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Don’t Make It Weird

The church fathers had a principle that scripture must always make sense, so it should be taken literally until it starts sounding strange. At that point, you’d probably better treat it metaphorically. This is a good rule of thumb for preventing scripture from ever looking too weird. But what if it actually is weird?

The purified man and the plague in the walls

This week’s Torah portion concerns a set of phenomena that do not exist in our world in any remotely plausible sense. While our Parsha is a bit extreme, it’s a good example for helping understand why most Jews either 1) basically just ignore the Torah 2) listen to it chanted in a language they don’t quite understand or 3) have someone explain that it’s actually a metaphor.

The title of this week’s portion, Meṣoraˁ, prescribes how to ceremonially purify someone from something called ṣaraˁat. It is an illness we cannot even really name let alone understand. Whatever it is, this affliction, classically translated “leprosy” in the King James Version, is definitely not leprosy. Look how it works:

When you enter the land of Canaan that I give you as a possession, and I inflict a plague of “leprosy” (ṣaraˁat) upon a house in the land you possess, the owner shall come and tell the priest, saying, “Something like a plague has appeared upon my house.” … If, when he examines the plague, the plague in the walls of the house is found to consist of greenish or reddish streaks that appear to go deep into the wall, the priest shall come out of the house to the entrance, and close up the house for seven days.

Leviticus 14:34-38

The house–like a human body affected with the illness–has to rest for a week, the length of time it took God to create the world in Genesis 1 and so the cosmic measure of a cycle of purification. After this, the stones infected with this illness are to be surgically removed and taken to an “unclean place” so it does not spread. Yet also like a body, the house can be reinfected:

Lev. 14:43    If the plague again breaks out in the house, after the stones have been pulled out and after the house has been scraped and replastered, the priest shall come to examine: if the plague has spread in the house, it is a malignant “leprosy” in the house; it is unclean

The final chapter describes how parallel impurities can saturate the male body. Having moved on from a cosmic illness we learn just how vulnerable men are to ordinary ritual contamination. A discharge from the male member, surely quite common in a period with no mechanisms for public hygiene or antibiotics, is so incredibly contagious that everything he touches becomes almost radioactive:

Any bedding on which the one with the discharge lies shall be unclean, and every object on which he sits shall be unclean. Anyone who touches his bedding shall wash his clothes, bathe in water, and remain unclean until evening. Whoever sits on an object on which the one with the discharge has sat shall wash his clothes, bathe in water, and remain unclean until evening. Whoever touches the body of the one with the discharge shall wash his clothes, bathe in water, and remain unclean until evening. … If one with a discharge, without having rinsed his hands in water, touches another person, that person shall wash his clothes, bathe in water, and remain unclean until evening. An earthen vessel that one with a discharge touches shall be broken; and any wooden implement shall be rinsed with water.

Leviticus 15:4-12

Now, there is much in Rabbinic literature about the holiness of the land of Israel, but the radioactive discharge of male members and malignant wall plague are mostly forgotten in the conversation for non-Orthodox readers. Yet the Torah itself envisions both dwellings and bodies in the Holy Land as exceedingly porous and contagious, a physical world virtually blooming with impurity and repurification.

As we saw last week, the male creators of the Rabbinic purity system shifted the Torah’s concerns, imposing a presumed status of impurity on women while giving men (and houses!) the benefit of the doubt.

Yet the Torah itself, from God’s creation by word to His coming to physically dwell and eat among us in the Tabernacle to commanding the violent conquest of the land of Israel and expulsion of its natives, often starts sounding weird, or alien, or unjust.

Should we ignore the Torah and just let the obscure language go in one ear and out the other? The great Polish Hasidic commentator Yehudah Leib Alter, known as the Sfat Emet (“Language of Truth”) was not content to do this. Addressing the plague in the walls he wrote:

What sort of strange announcement is this? (The great French commentator Rashi explains this in terms of violent conquest:) that the Canaanites [had been hiding gold treasures inside the walls of their houses, which the Israelites would find upon destroying the houses]. Now really! Did the Creator of the universe need to resort to such contortions? Why would He have given the Canaanites the idea of hiding [things in the walls] so that Israel would have to knock down the houses!

Instead, he writes, the point is the enchantment of the world:

The real meaning of these afflictions of houses is in fact
quite wondrous, a demonstration that Israel’s holiness is so
great that they can also draw sanctity and purity into their
dwelling-places. Scripture tells us: “A stone shall cry out from
the wall and a wooden beam shall answer it” (Hab. 2:11), regarding a person’s sin, to which the walls of his house bear witness. How much more fully does the righteous person have to bring a feeling of holiness into all that belongs to them, including both plants and ordinary physical objects!

Is he saying this is just a metaphor? Notice that his criterion for plausibility is justice. Did the Creator of the universe need to resort to such contortions? It may be a metaphor, but one that is also real and literal, played out in one’s actual physical place.

A distinctive feature of Judaism is that if we want to enter into the covenant, we can only do it deliberately with our bodies and blood. In the Sfat Emet’s spirit one could tie this together with the incantation-like theory of the poet Robert Duncan, where the material world of bodies and objects we see is fraught with potential divine enchantment, ones that reveal to him the originary mythic place:

Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow

as if it were a scene made-up by the mind, that is not mine, but is a made place,

that it is mine….created by light wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall.

…Often I am permitted to return to a meadow as if it were a given property of the mind that certain bounds hold against chaos,

that is a place of first permission, everlasting omen of what is.

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“When She Bears Seed” (Leviticus 12:2)

Made With Bodies and Blood

When the chips are down we see things physically. We exist as bodies, and we only enter this world by being born–we are bodies that come from bodies, like plants are born from seeds. We are born in blood, bleed when cut, and if we die by violence we die bleeding.

Though the truth of bodies and blood bears with it an illusion: that we are nothing but them. But they alone do not decide or explain us, and nowhere is this more true than in the Torah and Jewish tradition, which are constituted by the covenant, a covenant that is deliberately made with bodies and blood. Yet in this world we are also inseparable from bodies, blood, and the biological seeds we consume, grow from, or bear. In the poetry of the seven Jewish wedding blessings, God “prepared for humanity, from Himself an eternal construct”–a mortal kind of immortality. * We need our bodies, blood, and seeds not just to see but to think and feel with, to live onward.

The name of this week’s Torah portion is Tazriaˁ, literally “when she bears seed:” When a woman bears seed and gives birth to a male, she shall be ceremonially impure for seven days…” The link it makes between human and plant would have carried almost as much biological weirdness in ancient Hebrew as it does in today’s English. While the verbal root for “seed” (ZRˁ) is frequent with the plain meaning of what a plant bears, and also often refers to “a man’s semen or offspring,” only once does it refer to the life a human woman bears. Indeed in this causative form meaning “seed-bearing” it appears in only one other place, at the beginning:

“And God said, “Let the earth sprout vegetation: plants that are seed-bearing (mazriaˁ), fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it.” And it was so.” (Gen 1:11)

What larger conception does a mother “bearing seed” reflect? An illuminating analysis by Marianne Grohmann explains how until the end of the 19th century, the great minds of Western Civilization held a variety of flaky-sounding ideas about where babies came from including 1) a “one seed” idea shared by Aristotle, Mesopotamian, and some biblical writers that babies came from fathers alone, with the mother just serving as incubator 2) an alternative ancient idea “two seeds” idea that both male and female “sperm” combined to form a baby or 3) a later European idea the baby’s form came from whatever the mother was looking at or thinking about at the moment of conception.

The idea of us as seed confronts us with our nature in the crudest, most embarrassing way. Just the sheer fact that we are nature, and also that as nature our ruptures can be the subject of thought and ritual, that instead of working to keep our involvement in birth, death, and fertility tidy and out of the way, we can shine light on them, study these workings like natural phenomena, or decide them like law. As Charlotte Fonrobert, the great scholar of Rabbinic purity law, writes of the tradition around these laws:

Like few other cultures, rabbinic Judaism in this tractate transforms blood and bodies into language, analyzes the nature of blood and pads, of births and abortions or miscarriages. One detects no sense of embarrassment, shame, or disgust in those pages of the Talmud, feelings familiar to those of us who have grown up in the cultural context of the West, which allows mostly only euphemistic, hidden references to bodies and their messiness. The texts in Tractate Niddah might just as well be about zoology, astronomy, physics, or mathematics, judging by their tone.

Fonrobert, Menstrual purity : Rabbinic and Christian reconstructions of Biblical gender (Stanford UP, 2000)

But, as the joke has the white Lone Ranger’s companion Tonto reply to him when outnumbered by native warriors, “who do you mean ‘we’?”

For as Fonrobert’s study shows, ancient Hebrew ritual purity is in essence a men’s science. Priestly and Rabbinic laws around childbirth and menstruation are not just some general human thinking about human nature. They are a male expert tradition of scrutinizing and theorizing the workings of women’s bodies as cosmic mechanisms inadequately translated as “pure” and “impure.”

The Torah’s idea of ceremonial purity is simply not our ideas of “clean.” Being tahor “ceremonially pure” is in fact so far from modern cleanliness–or even basic hygiene–that it faces puke, piss, and shit undisturbed; one can be crusted in snot or caked in manure and completely tahor. And consider the term ṭame’, which applies to a new mother and which I translated “ceremonially impure.” Far from a mere physical condition, this purity and impurity is a cosmological term unaffected by things like hot showers.

Like a Crashed UFO

In an early argument for the religious and moral value of this system of ceremonial purity, Rabbi Rachel Adler argued that it would illuminate how all members of a society undergo bodily conditions of purity and impurity in shared ways. Her “Tumah and Taharah: Ends and Beginnings,” (The Jewish Catalog, 1973) argued that bodily cycles of purity put us all on a level playing field. But as Gail Labovitz writes, Adler later realized that

this is no longer helpful for understanding tum’ah in the post-biblical and particularly rabbinic Judaisms that followed. Post-rabbinic tum’ah is gendered particularly female, such that all females are (treated as) suspect of being in the process of menstruating and hence impure, while men, who certainly must have come into contact with sources of impurity such as seminal emissions and proximity to a corpse, nonetheless experience themselves as pure at all times.

Labovitz, commentary on Adler in Kurtzer, ed. The New Jewish Canon

In other words, the cosmology was itself inseparable from its interpreters’ own bodies and what they meant in their own society, their identities as male experts in the system they ruled.

On reflection, after a mighty good-faith effort to uphold this worldview, Adler decided the whole system of purity was worthy of rejection.

I tried to make a theology to uphold this truth, and as hard as I tried to make it truthful, it unfolded itself to me as a theology of lies.

I do not believe the laws of purity will ever be reinstated, nor should they be. The worlds reflected in such rules are not worlds we inhabit. Neither should we seek to replicate such worlds. They are unjust.

Adler “In Your Blood, Live: Re-visions of a Theological Purity,” Tikkun 8 (1993)

I will not try to salvage or recuperate such a cosmology of the body here, only reflect on its familiarity and alienness. For the second chapter of our Parshah, Leviticus 13, hinges equally around an untranslatable term, ṣaraˁat. Classically rendered “leprosy” and carrying with it similar marks of rejection and isolation, it is actually one of those rare words that should probably not be translated at all.

For the Torah’s ṣaraˁat fits modern categories about as well as a crashed UFO. Leviticus 13:47-51 go on to explain what to do “when ṣaraˁat occurs in a cloth of wool or linen fabric, in the warp or in the woof of the linen or the wool, or in a skin or in anything made of skin.” Unlike any known human illness, it can spread to furniture, which is described as ceremonially impure and even “malignant, painful” (13:52).

Ṣaraˁat is a vision of the vulnerability of all organic matter, and like the Tabernacle it is a mythic vision. It is not an object we would ever directly encounter in this world. We only encounter it via the sacred text itself.

But I think what Fonrobert really shows is that this is true of women–and maybe men–in the Torah too. As in the title of the great Sanskritist Wendy Doniger’s book Women, Androgynes, and other Mythical Beasts, they are treated as mythical: cosmic icons in a ceremonial system, icons only mapped onto human individuals. Bodies and blood are icons that Priests and Rabbis thought with.

How would people in different bodies and lives think with them? One promise of a new understanding and enactment of this might come from feminist reuse of the rituals. As Labovitz writes,

For Adler, it was in fact seeing women create new rituals involving the mikveh that brought her to an insight of this very sort in “In Your Blood, Live”: “When Jewish women who were not Orthodox appropriated my reframing of immersion … to mark occurrences for which no ritual expression had existed, they taught me an important lesson about the possibility of salvage … for the feminist Jew, impurity seems to mean the violation of physical or sexual integrity, death by invasion” (41). She now holds that a truly new theological understanding must go hand in hand in hand with an actual feminist and female positive ritual expression.

If we want to enter into the covenant, we can only do it deliberately with our bodies and blood. But here the “deliberately” and the “our” are the most important parts.

*My translation of Sheva Brachot #4, וְהִתְקִין לוֹ מִמֶּנּוּ בִּנְיַן עֲדֵי עַד

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On the Eighth Day

How The Torah Presents Itself as Myth

The iconic Rabbinic commentator Rashi’s first comment on the first word of Genesis is to correct it: the Torah shouldn’t have begun with creation at all. Instead it should have begun with the first commandment, because the point of the Torah is not to teach history or astrophysics but to give us a legacy of commandments to perform.

The Torah did not need to begin here, but rather should have started with “This month will be the beginning of the months for you” (Exodus 12:2) which is the first commandment given to Israel.

Rashi on Genesis 1:1

By this token the Torah could just as well have begun with this week’s reading, Leviticus 9-11. For it is here that regular human observance– being a Jew in what is probably the most original sense–first becomes possible. It depicts a new eighth day of creation.

Every year in the traditional Jewish reading cycle year we again recite this portion called Shemini, “(On the Eighth (Day).” It is the first day after the seven-day process required to intiate the priesthood (Cohanim), a small-scale creation which echoes God’s large-scale-creation of the world,. After priesthood is possible, God can physically dwell in the world. The priests share our acts of atonement and communion with Him, allowing Him to reside and take meals at His physical home address, the Temple, which one can walk right up to (though not enter!)

Leviticus 9 narrates what the Torah itself presents as a myth–a divine act located in a foundational time that is now lost–about the presence of God’s body (the Kavod or “glory”) and His first meal on earth. It lays out the rituals by which humans once became empowered to participate like God Himself in the creation of their universe, and to eat like Him. In this far-off ancient vision of the Temple the human-built universe happens through acts like sacrifice–sharing a meal in person with God Himself.

Via food, it portrays a lost miraculous past and a continuing mundane reality as both equally sacred. The lost miracle is when God, having physically arrived in our world to inhabit the sanctuary the Israelites just built for Him, eats His first meal. Leviticus 9 describes the astonishing event of God’s direct physical presence in which He Himself first appears to devour sacrifices with fire.

When [Moses and Aaron emerged from meeting the Lord], they blessed the people; and the Presence of the Lord appeared to all the people. Fire came forth from before the Lord and consumed the burnt offering and the fat parts on the altar. And all the people saw, and shouted, and fell on their faces.

Leviticus 9:23-24

In Hebrew, fire consumes (אכל, a word that means both “eat” and “burn up”). God’s first ritual meal is followed by a cautionary tale about this consuming fire: it is God’s alone (Leviticus 10). The two Priests who dare to offer their own fire are themselves consumed by God, because humans can no more replicate His devouring ritual presence than they can copy His voice. What is given to us is something different: the revelation of human ritual meals: Kosher law (Leviticus 11), which is what we ourselves have of this miracle.

For while the Torah does not tell us this, later Scripture reveals that the mythic world where God eats right in front of us was ended by God himself. We now live in the time after God’s direct physical presence, for as texts like 2 Kings 25, Lamentations, and Psalm 74 later narrate, the rules forever changed when God had the Temple destroyed. The old, weird physical intimacy with the divine is no longer possible. But the myth lives on, for this is also the Torah portion that defines what is left to us: the current, nearby counterpart of Temple ritual that is eating Kosher food.

As my Rabbi Tamar Manasseh says, Judaism is something you do here and now, not just something you are. Historical evidence verifies this: action, not identity, is the most concrete measure of Judaism. Commandments like keeping Kosher and observing the Sabbath are the oldest and most consistent aspect of being Jewish. Beyond the rich but squishy act of self-definition, the Mizvot most clearly define what it means to be part of Israel.

But according to the Bible’s text–which is, after all, the very thing that transmits the commandments–the Torah’s ritual actions are unable to explain or justify themselves. Most obviously, the Torah says nothing about why the Tabernacle no longer exists or about why so many of its Mizvot are no longer even physically possible in any simple, non-mystical or non-Midrashic sense.

This is because the Torah’s self-presentation is mythic. The commandments of Leviticus take place in a historical and moral vacuum, depicting a Tabernacle that nobody, even in the ancient Israel of David or Bathsheba, Isaiah or Huldah, had ever seen. Its text and commandments come from such a long time ago, such a galaxy far, far away that even Josiah, the most pious of Judahite kings, explicitly states he had never heard of them. Sripture depicts the commandments without context or motivation, without history and prophecy, as hollow and inadequate.

“If One Has No Shame, Their Ancestors Never Stood at Mount Sinai”

The Sfat Emet cites Rashi saying that when Moses told Aaron to approach the altar (Lev. 9:7), “Aaron was ashamed to draw near, but Moses said to him: “Why are you ashamed? For this you were chosen!”

Now, the commentators say that it was because of this shame he had that he was chosen. But it could also be read otherwise: that the goal of being chosen was to reach this state of shame. Thus Scripture itself says about the giving of the Torah: “so that His fear be upon your faces in order that you not sin” (Ex. 20:20). The rabbis said that this refers to shame and that “if one has no shame, it is known that his ancestors never stood at Mount Sinai.” So the purpose of Israel’s coming near to Mount Sinai was to merit shame.

For the Sfat Emet, having a sense of restraint and humility is what made Aaron deserve the divine presence. It was Aaron’s fear of heaven that enabled him to draw others near to Judaism, for

by means of shame you can really come close to each
of the commandments. Take true shame to heart, [thinking:]
“How can a clod of earth do the will of the Creator?” In this
way you will be able to fulfill the Mitzvot.

His translator and interpreter Arthur Green writes that it is this fear of heaven that allowed Aaron to encounter the very Glory of God.

This resonates with an absolutely jaw-dropping line in the Tamud:

Come and see how great is the power of shame: look, the Holy One Blessed be He, took the side [of someone shamed by a prominent Jerusalemite so vehemently that] He destroyed His Temple and burned His Sanctuary.

Babylonian Talmud Gittin 57a.5

This is a wild and audacious line, but in keeping with Jewish tradition’s often wild and audacious approach to the incomparable value of human dignity. The Kosher laws, this ritual discipline of preparing and eating food (not coincidentally again only the types of food that God Himself can consume), are a mundane embodiment of this radical sense of humility, that constitutes the fear of heaven. The Sfat Emet cites the Talmud’s commentary

“Had I brought Israel forth only so that they not defile themselves with creeping things, it would have been sufficient.” The One “who brought you forth” has to be greater than the Exodus itself. Thus we say: “who brought us forth from the Land of Egypt and redeemed us from the house of slaves.” There is a redemption from the
narrow straits (a Hebrew pun on Egypt as constraint: Miṣrayim/meṣar), but there is a still higher rung, one above all places of constriction, an “inheritance without constraints.”

How does he think such apparently empty and meaningless formal details like avoiding a pig but not a goat confer cosmic freedom?

Every year I teach a class on “Ritual, Myth, and Music” and this year a number of students chose meditation as their practice-based research project. The goal is to choose a constructive and positive ritual practice and they have chosen everything from musical “deep listening” to boxing or fencing to the Russian Orthodox “prayer of the heart” to Hindu “deity Yoga” depending on their own religious traditions and personal interests.

This year, meditation was both the most popular and the most challenging, and the biggest problem was sheer form. Students struggled with distracting thoughts, anxiety about achieving results, and the concern that what they were doing wasn’t enough. These projects too were the source of learning as they observed and confronted possible roadblocks. But the projects that got the most results ironically focused on the process itself, the simple form of the act of meditation.

A surprising emblem of the students’ focus on form was the Mudra, a traditional Buddhist way of holding the hands to make a cosmic shape. What is surprising about the Mudra is that it seems to do nothing–unlike controlled breathing or posture, which have been demonstrated to have profound physiological and cognitive effects, the Mudra seems purely “religious,” one is making the shape of the cosmos as if holding it in one’s hand. Yet students who took Zen sage Shunryu Suzuki’s advice to form a Mudra found it was an essential part of making their meditation click.

The wisdom that the Sfat Emet unlocks from the Talmud and Torah here lies in the nonrational sheer form of the Commandment, but one that cannot explain itself. Pure form cannot be mindlessly accepted; without the Sfat Emet’s form of shame, AKA “fear of heaven,” a devotion to sincere self-critique and wrestling with the Bible, it will remain empty. I feel that this radical excavation is what we now need to gain from our tradition.

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“Does this Place Really Have a Hashgacha?” Performative Judaism and the Quest for Jewish Essence

The other day I think I began to understand what people now call “performative” identity, via the most jaw-droppingly performative act of Judaism I’ve ever seen. The place I was sitting in didn’t exactly feel like a Jewish fishbowl: an old time diner in South Lake Tahoe specializing in delicacies like biscuits and gravy with a side of Jalapeǹo bacon, deep in conversation with a stellar grad student. The staff seemed a mix of Latino and Arabic-speaking, the clientele had the same kind of vaguely redneck look that I do, and I was wearing a lovely watermelon-logo Palestine tee from Wearthepeace casually wondering if that mattered to anybody.

At that point I noticed a schlubby-looking white guy at the other end of the restaurant suddenly clock my shirt, and with a half-smile that I read as a smirk dig a tiny Kippah out of his pocket and balance it on his head. Now, I’m familiar with such acts of public flag-waving when people wish to address an audience “as a Jew,” but this was the first time I had ever seen someone literally perform an act of identification, in a turbo-Trayf diner no less, for an audience of one (me). What struck me as so batshit crazy about it is that wearing such a Kippah in daily life is typically the mark of an observant Jew, and with its panoply of pork this is no place an observant Jew would normally be caught dead eating in. In fact, many conventionally observant Jews would avoid even sitting in such a place because of the Orthodox principle of Mar’it Ha-Ayin (מַרְאִית הָעַיִן) avoiding even the appearance of transgression for fear it might mislead other observant people into making an authentic mistake.

I was tempted to walk up to him–sheepishly, of course, so as to avoid making more of a scene than I needed to–and asking, “does this place really have a Hashgacha??” The sad thing was I would have laid even odds he’d have no idea what the word (here, “legitimate Kosher supervision”) meant. How did we come to this pass, where so many define “Jewish” as “anti-Palestinian?”

Walter Sobchak’s famous rant from the Big Lebowski is a spiritual gemstone here: what is so disarming is that he’s angrily yelling about how Jews are a people whose life goes far deeper than current bullshit, able to inhabit everything and everywhere of Jewish history all at once: “Three thousand years of beautiful tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax--YOU’RE GODDAMN RIGHT I’M LIVING IN THE FUCKING PAST!” So beyond 21st century politics and the obvious machinations of US support for its biggest client state, why does so many people’s Judaism today sometimes seem little deeper than picking one side in what most of the world recognizes as a genocide? What has been forgotten?

My hunch is in the broad population, few of us today have much of a connection to the Judaism of our ancestors beyond some not-exactly-coherent catchphrases (“Never Again!” “Am Yisrael Chai!” “indigenous,” “What the hell is a ‘scooped bagel?‘”). We probably don’t know what Rambam’s 13 Middot are (what Maimonides, arguably the most influential Jewish religious thinker of all time, considered essential to Judaism). Do we really officially believe in the resurrection of the dead? What about the Messiah–do we have one like the Christians do (or did they actually borrow it from us in the first place?). How important is this Messianic idea, including the principle that only God Himself could return Jewish sovereignty to the Levant at the hands of a descendant of King David?

Some would just throw up their hands and say, hey, I was born Jewish, I’m Jewish! Or…are you actually just white, with a side of lox and capers? The idea that Jewish identity is something obvious that defaults to Ashkenazic or Israeli identity is, as my colleagues Andrew Tobolowsky and Tamar Manasseh have show, on shaky ground both historically and spiritually.

And shockingly, it turns out that the real performative Judaism–the performance of commandments like keeping Kosher–is actually a lot older than Jewish “blood,” because the definition of Jewish ethnicity has famously flip-flopped over time. In biblical times Jewish descent meant having a Jewish father (all the descendants of Abraham and Jacob were his, no matter the mother) but in Rabbinic times it shifted to exclusively having a Jewish mother. While these two definitions can converge, each can also totally exclude the other, meaning that a clear, consistent historical “essence” to Jewish ethnic identity is pretty hard to find. More essential to Jewish continuity across time is what the Torah and Rabbinic thought continued to share: following the commandments. The Mizvot may be the best bet for what has always defined what it means to be part of Israel.

A second, equally time-honored essence of Judaism is described by the political theorist and professor of urban studies Marshall Berman:

I have been a scholar for most of my life…But I am also a Jew, grown up with the feeling that the Bible was “my” book, that it was my job to wrestle with it, and this wrestling would be my way to be part of Israel.

Berman, “The Bible and Public Space,” in Modernism in the Streets (Verso, 2017) 350.

Today many Jews–including me–feel alienated from both of these original and long-lasting senses of Judaism. But we don’t have to be. I want to know what they offered the Jews of the past as well as those who learned from them. I think it’s still all there. I hope.

In this series I’ll try to briefly explore and unite these two oldest standbys, Torah and Commandments, divine teaching and human ritual, with the help of the radical Hasidic thinker known as the Sfat Emet-the “language of truth.” My guide will be another time-honored habit, the weekly Torah portion or Parshat Ha-Shevua, starting this week with Shemini, “(On the) Eighth (Day).” Hit the subscribe thing ↓ if you want to join me!

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On Rereading Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower

Four years ago at the start of the Covid pandemic I read The Parable of the Sower for the first time and felt like it was speaking directly to me and about the moment we were in: the desire to return to a past that never really existed, as “Make America Great Again” appears in the novel, as well as the effects of global warming and social collapse. I talked about how even though it’s an end-of-the-world novel, it goes beyond what we think of as apocalypses. In particular why it’s a good way to build on but go beyond the religious themes of apocalypse.

Reflecting on it now I find another way that this secular, decidedly atheist book fits in the apocalyptic tradition and also seeks to escape it. This is that even though we’re in a different place than we were four years ago, it still feels like it’s addressing me, talking about today. And precisely this feature of looking like it’s talking about the reader’s own time is a classic feature of apocalypse and apocalyptic thought.

  1. More strictly speaking, this is a Dystopian novel. What is a Dystopia–how is that like an apocalypse? End of world, things heading south. Different: no divine plan.
  2. Keeps seeming like it’s talking about today: president is a placeholder for nostalgia. Already in 2017 people thought it was about Trump, now it can seem like it’s about Biden such as his speech, “Fundamentally nothing will change”
  3. Writers keep seeing today in it–for example there have been several pieces discussing how Butler was reflected in Beyonce’s Lemonade, even though nobody mentioned anything specific.

Transcript of original podcast:

I’m going to talk about  I  think  this  science  fiction  novel  is  a  perfect  book  to  cap  off  a  class  that’s  mostly  focused  on  ancient  apocalyptic  literature.

 And  in  particular,  I’m  going  to  talk  about  what  it  says  about  the  things  we  face  today  that  feel  apocalyptic  and  also  why  reading  it  surprised  me  so  much, why  it  still  feels  so  fresh  as  a  book.  For  example,  it  took  me  a  while  to  realize  that  it  talked  about  apocalyptic  themes,the sorts  of  destruction  like  climate  collapse  that  can  feel  like  the  end  of  the  world, and  that  really  are  the  end  of  some  people’s  worlds  but  that  this  is  not  just  another  apocalypse  that  the  book  goes  far  beyond  that.

In  particular  there  are  two  main  themes  I’m  going  to  talk  about  and  first  as  usual  I’m  just  going  to  give  a  little  out  on the  two  main  points  today.  And  then  I’m  gonna  go  into  more  detail,  illustrating  it  with  some  passages  from  the  book. 

The  first  of  the  two  main  points  is  the  book’s  urgency:

 Even  though  it  was  published  in  1993,  it  still  feels  like  it’s  about  today,  specifically  about  California,  but  there  are  a  number  of  things  that  the  book  focuses  on:  the  terrifying  consequences  of  inequality  and  climate  collapse,  as  well  as  a  kind  of  a  conservative,  almost  nostalgic  resurgence  in  the  government. So  there  are  things  that  we  could  recognize  when  we  read  it,  then  we’ll  talk  a  little  bit  about  why  that  is. 

And  then  the  second  main  point  is  the  way  it  draws  on. but  goes  beyond  apocalyptic  thought,  the  way  it  does  something  really  new  with  it,  and  in  particular  it  draws  on  the  religious  imagination, most  explicitly  in  a  number  of  biblical  references  ranging  from  Noah’s  flood,  which  is  of  course  the  first  end  of  the  world  that  appears  in  the  world, Genesis  chapter  6  through  9,  but  also  on  the  question  of  whether  the  universe  is  just. It draws  on  Job  for  this, and then it  gets  its  title  from  the  very  conclusion  of  the  book,  which  talks  about  the  parable  of  the  sower  from  the  Gospels  in  the  New  Testament.

 So  while  it  draws  on  the  religious  imagination,  imagination,  including  the  apocalyptic  imagination,  it’s  not  really  an  apocalypse  novel.  One  example  I’ll  get  into  more.

 In  all  of  the  apocalypses,  classic  ones  of  the  book  of  Daniel,  the  book  of  Revelation,  the  book  of  Enoch,  as  well  as  other  things  like  the  Sibylline  oracles,  there  is  a  distinct  timetable. There’s  a  clear  cut  divine  plan.  plan,  and  at  the  end  God  totally  transforms  and  totally  redeems  the  universe.  There’s  a  lot  of  suffering  and  horror, a  lot  of  stuff  blows  up,  but  there  is  a  clear  happy  ending  where  the  righteous  are  absolutely  and  conclusively  saved  by  God. 

In  this  book  that  divinely led salvation doesn’t  happen, God  doesn’t  step  in  and  there  is  no  rapture,  there’s  no  eternal  salvation.  But  there  is  an  interesting  human  made  goal  that  we  actually  see  being  created  over  the  course  of  the  book, a goal  to  aspire  to.  So  it  uses  vital  elements  of  religious  thought,  such  as  the  pieces  of  scripture  I  mentioned.  And  it  also  shows  the  creation  of  a  new  piece  of  scripture  in  the  form  of  the  book  that  the  protagonist  is  writing,  which  she  calls  “Earthsea,”  the  books  of  the  living. 

It  also  comes  to  grips  with  religious  ideas. One  of  the  most  important  being  the  idea  of  God,  namely  the  idea  that  there  is  a  bigger  order  out  there  that  we’re  in  touch  with  somehow,  interacting  with  somehow. But  what  really is  that  bigger  order?  What  are  the  rules?  It puts  those  fundamentally religious  questions, and the visions that its protagonist has in answer to them,  in  confrontation  with  some  things  that  don’t  seem  to  fit  any  orderly  view  of  the  world,  with  the  chaos,  violence,  problems  of  hunger,  shelter,  uncertainty,  climate  change,  those  aspects  of  human  experience  that  seem  to  defy  simple  or  traditional  religious  answers. And  I  think  that  this tension  becomes  a  real  dialogue  and  is  the  place  where  the  book’s  probably  most  vital  and  interesting  ideas  happened.

The reason this felt to me like  such  an  interesting  way  to  wrap  up  the  course  is  that awereness of  the  apocalyptic  imagination  and  being  aware  of  the  power  of  religious  thought  does  not  mean  to  just  repeat  it  or  blindly  accept  it.  There  are  physical  forces  in  the  book,  human  violence,  economic  scarcity,  both  triggered  by  climate  collapse  that  the  characters  have  to  deal  with. This  is  a  larger  overarching  reality,  and  this  actually  is  is  eventually  what  the  character  Lauren  Olamina  calls  God, this  bigger  force  outside  of  you  that  is  going  to  change  you  and  you’re  going  to  have  to  work  to  change  it  to  somehow  partner  with  it.

 So  the  book’s argument,  unlike  in  classic  apocalyptic  literature,  is  not  not  that  this  is  all  pre -planned  and  unchangeable,  that  everything  is  just  happening  according  to  a  pre -programmed  divine  plan but  rather  change  is  something  you  have  to  come  to  grips  with,  everything  that  you  touch  changes,  you  change  everything  you  touch.  And  then  the  book  sees  religion  as  a  way  of  doing  that, as  a  way  of  what  the  writer  and  the  character  calls  shaping  God. 

Now  I’m  going  to  go  into  more  detail  about  why  it  feels  so  contemporary  to  me  and  I  think  to  other  people  who’ve  read  it  there  was  a  New  Yorker  article  maybe  a  year  ago  about  how  it  predicted  the  election  of  Donald  Trump  or  something  like  that  which  I  think  is  a  little  exaggerated  But  one  thing  it  does  tell  you  is  that  really,

 you  know,  kind  of  brilliant,  insightful  writers  like  Butler  can  often  put  their  finger  on  deep  forces  in  history  or  American  culture. And  then  we  recognize  them.  We  can  see  where  they,  where  they  pointed  it  out  or  put  their  finger  on  it.  So  why  does  it  have  such  a  connection?  Why does it feel  like  it’s  about  us,  in  ways  ranging  from  geography  to  its  discussions  of  ethnicity  and  race  to  climate  change  and  the  violence  that  vulnerable  people  often  suffer? In  the  previous  class  we  talked  before  about  its  literary  qualities.  that  is  how  it  presents  its  characters, how  it  presents  its  vision  of  the  world,  and  how  it  communicates  to  the  reader,  as  well  as  its  Californian  and  American  qualities. 

Of  course, it’s  literally  about  here  in  that  it’s  about  a  journey  from  a  mid -sized  city  in  southern  California.  to  a  rural  area  in  Northern  California  and  Another  way  that  it’s  about  here  is  that  Octavia  Butler  was  literally  from  here  She  grew  up  in  Southern  California  and  went  to  the  same  school  that  at  least  one  of  one  of  the  folks  in  this  class  studied  at  Pasadena  City  College  So  in  that  way  it’s  a  California  novel  with  based  in  California’s  really  distinctive  geography  but  also  it  deals  with  some  Important  American  as  well  as  world  themes  and  one  of  them  is  Ethnicity  and  what  what  ethnic  or  racial  difference  means,  how  it  works  and  there’s  a  subtle  thing  that  she  does  here  that  you  can  read  maybe  without  even  noticing  it  but  this  is  that  she  leaves  a  lot  up to  the  reader  to  think  about  and  figure  out  in  terms  of  who  these  characters  are  and  what  what  that  means  and  there’s  this  wide  range  of  ethnic  or  racial  differences  that  the  characters  have  and  also  the  things  that  that  bring  them  together.

 So  often  novels  will  just  list  each  character’s  appearance,  age,  or  other  main  qualities.  qualities.  When  they’re  first  introduced,  you  know, she  was  a  tall  woman  with  long  black  hair  and,  you  know,  blue  eyes,  you  know,  who  carried  herself  like  a  soldier  or  official,  you  know,  something  like  this.  And  it  almost,  you  almost  get  it,  it  almost  feels  like  a  video  game  character  or  a  role -playing  game  character  where  they’re  just  kind  of, a set of features.  Strength,  intelligence,  appearance,  race.  Like Dungeons and Dragons or video game stats, I’m  a,  you  know,  strength  level  nine,  intelligence  level  eight,  appearance  level  five  half  orc  or  half  elf  or  something  like  that.  So  in  a  lot  of  literature  as  well  as  in  movies,  this  ends  up  resulting  in  a  kind  of  a  distorted  and  unrepresentative  white  based  world where, and  we’ve  probably  seen  this  in  books  where  the  characters  are  all  assumed  to  be  white  and  then  suddenly  if  they  say,  “Oh,  and  then  a  burly  Asian  man  entered  the  store,”  or, “She  was  black,  but  everyone  else  with  her  looked  Latino.”  So  it  only  mentions  ethnicity  then  when  it   differs  from  a  supposed  white  norm.  And  one  striking  thing  about  this  book  is  that  she  doesn’t  mention  people’s ethnicity immediately,  that many  of  the  protagonists  are  black,  other  Latino,  and  some  others  white  or  other  identities. She  just lets  you  figure  that  out  and  she  just  kind  of  drops  references  to  it,  which,  you  know,  in  a  lot  of  ways  is  a  lot  more  realistic  way,  you  know,  that  people  don’t  always  wake  up  in  the  morning and the  first  thing  they  think  is,  you  know,  good  golly,  I  sure  am,  you  know, white or  Latino  or  Asian  in  the  morning,  they  just  think,  oh,  I have to get going I slept late, or just I’m  who  I  am.  The identity may come up only if  they’re  made  to  think  about  it  by  their  environment. But,  and  I  want  to  note  how  interestingly  she  does  this  also  with  appearance,  the  relative  beauty  or,  you  know, attractiveness  or  unattractiveness  of  a  character  is  often  mentioned  at  the  beginning  and  kind  of  defines  them,  right?  And  I  think  this  is  the  larger  point  is  that  she’s  attentive  to  things  like  appearance  or  ethnicity, but  it  never,  never  purely  or  earlier.  simply  defines  someone. 

And  there’s  an  interesting  line  here.  She’s  talking  about  one  of  the  characters  who’s  very  conventionally  beautiful.  It  occurred  to  me  then  that  this  guy  liked  her.  That  could  be  a  problem  for  her  later.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman  and  I  would  never  be  beautiful,  which  didn’t  bother  me.  Boys  had  always  seemed  to  like  me, but  Zahra’s  looks  grabbed  male  attention  and  she  talks  about  how  in the  current  chaotic  climate  this  could  be  a  problem.  But  what’s  interesting  is  that  you  get  two  thirds  of  the  way  through  the  book  before  she  even  mentions  whether  she’s  thought  to  be  particularly  attractive  or  not.

 So  even  as  the  character  Lauren  seems  very  at  home,  home  with  who  she  is  and  the  extended  family  she’s  a  part  of,  it  seems  very  at  home  with  who  they  are.  She’s  also  very  aware  that  some  of  the  rest  of  the  world  is  not  and  so  for  example  there’s  a  mention  of  how  at  some  points  having  white  faces  faces  or  white  figures  in  your  group  might  help  keep  you  safe  about  how  these  new  company  towns  that  are  maybe  a  little  bit  like  an  Amazon  fulfillment  center,  but  on  a  larger  scale,  they’re  wondering  if  they’ll  they’ll  even  accept  non  white  people.  So  there’s  there’s  a  clear  eyed  awareness  of  racism  and  of  a  kind  of  a  white  power  structure  that  still  exists.

 Another  striking  and  very  contemporary  feeling  thing  is  the  this  idea  of  a  kind  of  a  nostalgic  desire  for  a  return  to  order  or  return  to  business  as  usual  in  politics and  as  a  kind  of  a  resistance  to  the  change  in  the  world  so  she  says  there’s  some discussion  about  the  new  president  and  someone  says  well  my  mom  could  be  right  about  the  new  president  is  named  Donner  he  could  do  some  good  no  no  Donner  is  just  kind  of  a  human  banister  Warren  says  a  what  I  mean  he’s  like  a  symbol  of  the  past  for  us  to  hold  on  to  as  we’re  pushed  into  the  future. He’s  nothing,  no  substance,  but  having  him  there  the  latest  in  a  two  and  a  half  century  long  line  of  American  presidents  makes  people  feel  that  the  country  and  the  culture  they  grew  up  with  is  still  here, that  we’ll  get  through  these  bad  times  and  get  back  to  normal.”  And  this  is  something  that Lauren is  very  aware  is  not  actually  going  to  happen.

 But  she  also  says  that  climate  change  is  going  to  force  people  to  realize  that  the  world  is  never  going  to  go  back  to  the  good  old  days. And  she  talks  about  how  even  earlier  it  took  a  plague  to  make  some  of  the  people  realize  that  things  even  could  change,  too.  Things  are  changing  now.  Our  adults  haven’t  been  wiped  out  by  a  plague,  so  they’re  still  anchored  in  the  past,  waiting  for  the  good  old  days  to  come  back,  but  things  have  changed  a  lot  and  they’ll  change  more.  Things  are  always  changing.  This  is  just  one  of  the  big  jumps  instead  of  the  little  step -by -step  changes  that  are  easier  to  take.  People  have  changed  the  climate  of  the  world  and  now  they’re  waiting  for  the  good  old  days  to  come  back.  for  the  old  days  to  come  back.

This  theme  of  climate  change  really  pervades  the  whole  book  and it’s  striking  to  realize  that  climate  scientists  knew  about  this  stuff  in  the  70s, even  before,  but  by  in  publishing  in  1993.  Butler  has  a  the  scene  it’s  amazing  in  a  number  of  ways  she  just  mentions  that  her  mom  whose  name  is  or  her  stepmom  whose  name  is  Corey  which  is  short  for  Corazon  she  says  she  speaks  to  me  in  Spanish  her  own  first  language  and  felt  like  a  kind  of  intimacy  and  she’s  asking  her  mom  why  at  one  point  people  couldn’t  really  see  the  stars  very  well  at  night  because  now  the stars  are  crystal  clear  every  night  when  there  isn’t  clouds.  And  her  mom  says  city  lights.  Back  then  we  had  them  that’s  why  we  couldn’t  see  the  stars  lights  progress  growth, all  those  things  that  were  too  hot  and  too  poor  to  bother  with  anymore.  anymore. 

So  this  sense  of  kind  of  nostalgia  and  a  sense  of  a  loss  of  possibility. Progress  and  growth  are  things  that  we  don’t  even  have  time  to  think  about.  In  a  scene  right  after  that, it  rains  for  the  first  time  in  six  years  and  she  talks  about  what  an  amazing  experience  it  is  and  how  everybody  tries  to  capture  the  rain,  how  it’s  going  to  be,  how  it’s  going  to  be.  water  is  now.  And  in  fact,  a  lot  of  the  book  involves water, as  they  eventually  go  on  this  journey  north,  one  of  the  main  things  they’re  trying  to  find  is  a  place  where  water  isn’t  so  scarce  and  so  valuable.

 Fires  of  course  are  described  as  raging  out  of  control.  But  for  the  protagonist,  this  action  is  one  of  the  main  things  they’re  trying  to  find  is  a  place  where  water  isn’t  so  scarce… connects  to  a  kind  of  an  openness  to  change  that  these  horrible  things  are  also  an  awareness  that  the  world  can  be  different  in  good  ways  as  well. That’s  one  of  the  kind  of  surprising  qualities  of  the  book. 

Now we’ll  get  into  this  larger  issue  of  how  it  draws  on, but  really  goes  beyond  Apocalyptic  thought and  does  something  new  with  it. The book is  very  very  conscious  of  injustice  and  inequality  and  there  are  a  number  of  horrifying  scenes  of  abuse  of  loss  of  small  children  tossed  tossed  dead  over  the  wall  like  a  sack  of  garbage  and  she  loses  her  father  and  never  even  expects  to  see  him  again.

 But  before  that  she  talks  about  how  her  favorite  book  of  the  Bible  is  Job  and  her  father  is  a  Baptist  preacher  and  she  says,  “I  think  that  book  says  more  about  my  father’s  book  of  the  Bible  is  more  about  my  father’s  book  of  the  Bible  is  more  about  my  father’s  book  of  the  Bible.  in  particular  and  God’s  in  general  than  anything  else  I’ve  ever  read.”  So  this  is  going  to  be  her  critical  take  on  previous  religion,  on  normal  religion.  In  the  book  of  Job,  God  says  he  made  everything  and  he  knows  everything  so  no  one  has  any  right  to  question  what  he  does  with  any  of  it.

 Okay,  she  says,  “That  works,  that  Old  Testament  God.”  God,  Hebrew  Bible  God,  doesn’t  violate  the  way  things  are  now.  He  sounds  a  lot  like  Zeus,  a  super  powerful  man, playing  with  his  toys.  The  way  my  youngest  brother  played  with  toy  soldiers.  Bang,  bang,  seven  toys  fall  dead.  If  they’re  yours,  you  get  to  make  the  rules.”  But  then  she  says,

 “What  if  all  of  that  is  wrong?  What  if  God  is  something  else  altogether?”  And  this  is  the  new  vision  of  God.  She’s  She’s  articulating,  “We  do  not  worship  God.”  This  is  from  this  book  of  her  Ideas  or  sayings  that  over  the  course  of  the  book  becomes  a  kind  of  scripture:

We  perceive  and  attend  God.  We  learn  from  God.  With  forethought  and  work,  we  shape  God. And  God  is  change. 

So  this  is  in  the  history  of,  at  least  of  Judaism  in  Christianity,  this  is  a  somewhat  strange  and  even  heretical  viewpoint  in  late  antiquity.

 This  was  known  as  theology,  the  idea  of  doing  work  on  God,  and  it’s  something  that’s  still  important  in  some  aspects  of,  for  example,  Kabbalah  and  Judaism.  But  there  the  theology  and  metaphysics  are  very  different.

 The  idea  is  that  we  are  are  all  sparks  or  pieces  of  God,  so  it’s  really  God  acting  on  God.  And  the  theory,  the  notion  of  religion  in  this  book  is  a  little  different.

 And  we’ll,  we’ll,  I’ll  talk  a  little  more  about  it.  And  then  I’ll,  probably  in  the  next  lecture,  I’ll  talk  really  focus  on  that.  But  so  there  are  these  references  to  Job  and  in  this  kind  of  divine  injustice  or  almost  apathy  to  human  conditions.

 But  there’s  also  a  reference  to  how  if  you  don’t  act  to  shape  God,  to  act  on  God,  then  she  says  in  her  earth  seed  writings, 

“a  victim  of  God  may,  through  a  shaper  of  God,

 or  a  victim  of  God  may,  through  shortsightedness  and  fear,  remain  God’s  victim,  God’s  plaything,  God’s  prey. 

And  it’s  a  really  scary  image, God’s  prey.  But  that  actually  does  appear in the Bible,  that  image  of  God  as  a  hunter,  or  some  kind  of  menacing  being  tormenting  the  speaker. Actually it’s a  very good  biblical  image  it  appears  in  strongly  in  the  book  of  Lamentations  as  well  as  in  the  book  of  Job  so  it  resonates  with  these  but  she  really  goes  beyond  this  and  it  is  not  and  so  there’s  also  a  big  a  big  scene  where  she  talks  about  the  story  of  Noah.

Noah, in  particular,  she  hears  her  father  preaching  from  Genesis  6.  God  saw  that  the  wickedness  of  man  was  great  in  the  earth  and  that  every  imagination  of  his  thoughts  and  of  his  heart  was  only  evil  and  God  regretted  he’d  made  man  and  the  Lord  said,

 “I  will  destroy  man  whom  I’ve  created  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  both  man  and  beast  and  the  creeping  thing  and  the  fouls  of  the  air  for  it  repenteth  me,  that  is,  I  regret  that  I’ve  made  them.”  But  Noah  found  grace  in  the  eyes  of  the  Lord.

 And  she  says, 

“Her  father  focused  on  the  two -part  nature  of  the  situation.  God  decides  to  destroy  everything  except  Noah,  his  family,  and  some  animals.  But  if  Noah  is  going  to  be  saved, he  has  plenty  of  hard  work  to  do.” 

And  this  is  a  big  theme  of  the  book  that,  in  order  to  partner  with  the  great  force  of  God,  of  the  world, we  need  to  learn  from  and  act  on  them,  act  on  the  world.  And  again,  this  is  this  is  why  it’s  more  than  an  apocalypse  novel. Because  remember  that  in  apocalyptic  thought,  there  is  a  clear  and  certain  pre -programmed  divine  timetable.  There’s  a  set  of  events  that  God  has  decided  beforehand  are  going  to  happen.

 and  there  is  nothing  we  can  do  about  it.  So  unlike  in  this  book,  you  can’t  shape  God,  or  if  you  learn  something  from  God,  you  can’t  act  on  it.

 That  doesn’t  really  matter.  So  in  Daniel,  there’s  four  predestined  periods  of  history  that  are  dominated  by  four  different  kingdoms  to  be  finally  followed  by  a  divinely  ruled  kingdom. that  will  last  forever.  Parts  of  the  book  of  Enoch,  and  in  the  Sybilline  oracles.  Everything  is  organized  into  units  of  seven,  cosmic  weeks,  or  10, also  a  number  they  like.

 But  in  this  book,  instead,  there  is  a  human  made  goal  to  aspire  to.  And  the  meaning  of  earth  seed,  ultimately,  for  Butler  is  that “we  are  to  become  the  seeds  of  Earth  that  are  planted  eventually  in  the  stars.”  So  to  take  our  forms  of  life  and  our  forms  of  possibility  eventually  beyond  Earth. And  that  becomes  this  goal  that  the  characters  aspire  to  and  that  helps  lead  them  forward.  So  it  draws  on  vital  elements  of  religious  thought  such  as  scripture and  this  idea  of  a  larger  force  that  we’re  participating  in.  And  in  particular,  the  character,  as  we’ll  talk  about,  creates  what  becomes  scripture.

So  this  is  another  really  interesting  aspect  of  the  book  is  that  it’s like  being there  at  the  creation  of  something  that’s  going  to  become  the  Bible,  the  Quran.  What  would  it  have  been  like  to  be  Moses?  Moses,  to  be  Muhammad,  to  be  Jesus  or  the  person  who’s  writing  down  the  sayings  of  the  Gospels?  And  there’s  a  really  interesting  difference  here, again,  that  makes  this  more  than  just  another  example  of  a  religious  book  or  religious  text,  which  is  there’s  no  supernatural  vision.  She  never  has  a  journey  to  heaven. She  never  has  a  dream.  or  an  overpowering  religious  experience.  What  she  has  instead  is  empathy,  overpowering  empathy, and  this  is  another  interesting  quality  of  her  character  is  that  she’s  got  what’s  called  hyper  empathy,  which  is  depicted  not  as  a  superpower  or  a  vision,  but  a  disability  that  she  is  so  sensitive  to  other  people’s suffering.  Suffering  or  other  experiences,  including  experiences  of  pleasure,  that  she  is  overcome  by  them  when  she  sees  somebody  else  having  a  strong  physical  reaction.  And  I  think  that  this  ties  in  really, really  nicely  with  this  idea  that  she  says  God  has  changed,  we  change  everything  we  touch,  but  we  are  changed  by  everything  we  touch  or  come  into  contact  with. 

So Lauren’s quality  of  hyper  empathy,  makes her kind  of  a  symbol  for  this  concept  that  she’s  also  preaching. But again,  this  is  not  a  conventional  religious  book.  And  in  fact,  you  get  a  sense  of  both  the  power  of  religion  and  then  her  critical  hard -nosed  view  of  realities  beyond  religion  or  beyond  conventional  religion,  I  should  say. When  at  her  father’s  funeral,  one  of  the  members  of  her  community  named  Kayla  Talcott  began  an  old  song.  Others  took  it  up,  singing  slowly  but  with  feeling.  We  shall  not  we  shall  not  be  moved. I  think  it  might  have  sounded  pitiful  if  it  had  been  started  by  a  lesser  voice,  but  Kayla  has  a  big  voice,  beautiful,  clear  and  able  to  do  everything  she  asks  for  of  it.

 And  later,  also  Kayla  has  a  reputation  for  not  moving  unless  she  wants  to.  So  this  seems  very  powerful.  And  then,  but  then  she  reflects  on  it  critically  at  the  end.

 She  says,  I’m  no  good  at  denial  and  self  deception.  This  was  my  father’s  funeral  that  I  was  preaching  at,  but  it  was  also  a  funeral  for  our  community.  And  she’s  talking  about  the  violence  that’s  starting  to  encroach  on  their  community,

 which  they’ve  built  this  little  walled,  kind  of  walled  small  town,  but  the  increasing  chaos  and  violence  outside,  she  knows  is  gonna  break  down  the  wall.

And  she  says,  “Because  as  much  as  I  want  all  the  things  that  I  said  to  be  true  at  the  funeral,  they’re  not.  We’ll  be  moved,  all  right?

 It’s  just  a  matter  of  when,  by  whom,  and  in  how  many  pieces.”  It  sounds  pretty  brutal,  right?  That  she’s  saying,  like,  “Oh,  all  this  churchy,  we  shall  not  be  moved stuff  is–in  the  end, bogus,  it’s  fake,  we’re  going  to  be  moved.  But  here  she  makes  her  point  about  this  new  view  that  she’s  developing.  Namely  that  we are  going  to  be  moved, things  are  going  to  change.  It’s  a  question  of,  in  this  case,  whether  we  move  ourselves  proactively,  whether  we  take  initiative  and  get  to  move  in  one  piece  or  whether  we  wait  for  a  forces  passively  to  act  on  us  and  we  might  get  chopped  up  into  pieces  so  it’s   very  grim  but also  as   I’m  suggesting  there’s  a  strong  sense  of  possibility  here  that  I  think  is  really  distinctive.

 I’ll  now  start  to  wrap  things  up  now  by  talking  about  this  experience  of  what  it’s  like  for  her  to  create  this  kind  of  scripture  that  isn’t  revealed.  This  is  not  a  scripture  that’s  supposed  to  come  directly  from  God,  it’s  supposed  to  come  from  her  own  insights,  and  she  talks  about  this.  “I’ve  never  felt  that  I  was  making  any  of  this  up, “ that  is,  these  notes  and  these  ideas  that  she’s  writing  in  her  book.  “I’ve  never  felt  that  I  was  making  any  of  this  up.  that  I  was  making  it  up  myself,  not  the  name  Earthseed  or  any  of  it.  I  mean,  I’ve  never  felt  that  it  was  anything  other  than  real  discovery  rather  than  invention, exploration  rather  than  creation.  I  wish  I  could  believe  it  was  all  supernatural  and  that  I’m  getting  messages  from  God,  but  then  I  don’t  believe  in  that  kind  of  God. All  I  do  is  observe  and  take  notes  trying  to  put  things  down  in  ways  that  are  as  powerful,  as  simple,  and  and  as  direct  as  I  can  feel  them.  I  can  never  quite  do  it.  I  keep  trying,  but  I  can’t”

And then  she  also  makes  this  really  interesting  argument  about  why  why  this  stuff  is  credible.  That’s  very very  interesting, and  this  is  closer  to  the  end  of  the  book.  A  bit  further  in  the  plot, someone  is  um  being  critical  of  her,  the  idea  she’s  propounding  and  the  person  says  you  believe  in  all  this  earth  seed  stuff  don’t  you? Every  word  I  answered  but  you  made  it  up.  I  reached  down  picked  up  a  small  stone  and  put  it  on  the  table  between  us.  If  I  could  analyze  this  and  tell  you  all  that  it  was  made  of  would  that  mean  I’d  made  up  its  content? He  didn’t  do  any  more  than  glance  at  the  rock  and  kept  his  eyes  on  me.  So  what  did  you  analyze  to  get  Earthseed?  Other  people,  I  said,  myself,  everything  I  could  read,  hear, see,  all  the  history  I  could  learn.  My  father  was  a  minister  and  a  teacher.  My  stepmother  ran  a  neighborhood  school.  I  had  a  chance  to  see  a  lot.

 So  this  harks  back  to  one  of  another  one  of  the  major  themes  of  the  course,  I  think,

 which  is  the  relationship  between  apocalypses  and  science.  And  we’ve  talked  about  how  some  of  these  early  apocalypses,  like  the  book  of  Enoch,  in  particular,  the  astronomical  portion  of  Enoch,  actually  contain  some  of  the  best  science  of  the  time.  And  it’s  paradox.  paradoxical  that  it  was  in  this,  it’s  in  this  otherworldly  revelation Enoch  has  taken  up  and  shown  the  universe  by  the  Angel  Uriel.  But  the  astronomy  and  math  in  it  seems  to  be  from  some  of  the  best  stuff  that  actually  the  Babylonian  astronomers  and  scholars  had  come  up  with.

 So  why  is  there  this  kind  of  serious  treatment  of  the  physical  world,  this  attempt  to  analyze  in  a  precise  way,  analyze  nature  in  apocalypses  and  what  we’ve  talked  about  before  is  how  apocalypses  are  about  creating  a  big  picture,  a  big  picture  of  history,  a  big  picture  of  how  the  universe  works,  and  because  of  that  a  picture  of  how  human  beings  fit  into  it. 

Now of  course,  this  is  often  done  in  a  way  that  that  we  would  not  call  rational.

 There’s  the  four  periods  of  history  or  the  seven  periods  of  history  or  the  ten  periods  of  history  that  I  mentioned  earlier.  Ultimately,  these  are  just  numbers  that  made  sense  intuitively  to  people  or  were  traditional. They  were  not  based  on  rigorous  observation  of  what  was  happening  in  the  universe,  but  the  desire  to  to  find  a  framework, to  find  out  what’s  actually  under  the  hood  of  the  universe,  to  find  out  the  bigger  patterns,  is  a  kind  of  an  apocalyptic  quest  that  we  saw  continued  in  a  lot  of  Western  thought  that  had  some  impact, including  theories  of  the  universe.  of  history. 

So  people  attempting  to  make  theories  of  what  the  main  forces  in  history  were.

 You  can  draw  a  line  from  some  apocalyptic  thinkers  to  even  to  philosophers  like  Hegel  or  Marx  or  others. And  so  to  conclude,  I  think  we  were  talking  about  whether  all  apocalypses  are  the  same,  whether  it’s  all  just  imagination.  And  the  argument  of  this  book  is  that  that  attitude  is  wrong  and  dangerous. If  you  view  the  powerful  forces  shaping  the  world  as  God,  as  the  main  character  Lauren  does,  that  passive  attitude  would  mean  to  become  God’s  victim  or  plaything. And  so  instead,  she  talks  about…  religion  and  the  religious  imagination  as  a  way  of  shaping  the  world, as  a  way  of  acting  on  God,  but  that  those  kinds  of  hard  observable  forces  in  the  world, whether  those  are  inequality  and  violence  or  climate  change,  are  things  that  you  do  not  play  around  with  or  wish  away.  They’re  things  that  you  observe.

 You  try  to observe  these  patterns,  you  analyze  them,  you  try  to  learn  from  them  and  then  you,  in  order  to,  as  she  says,  partner  with  God  to  not  become  God’s  plaything  or  victim, you  figure  out  how  to  respond  to  them,  how  to  ride  with  the  change  and  even  how  to  act  on  it.  it.  So  that’s  the  first  big  takeaway  I’d  give  from  the  book. And  so  for  the  second  podcast,  we’re  going  to  wrap  up  this  book  and  then  talk  about  another  amazing  book  called  The  End  of  Days  by  Gershon  Gorenburg,

 which  is  about  how  Jewish,  Islamic,  and  Christian  Apocalypse.  apocalypticism  all  kind  of  play  into  each  other  around  the  Temple  Mount  in  Jerusalem  and  how  each  group  can  become  a  character  in  another  group’s  apocalyptic  imagination  but  about  how  this  has  very  real  consequences.

 All  right,  so  thank  you  for  listening  and  yeah,  stay  safe  out  there.

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Introduction to Towards a Counteryhistory of the Western Canon

What fascinates me and I think all the work here promises to give us a better angle on is a set of apparent aporias closely shared between classics and biblical studies. These used to go under the name of the Homeric Question but could equally have been called the Mosaic Question. Four are most striking: Multicultural works Scholars agree on the internal diversity of early Greek and Hebrew literature, indicating a variety of locales and variant versions. For example: “The Homeric epics we have are products of different cultures, different audiences, and often competing linguistic, political, and class ideologies over time. They are not the font and origin of culture; rather, they are a fossilized cross-section of intercultural change.” Multilocal works Both early Hebrew and Greek literature have local allusions being forged (in both bland and pointed sense) into unity, as in the constantly shifting tribes of Israel (with the earliest list in Judges not even including the later dominant Judah), the two kingdoms of Israel and Judah retroactively reimagined as one “Israel,” or multiple Greek sites later assimilated under a panhellenic “Athens.” A Mostly Undocumented Formation, the period of which spans from the early to late first millennium BCE Mediterranean. Both within a rough 800-300 year timeframe of undocumented preclassical/precanonical (where the Judean exile and the Peisistratid period represent an early cutoff for many though not all scholars) The Problem of Monumentalization and Nationalization. Was the Peisistratean Recension a charter myth or a historical event? By contrast what is the legacy of the once dominant, then lost and exiled kingdom of Israel in Judah’s bible, which narrates the story of a primordial people of Israel retroactively, in a language variety we know they never spoke? If the texts are inherently multicultural in origin, why do they exert such a gravitational pull after their canonization (or through it) towards homogeneity? Named after two of the prime sites of their homogenization, the contrast between ‘Athens’ vs ‘Jerusalem’ has become a rigid philosophical paradigm, opposing reason to revelation and critical inquiry to religious inspiration. Can we turn this abstract antinomy into an open historical question?

These are agreed on facts supported by the past two centuries of research in our respective fields but together they seem to do nothing so much as undermine and work against the reasons we are usually given for valuing them as classics or canon. Biale offers a way that we could see taking these accepted discoveries and revaluing them, asking new questions that tell a new story–a counterhistory as a way to reintegrate these questions. He describes it with respect to the study of Jewish mysticism, which was famously understood before Scholem as ‘the history of nonsense’ and after Scholem as perhaps the hidden unifying theme of the history of Jewish culture.

“I shall call Scholem’s historical method of unearthing the “hidden virtue” from the traditional histories of Judaism of the 19th century “‘counter-history.” I mean by this term the belief that the true history lies in a subterranean tradition that must be brought to light,…as Walter Benjamin spoke of “brushing history against the grain.” Counter-history is a type of revisionist historiography, but where the revisionist proposes a new theory or finds new facts, the counter-historian transvalues old ones. He does not deny that his predecessors’ interpretation of history is correct, as does the revisionist, but he rejects the completeness of that interpretation: he affirms the existence of a “mainstream” or “establishment” history, but believes that the vital force lies” in something beneath the surface.

As a preliminary hint at guidance I am going to suggest two factors that emerge from these papers. The first is the persistent—and for the philologist, infuriating—essential feature of our source material of appearing with many voices and in many versions. This is best known to us when we encounter the variants in separate performances, traditions, or manuscripts, from the oral “composition in performance” envisioned for Homer by Parry and Lord to the creative rewriting we encounter in early biblical manuscript traditions. But it rises to a positive cultural value in the drive towards variation in performance and creativity that the Medievalist Paul Zumthor identified as “mouvance.” And it reaches its most puzzling and for me fascinating extreme in the presentation of simultaneous variants of a melody or plot, known in music theory as heterophony, a “folk music” value which we can identify in both Mesopotamian and Hebrew philology.

Similarly, I am fascinated by the way that none of the elements in these works closely connected with the Iron Age or earlier seem to belong to any one unified culture. From the major work of historical narrative in Judahite Hebrew, whose earliest tribal list conspicuously omits Judah, to the suspiciously local elements of Home and Hesiod, they seem to be alien artifacts that were later assimilated into a uniform, nationalized culture. This is true even, or perhaps especially, of the later traditions that claim to continue them—the continuity between biblical Priestly ritual and language, the ritual language and assumptions of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and those of the Rabbis that later claim them is far more tenuous and improvised than the later cultural nationalist histories of Jewish thought would admit.

This suggests the possible unifying elements of counterhistory within our aporias, the data that supposedly undermine or deconstruct the clean, unified picture of classic and canon. This is what I think of as their mulit-voiced quality, not yet finished pieces but a series of encounters and works that do not yet belong to any one culture, yet precisely because of this quality of polyphony and mobility lived beyond the monopoly of any one culture or power.

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What is Counterhistory?

Counter-history is a way of rethinking a field’s assumptions based not on revising its factual claims but on rediscovering what they might mean when significantly different questions are asked of those claims. It has the advantage that it can build on a field’s consensus and best established discoveries yet reveal completely new perspectives by assigning different values to them. It has its roots in the kind of rethinking that Nietzsche called the “transvaluation” of existing values, especially as developed by Foucault:

“[The project of counterhistory critiques and corresponds to traditional functions of history-writing in this way: it] opposes the theme of history as what is familiar and already known; the second is dissociative, directed against (national or ethnic) identity, and opposes history as continuity or representative of a tradition; the third is [directed against the idea of a single objective] truth, and opposes history as knowledge. They imply a use of history that severs its connection to cultural memory and constructs a counter-memory—a transformation of history into a totally different form of time.”

    (From “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History;” original version 1971)

In his Gershom Scholem: Kabbalah and Counter-History, the great UC Davis historian David Biale applies the concept to Jewish Studies, arguing that Scholem’s greatest impact came from revaluing the well-known, but denigrated, concept of Kabbalah which should actually be seen as a central lens for understanding Jewish culture and history.

“I shall call Scholem’s historical method of unearthing the “hidden virtue” from the Wissenschaft des Judentums “‘counter-history.” I mean by this term the belief that the true history lies in a subterranean tradition that must be brought to light, much as the apocalyptic thinker decodes an ancient prophecy or as Walter Benjamin spoke of “brushing history against the grain.” Counter-history is a type of revisionist historiography, but where the revisionist proposes a new theory or finds new facts, the counter-historian transvalues old ones. He does not deny that his predecessors’ interpretation of history is correct, as does the revisionist, but he rejects the completeness of that interpretation: he affirms the existence of a “mainstream” or “establishment” history, but believes that the vital force lies in a secret tradition.”

Biale: Scholem, 1979:11-12

Foucault: Language, Counter-Memory, Practice, ed. Donald F. Bouchard (1977) 160

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On the Ontology of Conspiracy Theories

This is going to be an inappropriately brief way to tie together Hannah Arendt, US covert activity, and the militarist turn of the US since the cold war but it’s either this or nothing so let’s go!

In what has to be one of the few brilliant (yet still somehow neglected) pieces of political theory published in a book review magazine, Hannah Arendt’s 1971 “On Lying in Politics” defined secrecy as a fundamental human problem. Her official topic was the release of the Pentagon Papers, a collection of classified US government documents showing that despite its historic levels of needless bloodshed and social disruption, the US government had extensive information showing it was still losing the Vietnam war, information it suppressed. By 1969 the US knew Vietnam was a lost cause (a quick look at Wikipedia shows it remains communist today). Why, then, was our government fruitlessly sacrificing so many human lives to thwart the will of most Vietnamese overseas?

Arendt argued that secrecy itself was a big part of the underlying political problem. Secrecy, and the lying necessary to keep it, is an essential yet essentially toxic feature of political order. In large-scale societies, sooner or later people will want more power, territory, or profit than others are willing to give them. And in the face of economic and military competition, you have to make plans and act on them. This makes secrecy necessary, because letting your competitors know these plans in advance would make it more likely that they can defeat them. Whether it’s an assassination or releasing a new product, keeping certain plans secret requires lying about them: “Plans? We haven’t made any yet… And we’re definitely not going to start on Saturday morning at 4am before anyone’s awake!”

But if the impulse to secrecy has a necessary basis it also has no natural limit, tending to warp and poison its own environment. Because of the feeling of power and exclusiveness that privileged knowledge gives, it tends to take on a magical quality for its possessors, what ancient Romans called the arcana imperii. While it can give its users power, knowing the dirt nobody else is allowed to also naturally makes them unaccountable and alienates them from the people they ostensibly serve. As the historian of science Peter Galison shows, the US government has tended to classify a larger and larger portion of its documents every year, leading to the current absurd reality that because the government produces so many memos and minor documents, there is now more knowledge produced that is annually removed from the public sphere than actually made public.

This, writes Arendt, is why only the US government would have been outraged about publicizing the contents of the Pentagon papers, because that information by 1970 had already been widely circulated in the press via enterprising reporters like Sy Hersh and I.F. Stone. Who, suggested Arendt, could possibly be living in such an artificially curtailed and distorted information environment that they thought nobody but them knew this? Who else but the President?

This brings us to the ontological nature of conspiracy theories: false or unsupported, baseless beliefs about secret plans. Two facts about conspiracy theories have long been noted: first, they are very popular, with some surveys suggesting half of the US population believes in some of the more baseless and/or sinister such as QAnon or a secret UFO base at Area 51. But second, some of the beliefs dismissed as conspiracy theories turn out to be true, such as the CIA’s role in trafficking crack cocaine to black communities in the 1980s. This is why it is hard to get a grip on the concept–if they are inherently fake, what do we call the ones that are based in a suppressed reality, the actual hidden dealings of a state or other powerful group? Rather than illusions, these might represent fundamental realities.

Can we create a bigger picture about what sort of important real world actions would tend to be kept secret, the “conspiracy theories” that turn out to be true? Politically one attempt might connect Vietnam and the increasing tendency toward destructive interventionism by the United States with things like the unwillingness of most US political figures on both sides of the aisle to challenge it. This is surely not the only possible one, but we can follow it as an example. Perhaps, as a recent book on the forgotten female figures around the John F. Kennedy assassination suggests, this big picture is connected with a greater covert investment in such interventionism, and more serious warnings to political leaders who resist it, than publicly known.

Arendt’s analysis of lying in politics suggests that the very concept of the “Conspiracy Theory” involves a false ontology. Due to the inherent nature of competition and politics, government and other groups make secret plans, including audacious or disturbing ones, where available information will be either nonexistent or muddy and incomplete. And not only are the more disturbing plans more likely to be kept secret, but from Galison’s study of government records we know that secrecy tends to increase over time. Ontologically, there are no conspiracy theories, only true or false, plausible or implausible beliefs about secrets–things which by definition we don’t fully know. Our only hope to navigate these competing theories is to have a plausible bigger picture to place them in to see if they fit.

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Towards a Counterhistory of the Western Canon

The “Original Fragments” of the Bible and Homer:

Friday and Saturday February 16 and 17 at UC Davis

Paper titles, presenters, and abstracts

Curious readers have long wondered how the traditions of early Greek and Hebrew literature were transformed, reinvented, and even falsified by the people who transmitted them to us. Historically informed reading between the lines and against the grain suggests that our classics had a very different past than the ones they themselves present. This emerges if you just count the number of tribes of Israel (Judah, later the most famous one, doesn’t even appear in what is probably the oldest list, Judges 5). It becomes even clearer if you look at their religious loyalties, which are complex, shifting, and polytheistic–hardly a monolith. Similar patterns appear in the diverse cultures behind the mythic narrators of the most famous Greek poetry, “Homer” and “Hesiod,” who never quite considered themselves Greek. But what can we plausibly know about the “pre-Classical” nature and origins of these Western Classics, and what can they teach us?

After immersion in Pentateuchal scholarship and the histories of ancient Near Eastern literary formation, reading Joel Christensen’s incisive overview of some analogous issues in Classics, “99 Homeric Problems,” I was intrigued and, frankly, encouraged by the realization that Homer and the Bible have raised provocatively parallel questions for scholars themselves: researchers in these two fields have long been intrigued by very similar problems. The famous “Homeric Question” corresponded to a parallel biblical “Mosaic Question” about the nature and origins of Hebrew literature.

Without artificially homogenizing two sets of ancient literature with sharply distinct literary forms (in Greek, poetic epics vs. in Hebrew a heterogenous library including narrative prose, law, and poetry) and contexts of production (a local festival at Athens vs. a spectrum of sites in the Levant including royal courts and temples and later scholarly production) I see the questions as today raising four shared issues: 1) they are inherently multicultural works, in their nature, “not the font and origin of culture; rather, they are a fossilized cross-section of intercultural change.” 2) They are inherently multi-local works, with a range of contexts and audiences being forged (in both the generic and pointed senses) into one. What puts an edge on these questions is a problem that scholarship can neither resolve nor responsibly let go of: the facts that: 3) they are both rooted in a pre-Classical period of formation that spans between about 800-300 BCE but is only available to us in glimpses and fragments and 4) in their very linguistic form they represent vernaculars being monumentalized and standardized in order to shape the cultural, spatial, and chronological diversity into a desired unity.

While both the Homeric and Mosaic or biblical questions were shaped by their environment in scholarly exchange between the 18th and 19th centuries, they originate in a profound shared problem, the fact that both come to us as Classics, things certain types of people are supposed to know. Yet the texts themselves were formed in an unevenly documented pre-Classical context, intended to speak to a type of audience that is now lost. Their monumentalization had a shaping effect on Western European self-concepts via the paradigmatic opposition between “Athens” and “Jerusalem.”

This workshop is a way to brainstorm about what sorts of things we can take from the pre-Classical phases and conceptualize in order to move forward. Are there more illuminating ways to compare and conceptualize these literatures’ stages and periodizations? What are productive new ways to think about what we can say and what we should be asking?

Parallel Homeric and Mosaic Questions:

  1. Multicultural works
    Scholars agree on the internal diversity of early Greek and Hebrew literature, indicating a variety of locales and variant versions. There is agreement on the diversity of contents in these traditions including early Iron Age and even Late Bronze Age cultural material, culturally ‘impure’ in the sense that these traditions first appear in geographically and culturally distant forms: “The Homeric epics we have are products of different cultures, different audiences, and often competing linguistic, political, and class ideologies over time. They are not the font and origin of culture; rather, they are a fossilized cross-section of intercultural change.”
  2. Multilocal works
    Both early Hebrew and Greek literature have local allusions being forged (in both bland and pointed sense) into unity, as in the constantly shifting tribes of Israel (with the earliest list in Judges not even including the later dominant Judah), the two kingdoms of Israel and Judah retroactively reimagined as one “Israel,” or multiple Greek sites that are later assimilated under a panhellenic “Athens.”
  3. A Mostly Undocumented Formation, the period of which spans from the early to late first millennium BCE Mediterranean.
    Both within a rough 800-300 year timeframe of undocumented preclassical/precanonical (where the Judean exile and the Peisistratid period represent an early cutoff for many though not all scholars)
  4. The Problem of Monumentalization and Nationalization.
    Was the Peisistratean Recension a charter myth or a historical event? By contrast what is the legacy of the once dominant, then lost and exiled kingdom of Israel in Judah’s bible, which narrates the story of a primordial people of Israel retroactively, in a language variety we know they never spoke? If the texts are inherently multicultural in origin, why do they exert such a gravitational pull after their canonization (or through it) towards homogeneity? Named after two of the prime sites of their homogenization, the contrast between ‘Athens’ vs ‘Jerusalem’ has become a rigid philosophical or theological paradigm, opposing reason to revelation and critical inquiry to religious inspiration. Can we turn this fixed paradigmatic opposition back into an open historical question?
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The Myth of 19th-Century Origins

That “religion” is not a neutral, natural, or universal rubric is one rare point of consensus connecting specialists from otherwise far-flung corners of Religious Studies. And this contention also serves as one of the clearest markers distinguishing those scholars trained in Religious Studies from those trained in Theology, Classics, South Asian Studies, Jewish Studies, etc

–Annette Yoshiko Reed, ‘Partitioning “Religion” and its Prehistories: Reflections on Categories, Narratives and the Practice of Religious Studies

There remains a dominant modern scholarly theory of religion that continues to shape the field in productive but largely unexamined ways, with both foundations and side effects that have still for the most part evaded critical scrutiny. This is what you could call the Myth of 19th-Century Origins, the folk-theory that during the 19th century* a group of elite Western European and American white Protestant men invented and transmitted to us most of our main scholarly tools, from the category of religion to the idea of the historical composition of the Pentateuch and the text-critical and historical-linguistic ‘family tree.’

Reed’s incisive framing acts to begin the conversation but was not the focus of her essay, so here I propose a few theses on it:

  1. It may act as a myth of uniqueness–that unlike other disciplines such as history or physics, accounting or anthropology, religion was more distinctively shaped by its modern invention than other fields–“one of the clearest markers distinguishing” Religious Studies in Reed’s words.
  2. It may afford a sense of special self-awareness, a kind of enchantment in an almost literal sense (“In Comparison a Magic Dwells,” as one of the chief proponents of the idea that self-awareness is the religion scholar’s main tool, J. Z. Smith, articulated it)
  3. Yet while it effectively functions to demarcate the field this self-awareness is highly tragic, since its foundation is inseparable from the most negative legacies of the field in colonialism, racism, and white supremacy. Less often mentioned though also present in this view is an intertwining with anti-Semitic Protestant triumphalism.

Why the 19th century (and not the 17th)?

One feature that distinguishes the Myth of 19th-Century Origins as a folk-theory, that is, an intuitive typification rather than a more rigorous and heavily-supported one, is that it is based on examination of the material that happens to be most salient and accessible. This is to say that key elements in modern European “comparative religion” only appear distinctive to it as long as we remain within the 19th and early 20th centuries, as this passage from Deborah Kuller Shuger’s brilliant The Renaissance Bible illustrates:

We may begin with two rather lengthy accounts of human sacrifice:


“Early peoples grasped instinctively that the more valuable the object they offered to God, the more easily they might
obtain forgiveness, especially if the payment were somehow equivalent to the purchase. They therefore began to
sacrifice men rather than animals for sin offerings. Caesar explains the rationale in his discussion of the Gauls: “They
thought the immortal gods could not be placated unless the life of a man were given for the life of men.” The
Canaanites (i.e., the Phoenicians) seem to have been the first to practice this; the Bible mentions that they were
accustomed to placate Moloch by sacrificing their children…. Some of these had been Tyrians, among whom it was
anciently customary to sacrifice a free-born boy to Saturn…. Carthage, a colony of Tyre, also received this ritual from
its founders…. Lactantius, citing Pescennius Festus, reports that the Carthaginians immolated two hundred noble
children to propitiate the god, whom they believed angry at them…. Similarly, the ancient Egyptians sacrificed people,
particularly those of exceptional beauty, a practice they maintained up to the time of Amosis, who substituted wax
images…. In Cyprus likewise a man was slain until the age of King Diphilus, who replaced this with animal sacrifice.
Rhodes, Chios, Tenedos, and Salamis had similar rites….The Albanians in particular were known for sacrificing those believed to possess a special holiness. According to Pausanius, the Ionians sacrificed a maiden and a youth to placate Diana’s wrath….”

It seems instructive to compare this quotation to the second passage:


“Human scapegoats … were well known in classical antiquity, and even in mediaeval Europe the custom seems not to
have been wholly extinct…. In the temple of the Moon the Albanians of the Eastern Caucasus kept a number of sacred
slaves…. When one of these men exhibited more than usual symptoms of inspiration or insanity … the high priest had
him bound with a sacred chain and maintained him in luxury for a year. At the end of the year he was anointed with
unguents and led forth to be sacrificed…. Then the body was carried to a certain spot where all the people stood upon
it as a purificatory ceremony. This last circumstance clearly indicates that the sins of the people were transferred to the
victim, just as the Jewish priest transferred the sins of the people to the scapegoat by laying his hands on the animal’s
head…. We have here an undoubted example of a man-god slain to take away the sins and misfortunes of the people.
The ancient Greeks were also familiar with the use of a human scapegoat…. Whenever Marseilles, one of the busiest
and most brilliant of Greek colonies, was ravaged by a plague, a man of the poorer classes used to offer himself as a scapegoat. For a whole year he was maintained at the public expense, being fed on choice and pure food. At the expiry of the year he was dressed in sacred garments, decked with holy branches, and led through the whole city, while prayers were uttered that all the evils of the people might fall on his head. He was then cast out of the city or stoned to death by the people outside of the walls. The Athenians regularly maintained a number of degraded and useless beings at the public expense; and when any calamity … befell the city, they sacrificed two of these outcasts as scapegoats. One of the victims was sacrificed for the men and the other for the women…. “


One notes some stylistic differences between the two passages; the prose of the second excerpt is more luxuriant and richer in cultural detail. But the overall similarity seems evident. Both contain the same lists of ancient or primitive sacrificial rituals, the same marshaling of ethnographic evidence to support a general theory about the expiatory-apotropaic function of sacrifice, the same implication that Christianity properly belongs among the ancient religions of human sacrifice. The second passage comes from Frazer’s Golden Bough , first published in 1880.

But the first was written over two and a half centuries earlier; it appears in the final chapter of Hugo Grotius’s De satisfactione Christi , published in 1617, a work that Jaroslav Pelikan calls “one of the most important theories in the whole history … of the atonement,” although, like every other commentator on this text, he does not mention the contents of this
last chapter.”

Kuller Shuger 1994: 55-56

Kuller Shuger’s account suggests that it may be the accessibility of materials, in English or German, rather than their inherent nature, their relationship to the history of ideas and influences in the stricter sense, that accounts for the prominence of the 19th century here.

Why Unique to Religious Studies?

It turns out that many if not all modern intellectual tools and fields have contingent, culturally-bound histories that have been critically examined in influential accounts. There are similar histories, not just for history, but for physics, accounting, and anthropology which made major impacts in their field. A prime area of investigation, then, would be the self-consciousness of the self-consciousness argument– when and how–or whether–such strongly parallel accounts are brought into play in the lachrymose histories of the History of Religions

Fasolt wrote in 2004 of “The Limits of History,” while Engelstein more recently made such an argument for genealogy.

Historical accounts such as those of Shapin and Schaffer 1985 kicked of what became known as the “science wars” (which they arguably won). Yet even double-entry bookkeeping has a highly contingent and constructed quality inseparable from our ideas of the economic and empirical, as Poovey showed in 1998.

The debate has been especially central to anthropology, kicked off by Eric Wolf 1982 among others and continued by the study of ethnographies as inevitably reflexive and quasi autobiographical literary works argued by Clifford and Marcus 1986 and Clifford 1988.

And it has of course appeared in Biblical Studies and philology, fields heavily branded with a 19th-century German Protestant identity despite their roots in late antiquity and earlier.

Why a Unique Invention of the Modern West?

Recently Rushain Abbasi has argued that rather than being the distinct intellectual invention of 19th-century European Christian elites, premodern Muslims had developed a concept akin to the modern sense of “religion,” under the heading dīn, literally “law, rule” (compare Hebrew dāt “religion, law,” from Old Persian dāta “law, command”) He goes on to argue that,

[T]hey were the first historical community to sustain and develop a rich and robust analytical discourse around the idea of religion, which consequently played a major role in various social, political, and intellectual endeavors in Islamic history. [Further,] premodern Muslims continuously redefined and repurposed the concept of religion (based on a readily available conceptual vocabulary produced within the Late Antique Near East) in the process of offering particular sociological accounts of the origins and nature of religion….

For Further Investigation

Reed lucidly summarizes:

Since the appearance of W. C. Smith’s Meaning and End of Religion in 1962, the anachronism of the category has been revealed and re-revealed repeatedly. In the 1990s alone, the term’s contingent and culturally-bound “origins” were critically exposed in influential works by Talal Asad, Daniel Debuisson, Russell McCutcheon, and J. Z. Smith.2 Nor have these celebrated, much-cited, and prominent acts of unveiling sufficed to abate the trend. More recent examples include Brent Nongbri’s Before Religion: A History of a Modern Concept, published three years ago, and Carlin Barton and Daniel Boyarin’s co-authored Imagine No Religion:3How Modern Abstractions Hide Ancient Realities, published just a few months ago.

As well as perhaps most influentially Masuzawa 2005.

Starting with the two Smiths, this would present a remarkable project for investigation. A promising possible model for this genealogy of the 19th-century origin would be Bauman and Briggs’ 1989 Voices of Modernity.

*In some accounts perhaps starting as early as the 18th century and perhaps extending to the beginnings of the 20th.