true and false religion or good and bad religion, serve the purpose of constructing and reinforcing a sense of Christian normativity in different ­settings, while delegitimizing the beliefs and practices of Christianity’s others. In an effort to define “the” Christian norm more clearly, others were imagined as adversaries to whom problematic ­qualities and immoral behavior were attributed. Indeed, a key feature of religionization is the association of religious deviance with a lack of moral and mental qualities. Thus “Jews” were depicted as stubborn, greedy, and power-­hungry; “Muslims” as violent, untrustworthy, and irrational; “pagans” as stupid, immoral, and uncivilized; and those who embody the Christian norm as innocent, pure, pious, and so forth. Derogatory attributes assigned to non-­Christian groups legitimized the governance of deviant (read non-­Christian) groups: they needed to be educated, civilized, ­disciplined, controlled, domesticated, sanctioned, separated, or removed from those who embody the norm and occupy a position of power. To that end, a wide variety of “practices, institutions, and structures,” were put in place both in Europe and in its colonies, which eventually led to the establishment of a hierarchical order in society based on Christian normativity (Fredrickson 2002, p. 6). There were implications for whom you could marry, which work you could do, with whom you could do business, where you could live, and so forth. In turn, this established order, which sometimes quite literally separated Christians from non-­Christians (here one may think of the ghettos), also reinforced differences and endorsed the prejudices that already existed. Thus, domination assumed the creation of rhetorical figures of otherness, and categories of imagined otherness justified domination. In any case, religionized categories have had tremendous discursive power and have in the past (and in the present) contributed to the establishment of stratified ­societies: both in Europe and beyond, the social, legal, and political status of people (groups and individuals) have depended on their positionality vis-­à-­vis the Christian religious norm.4 That is why one can say that religion is a power category (Khan  2022) and that religionization is not merely the problem of personal prejudice, but is also a systemic and political problem. Religionized categories and taxonomies are volatile and malleable, nevertheless many of their underpinning normative assumptions stay with us and continue to direct our gaze and our perceptions of religious otherness. That many people today continue to associate Islam with violence and indigenous traditions with superstition is a case in point. We are dealing with profound and powerful stereotypical images, the origins of which are often forgotten or suppressed. Furthermore, while patterns of religionization shift and change over time, the very act of labeling, classifying, and essentializing, that is, the act of producing religionized images of otherness, is age-­old, and continues to this day. In our so-­called postsecular age, religion is still a power category and distinctions



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between good and bad religion are still omnipresent and still play a key part in the governance of social groups (Hurd 2017; Topolski 2018; Smith et al. 2020).

The Work of Rectification To realize the goal of rectification, comparative theologians ought to embed their work into an educational discourse and analytical framework that recognizes the all-­pervasiveness of religionization in the past and explores its persistence in the present. We need to sit with the problem rather than assume that it is bygone, or as Haraway would have it: we have to stay with the trouble (2016). Therefore, comparative theologians have to understand the genealogy of “the conceptions” and normative assumptions “alive in ‘our’ collective social imagination” especially as they pertain to religious differences (Fricker 2007, p. 14). This means understanding both the systemic mechanisms of (religious) selfing and othering, as well as the historical-­cultural images of self and other that emerged from processes of selfing and othering. How were our collective prejudicial images of self and other constructed in the past, and how do these images continue to impact us today when we encounter “those of other faiths”? How do the categories and conceptual frames that we tend to take at face value inadvertently contribute to the perpetuation of religionization? The so-­called world religions paradigm is a case in point. This paradigm, which is often projected as a scholarly emancipation from theological accounts of “non-­Christian” religions, and for that reason as a step forward in the effort to break with the legacy of Christian triumphalism, is at second glance a continuation of the legacy albeit in a modern dress.5 In any case, the claim that comparative theology seeks to interrupt the history of religionization must go hand in glove with the recognition that comparative theologians are also shaped by the past. As comparative theologians, we think with established categories, we operate within existing frames of interpretations, we work from normative assumptions, and employ seemingly self-­evident categories that may be implicated in the work of religionization. Comparative theologians, who are dedicated to the work of rectification and restoration, are shaped by particular traditions, located in sociopolitical contexts, and marked by dominant ideas. Often, despite our best intentions, we are unaware of the work of othering done by these traditions, categories, ideas, and so forth. Declaring oneself committed to learn from others and open to being interrupted might not be sufficient to move beyond hegemonic patterns of thinking. Here I agree with Takacs, who points to the “looming possibility that comparative theology merely subsumes the insights of other traditions into (usually) Christian theology and its systematic project” (Takacs  2022, p. 565). We have to question and criticize the categories through which we produce knowledge about self and other. Comparative theologians dedicated to the work of rectification for the purpose of reconciliation also need to be introduced to how “our collective social imagination,” again particularly as it pertains to religion, have contributed to unequal power relations between majority and minority groups and continue to do so. What are some of the normative assumptions about true, good, authentic religion in our society, and where do these assumptions spring from? Who benefits from them and who is disadvantaged by them? How are religionized differences materialized into the law (Mahmood 2009, p. 837)? Often interfaith teaching, and that includes teaching comparative theology, is too focused on addressing personal prejudices and does not sufficiently dwell on the institutionalized nature of patterns of religionization. Even in societies which in principle embrace religious freedom and equality, the effects of religionization are ongoing (Lauwers 2022). For comparative theology to be able to do the work of restoration it needs to appropriate insights from critical theory and the critical study of religion, which seeks to “expose [and resist] the [religionized]

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ideologies of oppression undergirding societies,” with the aim of liberating “the oppressed through alternative epistemologies, processes, and structures” (Tiemeier 2022, p. 148).

Conclusion When Clooney speaks about interfaith learning in terms of a spiritual, theological, and ethical responsibility, which concerns both one’s own tradition and that of the other, I interpret this as follows: Christian theologians must interrupt their religionized ways of thinking by learning about its history, by speaking up when such religionized patterns of thinking are perpetuated in the present, whether in ecclesial or political discourses, and by formulating expressions of Christianness that move beyond religionized essentializations. Deconstructing the history of religionization, is a precondition to opening a future of interreligious reconciliation and to creating a society based on inclusion, diversity, and equity. In the past the work of religionization was profoundly political. To undo the harm done by religionized patterns of thinking, comparative theology too has to take on an explicitly political stance by saying no to religionization. Comparative theologians have to be “proactive and brutally self-­critical” as they engage in the process of dismantling patterns of religionization, revisit seemingly natural (and innocent) categories, and seek to craft an understanding of Christianness which seeks to move beyond binary patterns of thinking and imaginary constructs (Tiemeier 2021, p. 91).

Notes 1 Since comparative theology is always contextual theology, it is relevant to realize that when I am talking about “us” and “we” and “our,” I intend those who, living and working in a Western European context, embody the norm of (secularized) White Christianity (see Wekker 2016). 2 However, recently the WRP has been heavily criticized by scholars of religion and is now recognized as an illustration of the Christian classification and organization of knowledge (Masuzawa  2005; Nongbri 2013; Thatamanil 2020). 3 Comparative theologian John Thatamanil also uses this term, but in a different way. For him it refers to the reification of malleable spiritual traditions, turning them into bounded conceptual systems (Thatamanil 2015). 4 For the US context, see Joshi (2020); for the European context, see Moyaert (2023, forthcoming). 5 It remains to be seen just how radical the effort at deconstruction will have to be and if it will be ­possible to dismantle structures of othering while at the same time reproducing religionized categories. For now, it seems hard to imagine that we will break away from the WRP. While it is true the WRP is a social construction, it is by now a near social reality, that is, it functions as real (Cotter and Robertson  2016). At a certain historical moment, the academic and later also Western society at large agreed that this paradigm made the most sense. Now, however, this consensus may shift and alter only when better and more suitable categories, concepts, and frames are invented, which hopefully are more inclusive, but which will nevertheless also have to be scrutinized.

References Allocco, A.L., Claussen, G.D., and Pennington, B.K. (2018). Constructing interreligious studies: Thinking critically about interfaith studies and the interfaith movement. In: Interreligious/Interfaith Studies: Defining a New Field (ed. E. Patel, J.H. Peace, and N.J. Silverman), pp. 36–48. Boston, MA: Beacon Press.



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Berzon, T.S. (2016). Classifying Christians: Ethnography, Heresiology, and the Limits of Knowledge in Late Antiquity. Oakland: University of California Press. Boyarin, D. (2004). Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-­ Christianity. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Cavanaugh, W.T. (2009). The Myth of Religious Violence: Secular Ideology and the Roots of Modern Conflict. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Chidester, D. (2014). Empire of Religion: Imperialism and Comparative Religion. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008). Beyond Compare: St. Francis de Sales and Śrī Vedānta Deśika on Loving Surrender to God. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2018). Learning Interreligiously: In the Text, in the World. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Clooney, F.X. (2022). Teaching and learning interreligiously in a time of change: Beginning (but not ending) with primary texts. In: The Georgetown Companion to Interreligious Studies (ed. L. Mosher), pp. 281–290. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Cornille, C. (2020). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Cotter, C.R. and Robertson, D.G. (2016). Introduction: The world religions paradigm in contemporary religious studies. In: After World Religions: Reconstructing Religious Studies (ed. C.R. Cotter and D.G. Robertson), pp. 1–20. Abingdon: Routledge. Dreßler, M. (2019). Modes of religionization: A constructivist approach to secularity. Working paper series of the HCAS Multiple Secularities – Beyond the West, Beyond Modernities 7, Leipzig. Fitzgerald, T. (2000). The Ideology of Religious Studies. New York: Oxford University Press. Fredrickson, G.M. (2002). Racism: A Short History. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Fricker, M. (2007). Epistemic Injustice: Power and the Ethics of Knowing. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Haraway, D.J. (2016). Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Durham: Duke University Press. Hedges, P. (2022). The science of religion, comparative religion, mission, and the birth of comparative theology. In: A Companion to Comparative Theology (ed. P. Valkenberg), pp. 50–68. Leiden: Brill. Horrell, D.G. (2020). Ethnicity and Inclusion: Religion, Race, and Whiteness in Constructions of Jewish and Christian Identities. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Hurd, E. S. (2017). Beyond Religious Freedom: The New Global Politics of Religion. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Joshi, K. (2020). White Christian Privilege: The Illusion of Religious Equality in America. New  York: NYU Press. Khan, R.M. (2022). Speaking “religion” through a gender code: The discursive power and gendered-­ racial implications of the religious label. Critical Research on Religion 10: 153–169. Lauwers, A.S. (2022). Religion, secularity, culture? Investigating Christian privilege in Western Europe. Ethnicities. OnlineFirst. https://doi.org/10.1177/14687968221106185. Mahmood, S. (2009). Religious reason and secular affect: An incommensurable divide? Critical Inquiry 35: 836–862. Mandair, A.S. and Dressler, M. (2011). Introduction: Modernity, religionmaking, and the postsecular. In: Secularism and Religion-­Making (ed. M. Dressler and A.S. Mandair), pp. 3–36. New York: Oxford University Press. Masuzawa, T. (2005). The Invention of World Religions: Or, How European Universalism Was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Moyaert, M. (2014). In Response to the Religious Other: Ricoeur and the Fragility of Interreligious Encounters. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books. Moyaert, M. (2017a). Comparative theology after the Shoah: Risks, pivots, and opportunities of ­comparing traditions. In: How to Do Comparative Theology (ed. F.X. Clooney and K. von Stosch), pp. 164–187. New York: Fordham University Press.

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Moyaert, M. (2017b). Interreligious literacy and scriptural reasoning: Some hermeneutical, anthropological, pedagogical, and experiential reflections. In: Teaching Interreligious Encounters (ed. M.A. Pugliese and A.Y. Hwang), pp. 79–94. New York: Oxford University Press. Moyaert, M. (2019). Interreligious hermeneutics, prejudice, and the problem of testimonial injustice. Religious Education 114: 609–623. Moyaert, M. (2022). An introduction to Christian–Jewish comparative theology. In: A Companion to Comparative Theology (ed. P. Valkenberg), pp. 111–131. Leiden: Brill. Moyaert, M. (2023, forthcoming). Christian Imaginations of the Religious Other: A History of Religionization. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Nicholson, H. (2009). The reunification of theology and comparison in the new comparative theology. Journal of the American Academy of Religion 77 (3): 609–646. Nirenberg, D. (2014). Anti-­Judaism: The Western Tradition. New York: Norton. Nongbri, B. (2013). Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Said, E.W. (2003). Orientalism. London: Penguin Books. Smith, L.D., Führding, S., and Hermann, A. (2020). Hijacked: A Critical Treatment of the Public Rhetoric of Good and Bad Religion. Sheffield: Equinox. Takacs, A.M.O. (2021). Undoing and unsaying Islamophobia: Toward a restorative and praxis-­oriented Catholic theology with Islam. Horizons 48 (2): 320–366. Takacs, A.M.O. (2022). Comparative theology and interreligious studies: Embracing and transgressing the dialogical relationships among religious traditions. In: A Companion to Comparative Theology (ed. P. Valkenberg), pp. 563–582. Leiden: Brill. Thatamanil, J. (2015). How not to be a religion: Genealogy, identity, wonder. In: Common Goods: Economy, Ecology, and Political Theology (ed. M. Johnson-­DeBaufre, C. Keller and E. Ortega-­Aponte), pp. 54–72. New York: Fordham University Press. Thatamanil, J. (2020). Circling the Elephant: A Comparative Theology of Religious Diversity. New  York: Fordham University Press. Tiemeier, T.S. (2021). White Christian privilege and the decolonization of comparative theology. In:  The  Human in a Dehumanizing World: Reexamining Theological Anthropology and Its Implications (ed. J. Coblentz and D.P. Horan), pp. 85–95 (The Annual Publication of the College Theology Society 2021, vol. 67). Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Tiemeier, T.S. (2022). For whom, and to what end? Possibilities and implications of privileging ­intersectionality in interreligious studies. In: The Georgetown Companion to Interreligious Studies (ed. L. Mosher), pp. 147–156. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Topolski, A. (2018). Good Jew, bad Jew .  .  . good Muslim, bad Muslim: “Managing” Europe’s others. Ethnic and Racial Studies 41 (12): 2179–2196. Wekker, G. (2016). White Innocence: Paradoxes of Colonialism and Race. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

CHAPTER 37

Asking an Unusual Question of Kabir and Kazi Nazrul Islam Rachel Fell McDermott

There is likely no undergraduate who has ever taken a course on the religious traditions of India, or any Indian (at least from North India) who has not heard of Kabir, the sixteenth-­century probably Muslim weaver saint from Varanasi who wrote sarcastic, biting poems on the hypocrisy of the Muslim and Hindu religious folk of his day. In the inimitable translation of Linda Hess and Shukdev Singh, Qazi, what book are you lecturing on? Yak yak yak, day and night. You never had an original thought. Feeling your power, you circumcise – I can’t go along with that, brother. If your God favored circumcision, why didn’t you come out cut? If circumcision makes you a Muslim, what do you call your women? Since women are called man’s other half, you might as well be Hindus. If putting on the thread makes you Brahmin, what does the wife put on? That Shudra’s touching your food, pandit! How can you eat it? Hindu, Muslim – where did they come from? Who started this road? Look hard in your heart, and send out scouts: where is heaven? Now you get your way by force, but when it’s time for dying, without Ram’s refuge, says Kabir, brother, you’ll go out crying. (Hess and Singh 1983, pp. 69–70, poem 86) The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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In his caustic poems, castigating “morons and mindless fools” (Hess and Singh 1983, p. 69, poem 83, lines 1–2), Kabir denigrates rituals, external behaviors built on ego and pride, and ignorance of the formless God, whom he names Ram, in the heart. Although Kabir’s latter-­day devotees and followers have attempted over time to soften his message and his apparent demeanor, creating a kinder, gentler Kabir, one who wanted to effect a rapprochement between Hindus and Muslims, one cannot infer this from the poetry, which attacks both traditions equally. The Kabir most likely to be authentic, writes John Stratton Hawley, is “salty” and “skeptical” (Hawley and Juergensmeyer  2004, p.  48). One might conceivably call Kabir a “dual belonger,”1 in the sense that he apparently felt equally comfortable utilizing the religious vocabulary and imagery of both Hindu and Muslim traditions, but this is likely not a restful belonging. Indeed, I wonder whether any of us who teaches Kabir in classes on devotion to the formless Lord (nirguṇa bhakti) ever thinks of what Kabir is doing in his double critique of Muslim and Hindu institutions as being a form of comparative theology. This is certainly not comparative theology as Francis X. Clooney typically thinks of it, as “dynamic learning”2 that occurs from a “departure and return”3 oscillation from one religious tradition to another, shedding new light and inspiring further inquiry. In Kabir’s poems, Muslims and Hindus share positions on the same sides of the spiritual divide: ritualists from either tradition are pitted against lovers of God from either tradition. Thus, in spite of the fact that Muslims and Hindus are Kabir’s prime addressees, they are not “walking the path together” (Lefebure 2021, p. 255). And yet, as we shall see later, perhaps others may engage both communities, through Kabir, in a sort of comparative-­ theology-­ adjacent enterprise. For the past several years I have been engaged in the study of a Kabir-­esque modern poet from Bengal, a man named Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899–1976), who had a message for both Muslims and Hindus, whom he often addressed in the same poems. Nazrul lived his active life4 during the period right after World War I until the Quit India Movement and the lead-­up to Partition in the early 1940s, a period when Hindus and Muslims in Bengal were being inexorably pitted against one another. From his earliest published poetry to his last – from the early 1920s to the early 1940s – he evinced a concern for Hindu–Muslim amity, a fascination with stories of their heroes and gods, and, like Kabir, a distaste for the hypocrisy of their religious leaders. Studying Nazrul is easier than studying Kabir. We know so much more about Nazrul, not only from his own pen – his Collected Works fill twelve volumes5 – but also from accounts written by his contemporaries. In this short chapter I aim to explore the quite extraordinary and truly visionary use of language, imagery, and genre in Kazi Nazrul’s literary oeuvre, and then to attempt an explanation for it. What did Nazrul intend by using poetry to provoke the attention of Muslims and Hindus? Can a litterateur act theologically? Or, how could the discipline of comparative theology approach, or utilize, Nazrul?

Nazrul’s Mixed Style During his lifetime, Nazrul produced many small books of poetry, songs, and essays, not to mention short stories, plays, and letters. He composed new musical ragas (a melodic piece of improvisation from the classical Indian tradition), wrote music for films, and even acted in a film. His first book of poetry, Agnibı̄ṇā, or the Fiery Lyre, published in October of 1922, includes twelve poems; these, one could say, provide a blueprint for the moods and genres of his corpus for the next twenty years.6 In the opening poem, “Pralayollās,” or “The Ecstasy of Destruction,”



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the  poet describes God as Mahākāl, Ś iva, or the Frightful One, dancing in rage against Britain, bringing a new world in the wake of his loud roars and swishing sword, and exhorting others to sound the tones of victory. In the fourth poem, “Dhūmketu,” or “The Comet,” Nazrul goes further, claiming that he, the comet, will strike God, who has failed to act properly. I come age after age. This time I have come for a great revolution. I am the Ruin of the Creator, Great Time, the Comet! [...] Just as a dread female tiger when catching her prey does not immediately drink its blood, but keeping it within sight, in intense sadistic pleasure, plays with it like a serpent while the prey gasps for breath, so also I do to God: I keep him in front of me day and night, running around him playfully, laughing a demonic laugh. I am that destroyer, the Tigress of Fire.7

In two additional poems, “Raktāmbar Dhāriṇı ̄ Mā,” “The Mother Clothed with Blood,” and “Āgamanı ̄,” “The Coming,” it is not Ś iva but the Hindu Goddesses Durgā and/or Kālı̄ whom the poet addresses. From the first poem: May the blood from your sword drip like red ribbons onto the chest of the Creator Śiva ... Choke those tyrants, Mā; hang them with the blue noose of your long chain necklace. Tear off your soft girdle and make it into a whip; then whip up lightning. By the blood dripping from the tyrants’ chests, may white and green turn red.

These four poems are explicitly based on traditional Hindu imagery. Six others focus on Muslim themes, or address Muslims: for example, a poem about Attaturk (“Kāmāl Pāś ā”); “Ā noyār,” a hero in medieval Constantinople; the offering of meat at I d̄ (“Korbānı̄”); and the religious celebration of Moharram. The following lines are from “Moharram”: Today the month of Moharram has returned; I desire sacrifice, not the weeping of dirges. With the Qur’an as a diadem and the sword of the Arabs in your hand, In the world no Muslim’s head is bowed to anyone.

These poems are powerful and – to our eyes, trained to look for communalism – astounding: that a Muslim writer could compose some poems suffused with Hindu terminology and imagery and others equally suffused with Islamic terms and proper names. But Nazrul goes further; in his most famous poem from that early collection, “Bidrohı ̄,” “The Rebel,” written in 1921, he compares the dread energy of the political rebel to Ś iva, Durgā, Kālı ̄, and a host of other Hindu mythological and religious figures, in addition to Ghengis Khan and a series of Muslim heroes. Likewise, in “Kṛṣāṇer Gān,” “The Song of the Peasant,” from 1925, he likens the innocence of the exploited agricultural

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laborers to figures from the Hindu epic, the Rāmāyaṇa, and to actors in the Muslim narrative about the martyrdom of Hussain at Karbala: We are the true children of the soil, green as the young grass Rama, the enemy of Ravana, is lying hidden in our beauty, And Sita is none other than the harvest we reap at the point of our plough. Yet today Ravana is robbing us of Sita, the paddy of our fields. Comrade, we are martyrs sacrificing our lives In the Mecca of our fields, The harvest reaped of our blood Is being robbed by Satan. Where can we go, Comrade? Fire awaits us at home And a raging storm outside. Today the gang of Yazid has surrounded us Killing us mercilessly.8

This unusual and interwoven imagery is not simply ornamental; Nazrul also explicitly exhorts his listeners and readers to be open-­minded about each other. For in 1926, at the height of Hindu– Muslim tensions in Bengal, fearing that communal mistrust would undermine any chance for a united front against the British, Nazrul wrote “Kāṇḍārı̄ Huś iyār!,” or “Helmsman, Beware!” Here the helmsman, or the captain, is ferrying a boatload of ordinary Bengalis across the turbulent political ocean of Bengal. He speaks to the captain, telling him not to differentiate between the religious orientations of the passengers: all should be brought to safety. The helpless race is drowning; they don’t know how to swim. Helmsman! Today I will see how you resolve to free the motherland. “Are they Hindus or Muslims?” Which person asks this question? Helmsman! Reply: “It is men who are sinking, children of the Mother.”9

Over the years I have wondered about the motivation for such poetry. Was Nazrul a perennialist philosopher, someone who believed all religions to lead to the same ultimate experience? He has never been claimed as a saint in either Muslim or Hindu tradition, but could he have been a mystic of some sort? Did he engage at some level in Hindu–Muslim dialogue? In some sort of comparative theology? What did he feel about Hindu and Muslim traditions? What was the motivation for his unique style?

Nazrul the Pioneer of Muslim Regeneration It is abundantly clear that Nazrul cared about all of Bengal – in particular, the oppressed, whether women, outcastes, coolies, farm laborers, Muslims, or those ground down by poverty. In 1927, he wrote in a letter to an acquaintance, Ibrahim Khan, that during the prior eight years since his return from army duty during World War I, he had wandered on foot from village to village all over Bengal, trying to incite people to revolt against the British and to curtail social abuses against the downtrodden. He comments, somewhat sarcastically, that “because of the ‘offense’ of this service



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to my country and society, Sri Government Babaji has kept a keen eye on me. My most circulated books have been banned.”10 He continues, remarking that tyranny, in its several forms, whether derived from political injustice or societal superstitions and hypocrisies, are the target of his bidroha, or rebellion. He compares himself to a surgeon removing a rotten limb from society; the social body will cry out and flail its arms in pain in all directions, but the knife is better than simple, and false, reassurances (Nazrul 2009, 4th ed., Vol. 9, pp. 184, 186). It is best, he says – again mixing Hindu and Muslim imagery  – to die at the hands of a real hero, like Rāma, Rāvaṇa, or Kumbhakārṇa, Rāvaṇa’s sleeping giant brother whom one has to awaken, than not to enter the battle at all. Destruction is not for the sake of annihilation, but for up-­building; here he cites the Mughals, who destroyed in order to create – Delhi, Agra, the peacock throne, and the Taj Mahal (Nazrul 2009, 4th ed., Vol. 9, pp. 186–187). In spite of this generalized exhortation, Nazrul perhaps paid most attention to the uplifting of Muslim youth. Indeed, not all of Nazrul’s poems and songs utilize interwoven Hindu and Muslim imagery. He wrote many poems and songs that are devoted entirely to love, and others are focused on Islamic themes, heroes, events, and hopes. In several famous poems he describes the pathos of the death of the Prophet; writes of his devotion to the Prophet, his teachings, and the holy days of the religious calendar; and signals his pride in the social achievements of true Islam. In “Dharmer Pathe Ś ahı ̄d Yāhārā” (“Those who became martyrs for religion”), he writes: Not for the Muslims alone had Islam come. One who owed allegiance to Allah and sought truth above all things was indeed a true Muslim. We belong to the same people who once wiped out the difference between the prince and the pauper. To us all men are free and equal. We were the first to liberate the female, we gave her equal rights with the male. We demolished the false barriers that men had built to keep men apart. We removed the veil from the face of the night, and brought to the world the light of hope and happiness.11

Especially during the Pakistan era (1947–1971), but also more recently, Nazrul has been called “the pioneer of Muslim regeneration in Bengal,” and there is no dearth of evidence for this laudatory title. What Nazrul loved and took from Islam was the humanism and freedom at its core. “I do believe in the novelty and superiority of Islam … I am a small poet, and by my many compositions I have sung of this greatness of Islam” (from the letter to Ibrahim Khan, in Nazrul 2009, Vol. 9, p. 187). His introduction of the Persian ghazal form into the Bengali language in 1926; his innovation, from 1932, of composing and recording Islamic devotional songs in Bengali (their popularity, given that Bengali Muslims had been strongly averse to devotional music, was astonishing); his personal support for Bengali Muslim student and youth movements; and his call for Muslims to awaken to political consciousness  – all of these bespeak his care of and identification with the Muslim community. “I know that by uplifting the Bengal Muslims, the greatest benefit would be conferred upon the country. Because they have not yet awoken, the path to independence for our country has been blocked” (from the letter to Ibrahim Khan, in Nazrul 2009, Vol. 9, p. 189).

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Further, in a letter to Mr M. Serajaul Haq, of the Bengali Muslim Youth Association (established in November 1932), Nazrul stated, “All over the world today there is a great awakening … The thunderbolt of revolt is resounding everywhere. At the shining dawn of this widespread awakening, will the youth of Muslim Bengal be roused from their sleep of delusion? … Let them follow the pattern of Babar, Humayun, Shahjahan, Salauddin, Khalid, Tarik, Musa, Hanjela, and Akbar and bring to dust the ancient walls of illiteracy, hatred, envy, and subservience” (Nazrul 2009, Vol. 9, p. 254). His specific criticism of Muslim society was what he considered its superstitions, fanaticism, and bigotry. “Those who believe that I am rebelling against the truth or am speaking against Islam are unreasonable and make a mistake.” “Whether Bengali Muslim society is poor in wealth I do not know, but I have been feeling for a long time and with pain that it is poor in mind. Muslim society has rewarded me with the title ‘kafir,’ and I have accepted it” (from the letter to Ibrahim Khan, in Nazrul 2009, Vol. 9, p. 189). “But I am embarrassed, thinking that I am considered big enough to have the title “kafir” applied to me. Do they think that if anyone utters the names of Hindu gods and goddesses, he is a kafir? Then Bengali literature will never be enriched by Muslim authors” (p. 182). Nazrul described the Muslim society of his day as “deserving of fear. It always has a raised lathi … How many brickbats have not been thrown at me?” (p. 183). Five separate actions antagonized Nazrul’s more conservative Muslim critics: (1) his use of Hindu terminology and genres in his oeuvre; (2) his refusal to champion a communal Muslim identity; (3) his unconventional personal life; (4) his symbolic interpretation of many Islamic ritū or “The Martyr’s Id,” ̄ he challenges his fellow Muslims als and customs (for instance, in “Ś ahı̄d Id,” ̄ not to offer animals to God in Id but rather [to] “sacrifice the beasts of your heart”);12 and (5) his refusal to use his poetic output to strengthen adherence to Muslim law.13 A fellow poet, Sajanikanta Das, once called Nazrul “the best poet among Muslims” (Sengupta  2012, p.  73). This angered Nazrul, because he did not consider himself just a Muslim poet. He felt the religious openness and humanism that he found at the core of Islam to be universal values for everyone.

The Hindu-­Saturated World of Nazrul Islam But there is another Nazrul, one who – to our postcolonial world of national and religious boundaries – can seem quite surprising. After a first, near-­marriage to a young Muslim girl, he fell in love with a Hindu girl, Asalata Sengupta, the niece of the woman whom he later came to love as his adoptive mother, Birajasundari. Asalata and Nazrul fell in love over several months when Nazrul came to Comilla to stay in their home in 1922, and it was from their house that he was arrested in November 1922 and given a sentence of one year’s hard labor for sedition. The first thing he did after being released from prison at the end of 1923 was to return to Comilla and propose to Asalata, whom he renamed Pramila, after the wife of Rāvaṇa’s son Meghanāda, a character created by Michael Madhusudan Datta in his famed Bengali rendition of the Rāmāyaṇa from 1861. The conservative Hindu society of the time, however, could not countenance a marriage across sampradāyas, or communities. No one from the entire Sengupta family supported the wedding except for Asalata’s widowed mother, Giribala, who took Nazrul and Asalata to Calcutta and quietly got them married. Nazrul did not want Asalata to convert, so Giribala arranged that they could be married in the way that the Mughals wed Rajput women, considering their wives “People of the Book.” This marriage generated a negative reaction among Hindu and Muslim communities. Even many Brahmos were scandalized.14 Pramila’s family in Comilla had to leave their home and move to Calcutta. After the marriage it seems as though neither Nazrul nor Pramila involved themselves much in religious community or ritual life at all. Their home was open to friends of all backgrounds



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and persuasions  – Nazrul’s hospitality was legendary, even when he was in a state of absolute penury. Giribala Devi, who lived with them during most of their married life,15 performed Lakṣmı̄ Pūjā every Thursday in their home, and Nazrul inaugurated several Durgā Pūjā celebrations over the course of his life. Nazrul’s catholic attitude was not a passive acceptance; he seems to have been able to move effortlessly and with enthusiasm between cultural–linguistic–religious worlds. He knew enough about Hindu mythology and belief – perhaps gained from his youthful reading and his involvement in a leṭo or improvisational poetry group  – to compose music and songs for plays and films on Hindu figures and themes, such as Caitanya (1939), Durgā (1939), and Annapūrṇā, Pārvatı ̄, and Arjuna (1940). And the Kālı ̄-­centered devotional poetry that he composed in the mid-­1930s was so moving that many Hindus consider it the height of the spiritual genre. Other, more conservative Hindus were dismayed by Nazrul. He recognized, in his letter to Ibrahim Khan, that the fact of his being Muslim was, to many Hindus, an offense, no matter how noncommunal he was (Nazrul 2009, Vol. 9, p. 183). He occasionally found it hard to find places to live, because orthodox Hindus did not want to rent to a Muslim or eat with a Muslim.16 Nazrul was critical of this communal consciousness and was just as scathing about empty Hindu ritual as he was of slavish adherence to Muslim custom. In one of his poems on equality, he castigates both Hindu priests and Muslim mullahs for their insensitivity and blind faith: Your mosques and temples are not meant for man Men have no right in them. The Mollahs and the Priests Have closed their doors under lock and keys. Where is Chengis? Where is Mahmood of Gazni? Where are the bold iconoclasts of yesterday? Break open the locked doors of those holy places of worship [...] Comrades, Hammer away at the closed doors Of those mosques and temples, and hit with your shovel mightily, For climbing on their minaret, The cheats are today glorifying Selfishness and hypocrisy.17

Up until the end of his active conscious life, Nazrul advocated for Hindu–Muslim amity and rapprochement. In one of his last speeches, “If the Flute Does Not Play Any More,” given on the occasion of the Silver Jubilee of the Bangı̄ya Mussalmān Sāhitya Samiti, in 1941, Nazrul commented, “don’t look at me … as someone belonging only to Muslims. If I come, I will come only as a servant of the one and only indivisible God who is above Hindus and Muslims, above all nations and creeds.”18 Further, in one of his last letters, written in the summer of 1942 to Syamaprasad Mukhopadhyay, a Hindu politician who had joined forces with Fazlul Huq to create a Progressive Coalition Ministry to prevent the Muslim League from suing for Partition, Nazrul commended Mukhopadhyay and stated that the only hope for Bengal rested on this Hindu–Muslim coalition. “You know, all my life I have pleaded for Hindu–Muslim unity with the people of our country, in  poetry, song, and prose…  .  I know we will bring India complete independence  – the day you and  Subhas Bose [another Hindu who cared passionately for Hindu–Muslim friendship and

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c­ooperation]  …  become the country’s true leaders. Please accept my heartfelt gratitude and thanks.”19 Nazrul would have despaired to know, however, that the coalition foundered within four months of his letter, and that turning back from Partition was by then almost inconceivable.20

“I Have Done It, Aware of the Consequences” As is clear from the foregoing, a variety of complementary interests, passions, and expressions of religious and political belief blossomed in the literary output of Nazrul Islam. In a way, he goes further than Kabir in this double life, as he wrote acclaimed poetry and songs in praise of and in complete literary continuity with Hindu and, separately, Muslim genres and sentiments – in addition to his “mixed” poetry. Here, I return to the question with which I began: given that even today this mingling of Hindu and Muslim genres, people, commitments, and devotions is so rare, how are we to account for it? I have not found anywhere in Nazrul’s poetry or prose anything resembling a coherent philosophical statement about the spiritual unity of all religions, the necessity of formal interreligious dialogue, or the heights of union achieved through mystic realization. He is not a follower of a Sufi tariqa, as far I am aware; the closest he comes to this are his meditation experiences with his Ś ākta Tantric guru, Baradacaran Majumdar. In a late essay called “The Beauty That Is Mine” (“Amar Sundar”), he recalls that after the death of his son Bulbul, he began to read the Qur’an and texts of Vedanta.21 But the only hints that I have been able to find indicating that he thinks of philosophical concepts in relation to communal harmony occurs in a letter written on December 21, 1940, to the conveners of the Calcutta Muslim Student Conference. He writes, “my mantra is [a famous sura from the Qur’an: “it is you alone we worship, and you alone we ask for help”]. I am the servant of God,” Nazrul continues; “I am not willing to be the servant of anyone else – I only crave strength from Him. I am a fakir, a supreme beggar at Allah’s door – if I gain strength and mercy from him, insallah, then the sound of the drum of truth will sound, not in India only but in the whole world. Then the flood of the nectar of the monists, of tawḥıd̄ , will flow. All men of the world will come together in this advaita doctrine” (Nazrul 2009, Vol. 9, pp. 270–271). Such a statement, joining the Muslim concept of tawḥıd̄ , that is, the oneness and unity of God, with the Hindu philosophy of advaita, that is, monistic awareness, demonstrates to me that Nazrul did understand the claims of nondual experience, from both Muslim and Hindu traditions, and that he found them fruitful in expressing what he hoped, politically, for human understanding and cooperation. Nevertheless, Nazrul was not a systematic theologian or philosopher, and his tolerance was not generally articulated in such language. But can we say more? In fact, we can. In his lengthy 1927 letter to Ibrahim Khan, already mentioned, he stated clearly that literature is the only way to eliminate distrust between Hindus and Muslims  – and that he purposely introduced Hindu and Muslim imagery in his revolutionary poems in order to knock down barriers and to raise up a common sensibility. Even if Bengali literature is not the daughter of Sanskrit, it is the step-­or foster-­daughter. As a result, the stream of Hindu feeling has piled up so thoroughly that if one separates it out, half of the Bengali language will be destroyed. The idea of separating Greek history from English literature – no one would think of this. Bengali literature is the literature of both Hindus and Muslims. If Muslims see the names of Hindu devas and devis in it they will get angry, just as Hindus contract their eyebrows if they see everyday Muslim words in their literature. I am a complete believer in the mixing of Hindu and Muslim. That is why, in order to strike blows at these customs, I use Muslim words as well as the names of Hindu devas and devis. Because of this, the beauty of my poetry has certainly been hurt. But I have done it, aware of the consequences. (Nazrul 2009, Vol. 9, p. 189)



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He was still enunciating the rewards of this use of literature fourteen years later, by then perceiving it almost as a calling: “The constant fighting between Hindus and Muslims, animosity and wars between nations, the inequality between the mercilessly poor, indebted, and needy, and the monstrously greedy piling up crores and crores of rupees in banks – these are what I came to eliminate. In my poetry, songs, music, work, I have established beauteous unity and equality” (Zaman 2020, Vol. 2, p. 210). So Nazrul self-­consciously joined the riches of two religious traditions in single poems in order to shock people into new consciousness. Such poems were not, then, the result of duality-­erasing mystic experience. They arose from a poet who expressed his life experiences and reading of Islam in literature that was intended to transform Bengal. Not just any poet could have pulled off this most unusual literary experiment: it arose from a man with a composite life, a liberal interpretation of Islam, and a noncommunal, a-­sampradāyic orientation. If comparative theology entails a task or venture of exploration – from home territory to the outside, even if that outside is known and/or quite close, and back again – almost in a forward-­ moving zigzag fashion for the sake of insight, inquiry, or transformation, then it is not clear to me that Kabir and Nazrul themselves are engaged in such a practice. Both seem to walk in their worlds with ease, without the need for study, comparative reflection, or “return”; in Nazrul’s case, as we have seen, he is straightforward in admitting that the mixed language is in aid of a particular sociopolitical vision. Although there remain many conservative Hindus and Muslims who are skeptical, even critical, of Nazrul’s cross-­boundary ventures, in today’s India and Bangladesh, where he is revered as the Rebel Poet and the National Poet, respectively, people of a noncommunal perspective often signal to him as their inspiration. Literature can go a long way toward eliminating distrust and stunning people into new awareness, new social cohesion. But beyond inspiring religious acceptance of others, can reading Kabir and Nazrul lead to a different sort of insight or self-­consciousness? Indeed, perhaps my initial question needs to be inverted. If Kabir and Nazrul were not themselves “doing comparative theology,” could their audiences use their poetry in such a manner? Imagine reading Kabir or Nazrul in conjunction with Isaiah 1:11 (“What to me is the multitude of your sacrifices? says the Lord; I have had enough of burned offerings of rams and the fat of well-­fed beasts; I do not delight in the blood of bulls, or of lambs, or of goats”), Isaiah 32:6 (“For the fool speaks folly, and his heart is busy with iniquity, to practice ungodliness, to utter error concerning the Lord, to leave the craving of the hungry unsatisfied, and to deprive the thirsty of drink”), Psalm 5:9 (“For there is no truth in their mouth; their inmost self is destruction; their throat is an open grave; they flatter with their tongue”), or Matthew 15:7 (“You hypocrites! Well did Isaiah prophesy of you, when he said: ‘This people honors me with their lips, but their heart is far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching as doctrines the commandments of men’”). Instead of marveling, as one might from a scholar’s perspective, on the ambidextrous talent of the South Asian authors who are able to encompass two traditions at once, one might instead receive their poems  – alongside others with which one is familiar  – as injunctions to self-­scrutiny and renewed sincerity in relating to God. In other words, rather than merely admiring Kabir and Nazrul for their well-­aimed jibes at others, their poetic messages might act in theological reflection to call us to our own returns. I imagine that this is how our cherished colleague Clooney might approach them.

Notes 1 For a thorough investigation of this concept, see the essays in Soars and Pohran (2022). 2 Francis X. Clooney, in his Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary (2005, p. ix), describes a learning dynamic as occurring when a Christian reads a Hindu hymn to a goddess, then reads a Christian Marian hymn, and then returns to the Hindu hymn, which can be read anew in light of the Marian one.

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3 This “departure and return” approach is discussed in Brecht and Locklin (2016). 4 When Nazrul was 43, in 1942, he manifested symptoms of some sort of neurological dysfunction, which fairly quickly rendered him speechless and with almost no cognition. He lived the last 34 years of his life in mental isolation. 5 Nazrul-­Racanābalı̄ (Bangla Academy). Each volume is periodically revised by a board of editors and reissued, serially. In references to follow, I cite individual volumes, as used. 6 These poems may be found in Agnibı̄ņā, as reproduced in Nazrul (2006, 4th ed., Vol. 1, pp. 1–48). 7 In the poems and quotations to follow, unless otherwise specified the translations are by the author. 8 Translated by Kabir Chowdhury in Huda (1997, p. 334). The original Bengali poem was published in a collection called Sarbahārā, and it may be found in Nazrul-­Racanābalı̄ (Nazrul 2007, 3rd ed., Vol. 2, pp. 113–114). 9 The Bengali original for this also comes from the collection called Sarbahārā (see Nazrul 2007, 3rd ed., Vol. 2, pp. 122–123). 10 See the Bhadra 1334 (1927) number of “Naoroj” (“New Day”), where a letter to Nazrul Islam by Principal Ibrahim Khan was published; the reply was published in the Paus number 1334 of “Saogāt” (see Nazrul 2009, 4th ed., Vol. 9, p. 183). 11 Translated by Kabir Chowdhury in Huda (1997, p.  583). The Bengali may be found in a poetry ­collection called Bulbul, vol. 2 (1952), collected in Nazrul (2009, 4th ed., Vol. 6, p. 276). 12 This poem was first published in 1924 in a collection called Bhāṅgār Gān. It has been republished in Nazrul (2006, Vol. 1, pp. 177–181). 13 See his comments on this topic in his letter to his friend Anwar Hossein from 1925 in Nazrul (2009, Vol. 9, p. 179). 14 Ramananda Cattopadhyay, a Brahmo who edited the monthly magazine Prabāsı̄, had printed Nazrul’s poems and received a large amount of money for them. But after the marriage the printing of Nazrul’s poems in his magazine was completely stopped. But Dr. Bidhancandra Ray, even though a Brahmo, was very sympathetic to Nazrul. Years later, after becoming the chief minister of Bengal, he arranged the healthcare of the ailing Nazrul (Nazrul 2009, Vol. 9, p. 45). 15 Giribala Devi left abruptly on May 10, 1948, never to be seen again (see Nazrul 2009, Vol. 9, pp. 90–93). 16 He returned home in 1920, after the Bengal regiment was disbanded at the conclusion of World War I. At first, he stayed with his Hindu friend Sailajananda but soon had to leave because of rising communal tensions in the mess. Thereafter he stayed with Muzaffar Ahmed at the Bengal Islamic Literature Association (see Kazi 2009, p. A22; see also Sengupta 2012, p. 51). 17 Translated by Kabir Chowdhury in Huda (1997, p. 261). The Bengali poem is called “Mānuṣ” and is preserved in Nazrul (2007, Vol. 2, pp. 81–83). 18 “Jadi Ār Bāṅśi nā Bāje,” translated by Sajed Kamal, in Zaman (2020, Vol. 2, p. 210). 19 On July 10, 1942, after Nazrul suffered mental impairment and the loss of his speech, he was sent to Madhupur for treatment. From there he wrote to Syamaprasad Mukhopadhyay (Nazrul 2009, Vol. 9, pp. 274–275). 20 Ironically, Syamaprasad Mukhopadhyay quickly emerged as a spokesman for Hindu interests only, and soon after stepping down from Huq’s Progressive Coalition Ministry joined the right-­wing Hindu Mahasabha of which he became the president in 1944. 21 This essay appeared as an editorial on 2  June 1942, in the newspaper Nabajug. See Debjani Sengupta’s translation in Zaman (2020, Vol. 2, p. 195).

References Brecht, M. and Locklin, R.B. (2016). Introduction. In: Comparative Theology in the Millennial Classroom: Hybrid Identities, Negotiated Boundaries (ed. M. Brecht and R.B. Locklin), pp. 1–17. New  York: Routledge. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Divine Mother, Blessed Mother: Hindu Goddesses and the Virgin Mary. New  York: Oxford University Press.



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Hawley, J.S. and Juergensmeyer, M. (2004). Songs of the Saints of India. New  York: Oxford University Press. Hess, L. and Singh, S. (trans.) (1983). The Bı̄jak of Kabir. San Francisco: North Point Press. Huda, M.N. (ed.) (1997). The Poetry of Nazi Nazrul Islam in English Translation (trans. K. Chowdhury). Dhaka: Nazrul Institute. Kazi, K. (2009). Nazrul: The Poet Remembered. New Delhi: Government of India Ministry of External Affairs. Lefebure, L.D. (2021). “At one or not at one?” Christian atonement in light of Buddhist perspectives. In: Atonement and Comparative Theology: The Cross in Dialogue with Other Religions (ed. C. Cornille), pp. 239–258. New York: Fordham University Press. Nazrul, K. Islam. (2006) –2009. Nazrul-­Racanābalı̄, 12 vols. Dhaka: Bangla Academy. Sengupta, S. (2012). Kājı̄ Nazrul Islām o Āmār Māmābāḍi. Howrah: Sahajpath. Soars, D. and Pohran, N. (eds.) (2022). Hindu-­Christian Dual Belonging. London: Routledge. Zaman, N. (ed.) (2020). Kazi Nazrul Islam: Selections, 2 vols. Dhaka: Writers.Ink.

CHAPTER 38

Comparative Theology avant la lettre? A Muslim “Deep Reading” of the Ra ̄ma ̄yaṇa in Early Modern South Asia Shankar Nair

I was extremely fortunate to begin my doctoral studies shortly after Father Clooney’s arrival at Harvard Divinity School to assume his role as Parkman Professor of Divinity. It was my great honor and privilege to study under him for the duration of my program, an intellectual formation that shaped in numerous ways the dissertation project that would ultimately become my first book, Translating Wisdom (Nair  2020). Although that project was primarily an exercise in ­intellectual history, it was intended to serve (however indirectly) the purposes of comparative philosophy and comparative theology as well, furnishing a case study of two premodern non-­ Western religious traditions – one Hindu and the other Islamic – and the intellectual processes through which they managed to craft a fecund interreligious dialogue between them. Through that historical reconstruction of an instance of theological exchange and “deep learning across religious ­borders” (to echo Professor Clooney’s  2010 monograph), my hope was thus to also ­provide insights and models for the better fashioning of similar such dialogues in our context(s) today. Perhaps, one could say, those premodern South Asian thinkers were engaging in a sort of “comparative theology” avant la lettre, even as I – in a fragmented and deficient echo of the work of our dear teacher Professor Clooney – drew deeply from those thinkers to formulate my own partial, inchoate ­comparative theology sans la lettre. In this short piece  – my humble contribution to this richly deserved Festschrift in Clooney’s honor  – I proceed in a similar vein, presenting in translation another instance of a premodern Islamic “deep reading” of Hinduism. The text in question is the Masnavı̄-yi Rām o Sı̄tā (“The Tale [in Rhyming Couplets] of Rāma and Sı̄tā”), an early seventeenth-­century Persian rendition of the Rāmāyaṇa (“The Journey of Rāma”). The Rāmāyaṇa, of course, is often identified as one of the two central Hindu epics (alongside the Mahābhārata), a foundational Indian narrative typically

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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classified as a Hindu scripture, albeit of the secondary or “remembered” (smṛti) variety. The Rāmāyaṇa’s reach was pervasive and deep across the many regions within South Asia and beyond, becoming the subject of hundreds of not only Hindu retellings, but also Buddhist, Jain, and otherwise (see, e.g., Richman 1991, 2001; Clines 2022). Considerably less studied, however, are the many Muslim engagements with and retellings of this enduring “Hindu” tale, of which the Masnavı̄-­yi Rām o Sı̄tā provides one stunning example, composed by the Indo-­Muslim Sufi poet Mullā Saʿd Allāh “Ması̄ḥ” Pānı̄patı̄ (fl. ca. 1630). Ması̄ḥ composed his Masnavı̄ around 1624 in an apparent bid for imperial patronage, which it seems the Mughal Emperor Jahāngı̄r (r. 1605–1627) never granted. Irrespective of this relative lack of recognition at the time of its composition, however, the literary qualities of Ması̄ḥ’s Persian Rāmāyaṇa are especially noteworthy, as will be indicated in some measure in the passage below. Indeed, rather than a discursive comparative theology, it is far more a Muslim-­Hindu “theopoetics” (à la Clooney 2013) that Ması̄ḥ puts on display within his Masnavı̄. The plot of the narrative, of course, is one drawn from the Hindu Rāmāyaṇa myth (see Gandhi 2014), which Ması̄ḥ has then refracted through an intricate and remarkable Persian literary prism. The result is a complex and multilayered work, founded on an Indian tale of Sanskritic provenance, but woven of multiple Persian tropes, genres, and styles, ranging from the heroic epic of the Shāhnāmah and other romantic masnavı̄s, to Sufi love poetry, to, perhaps most distinctively, the tāzah-­gūʾı̄ or “Speaking Anew” style of Persian lyric so prominent in Ması̄ḥ’s day (also known as the so-­called “Indian style” or sabk-­i Hindı̄) (see Keshavmurthy  2018). Though some have accordingly judged the Masnavı̄-­yi Rām o Sı̄tā, with fair reason, to be a clear example of the “domestication” of Hindu materials to Perso-­Islamic religious and literary norms (Keshavmurthy 2018, pp. 4–5), such an adjudication, I would argue, risks an insufficient appreciation of the “deep learning” that Ması̄ḥ has undergone in the process of taking on and engaging this paramount Hindu myth, one that he seemingly acknowledges as meaningfully “foreign” to his own Islamic tradition. Indeed, as I hope the below translation will illustrate in some measure, Ması̄ḥ did not emerge from the experience unchanged; rather, his encounter with Rāma’s tale rendered Ması̄ḥ’s understanding of himself and his own Islamic tradition somehow transfigured. This process, as Ması̄ḥ avers in his preface to the text, was in fact an act of Muslim piety – rather than unbelief (kufr) or a capitulation to so-­called Hindu idolatry – and one that served to usher him ever closer to the spiritual ideal of genuine “loverhood” (ʿāshiqı̄) (Ması̄ḥ 2009, pp.  33, 52–54; Keshavmurthy  2018, pp. 5–7, 9–11). Like a moth that willingly sacrifices itself to the flames of veridical love – the same love that overwhelmed and struck Moses unconscious at Mount Sinai (Qur’an 7:143)  – Ması̄ḥ prays for God to make him “drunk by love’s goblet” (az jām-­i ʿishq mast), suggesting throughout his preface that hearing Rāma’s tale will help to conduct his readers/listeners along the same transformative journey (Ması̄ḥ 2009, p.  33). Acknowledging the protestations of his small-­minded Muslim critics, the poet defends himself explicitly against accusations of unbelief (kufr), or a supposedly Hindu-­inspired idol worship, due to his narration of the seemingly “non-­Islamic” tale of Rāma. Indeed, Ması̄ḥ levels his own reproach in turn, critiquing his critics’ criticism as “Sufi in appearance but Satanic in inner nature” (ṣūf ı̄ ṣūrat-­i iblı̄s maʿnı̄) (Ması̄ḥ 2009, p.  52; Keshavmurthy 2018, p. 10; Gandhi 2014, pp. 313–314). As can be seen in the passage below, this dynamic of an external appearance that does not match up with – and in fact conceals – one’s inner nature or reality is a central motif of the theopoetics that Ması̄ḥ interweaves throughout the tapestry of his Masnavı̄. Lastly, we should also make note of the theme of prophecy (nubuwwat) that Ması̄ḥ addresses repeatedly within his preface in a number of sections that occasionally verge on a discursive ­theology of religions, but never really departs from the author’s characteristic theopoetic mode. Not only does the poet devote an entire chapter of his preface to an encomiastic description of the

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Prophet Muhammad’s well-­known “Night Journey” or “Nocturnal Ascent” (miʿrāj), but Ması̄ḥ moreover invokes the well-­known Sufi notion of the “Muhammadan Light” (nūr-­i Muḥammadı̄), a reference to prophecy as a universal phenomenon across all times and all human civilizations, and hence across the entire roster of prophets whom God has sent to humankind. Ması̄ḥ explicitly references some of these pre-­Muhammadan prophets, as when he compares his purpose in narrating the story of Rāma to the Prophet Abraham’s own prophetic mission – one that aims to shatter idolatry and thus, despite appearances, in fact embodies the hightest ideals of Islamic spirituality: “Khalı̄l Allāh (Abraham) seeks the light (nūr) of Islam . . . Not for worship did he enter the idol-­temple; rather, it is for the shattering of idols that he became Abraham. Since I am a weaver of [Islamic] prayer rugs, I [too] am innocent of that [accusation of idol-­worship]; although my thread is made from the Brahmin’s sacred thread (zunnār)” (Ması̄ḥ 2009, p. 52). Ması̄ḥ similarly plays on his penname, “Ması̄h”̣ (“messiah”), a title he shares with the Prophet Jesus, remarking that Jesus miraculously breathed life into clay birds (Qur’an 5:110), just as the poet himself has ingeniously breathed poetic life into Rāma’s tale (Keshavmurthy 2018, p. 16). The enlivening of clay is ­furthermore inextricably intertwined with the Islamic account of the creation of the first human being, the Prophet Adam, whom the Qur’an reports was first fashioned by God out of clay (gil), and then God breathed His own divine spirit (rūh)̣ into the clay figure, thereby giving birth to the most exalted of God’s creations: humankind (Qur’an 15:26–50, among others). Centuries of Sufi e­ thical reflection have been grounded in this creation narrative, with the portion of our human constitution made up of God’s spirit representing the highest of human potentialities, while the portion made up of clay/dust/ mud represents the heavy inertia of our lowest tendencies. The human soul or nafs sits at the interstitial nexus of these two poles of our human make-­up, ­constantly suspended and caught between those poles, and facing the moral challenge, at each and every moment, of which side to cleave to. Such background is at play in Ması̄h’̣ s repeated ­references throughout his preface to the creation of Adam out of clay and spirit, with Satan (Iblı̄s) typically mentioned soon thereafter, a looming presence threatening to lure Adam away at any moment from God’s rightful guidance, and instead toward his carnal “clay” nature (e.g., Ması̄ḥ 2009, p. 55). As for the passage translated below, it occurs at a pivotal moment in the Rāmāyaṇa story. The main protagonists, Prince Rāma and his wife Sı̄tā, have been exiled to the forest along with Rāma’s loyal brother, Lakṣmaṇa. Later in the tale, a powerful rākṣasa (“demon” or “ogre”) named Rāvaṇa will abduct Sı̄tā, hence setting the core conflict of the story in motion as Rāma pursues and eventually engages Rāvaṇa in battle, ultimately succeeding in rescuing his wife. The passage below recounts an episode that occurs shortly before Rāvaṇa’s arrival and decision to abduct Sı̄tā, wherein Rāvaṇa’s sister – a demoness/ogress (rākṣası̄) named Ś ū rpaṇakhā – travels through the forest and happens upon Rāma and his party. Spying the handsome figure of Rāma from the woods, Ś ū rpaṇakhā becomes filled with sexual desire. So she magically adorns a beautiful disguise to hide her true appearance and begins to make (improper) advances toward Rāma, which Rāma attempts to deflect. In most versions of the episode, in the process of resisting Ś ū rpaṇakhā’s advances, Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa actually joke and tease Ś ū rpaṇakhā for her immodesty and lack of shame. Eventually, Ś ū rpaṇakhā goes too far in her advances and threatens to harm or even kill Sı̄tā, in response to which Rāma orders his brother Lakṣmaṇa to cut off Ś ū rpaṇakhā’s nose. Ś ū rpaṇakhā then goes running back to her brother Rāvaṇa, hoping he can secure her revenge. Ś ū rpaṇakhā’s prompting is what impels Rāvaṇa to decide to abduct Sı̄tā, this episode hence serving as the ­immediate impetus for the Rāmāyaṇa’s central and defining conflict. The myriad different retellings of the Rāmāyaṇa across the ages have recounted this well-­known episode of Ś ū rpaṇakhā’s mutilation in divergent ways, at times casting the figure of Ś ū rpaṇakhā in a dramatically different light. Whereas the so-­called original Sanskrit version of the epic, ­attributed to the figure of Vālmı̄ki (ca. 200 bce–200 ce), presents the rākṣası̄ as little more than a



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shameless, repellent hag full of unbridled, inappropriate, even farcical lust for the heroic Rāma, other retellings have invited us, for instance, to sympathize more compassionately with Ś ū rpaṇakhā’s plight. The famous Tamil rendition known as the Irāmāvatāram, for example, composed by the twelfth-­century poet Kampaṉ, powerfully depicts Ś ū rpaṇakhā as a veridical lover and devotee (bhakta) – Rāma is, after all, the Hindu deity Viṣṇu incarnated in human form, and so what better object of love could there be! Kampaṉ vividly depicts Ś ū rpaṇakhā’s anguished mental and emotional state threaded across several stirring and heart-­wrenching Tamil verses, although ultimately appears to accept the ogress’ punishment when she crosses a moral line in resolving to harm Sı̄tā. In the passage translated below, I would argue, Ması̄ḥ’s Persian rendition similarly valorizes Ś ū rpaṇakhā’s love (ʿishq) for Rāma, as the poet deploys a variety of literary tools in order to craft an unexpectedly nuanced depiction of Ś ū rpaṇakhā – but one that hides beneath the surface of the text in its literary subtleties, much as the ogress’ own true character hides beneath the misleading disguise that she has donned within the episode. In brief, I would argue, Ması̄ḥ rather unexpectedly and eagerly depicts Ś ū rpaṇakhā as an ideal Sufi “lover” (‘āshiq) despite her ostensible status as a villain. However, as Ś ū rpaṇakhā eventually succumbs to her carnal desire for Rāma (and later Lakṣmaṇa), Ması̄ḥ’s vocabulary rather starkly pivots toward more pejorative terms for a more problematic, selfish, or even carnal craving. Ultimately, the demoness is rendered in a Sufi terminology typical for describing the nafs (the “ego-­ self,” “carnal self,” or “lower soul”). Thus, for Ması̄ḥ, in my reading, Ś ū rpaṇkhā comes to embody the full range of potentialities encompassed within the human condition: she has the potential to ascend to the most sublime of human conditions – as a selfless lover of the Divine Beloved, manifest in this context in the personage of Rāma – but she ultimately descends to the lowest, most self-­serving of possible human states, one characterized by sin, carnal attachment to the temptations of the world, and a deviance from the path of righteousness for the sake of individual self-­ interest. This tension, in short, is the fundamental dilemma of the human condition as envisaged through Islamic (and, more particularly, Sufi) eyes. A thorough analysis of the passage along these lines is unfortunately beyond the scope of this brief piece, though I hope some of the nuances will come through in the translation itself and via the accompanying annotations. The episode begins immediately after Rāma’s party has departed from the hermitage (āśrama) of the sage Agastya (which Ması̄ḥ has translated as “Suhayl,” this being the Arabo-­Persian name for the Canopus star, known as “Agastya” in Sanskrit): Mullā “Masīḥ” Pānīpatī – Masnavı̄-­yi Rām o Sı̄tā (2009, pp. 111–113) When Rāma had departed from the service of those renowned [sages], arriving at strutting cypress trees on the river’s bank, In that (delightful) flower-­field – the place which Suhayl (Agastya) had indicated to him – he set foot to earth, walking swiftly like1 the wind. At the edge of the flowing water stood, sprawling about, a bespeckled, most excellent (ṭūbā) sapling. A tree of well-­proportioned roots, balanced in its place; its leaves and branches outstretched to the Pleiades. On their branches, the trees [there] had only one [type of] fruit; but on those trees, the entire body was just [filled with] fruit.2 Beneath those trees, he (Rāma) built a hut – a small home constructed from betel leaves. After having settled for some time in that wilderness, he came to know a vulture named Jatāyū. A regal (humāyūn) countenance; a griffin, a friendly companion; arrived at Rāma’s hunting table gathering [carrion] scraps. In that wilderness, upon that wingless royal falcon (i.e., Rāma), Jatāyū cast a shadow like birds upon King Jamshīd’s head.3 Like a lion, Rāma passed his time in those fields in pursuit of prey.

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Nothing else occupied him save for hunting; he would go daily to the fields without restriction. [But] when night arrived, he would himself become captive – just like his own prey – in the snare of his beloved (dil-­dār) Sītā’s tresses. His craving (hawā) for hunting was so great that it was on Rāma’s mind for his brother (Lakṣmaṇa) to guard over his beloved (dil-­bar). So much had Rāma enjoined her protection, time and again, he made Jatāyū his brother’s assistant [in the task]. In the mornings, sometimes Rāma, Sītā, and Lakṣmaṇa would sit beneath the shade of [Jatāyū’s] wing. [Then,] one [time], the sister of the demon (ʿifrı̄t) of Lankā took up residence in the vicinity of those trees. She saw the face of that graceful one4 as fate5 (qaz ̇ā); with just one glance, she became a lover (‘āshiq) of Rāma. She set out to make that love (ʿishq) public;6 for she could not wait any longer for that beautiful face. That woman, a shape-­shifting demon (dēv), assumed the form of a fairy; she became as like a ḥūrı̄,7 Satan (Iblīs) in a dream. From the goblet of loverhood (ʿāshiqı̄), having handed over her heart; she approached and sat face-­to-­face with Rāma. She weighed her words precisely with well-­measured speech; she asked after the health of each of the three people [there with Rāma]. Through her desire (khwāhish), in telling her tale from the beginning, she gave new color (rang-­i naw) to eloquent speech (sukhan). Rāma, in his rectitude, was sufficiently patient that she was able to relate the events of her [tale] completely. When Rāma asked her her name and family; she replied: “I am like the moon, Śūrpaṇakhā by name. “I am no less than the radiant sun in lineage; in pedigree, too, I am sister to Rāvaṇa. “I have divulged to you a secret hidden within my heart: I yearn (mushtāq) for you. You [too] should yearn for me! “You do not [yet] possess the elevated rank that you could obtain through being ornamented by me, a most precious beloved (ʿazı̄z) from among Rāvaṇa’s kin.” When Rāma heard her song of love (ʿishq), he broke into laughter like dawn upon the evening of his shining countenance. Sincere and pure, he gave reply to her request: “for one man, one wife is sufficient. “Two wives in one household would provoke strife; the jealousy caused by the strife of the home would lead to disgrace. “You should offer this eloquent speech to Lakṣmaṇa. If his heart so desires, he could become your mate.” Just as that woman had stood before Rāma, [impelled] by the love of desire (‘ishq-­i shahvat), she [now] came before Lakṣmaṇa. To Lakṣmaṇa too she displayed that fresh8 tongue; she spoke that hidden secret with desire (khwāhish). When Lakṣmaṇa heard [those] words of longing (ārzū), his reply pulled back the skin:9 “O woman! “Do not imagine that I am really Rāma’s relative. For my life, I am [truly] a slave in service to him. “I am [fixed] upon this intention (niyyat). There is no moment of respite for me now outside of [my duty to] this house. “I have no desire for a wife just so you could have a husband. Wash your hands of this hope.” When she had lost hope of attaining union (waṣl) with Lakṣmaṇa and Rāma; that infamous (bad-­ nām) adulteress (bad-­kārah)10 began to consider: In her thoughts she said: so long as Sītā is alive, Rāma would never desire her (Śūrpaṇakhā). “Once I pluck that thorn out of my way; then Rāma’s wants and needs will surely turn to me!” For [the price of] the perishing of the ḥūrı̄ of her soul (jān), that impious (bad-­kēsh) demon emerged [from her ḥūrı̄ disguise] back to her original form.



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That demon of serpentine11 craving (azhdahā-­kām12) opened her mouth wide; which turned dawn’s disk into a clump of evening [in the sky]. Rāma gestured a signal from out of the corner of his eye; prompting Lakṣmaṇa to blaze like a fire in fury. Upon the order of his brother, it became proper for him; to cut off the nose and ears of that most improper [demon]. That deceitful demon desired (khwāst) that which belongs to a fairy (parı̄); for [the price of] her ears and nose she attained only grief (bār). It happened in the end that that adulteress fell into blame (ʿayb13); from her deficiency (nuqṣān), she [only] increased in blame upon blame (ʿayb bar ʿayb). The wound to her nose was by her [own] hand; in just an instant (az pay-­i dam), she, like an ass, gave up her ears to the wind.14

Notes 1 Following the lithograph (Rāmāyān-­i Ması̄ḥı,̄ 1899) in reading chūn instead of khūn. 2 A potential secondary reading: “but, upon those trees was the totality of human fruits” (tan-­bar; lit. “person-­fruit” or “man-­fruit”). The reference, it seems to me, is the forbidden tree from which Adam and Eve partook, an erroneous deed, from one perspective, but also one which furnished humankind with our human condition: that is to say, the full possibilities of humankind, both the good and the bad. 3 Jam can generically mean “king,” but more likely still retains here its designation of King Jamshīd, an important figure of the Shāhnāmah and subsequent Persian literary tradition (and who is also, furthermore, often conflated with the Prophet Solomon, and at times also Alexander the Great). The mythical humā bird of Persian legend is said to cast its shadow on the head of a fortunate individual, thus bestowing kingship upon him. 4 Though Masīḥ perhaps intends an additional secondary reading of “clay-­body” (i.e., reading gil-­andām in place of the more typical gul-­andām), a reference to the abovementioned creation of Adam’s body from clay. 5 That is, divine decree. 6 A potential secondary reading (which removes agency from Śūrpaṇakhā and places it in the hands of love): “It kept cutting until love made it clear that she could not wait any longer for that beautiful face.” 7 A maiden of celestial beauty, described in the Qur’an as the heavenly maidens of Paradise. 8 Tar = wet, moist, green, tender, with secondary meanings related to fornication, obscenity, and vexation, particularly at another’s jests. 9 Pōst kandan = to flay/pull back the skin – and, by extension, to reveal the secrets and true condition of the heart. 10 In a more general sense: “evil-­doer.” This is the decisive turning point of the passage; all subsequent terms that Masīḥ uses for love, desire, and craving from this point onward will evoke a decisively pejorative connotation. 11 Or else, “draconic.” 12 Notably, cognate with the Sanskrit kāma. It is intriguing to ponder the extent to which such a linguistic connection might have been on Masīḥ’s mind. 13 With the closely related meaning of “vice.” 14 A play on words: khar-­gōsh (literally, “donkey-­eared”) means “rabbit, hare, bunny” – a conventionally charming creature – but remove the “ears” (gōsh) and one is only left with a donkey (khar). Again, we find a commentary on Śūrpaṇakhā’s deceitful disguise, as contrasted with her inner character, embedded within a literary device.

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References Clines, G.M. (2022). Jain Rāmāyaṇa Narratives: Moral Vision and Literary Innovation. New York: Routledge. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Oxford: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2013). His Hiding Place Is Darkness: A Hindu-­Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Gandhi, S. (2014). Retelling the Rāma story in Persian verse: Masīḥ Pānīpatī’s Masnavı̄-­yi Rām va Sı̄tā. In: No Tapping Around Philology: A Festschrift in Honor of Wheeler McIntosh Thackston Jr.’s 70th Birthday (ed. A. Korangy and D.J. Sheffield), pp. 309–324. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Keshavmurthy, P. (2018). Translating Rāma as a proto-­Muḥammadan prophet: Masīḥ’s Masnavı̄-­i Rām va Sı̄tā. Numen 65: 1–27. Nair, S. (2020). Translating Wisdom: Hindu–Muslim Intellectual Interactions in Early Modern South Asia. Oakland: University of California Press. Pānīpatī, M. (1899). Rāmāyān-­i Ması̄ḥı.̄ Lucknow: Nawal Kishore Press. Pānīpatī, M. (2009). Rāmāyaṇa: kuhantarı̄n hammāsah-i ʿāshiqānah-­i Hind. New Delhi: Markaz-­i Taḥqīqāt-­i Fārsī, Rāyzanī-­yi Farhangī-­yi Jumhūrī-­yi Islāmī-­yi Īrānī. Richman, P. (ed.) (1991). Many Rāmāyaṇas: The Diversity of a Narrative Tradition in South Asia. Berkeley: University of California Press. Richman, P. (ed.) (2001). Questioning Ramayanas: A South Asian Tradition. Berkeley: University of California Press.

CHAPTER 39

Creativity and Resistance in Comparative Theology Lessons from Eighteenth-­Century Korea Won-­Jae Hur

Central to Francis Clooney’s comparative theology are three key virtues: vulnerability, ­accountability, and the risk of liminality (Clooney 1996, 2008, 2010). Vulnerability undergirds the practice of comparative theology. A skillful interreligious reader risks wounding. In Beyond Compare, he explains that vulnerability in deep interreligious learning involves the possibility of intellectual, imaginative, and affective transformation that discloses the nature of the divine in unpredictable and intensely rich ways (Clooney 2008, pp. 208–209). Vulnerability is intimately tied to accountability. Comparative theologians have the dual responsibility of avoiding distortions in their understanding and representation of the other religious tradition; and they maintain a “living connection” to their home tradition, ever returning and sharing the vision gained through their hard work with the community (Clooney  2010, pp. 113–114). One can only discern the full significance of comparative theological insights into the nature of the divine in communication with a tradition and through engagement with particular faith communities. Yet, the vulnerability particular to comparative theology can exact a price: liminality (Clooney 2008, 2010). Even as comparative theologians practice accountability, there is the possibility that they will feel a deep sense of affinity to both traditions while not fully belonging to either one. Comparative theologians may even feel marginalized in their home tradition, because the truths they bear may come in forms that are too unfamiliar to the community, and they “are no longer a sure fit in a theological world defined within one community” (Clooney 2010, p. 158). Comparative theologians, however, insist on abiding in this liminal place, remaining open to the potentially transformative wisdom that the labor can yield to them and offering that wisdom to their home tradition. For Clooney, vulnerability, accountability, and acceptance of liminality are not challenges, but necessary virtues that comparative theologians intentionally cultivate. Only by cultivating these virtues can practitioners receive the truth that speaks in unexpected ways through comparative work (Clooney 2010, p. 127).

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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This chapter examines how Clooney’s understanding of these three dispositions as virtues for comparative theology sheds new light on the case of Jeong Yagyong (1762–1836), one of the first Catholic converts in late eighteenth-­century Korea (Joseon Dynasty 1392–1910), as an important precursor to comparative theology. During this period a group of intellectuals enacted these same virtues and suffered the consequences of taking the inherent risks. A small community of Confucian scholars engaged in a systematic and comparative study of so-­called Western learning (Seohak) texts on European sciences, technology, and Catholic theology, mostly written by seventeenth-­century Jesuit missionaries in China. Although such materials were available in Korea since the early seventeenth century, these scholars were the first to take seriously the theological claims of Seohak books (Cho 2010, p. 258). Many of them converted, and, in a case without historical precedent, they established the church without any foreign missionary or clergy. Among the founding members, the most renowned is Jeong Yagyong, usually called by his pen name Dasan. Beginning in his early twenties, Dasan engaged in intensive study of Catholic theology and Confucian thought, creating a synthetic philosophy within a Confucian framework. Like many of his peers who were attracted to Catholicism, he was motivated by a deep frustration with the prevailing neo-­Confucian philosophy, which Joseon had adopted as the state ideology. In the late eighteenth century, the country suffered multiple crises of recurring epidemics, famines, and widespread corruption. Dasan thought that the neo-­Confucian orthodoxy failed to provide the philosophical and practical means for people to attain the moral integrity that Confucian tradition taught was necessary to create a properly ordered society. He turned to Catholicism to seek resources that could help to address these problems. For Dasan, the intellectual creativity that the crises elicited was inseparable from resistance to sociopolitical corruption. This chapter examines how Dasan’s work and life exemplify the themes of vulnerability, accountability, and liminality in Clooney’s sense, and considers his thought through the prism of Confucian–Catholic comparative theology.

Confucian–Catholic Encounter: A Narrow Window for Comparative Learning (1784–1801) In 1784, a young man named Yi Seunghun (1756–1801) from the Joseon Kingdom arrived at the Catholic cathedral in Beijing as part of a regular envoy, asking to see the Jesuit priests. Prior to his departure, Yi had accepted a request from his friend Yi Byeok (1754–1786) to visit the cathedral and bring back Seohak texts and devotional objects. Over the course of several visits, the French Jesuit Jean-­Joseph de Grammont (1736–1812) gave Yi an accelerated introduction to the Catholic catechism and baptized him as Peter, signifying his role as the founding leader of the Korean church (Dallet 1874, p. 282). On his return to Korea, Yi baptized Yi Byeok and then followed with conversions of Kwon Cheolshin (1736–1801) and Kwon Ilshin (1742–1791). Yi Seunghun’s return and subsequent baptisms of fellow literati mark the beginning of the Korean Catholic Church. For the European priests who met Yi in Beijing, the presence of Korean Confucian scholars seeking conversion would have come as a great surprise. Unknown to them, a young cohort of Korean literati had been studying Catholic texts written in classical Chinese by seventeenth-­century Jesuits, such as Matteo Ricci’s True Meaning of the Lord of Heaven (Ch. Tianzhu shiyi) and Diego de Pantoja’s Seven Victories (Ch. Qike). They held a 10-­day retreat in 1779 at the Cheonjin hermitage in the Buddhist temple Jueosa to discuss questions of self-­cultivation, moral perfection, and the nature of “Heaven” (cheon, 天) and human beings (Baker 2017b, pp.  61–63). Many of the ­participants became Catholics and received baptism after Yi Seunghun’s return.



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This group of scholars initially studied Catholic doctrines because they saw Catholicism as a means to address lacunae in neo-­Confucianism and social problems that beset the country. The first converts came from privileged literati (yangban) backgrounds who had access to government positions through civil service examinations (Baker 2017b, pp. 21–23). Despite their elite status, the majority of the first Catholics belonged to a political faction called the “Southerners” (Namin), who had been marginalized by the dominant “Patriarchs” (Noron) faction (Setton 1997, p. 25). The converts witnessed pervasive abuse of power and drastic socioeconomic inequality as partly caused by the failure of neo-­Confucianism to move beyond metaphysical debates and to balance self-­cultivation with just governance. In addition, a demographic crisis caused by a series of famines and epidemics afflicted Joseon in the late eighteenth century (Baker 2016, p. 95). Don Baker explains that within a neo-­Confucian perspective, natural disasters reflected the moral failure of the country’s ruling elites, as the cosmic and moral orders were interconnected (Baker  2016, p. 97). This framework connecting external and moral causality posed another problem for the Southerners. For neo-­Confucians, “the most moral, the least selfish, were the most qualified to serve the king as his top officials” (Baker  2016, p.  99). The only explanation, then, for the Southerner’s loss of power in court would have had to be their own moral failure, and the sole solution would have been greater effort to attain moral perfection. They, however, felt their efforts and methods of self-­cultivation could not help them to achieve that goal. They were drawn to Catholic theology as a resource that could aid them in attaining the Confucian moral end. Central, then, to the first Korean church’s understanding of Catholicism were Jesuit texts that presented the tradition as supplementing the Confucian teachings, the “accommodationist” approach implemented by Ricci and his successors. This approach allowed converts to observe the core Confucian rite of honoring ancestors (jesa), interpreting the rite as a memorial ritual and not as worship (Brockey 2007, p. 76). With similar logic, it also permitted the use of ancestral tablets, which represented the spirit of the ancestors and in front of which family members bowed and made offerings. This first phase of the Confucian–Catholic encounter was genuinely dialogical (Lee  2018, p. 141). Figures like Yi Seunghun, Yi Byeok, and Jeong Yakyong devoted themselves to studying the Catholic texts and practicing their understanding of the tradition. Ignorant of official church policies, they ordained clergy among themselves and administered the sacraments to a growing church of mixed social classes (Cho  2009, p.  270). This window of dialogue, however, proved short-­lived. In 1790, a letter arrived from Bishop Alexandre de Gouvea of Beijing, announcing the papal prohibition of Confucian rites and ancestral tablets (Baker 2017b, p. 70). As a neo-­Confucian state, the Joseon state required proper observance of Confucian rituals. Prior to De Gouvea’s letter, Korean Catholics did not have to choose between participating in Confucian rites or using the tablets, as they were operating within the Jesuit accommodationist paradigm. The prohibition forced on them a choice between Confucianism and Catholicism as irreconcilable. Consequently, many individuals who had embraced Catholicism left the church and returned to Confucianism. Those converts who accepted the papal decree suffered violent persecution. The consequence of De Gouvea’s letter for the Korean Catholic church became clear in 1791 when two converts named Yun Jichung and Gweon Sangyeon decided not to perform the proper rite for Yun’s deceased mother. They also burned and buried the remains of the ancestral tablet. On hearing the news, officials arrested, interrogated, and executed them. In 1800, King Jeongjo, who had been generally tolerant of Catholicism, suddenly died, and shifting political winds gave power to anti-­Catholic voices. Official persecution began in January 1801, leading to mass arrests, torture, and execution or exile for Catholic converts of both yangban and lower status.

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A Fierce Middle: Dasan’s Confucian–Catholic Comparative Theology Dasan first came to public attention when King Jeongjo singled him out as a promising student at the Royal Confucian Academy (Jung 2019, pp. 90–91). After he entered government service, he displayed unmatched brilliance in administration, engineering, and architecture. The 1801 persecution ended his political career and sent him into exile. For the next 18 years, he wrote over 500 volumes in a wide array of subjects, including Confucian philosophy, poetry, political theory, economics, medicine, and national defense. Scholars are still uncovering the full significance of Dasan’s contributions and legacy. Dasan encountered Catholicism in 1784 as a 22-­year-­old student (Dallet  1874, p.  279). Yi, Dasan, and Jeong Yakjeon attended a memorial service for Yi’s wife. On the boat ride back to the capital, Yi spoke to the Jeong brothers about Catholicism, explaining the existence of a creator God, immortality of the soul, and the afterlife. Yi also lent them Catholic books, including Ricci’s Tianzhu shiyi and Pantoja’s Qike. Dasan later resolved to receive baptism and quickly thrust himself into building the new church. The status of Dasan’s relationship with Catholicism has been a subject of controversy among scholars. Some assert that he was thoroughly Confucian after 1801, while others claim that he remained a Catholic in private (Dallet 1874, p. 553; Baker 2017a, p. 15). Dasan’s public renunciation of Catholicism in the 1801 persecution appears to offer clear evidence that he ultimately rejected Catholicism and returned to the Confucian tradition. His extant writings do not mention explicitly any Catholic teachings. Given the violent and tragic result of the persecution on his immediate and extended family and the continuing dangers of Catholic affiliation throughout his life, Dasan had to excise any material related to Catholicism in general. Whether he remained Catholic or not does not seem resolvable with certainty. Min Jung in his recent two-­volume study of Dasan offers a third perspective, which portrays Dasan as intentionally standing in the cross currents of Confucian and Catholic teachings, fiercely committed to seeking the truth (Jung 2019). My primary interest here is exploring the nature of this fierce commitment via media: what were the motivations for and conditions in which Dasan embraced Catholicism? What were the specific ways he incorporated Catholic ideas into his Confucian philosophy? What does his example teach us today about the meaning of vulnerability and accountability across theological traditions, even at the risk of liminality? Dasan is widely recognized as one of the foremost thinkers of Practical Learning (Sirhak), a movement concerned with concretely improving people’s livelihood; he is also considered an early leader of the Korean Catholic church (Setton 1997, p. 13). He constructed a unique Confucian philosophy that replaced the orthodox neo-­Confucian metaphysics established by Cheng Hao (1032–1085), Cheng Yi (1033–1107), and Zhu Xi (1130–1200) and anticipated the modern turn to the subject (Torrey 2010). Before examining Dasan’s thought, we should note that Joseon Confucianism was primarily concerned with people’s public behavior in social relationships rather than their doctrinal beliefs (Baker 2017b, p. 34–35). Dasan’s thought is consistently Confucian in this regard, as his priority was clarifying how human beings can practically live the virtuous life prescribed in the canonical Confucian texts. His ideas served to establish what he thought was the philosophically correct foundation for the Confucian moral vision. Dasan’s work also reflects the basic Confucian view that individual virtue is inextricably connected to public welfare of the people and country (Huang 2017, pp. 6–7). The Confucian ideals of the noble person (gunja) and the sage (seong-­in) entail the understanding that self-­cultivation in virtue is a necessary condition for creating a just society, and that virtue essentially consists in overcoming self-­centered (sa) desire and seeking ­public (gong) benefit (Baker 2017b, p. 39).



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Dasan’s approach to philosophy was broad and synthetic, drawing on a wide range of sources. Three major sources included: (1) the philosophy of Seongho Yi Ik; (2) Evidential Learning of Qing China; and (3) Catholic theology. Influenced by Seongho Yi Ik (1681–1763), a major Joseon thinker of Practical Learning, and his chief disciple Kwon Cheolshin, Dasan sought to base his philosophy on the original Confucian classics and earlier commentaries, in contrast to the singular dependence of Joseon neo-­Confucian scholars on Sung Dynasty authorities like Zhu Xi and the Cheng brothers (Setton 1997, p. 110). Dasan followed Seongho in reclaiming the whole Six Classics of the Confucian canon as the foundation, instead of the Four Books edited by Zhu Xi. Second, as representatives of Practical Learning, Yi and Kwon were also critical of mainstream neo-­Confucians’ absorption in metaphysical speculation to the neglect of practical concerns affecting people’s lives. Dasan also criticized neo-­ Confucian philosophy as mistaken in its understanding of self-­ cultivation as meditative introspection, and thereby ineffectual in serving public welfare. Third, Yi Ik studied with interest Western learning texts (Setton 1997, p. 47). His inclusive disposition was characteristic of later scholars like Dasan who belonged to his lineage and later studied Catholicism. The second major source in Dasan’s thought was Evidential Learning (Ch. Kaozheng-­jia) developed by scholars of the Qing Dynasty. Evidential Learning stressed evidence-­based philological analysis of classic Confucian texts (Setton 1997, p. 125). Dasan used the principles of the school to re-­examine the meaning of key terms and concepts in the classics and ancient commentaries and construct new interpretations of normative Confucian teachings that sharply diverged from the neo-­Confucian tradition (Baker 2013, pp. 44–46). The third major source was Catholic theology, based on Jesuit books and compilations of biblical texts. The extent to which Catholicism influenced Dasan is a matter of debate, but his writings clearly exhibit ideas and arguments that reflect a close engagement with Catholic theology. Beyond introductory apologetics like Ricci’s Tianzhu shiyi and Pantoja’s Qike, we know that Dasan had access to a variety of Jesuit books that included a commentary and text of the four Gospels and works explaining the details of Catholic doctrine (Won 2012). Although Dasan’s corpus reflects a thoroughly Confucian philosophical view, it is also evident that a significant part of his intellectual labor involved examining and reinterpreting Confucian concepts in substantial dialogue with Catholicism. In fact, in light of Clooney’s pioneering work, we can say that Dasan’s work displays the characteristics of a well-­developed Confucian–Catholic comparative theology. The latter point requires further explication. We can begin with Dasan’s theistic paradigm. Dasan conceived the source of the cosmos as a personal divine being, the “original ancestor of all things,” who is an immaterial conscious being with exclusive power to harmonize and rule over all things (Song 2016, p. 144; Yoo 2013, p. 39). Dasan’s idea of an absolute, transcendent personal God is new in many respects in the Joseon context, but the notion of a personal God does not originate for him in Catholic texts. Instead, its origins are in canonical Confucian texts that refer to “Heaven” (cheon, 天) and the “Lord Above” (Sangjae, 上帝) who governs the world. Dasan belongs to a line of scholars, including Yun Hyu, Pak Sedang, and Yi Ik, who interpreted the terms Cheon and Sangjae as referring to a personal deity who was the source of morality (Chung 2011, p. 114). Dasan’s predecessors, however, did not develop their concept of God in detail, and the nature of the deity remained ambiguous. Dasan was the first Korean Confucian philosopher to articulate in detail the essential attributes of this deity: an absolute, immaterial, transcendent being with awareness, rational intellect, and powers of governing, communicating, and overseeing human ethical activity. Dasan’s theological ideas signaled a comprehensive rejection and replacement of the dominant orthodox neo-­Confucian metaphysical framework of “principle” (li) and “material force” (qi).1 The neo-­Confucian system conceived the source of all things as principle, which produces the two

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­ owers of activity (yang) and tranquility (yin) (Setton 1997, p. 71). As the principle of activity and p tranquility, principle shapes and governs material force, generating the myriad phenomena that make up the cosmos. Principle exists only within material force, but it is not reducible to it; the relationship is interdependent. According to Zhu Xi, each thing possesses universal principle in its entirety (Song  2016, p.  133). This meant that every being, human and nonhuman alike, is endowed with the same fundamental nature that gave rise to its particular material form. Zhu Xi conceived all the virtues as intrinsic to this original nature. Due to this original nature, the fundamental virtues such as humaneness, filial piety, righteousness, and fraternal love were all fully present within human beings. In this metaphysics, intellectual and moral differences between individuals were caused by variances in the purity of material force (Setton 1997, p. 70). Depending on the purity or impurity of material forces inherited at birth, a person could attain more or less a degree of virtue. The goal of the Confucian path, then, was to remove the impurity of one’s material force and actualize the original nature’s purity through meditative reflection and ascetic discipline. Dasan argues that Sangjae, the transcendent personal deity, is necessary to govern the cosmos. In his critique of the neo-­Confucian li-­qi metaphysics, Dasan attacks the incoherence of attributing unity and governance of the cosmos to a principle that lacks rational intellect and will (Chung 2011, pp. 113–114). Since principle has no intellect and will, it cannot have the power to govern the cosmos. Furthermore, he argues that li is dependent on qi for its existence and cannot subsist on its own. If it is dependent on something for its being, it cannot exercise power and authority over all things (Song 2016, p. 141). Related to this critique, Dasan asserts that principle cannot be the foundation for ethical conduct, because it cannot relate with human beings in any way to inspire reverence or fear. In a famous and often quoted passage, he writes, There is no human being born on this earth without base desires. What keeps us from following those desires and doing whatever we feel like doing? It is the fear that our misbehavior will be noticed. Noticed by whom? Whose gaze keeps us in a state of constant caution and apprehension? We are cautious and apprehensive because we know there are enforcement officers responsible for making sure rules are followed. We are cautious and apprehensive because we know our sovereign can punish us if we behave improperly. If we did not think there was someone watching us, would we not simply abandon all sense of moral responsibility and just do whatever we felt like doing? . . . But what makes us behave properly even in the privacy of our own room and make sure that even our thoughts are proper thoughts? The only reason a superior person is watchful over his thoughts and behavior even in the privacy of his own room is that he knows that there is a Lord Above (Sangje) watching him. (Baker 2016, p. 107; see also Jeong 2012, pp. 232–234)

Against the neo-­Orthodox view that human beings simply need to manifest the virtue innate to their original nature, Dasan argues that virtue only exists when a person decides to act ethically in relation to another subject (Chung 2011, pp. 132–133). Virtue cannot exist apart from an intersubjective relational context, and it requires as its condition of possibility the awareness of another’s moral gaze. Ultimately, Dasan reasons, only a transcendent, omnipresent God who is the source of virtue and judges good and evil can ensure that human beings are steadfastly motivated to seek moral integrity, whether they are with others or alone. Young-­Bae Song notes that Dasan’s arguments against principle are nearly identical to Ricci’s reasoning in Tianzhu shiyi (Song 2016, p. 141; Ricci 1985, p. 111). Although Dasan may have employed the same argument, he and Ricci were coming at the issue with opposite aims. Ricci used Confucian ideas and terms to argue for the correctness of Catholic theology. Dasan



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borrowed Catholic theological concepts to support his novel interpretation of Confucian ­philosophy. In this respect, we can justifiably say that he engaged in Confucian–Catholic comparative theology. Dasan remained grounded in the Confucian tradition. At the same time, he crossed over to Catholicism as he understood it through Jesuit texts and rigorously investigated Catholic theology to discern how it could help people to attain the life of virtue envisioned by the Confucian classics. Another example of marked similarity between Dasan and Ricci can be seen in Dasan’s anthropology. His anthropology introduced the category of an immaterial spirit (shin, 神) that was sharply distinguished from the material body (hyeong, 形) in the human being. At the same time, Dasan asserted that these two kinds of existents were mysteriously united: “The human being comes into existence when immaterial spirit and material body mysteriously unite” (Jeong 2020, p. 289). One of the main terms he used for this immaterial aspect was yeonghcae (靈體) or “spiritual form.” Spiritual form is a complex idea which encompasses several characteristics and capacities: (1) a basic nature (seong, 性) that enjoys the good and is ashamed of evil; (2) intellectual capacity (jae, 才); and (3) the power (sae, 勢) to carry out the good and suppress the desire to commit evil (Baek 2021, p. 308). Dasan’s understanding of basic human nature here is radically different from the neo-­Confucian view that equated nature with universal principle and virtues as inherently present in that nature. For Dasan, nature is an innate tendency (kiho-­seong) to like what is good and dislike what is evil (Jeong 2020, pp. 289–291). Nature is no longer an ontological concept as in the neo-­Confucian principle, but a psychological disposition (Setton 1997, p. 134). It is unique to human beings and serves as the condition of possibility for morality (Jeong 2020, p. 299). Furthermore, the spiritual form that possesses this nature is created directly by God and given to human beings at birth (Jeong 2020, p. 293). Hence, human nature is originally good in the sense that human beings are naturally disposed to like the good. Original goodness, however, does not guarantee that human beings live morally. Ethical conduct requires human beings to exercise their intellect to discern what is good in a given situation and their will to carry out that good. While original nature intuitively desires and cognizes what is morally good, human beings are simultaneously beset by desires that tempt them to act contrary to their basic disposition (Baek 2021, p. 329). Desires for food, sex, and comfort that stem from the material body can easily lead them away from choosing the good. Human beings are also lured by desires for immaterial gains, which do not originate from the body, such as status and fame, and can become arrogant or vain. Dasan, therefore, argues that it is part of being human to experience difficulty in doing good while slipping easily into committing evil (Jeong 2020, p. 295). The composite unity of body and spiritual form means that we have both a moral mind (do-­sim, “mind-­ heart of the Way”) that seeks the welfare of all and reflects the divine will that created the spiritual form; and a self-­centered “human” mind (in-­sim, lit. “human mind-­heart”) that seeks gratification of private desires (Baek 2016, p. 254). Our human condition requires first discerning clearly the morally good desire before we can will to accomplish it. Both the intellectual power that discerns the good and volitional power to actualize it are functions of kwonhyeong (權衡), a term that literally means a measuring scale (Baek 2021, pp. 321–328). In its cognitive function, kwonhyeong includes the capacity for inferential reasoning and discerning the ethically proper course of action within concrete relationships (Baek 2021, p. 322). It is through kwonhyeong’s rational capacity that human beings can identify the morally good desire among competing affections. Kwonhyeong’s discerning function is further connected with the volitional power to suppress immoral desires and enact the good (Baek 2021, pp. 327–328). Only after we determine the moral desire can we will to enact it.

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Close parallels between Ricci’s and Dasan’s thoughts reflect Dasan’s engagement with Catholic theology. First is the idea of the human as comprising body and spirit, and ascribing to the ­immaterial spirit reason and power to choose the good. The dualistic distinction between material body and immaterial spirit allowed both Ricci and Dasan to replace the neo-­Confucian li-­qi metaphysics with a theistic one, where a personal deity creates both. Second, by designating the immaterial spirit as the locus of intellect and volition, both thinkers placed full moral responsibility on human beings and asserted that all individuals have the same potential for virtue. They definitively rejected the neo-­Confucian view that human beings possess different intellectual and moral capacities due to variance in genetically inherited material forces. In their view, virtue is something all human beings can accomplish through the exercise of will and effort. Although human beings are originally good, their moral status depends on how they use this nature; moral freedom is paramount (Ricci 1985, p. 151; Jeong 2020, p. 301). There are, however, marked differences between the two thinkers. Unlike the Catholic concept of the soul, Dasan did not assert that spiritual form is immortal. The idea of reward and punishment in the afterlife, so prominent in Ricci’s work, is noticeably missing in Dasan’s theology. Another major point of difference is Dasan’s concept of nature and kwonhyeong. Nature manifests phenomenally in what he called do-­sim, the moral heart-­mind that is aligned with divine will, and produces the whole range of ethical desires. Min Jeong Baek explains that this mind is akin to moral intuition that pre-­reflectively grasps what is good (Baek 2016, p. 316). Dasan clearly distinguishes it from the intellectual power to reflect and weigh between moral and negative desires that belongs to the cogitating function of kwonhyeong (Baek 2016, pp. 250–252). The Jesuits emphasized that the rational intellect must judge a given situation and recognize the moral good before the will exerts its power to perform it. Based on Thomistic–Aristotelian thought, their anthropology subordinates the will to the intellect. Dasan, however, articulates a distinct concept of moral affect grounded in divinely endowed nature that precedes, yet requires, the discerning and volitional functions of kwonhyeong. Through the process of discerning the moral good within conflicting cravings, a person uncovers and follows the divine voice speaking through the moral heart-­mind (Baek 2016, p. 261). Baek also elaborates on the centrality of ethical discernment in Dasan’s conception of the rational intellect. Contrasting the Jesuit emphasis on the intellect’s significance for knowing God, Dasan’s priority is on practical performance of virtue. Accordingly, he stresses the integral relationship between cogitation and volition in kwonhyeong, since his interest is in articulating how human beings can concretely practice the Confucian virtues. As Baker observes, belief in God for Dasan was not an end in itself, but a means to attain the Confucian end of moral perfection (Baker 2017a, p. 108). The broader context for this focus on practical ethics is the exigency he felt for sociopolitical reform. He saw neo-­Confucian philosophy as ineffective in actualizing virtue and empowering people to implement political reform that would serve the whole community (Shin 2013; Won 2012). Examining the similarities and differences between Dasan and Ricci, we can see that Dasan extensively studied and incorporated ideas from Catholic theology. His adoption was complex and creative, aiming to establish a new metaphysical foundation for Confucian practical ethics. Although his overall framework is Confucian, striking similarities with Catholic ideas support the view that he adopted and developed them in comparative dialogue with Confucianism to construct his account of God and human beings. Also notable is the way he employed meticulous textual and philological analyses to form his unique interpretation of ancient Confucian terms to support his Confucian–Catholic synthesis. Dasan, then, developed important aspects of his theism and anthropology through a rigorous comparative theological process that aligns closely with Clooney’s model.



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Dasan also exemplified the virtues of vulnerability, accountability, and acceptance of liminality. He assumed serious risks to his future and safety by fully investing himself in Catholicism. He made himself vulnerable intellectually, imaginatively, affectively, and bodily to the truth he encountered in Catholic theology. The motivations that led him to cultivate vulnerability were multifaceted. His time was one of crisis. Despite high mortality due to epidemics and famines, political corruption inflicted even greater suffering on the people. Political marginalization of his faction further engendered a sense of powerlessness. Neo-­Confucianism appeared ineffective for pointing the way forward. The motivations for embracing vulnerability to Catholicism were intellectual, spiritual, and political. Dasan’s privileged status notwithstanding, it was a pathway for creative engagement with the outstanding needs of his time and resistance against injustice. Dasan committed himself to learning faithfully from Catholicism and maintaining his fidelity to Confucian goals. He was accountable to the demands of the truth he discovered in Catholic theology. At the same time, he was dedicated to achieving the Confucian moral vision. He initially became interested in Catholicism because of what it could offer to Confucianism. After the 1801 persecution, Dasan did not discuss Catholicism. Yet, the marks of Confucian– Catholic synthesis in his work suggest strongly that Catholic theology had staying power in his thinking. Finally, Dasan accepted the cost of liminality. He was already a member of a marginalized political faction, but his conversion pushed him beyond known ideological boundaries. After exile, he was cut off from the wider scholarly community. His work made little impact during his lifetime and remained obscure until the early twentieth century (Baker 2013, pp. 42–43). Philosophically, his thought was synthetic and the enduring question of Catholic influence in his work points to the difficulty of pinning him down in conventional categories. Interpreted through Clooney’s model of comparative theology, Dasan emerges as a brilliant example of the virtues of vulnerability, accountability, and acceptance of liminality. Although it is anachronistic to apply the label, his work displays all the contours of Confucian–Catholic comparative theology in Clooney’s mode. Dasan, moreover, offers us important considerations for the practice of comparative theology today. Specifically, as a Confucian, his comparative theology is oriented toward practical ethics. This sensibility informs how he consistently connects conceptual reflection with virtuous action for the sake of the wider public. Dasan’s comparative theological work always serves the goal of practically benefiting society, but without reducing theory to ethics or neglecting personal spiritual formation. In this way, he provides an integrated model of doing comparative theology that balances theory, social action, and spiritual formation. Finally, Dasan carried out his theological work to address the crises of his day. He embodies a concrete example of doing comparative theology in a time of crisis, in order to resist political corruption and to search for viable alternatives to ineffective paradigms.

Acknowledgment I wish to express my sincere gratitude to Drs. Deberniere Torrey, Min Jung, Min Jeong Baek, and Han Gun Cho for their generous and indispensable help on Jeong Yagyong.

Note 1 I have used the Chinese terms li, qi, yin, and yang as they are more familiar to English readers than the Korean terms.

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References Baek, M.J. (2016). Moral success and failure in the ethical theory of Tasan Cho˘ng Yagyong. Acta Koreana 19 (1): 241–266. Baek, M.J. (2021). A reexamination of the concepts of the spiritual body and the faculty of deliberate self-­direction in Jeong Yagyong’s theory of the mind. Journal of Korean Classics 59: 303–342. Baker, D. (2013). Finding God in the classics: The theistic Confucianism of Dasan Jeong Yagyong. Dao 12: 41–55. Baker, D. (2016). Catholic God and Confucian morality. In: Korean Religions in Relation: Buddhism, Confucianism, Christianity (ed. A. Min), pp. 89–118. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Baker, D. (2017a). Confucianism, Catholicism, and Jeong Yagyong: Was Dasan, as Hwang Sayeong says, a secret Catholic? Paper presented at the Kyujanggak, Seoul National University at forum for authors of recently published books on Korea, December 13. Baker, D. (with Rausch, F.) (2017b). Catholics and Anti-­Catholics in Choso˘n Korea. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Brockey, L. (2007). Journey to the East: The Jesuit Mission to China, 1576–1724. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Cho, H.-­B. (2009). Chogi gyoheo ui hwaldong gwa gyo-­se ui hwaksan. In: Joeson Cheonju gyohoesa, Vol. 1, pp. 270–283. Seoul: Gyeong-­in munhwasa. Cho, K. (2010). Joseon hugi sahoewa Cheonjugyo. Seoul: Gyeong-­in munhwasa. Chung, S.-­Y. (2011). Kyo˘nggi Southerners’ notion of heaven and its influence on Tasan’s theory of human nature. Journal of Korean Religions 2 (2): 111–141. Clooney, F.X. (1996). Seeing Through Texts: Doing Theology among the Śrivaiṣṇavas of South India. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008). Beyond Compare: St Francis de Sales and Śrıˉ Vedānta Deśika on Loving Surrender to God [Kindle e-­book]. Washington DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning across Religious Borders. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Dallet, C. (1874). Histoire de L’Église de Corée, Vol. 1 [Kindle e-­book]. Paris: Libraire Victor Palmé. Huang, C. (2017). Core conceptions of the theory of self-­cultivation in East Asian Confucian philosophy. Philosophy Study 7 (1): 1–14. Jeong, Y. (2012). Joongyong Jajam. In: Jeongbon Yeoyudang Jeonseo [Collected works of Yeoyudang]. Seoul: Hanguk gojeon jonghap DB. Jeong, Y. (2020). Maengja youi with Translation and Footnotes (trans. Dasan haksul munhwa jaedan). Seoul: Saam. Jung, M. (2019). Paran, Vols. 1, 2. Seoul: Cheon nyeon ui sang sang. Lee, K. (2018). Yi Byeok, Hwang Sa-­young, Jung Ha-­sang ui Cheonjugyo, Yugyo inshik ui dongil-­seong gwa cha-­ijeom. Gyoheosa yeongu 52: 119–143. Ricci, M. (1985). The True Meaning of the Lord of Heaven (T’ien-­chu Shih-­i) (trans. D. Lancashire and P.H. Kuo-­chen). St Louis, MO: The Institute of Jesuit Resources. Setton, M. (1997). Chŏng Yagyong: Korea’s Challenge to Orthodox Neo-­ Confucianism. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Shin, J. (2013). Bridging moral individuals and a moral society in Dasan’s philosophy. Korea Journal 53 (2): 80–104. Song, Y. (2016). On the family resemblance of philosophical paradigm: Between Dasan’s thought and Matteo Ricci’s Tianzu Shiyi. In: Korean Religions in Relation: Buddhism, Confucianism, Christianity (ed. A. Min), pp. 119–151. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Torrey, D. (2010). Separate but engaged: Human subjectivity in the poetry of Tasan Cho˘ng Yagyong. The Journal of Korean Studies 15 (1): 114–117. Won, J.-­Y. (2012). 18 Saegi huban Jeong Yakyong ui Seohak yeongu wa sahwae gaehyeok sasang. Gyohoesa-­hak 9: 181–214. Yoo, K.J. (2013). Dasan’s approach to the ultimate reality. Korea Journal 53 (2): 31–53.



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Further Reading Choi, J.-­G. (2005). Joseon hugi ui suyong gwa baljeon. Seoul: Handeul chulpansa. Choi, J.-­G. (2009). Joseon Cheonju gyohoesa, Vol. 1. Seoul: Hanguk gyohoesa yeonguso. Lee, C. (2009). Hanyeok seohakseo ui doip gwa Yuhagjadeul ui baneung. In: Chosŏn Ch’ŏnju kyohoesa I (ed. J. Choi). Seoul: Hanguk gyohoesa yeonguso.

CHAPTER 40

In Praise of Artisans Ramon Marti, Georges Anawati, and the Importance of Languages Wilhelmus Valkenberg

Anyone with a vague knowledge of the history of Catholic theology will know that Jesuits and Dominicans have a tendency to line up on different sides of a disagreement. The Chinese rites controversy and the endless debates on nature and grace give some intriguing historical examples and, even today, the representatives of Georgetown University and those of the Dominican House of Studies in Washington DC – the latter being much closer to the Catholic University of America where I work – seldom align in theological or political matters. Yet in this chapter I wish to demarcate an area where Dominicans and Jesuits do concur: the necessity of studious preparation for the fulfillment of the goals of religious life. After a brief introduction in honor of Francis X. Clooney, I  will focus on two Dominicans who lived in very different eras and engaged with Judaism and Islam for different purposes. Yet, for both of them it was clear that studying the appropriate ­languages was necessary to fulfill these purposes. The same is obviously the case for Jesuits who are required to engage in a number of different cultural and educational settings during the several stages of their priestly formation. In a chapter on “the Hindu-­Catholic encounter,” Clooney mentions how his particular engagement in this form of interreligious encounter was shaped by his background and his experiences. “I was a Catholic, reasonably well versed in my own tradition and dedicated to the study of texts, a disposition I had cultivated since reading much Latin and Greek in high school. In the mid-­1970s I spent several years in Nepal, where I taught in a high school where almost all the students were Hindu and Buddhist, and a decade later I spent more than a year in Madras, South India, studying Hindu texts, primarily the great scholastic traditions of Mı ̄māṃsā ritual reasoning and Vedānta interpretation of the Upaniṣads” (Clooney 2022, p. 281). Clooney refers to his own experiences in order to clarify why his comparative theological engagement is with Hinduism rather than with one of the Abrahamic religions. However, I want to use the same quotation to clarify Clooney’s own take on the necessary preparation to engage in comparative theology. In his opinion, it is necessary to gain a deep knowledge of at least some of the most important scholarly traditions of a religious tradition in order to engage with it comparatively, and for this type of engagement the The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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best preparation is study of primary texts. This is how I understand the metaphor “deep learning” in the subtitle of Clooney’s short book on Comparative Theology (Clooney 2010). Of course, this text-­centered model is not the only possible way to engage in comparative theology, but it is certainly a classical model that remains valuable even for scholars who argue for a “ritual turn” in comparative theology (Moyaert 2017). My point is that the strong emphasis on classical texts and the languages necessary to study them may be a personal disposition of the young Clooney, but it certainly matched with the requirements for priestly formation among Jesuits – not only in the second half of the twentieth century, but also in the times of Matteo Ricci (1552–1610) and Roberto de Nobili (1579–1656). One of the side effects of this stress on scholarly preparation for comparative theology is that it tends to look at interpersonal encounters with adherents of the religious tradition that is being studied in terms of relationships between teachers and students. One can sense this particular emphasis on studious relationships in Clooney’s contribution on study and friendship in a volume on interreligious friendship (Clooney 2015). I mention this because I remember a particular conversation with Clooney when I drove him to a Catholic–Hindu dialogue event in 2015. This event was organized on the occasion of the visit of Jean-­Louis Cardinal Tauran, president of the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue to the United States in May 2015. Tauran was one of the main speakers at a conference organized by the Catholic University of America and the US Conference of Catholic Bishops, celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Nostra Aetate (Valkenberg and Cirelli 2016). While there were sizable groups of Jews and Muslims in attendance at the conference, Tauran had expressed the wish to see more of the broader dialogue efforts of the Catholic bishops in the United States, and so the Secretariat for Ecumenical and Interreligious Affairs organized dialogue meetings with Hindu and Jain partners in the days after the conference. While driving to the Durga Temple in Fairfax Station for the dialogue event on May 23, 2015, I engaged in a conversation with Clooney about the relation between comparative theology and interreligious dialogue, since I had noticed that dialogue seemed to be not as important for him as it was for other comparative theologians such as James Fredericks. Clooney answered that he sometimes felt some ambivalence to engage in interreligious dialogue in situations where his partners displayed only a superficial knowledge of their own faith traditions. This is often the case when medical ­doctors, engineers, and business managers represent the Hindu or Muslim organizations that ­co-­organize dialogue events. They are usually highly esteemed by their religious communities because of their education and their social standing, but they lack the specific training that is necessary to gain access to the primary religious texts in their own tradition. So, what do you do if you have received that specific training but are supposed to represent Christianity in that particular dialogue? It would be rude to correct your dialogue partners on the sources of their own religions, but remaining silent results in an awkwardness that Clooney tries to avoid; this is why he prefers to engage in interreligious situations that are more specifically focused on teaching and learning. The more specific point that I want to make in this contribution is that the same focus on teaching and learning is also a particular characteristic of the specific form of comparative theology that Clooney advocates. Most people will probably take Clooney’s own definition in his introductory Comparative Theology book as point of departure, according to which comparative theology consists of “acts of faith seeking understanding, which are rooted in a particular faith tradition but which, from that foundation, venture into learning from one or more faith traditions. This learning is sought for the sake of fresh theological insights that are indebted to the newly encountered tradition/s as well as the home tradition” (Clooney 2010, p. 10). This definition allows for a plurality of methods, as long as “faith seeking understanding” is paired to “learning from one or more faith traditions.” However, I have always perceived Clooney’s own work as more specifically academic in that it presupposes

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knowledge of primary sources in both the “home tradition” and the tradition from which one hopes to learn. In practice, this usually means knowledge not only of two faith traditions, but also of at least two classical languages necessary to access these traditions. The image that comes spontaneously to my mind is that of fellow-­Jesuit theologian Aloysius Pieris from Sri Lanka who told me that he used to work in his library at two desks: one for the Christian tradition and one for the Buddhist tradition, both with their own sources, languages, and other historical and cultural tools. It is exactly this sort of comparative theological tradition that has been criticized as Western and elitist, yet at the same time I am convinced that it has also helped to give this new form of ­theology a respectable academic status. As mentioned before, in this contribution I want to focus on two Dominicans who have, in very different historical circumstances, used a similar “deep learning” in order to access other religious traditions on behalf of a better understanding and a better proclamation of the Gospel. In doing so, they did what Clooney assigned as the topic for the annual conference of the Catholic Theological Society of America in 2022: “Thinking Catholic Interreligiously.” Yet they did so with very different means and methods. Ramon Marti (or, in Latin, Raymundus Martini) lived in the northern part of Spain between circa 1220 and 1285, and he is mainly known for his polemical works against Jews and, to a lesser degree, Muslims. Yet I want to show that he is also an early model of scholarly preparation to engage with people of other cultures and faith traditions. Conversely, Georges Chehata Anawati lived most of his life in Egypt between 1905 and 1994, and he is mainly known as an advocate for dialogue with Muslims and one of the influencers (as we call it nowadays) behind the scenes at the Second Vatican Council. Just like his confrère seven centuries earlier, it is not difficult to discover the interreligious engagement, in his case mainly in the form of interreligious friendships. Yet at the same time, he also argued that a very specific language is needed to reach out to religious others. In his case, this language was the technical language of the Islamic discipline of kalām (often translated as apologetic, dialectical, or speculative theology) that he approached using the Thomistic scholasticism of the education that the Dominicans of le Saulchoir, under the direction of Marie-­Dominique Chenu, had given him in France. But I focus on Ramon Marti first. We do not exactly know when he was born, but we have information about him in a document from the Spanish provincial chapter of the Dominican order that mentions his name as one of eight friars who are sent to a studium arabicum in 1250 (Cohen 1982, p. 129; Wiersma 2017). So, we start with the specific mission of the Dominican order and the study of languages as a means to achieve that missionary goal. The order of the Dominicans or Friars Preachers was founded by Domingo de Guzmán who was born around 1170 in Caleruega (Castilla) in northern Spain, a region that had only recently gone back from Muslim to Christian dominance (Tugwell 1982). As a young priest, he became a companion of Diego, bishop of Osma, who had participated in a number of disputes with Christians who wanted to go back to apostolic life in a manner that was not accepted by the central authority of the Catholic Church. These movements, first the Waldensians, later the Catharists or Albigensians, attracted many people because they went back to a simple life of poverty and preaching in imitation of the first Christians. Diego and Domingo wanted to display a similar apostolic fervor by focusing not only on conversion of heretics, but also on instruction of the faithful. In 1216, Pope Honorius III approved the institution of the Order of Preachers as a religious order on the basis of the Rule of St Augustine. At first, Domingo wanted to focus on Toulouse, but soon the order developed its preaching mission much more broadly. Preaching was the central means of the apostolic mission of the brothers, but in order to do so well, they needed to study the Gospel and its tradition. Better education would be the best way to prevent the success of groups such as the Waldensians, who attracted followers because of the lack of education in the traditional clergy. Therefore, the early constitutions of the order stipulated that no new convent could be founded



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without the presence of a lecturer (Tugwell 1982, p. 25). But first these lecturers must be schooled themselves, and that is the reason Domingo soon started to send some of his friars to the centers of learning at that time: Paris and Bologna (Mulchahey 1998, pp. 26, 32). Ramon Marti was born around the time that the Dominican order was founded. While we do not know much about his life, his work has been studied quite a bit because he is one of the pivotal figures in what is, according to some, a new approach to missionizing among Jews by the friars (Cohen 1982; Chazan 1989; Wiersma 2015). His name is often mentioned in connection with Thomas Aquinas and his so-­called summa contra gentiles as part of a more general missionary endeavor by the Dominican friars. However, quite a few scholars have remarked that there is no evidence for any active preaching campaign directed at Jews or Muslims, but rather a preparation to instruct the Christian faithful, which would be more in accordance with the origins of the Dominican order (Vose  2009, p.  21; Mazza  2017). Even though the writings of Ramon Marti directed at Jews have received more scholarly attention, it makes sense to begin with his lesser-­ known writings directed at Muslims, since he started to focus on Muslims as one of the friars who were sent to a studium arabicum in 1250. We do not know exactly where this study house was, but it was probably on the Iberian Peninsula, possibly Mallorca (Wiersma 2015, p. 30), even though Murcia and Tunis have been proposed as locations as well. The study of languages, specifically Hebrew and Arabic, was part of the missionary endeavor of the Dominicans under their Master General Raymond of Peñafort (1185–1275). More specifically, Humbert of Romans, who became the master general in 1254, stipulated the study of Arabic, Hebrew, and Greek for the Dominican friars in a number of letters. The studium arabicum would be a place to study not only Arabic but also the Qur’an, Islamic theology, and topics for debate with Muslims. Mallorca would be a good place for this, given that it still had a significant Muslim population, having been “reconquered” just a generation ago. Ramon used these skills in his Explanatio Symboli Apostolorum ad Institutionem Fidelium, an explanation of the Apostles’ Creed meant to instruct faithful Christians on how to respond to objections against the Creed made by Muslims. This work, written in 1256 or 1257, shows his knowledge of the Islamic apologetic tradition and his ability to use both scriptural and rational forms of argumentation to defend the Christian faith. A second work is polemical rather than apologetic in nature, and it has survived under different titles, such as De seta Machometi (on the sect of Muhammad) and De origine, progressu et fine Machometi et Quaduplici reprobatione prophetiae eius (The life of Muhammad from beginning to end and a fourfold refutation of his prophecy). Even though the work is anonymous, most scholars now argue that it was written by Ramon Marti at about the same time as the Explanatio Symboli. These works show Ramon to be “a fairly skilled Arabist with a real interest in Islam” (Vose 2009, p. 123). He quotes not only the Qur’an accurately, but also a number of traditions (ḥadı ̄th) by Bukhārı ̄, Muslim, and Ibn Isḥāq that were only available in Arabic at that time. So, one might conclude that Ramon prepared himself like any comparative theologian would do, even though his goal was to refute Islam rather than to learn from it. And yet, Ramon’s activity did not leave any traces, because when Ramon Llull wanted to study Islam about a decade later, he had to hire a Muslim servant because no books on the matter could be found in the Dominican convent in Mallorca (Vose 2009, p. 107). It seems that Ramon Marti shifted his interest to the study of Jewish sources, as his subsequent books testify. It might be that the famous disputation of Barcelona (1263) between Pablo Christiani and Moshe ben Nachman or Nachmanides played a part; in 1264, Ramon was tasked, together with Raymond of Peñafort and Pablo Christiani, with surveying blasphemies against the Christian faith in the rabbinical writings. This resulted in his Capistrum Iudaeorum (“Muzzle of the Jews”) in 1267, which can be seen as an attempt to find a better way to defend the Christian faith than Pablo Christiani did a few years before. It is in this context that Ramon Marti is often mentioned as one of the persons who renewed

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the Mendicant approach to Jews by considering Jewish sources, such as the Talmud, in their ­original languages (Cohen 1982, 1999; Schoot and Valkenberg 2004). This new approach is even more conspicuous in the Pugio Fidei adversus Mauros et Judaeos (“Dagger of faith against Moors and Jews”) in 1278, which can be seen as an attempt to conquer the Jewish – and partly Islamic – adversaries on their own turf. The structure of the Pugio is rather enigmatic (Wiersma  2015, p. 48). It begins with a first part that addresses the errors of those who do not have a religious law, mainly the philosophers. This part has quite a few similarities with Thomas Aquinas’s Summa contra gentiles, but also with al-­Ghazālı ̄’s critique of the Arab philosophers (Hasselhoff  2014, p. 15). As the title of the work indicates, this part is directed at Jews and Muslims at the same time. However, the second and third books focus only on Jews and give carefully selected quotations in Hebrew and Aramaic. While the second part largely repeats the arguments given in the earlier Capistrum Iudaeorum, the third part makes a new beginning with a more specific focus on the Trinity and the coming of the Messiah. It seems that this change of focus is the result of a new assignment that Ramon received around 1275 when he was asked to set up a studium hebraicum in Barcelona. The specific characteristic of this third part is that it uses Hebrew, Aramaic, and, to a lesser extent, Arabic to show the truth of Christianity to Jews. Ramon Marti takes great care to write out and to translate quotations from several Jewish sources, such as Targumim, midrashim, Talmud, Rashi, and David Kimchi (Hasselhoff 2014, pp. 17–31). Moreover, in the introduction to the work, Ramon Marti states that he does not want to rely on the usual Greek and Latin translations of the Law and the Prophets because they often disagree with the Hebrew text (Hasselhoff and Wiersma 2017). So, it is a very scholarly book, with a more distant and a more immediate goal. The distant goal is to persuade the Jews by using their own tradition against them, but the immediate goal is to prepare Christians – and specifically Dominicans – by giving them arguments at hand when they set out to preach in a missionary context in Muslim-­majority regions (Wiersma 2015, p. 45). Görge Hasselhoff, a German scholar who is in the process of publishing a critical edition of the work, comes to the conclusion that such a detailed and meticulous study of Jewish sources in their original languages betrays an unexpected amount of “philosemitism” for someone who writes in the adversus Iudaeos tradition (Hasselhoff 2014, p. 13). It turns out that someone who writes in this polemical tradition is sometimes able to use methods that we now would associate with dialogue and comparative theology, rather than with the defense of one’s faith; yet, in order to convince the other, it is necessary to understand this other person first; that is why polemics and dialogue may very well go together (Valkenberg and Wijsen 1997; Hettema and Van der Kooij 2004). The second friar is, as I already announced, associated with dialogue rather than with polemics. Yet, in the context of his education and his culture, he showed the importance of study and deep learning as a preparation for this dialogue.1 Georges Anawati (1905–1994) was born in Alexandria, Egypt, though his family was originally from Syria where their name was Qanawati. He studied pharmacology but decided to join the Dominicans in France in 1934. His path toward encounter with Muslims started when Marie-­Dominique Chenu OP (1895–1990), at that time the Regent of Studies at Le Saulchoir, the study house of the French Dominicans, asked Anawati, along with his confrères Jacques Jomier and Serge de Beaureceuil, to form a new group of friars who would start an institute associated with the École Biblique in Jerusalem with a focus on serious engagement with the world of Islam in Cairo (Avon 2005, p. 341). They were fully aware that the formation of the Institut Dominicain d’Études Orientales was entirely in line with the early history of the Dominicans and their studia of Hebrew and Arabic, the only difference being that the goal would be engagement and dialogue rather than conversion (Pérennès 2008, p. 116). The person who influenced Anawati to explore comparative theology was Louis Gardet (1904–1986), who was baptized as a Catholic in 1926 and became a “Little Brother of Jesus,” following the spiritual



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example of Blessed Charles de Foucauld (Borrmans  2009, pp.  77–78). Anawati met Gardet in 1942, the start of a long collaboration that resulted in two books: Introduction à la théologie musulmane (1948) and Mystique musulmane (1961). The subtitle of the first book is: essai de théologie comparée, making it one of the most interesting projects of comparative theology before the Second Vatican Council. The book can be characterized as an exploration of the possibilities for a systematic comparison between Christian systematic theology in a Thomistic mode and the Muslim tradition of kalām. After this exploration, Anawati and Gardet scheduled a number of publications in a series Les grands problèmes de la théologie musulmane: Essai de théologie comparée (“Major issues in Islamic theology: Essay in comparative theology”). Anawati was to write the first volume in this series on God, God’s existence, and God’s attributes, but this part has never been published even though a manuscript of that title has been found among his papers after his death (Pérennès 2008, pp. 270–273). Gardet published the second volume about God’s agency, human freedom, prophecy, resurrection, faith and works, and religious authority under the title Dieu et la destinée de l’homme in 1967. For the Christian reader, the choice and order of topics might be somewhat strange, but these are the topics discussed in traditional kalām handbooks. This grand conceptual scheme makes clear that the form of comparative theology envisaged by Anawati and Gardet is in fact a comparison of theological systems and topics rather than a comparison of texts or authors. In this respect, their approach has more in common with Robert Neville’s method of comparing philosophical or theological topics or ideas rather than texts. Gardet and Anawati take the structure, nature, and method of Christian (scholastic) systematic theology as points of departure for their inquiry into the structure, nature, and method of systematic Islamic theology, or kalām (Gardet and Anawati 1948, p. 7). It is significant and even exceptional that Anawati and Gardet let Islamic topics shape their comparative theological project. Their method consists of three steps. In the first place, a direct and exhaustive literary reading of kalām texts; in the second place, a deeper thematic analysis of these texts in their historical contexts in which the comparative theological reading can also be a useful tool; and finally, an intercultural reading in which reference is made to the basic values of Islamic and Christian theological perspectives. This final reading needs to be recognizable to both traditions and aims at mutual enrichment (Gardet and Anawati 1948, p. 10). The authors are aware that such a comparative theology is “une discipline quelque peu nouvelle” (“a somewhat new discipline”) that entails its own methodological requirements; in their opinion, a concern for objectivity and intellectual justice is important, but a certain amount of sympathy and intellectual charity as well (Gardet and Anawati 1948, p. 11). As an author in the field of comparative studies, Louis Gardet has been more productive than Georges Anawati, and he extended the comparative approach to include philosophical and mystical aspects of Islam (Gardet 1958, 1972, 1986). At times, Gardet would despair of their common projects and he would ask Anawati when his promised contributions would be forthcoming, and when he would settle down from all his traveling so that he could start writing (Pérennès 2008, p. 282). However, the comparative theological work is more often associated with Anawati than with Gardet, because the Egyptian Dominican possessed the language skills and the intercultural sensibility that made the entire project possible (Pérennès  2008, pp.  258, 283). Yet, even though the comparative theological introduction to Islamic theology went through several prints and editions – the last one in 2013 – this “somewhat new” approach has not found much resonance in French theological circles. The only person to pay attention to the notion of comparative theology in a volume dedicated to Anawati and Gardet is Robert Caspar, a missionary of Africa (“White Father”), and one of the pivotal scholars of Christian–Muslim relations at the Pontifical Institute for the Study of Islam and Arabic (PISAI) in Rome and its periodical Islamochristiana (Caspar 1977, pp. 89–105). He characterizes this comparative theology as a “doctrinal dialogue” between Christians and Muslims, in which a thorough

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knowledge of the Scriptures and doctrines of the other religion goes together with a contemporary (and not only historical) knowledge of the Scriptures and doctrines of the “home” religion. Caspar suggests that this type of research starts with the search for a vocabulary and categories that are familiar to the interlocutors, and proceeds by making distinctions between the two traditions in order to avoid ambiguity and syncretism. In these words, one can sense the continuity with the traditional apologetic methods of Christian and Islamic kalām literature in which Ramon Marti worked as well. The strong links with the rational philosophical theology of neo-­Scholasticism show why this type of comparative theology did not survive the new impetus of the Second Vatican Council. And yet, it was Georges Anawati who can be identified as one of the major contributors to the text on Islam in Nostra Aetate (D’Costa 2014, p. 161). During the Council he was present in Rome as an adviser on the relationship with Eastern Christian Churches, but it was his talk at the Angelicum – the university of the Dominican Friars in Rome – on “Islam at the time of the Council” in November 1963 that paved the way for his influential role behind the scenes (Anawati 1964). In fact, both the comparative theological method and the text of Nostra Aetate focused much on similarities between Christianity and Islam. In his commentary on the third section of Nostra Aetate, Anawati characterized this text as a “radical novelty” (Anawati  1967; D’Costa  2014, p. 161), exactly because it focused on the desire to find a common vocabulary between Catholic theology and Islam. Yet, when I contacted a number of younger French Dominican theologians with my plans to make Anawati better known in the English-­speaking theological world, they seemed to be quite hesitant because of this association. The name of Anawati is now associated with interreligious dialogue and friendship, but some Dominicans wonder whether this waters down the theological core of the Christian faith. Jacques Jomier, for instance, one of Anawati’s two original colleagues at the Institut Dominicain d’Études Orientales, questions whether Anawati really was the theologian that he purported to be (Jomier 2016, p. 431). More particularly, he doubts whether one can take the notion of faith as a common point of departure between Christians and Muslims (Jomier 2016, pp.  326–329). And his younger colleague Emmanuel Pisani evokes a controversy between Anawati and a Muslim scholar on the occasion of a lecture given by Anawati at al-­Azhar University in Cairo in 1976 on “common faith in God between Christians and Muslims.” Pisani juxtaposes Anawati’s lecture to a reply given somewhat later by Dr ‘Abd al-­Fattah ‘Abdallah Baraka in Majallat al-­Azhar, the journal of al-­Azhar, in 1979 (Pisani 2014, pp. 21–49). In his own analysis of the controversy, Pisani comes to the conclusion that Dr Baraka might be right in doubting that there is such a thing as common faith between Christians and Muslims (Pisani  2014, p.  143). If Dr Baraka is right, and if the document Dominus Iesus (DI) published by the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith in 2000 is right in distinguishing between faith as a theological notion proper to Christianity and Judaism, and belief as a nontheological notion common to other religions (see DI 4 and 7), then there seems to be no solid basis for the type of comparative theology on which Anawati and Gardet embarked. Pisani states that the notion of faith that Anawati uses is not properly theological but a pastoral and humanistic notion, just like the documents of the Second Vatican Council (Pisani 2014, p. 160). This is in line with what I heard from other young French Dominicans recently: they like to move away from interreligious dialogue as a topic and toward more technical and specific studies that make clear the differences between Christianity and Islam rather than focusing on a supposed common ground. I can see how Anawati has become, just like Louis Massignon, a symbol of a certain Catholic approach to Islam that was germane to the second half of the twentieth century. At the same time, Anawati was an internationally recognized scholar of Islamic philosophy, in particular Ibn Sina (Pérennès  2008, pp.  177–208). In that respect, I would hold him up as a model of scholarship and artisanship just like Ramon Marti and Francis Clooney. And I think that it is possible on the basis of this scholarship to engage in



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c­ omparative theological work that focuses on differences and particularities while at the same time connecting this artisanship to the goals of religious life. In the case of the Dominicans, the goal is to contemplate the truth and to share this with others. Both Ramon Marti and Georges Anawati used serious study of a specific set of languages as a means for deep understanding through deep learning from Jews and Muslims in a form that fits their specific temporal and cultural context. Yet this study and learning served as a means to get to a deeper understanding of God and a better way to engage others in this learning. The two historical examples of Ramon Marti and Georges Anawati teach us that meticulous study of languages and cultures in order to understand the religious other can be paired with deep appreciation of this other. In several recent essays, Clooney has pointed to Jesuit missionaries as models of this scholarship-­cum-­appreciation, even if the ultimate goal is to convert the religious other to salvation in Jesus Christ. It is intriguing that Görge Hasselhoff comes to the conclusion that there is a certain “philosemitism” in Ramon Marti’s meticulous study of Hebrew sources, and it is very well possible to see a certain measure of “islamophilia” at work in Anawati’s life and writings. While scholars of religion are trained to bracket their appreciation for the object of their studies, comparative theologians are allowed to use their artistic and religious sensibilities. As Clooney recently argued, this is in line with the Ignatian pedagogy of the via pulchritudinis or “way of beauty.” Dominican and Jesuit missionaries might have disagreed about methods and contents, but they shared a deep respect and a deep learning across religious boundaries.

Note 1 A shorter version of the text on Georges Anawati has previously been published as part of the chapter “French Comparative Theologians Before Nostra Aetate” by Pim Valkenberg and Christian Krokus (2022).

References Anawati, G.C. (1964). L’Islam à l’heure du concile: prolégomènes d’un dialogue islamo-­chrétien. Angelicum 41: 145–166. Anawati, G.C. (1967). Exkurs zum Konzilstext über die Muslim. In: Lexikon für Theologie und Kirche. Vol. XIII: Das Zweite Vatikanische Konzil, II (ed. M. Buchberger and J. Höfer), pp. 485–487. Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder. Anawati, G.C. and Gardet, L. (1961). Mystique musulmane: Aspects et tendances, expériences et techniques (Études Musulmanes, 8). Paris: Librairie philosophique J. Vrin. Avon, D. (2005). Les Frères Prêcheurs en Orient: Les dominicains du Caire (années 1910–années 1960). Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf. Borrmans, M. (2009). Prophètes du dialogue islamo-­chrétien: Louis Massignon, Jean-­Mohammed Abd-­El-­ Jalil, Louis Gardet, Georges C. Anawati. Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf. Caspar, R. (1977). Perspectives de la “théologie comparée” entre l’Islam et le Christianisme. In: Recherches d’islamologie: Recueil d’articles offerts à Georges C. Anawati et Louis Gardet par leurs collègues et amis (ed. G.C. Anawati and L. Gardet), pp. 89–105. Louvain: Peeters. Chazan, R. (1989). Daggers of Faith: Thirteenth-­Century Christian Missionizing and Jewish Response. Berkeley: University of California Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Malden MA: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2015). Study and friendship: Intersections throughout an Academic Life. In: Interreligious Friendship after Nostra Aetate (ed. J.L. Fredericks and T.S. Tiemeier), pp. 101–110. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

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Clooney, F.X. (2022). The Hindu-­Catholic encounter: A natural home for comparative theology. In: A Companion to Comparative Theology (ed. P. Valkenberg) (Brill’s Companions to Modern Theology, 2), pp. 280–293. Leiden: Brill. Cohen, J. (1982). The Friars and the Jews: The Evolution of Medieval Anti-­Judaism. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Cohen, J. (1999). Living Letters of the Law: Ideas of the Jew in Medieval Christianity. Berkeley: University of California Press. Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (2000). Declaration Dominus Iesus of the unicity and s­ alvific universality of Jesus Christ and the Church. https://www.vatican.va/roman_curia/congregations/ cfaith/documents/rc_con_cfaith_doc_20000806_dominus-­iesus_en.html (accessed January 11, 2023). D’Costa, G. (2014). Vatican II: Catholic Doctrines on Jews and Muslims. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gardet, L. (1958). Thèmes et textes mystiques: Recherche de critères en mystique comparée. Paris: Alsatia. Gardet, L. (1967). Dieu et la destinée de l’homme: Les grands problèmes de la théologie musulmane (Études Musulmanes, 9). Paris: Librairie philosophique J.Vrin. Gardet, L. (1972). Études de philosophie et de mystique comparées. Paris: Librairie philosophique J. Vrin. Gardet, L. (1986). Regards chrétiens sur l’islam. Paris: Desclée de Brouwer. Gardet, L. and Anawati, M.-­M. (1948). Introduction à la théologie musulmane: Essai de théologie comparée (Études de philosophie médiévale, 37). Paris: Librairie philosophique J.Vrin. Hasselhoff, G.K. (2014). Raimundus Martini: Texte zur Gotteslehre: Pugio Fidei I–III.1–6  Lateinisch, Hebräisch/Aramäisch, Deutsch (ed. and trans. G.K. Hasselhoff) (Herders Bibliothek der Philosophie des Mittelalters, 31). Freiburg: Herder. Hasselhoff, G.K. and Wiersma, S. (2017). The preface to the Pugio Fidei. In: Ramon Martí’s Pugio Fidei: Studies and Texts (ed. G.K. Hasselhoff and A. Fidora) (Exemplaria Scholastica 8), pp. 11–21. Santa Coloma de Queralt: Obrador Edendum. Hettema, T.L. and Van der Kooij, A. (2004). Religious Polemics in Context (Studies in Religion and Theology, 11). Assen: Van Gorcum. Jomier, J. (2016). Confidences islamo-­chrétiennes: Lettres à Maurice Borrmans (1967–2008), rassemblées et annotées par Maurice Borrmans. Marseilles: Publications Chemin de Dialogue. Mazza, E.J. (2017). The Scholastics and the Jews: Coexistence, Conversion, and the Medieval Origins of Tolerance. Kettering, OH: Angelico Press. Moyaert, M. (2017). Comparative theology: Between text and ritual. In: The Past, Present, and Future of Theologies of Interreligious Dialogue (ed. T. Merrigan and J. Friday), pp. 184–200. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mulchahey, M.M. (1998). “First the Bow is Bent in Study . . .”: Dominican Education Before 1350 (Studies and Texts, 132). Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies. Pérennès, J.-­J. (2008). Georges Anawati (1905–1994): Un chrétien égyptien davant le mystère de l’Islam. Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf. Pisani, E. (2014). Le dialogue islamo-­chrétien à l’épreuve: Père Anawati, o.p. – Dr Baraka: Une controverse au vingtième siècle. Paris: L’Harmattan. Schoot, H. and Valkenberg, P. (2004). Thomas Aquinas and Judaism. Modern Theology 20 (1): 51–70. Tugwell, S. (1982). Introduction. In: Early Dominicans: Selected Writings (ed. and intro. S. Tugwell) (Classics of Western Spirituality). Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press. Valkenberg, P. and Cirelli, A. (eds.) (2016). Nostra Aetate: Celebrating 50 Years of the Catholic Church’s Dialogue with Jews and Muslims. Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press. Valkenberg, P. and Krokus, C. (2022). French comparative theologians before Nostra Aetate. In: A Companion to Comparative Theology (ed. P. Valkenberg) (Brill’s Companions to Modern Theology, 2), pp. 90–108. Leiden: Brill. Valkenberg, W.G.B.M. and Wijsen, F.J.S. eds. (1997). The Polemical Dialogue: Research into Dialogue, Truth, and Truthfulness (Nijmegen Studies in Development and Cultural Change, 24). Saarbrücken: Verlag für Entwicklungspolitik. Vose, R. (2009). Dominicans, Muslims and Jews in the Medieval Crown of Aragon (Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.



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Wiersma, S. (2015). Pearls in a Dunghill: The anti-­Jewish writings of Raymond Martin OP (ca. 1220– ca. 1285). PhD thesis. Tilburg University. Wiersma, S. (2017). The dynamic of religious polemics: The case of Raymond Martin (ca. 1220–ca. 1285). In: Interaction between Judaism and Christianity in History, Religion, Art, and Literature (ed. M. Poorthuis, J.J. Schwartz, and J. Turner) (Jewish and Christian Perspectives, 17), pp. 201–218. Leiden: Brill.

CHAPTER 41

Lectio Divina and Comparative Reading in the History of Christian–Muslim Encounters Rita George-­Tvrtković

“Comparative practice occurs when acts of reading have been undertaken, as we read back and forth across religious borders.” (Clooney 2010, p. 58)

In this quote from his definitive book on the subject, Comparative Theology: Deep Learning across Religious Borders, Francis X. Clooney identifies reading as a key element of the theological method he founded. Given this focus on reading, it is not surprising that my first encounter with Clooney was to help plan a reading event to celebrate 25 years of comparative theology at the Catholic Theological Society of America’s (CTSA) annual convention. True to his method, he envisioned not a panel discussing reading, but rather a gathering where conference goers actually spent time reading together. The comparative theology reading group we started in 2014 has persisted at the CTSA annual meeting ever since: it began as a preconvention session, then moved to a temporary three-­year interest group, then back to a preconvention session, and now it is a breakfast. The reading group remains at the temporal borders of the annual conference, just as the discipline of comparative theology itself has remained at the borders of Catholic theology, at least until recently.1 Despite ever-­increasing interest in this topic, the border remains a good place to be, given the location where comparative theology’s stated goal of deep learning occurs: “across religious borders.” Clooney has proposed the early modern era as the origin of comparative theology as a discipline, noting the approaches of sixteenth-­century Jesuit missionaries in India, and identifying 1700 as the year the term was first used in English (2010, pp. 27–31).2 But I would like to suggest that the methodological roots of comparative theology stretch even further back, into medieval Latin forms of religious reading. As a historical theologian who studies the development of Christian theologies of Islam over time, I have seen as early as the twelfth century how reading the Qur’an has been an important entrée into deep learning about Islam for Christians – whether or not that learning was intended.3 The first person to commission a Latin translation of the Qur’an was none other than Peter the Venerable of Cluny (d. 1156), an abbot well versed in the ancient The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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monastic reading practice of lectio divina. Peter surely realized that if northern European Christians were to argue effectively against Islam, they needed to understand the Muslim holy book. And that understanding could only come through careful reading, the kind of reading he and other Benedictines did (and still do) on a daily basis. The bulk of this chapter will discuss how monastic reading practices such as lectio divina likely informed, at least implicitly, how medieval Latin Christians approached the Qur’an. The end of the chapter will outline how lectio divina has continued to serve, more explicitly now, as a practical method for how college students (including those in my Christian–Muslim dialogue group at Benedictine University) can read the Bible and Qur’an together today.4

Medieval Latin Readers of the Qur’an This section will describe the following examples of medieval Latin Christian readers of the Qur’an: Peter the Venerable of Cluny (d. 1156), Riccoldo da Montecroce, OP (d. 1320), and Nicholas of Cusa (d. 1464). While there are other theologians from this era who could also have been mentioned here, these three were selected because all of them talk explicitly about the activity of reading the Qur’an, and certain aspects of their reading methods were relatively unique for their respective eras. One could argue that a few of these medieval churchmen could even be called “proto-­comparative theologians,” due to their careful reading of, and sometimes sympathetic approaches to, the Qur’an – despite the fact that all of them had stated goals that appear counter to deep learning (e.g., conversion, polemic). This dissonance is important and has been noted in recent scholarship. For example, in his seminal book, Reading the Qur’an in Latin Christendom, 1140–1560, Thomas Burman has observed that medieval Latin readers of the Qur’an engaged in multiple different modes of reading simultaneously, e.g., philology and polemics (2007a, p.  6). While Burman calls more sympathetic views of the Qur’an “philological,” which anticipates the method of early modern humanists and comparative linguists, I would like to emphasize the much older monastic practice of lectio divina as an additional contributing factor to the (sometimes) more positive, yet still complex, approaches of Peter, Riccoldo, and Nicholas to Islam’s holy book. We begin with Peter the Venerable (d. 1156), since he commissioned the first complete translation of the Qur’an into Latin. His efforts mark the formal beginning of Qur’an reading in northern Europe and is the reason Burman’s book title lists 1140 as the terminus a quo of this activity. Despite writing in the midst of the Crusades, Peter’s seemingly more irenic approach to Muslims has often been contrasted to that of his confrere, Bernard of Clairvaux, with Bernard arguing for the more traditional taking up of arms; while Peter, in a famous line from his Contra sectam Saracenorum (Against the Sect of the Saracens), instead assured Muslims, “I do not attack you by arms, as some of us often do, but by words; not by force, but by reason; not in hatred, but in love” (Peter the Venerable  2016, p.  75).5 Peter knew that if Christians were to refute the Islamic heresy (or ­paganism – he admitted that he was not sure how to label it), they needed accurate knowledge about Islam, and to get that, they had to spend time reading the Qur’an. Yet no complete translation was to be had in northern Europe in the mid-­twelfth century, nor did many non-­Iberian Latin Christians know Arabic. It was this linguistic ignorance, said Peter, that prevented them from arguing effectively against Islam: “Because the Latins and especially the moderns, with the ancient zeal [to fight heretics] suffering decline . . . knew only their own language to which they were born, they were unable to know to which sort this great error belongs, nor could they oppose so great an error” (Peter the Venerable 2016, p. 71). Although Peter himself did not know Arabic either, this did not prevent him from bewailing the lack of such knowledge among his confreres: “I was angry that the Latins were unaware of the cause of such great destruction, and because of that ignorance [of Arabic], they could not be aroused to oppose [Islam]” (Peter the Venerable 2016, p. 71).

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Without Arabic, there could be no proper reading of the Qur’an, and without reading the Qur’an, there would be “no one who might respond” to Islam. So Peter “betook himself to those with expert knowledge of the Arabic language” and “persuaded them both by entreaty and with money to translate from the Arabic language into Latin” the Qur’an itself (Peter the Venerable 2016, p.  72). Relying on his Cluniac network, in the early 1140s Peter traveled from monastery to ­monastery in Spain in search of translators who could complete the task. Even though his goal was to discredit Islam, he still wanted his translation to be as accurate and unbiased as possible. To that end, he tells us that he “added a Saracen” named Muhammad to his team of Christian translators (Robert of Ketton, Hermann of Dalmatia, and Peter of Toledo).6 He hoped that by including a Muslim, the end product would be more trustworthy, as he explicitly states: “so that no one will lack complete faith in the translation, and so that nothing could be removed from notice by some deceit of our own” (Peter the Venerable 2016, p. 72).7 Peter never uses the phrase lectio divina when he discusses the importance of Christians studying the Qur’an, because lectio divina was a reading practice normally reserved for the Bible. In fact, one of the main goals of Contra sectam Saracenorum, one of two books Peter wrote after he read his  Latin Qur’an, is to deny its revelatory status. However, it is nevertheless important to note Peter’s relatively positive attitude toward the Qur’an, even as he tries to refute it. He clearly respects it as a book worthy of serious study. This attitude, which was undoubtedly shaped by his daily monastic practice of lectio divina, is made clear through his actions as noted above: he invested time (several years), effort (he personally traveled to Spain), and money into the project. Furthermore, his translators seemed to share his respect for the Qur’an; for example, they worked diligently to convey the Arabic text as accurately as they could, using the highest register of Latin for their translations, which shows that they acknowledged the Qur’an’s unique status, at least in the eyes of its Muslim readers (Burman 2007a, pp. 13–14). All of this suggests an implicit esteem for books in general – even the sacred book of an enemy religion. Peter used the translation he commissioned as the basis for not one but two anti-­Islamic treatises. The first slim text, Summa totius haeresis Saracenorum (A summary of all the heresies of the Saracens), had an internal audience, and was meant to educate Christians on the basics of Islam, in order to refute it more effectively. The second, longer text, Contra sectam Saracenorum (Against the sect of the Saracens), spoke to both internal and external audiences, with the goal of arguing against the revelatory status of the Qur’an and the prophethood of Muhammad. Peter’s two books were never popular, but the entire corpus of Islamic texts, which he had translated along with the  Qur’an (alternately known as the Toledan Collection, Corpus Islamolatinum, or Corpus Cluniacense), became well known (Ferrero Hernández 2021, pp. 397–398). Not only did Peter’s collection spark a new era of Qur’an reading and Arabic learning in northern Europe in the twelfth century, but it also reignited the same interest in the sixteenth century, when Theodore Bibliander published Peter’s corpus, including the first print edition of the Qur’an in 1543. I would like to suggest that more positive medieval Christian approaches to the Qur’an like Peter’s (what Burman calls “philological”) are partly the result, at least implicitly, of monastic modes of reading, especially lectio divina, which was part of the Benedictine schedule and thus practiced by monks and nuns daily, according to the Rule of Benedict (Fry 1981, ch. 48). So what is distinctive about lectio divina? As the monastic scholar Jean Leclercq notes in his classic Love of Learning and the Desire for God, medieval Latin reading first and foremost meant reading out loud: “in the Middle Ages, as in antiquity, they read usually, not as today, principally with the eyes, but with the lips, pronouncing what they saw, and with the ears, listening to the words pronounced, hearing what is called the ‘voices of the pages’” (Leclercq 1982, p. 19). Leclercq goes on to link this kind of active reading to meditation, which he calls “the necessary complement, almost the equivalent of lectio divina.” Although the focus of medieval Christian meditatio-­lectio was the Bible, this



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method could be used to approach any text: “for the ancients, to meditate is to read a text and learn it by heart in the fullest sense of this expression, that is, with one’s whole being” (Leclercq 1982, pp. 21–22). Lectio divina can therefore be summarized as a deep form of active, out-­loud reading that includes meditatio, contemplatio, and ruminatio, with rumination in particular being a form of intellectual and spiritual tasting and digesting which allows the reader to “assimilate the content of the text by means of a kind of mastication which releases its full flavor” (Leclercq 1982, p. 90). Given the pervasiveness of out-­loud reading among medieval Latins, can we assume that the Christian translators whom Peter commissioned  – Robert of Ketton and Hermann of Dalmatia (the latter of whom had studied at a Benedictine monastic school) – read the Qur’an and other Islamic texts out loud as they translated? (Paić-­Vukić 2018, p. 277). Would it be too far-­fetched to also suggest that the Muslim translator Muhammad did the same, given traditional Islamic ­methods of reciting the Qur’an? As they worked together, did the Christian and Muslim translators compare reading styles in the two religions? Finally, once Peter had his Latin Qur’an in hand, did he read it out loud as he studied and critiqued it? It is hard to imagine that he would have read it any other way. We now move a century and a half later to another famous Qur’an reader, Riccoldo da Montecroce (d. 1320). Riccoldo was a Dominican friar, not a Benedictine monk, but I would argue that his way of reading the Qur’an was likewise influenced by lectio divina, via St Dominic’s Nine Ways of Prayer. Furthermore, Riccoldo also anticipates two key aspects of Clooney’s comparative theological method: his focus on reading the Qur’an in Arabic and his personal engagement with Muslim scholars in interpreting their holy book (Clooney 2010, pp. 60, 64). Unlike Peter, Riccoldo knew Arabic. He tells us so repeatedly in his writings.8 One could even say that he boasts about his ability. For example, when discussing specific Qur’anic passages in his Epistole ad Ecclesiam Triumphantem (Letters to the Church Triumphant), he tells his readers at least six times that “I have read this in Arabic in so many places in the Qur’an” (Riccoldo da Montecroce 2012a, p. 149). His fellow Dominicans acknowledged his Arabic, too; it is explicitly mentioned in his obituary at Santa Maria Novella priory in Florence: “He advanced in the Arabic language so that through it he could relate the word of God to the people” (Orlandi 1955, p. 222).9 Riccoldo’s Arabic knowledge was important for several reasons. Not only did it give him authority to teach his fellow missionaries about Islam and Muslims, but at a more basic level, he knew that he could not properly understand the Qur’an himself unless he had a working knowledge of Arabic. Arabic was also necessary if he was to be successful as a preacher in “the most distant parts of the East” (Riccoldo da Montecroce 2012a, p. 142). He tells us that he specifically chose Baghdad as his destination because it was the center of Islamic learning (Riccoldo da Montecroce 2012b, p. 211). While living in the metropolis for over a decade, Riccoldo studied the Arabic language and Islamic literature with Muslim scholars in their mosques, schools, and homes: “it was necessary for us to converse with them a good deal, and they received us as angels of God in their schools and studia, in their monasteries and churches or synagogues, and their homes” (Riccoldo da Montecroce 2012b, p. 211).10 Like Peter, Riccoldo sought out Muslim “insiders” to guide him in reading and understanding the Qur’an. He learns Arabic himself, but he also needs the help of Muslim teachers to “apply himself diligently to the study of their law [the Qur’an] and works” (Riccoldo da Montecroce 2012b, p. 211). This reflects the aspect of the comparative theological approach that suggests “reading with readers in the other tradition” (Clooney 2010, p. 64). Other key aspects of Riccoldo’s approach to reading the Qur’an can be found in this radical passage from the Epistole: “‘But I beg you [Christ], read what he says about you, your mother and your apostles.’ As you know, frequently when reading the Qur’an in Arabic with a heart full of utter grief and impatience, I have placed the book open on your altar before your image and that of your most holy mother and said, ‘read, read,’ what Mahomet says. And it seems to me that you do not

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want to read. I ask, therefore that you not disdain to hear a little of what I recount to you” (Riccoldo da Montecroce 2012a, p. 163). Riccoldo reveals several significant details about his manner of reading the Qur’an. First, he reads it in Arabic. Second, he volunteers to read the Qur’an out loud to Christ himself. The fact that Riccoldo asks of Christ to “hear a little of what I recount to you” seems to confirm the endurance of out-­loud reading as normative for the time. Third, the last ­significant detail here is not only how Riccoldo reads the Qur’an, but where: he tells us that he placed it on an altar in front of icons of Jesus and Mary. In another book, Riccoldo describes, in a positive manner, Muslim methods of reading. In his Liber peregrinationis (Book of Pilgrimage), which recounts his first-­hand experiences of Muslims while living in Baghdad, he lists seven Muslim practices that he calls “works of perfection.” The first work of perfection he describes is “Saracen studiousness,” which outlines how Muslims approach study of their holy book: “The Saracens come to Baghdad to study from diverse provinces . . . There are many places in Baghdad which are devoted solely to study and contemplation, in the manner of our great monasteries. Students who come are provided a cell, bread, and water by the community; with this they are content to meditate and study in the greatest voluntary ­poverty. In public schools where the Qur’an is commented upon, only the shoeless may enter” (Riccoldo da Montecroce 2012b, pp. 211–212). Here, Riccoldo makes several explicit and implicit comparisons between Muslim and Christian reading practices: in both religions, students travel to a city which is a center of theological learning (Baghdad, like Paris); in both religions, there are institutions devoted to both study and prayer (“in the manner of our great monasteries”); and in both religions, students choose to live in voluntary poverty. Unlike Christians, Riccoldo notes, Muslims do something else when they read scripture: they take off their shoes. But can we see the influence of lectio divina on how Riccoldo read the Qur’an? And further, can we detect any nascent comparative theological methods here? As a member of the Order of Preachers, Riccoldo was surely shaped by St Dominic’s Nine Ways of Prayer, in which the Eighth Way calls study a form of prayer (Tugwell 1982). The kind of reading described here has clear resonances with Benedictine lectio divina. First, the time, place, and attitude of reading is noted: “after the canonical hours and the grace which is said in common after meals, the father [Dominic] would go off quickly on his own to a cell or somewhere, sober and alert and anointed with a spirit of devotion  .  .  .  he would sit down to read or pray  .  .  .  fixing himself in the presence of God” (Tugwell  1982, p.  101). Note the similarities to the Rule of Benedict (Fry  1981, ch. 48), which describes the time and place of monastic daily lectio divina as happening both before and after the noon prayer and meal; the reading that takes place after lunch is done alone, in one’s cell (Fry 1981). Second, the manner of reading is noted: “the man of God had a prophetic way of passing from reading to prayer and from meditation to contemplation” (Tugwell 1982, p. 101). This sounds like a Dominican description of Benedictine lectio.11 Third, the “Nine Ways” discusses how Dominic would treat the book he was reading: “he used to venerate the book and bow to it and sometimes kiss it, particularly if it was a book of the gospels” (Tugwell 1982, p. 101). It is important to note that according to the Eighth Way, the object of such reading could be any book, not just the Bible: “he would open some book before him” (Tugwell 1982, p. 101). Finally, Dominic is described as reading “with a spirit of devotion” and while “in the presence of God.” Riccoldo’s way of reading the Qur’an is similar in several regards. First, he too is in the presence of God when he reads, because he tells us that he brought the Qur’an into a church and placed it open upon an altar, in front of icons of Jesus and Mary. Whatever he thought of the book, Riccoldo is intentionally reading the Qur’an in the presence of God. Furthermore, he interrogates the Qur’an, asking if the Qur’an really is the word of God (a question he eventually answers negatively). Dominic is likewise described in the “Nine Ways” as engaging in dialogue and even debate with the books he was reading: “It was as if he were arguing with a friend . . . then he would seem



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to be listening quietly, then you would see him disputing and struggling and laughing and weeping all at once” (Tugwell 1982, p. 101). Riccoldo’s dialogue with the Qur’an included an attempt to get Jesus himself involved in the conversation. In short, Riccoldo’s manner of reading the Qur’an and his treatment of the physical book itself  – a book he mostly criticized but sometimes also praised – is shocking indeed. But when examined more closely, several of his reading practices are actually not so far off from what is described in the Dominican “Nine Ways,” and the older Benedictine lectio divina. What are we to make of this? Riccoldo certainly did not believe the Qur’an worthy of the same reverence owed the Bible. He was not reading the Qur’an to gain “fresh theological insights” into his own tradition (Clooney  2010, p.  10). Yet his personal experience observing how reverently Muslims treated the Qur’an was so powerful that it led him to ask in the Epistole whether the Qur’an is divinely revealed (George-­Tvrtković  2012, pp.  100–101). By the time he writes his ­magnum opus, the polemical Contra legem Sarracenorum (Against the law of the Saracens; Riccoldo da Montecroce 1986), his answer is an unqualified no. However, he still used aspects of Dominic’s method of reading to approach the Muslim holy book, at least in his earlier Epistole. Despite his later condemnations (for which he is most famous), it is clear that Riccoldo believed the Qur’an to be worthy of serious reading, study, and consideration. A century and a half later, Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa (d. 1464) lists Riccoldo’s polemical Contra legem Sarracenorum among the sources he consulted to learn about the Qur’an, since he did not know Arabic himself. He called Riccoldo’s book “more gratifying than the others” (Nicholas of Cusa 1994, p. 966). Nicholas’s goal in writing his own polemic in 1461, Cribratio alkorani (cribratio means “sifting” or “scrutiny”) was also to argue against the Qur’an. Despite this goal, Nicholas had a relatively positive method of reading the Qur’an, which he explicitly describes: Suppose we admit . . . that the goal and intent of the book of the Koran is not only not to detract from God the Creator or from Christ or from God’s prophets and envoys or from the divine books of the Testament, the Psalter, and the Gospel, but also to give glory to God the Creator, to praise and to bear witness to Christ (the son of the Virgin Mary) above all the prophets, and to confirm and to approve of the Testament and the Gospel. [If so,] then when one reads the Koran with this understanding, assuredly some fruit can be elicited [from it]. (Nicholas of Cusa  1994, pp. 985–986)

Jasper Hopkins labels this unique approach to the Qur’an pia interpretatio or “devout interpretation,” a term Nicholas himself used (Hopkins  1994). Via pia interpretatio, Nicholas focused on those parts of the Qur’an which did not contradict the Gospel, for example, many (but not all) of its Christological and Mariological verses. His was a selective reading, a sifting (cribratio) or separating of truth from lies. Nicholas’s reading method was rare for his time, since most medieval Christian readers of the Qur’an saw nothing but lies. In Nicholas’s view, his approach resulted in the discovery of some “fruit” in the Qur’an, i.e., verses that “give glory to God and witness to Christ” (Hopkins 1994, p. 51). Pim Valkenberg, who has translated pia interpretatio as “faithful interpretation,” suggests that by extending his hermeneutic strategy to include the Qur’an, Nicholas “does justice not only to the Christian faith of the interpreter, but also to the possibility that God has inserted in the Qur’an some form of truth” (Valkenberg 2021, p. 166). Another distinctive aspect of Nicholas’s approach to the Qur’an is that he reread it over the years. In fact, scholars are now aware of two different Qur’an manuscripts with distinct sets of glosses written by Nicholas several years apart. His first gloss on a Qur’anic manuscript (MS Kues 108) can be dated from 1453 when he wrote De pace fidei (On the peace of faith), which describes an imaginary interreligious dialogue. The second gloss, recently discovered by José Martínez

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Gázquez (MS Vat. Lat. 4071) is from 1460, when Nicholas was writing Cribratio alkorani. Martínez Gázquez suggests that the second set of glosses were the result of Cusa rereading the Qur’an (Martínez Gázquez 2015, pp. 299–300). Might this rereading be classified as a form of lectio? After all, the repetitive nature of ruminatio (“the repeated mastication of divine words”) plus reminiscence are two key aspects of lectio (Leclercq 1982, p. 290). Like Peter and Riccoldo before him, Nicholas’s goal in reading the Qur’an was to convert Muslims. However, for Nicholas, conversion was to be done not through argument, but through the reading process itself: “Nicholas of Cusa wanted to convert Muslims by showing how the Qur’an can be read in such a way that it confirms the truth of the Gospel” (Valkenberg  2019, pp. 26–27). Nicholas hoped to convince Muslims that the Qur’an, when read properly (meaning his way) actually revealed the truth of Christianity. Of course, one religion forcing its own interpretation on another religion’s text, for the purpose of conversion, is decidedly not one of the goals of comparative theology. Even so, what remains distinctive about Nicholas, as with Peter and Riccoldo before him, are their efforts to take the Qur’an seriously. To spend time and money having it translated (Peter), to travel thousands of miles to learn Arabic and read alongside Muslims (Riccoldo), and to develop a unique method of interpretation that did not result in total condemnation (Nicholas). Of the three, it is Nicholas who takes the most steps toward a (nascent) comparative theological approach: first, because his “decision to study the Qur’an with a theological intention is certainly unprecedented in the Christian West” (Valkenberg 2021, p. 176); second, because not only did Nicholas decide to study the Qur’an with a sympathetic hermeneutic and a theological intention, but he also believed that some “fruit” could be elicited from it, and pointed to some concrete examples of this, for example, its Mariology (George-­Tvrtković  2016). By reading the Qur’an in such a way, Nicholas’s approach is distinctive from what Burman identified in other medieval readers as philological (after all, Nicholas did not know Arabic). Nicholas’s search for spiritual fruit in the Qur’an is notable, since despite Peter’s and Riccoldo’s efforts to read the Qur’an, they found no fruit, concluding instead that it is the work of the devil. Thus does Nicholas’s method of reading and rereading the Qur’an over many years, and with a “faithful interpretation,” take us to the threshold of the modern era, and ever closer to the beginnings of comparative theology as a discipline.

Modern Lectio Divina of the Bible and the Qur’an Let us now jump from the fifteenth century to the turn of the twenty-­first century. Since the mid-­ 1980s, when Francis Clooney, James Fredericks, and others founded comparative theology as it is practiced today, more and more Christian theologians have been inspired to study Islamic, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, and other scriptures in their original languages. They have written comparative theological texts of their own and in cooperation with scholars of other religions.12 In so doing, they are following Clooney’s admonition to “read with readers in the other tradition,” and have built on this further by writing with readers in the other tradition.13 But these activities are limited to a select group of highly trained scholars. How can these forms of interreligious reading be shared with a wider audience? One way I have tried to do this is by introducing lectio divina as a method of reading together the Bible and Qur’an in the Christian–Muslim student dialogue group that I lead at my university. This method is particularly apt, given my institution’s roots in the Benedictine monastic tradition. The group, which meets twice a month for lunch, is made up of approximately 10–12 students who commit to the dialogue for at least a semester, although some end up staying longer. At every ­meeting, a Christian student selects a passage from the Bible and a Muslim student selects a ­passage



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from the Qur’an. Together we use the lectio divina method to read both passages out loud slowly and meditatively, often rereading them. Some of the Muslim students are able to recite the verses in both Arabic and English. This is followed by a discussion of the meaning, along with any connections between the two passages, which we always seem to find. Our practice is far from the exacting exegesis and analysis of trained comparative theologians. But through shared lectio divina, ­students get a real taste of how their classmates – who just happen to be of another religion – read, interpret, and pray their respective scriptures. The spiritual nourishment we receive through our reading is complemented by the actual nourishment (of our bodies and community) that we receive by breaking bread together during the same meeting. Lectio divina as a method of reading was useful to the elite group of medieval Latin Christians who studied the Qur’an. And today, this same reading practice, which is now accessible to all, gives my students – both Muslim and Christian – a chance to achieve, in a small but real way, comparative theology’s goal of “deep learning across religious borders.”

Notes 1 In 2022, the theme of the CTSA conference was “Being Catholic Interreligiously,” which centered comparative theology as a topic for all theologians to consider, not just comparativists. 2 Clooney cites the 1700 book by James Garden, entitled Comparative Theology; or The True and Solid Grounds of Pure and Peaceable Theology: A Subject very Necessary, tho hitherto almost wholly neglected. 3 Arabophone Eastern Christians, of course, had been reading the Qur’an in their native language for centuries before the Latins. They are beyond the scope of this chapter. For more on them, see Griffith (2008). 4 I am not the originator of this method. Many Benedictines have sponsored conferences and written explicitly about the possibilities of lectio divina for interreligious dialogue. See, for example, Mitchell and Wiseman (1999, esp. pp. 60–67), Funk (2010), Shomali and Skudlarek (2012), and Wright (2013). 5 Peter’s approach was relatively progressive for the time in that he was physically irenic, but today he would be judged more critically, since he remained discursively aggressive. 6 Little is known about the translator Muhammad (either his biography or motivation for joining Peter’s translation team). Even the magisterial Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographic History 1050–1200 (2011) edited by Thomas and Mallett (2011), which has entries on fellow translators Robert of Ketton and Herman of Carpathia (or Dalmatia), contains nothing on Muhammad. See Martínez Gázquez and De la Cruz Palma (2000, pp. 285–295), d’Alverny (1947–1948, pp. 69–131), and Ferrero Hernández and Tolan (2021). Burman (2007a, p. 46) also notes that it was not uncommon for medieval Christian translators of Hebrew or Arabic texts to consult with Jews or Muslims. 7 Peter’s translation project not only included the Qur’an, but an entire corpus of related Islamic texts, traditionally known as the “Toledan Collection” (Collectio Toletana) and more recently as Corpus Islamolatinum or Corpus Cluniacense. For the latest scholarship on this important collection, see Lappin (2021). 8 Another proof of Riccoldo’s proficiency is the manuscript of an Arabic Qur’an at Paris with ­marginal Latin notes recently found by Thomas Burman, who has suggested that the annotations are in Riccoldo’s hand (Burman 2007b). 9 Translation from the Latin is my own. 10 Another aspect of Clooney’s comparative theological method exhibited by Riccoldo is the fact that his writings on Islam are “autobiographically grounded,” in that he often writes in the first person about his personal experiences with Muslims (Clooney 2010, pp. 16–17). 11 On the connections between meditation and reading, see Leclercq (1982, pp.  20–21, 90) as noted above. 12 Two recent examples of jointly written comparative theological texts include Madigan and Levenson (2009) and Von Stosch and Tatari (2021).

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13 I am expanding on Clooney’s idea of “reading with” (2010, p. 64) – where he means reading with the other religion’s commentarial tradition  – to include the act of reading with contemporary ­commentators from the other tradition, in person.

References Burman, T. (2007a). Reading the Qur’an in Latin Christendom, 1140–1560. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Burman, T. (2007b). How an Italian friar read his Arabic Qur’an. Dante Studies 125: 93–109. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning across Religious Boundaries. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. d’Alverny, M.-­T. (1947–1948). Deux traductions latines du Coran au Moyen Âge. Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Âge 22–23: 69–131. Ferrero Hernández, C. (2021). Riccoldo the Florentine’s Reprobacion del Alcoran: A manual for preaching to the “Moors.” In: The Latin Qur’an, 1143–1500: Translation, Transition, Interpretation (ed. C. Ferrero Hernández and J. Tolan), pp. 395–423. Berlin: De Gruyter. Ferrero Hernández, C. and Tolan, J. (ed.) (2021). The Latin Qur’an, 1143–1500: Translation, Transition, Interpretation. Berlin: De Gruyter. Fry, T. (ed.) (1981). The Rule of St Benedict. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press. Funk, M.M. (2010). Lectio Matters: Before the Burning Bush through the Revelatory Texts of Scripture, Nature, and Experience. New York: Continuum. George-­Tvrtković, R. (2012). A Christian Pilgrim in Medieval Iraq: Riccoldo da Montecroce’s Encounter with Islam. Turnhout: Brepols Press. George-­Tvrtković, R. (2016). Bridge or barrier? Mary and Islam in William of Tripoli OP and Nicholas of Cusa. Medieval Encounters 22 (4): 307–325. Griffith, S.H. (2008). The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Hopkins, J. (1994). The role of pia interpretatio in Nicholas of Cusa’s hermeneutical approach to the Koran. In: A Miscellany on Nicholas of Cusa (ed. J. Hopkins), pp. 39–55. Minneapolis, MN: Banning Press. Lappin, A.J. (2021). On the genesis and formation of the Corpus Cluniacense. In: The Latin Qur’an, 1143–1500: Translation, Transition, Interpretation (ed. C. Ferrero Hernández and J. Tolan), pp. 27–56. Berlin: De Gruyter. Leclercq, J. (1982). Love of Learning and the Desire for God (trans. C. Misrahi). New  York: Fordham University Press. Madigan, K. and Levenson, J.D. (2009) Resurrection: The Power of God for Christians and Jews. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Martínez Gázquez, J. (2015). A new set of glosses to the Latin Qur’an made by Nicholas of Cusa (MS Vat. Lat. 4071). Medieval Encounters 21: 295–309. Martínez Gázquez, J. and De la Cruz Palma, O. (2000). Las traducciones árabe-­latinas impulsadas por Pedro el Venerable. In: Las órdenes militares (ed. M. Burdeus, E. Real, and J. Verdegal), pp. 285–295. Castellón de la Plana: Publicaciones de la Universitat Jaume. Mitchell, D. and Wiseman, J. (ed.) (1999). Gethsemani Encounter: A Dialogue on the Spiritual Life by Buddhist and Christian Monastics. New York: Continuum. Nicholas of Cusa. (1994). Cribratio alkorani (trans. J. Hopkins). Minneapolis: Banning Press. Orlandi, S. (ed.) (1955). Necrologia di S. Maria Novella. Firenze: Olschki. Paić-­Vukić, T. (2018). Hermann the Dalmatian’s purported role in the translation of the Qur’an into Latin. Collegium Antropologicum 42 (4): 277–280. Peter the Venerable. (2016). Contra sectam Saracenorum. In: Writings against the Saracens (trans. I. Resnick), pp. 51–162. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. Riccoldo da Montecroce. (1986). Contra legem Sarracenorum. In: L’ouvrage d’un frère prêcheur en Orient à la fin du XIIIe s. suivi de l’édition du Contra legem Sarracenorum (ed. J.-­M. Mérigoux), Memorie Domenicane 17: 60–142.



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Riccoldo da Montecroce. (2012a). Epistolae ad ecclesiam triumphantem. In: A Christian Pilgrim in Medieval Iraq: Riccoldo da Montecroce’s Encounter with Islam (trans. R. George-­Tvrtković), pp. 137–173. Turnhout: Brepols Press. Riccoldo da Montecroce. (2012b). Liber peregrinationis. In: A Christian Pilgrim in Medieval Iraq: Riccoldo da Montecroce’s Encounter with Islam (trans. R. George-­Tvrtković), pp. 175–227. Turnhout: Brepols Press. Shomali, M.A. and Skudlarek, W. (ed.) (2012). Monks and Muslims: Monastic and Shi’a Spirituality in Dialogue. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press. Thomas, D. and Mallett, A. (ed.) (2011). Christian–Muslim Relations: A Bibliographic History 1050– 1200, Vol. 3. Leiden: Brill. Tugwell, S. (1982). The nine ways of prayer of St Dominic. In: Early Dominicans: Selected Writings (ed. S. Tugwell), pp. 94–103. New York: Paulist Press. Valkenberg, W. (2019). The missionary purpose of Nicholas of Cusa’s Cribratio alkorani. Revista Española de Filosofía Medieval 26 (1): 15–28. Valkenberg, W. (2021). A faithful Christian interpretation of Islam. In: Faithful Interpretations (ed. P. Geister and G. Hallonsten), pp. 165–182. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press. Von Stosch, K. and Tatari, M. (2021). Mary in the Qur’an: Friend of God, Virgin, Mother (trans. P. Lewis). London: Gingko Press. Wright, T. (2013). No Peace without Prayer. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press.

CHAPTER 42

Vicarious Voyage What Difference Does Comparative Theology Make for Theology? S. Mark Heim

The modern movement in comparative theology met a particular moment. Western churches and theologies – coming to terms with the sins of a mission history entwined with colonialism, but resistant to a relativizing philosophy that made Christianity’s particularity secondary and optional – were ripe for a new mode of interreligious engagement. Comparative theology stepped into this space with an approach that respected the particularity of religions in substance and relativized religious traditions only by bringing them into intimate, active relation with each other. Comparative theology did not recognize other religions by means of definitive pronouncements or theoretical judgments (whose concrete effect must always be open to question), but by enacting a thoroughgoing practice, a practice meant in principle to function in the heart of faith seeking understanding. Theoretical judgments are more characteristic of the theology of religions, and if their grounding in interreligious knowledge is often suspect, their functional integration within theology itself is rarely in question, since they are often largely derived from prior, familiar ­theological views. For comparative theology, the situation is rather the reverse: meticulous ­grounding and sparse assimilation. In the work that brought Francis Clooney to the attention of the scholarly world, Theology After Vedanta: An Experiment in Comparative Theology, he said that the comparative theologian “is making a large demand, that all of the home tradition be reread after engagement in another tradition”; the probability of a positive response to this demand by other theologians and by the larger ­believing community will be greatly increased if they are able to perceive that the theologian is bringing home something worthwhile  – as would be the case, for example, if the Christian ­community finds that it learns something about God by a study of the Uttara Mı̄mām . sā Sū tras … in a  way analogous to how that community learns something about God by studying the Summa Theologiae. (Clooney 1993, p. 196)

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



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At the time of writing, this was speculation about a future reckoning. Some thirty years later, ­preliminary thoughts on the reception of comparative theology, particularly its integration into Christian theology more generally, are in order.

Comparative Theology and Reception Clooney has not only produced a prodigious stream of works instantiating comparative theology. He has been the most notable figure in encouraging a generation of practitioners to pursue it. As  his colleague in the Boston College theology doctoral faculty, I had a front row view of the ­process by which his example convinced the members of that program, first, that comparative theology was something that belonged in theology at all (rather than in comparative religion, or religious studies, or perhaps missiology), then, that it was a sufficiently coherent and substantial field that it might figure as a secondary concentration within a primary doctoral degree in systematic ­theology or theological ethics, and, finally, that it should stand as one of the program’s five primary ­specializations: systematic theology, theological ethics, biblical studies, historical t­ heology, and comparative theology. Clooney’s hope that others in his community might see that comparative study “brings something home” expresses the concern for reception that must be a feature of such theology done from a confessional location. To fulfill that vision, comparative theology would have to become a living part of the practice of Christian theology, as historical study and biblical study have. Though the demands of such study are onerous in terms of their linguistic and specialist ­requirements, few theologians would consider it plausible to address any major topic without consideration of historical and biblical perspectives bearing on it. In such cases, investments in learning Hebrew or Syriac, in studying Hellenistic or German philosophy, were all theoretically in service of interpreting primary Christian texts and sources and shaping Christian life and practice. Comparative theology asked no less for the purpose of studying the sources and ­experiences of other religions. Critical historical and biblical study potentially threatened to substitute a secular mode of ­analysis for the attitude of spiritual receptivity assumed in a believer’s approach to Christian sources. The employment of such critical perspectives appealed to a kind of deferred gratification, to a contention that a deeper “second naïveté” of illumination for basic Christian understanding could arise in the midst of careful study and the long accumulation of many specifics. If hesitation about these approaches stemmed from the possible substitution of academic for spiritual priorities, the hesitation in regard to comparative theology was quite different, related to the extension of that spiritual openness and formation toward sources viewed as contrary or irrelevant to Christian ones. Extramural religious material seemed to many unlikely to provide insight into Christian faith, and instead necessarily to jostle for the same space as sources of understanding and transformation. Comparative theology affirmed the engaged reading that Christians coveted for their own sources, but extended it more broadly, an application of the rule to do unto others as you would have them do to you. Clooney has never identified comparative theology exclusively with his particular practice of it; rather, he encourages students and others to explore different modalities. In its varied forms, “it is more an art than a science. Those who wish to pursue it must do so, each in their own manner” (Clooney 2021, p. 116; this and all other quotations from this text are given in my own translation). Comparative theology, he has often said, should not be expected to be any more unified than theology itself.1 As Catherine Cornille has observed, the largest theoretical watershed in comparative theology distinguishes those who practice it within a confessional location

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from those who pursue it without a priori commitment to a specific tradition (Cornille 2020, ch. 1). The departure point, however, does not always determine the relative extent to which a ­writer’s conclusions narrowly conform to the concepts of one religion or reflect the profound influence of those in many. Clearly, reception of comparative theology means something different across the spectrum of its various forms. But a prior confessional commitment or location (versus the absence of one) is often less important than the pace and the style of the comparative work involved. For some practitioners of comparative theology, this question of reception or relevance in the Christian theological project is less vexed. The work of figures such as Robert Neville, Raimundo Panikkar, or Keith Ward, “completes the cycle” in which deep learning in various traditions and comparative reflection produces outcomes within their projects themselves: constructive theses, distinct perspectives that readily present themselves for consideration in foundational theological discussion (e.g., Neville 1991; Panikkar and Eastham 1993; Ward 1994). The authors perform the reception of their own interreligious study and offer it in the form of new theological positions or revised versions of their existing traditions. The impact of these writers in the larger theological or ecclesial community may be limited, but that is not because their thought is incommensurable with the normal practice of theology any more than the writing of many types of specialized ­theologians may be. For the purpose of this chapter I will take Clooney’s work (both in its clear confessional location and its profound empirical, experimental tenor) as the reference point for my comments about the reception and significance of comparative work in theology. As a movement and a discipline, comparative theology does and will do more and different things than he does. But there is a clarity in his particular approach that is substantively and typologically important. He practices a mode of comparison that is fine-­grained, one that, for the most part, studiously avoids “completing the cycle” by drawing conclusions from his own investigations in a way that might make his work more readily assimilable to existing theological discussion. Indeed, much of the criticism directed at his work reflects a frustration at his “failure” on this point – usually a failure to draw specific conclusions from his empirical investigations for theology of religions or systematic theology (see Schmidt-­Leukel 2017, 2019, for discussions of Clooney’s comparative theology). At the start of his career, when Clooney suggested that the true test of comparative theology would be its incorporation into the work of theology more generally, he also insisted that this could not happen by what may seem like the most direct path. “Those who would expect from comparative theology sensational new teachings should inevitably be disappointed” (Clooney  1993, p. 189). Its practice “inscribes not simply conclusions or theories in the theologian, but also new memories and habits of reading,” and it would be pointless “to offer the expected audience a mere set of conclusions which bypass the requirement that one learn by experiment and practice” (Clooney 1993, p. 206). It is the process itself that must achieve some kind of theological reception and not a few points that can be harvested from it. Clooney is even explicit in saying that conclusions of the sort most readily sought in theology will not be forthcoming from comparative theology for the present. “Comparative theology, as I conceive it, is founded in faith and proceeds in faith, but this anchorage certainly does not lead – at least in our lifetime – to normative conclusions” (Clooney 2021, p. 145). “There are tensions in my work,” he has said, “that it is premature to wish to resolve with a better theory or more a ­ dequate scientific method,” tensions that must be maintained out of “respect for the research process, which is complex, exacting, and realized over the long term. One must not draw hasty ­conclusions” (Clooney 2021, p. 118). To put it somewhat differently, there can be no conclusion to which the other religious tradition and its sources do not remain livingly connected.



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Modes of Reception of Comparative Theology So, does comparative theology of this sort already presume a negative answer to our question of theological reception, at least over a timeline longer than the life of a single scholar? I suggest that this is not true. In several respects, reception of the work of comparative theology is underway. First, whether or not comparative theology has yet changed the constructive trajectory of ­theology going forward, it has already changed the past. By this I mean that serious comparative practice, including placing Christian sources in parallel reflection with those from Buddhist, Hindu, or other traditions, has awakened us to the extent to which Christian theology has always been comparative. Interreligious learning may have figured in our understanding of the historical “background” of an Aquinas or an Augustine. But we come back from the awareness of comparative theology in our age to discover it in earlier sources, in Aquinas’s interaction with Jewish and Muslim thought, or in Augustine’s understanding of his own itinerary through the religious worlds of Manicheanism and Platonism. Augustine and other early church writers were steeped in the “cross-­reading” that Clooney highlights, particularly in the cross-­reading of Christian texts with those of Hebrew scripture or Greek philosophy. Another way in which the past has been changed has to do with Christianity’s mission history. I noted that a critical perspective on this history is one of the elements that encouraged more substantive consideration of the religions. But recent study has also lifted up Christianity’s mission history and missionaries as major contributors to the rise of modern religious studies and as sources of revised theologies of religious diversity “on the ground” long before their theoretical development in academic theology. Missionaries and converts were not only “­enculturating” and adapting Christianity for its reception in other religious cultures. They were also rethinking and reformulating Christianity in the process, with implications that led beyond any single context. The growth in world Christianity (the sociological fact and also the academic field of study) has alerted us to the dimension of this history that included pioneering work in comparative engagement. Scholars like Andrew Walls and Lamin Sanneh pointed both to the constructive theological import of Christianity’s engagement with other religions and cultures and to the selective myopia that led us to take the relative religious isolation of one phase of European Christian history as paradigmatic for the whole of church history (e.g., Sanneh 2003; Walls 1996). Whether we consider the transformed Christian tradition represented by the “Nestorian” church of Tang dynasty China or the profound implications in taking over the word for “God” from indigenous languages into the translated Christian scriptures all over the world, comparative theology has been much more active as a practice than a theory in Christian history (see Palmer and Wong  2001; Sanneh 1989). Clooney has done significant service on this front in his works of careful reflection on the history of his fellow Jesuits in this area (Clooney 2005, 2020). In short, a great many theologians have already, explicitly or implicitly, absorbed some of the implications of comparative theology by virtue of new perspectives on their traditional, Christian sources and by openness to theological input from the cross-­cultural voices of world Christianity that often instantiate the more recent results of comparative religious encounters. This is perhaps the dimension of comparative theology that has permeated most extensively into the wider life of theology. Second, although Clooney’s mode of comparative theology generally declines to provide direct translation into theological argument, his cumulative accomplishment, alongside that of similar scholars, provides a new resource and reference point for theologians who do not themselves do the first-­order research he does. Comparative theology is reaching a critical mass (Heim 2019). Even if individual comparative theologians often work at the fine-­grained level that Clooney

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s­ uggests, there are enough of them that it is possible to begin to assemble their work in a thematic way. This is what Catherine Cornille did in organizing a conference that resulted in the book Atonement and Comparative Theology: The Cross in Dialogue with Other Religions (2021). A group of comparative theologians, working with a range of Buddhist, Hindu, Jewish, Muslim, and Chinese traditions, contributed essays with comparative reflection on atonement-­related Christian sources and chosen sources from the traditions they studied. Cornille took the step of organizing comparative work – otherwise somewhat isolated by its specificity – into a thematic framework, the more easily to be conveyed to theologians invested in the particular topic. Thus it becomes possible for theologians to consult a variety of comparative perspectives on a systematic doctrinal subject. Indeed, the conference and its resulting publication included responses and comments from systematic theologians who were not themselves engaged in comparative work. A similar project may be found in Michelle Voss Roberts’s edited volume, Comparing Faithfully: Insights for Systematic Theological Reflection, organized around the topics of divinity, theodicy, Christology, and soteriology (Voss Roberts 2016). Efforts of this sort will multiply and the still slender shelf of comparative theological work will become increasingly available to the wider theological academy as a resource for dialogue and reflection. Such examples certainly represent a fulfillment in some degree of Clooney’s aspiration for a reception for comparative theology.

Comparative Theology as Contemplative Theology There is a further and less-­considered consideration relevant to reception. The key point here has to do with our operative understanding of the “theology” within which comparative work is to find its impact. We have focused so far on the intellectual formulation of Christian belief, on a change in the discursive understanding sought by faith. The primary impact of comparative theology is looked for in the realms of theology of religions, systematic theology, or philosophical theology. But this is a circumstantial and not a necessary assumption. Clooney’s work sometimes directly fulfills this expectation. Hindu God, Christian God: How Reason Helps Break Down the Boundaries Between Religions (2001) is perhaps the project that best illustrates this. The book is structured around the answers to four questions, carefully nuanced propositions Clooney shows are supported by both classical Hindu and Christian sources. Here are two examples: a. There is a world that is a complex and coherent whole, and it can best be explained by affirming that there is a God who is its maker. […] d. There is divine revelation, which confirms but also constrains and guides human reasoning, informs humans about how to think and act properly, and reliably guides believers in their judgments about people in other religious traditions not formed according to revelation. (Clooney 2001, p. 177)

These specific formulations represent, Clooney says, “some of my theological judgments”  – judgments that as it happens side in some cases with Vaishnavite claims against Saivite ones and with more characteristic Catholic ones against common Protestant ones (Clooney 2001, p. 178). Clooney “comes down” in defense of particular theological views, but in a way that does not locate him definitively on one side or the other of a Hindu/Christian divide. One of his points is that in the comparative theological realm theologians can find colleagues from other traditions whose consideration of similar questions enrich their insight. In this case, Clooney brings his discussion to some explicit theological conclusions.



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But the important thing to note here, in the overall body of Clooney’s work, is that this result is tied to the particular mode of comparison involved. The texts considered are those that specifically make rational arguments regarding the existence of God and the possibility of revelation. The appropriate engagement with such texts is to engage the kinds of arguments they present, which Clooney does, while being careful not to extrapolate from these to a whole range of arguments that are not explicitly addressed: must one choose between a Hindu God and the Christian God, for instance? This is to say, comparative theology must be responsive to what it is that is being ­compared. The largest number of texts that he considers are not of the sort treated in Hindu God, Christian God. Those who expect him to produce conclusions of that same type, regardless of the  material comparison at hand, misunderstand what may be meant by the “theology” in ­comparative theology. Clooney has signaled emphatically that systematic or philosophical theology, like theology of religions, may not be the most appropriate mode in which to consider his comparative work. “I have already indicated my preference for a conception of comparative theology similar to that of contemplative theologies, such theologies being better situated to develop a fertile relation with the Indian contemplative theologies that interest me” (Clooney 2021, p. 145). If my approach is understood to possess a certain coherence of its own, it may then proceed in its own manner – all the while being left to the side by the greater number of theologians, simply because they are not contemplatives or have made a professional choice not to write as contemplatives. My preference for a type of personal and contemplative approach clearly corresponds to the works I read. (Clooney 2021, pp. 154–155)

To say that both Hindu and Christian traditions contain spiritual experiences of abandonment, or divine absence, is to make a descriptive observation. But Clooney’s His Hiding Place is Darkness: A Hindu-­Catholic Theopoetics of Divine Absence is a direct meditation/participation in the very concrete longing for the divine Krishna expressed in a female-­voiced Srivaishnavite text, Holy Word of Mouth, and the very concrete longing for the divine expressed in the erotic voices of the biblical Song of Songs. Neither an external analysis nor the product of a wholesale project to “be” Hindu as well as Christian, this practice is something at once deeper, smaller, more specific, inextricably in-­between. Extensive scholarly rigor is applied, whose primary intent is to be attentive to these texts in the manner that they have powerfully attracted those who have made them important to their traditions – commentators, mystics, theologians. As Clooney notes, “In comparative theology there is in fact a serious concern for the truth. But this concern often takes a somewhat surprising form, that consists in holding two truths together without deciding in favor of one or the other” (2021, p. 145). Clooney’s work is famously text based, a choice on which he does not insist as a feature of all comparative theology. Though critics have often questioned a “privileging” of texts in this way, they rarely consider that Clooney’s focus is less on texts than on their use. Along these lines, Clooney observes: “In the first place, comparative theology, as an act of reading, is already a practice, and not a mode for reporting on practice afterwards; contemplatives familiar with eastern and western traditions of reading know this well” (2021, p. 125; see also Clooney 2019, pp. 53–56). His second book was titled Seeing Through Texts, suggestive of a contemplative rather than a discursive dimension to the use of these texts (Clooney 1996). The kind of understanding that faith seeks in a contemplative mode is a realization more than a formulated conclusion. Above all, contemplation slows down. It slows down the assimilation of content, it slows down reading to allow space for questions. And, particularly, it slows down to consider the relevance of what is considered for effect in life. A contemplative theologian focused on the complicated relation

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between divine grace and free will is concerned with how this teaching might be realized in ­experience or figure in personal transformation. A Christian who considers the natural world in the light of faith in its character as creation may also study it analytically in terms of biology or physics. Whether or not such a person produces a systematic theological account of the relation between the two perspectives, they may develop a contemplative practice – implicit or explicit – in which the two are held together, each informing the other. Clooney does not foreground conceptual argumentation and theoretical resolution (except insofar as his sources do so), and so from some perspectives he fails the expectation that as a Christian theologian he should be reading another tradition in light of the Christian one. This would presumably mean that fidelity to the Christian community would take the form of a ­categorizing analysis that organizes, for example, the Hindu material in explicitly Christian terms. But “in light of ” means something a bit different in a contemplative framework. There is another mode of fidelity to one’s own religious commitment, a fidelity manifest in the manner in which one reads, a commitment to divine encounter and to faithful response. For Clooney, this manner is never severed from the Christian substance that has elicited it for him (for that Christian practice is the original source of knowledge of this way of reading, and its continual practice is one necessary pole of the ongoing comparative work). But such habits of spiritual reading are tuned to be ­responsive to the invitation offered on a similar wavelength from his Hindu sources. They are read “in the light” of Christian faith, because they are read against the contemplative horizon that faith has opened to divine presence and unforeseen effect. From this perspective, Clooney’s liturgical, spiritual, and communal life as a Jesuit priest is not an obstacle to comparative engagement, but a continual qualification for it. He writes: My work makes better sense when seen in line with a tradition of figures to which I regularly refer, a line that runs from Augustine of Hippo, Bonaventure of Bagnoregio and Bernard of Clairvaux to thinkers like Hans Urs von Balthasar. In all these cases, the study is of a type that seeks a personal transformation. To the extent that theological disciplines are founded on faith and not simply on obedience to the norms of modern universities, they must engage the fact that someone may be transformed by what they study, so that this transformation has an effect on what they write, and that this will have consequences for the manner in which one must read what they read. (Clooney 2021, pp. 154–155)

If comparative theology is understood primarily in the mode of contemplative theology, we expand the locus for its reception. Writers in the Christian traditions whom Clooney mentions, like Augustine or Bonaventure, figure at once as intellectuals and as contemplatives, people who describe and argue about God, Christ, and the creature, but who also report what it is like to be transformed in relation to what is described. In his Confessions, Augustine contemplates, among other things, time and music. He does not do this primarily to derive a definitive theological ­argument, but to appreciate, to enjoy, these things in their peculiar integrity within the divine ecology. The “understanding” here is not an explanation. Indeed, for Augustine it takes the form of a series of unresolved but very detailed questions.2 The tentative and exploratory character of comparative theology fits well in this context. Such contemplation operates from a vision transformed by the writer’s faith, but what it ­contemplates are the empirical living realities of another religious tradition, seen as clearly and freshly as can be. Within Christian theology, and particularly within Roman Catholic theology, such contemplative approaches do not displace or obviate more systematic ones. The reception of contemplative theology in the wider theological enterprise does not take the form of importing an



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additional set of propositions or arguments. It is more a case that contemplative theology enriches and grounds theological reflection and is in some ways a check on it: systematic and philosophical theology has to be received by the community finally in terms of its value for action and experience. Frequently, Clooney is reading texts that report what it is like to be transformed in relation to Krishna or Kali, alongside texts that report what it is like to be transformed in relation to Christ or Mary. The appropriate contemplative comparison is between how a reader, one open to the intention in the texts to share the transformations they describe, receives what is conveyed in each type of text and is affected by each. In responding in an actively participant way to the Hindu text, the Christian reader brings along ineffaceable thoughts and attachments to Jesus, and in responding in a participant way to the Christian text, one cannot forget what has been seen and experienced in the Hindu one. Forms of “purely” Christian contemplation are never composed of purely Christian elements. It is the human person with all their concrete singularity that reflectively seeks the presence or vision of God. Over his career, Clooney has acknowledged that through this practice the comparative ­theologian becomes “no longer a sure fit in a theological world defined within one community … likely to remain a marginal figure, though of a kind valuable to that community and also to the wider religiously diverse society” (Clooney 2010, p. 158). “She ends up knowing too much and believing too much to be received with great ease in either the religious or the academic setting. This uncomfortable borderline position not only must be tolerated but is necessary, and it must be intentionally nurtured” (p. 159). Viewed from the perspective of the community for which their theology is done, the comparative theologian’s possibly marginal condition can be seen as a kind of ascetic distancing. Monastics undertake a separation to deepen contemplation, a separation that can run the risk of severing the contemplative from the community. Rather than spatial or  temporal, the “cloister” of the comparative theologian is the space set apart through the ­open-­hearted attention to sources of another faith.

Reception of the Fact of Comparative Theological Practice My final comment on the reception of comparative theology is a thoroughly personal one. It touches on another kind of reception of comparative theology, a fertile and generative recognition that begins with the simple awareness of its existence. I can speak of my own experience as a theologian deeply interested in religious pluralism, who encountered Clooney’s work in the 1990s. The initial and primary impact on my thought came not from conclusions he had reached that I could adopt, but from the example of the practice he embodied. Theologies of religious pluralism and theologies of mission have always been, to a large extent, theologies that look toward activities of Christians, ones relating to evangelism, dialogue, and service. Such theologies have sometimes inclined toward providing a rationalization after the fact for behaviors already assumed or desired, and in other cases have encompassed critique and revised aspirations for more faithful practice. Comparative theology was itself a form of behavior, a theological behavior, that overflowed ­existing rationales. Although the period was rife with discussions of interfaith dialogue versus evangelism, of the need for Christians to love their religious neighbors, of searches for common ground among the religions, in Clooney’s work I found something distinct and suggestive. Here, rather than ­theories in search of exemplars, was a practice for which no existing rationale, either in theology of religions or in religious studies, was quite sufficient. One could dismiss Clooney’s project as misguided or unimportant. Or one could ask what kind of theology could “contemplate” such activity (i.e., be enriched by it), what kind of theology might even require or invite it. Although comparative theology as Clooney practices it could hardly be

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more academically demanding, in one sense it stands as an intellectual “stone of stumbling.” It integrates so fully the contemplative reading of the texts it treats, a participatory and transformational dimension of relation with them, as to heighten the tension surrounding that dimension in the scholarly world.3 It gives pause on the theological side as well in that it profoundly distills a condition increasingly common, but very unevenly registered in theological reflection: the reality of the Christian who has too much, or too warm, or too affecting contact with the substance of another religious tradition for that to be left out of their experience or theology. Contemplative comparative theologians make available to the arena of thought and system both of these ­somewhat disruptive yet fertile dimensions, making their presence felt in a realm where they can be too easily left aside. Clooney’s work was the key concrete correlative that helped me envision the kind of theology of religions that I was searching for, one in which another religious tradition remained authentic and authentically challenging in its own terms at the same time that I was coming to terms with it as a Christian. In my case, this took the form of a theology of religious pluralism that entertained the reality of diverse religious ends, different religious attainments about which traditions in their concrete specificity were giving valid, though sometimes contrasting, testimony (Heim  1994). I am not suggesting this is a necessary inference, only that his work was highly suggestive to me in thinking outside my received options. His comparative theology provided guidance primarily by its very existence, as an example that demanded reflection and judgment. A Christian theological community that did not expect or welcome this kind of engagement on the part of some of its members was one unlikely to be adequate in responding to a pluralistic world. Since I have written primarily in the area of the theology of religious pluralism, this is where comparative theology had the greatest obvious impact. But I quickly became aware that its effect could hardly be restricted to any single topic. Clooney’s example, and my subsequent involvement as a student of comparative theology and eventually a small-­scale practitioner, have substantially affected the entire scope of my “faith seeking understanding.” The most obvious way this has been the case was in insights and articulations relative to the specific topics of salvation and Trinity. Virtually everything that I knew and taught about these doctrines has been remade (intensified with new clarity in certain respects, revised by choice among possible alternatives, vivified in ­connection with other subjects) by virtue of what comparative theology has taught me. In this process, I experienced my interaction with sources and writers from these other traditions to fit the mold Clooney describes in Hindu God, Christian God, one in which they functioned as colleagues and conversation partners. By the time I wrote The Depth of the Riches: A Trinitarian Theology of Religious Ends in 2001, it would have been just as accurate to say that comparative theology (notably my study of Buddhism and Hinduism) had renovated my understanding of the Trinity as it would be to say that the Trinity in some prior form had grounded my understanding of religious diversity (Heim 2001).4 In regard to salvation and Trinity (and all the topics that intersect with them), it was not a case of the “­application” of pre-­existing ideas as a frame within which the data of other religions is organized, but rather a process in which the doctrines in question have been in major part constituted in my understanding by virtue of their consideration in comparative perspective. Once seen and contemplated in that connection, they have borne their new character in every context of integration and reflection within Christian theology, whether religious diversity is explicitly in view or not. Readers of what I have written on atonement or theology and science most likely have no occasion to see anything there that refers to comparative theology. Yet I see it manifest in the shape of foundational theological elements, whether they are deployed in simple description or for constructive argument. Though the full extent of reception is invisible, it is no less significant.



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This volume celebrates Professor Clooney’s contributions and the inspiration they have offered to scholars of many types. On that score, I testify that if reception for comparative theology may be measured by the depth of this one theologian’s gratitude for the scope and continuing impact of that work, that reception is profound indeed.

Notes 1 “After all, comparative theology must not be evaluated with criteria more strict than the rest of ­theology, where it is hard to pretend there exists a unifying approach or a unifying concept in Catholic fundamental theology or Lutheran Christology or a single version of Christian ethics, and so on” (Clooney 2021, p. 143). 2 I am thinking particularly of sections 14–27 of “Book XI” in Augustine’s Confessions. 3 In this it has much in common with discussions about the place in universities of so-­called ­contemplative studies. 4 My first book on the topic, sixteen years earlier (Heim 1985), bears embarrassing but telling evidence to this effect. In it, Trinity barely rates a mention in the index, and played no substantive role whatsoever.

References Clooney, F.X. (1993). Theology After Vedanta: An Experiment in Comparative Theology. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. ́ ̄vaiṣṇavas of South India. Albany, Clooney, F.X. (1996). Seeing Through Texts: Doing Theology Among the Srı NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (2001). Hindu God, Christian God: How Reason Helps Break Down the Boundaries Between Religions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2005). Fr. Bouchet’s India: An 18th Century Jesuit’s Encounter with Hinduism. Chennai: Satya Nilayam Publications. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology: Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Clooney, F.X. (2020). Western Jesuit Scholars in India: Tracing Their Paths, Reassessing Their Goals (Jesuit Studies, 28). Boston, MA: Brill. Clooney, F.X. (2021). La théologie comparée en question. In: La théologie comparée: Vers un dialogue interreligieux et interculturel renouvelé (ed. C. Chalamet, E. Jaillet, and G. Palasciano), pp. 113–175. Geneva: Editions Labor et Fides. Cornille, C. (2020). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Cornille, C. (ed.) (2021). Atonement and Comparative Theology: The Cross in Dialogue with Other Religions. New York: Fordham University Press. Heim, S.M. (1985). Is Christ the Only Way? Christian Faith in a Pluralistic World. Valley Forge, PA: Judson Press. Heim, S.M. (1994). Salvations: A more pluralistic hypothesis. Modern Theology 10: 341–360. Heim, S.M. (2001). The Depth of the Riches: A Trinitarian Theology of Religious Ends. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Heim, S.M. (2019). Comparative theology at twenty-­five: The end of the beginning. Modern Theology 35: 163–180. Neville, R.C. (1991). Behind the Masks of God: An Essay Toward Comparative Theology. Albany, NY: SUNY Press.

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Palmer, M. and Wong, E. (2001). The Jesus Sutras: Rediscovering the Lost Scrolls of Taoist Christianity. New York: Ballantine. Panikkar, R. and Eastham, S. (1993). The Cosmotheandric Experience: Emerging Religious Consciousness. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Sanneh, L.O. (1989). Translating the Message: The Missionary Impact on Culture. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Sanneh, L.O. (2003). Whose Religion is Christianity? The Gospel Beyond the West. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Schmidt-­Leukel, P. (2017). Religious Pluralism and Interreligious Theology: The Gifford Lectures  – An Extended Edition. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Schmidt-­Leukel, P. (2019). Fractal patterns in religious diversity: What to make of their discovery? A response. In: New Paths for Interreligious Theology: Perry Schmidt-­Leukel’s Fractal Interpretation of Religious Diversity (ed. A. Race and P. Knitter), pp. 177–194. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Voss Roberts, M. (2016). Comparing Faithfully: Insights for Systematic Theological Reflection. New York: Fordham University Press. Walls, A.F. (1996). The Missionary Movement in Christian History: Studies in Transmission of Faith. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Ward, K. (1994). Religion and Revelation: A Theology of Revelation in the World’s Religions. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

CHAPTER 43

Is There or Shall We Need a “Home” for Comparative Theologies? A Ru (Confucian) Response to Francis X. Clooney Bin Song

As a Ru1 scholar who researches Ruism and Christianity and teaches courses in comparative ­philosophy, religion, and theology, I am eager to join the contemporary revival of the discipline of comparative theology (CT) led by Francis X. Clooney. Such eagerness derives from two main ­reasons: first, theology is a discipline for which Ru scholars to date have not yet created a stable set of vocabulary to engage. Second, within contemporary CT scholarship, we have not yet witnessed a robust contribution from Ruism which is capable of methodically pursuing CT from a primarily Ruist perspective. To remedy these two situations, it is necessary for Ru scholars to ascertain what theology is and what methodologies CT theologians are currently practicing. There is no better way to start addressing these two questions than studying Clooney’s works, given that, first, contemporary CT theologians often devise their own methods while at least keeping Clooney’s method in mind. Second, meta-­theorists of CT are constructing taxonomies to categorize varying kinds of comparative study of religions, with Clooney’s works looming large in these taxonomies. I have been aware of the significance of Clooney’s CT scholarship since my graduate studies at Boston University during 2014–2018 under the supervision of Robert C. Neville and Wesley J. Wildman, who are prevalently thought of by CT theorists as having ­furnished an alternative model of CT to Clooney’s. I am therefore grateful to the Boston Theological Interreligious Consortium (BTI, formerly the Boston Theological Institute), through which I could take courses across major institutions dedicated to CT studies such as Boston College and Harvard University. Clooney was then (and still is) a faculty convener of the Doctoral Colloquium of Comparative Studies at Harvard Divinity School, which was a major venue for me to present my emerging ­dissertation chapters. The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Because of this academic background of mine, Clooney’s works also loom large in the few ­ ublications I have contributed to the field (Song  2020a,  2020b,  2021). While still striving to p ­remedy the aforementioned situations of Ruist CT, I will address several questions in this chapter to continually celebrate the significance of Clooney’s works in the field: what I have learned enthusiastically, neutrally, critically, and constructively with Clooney. Overall, I will invite CT scholars to treat my answers to these questions as a Ru response to Clooney’s Catholic CT.

Enthusiasm My enthusiasm to learn with Clooney on CT consists of four major points. First, the devotional and contemplative reading that Clooney exemplifies in his commentarial work on classical Hindu texts is a potent antidote to the pervasively objectifying method of South Asian studies, from which method I think East Asian studies (i.e., the area studies in which Ru studies are supposed to be located in the academy) also suffer. Decolonial scholars of Hinduism (such as Mandair 2004) once critiqued the objectifying method as a “secularist gaze” of apathetic onlookers which may lead to the repetition of colonial events. According to the critique, the gaze cannot attend to the normativity of philosophical and religious truths claimed by traditions and, accordingly, it also undermines the accuracy of Western understandings of the discursive traditions in the areas which the area studies are allegedly studying. Clooney’s CT scholarship therefore demonstrates admirably how to surmount such a critique. Second, the devotional reading does not diminish the academic quality of Clooney’s commentarial work, and Clooney achieves this mainly via two approaches: (1) Clooney takes a meticulous consideration of traditional commentaries and contemporary studies of Hindu texts while seeking to highlight the religious truth expressed in those texts. The same can be said for his studies of Christian texts as well. (2) On top of his work on particular texts, Clooney constantly attempts to explain his general comparative methodology while inviting scholars of varying disciplines to scrutinize his CT method. Third, given that being simultaneously devotional and academic in one’s exceptional scholarship is not a minor accomplishment for a scholar working in the current academy, the most important point I have learned from Clooney is his ability to balance the three major institutional forces which have both constrained and contributed to his scholarship. The aforementioned two approaches respond respectively to the institutional strictures of the Department of South Asian Languages and Civilizations, from which Clooney obtained his PhD at the University of Chicago, and of academic theology, for which Clooney has worked in major universities such as Boston College and Harvard University. Besides, the so-­called confessional approach of Clooney’s CT, which, as I will analyze later, aims to enhance one’s commitment to the religious truth of one’s “home” tradition via slow and contemplative reading of another tradition, serves Clooney’s religious self-­identity as a Jesuit priest. “Harmonization (和 he)” is the highest ideal a Ru scholar strives to achieve in terms that the Ru shall respond appropriately to each of the m ­ ultiple values of things at hand. Therefore, I celebrate Clooney’s ability of harmonizing the roles that he shoulders in varying institutions and of flourishing his CT scholarship in a w ­ ell-­balanced manner. Fourth, despite being a leader of the contemporary CT revival, Clooney repeatedly admits that CT remains a relatively young discipline, and his approach to CT welcomes alternatives. While ­trying to pursue CT primarily from a Ruist perspective, I am particularly encouraged by the ­following words of Clooney (2021, pp. 130–131; my translation): The necessity of working on comparative theology starting from non-­Christian perspectives is great for the sake of preventing a new kind of elitism from taking hold under the form of an



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“exclusively Christian” comparative theology. This opening is possible only if scholars can show that “theology,” insofar as it is a discipline, is not the property of only Christians, that it is not regulated by Latin, Greek, German, and English grammars, as if researchers in other regions or traditions should imperatively not only write in English or German, but also accept the meanings of terms we use in theological analysis.

Evidently, pursuing CT from non-­Christian perspectives is unavoidable for enhancing the ­ cademic status of CT, since the diversity of scholarship contributed by CT theologians in a genua inely global fashion can be readily put into further comparison and scrutiny by the academy. Nevertheless, given the paramount significance of Clooney’s work, I still deem it necessary for non-­Christian CT theologians to learn “the meanings of terms” that Clooney utilizes in his ­theological analysis before embarking on non-­Christian CT projects. In the following, I will present my neutral learning of the major terms of Clooney’s CT methodology.

Terms A typical self-­portrayal of Clooney (2010, pp. 7–9) to the disciplinary nature of CT is that CT is “faith” in one’s “home” tradition seeking “understanding,” and the in-­depth understanding of the religious truth(s) of other tradition(s) can therefore “intensify” the truth of one’s own. Since truth central to one’s faith is committed or appreciated, Clooney specifies that CT is normative while distinguishing itself from the typically non-­normative discipline of comparative religion. However, Clooney’s comparison usually does not yield normative conclusions. It instead aims for the “­intensification” of religious truths rather than “progress” in either adjudicating or advancing these truths (Clooney 2021, p. 119). Although expressing occasionally his wish that a “new scholasticism” (Clooney  2019a, p.  75) would be generated in the future to confront issues of truth more directly, it remains unclear whether Clooney himself devises his CT methodology for this long-term purpose. For meta-­CT theorists such as Catherine Cornille (2020, pp. 18–19), Clooney’s approach is furthermore summarized as a “confessional” type of CT, which deepens the truth of one’s home tradition via comparing it with others. I have to admit that I had a great difficulty for a long period of time to fully understand those key terms of Clooney’s CT methodology, not only because these terms mutually define each other. It is also because the Ru tradition did not have any ritual of initiation similar to baptism where a neophyte confesses their faith in a creedal form to God and to their receiving home community. A cluster of other Catholic religious practices connected to baptism are accordingly absent from Ruism as well, such as the institutional sanctification of the Creeds as theological orthodoxy v ­ ersus heresy,2 the declaration of faith by churches and individuals under suspicion, and the catechumenate. Instead, Confucius (Analects 15.36; my translation) taught his students that “When the cause of being humane is at stake, never yield to your teacher.” While bearing a remarkable resemblance to Aristotle’s dictum (paraphrased from Nicomachean Ethics 1096a11–15) that “I love my teacher, but I prefer truth,” this teaching of Confucius precludes the Ru tradition from forming any “creedal attitude” (which I will analyze later) toward embraced truths of faith. Having grown up in a g ­ enerally Ruist cultural milieu and being dedicated to pursue Ruist CT, I was therefore unable to distinguish the act of philosophically advocating from religiously confessing truth due to my lack of those underlying religious practices and historical memories. The fact that I now understand better the cause of my difficulty derives from my continual learning of the Christian way of life, particularly regarding the history of early Christianity, medieval scholasticism, and the Protestant Reformation. It is evident that Creeds play a crucial role in

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Clooney’s conception of theology as “faith seeking understanding” (FSU), as well as in his general CT methodology. As stated by Clooney (2019a, p. 53, 2019b, pp. 219–220) on multiple occasions, notwithstanding that Creeds in their doctrinal format cannot exhaust the ultimately unfathomable divine mystery, the whole body of Creeds shall be treated as implying an unalterable and determinate expression of faith in the divinity, and theologically, these Creeds shall be employed to rule out “bad alternatives” so as to keep the integrity of Catholic orthodoxy. All other components of Clooney’s CT methodology are construable accordingly: the “home” tradition or community sanctifies the Creeds, and in this new age of global religious diversity, the “understanding” of other tradition(s) will be summoned by CT theologians to intensify their own “faith” which has been predetermined discursively by the Creeds. Since the declaration of Creeds is integral to the confessional rituals of Catholicism enumerated above, “confessional” CT refers to the type of comparative study of religion which is committed to a determinate, doctrinal form of faith in such a home tradition.

Critique On New Year’s Eve 2022, I received emails from Dr Clooney, which, while celebrating my new publication on his CT methodology, questioned my depiction of it as too “rigid.” In my view, there is no better way to honor Clooney’s scholarly friendship indicated by these emails other than continuing to discuss issues of concern to him and to the CT field in general. I hope my above analysis of the role of Creeds in Clooney’s understanding of theology by no means sheds doubt on his exemplary open-­mindedness toward non-­Christian religiosity. Quite contrary to this doubt, Clooney’s CT methodology implies that the more open the theologian in question is toward the particularity of religious truths expressed in Hindu texts, the more his commitment to Catholic truths gets intensified, and vice versa. This is how, as analyzed above, Clooney balances the shaping institutional forces to his CT scholarship. My following critique therefore by no means regards the devotional way of reading Clooney so exquisitely demonstrated in his Hindu commentaries. Instead, the ­critique will be about the conceptual level of Clooney’s understanding of theology. Since Clooney also encourages the invention of new CT vocabularies from non-­Christian perspectives, I deem the ­following critique of Clooney’s CT methodology as aiming to rally around his call. My main critique of Clooney’s CT methodology is that its foundational concept of theology as FSU, with faith defined, first, as being shaped by a determinate set of doctrinal strictures (namely, the Creeds) and, second, as seeking cultural devices for the self-­understanding of the faith, is one among many theologies construed differently in varying contexts of Western intellectual history. The validity of the concept to undergird a certain CT approach is therefore contingent on a variety of historical and intellectual factors, and cannot be taken for granted as the starting point of global CT thinking. Let me prove why this is so by analyzing Clooney’s predecessor, Thomas Aquinas, whose understanding of theology is evidently located in the scholastic tradition of FSU. It is well known that Aquinas (Summa Contra Gentiles I.3.2, translated by A.C. Pegis) distinguishes theology into two kinds: revealed theology attends to truths about God that “exceed all the ability of the human reason. Such is the truth that God is triune.” Natural theology addresses truths that “the natural reason also is able to reach,” such as that God exists. Unmistakably, the former lies in the realm of “faith,” whereas the latter in “understanding.” However, while explaining “what is faith” in the triune God, Aquinas (1939) frequently refers to the Nicene Creed to rule out alternative, heretical conceptions of the triune God. Therefore, FSU means for Aquinas exactly what is meant by Clooney, namely, the human experience of faith toward ­ultimate reality is filtered through the Creeds at first, and then, the faith seeks its own self-­ understanding via cultural devices fit for the time. In Aquinas’s time, the mobilized cultural



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device is mainly the rediscovered Aristotelianism and other ancient Greek thought, whereas in Clooney’s it is the in-­depth reading of non-­Christian, Hindu texts. Nevertheless, is it not the case that the Nicene Creed, the earliest state-­sponsored Creed of the Roman Catholic Church, was the outcome of an enduring and intense theological debate and, hence, its normativity to the general concept of theology remains contingent on a variety of ­historical and intellectual factors? As indicated by the history of the formation and impact of the Nicene Creed first issued at the Council of Nicaea in 325, we can list at least four of these factors: 1. The belief of early Christians in scriptures as revealed words of truths about God which are ­distinct from and superior to pagan classics such as Greek philosophies (Ayres  2006, pp. 391–392; Ferguson 2002, pp. 1–22). 2. The pre-­Nicene use of tenets by early churches to recapitulate the reading of scriptures in declaratory or liturgical rituals (examples of which have been raised above) and in patristic writings (Edwards 2021, pp. 136–141; Ferguson 2002, p. 39). 3. The conversion of the Roman emperor Constantine to Christianity, as well as Constantine’s will to solidify the imperial authority via achieving the unity and concord of Christian believers (Dam 2021; Drake 2021). 4. The theological debate among church leaders regarding Arius and Arianism, which originated from Alexandria in the early fourth century, and then spread to larger regions of the Roman world (Lyman 2021). Because these four factors can be counted as among the causes of the origination of the Nicene Creed, it is entirely conceivable that in another context of Western or non-­Western histories, the lack of any of these causes may not lead to the formation of a similarly creedal expression of faith and, hence, seekers for religious truth in these alternative contexts may not entertain an idea of theology similar to the scholastic FSU. Another perspective to understand the contingent nature of the role of the Creeds in the scholastic conception of theology is that although originally meant to be an unchangeable and sufficient expression of Christian faith, the Nicene Creed kept being modified to address new problems that the Church faced over time (Gavrilyuk 2021). Sometimes such modifications were so significant as to contribute to divisions within the Church, one prominent example of which was the addition of the word Filioque (Latin: “and from the son”) contributing to the schism of Greek Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches (Dunn 2021, p. 352; Gavrilyuk 2021, p. 343). The Protestant Reformation furthermore complicated the contingent nature of the Creeds, since not all Protestant denominations are creedal. Given that the Creeds, as sanctioned by a sovereign institution of religion, were meant to be an unalterable and determinate expression of faith (though they often failed at such an endeavor), I will define the mentality of religious practitioners surrounding their intention for such a ­doctrinal closure of faith as a “creedal attitude.”3 Given that the major terms in Clooney’s CT methodology define each other, I will furthermore sustain that the creedal attitude is pivotal to the confessional conception of comparative theology as faith in a home tradition seeking deepened self-­understanding via comparison with other religious traditions. As the origination of the creedal attitude toward faith is contingent, Clooney’s CT methodology is contingent as well. This conclusion implies that apart from situational factors, Clooney has made his own personal choice of pursuing CT as such. Such a choice of methodology surely affords positives to Clooney’s CT scholarship, as I have enthusiastically learned. As a Roman Catholic priest, Clooney has his full right to choose whatever path of comparative studies of religion he deems as the best fit. However, the contingent nature of Clooney’s CT methodology may also lead to controversial consequences, of which I list a few for the purpose of this chapter so as to conclude my critique.

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First, while embracing a closure of faith by its determined expression in the Creeds, Clooney cannot explain adequately his motive of studying Hinduism. In other words, apart from the external fact that Hinduism alongside Catholicism has been rediscovered as a major world ­religion, we cannot easily find strong reasons internal to truths of Catholicism that motivate Clooney’s contemplative reading of Hindu texts. For instance, after meticulously studying one Hindu and one Catholic classic on a shared topic, Clooney (2019a, p. 43) says, “We begin to learn two doctrinal systems together, holding their truths next to one another, not because we think that to do so is a good idea, but simply because we must do so, because we have studied both together.” The implied logic here seems to suggest that studying two doctrinal systems together is a forced task by a matter of fact, rather than deriving from any good reason or genuine need intrinsic to the ­dynamics of faith. Second, other than acknowledging the de facto reception of religious truths in respective traditions, Clooney seems to have no further criteria to discern truth. Accordingly, Clooney (2019a, p. 94) also declines to resort to the Kantian type of “pure reason” to understand or debate truths since these truths are always considered as “the lived wisdom of a particular tradition evident in these particular circumstances.” However, the dualism of pure reason versus particular religions is an early modern legacy of Western thought, which does not necessarily prevail in other contexts of Western or non-­Western intellectual histories. It is conceivable that a scholar rooted in a ­particular tradition is able to be simultaneously open to a more universal perspective of truth. On the one hand, the scholar may be committed to speaking in more or less the same vocabulary of faith rooted in a particular tradition, while on the other hand, they may still resort to the common sense of humanity shaped by a global perspective to either entrench, enrich, or revise, without totally abandoning, the traditional vocabulary. In other words, “pure reasoning” and “reasoning via traditions” may mutually enhance each other in a fallible and dynamic fashion. Instances of such mutual enhancement will be discussed shortly. This uncritical acceptance of the early modern Western conception of pure reason versus particular religions also speaks to the politically conservative nature of Clooney’s CT scholarship, which abides by the early modern principle of the separation of church and state quite consistently. Each religious doctrinal system, per the named principle argued by enlightenment thinkers such as John Locke (2017, p.  8) and established by the American constitution, is “orthodox to itself.” Therefore, the commitment to truths of religion shall be up to the free choice of individuals and be confined in the private area of religious institutions, with the ­public area of politics to be safeguarded by citizens’ mandatory employment of secular and pure ­reason. As it does not challenge such a status quo of the established Western order of politics and religion, the capacity of Clooney’s CT to contribute to solving new problems4 arising to this status remains limited. Third, since Clooney’s comparison of Christian and Hindu texts aims for intensification rather than progress, the creedal attitude toward faith rooted in the Catholic scholastic FSU tradition may have been inappropriately carried over to Clooney’s reading of Hindu texts, which may therefore do injustice to the diversity of Hinduism and to the distinction of Hindu from Catholic religiosity. For instance, the determinate nature of Catholic faith shaped by the creedal attitude propels Clooney to attend to the particularity of the Hindu faith. However, a significant proportion of studied Hindu texts, as admitted by Clooney (2019a, p. 24), themselves aim to distill and summarize ancient Hindu wisdom and ritual specifications so as to make these ancient teachings accessible to beginner learners. Clooney’s reluctance to reach the level of theorization beyond particular texts would therefore run counter to the theorizing tendency intrinsic to the texts he studied. Besides, there are self-­critical and revisionist voices within the Hindu tradition. Bringing these voices into comparison with the creedal Catholic truths so as to intensify the latter would readily



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undermine the self-­critical nature of these voices. For instance, right before elaborating the ­significance of the Catholic Creeds, Clooney (2019a, p.  52) concludes his reading of Dı̄kṣita’s Perspectives by citing Dı̄kṣita’s own closing words: “If there is anything regarding the courses of our teachings written incorrectly by me and spoiled with error, may generous people of a good position toward true t­radition and entirely free of doubts be compassionate in correcting me.” Clooney (2019a, p. 52) avers that a deep reading of such a statement would “gradually make one an insider.” However, an alternative way to interpret Dı̄kṣita’s view is to highlight the Vedānta tradition’s nondualism between pure reason and religious particularities so as to indicate that the tradition does not share a creedal attitude, and hence has a different dynamic of faith from Catholicism.5 However, with Clooney’s reading guided by his general CT methodology, such an alternative remains concealed.

Construction Given the contingent nature of Clooney’s CT methodology which rests on the contingent FSU definition of theology, it is worthwhile to explore alternative conceptions of theology in the Western intellectual history, and these alternatives might be more conducive to the construction of non-­ Christian CTs. This cautious optimism represents my general approach to a Ruist CT. In other words, because I am following the tradition of “Boston Confucianism” and writing about Ruism primarily in English, I need to study the English vocabulary thoroughly so as to find the best words to translate concepts of Ruism in a way of remaining both authentic to the Ru tradition and ­accessible to English readers. With my major CT work (developed from Song 2018) under review, I will briefly state how I construct the general framework of a Ruist CT as follows, and readers can also check more details of the framework in my previous publications (particularly Song 2020b) on this topic. Theology in ancient Western philosophy, such as in Aristotelianism and Stoicism, inquires into the boundary conditions of metaphysics integral to philosophy as a way of life (PWOL). Such a philosophical way of life aims to transform the whole personhood of human individuals from being inauthentic to authentic in connection to a larger cosmic whole via spiritual exercises such as attention, visualization, journaling, dialogue, reading, and so on. Theological inquiries in PWOL are therefore amenable both to transformative spiritual and mystical experience and to rational criticism which draws on a variety of comparative sources, such as different schools of thought and cultural lineages surrounding the ancient Mediterranean world. No creed was created to ­uniformize these theologies, and any determinate expression of spiritual experience about ­boundary conditions of realities was also deemed as fallible and revisable. In the contemporary CT scholarship, Raimon Panikkar (2004, p.  143) claims that theology is a “handmaid of philosophy,” and Robert C. Neville (2013, p. 180) specifies the best category for his comparative, systematic theology as “philosophical theology.” They furnish living examples of the PWOL theology. Besides, Protestant thinkers, such as Friedrich Schleiermacher and Paul Tillich, contribute what may be called the Protestant conception of theology (PCT). PCT construes “faith” as the pre-­ or supra-­linguistic, transformative experience of individuals triggered by their encounter of ­ultimate reality. When individuals intently cultivate such spiritual experiences, communities of religion are formed and cultural symbols and languages are employed as a pointer to ultimate reality so as to orient individuals toward a certain disciplined way of life. However, no determinate set of linguistic expressions of faith is deemed as final and unalterable. PCT intrinsically strives for new developments of human spirituality, including comparative studies of world religions, to

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revise and enrich determinate expressions of faith so as to engage continually the ultimately indeterminate abundance of ultimate reality. In a word, theology per PCT is a discursive and revisable self-­reflection of practicing individuals within religious communities to cultivate their spiritual experience about ultimate reality consciously. In the contemporary CT scholarship, Keith Ward, as well as scholar-­practitioners in the research program of Theology Without Walls (TWW) at the American Academy of Religion, furnishes distinctive examples of PCT. Neither PCT nor the PWOL theology adopts a creedal attitude toward faith, and they share a similar understanding of the dialectical relationship between indeterminate ultimate reality and determinate expressions of spiritual experience. However, I think the PWOL theology is more conducive to the construction of a global (and particularly Ruist as I will argue later) perspective of CT mainly because of two reasons. First, Christian symbols still play a leading role in PCT. Second, immediately after the Protestant Reformation, varying Protestant denominations alongside Catholicism and other religions were put into walled religious institutions in the private area of society under the principle of the separation of church and state, and each of these institutions is accordingly treated by the public as orthodox to itself. Consequently, the creedal attitude which demands a closure of faith sanctioned by a sovereign religious institution is enhanced, rather than weakened, within certain Protestant denominations. However, the PWOL theology was practiced in an entirely different sociological setting from the early modern European and American nation-­ states. PWOL intimates a closer relationship between philosophy and religion, and its open inquiry into ultimate reality is also amenable to comparative studies. Hence, the PWOL theology can help contemporary CT scholars to re-­envision the established Western order of religion and politics, and to pave new ways of pursuing CT from a genuinely global perspective. How can Ru scholars utilize the PWOL theology to construct a Ruist CT? After surveying the varying discourses about Tian (天, heaven or the universe), the Ruist designation of ultimate reality, in the intellectual history of Ruism, I find that the discussion of the concept of Taiji (太極, ultimate limit) in the Daoxue movement (道學, learning of the Way, also termed as N ­ eo-­Confucianism in English scholarship) intends to fathom the creative origin of Tian. The Daoxue also attempts to construct a metaphysical-­ethical system rooted in the wisdom of ancient Ru classics so as to f­urnish a comprehensive orientation to individual human life. Therefore, the Daoxue comprises the most adequate comparison to the PWOL conception of theology and can be considered as a major resource for the construction of a contemporary Ruist CT. More importantly, the Daoxue movement took place in the period of ancient Chinese intellectual history when the three major spiritual traditions, namely, Ruism, Daoism, and Buddhism intensely interacted with each other. Using the evidence of exemplary Daoxue thinkers’ writings, I summarized the Ruist attitude toward other traditions as a non-­confessional and seeded open inclusivism. It is non-­confessional because no creedal attitude toward faith prevailed in the Ru tradition. Ru scholars normally identified themselves with a historically formed lineage of thought and practice. Their commitment to Ru ideals such as humanism, cosmic harmony, and social activism was discernible, but no intention of demanding a doctrinal closure of faith in the form of Creeds was demonstrated. The Ruist view toward other traditions is “seeded” because the lineage of Ru spirituality is rooted in the reception of historically formed classics within the Ru tradition. At the same time, it is an “open inclusivism” because none of the seeded wisdom was thought of as final and unalterable and, hence, Ruism is intrinsically open to other traditions so as to incorporate new wisdom to enrich its own. This inclusivism is genuinely open because the non-­confessional nature of Ru spirituality implies not even a minimal commitment to doctrinal closure of traditional Ru teaching. Hence, we can use a biological metaphor to depict the dynamics of faith within noncreedal traditions such as Ruism: established theological wisdom within the Ru tradition would be like a seed to assist individuals’ spiritual growth, and insights gleaned



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elsewhere can modify the genetic expression of the seed so as to develop new epi-­genetic traits of the rooted tradition in time. Such a dynamic furnishes another example of how “pure reasoning” and “rooted reasoning in particular traditions” can interact with each other in the context of interreligious learning. Regarding how to start a Ruist CT study with legitimate motivations and how to accurately compare concepts across traditions, I proposed a concrete comparative methodology which ­combines Jonathan Z. Smith’s situational thinking (which is similar to Gadamer’s hermeneutical consciousness) and Neville’s pragmatic comparative method of vague category. Both of the two components function under the general framework of the Ruist theology of religions as a ­non-­confessional and seeded open inclusivism.

Conclusion Hearkening back to the question asked by the title of this chapter, is there or shall we need a home for comparative theologies? If a home tradition is defined together with the cluster of concepts surrounding the creedal attitude toward faith such as “confession” and the FSU theology, I believe that Catholic CT theologians such as Clooney surely have their full right to choose to remain in and continually solidify their home while pursuing comparisons. However, under closer historical and philosophical scrutiny, we have found that the foundation of such a home is contingent and, therefore, for non-­Catholic traditions which lack any of those contingent factors, theologians may not need to treat the traditions of their own as a home defined as such. In the case of Ruism, a biological metaphor such as a seeded lineage of a way of human living, which is rooted, organically growing, and open to new developments of human spirituality, is more adequate to the dynamic of Ru faith during the process of CT studies. In a word, to advance contemporary CT as a genuinely global enterprise, CT scholars and theologians may need to wonder how CT can be conducted in both Western and non-­Western traditions alternatively to Clooney’s CT model, despite the fact that this wondering once again confirms the irreplaceable significance of Clooney’s CT in the field.

Notes 1 Abreast of my other publications, “Confucianism” will be written as “Ruism” or the “Ru tradition,” and “Confucian” or “Confucianist” will be written as “Ru” or “Ruist” in this chapter. When used as a noun, the plural of “Ru” or “Ruist” is “Ru” or “Ruists.” Ru (儒) means a “civilized human,” and had been the original name of the Ru tradition before “Confucianism” was invented and spread by mainly Protestant missionaries in the nineteenth century. 2 Central governments in imperial China might issue edicts to dismiss certain Ru scholars’ learning as “false learning.” However, this official denunciation did not take any creedal format and more often pertained to the ethical praxis and impact of the scholars in question, rather than any creedal ­conformity of their thinking. See case studies conducted by Santangelo (2021, pp. 13–26). 3 My definition of “creedal attitude” is inspired by Ayres’s (2006, p. 275) characterization of p ­ ro-­Nicene theology as a Christian habitus which functions as a “matrix of perceptions, appreciations, and actions.” I also thank Dr Stephen Meawad at Caldwell University for his help in my study of the ­concept of theology in early Christianity. 4 Examples of the problems can refer to Clooney’s (2021, pp. 137–141) response to the critique of “an apolitical tendency” by Hugh Nicholson (2011, p. 37). 5 Such an alternative interpretation of the Vedānta religiosity is advocated by Long (2019, p. 230).

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References Aquinas, T. (1939). Expositio in Symbolum Apostolorum: The Apostles’ Creed (trans. J.B. Collins) [e-­book]. https://isidore.co/aquinas/Creed.htm#2 (accessed October 1, 2022). Ayres, L. (2006). Nicaea and its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-­Century Trinitarian Theology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology, Deep Learning Across Religious Borders. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2019a). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How Deep Learning Still Matters. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Clooney, F.X. (2019b). Strong walls for an open faith. In: Theology Without Walls: The Trans-­religious Imperative (ed. J.L. Martin), pp. 213–226. New York: Routledge. Clooney, F.X. (2021). La Théologie Comparée en Question. In: La Théologie Comparée: Vers un Dialogue Interreligieux et Interculturel Renouvelé (ed. C. Chalamet, E. Jaillet, and G. Palasciano), pp. 113–175. Geneva: Labor et Fiddes. Cornille, C. (2020). Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley Blackwell. Dam, R.V. (2021). Imperial fathers and their sons: Licinius, Constantine, and the Council of Nicaea. In: The Cambridge Companion to the Council of Nicaea (ed. C. Chalamet, E. Jaillet, and G. Palasciano), pp. 19–42. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Drake, H.A. (2021). The elephant in the room: Constantine at the council. In: The Cambridge Companion to the Council of Nicaea (ed. Y.R. Kim), pp. 111–134. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dunn, G.D. (2021). Catholic reception of the Council of Nicaea. In: The Cambridge Companion to the Council of Nicaea (ed. Y.R. Kim), pp. 347–367. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Edwards, M.J. (2021). The Creed. In: The Cambridge Companion to the Council of Nicaea (ed. Y.R. Kim), pp. 135–157. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ferguson, E. (2002). Early Christians Speak: Faith and Life in the First Three Centuries, Vol. 2. Abilene, TX: Abilene Christian University Press. Gavrilyuk, P.L. (2021). The legacy of the Council of Nicaea in the Orthodox tradition: The principle of unchangeability and the hermeneutic of continuity. In: The Cambridge Companion to the Council of Nicaea (ed. Y.R. Kim), pp. 327–346. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Locke, J. (2017). A letter about toleration (ed. J. Bennett). Some Texts from Early Modern Philosophy. https://www.earlymoderntexts.com/authors/locke (accessed October 1, 2022). Long, J.D. (2019). A Hinduism without walls? Exploring the concept of the avatar interreligiously. In: Theology Without Walls: The Transreligious Imperative (ed. J.L. Martin), pp. 227–233. New  York: Routledge. Lyman, R. (2021). Arius and Arianism: The origins of the Alexandrian controversy. In: The Cambridge Companion to the Council of Nicaea (ed. Y.R. Kim), pp. 43–62. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mandair, A. (2004). The unbearable proximity of the Orient: Political religion, multiculturalism and the retrieval of South Asian identities. Social Identities 10 (5): 647–663. Neville, R.C. (2013). Ultimates: Philosophical Theology, Volume One [Kindle e-­ book]. New  York: SUNY Press. Nicholson, H. (2011). Comparative Theology and the Problem of Religious Rivalry. New York: Oxford University Press. Panikkar, R. (2004). Christophany: The Fullness of Man. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Santangelo, P. (2021). Individual Autonomy and Responsibility in Late Imperial China. Amherst, NY: Cambria Press. Song, B. (2018). A study of comparative philosophy of religion on “creatio ex nihilo” and “sheng sheng (birth birth, 生生).” PhD dissertation, Boston University. Song, B. (2020a). Robert C. Neville: A systematic, nonconformist, comparative philosopher of religion. American Journal of Theology and Philosophy 40 (3): 11–30. Song, B. (2020b). Comparative theology as a liberal art. Journal of Interreligious Studies 31: 92–113. Song, B. (2021). Book review: Theology Without Walls: The Trans-­religious Imperative, edited by Jerry L. Martin. New York: Routledge, 2019. Journal of Interreligious Studies 32: 107–110.

CHAPTER 44

Comparative Theology After Clooney Hugh Nicholson

I first met Francis Clooney in the fall of 1993, when I drove up to Boston to discuss the possibility of studying Vedānta with him in the context of Boston College’s doctoral program in theology. Two ­memories stand out from that initial meeting. The first is that Clooney graciously volunteered to give feedback on a draft of my personal statement for my application, an offer so unexpected that I thought it violated some unwritten rule in the agonistic game of graduate admissions. The second was Clooney’s way of introducing me to his distinctive way of doing comparative theology: f­ ittingly enough, through comparison and contrast. In response to my interest in a comparative study of Vedānta, he recommended two books representing diametrically opposed approaches to the subject. The first was Michael von Brück’s The Unity of Reality (1986), which offers a Hegelian synthesis of Christian Trinitarian theology and Advaita Vedānta metaphysics. The second – suggested, as is characteristic of Clooney, with neither ego nor false modesty – was his own Theology After Vedānta, which had just come out. I have to admit that, at the time, Von Brück’s bold, constructive venture was more the kind of thing I had in mind. Theology After Vedānta was a challenging book for me. I found its model of reading and re-­reading classic texts daunting and its counsel patiently to defer questions of truth somewhat disappointing, even frustrating. I did not fully appreciate the fact that the latter – the indefinite postponement of final conclusions and judgments – signified nothing less than a thoroughgoing reconceptualization of the very point of the comparative project, much as the Mahāyāna ideal of the bodhisattva who postpones Buddhahood is not so much an actual postponement as it is a restatement of what Buddhahood means. Even at the time, however, I could recognize a kind of authenticity, even an authority, in his work that was missing from that of some of the other comparative books I had read. Here was a Jesuit priest so thoroughly steeped in the Catholic tradition that he could freely venture deeply into another tradition without having his commitment to his home tradition seriously being called into question. And on the Hindu side of the comparison, his distinctive approach to Śaṅkarā’s Advaita Vedānta tradition – viewing it as a continuation of the exegetical discipline of the earlier school of ritual theory (Pū rva Mı ̄māṁ sā) – was informed by a deep understanding of classical Indian thought, the product of years of ­philological training, textual study, and cross-­cultural encounter. The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Even years later, after having read most of Clooney’s work to date and having written a dissertation under his direction, I still do not think I fully appreciated what his method of careful and continual reading was all about. Given Clooney’s prolificacy and eloquence as a writer, it is curious that it took another author, Paul Griffiths of all people, for it finally to “click.”1 In a contribution to a volume on the cross-­cultural phenomenon of scholasticism, Griffiths describes the intellectual practices he sees as distinctive of this genre. An expanded version of his scholasticism essay is found in the second chapter of his Religious Reading (1999), where the descriptor “scholastic” is replaced with that of “religious.”2 Griffiths’s description of the practice of religious/scholastic reading captures the essence of the practice of careful and reflective reading that Clooney promotes and models in his various “experiments” in comparative theology. In marked contrast to the modern reader for whom texts are disposable sources of information, the religious/scholastic reader sees the traditional text as an inexhaustible mine of insight and wisdom. They, accordingly, return to it again and again (Griffiths  1998, p.  208). It is never rendered superfluous, like the builder’s scaffolding, by the knowledge or insight it fosters (Griffiths 1998, pp. 208–211, passim). To be sure, the religious classic gives rise to a tradition of exegesis, commentary, and summary, but this fluorescence of commentarial literature continually directs the reader back to the founding text. At the same time, the various texts read in the scholastic manner will come to form a unified body, “a single fabric composed on interlocking parts that can be retrieved and recombined variously as occasion demands” (Griffiths 1998, p. 216; cf. Clooney 1993, p. 23). In the context of religious/scholastic reading practices, this larger text forms an interpretive framework through which the reader understands and experiences the world (Griffiths 1998, p. 216; Clooney 1993, pp. 115–118; cf. Lindbeck 1984, esp. pp. 116–118). The ultimate goal of religious/scholastic reading – and also of the comparative collectio (“reading-­ together”) that forms the method of Clooney’s comparative theology  – is nothing less than the transformation of the moral and cognitive dispositions of the reader (see, e.g., Clooney  2010, pp. 58–59; Rosemann 1999, pp. 96–97, passim). The transformative effect of ­comparative religious reading, moreover, extends to the community to which the comparative theologian is accountable. Clooney, who sees his own work as a response to the Ignatian imperative “to see, seek, and find God in all things,” as interpreted in light of Vatican II’s Nostra Aetate, endeavors to transform the Catholic tradition by broadening the textual and cultural context in which Catholic theology is done. In both its personal and ecclesial dimensions, the practice of comparative reading gestures to a goal that lies outside of discourse. This aspect of Clooney’s ­comparative theology distinguishes it most sharply from the intellectual practices of the modern academy, and I think that for this reason there is a reluctance on the part of comparative theologians to acknowledge it fully. Even Clooney himself tends to speak of the fruits of comparative reading as a set of insights that, in principle, can be expressed in words. For example, he concludes his most recent book, Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics, with a list of eight “insights” gleaned from the three main comparative readings undertaken in the book (Clooney 2019, p. 158). And yet one senses that the real fruits of his comparative exercise lie elsewhere, as each of these stateable insights is more a general description of a parallel or a difference – e.g., “After reading [Lombard’s] Sentences and [Appayya Dı ̄kṣita’s] Perspectives: The human person [is] natural and free, written and read next to the scripturally and ritual[ly] marked actor whose extra-­and pre-­ritual state is of only marginal importance” – than it is an insight proper. One suspects that the most significant “takeaways” of the comparative practice occur on the not fully articulable level of attitude and outlook. Incidentally, it is this aspect of Clooney’s comparative theology – that the ultimate fruit of the practice lies in the “moral” formation of the comparativist, manifest in their wisdom, judgment, and “authenticity” – more than the requisite mastery of languages and the discipline of careful reading, that makes Clooney a difficult – indeed, for me, an impossible – act to follow.



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Griffiths develops his account of religious/scholastic reading by way of a contrast with the instrumentalist approach to texts that, according to Griffiths, defines the approach of a whole range of modern readers, from contemporary academics, whose claims of expertise are premised on their mastery and control of a body of literature, to the consumers of pornography and romance novels. Griffiths’s remarks on the link between the attitudes of control, use, and consumption that define the attitude of the modern reader and the culture of consumerist capitalism (1998, p. 210, 1999, p. 45) are insightful. However, I do find Griffiths’s invidious contrast between the reverence of the religious/scholastic reader, on the one hand, and the vanity of the professional academic and the baseness of the consumer of pornography, on the other hand, unduly polemical. The categorical contrast between religious and consumerist reading (see Griffiths 1999, p. 40) effectively suppresses some of the undeniable virtues of the modern approach to texts. The latter would also include the modern historian’s critical use of sources and the scientific researcher’s consultation of previous research studies. What these two examples have in common is the use of earlier texts to form an intellectual construct – a historical account or theoretical model – that is not found in those texts. The texts consulted – even the literary strata within a single extant text – are invariably understood to reflect distinct and sometimes irreconcilable perspectives. In this respect, the reading of the modern historian or scientist is quite different from that of the scholastic commentator or pedagogue, who sees themself merely teasing out or clarifying the truths contained in a single text or textual corpus, which is assumed to be internally consistent.3 Griffiths is reluctant to explain this contrast between scholastic and modern styles of reading in terms of a particular technological development, as he regards any monocausal explanation to be unduly reductionistic (1998, pp. 206–208, 1999, pp. 29–32, 39–40). Even granting Griffiths’s point that no technological development can be isolated from a host of other cultural factors (1998, p. 208), it is nevertheless true that the instrumental, critical, and consumerist styles of reading characteristic of modernity are inconceivable apart from the introduction of print technology in early modern Europe. In her seminal and magisterial study, The Printing Press as an Agent of Change, Elizabeth Eisenstein explores the vital role played by print in a number of epochal events in Western civilization, from the Protestant Reformation to the development of modern capitalism and the so-­called scientific revolution. To take one development relating to the last of these, it was only with the availability of printed editions of classical authors like Averroes, Ptolemy, Avicenna, and Galen that the inconsistencies and contradictions among these works, previously concealed by the scholastic glosses and commentaries through which these works were mediated, were fully revealed (Eisenstein 1979, p. 523). And only with an awareness of those inconsistencies and thus the limitations of ancient wisdom could the cumulative and progressive concept of knowledge characteristic of modernity develop. In this way, “[t]he closed sphere or single corpus, passed down from generation to generation, was replaced by an open-­ended investigatory process pressing against ever advancing frontiers” (Eisenstein 1979, p. 687). In light of Eisenstein’s analysis, I would argue that the religious/scholastic and modern styles of reading, as contrasted by Griffiths, can be correlated to the cultures of script and print, ­respectively. That is not to say that the transition from one to the other was absolute and “once-­ and-­for-­all”; aspects of scribal culture persisted into the first centuries of print, just as aspects of the earlier oral culture – for example, the arts of memorization – persisted in the medieval scholastic reading practices described and valorized by Griffiths. Jacques Ellul draws attention to  one particularly revealing manifestation of the holdover of scholastic reading in the first ­centuries after Gutenberg. Books of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, observes Ellul, were curiously spare in the apparatuses of convenient reference  – tables of contents, section headings, indices, and so on – that we have come to take for granted. From this observation Ellul draws the conclusion that,

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[t]he books of the time were not written to be used, along with hundreds of others, to locate a piece of information accurately and quickly, or to validate or invalidate an experiment, or to ­furnish a formula. They were not written to be consulted. They were written to be read patiently in their entirety and to be meditated upon. (Ellul [1954] 1964, p. 40)

Although the classical Sanskrit Śastric texts that have profoundly shaped Clooney’s conception of comparative theology are not lacking in various navigational aids, this quotation from Ellul nicely captures, I think, the spirit of the slow, reflective reading practices that Clooney models in his work.4 See, for example, Clooney’s remarks on the way Appayya Dı ̄kṣita’s Siddhāntaleśasaṅgraha, a sixteenth-­century synthesis of Advaita Vedānta doctrine discussed in Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics, was intended to be read, namely, “[from] start to finish, rather than as if it were a reference volume into which one can dip here and there for insights into topics of interest” (Clooney  2019, p.  38). Clooney’s comparative work honors the way classic texts like this one, which were invariably the products of scribal culture, were originally intended to be read. To that extent, his practice can be seen as a retrieval of aspects of the scholastic reading style, reflective of earlier scribal culture, in the age of print. Clooney is acutely aware, of course, that the style of slow, reflective reading presupposed by the intellectual traditions he studies and that he models in his own work is decidedly out of step with the fast-­paced, results-­driven culture of the present. A concern that the discipline of slow reading is in danger of being lost pervades Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics, his most recent book. “We are in danger of losing our bearings as individuals, communities, and whole societies,” he writes in the book’s preface, because we are no longer in sufficiently deep and dense living intellectual contact with our own religious traditions – because we no longer read the great books that have formed our traditions, and because we no longer have the patience, humility, and dispositions to read slowly, for as long as it takes, without any craving for immediate results. (Clooney 2019, p. xix)

The rootlessness and impatience that Clooney bemoans here are hardly new. Indeed, the sentence I quoted could easily have been written 100 years ago. As we saw in the previous section, the ­scholastic reading practices valorized by writers like Clooney and Griffiths go against some of the dominant intellectual currents of modernity. And yet, I think one can detect a note of urgency in the tone of the quote above that was lacking in the books he wrote a couple of decades ago (see, e.g., Clooney 2019, p. 157). Clooney, however, does not name the source of this sense of urgency, nor does he go into a detailed analysis of contemporary culture. Perhaps he thinks that the phenomenon is self-­evident to his readers and a causal analysis of it not directly relevant to his project. At any rate, Clooney, like Griffiths, seems reluctant to tie a set of intellectual habits – in this case, a particular style of reading – to a particular technological development. In line with this attitude, he does not see today’s electronic media as inherently inimical to the kind of slow, careful reading he promotes; to resist the new media, he suggests, would be as vain and pointless as a fifteenth-­ century scholar lamenting the invention of the printing press (Clooney 2019, p. 25). Throughout my career I have learned to trust Clooney’s generally sound and mature judgment. Indeed, more than once, I have (respectfully, of course) staked out a position different from his, only to come around to Clooney’s position in the end. And here, too, he may be showing good, ­balanced judgment by avoiding two extremes – the extremes, namely, of being an uncritical champion of the new digital technologies, on the one side, and being pessimistically alarmist about them, on the other. Still, I cannot help but think that he underestimates the threat posed by today’s digital media, the internet in particular, to the kind of reading practices he prizes. The internet,



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I contend, is not a neutral artifact like a hammer or a neutral technology like electricity, whose effects depend on the conscious intention of the person who uses it. The internet epitomizes the autonomous nature of modern technology more generally, autonomous in the sense that it controls its users as much as, or indeed more than, they control it (Carr 2020, pp. 46–48, passim; see also Winner 1977; Ellul [1954] 1964). Ironically, the underlying presupposition of the kind of religious reading championed by Clooney and Griffiths – namely, that a particular practice can profoundly shape the thinking of those who undertake it in ways they are not consciously aware – supports the thesis that novel behaviors made possible, even necessary, by a major technology like the internet can shape and transform one’s cognitive habits and capabilities, for good or for ill. The advent of electronic print media promises to transform our reading habits on a number of levels. On one level, the digitization of a work of literature fundamentally alters its character: “Once digitized, books can be unraveled into single pages or reduced further, into snippets of a page. These snippets will be remixed into reordered books and virtual bookshelves” (Jackson 2008, p. 178). In this way, digitization creates the exciting possibility of a “universal library” in which information can flow freely across a mesh of digitally enabled cross-­references in what is effectively a single unbounded text. And yet this absorption of the book into a vast network of readily ­available information has its shadow side: When a printed book – whether a recently published scholarly history or a two-­hundred-­year-­old Victorian novel  – is transferred to an electronic device connected to the internet, it turns into something very like a Web site. Its words become wrapped in all the distractions of the networked computer. Its links and other digital enhancements propel the reader hither and yon. It loses what John Updike called its “edges” and dissolves into the vast, rolling waters of the Net. The linearity of the printed book is shattered, along with the calm attentiveness it encourages in the reader. (Carr 2020, p. 104)

Today’s internet, which forms the context in which more and more of our reading takes place, is increasingly the dominant medium of the consumerism that fuels late capitalism. As Clooney and Griffiths readily acknowledge, a consumerist attitude is inimical to the kind of religious reading they both advocate (Clooney 2010, p. 60; Griffiths 1999, pp. 40–41, 44–45, passim). Indeed, consumerism, particularly when it comes to insinuate itself in our educational institutions as these are forced to acquiesce to the demands of the market, can have the effect of eroding the traditional disciplinary structures that have sustained the habits of literacy. One could argue that the internet and various forms of social media have significantly accelerated this process. Anyone who teaches in a college or university today is painfully aware that we live in what might be described as a culture of post-­literacy. It is not that a generation raised with the internet and social media is illiterate, of course (although one does wonder about the insidious effects that a cognitive environment encouraging partial attention and multitasking has on the truly remarkable feat of neural reorganization that is our ability to read5). It is simply that many students today are unable to read more than a few sentences without becoming hopelessly bored. They suffer from what the late social theorist Mark Fisher called “depressive hedonia” – the condition of being unable to break from the pursuit of immediate gratification and continual stimulation (Fisher 2009, pp. 21–22). The resulting inability to focus and concentrate on anything for any length of time is not some kind of inherent character flaw or moral failing on the part of the young. It is, rather, the direct result of deliberate (and scientifically informed) efforts on the part of the designers of Web platforms to exploit the vulnerabilities in human psychology in order to, as the founding president of Facebook, Sean Parker, put it, “consume as much of your time and conscious attention as possible” (Hern 2018, p. 2). As such, older generations are hardly immune from the corrosive effects of

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the internet on the intellectual habits  – patience, humility, and concentration  – that sustain a robust literacy. The disciplines of traditional religious education stand as the antithesis of the ­phenomenon of internet addiction with its deleterious effects on literacy. In his memoir of his time spent in a Tibetan Buddhist monastery when he was a young man, the scholar of Buddhism Georges Dreyfus describes the welcome attitudinal changes wrought by the rigors of the continual practice of memorization: Whereas previously I was unable to sustain study of even the topics that interested me, I gradually became able to concentrate on any topic. I thus realized that anything can become interesting, provided that one puts one’s mind to it. Interest and boredom are largely the functions of the quality of one’s attention. An attentive mind is not bored, however trivial the task, and a mind trained in memorization can apply the focus thereby acquired for other purposes. (Dreyfus 2003, p. 97)

Dreyfus’s example usefully foregrounds a feature of traditional religious education that has not been an emphasis in Clooney’s discussion of the practice of comparative religious reading, namely, the need for an institutionalized break from the discourses and practices of the wider culture in order for a religious practice – in this case, reading – to be transformative. The experience Dreyfus describes is inconceivable apart from the disciplinary structures of the monastery that effectively shield the practitioner from a host of worldly distractions that the practitioner would be unlikely to resist were they to rely on individual willpower alone. To be sure, Clooney’s practice of comparative reading is not quite as intense and focused as the rote memorization of Buddhist scholastic texts in a Tibetan monastery. As such, the uncompromising commitment to a monastic lifestyle is not necessary for the former, and probably not altogether desirable, either, as an essential openness to the wider culture (at least certain aspects of it) is integral to the comparative project. Accordingly, the disciplinary structures of an elite, modern university have largely sufficed for the reading practices that Clooney models.6 After all, the university effectively institutionalizes the disciplines of reading, reflection, and writing. Or at least it did. One wonders how effectively today’s college or university, with its wi-­fi equipped classrooms (that allow students to remain in what Fisher calls the “communicative sensation-­stimulation matrix” of texting and internet surfing while ostensibly being present in class) and a market-­based system of evaluation that makes it all but impossible for bored and apathetic students to fail, actually promotes the discipline of careful reading. Even for the fortunate (and increasingly rare) tenure-­track faculty member, the plethora of administrative tasks needed to keep their underpopulated and underfunded humanities programs afloat, to say nothing of the proliferating bureaucratic paperwork  – mission statements, quantitative performance reviews, and program reports  – of which university administrators are so fond, leaves ­precious little time for unhurried reading. At the very least, the twenty-­first-­century comparative theologian who wishes to continue Clooney’s legacy will have to be even more intentional about creating an environment conducive to the kind of slow, reflective reading Clooney models. Clooney forthrightly admits that his trademark brand of comparative religious reading is elitist, in the rather obvious sense that it represents a mode of learning “by and for the few” (2010, p. 67). Even while admitting, and tacitly justifying, the elitist dimension of the textual approach to comparative theology, Clooney acknowledges its inherent limitations. To the extent that one focuses on texts, one is not attending to the non-­textual dimensions of religious life that fall under the broad rubric of “popular religion.” An exclusive focus on classic texts also effectively marginalizes – or, better, unwittingly perpetuates the marginalization of – the people who have been traditionally excluded from the literary strata of our religious traditions (the poor, the uneducated, women, etc.). The preceding discussion has foregrounded yet another dimension of elitism, the effective



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restriction of the kind of reading Clooney does to elite universities like Boston College and Harvard University that support academic research and that have graduate programs in theology and the study of religion. As Clooney’s example demonstrates, an open acknowledgment of such limitations goes a long way toward mitigating these ills. Clooney’s acknowledged elitism is an elitism tempered by humility. The theme of this chapter was prompted by a colleague’s offhand remark, made several years ago, that comparative theology would eventually disappear after Clooney’s retirement. In assessing the future prospects of comparative theology, one has to distinguish between Clooney’s distinctive style of comparative religious reading and interreligious theological reflection more broadly. In this chapter, I have focused on the former. I have foregrounded the extent to which the kind of careful, reflective reading that Clooney practices depends on certain institutional structures that are restrictive and whose future, particularly in the age of the internet and other technologies of distraction, cannot simply be taken for granted. Clooney’s brand of comparative religious reading would seem to be particularly vulnerable to disruptions in the disciplinary matrices of the university and church, rather like the more delicate species of flora and fauna that are the first casualties of changes to an ecosystem. Given its high degree of dependence on a particular set of material conditions, comparative theology as practiced by Clooney will likely remain a highly restricted intellectual activity (as, in fact, the traditional reading practices it attempts to retrieve have always been). When comparative theology is understood in the broader sense of interreligious theological reflection, however, its future prospects become considerably brighter. In sharp contrast to religious reading, which is a skill that must be learned and taught (Griffiths 1999, p. 60), religious belief, as the cognitive science of religion teaches us, comes naturally to human beings (McCauley 2011; Bering 2011; Barrett 2000). Most contexts in which religious reflection takes place today, moreover, are interreligious and are only becoming increasingly so. Thus, as David Tracy put it years ago, “[t]he future is likely to see the evolution of most traditional theologies into comparative theologies in all non-­fundamentalist traditions” (1987, p. 454). Whether interreligious theological reflection in the future will be called “comparative ­theology” is yet another question. A few years back I argued that the discipline needs to confront honestly the uncomfortable question of the extent to which the aspects of religious life that it generally affirms – doctrine, communal boundaries, structures of authority, and so on – presuppose the discourses of oppositional identity that it eschews. If the discipline failed to confront this fundamental ambiguity of religious commitment, I argued, it was likely to share the fate of past interreligious ventures, a fate epitomized by its nineteenth-­century namesake. In the first decades of the twentieth century, “comparative theology” fell out of favor (and later into oblivion) when its underlying exclusions, of which its practitioners were largely unaware, came into view. Will its contemporary namesake follow the same pattern? Since its founding in the 1990s (the new) comparative theology has increasingly come to be identified with a more confessional mode of interreligious theological reflection, leaving a vacuum to be filled by more “progressive” theological approaches (or at least those that regard themselves as such). The latter include academic approaches like the recent Theology Without Walls, or broader religious movements like the discipline of Interreligious Studies. As reflected in the designation of the former of these, what distinguishes such movements from more confessional forms of comparative theology is an ambivalence about traditional confessional boundaries, an ambivalence which I would argue stems from a vague sense of the unsavory oppositional discourses involved in the historical formation and ongoing maintenance of such boundaries. If the proponents of such movements are amnesiac about their history and fail to come up with creative solutions to the problem of addressing the “political” moment of exclusion in religious commitment – if, instead, they have recourse to the same strategies of “de-­politicization”

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that have been applied before with dubious results7  – the future of interreligious theological ­reflection is likely to be one of a rolling sequence of titles – world theology, pluralist theology, comparative theology, theology without walls, and so on – each convinced of its unprecedented novelty but fated to be superseded by the theological vanguard of the next generation.

Notes 1 Perhaps Griffiths’s more polemical style had the effect of foregrounding the salient features of this style of reading more effectively, at least for me, than Clooney’s more modest and irenic style of presentation. 2 Clooney acknowledges the relevance of Griffiths’s analysis of religious reading in Beyond Compare (2008, pp. 77–79). 3 A simple contrast between scholastic and modern approaches to texts, while it is useful in the present context to foreground the salient features of premodern reading habits, does not do justice to a rather complex history. For example, Philip Rosemann notes that the shift from the monastery to the university as the primary context of theological study in the thirteenth century marked a transition in the attitude toward texts from contemplation to mastery (1999, p.  99, passim). So even in the high Middle Ages one sees the emergence of at least one attitude toward texts that will become predominant in the modern period. 4 Ellul further explains this feature of these books in terms of what he calls the “ideal of universality”: “that the reader sought in [the book] not the solution of a given difficulty or the answer to a given problem, but rather to make personal contact with the author” (Ellul [1954] 1964, pp. 40–41). 5 A question raised by Maryanne Wolf, a researcher of child development and dyslexia (Wolf 2007, pp.  212–229, passim). On the way neuronal structures are repurposed for reading, see Dehaene (2009, esp. pp. 144–150). 6 Clooney’s vocation as a member of the Society of Jesus is obviously a significant factor in Clooney’s own work; the commitment to a particular lifestyle and set of spiritual and intellectual disciplines undergirds the disciplinary context of the various universities with which he has been affiliated. 7 For example, in his programmatic statement for Theology Without Walls, Jerry L. Martin distinguishes the proper subject matter of theology, Ultimate Reality, from the theologian’s own tradition (Martin 2020, p. 1). Thus, his vision of a “transreligious” theology without confessional restrictions is based on a distinction between the “vertical” relation to ultimate reality and the “horizontal” ­relations to any historical religious tradition. Significantly neither Martin nor, as far as I can tell, the other contributors to Martin (2020) acknowledge that this very distinction formed the basis of W.C. Smith’s vision of a “world theology” more than half a century ago. For a trenchant critique of this aspect of Smith’s theology, see Heim (1995, pp. 56–58) and Surin (1990, esp. p. 125).

References Barrett, J.L. (2000). Exploring the natural foundations of religion. Trends in Cognitive Sciences 4 (1): 29–34. Bering, J. (2011). The Belief Instinct. New York: W.W. Norton. Carr, N. (2020). The Shallows. New York: W.W. Norton. Clooney, F.X. (1993). Theology after Vedānta. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Clooney, F.X. (2008). Beyond Compare. Washington, DC: Georgetown University Press. Clooney, F.X. (2010). Comparative Theology. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Clooney, F.X. (2019). Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Dehaene, S. (2009). Reading in the Brain. New York: Penguin Books. Dreyfus, G.B.J. (2003). The Sound of Two Hands Clapping. Berkeley: University of California Press.



Comparative Theology After Clooney

509

Eisenstein, E.L. (1979). The Printing Press as an Agent of Change, 2 vols. New  York: Cambridge University Press. Ellul, J. ([1954] 1964). The Technological Society (trans. J. Wilkinson). New York: Vintage Books. Fisher, M. (2009). Capitalist Realism. Washington, DC: Zero Books. Griffiths, P. (1998). Scholasticism: The possible recovery of an intellectual practice. In: Scholasticism: Cross-­Cultural and Comparative Perspectives (ed. J.I. Cabezón), pp. 201–235. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Griffiths, P. (1999). Religious Reading. New York: Oxford University Press. Heim, S.M. (1995). Salvations: Truth and Difference in Religion. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books. Hern, A. (2018). “Never get high on your own supply” – why social media bosses don’t use social media. The Guardian, January 23. https://www.theguardian.com/media/2018/jan/23/never-­get-­high-­on-­ your-­own-­supply-­why-­social-­media-­bosses-­dont-­use-­social-­media (accessed November 21, 2022). Jackson, M. (2008). Distracted. New York: Prometheus Books. Lindbeck, G.A. (1984). The Nature of Doctrine. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press. Martin, J.L. (ed.) (2020). Theology Without Walls. New York: Routledge. McCauley, R.N. (2011). Why Religion Is Natural and Science Is Not. New York: Oxford University Press. Rosemann, P.W. (1999). Understanding Scholastic Thought with Foucault. New York: St Martin’s Press. Surin, K. (1990). Towards a “materialist” critique of religious pluralism: An examination of the ­discourse of John Hick and Wilfred Cantwell Smith. In: Religious Pluralism and Belief (ed. I. Hammett), pp. 114–129. New York: Routledge. Tracy, D. (1987). Comparative theology. In: Encyclopedia of Religion (ed. M. Eliade), vol. 14, pp. 446–455. New York: Macmillan. Von Brück, M. (1986). The Unity of Reality (trans. J.V. Zeitz). New York: Paulist Press. Winner, L. (1977). Autonomous Technology. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Wolf, M. (2007). Proust and the Squid. New York: Harper-­Collins.

AUTHOR INDEX

Acosta, José de  162, 164–68, 170n3, 171n8, 176, 178, 183 Anawati, Georges  464–68 Anselm  54, 57, 81, 83–84, 86, 132 Apirāmi  236–37, 239–41, 243, 359n2 Arentzen, Thomas  226, 230–32, 233n1 Athanasius  330, 338, 343 Augustine of Hippo  54, 131, 142, 163, 333, 335, 343, 351, 483, 486, 489n2 Aurobindo  66, 71–72, 74 Baghramian, Maria  21, 24–25, 30 Barth, Karl  33, 38, 40n4, 416–17 Bernard of Clairvaux  86, 189, 192–93, 196, 202, 359n1, 471, 486 Bhānu Svāmı ̄, 274–78 Boethius  411–13, 417 Bonaventure  190, 328, 342n1, 343, 382, 486 Butler, Judith  110–11, 113 Christ  30, 33–39, 41–42, 100, 102, 118, 153, 206, 226–27, 231–32, 281–84, 286–89, 328–33, 337–41, 343, 350, 357–58, 415–17, 467–68, 473–75, 486–87. see also Jesus

Clooney, Francis X.  xviii–xxvii, 3–11, 13–19, 23, 26–27, 29, 32–33, 51–52, 61n7, 79–107, 112–13, 115–19, 121–37, 139, 141–60, 162, 165–69, 171n11, 185–98, 200–206, 225, 229–32, 233n3, 236–40, 243, 291, 300, 302, 304, 345–46, 371, 373, 376, 380–81, 383, 394, 400–401, 403–11, 414, 422, 431–32, 450, 453, 457, 461, 480–89, 491–97, 499, 500–507 and books  130 and comparative theological work  155 definition of comparative theology  11 Jesuit identity  151 and J.Z. Smith  14, 16–18 method of   xx, 44, 55, 74n12, 77, 79, 96, 100–2, 130, 198, 202, 223, 302, 491, 493–95, 497 scholarship of   3–5, 8, 10–11, 105, 173, 201–2, 243, 249, 373, 405, 407–8, 482, 484–85, 487–88, 491–93, 495–96 Cornille, Catherine  xviii, xxv, xxvii, 27–28, 29n1, 30, 56, 123, 171n10, 171n11, 386–87, 397–98, 422–23, 489

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.



Dasan  450, 452–58 Dayananda, Swami  109–11, 113n1 D’Costa, Gavin  31–32, 41–42, 128, 466, 468 Deśika, Śrı ̄ Vedānta  143, 157–59, 191, 380–83, 384n2, 385n22 Devı ̄  64–65, 74, 236–37, 239–41, 243 Doniger, Wendy  10–11, 219, 224 Dupuis, Jacques  117, 400 Fowler, James  77, 115–28 Fredericks, James  26, 30, 32–33, 41, 104, 106, 112–13, 467 Gandhi, Mahatma  411, 414, 443, 448 Ganeri, Martin  136–37, 380, 387 Gardet, Louis  464–68 Gebara, Ivone  97–98, 100, 103 Ghaffar, Zishan  227–28, 233 Griffiths, Bede  156–57, 191, 194, 196 Griffiths, Paul  40, 87n2, 502–5, 507–9 Habermas, Jürgen  403–4, 406, 408, 410 Halevi, Judah  361n13, 364n35, 366n56, 366n59 Heim, S. Mark  xviii, xxv, xxviii, 32, 36, 41, 483, 488, 489n4, 508n7, 509 Husserl, Edmund  199, 207, 244n2 Ibn ʿArabı  332, 336–39, 342n8, 342n9, 342n10, 343–44 Ibn Gabirol, Solomon  347–49, 351–53, 356–58, 360n9, 360n12, 361n13, 361n17, 362n17, 362n21, 364n35, 364n36, 364n38, 366n56, 366n59, 369 Islam, Kazi Nazrul  432–39, 440n4, 440n6, 440n8, 440n9, 440n10, 440n11, 440n12, 440n13, 440n14, 440n15, 440n17, 440n19, 441 Jesus  36, 151–52, 183–84, 188–91, 193–94, 226–27, 232–33, 281–83, 285–88, 299–300, 314–15, 328–30, 333–42, 357–58, 474–75. see also Christ Jı ̄va  376–83, 384n2, 384n6–n8, 385n10, 385n11 Johnson, Elizabeth A.  191, 196, 235, 238–40, 242–43, 245 Julian of Norwich  9–10, 12

AUTHOR INDEX

511

Knitter, Paul  32–34, 37, 40n3, 41–42, 121, 128 Lakshmi  64, 212, 219–20 Leclercq, Jean  83, 86, 88, 472–73, 476–78 Levinas, Emmanuel  414–15, 418 Locklin, Reid  xxiv, xxvii–xxviii, 104, 112, 114, 378, 387, 398n5, 399, 440, 440n3 López Baralt, Luce  350, 360n12, 362n18, 364n40, 365n47, 365n50, 365n51, 368 Lubac, Henri de  139–49, 150n3, 150n5, 165 Madhva  377, 385n11, 385n13, 387 Mandair, Arvind‐Pal S.  375–76, 387, 425, 429, 492, 500 Marti, Ramon  419, 460, 462–64, 466–67 Martin, Jerry  23, 30n5, 31, 85, 88, 500, 508n7, 509 Mary, Mother of Jesus  30, 98, 102, 105, 113, 165, 169, 171, 185, 190–91, 196, 225–28, 233, 235–36, 238–40, 242, 244n2, 335–38, 440, 474, 478–79 Masuzawa, Tomoko  424, 428n2, 429 Mencius  162–63, 170n1, 171 Montecroce, Riccoldo da  471, 473–76, 477n10, 478–79 Moses  183, 291–94, 299, 301 Moyaert, Marianne  xxviii, 74n13, 75, 200–201,  205, 207, 280, 283, 289, 397, 399, 421, 424, 428n4, 429–30 Nazianzus, Gregory  333–34, 343 Neville, Robert C.  51–60, 61n3, 61n4, 61n6, 61n7, 62n11, 62n14, 62n15, 129, 482, 489, 499–500 Nicholas of Cusa  122, 471, 475–76, 478–79 Nicholson, Hugh  xix, xxiv, xxviii, 113–14, 395, 398n5, 399, 405–6, 410, 425, 430 Nobili, Roberto de  139, 141–49, 150n2, 152–55, 157, 162, 164–65, 167, 171, 173–74, 182–83, 404, 407 Nyssa, Gregory of   175–77, 180–82, 183n4, 330, 333–34, 339, 343

512

AUTHOR INDEX



Panikkar, Raimon  39, 117, 122, 128–29, 137, 482, 490, 497, 500 Patañjali  89, 91–94 Pope John Paul II  30n3, 188, 194, 195n1, 195n2 Radhakrishnan  213–14, 220–21, 223, 223n1, 224 Rahner, Karl  33, 58, 62n12, 165, 326, 340 Ramakrishna  261–65, 267 Ramana Maharshi  105, 107–11, 113–14, 113n1 Rāmānuja  118, 213, 221, 229, 270, 278n3, 317, 325, 373, 377, 385n11, 385n13 Rambachan, Anantanand  6–7, 12, 314, 325 Ratzinger, Joseph Cardinal  22, 30n3, 31 Ricci, Matteo  162–69, 172, 176, 450–56,  458, 461 Ricoeur, Paul  xxiv, xxviii, 200, 208, 429 Sales, Francis de  19n3, 20, 106, 113, 143, 158, 160, 191, 196, 376, 382–84, 384n2, 386 Śan˙ karā  xvi, 278, 359, 385, 501 Schmidt‐Leukel, Perry  23–24, 31–35, 42, 116, 128, 482, 490

Smith, Jonathan Z.  1, 13–18, 20, 199, 427, 430, 499 Stosch, Klaus von  xxv, xxvii, 225–30, 232–34, 289, 398n7, 477n12, 479 Takacs, Axel M. Oaks  xix–xx, xxviii, 327, 332, 344, 425, 427, 430 Tejomayananda, Swami  107–12, 113n1, 114 Thatamanil, John  xxviii, 25, 31, 116, 128, 130, 137, 425, 428n2, 428n3, 430 Thaumaturgus, Gregory (i.e., Gregory the Wonderworker) 175–83 Tiemeier, Tracy Sayuki  xix–xx, xxviii, 249, 397, 399, 425, 428, 430, 467 Tracy, David  122, 194–95, 197, 391, 399, 507, 509 Vishnu  236–37, 239, 265, 376–77, 380, 383, 387 Vivekananda, Swami  90, 261–65, 267 von Balthasar, Hans Urs  144, 150, 202, 208, 247, 326–32, 334, 337–44, 346, 359n6, 360n12, 367 Yaśoda  212, 215–16, 222

SUBJECT INDEX

AAR. See American Academy of Religion accommodation  27, 149, 168, 175–76, 178–82, 292 accountability  28, 99, 170, 396, 449–50, 452, 457 advaita  66, 106–7, 110–11, 189, 316, 378, 438 Advaita Vedānta  75, 105–7, 110, 112, 384n8, 501, 504 Africa  43, 45, 465 Akathistos  190, 225–28, 230–31, 233, 239, 359n2 ambiguity  121, 125, 165, 206, 223, 256, 305, 466 American Academy of Religion (AAR), xviii, xxii, xxviii  23, 30n4, 114, 388, 399, 421, 430, 498 angels  228–29, 262, 473 animals  47, 70, 231–32, 319, 436 Arabic  228–29, 307, 342n8, 360n9, 361n13, 365n51, 463–65, 471–77, 477n6, 477n8, 478 astonishment  132, 210, 215, 218–19, 241, 333 asuras  211–12, 272 attentive reader  84, 131, 350–51, 354 avatars  376–77, 384n6, 500

baptism  33, 37, 102, 257, 287–89, 450, 452, 493 Bardo Thodol. See Tibetan Book of the Dead beauty  227–28, 232–33, 236–37, 304, 308, 318, 321–23, 327–33, 337–38, 340–41, 344, 346, 438 beliefs  22, 28–29, 101–2, 110–11, 119, 167–68, 254, 256, 285, 316–17, 320–21, 380, 383, 384n1, 404–5, 424, 426, 507 believers  xxv, 22, 29, 97, 99, 101, 143, 168, 170, 200, 205, 228–29, 404, 406–7 Beloved  348–51, 353–55, 357–58, 362n25, 363n31, 364n42 Benedictines  157, 471, 474–75, 477n4 Bengal  384n6, 384n8, 386–87, 408, 432, 434–35, 437 Bhagavad Gītā  79, 88, 191, 196, 222, 272, 278–79, 386–87 Bhāgavata Purāṇa  211–12, 215–18, 223, 223n2, 270, 272, 374, 376–78, 380–81, 384n5, 385n10, 385n23, 385n24, 387 bhakti  53, 71–72, 265, 271, 273, 275–77, 377–78, 381–83, 387, 432 biases  53–58, 60, 154, 163, 193, 375 Bible  44–45, 49, 171n12, 188–90, 195, 314, 321, 350, 357, 471–72, 474–76

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Comparative Theology: A Festschrift in Honor of Francis X. Clooney, SJ, First Edition. Edited by Axel M. Oaks Takacs and Joseph L. Kimmel. © 2024 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2024 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

514

SUBJECT INDEX



binaries  98, 210, 213, 219, 221, 256, 422 biopolitics  250–51, 256 body  67–70, 73n5, 98, 180, 213, 215–16, 242–43, 253–54, 256–57, 266, 269–72, 276–77, 357–58, 381, 384n1, 413, 455–56 Book of Common Prayer  282–83, 285, 289 books  xxi–xxii, xxiv–xxv, 27, 91–92, 96–97, 129–35, 141, 143–45, 156, 158, 177–78, 205–9, 272, 303–6, 377–79, 389–90, 394, 405, 471–75, 501–5 Boston College (BC)  xviii, xx, 51, 55–56, 60, 61n7, 95, 400, 491–92, 501, 507 Boston Theological Institute (BTI)  401, 491 Boston University (BU)  51, 55, 491, 500 Brahman  37, 113, 263, 265, 268, 317 Buddha  146, 291, 294–97, 315, 319, 416, 418 Buddhism  34–37, 39, 42, 144–50, 254, 295–97, 299, 301, 310n2, 311, 319, 458, 462, 488, 498, 506 Buddhist  xxvi, xxviin134–37, 39, 40n1, 40n6, 41, 291, 295–96, 300, 476, 483–84 Caitanya  377–81, 384n7, 384n8, 385n13, 385n17, 387, 437 calligraphy  247, 302, 304–8, 310, 311, 311n8, 311n9 camatkāra  213, 218–19, 221–22 caste  6–7, 9–10, 43, 221, 250–51, 258, 271, 292 Catholic  xviii, xx, xxiv–xxvi, 99, 113, 147, 150, 152–53, 155–56, 158–59, 173, 187–89, 194–95, 196–97, 196n3, 235–36, 240, 400–402, 450–53, 455–58, 460–61, 496, 501–2 Catholicism  157, 236, 245, 450–53, 455, 457–58, 494, 496–98 Catholic Theological Society of America (CTSA)  xxi, xxvii, 80, 105, 159, 196, 462, 470 Catholic theology  xviii, xxiv, 17, 147, 188, 190, 194, 401, 450–51, 453–54, 456–57, 460, 466, 470 CCRIP. See Cross‐cultural Comparative Religious Ideas Project Center for the Study of World Religions (CSWR)  xviii, 19, 31, 52, 209, 214, 223n1, 360n8, 389

China  146, 162–65, 169–72, 176, 183, 450, 458 Christian comparands  357, 359n2, 359n3 Christian contexts  280, 319, 401 Christian faith  34–35, 38, 41, 45, 144–47, 463, 466, 475, 481, 486, 489, 495 Christian history  174, 198, 243, 483, 490 Christianity  33, 37–39, 42, 45, 49, 54, 97–98, 116–17, 153–54, 180, 230, 242, 282, 287–88, 299, 329, 340–41, 376, 412–13, 423–26, 428, 458, 466, 490–91 and Hinduism  6, 27, 117, 223 Christian life  119, 163, 243, 342n12, 348 Christian love mysticism  348, 360n12 Christian mission  33, 172–73, 178–79 Christian practice  191–92, 307, 309, 358, 400, 486 Christian privilege  395, 397–98 Christian readers  27, 132, 156, 350, 396, 465, 487 Christians  xxv–xxvi, 32–34, 37–41, 53–55, 117–19, 151–60, 188–93, 195–98, 225, 227, 229, 280–83, 286–90, 337–41, 347–49, 394–95, 397, 422–26, 462–66, 470–79, 485–88 Christian texts  9, 27, 88, 168, 192, 195, 345, 378, 413, 481, 483, 487, 492 Christian theologians  32–34, 54, 189, 236, 424, 428, 476, 486 Christian theology  xxiii, 9–10, 32–33, 35, 37–38, 40–41, 118, 144–48, 155, 195, 197, 234, 257, 284, 288–89, 313, 402, 413, 470, 481, 483, 486, 488, 501 Christian traditions  xviii, xx, 38–39, 40n2, 97–98, 156, 187, 189–90, 193, 195, 197, 239–40, 242, 245, 299, 483, 485–86 Christology  38, 228–29, 231, 328–30, 332–33, 339–40, 400, 475, 484 church  6, 32–33, 45, 126, 142, 155, 176, 226–27, 229, 281–82, 284, 287–89, 401–2, 450–51, 473–74, 495–96 Church Fathers  142, 148, 227–28, 231 Cilappatikāram  249–50, 252–56, 257n1, 258 classical texts  377, 461 classics  83, 134, 158–59, 162–63, 165, 187, 193–95, 453, 455, 468, 498, 501, 504, 506



close reading of texts  44, 85, 200, 291, 306, 345, 349, 364n38 commentarial traditions  105, 132, 202, 327, 335–36, 373, 478n13 commentaries  7, 108–9, 112–14, 156–57, 272–73, 284, 336–37, 350–51, 354–55, 362n19, 362n25, 377, 385n21, 386, 502–3 communities  xxi–xxii, 28–29, 45, 57, 60, 89–90, 99–100, 102, 126, 131–32, 135–36, 178–80, 228–29, 254, 323–24, 340–41, 390–92, 395–96, 403–6, 449–50, 487, 497 comparands  15–17, 19n4, 202, 347, 362n21 comparative insights  8–9, 17–18, 330, 339, 411 comparative reasoning  287, 374, 405 comparative religion  xviii, xxvi, 12, 14, 17, 199–200, 207, 375, 383, 423, 429, 491, 494 comparative theologians  xix–xxi, xxiii–xxvi, 4–5, 11, 26–29, 59–60, 99, 115–17, 129–31, 133–34, 160n2, 161–63, 165–70, 194, 200–202, 303, 390–91, 396–98, 411, 414–16, 421–25, 425, 427, 449, 477, 483, 487 comparative theology (CT)  viii–1, 3–11, 14–17, 20–23, 25–29, 30–39, 45, 47, 49, 51–61, 61n7, 61n9, 77, 79–82, 84–86, 88, 95–106, 112–19, 121–37, 143, 146, 151, 154, 185–201, 236, 247, 250, 280–89, 302, 304, 325–327, 332, 367n63, 371, 374–75, 386, 389–90, 398–411, 419–32, 445–62, 464–68, 470, 473–74, 476, 477n10, 480–89, 491–509 comparativist  3, 15, 17, 53–54, 56, 77, 104, 112, 115–27, 134, 201–2 comparison  10–12, 15–18, 27, 53, 107, 145–46, 156, 164–65, 189–90, 198–202, 225, 265–66, 338–39, 373–76, 389–90, 395–99, 405–6, 425, 465, 495–96, 501 confessional  xviii, xx, xxiii, xxv–xxvi, 23, 26, 55, 57, 155, 167, 170, 171n10, 401–2, 404 Confucianism  xxvi, 37, 53, 55, 164, 419, 450–58, 491, 499n1. see also Ruism

SUBJECT INDEX

515

consciousness  65–66, 70, 73n3, 75, 202–3, 270, 276, 313–14, 322, 358, 360n11 contemplation  72, 82, 86, 130, 274, 304, 306, 308–10, 324, 353, 358, 474, 485–88 contemplatives  137, 485–86 conversion  162, 165, 173–75, 177–82, 282, 284, 355, 457, 462, 464, 468, 471, 476 corporeal senses  330–31, 341 cosmos  36, 64, 66, 70, 72, 215, 230, 232, 314–15, 318–24, 453–54 COVID‐19 247–59 creation  10–11, 34–36, 38–39, 41–42, 98, 230–31, 269, 314–15, 321, 328, 330–31, 334, 339, 426, 444 new  231, 244, 340 creative fidelity  247, 291–301 creator  34, 232, 242, 270, 275, 277, 308–9, 334, 339, 433, 475 creeds  437, 463, 493–96, 498, 500 critical religion (CR)  xxii–xxiii, xxviii, 388, 425, 427 critiques  xix–xx, xxii–xxiii, 59, 61n8, 98, 101, 119, 121, 191, 193, 195, 225–26, 454, 492, 494–95 Cross‐cultural Comparative Religious Ideas Project (CCRIP)  51, 61n1, 200 culture and religion  119, 121, 147–48, 152, 193, 292 deep learning  xviii, xxi, xxvii, 89–93, 302–3, 408, 422, 442–43, 461–62, 464, 467, 470–71, 477, 482 deity  68–71, 73n10, 157, 165, 210–14, 216, 218–19, 221, 292, 416, 453 demons  12, 175–77, 179–82, 211–12, 444, 446–47 destruction  255–56, 262, 292, 432, 435, 439 Deuteronomy  49n2, 291–94, 298–301 devotees  64, 66–67, 71, 73n6, 107–8, 213–14, 221–22, 237, 239–40, 242, 376–77, 379–80, 382 devotion  69, 71, 203, 236, 239, 252, 263–65, 271–73, 275–76, 278n32, 281, 283, 378–79, 432, 435, 438, 492 dharma  7, 145, 156, 191, 220, 222, 271, 273–74, 278n22, 279, 296–97

516

SUBJECT INDEX



dialogical  155, 168, 267, 305, 401–2, 404, 451 dialogue  xxv, 4–5, 7–8, 32–34, 85, 98–102, 112–13, 167, 201–2, 441–42, 461–62, 464, 468, 478–79, 484, 487 differences  10–11, 15, 17, 110, 116–17, 237, 314–15, 317–18, 320–21, 373–76, 396–97, 405–6, 456, 464, 466–67 religious  105, 112, 117–18, 121, 126, 162, 390, 425, 427 discernment  26, 28–29, 106, 118, 166, 168–69, 284, 307 discipline  xviii–xxvi, 3, 5, 49, 51–52, 58, 60, 84, 91, 136–37, 199, 374–75, 389–90, 409, 414, 416, 491, 506–7 discursive traditions  327, 383, 492 divine  68–69, 96–98, 101–2, 108–9, 190, 206, 229–33, 237–40, 243–45, 269–70, 329–30, 334, 336, 357–58, 415, 449, 455–56, 485–86 divine absence  27, 30, 102, 192, 202, 205–7, 326, 363n31, 410, 485 divine guru  142, 145, 149 divine knowledge  227, 263–65 divine love  126, 189, 313–14, 319, 357, 376, 382 divine motherhood  238 divine mystery  38, 242 divine origin  152, 272, 357 divine truth  24, 421 divine voice  85, 456 divinity  97, 240–42, 265, 268–70, 277n2, 330, 334–35, 337, 339, 384n1, 390 divinization  191, 242 Dominicans  460, 462–64, 466–68, 475 earth  10, 35, 37, 98, 100, 212, 215, 217, 226–27, 230–31, 265–66, 313–25, 341, 342n11, 356–57 ecofeminist  96–98, 100–101 ecological theologies  96–97, 101 emanations  247, 268–79, 322 enchantment  212, 215, 408–9 encounter  6, 10, 38–39, 80, 86, 91–92, 117–19, 122–23, 145–46, 158–59, 165–66, 189–90, 198, 200–201, 221–22, 230, 253, 260, 284, 331, 391–92, 401, 404–7, 415–17, 461

energy  8, 64–65, 67, 69–70, 201, 211, 240, 275, 322, 398n2 enrichment  27–28, 400 entities  15–16, 34, 65–66, 70, 228, 266, 328 Episcopal Church  283, 285, 287 epoche  199–200, 202 erotics  204, 236, 241–42, 244, 244n1, 244n2, 253 essays  xix, xxi, 80, 82, 136, 142–43, 145, 150, 152, 376–77, 379–82, 384n7, 439n1, 440n21 Essay on Truth  379–80, 384n7 ethics  xviii, 7, 74, 114, 142, 167, 200, 272, 321, 325, 408, 456–57, 481 Europe  xx, xxiv, xxviin2, xxviii, 142, 144, 149–50, 153, 183n3, 421, 426 evil  97, 100, 190, 213, 274–75, 324, 386, 454–55 evolution  19n2, 313–14, 468, 507 existence  10, 21–22, 24, 26–27, 64–65, 214, 268, 271, 315–16, 320, 322–23, 452, 454–55, 485, 487–88 experience  6–7, 45–46, 86, 91–92, 97, 100–102, 104–11, 116–17, 158–59, 200–2, 239–40, 289, 294, 318–19, 321–22, 339–40, 348, 352, 407–8, 460, 475, 477n10, 486–88 faith  10, 26, 28–30, 37–39, 43–46, 54, 56–57, 62n13, 80–82, 97, 99–101, 115–28, 146–47, 151, 153, 169–70, 198–99, 309, 324, 346, 357–59, 402–4, 410–15, 422–23, 461–62, 464–68, 484–87, 493–500 seeking understanding  1, 17, 21, 26, 34, 51–61, 62n12, 80–83, 117, 132, 198, 309, 461, 480, 488, 494 feminists  xxii, 96–97, 100–101, 103, 236, 238, 240, 242–43, 250 flourishing  229–30, 237–38, 242–43, 252, 254, 286, 492 form  7, 9, 23, 28, 47, 54, 56–57, 64–71, 91–93, 199–202, 211–12, 214, 221–23, 270–71, 294–96, 298, 305–7, 327–32, 336–38, 342n8, 378, 403–5, 409, 423, 445, 455–56, 460–62, 473–76, 485–88, 494, 502–3



formation  120, 293, 300, 319, 323, 348, 401–2, 408, 460–61, 464, 478, 481, 495 formlessness  10, 70, 213–14, 221, 231 framework  9, 16, 21, 36, 39, 69, 72, 96–97, 111, 401, 403–6, 423–24, 451, 456 freedom  38, 123, 191, 199, 220, 317–18, 323, 408, 412–14, 416–17, 423 friars  348, 462–64, 468 gender  xxv, 8, 96–97, 99, 110, 204, 245, 249–51, 254–58, 383, 389 genealogy  30, 130, 141, 143, 147–49, 149n1, 162, 387, 413, 427, 430 genesis  4, 10–11, 190, 230–31, 288, 321, 478 gestalt (of God)  328–34, 337–42 gifts  19n2, 20, 35, 148, 153, 195, 196n3, 241, 317, 321, 390–92 glory  170, 190, 202, 208, 219–20, 327–30, 332–33, 337–40, 342–43, 350, 475 goals  xviii–xix, xxiii, 17, 25–26, 131–32, 157–58, 201, 220–21, 265, 376–77, 379, 383, 463–64, 467, 470–72, 475–76 of interreligious study  201 of religious life in Hinduism  265 of transreligious theology  29 God  9–10, 35–40, 86–88, 117–20, 156–60, 164–70, 188–94, 201–6, 211–14, 226–32, 236–41, 269–73, 279–88, 313–24, 327–42, 346–48, 350–58, 407, 411–17, 472–75 goddesses  74–75, 96–98, 212, 219, 226, 229, 236–43, 250–54, 257, 261, 263–65, 436, 439n2 Good Friday  247, 280–90, 414 gospel  33, 37–39, 143, 145, 152–54, 165–66, 170, 171n12, 189–90, 195, 281, 283–86, 327, 329, 332–33, 335–39, 462, 474–76 grace  33, 40n7, 67, 144, 146–48, 167, 281, 283, 286, 288, 329–31, 334, 336, 340–41 gurnas 46–49 guru  xxviin1, 67–68, 73n6, 74n11, 254, 302 Guru Granth Sahib  303–6, 309

SUBJECT INDEX

517

halacha  273–74, 278n22, 279 heart  82, 158–59, 165–66, 201–2, 263–64, 268–69, 271, 275–76, 281–83, 286–87, 356–58, 365n51, 375, 431–32, 439, 446, 473 Heart Sutra  41, 295 heaven  10, 163–64, 226–27, 252–53, 260–62, 264–66, 277n2, 278, 333, 335, 341–43, 342n11, 351–52, 356–57, 450 Hebrew  277n1, 278–79, 314, 321, 347, 364n41, 365n47, 463–64, 477n6 hermeneutics, theological  103, 195 hierarchy  164, 167, 220, 228, 278, 376–79, 385n24, 386n24 Hinduism  xxii–xxiii, xxvi–xxviii, 5–6, 8–9, 39, 63–64, 70, 74–75, 95–98, 102, 105, 107, 136–37, 145, 147–49, 151–58, 187–89, 191, 210–11, 213–14, 219–24, 230–31, 250, 252–54, 260–61, 264–68, 302, 345, 373–76, 378, 387, 401, 407–8, 431–34, 437–39, 442–43, 483–85, 488–89, 496 and Christianity  129, 187, 189, 230, 266, 373, 404, 485 goddesses  97–98, 102, 105, 165, 190–91, 196, 225, 233, 235–36, 239, 244, 345, 408, 410, 439n2, 440 hymns  98, 225–27, 439n2 method for comparative theology  63 and Muslim traditions  432, 434, 437–39 Hindu readers  132, 206, 346 Hindu Studies  xviii, 373, 375, 386 Hindu texts  8–9, 85, 142, 155, 195, 210, 222, 225, 487, 492, 494–96 Hindu theologians  143, 229, 242, 314, 317 Hindu theologies and poems  223 Hindu theology of liberation  6, 12, 325 Hindu tradition in text and temple  123 history  xix, 4–5, 24, 74, 148–49, 188–90, 235, 295–96, 298–99, 373, 375–77, 379, 387, 415, 423–25, 427–28, 442, 469–79, 481, 483, 498 of religion  144, 373, 383 holiness  272–73, 277, 285, 319–21, 404 Holocaust  195, 197, 282 Holy Fool  262, 264–66 Holy Spirit  37, 120, 257, 277, 335

518

SUBJECT INDEX



home  23, 25, 56–58, 116, 118, 121–22, 251–52, 282–83, 371, 408, 411, 416–17, 434, 436–37, 445–46, 468, 473, 491–95, 499 tradition  55–58, 61n8, 99, 123, 165, 170, 198, 201, 449, 461–62, 493–95, 499, 501 human beings  xxii, xxviii, 20n5, 36, 64–65, 117, 124, 148, 166, 190–91, 202, 221, 228–29, 231–32, 237, 240–42, 245, 266, 268, 317, 321, 334–35, 340, 342n8, 393, 444, 447n2, 450, 452, 454–56, 487, 502 condition of   34, 113, 143, 145, 200, 415, 445, 447n2, 455 nature of   168, 220, 228, 274–75, 288, 332, 338, 455, 458 husband  102, 212, 249, 251–56, 257n1, 277, 446 hymns  10–11, 72, 75, 145, 185, 190, 225–33, 233n3, 236–37, 239, 242 iconicity  306, 311–12 identity  96–97, 99–101, 107, 110–11, 113, 123, 125, 281, 283, 285, 287–88, 299, 317–18, 405–6, 425–26 idolatry  154, 166–67, 175, 177, 179–80, 227, 229 imagery  242–43, 346, 432–33 traditional Hindu  433 images  13–16, 18, 35–37, 74n10, 74n13, 165, 235–36, 241, 243–44, 244n1, 306, 324–25, 331–32, 350–51, 408 imagetexts  304, 307 imagination  xxi, xxvi, 13–14, 16–19, 19n2, 19n4, 20, 20n5, 96, 100, 117, 124, 327, 329 imitation  173–75, 179, 182, 462 immortality, nectar of   211–12, 219 incarnation  170n5, 174, 218, 227, 231, 245, 332, 334, 337–38, 341–42, 342n7 inclusivity  18–19, 97 independence  226, 232, 381, 435 India  113–14, 142–55, 160–61, 199, 209–10, 213, 215–16, 223n1, 224, 250–51, 257–59, 261, 343, 345, 367, 374, 406–8, 437–39, 458, 460

Indian philosophy  214, 223n1, 258, 379 Indian texts  374–75 Indian traditions  249, 255, 376–77 Indonesia  144, 400–402, 406, 410 inner sense  xxvi, 1, 13–18, 19n4, 20n5 institutions  xviii, xx–xxii, 25, 46, 95, 210, 340–41, 392, 396–98, 401, 403 intellect  67–68, 86, 91, 163–64, 264, 329, 390, 454–56 interdependence  65–66, 71, 315–16, 319–20 interpretation  110–12, 189, 191, 223n3, 224, 227, 229–32, 249, 272, 299, 301, 303, 305, 476, 478 of scripture  185–97 of texts  381–82 interreligious  xviii–xix, xxi, xxiv, xxvi, xxviii, 30n3, 60, 85, 88, 91, 100, 125, 155, 158, 402–4, 480, 507–8 interreligious dialogue  xxvii, 32–33, 39, 40n1, 56, 88, 98, 106, 143, 146, 150n3, 289, 438, 442, 461, 466–68, 475, 477n4, 489, 500 interreligious encounters  xxiv, 30n3, 41, 159, 167, 170, 403, 460–62, 467 interreligious engagement  xxii, 33–34, 165, 462, 480 interreligious friction  390, 422 interreligious hermeneutics  30, 430 interreligious learning  8, 100, 117, 122, 126, 130–31, 135, 155, 291, 302, 390–92, 395–98, 410, 449 interreligious reading  88, 449 interreligious reason  403 interreligious reflection  156, 190, 192, 345 interreligious relations  104, 194, 289 interreligious scholars  422 interreligious studies  xviii, xxviii, 30–31, 56–57, 105–6, 201, 429–30, 482, 500, 507 of sacred calligraphy  302 interreligious theology  xxi, 23, 30n6, 31, 41–42, 119, 121, 124, 128, 401, 490 interreligious understanding  154, 311n4 interreligious wisdom  31, 136 intuition  xxvi, 13–18, 19n2, 19n4, 20, 27, 85, 322 and imagination  14, 17–18



Islam  303, 369, 390–91, 401, 435–36, 439, 441, 444, 460, 463–68, 470–73, 477n10, 478–79 and calligraphy  303, 307, 309, 312 poetic traditions of   326 practice of   304, 307 texts of   xxvi, 335, 339–40, 472–73, 477n7 theological aesthetics of   329 theology of   233, 463, 465 traditions of   327–30, 335, 337, 342, 347, 356, 392, 401, 432, 434, 443, 465 Israel  203, 281, 284, 286–88, 290, 292, 294, 336, 348, 352, 358 Jerusalem  195, 203, 224, 279, 291–92, 367–69, 464 Jerusalem Temple  227, 292, 357 Jesuit(s)  xxvi, 107, 113, 139–58, 160–63, 166–71, 173–79, 181–82, 386, 398n2, 400, 407, 413, 453, 460–61, 508n6 and accommodation  176, 180–81 missionaries  142, 151–52, 154–56, 159, 467 texts  158, 182n1, 451, 455 Jews  4, 9, 188–90, 192, 194–95, 196–97, 281–90, 360n7, 425–26, 462–64, 468, 477n6, 478 joy  79, 159–60, 178, 204, 210, 213, 215, 219, 313–25, 412, 416 Judaism  4, 188–89, 193–96, 264, 266–67, 272–73, 281–84, 286–87, 289–90, 292–93, 301, 303, 348, 358, 460, 466, 468–69 and Hinduism  266 Kabbalah  247, 268–79, 368 Kabbalists  269–70, 272, 358, 361n13 karma  67, 215, 253, 266, 274–76, 373, 382, 386 Karma Yoga  71–72, 272, 276 kingdom  7, 219, 226, 269, 315–16, 333, 349, 412 kings  264, 271, 284–85, 292, 296–97, 320, 324, 356–57, 385n24, 386n24, 388, 414, 447n3 knowledge  18–19, 19n2, 24–25, 43, 65–67, 83, 154, 212, 263, 265, 273–77, 376–77, 424, 460–63, 466, 471, 502–3

SUBJECT INDEX

519

Krishna  9, 118, 191, 203, 205–6, 212, 215–16, 218, 222, 376–78, 384n7, 387 ladder  47, 272–73, 275, 277 Lady Philosophy  412, 417 language  3–4, 59, 62n13, 89–91, 93, 105–6, 108, 163–64, 285–86, 334, 346, 373–76, 379–80, 460–63, 467 original  4, 144, 188, 302, 374, 464, 476 Latin  81, 142, 188, 343, 345, 363n27, 368, 460, 462, 471–72, 477n3, 477n9, 478, 493, 495 law  191–94, 284, 290, 323–24, 392–93, 425, 427, 464, 468, 473, 475 learning  7–8, 10–11, 17–18, 28, 80, 83–84, 92–93, 96–97, 105, 130–31, 134–35, 137, 142, 152–54, 198, 390, 392–93, 395–96, 398–99, 461, 467 in comparative theology  287 interfaith  397, 428 lectio divina  83–85, 88, 165, 306, 419, 470–77, 477n4, 479 lecture  3, 51–52, 54–55, 57–58, 61n2, 108, 141, 144, 146–47, 149, 150n3 liberation  6, 12, 67, 69, 71, 101, 107–12, 212, 219–21, 249, 252–58, 292, 294 liberation theologies  xviii, xxii–xxiii, 87n1, 96, 358, 401–2 light  xxvii, 10, 15–16, 37, 69, 71, 96–98, 126, 143–44, 146–47, 155, 166, 174–75, 190–91, 194, 272, 317–19, 322, 332, 444 lineage  145, 298, 374, 376–80, 382–83, 446, 453, 498 literacy, religious  395 literal sense [of scripture]  332 literary traditions  43, 346, 447n3 liturgical and ritual turn in comparative theology  284, 287 liturgy  178, 231, 280–89, 307, 331, 338, 348, 358 longing  106, 204–5, 275, 350, 412, 446 Lord  44, 202–3, 207n2, 208, 213–14, 218, 275–76, 284–86, 314–15, 334–36, 343, 377, 382, 415, 439 Lord of Heaven  163–64, 450

520

SUBJECT INDEX



love  9, 71–72, 119–20, 126, 163, 169, 203–7, 224, 239–40, 273, 277, 284–86, 313–15, 323–24, 328–29, 331–33, 350–51, 354–55, 357–59, 407, 414–16, 435–36, 445–47, 447n6 love lyric  329, 342n3, 344 love of God  19n3, 86, 118, 120, 158, 160, 191, 203, 272–73, 275–76, 363n33 love poetry  350, 366n58 Lover  220, 237, 277, 332, 348, 349–51, 353–55, 357, 365n47, 382, 445–46 mantras  66–70, 73n8, 75, 156–57, 159, 381, 438 Marian hymns  97–98, 105, 165 Marian tradition  238, 242 marriage  4, 71, 436, 440n14 material body  242, 270, 455–56 material nature  274–75, 277 material substrates  68–70 material universe  71, 316, 319 material world  164, 272 meaning [of scripture], spiritual  332 mentorship [of Clooney]  95–98, 101 metaphysics  37, 107, 116, 126, 319, 379, 454, 456, 497 methodological principles  3–4, 10–11 methodology  14–15, 63, 69, 77, 95–98, 100–101, 293, 376, 388, 402, 495 methods  xxii–xxiv, xxvi, 1–11, 18–19, 63, 80–83, 88, 97–99, 130, 200, 346, 461–62, 464–65, 470–71, 476–77, 491–92, 502 theological  26, 39, 116–18, 125, 244, 470 mind  xxiii, 18, 58–60, 67–68, 70–71, 85, 89–93, 107–10, 134–36, 166, 202, 210–11, 214–15, 270–77, 297–98, 309, 324–25, 351–53, 356–58, 412–14, 506 miracles  168, 176–79 misrepresentation of religious other  286, 422–23 mission  57, 161, 167, 170, 173, 177–79, 187, 391, 398, 398n2, 400 missionaries  139, 147, 151–52, 155, 158, 171n6, 173–76, 178, 181, 424, 483

Mimamsa ritual thinking in Hindu and Vedic traditions 287 mother  65, 68, 98, 215, 222, 226, 234–45, 251–52, 261, 263–65, 323, 473, 479 motherhood  185, 235–43, 244n1, 245 movement  64–66, 71–72, 73n5, 90–92, 108–9, 111, 114, 116, 166, 168, 242, 271, 498, 507 Mujerista Theology  6, 12 multifaith contexts  37 multiple religious participation (MRP)  136 multiple texts and traditions  93 multireligious  xx, 34, 347, 389–91, 395–396, 398 Muslim commentarial tradition  228 Muslim genres  438 Muslim imagery  435, 438 Muslims  193–94, 329, 367n63, 391–93, 397, 398n7, 400, 413, 431–35, 437–39, 442–43, 461–68, 471–77, 477n6, 477n10 Muslim scholars  466, 473 Muslim students  391, 395, 476–77 mystical theology  348, 364n39, 368 mystical union  272, 348, 358 mysticism  146, 260, 269, 357–58, 363n27, 366n62, 367n64, 368 narratives, religious  200, 255 natural law  168, 322–24, 414 nature and/vs. grace  144, 146–48, 166–67, 329–31, 340–41, 460. see also Grace nature of creation  10–11 nature, original  454–55 necropolitics  250–51, 257–58 neighbor  46, 119, 170, 314, 324, 330–33, 338–41, 411, 414, 416 religious  391, 422, 487 neo‐Confucian  451, 454–56 Neoplatonism  299, 353, 357–58, 361n13 new comparative theology  xix, xxiv, xxvii, 30–31, 194, 196, 399–401, 405, 409, 423, 430 non‐Christian CT theologians  493 non‐Christians  xxi, xxiii, xxvi, 33, 82, 128, 282, 424–26, 494–95



nondualism  111–12, 260, 316–17, 320–21, 373, 378 non‐Western religious traditions  442 Nostra Aetate  32–33, 82, 165, 170n4, 188, 196, 196n3, 282, 288, 461, 466–68 objectivity  xxii, 6, 465 oppressors  6, 341, 414, 417 orality  43–46, 50 order  148, 215, 221–23, 229, 322–23, 375, 380, 444, 447, 462, 465, 474, 481 natural  148, 341 religious  256, 462 othering  198, 423, 426–28, 428n5, 430 otherness  397, 408, 424–26 religious  125, 426 overarching Christian theology of religions 155 Padmasambhava 295–98 pagans  177–78, 180, 194, 425–26 pandemic  250–51, 258 paradoxes  117, 122, 148, 209–10, 212–17, 219–23, 223n4, 255–57, 345–59, 361n12, 363n27, 364n35, 365n44, 367n63, 369 paths, religious  187–88 patient  4, 83, 135–36, 141–42, 149, 189, 193, 305, 446 patient reader or reading of texts  144, 149 patterns in theology of religions  32, 42 Pentecostal tradition  45, 50 performance  65, 77, 104–13, 165, 273–75, 293 personal encounter  7, 230, 264, 348, 407–8 perspective non‐Christian 492–94 theological  6, 28, 45, 188, 396, 408, 465 phenomena, religious  199–200 Philippines, the  173–78, 182–83 philosophers  23, 53, 61n7, 71, 127n1, 210, 213, 221–22, 320, 322, 408 philosophers and theologians  210, 221 philosophical  19n4, 24, 53, 84, 199, 237, 272, 450, 465, 492 philosophical theology  54, 137, 484–85, 487, 497, 500

SUBJECT INDEX

521

philosophical traditions  229, 349, 380 philosophy and religions  100, 498 philosophy as a way of life  497–98 philosophy, perennial  320–21 pia interpretatio  475 pilgrimage  130–31, 270, 311, 311n8, 400, 474 pleasure  218, 220, 237, 242, 255, 276–77 pluralism  22, 25, 32–33, 121, 197, 403, 405 theological  23–24, 30n5, 130 plurality  117, 293–94, 461 pneumatological theology of religions  42, 400 poems  202–3, 208–9, 213–14, 220–21, 237, 255, 316–17, 346–55, 358–59, 359n3, 360n7, 360n10, 364n35, 431–33, 439 liturgical  347–48, 361n13, 369 poetic traditions  326, 350 poetry  70, 72, 209, 219, 221–22, 327, 345–47, 359, 359n1, 359n5, 359n6, 364n35, 368–69, 432, 434, 437–39 in comparative theology  124, 247 poets  205, 209, 213–14, 221–22, 346, 351, 364n35, 365n46, 369, 433, 435, 439, 443–44 polarities  209, 213–14, 219 political theology  225–27, 231, 402, 430 politics  60, 75, 163, 245, 292, 402, 406, 408, 425, 496, 498 power  49, 64–67, 69–70, 92–93, 165, 177, 179–82, 218–20, 225–27, 231–32, 239, 249–52, 254–57, 295–97, 323, 341, 383, 397, 406, 412–14, 425–26, 451, 453–57 Practical Learning  452–53 practice of comparative theology, xxvi  58, 112, 195, 198, 405, 409, 449, 457 practices  5–6, 8, 14–16, 21–22, 26–28, 57, 59–61, 68–70, 72, 80–85, 87–93, 106–7, 124–25, 131, 136–37, 142, 154–55, 158–59, 182, 183n9, 188, 229, 252, 256–57, 280, 287, 297, 303, 321, 395–97, 403, 408, 480–83, 485, 487, 493, 502, 506

522

SUBJECT INDEX



prayer  68, 82–84, 88, 146–47, 156–57, 159, 182, 220–21, 229, 243, 263–65, 281–84, 286–87, 348, 351–53, 357–58, 412–14, 473–74, 477 contemplative  348–49, 353, 357 revised 283 ritual  228–29, 307 prayer and theology  82, 86 prayer books  283, 304 prison  323, 361n16, 362n19, 371, 411–14, 416–18, 436 process  16, 38–39, 99, 108–9, 129, 131–33, 135–37, 158–59, 273, 276–77, 291–93, 321–23, 393–94, 403, 405–6, 408–9, 424–25, 427–28, 443–44, 481–83 comparative  xxvi, 15, 17, 136 comparative theological  17, 99, 405, 456 Psalms  187–88, 275, 313, 315, 350, 352, 356, 362n26, 362n27, 364n36, 366n57 public life  126, 224, 401–2, 405–6, 408–9 public theology  xxvi, 371, 389–409, 409n2, 410 purity  56, 148–49, 169, 205, 213, 228, 273, 275, 296, 308, 454 Qur’an  225–26, 228–29, 232–34, 303–4, 306–7, 328, 335–36, 341–42, 342n11, 438, 443–44, 463, 470–77, 477n3, 478–79 critique 225–27 in Latin Christendom  471, 478 and texts of Vedanta  438 theology 232 vision 232 Rāmāyaṇa  7–9, 448 reading  3–5, 82–86, 88–94, 104–7, 124–25, 128–37, 141–42, 146–49, 150–52, 164–66, 187, 192–93, 279–81, 283–85, 304–6, 394, 470–77, 485–86, 495–97, 500–506 reading habits  132, 505, 508n3 reading methods  471, 475 reading practices  83, 85, 132, 471–72, 474–75, 477, 502–4, 506–7

reading process  130, 476 reading styles  473, 504 reading texts  8, 83, 117, 300, 487 realist language  242 reality  23–24, 66, 68, 121, 123–26, 199, 265, 270, 286, 316–19, 330–31, 337–38, 384n1, 404, 488 subtle 67–68 reality of religious plurality  23, 28–29 realization  22, 25, 35–36, 66, 69, 72, 74n11, 93, 98, 256, 263, 265 reason  47, 142–44, 152–55, 158–60, 167–68, 204, 241, 314–15, 323–24, 376–77, 379–81, 386–87, 402–4, 408–10, 413–14 comparative  402–3, 405 pure 496–97 worldly 328 reasoning  404, 412 reception  xxviin2, 28, 44, 105, 108, 298, 301, 346, 481–84, 486–89, 498 theological 482–83 reception for comparative theology  481–84, 487, 489 rectification  12, 28, 123, 287, 289, 422–23, 427 reduction of religious traditions  22 reform  299, 321, 414 refuge  156–57, 160, 191, 204, 230, 382, 384n7 reified religious identities/traditions  xxiv relationship  99, 101, 115–16, 122, 132, 202, 204, 236–37, 280, 319–21, 323–24, 336, 339, 341, 414–15 relationship to theology of religions  xix relativism  21–29, 30, 30n3, 30n7, 34, 122, 127n5, 159, 318, 480 religious  xxvi, 21–24, 26, 29, 30n3 religio  166, 171n7 religion and theology  26 religion in public life  401 religionization 419–29 religionized images  425, 428 religions  xviii–1, 21–35, 37–42, 112–22, 130–31, 147–48, 166, 320–21, 371–83, 386–88, 399–406, 409, 423–27, 429–30, 466–69, 480–85, 487–91, 494–500, 507–9



authentic  167, 427 critical  xxii–xxiii, xxviii, 8, 425 lived  xix, xxii–xxiii, 90 major world  496 particular  22–24, 26–29, 64, 496 world’s enduring  321 religious affiliation  125–26 religious borders, xxi, xxvi–xxvii, 53, 61, 88, 121, 201, 223, 245, 470, 477 religious boundaries  81, 86, 106, 118, 121, 132, 158, 396, 404–5, 436, 467 religious claims  22, 155 religious communities  xviii–xix, 21, 90, 96, 198–99, 288, 392, 396–97, 401, 403–5, 436, 461 religious deviation  425–26 religious diversity  xxv, xxviii, 23, 100, 102, 104, 122, 125, 128, 130, 198, 421–22, 424–25, 488, 490, 494 religious education  119, 409n2, 410, 430, 506 religious experience  37, 42, 104–7, 110, 112–13, 123, 151, 159, 190, 200, 283 religious freedom  427, 429 religious identities  58, 99, 126, 136, 285, 288–89, 360n9, 405, 407 religious institutions  23, 398n4, 496, 498 religious life  53, 264–66, 288, 292, 349, 358, 460, 467, 506–7 religious maturity  390, 395 religious membership  58, 167 religious pluralism  22–25, 30, 41–42, 104, 155–56, 160, 391, 401, 403–4, 408–9, 487–88 religious plurality  22–23, 28–29, 118–19, 121–22, 126 religious polemics  468–69 religious reading  346, 502, 507, 509 religious reasoning  143, 383 religious/scholastic reader  502–3 religious self‐identity  492 religious sensibilities  236, 467 religious structures of power  251 religious studies  xx, xxii, xxiv, 7, 15, 19, 29, 373, 375, 383, 390, 397–98, 481, 487 contemporary 429 religious studies scholar  18, 424 religious studies scholarship  xviii, xxvi, 13

SUBJECT INDEX

523

religious superiority  34, 42, 405 religious superiors  142, 145 religious texts  91, 124, 130, 134, 136, 144, 166, 177, 296, 373 classic 190 primary 461 religious traditions  xviii–xix, xxi–xxii, 8–9, 21–24, 26–29, 38–39, 82–83, 89–90, 96–99, 117–18, 146–47, 159, 201–2, 280, 282–83, 346–47, 393–94, 401–9, 421–22, 460–62, 488 religious traditions of India  85, 431 religious truths  22, 25–26, 29, 56, 118, 125, 134, 145, 200, 492–96 religious values  111, 155, 197, 391 religious worldviews  22, 153 renunciation  102, 214, 253–57, 276 of gender  254, 256–57 repentance  286, 355, 365n51, 422 restoration  153, 287, 422, 427 return of comparative theology  114, 399 reunification of theology and ­comparison  399, 430 revelation  9, 23, 38–39, 70, 167, 171, 296, 328, 330, 332, 340–41, 484–85, 490 Rig Veda  10–11, 278n21 ritual‐liturgical turn in comparative theology  74n13, 75, 247, 281, 289 ritual power  253–54 role of religions in public life  402–3 Roman Catholic theology  114, 486 Roman Catholic tradition  187–88, 238 rosary  91, 135, 137n1 Ruism  xxvi, 55, 491, 493, 497–99, 499n1. see also Confucianism and comparative theology  492–93, 497–98 sacred calligraphy  302–3, 305–6 sacred poetry  178, 345–46 sacred texts  32, 170, 270, 300, 306–7, 312, 346, 382, 384n1 Saint John’s Bible  303–4, 306, 311 saintliness  273, 275–77 s´akti  63–66, 68, 70–72 salvation  9–10, 24, 30n5, 33–34, 40n3, 41, 97–98, 100, 219, 225, 227–31, 488–89 Sanskrit texts  81, 152, 374, 386

524

SUBJECT INDEX



SBNR. See spiritual but not religious scholastic  17, 39, 83, 380–81, 465, 468, 502–4, 508n3 scholasticism  135, 273, 380, 386, 502, 509 scholastic tradition  83, 130, 189, 460, 494–95 science of religion  199, 207, 388, 429 scribal tradition (calligraphy)  303–7, 311 scriptures  45, 158, 185–97, 293, 295, 299, 301, 303–7, 311–12, 332, 466, 474, 476, 478, 495 Second Vatican Council  32, 145–48, 187–88, 194, 197, 228, 462, 465–66 secular  59, 104, 395, 401, 403, 429, 496 seeking truth in texts  166 sefirot  268–70, 272 self   5, 35–36, 67–68, 109, 111–12, 119–23, 127n3, 131–32, 199, 256–57, 319, 371–85, 384n1, 385n9 biblio/biographical 131–32 comparative  105, 112 self and other  117, 120, 126, 127n3, 256, 425, 427 self‐cultivation  111, 450–53, 458 selfing  423, 426–27 self‐knowledge  108–9, 121 self‐understanding  22, 99, 142, 188, 255, 302, 423, 494 religious 147 sense  3–5, 7–8, 10, 26, 28, 55, 68–70, 107–9, 112, 264–66, 271, 276–77, 330–32, 376–78, 380–81, 383–84, 384n1, 422–26, 454–55, 504–7 sense of religious hegemony  21 sense perception  215, 328–29, 331, 338 separation  66, 204, 206, 214, 266, 275–76, 319–20, 322, 340, 487 sermons  45, 192, 226, 394 Sharia  392–93, 395–96 slow learning/reading  90–91, 134–35, 302–3, 305–6, 408 Society of Jesus. See Jesuits somatic body  63, 69 son  46, 102, 105, 145, 226, 277, 283, 298, 331–32, 334–39, 353 Song of Songs  189, 192, 202–4, 350–51, 353–55, 358, 359n1, 362n25, 362n27, 363n31, 364n39, 365n47, 368

songs  23, 25, 45–47, 49–50, 55–58, 87, 189, 192, 202–6, 215–16, 222, 348–55, 362n25, 362n27, 363n31, 368–69, 435, 437–39, 453–54, 491–500 passionate 137n1 religious 203 soul  66–68, 166–67, 170, 171, 171n8, 203–5, 266, 270, 272, 350–54, 356–58, 361n13, 363n33, 364n35, 413 space  73n4, 73n5, 99, 101, 117, 122, 180–81, 222–23, 231, 288–89, 306, 316–17, 331, 375–76, 480–81 empty 306 holding 126 sphere, public  403–4, 406, 409 spiritual but not religious  xxiv, 25, 30–31 and Theology Without Walls  31 Spiritual Canticle  347–49, 362n22 spiritual experiences  25, 265, 485, 497–98 spirituality  41–42, 77, 79, 84, 117, 222, 229, 358, 361n13, 403, 406–7, 409 spiritual life  82, 235, 241, 314, 348 spiritual possibility  84, 86 spiritual senses  329–32, 334–35, 338–39, 341–42, 344 spiritual traditions  123, 391, 396 stages of comparative theological project  15–18 of faith  115, 120–25, 127n3 leading to holiness  272–77, 297 of mystical life  329 of upper‐caste Hindu male  221 stranger  125, 148, 195, 301, 314 structures, religious  251 subjectivity  6–7, 111, 199, 202, 286, 383 substances  xviii, 64–66, 69–70, 108, 110, 142, 210–11, 320, 337, 480, 488 summum bonum  264–65, 348, 358 supernatural  148–50, 342n12, 354 surrender  22, 84, 86, 117–18, 121, 158, 160, 170, 171n13, 227, 229 sympathy  88n6, 200, 407–9, 465 syncretism  xix, xxv, 21, 30, 292, 294, 466 systematic theology  xxiv, xxviii, 23, 88, 115–17, 132, 165, 378, 400–401, 465, 481–82, 484, 490, 497



Tamil people  249, 252–53, 255 Tamil texts  145, 154, 381 temple  175–81, 209–10, 212, 221, 227–28, 233n4, 263–64, 277–78, 291–92, 357, 408, 437 tension  84–85, 99–100, 116–18, 122, 154–55, 240, 285–86, 304, 374, 376, 394, 397, 402, 405 creative  154–55, 375 theologians  xviii–xxii, 23–29, 43–44, 79–87, 99–101, 115–17, 119, 129, 131–32, 135, 141–43, 147, 209–10, 221, 236, 244, 347, 389–90, 396, 402–6, 411, 438, 470, 480–85, 499 theological accounts  125, 427 theological aesthetics  202, 208, 326–30, 334, 337, 339–40, 342–43, 346, 367 theological analysis  100, 243, 493 theological anthropology  62n12, 340 theological disciplines  xx, xxv, 80, 486 theological education  xxi, xxviii, 147, 396 theological explorations of Hindu  346 theological frameworks  130, 171n12, 422 theological inquiry  xxiii, 46, 60, 99, 113, 132, 386, 410, 497 theological insights  10–11, 17, 23, 25, 28, 80, 156, 158, 198, 249, 404, 461, 475 theological labor  126, 129 theological learning  423, 474 deep 346 theological legitimacy  80, 82 theological meaning  117, 281 theological notion  163, 466 theological orthodoxy  424, 493 theological presuppositions  26 theological questions  32, 132, 196n3 theological readers  129, 131–32 theological reflection  21, 29, 49, 59, 100, 115, 119, 286, 359n1, 487–88, 507–8 theological self‐understanding  347, 367n63 theological studies  xviii, xxviii, 57–60, 149, 172, 188, 207, 238, 245, 391, 508n3 theological style  96, 367 theologizing  240, 280 theology  xviii–xxvi, 6–7, 21, 23, 29–31, 34, 38, 40–43, 45–46, 49–50, 52–57, 59–61, 63, 79–86, 96–97, 99–101, 112–18, 122, 129–32, 144–45, 148,

SUBJECT INDEX

525

194, 198, 207, 230–32, 238, 281, 327–29, 343–47, 353, 357–58, 373, 381, 398–402, 410, 416, 428n1, 443, 450, 480–90, 492–95, 497–501, 507–8, 508n7 theology of religions  xviii–xix, xxv–xxvi, 26, 29, 31–32, 34, 41–42, 59, 112–13, 115–18, 122, 128, 130, 406, 443, 480, 482, 484–85, 487–88 Theology Without Walls (TWW)  23, 25, 30–31, 61n1, 88, 498, 500, 507–8, 508n7, 509 theory  3, 105, 107, 112, 128, 131, 133–34, 137n2, 363n30, 364n35, 366n58, 369, 387–88 faith‐stage  119, 126 Tibet  166, 171, 295–98 Tibetan Book of the Dead  291, 294–96, 298–99, 300 Tibetan Buddhism  291, 295–97 T̲iruvāymol̲i  87, 105–6, 110, 189–90, 192, 196–97, 202–3, 206–7, 209–10, 213, 220 Torah  191, 273, 284–85, 288–89, 300–301, 303, 305–6, 336, 356 traditions  xix–xx, xxvi, 4–9, 21–29, 38, 43, 50, 55, 83, 92–93, 97–101, 116–19, 122–26, 129–32, 134–37, 142, 155–60, 164–66, 188, 193–95, 201, 204–5, 219, 221, 239, 242–44, 249, 285, 288, 293–94, 298–304, 312, 321, 347, 350, 356–58, 360n7, 373–81, 390–94, 404–9, 421–25, 427, 452, 460–66, 482–86, 492–94, 496, 499 transcendentals  275, 328, 338 transformation, experiential  105–6, 112 transformation of religious communities and theologians  135, 137, 403 translation  7, 165, 170n1, 170n2, 324, 342n2, 342n3, 342n9, 374–75, 386–87, 442–43, 445, 472, 478, 492–93 transmission  44–45, 119, 293, 296–98, 406, 490 transreligious theology  xxv, 23–26, 29–31, 58, 508n7 Trinity  37, 42, 100, 232, 313–14, 318–19, 324, 335, 343, 488, 489n4

526

SUBJECT INDEX



Triune Mystery  37–38, 41 true religion  42, 162, 166–68, 177 trust  102, 178, 192–93, 227, 324–25 truth  18, 21–29, 33–34, 38–39, 41, 61n3, 92–93, 104–5, 116, 121–23, 125–26, 134–37, 149, 155–60, 189, 191, 199, 241, 321, 379–80, 382, 414, 416–17, 435–36, 438–39, 449, 464, 475–76, 493–96 TWW. See Theology Without Walls ultimate reality  23–24, 26, 29, 37, 115, 260, 265–66, 268, 494, 497–98, 508n7 ultimate truth  22, 24–25, 29, 38–39, 41–42 unbelief   283, 336–37, 443 union  70, 202, 214, 227, 286, 314, 340, 350, 354–55, 438, 446 United Church of Canada  392–93, 397 universe  34–36, 64, 68, 70–72, 212, 214, 216–18, 221–22, 263, 269–71, 313–19, 321–24, 330 Unknown Christ  39, 42, 128, 165 Veda  5, 104, 106, 112–13, 214–15, 219, 221, 223n3, 269–79, 373–74, 376, 380–81, 385n22, 386 Vedic traditions  287, 381

veneration  142, 227–28, 230, 239 virginity  227–28, 240–41, 244n2 virtues  xxvi, 84, 134, 136, 139, 162–70, 170n5, 171n5, 252–54, 258, 337, 421–22, 449–50, 452, 454–56, 488 vulnerability  xxi, 46, 86–87, 155, 157–58, 170, 171n13, 232, 449–50, 452, 457 wisdom practical 194 theological  xxvi, 119, 498 woman/women  9, 96–98, 103, 176, 178, 189–90, 203–6, 209, 216, 219–22, 228–29, 235, 238–40, 242–43, 250–52, 254, 256, 258, 431, 434, 446 wonder  178, 180–82, 212–13, 215–16, 218–19, 221, 327, 333–34, 337, 339–42, 430, 432, 499 world Christianity  483 World Council of Churches  6, 32 world religions  23, 31, 199, 313, 424, 497 world religions paradigm (WRP)  424–25, 427, 428n2, 428n5, 429 worldviews  60, 121, 126, 274 yoga  36, 67, 71–72, 74n11, 75, 88n4, 89–94, 108, 266, 270, 382

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