Participatory Learning: Religious Education in a Globalizing Society (Empirical Studies in Theology) (Empirical Studies in Theology)

PARTICIPATORY LEARNING

EMPIRICAL STUDIES IN THEOLOGY EDITOR

JOHANNES A. VAN DER VEN

VOLUME 9

PARTICIPATORY LEARNING Religious Education in a Globalizing Society BY

CHRIS A.M. HERMANS

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2003

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Hermans, C.A.M. (Chris A.M.) Participatory learning : religious education in a globalizing society / by Chris Hermans p. cm. – (Empirical studies in theology, ISSN 1389-1189 ; v. 9) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 9004 13001 2 (alk. paper) 1. Religious education–philosophy. 2. Globalization–religious aspects I. Title. II. Series. BL42 .H47 2003 291 . 7/5 dc21 2003050020 CIP

ISSN 1389-1189 ISBN 90 04 13001 2 © Copyright 2003 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands Cover design by Jacqueline Heijmerink, Lochem All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change.

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CONTENTS

Introduction ..................................................................................

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Chapter 1: Religion in a Globalizing World ...................... 1.1 Globalization ........................................................................ 1.2 Cultural changes in a globalizing society ............................ 1.2.1 Homogenization ................................................................ 1.2.2 De-traditionalization ......................................................... 1.2.3 Privatization ..................................................................... 1.2.4 De-institutionalization ....................................................... 1.3 Changes in religion .............................................................. 1.3.1 Homogenization ................................................................ 1.3.2 De-traditionalization ......................................................... 1.3.3 Privatization ..................................................................... 1.3.4 De-institutionalization .......................................................

18 19 32 35 41 45 49 53 53 59 68 75

Chapter 2: Theological Reflection on Tradition ............... 2.1 Time and space ..................................................................... 2.2 Three rival concepts of tradition .......................................... 2.2.1 Post-traditional concept of tradition .................................... 2.2.2 Traditionalist concept of tradition ....................................... 2.2.3 Open concept of tradition ................................................... 2.3 God as (In)finite time and space ......................................... 2.3.1 Theological evaluation of fundamentalism ........................... 2.3.2 (In)finitude in terms of an iconic hermeneutics ..................... 2.4 Marginality/the marginalized other .................................... 2.4.1 Poverty: facts and experience .............................................. 2.4.2 The moral significance of marginality ................................. 2.4.3 A consistent option for marginality ......................................

83 85 92 93 98 102 107 108 114 124 124 128 134

Chapter 3: Religion: Three Rival Conceptions ................. 3.1 Religion: a contested concept .............................................. 3.1.1 Short history of the concept religion ..................................... 3.1.2 Three criteria for a critical assessment of the concept of religion .........................................................................

144 146 147 152

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3.2 Religion as experience ......................................................... 3.2.1 Empiricist theories ............................................................. 3.2.2 Critical assessment ............................................................ 3.3 Religion as language ............................................................ 3.3.1 Linguistic theories .............................................................. 3.3.2 Critical assessment ............................................................ 3.4 Religion as practice .............................................................. 3.4.1 Institutional theories .......................................................... 3.4.2 Critical assessment ............................................................

159 159 164 168 168 172 176 176 201

Chapter 4: A Socially Constructed Religious Self ............ 4.1 Social construction of the self .............................................. 4.1.1 Social constructionist theories of the self .............................. 4.1.2 The dialogic or polyphonic self ........................................... 4.2 The ‘religious self’ ................................................................ 4.2.1 The self-in-religious-practices ............................................. 4.2.2 The self-in-communities-of-religious-practice ........................ 4.2.3 The religious-self-as-author ................................................ 4.2.4 A self authored in terms of a polyphonic (In)finitude ........... 4.2.5 A ‘mediated’ self-in-religious-practices ................................. 4.2.6 A positional self-in-religious-practices ................................ 4.3 Development of the religious self ........................................ 4.3.1 Religious development? ....................................................... 4.3.2 Development from participation ..........................................

206 208 208 217 221 222 226 230 236 242 245 248 249 257

Chapter 5: Learning From Participation ............................ 5.1 Participation as basic concept of the new learning ............ 5.2 Premises of participatory learning ....................................... 5.2.1 Developmental learning ...................................................... 5.2.2 Social learning .................................................................. 5.2.3 Mediated learning ............................................................. 5.2.4 Meaningful learning .......................................................... 5.3 Learning and instruction ..................................................... 5.3.1 Didactics of developmental learning ..................................... 5.3.2 Didactics of social learning ................................................ 5.3.3 Didactics of mediated learning ............................................ 5.3.4 Didactics of meaningful learning .........................................

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Chapter 6: Inter-religious Learning ..................................... 6.1 Religious education in a pluralistic context ........................ 6.1.1 Mono-religious education ................................................... 6.1.2 Multi-religious education ................................................... 6.1.3 Inter-religious education ..................................................... 6.2 Towards a hermeneutics of inter-religious dialogue ........... 6.2.1 A hermeneutics of recognition .............................................. 6.2.2 Recognition of distinctiveness .............................................. 6.2.3 Recognition of suffering and injustice .................................. 6.2.4 Recognition of otherness ..................................................... 6.3 Didactics of inter-religious learning ..................................... 6.3.1 Didactics of development-oriented inter-religious learning ....... 6.3.2 Didactics of social inter-religious learning ............................ 6.3.3 Didactics for inter-religious mediated learning ...................... 6.3.4 Didactics of inter-religious meaningful learning ....................

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334 336 337 341 343 349 350 353 357 360 363 365 369 372 376

Bibliography ................................................................................ 388 Index of Subjects ......................................................................... 396 Index of Authors ......................................................................... 403

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INTRODUCTION

We start this introduction with a story. It is a parody of a form of learning that is at odds with the principles of participatory learning. Then we explain the structure and contents of the book. We decided on an extensive introduction that sums up the main ideas in the book. At the end of the introduction we indicate what is meant by a study of the foundations of religious education. A parody An extraterrestrial being – let’s call her Ypsilon – lands on earth. Ypsilon was sent to earth on a special mission: to discover what it means to live as a citizen on earth. Ypsilon duly reports to the immigration service. The official informs her that every new citizen has to complete an orientation course. Ypsilon is happy to comply, since she wants to know what life on earth is about. The immigration service has established special centres where newcomers are instructed in the culture of the host country. Ypsilon attends classes six hours each day. There she sits next to other children in the same room. Ypsilon soon realises that this type of grouping was chosen out of considerations of efficiency. Newcomers do not learn together; it is rather a form of ‘learning together apart’. Most of the courses are written, although more and more computers are brought into the classroom. Ypsilon is given excellent ratings for her work. She also finds the system highly efficient: after reading a text, you answer a few questions and then you know the work. Ypsilon finds the traffic lessons particularly fascinating. For this course she is given a book with a great many colour plates and drawings. They all represent things that are totally foreign to Ypsilon: cars, bicycles, right-turn traffic, a zebra crossing, a stop sign. In due course Ypsilon will recognize these pictures. She obtains high marks for the course. Ypsilon is an exceptionally bright pupil. After an intensive six months course she leaves the doors of the centre to embark on real life. She is confident, for she has had good ratings all along. But life outside the centre is quite unlike what she learnt in her courses. People speak to each other very differently from what she heard on the CD-Rom for the language course. The words might be the same, but everything else is altogether different. Everyone talks at the same time; they don’t complete their sentences; sentences are littered with foreign words; and sometimes the speakers mean something quite different from what they are saying. And, equally disconcerting, they look at Ypsilon as though she comes from another planet. Then they start speaking in a very dif-

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 ferent way from what she learned in her courses and think that Ypsilon can’t join in the conversation. As for the traffic, it is not at all like the pictures. First you need to stay upright on your bicycle and not fall over. Once you have learnt to cycle, you have to watch out for traffic signs and all the while smelly, hooting cars are tearing past you. How can people live like this? How do they manage? Bewildered and disillusioned, she returns to where she came from. “So what is it like to live on earth?” her fellow beings inquire curiously. Ypsilon decides simply to tell them about the courses. At least she understood those.

In many respects children and youths receiving religious instruction in our culture resemble extraterrestrial beings doing an orientation course. Religion or religiosity are unknown quantities which they have hardly encountered at home. And even those children who have contact with religion because their parents or minders belong to a religious community or a church often have only a faint notion of religion. At most people might say: “There has to be something else, something greater.” The subtitle of this book encapsulates this problem: religious education in globalizing society. Chapter 1 deals at length with globalization as a cultural phenomenon. We regard globalization as a particularization of modernization, which has been proceeding in Western society ever since the Enlightenment. Within modernization we identify two processes: a process of rationalization (modernity 1) and a process of fragmentation and transformation (modernity 2). In present-day society both modernization processes occur not only at the level of nation-states but also (and not only!) beyond this at a global level. This altered context gives both processes rationalization and transformation a new dynamics. The dynamics stems from an altered experience of the space in which we live. Globalization refers both to the expansion (or explosion) of space to the limits of the earth and to the compression (or implosion) of space. A simple illustration of this is the Internet. The Internet extends the scope of communication from the local to the global level. Since the mid-1980s the percentage of the total number of items that cross national borders via the Internet has rocketed. At the same time the Internet is an example of compression of space and time. The world is squeezed into a computer screen. Information from the other side of the globe is instantly available here and now. We outline the cultural consequences of globalization with reference to four processes: homogenization, de-traditionalization, privatization and de-institutionalization. The question is not whether these

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changes are occurring, but to what extent they have occurred. Proponents of a radical thesis put the accent on a complete break with the way culture used to function in the past. We argue that, although there has undoubtedly been change, it is not all that radical. We then examine to what extent the four processes are manifest in religion. – Homogenization refers to the process whereby symbols and stories that impart ‘sense’ (world-views) are produced by the mass communication industry. In a globalizing society there is less institutional control over the use of the religious symbols, stories and rituals of a particular tradition by people from other traditions. Religions find themselves on a market operating on a global scale. At the same time the world has become so small that people have contact with a multitude of religions and systems for assigning meaning in their immediate environment. This promotes syncretism or hybridization. – De-traditionalization refers to a process in which traditions lose their iron grip on individuals’ religious ideas and actions. Pluralism is rife in religious communities. Faith in God continues to exist, but who and what constitutes ‘God’ is fragmented in the minds of believers. This coincides with a shift in authority. Authority no longer comes from outside and above but resides within the person. – Privatization refers to the disappearance of religion from the public sphere of society. The various public domains operate according to their own (rational) considerations. Here religion is meaningless. In the private sphere, however, individuals are free to choose for themselves. Religious pluralism also means that one can no longer speak about religion in a universal sense. – De-institutionalization refers to the disappearance of institutions, in the sense of religious organizations, from the religious sphere. Fewer and fewer people indicate a preference for public organizations (broadcasting stations, hospitals, a political party) with a religious basis. And the number of people that profess to belong to a religious community has declined drastically. Life in a globalizing society is also greatly influenced by an experience of contingency, fragmentation, transience, transformation (modernity 1). In such a context, can tradition still play its essential role in the continuity of a religion? There is no simple answer to this question because of the profound crisis into which faith and religion are plunged in a globalizing society. At the same time it is a crucial question facing religion in our days.

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In chapter 2 we develop a theological concept of tradition. First we scrutinize the categories of space and time (2.1). Globalization has major implications for the experience of space and time, both of which are transcendental categories. They are not observable in the world, and say as much about the knowing subject as they do about the reality that is known. Of course, there is also measurable space and time. But clock time and geometrical space are not time and space as we experience them. Time is the experience of living between past and future. Without this tension between past and future there is no present. Living in time means living in the tension between past and future. Space means living in the tension between space outside us and our inner space. External space is the forces impinging on us (nature, the community). Inner space is the power of assent or free will. Without the tension between outside forces and inner assent one could speak of pseudo-space. When people are governed entirely by outside forces, they experience it as having no space. When it is a matter of self-will only, life lacks gravitation (metaphorically speaking). Real time and real space are experienced reciprocally: each pole presupposes the other. We must emphasize that time and space are social categories. If there is no communion with other people, the experience of time and space evaporates. Thus I as an individual have a past because people who lived before me influence the present, and I have a future because people will live after me for whom my present actions have implications. This spatiotemporal system of coordinates is useful for systematizing the concept of tradition. We shall identify three such concepts: a post-traditional view, a traditionalist view and an open tradition concept (2.1.2). A post-traditional approach puts the accent exclusively on the future and inner space. A traditionalist view puts the accent exclusively on the past and outside forces. An open tradition concept seeks to obviate the tension in the spatiotemporal system of coordinates. In this context we also discuss the simultaneity of being both heir to the past and legator to the future. Handing down tradition means transforming it. We then work out the concept of tradition in terms of a Christian perception of transcendence (2.3). A key problem for theism in a globalizing society is the relation between transcendence and immanence. We settle for a model of transcendence-in-immanence, and treat the question of God as a problem of (in)finite time and space. Our choice is based on what is known as an iconic hermeneutics. An icon is a win-

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dow on existence, on (in)finitude. Here we need to distinguish clearly between icons and idols. An idol is an image of God made by us. Idols of God keep our longing for (in)finitude captive. As a first step, an iconic hermeneutics requires freeing icons from the hold of our idols of God. The second step is to think in terms of God’s name which opens up (in)finite space. God himself opens up a ‘passage’ for people to a new, unsuspected and irreducible reality. Within Christian thinking about (in)finitude we then find a second focus: a consistent option for marginality (more particularly the marginalized other). Tolerating marginality as the ‘alien’, both in ourselves and in others, calls our selves in question. Obviating the ‘alien’ and ‘alienation’ may create space for (in)finitude (2.4). In chapter 3 the key concept is religion. What in fact is religion? A particular kind of experience? A special language used to refer to God or some transcendent reality? Or is religion a particular practice, just as music or traffic is a particular cultural practice? This is a fundamental question. If one does not know what religion is, one cannot say what religious education is, just as one cannot teach music if one has no clue what music is. It may be surprising that we have not chosen some other key concept for reflection, such as attribution of meaning or world-view. Hence it seems appropriate to say a bit more about this in the introduction. The first reason for probing the concept of religion in such depth is that it is a highly controversial one. What one person defines as religion is nothing like religion to the next. We shall come across this problem time and again when we analyze religion in our society from the perspective of sociology of religion (see chapter 1). It leads to amazing debates. Whereas one author holds that religion is in crisis, another sees it flourishing everywhere in society, albeit in non-traditional forms. Considering the controversial nature of the concept of religion it is remarkable that it does not receive more attention in the pedagogics of religion. The fact is that the definition of this concept has important implications, not only for religious education but also for the way learning processes are arranged. Secondly, introducing the concept ‘attribution of meaning’ or variants of it (e.g. world-view) does not obviate the need to define religion. It is possible, for instance, to conceptualize religion in terms of attributing meaning. Even if one uses this as an umbrella term, one would still have to define religion at one point or another. So the analysis of this concept is in fact focal in chapter 3. In the third place religion can be linked with a universal human

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search for meaning, in the broad sense of human need for explanation (cf. Durkheim). This link is fundamental to our approach and a cornerstone of the model of participatory learning. People are beings who construct meaning and this process of constructing meaning (e.g. religious meaning) has to be supported in religious education. The statement that all people search for meaning appears to have a claim to universality: being human is inconceivable without attribution of meaning. But as soon as one speaks of ultimate meaning or variants of it, all claims to universality have to be relinquished. Empirical research indicates that not all people are intent on constructing an ultimate meaning (religious or non-religious) for their lives (see 1.3.1).1 There is one last, more formal argument. Every theory rests on certain assumptions. These assumptions cannot be tested; that is why they are assumptions. At most one can make predictions and then check in how far they come true. An example is the assumption that all human beings construct ultimate meaning for their lives. The more theoretical assumptions one builds into a theory, the more vulnerable the theory. In our time of cultural and religious flux (see chapter 1) it is more appropriate and, above all, theoretically sounder to use a theory that is cautious in its assumptions about the religious sphere. We believe that we have found such a theory in the form of a culturalinstitutional theory of religion (see below). The only assumption made in this theory is that there are people who designate certain collective activities religious practices on the basis of a tradition. The criterion for calling a particular object, role or activity religious is intra-traditional. That does not mean that it cannot be debated, according to both intra-traditional and extra-traditional criteria. But the fact that there is a group of people who call certain practices religious is sufficient to allow us to call something a religious practice from a culturalinstitutional point of view.2 1 The same applies to religious development (see chapter 4). Religion can be presented under the heading of attribution of meaning. That could have advantages in a situation where one is dealing with a large number of non-religious children. Following from the theoretical framework of this book (i.e. cultural institution theory) we advocate presenting all non-religious trends and philosophies as practices. They do not have the same transcendent orientation as religious practices, but they are practices and can be presented as such. Thus a house party in which youngsters lose themselves for a weekend may well be described as a cultural-institutional practice of attributing meaning. What should avoided is presenting forms of meaning as free floating cultural nebulae (notions, values, attitudes), totally divorced from practice. 2 This discussion resumes in 3.4.1.

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In chapter 3 we distinguish between three current approaches to religion: religion as experience, as language (‘God-talk’) and as practice. In view of what we have said here it will come as no surprise that more than half the chapter is devoted to a clarification of religion as practice. We need to clear up two possible misunderstandings in this regard. First, people often interpret ‘institutional’ as referring to institutions existing in society. Institutions are approached from the angle of the structural features of organizations: resources, roles, distribution of power, tasks. In the case of religion (Christianity) people think of the church, clergy, ecclesiastic hierarchy (bishops), canon law. But we shall develop a cultural-institutional theory of religion focussing on attribution of meaning in interpersonal activities. These are activities in which people consciously (intentionally) perform practices that are called religious.3 Secondly, it is a mistake to think that experience and language no longer have any meaning in religious practices. Nothing could be further from the truth. Religion as experience is an abbreviation for ‘a theoretical perspective on religion as experience’. We shall compare three theoretical angles or approaches. The various concepts are evaluated according to three criteria. The first criterion relates to the possibility of change and innovation in a religion or religious community. Such change must be interpretable in terms of both the religious tradition and the socio-cultural situation. Theologically this criterion is based on the open tradition concept (2.2). The second criterion relates to recognizing religious diversity or avoiding religious imperialism. This criterion stems from the option for marginality and the marginalized (2.4). The third criterion relates to the ability of a concept of religion to be both distinguished from and involved in the totality of personal and societal life. It must be able to negotiate both the Scylla of discrimination which isolates religion from society and people’s personal lives, and the Charybdis of involvement which no longer discerns religion as a distinct personal or social phenomenon. This criterion is based on a theological conception of transcendence-in-immanence (see 2.3). In chapter 3 we substantiate 3 Some cultural theories of religion focus on the position and function of religion in society as a whole. Clifford Geertz’s theory is a well-known case in point. Our angle is a local one, namely that of interpersonal action. This makes the theorizing less vulnerable in present-day cultural circumstances (see chapter 1). Another difference from Geertz’s theory is that this is a cultural theory and therefore little concerned with problems relating to power and the exercise of power in religion. A cultural institutional theory, by contrast, takes these problems into account.

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our thesis that an institutional theory of religion as practice satisfies these three criteria, whereas other approaches fail to do so (or to do so adequately). On the basis of an institutional theory we identify six characteristics of religion as practice (see 3.4.1): – A religious practice is a particular form of rule-governed or intentional act. Without imparting such meaning to human actions there can be no question of religious practices. Giving them this meaning assigns a status function to a person, object or activity. This assignation of a status function may be summed up in a constitutive rule: X acts as Y in context C. A given collection of stories (X) acts as holy scriptures (Bible, Koran) (Y). A particular space (X) acts as a religious space (Y). The intentionality of the act is shared with other people in a community. Then we speak of collective intentionality. This form of intentionality may be formulated as ‘We intend doing X’. – Assigning a status function is done on the basis of the authority of a tradition. One cannot speak of a religious practice unless there are people who attribute religious meaning to a person, object or activity. This does not mean that they are vested with authority to determine whether it is a religious practice. This authority resides in the tradition, not in the individual or group. – The status function (Y) derives religious meaning from the binary code of transcendence versus immanence. Not all meanings that are attributed are religious. The cardinal categories of religion are transcendence and immanence.4 – The act is mediated. That is to say, apart from intentionality it also consists in a structure, sequence, context, place, network of people and resources as components of the act. Without human attribution of meaning one cannot speak of religious practices, but the practices must not be reduced to mental activities. Religious practices are structured activities in which all kinds of religious ‘tools’ play a role. – We define religious practices at the local level of interpersonal activities, but they are influenced by religious regimes (systems). A 4 Determining the contents of these terms and their relationship happens intra-traditionally. In chapter 2 we do it on the basis of the Christian tradition. We would link transcendence indissolubly with immanence even though transcendence cannot be reduced to immanence. Here it is apparent that language (or, in a broad sense, the semiotic system) plays a major role in an institutional theory of religion. Without language (or, more broadly, a semiotic system) there can be no intentional action.

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religious regime is a constellation of power which determines which religious practices are performed to promote a religion and when there are signs of deviancy. A religious regime also provides an ideological basis for its activities. This stipulates the significance of a religious practice. We shall argue that religious regimes are in constant flux. The changes result from an inner dynamics in religious regimes (dominant regime and counter movements); from the relation between religious regimes and the public regime (government); and from the relation between different religious regimes (dominant religion and other religions). Having defined religion, there is one further step before we can proceed to the contents of learning processes in the field of religious education. After all, religious education is not a matter of shaping religious practices but of shaping people. In chapter 4 we pose the question: what is a religious person and how does a person develop a religious self? In other words, we probe the meaning of religiosity in the perspective of psychology (of religion). What psychological or mental activities characterize a religious person? On what grounds do we describe someone as ‘religious’? The next question is how a person develops a religious self: what does religious development entail? Before inquiring into the nature of a religious person or a religious self we first have to establish what constitutes a person. Put differently, before we turn to psychology of religion we must first take a look at personality psychology. In the psychology of the human person there are various concepts. We shall settle for the concept of the dialogic or polyphonic self (H. Hermans). Characteristics of this concept are that it roots the self in space and space in the self; assumes an indissoluble link between self and the other; grounds the self in collective meanings; and conceives of the self as an ‘embodied self’. This concept makes it possible to relate the attributes of religion (chapter 3) to the attributes of the human self.5 Our analysis proceeds from the six char-

5 This theory of the human self can be located in the social-constructionist school of psychology. In section 4.1.1 we look into the epistemological premises of this psychology. The first premise is a twofold basis of the human self in neurobiological processes (thought) and human systems of meaning (language). Within the human being and in his or her development to personhood the two aspects are indissolubly linked. The second premise relates to the social interaction between people. The self is essentially relational. When speaking of a personal self we always presuppose relatedness to other people.

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acteristics of religion as practice. If religion can be defined as practice, what does this imply for a social construction of a religious self? The following is a brief definition of a religious self: – A religious self is a self-in-religious-practices, in which an object, role or action is assigned a religious status function. – The religious self acts together with other people in a community of practice. – The self may gradually become the ‘author’ of a ‘collective voice’ by orchestrating the various I-positions that the person adopts through participation in religious practices. – The religious self writes itself and is written on the basis of polyphonic (in)finitude. – The religious self can take part in religious practices because it knows how to use religious ‘tools’. – The self is ‘positioned’ in a social structure which allows more or less power to persons engaged in a religious practice and more or less scope to transform the self-in-religious-practices. Having defined the religious self, we examine its development. However, most recognized theories of religious development in the psychology of religion proceed from a different concept of the religious self and its development than the one we propose in this study. On the basis of our notion of the religious self as a self-in-religious-practices we opt for the concept of a zone of proximal development (Vygotsky). This proximal zone may be regarded as a space for action that originates in the social interaction between a non-expert (or ‘novice’) and an expert, with the non-expert learning how to use religious ‘tools’. Zone of proximal development is a way in which people’s latent potential can develop. Religious development is aimed at cultivating religious expertise, just as musical development results in musical expertise. Expertise develops through participation in religious practices. In the conclusion to the chapter we emphasize that this is not development in participation but development through participation. We explain this with the aid of the concept of legitimate peripheral participation. A novice participates peripherally in a practice. Peripheral participation implies a combination of limited identification with a practice and greater scope for negotiating about its significance. At the same time the participation is legitimate, because the novice is a full-fledged participant with the same right as the expert to help construe the significance of a situation. Peripheral participation can result

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in either greater expertise in religious practices, or substantiated nonparticipation in such practices. Expressed in terms of the religious-selfin-religious-practices, identification leads to an I-position to which the person is positively committed. Such identification may lead to further growth in commitment to a religious community, created through religious practices. Non-identification refers to an I-position to which the person is negatively committed. In plain language, the person has participated in an interpretive community centering on religious stories but rejects their significance for his or her own life story.6 This differentiated view of participation in religious practices solves a dilemma that constantly arises in discussions of religious education. Either the content of religious education is made so universally human that nobody is excluded from learning it; or one uses a (sometimes implicit) streaming, more or less as follows. If some participants in the learning process belong to a Christian denomination or church, then program A is followed; if they belong to another religion, one uses program B. We believe that the theoretical framework provided in chapter 4 resolves this dilemma. It does so, firstly, by taking a dialogic or polyphonic view of the religious self. A person does not have to settle for either identity A or identity B. Within the self there is an orchestration of I-positions which allows the person to ‘vocalize’ different Ipositions in varying contexts and circumstances. Secondly, participatory learning is inclusive thinking, in which the process and product of thought cannot exist without the contribution of everybody else. This notion is based on the concept of legitimate peripheral participation. Chapter 5 looks into learning and teaching processes in religious education. How do we structure religious education? The question of methods of religious education presupposes that we know its contents and purpose. We analyzed the contents of religious education in chapter 3.7 A key concept for determining the overall purpose of 6 This rejection may also be conducive to the development of the self in that the person construes her own life story in opposition to a rejected religious model or story. Here one thinks of a non-religious self or a religious self-understanding relating to a different religious tradition. 7 To avoid misunderstanding we must emphasize that, apart from the major world religions (Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism), various other religious splinter groups may enter into religious education. The crucial question is whether these religious splinter groups fit into an institutional approach to religion. In other words, it is a question of religious practices as a form of rule-governed behaviour in which a group of people assign a religious status function to an object, person or activity. The same applies to non-religious practices. Here we think mainly of the intro-

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religious education – development of a religious self – was analyzed in chapter 4. But before we explore the learning and teaching processes of religious education we take another look at the story of Ypsilon. What is wrong with the orientation course she did? Is there anything wrong with it? Apparently not, judging by her high test scores. But apart from this criterion there is a great deal that is ‘wrong’. – Learning is reduced to an intra-psychic process, that is a proces occurring somewhere above the eyebrows. A pupil is seen as an information processing system. One could use the image of a standalone computer: information is fed into it, the information is stored and can be retrieved in a test. But this learning proves useless when Ypsilon finds herself in the complexities of the everyday world. Cycling in traffic turns out to be an interplay of knowledge and skills far more complex than the though processes of the learning tasks at which Ypsilon excelled. – The learning process is individualistic. Learners sit together in a learning group, but that does not mean that they constitute a learning community. Ypsilon is an isolated individual in a configuration of isolated individuals. It takes no account of the fact that in most action situations one interacts with other people. Neither is interaction used to support the learning process. – The learning process is formalistic in the sense that the ‘operation’ of consciousness is divorced from cultural tools and socio-cultural context. Ypsilon may have done very well in her test, but she has no grasp of traffic situations. She has merely learnt things about traffic, not in and through the practice of traffic. This is comparable to a written course in music without singing a note or listening to music. The learning tasks that were presented to Ypsilon were unrelated to the real world in which people live. She thought that solving traffic problems meant choosing the ‘right signs’. This has nothing to do duction of non-religious practices from non-religious pupils’ situation. Pupils have to relate their existing knowledge to the significance of religious practices which they appropriate in religious education. Note that our definition of the religious self does not coincide with membership or non-membership of a religious community. In our theory religious practices are focal. By participating in certain religious practices people may define themselves as members of a particular religious community, but the relation between participation in practices and membership of a religious community is complex. Some people who call themselves Catholics do not participate in any Catholic religious practices. Conversely there are people who do take part in Catholic religious practices without calling themselves Catholics.

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with traffic problems. As a result she had no conception of what it means to operate in traffic. In chapter 5 we propose another concept of learning. Participatory learning is defined as developmental, social, mediated and meaningful learning. The concept of participatory learning is explained in three steps. Step one (5.1) takes over four features of the ‘new learning paradigm’ presented by the approach known as culturalism in learning and teaching psychology. The cognitivist notion of learning expounded by Jerome Bruner we shall call ‘old learning’. The root metaphor of cognitivism is that of the computer: learning is like data processing by a computer. In terms of this theory learning may be described as intrapsychic, individual and formalistic. ‘Culturalism’ proceeds from the root metaphor of participation: learning as participation in sociocultural practices. In this theoretical framework learning is considered to be development-oriented, social, mediated and meaningful. Theorizing on the ‘new learning’ according to a culturalist approach is still under way. This is evident in the diverse trends that have emerged in this school over the past two decades, such as the socio-cultural or culture-historical approach, situated learning, distributed learning and social constructivism. Authors writing on these trends sometimes accentuate other attributes than the four we have identified, without explaining (or explaining adequately) why a particular attribute is added to or dropped from the list. The problem with a list is that it lacks a coherent underlying theory. This is theoretically unsatisfactory. In section 5.2 we ground the four characteristics of the ‘new learning’ derived from the participation metaphor in Vygotsky’s theory. Vygotsky is an author invoked, directly or indirectly, by many writers belonging to the trends we have mentioned. More importantly, the four attributes of participatory learning are interrelated in Vygotsky’s theoretical framework. If one removes any one of these attributes, the whole theory collapses. Hence we follow Vygotsky’s lead in defining the four attributes of participatory learning. We say “follow Vygotsky’s” lead with due caution, for although our discussion is based on him, we also make use of authors who have developed his intellectual legacy further. We do not intend writing a study of Vygotsky’s learning theory or getting embroiled in the debates between the various schools that vie with each other for the distinction of being the ‘true heirs’ of Vygotsky. We shall rely on him only where this is necessary to provide a coherent framework for the four attributes of participatory learning.

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What do these four premises entail? (See 5.2.) – Developmental learning is aimed at developing pupils’ actual or potential religious capacity. In this development the child’s emerging cognitive ability is related to the human system of meaning. Religious development is directed to cultivating religious ‘expertise’ through participation in religious practices. – Social learning refers to learning in interaction with others, more particularly with relatively expert others. All the mental functions developing in a pupil started as mental activities between people. That does not mean that intra-mental activity simply mirrors intermental activities. Appropriation implies transformation, for instance through the way new information is related to the pupils’ existing knowledge. – Mediated learning refers to the fact that mental activities (e.g. interpreting) always require mental tools (e.g. a religious story). When we speak of the interpretation of biblical stories in religious education, we have in mind an activity entailing certain tools. In religious learning processes we are concerned with higher mental activities. We identify three characteristics of the learning process in which these are internalized: conscious, structured and transfer-oriented. – Meaningful learning relates to learning through participation in religious practices. Pupils have to gain insight into what they have learnt by applying it in relatively new situations. The relationship between cognitive, affective, motivational and action-oriented learning processes should be taken into account. Meaningful learning allows for the learner’s social identity in a learning situation. In section 5.3 these premises of learning theory are amplified into teaching processes. Teaching refers to measures and conditions introduced into the learning environment to promote learning. The level of didactic learning is fairly concrete, but this also means that it is more subject to change. Hence, we restrict ourselves to didactic illustrations of the four learning processes: developmental learning, social learning, mediated learning and meaningful learning. Chapter 6 deals with inter-religious learning. How can the aims and content of religious education be organized in a religiously pluralistic context? This context exists not merely in society but also in schools, both public and religiously affiliated schools. There are three approaches to religious education in religious pedagogics: mono-religious, multireligious and inter-religious education. These three approaches are

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identified as distinct types and critically evaluated. To this end we apply the previously defined criteria that the concept of religion has to satisfy (chapter 3) and the model of developing the religious self through participation (chapter 4). The inter-religious education model best satisfies the criteria. Nonetheless it still poses many problems, mainly hermeneutic ones. How can we understand what motivates adherents of other religions? What do we actually understand when we try to understand one another? These questions form the core of this chapter (see 6.2). We try to answer them on the basis of the current debate on multiculturalism. Philosophically this debate is strongly influenced by the approach of the Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor in his ‘hermeneutics of recognition’ (6.2.1). There are three objections to his hermeneutic propositions. Are statements regarding the ‘equal value’ of cultures or religions actually legitimate? Can cultural recognition be dissociated from an individuals socio-economic, ethnic, political and gender-specific background? Is the ultimate aim of recognition to merge the hermeneutic horizons of the dialogue partners? The answers to these rhetorical questions are consistently negative. Three alternative hermeneutic principles are formulated: recognition of the distinctive (6.2.2), recognition of suffering and injustice (6.2.3) and recognition of the other (stranger) (6.2.3). Finally we look at the didactics of inter-religious learning (6.3). This has to do with the same characteristics that were identified in religious education. We deal with developmental, inter-religious learning, social inter-religious learning, mediated inter-religious learning and meaningful inter-religious learning. This book is a study of the foundations of religious education. This means that it deals with only a few concepts which are analyzed in depth. The whole book is about only six concepts: religion in a globalizing society, religious tradition, religion, the religious self, learning through participation, and inter-religious learning. But this handful of concepts are worked out in great detail, because we are looking for a foundation for religious education. What are foundations? “The foundations of a theory, also of a mental approach or a mode of action are, in a nutshell, the fundamental ideas that guide our thinking” (Van Haaften, 1992, p.126; our translation). Foundations are the assumptions that underlie our thinking about religious education. These assumptions, in the sense of (mini-)theories, are probed in depth.

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What theoretical framework underlies the concept of religion? What does the development of a person’s religious identity actually entail? On what grounds do we call a person ‘religious’? What learning theories are there and which one is most compatible with the contents of religious education? The results of such a study of foundations is a conceptual framework, or rather a critical conceptual framework. It not only analyzes fundamental theories, but does so critically. Hence the various theories of religion are not only analyzed but are also evaluated according to different criteria. One discussion point in every study of this kind is the relation between foundations and norms. To clarify the relation between them Van Haaften (1992, p.130) uses the analogy of a chess game. The rules that govern the game are its foundations. A chess player cannot suddenly move a knight diagonally across the board. On the basis of the rules one can advance norms for good or bad play. Thus one grand master may regard a particular strategy as the most effective, whereas other masters have their own preferences. According to Van Haaften the relation between foundations and normative premises is more complex in education than in a chess game. Normative notions too often sneak into the definition of foundations. The implication of this view is that one cannot define religion without some normative assumption of what may or may not be called religion. Without normative presuppositions one could not keep socio-cultural phenomena apart. This does not imply a concept of religion that assigns only one religion (e.g. Christianity) the status of a religion. I actually advocate an institutional theory of religion, in terms of which religions could describe themselves as such on the basis of intra-traditional criteria. I reason that it is wrong for just one religion to monopolize (figuratively speaking) the concept of religion. In this way, I avoid religious colonialism or imperialism. But avoiding religious imperialism is a normative premise. This does not preclude the possibility that a religion may be evaluated critically in terms of another religion’s perception of transcendence ((in)finitude). Such an evaluation would be made on substantive – in this case theological – grounds. Thus Christians, using their concept of (in)finitude, may be critical of the view of ‘the divine’ held by another tradition (Hinduism, Buddhism). This goes beyond the framework of institutional theory as developed in chapter 3. In formulating criteria for a theory of religion I use normative theological premises with an open, inclusive character. The concept of tradition,

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the question of God and the privileged position of the marginalized are all open-ended concepts. But an open concept of tradition, an open-ended question about God and openness towards the other and others likewise entail a normative stance. In chapter 2 we reject alternative normative positions, namely a post-traditional and traditionalist concept (see 2.2.1, 2.2.2); a fundamentalist approach to the issue of transcendence (see 2.3.1); and the option of an approach from the centre (in both a cultural-religious and a socio-economic sense) (see 2.4). This study of foundations is not an a-historical analysis of fundamental principles, at any rate not according to the theory evolved in this book. In this study we posit that conceptual frameworks are historically, culturally and socially determined. That is why we start out with a cultural analysis of society, which we characterize as a globalizing society. All quotations from authors in non-English languages are translated into English. We took this decision with a view to readability. It will not be mentioned in each instance, as is customary when a quotation is translated. The translation is entirely our responsibility, not that of the original author. It stands to reason that such translations should be treated circumspectly. Some quotations had to be paraphrased to render them understandable in English. Finally, a tip to the reader. The book would be poorly constructed if the chapters did not follow each other progressively. But this does not mean that one must necessarily read the chapters in the sequence in which they appear. Thus we can imagine that some readers may be particularly interested in the practical impact of participatory learning on religious education. These readers will do well to start with chapter 5. The second half of that chapter in particular dwells on diverse (examples of) didactical methods. Chapter 6 (especially 6.3) likewise focusses entirely on actual teaching practice. A second tip to the reader: if you want to start with chapter 4 on the religious self, we would advise you first to read section 3.4, which describes religion in a cultural institutional perspective. The six attributes of the religious self build on the six attributes of religious practices. Hence section 3.4 provides a necessary background to chapter 4.

CHAPTER ONE

RELIGION IN A GLOBALIZING WORLD

Modern theology is characterized by a need for contextualization and critical awareness of the contextual basis of all religious practices (Schillebeeckx, 1989). In our time the need to reflect critically on the context of religion is more pressing than ever, because our concept of context is changing in a globalizing world. When we speak about context today we mean something entirely different from what the word meant a few decades ago. According to Schreiter (1999, pp. 26-27) our understanding of context has changed in three ways: ‘First of all, context as a concept has become increasingly deterritorialized. The compression of space in globalization has been the major player in this. Boundaries today are increasingly not boundaries of territory, but boundaries of difference. These boundaries intersect and crisscross in often bewildering fashion. (...) Second, contexts are becoming hyperdifferentiated. The compression of time, the world of cyberspace, and the movement of peoples mean that people are now participating in different realities at the same time, there is multiple belonging. (...) Third, contexts are more clearly hybridized. The purity of culture was probably always more an aspiration than a reality, but in a globalized world it becomes increasingly untenable as a concept.’

In this chapter we outline changes that are presented under the heading of globalization. Our description and analysis focus on culture, and more particularly on religion. We shall link globalization to the concept of modernization. Scholars are still debating whether globalization on a conceptual level represents something ‘new’ in relation to modernization. By differentiating two processes in modernization, which we shall call modernity 1 and modernity 2, I hope to show that something ‘new’ is happening in our time with regard to the changing conception of space. At the same time one cannot understand the concept of globalization unless one links it to modernization. We will mention some empirical indicators that justify the conclusion that there has been a real change in the spatial dimension of our world1 (section 1.1). 1 Especially in philosophical and theological literature one often observes a rather vague and anecdotal way of speaking about globalization. We consider a more exact analysis based on empirical data necessary in order not to exaggerate our conclusions about what is changing in our society.

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In section 1.2 we describe four cultural changes relating to globalization: homogenization, de-traditionalization, privatization and de-institutionalization. In describing each of these processes we differentiate between a radical thesis and a coexistence view of globalization. In each case we show that, whereas some things are definitely changing in our world, they do not justify a radical interpretation of globalization. Section 1.3 contains the core of this chapter. Here the four processes characterizing cultural changes in globalizing society are applied to religion. How is religion changing in our world today? Do these changes justify a radical view? Again we will cite empirical data to justify our conclusion.

1.1 Globalization Why speak about globalization? Why not just speak about the modernization of our society? Is there something ‘new’, not covered by the concept of modernization, which warrants the introduction of a new concept? And if so, why call it globalization and not postmodernism? Is something new developing in our society and, if so, what is it that justifies the introduction of a new umbrella concept to characterize these developments? The answer to the first question is both yes and no. Yes, compared to the beginnings of modern society in the Enlightenment, the rise of the nation-state in the 18th century and the industrial revolution in the 19th century, something fundamentally new is emerging in our society. The new development can be described as a compression of space and the effect of this compression on our experience of time. The experience of space as an obstacle to social interaction has diminished. Inasmuch as the connection between interaction and space is weakening, we can no longer identify spatial distance with social distance (Zürn, 1999, p.20). This has major consequences for the meaning of the nation-state as the primary referent for societal actions. When we think of society we (used to) think about the nationstate. According to Beck (1999, pp.49-51) this implies, first, that the nation-state controls the space (or territory) in which people live. Societal organization refers to power and control by the nation-state. Second, the nation-state not only organizes the internal space, it also organizes society into units, namely collective identities (e.g. religious and ethnic groups, male and female lifestyles) and social systems that

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constitute ‘worlds’ of their own with their own logic (e.g. politics, the economy, law, science). Third, modern nation-states understand themselves as superior in an evolutionary sense. However, the compression of space challenges this meaning of the nation-state. This does not mean that we are witnessing the end of the nation-state; but its role is becoming more complex in an extended, global field (Zürn, 1999, p.9). It is no longer possible to understand societal processes in the narrow perspective of the nation-state.2 There are many cross-border transactions in trade and production. However, this does not justify the conclusion that we can only speak meaningfully on a global scale and that the nation-state has lost all meaning. The reality is far more complex than that. In the first place, despite the many cross-border transactions in trade and production, it is going too far to speak only on a global scale. In the second place, these processes differ from one country to the next and, in the third place, from one domain to the next (the economy, politics, ecology, culture, etc.). We prefer to call the current process of societal change globalization and not postmodernism. Postmodernism refers to the epochal transition from modernism to a new era. The term itself originated in the art world and seems to be confined mainly to philosophical literature. We do not challenge its use in that literature, but for the purpose of our study we need a more empirically oriented body of knowledge. Of course we need a theoretical interpretation in order to understand what is happening. But we also need an operationalization of the concepts we use and empirical tests of the predictions that can be extracted from our theoretical framework. Apart from this consideration, there is a second reason not to use the term ‘postmodernism’: it suggests that we have left the era known as modernism behind us. I think this thesis is too extreme. Instead of thinking dichotomously (before–after, old–new), I see the concept of globalization as a dynamics within modernity that takes the modernization process to a new level. The same processes that have determined modernity all along are now radicalised (Rojek, 1995, p.6), speeded up and intensified (Beyer, 1994, p.1) or deepened (Zürn, 1999, p.30). Globalization can be seen as an extension and reformulation of the modernization thesis, in which the unit of social analysis can no longer be restricted to 2 Instead of globalization some scholars talk about denationalization. Zürn prefers the latter term. We will use them interchangeably.

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the nation-state but needs to be expanded to both a national and a global level (Beyer, 1994, p.7). According to Beck there is no turning back from this global change. He cites eight phenomena that illustrate the change (Beck, 1999, pp.29-30): (1) the geographical expansion and increasing volume of international trade, the global interconnectedness of financial markets, and the growing power of multinationals over which nation-states have hardly any control; (2) the ongoing revolution in the field of information and communication technology; (3) the universal claim to human rights; (4) the constant flow of images produced by the global culture industry; (5) the growing number of international political organisations that are needed by nation-states to handle problems which they cannot handle on a national level; (6) the problem of global poverty and flow of economic migrants; (7) the problem of a global ecological crisis; (8) intercultural conflicts. Globalization refers to the expansion of space, namely beyond the confines of the nation-state. For Zürn (1999, p.63) denationalization implies a shift of the limits of compressed social interactions beyond the borders of national states, without necessarily being global. Compressed social interactions refer to a type of interaction in which distances can be crossed without additional cost (Zürn, 1999, p.64). In other words, it has become much easier to bridge spatial distance. Hence all kinds of social processes move beyond the borders of the nation-state with far greater ease. Globalization refers to the fact that the relative volume of transnational interactions has increased relative to national interactions. An absolute increase in the number of telephone calls or Internet contacts in a given period is insufficient empirical substantiation to speak of globalization. One can only make a case for globalization if the relative proportion of transnational telephone calls or transnational Internet interactions has increased.3 To test the

3 For instance, there are relatively more international phone calls, or more international Internet contacts, than there are national phone calls or national Internet contacts. An absolute increase is insufficient proof because in a growing economy phone calls and Internet contacts increase all the time.

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globalization hypothesis empirically this increase has to be above a certain threshold. Zürn takes as a criterion that there must either be a clear (e.g. a doubling in ten years) and constant increase (nonstop growth), or the relative proportion of international transactions should already be high (e.g. above 25%). Apart from the question whether a process of globalization is in fact happening, there is no consensus about which societal domains are affected by this process and when the changes started. The literature on globalization reflects ongoing debate about whether to adopt a one-dimensional or a multi-dimensional approach. We have quoted Beck, who refers to changes in all domains of society. If globalization is really influencing our society that deeply, it should not be restricted to one domain. Like the process of modernization which affects all domains (systems and subsystems) of society, the process of globalization should affect society as a whole.4 But if globalization is happening, when did it start? What moment in history should we look for? The different answers to this question relate to differing definitions of globalization. Authors who define globalization in much the same way as modernization tend to date its beginning in the 18th century (e.g. Giddens; see Beck, 1999, p.44). Others who regard it as closer to the specific process of denationalization opt for the mid-1980s (Beyer, 1994; Beck, 1999; Zürn, 1999). In keeping with my approach as outlined above, I take the second view. The question, then, is whether there are changes in different domains of our society that substantiate the concept of globalization. Related to our earlier comments on relative increase, Zürn gives the following operational definition of denationalization: “a relative increase in the intensity and range of transnational interactions in exchange or communal production processes in the domains of the economy, the ecological environment, violence, mobility, and of communication and culture” (Zürn, 1999, p.76). Below I refer to Zürn’s major research findings without going into figures and tables. A second qualification is called for. Most data 4 Zürn (1999, p.41) distinguishes four normative aims of the social welfare state: (1) security: guaranteeing external and internal security (including a safe ecological environment); (2) identity: a civic sense of solidarity which permits a political bond; (3) legitimization: political decision-making processes that can count on universal democratic approval; (4) prosperity: enhanced economic growth and less unjust distribution of the benefits of this growth. The same classification of societal aims is used by Seyla Benhabid (1996, p.67).

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reflect developments in the OECD (Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development) countries. This does not mean that globalization is not affecting other countries, but that there are no hard data available on developments in different sectors of society (the economy, labour, social health, Internet hosts, etc.). The debate on empirical data to substantiate the theoretical concept of globalization ranges far and wide. I restrict myself to the main research results of Michael Zürn, who gives an overview of research in this area. This restriction is justified, because our main interest in globalization is the cultural changes that are covered by this concept. These cultural changes are described in greater detail in the next section. First, can we observe a relative increase in transnational interactions in the domain of security, which nation-states guarantee their citizens? The state has to fulfil four tasks (Zürn, 1999, pp.98-99). The first is to defend itself against other states. As an indicator Zürn cites the number of states that have either produced atomic weapons or are developing the technology to do so. The number has increased steadily from the 1960s onwards but has not escalated since the mid-1980s. The second task of the nation-state it to secure citizens against any threat by the state. An indicator of states’ performance in this regard is the number of state violations of human rights. From 1986 to 1991 average performance in regard to human rights improved from 55% to a level of 61% in countries all over the world.5 Such an improvement is unprecedented in history. The Commission on Global Governance attributes this massive improvement to the information and communication technology revolution, which breaks the power of small groups in society (i.e. the nation-state) to control information. The third indicator is the state’s internal control of its dominion. The nation-state has the sole right to use violence within its boundaries. An indicator of how well the state is performing in this area is the number of right-wing extremist groups operating in a country and the number of attacks by such groups. Here the picture varies around the world. Zürn (1999, p.108) reports a general increase in right-wing extremist attacks in OECD countries; but these attacks are also exported, for example the attacks by ETA (Basque) in France and the PKK (Kurd) in Germany. The fourth indicator is state protection of individuals and groups against threats and violence by other individuals and 5 Zürn (1999, p.105) refers to the Freedom House Index, based on reports of experts in all countries in the world.

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groups in society. In all OECD countries violent crime has increased from the 1960s onwards. Zürn cites figures for Germany showing that this process started speeding up in the early 1990s. A strong argument for globalization is that organized crime with international connections is increasing faster than the general crime rate. The second domain is culture and communication. The first indicator is international telephone calls in the core countries of the OECD. Between 1980 and 1995 the total number of international calls increased fivefold (Zürn, 1999, p.79). Another indicator is the total number of e-mail messages sent via the Internet. As early as October 1994 there were more than a billion electronic messages per month, far more than the number of international letters and telephone calls put together. If we expect the proportion of international e-mail messages to be greater than that of letters and telephone calls, it implies that the increase between 1980 and 1995 will be more than fivefold. Another indicator is the number of books imported from other countries. Between 1980 and 1993 the total number of imported books doubled in the seven core countries of the OECD. The figure for CDs and music cassettes is even higher. As for movies (both television and cinema), for countries outside the USA the proportion of foreign films (mostly made in Hollywood) is between 60% and 90%. At the same time there are big differences between countries. In France, for example, the number of imported books decreased in the early 1990s. In the same period the number of films made in France increased slightly. This clearly illustrates that, although the overall picture supports the trend of denationalization, there can be great differences between countries in certain respects.6 The third domain is mobility, both of people going abroad (on holiday or for work) and of foreigners entering a country as newcomers (immigrants, asylum seekers). According to Zürn there is linear growth in international air traffic and usually a higher growth rate than that of domestic flights (Zürn, 1999, p.82). The number of asylum seekers is also growing apace in the seven core countries of the OECD (the G-7), although again there are big differences between countries. For example, after a huge increase in asylum seekers in Italy in the 1980s, there was a marked decrease in the ear6 On a national or regional level the process of globalization or denationalization has the opposite effect of stressing local difference in culture. This phenomenon is sometimes called glocalization . We shall elaborate on this in section 1.2.1.

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ly 1990s because of stricter regulation of permanent residence permits. The fourth domain is the natural environment. Here there has been a peculiar development. Emission of sulphur dioxide (SO2) is decreasing in the core countries of the OECD, as is the proportion of sulphur in air pollution from emissions in other countries. At the same time there are major ecological problems on a global level, caused by all countries in the world (of course, more by industrial countries). Here one thinks of such much debated ecological problems as the growing hole in the ozone layer and global heating. These problems, which are increasing, are clear signs of denationalization. The fifth domain is the economy and social security. An indicator of denationalization is the growing volume of technology imported for the production of goods. In 1970, for example, Japan, the USA and Germany imported 15,1% of semi-finished products; by 1990 the percentage had increased to 30,1%. The strongest indicator, however, is transnational capital flow, especially short-term capital. The daily turnover on global currency markets at present is well over three billion dollars (Giddens, 1999, p.10).7 In Germany, for example, foreign investment has grown from 5% in the mid-1970s to more than 36% in 1990. In the 1980s the ratio of foreign investment to domestic investment also increased greatly in favour of foreign investment. The pattern varies between countries. Measured on these indicators, the United Kingdom and Germany are most denationalized, and Japan least. Are nation-states still capable of providing social security for their citizens, which is one of their key tasks (see above)? According to Zürn, the incongruence between economic and political space makes certain national measures increasingly problematic. A government that wants to disconnect certain parts of the internal market from the world market will be forced to make more disconnections to prevent an efflux of capital and high-grade labour. There are big differences between OECD countries on several social security indicators. In 1995 unemployment in the USA was still at the same level as in 1965 (6%), yet in the same period unemployment in the EU, Oceania and the EFTA

7 A million dollar bills, measured as a stack of hundred-dollar bills, would be eight inches high (Giddens, 1999, p.10). Three billion dollars would be more than 20 times the height of Mount Everest. Three billion dollars is beyond our imagination. In a globalizing world these figures are no more than digits in a computer system, shifted from one part in the world to another by a click of a mouse.

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space tripled (Zürn, 1999, p.130). There is a dwindling demand for low-grade labour in all industrial countries. Workers have a choice: either accept lower wages, or be unemployed. As a result there is growing maldistribution of wealth in industrial countries. Relative poverty (defined as less than half the average per capita income of the population) has increased in most OECD countries. Summing up the results of developments in the different areas and acknowledging differences between countries, Zürn (1999, p.94) thinks that the qualification of ‘new’ (see his criterion above) from the mid-1980s onwards is justified in the case of the following four developments: – explosive growth of Internet – growing international criminality – global ecological problems – the global financial market. It seems plausible, therefore, to assume that something fundamental is changing in our understanding of the space that we live in. Globalization refers to a dual movement: extension of space and, simultaneously, compression of space.8 Put differently: space is exploding and imploding at the same time. The two movements, although not the same, are interrelated. For example, the financial market is no longer a national but a global market incorporating various national markets. This global extension of space is facilitated by processes of compression, like the new information and communication technology that enables people all over the world to react to financial developments in other parts of the world. One could say that the extension of space (beyond the nation-state) would not have changed our conception of the world so fundamentally without the parallel process of compression of space. The two processes interact, and it is this interaction that intensifies or accelerates the effects of the societal change signified by the term ‘modernization’. If (as I suspect) the conditions under which modernization is taking place are changing, then this change is also affecting the process of modernization. How? What are the effects of the simultaneous explosion and implosion of space? 8 Schreiter (1999, p.8) speaks about an extension of the effects of modernity to the whole world, and the compression of time and space . I disagree with him about the first characteristic, because ever since the 19th century modernity has been spreading around the globe through colonization. Extension of space beyond the nation-state as a social unit is more correct.

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The answer depends on how one defines modernization. I want to borrow an idea from Chris Rojek. He refers to two interdependent forces within modernization, which he labels modernity 1 and modernity 2 (Rojek, 1995, p.36).9 First I shall describe these forces and then relate them to the question of how the explosion and implosion of space are affecting modernization. Modernity 1 refers to the process of rationalization, characterized by order, planning and control: Modernity is presented as a social order in which rational principles can be imposed on daily life. The time and space allocated for work and leisure can be determined with mathematical precision to ensure the well-being of the individual and society. (...) Planning is freedom and freedom is essentially orderly (Rojek, 1995, p.6).

There are various terms associated with the rationality of modernity 1: functionalism, positivism and pluralism. Functionalism emerged from biology and sociology and states that society is an organism which requires people and organizations to perform functions in maintaining social order (Rojek, 1995, p.36). Modern sociology cannot be understood without the concept of functional differentiation. A well-known proponent of this theory, Niklas Luhmann, distinguishes within social systems between ‘the operative level of successive events and the semantic level of meanings worthy of retention’ (Luhmann, 1996, p.60). The operative level has no past or future but is generated by current communication. The type of communication occurring in each social system is determined by its function. For example, the economy has to do with owning–not owning and education with knowing–not knowing. The semantic level refers to ‘the selection of links between events by remembering and forgetting’ (Luhman, 1996). Bygone events are replaced by memory values and in this way the meaning of events is constructed. Systems could not exist without this kind of self-monitoring. Thus a company remembers how it made a profit by stressing the value of competition with other companies and the corresponding qualities of their workers, such as diligence, competitiveness and discipline. Complex societies require ‘system dif9 The merit of distinguishing between modernity 1 and modernity 2 is that it takes cognizance of the contradictory forces within the modernization process. Modernity 2 is the counter force of modernity 1. There is a tendency to describe modernization exclusively as a rationalization process (modernity 1). Each force elicits its counter force. The counter force of rationalization is the ephemeral, the volatile, the uncontrollable, the contingent. This latter force is what we call modernity 2.

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ferentiation that is the formation of systems within systems at the operative level. (...) System differentiation affects the operative level that is, it limits the possibility of extending actually occurring communication by other actually occurring communications’ (Luhmann, 1996). So companies are about owning–not owning and everything relating to this rationality, such as profit and loss, and strength of competition in relation to other companies. The semantics may change. A look at management literature illustrates this change in semantics, as does a study of the history of old companies like Philips or Ford. But the important thing is that at the operative (or functional) level the economic system is defined by the rationality of owning–not owning. Whatever the semantics of Ford’s managers may be, at the operative level their communication is defined by the rationality of the economic system. The change from premodern to modern society implies change in the prevailing form of system differentiation, namely a transition of a primarily stratified form of differentiation to one organized primarily around functions. In a matter of centuries this transition raised society to a much higher level of complexity than before. Rationalization affects not only the structure of society (e.g. functional differentiation) but also what happens within the different systems and subsystems. Science, for example, is characterized by positivism. ‘The positivist aims to record observations about objects and processes and to build general laws from his material’ (Rojek, 1995, p.37). Other considerations (e.g. normative evaluations or world-view) do not play a role in science. But there is also the wish to control nature, both the natural environment and the bodily nature of human beings. One could call this the domestication of nature (Van der Loo & Van Rijen, 1990, pp.201-214). New technological developments give people increasing power to control the natural environment. This makes them less dependent on that environment. The same is happening with regard to the human body. Developments in medical science give people increasing power over life and death. Genetic manipulation gives humans unprecedented power to control even the creation of new life. What is modernity 2? ‘Modernity 2 emphasizes change, flux, dedifferentiation and metamorphosis’ (Rojek, 1995, p.79). What is new is better than what has been. There is a constant search for new experience, new forms of self-expression, new horizons. The driving force behind this relentless search for novelty is a belief in progress, which dominates the experience of time. But the present has no hold on peo-

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ple, because it is always accompanied by a longing for what comes after the “then new” present, and after that. Modernity 2 refers to the forces of disorder and fragmentation, which are also characteristic of modernity. People live in different systems which require different roles. It is up to the person to integrate these roles. This opens up the possibility of diverse ideas and valuations of the same role by different people. For example, while one teacher evaluates her role as an expression of her religious commitment to the weak and marginalized, another may interpret her role from a gender perspective as furthering the emancipation of woman. From the perspective of functional differentiation (modernity 1) teachers have the same functional role. But the way individual teachers value and interpret this role is messier than functional differentiation acknowledges. Modernity 2 refers to the experience of uncertainty, contingency and unclearness, which is also characteristic of modernity. The process of rationalization has vastly multiplied the number of occasions for idly watching, wandering and browsing: The mathematical complexity of relations in the city ensures that much free time is spent in a state of indolence or semi-indolence. One drinks an unnecessary cup of coffee in a sidewalk and watches the world go by while waiting for an appointment. One sits in a traffic jam killing time by idle gazing at the other drivers and the surrounding milling world of the metropolis (Rojek, 1995, p.91).

Modernity 2 is characterized by an endless gathering of impressions and acquiring of experience. These impressions are not neatly categorized and controlled, but make life messy, contingent, and transient. According to Rojek, modernity 1 and modernity 2 are interdependent forces that have characterized modernity from the outset. For example, the creation of a national market in the 19th century destroyed the social networks that existed on a local level and created an army of poor and socially deprived people. The creation of this national market was a necessary development implicit in the process of rationalization (modernity 1). But at the same time, the forces of disorder, fragmentation and contingency are present in this development (modernity 2). The process of globalization with its characteristics of explosion and implosion of space intensifies both modernity 1 and modernity 2. The expansion of the economic system across the globe is intrinsic to the logic of the economic system. A multinational can function better economically (e.g. accumulate money faster) on a

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global scale than on a national level. The expansion of space accords perfectly with the rationality of the economic system. Where the rationality of the economic system cuts across the boundaries of the nationstate, it becomes increasingly difficult (perhaps even impossible?) for the nation-state to establish a balance between economic growth and social justice. The effect of this is the same as in the 19th century: a growing army of poor and socially deprived people. But there is at least one difference: the cry for justice cannot be answered on a national level, which deepens the experience of despair and the fragility of existence for those who lose their jobs when firms move their production from one country to another. Another example is science and technology, which help to control the risks that the outside world poses for human beings (Giddens, 1999, p.3). Science and technology are instruments to control the environment (i.e. instruments of modernity 1). But these instruments of control are increasingly causing disorder and lack of control in a society that is expanding to a global level. At first glance this seems contradictory. How can a force of rationalization (modernity 1) evoke a force of disorder and contingency (modernity 2)? Giddens differentiates between external risk and manufactured risk. Manufactured risk is created by the unknown impact of science and technology on our life, and especially on the ecological system. Science and nature could control situations of external risk created by nature very well. Manufactured risk is essentially uncontrollable, because we do not know the ecological risk level of many technological operations until it is too late (Giddens, 1999, p.28). What are the long-term consequences of the increasing cultivation of modified crops, global heating, a nuclear disaster like the one at Chernobyl, or the BSE crises? Hence globalization is also intensifying the experience of disorder, lack of control, contingency and fragmentation. In the discussion of globalization scholars take two different positions (see Heelas, 1996). The first position can be called the radical thesis. The dual process of explosion and implosion of space has the effect that people are out of control (i.e. modernity 2 taken to the extreme). Giddens, who claims to espouse the radical thesis (Giddens 1999, p.9), defines our world as a runaway world: Western industrial culture was shaped by the Enlightenment by the writings of thinkers who opposed the influence of religion and dogma, and who wished to replace them with a more reasoned approach. (...)

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The world, in which we find ourselves today however, doesn’t look or feel much like they predicted it would. Rather than being more and more under our control, it seems out of our control a runaway world (Giddens, 1999, pp.1-2).

Anything that happens could also happen differently, and nothing is what it seems to be. The experience of a surfeit of impressions, of change, of fragility is so prevalent in society that the experience of control, order and planning is pushed into the background to the point of vanishing. The result of this excess is that history becomes current events, space becomes images and the individual merely a gaze (Augé, 1994, p.103). In other words, the process of rationalization (modernity 1) is no longer a valid description of globalizing society. We live in a society without a telos: the efficiency promised by the process of rationalization cannot be delivered. The second position can be called the coexistence thesis. There is a growing experience of disorder, fragmentation and fragility (modernity 2), but at the same time the forces of rationalization are still working in society (modernity 1). Because of what is happening to our experience of space (explosion and implosion), the process of rationalization has changed, but it would be wrong to say that it is no longer possible to describe social development in terms of rationalization and its constituents, like functional differentiation. In the next section we will examine the following cultural changes in relation to globalization: – homogenization – de-traditionalization – privatization – de-institutionalization. In describing each of these changes, we differentiate between a radical thesis and a coexistence thesis. But first I want to stress again the common ground between the two positions, namely the changing spatial conditions of society. Globalization puts the construction of space at the centre of modern society. If we want to understand the sweeping changes in our society, we need to look at spatial transformations and our experience of space. Space no longer presents borders that have to be crossed or divide people from each other (one person being ‘here’ and the other ‘there’). The new experience of compressed space emerges in the ‘now’. Modernization is connected with the time-shift trope, namely the model of a linear development of society into the

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new (Luke, 1996, p.131; Featherstone, 1995, p.87). Globalization puts the dimension of space at the centre of our analysis, the key to understanding the changes of our time. The reverse of place is non-place. With the increasing importance of space it becomes equally important to look for a growing experience of non-place, of having no spatial ground of existence.10 Marc Augé offers an interesting definition of place and non-place. He defines place as ... anthropological place because the identity, relations, and history of those who inhabit its space – and non-place, by which I mean spaces of circulation, distribution, and communication where neither identity, relation, nor history may be apprehended (Augé, 1994, p.97).

According to Augé, place and non-place go hand in hand. There is non-place in every place, and non-places can be re-composed places. Globalization increases the experience of non-place where one is not chez soi, that is a place of shared identity common to those inhabiting the same place. With the nation-state – defined in terms of a majority ethnic group – breaking down, there is a growing experience of nonplace among countries’ inhabitants. And the experience of the ‘other’ entering a country, having a different cultural background from the cultural majority, is that there is no place for her or him. The problem of the other and of otherness is not a problem of time but of space (e.g. the experience of non-place). This growing experience of non-place is important from a theological perspective. We will come back to it in the next chapter with reference to the problem of poverty (section 2.4.1).11

1.2 Cultural changes in a globalizing society What cultural changes characterize the process of globalization? We classify these changes under four headings: homogenization, de-tradi10 In section 2.1 we return to the problem of time and space as categories of human experience. Space is not a geometrical category referring to something measurable but a transcendental category of human thought and experience. That is why we speak of anthropological place. 11 We will connect the anthropological category of non-place with the notion of marginality and marginalized persons. We will examine both the moral implications of marginality (see 2.4.2) and its theological implications (see 2.4.3.).

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tionalization, privatization and de-institutionalization. Before we elaborate on these topics, we need to explain why we chose them. The first consideration is that there is no scientifically agreed ‘canon’ of cultural characteristics which one could use. This gives every scholar the right to select those characteristics which fit his or her line of argument. Secondly, we do not opt for a one-dimensional model in which all cultural changes relate to a single cultural factor, such as individualization or de-traditionalization. In our view none of the theses that adopt a one-dimensional approach provide a conclusive argument for subsuming all cultural processes under one heading. This leaves us no option but to choose factors that accord with our line of argument in this book. As will be seen in the following chapters, we approach religion from an institutional perspective as a specific type of practice. When it comes to religious practices four cultural processes are particularly important: – The process of de-institutionalization crucially affects the concept of religion as practice. If institutions lose their hold on persons, it affects religion as practice, which is always a social activity. – Secondly, there are no institutionalized practices without traditions, because recognition of certain practices as religious ultimately depends on the authority of tradition. This makes it necessary to look into the process of de-traditionalization. – Thirdly, institutionalized practices are a special type of social practice. A practice presupposes a relationship between people or a social group. Practices cannot exist without a collective dimension. This implies that the process of privatization also affects religious practices and the construction of a religious self through practices. – The last process on the list is homogenization. The term refers to the fact that all cultural differences are subsumed under one global culture. The main factor influencing the process of homogenization is the commodification of culture as a mass consumer product. Although religion differs from other cultural domains such as sport, clothes or foods, it cannot escape the influence of the societal process of homogenization. As mentioned already, the cultural change to which each of these processes refers is not radical. Counter processes are also at work in the cultural domain. If the change were radical, we would be left with only transience, lack of control and contingency (modernity 2).

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We concur with those authors who believe that there are no empirical grounds for such a radical thesis. The intrinsic rationality of the cultural system (modernity 1), aimed at giving people and groups their identity, has not vanished altogether. As the coexistence thesis proposes, both forces are operative in the various cultural changes. What does this mean in concrete terms? When we speak about the process of de-institutionalization, it will not be in terms of radical deinstitutionalization, as if all cultural institutions have evaporated in a globalizing society. Alongside de-institutionalization, institutions continue to exist in various cultural domains (e.g. theatres in the art world, churches in the religious sphere). In fact, one might speak of a process of re-institutionalization, in the sense of institutionalization influenced by the altered conditions of a globalizing society. Reinstitutionalization is a form of institutionalization that seeks to contend with these altered circumstances. There is a certain simultaneity in the three processes. Hence one might say that something remains (institutionalization), something has disappeared (de-institutionalization) and something new is emerging (re-institutionalization). Remarkably, the first trend in homogenization, de-traditionalization, privatization and de-institutionalization receives most attention in sociological literature on globalization. The other two trends receive less. One can only guess at the reason for this. Perhaps these authors want to demonstrate that we are in fact faced with radical deinstitutionalization, hence they tend to disregard the other two trends. There is also a fair number of authors who adopt a radical position in regard to globalization. They need not concern themselves with the other trends (or developments) at all, because change is radical. Because we want to do justice to the complexity of the current cultural situation, we have chosen not to omit the different trends from our analysis. This accords with our choice of a coexistence thesis. At the same time it is not yet possible to offer a perfectly balanced sociological analysis of culture. While sociologists themselves are still grappling with the contents of the various trends and their interrelationship, I cannot hope to offer such an analysis. In the following outline of a societal context we will focus on the new things in a globalizing society. In the case of each of the four cultural processes I have identified we shall determine whether or not there has been radical change. In the event of a verdict that the transformation is not radical, we shall look into other trends. However, our main focus will still be on the cultural

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changes of homogenization, de-traditionalization, privatization and de-institutionalization.12 1.2.1 Homogenization According to Featherstone (1995, p.6), the process of globalization simultaneously suggests two images of culture: The first image entails the extension outwards of a particular culture to its limit, the globe. The second image points to the compression of cultures. (See also Schreiter, 1999, p.8.)

Extension suggests that the world becomes one domesticated space where everyone is assimilated into a common culture. According to Featherstone, the image of extension suggests a process of conquest and unification of the global space. An important means for this extension process is the development of new communication technologies (e.g. the Internet) and mass media (radio, satellite TV) that create a network of communication. When a disaster happens anywhere in the world, we hear about it on radio the same day and see it on television.13 Events occurring on another continent could be happening in our own backyard. Extension seems to refer not only to the range of communication (e.g. worldwide); the rate at which it takes place is also accelerating. At the same moment that people learn about a disaster in their own city or country, others all over the world are hearing the same news. On the same day in 1995 when the deities at some Hindu shrine appeared to drink milk, several million people around the world (not only in India), tried to offer milk to a divine image (Giddens, 1999, p.43). The Internet vividly illustrates the acceleration of communication: one can obtain information on any subject instantly; information spreads like wildfire (as does every new computer virus). Computer viruses are a good example of how the two hallmarks of the new communication technology, speed and range, coincide (Beyer, 1994, p.1). Compression of culture refers to the fact that things formerly kept apart are now brought into contact and juxtaposition: 12 By positing that these cultural changes are not radical, we allow for the possibility that there might be some continuity of the old (e.g. institutionalization) and of the continuation of a particular process under new conditions (e.g. re-institutionalization). 13 An example of this is the attack on the Twin Towers in New York and the Pentagon in Washington DC (11 September 2001).

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  Cultures pile on top of each other in heaps without obvious organizing principles. There is too much culture to handle and organize into coherent belief systems, means of orientation and practical knowledge (Featherstone, 1995. p.6).

Globalization leads to cultural movement and cultural complexity. This is caused by various processes, such as increasing flows of migrants to other countries, growing tourism and technological development of communication media. Cultures that have had no contact before come together in one place. Syncretism and hybridization are the rule rather than the exception (also Schreiter, 1999). In the colonial era (19th century) the dominant culture of the West was exported to the ‘Third World’. In a post-colonial world these countries speak back to the West, increasing the cultural complexity of Western society. Because of the compression of space it is no longer possible to speak of a cultural centre (the West) and a periphery (Third World). Culture flows in different directions on a global scale, which makes it difficult to speak of centre and periphery. Culture under global conditions is not regarded as an unproblematic, integrated pattern of common values. The image of culture as something integrated, unified, settled and static – characteristics of the spatial conditions of the nation-state – cannot be transposed to the global scene. “If there is a global culture it would be better to conceive of it not as a common culture, but as a field in which differences, power struggles and cultural prestige contests are played out” (Featherstone, 1995, p.14). What is the result of this double process of cultural extension and cultural compression? Some speak of a massive process of homogenization: We are witnessing the MacDonald-ization of society and the world which is not confined to food but is also apparent in car maintenance, education, child care, supermarkets, video rental outlets, cinemas, theme parks and sex. It is part of a massive bureaucratization of everyday life, which leads to progressive standardization (...) (Featherstone, 1995, p.8).

MacDonald-ization is more than an economic process of ‘efficiency’. MacDonalds products are consumed culturally as icons of a particular way of life. People do not simply buy a commodity but a particular brand that represents a cultural symbol of youth, fitness, beauty, luxury or freedom. The products of the global culture industry are consumed in the same way right around the world: in New York, in favelas

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in South America and in Dutch villages. ‘The characteristics of Disney are universal. Try to convince an Italian child that Topolino – the Italian name for Mickey Mouse – is American, and you will fail to do so’ (quoted in Beck, 1999, p.81). Featherstone calls this the ‘strong view’ of globalization, which parallels the strong view of the manipulability of mass audiences by a monolithic system. Homogenization is a result of the rise of the consumer culture, which is produced by a global imagination industry (Beck, 1999, p.99). Key features of a consumer culture are fragmentation and overproduction of images. Television produces a constant flow of images and signs, a polyphony of possible life forms. ‘The inability to order the fragmented culture is also held to lead to an aestheticization of everyday life through the inability to chain together signs and images into a meaningful narrative’ (Featherstone, 1995, p.76). Techniques for producing consumer culture illusions and spectacles have become more refined in our age. The media create an ‘as if’ world in which time and place dissolve: The experiences, people, places and emotional tone captured on television and film, give a particular strong sense of instantiation and immediacy which can help to de-realize reality (Featherstone, 1995, p.77).

Key features of the consumer culture are fragmentation and overproduction of culture (see above). The culture of consumer society is seen as a vast, floating complex of fragmentary signs and images, resulting in an endless sign play which destabilizes long held symbolic meanings. Channels like MTV offer an endless exposure of images that only last a moment. The modern channel-hopper is paradigmatic for the fragmented, distracted mode of consuming television. The effect of cultural fragmentation and overproduction is human inability to ‘chain’ the constant flow of images and signs together in a meaningful narrative. This is the very experience which Augé calls non-place (see above). The modern media seem to offer no space in which people can build meaningful relations and construct their identity. The consumer culture is challenging the autonomy of the cultural sphere. Modernity is characterized by functional differentiation (see above). This implies the development of an autonomous enclave of specialists (artists, scientists) who have a monopoly on the production and consumption of knowledge and cultural goods. This ‘high’ culture is heavily challenged by the development of mass consumer culture. Cultural

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goods are ‘produced for new audiences and markets in which existing hierarchical classifications were dismantled and specialist cultural goods were sold in similar ways to other “symbolic” commodities’ (Featherstone, 1995, p.29). There is growing pressure on scientists to produce knowledge that can be used economically. Art has increasingly become a production factor within a mass consumer industry. The heroes of the past were ‘idols of production’, valued because of their virtuous character. The heroes of the consumer industry are ‘idols of consumption’, who present a colourful self aimed at dramatic effect. The modern heroes are presented for the sake of their emotional impact on consumers, not as models representing a genuine personality. Everyday life has also entered the consumer industry. An example is the Dutch cultural export product, ‘Big Brother’, in which a number of people are locked up in a house. Average people are presented for days in succession doing things that everybody does. This programme (like the many daily soap operas) has lent greater legitimacy to everyday culture. ‘The decline of hero ethics also suggests a feminization of culture’ (Featherstone, 1995, p.68). Not only high culture but also the everyday culture of ordinary people is a legitimate cultural presentation. A celebrity like Madonna has perhaps done more for the presentation of a self-confident woman than the many feminist working groups and magazines put together. While this may be true, people on talk shows are also presented in hopeless situations just for the sake of viewing the mass consumer industry. The question is whether this mass production of culture really facilitates identity construction for people living under their own social, cultural and historical conditions. Is Madonna not ultimately part of the machinery of the consumer industry with its homogenizing effect? There is also a coexistence view which, while acknowledging the processes pointed out by advocates of the radical viewpoint, identifies counter processes and strategies as well. In the first place, they refer to the interaction of this global process with assimilation/resistance strategies of peripheral cultures. Thus nation-states like France, Brazil or India invest in locally produced films as a counterweight to Hollywood productions (Featherstone, 1995, p.116). A country like Brazil is now exporting its own films to its former colonizer, Portugal. And big multinationals like Coca-Cola or MacDonalds try to indigenize their products by producing local brands. Robertson calls this fusion of local and global ‘glocalization’. Local ways of life are combined with elements from other cultures, making syncretism the normal way of

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life. Consider, for example, the life of a third-generation immigrant from an Islamic country on the Mediterranean to Western Europe, who wears Nikes, goes to a disco and prays five times a day. Advocates of the radical view ignore the way in which culture is appropriated by persons. Of course, Coke and MacDonalds products are universal, but the way they are appropriated by people in different local situations varies, giving cultural goods different meanings for different people (Friedman, 1994, p.100). Companies like MacDonalds even exploit this local diversity. A good example is the MacKroket sold at MacDonalds in the Netherlands; hence a typically Dutch snack is incorporated into MacDonalds consumer culture. Wertsch (1998) presents a beautiful study of resistance strategies based on the way Lithuanians appropriated the dominant communist ideology in the former Soviet Union. To a superficial eye most people appeared to affirm the communist ideology. Closer scrutiny would reveal different resistance strategies, such as literally parroting the official ideology amid laughter.14 A second argument used by the advocates of the coexistence thesis is that culture is not a uniform, closed notion. Uniformity fails to allow for the influence that non-Western cultures have been exercising on the West and on one another (Hermans & Kempen, 1998, p.1113). In his cultural history of Europe (Rietbergen, 1998, p.462) Rietbergen concludes that the genesis of European culture is ‘the result of constantly recurring contacts with “others”– often migrating into Europe from non-European regions’. To give just one example: Europe as we know it today would not have existed without the influx of Islamic culture, with its advanced medical and technical science, into Spain from AD 711 onwards. Perhaps Friedman is right when he says that the experience of cultural fragmentation is really a Western confusion of its own identity space: When hegemony is strong or increasing, cultural space is similarly homogenized; spaghetti becomes Italian; a plural set of dialects becomes a national language in which cultural differences are translated into a continuum of correct to incorrect or standard to non-standard (Friedman, 1994, p.100).

14 These processes of laughter and irony play a role in the construction of the religious self (see 4.3.2) and in religious education (see 5.3.2).

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While virtually all cultures are plural and creolized in terms of their origins, they neither appear to be so, nor are they experienced as such (Friedman, 1994, p.100). From this point of view the concept of cultural homogenization (see above) is an expression of Western hegemony. This does not imply that there is not a growing influence of consumer culture produced by a global mass industry. But this is not the only cultural reality. Homogenization goes hand in hand with hybridization and syncretism. In every local situation, especially in ‘contact zones’, there is a complex situation of different voices coming from different cultural traditions. The assumption that cultures are internally homogeneous and distinctive is false. Beside homogenization and ‘glocalization’ one also hears about the “Brazilianization of the world” – ‘the dual processes of zoning and cultural syncretism’ (Featherstone, 1995, p.9). Not everybody in society profits from economic and cultural global changes. Modern big cities in particular have highly segregated zones with a ‘fortified core and middle- and upper-class apartment complexes in close proximity, yet separated and protected from contact with lower- and underclass ethnic ghettos and the zones of crime and disorder’ (Featherstone, 1995). The process of globalization does not work in the same way for everyone in society. We only have to think of the one million analphabetes in the Netherlands out of a total population of 16 million (in 2001). One can even raise the question whether the cultural disparity between the new rich (e.g. employees of the ICT industry, who take their cultural identity with them as they travel between the economic centres of the world), and the poor is not greater than it used to be in the closed society of the nation-state in the 19th century and first half of the 20th century. For the rich in the ‘First World’ space has exploded and imploded. But this is not the experience of the poor (in the ‘Second’ and ‘Third World’). According to Beck, people in the Second World live in space that is heavy, out of their control, and in time that holds them captive (Beck, 1999, p.104). The poor experience space very differently from the rich, who use the Internet, travel abroad and watch television programmes from other countries (CNN).15 15 It should be noted, however, that cultural processes cannot be separated from other social, economic and political processes. The term ‘Brazilianization’ underscores this connection. We shall return to the topic at focal points in this study. Thus we shall link our theological positioning of religious traditions with the problem of poverty (see 2.4.1) and life on the fringes of society. And in the dialogue between people from diverse cultures we draw attention to the need to acknowledge the suffering and injustice endured by cultural and religious minorities (see 6.2.3).

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1.2.2 De-traditionalization A second process influencing the identity of persons, groups and organizations is de-traditionalization. Modernity is understood as the antithesis of tradition (as Gesellschaft is opposed to Gemeinschaft) (Luke, 1996, p.109). Heelas (1996, p.2) writes: (...) detraditionalization involves the shift of authority from without to within . It entails the decline of the belief in pre-given or natural orders of things. Individual subjects are themselves called upon to exercise authority in the face of the disorder and contingency which is thereby generated.

In the discussion of the process of detraditionalization two strands can be discerned. Heelas calls them the radical thesis and the coexistence thesis. Advocates of the first thesis think in terms of oppositions: closed (repetitive, ritualized) versus open (experimental, revisable); fate (preordained) versus choice (reflexivity); security versus risk; the embedded self versus the disembedded self. ‘With each opposition informed by a basic past to present/future dynamics, detraditionalization involves the replacement of the closed (etc.) with the open (etc.)’ (Heelas, 1996, p.3). Traditional societies are informed by a belief in established, timeless orders. People are embedded in pre-given orders of things. Accordingly, the order of the self is by definition collectivist or communal. Identities are inscribed in the pre-given order rather than being at stake for discursive controversy’ (Heelas, 1996, p.4). People have a strong sense of what is part of their tradition and what is not. Identity is preserved because socialization takes place in a closed environment. De-traditionalization can only occur if people think of themselves as not belonging to the whole; when they have the opportunity to stand back and have their own say in how they lead their lives; when the authority of tradition is broken; and when cultures come to contain a fragmented and variegated range of beliefs and values. This is precisely what is happening in our day. One of the advocates of the radical thesis, Zygmunt Bauman (1996, p.51), describes the (post)modern situation, using the image of a city: One can think of postmodern life as living in a city in which traffic is daily re-routed and street names are liable to be changed without notice. Available maps do not guarantee that the house one is seeking will be there at the end of the walk, and that a route still leads to the direction one wanted to go. The resulting agony is baseless, though,

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  since the constant drifting of urban attractions makes it unlikely that the allure of the destination will outlast the duration of the walk. In such a city one is well advised not to plan long and time-consuming journeys. The shorter the trip, the greater the chance of completing it, and the less the threat of disappointment at the end.

The (post)modern condition is characterized by contingency. Nothing seems impossible, let alone unimaginable. ‘To be rational in the modern world is to be a pilgrim and to live one’s life as a pilgrimage’ (Bauman, 1996). People live a life of constant new beginnings and fresh starts. Contingency should not be seen as impotence, but as omnipotence (one can always undo what has been done). ‘Everything that “is”, is until further notice. Nothing that has been binds the present, while the present has but a feeble hold on the future’ (Bauman, 1996). In such a situation tradition is challenged by novelty. It is ‘the novelty that conjures up the tradition as its other, as something it is not (...) as nostalgia for an old home rather than the longing for a home yet unbuilt’ (Bauman, 1996, p.49). Tradition lives only posthumously, namely in the experience of de-traditionalization. Only the dream of bygone days remains. De-traditionalization is the experience of something that has been lost: the experience of a pre-given order in which individuals are socialized without even knowing that it represents a particular tradition and that there are alternative ways of living one’s life. When tradition is experienced as a museum, the idea of continuity – in the sense of something that remains constant in the face of change over time – is lost (Van Harskamp, 2000, p.60). According to advocates of the coexistence thesis de-traditionalization does not imply radical abrogation of tradition, but there is a constant interplay between deconstruction and construction of tradition, between maintenance and rejuvenation of tradition. Most comprehensively formulated, coexistence theory holds that people – whether “pre-modern”/”traditional” or even “postmodern”/“posttraditional” – always live in terms of those typically conflicting demands associated, on the one hand, with voices of authority emanating from realms transcending the self qua self, and, on the other, with those voices of authority emanating from the desires, expectations, and competitive or idiosyncratic aspirations of the individual (Heelas, 1996, p.7).

Advocates of the coexistence thesis argue that both past and present are misrepresented by proponents of the radical thesis. ‘Traditions (...) should not be regarded (...) as being necessarily static, backward, and

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conservative’ (Luke, 1996, p.116). Traditions are open to human agency. Persons transmit them to other persons, and in the process traditions are open to change. No tradition is taken over precisely as it was given, or is handed down as it was received. Traditions are misrepresented by advocates of the radical thesis as thing-like containers carrying a cargo of values and meaning. People are never wholly determined by tradition, nor are they wholly autonomous. De-traditionalization refers to a process in which old and new, closed and open coexist at the same time. Not all substantive traditions are destroyed, but they now exist in a plurality of traditions, which opens up possibilities of change. Authentic traditions still exist at a face-to-face level in families, work practices, church congregations. But they coexist with modern hypercultures or de-territorialized cultures, which are easy for people to join (e.g. Mac users, young people who identify with certain brands like Nike). New traditions or quasi-traditions emerge which also have a voice of authority, such as the neo-liberal market economy. There seems to be a difference between public life and private life, in the sense that the latter is full of choices which the former does not offer. In contrast with the radical scenario, which allows just one kind of reaction to the modern situation (constructing the new again and again), the coexistence thesis allows a range of alternatives (see Heelas, 1996, p.10). The first scenario is to live a contradictory if not schizophrenic life, oscillating between the different demands of the context in which one has to act. In one situation one acts as an orthodox Jew/Christian/Moslem and in another situation as a price-fighter on the trade market. The second scenario is to synthesize the different traditions and quasi-traditions in which ones lives. For example, practising yoga has nothing to do with Hinduism but is simply a way of combatting stress. The third scenario is to affiliate oneself with one substantive tradition and reject all the alternatives encountered in daily life. This is the scenario used by fundamentalist groups in different religions. Traditional practices are spatially specific and spatially defined. ‘Stable sites, permanent places, or long-lasting locales often make what is recognized as tradition possible’ (Luke, 1996, p.122). According to Luke it is the shaping of space, and not the survival of time, which is important for the preservation of practices and of tradition (Luke, 1996, p.126). The process of globalization with its characteristic explosion and implosion of space produces destabilized sites, which

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de-traditionalizes practices by destroying the settings for human action. I find this quite an interesting view of tradition and detraditionalization, because traditions are usually associated with time.16 Luke differentiates between three types of spatial ordering, which are affected differently by the process of globalization. The first type is organic spatial ordering, which is mediated through the human body. Traditions are preserved by spatial settings, such as face-to-face communication, the conventional understanding of practices within a family, or the way harvesting is done on farms. ‘Authenticity here derives mostly from its em-body-ment of order’ (Luke, 1996, p.123). The second type of ordering is engineered spatial ordering. The key model for this type of spatial ordering is the city, which rules its immediate space by ‘urbanizing’ territory and thus centralizing and normalizing space. The space between cities is organized by the construction of railroads, hard-surface roads, canals, and telegraph/telephone connections. The space projected by such techniques is engineered, not natural; rationalized, not communalized; national, not local. Disorder, flux, and contingency do develop in the spaces projected by these new techniques of power; but an order, a permanence, and a necessity also emerge with the planned rationalization of space (Luke, 1996, p.125).

Space is reconfigured to suit the designs of state bureaucracies, accumulated capital and technical experts. The third type of spatial ordering is cybernetic spatial ordering. This type is best characterized by the development of information systems, such as mass telecommunications and the Internet. The meaning of space changes from organizations (as in engineered spatial orderings) to flows, which are transnational in nature. For example, in the new global electronic economy money exists only as digits in computers (Giddens, 1999, p.9). With one click of a mouse vast sums of money can be transferred from one part of the globe to another, destabilizing economies that were considered solid just a moment ago (as happened in Asia). De-traditionalization and re-traditionalization mean something different in each type of spatial ordering. While religious traditions embodied in spatial orderings in face-to-face situations are more resis16 For example, Van Harskamp (2000, pp.55-57) refers to tradition as a social and cultural system which functions as a kind of collective memory and has continuity in time.

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tant to change, they are more dynamic, fluid and plural in cybernetic space. It would be wrong to reduce the discussion of de-traditionalization to cybernetic spatial ordering, as sometimes happens. All three types of spatial ordering influence human life and the hold that tradition has on people. More than that, they act simultaneously at a societal and a personal level. At one and the same moment a person may be influenced by inflexible traditions in interpersonal contacts, highly changeable traditions in virtual communities and less changeable traditions from artificial structures in space.17 1.2.3 Privatization The term ‘privatization’ calls for explanation. In discussions the term ‘individualization’ or ‘individualism’ is often used (see e.g. the famous study of Bellah et al.,1996). Because of the various possible meanings of the terms ‘individualism’ and ‘individualization’ we prefer the term ‘privatization’. Privatization refers to a process through which people’s convictions, values and preferences are not wholly determined by the social group or community to which they belong (Peters & Scheepers, 2000a, p.43). This concept comes close to what Bellah calls expressive individualism, which implies ‘that each person has a unique core of feeling and intuition that should unfold or be expressed if individuality is to be realized’ (Bellah et al. 1996, p.334). Globalization is not the same as the global spread of one culture (e.g. Western culture). This would be a serious misunderstanding of the process. The global society relativizes all particular cultures. Particular group cultures used to be identical with the nation-state. With the loss of function of the nation-state, group cultures lose their integrative force (Beyer, 1994, p.51). Being a citizen of Italy does not nec17 An example of artificial structuring (second type) is the tradition which determines what a motorist or a train passenger is. These traditions are less contingent and fleeting than traditions based on digital ordering of space. My train departs according to a particular schedule (at least, that is what the passenger expects!), I have to find a seat in a particular class, I should possess a valid travel document, et cetera. On the digital express way people move at lightning speed in highly unstable, not very regulated ways. People visit a website without leaving a message and are fascinated now by one topic, then by another. When we want to book a flight, we visit all sites that offer air tickets. The next moment we are searching for information on a particular book or author. Whether we ever revisit the site where we located a cheap ticket is uncertain. Tradition is fleeting and contingent. Next time our search program will offer new Internet sites offering air tickets. Virtual space cannot offer traditions much stability.

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essarily imply being a Catholic. The world system is not a global society, in the sense of a gargantuan nation-state. It is not as if zooming beyond the nation-state to the furthermost corners of the world will result in a global society. Simple magnification is impossible because of the process of functional differentiation. The question we face when analyzing the world as a system is not so much how disparate components (societies) could have become a unified whole, as how the components (subsystems) have changed so that the whole has become a single world system. To understand global society one has to examine changes in subsystems, such as the economy and the financial sector. Because of their own internal dynamics they no longer operate (exclusively) at a national level but also at an international and a global level. This is nothing like a kind of nation-state on a global scale. The process can only be understood in terms of functional differentiation and the distinctive rules of each social subsystem. Functional differentiation also influences the identity construction of persons in the sense that normative identities are not important for systems or subsystems. In a religious sense, a person can have any religious identity (Catholic, Hindu, Moslem, atheist) and function well according to the rationality of a system (be a good policeman, doctor, judge, accountant). So from the point of view of society or, to be more precise, that of the different systems, a person does not have to have a particular identity. They are free to choose one and construct their own identity. What is more, through the implosion of space cultures which have never been in close contiguity historically come together. This opens up new choices for people.18 The cultural scene in which people live has become pluralistic. This opens up new possibilities for them to construct their own identity. According to Beck and Beck-Gernsheim two social developments go hand in hand in privatization:

18 People not only can choose; they also have to be recognized in their choice of an identity. In modern society the identity of a person or a group is not predetermined, as it was in pre-modern, hierarchical societies. According to the Canadian philosopher Taylor people in hierarchical societies are entitled to honour, which everybody knows, which forms part of that particular culture. In modern society this no longer applies. People are not only permitted to construct their own identity, they must do so and they look for affirmation of this identity construction. This process, so fundamental in a globalizing society, will recur in this study, both in our theological (2.3.1) and our pedagogic analysis (6.2).

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On the one hand, individualization refers to the disintegration of previously existing social forms – for example, the increasing fragility of such categories as class and social status, gender roles, family, neighbourhood-(Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 1996, p.24).

The second development is the following: In modern societies new demands, controls and constraints are being imposed on individuals. Through the job market, the welfare state and institutions, people are tied into a network of regulations, conditions, provisos (Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 1996, p.25).

The two social developments go hand in hand. Privatization is not equivalent to ‘juggling in a virtually empty space’, as if modern subjects lived in a non-social environment. What is decisive for these modern regulations or guidelines is that individuals should incorporate them into their own biographies through their own actions. It is up to them to do so without restriction or prohibition in either direction. The normal biography thus becomes a ‘do-it-yourself biography’. This does not imply that people succeed in becoming what they want to be. The do-it-yourself biography is always a risk biography, indeed a tightrope biography, a state of permanent (partly overt, partly concealed) endangerment. (...) The wrong choice of career or just the wrong field, compounded by the downward spiral of private misfortune, divorce, illness, the repossessed home – all this is called merely bad luck (Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 1996, pp.25-26).

People are condemned to construct their own biography. They are not free to choose. This is new in the modern process of individualization. The basic conditions of modern society ‘enforce individualization (the job market, the need for mobility and training, labor and social regulations, pension provisions, etc.)’ (Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 1996, p.33). The second new element is the democratization of individualization. Nobody is exempted from the need to construct his or her own, unique biography. This construction is never-ending: a person will never reach a point where ‘all is said and done’. The well that feeds the process of individualization never runs dry. This is evident when one considers the two movements in individualization: an inward movement and an outward movement (Van Harskamp, 2000, p.67). The inward movement refers to overcoming what is alienating the self from the true self. The

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outward movement consists in finding new modes of self-expression. The first movement is never-ending because a person can never be sure that the constructed self is really the true self. There is always an element of alienation in life, or at least of uncertainty whether or not something is alienating. Second, there are always new ways (situations, experiences, domains) of expressing oneself. And expressing oneself always creates a new dependency, if only on the actual selfexpression and the conditions under which it takes place. A radical thesis of privatization posits that it is not possible to identify people’s convictions or values on the basis of their membership of a particular group or social collectivity. Beck and Beck-Gernsheim (1996) advocate this radical view. They take the individual as their social unit of analysis, as opposed to any collectivity of whatever kind: group, class, organization, state. They illustrate their ideas with the example of marriage. The world order of marriage is an individual order which must be questioned and reconstructed by individuals as they go along. Of course, societies have rules governing the institution of marriage. But within these rules, people can play their own game: Kids or no kids? Who takes care of the kids? What sexual norms do I want to observe? Following Parsons, this situation can be described as institutionalized individualism: In modern life, the individual is confronted on many levels with the following challenge: You may and you must lead your own independent life, outside the old bonds of family, tribe, religion, origin, and class and you must do this within the new guidelines and rules which the state, the job market, the bureaucracy, etc. lay down (Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 1996, p.36).

A positive effect of privatization is that it reduces the chance of social conflict between cultural groups in society, because the groups are no longer polarized (Peters & Scheepers, 2000a, p.43). In this sense privatization contributes positively to social cohesion. A coexistence thesis of privatization also confirms a trend in our society: it is becoming increasingly difficult to predict people’s ideas regarding their membership of a particular socio-cultural group. It is increasingly difficult to speak about the typical convictions of Catholics, educated people or the youth because of the process of privatization. Their convictions and values are not necessarily consistent with the group’s. At the same time there may be processes of de-privatization at work. This would imply that certain ideas in society are

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more firmly linked with specific socio-cultural groups. Indeed, research on value systems in Dutch society shows that both privatization and de-privatization have occurred between 1985 and 2000 (Peters & Scheepers, 2000b, p.242). For example, the connection between educational level and socio-economic value system has weakened (an example of privatization). The value of economic success is less characteristic of highly educated people than it used to be. On the other hand, the connection between having children and the familial value system has strengthened, indicating a reverse process of de-privatization. 1.2.4 De-institutionalization Globalization, interpreted as an explosion and implosion of space in modern society, does not imply the end of institutions. Functional differentiation, the characteristic of modernization, is here to stay. The globalization thesis adds to the modernization thesis: ‘the spread of certain vital institutions of Western modernization to the rest of the globe, especially the modern capitalist economy, the nation-state, and scientific rationality in the form of modern technology’ (Beyer, 1994, p.8). The social unit in which systems operate is no longer restricted to the nation-state but has expanded to a global scale. According to Luhmann (quoted in Beyer, 1994, p.38) it is not necessary for modern systems to expand globally in order to survive: they expand because there is no longer a sufficiently powerful obstacle to such expansion. Each functional system is oriented to a specific rationality, which determines the mode of communication within that system. Functional systems are able to expand to the greater complexity of the globe because they operate on the basis of a formal cognitive mode. Put differently: systems are defined by instrumental rationality. The modern capitalist economy can enter new cultural environments outside the West without danger of clashing with cultural norms. Functional systems are differentiated from the normative structure of society. Once differentiated from that structure, each system is relatively free to set its own boundaries. This means that the extent of the economy need not be the same as that of the polity. This makes it possible for different systems to react differently in the globalizing process. Talking about a ‘global village’ may create the impression that there is something like a global society, comparable to the nation-state which dom-

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inated history from the 18th to the 20th century. This naive conception is not implied in the globalization thesis; it relates to the concept of functional differentiation. The idea is that systems like the economy and the financial market are beginning to operate globally, thus expanding their range beyond the nation-state. The process of globalization leads to de-institutionalization. To understand this, it is important to differentiate institutions on different levels: an international and transnational level, a national level and a local level. Globalization presages the relativization of personal and group identities. According to Luhmann identities are self-descriptions (Beyer, 1994, p.61). People acting within a system can use it, but they are not what constitutes the system. ‘Under modern, globalizing conditions, then, group cultures can no longer assume the more undifferentiated situation of the past’ (Beyer, 1994, p.65). The idea is that group cultures are embodied in interactional settings: the type of language we use; where we meet and how we talk; the furnishing of the rooms in which we meet. Group culture does not translate automatically into organizational relevance. According to Beyer organizations can be vehicles of group culture and group identity, but they are more than simply extensions of social interaction networks. ‘Group culture that manifests itself in interactions and organizations does not thereby become the culture of societal systems’ (Beyer, 1994, p.65). Given the dominance of functional differentiation, a group culture can only affiliate with a subsystem if it conforms to the culture of this system. According to Beyer, art and religion are systems that lend themselves to a symbiotic relationship between cultural particularism and a functional sphere. For example, one speaks of the art and the religion of Australian Aborigines. What about institutions at a local level? De-institutionalization means that people are less involved with local institutions such as the family and the neighbourhood (Scheepers & Peters, 2000a, p.41). In premodern societies people lived their whole life in the same neighbourhood and depended on their neighbours’ help for their social welfare. In a globalizing world with the increasing mobility of workers, the meaning of the local environment has declined. This leads to a loss of social capital, which consists in a combination of commitment to others, trust in others and participation in societal forms of organization in which this engagement takes shape (Dekker, De Hart & Peters, 1997, p.90). At the same time new institutions can emerge on a local as well as a

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national level (see below). These institutions, which fall outside functional differentiation, can be subsumed under the label of social movements. The process of re-institutionalization is influenced by the context of globalization. The first point to note in regard to social movements is that the concept is contested in sociological theory (Beyer, 1994, p.106). What seems to be a common theme in different theories is that social movements are somehow non-conventional, outside and beyond currently normal institutional bounds. An important aspect is the mobilization of ‘grievances’ or ‘strains’ as the motivational base of social movements. People join a social movement voluntarily. Beyer mentions two characteristics of social movements. First, they mobilize around what I am here calling the residual problems of global society and are, from this perspective therefore, antisystemic. Second, they seek to address those problems by influencing the operation of the dominant instrumental systems (Beyer, 1994, p.107).

Social movements are fragile, as they exist by mobilizing ‘grievances’. Given the dominance of functionally oriented subsystems in global society, social movements frequently try to institutionalize their goals. A case in point is those NGOs (Non-Governmental Organizations) in the Netherlands which give aid to developing countries. They started as social movements outside the political and legal system of the nation-state. As soon as the state started to provide a large part of their budgets, they were compelled to operate according to the rationality of the political system. Institutionalization of their goals meant a gain in public influence, but it also implied loss of antisystemic power. An example of a social movement in the Netherlands that has stayed outside the political system is the “poor side of the Netherlands” (de arme kant van Nederland.) This movement is a subgroup of the Dutch Council of Churches which mobilizes grievances and criticism of developments in the political and economic system that exacerbate the position of the poor and widen the gap between rich and poor. It is very active at the local level, for example in organizing voluntary work for the poor and self-help groups for people (especially woman) who have been living on a social minimum allowance for years. Institutions at the national level are under heavy pressure from the globalization process. Ultimately, modern states have territorial limits for administrative efficiency (Beyer, 1994, p.49). But these territorial limits are now preventing them from coping effectively with the problems they encounter. For example, economic problems and redistribu-

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tion of wealth by the welfare system cannot be solved at the level of the nation-state. Ecological problems like the hole in the ozone layer and the BSE crisis (mad cow disease) can only be solved at a supra-national level. As a result citizens of nation-states turn their backs on government institutions, because they no longer fulfil the functions they are supposed to fulfil. According to Zürn (1999, pp. 277-287) another effect is growing regionalism in many countries (e.g. the Quebecois in Canada; the Welsh and the Scots in the United Kingdom; Friesians in the Netherlands, and the Nord in Italy). This process of regional separatism is more marked in countries that are involved in powerful international institutions. Thus some regions go directly to Brussels to do business at the level of the European Union, bypassing national institutions. Finally we focus on the growing number of institutions at the national and transnational level. International institutions such as the United Nations operate in cooperation with nation-states (also called ‘governance with government’). What these international institutions can do is founded on agreements with states. Transnational institutions like the Olympic Committee do not involve nation-states (known as ‘governance without government’). The rules and regulations formulated by these institutions (e.g. in which drugs are forbidden in sport) are laid down independently of the actors in the subsystem (the athletes). There is a long and complex debate on how effective international institutions actually are (see Zürn, 1999, pp.165-230). Often their effectiveness is seriously questioned. The international Klima conferences, for example, depend on nation-states’ approval of measures to be taken on a national and international level. Many nationstates are unwilling to take measures which will be disadvantageous on a national level (for the economy, mobility). On the other hand, international and transnational institutions are the only ones that seem to be capable of solving global problems. De-institutionalization in a globalizing world, according to the radical thesis, can be summarized as follows: traditional institutions on a local level will disappear; institutions on the level of the nation-state are losing their effectiveness; international and transnational institutions are the only ones that can meet the requirements of decision making in a globalizing world. Re-institutionalization on a local or a national level is associated with antisystemic social movements, which mobilize social protest in a globalizing world. The coexistence view agrees with the development described above, but rejects the idea that institutions will disappear on a local level. Apart from commitment to

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the goal of a social movement (see above), the need for social contact is a powerful motive for active participation in organizations (e.g. sport, social welfare) (Van Deth, 1994, p.28). This need is perhaps even greater in a globalizing society. Research shows that people have long ‘careers’ as volunteers: some start as scouts, then join various organizations as volunteers later on. Children who grow up in a socially active family tend to be more active as adults than those who grow up in less active families. But the main factor influencing involvement in social movements is belonging to a network of people who participate actively in different societal organizations and movements (Van Deth, 1994, p.28). The need for social contact that dominated ‘traditional’ institutions still works in society at a local level. We repeat what we postulated under the heading of de-traditionalization: perhaps it is necessary to differentiate between different spatial orderings. Where space is mediated through the human body and involves face-to-face contact between people the social processes differ from those operating in engineered or cybernetic spatial orderings. In face-to-face settings the need for social contact, to know others and be known by them, the feeling of relatedness to people who share the same interests is still very strong.

1.3 Changes in religion In section 1.2 we identified four processes that characterize globalization in the cultural domain: homogenization and glocalization, de-traditionalization and re-traditionalization, privatization and de-privatization, de-institutionalization and re-institutionalization. In this section we describe the significance of these processes for religion, especially for religious practices. 1.3.1 Homogenization Homogenization refers to a global extension of culture accompanied by compression of culture in the same space. The extension of culture refers to the commodification of culture by the mass culture industry, which dominates the production of culture through the mass media. Compression of culture refers to the phenomenon that cultural traditions which used to be spatially separated are now found in the same space. Associated with this compression process is the phenomenon of

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hybridization or syncretism, which we will disregard in this section. (It will be examined in more detail in 1.3.3 when we deal with privatization of religion.) According to Beckford (1999, p.25), mass communication and geographic mobility have eroded the ability of religious organizations to control the uses to which their symbols are put. In a world of closed spaces and spatial barriers religious authorities (e.g. religious leaders, theologians) can effectively control the meaning of religious practices and the religious tools used in them (e.g. symbols, rituals, stories, roles). In a globalizing society, where space is less of a restriction on human actions, the power of religious authorities to control people’s religious practices is declining. An example is the appropriation of the Hindu goddess Kali by New Age and feminist groups in the USA. For these women, the goddess Kali represents ‘the dark, sexual, repressed, angry sides of woman that have been repressed in the West but which – if one follows the Hindu lead – can be released for creative and spiritual transformation’ (McDermott, 2000, p.723). Another example is the ritual burning of candles to bid a deceased person goodbye. In the Christian tradition the burning candle relates to the Easter candle (in Catholic liturgy) and to Jesus Christ as the ‘light of the world who has been raised from the dead’. Assuming that, to participants in this ritual, the burning candle represents victory of life over death or the eternal core of a person, it would still be a religious symbol. Why? By virtue of the fact that they are acknowledging the authority of a tradition which gives the burning candle that meaning. The same applies to a New Age feminist group which recognizes the creative and spiritual power of the goddess Kali. As long as the authority of a religious tradition is recognized and some memory of this authority lives on in the practice of people, it would be a religious practice. By the same token religious symbols, stories, roles may be used in a way that does not imply recognition of the normative meaning of a religious tradition. For example, the figure of Kali may be used simply to shock ‘bourgeois’ viewers in the West, or candles may be burnt just to create a serene atmosphere. In such cases we would not speak of a religious practice. This diffusion of symbols and stories of religious traditions in non-religious contexts is common in a globalizing world. Religious symbols and stories that were unknown to many people are now widely available. (See also under syncretism and hybridization below.) The mass media (more specifically the electronic media) control (at least part of) the flow of information about religion. In section 1.2.1 we

    

55

introduced the idea of commodification of culture in a globalizing world. The heroes produced by mass culture industry do not represent a cultural ideal but are presented mainly for dramatic effect. The hero of a modern soap series does not act as a model of virtue to be emulated. A hero evokes emotions that fade and are replaced by other emotions. The plot consists of clichés or generalizations, all mixed up in a hotchpotch of subplots without constructing a hierarchy of meaning or a dominant plot. It is like zapping through life without a normative story line. How does religion fit into this tendency to commodify culture? There is no easy answer to the question, as little sociological research has been done in this area, at least in Europe (Davie, 2000, p.98ff.). There appears to be a big difference between the USA and Europe. Televangelism, which is virtually unknown in Europe, is a prominent phenomenon in the USA. We will attend to this question below. First, however, we shall consider whether the media have become the message in the case of religion. Is the mediation of religion through the media part and parcel of an overall process of commodification of culture? There are some arguments for this. Firstly, the way in which sects or new religious movements are portrayed by the media is deliberately negative and aimed at emotional effect (Davie, 2000, p.110). Are the mass media really interested in religion or do they ‘use’ it to produce an emotional effect? An example of the latter is the negative portrayal of sects or new religious movements. In the mass media the term ‘sect’ connotes deviant behaviour and results in public repudiation. A good example was the media coverage of the drama of the Solar Temple movement in the 1990s. This was a small, obscure, esoteric movement based primarily in Switzerland and Quebec. The media only became interested after the members of the movement committed mass suicide. Another example is two public funerals in the 1990s in Britain and France, which are moderately secularized countries. The first was the funeral of president Francois Mitterand; the second that of princess Diana. These funerals turned into media events of an unprecedented magnitude. A question which is not easy to answer is whether they were expressive of the commodification of religion.19 19 See for example the prominence of Elton John’s song, Candle in the wind, in the service in Westminster Abbey, and the exploitation of this song in the media. The fact that Dodi al-Fayed was a Muslim hardly featured in the media. Why not? Could it be because the media were less interested in the religious background of the deceased than in the emotional impact of the media event? Would the event have assumed such magnitude if it had not become a commodity?

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The fact that these public funerals became big media events is all the more remarkable because religion, by and large, does not feature in European media. This is a major difference between Europe and the USA, where televangelism is part of the restructuring of American religion after World War II. The number of hours devoted to Godtalk on American television is quite disproportionate to the European situation, where such programmes are marginal. Televangelism has been fairly well researched in the USA and has revealed (at least) two success factors: (1) the existence of an audience of ‘converted’ people; and (2) financial resources to support these programmes (Davie, 2000). These success factors at the same time indicate the limited efficacy of televangelism: it has little impact beyond its own constituency of the ‘converted’. This will always restrict the social significance of televangelism. In section 1.2.1 we described homogenization as a kind of ‘zapping’ through life without a normative story line. Is this what people do in a globalizing world, and is this phenomenon increasing with the advance of globalization? We can only give a tentative answer to this question because of the lack of research into the phenomenon. A study by Hijmans (1994) provides some empirical evidence of the ‘modern’ process of identity construction in which clichés constitute the building blocks.20 On the basis of 39 interviews Hijmans constructed a typology of four systems of constructing the meaning of life. The two dimensions in this typology are level of reflection on the meaning of life in terms of a world-view (reflection dimension) and degree of structuring or organization of meaning in different existential domains (integration dimension) (see figure 1.1). The first type, the mainspring type, is characterized by a single major aim in life, such as faith in God or improving the living conditions of the poor. A person may have many aims in life, but one of them ranks highest. For example, someone who is deeply inspired by New Age ideology may put everything in the perspective of self-development. 20 Most large-scale quantitative research starts with certain conceptions of what religious practices, convictions and symbols are. The restriction of this kind of research is that it cannot capture the fluid, open, cliché’d construction of people in an era of mass media. On the other hand, empirical research into this ‘zapping’ construction of religious identity needs to be qualitative, so it is usually small-scale. Conclusions from this kind of research are tentative and need to be corroborated by largescale research. The research of Hijmans (1994) falls into this second category.

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Figure 1.1: Types of world view construction (Hijmans, 1994, p.56) REFLECTION (from

a world-view perspective) Not important

INTEGRATION

Important

Dominant life goal

1. Mainspring type

2. Aholic type

Several life goals

3. Mosaic type

4. Conglomerate type

Apart from a clear hierarchy, this type is also characterized by intensive reflection on the religious world-view underlying the major life goal. For example, a person may reflect on the meaning of life from the Christian perspective of a merciful God. The mosaic type is characterized by the presence of several goals that are not hierarchically ordered. Such a person may, for example, read many books on Western and Eastern mysticism, go to gym every evening, play sport actively on weekends and study economics part-time to get a better job. Different life goals are connected to different life domains, but there is no overarching goal. A person of this type also reflects on life in terms of a world-view, religious or nonreligious, but it is less dominant than in the mainspring type, because it relates to only one of the life goals. This leaves the mosaic type more scope to construct an individual, even heterogeneous or hybrid style of religiosity or world-view. Life goals that are important in other life domains are able to mix in and influence this world-view. For example, a person is very active in an ecological group. When she hears a sermon in church about creation and the relation of humans to nature, these religious ideas are influenced by her ‘secular’ ecological convictions. For the mainspring type a world-view associated with a major life goal would unilaterally influence all other life goals. The ‘aholic’ type also has one dominant life goal (see figure 1.1.). Hijmans labelled this type ‘aholic’ by analogy with the term ‘workaholic’. Indeed, for some people this is their major life goal, even if it is simply the family (“being a good mother and taking care of your children”), sport (“being the best sportsman in a certain field”) or a hobby (“being a ham hooked on radio”). This dominant life goal is integrated with practical life. The number of hours spent on the life goal every week is enormous. But from a more reflective point of view there is no overall narrative unity in life based on a particular world-view (relig-

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ious or non-religious). The capacity to reflect on the meaning of life is limited, because ‘aholic’ people lack a framework (stories, symbols, rituals) for reflection. The conglomerate type also lacks the ability to reflect on the meaning of life in terms of a world-view. Things happen and pass by. Some things have an appeal, but so do others. The reason for choosing one alternative rather than another is not very clear. Persons of this type lack both integration via one dominant life goal, and reflection in terms of a world-view or syncretistic construction of meaning. That is why Hijmans chose the label ‘conglomerate’: everything is jumbled together in a random, contingent way. It could just as well be different, for such people are not personally coordinating the course of their lives. If something is done, it is a matter of “it so happened” or “that’s how it goes round here”. It is hard for conglomerate types to communicate what life means. It is not that everything is relative (“anything goes”), but if pressed for an answer they will fob you off with a cliché or some generalization they once heard. Next time they will give a different answer to the same question. Again, this does not mean that everything is relative, but the conglomerate type lacks the integrative force of a world-view (religious or non-religious, pure or syncretistic). Against the background of this typology, I want to raise the question of homogenization. Is the commodification of culture by the mass culture industry, which produces an endless sign play of fragmented signs and symbols, influencing the construction of people’s identity? I reiterate the warning: the empirical data presented by Hijmans (1994) do not permit generalization. At most we can indicate whether there are traces of homogenization in the material presented – not how strongly or profoundly it is influencing identity construction in a globalizing society. First it is important to make a distinction between the four types in the dimension of integration (see figure 1.1). There are two types (mainspring and mosaic) who have a certain competence to reflect on life in terms of a world-view (religious or non-religious). The other two types (aholic and conglomerate) lack this competence. Hence one might expect the last two types to be more open to the influence of homogenization than the first two. Conversely, the first two types have at least the potential to resist this process. They can reflect on the images presented by the mass media (e.g. in a soap series or an advertisement) from a world-view perspective, regardless of whether this world-view is connected with a dominant life goal (mainspring type)

    

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or just one of their many life goals (mosaic type). This would accord with the coexistence view, as presented in section 1.2.1. Secondly, Hijmans reports frequent use of clichés especially by the two non-integrative, non-world-view types. Lacking a clear world-view framework the non-world-view types derive notions, orientations and solutions from general societal knowledge in the form of general values, norms, sayings, stereotypes and clichés in which one formulates a kind of directive (Hijmans, 1994, p.188).

Hijmans does not mention the source of these clichés and generalizations used by people of the aholic and conglomerate type. In an age of mass media one can only suspect a strong media influence. A third comment: we would not go so far as to say that the mass consumer industry pushes people mainly towards the conglomerate type, as advocates of the radical thesis would be inclined to think. One could argue that people could have been divided into these same four types a century ago. At that time people derived their clichés from the dominant culture, which was to some degree determined by Christianity. A lot of Western sayings, for example, have their origins in biblical literature. In our time the mass consumer industry provides people with a constant sign play and will therefore be a major source of popular images. Again, this does not imply that people are just passive recipients of images disgorged by the mass consumer industry. We would like to avoid any form of deterministic thinking. The modern mass media with their never-ending production of images possibly make it more difficult for people who lack integrative power. And each of these images seems to have some plausibility or, perhaps more accurately, none of the images is of a normatively higher order than any other. At the other extreme we have the mosaic type, who seems to handle the pluralistic interplay of images and symbols very well (Hijmans, 1994, p.164). This type has an openness to a plurality of cultural systems as well as competence to reflect in terms of a world-view. 1.3.2 De-traditionalization The coexistence thesis does not imply a radical abrogation of tradition, but there is a constant interplay between deconstruction of tradition and construction of tradition, between maintenance and rejuvenation of tradition. Most sociological research into the process of de-traditionalization

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starts by defining some Christian belief as traditional belief. For example, the European Value Systems Study Group (EVSSG) defined traditional belief as belief in life after death, heaven, hell, the devil and sin (Halman et al., 1987; Ester et al., 1993). Between 1981 and 1990, according to this definition, orthodox belief declined in countries like Norway, West Germany, France, Belgium and the Netherlands, while during the same period it increased in countries like the USA, Canada, Ireland and Northern Ireland. Cohort analysis shows no differences in traditional belief (as defined above) between different age groups in the USA. In Europe, however, there is a steadily declining pattern: each successively younger group has less ‘traditional’ belief. According to the EVSSG data there is no indication of de-traditionalization in the USA. Does this mean that there is no decline in ‘traditional’ belief between different age groups? Other studies of specific religious communities in fact indicate an inter-cohort shift in Christian’s belief. Geletto (1996), for example, researched the beliefs of Catholic elementary school teachers of religion. Table 1.1 reflects data with regard to three essential beliefs of the Catholic Christian view.21 The Catholic Church teaches that the eucharistic bread and wine actually turn into the body and blood of Christ. There is a clear decline in knowledge of church doctrine among the different cohorts, and an even sharper decline in what the teachers believe. While 84% of teachers aged 55 years or older believe in the eucharistic presence, only 42% of teachers younger than 25 believe in it. The same pattern is observable with regard to belief in papal infallibility and the afterlife (heaven or hell). This declining tendency in knowledge and belief is also evident in a study of young adult Catholics in the USA. This study focussed on two groups of confirmands, respectively aged between 20 and 29 years and between 30 and 39 years (Latino and non-Latino). These young adults had affirmed their Catholic belief through confirmation. The quantitative part of the research indicated high levels of assent to key Christian tenets (Hoge et al., 2001, pp.59-64), measured on the traditional-doctrine scale that the researchers constructed through

21 The item on the eucharistic presence read: ‘The bread and wine really and truly become the Body and Blood of Christ at Mass.’ The item on papal infallibility read: ‘The pope is infallible in matters of faith and morals.’ The item about the afterlife read: ‘It is truly possible for people to go to heaven or to hell.’

    

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Table 1.1: Percentages of Catholic teachers who know and believe a specific Catholic view of Christianity classified by age group (Geletto, 1996) Eucharistic presence Know Believe Age Under 25 25-34 35-44 45-54 55 or older

72 81 88 91 92

42 49 64 75 84

Papal infallibility Know Believe

19 18 29 51 62

16 17 30 45 60

Afterlife Know Believe

74 82 89 92 91

66 73 78 80 81

factor analysis. The scale consisted of three items: Christ’s eucharistic presence in the bread and wine; divine judgment after death; and belief in Christ as the son of God. The mean for non-Latinos was 4.38 (on a five-point Likert scale) and that for Latinos was 4.60 (Hoge et al., 2001, p.254). In other words, 70% of non-Latinos and 79% of Latinos strongly agreed with the three tenets. This part of the research seems to indicate no decline in “traditional” Catholic beliefs among young adults. But the qualitative part of the research challenges this conclusion. In the interviews many young adults revealed ignorance of their own religious tradition and inability to explicate their beliefs to others (Hoge et al., 2001, p.143). The researchers summarize their findings as follows: Many young adult Catholics have a difficult time articulating a coherent sense of Catholic identity. While they like being Catholic, they are not sure what is distinctive about Catholicism. They believe it is relatively harder to be a Catholic, but often have little sense of the tradition as something “handed down”, or of what Catholic heritage actually means. They are not well-versed in Catholicism’s core narratives. As a result, their sense of boundaries of Catholicism is diffuse and ambiguous (Hoge et al., 2001, pp.221-222).

Greeley (1976) coined the term “communal Catholics” for this type of Catholic. These are people who describe themselves as Catholic, who like being Catholic, who are at ease with their Catholicism, but who have only minimal expectations of the institutional church and do not listen very seriously to what church leaders say. They have a limited knowledge of Catholic doctrine and teachings. Although by and large Hoge et al. agree with Greely’s characterization, they disagree with

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him on the question of lived familiarity with Catholicism as a cultural system. The young adults under 40 years have no experience of Catholicism before Vatican II. They are products of communal Catholicism, which explains their growing ignorance of the Catholic faith and personal search for non-institutionalized spirituality. The data cited above give some indication that a process of de-traditionalization is evident in the USA as well. Nonetheless the position is very different from that in most European countries and other anglophone countries like Australia and Canada, where a clear decline in “traditional” Christian beliefs has been established (Ester et al. 1993; Inglehart, 1997). Davie (2000) speaks of amnesic societies. The younger generation is increasingly forgetting their Christian heritage. Drawing on the writings of the French sociologist of religion Hervieu-Léger, Davie stresses social support of religious traditions. Two things are important: (1) the chain which makes the individual believer a member of a community – a community which gathers past, present, and future members; (2) the tradition (or collective memory) which becomes the basis of that community’s existence (Davie, 2000, p.30). What is changing in the social support of religion to make modern society so corrosive of religious traditions? And is the change connected with the globalization process described in section 1.1? Inglehart gives a theoretical explanation for this change, which we shall discuss (Inglehart, 1997; Inglehart, Basanez & Moreno, 1998). He does not speak about globalization but refers to a shift from modernity to postmodernity. He defines modernization as “a world-view shaped by a steady-state economy, which discouraged social mobility and emphasized tradition, inherited obligations, backed up by absolute religious norms” (Inglehart et al., 1998, p.9). On the same page postmodernity is defined as “a world-view that encouraged economic achievement, individualism and innovation, accompanied by increasingly secular and flexible social norms”. In the theoretical terminology of globalization (see 1.1), Inglehart’s concept of modernity reflects what we call modernity 1. This process is historically connected with the development of the nation-state. On the other hand Inglehart stresses innovation, individualism and flexibility in his concept of postmodernity. Although we are not in favour of the concept of postmodernity, these characteristics fit what we call modernity 2. Other features of the shift to modernity 2 are post-materialist values such as freedom of speech, personal choice, no absolute norms and emphasis on personal well-

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being. Inglehart presents two hypotheses which explain an intergenerational shift from materialist to post-materialist value priorities: (1) ‘A Scarcity Hypothesis. An individual’s priorities reflect the socio-economic environment: one places the greatest subjective value on those things that are in relatively short supply; (2) A Socialization Hypothesis. The relationship between socio-economic environment and value priorities is not one of immediate adjustment: a substantial time lag is involved because, to a large extent, one’s basic values reflect the conditions that prevailed during one’s pre-adult years’ (Inglehart et al., 1998, p.10). On the basis of the first hypothesis, one can predict a shift towards post-materialist values for people who live in economically and politically secure societies. Because of the greater sense of security, there is less need for absolute rules. The psychological costs of deviating from whatever norms one grew up with are harder to bear if a person is under stress than if a person feels secure (Inglehart et al., 1998, p.11). There is more scope for what we have called modernity 2: innovation, deviation, radical change, the contingent. Experimentation and testing of rules and norms are possible at no great cost. Post-materialists accept cultural change more readily than materialists. In a postmodern society, people’s top priority shifts towards quality of life. Those with a relatively high level of security strive for scarcer values. The welfare state has taken over responsibility for survival. The role of the family is less crucial than it was in times of insecurity (Inglehart, 1997). According to Inglehart, the intergenerational shift involves a wide variety of social and religious norms, such as a shift from traditional gender roles to increasingly similar roles for man and wife; equal employment opportunities for man and wife; greater permissiveness in sexual norms; and a shift away from traditional religious norms and beliefs (e.g. belief in God, hell, heaven, sin; finding support in religion). Inglehart presents detailed data of this intergenerational shift in 20 different countries. The overall results correspond with the predicted change towards less emphasis on traditional religious norms and beliefs (Inglehart, 1997, p.284). For the sake of clarity: this does not mean that all countries in the world are experiencing an intergenerational shift towards post-materialist values. Such a shift is only predicted for affluent countries in which people enjoy socio-economic and political security. In countries where this is not the case (e.g. Argentina and South-Africa) a reverse trend towards materialist values can be observed.

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But this trend also fits the predicted direction according to the scarcity hypothesis. There is one trend which points in a different direction: in most countries there is an increase in the number of people who often ponder the meaning of life. This research finding also accords with the formulated hypothesis. People’s spiritual needs have not disappeared.22 Interest in the meaning of life is even more salient to postmaterialists than to materialists, as they are less preoccupied with finding economic, social and political security in life. The research findings that Inglehart presents to back up this theory are impressive. Nevertheless, we are left with the question: why is the predicted change in traditional beliefs not observable in the most economically developed country of the world, the USA? We will return to this question below and also discuss the definition of ‘traditional’ in relation to religious beliefs. Why are some beliefs characterized as traditional and others not? First we will consider the explanation Inglehart offers through his scarcity hypothesis and socialization hypothesis. As he managed to demonstrate in his findings, economic and political security is a major influence on people’s ‘traditional’ belief. But social support is more complex. A country’s historical background, especially the relation between state and church (or churches), strongly influences religious traditions (see Martin, 1978; Bruce, 1999). Christian countries have different trajectories from the Reformation onwards. The USA is a migrant society composed of a wide range of migrant religio-ethnic groups. Religious freedom became a key value of the nation. Being religious (Christian) is part of the national identity, but actual religious expressions adapted to the secular values of society (Bruce, 1999, p.23). No specific religious group (church) defines what it means to be Christian. Even the New Christian Right has not been strong enough to dictate the terms of engagement with secular society (Bruce, 1999, p.157). Still, this does not explain why traditional norms (church attendance) and traditional beliefs (God, heaven, hell, sin, Christ as son of God) have survived as they have in American society. According to Bruce, religion can find other work to do than acting as a surrogate for the socio-economic security which 22 Inglehart seems to presuppose a universal spiritual need in persons. We will not discuss this notion here, but only point out that it is challenged by other sociologists of religion (most notably by Bruce, 1999). Bruce’s quarrel is with a specific version of this universality thesis, namely rational choice theory. In chapter 3 of this study we will discuss the empiricist view of religion, which presupposes a universal experiental ground for religion.

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Inglehart refers to. People have other social needs as well. Thus religion is a socializing agent in times of rapid change and cultural transition (Bruce, 1999, p.23). Historically, this was the case in the American migrant society. For many migrants (e.g. Italians, Irish, Poles, Puerto Ricans) religion serves not only to relate the individual to the supernatural, but also to guarantee group identity. In a highly pluralistic society such as the USA religion still has that function.23 This is a big difference between the USA and most European countries. Bruce cites a second characteristic which distinguishes the American situation from that of European countries. In the USA the nationstate is much more prepared to allow people to create their own subcultures than in many European countries, and also in Canada (Bruce, 1999, p.147). In the USA evangelicals interact confidently with wider society. They have created their own subsystem,24 while British evangelicals, for example, are fed a diet that they find repugnant by the media (and society as a whole). Evangelicals in Britain (and in most European countries) are a minority in a hostile environment. This is very different from the USA, where people from different denominations and sects have constructed their own subsystems. We still need to discuss the concept of ‘traditional’ belief as it is used in (most of) the sociological studies presented above. Not many sociologists substantiate the claim that there is something like traditional Christian belief. Most authors presuppose a common-sense understanding of the Christian tradition. From a theological point of view this is not very satisfactory. Why is the belief in hell a traditional belief and not, for example, the belief in angels, which is not included in the EVSSG research? (See above.) And what does it tell us when people say they believe in hell or in angels? There are many theological conceptions in different Christian traditions. Is it not necessary to be more precise about beliefs in order to determine whether something which one could call de-traditionalization is actually happening? The remaining part of this section is based on empirical-theological research into images of God by Van der Ven in several studies during the 1990s (Van der Ven, 1992; 1998;Van der Ven & Biemans, 1994). Christians use different images of God. This differentiation enables us

23 Hoge et al. (2001) also refer to this connection between religion and ethnic identity. To affirm traditional beliefs is at the same time to affirm group identity. 24 These social institutions camouflage their choice in a highly pluralistic society (Bruce, 1999, p.131).

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66

to tell more precisely which ‘traditional’ beliefs are shifting, and how this shift relates to characteristic features of our time.25 We shall cite research which differentiates images of God into dimensions of transcendence and immanence, and relate the results to the changing experience of space in a globalizing world. At one end there is the theistic position, which stresses God’s transcendence (beyond and above the world); at the other there is pantheism, which stresses God’s immanence (dwelling in the world). In between the two positions is panentheism, which combines transcendence and immanence. (In some publications Van der Ven uses the term ‘deism’ instead of ‘panentheism’ – see Van der Ven, 1992; 1998; Ballard & Van der Ven, 2000.) Pantheism is measured on two items: “To me God is nothing more than what is valuable in human beings” and “God is not up above, but rather in people’s hearts”. Table 1.2: Christian images of God in different countries/cities (Ballard & Van der Ven, 2000)26

Theism Panentheism28 Pantheism

Nijmegen

Arnhem

May27

Hull

Wales

Ottawa

3.3 3.7 3.2

3.4 3.7 3.1

3.9 3.7 2.9

4.1 4.5 3.9

4.3 4.2 2.5

4.2 4.4 2.3

Note: Scale from 1 (“totally disagree”) to 5 (“totally agree”).

Van der Ven and his associates have used this instrument in several studies over the past ten years. I will refer to two publications, which

25 Van der Ven (1998) differentiates between images of God on the basis of four criteria: (1) personal–non-personal; (2) transcendent–immanent, (3) anthropomorphic–non-anthropomorphic, and (4) iconic–aniconic. “Aniconic faith, in which the prefix ‘an-’ functions as what is known as an alpha privans, goes beyond any image of God. (...) Aniconic faith occurs on a meta-level in relation to images of God; it leaves the images behind, not merely one after another (...) but all at once and always. (...) It is not a matter of the classical imperative that forbids man from making images of God (...) but of an epistemic acceptance that these images do not reach, or even approach God, because God remains in the ‘truly mysterious darkness of unknowing’ (Pseudo-Dionysius)” (Van der Ven. 1998, p.158). 26 The first three samples were drawn in the Netherlands; the fourth in England; the fifth in Wales, and the last sample in Canada. 27 This is a group of mainly critical Catholics in the Netherlands. 28 In this table Ballard and Van der Ven use the term ‘deism’. Elsewhere Van der Ven more often uses the concept of panentheism.

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report on six samples from different countries (Van der Ven, 1998, p.188; Ballard & Van der Ven, 2000, p.8). In four out of the six studies, panentheism (or deism) is favoured above theism. Pantheism is always favoured less than the other two images of God. Only one sample yielded a positive mean, signifying overall agreement with the pantheist image of God. In two samples this image is clearly rejected, and in another the overall agreement is slightly negative. When we relate these research findings to the globalization process, it is interesting to note that the intermediate position between pure transcendence and pure immanence is favoured in most of the samples. De-traditionalization implies the loss, not just of traditional images of God (of whatever kind) but of images that stress only God’s transcendence as beyond and above this world. Could this be because in an age of globalization it is becoming increasingly difficult to imagine a God who is wholly beyond our spatial condition? At the same time it is interesting that a pantheist image of God is not rejected outright by Christians in different countries and of different denominations. This research finding is corroborated by a national survey in the Netherlands (Peters, Felling & Scheepers, 2000, pp.71-72). The researchers used the same item as Van der Ven to measure theism, namely “God who is personally involved with each individual”. They speak about immanentism if people agree that life only has meaning if an individual tries to make the best of it. The combination of theism and immanentism gives rise to three types: pure theism (disagreement with immanentism); religious immanentism (both theism and immanentism) and pure immanentism (disagreement with theism). I will not discuss the theoretical framework of this combination and classification, but one interesting finding is that between 1979 and 1995 theism decreased (from 10% to 7%); religious immanentism also decreased (from 28% to 16%); and pure immanentism increased (from 54% to 70%). The researchers speak about a “horizontalization of faith” (Peters, Felling & Scheepers, 2000, p.72). Such a process would be congruent with the changing experience of space in the process of globalization. There is a second research finding which would fit the concept of de-traditionalization in a globalizing society. De-traditionalization implies a shift in authority: how people should lead their lives; what is important in life, or how society should be changed is not decided by an outside agency but by the individual. De-traditionalization refers to a change in authority, from a source outside and beyond the indi-

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vidual to intrapersonal authority. Van der Ven (1998, p.189) included two autonomy scales in his research. Individual autonomy refers to the right to live one’s life as one pleases. Social autonomy refers to the levelling of differences between groups in society (egalitarianism). Do the three images of God influence people’s conceptions of individual and social autonomy? None of the six samples show any influence of the theistic and panentheistic (or deistic) images of God on individual autonomy (Ballard & Van der Ven, 2000). In one case theism positively influences social autonomy; and in none of the reported samples does panentheism influence social autonomy. In five samples pantheism positively influences individual autonomy and in four pantheism positively influences social autonomy. To sum up these results: there seems to be a strong connection between an image of God who dwells in the world and autonomy. This result fits the concept of de-traditionalization, with its implicit authority shift. 1.3.3 Privatization Privatization is also much debated in relation to religion. There are different versions of the individualization thesis in the sociology of religion (for an overview, see Beyer 1994). I will consider three of them and relate the theories to empirical research in sociology of religion. Berger and Luckman make a distinction between a private and public sphere. Matters in the private sphere are primarily for individual disposition, while public issues concern society as a whole, or at least a large segment of it. The private sphere manifests itself in such institutions as the family, religion and “secondary” institutions that reinforce private, individual identities. The public sphere is characterized by functional differentiation, and the “big” institutions of the political economy of capitalist nation-states exercise considerable control over individual conduct through their functionally rational norms. But the institutional segmentation of the meaning of actions left large spheres of life without institutionally predefined meaning-structures and without obligatory models of biographical coherence. The lifespace that is not directly touched by institutional control may be called the private sphere (Luckmann, 1996, p.73).

According to Luckmann, individual consciousness is liberated from social structural constraints. The new, basically ‘de-institutionalized,

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privatized social form of religion seemed to be relying primarily on an open market of diffuse, syncretistic packages of meaning’ (Luckmann, 1996). On this de-monopolized market of meaning different social actors are operating. Luckmann (1996, p.74) identifies the following: (1) the mass media; (2) churches and sects that are trying to reinsert themselves into the processes of modern social constructions of transcendence; (3) residual carriers of 19th century secular ideologies; (4) sub-institutional, new religious communities formed around minor charismatics, commercialized enterprises in astrology, the consciousness-expanding line and the like. In this new situation, each individual can construct his or her specific religious identity. This is also known as bricolage (i.e. constructing your own religious or world-view identity). In old times, the churches were able to impose the doctrines, at least publicly. What people thought we may only guess, but they would never publicly proclaim a religion – la carte. Now bricolage is publicly accepted, notwithstanding the official opposition of the churches (Dobbelaere, 1999, p.239).

This idea features prominently in Beaudoin’s analysis (1998) of the spiritual life of Catholics born between the early 1960s and the late 1970s. He describes a highly educated part of this generation, which he calls GenXers. The spirituality of GenXers is open and unbounded. These spiritualities, though varied, often consisted of a hotchpotch of theological symbols and traditions (Beaudoin, 1998, p.13). The openness extends also to the unbounded modern pop culture and the religious images, texts and symbols available in cyberspace. One might suppose that GenerationX is clearly a superstratum of American Catholics. But research among confirmands (age groups 20-29 and 30-39) shows a similar picture of bricolage (Hoge et al., 2001). Many of these young adults agree with most of the doctrines of the Catholic Church, but when it comes to spirituality the majority of them adhere less closely to Catholic tradition. Young adult Catholics, like most other individuals, seek spiritual meaning in their life experiences. They draw symbols and inspiration from a variety of material and personal sources (nature, music, childbirth,

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  marriage) suggestive of the Catholic sacramental imagination. They also draw inspiration from the American spiritual marketplace (Hoge et al., 2001, p.172).

Hence although there is far greater openness to spirituality beyond the traditional Catholic heritage (e.g. the eucharist, prayer, lives of saints), the researchers found no young adults who were attracted to New Age groups or Eastern religions (Hoge et al., 2001). An example of the demonopolized market is the belief in life after death in the Netherlands. This belief declined between 1966 and 1979, but largely stabilized between 1979 and 1996. The general picture is the same for all major Christian denominations in the Netherlands, although belief in life after death is lower among Catholics (less than 50% in 1996) than in the two other major churches. However, if one asks people what they believe, a wide variety of images and ideas emerge. Only one out of every five Catholics mentions the idea of a heaven, hell or resurrection (Dekker, De Hart & Peters, 1997, p.59). Four out of five Catholics report diverse notions, such as that the soul or spirit lives on, reincarnation, being reunited with family or loved ones, or living on in people’s memory. The diversity of personal ideas is less common among members of the Dutch Reformed and Orthodox Reformed churches, but it is also noticeable among these sub-populations. Does it mean that all people are bricoleurs? Here I want to use Hijmans’ typology again (see 1.3.1). Extreme bricoleurs belong to the mosaic type. These individuals are able to reflect on the framework of a world-view which relates to a non-dominant life goal. The mainspring type is also able to reflect on the meaning of life in terms of a world-view (religious or non-religious), but they are less open to change because they have a dominant life goal which will resist major changes. For example, someone who understands life in the framework of the resurrection of Christ who delivered us from our sins will not easily accept a new concept of life after death, such as reincarnation. Individuals who belong to the conglomerate type are also bad bricoleurs, because they have hardly any inclination to ask questions about the meaning of life. To be part of a religious market (as Luckmann claims) presupposes openness to the meaning of life (Hijmans, 1994, p.165). Individuals of the conglomerate type lack this openness. In short, Luckmann’s privatization thesis seems untenable in a radical sense. Some individuals are more extreme bricoleurs than others. Some people are aware of a pluralistic religious market, others are not. But a globalizing world opens up more opportunities for peo-

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ple to construct their own religious ‘menu’ and have contact with other religious ideas. Does it mean that people are less secularized when the market offers many alternatives than in a situation where they have less choice? The best-known theory of religion that predicts high levels of religiosity in a highly diversified situation is rational choice theory (Stark, Bainbridge, Innaccone).29 There will be less demand for religiosity in a less diversified market, where some people will find nothing to their taste on the religious ‘menu’. Competition between religious ‘suppliers’ is a good thing, because it forces producers to work hard to meet the desires of consumers. The USA is a good example of high religious diversity and a high level of religiosity. This assumption of rational choice theory is hotly contested by sociologists of religion. Insofar as there has been increasing interest in religion (e.g. in former communist countries in Eastern Europe), it is a result, not of competition among suppliers, but of traditional customers becoming more committed to their traditions (Bruce, 1999, p.118). Conservative religion flourishes in the USA more than in any other country. But this is not because of the greater choice on the American market, but because society allows conservatives space in which to sustain something like an institutional (church) form of religion (Bruce, 1999, p.130). In many countries in the world one observes an increase in sectarian Christian groups (evangelical or pentecostal) in comparison with mainline churches. However, if one compares the loss of mainline church members with sectarian groups gains of new members, the total pool of people who belong to a church or religious group is declining. This contradicts the predictions of rational choice theory. Although diversity is increasing, religiosity is declining. Conservative religions in the USA can build their own social institutions, and thus camouflage the fact that religion is a choice that belongs to the private domain. “To the extent that we are free to choose our religion, relig29 We will obly discuss the relation between diversity and religiosity. There is a second major assumption in rational choice theory, namely that people look for compensators when highly desired rewards are not directly forthcoming (Bruce, 1999, p.31). Compensators are sets of beliefs and prescriptions for action that act as substitutes for immediate achievement of a desired reward. Supernaturalistic rewards are claimed to be stronger compensators than naturalistic ones. Secularization is impossible, because “the human situation gives us a persistent need for compensators and only religion can provide compensators big enough to do the job.” This assumption is characteristic of an empiricist theory of religion. We will discuss this theory of religion in section 3.2 (religion as experience).

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ion cannot have the power and authority necessary to make it any more than a private leisure activity” (Bruce, 1999, p.186). Choice leads to a decline of religiosity, not an increase, as rational choice theory predicts. This is even more true of liberal religion, which is directed to different types of individual spiritual quests (see also Berger, 1979). Parsons offers a variant of the privatization thesis. His premise is the religious pluralism of modern society. The necessity to include all adherents of this plurality of religions in society “precludes any one of the particular, traditional religions from becoming the publicly binding religion. Hence, religious adherence becomes a voluntary, private matter” (Beyer, 1994, p.73). In keeping with Durkheim, Parsons still holds that religion provides the basic values necessary to integrate society. On the basis of value generalization, Parsons distinguishes between private and public religion: Public religion abstracts from privatized, institutional religions those cultural values that most people in a society can agree on; in the American case, for instance instrumental activism. The individual operates in public with the generalized values and keeps the non-generalizable one of her or his particular tradition to herself or himself (Beyer, 1994, 74).

Is there evidence for this privatization thesis of Parsons? As an indicator of Parson’s thesis we take the coherence of value systems and people’s social characteristics (see Peters & Scheepers, 2000a, p.42). Privatization refers to the fact that it is more difficult to speak about the values of youths, Catholics or highly educated people, because the values and convictions of people in these categories are becoming increasingly privatized. Everyone agrees with the core values of our society. Polarization between social groups that have completely different value systems should diminish. Is there empirical evidence of this process of privatization? There is, but again not in a radical sense. In the 1980s and 1990s the relation between the economic civic value system (e.g. economic success, a good career) and socio-economic background and educational level weakened (Peters & Scheepers, 2000b, p.242). Put differently: not only the rich and well educated strongly endorse this value system increasingly, all people do. In the same period, however, de-privatization was also observable in Dutch society. The relation between the civic family value system (e.g. the value of raising children) and civic status (married or single) strengthened. The same applies to the rela-

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tion between educational level and societally critical values, and to the relation between denomination and the hedonistic value system. These relations all strengthened in the 1980s and 1990s, resulting in an ambivalent answer to the question whether the major value systems in our society are being privatized. The answer is yes and no. In the case of some basic values there is increasingly widespread assent in the Netherlands; others tend to be more strongly associated with specific social and/or religious groups. The third variant of the privatization thesis to be considered here is that of Luhmann. Luhmann sees privatization forces as no less active in the ‘public’ sphere of politics or the economy than in the ‘private’ sphere of religion. Luhmann (1996) also proceeds from functional differentiation. In a complex modern society different systems can be identified, each operating on the basis of its own rationality. Religion is one such system, just like the economy and politics. Each system is defined by a specific type of communication that relates to its function. The functional rationality of economics is owning/not owning, that of religion is the immanence–transcendence dichotomy. According to Luhmann privatization operates in every system, hence in religion as well as in the economy. “There remains a range of personal, private decisions whose internal logic need not conform to the priorities of any functional subsystem. My ‘lifestyle’ or my ‘personality’ can and do affect how I perform my complementary roles, lending these a measure of legitimate unpredictability, and forming the basis of my ‘freedom”’ (Beyer, 1994, 76). In addition to this privatization of complementary role decision making, Luhmann mentions a second influence on the privatization of religion, namely the relative decline in the public influence of the religious system’s public representatives, its professionals and leaders. The point is that the public strength of a system waxes or wanes with the public influence of its professionals. In this respect religion differs from other systems. Everybody believes what the doctor tells them about their health; everybody accepts the analysis of an economic expert (the ‘Greenspans’ of society). But in the religious sphere believers will only take the word of a leader or professional of their own religion. No professional can claim to speak for religion as a whole, and believers will only attend services of their own particular religion. The influence of religions is restricted to their own organizations and their immediate adherents. This makes religion essentially a private, non-public matter. Are there empirical data corroborating Luhmann’s privatization

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thesis? I shall ignore the first part of the complementary role decision making. Insofar as it affects the religious system, we have dealt with it already under the heading of bricolage. Here I concentrate on the second aspect, the public influence of the religious system. If Luhmann is right, we should be witnessing a decline in public confidence in the church. The European Value Research project shows that confidence in the church did in fact decline between 1981 and 1990 (Ester, Halman & De Moor, 1993, p.53).30 In general, non-members or marginal members show less confidence in the churches than more involved members. Confidence is lower in the younger cohorts and also among highly educated people. “The general picture of intra-cohort confidence is that of decrease” (Ester, Halman & De Moor, 1993, p.54). There are major differences between countries. Confidence is lowest in Denmark, Sweden, Iceland, France and Norway. In the USA even the youngest age cohort has more confidence in the churches than the oldest age cohort in Europe. Research in the Netherlands shows that the vast majority of church people with moral problems of conscience would not go to a clerical person for help (Dekker, De Hart & Peters, 1997, p.48). Only 8% of Catholics, 25% of Dutch Reformed and 20% of Orthodox Reformed would do so. There is also a majority of church members who think that churches should not interfere publicly in sexual matters like contraception, homosexuality and even divorce. This is understandable in the light of other research, which shows that the Dutch are one of the most permissive nations in the world (Ester, Halman & De Moor, 1993). When it comes to societal problems like discrimination and poverty, on the other hand, the vast majority of church members expect the churches to speak out publicly. And church people also have great confidence in the churches as sources of information. Nevertheless we think Luhmann makes a strong case for the declining public influence of religious professionals (e.g. church leaders) in society, especially regarded as their influence on other social systems. Religious professionals are only convincing to their own adherents, and even here the picture is complex. In certain life domains (such as sexual ethics) their influence is slight in some churches or denominations.

30 The scale used in this research is based on three items: moral problems and needs of the individual; problems of family life; and people’s spiritual needs (see Ester, Halman & De Moor, 1993, p.53).

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1.3.4 De-institutionalization Some scholars take a radical stance on the process of de-institutionalization in the religious domain (see Ter Borg, 1999). According to Ter Borg, religion as such has not disappeared from Western society. It is still present but only in a diffuse way, often implicit and not identified as religion. It does not mean that religion is disappearing, but that a process of de-institutionalization is taking place (Ter Borg, 1999, p.406). Indicators of the process of de-instutionalization are the number of people who profess to belong to a church and church attendance. We differentiate between different types of church members. Core members are people who attend a religious service at least once a month and are actively engaged in church activities. Average members are similar to core members but they attend only one religious service a month. Marginal members rarely attend services but still consider themselves to belong to a denomination. Table 1.3 shows a shift towards increasing dissociation from the church in different countries. In all countries the number of non-church members increased between 1981 and 1990. Profiles relating to the various types of church members differ between countries. In a country like Norway, where the Lutheran Church is the official church, there is a large number of marginal members. In a country like the Netherlands, where nearly half the population comprised non-church members in 1990, there is a relatively large proportion of actively involved members. The overall picture reflects a clear shift towards de-institutionalization (see also Inglehart, 1997, p.282). There is also a decline in the number of religious life rites or rites de passage (birth, marriage, death) in which people participate. According to Davie (2000, p.71), the proportion of infants receiving baptism in the majority of churches in West European countries is decreasing. Thus the proportion of infant baptisms in the Church of England has dropped from two thirds of all live births to one third in the post war period. In France the percentage of infant baptisms dropped from 92% in 1958 to 58% in 1993. Between 1975 and 1990 there was a rising proportion of religious marriages in the Nordic countries (Norway, Sweden), but a decline in the Catholic countries of Southern Europe (Spain, Italy) and in France, Switzerland, Austria, Belgium and the Netherlands (Davie, 2000, p.75). Of all the church’s occasional services, its role in

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Table 1.3: Percentages of various types of church members and non-members in different countries (Ester et al., 1993, p.44) Core members 1981 1990 United States Canada Great Britain Norway West Germany Netherlands

46 27 16 7 12 27

41 21 13 8 12 23

Average members 1981 1990 13 19 7 8 25 13

13 18 9 4 22 6

Marginal Non-members members 1981 1990 1981 1990 35 43 67 81 54 24

23 35 35 78 56 21

6 11 9 4 9 37

23 26 42 10 11 49

conducting burial ceremonies is still most widely recognized in society. However, an overview of the statistics for the various rites of passage indicates a shift in the direction of de-institutionalization.31 At first glance these indicators seem to support the radical thesis. Deinstitutionalization seems to be a powerful and still growing force in the religious field. Does this mean that we are heading for an age of diffuse religion, as Ter Borg suggests? I think the reality is more complex. Are we not also witnessing processes of re-institutionalization (Beckford, 1999, p.20)? For our line of argument it is important to differentiate between the local and the national (and transnational) level. A great deal of research has been done, especially among youths and ‘alternative’ religious practices. For example, in a study of young people between the ages of 15 and 19 De Hart (1990) found involvement in many alternative practices and beliefs such as yoga teachings (9%, either currently or in the past), reincarnation (15%), tarot cards (3%), the power of herbs and metals (16%) and UFOs (30%). Barz (1992) cites several German studies of religion among youths. Research among pupils in Berlin (1990) found that 32,7% participate (actively or passively) in tarot card readings, 18,4% in moving glasses; 28,1% in turning glasses and 4,8% in 31 The two processes of de-institutionalization do not coincide perfectly. Sometimes non-church members also tend to participate in religious rites of passage, for example in the Netherlands (Dekker, De Hart & Peters, 1997). In other countries there ae fewer participants in religious ceremonies than there are church members, for instance in Scandinavia and West Germany. This justifies the conclusion that a large proportion of marginal church members have actually broken away from the church (Ester et al., 1993, p.55).

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automatic writing (Barz, 1992, p.96). Barz gives the impression that this diversity of practices is indicative of de-institutionalization. It all depends which institutional theory one espouses. In chapter 3 we will argue that religious practices refer to institutional facts. Participants in these practices accept the authority of a tradition (e.g. the occult tradition of tarot cards); they share a collective intentionality when participating in these practices (”We intend to reveal the future by means of tarot cards”); they acknowledge some conventional power (e.g. “S has the power to do x”, implying that the person laying the cards has the power to reveal the future); and certain mediatory or cultural tools are intrinsic to the practices (e.g. a pack of tarot cards). There can be no collective practices without institutional facts (e.g. a form of rule-governed behaviour based on collective intentionality). It is quite a different story when subjects are asked whether they belong to a New Age group or some occult group. Studies in different countries (De Hart, 1990; Barz, 1992; Bruce, 1999) report only small percentages of youths who call themselves members of such groups. National research in the Netherlands likewise shows that a great many adults (16%) are interested in new religious practices or ‘para-culture’, but hardly any regard themselves as members of a new religious group (Becker, De Hart & Mens, 1997, p.101). I want to conclude this argument by postulating that there is certainly a process of religious re-institutionalization happening in our society, but it does not necessarily entail increasing membership of actual groups. Perhaps one should relate this re-institutionalization process to the different levels of spatial ordering, as we did in 1.2.4. One gets the impression that the kind of re-institutionalization that we are witnessing relates to the local level or face-to-face contact. If people like to take part in New Age practices, it does not mean that they want to join this movement. A person belongs to a community as long as he or she takes part in its practices. Any kind of grouping beyond the local level (e.g. at the level of concrete practices) has a shaky foundation in a globalizing society. If our interpretation is correct, the kind of re-institutionalization that we are witnessing is not counter to our concept of globalization.32 32 In the debate on secularization, too, there is growing awareness of the need to differentiate between different social levels (Dobbelaere, 1999). Societal changes on the macro- and meso-level that afflict religion (e.g. the fact that religion has lost its universal function) do not necessary imply loss of meaning on a micro-level (e.g. an individual’s motivation to act in a particular way). Here we are saying much the same thing about globalization.

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There is a second process of re-institutionalization evident in society. To understand this process, we have to return to the functional differentiation in a globalizing society. According to Beyer (1994, p.3) the global system corrodes inherited or constructed cultural and personal identities. Religions like Christianity are closely associated with particular cultures, which are often equivalent to the culture of the nation-state. “In Durkheimian language, they express the wholeness of societies” (Beyer, 1994, p.9). Hence, on a societal level, religions are confronted with a loss of meaning and power. In a global society they no longer hold the selfevident position they once did in societies dominated by hierarchical differentiation (Beyer, 1994, p.67). A solution to this problem would be to establish a sort of unitary world religion. But this idea is even more problematic than that of a global society, in the sense of a gargantuan nation-state. Religion as an institution in society has its own rationality, which differs from that of other systems (the economy, politics, health, law). A unitary world religion is impossible because each religion has a particular tradition and a particular identity. A group culture cannot be a unitary world religion. When the nation-state was equivalent to society, a particular religious tradition could present itself as the religious system by tethering itself to the national identity. In a globalizing world this is highly problematic. For example, if we were to call the Dutch a Christian nation, it would be offensive both to people of other religions (Islam, Hinduism) and to non-church members. And it would be even more offensive to call the global religious system Christian.33 So for religion the road to globalization is impossible to travel. It will not bring back the societal relevance that it had under the nation-state. According to Beyer, there are only two solutions to this problem for particular religions.34 The first option is fundamentalism. Fundamentalism rejects both the structures and cultural values of the global system in favour of a particularistic group identity (Beyer, 1994, p.103). Instead of relativizing group identity, it claims a particular identity as a bastion against globalization. This happens both in the West and in the former colonies. 33 At most we can speak of the spread of a religion (like Christianity) across the world. But it is not the same as defining religion as a system from a Christian point of view. One can do this, of course, but this definition would not include members of non-Christian religions. 34 Here we are speaking on a purely societal level. On a local level, a religion can be functionally meaningful to individuals by holding religious services that minister to private religious needs (Beyer, 1994, p.93). A person takes part in religious practices out of choice. We dealt with this meaning of religions in the first argument under reinstutionalization.

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On the home front, the functional differentiation that is such a key aspect of globalization continues to bring about rapid change in the old core structures: the family, morality, and religion. In the non-West, in spite of increased political independence and/or economic power in many areas, Western cultural patterns still seem to be becoming increasingly dominant (Beyer, 1994, p.91).

People, both Western and non-Western, are losing their grip on their lives in a globalizing world. The globalization process, which was described at the beginning of the chapter, has not only winners, but losers as well – economically, politically, ecologically and culturally. The uncertainty makes people look for solid ground, which religious fundamentalism provides. It gives unambiguous answers to what (and who) is right and what (and who) is wrong. It is working all over the world, from the Islamic Middle East and the Sikh in Punjab to the New Christian Right or evangelicals in the USA. Often these fundamentalist movements try to gain some public influence for religion. One way to do this is to get important religious norms enshrined in legislation. Another way is to gain control over a limited territory dominated by the particular culture and then control pluralism within it. On a local level, fundamentalist groups assimilate people into networks which offer them meaningful, face-to-face relations in a globalizing world (Bruce, 1999; Harskamp, 2000). The second option is a liberal one.35 To understand this option, it is important to differentiate between functions and performance. Luhmann analyzes the relation between a system or subsystem and society as a whole in terms of functions. The relation of systems or subsystems to other (sub)systems is analyzed on the basis of performance. “Religious performance occurs when religion is ‘applied’ to problems generated in other systems but not solved there, or simply not addressed elsewhere” (Beyer, 1994. p.80). The liberal solution to globalization and the lack of public influence of religion on a societal level is to concentrate on religious performance. It stresses the need for religious people (e.g. Christians, Moslems) to join social movements which mobilize social ‘grievances’ about problems caused by globalization. As we said above, social movements are somehow non-conventional, 35 This liberal option is not hte same as liberal religion (see Bruce, 1999, chapter 7). Bruce cites sects and cults as examples of liberal religion. Characteristic of these religious groups is that they are less succesful in presenting themselves as respectable forms of religion to society as a whole. Put differently, they are seen by the majority as deviant forms of religion.

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outside and beyond currently normal institutional bounds. People join a social movement voluntarily. Religious leaders use persuasion to mobilize their adherents to join a social movement. Their grounds for participating are their own religious inspiration, but this inspiration is not ‘functional’ in a social movement. For example, a religious person who is an active member of Greenpeace must speak and act in terms of the rationality of the natural sciences in order to be relevant to that movement’s critical ecological function. Or a religious person who belongs to a group helping people who are dependent on the social welfare system must accommodate himself or herself to the rationality of that system. Anyone who talks in religious terms about problems in functional systems (like the economy or the social welfare system) would not be understood. The problems addressed by religious performance are not religious at all, at least not directly. The solutions, therefore, while religiously inspired will tend to take on the characteristics of the target system: economic solutions to economic problems, political solutions to political problems, and so forth (Beyer, 1994, p.87).

Hence religious performance, unlike religious practices, is not a manifestation of religion. A person’s religious inspiration is something private. People do not communicate their religious inspiration in a social movement. Their religious convictions and values remain implicit. There is empirical evidence that both forms of re-institutionalization – fundamentalism and religious performance in non-religious social movements – are growing in a globalizing world. Fundamentalism is a growing phenomenon in all religions in the world. In the mainline churches (e.g. Catholic, Anglican, Baptist, Methodist) fundamentalism is found in what are known as charismatic movements (see Hunt, 2000). Outside the mainline churches it takes the form of (neo)pentecostal churches and movements. The Church Census in England in 1989 showed, that church life in neo-pentecostal/charismatic quarters was flourishing and their members constituted around 27% of all churchgoers (Hunt, 2000, p.17). According to Harvey Cox, Pentecostalism is growing faster worldwide than any Christian denomination, and even faster than the whole of Islam (quoted in Harskamp, 2000, p.135). Cox estimates that the annual growth of Pentecostalism worldwide runs to 20 million new members. In 1995 pentecostalist groups had 410 million members; by 2000 they had 500 million members, or some 30% of all Christians. On a global scale Pentecostalism

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is becoming the main movement within Christianity. According to Inglehart, the growth of fundamentalism in underdeveloped countries can be explained by people’s (sometimes) growing uncertainty (Inglehart, 1997). This could also be a major reason for its growth in more developed countries like the USA, Canada and Great Britain. It would be wrong, however, to use such growth as a counter argument to de-institutionalization. Research such as Bibby’s in Canada shows that the main source of new members is recruitment of people who previously belonged to other (more liberal or mainline) churches (Bruce, 1999, p.136). Proselytism accounts for only a small percentage (14%) of new members. Since the total number of church members is declining in most countries (see 1.3.2), the pool of likely converts for sectarian religion is declining. This is exactly what the process of deinstitutionalization implies.36 Empirical data for the liberal option are not readily available. There has been no research specifically into the religious inspiration and orientation of active members of social movements in the Netherlands. But in my view there is enough indirect evidence to support the predictions of the liberal option. A first noteworthy fact is that there has been a general trend in the Netherlands in recent times towards greater numbers of people becoming involved in all kinds of social movements and issues. In the mid-1990s there were more active volunteers in the sphere of recreation (e.g. sport clubs) than in the 1970s (Peters & Scheepers, 2000b, p.239). Although traditional organizations (like labour unions, political parties) saw a decrease in membership (i.e. de-institutionalization), a growing number of people are joining ‘modern’, ‘one-issue’ movements (i.e. focussing on ecological problems, disarmament and international peace, the gulf between rich and poor, both nationally and internationally). These social movements appear to be going through a process of re-institutionalization alongside a process of de-institutionalization. But are people religiously motivated to participate in these social movements? Research data from 1996 indicate that church members are twice as much involved in social movements that have an ‘idealistic’, societally critical goal than non-church members (20% versus 10%) (see Dekker, De Hart & Peters, 1997, p.108). And among church members, active ones are more involved than less active ones. In compari36 Apart from recruiting new members, these groups are also more succesful at retaining their own members (Bruce, 1999, p.137).

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son with other members, core members have a higher level of religious salience (i.e. the meaning of faith for “secular” life). Research among members of peace movements in the Netherlands confirms this religious picture (see Van Iersel & Spanjersberg, 1993). Most participants in these social movements are active core members of their various churches. They have a strong, societally critical value system, high religious saliency and are very active in peace-related activities (e.g. demonstrations, petitions, hanging posters in windows, action groups). The empirical data are indirect, but I think they make a strong case for the growing importance of religious performance as a form of re-institutionalization.37

37 The history of the peace movements in Dutch churches, especially the IKC (InterKerkelijke Vredesbeweging = Interchurch Peace-movement) shows the growing importance of the so-called campagne (English: campaign ) relative to internal church activities involving religious practices (see Van Iersel & Spanjersberg, 1993, pp.194218). This campaign involved all kind of activities in public life to influence the public, and ultimately the process of political decision making. As a result many local peace groups drifted away from the local churches. This accords with the theory of globalization, because for the performance function of religion these groups do not need to be embedded in a parish.

CHAPTER TWO

THEOLOGICAL REFLECTION ON TRADITION

Our current context prompts self-reflection. How do we speak about God in a globalizing situation? How can people be religious in a context of homogenization, de-traditionalization, privatization and de-institutionalization? Two things we shall not do: we shall not evaluate the globalizing society theologically; neither shall we, in the context of such a society, deal with key concepts of the Christian faith from a systematic-theological angle. Our reflection is of a fundamental theological kind. The question is how religious traditions can survive in a globalizing society. Theological reflection on the concept of tradition is one of the most pressing problems of theology in general (Tilley, 2000). Religious traditions constitute one of the agencies of religious education, alongside, or rather in conjunction with, people’s present-day experience (Schillebeeckx, 1989). The concept of tradition is basic to the pedagogics of religion. Both the contents and aim of religious education depend on what concept of tradition one uses. If religions are conceived of as closed containers of religious truths from the past, religious education would consist in ‘growing into’ the transmitted traditions. If the present represents a radical break with tradition, then religious traditions have no place in the contents of religious education. To deal with tradition in a plausible way means that one must venture to live on after breaking with tradition. If tradition is an open concept, characterized by the kind of reception that includes passing on a tradition according to one’s own contextual understanding of it, then the crucial process in religious education is one of appropriation and transformation. What is a religious tradition? The globalizing society of our day seems to have done away with tradition altogether. Even though we pointed out in chapter 1 that the processes of homogenization, de-traditionalization, privatization and de-institutionalization should not be regarded as radical, the present time raises some searching questions. Because of the new conditions of globalization, the answers cannot simply be reduced to those given in the past. If the social analysis in the previous chapter is correct, then we are in a transitional period

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which challenges theology to travel new roads.1 There is no simple solution to the crisis in which religion finds itself in our day. The theological reflection in this chapter is meant to point a way rather than offer a final answer. The problems are too new and too profound for that. In this chapter I outline three rival concepts of tradition, which I call the post-traditional, the traditionalist and the open concept of tradition (see 2.2). I shall analyze each concept critically on the basis of a critical correlation model (Tillich, 1951, pp.59-66; Geffré, 1987, p.2; Schillebeeckx, 1989). Critical correlation means that the meaning of present experience cannot simply be inferred from the gospel message, as though people’s current experiences are no more than applications of that message. But neither does it mean that these experiences, especially modern experiences of God, are impervious to the message of the gospel, however much they may differ from past experience. Mutual criticism implies that current experiences of God and the gospel message are, in a sense, independent of each other. If they were not, we could not correlate them critically. But I speak of critical independence because we interpret contemporary experience in terms of the gospel message, and vice versa (Tillich, 1978, p.64). I will evaluate the three concepts of tradition in terms of the meaning of space and time in human experience. To this end we make use of Rosenstock-Huessy’s system of coordinates, which locates human existence in time between past and present and, in the spatial dimension, between outside forces (external space) and forces from within (inner space) (see 2.1). With the aid of this system of coordinates we demonstrate that a post-traditional concept of tradition puts the accent squarely on the future and inner space. A traditionalist concept of tradition accentuates only the past and external forces. An open concept of tradition strives to maintain the reciprocity of past and future, and of external forces and inner space, without reducing it to either of the two poles in a spatiotemporal dimension. The way I conceive of God presupposes both a particular concept of tradition and a concept of where God manifests himself in our world. And my notion of where God is to be found in our world presupposes a particular concept of tradition and of God. My reflection 1 Maybe it is an era no less exciting than that of the early church, when fledgling Christianity was required to account for its image of God to an expanding world: that of Greek culture (Houtepen, 1998).

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on tradition focusses on belief in God, more specifically Christian belief (2.3). What do the simultaneous explosion and compression of space imply for the feasibility of speaking about God as a transcendent reality? What does transcendence as an experiential category mean for people to whom the world is their comprehensive horizon, their cosmos? Can transcendence still be conceived of and experienced? On the basis of an iconic hermeneutics we shall speak of icons as windows on (in)finite space and time. The concept of (in)finitude indissolubly links transcendence with immanence. In addition we shall consider the problem that people turn icons into idols of God. Is the God who has become silent in the modern age not a God whom people have turned into an idol? Can the vacuum they experience not become a new avenue to (in)finitude? We also introduce a third step. Not only God but a whole category of people who have been marginalized in globalizing society is disappearing. For people who literally live on the fringes of globalizing society, space is a constraint that keeps them captive and an obstacle to identity construction. We concretize the notion of marginality and marginalized people by analyzing the problem of poverty, both national and global (see 2.4.1). Could the disappearance of these marginalized people have something to do with the disappearance of God? What place do they occupy in our theological reflection? Do we conceive of (in)finitude in terms of the centre of our culture and society, or dare we conceive of a marginalized God? In this chapter we exercise a consistent option for marginality (i.e. the marginalized). If we collate all the elements under discussion, it gives us the following theological concept of tradition: A religious tradition (e.g. the Christian tradition) is an open, reciprocal space that provides a window on God as (In)finite time and space on the basis of a consistent option for marginality (i.e. the marginalized other).

2.1 Time and space Christian theology is most at home in the category of time (Rosenstock-Huessy, 1956, p.280). Its thought extends from the beginning of time (creation) to the end of time (Christ’s return). Salvation history between beginning and end is seen as an ascending movement towards consummation in God. Globalization, which is marked by a different experience of space, compels theology to ponder a theme

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with which it is less familiar. Because of this unfamiliarity we present an analytical framework for the experience of space and time before we reflect on it theologically. This framework derives from Rosenstock-Huessy, who devoted the first part of his sociology (Die Übermacht der Räume, 1956) to developing it. To this end he evolved a system of coordinates (Rosenstock, 1956, p.57), which can be filled in irrespective of the social situation. Rosenstock (1956, p.65) calls it a notation that can be used to write different kinds of music and compositions. The formal character of his theory enables us to use his system for our modern experience of space in a globalizing society. In addition to space, we also deal with time. The globalization hypothesis includes the thesis that the altered experience of space has also changed our experience of time, and that space has come to occupy a far more dominant position. But this does not detract from the fact that neither category can be reduced to the other.2 What do space and time mean in human experience? Rosenstock describes space and time as forces governing human life rather than as the measurable entities of the physical sciences (Rosenstock, 1956, p.56). The physical sciences deal with clock time and geometrical space. These are not the same as forces that manifest themselves in human experience and actions. That much is evident the moment a physical scientist explains a new, ground-breaking development in quantum mechanics. As long as scientists are speaking about the speed at which particles move, they are speaking about clock time. But as soon as they start talking about scientific progress, it is no longer a matter of clock time but of time as a force. The notion of progress does not enter into a division of time into (milli-)seconds. It only features when you view time and space as dynamic forces. Time and space as categories cannot be reduced to each other. The category ‘time’ is spaceless (Rosenstock, 1956, p.64). Time has to do with past and future. A characteristic feature of the past is that it represents the power of bygone things to affect us. One could argue that

2 Eugen Rosenstock (1888-1973) is a highly idiosyncratic thinker who has published in many scientific fields (e.g. law, linguistics, philosophy, sociology) (Vos, 1993). His ideas in these fields are not uncontroversial. It would seem that some people go overboard on his thinking, whereas others are scathing about it (e.g. Rosenstock, 1993). We shall not get embroiled in this debate, nor do we pretend to offer an introduction to his work. But his ideas about time and space provide us with a systematic framework in which to analyze the concept of tradition. In this regard the formal character of this system is a major advantage.

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the past has left behind monuments that are located in space, such as church buildings, memorials, even a book or a particular custom. True enough, but these monuments are not the same as the power that the past exercises over us. In the dynamics of time a monument as a spatial phenomenon is meaningless. The same applies to the future dimension, for future things do not yet exist in space.3 Conversely, space is indifferent to time. Space, too, is governed by two opposing forces: inner space and external space. External space is what encompasses us – the natural environment, society. The power that external space exercises over people is that of coercion, authority, imperativeness. By way of example, Rosenstock cites the figure of the hero or warrior. The hero’s concern is with what he or she accomplishes in space (Rosenstock, 1956, p.88). What such a hero feels or thinks is irrelevant. The hero’s power is measured by her or his accomplishments. “He must do not what he wants to do, but must be inventive to embody the energy from outside” (Rosenstock, 1956, p.88). Inner space is the power of assent, manifesting itself as free will to reject outside forces. The combination of time and space gives rise to a system of coordinates, in which human existence in time is located between past and future, and in the spatial dimension between inner space and external space.4 People live at the point where the two dimensions intersect. The present is the moment in time between the poles of past and future, and space lies between the poles of inner and external space. The two poles of the stress fields, both the spatial and the temporal one, presuppose each other. When considering the past I must always allow for the future, and when contemplating the future I must perforce wander into times that are past (Rosenstock, 1956, p.64). The present is a product of the past and the future, a time span influenced by the forces of past and future (Rosenstock, 1956, p.288). Without the polarity of past and future time is abrogated. Hence the limit of our experience of time is death. Death is a present with no past and no

3 Monuments in themselves are not forces of the past that affect the present. They are petrified entities, whereas the past as an active force presupposes human collaboration. The past only exists for those who enter into it (Rosenstock, 1956, p.273). 4 The dynamics between the two poles differs in space and time (Rosenstock, 1956, p.286). We experience time primarily as isolated moments, which gives us the task of relating them to each other. This we do by construing periods, a biography, a calendar and tradition. In space the movement is reversed. We start from the whole and then proceed to organize space, draw boundaries, separate spaces from each other.

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future. In death past and present coincide, so to speak, but because of that they lose their active force. The two forces can only operate while they remain distinct. More than that: past and future are interdependent. Past without future ceases to exist as the past, and a future with no past is not situated in time. The same may be said about space. The force of external space presupposes assent of the will; conversely, free will is directed to assenting to something outside itself. Rosenstock uses the example of the mass. Masses originate when the duality of space is relinquished (Rosenstock, 1956, p.70). The fascination of a mass is the impression it gives of having one will (e.g. the will of the nation, of motorists, of Islam, of a Catholic school). However, the force of external space is so sweeping that it overwhelms the inner space of the individual (the will). The individual is compelled to assent and cooperate. But when the dynamic force of external space suspends inner power (the will, the mind), existential space likewise ceases to exist. All that remains is a pseudo-space (only the walls of the community – school, religious community, sport club – remain standing); that is to say, it is an existential space without inner space. Inner space and external space are mutually impermeable (Rosenstock, 1956, p.87). Dissolving the polarity between them results in the destruction of existential space. This analysis clarifies a criterion of the experience of real space and real time, namely reciprocity (Gegenseitigkeit) (Rosenstock, 1956, p.288). Life in space and time becomes illusory when one pole destroys the other. Real external space presupposes the influence of the environment (e.g. other people, nature, an organization). Real inner space presupposes the power of the person’s will. It is this reciprocity of inner and external space, and of past and future, that characterizes the reality of life. Living in terms of this reciprocity is not easy. Life is risky, because the reciprocity may be lost if either of the poles dominates the other (Rosenstock, 1956, p.102). But human beings have to take that risk. Real time and real space reveal themselves only to those who enter time and space. Only if we participate in time and space do the forces of past and future, freedom and compulsion reveal themselves. As human beings we must dare to live at the risk of losing ourselves. How does one know whether a person is actually taking that gamble? How does one know if a person is actually participating in the dynamics of time and space? This is apparent in people’s fear of ending up in an illusory world (Rosenstock, 1956, p.274). Maybe we make a wrong decision and cut ourselves off from our past or our

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future. Maybe we make a bad choice and forfeit the space to assent freely, or we become alienated from our environing space (other people, our job environment, nature). Those who have no fear of losing themselves have not taken on the gamble of life. The fact that we mention fear shows yet again that the forces of time and space are intuitions rather than measurable entities. In clock time and geometrical space there is no such thing as fear. Only human beings know this fear because their lives are at stake. Does my decision lead to real time and real space or to pseudo-time and pseudo-space? So far we have spoken about space and time as though they were categories of isolated individuals. Rosenstock emphasizes that the coordinates of time and space are only applicable to a community. They are primarily social categories. Secondarily they are a lingual reality, in the sense that the meaning of these forces is constituted by language in the communication between speaker and listener (Rosenstock, 1956, p.300). Rosenstock substantiates this statement by invoking the principle of reciprocity. Nobody has a present without communing with others who give her or him a past and a future. Before me, the individual, there were other people who, as the past, influence the present; and after me will come future generations for whom my present actions have implications. Without the fellowship of others the present is inconceivable. The same applies to the experience of space. Here Rosenstock cites the example of face-to-face communication, in which we give each other stature as we speak. There is inner space characterized by fellowship, and inner space characterized by the ‘solitary self’ (or free will). Without community the polarity of inner space and external space is inconceivable. We still need to examine the criterion of reciprocity. This criterion must offer a solution to the opposing movements in the dimensions of time and space. The question is, are we not dealing with irreconcilable forces? Does this not conceal a certain dualism in Rosenstock’s thinking? The criterion of reciprocity suggests unity, but can that unity be achieved? And would it not in its turn destroy the ‘duality’ of the two movements in time and space? Logically, A and non-A (or past and future, inner space and external space) should be mutually exclusive. Yet Rosenstock insists that the two poles do not exclude each other. Is this logically feasible, or are we trying to square a circle? If I am not mistaken, Rosenstock is presenting two answers. He does so through the metaphor of the way and the metaphor of the heart. The metaphor of the way entails a phase model, the metaphor of the heart

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a model of reconciliation of opposites. The model of the way has three phases (Rosenstock, 1956, p.294). The first is characterized by reciprocity, as when author and reader meet in a novel. Other examples are the family that presupposes reciprocity between parent and child, and the reciprocity of teacher and pupil at school. The second phase is characterized by fellowship or community. Recurrent reciprocity assumes the form of community. Father and daughter, mother and son experience the process of reciprocity as the community of the family. Teacher and pupil encounter each other in the school, while at the same time they themselves constitute the school (Rosenstock, 1956, p.294).

Fellowship does not abrogate the child’s or the pupil’s free will; it presupposes it. The third phase is, for the moment, the end of the road. The mastery that the pupil acquires in the community leads to independence or autonomy. An autonomous person is a solitary individual who experiences his or her inner space more intensely. In this solitude the pupil experiences the termination of former fellowship with the teacher. At the same time, in this solitude, the pupil longs for a new community. Yesterday’s child is tomorrow’s teacher. The same applies to a child when it becomes aware that it no longer fits into the community of the family. In the solitude of its inner space there emerges a longing for a new family. Thus the last phase leads to a new beginning: “Loving is yesterday’s fellowship and reciprocity grown lonely and heartsick” (Rosenstock, 1956, p.288). The logic of the way, says Rosenstock, is not a logic of non-contradiction (A does not equal non-A).5 That is the logic of objects. Interpersonal relations have a different truth. A can also equal non-A, and B non-B. We must stay true to one another in mutual contradiction. For the power of awareness springs only from reciprocity. (...) All truth is symphonic (Rosenstock, 1956, p.294).

5 This also plays a role in the dialogic or polyphonic self (see 4.1.2). Within the polyphonic self there could be various I-positions which exclude each other logically. Thus a person may profess faith one moment and at another moment be consumed by unbelief. Then we speak of dialogic truth, as opposed to the exclusive truth of logic (A does not equal non-A). (Also see 4.2.4.)

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Fellowship lies in the middle between the truth of the other and my truth. Living in the middle means embodying the fulness of humanity. When one speaks the word ‘I’ one simultaneously represents the person(s) confronting one (the other or others). To live in the middle is to live from a source in which one alternately occupies all reciprocal positions. These positions are not points in geometrical space. The other is not an object confronting me but a subject in a community. The community is constituted by subjects confronting one another. By entering into other people’s spatiotemporal dimensions I can understand them in their time and space. Thus we are able to exchange points of view reciprocally. In this way the boundaries are shifted and people expand the fulness of the humanity by which they live. Living in the middle brings us to the second metaphor, that of the heart. Living from the midst of time and space means living from the heart. The heart is not a place in geometrical space. The heart is the compass of a great person (the fulness of humanity) within the little person. Thanks to the power of the heart we embody human fellowship (...). For the heart draws us to reciprocity, to the other (...). But the heart, the wellspring of all living species, is not a border post of nature within the individual. Within the heart speaker and listener alternate, so listener becomes speaker; bride and mother alternate, so the mother can once more become a bride! Father becomes son again, the old become young. We can thank the heart that nobody is condemned to play a = a, b = b, c = c. The heart permits us to start afresh each day (Rosenstock, 1956, p.297).

The main foundation for living from the heart is the social character of all communication. All language functions in a community – more than that: language makes human communion possible. Living in a community presupposes dual space (inner and external) and dual time (past and future). It would be impossible for a person to live in the middle if there were no other people. Living from the heart implies a life that affords all others space within the self. Rosenstock advances a second argument: nobody wants to belong to a group that does not permit them to be fully themselves: “People can only tolerate groups that address the fulness of their humanity” (Rosenstock, 1956, p.297).

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2.2 Three rival concepts of tradition The situation of religion in our society is influenced by processes of homogenization, de-traditionalization, privatization and de-institutionalization (see 1.3). The available empirical research data give us no reason to opt for a radical change process. Nonetheless the significance of tradition in society is changing. Life in globalizing society is strongly influenced by an experience of contingency, fragmentation, transience and metamorphosis. In such a context, can tradition still play its vital role in the continuity of religions? And if so, how? Following Oosterveen (1999), I shall distinguish between three theological responses: a post-traditional, a traditionalist and an open concept of tradition.6 These three positions can be described more precisely with the aid of Rosenstock’s spatiotemporal framework outlined above. In the temporal dimension the first position puts the accent entirely on the future without allowing for any influence from the past. In the spatial dimension the emphasis is wholly on inner space or individual free will. The second position reverses the accent of the first position: a traditionalist concept of tradition puts the emphasis exclusively on the past and, in the spatial dimension, on external space; that is to say, belonging to a tradition and the community embodying it is determined solely by external forces. The third position is what we have called an open reciprocal position. It is open because those who occupy it take on the gamble of life, and with it the risk that what they ultimately realize will not be real time and real space but an illusion. The principle of reciprocity refers to the experience that the two forces in time and space presuppose each other. The present exists only in the polarity between past and future; actual existential space is found only in a polarity between external forces and free assent. In the rest of this section I first describe and then evaluate each individual concept critically. The critical correlation model will play a major role in the evaluation. Despite their differences, most theologians agree that this is a very important model in modern Catholic theology (Congar, Tracy, Geffré, Schillebeeckx). A key assumption is that tradition and present experience are not mutually exclusive but

6 Oosterveen uses the term ‘neo-orthodox’ for the second approach. However, this is a substantive definition in opposition to ‘heterodox’. A typology of tradition inquires into the role of tradition in the construction of the religious self: what is the significance of tradition in the beliefs of modern people?

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influence each other critically in determining faith in our days. A final comment: what I have in mind is a typology of the concept of tradition. References to theological authors are made for this purpose. I am not interested in analyzing their work, nor do I profess to offer an exhaustive study of the different authors. The aim is merely to provide a typological analysis of the concept of tradition. 2.2.1 Post-traditional concept of tradition The first approach to tradition is that of post-traditional theology. It may be described as follows: (...) a theology which no longer occupies itself with the Christian tradition but which is profoundly aware that in its interpretation of that tradition it can no longer take any institutionally mediated access to it for granted (Oosterveen, 1999, p.218).

Tradition is regarded as a common religious understanding which has been lost. Institutions that transmit tradition are disappearing from globalizing society. As a result the familiar invocation of the Christian tradition is considered debatable and even implausible. “To them dealing with broken traditions means taking on the responsibility to themselves break with (certain) institutionally mediated elements of tradition, and to search for new, meaningful concepts to replace these” (Oosterveen, 1999, p.218). As proponents of this position Oosterveen mentions the ‘God is dead’ theologians, the theologians/ philosophers Mary Daly and Jaques Pohier, and the Anglican theologian Don Cupitt. Cupitt is a theologian who explicitly contests the current transformation to a globalized society. In his view (Cupitt, 1997, p.100) the new global culture breaks down the barriers of space and time, otherness and difference, and reinstates everything in the abundance of the virtual present. In postmodern society all traditions are disappearing (Cupitt, 1997, p.120) – not just the Christian tradition but all religious traditions. If we think that other traditions are surviving better than Christianity, we are fooling ourselves. This is not something to get agitated about. We in postmodern society realize that we need no ground, identity, stability or origin. We can bid all that goodbye. We no longer need the construction of others or the Other, because we can be what we want to be. If you can be what you want to be, any distinction between identities (them and us) becomes relative in the sense of not really mattering.

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According to Cupitt all religion is a construction, one that is effected through language. The supernatural world is a metaphor of the world of language (Cupitt, 1997, p.16). All the spirits and gods that religion has given birth to are merely expressions of the creative power of language. Just as the spiritual world once wielded power over the visible world, so we in postmodern society realize that this power does not dwell in another world beyond us but lies in our own hands. God is nothing but a spiritual ideal. There is no world other than and beyond this one. “In the future we will see our religion not as supernatural doctrine but as an experiment in selfhood” (Cupitt, 1997, p.82). We do not have access to an independent world or moral order. “We should give up the old dogmatic realism and adopt instead an ‘expressivist’ or ‘aestheticist’ view of the world and of our life” (Cupitt, 1997, p.126). In our postmodern society traditions are meaningless. There is nothing which determines human life from the outside. So what meaning does religion still have? What do people still need religion for? Realistic faith in a superterrestrial God has no future any more. Postmodern society irrevocably spells the end of that kind of theism. But non-realistic religion does have a future. Religion is expressive of a striving for personal growth by taking bits from all sorts of world-views and forms of self-expression. It is not so much a matter of being religious in a traditional sense as of a general attitude to life. There is no longer just one great Truth: people piece together their own repertoire of diverse truths, ways and goals which they can use as they see fit (ad libitem) (Cupitt, 1997, p.82). Religion has to do with expressing yourself in life – more than that, losing yourself in the world. Cupitt (1997, p.89-90) speaks of ‘solar living’: we should pour ourselves into life, as the sun does. The aim is to identify wholly with the emptying or kenotic movement of all existing things. Only through expressing ourselves in symbolic forms can we find ourselves. Not that there is something like a self as an independent entity. There is only change, transformation, losing oneself in others, or disappearing into a Blissful Void (Cupitt, 1997, p.90). That is the postmodern way of life. For the Christian tradition this results in total immersion in globalizing society:7 all that is left is a postmodern kenosis (emptying). How do we evaluate such a concept of tradition in a theological 7 The analysis of globalizing, postmodern society by Cupitt (1997) posits a radical transformation. For a critique of the radical thesis, see chapter 1.

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perspective?8 One may be inclined to see this response as the end of the Christian tradition, and hence condemn it totally. But that would not do justice to any possibly authentic inspiration that should be evaluated positively in a theological perspective. The growth of tradition includes both continuity and discontinuity (Boeve, 1996). When the context changes, the Christian tradition must re-contextualize. This need for re-contextualization is not alien to Christianity but belongs to its very essence. God is a God who relates to people, who revealed himself in Jesus through whom he wants to be fundamentally with and for people. That is why Christianity confesses Jesus as ‘the likeness of God’ (2 Cor. 4:4). If you want to know who God is, in a Christian perspective you cannot but proceed via Jesus Christ, the likeness of God, the figure in whom we meet God in this world. Christianity, however, confesses Jesus as the likeness of God to show how God wants to act for and with all people: We are faced not with a person who is exemplary because of his own qualities, but one in whom God acts and on whom God has poured out his gracious gifts by way of example. We see Jesus Christ as an example of how God would like to act in all of us (Häring, 2000, p.8).

God’s activity also extends to the future. God raised Jesus from the dead, as he will eventually raise everybody. Jesus is simply the ‘firstborn from the dead’ (Col. 1:15-20). His resurrection is incomplete without the general resurrection of everybody. In terms of this fundamental option for a God who works permanently among people, as he revealed himself in the life and death of Jesus, we cannot be content with a concept of tradition that confines us to being heirs to an inherited tradition. God remains actively involved with people, implying that the present age may not be seen purely as the (passive) recipient or inheritor of a legacy but also as the scene of God’s self-revelation in the current context. The imperative to re-contextualize the Christian message means that we are not just heirs but also legators. A closed 8 The godfather of the concept of tradition in modern Catholic theology is Yves Congar. In his monograph, La Tradition et les traditions (Paris,1961-1963), he distinguishes between the content (id quid traditur) and the process (id quod traditum) of tradition. According to Congar tradition should be understood primarily in the second sense, as the process of transmission. According to Tilley (2000, p.10) there is a difference between Congar and later contextual theologians, who pay far more attention to the transformation process that tradition undergoes as a result of the context in which it is interpreted. Handing down tradition implies translating it into the present time. Refusing to translate tradition amounts to betraying it.

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tradition without a creative, vitalizing reception does not accord with the essence of the Christian message (Boeve, 1996). It means confusing tradition with a small t (i.e. our articulation of God’s activity with and for people) with Tradition with a capital T (i.e. God’s revelation in our world).9 In every age the Christian tradition is a contextually determined testimony to an original, in itself ineffable Tradition (Boeve, 1996, p.76). From this Boeve makes three inferences. Firstly, Christian traditions should be taken seriously as an access to Tradition. Without traditions we forfeit Tradition. Secondly, we must realize fully that traditions are our historically confined story about God and humanity. Thirdly, traditions should be re-contextualized all the time because of their historical, particular and contextual relation to Tradition. Against this background one might say that the post-traditional approach to tradition opts for radical contextualization. As a result one ends up simply as a legator, and no longer an heir. The reason for this radical approach is the experience of the present globalizing society as totally new in relation to earlier societies. But this is exactly the point on which I want to criticize this option. In the first place it is questionable whether our age can in fact be described in terms of a radical break with the past. In my analysis of the cultural (1.2) and religious (1.3) changes in globalizing society I consistently rejected the radical option as an adequate description of the current situation. Who knows, maybe later generations will describe the changes happening in our days as radical. The present changes are far too complex to tell, and extremely perplexing (Schreiter, 1999a; 2001). But at this stage there are no grounds for a radical option. Secondly, submerging religion into an attitude to life (aesthetic imagination, or whatever) means the end of religion as practice. Of course the Christian faith also wants to act as a leaven throughout human life. But if no practices remain which people (as heirs) recognize as religious on the basis of a tradition, religion will vanish from society.10 Religion that has emptied This distinction derives from Congar (see footnote 8). This is also the weakness of the liberal option which wants to retrieve the social significance of Christianity through the individual input of believers in social movements (see 1.3.4). This leaves religion as practice invisible. More than that, as members of such movements individual Christians must keep their own religious motivation to themselves. To be understood one has to speak the language of the functional domain in which the social movement operates. For the sake of clarity: we are not saying that believers should not be active in the solution of social problems. That is indissolubly part of the Christian faith. Inspired by their faith, individual Christians 9

10

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itself completely into a general attitude to life ceases to exist as religion. Thirdly, post-traditional theology ignores the danger that the ‘new’ which it advocates could lead to the same alienation and captivity of which authoritarian, hierarchical, patriarchal ‘tradition’ stands accused. Who can say that what one advocates does not contain the seeds of its own destruction? The re-contextualization of the Christian message in modern times must relate to the Christian message as articulated in earlier contexts. The theological correlation model developed by, for example, Schillebeeckx (1989, p.60ff.) is a critical model. To re-contextualize the Christian message we need to have the inherited traditions in which Tradition, in the sense of God’s self-communication, is manifested. Otherwise we run a risk of mistaking modern idols for the living God.11 If we examine this option against the background of RosenstockHuessey’s system of coordinates (see 2.1), we could say that the posttraditional approach is dominated by inner space (free will, mind) and the power of the future. Nourished by the experience of contingency, innovation and transformation (modernity 1) which is so rife in globalizing society, the emphasis is placed squarely on the future (or legatorship). But this creates pseudo-time, because it refuses to face up to the past. It is a future with no meaning for the present, because it cannot be located in the time span from past to future. The future becomes a ‘virtual future’ which, while corresponding with the sense of time of globalizing society, is no ‘real’ future. This relates to the absence of a social aspect to existence between past and future. We have a future only inasmuch as we are prepared to think in terms of the effects of our actions on generations to come. Because the social dimension is lacking, or at any rate understated, the post-traditional approach ultimately escapes from time. The same applies to its overemphasis of inner space. Post-traditional thinkers want to fill existential space entirely with individual free will. It is all about individuals’ feelings, how they are affected, their emotions. There is no room for external space because any form of external coercion must be routed out. But once again this is at the expense of ‘real’ existential space. Life without external space is ‘virtual space’, in which individuals ultimately con-

contribute in all sorts of social spheres and movements. But their presence in social movements does not restore the social presence of the Christian religion which was lost when the link between religion and the nation-state was severed. 11 This is also why we advocate an ‘iconic hermeneutics’ below (see 2.3.2).

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sort only with themselves, their own overheated emotions, their own will to be themselves. In short, it is a space in which people ultimately come up against their own loneliness, which cannot be relieved because it does not reach out for reciprocity and fellowship. ‘Virtual time’ is not a present between past and future, ‘virtual space’ is not an existential space between inner and external space. 2.2.2 Traditionalist concept of tradition The second approach consists in ‘traditionalist’ acceptance of the particularity and irreducibility of the Christian faith. Oosterveen (1999, p.221) sees this as the position of a few Flemish philosophers, Herman de Dijn, Arnold Burns and Paul Moyaert. These authors likewise try to accept the changes in our time, as described in chapter 1. They accept that the Christian story has lost its monopoly on the level of society at large. Christians have become a minority in a pluriform society (also see 1.3.4). In a globalizing society pluriformity is bound to increase. Here there are only different, particular religions, none of which on its own represents religion as a system. Against the background of ever expanding space this can only become more so. People get to know more and more about the many other religious traditions existing in the world. In the present globalizing situation any attempt by a particular tradition to posit itself as ‘universal religion’12 is doomed to failure. But the traditionalist option makes a virtue of necessity. It accepts that there is no longer a universal metaphysical framework, transcending particular traditions (Oosterveen, 1999, p.231). Traditions consist in rituals, symbols, stories, customs. More than that, they coincide with these concrete signifiers (also see Pattyn, 1998, pp.348-349). Any attempt to replace any of these concrete signifiers with others is a form of iconoclasm. Significance and signifier are indissolubly linked. That is what determines the unimpeachable particularity of traditions. These philosophers also stress the fact that traditions cannot survive without a community to interpret them. In an era of privatization and de-institutionalization people must realize afresh that communities are essential for traditions to survive. What communities like 12 In Western history since the age of colonialism (16th-17th century) this has happened repeatedly. In the context of the history of the concept of religion (3.1) I shall deal with it in greater detail.

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Christian churches must not do is to try to translate the meaning of their traditions into a universally accessible reality. That does not exist. The plurality is too radical for that (also see Berger, 1979). Van den Bossche (1998, p.109) legitimizes this option theologically with reference to the story of the wedding at Cana (John 2). Christianity as the revelation of Jesus’ glory appears as something else, as wine, in discontinuity with what was there, water. It reveals a distinctiveness that cannot be generalized, an irreducible particularity. That is why you become a Christian through faith in Jesus.

All that the churches can do is maintain a sacramental presence in the world. This sacramental structure protects God’s radical otherness. Van den Bossche bases this sacramental truth on Chauvet’s theory of symbols. Sacramental truth is the splendor veritatis, not veritas itself. The sacrament is not a truth that we possess but the radiance of that truth. The metaphor of radiance at once reminds us of God’s distantness. Christianity can do no more than present this truth, which it does not possess, by way of sacraments. The church can only offer its particular story, knowing that it is but one of many stories.13 How do we evaluate this traditionalist position theologically? At first glance it appears to take the present globalizing society seriously. It is not a nostalgic longing for the ‘good old days’ when the Christian tradition was still the universal framework for assigning meaning. The close link between religious traditions and concrete signifiers likewise indicates realism. In chapter 1 we emphasized that cultural tools (e.g. religious symbols, stories, vestments, rituals, forms) are intrinsic to religious practices. To such an approach religiosity is not an abstract, intangible feeling but the concrete ability to use these tools in action. In short, the traditionalist approach interprets care that accords with an approach to religion as practice. Nonetheless we find the approach untenable on certain scores. First, it does not take the crises of de-traditionalization and de-institutionalization seriously enough. Religious educators (pastors, parents, teachers) find that the mere presentation of tradition is becoming increasingly ineffective. “As a result the signifiers that the church has

13 I shall examine the theological evaluation of God-talk in greater depth below (see 3.3). There I will also present Van den Bossche’s interpretation (2000) of Marion. Here I confine myself to the concept of tradition presented by Van den Bossche (1998).

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at its disposal, such as its symbols and rituals, are less and less successful at conveying the meaning of the Christian story” (Oosterveen, 1999, p.222). Mere presentation of tradition relates closely to the connection between concrete signifiers and communities. Communities are the vehicles of practices. The logical conclusion is that people must once again (!) immerse themselves in the salutary effects of communities. But does such a view take the crisis of our time seriously enough? At a supra-local level the process of de-institutionalization proceeds apace. Is such a solution not overly simplistic? This brings us to a second criticism. Communities are not only vehicles of practices; they are themselves constituted by those practices. Through participation in practices people belong to a community. The more regularly and deeply one engages in religious practices, the more one belongs to the community. When institutional facts are made dependent on communities, one ends up with a conundrum: when can one still speak of an institutional fact (e.g. a religious practice) and when not, because the boundaries of communities cannot be defined exactly?14 Globalizing society has merely exacerbated the problem. Thirdly, the historicity of tradition – which the traditionalist position affirms so strongly – does not make sense in terms of its own theory (Oosterveen, 1999, p.222). Tradition is regarded as the continuity of such signifiers as symbols, stories and rituals. Transmitting meaning simply means replicating the tradition. In such a theory one cannot conceive of tradition ever changing, nor of tradition as a phenomenon rooted in a historical context. But the meaning of a tradition always relates to the context in which it speaks. Jesus’ message relates to the sociohistorical context of his time, just as our religious interpretation relates to our present sociocultural situation (Schillebeeckx, 1989, p.60). This inculturation of tradition precludes any purely explanatory process of transmitting tradition. Tradition can only be immutable if culture remains unchanged. If one were to survey a large tract of history, one will find that this has never happened. In our time, too, we are experiencing great cultural transformation. Fourthly, the notion of the ‘irreducibility’ of traditions brings us to the a-historicity of the concept of tradition. “Even though traditions have their own distinctive character, they bear traces of references to

14

I shall return to this point in greater detail in 3.4.1(B).

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other (including earlier) traditions and cultural contexts. (...) Traditions are fraught with ‘foreign’ or suppressed elements, which sometimes unexpectedly claim their rights” (Oosterveen, 1999, p.223). One example is the recent realization by theologians that the Christian tradition still owes a debt to Jewish tradition. A final point of criticism: the traditionalist position displays a disturbing lack of the argumentative competence which is so sorely needed in our time. In terms of the distinction between modernity 1 and modernity 2 (see 1.1) one might say that modernity 2 is being played off against modernity 1. There is a growing sense of contingency, constant innovation, the irreducibly other (or modernity 2). But the rationalization process that characterizes modern society has not disappeared. A belief that cannot substantiate itself cannot communicate with the present age, which demands argumentation. If we put the traditionalist position on Rosenstock’s system of coordinates (see 2.1), one could say that this position puts the emphasis entirely on the past and external influence. While one wants to do justice to the past, severing it from the process of transformation towards the future leads to pseudo-time. Indeed, the past is seen as a closed container that cannot be opened in the present to create a new future for the Christian tradition. In effect there is no present either, because the past does not reach out to the future. The past only becomes real time for those who enter it and for whom that entry leads on to the future. Entering without consequences is the same as not entering at all. That is what visitors to museums do. In museums the past is preserved in monuments. Monuments are made of stone, dead, immobile, impermeable. It is a past which fails to mobilize us, because we cannot enter it. Every entry into the past is transforming, and that is precisely what the traditionalist position denies modern people. Concomitantly, it overemphasizes external space. The accent is wholly on external authority, leaving no room for assent by the individual. When the emphasis is exclusively on coercion without the counterweight of free will, people have no existential space. Ultimately even the community disappears, because individuals are not incorporated into the concept of a community. Fellowship is only possible on the principle of reciprocity (see 3.1). The mass that gives the impression of having a single, undivided will is a pseudo-community, because it is unable to accommodate opposing times and spaces.

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2.2.3 Open concept of tradition The third concept of tradition is what I have called the open concept.15 In Rosenstock’s terminology one could call it an open reciprocal approach (see below). This position is marked by a search to determine which traditional religious meanings can be re-contextualized in our globalizing society. It tries to allow for the fragmentation of people’s religious understanding. “More than that, in this approach detraditionalization, breakdown of tradition and the concomitant experience, evidenced by an ambivalent attitude to the Christian tradition, feature as an access to and a repository of what tradition is about” (Oosterveen, 1999, p.226). The present time is not contrasted with tradition but is presented as a moment of grace for the Christian tradition to find itself. In the critical correlation model tradition is not a container of meanings that we have to discover in the present. It is a ‘hermeneutics of the copying machine’: the present is a replica of the past. Tradition should be viewed as a text that has to be interpreted in presentday terms. Tradition only comes about in the process of transmission. The container from the past is not tradition. All it contains is dead monuments that belong in a museum unless they are incorporated into meaningful human practices in the present. Hermeneutics does not lie in reading a book from the past but in interpreting the past as a text. That is why Geffré (1987) reminds us that Christians are followers of the Way. Being a disciple of Christ means ‘to walk in him’ (Col. 2:6). But it also implies that there is no Way without walking in it, that is, without people who experience tradition in their own fashion and in keeping with their context. Christianity is a tradition because it lives from a first origin that is given. At the same time, however, it is of necessity always a production, because that origin can only be re-expressed historically and by creative interpretation (Geffré, 1987, p.43).

The tradition that precedes us also contains a store of meanings that resist our interpretation. Tradition as an interpretation of the past must constantly be reviewed, because it displays meanings that have

15 Oosterveen, on whom we have based this trichotomous concept of tradition, gives no name for this third type. Metaphors such as ‘open space’ and ‘vacant centre’ (Oosterveen, 1999, p.224), which he uses to characterize this position, point in the direction of an open concept of tradition.

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lain hidden in that tradition. At the same time interpretation always entails risk: a risk of forgetting, or remembering imperfectly, or even totally losing (part of) tradition. Only an open notion of tradition will recognise the risk of interpretation. Underlying this hermeneutic praxis is a concept of truth that is not contained in a source but is still coming. Christians’ interpretive praxis is important for the coming of truth. Orthodoxy and orthopraxis must not be placed in opposition to each other. Geffré (1987, p.212) holds that they are interrelated in John 3.21: “But he who does what is true comes to the light”. Doing what is true is not just a moral activity; it also leads to faith (see the metaphor of the light). This relation between walking and faith occurs elsewhere in John’s Gospel as well (see John 12:35,36). Recognition that one is traversing a way – hence has not reached the destination – adds a temporal dimension to faith. Faith is not an all-or-nothing gamble. Gradually, through doing what is true (orthopraxis), one finds faith. The open approach to tradition is keenly aware of the encounter with the other and others. Witvliet (1999, pp.25-26) maintains that tradition should no longer be regarded as a source of authority but as an open offer of meaning and orientation. To Witvliet the background to this approach to tradition is a hermeneutics of the other, more particularly the poor and the oppressed. A feature of globalization is that territorial boundaries are becoming more and more blurred while ‘boundaries of difference’ are becoming increasingly distinct (Witvliet, 1999, p.72). This relates to a fascination with difference, with novelty and with differences between people and cultures. In short, the present age appears to support such a hermeneutics of the other. But nothing could be further from the truth. The organizing mind that typifies modernization (modernity 1) actively prevents the other from being ‘other’ and hence ‘alien’. It blocks access to opaque experience, experience that lacks transparent meaning. The ‘opacity’ of the other limits our understanding, and hence any indication of the ‘alterity’ of the other in terms of one’s own tradition. It is “the opacity, impenetrability and inscrutability of the experience of those who, in their daily humiliations, pain and deprivations, bear the burden of the confrontation with modern civilization” (Witvliet, 1999, p.89). The other has the right to remain a stranger to me and thus to challenge me and my self-understanding to accommodate otherness. It is a matter of an encounter with the other which allows for difference. When this happens, Witvliet maintains, one can speak of an

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‘open’ space. In the Christian tradition the liturgy is pre-eminently such a space: The last supper or the eucharist is the ritual in which we celebrate that, despite our enmity, God makes room for us within himself. But this memoria passionis (J.B. Metz), the ‘commemoration’ of Christ’s passion, is only effective if we in our turn make room for others within ourselves, even for our enemies (Witvliet, 1999, p.122).

Witvliet finds further theological substantiation in the metaphor of the embrace, which he borrows from Miroslav Volf. Volf finds three aspects of Christian doctrine closely interrelated in this metaphor: (1) the reciprocity of self-giving love in the relationship between Father, Son and Holy Spirit (doctrine of God); (2) Christ’s arms on the cross extended to the godless (Christology) (3) ‘the father’ welcoming the ‘prodigal son’ with open arms in Luke 15:11-32 (doctrine of salvation) (Witvliet, 1999, p.120). The metaphor of the embrace encompasses a movement which starts with an invitation that admits the other (open arms), followed by the reciprocity of the other’s coming (including waiting for the other), and finally letting go of the other as a sign that the other’s otherness may not be neutralized into an undifferentiated ‘we’ (Witvliet, 1999, p.123). The fact that we have called this third position an open concept of tradition is not meant to suggest that we see it as adopting no stance of its own. ‘Open’ should not be understood as unrestricted, de-contextual or a-historical. Following Schüssler-Fiorenza, Lieve Troch (2000) refers to tradition as ‘open localized space’. She points out that recognition of contextuality in present-day theology has given rise to various contextual theologies, such as African theology, Asian theology, feminist theology, Latino/a theology, black theology and ‘queer’ theology. How can the various contextual theologies that are flourishing as never before be brought together? Put differently: how can one unite the perspectives of women, blacks, allochthons, Europeans, men, whites and others within the Christian tradition? The metaphor of open confined space indicates a place “in which the tension of differential power is not abrogated, but neither is it replicated or produced” (Troch, 2000, p.63). It is a communicative space in which the focus shifts from the factor of identity and (personal) location to the dimension of a common space. Globalization makes the search for

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such a communicative space more urgent but also more complex, because it has become far more wide-ranging. Schüssler-Fiorenza sees open confined space as a practice field for the kingdom of God: Every positive relation between opposing forces that occurs in open confined space prefigures what is still to come: the kingdom of God, which she calls the discipleship of equals (Troch, 2000, p.72).

This notion of an ‘open’ centre (cf. Schüssler-Fiorenza) where different contextual positions try to reach mutual understanding can be elaborated further by applying the concept of reciprocity, which features prominently in Rosenstock’s system of coordinates. Past and future are two forces that should be conceived of as reciprocal. The present is the ‘vacant centre’, open to both past and future but not coinciding with either. The same dynamics is found in the experience of space. A tradition influences people (via practices in the broadest sense of the word); at the same time it can only create existential space if it presupposes people’s free assent. Each pole presupposes the other. When people reduce tradition spatially to outside coercion, it petrifies. Instead of offering real space it degenerates into pseudo-space. But the reverse is also true. Self-determination without external influence is pseudo-space. Inner space and external space presuppose each other and neither can be reduced to the other. The space that is cleared between external influence and self-determination is an open space. It originates in the dynamics between the two poles and cannot be reduced to either of them. This reciprocity is only conceivable in terms of a community, that is, a relational notion of humanness. Through the existence of others individuals acquire time and space. The past is handed down to us by others and we hand it on to future generations. And our existential space is created by the influence of others, to which we respond affirmatively (or not). But people do not exist in the same time and space. Each of us is confined to our own place and time. Nobody can escape taking a stance dictated by their viewpoint. More than that: refusing to take a stance makes it impossible to position oneself in space and time. This point is strongly emphasized by Schüssler-Fiorenza and Troch. Particular spatiotemporal viewpoints do not always coincide with the whole. The unified point (or full humanity) from which the various viewpoints could be conceptualized lies beyond each particular stance. Such a point can only be approximated to the extent that everyone tries, from her or his particular position in time and space, to

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allow the other time and space within themselves. This movement towards others or the other is implicit in the principle of reciprocity. Through such reciprocity a community is created. A community is not given. Only inasmuch as people are able to grant those who confront them in time and space a place within themselves will a community happen. Fellowship is born of reciprocity. Without reciprocity it constitutes a pseudo-community (an undifferentiated ‘mass’). But communities also have a potential for fragmentation, change, parting of ways. In the process of transmission tradition is transformed. Innovators break away from the familiar and the community and go off in search of the particular. If these innovators continue on the way of reciprocity, new communities may eventually be born. That is why reciprocity is a key principle in an open concept of tradition: it is the way in which diverse particular, contextual forms of a tradition can come about. Reciprocity is also the connecting link between fellowship and solitude in Rosenstock’s metaphor or model of the road (see 2.1). He speaks about three phases, which can also be identified in the story of the travellers to Emmaus (Luke 24) (also see Van Luyn, 1999, pp.1725). The story starts with an encounter between Jesus and the disciples. Jesus listens to their account, their doubt and uncertainty. Then he puts their tale in a scriptural perspective. From this integration of the two stories the disciples gain new insight. They feel touched in their inner space (their hearts will burn with Jesus’ interpretation). This reciprocity gives rise to fellowship, culminating in the breaking and sharing of bread. The (eucharistic) meal is par excellence an experience of fellowship. Jesus then disappears and leaves them behind. But their loneliness makes them yearn anew for fellowship. At the beginning of the story the disciples are depicted as leaving the community in Jerusalem. At the end of the story they are suddenly back in Jerusalem, because the desire for fellowship has been re-awakened. But the fellowship in Jerusalem to which the disciples return is not the same as the one they left behind. This is important for the ‘pedagogy of the way’. Rosenstock calls his model of the way a cyclic model. The idea of a cycle suggests that beginning and end are the same. Following the Emmaus story, we would posit that renewal can also entail transformation, the birth of something new that is not a replica of the old. This is more compatible with an open concept of tradition than the notion that the end replicates the starting point. This proposition is also not entailed by the criterion of reciprocity. The principle is a

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concept of process, not a substantive criterion: it tells how people in a tradition may form a community, not what the community should be like. The principle of reciprocity provides tradition, as an open process of transmitting what has been handed down, with a criterion to reach shared understanding.16

2.3 God as (In)finite time and space What is happening to religion in our culture? The definition of the problem largely determines one’s theological answer. Has the postEnlightenment era brought an eclipse of God, or is it rather that a particular image of God has become problematic? (Houtepen, 1997, p.129). As we showed in section 1.3.3, it is absurd to pretend that there is no belief in God in our time. We also must ask whether we are not grappling with a self-created problem about God: (...) the God of power and logic, of will and law, of autarchy and apathy, of patriarchy and helmsmanship, now incarnated in the ideal image of ego strength, control and death wish which marks our culture as Faustian: man, the fallen angel of yore, feverishly bent on once again ploughing up from the earth to his celestial garden from which he was permanently evicted long ago (Houtepen, 1997, pp.129-130).

Is it not that certain images of God are increasingly questioned by people in our society, rather than that they are denying God’s existence? If so, which images have been dropped? How should the departure of these images be evaluated theologically? There is also no apparent reason to say that all roads to God are closed. Would it not be more accurate to say that certain roads have become impassable in the globalizing society of our time? If so, which roads are still passable ways of thinking about God? We shall look into these questions in section 2.3.2. But first we shall consider fundamentalist schools’ answer

16 In our exposition we have indicated that the innovation of the concept of tradition in modern Catholic theology lies in a transition from tradition as product to tradition as a transmission process. A cyclic model would entail reverting to tradition as content: to determine whether start and end are the same could only be determined by looking at content. This does not solve all the questions of continuing and discontinuing of tradition (see Gadamer, 2000). But the shift to transmission as the focal problem of hermeneutics opens up the possibility of innovation and transformation of tradition.

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to the question of cultural changes in our globalizing society. Fundamentalism is on the increase in all religions in the world.17 It is manifestly attractive to denizens of a globalizing society. Where does it come from and how do we evaluate it in a theological perspective (see 2.3.1)? I then consider a key problem in the debate about God in a globalizing age, namely the relation between transcendence and immanence (see 2.3.2). I shall treat this debate as a question of (In)finite time and space. We base this decision on what is known as iconic hermeneutics. 2.3.1 Theological evaluation of fundamentalism Throughout the world fundamentalist groups are offering an answer to globalization which has a powerful appeal for people (also see 1.3.4). Fundamentalist groups are flourishing in all religions, whereas ‘traditional’ communities pine away. Does this mean that the future survival of religion lies in fundamentalism? Why should we not find common ground and join a winning team? Why look for new ways when a success formula is there for the taking? On theological grounds we believe that fundamentalism must be rejected. For our analysis we use a study by Van Harskamp (2000). We not only rely on his analysis, but also amplify and critically question it on certain points. Van Harskamp’s point of departure is the (‘new’) religious longing of individuals for an authentic self. In a globalizing society individuals can find no resting place to realize themselves. Fundamentalism gives them assurance in a turbulent environment marked by uncertainty and change. This is the experience I have characterized as modernity 2: contingent, chaotic, elusive, ephemeral, relative, transforming. God-talk fulfils the profoundly human need for authenticity, for selfaffirmation. This is our first point of criticism: does the transcendence offered by fundamentalism in fact liberate people from the pernicious dynamics of individualism? (Van Harskamp, 2000, p.255). On the contrary, in fact, fundamentalism simply intensifies the search for the values of authenticity, security and certainty through an “obsession with sin and guilt in the form of constantly repeated assurances that we are truly and totally redeemed” (Van Harskamp, 2000, p.169). 17 For a sociological discussion of the growth of fundamentalism in the world, see section 1.3.4.

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People may claim to be free from the compulsion to achieve self-affirmation and security but, paradoxically, the constant focus on selfaffirmation and security intensifies their preoccupation with those values. The search for an authentic self is insatiable because of the twofold dynamics it entails. There is an inward movement in which individuals seek to find their authentic selves by escaping from whatever is alienating them (Van Harskamp, 2000, p.67): is this my ‘true’ self? The search is endless, for each time they come up against the same question: is this self I have found indeed a true, authentic self? There is also an outward movement, in which the self seeks to realize itself in ever different forms of self-expression (Van Harskamp, 2000, p.78). But the expressionistic striving, too, is never-ending. The self feels dependent on whatever it has done to express itself. This renewed sense of captivity in its turn demands liberation. Human religiosity is caught up in a dynamics of seeking and finding, based on a promise that those who seek shall find (Matt. 7:7; Luke 11:9). The problem with fundamentalism is that the finding of an authentic self is not real finding, and the search for God is not real seeking. Why not? Because the God who is found is moulded by the measure of human need, and the authentic self that is found is still precarious. This fundamental flaw is endemic in religion on the prowl. It lies in the tendency to imagine God as an object among other objects in the extension of quantity and causation, rather than as the supreme subject to legitimize our freedom and self-realization (Houtepen, 1997, p.152). Those who seek God among objects – even if God is the surpassing object, the ultimate Goal or supreme Power – remain trapped in the measure of what is humanly possible. And those who make God the innermost drive of the autonomous person, a God in their innermost thoughts, ‘the power within’ (as neo-evangelicals put it) substitute the seeking self for the finding of the (In)finite God. Those who locate (in)finitude within the confines of the self will continue searching indefinitely, for they can find themselves only within the horizon of the dynamics of finitude. In asking for and seeking God they are presented with a self which, while pursued unceasingly, remains a reality that they themselves can never fully actualize (Van Harskamp, 2000, p.257; Houtepen, 1997). The dialectic of seeking and finding only works properly if we realize that we do not find ourselves: we are ‘found’ when God eventually takes us into the service of (In)finite time and space. It is not the self that finds itself; the self is found by God who is looking for every one of

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us. The religious quest should be marked by a realization that the transcendent is an authentic ‘Other’. This Other continually eludes us and that is why the quest is never free from uncertainty and doubt that we may not be found. A search for God without the risk of a void shows that the seeker has not yet embarked on the way to the God who is (In)finite time and space. And this is the real problem with fundamentalism. It is too sure about God and not unsure enough about the authentic self which is found. In this regard Van Harskamp (2000, pp.258-259) gives three requirements that God-talk must satisfy. First, we must realize that it is always a case of human images that we make of God.18 Only those who grasp that these images are not God himself but remain our stations on the way to the (In)finite which is God, use these images correctly. Secondly, our God-talk should reflect an awareness that God may sometimes remain silent instead of speaking. Often religious people have too much to say about what God wills, thinks or does. It is extremely arrogant to tell other people how God has spoken to us/me, while they are experiencing God’s silence. Indeed, in extreme anguish – for example, at the loss of a loved one – it may be liberating to the individual to experience God as absent, a God for whom one yearns and whose absence is felt as pain and loss (Zuidgeest, 2001). In fact, this absent God can fill the bereaved and the suffering with profound longing for God, which may free them from the prison of their own needs. Thirdly, one would expect all talk about the transcendent to resonate with an awareness that the ‘Other’ can only reveal itself in experiences in which the subject is ‘moved’. Without an element of passivity, of being overcome (thus breaking out of the self-assured space in which all we ever encounter is ourselves) we never get beyond the hubris of the self frantically searching for itself. A second criticism concerns the tendency to subjectivism. Subjectivism implies that all otherness, strangeness, distance in time – in short, everything that cannot be assimilated into the subject – is abrogated in the experience of the inner self (Van Harskamp, 2000, p.260). 18 All statements about God entail the use of predicates (e.g. God is merciful, just, good). These predicates are supplied by human beings, thus encapsulating God in concepts that we attribute to (In)finitude. I shall look into this problem in 2.4.3. There I shall indicate that language also has performative force, powerfully present in, for example, religious praise. In praise songs the referent God is evident not in the what but in the how of the movement to God. Hence praise can be seen as a non-objectifying way of speaking about (In)finitude.

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The emphasis is on the fact that we are already saved: only wholeness and harmony are permitted. This harmony knows no turmoil or uncertainty, no anxiety or doubt. Such an unattainable, inhuman ideal is more likely to exacerbate the trauma of the self than to heal it. Fundamentalism has a built-in circular argument from which there is no escape: anyone who is still consumed by anxiety and doubt has simply not been saved yet. Once one is saved, one rises above all doubt. Ultimately this argument does not allow for the alienation people may feel, and for evil that is so hard to vanquish. Hence the question arises whether fundamentalism really gets down to analyzing our globalizing society as a risk society (Beck, 1999; Giddens, 1999). It provides no more than a platform for one’s own message of deliverance and salvation, with no regard for the unredeemed state of the world in all its aspects (poverty, violence, racism). The problem with a risk society is that we have to live with fundamental risks that cannot be resolved. The more people tamper technically with nature’s genes (both human and those of the environment), the greater the risk of a possible catastrophe. The more economic forces – especially those of financial markets – expand globally, the slimmer the chances of political adjustment and the greater the impact at the local level of fluctuations in exchange rates (e.g. in terms of unemployment). In the end it is a matter of dealing with the agony of a world panting for salvation. All true religion should allow for a tragic awareness, the realization that all tears have not yet been wiped away. The ‘not yet’ in itself subjects all talk about salvation to an eschatological proviso. Evil – so pertinacious in this world, sometimes to the extent that it shatters human beings – makes any talk about the coming of a saving God problematic. The recalcitrance of evil makes people cry out that God should have come long ago: “The cry, ‘Maranatha!’ (1 Cor. 16:22), or ‘Amen. Come, Lord Jesus’ (Apoc. 21:20) is the last, despairing appeal of people in their utmost misery” (Häring, 1996, p.266). The belief that God alone can still save us can only come from an agonizing experience of being swamped by evil. What must be avoided is to argue away all experience of pain and our unredeemed state prematurely by overemphasizing, as fundamentalism does, our already accomplished salvation. All religious talk about a redemptive God must be put against the background of the doubt and anxiety, the suffering and sorrow still prevailing in us and in our world. Thirdly, in a theological perspective one must repudiate the reduc-

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tion of orthodoxy to those points in a religious tradition that are most in conflict with the current globalizing society. At bottom fundamentalism is an act of rebellion against the present age, a form of resistance against systems in an age in which the systems of the economy, communication media, science and technology are gaining power because they are proficient actors in the global scene. Fundamentalism is a form of belief in things which come up against enormous scepticism in our time (credo quia absurdum, Schreiter, 1999a, p.22). Thus American Protestant fundamentalism endorses the following five articles as the fundamentals of the Christian faith: divine inspiration of the whole of Scripture, Jesus’ virgin birth, reconciliation through atonement, Jesus’ physical resurrection, and his physical return at the end of time (Schreiter, 1999b, p.44). Why should belief in the triune God or God’s kingdom not be a fundamental article of the Christian faith? And what place is given to the church’s sacraments? In short, from a theological point of view there is a tremendous reduction of the Christian faith, which ultimately leaves it unrecognizable. The same applies to Islamic fundamentalism, which does not stress the five pillars of Islam (God’s oneness, the five daily prayer times, Ramadan, giving alms to the poor, and pilgrimage to Mecca) but puts the accent on the isolation of women. Here, too, the choice of fundamentals of the Islamic faith is expressive of rebellion against a globalizing society rather than of authentic faith. The remarkable thing is that fundamentalism is characterized partly by a tendency to religious subjectivism and partly by a demand for implicit obedience to religious leaders (Van Harskamp, 2000, p.264). Acceptance of an incomprehensible faith goes hand in hand with acceptance of the authoritarian power of church leaders. A fourth criticism concerns the way in which fundamentalism tries to regain lost social status.19 Fundamentalism is a response to particular religions’ and religious groups’ loss of significance in society (see 2.3.4). In a globalizing society the relation between particular religions and the nation-state is coming under increasing pressure. It is not possible to equate the contents and significance of the religious system with the contents of the Christian faith. Yet this is exactly what fundamentalism tries to do throughout the world and in different religions

19 Van Harskamp fails to make this point, because he regards fundamentalism as a reaction against the process of individualization. But fundamentalism is also a social issue: that of particular religions or religious communities seeking to regain their lost ground at the level of national identity (see Beyer, 1994).

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(Schreiter, 1999b). In contrast to, for instance, the liberal option, which wants to see religion as a leaven in society, fundamentalism seeks political power. Thus one finds that one northern Nigerian state wants to introduce the sharia (Islamic law) for all its citizens, which is meeting with strong resistance from the Christian section of the population. Fundamentalists try to identify with the nation-state. One observes this in, for example, the ‘moral majority’ in the United States, which unfailingly insists that the US is a Christian nation. At the same time fundamentalism is emphatic about who belongs to the community and who is excluded from it (see third criticism). It applies firm criteria based on the adage, ‘sharp boundaries make good communities’. This exclusivism contradicts the desire to have the group’s identity determine that of the nation-state. In this way fundamentalism nourishes social intolerance. From a theological point of view a community which excludes certain individuals and groups must be criticized. One theological basis for such criticism is the concept of catholicity, a key element in the Christian creed. The norm of catholicity represents an ideal in which the full truth of the Christian revelation is made manifest. In the first place this norm permits recognition of pluriformity within Christianity (Witte, 1989; 1992, pp.72-74). Catholicity assumes the existence of separate churches. The Second Vatican Council comments as follows: “In virtue of this catholicity each individual part contributes through its special gifts and, through the common effort to attain fullness in unity, each of the parts receive increase” (Lumen Gentium, 13). The Council refers to legitimate diversity among churches. Such diversity presupposes a certain quality in their dealings with each other. Each must realize that it is part of a whole. This realization implies that they must engage in ongoing dialogue, with due respect for their diversity. It precludes any absolute claims on the part of a particular form of Christianity. But catholicity also includes a broader movement aimed at the emerging unity of all people. The Second Vatican Council links this unity with the image of world peace: All men are called to be part of this catholic unity of the people of God which in promoting universal peace presage it. And there belong to or are related in it in various ways, the Catholic faithful, who believe in Christ, and indeed the whole of mankind, for all men are called by the grace of God to salvation (Lumen Gentium, 13).

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With a view to world peace communication should extend to all people, not only to Christians. This accords with Schreiter’s definition of catholicity: ‘A new catholicity, then, is marked by a wholeness of inclusion and fullness of faith in a pattern of intercultural exchange and communication’ (Schreiter, 1999a, p.132). Catholicity may well be the most appropriate concept for developing a theology capable of unifying the global and the local in a world church. ‘Wholeness of inclusion’ refers, firstly, to a certain commensurability of cultures in the sense that all cultures are open to God’s selfrevelation and are able to communicate with one another despite factual and legitimate differences (Schreiter, 1999a, p.128). A second feature of this wholeness is a realization of fragmentation, conflict, ambiguity and being, in part, a component of culture. Catholicity in a globalizing society should show greater sensitivity to the asymmetrical relations in communication. ‘Fullness of faith’ refers to three things. Firstly, it calls attention to the problem of reception: ‘Fullness in a new catholicity must attend to the reception aspect of the message. In other words, consistent failure in communication must raise questions about how the message is being sent, and not just about the capacity or sincerity of the receiver’ (Schreiter, 1999a, p.130). Secondly, the Christian message – in the sense of the story of Jesus’ passion, death and resurrection – lends itself admirably to narration in diverse cultural codes and meanings. Thirdly, ‘fullness of faith’ challenges us to look for theological images (teloi) which reflect a perception of human dignity in a globalizing society. One example is the biblical image of shalom (also see the concept of world peace, mentioned by the Second Vatican Council). 2.3.2 (In)finitude in terms of an iconic hermeneutics If fundamentalism is not the right way to (In)finitude in a globalizing society, what would be an appropriate way in our time? How can God be found in an age in which people experience that God is not to be found anywhere? Below we shall first consider God’s disapearance in modernity. With space exploded to the ends of the earth on the one hand, and imploded to the here and now on the other, there seems to be no room for (In)finitude. Infinitude seems to have been swallowed up by finitude; conversely, finitude has been transformed into infinitude. If this analysis is correct, the relation between infinitude (or transcendence) and finitude (or immanence) appears to be a key issue in

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present-day theology. Can transcendence and immanence be conceptualized in such a way that they remain indissolubly linked yet do not coincide? We believe that such a dual conception (linked but not coinciding) can be substantiated by using an iconic hermeneutics. An icon allows a glimpse of (In)finitude without identifying the two. An icon invites the viewer to look behind the representation at the mystery it refers to. If this referential character is abandoned, the icon becomes an idol of ‘God’. An idol imprisons people in a humanly made image. In terms of an iconic hermeneutics God’s silence in our globalizing society may be interpreted as expressive of a fumbling search for (In)finitude. We start with the disappearance of God (i.e. of theism) from our existential horizon. In his philosophy of the landscape the philosopher Ton Lemaire (1970) advances a hypothesis, which has fresh relevance in the context of current developments in our globalizing society. He analyzes the way in which landscapes have come to occupy a place in art since the 15th century. In landscapes people express their experience of space. Landscapes emerged in art at a time when medieval space exploded from the self-contemplating mind to what eventually came to be seen as infinite space. According to Lemaire (1970, p.15) this explosion of space has implications for Christianity: My thesis is that this emergence of landscape basically marks the beginning of the end of Christianity as a way of life, because making the horizon visible – which is what landscape painting amounts to – will in fact cause the transcendent god of Christianity to fade, and ultimately the Western god will evaporate in the fierce light of impressionism and expressionism.

We shall not describe the whole history of landscape painting the way Lemaire does. But his thesis is interesting in that it touches the core of our altered experience of space. Consequently we shall trace the broad outline of this history on the basis of the system of coordinates that we have borrowed from Rosenstock. Landscapes first appeared in paintings in the 15th century. As a result inner space and external space were divorced. In the same movement that saw the emergence of the individual as an autonomous subject the world of space as landscape emerged. Between 1550 and 1775 artists confidently depicted the familiar landscape in which people live. Under romanticism the grandeur and beauty of nature became a place for religious experience. It was Nature with a

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capital N, an infinitely deified nature. The romantics sought the intensified emotion of inner space in the ever receding space of Nature. Just as external space became infinite, so did the autonomous human being. In their simultaneous acquisition of autonomy, inner space and external space became separate. It was no longer a matter of an encounter between God and the human soul but of dialogue between Nature and the solitary individual. In the next phase, that of impressionism, the realization dawned that no visual impression is absolute. The same landscape could evoke different impressions at different times. Next expressionism tried to overcome the relativity of the various viewpoints by dissociating itself from landscape as external space. Now the autonomous individual encountered only itself. Landscape was stripped of its enchantment. People experienced the terror of pure space. In a later phase (surrealism) the human being became an object among other objects, and real-life objects were fashioned after the human mind. The history of the Western landscape does not simply reflect the history of God’s self-revelation but rather the struggle between God’s self-revelation and his self-concealment. (...) [H]owever much God and the world may converge, they never quite coincide (Lemaire, 1970, p.86).

According to Lemaire the earth never quite became a theophany in the West. God could never find a home within the horizon of existence. What is more, in art that horizon eventually vanished altogether. Now, to Lemaire the horizon is the visible line of ontological deferment (Lemaire, 1970, p.68). It expresses the fact that human beings never coincide with themselves, that actual identity is not the same as possible identity. By occasionally transposing themselves to a comprehensive vista of the world they make room for the experience of nonidentity. The disappearance of the horizon symbolizes not just the disappearance of the encompassing whole, but also the fact that humans can no longer endure the deferment of their non-identity. What remains is an autonomous human being at one with itself, without external space as something alien and intractable to the self. The 15th century explosion of space, says Lemaire, is repeating itself in our time. It is accompanied by a simultaneous implosion of space so that people can increasingly cross the boundaries of physical space without effort. Less and less do they realize that space is something that imparts gravity to life, or something recalcitrant that has to be conquered. In the experience of limited space the implosion of

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space opens up, so to speak, a sense of limitlessness, of all-encompassing space. It is an experience that this world (limited space) is as vast as the whole of reality. The all-encompassing horizon may be overlooked, because the infinite coincides with the finite situation. Infinitude (transcendence) does not encompass finitude (immanence) but coincides with it. Infinitude is not a power above or beyond humans. In their compressed space autonomous human beings encounter only themselves. This experience is reinforced because the encompassing horizon has come to lie at the terrestrial level. One could perhaps say that in the past there was always some awareness of something greater or more encompassing than the horizon we see. In a globalizing society people can no longer experience or conceive of something more encompassing (transcendent) in space that has exploded to the ends of the earth. What could be more encompassing than encompassing? Modern people live with a sense of surveying the environing world, but within this visible world they cannot discern a transcendent reality (as Other than themselves). Their inner space is filled with humanly made structures, which conduct themselves according to a rationality conceived of and controlled by human beings. There is nothing mysterious about them. Possible risks that humankind may incur through its own actions, such as an imminent ecological crisis (Giddens, 1997), are no more than imperfections in its control of time and space. They do not affect the feeling that autonomous human beings can impose their will on the world they inhabit. In this altered conception of space we are looking for a way of understanding God, one that will link transcendence and immanence indissolubly without reducing either one to the other. Can transcendence and immanence in fact be joined in one concept? Do they not exclude each other logically? Yet if one totally separates transcendence and immanence, one faces another big problem, namely that of bringing the two together again. An infinitely sublime God is not easily integrated with our finite reality. But as soon as transcendence is seen as an extension of immanence, one faces the problem of a God trapped in immanent reality. It is difficult to accommodate infinitude in a finite world, unless one declares finitude infinite. In short, the way to God that we are looking for must reconcile the apparently irreconcilable. The only feasible ways are those which express transcendencein-immanence, or which see infinitude as implicit in finitude, simultaneously acknowledging the irreducibility of infinitude from a position of finitude. Transcendence-in-immanence is a way of thinking about

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the relation between God and humans without introducing a divide between the two (Berger, 2000, p.53). The moment one creates that divide, one is caught in a dichotomy (either/or). To express this dyad of transcendence and immanence we use the compound term ‘(In)finitude’. It expresses the fact that transcendence and immanence cannot be conceived of separately. The moment we mention the one, the other comes to mind, and vice versa.20 The slash indicates, that the one cannot be reduced to the other. Finitude is not infinitude but is open to it. In fact, it only becomes real finitude in the light of infinitude. Similarly, infinitude calls finitude into existence. Authentic existential time and space must be conceived of in the polarity between finitude and infinitude. When one pole usurps the other, we have pseudo-space and pseudo-time (see 2.1). Below we shall try to construe transcendence-in-immanence in terms of an iconic hermeneutics, but before we do so, we shall briefly consider the model of a pantheistic God. In section 1.3.3 we saw that the pantheistic concept of God has some support among different groups of believers in various countries. After all, it is a concept that relates strongly to both individual and social autonomy. These two value systems in their turn are closely related to immanentism, which accentuates people’s responsibility to shape their own lives and society. Following Van der Ven (1998), we contrasted pantheism with theism, the former emphasizing God’s immanence and the latter his transcendence. Pantheism rejects any relation between a supernatural God and the world. In terms of the metaphor of body and soul, God is viewed as the soul of the world and the world as the body of God (Van der Ven, 1998, p.178). Yet pantheism as a theological model is controversial. It has even been suggested that it is the last phase of classical onto-technology, which equates God with the natural order (Houtepen, 1997, p.71). Is God, that is a 20 The relation between infinitude and finitude should be construed in terms of a model of participation rather than a model of addition. According to Thomas Aquinas addition (additio) is a model, which assumes that the higher value (B) equals the lower value (A) to which something has been added, namely a particular perfection (Berger, 2000, p.190). This is the model of onto-theology. Participation is the reverse of addition: if A participates in B and B is the higher value, then A must primarily be conceived of in terms of B. If finitude is a small circle and infinitude a bigger circle, then finitude can only be conceived of in terms of infinitude. But participation also means that A, through participation in B, can know the higher value. True, this knowledge is couched in A’s distinctive way, but it should not be seen as a reduction of B. Finitude also has something distinctive in relation to infinitude.

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supreme being, not totally assimilated to the world? Does it not predict the end of God’s transcendence as the Other who transcends all intra-terrestrial causality? There is no simple answer to these questions, because pantheism as a philosophical system is not clearly defined. A first problem is even who to take as a representative of pantheism. Thus some consider Spinoza to have been one of the modern founders of pantheism, whereas others regard him as a pan(en)theist. Van der Ven (1998, p.201) inclines to support the second interpretation, because Spinoza knows to preserve both God’s transcendence and his immanence; or rather, Spinoza’s concern is with transcendence-in-immanence. To him God and the world are mutually inclusive. God is in everything, and everything is in God. God is not an extra-terrestrial cause but operates in this world. As an immanent cause he transcends the world for the very reason that he is the ground of everything that has been caused. Hence there is always a fundamental distinction between God (natura naturans) and the world (natura naturata). The foremost proponent of iconic hermeneutics today is the French philosopher-theologian Jean-Luc Marion.21 The debate on iconic hermeneutics is by no means over. We shall not attempt to reproduce this debate. In our line of argument we merely want to show how this hermeneutics helps to explicate our model of transcendence-in-immanence. As our point of departure we take Houtepen’s analysis, in which he rereads Schillebeeckx’s fundamental theology in terms of an iconic hermeneutics. According to Houtepen (1998, p.267), Schillebeeckx’s entire theology should be seen as an attempt to link human creatureliness with a creator God. When theists speak about being created by God, they want to convey that their existence derives from the creator God in a fundamental way. This derivation or participation is a gift of God’s grace.22 By virtue of being ‘from God’ human beings are ‘themselves’. This being in, from and through God, this transcendence-in-immanence is only discernible in traces and signs, because humans, being creatures, are also non-God. Schillebeeckx refers to this relation

21 According to Smith (2000) Augustine also developed an iconic hermeneutics. But Augustine’s conceptual framework differs so greatly from the philosophical categories used by Marion cum suis that we shall not dwell on it. 22 Catholic theology indicated as much by not regarding nature and grace as mutually exclusive terms. Grace does not replace nature but perfects it.

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between creature and Creator as participation, grace and derivation. What do these terms mean? Participation implies that we take part in a world that surrounds, supports, challenges and at the same time eludes us. “Amid all the ambivalence, also of our own lives, we are constantly called to participate in the possibilities and opportunities of life, which reveals itself to us as a work of art” (Houtepen, 1998, p.271). The viewer of an artwork shares in it because the artwork itself makes it possible to look aesthetically (also see Berger, 2000). The viewer only shares in the beauty of the artwork to the extent that she or he participates in it. Grace or gratuity refers to the fact that nobody is forcing the beauty of the artwork on us. Its beauty overwhelms us inasmuch as we open ourselves to it. When this beauty reveals itself, it comes as a shock because to us it is ‘alien’. But this alien object is a whole world which absorbs us as viewers. This event temporarily suspends the distinction between viewer (subject) and artwork (object). In an analogous way this applies to religious experience as well. The antithesis between God’s actions and those of humans is a false antithesis. The movement from the human side is one of disinterested opening up: Inasmuch as I do so disinterestedly, not arranging life to my taste but taking life by the hand to bring it to fruition, I am touching the infinite, the hollow space of the possible (Houtepen, 1998, p.272).

But in the act of faith the initiative is reversed: God takes over, leading human beings into the (In)finite time and space that is God. Derivation refers to a dynamic relation between God and humans in the sense that we have our earthly existence ‘on loan’ from God. Derivation has the connotation of radiance or reflection, as the moon derives its radiance from the sun. It expresses not only the fundamental heteronomy between God and humans but also a permanent relationship. Our world has an open, referential character as a world of signs. If we allow ourselves to be guided by these references, the signs (icons) lead us into the space of the living God. Those who let themselves be taken along, via the pointers of icons and more particularly the icon of God, Jesus, find themselves taken up into God’s infinite, to our eyes invisible space, from which, according to Hebrews 11:3, everything visible was created (Houtepen, 1998, p.277).

Being taken along refers to a human activity: it requires assent, or rather allowing onself to be set in motion. In addition to inner activity

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(i.e. the force of our inner space), there is a simultaneous impact of God, into whose (In)finite space we are taken up (i.e. the force of external space). Unless we are taken up by God, we continue to think about God from our own perspective and within our own space. Speaking in terms of icons expresses that the world as such cannot be equated with the infinitude of God. But it can become a place of encounter with God via the traces or icons of divinity in the midst of all the mundane, painful and tragic things. The important point is that our inner space should not be filled entirely by ourselves. If it is, reality becomes an idol instead of an icon. Something becomes an idol when our perception of existence is completely in its thrall (idolized). We do not see through the visible object: it coincides with itself (Van den Hoogen, 2000, p.46). The icon, the pointer to God, is not the mystery of God himself. The icon invites the viewer to direct his or her gaze to something beyond the representation. The representation is a continuously redirecting symbol. In the Catholic tradition this applies to the sacramental symbols which effect what they depict, but without the elements composing the symbol forming part of the result (Houtepen, 1997, p.345).

This iconic hermeneutics has two movements that cannot be reduced to each other (see Van den Hoogen, 2000). The first movement is to free the icon from the hold of our idols of God and the metaphysical thought of onto-theology. The second movement entails thinking in terms of the name of God, which opens up (In)finite space. Let us briefly consider the two movements. The freeing movement emanates from the force of inner space. It entails desisting from any deification of the world. All the things in our lives that we have turned into ‘gods’ are not (In)finite space. It is the realization that a life without horizons keeps us captive in the confined space of our own selves. “The idols of our imagination keep our longing for God captive and metaphysics keep our thinking about God captive” (Van den Hoogen, 2000, p.53). The idols express a longing to maximize the world as we know it. Our reality is magnified to infinity. But that is not the same as longing for the Infinite God. Escaping from metaphysical thought manifests itself in a refusal to speak about God. Such non-speaking is not the same as the modern silence about God. Often the silence is still expressive of assigning predicates to God, which takes the form of statements like ‘God is beyond the world, intervenes in history, permits suffering in the world.’ The modern

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silence about God stems from a tremendous certainty about who and what God is. People can no longer accept God as a punitive God or one who permits suffering (Houtepen, 1997). So they keep silent about God. Yet, paradoxically, their silence is still a hidden knowledge, not an expression of not knowing. The freeing movement leads to silence that expresses not-knowing. This not-knowing could become space in which we may discern the distance to infinity. The second movement starts with the mention of the name of God. The space created by the first movement is filled, drawing on (In)finite space itself. Van de Hoogen (2000, p.61) takes the following example from Marion. For it is written about him [Abraham]: I have made you the father of many nations. He is in the presence of the God in whom he believed, who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist (Rom. 4:17).

The name of God is ‘he who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist’. It is God himself who bridges the ontological divide between God and humans. This movement of God’s coming effects a Passover: our space is transformed from nonexistence to existence. Our pseudo-space is exposed and changed into real space.23 To make it perfectly clear: this second movement shows that the distinction between God and humans, between existence and nonexistence is not an end in itself. That would be to create a new idol. In terms of the names of God the distinction may be seen as a ‘passageway’ to a new, unsuspected, irreducible reality. It is also referred to as a call. This again emphasizes the movement from without, of a coming to people. Without a horizon (external space) there can be no question of a ‘coming’. The horizon does not lie outside or above our world. It is our reality which, as an icon, provides a passageway to (In)finite space. Transcendence does not mean rising above reality but rather lifting the confines of our confined (pseudo-) space or condensing our reality.24 23 In metaphysical terms: when Being approaches being there is a transformation from non-being to being. This is the crux of biblical God-talk. The key issue is not so much the distinction between God (Being) and humans (beings) as that in God’s name humans become what they fundamentally are. When people are known by God they reach full humanity. What God intrinsically is people become through participation in God. This is the essence of participatory thinking as developed by Thomas Aquinas (see Berger, 2000, p.66). 24 In a subsequent book (Étant donnée, 1997) Marion expressed it even more forcefully. God appears in immanence (Van den Bossche, 2000). In the fact of Being

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In the Christian faith there is, first of all, Jesus as icon of the invisible God (Col. 1:15; 2 Cor. 4:4) (Houtepen, 1998, p.276). After all, in Jesus Christ God appeared in our world and lived among people. On the basis of his life we can form a picture of the invisible God. At the same time we must guard against turning Jesus into an idol. In the biblical stories about Jesus he is described as “the one who cannot be surveyed or endured, who is absolute and inscrutable” (Van den Bossche, 2000, p. 147). The painful experience of present-day people is that God conceals himself in the religious practices in which tradition surmises the (In)finite. But the freeing movement should not lead to a purely negative interpretation of God’s silence. Two things should be avoided. First, we should not fill up the silence with our images, words or feelings. So often we fill the silence with our cacophony of words, hoping to exorcise the void that we experience. I suspect this is because we don’t know what to do about the void. Thus we turn an icon into an idol. The second thing to avoid is that silence turns into repression. “Let’s leave it at that, then,” people say when that happens. That may seem like great openness but actually it is hermetic sealing. Paradoxically, it expresses absolute knowledge, namely that it all amounts to nothing. Enduring God’s silence as (In)finite space is entirely different from repression or filling that space with our idols. It attests profound longing for (In)finite space and time which are so sorely missed in a world where people are held captive and made small. It is a longing for God who, if he or she exists, would surely have to be (In)finite time and space. It expresses the hope that if God were to come, we would be taken into the service of (in)finitude. At the same time enduring the silence is anxious: why does God not come? Is there really an (In)finite time and space into which people are taken up? If only we could see God, even just for a moment. This anxiety and uncertainty cannot be resolved, except by filling space with our words or repressing them. Uncertainty and fumbling search are evidence of authentic faith reaching out to God as the horizon of human existence.

(immanence) God reveals himself as Giver (transcendence) without entering into being. This abstract description can be clarified by using the analogy of looking at a painting. I can keep looking at a painting but cannot force it to give itself to me so that I see what is unsayable. That is, the beauty of the painting is not a concept. It is something which ‘is not, but appears’. Sometimes you need to look at a painting many times before it reveals itself. And even after it has revealed itself, you, the viewer, don’t have it in your power. Next time you look at it nothing may happen. Ultimately the invisible meaning of the painting reveals itself in the effect that it accomplishes.

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2.4 Marginality/the marginalized other Globalization is a perspective on the world, the perspective of the rich. Part of humankind, while suffering the effects of globalizing society, has no place in it. In section 1.1 we referred to the economic sideeffects of globalization. In the rich countries of the OECD unemployment has been increasing steadily since the 1980s. In the same period the gap between poor and rich countries has also widened. Nationstates are less and less able to resolve the growing social inequalities caused by a globalizing economy and, within that economy, by financial markets. In section 1.2 we referred to the phenomenon of ‘Brazilianization’, that is the emergence in society (especially in metropolitan areas) of different zones in which people live totally different lives: a zone of affluent people at the centre of globalizing society (nice homes, overseas travel, mobility, participation in cultural life, access to the Internet) and a zone of the socially deprived who seem to live in a different space from those in the affluent zone. Theirs is a ‘non-place’ (Augé) or a ‘pseudo-space’ (Rosenstock). How do we deal with the problem of poverty in a theological perspective? The answer is not simple. It is not just a matter of a changing social situation (and whether religion can influence other systems and subsystems), but also of a growing theological suspicion whether God, as (In)finite time and space, can actually come to us from the margins of our existence. It is a suspicion that we at the centre of society may still be occupied with the ‘idol’ we have made of the God who raises the living from the dead (see above). Before probing this aspect more deeply we shall first provide some data on poverty in the world (2.4.1). Then we look into the moral implications of human suffering on the fringes of our society, both national and global (2.4.2). Finally we examine marginality as a privileged place where (In)finitude can reveal itself through a hermeneutics of suspicion (2.4.3). 2.4.1 Poverty: facts and experience In this section we present some facts and experiences relating to the problem of poverty. For various reasons this is not simple. Firstly, the phenomenon of poverty is multi-dimensional. It affects not only people’s economic situation but also their education, health, political influence, risks from the natural environment and welfare. Secondly, it is problematic to determine when one can speak of poverty in each

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of these areas. Usually there is some sort of convention. Thus analysts of poverty at a global level speak of poverty when people earn less than $2 per day. Sometimes they use a relative index based on two thirds of the average per capita income of the population. Here one could ask, why two thirds? Why not three quarters, or only half? Thirdly, statistics tell us nothing about the experience of poverty: the pain, suffering, fragmentation, loss of human dignity experienced by people in a situation of poverty. Fourthly, we must realize that the most profound experience of poverty is never communicated to us because it is not articulated. This is the suffering which is voiceless, nameless, inarticulate, which seems to leave no trace in the world. This section is confined to some key data on poverty. More specifically we shall look at the situation of children (education, health, income). In analyzing poverty at a global level25 we draw on three reports: – A better world for all (abbr. ABWA, 2000), a joint report of the IMF, OECD, UN and the World Bank; – World Development Report 2000/2001 (abbr. WDR, 2000), published by the World Bank (also by Oxford University Press); – Social Watch, no.4, 2000, published by the Instituto del Tercer Mundo in Uruguay (Montevideo). Around the world one finds great poverty in the midst of plenty. Of the world’s 6 billion people, 2.8 billion – almost half – live on less than $2 a day. We do not, however, call these people poor. We call people poor who live on less than $1 a day. According to this criterion one fifth of the world’s population (or 1.2 billion people) may be called poor (WDR, 2000, p.3). The three areas where most of the poor live are South Asia (43,5%), sub-Saharan Africa (24,5%) and East Asia and Pacific (23.3%) (1998 figures). The distribution of global wealth and global gains is extraordinarily unequal. Between 1987 and 1998 – the period when globalization was taking off worldwide – poverty declined only in East Asia (from around 420 million people living on $1 a day in 1987 to 280 million in 1998). This was a result of develop25 Our data focus on what are known as Third World countries. That does not mean that we are not concerned about poverty in the First World. In an extensive study of poverty in the USA and Canada Ambert (1998) indicates that 2% of children in the USA and 21% in Canada are poor. Ambert points out that in Western society (especially the USA and Canada) there is a social construction of childhood as something for which only the parents, and particularly mothers, are responsible. As a result poverty is also mainly a problem for women.

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ments mainly in China. Yet in sub-Saharan Africa, South Asia, Latin America and eastern Europe the numbers of the poor have been rising. Overall the rich countries are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer. Between 1987 and 1998 the market share of the economies of poor countries decreased from 28% to 24% (WDR, 2000, p.21). Poverty is pain; it feels like a disease. It attacks a person not only materially but also morally. It eats away one’s dignity and drives one to total despair (ABWA, 2000, p.6). Don’t ask me what poverty is because you have met it outside my house. Look at the house and count the number of holes. Look at the utensils and the clothes I am wearing. Look at everything and write what you see. What you see is poverty (Poor man, Kenya, in WDR, 2000).

The figure of $1 a day per capita of the population conceals big differences within countries and within regions. Another measurement is known as the relative poverty line. This line is country-specific and is based on one third of average national consumption. Thus if national consumption is high, the relative poverty line is higher. Using the poverty line, the number of poor people is much higher in regions that have high national consumption as well as greater income discrepancies between inhabitants. “In Latin America, for example, where roughly 15 percent of the population was below the $1 a day poverty line, more than 50 percent of the population was under the relative poverty line” (WDR, 2000, p.24). Similarly, in the Middle East, North Africa, Europe and Central Asia poverty rates are much higher according to the relative poverty criterion. Using the relative poverty line, more than 1 out of 4 persons in Europe and Central Asia are ‘poor’, while according to the $1 per day criterion only 1 out of 20 persons is ‘poor’. Poverty varies greatly within countries. There are regions that do not profit from economic growth in a country (like Chiapas in southern Mexico, Social Watch, 2000). And there can be big differences between rural and urban areas. “In Burkina Faso and Zambia rural poverty fell and urban poverty rose” (WDR, 2000, p.25). In China many of the poor reside in mountainous regions and townships. Poverty also has consequences for health. In rich countries less than 1out of 1000 newborn babies does not reach its fifth birthday. In subSaharan Africa one child out of 100 (ten times more than in rich countries) does not reach that age (WDR, 2000, p.3). In general infant

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mortality rates fell from 107 per 1000 live births in 1970 to 59 in 1998, but what is a causing concern is that the rate of improvement is slowing down. Thus the decline between 1990 and 1998 was only 10 percent. The Aids crisis has aggravated the situation, leading to rising infant mortality in several African countries. “Between 1990 and 1997 the infant mortality rate rose from 62 to 74 in Kenya and from 52 to 69 in Zimbabwe” (WDR, 2000, 25). And while in rich countries less than 5% of children are malnourished in poor countries this percentage is 50%. Three years ago it was a very bad year. The flood washed away all of our crops, and there was a lot of hunger around here, to the point that many people actually died of hunger. They must have been at least a dozen, mostly children and old people. Nobody could help them. Their relatives in the village had no more food either; nobody had enough food for his own children, let alone for the children of his brother or cousin. A few had a richer relative somewhere else who could help (Poor villager, Benin, quoted in WDR, 2000).

Enrolment of children in primary education is rising, but there are still many children who do not attend school: 113 million (according to ABWA, 2000, p.9) or 125 million (according to Social Watch, 2000, p.88). The enrolment level in sub-Saharan Africa rose from 54% in 1990 to 60% in 2000, but it is still very low. There are positive developments, like in Uganda (one of the poorest countries in Africa) where enrolment has risen by two million since the government increased spending on primary education. But there are also countries where the situation is deteriorating (e.g. Botswana, Gambia, Lesotho, Mozambique, Zambia). Apart from the 125 million children that do not enter school at all, another 150 million children start primary school but drop out within four years. The vast majority leave school without acquiring basic literacy skills. There are big differences within countries: between rich and poor children, and between boys and girls. In many places, children of the wealthiest families are as likely to finish their schooling as those in high-income countries. For those families the proportion of girls in school is roughly the same as that of boys. But for the poor families fewer of their children go to school – and far fewer girls than boys. For many poor families the value of girls’ labour exceeds the returns they expect from educating their daughters – so daughters don’t go to school (ABWA, 2000, p.11).

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  Because we had no schooling we are almost illiterate. Sometimes we cannot even speak Spanish; we can’t add. Store-owners cheat us, because we don’t know how to count or anything else. They buy at the prices they want and pay less. They cheat us because we are not educated (Indigenous woman in Asociación de 10 Agosto, Ecuador). Even our limited access to schools and health is now beginning to disappear. We fear for our children’s future What is the justice in sending our children to the garbage site every day to support the family? (Mother and father commenting on the need to withdraw their children from school in the wake of economic crisis, Thailand). (Quotations from WDR, 2000.)

2.4.2 The moral significance of marginality What does poverty imply for theological reflection in a globalizing world? Let us first consider the biblical concept of poverty. Sometimes a distinction is made between material poverty and spiritual poverty. In our discussion we have already come up against this question when we pointed out the complications of defining poverty. Poverty has both material aspects (low income, poor housing, no access to clean drinking water, no education) and spiritual aspects (social exclusion, disrespectful treatment, no influence on political decisions, exclusion from cultural life). Although the two aspects can be distinguished from each other, they cannot be separated. A particular kind of material poverty does not necessarily lead to a particular kind of spiritual poverty. In short, one must be careful to avoid deterministic thinking. At the same time it would be absurd to say that the two kinds of poverty have nothing to do with each other. When the Bible speaks about the poor or poverty both aspects are usually presupposed. In an analysis of the concept of poverty in the Old Testament Berges (1999; 2000) mentions the four main words or semantic fields. Only one word, ‘rasj’, accentuates poverty as an economic and social condition. An example is the parable of Nathan, in which the poor man is described as rasj because he possessed only one lamb (1 Sam. 18:23). The other three words for poverty refer to both the material and spiritual aspects. Berges (2000, p. 231) calls them ‘theo-political’ concepts. These three concepts could be put on a continuum ranging from more emphasis on the material aspect to more emphasis on the spiritual aspect. An example is the word ‘dal’, referring to people who have gone down the socio-economic ladder and are now insignificant. The word ‘ebjôn’ appears mainly in exilic and post-exilic texts and refers to

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people struggling with a want through no fault of their own. The semantic fields where the spiritual aspect is most pronounced is ‘ani/anaw’. The poor have ended up in a crisis situation, and ani/anaw refers less to its material basis than to the fact that they have suffered abuse, oppression and humiliation. Because of the situation to which they have been reduced, the poor can rely on reparation on moral grounds. They have a ‘right’ to such reparation. The poor address a moral appeal to others to rescue them from their situation. It is this ethical sphere, attested by the three theo-political concepts, which connects the concept of poverty with God. Being poor increasingly becomes a legal ground for invoking YHWH, the God of deliverance. In the psalms the poor call on God to help them and change their situation for the better. YHWH, who delivered the entire people from slavery in Egypt and who gave every Israelite a share in the promised land, is and remains the owner of the promised land (Berges, 2000, p.235). That is why there must be no poverty among God’s people, and no masters and servants but only brothers and sisters. The Old Testament never presents poverty as an ideal to which believers must aspire. Poverty is a defect, something that in God’s view should not exist. Poverty, life on the margins of society, brings God into the picture in terms of the ethical dimension associated with poverty. Poverty is a situation in which people cannot be themselves, a pseudo-space and a pseudo-time (Rosenstock) or a non-place (Augé). If God throws himself into the fray where there is poverty and injustice, then that situation may well be a privileged place where people can ‘detect’ God as (In)finitude. One can approach the moral significance of marginality from two perspectives: that of the privileged and that of the marginalized. Centre and periphery are not separate, but neither can they simply be regarded as mutually complementary. Each has its own field of meaning that cannot be reduced to the other. This notion is focal in the hermeneutics of suspicion that we shall explore below (2.4.3) with a view to God-talk. Here we pursue it no further. What does confrontation with marginality mean to the privileged, those at the centre of society? In terms of Rosenstock’s system of coordinates one could say that the distinction between centre and periphery occurs in both inner and external space. In the context of the problem of poverty we confine ourselves to external space, that is social behaviour in society. We define the centre briefly in economic and political terms as behaviour based on money and power. Marginality is characterized by an absence of money and power.

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First we must consider the moral significance of marginality for people at the centre. What does encountering the indigent other mean to those at the centre? We shall answer this question in terms of the model developed by the Dutch philosopher Theo de Boer, following the philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas. De Boer tries to locate thought about God “on the margins of everything that counts as being in the world” (De Boer, 1996, p.11). He calls this ‘periphery of existence’ (nonexistence) the wilderness, on the basis of the biblical image. The wilderness indicates the marginal areas in our world and in ourselves. ‘These are the areas on the fringes of our civilization, the periphery of material and spiritual culture, the slums and alleyways of our modern metropolises – the modern wilderness – where, from some underground watercourse, “original water” wells’ (De Boer, 1996, p.28). On the margins of existence our eyes are opened to essential things. The story of Jesus in the wilderness (Matt. 4) shows the forces (money, power, religion) in their naked form. Here the wilderness is not a place where we turn our backs on the world (in the sense of distancing ourselves from it), but where we see through the world. On the margins our eyes are opened to what life is really about. The wilderness, marginality, appears to be necessary for understanding that the supposed centre cannot exist on its own. The wilderness refers to the place where God’s transcendence reveals itself in our immanence (existence).26 Next we must consider what transcendence is and implies. When it comes to the relation between transcendence and immanence, De Boer cites Levinas: According to Levinas God can reveal himself in the world in only one way if he is to retain his transcendence, and that is as the humbled one. Only thus can he escape being encapsulated and retain his transcendence in his immanence. Humility is God’s mode of existence (De Boer, 1996, p.162).

God’s presence in the world should not be seen in terms of power (i.e. God as a competing superpower) but as love so great that it wants to overflow. When we describe history in a religious sense, it is not a matter of believing in spectacular ‘extra events’. From the ec-centric posi26 This was also a crucial feature of the iconic hermeneutics described in the previous section with reference to Marion. The God who gives life to the dead is the God that calls nonexistence into existence (see 2.3.2).

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tion of marginality it means perceiving the unspectacular that is apparent to everybody but is considered insignificant by those at the centre. Grand history proves to be ec-centric, its centre of gravity lies outside itself. In some hidden way power is directed from the periphery, the city is governed from the ghetto. Transcendent immanence is a particular, superior strategy in the empirical world. Where those without rights receive justice, that is where we experience transcendence (De Boer, 1996, p.177).

Jesus’ life epitomizes this transcendent immanence. The stone which the builders rejected has become the head of the corner at God’s behest (Matt. 21:42). The weakness of God is stronger than men (1 Cor. 1:25). God, who raised Jesus from the dead, has shown that what is feeble to human eyes is powerful in God’s eyes. It should be noted that transcendent immanence is a ‘verb’ rather than an ontological category. De Boer explains this with reference to the story of the burning bush: Descending into a thorn bush because he can no longer endure the affliction of his people (Exodus 3), because their affliction afflicts him (Isaiah 63, 9), that is not the way of a causa sui. It is a style of behaviour that totally flouts the law of self-actualization. YHWH, the name of God, often rendered as ‘I am what I am’, is read as, ‘I shall be with you as I shall be with you’. It is not the metaphysical self-identification of one who inexorably is what he is, but tries to say: I shall be where you need me to be (De Boer, 1996, p.181).

There where reality is turned upside down, brought to nothing (1 Cor. 1:29), there God reveals himself. One could say that De Boer emphasizes that God as (In)finite existential time and space is a ‘verb’. The privileged place where (In)finitude discloses itself constitutes situations where people experience their existential space as enclosed, constricted, suffocating. In this ‘wilderness’ God reveals himself in the faces of the poor and the dispossessed who appeal to me to take responsibility for their lives. What is the moral significance of marginal existence from the perspective of the marginalized? Does marginality have any significance per se, apart from the centre-periphery dialectic? Why is this such an important issue? The tendency is always to interpret marginality from the perspective of the centre. Marginality has no meaning of its own, it can only be understood in terms of the significance assigned to it by

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the centre. Marginality is defined as a diminution of the centre. To put it hyperbolically: marginality is the centre minus money and power. According to Hopkins (1999) this problem was also focal in the development of black liberation theology in the USA. Hopkins makes a distinction between first and second generation black liberation theologians. Not until the second generation were they able to wrest themselves free from the centre-periphery dialectic and see marginality as a field of meaning in its own right. By way of example we shall take a look at the second generation of black liberation theologians who think in terms of the moral significance of marginalized existence in society. Hopkins (1999) maintains that the emergence of this second generation was attributable mainly to the entry of female Afro-American theologians into the black liberation theology debate in the 1980s, and by extension the rise of what is known as ‘womanist theology’ and ‘womanist ethics’.27 An important book in this regard is the study by Katie Cannon (1998) of the black political journalist Zora Neale Hurston. Cannon finds the point of departure for her ‘womanist’ ethics in the real-life experience of Afro-American women. In radically opting for this premise Cannon (1988, p.5) has two aims in mind. First, she wants Afro-American and other women to realize and appreciate the richness of their own moral struggle in a marginalized existence. This richness should not be defined in terms of the centre. For example, for black women to embrace work as a ‘moral essential’ implies a self-definition as workers who do work that is least valued at a wage which white men and white women refuse to accept (Cannon, 1988, p.2).28 Secondly, taking reallife experience as her premise helps to make people realize the difference between an ethics of marginality and an ethics of the centre. The established ethics of the centre works on the assumption that people have freedom to choose. But the vast majority of blacks live lives that are marked by oppression, absence of choice and lack of money. In the Black community, the aggregate of the qualities which determine desirable ethical values regarding the uprightness of character and

27 ‘Womanish’ is an Afro-American folk expression referring to unusually courageous or strong behaviour by women (Townes, 1993, p.173). “You are acting womanish” means something like “You are behaving like a strong woman”. We use the term ‘womanist’ as a technical term in this sense. 28 Methodologically this results in a strong focus on the study of autobiographies of Afro-American women (e.g. Cannon, 1988; Townes, 1993).

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soundness of moral conduct must always take into account the circumstances, the paradoxes and the dilemmas that constrict Blacks to the lowest range of self-determination (Cannon, 1988, p.3).

What moral wisdom does life in oppression entail? What does it imply to be a moral person in a constant struggle for survival? What does it mean to be a person with ties and responsibilities towards other members of the same oppressed group? Which themes are emphasized in womanist ethics? We shall consider three of them. The first is the relation between authority and obedience (Townes, 1993, p.180f.). Townes distinguishes between two forms of authority and obedience. The first is an authoritarian obedience based on submission (‘power over’). Authoritarian obedience is a concept prevalent at the centre and is based on unequal distribution of power. Its distinctive quality is invulnerability. Townes defines the second form of obedience as discernment. Here shared authority (‘power with others’) is coupled with involvement in a collective struggle for justice. Typical qualities are openness, vulnerability and readiness to change. In this context Cannon strongly emphasizes black churches as places for an inclusive community in which Afro-Americans themselves exercised power (Cannon, 1988, p.19). These black churches were a place of shelter in a hostile white world (centre) and a breeding ground for involvement in the common struggle for justice. In South Africa, too, one can see that churches had a similar meaning for the black population. The second theme is pain and suffering (Townes, 1993, p.191-198). Townes accuses the first generation of black liberation theologians of adopting the centre’s definition of suffering. In fact only the location of suffering is contested (i.e. in the lives of Afro-Americans), not the definition itself. According to Townes this definition is characterized by a reactive attitude which keeps the marginalized trapped in powerlessness. Thus suffering is a tool in the hands of the oppressor. For this reason Townes wants to replace the term with the concept of pain. Pain is a transformative force which the marginalized can use to achieve wholeness, in partnership with others in similar situations of oppression. Pain is conducive to self-knowledge as an instrument of liberation (see below). It leads to analysis of the conditions under which the person lives and to planning for the future. It assumes that the individual has the ability to survive and to struggle. The third theme is liberation and reconciliation: “The aim of liberation is to restore a sense of self to the oppressed as free people and as

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spiritual beings” (Townes, 1993, p.193). A free person has developed an attitude that refuses to accept every external constraint. Spiritual liberation aims at cultivating a sense of pride and self-esteem as a counterweight to oppressive forces. Both dimensions of liberation are aimed at combatting the dual consciousness that characterizes AfroAmerican women (or marginalized people): that of seeing themselves both through their own eyes and those of the oppressor (Townes, 1993, p.200). Townes holds that reconciliation has both a spiritual dimension (i.e. the movement in which God establishes a new relationship with human beings) and a social dimension (i.e. living in harmony with other people). In a womanist ethics liberation and reconciliation must not be played off against each other. Unliberated people cannot be reconcilers, and unreconciled people cannot be liberators. An analysis of the difference in moral significance of poverty from the perspective of the centre and that of the periphery requires more than we were able to provide here. Nonetheless we feel that we can conclude by saying that a manifest difference between the two perspectives has emerged in relation to the problem of poverty. From the perspective of the centre confrontation with the indigent is an appeal to take responsibility for these others in their situation. Marginality shows (‘reveals to’) the privileged at the centre what it is really about. The eclipse of God at the centre is parallelled by moral blindness to the need of others. Even worse, the periphery of society may escape notice altogether. In the moral appeal addressed by the indigent other God reveals himself as (In)finite existential time and space. We only discover who God is as the God who gives life to the dead when we are drawn out of the centre. The movement from the periphery of existence is actually the reverse. One in fact has to dissociate oneself from the definition of marginality that has been construed at the centre. The moral significance of marginality only becomes apparent when one uncovers the stories of people living on the periphery of our society. Three themes appear to be pertinent in this regard: power of discernment in which shared power and involvement go together; pain as a transformative power; and the dialectic of liberation and reconciliation. Marginality reveals what human dignity is in the full sense of the word. 2.4.3 A consistent option for marginality In this final section we consider the premise that marginality (or nonexistence) is in fact where (In)finitude can be discerned. The

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fringes of existence is the place for encountering God. Not in the sense of a face-to-face encounter. But the face of the poor and oppressed is a window through which we can see the God who gives life to the dead. Thus the spirituality of the wilderness (as De Boer puts it) would appear to be perfectly consistent with the concept of tradition as open reciprocal space (see 2.2.3) and with iconic hermeneutics (see 2.3.2). Yes and no. Certainly De Boer (like Levinas) explicitly rejects ontotheological thinking. But the question remains whether his approach does not still contain too much knowledge, whether it allows sufficiently for the ‘foreignness’ of marginal existence and, indeed, of (In)finitude. Let us examine these points of criticism more closely. Firstly, this approach seems to view the historicity of life as exclusively finite, so that in religious experience one has, so to speak, taken a leap (into God, into the transcendent). This criticism we derive from Vattimo (1997, p.108), who directed it to Levinas’ thinking. Vattimo (1997, p.116) asks himself whether Levinas’ abrogation of the Other does not ultimately lead to the disappearance of contingency. To be sure, the encounter with the Other is situated in history (i.e. in the face of the other who appeals to me to take responsibility for him or her), but this revelation is not linked with the contingency of history. Does this do proper justice to the intertwinement of transcendence and immanence? De Boer (and Levinas) do not conceive of God as an ontological category but in terms of her or his Coming (as a verb). In so doing they roundly affirm that in the situation in which God ‘comes’ – that is, in the face of the indigent other – God’s Otherness (transcendence) actively manifests itself in our life. But is this manifestation not overly forced, too much of a ‘discovery’ of God in terms of our reality, albeit the reality of the indigent other, the have-nots, the nonexistent? Does this not still contain a residue of ontological metaphysics, Vattimo (1997, p.117) asks himself, without due acknowledgement of the contingency of existence? Does it allow sufficiently for the fact that God’s movement towards the world is, from the angle of historicity, irreducible? Even the face of the indigent other is not necessarily the way to self-discovery of God. Encounter with God remains unforeseen, gratuitous, radically historical. Vattimo finds theological grounds for this view in the doctrine of God’s incarnation in Jesus Christ: The fact that history also, or in fact, has a salvific (in philosophical terms, emancipatory) meaning, because it is a history of proclamation

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A second question is whether the God who is located in the lives of the marginalized is not still defined mainly in our own terms, in other words the terms of the centre rather than those of the periphery (Althaus-Reid, 2001, p.29). We look from the centre (both in an economic and a social sense) at the indigent other, whose face gives us access to the God who rights all wrongs and gives life to the dead. The theologian Althaus-Reid points out that this means distancing ourselves from a God who is identified with the centre as the space occupied by ourselves. By acknowledging a God of the periphery we assign God a place among the outcasts who have to live in a non-place because there is no room for them in globalizing society. Althaus-Reid sees this movement from the God-of-the-centre to a God of the periphery as typical of liberation (and political) theologies which evolved from the centre (the affluent West). If we follow the analysis in Hopkins (1999), this also applies to first generation black liberation theologians in America. But does this movement from the centre in fact take us all the way? Are we not still preserving the distinction of centre and periphery when we conceive of God on the periphery? Can we overcome this distinction by conceiving of God himself as a marginal God? In terms of the metaphor of the exodus, we have in fact travelled out of Egypt and are looking at the wilderness; but are we thinking in terms of a God who lives in the wilderness and is journeying through it with His people? Is the wilderness desolate enough? Do we not still think of the void in terms of our desires? On the basis of the option of every human being to become a subject (Metz, 1979, p.65) we are opening up the centre, but that does not mean that we view marginality from the perspective of the marginalized. Thirdly, consorting with the ‘other’ raises questions. The oppressed other is alien, living a life that is literally foreign to us. We are not living with an HIV infection that can predict the end of our lives at any time. We don’t know life between four bare walls with a family of seven. Can we imagine what possesses someone to watch erotic films all day long, with the children joining in after school? Do we really know what drives an economic refugee to stow away on a freighter to reach the affluent West? The paradox is that in our definition of the other we in fact strip the person of his or her otherness. The question is illu-

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minating. When we try to imagine what possesses the stowaway, we do so from our own frame of reference. To the extent that we believe that we have transposed ourselves to that situation, we believe that we have created ‘space’ in our frame of reference. We express this by saying that we have never realized so powerfully what inspires this refugee. We empathize with his despair and at the same time we glimpse the strength of the hope that drove him to undertake a voyage in the face of death. To the extent that we managed to understand the other, we take hold of her otherness. The otherness that perturbs us is domesticated. The other, once transcribed into my frame of reference (and hence my language), loses his otherness (De Certeau, 1997, p.71). In our minds we are continually classifying life into dichotomous categories: self and non-self, familiar and foreign, good and bad. Through such categorization we imprison both ourselves and the other. Can we escape from this prison mentality? Is it possible to recognize the other without dissolving her otherness?29 Fourthly we must consider whether we should not assign greater weight to the unreconciled state of the world (Boeve, 1999, p.263). We interpret the story of the indigent other as one in which God’s presence is surmised. But what do we do about the absence of God, to which the oppressed and the dispossessed testify? God can also remain hidden, absent, impalpable, incomprehensible. Sometimes people’s tales of suffering are simply an inarticulate cry for a God whose presence was expected and hoped for but never experienced by the sufferer. The 20th century brought some of the greatest atrocities ever known to humankind. Never another Auschwitz; never another terrorist attack leaving thousands dead. Are we still so confident that it can never happen again? Are we not trying to drown out our fear? Is the risk of catastrophe not in fact greater in a globalizing society (Gid-

29 Boeve (1999) has similar objections to Metz’ hermeneutics of recognition (German: Anerkennungshermeneutik). In his theology Metz in fact strives to acknowledge the oppressed other. For this reason he rejects the communicative rationality of Habermas (1981), because in his view Habermas does not sufficiently recognize the inequality between people. The crucial question is not ‘who speaks?’ but ‘who suffers?’. But according to Boeve, Metz does not go far enough. Ultimately he resolves the radical otherness and does not enter into the irreconcilability of suffering. Theology (and the church) is only one interpretive community in the history of the world’s suffering. Any pretence of assigning definitive meaning to a history of suffering implies premature closure of pluriform interpretation of such histories. In so doing theology (unintentionally) reintroduces a tale of domination, whereas in fact it wants to protest against the history of domination from the centre.

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dens, 1999)? May the experience of God’s absence actually exist without being reconciled by us (at the centre)? Can we fairly acknowledge all these critical glosses and still adhere to the notion of marginality as the privileged place of God’s self-revelation? Maybe the suggestion of Althaus-Reid (2001) could be helpful, when he speaks of a marginal God beyond the God of marginality. What do I mean by that? The God of marginality is a domesticated God based on a centre-periphery model. In a sense it is still a safe notion, because it does not demolish the structure of the control mentality. Even if it is on the fringes of existence, we still know exactly who God is and where we can encounter him or her. The image of a marginal God requires that we let go of this ‘knowledge’. A marginal God does not reveal himself in the places that we have authorized as places of divine encounter. Beyond our hubris (In)finitude may open up in human lives where we never surmised it. Conversely, God may fail to manifest himself in the places where we expected him to be. In other words, it is a matter of sticking to the indeterminacy of God’s self-revelation when we call marginality a privileged place. That is why we speak of a hermeneutics of suspicion, because any localization of (In)finitude imprisons it in our system of coordinates. The suspicion is directed to any identificatory statement about God in our world. It is the very lack of such suspicion that we accused fundamentalism of in an earlier section. ‘Finding God’ does not terminate the ‘search for God’. Suspicion is also consonant with iconic hermeneutics inasmuch as such a hermeneutics realizes that our icons may not take the place of God. An icon is a pointer to (In)finitude, not (In)finitude itself. Marginality is also characterized by indeterminacy, or by that which we cannot apprehend. The otherness of marginality in a sense corroborates our suspicion when thinking about God. To substantiate this argument we refer to an analysis by De Certeau (1997). Culture vacillates between two forms: the enduring and the innovative. On the one hand, there are slowly developing phenomena, latencies, delays that are piled up in the thick breadth of mentalities, evident things and social ritualizations, an opaque, stubborn life buried in everyday gestures that are at the same time both immediate and millienary. On the other hand, irruptions, deviations, that is, all these margins of an inventiveness from which future generations will successively draw their ‘cultivated culture’ (De Certeau, 1997, pp.137-138).

The enduring manifests itself in localized practices, from a simple gesture of greeting to the official opening of parliament. The substance of

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these cultural practices is known to everyone. The periphery of a culture is that which is unrecognized, recalcitrant, alien. Marginality is manifest on the periphery of culture as a ‘silent immensity’ (De Certeau, 1997, p.139), an uncharted territory on the fringes of the known. Marginality is a receding horizon which adds glamour to the familiar when it is incorporated into it. The moment marginality is incorporated into the context it ceases to be a horizon.30 Then the unfamiliar is transformed into folklore, like a Turkish bakery where you can buy delicious bread or a foreign restaurant. In our country eating at a pizzeria has no vestige of foreignness that confronts us with ourselves. By contrast we are shocked when an Islamic neighbour ritually slaughters a sheep. Tolerating marginality as ‘alien’, both in ourselves and in others, calls ourselves into question. Consequently we try to ‘neutralize’ it as quickly as possible by pulling it into our own context. The ‘alien’ in our midst has to adapt to our culture as quickly as possible. Nothing is easier than to incite xenophobia, because foreignness perturbs us. But we also experience the ‘alien’ in ourselves. We are socialized into gender specific behaviour and repress feelings that do not accord with it. But would toleration of the alien not be indicative of the extent to which we make room for God as Another? In the silence we permit in our lives (In)finite time and space can be manifested which will not be filled from ourselves, the centre. Experience of the alien is also a feature of the metaphor of the Way, which was used to describe the early Christians. The archetype of walking in God’s footsteps is Abraham, who went forth in response to God’s call (Gen. 12:1-5), “not knowing where he was to go” (Heb. 11:8). Faith in the footsteps of Abraham implies admitting the alien inasmuch as one has become alien to the world oneself: These all died in faith, not having received what was promised, but having seen it and greeted it from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth (Heb. 11:13).

As followers of the Way we see salvation from afar. The salvation that we believe we see is always subject to an eschatological proviso. We

30 What we do not understand is drawn into our vocabulary in order to make it speak in our own interests. “At that point they cease to speak and to be spoken. All the progress of our knowledge can be measured by the silence that it creates” (De Certeau,1997, p.139).

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must be wary of stating in any definite sense what God has in mind with people’s hopeless suffering. Neither must we prematurely decide on the meaning of the alien that we experience within ourselves. Our silence opens up the possibility of understanding the meaning of others’ need and the alien within ourselves. Silence refers to the presence of a marginal God, that is a God who has abandoned the power at the centre and dwells on the fringes of existence. God is not to be found in the harsh light of power. Instead he reveals himself in the ‘dark night’ referred to in mystical tradition. It is no coincidence that theologians in our time reflect so much on the silence of God. Prior to the theology that proceeds from Derrida’s philosophy, the metaphor of silence referred to the end of assigning predicates to God (Caputo, 1998; Chatelion Counet, 1998). Here one thinks of predicates like good, merciful, faithful, forgiving, liberating. Predicates capture the transcendent in concepts. But this is a paradox, because the transcendent eludes every predicate. In short, how can we really say anything about God without trapping (in)finitude in our finite meanings? Proceeding from a different frame of reference (that of non-dualistic thought), Panikkar arrives at the same conclusion. He advocates a non-objectifying way of speaking about God. When we apprehend something, we assimilate the object we have apprehended into our thoughts. We alter the object of our thoughts because it must fit into our frame of reference.31 When we apprehend something it becomes an object of our thoughts. “A tree, for instance, simply stops our thinking at a certain point. It possesses an enclosure forbidden to or rather impenetrable to our thinking” (Panikkar, 1979, p.225). Accordingly Panikkar posits that the criterion of reality is to be ‘thought-proof’. We only touch on a reality that is not ourselves when we encounter resistance on the part of the other or others. We can only be touched by the otherness of reality (and of God!) if it resists our thought. We simply cannot ‘apprehend’ it. According to Panikkar (1979, p.225) “there is a fundamental difference between an idea of God, which has infinite possibilities, and a real God who stops and silences our thinking”. It is God himself who, in his other31 In mystical tradition we hear about the process of relinquishing our ego-orientation. Ego-orientation relates to thinking in terms of our needs. Hence loss of ego means to relinquish the urge to put an object at our service (Berger, 2000, p.55). Ego is a moral category. It should not be confused with the knowing attitude of a knowing subject towards a known object. This knowing attitude cannot be relinquished (see our critique of fundamentalism), but appropriation of the known object can.

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ness, silences us. We must also realize that this silence is still an experience on our side of reality, a perspective from immanence. Is it possible to go one step further towards the receding horizon that is perceptible in that otherness? If it were not possible, the silence could ultimately be an endless void. Silence in a sense masks God’s exodus from our world. Is that, then, the Christian message that we take to the poor and the dispossessed? The debate on the possibility of applying predicates to God (like good or just) is a complex one. Without dwelling on it, I merely mention Marion’s notion of praising God beyond silence.32 According to Marion (1999), praise constitutes a logic beyond the binary logic of affirmation and negation: The third way is played out beyond the oppositions between affirmation and negation, synthesis and separation, in short, the true and the false. Strictly speaking, if thesis and negation have it in common to speak the truth (and spurn the false), the way which transcends them should also transcend the true and the false. The third way would transgress nothing less than the two truth values, between which the entire logic of metaphysics is carried out. If the third is no longer about saying the true or the false, if it is precisely a matter of its not saying them, one can no longer claim [as Derrida does] that it means to affirm a predicate of a subject, not even beneath the absurd dissimulation of a negation, not that it has the least bit of interest in doing so. The third way does not hide an affirmation beneath a negation.

The logic of praise denies the meaning of assigning predicates. In ‘praise’ one simply refers to an incomprehensible yet still present referent. Praise is neither a form of naming nor a denial of every form of naming. In praise one a-scribes meaning to the referent without professing to de-scribe it. In praise one abandons the attempt to apprehend the transcendent: In other words, praise is quasi-predicative and quasi-determinative: it says something about someone, but without prescription or de-finition. In ‘praise’, I do not claim to grasp God in a concept, but rather to

32 Theologians who base their thinking on Derrida accuse Marion of not going far enough (Caputo, 1999). One needs to abandon all predication, even speaking about God’s silence (Chatelion Counet, 1998). After all, if one says that God is silent one ascribes the predicate ‘silent’ to God. The question is whether denial of all predication does not land one in a total negation in which the truth and falsehood of all God-talk can no longer be determined (cf. Berger, 2000; Smith, 2000).

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  ascribe beauty, majesty, justice to him in words that are insufficient but necessary (Smith, 2000, p.83).33

According to Smith the referent God is not apparent in the what of the praise but in the how. Praise is a non-objectifying way of speaking: In the laudatory strategy of praise, one speaks well of God, without determination, such that the one who praises can still ask: ‘What do I love when I love my God?’ (Smith, 2000, p.84).

The words spoken by the one who praises are iconic pointers. The words used in praise do not exhaust the referent of the praise. In praise God is not an object to be grasped. The intention of praise is to refer to the one who is praised without entirely assimilating that referent into our words. The person who praises is aware of the resistance of the one who is praised to her or his words of praise. In praise one allows, so to speak, the praised one to fill in the content of the praise. Praise refers to the ‘who’ without stipulating the ‘what’. Thus it avoids ascribing predicates pertaining to the ‘what’. This movement from silence to praise is also discernible in the book of Job. But before Job falls silent, he registers protest, to the extent that he eventually accuses God. After this protest Job keeps silent. The meaning of his silence becomes evident at the end of the book: “Therefore I have uttered what ... I did not know” (Job 42:3). The silence of Job (and his friends) is followed by a song of praise to the creator (Job 38-39; 40-41). It is in fact this praise that ensures that Job’s silence is not a boundless plunge into the void. We are not suggesting that the supreme goal for people in distress is to praise God. That would be to introduce a new compulsion, which is just what we are trying to avoid. Suffering can plunge people into profound God-forsakenness, such as Jesus experienced on the cross (Mark 15:34) (Körtner, 1999). Moreover, the praise in the book of Job does not come from Job but from God. If there is such a thing as praise beyond silence, then it is a gift from God. Whether what lies beyond silence is a void or (In)finite space is not for humans to decide but is given to them. How and when is not in our power. Sometimes it

33 The term ‘de-fining’ indicates that one wants to say the last word (French fin, finir). That is exactly what praise does not intend. It leaves the last word to the one who is praised. Praise in effect opens up space in which God can reveal himself in his Otherness.

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is glimpsed, even if only momentarily and from afar. Sometimes all that is left is a heartrending cry expressing the total absence of (In)finite space. In the footsteps of Abraham (Heb. 11) it behoves followers of the way not to identify the salvation that they have only glimpsed from afar too definitely. More than that, the polyphony of answers about the direction in which to look for solutions to the problem of poverty should caution Christians against specifying where God is present or absent. Such caution sometimes simply means maintaining a silent presence with the indigent other or the other within us. Christian faith is a paschal faith; that is to say, the way of Jesus is a way of giving one’s life (Geffré, 1987, p.211). His way was not just a heroic consequence of a struggle for justice in solidarity with the poorest of the poor. Christ’s acceptance of death was ultimately an act of love. “Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). There is no greater ‘marginality’ in our existence than death. Understanding God’s call implies tolerating, in Jesus’ footsteps, the ‘alien’ and the ‘recalcitrant’. For the sake of clarity: it does not mean simply accepting the evil and wretchedness in the world. Following the way of Jesus Christ implies an unconditional input on behalf of one of the least of these (Matt. 25,45). But this input should not overlap our search for God as (In)finite time and space. In fact, the problem of poverty – so tough and intractable – should deter us from any identificatory talk about God in which we shape God after our own image and likeness. If anything should strip us of this presumption, it is the problem of poverty which cries to heaven.

CHAPTER THREE

RELIGION: THREE RIVAL CONCEPTIONS

What is religion? The question is important for the organization of religious education (see chapter 5). If one wants to instruct pupils in religion, one first has to know what it is. This calls for theological analysis of the concept of religion. In chapter 1 we described and analyzed religion in the present globalizing society, more particularly from the angle of sociology of religion. In several instances we found that it is not clear why a particular phenomenon is called religious, or traditionally religious (see 1.3). Hence it is not redundant to look for an answer to the question: what is religion? Religion is a controversial concept in theology and in religious studies (Schüssler-Fiorenza, 2000). Some theologians want to get rid of it altogether because it is not sufficiently theological and Christian. Others take the opposite position and want to expunge the concept of religion because it is too theological, apologetic and protective. There seems to be a fundamental problem about the relation between theology and religion, summed up by the following dilemma: If one interprets distinctiveness [of religion, C.H.] as an isolated autonomy, then one overlooks the concrete, theoretical, and practical role of religion in society. If one underscores the social-political origins and consequences of religion, then one may fail to grasp the distinctiveness of religious belief and practices (Schüssler-Fiorenza, 2000, p.20).

If religion is not an autonomous (or sui generis) category, theologians are always suspicious that it may be reduced to some function in human life or society. While such functions are undoubtedly important and valuable (e.g. giving stability and coherence to personal life, coping with contingencies in life, stabilizing society), the reduction is problematic because it transforms religion from a theological category into an anthropological category. To put it rather boldly: to the extent that religion has become meaningful in everyday life, it has lost its theological meaning of relating life to ultimate reality, (In)finite time and space, God. In that case anything can be religion, from television, cars and money to sport and lovemaking (Barz, 1992; Ter Borg, 1999). The solution that I favour is not to expunge religion from the theological

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vocabulary. I think that would still leave us with the problems underlying the use of the term, especially the relation of religion to the rest of personal life and society. But how does one conceive of transcendence in relation to human life? It is this problem of relating transcendence to immanence that needs to be solved in a globalizing society (see 2.3.2). In this chapter we shall critically evaluate various concepts of religion. We start by briefly reviewing the use of the term ‘religion’ in Western cultural history (3.1.1). In scientific literature the distinctive character of religion is defined in three ways: as a particular experience, a particular kind of language and a particular practice. I shall analyze each of these three definitions: religion as experience (3.2), religion as language (3.3) and religion as practice (3.4). We do not attempt to make a detailed analysis of all sorts of authors who have written about the concept of religion, but confine myself to examining these three distinct concepts. Such authors as are mentioned merely serve as illustrations in our typology. In the case of the first two types I cite one social scientist and one theologian as representative of each approach. The third approach, that of religion as practice, will be dealt with in greater detail. I do so because this approach crops up only occasionally, both in theology and in the social sciences. To my mind this is an injustice. The theory meets the criteria given below, which the other approaches fail to do (adequately). Following Smith’s analysis (2000) of the history of the concept of religion, we identify three fundamental problems in the use of this concept: – reifying a specific religion into a particular status quo, thus rendering it immune to change and innovation; – deducing the definition of religion from one specific religion (e.g. Christianity), thus transforming it into a colonialist or (Western) imperialist category; and – transforming religion into a purely anthropological category. For each of these problems we provide a criterion which the respective conceptions of religion have to satisfy in order to stand up to the various criticisms of the concept (see 3.1.2). The criteria are based on the three theological notions developed in chapter 2. • The first problem is examined from the perspective of tradition as open space. On the basis of this open concept of tradition, the first criterion is that change and innovation must be intelligible in terms of a given concept of religion, and in terms of both the religious tradition and its sociocultural context.

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• The second problem we relate to a consistent option for marginality and the marginalized other. Following from this theological premise, our second criterion is that a concept of religion must allow for religious diversity and avoid religious imperialism. • The third criterion relates to the ability of a concept of religion to be a distinctive category within personal and societal life, yet remain integral to it. The concept must be able to avoid the Scylla of the distinctiveness in which it is insulated in society and people’s personal lives on the one hand, and the Charybdis of integration which makes it indistinguishable from other cultural phenomena (‘everything is religion’) on the other. This criterion is based on a theological notion concerning the relation between transcendence and immanence: neither totally divorced not identical. Without a normative point of view it is impossible to define criteria of the concept of religion. A further problem in this regard is the different approaches of theology and religious studies. Theology has its own normative stance. It not only states what religion is (objectively) but also what it ought to be (normatively). In each subsection we first give certain attributes of the relevant concept of religion and then evaluate it according to our three criteria. For the sake of clarity: what we analyze and evaluate in each case is a particular theoretical perspective on religion. When we speak of religion as experience this is indicative of a (empiricist) theory underlying that approach to religion. When we speak of religion as language it relates to a linguistic approach to religion. And when we speak of religion as practice we are using an institutional theory of religion. In the ensuing sections we try to determine which theory best satisfies our three criteria.

3.1 Religion: a contested concept In Western cultural history the concept of religion has been used in various ways. We shall distinguish between three of these: religion as referring to religious practices, to religious language, and to religious experience. The various usages are clearly rooted in certain historical developments. In a given historical period, for instance, religion referred to universally religious experiences. In that era people were steeped in the realization that there are many religions in the world, each showing its adherents a way to ‘God’ or ‘the divine’. These his-

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torically and culturally diverse ways to God are traced back to a common experiential basis. Knowing what historical processes influenced the origin of a particular concept of religion helps one to grasp its meaning. Hence we look at history merely for the sake of an analytical distinction between the three concepts of religion. Our concern is not with the history of the concept of religion but with analyzing three versions of that concept. The historical and contextual background to these concepts will enable us to understand them better. Next we shall examine three cardinal problems associated with the concept of religion (see 3.1.2). These problems are rooted in history, and theology is still grappling with them to this day. For each problem we shall define a criterion which the respective concepts of religion must satisfy. 3.1.1 Short history of the concept religion We believe that there are three ways in which the concept of religion has been used in Western cultural history: 1. Religion refers to certain practices (i.e. cultic practices to worship God or the divine). Religion is something that people do. 2. Religion refers to certain ideas about God. These ideas are expressed in a particular language (‘God-talk’), without which one cannot know who or what ‘God’ is. 3. Religion refers to a particular type of human experience known as religious experience. The etymology of the word ‘religion’ is uncertain. Of the different roots that are mentioned, the root *leig, meaning ‘to bind’, is perhaps the most likely possibility. “In both Roman and early Christian Latin usage, the noun forms religio/religiones and, most especially, the adjectival religiosus and the adverbial religiose were cultic terms referring primarily to the careful performance of ritual obligations” (Smith, 2000, p.269). In the 5th century a distinctive Christian usage of the term ‘religion’ developed. Monasticism extended the reference to cultic practices to encompass the individual’s whole life. ‘Religion’ referred to a life bound by religious vows; ‘religious’ referred to a monk; and ‘to enter religion’ meant to join a monastery (Smith, 2000, p.270). The concept of religion was not used as a bridge between the Christian community and other religious communities. At the same time there was a heated debate within early Christianity about the doctrines

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of religious communities that were part of the cultural situation in which the Christian community developed. Theological authors like Justin Martyr, Clement of Alexandria and Augustine wrote against doctrines with which they had first-hand acquaintance. “Taking its lead from the Scriptures, this early literature framed its acknowledgement of the partial truth and its rejection of errors of other traditions and patterns of life in terms of specific judgments about the beliefs and practices of particular cults and philosophical schools” (DiNoia, 1992, p.22). The relation between Christianity and other religious communities was modelled on the relation between Christianity and Judaism. The idea was that Christianity superseded and fulfilled the theistic, ethical and soteriological doctrines found in all the religions of classical antiquity: Ascriptions of a providential role to other religions, and expressions of confidence about their adherents’ eternal salvation (...) reflected the conviction on the part of early Christian writers that most of the persons and the religions in their experience seemed to seek the salvation that Christ alone in fact could assure them (DiNoia, 1992, p.22).

The situation changed with the gradual eclipse of classical polytheism, the establishment of Christianity as the religion of the Byzantine empire and Christian appropriation of many of the religious and philosophical ideas of the Hellenistic world. When Christian theologians wrote about other religions, their concern was to clarify central Christian doctrines rather than to show respect for the doctrines of other religions. In cultural settings where there were no other religious communities to relate to, Christian writers reflected on their own Christian theological ideas about God, humans and salvation. The only exception was the Judaic community, which retained a significant religious identity in the midst of an enveloping Christianity. Islam, which emerged in the 7th century, “appears to have been regarded as something of a Christian heresy rather than as a distinctive religious community” (DiNoia, 1992, p.23). The situation changed in the 16th and 17th centuries with European expansion to the east and the west. The concept of religion was now used to refer to people’s ritual practices. In this sense the Spanish conquistador Pedro Cieza de León described the north Andean indigenous peoples “as observing no religion at all, as we understand it (...), nor is there any house of worship to be found” (Smith, 2000, p.269). The rituals of other people were compared with Christian ritu-

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als, and unfamiliar or different rituals were characterized as ‘idolatrous’. Rituals were compared from a Christian point of view (i.e. ‘as we understand it’). This did not apply to the myths and beliefs of other people. These were primarily reported in the words used by these people, and raised no particular issues for thought. Critical reflection on the otherness of peoples in the New World was restricted to ritual behaviour. In the second half of the 18th century this mainly ritual understanding of religion changed. Religion was defined as based on reverence for God and expectations of future rewards and punishments. The distinctive feature of religion was belief, not ritual. This shift was influenced by Reformation figures like Zwingli and Calvin, who understood religion primarily as ‘piety’. The shift to belief raised questions of credibility and truth (Smith, 2000). These questions were exacerbated by schismatic tendencies among the various Protestant churches with their rival claims to authority, as well as by growing awareness of the existence of a multitude of articulate, non-Christian traditions. Thus growing pluralism, both Christian and non-Christian, kindled fresh interest in a single, generic religion. The problem was discussed under the topic of ‘natural religion’, which became a common term only in the latter half of the 17th century. Natural religion referred to belief in the existence of a God who is common to all people. The different religions (primarily seen as different belief systems) were interpreted as different species of a common genus. The genus was natural religion; the species were conceptualized as ‘positive religion’ (Lash, 1996, p.16). While natural religion was accessible to all rational beings, positive religion was the arbitrary invention of different religious groups or communities. The distinction between natural and positive religion heralded a distinction between matters of origin and matters of truth. Religion defined as belief in an invisible, intelligent power is not universal, nor is their common ground between different religious traditions. What is common to all people is certain human experiences. These primary experiences are the origin of secondary religious interpretation. For example, the unknown causes of life are personified in supernatural beings through imagination. This human origin provides no guarantee of the truth of the secondary religious interpretation (Smith, 2000, p.274). Natural religion became equated with original religion in the latter half of the 17th and the 18th century. Religious diversity was seen as

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the result of a process of degeneration. “The general deist view was that pluralism was unnatural, and combined with intolerance, gave rise to untold human misery. The cure was to be a return to the unsullied religion of the illud tempus which would result in a universal worship of the one God” (Lash, 1996, p.14). One result of this process was that the concept of religion became connected with the quest for social harmony. As the concept of natural religion faded from the public sphere in the 19th and 20th centuries, religion came to be identified with that which holds society together. Durkheim, for example, defines religion as “the system of symbols by means of which a society becomes conscious of itself. (...) religion as the totality of [social] practices concerned with sacred things” (Lash, 1996, p.190). In any society there could be many sacred things: the economic market, professional self-esteem, bureaucratic power, money, sport (see also Ter Borg, 1999). This development marked the culmination of a process of transforming ‘religion’ from a theological category into an anthropological category (Smith, 2000, p.272). It is with this concept of ‘religion’ in mind that theologians (e.g. Karl Barth) rejected the interpretation of the Christian faith from a religious a priori. When viewed as a religion, Christianity is reduced to a human activity (Cobb, 1980, p.10). Theology is about God, not about the study of religion. By contrast there is a strong tradition in Catholic theology which gives a more positive interpretation of religion. Religion is defined by the use of symbols and rituals, as was characteristic of the concept of religion in early Christianity until the 16th century. Human beings are sacramental beings that make symbols and need symbols to give meaning to life (Knitter, 1980, p.22). Ritual is integral to all aspects of human existence. Without symbols and rituals, religion would be an inanimate thing. The Christian God is a God of incarnation, which is realized through religion. Through incarnation religion or the church enters the process of salvation. “If God is a sacramental God, then religion is inevitable” (Knitter, 1980, p.20). What can we learn from this historical overview of the concept ‘religion’? There are at least three different ways in which religion has been defined in Western (i.e. Christian) history: 1. As ritual practices performed in a community. A religious community is characterized by the use of certain symbols, rituals and religious objects. These practices reflect human communication with God or supreme powers. “No communication event is possible

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without an institutional context governing it” (Platvoet, 1999, p.262). A religious person is someone who observes the practices of a religious tradition. 2. As belief based on knowledge of God. This knowledge is expressed in linguistic form (i.e. words, texts, stories). Religious people are characterized by the use of this language and a concomitant reverence for God. 3. As a certain type of experience. Human beings have certain primary or basic experiences that can be called religious. These experiences are interpreted differently in different cultures and by different religious traditions. All religions (plural) have their origin in this one type of human experience. Theologians and social scientists often combine these different concepts of religion. Our classification of religion as practices, belief and experience is ideal-typical in nature. It is an analytical differentiation, which helps to structure the debate about the concept of religion. Apart from the question of how one conceptualizes religion, the historical overview reveals some major problems in the use of the term. These problems have to be considered, whatever conception of religion one uses. We will deal with them in the next section. But before we do that we want to reject the solution of expunging the concept ‘religion’ from the theological vocabulary. Changing a concept does not solve the problems underlying it. Nicholas Lash (1996, p.27), for example, wants to replace the concept ‘religion’ with “schools, whose pedagogy has the twofold purpose of weaning us from our idolatry and purifying our desire”. This is meant to solve two problems, which Lash relates to the concept of religion: (1) the reduction of God to an object of knowledge; (2) the disappearance of (natural) religion from the public sphere, which we have called ‘transformation into an anthropological category’. According to Lash (1996, p.21), it is an illusion that people are not religious by nature: All human beings have their hearts set somewhere, hold something sacred, worship at some shrine. We are spontaneously idolatrous – where, by “idolatry”, I mean the worship of some creature, the setting of the heart on some particular thing (usually oneself).

What the great religious traditions do is to provide a context in which human beings may gain some freedom from the destructive worship of creaturely beings. Against this background, Lash describes the

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Christian creed as protocol against idolatry. The creed performs a twofold service: indicating where God is truly to be found, and denying that what we find can simply be identified with God (Lash, 1996, p.90). The concept ‘schools of pedagogy’ runs into the same problems as those raised by the concept of religion in history. One is the question whether there is a generic concept of religion. The idea that ‘all humans hold something sacred’ manages to make every human being part of the school. But is this sacredness also what religious people hold sacred? Lash solves the problem by incorporating the idea of ‘where God is truly to be found’ into his generic concept of religion. But the school of the true God does not include every human being. Is this ‘school of the true God’ a species of the genus ‘schools of the sacred’? What is the common ground between them? Is the concept of the sacred purely an anthropological category, or are theological criteria built into the idea of the sacred? In short, the same problems raised by the genus-species distinction within the concept of religion are raised by the concept ‘schools of pedagogy’. Instead of simply exchanging one concept for another, it is better to see what problems the concept of religion poses and how one can solve them. 3.1.2 Three criteria for a critical assessment of the concept of religion Which problems need to be solved if we want to use the concept ‘religion’? We identify three main problems in this regard, irrespective of how the distinctiveness of religion is conceptualized (see above). The first concerns the way one deals with internal diversity and radical change within religions or religious communities. In all historical periods the content of religion tends to become reified and objectified (Smith, 2000). This is perhaps most evident in the different classifications of religions that were produced from the 16th century onwards. Authors describe Buddhism, Confucianism, Christianity and so forth in such a way that the religion is reified and any radical change becomes impossible. Any conception of religion must allow for the internal diversity and innovation of religion. According to Claire Drisbey (1994), the following assumptions should be taken into account in any explanation of intra-religious innovation. The first assumption is “that there is no source of criteria for giving intelligibility or credibility to our talk or experiences that are independent of culture” (Drisbey, 1994, p.220). The way we conceive of reality is learnt

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and substantially determined by cultural learning.1 Every religion and religious community needs tradition in order to survive. Whatever the nature of the change or innovation, it must relate to this tradition to be understandable. The second assumption refers to the relation of innovations to the historical cultural situation. Any account of innovation needs to accommodate the fact that “many religions are committed to the idea of absolute truth and to explanations of the meaning and destiny of human life in terms of concepts that transcend, in some way, the natural world” (Drisbey, 1994, p.220). But this does not imply that innovators do not have to give intelligible reasons for the introduction of new religious practices and ideas. In order to be credible innovators have to relate intelligibly to changing historical situations. So the first criterion concerns the possibility of (radical) change in religion and, as a result of this, internal diversity, which relates intelligibly to the religious tradition and to the cultural setting in which the change takes place. Can one accept this cultural-philosophical concept of change and innovation in religions from a theological perspective? This would depend on what concept of tradition one applies. In section 2.2 we argued for an open conception of tradition. This model recognizes human existence between past and future, and between inner space (self-determination) and external space (external influence). Tradition is an open space in which present-day people take stock of traditionas-the-past, thus giving rise to tradition-as-the-future. Without such creative stocktaking of the past the tradition has no present and hence no future. There can be no heir who is not also a legator, and no legators who are not also heirs. This creative appropriation of tradition occurs in a dynamic tension between self-determination (autonomy) and outside influence (heteronomy). Tradition can only crystallize in our existential space if people allow themselves to be determined by external forces while retaining the freedom of self-determination. Tradition that is purely external coercion petrifies and becomes a museum of yellowed books and ancient monuments. On the other hand it ceases to exist if the contents of people’s existential space depend purely on self-determination, if all external space is considered a diminution of inner space. Tradition is a space, both open and bounded, which permits devel1 This idea is strongly emphasized by social constructionism, the theoretical framework in which we will develop our conception of a religious self (chapter 4).

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opment through a dynamic tension between self-determination and determination by others. The spatiotemporal system of coordinates is not conceivable in terms of self-contained individuals but presupposes a relational view. Time and space are dimensions of human life rooted in community. Nobody can have a present without relating to others who give her or him a past and a future. And without a community the polarity between inner space and external space is inconceivable. Reciprocity is the principle governing a holistic conception of individual and community without dissolving the distinction between the two. A community that fails to recognize the existence of autonomous individuals degenerates into the pseudo-space of the mass. The individual who fails to recognize life in and through relations with others perishes in the solitude of a ‘virtual’ existence. As open, reciprocal space tradition can allow for continuity and discontinuity, for stability and innovation. In an open concept of tradition radical innovation can happen when one or more individuals break away from the community. On the principle of reciprocity, individuals in their solitude cherish an inner longing for fellowship. Viewed thus, every innovation is also a way to new or renewed fellowship. A theological concept of tradition as open, bounded space moreover prevents us from locating God’s revelation exclusively in the past or the future, as well as wholly within or outside the individual. If revelation is restricted to the origin of the religion (e.g. Christianity), acceptance of change and innovation is problematic. Any radical change would invalidate the original revelation. However, if revelation is seen as the transcending creativity of religion, the concept of change can be evaluated more positively. “The creativity and surplus of religion is located not simply in its originating and individuating moment” but “can be elaborated in the ongoing working out of the originating individual moment within the serendipitously creative development of religion” (Schüssler-Fiorenza, 2000, p.22). Open, bounded tradition allows for religious creativity. Internal plurality within the Christian tradition is not something that destroys its unity but a manifestation of its identity. There is a difference between Tradition (with a capital T) and traditions (plural). The former refers to the “ongoing process of Self-communication of God in Christ through the Holy Ghost in the preaching of the Church”, whereas traditions refer to the “ecclesiastic design and mediations of the content of revelation” (Beinert, 1987, p.515). Tradition as God’s

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self-revelation is in itself ineffable: it needs to be expressed in the words, images and experiences of a particular cultural context. God’s ineffable self-manifestation cannot be equated with any one of the many traditions, but at the same time it is a necessary condition for speaking about God in these traditions (Boeve, 1996, p.73). Recognition of the internal plurality in Christianity (i.e. traditions) is a consequence of recognizing the non-possessive inexpressibility of God’s selfmanifestation (i.e. Tradition). Hence the first criterion is that the concept of religion must offer scope for religious change and innovation. Such change must be understood in terms of both the religious tradition and the sociocultural context. The second problem concerns the question of religious diversity or religions in the plural. The history of the concept of religion shows that religion is often defined in terms of one’s own religion. The definition of religion reflects the auto-perspective of the person interpreting the rituals and beliefs of other people. This is illustrated by the judgment of the Spanish conquistador Pedro Cieza de León (see above), who wrote that he saw no expression of religion ‘as we understand it’. In consequence the instances of other people’s religions are considered ‘idolatrous’. They are not true knowledge of God or true rituals. Religion is a colonialist category imposed from the outside on some aspect of another culture (Smith, 2000, p.269). We must realize that the concept of religion was shaped in the era of Western imperialism, when the tendency was to strive for uniformity of religious diversity, using its own religion as a criterion. This tendency was reinforced by the Enlightenment’s pursuit of universal categories. Religious diversity was seen as degeneration. This led 17th and 18th century authors to differentiate between religion as genus and as species. The ‘genus’ that they looked for was religion as all reasonable people understood it. But the generic, second-order category ‘religion’ that they constructed reflected their own conception of religion (i.e. ‘as we understand it’). This particular construction of religion was then applied to others. How should a theory of religion deal with the colonialist or imperialist use of the concept of religion? Does everybody not ‘naturally’ proceed from their own religion? Are we not entitled to conceive of religion ‘as we understand it’? Indeed we are, but others may not be denied the same right to religious self-definition in terms of religion ‘as they understand it’. The option for marginality as the privileged place

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of God’s ‘self-communication’ offers a theological basis for this notion.2 We have defined marginality as the periphery of society where (viewed from the centre) we are confronted with the alien (also within us) or aliens (marginalized others). Marginality, in fact, is that which we cannot understand because it is alien to us. It is a privileged place to glimpse (In)finitude precisely because it is not filled with our own self-understanding. De Boer (see 2.4.3) expresses this with his metaphor of the wilderness as the place from which we can see what human life is really about. Confrontation with marginality causes shock. It silences us. The experience of not-knowing evoked by marginality is a test of whether we have actually made the exodus from the centre to the periphery (the alien). In section 2.4 we clarified the meaning of marginality specifically with reference to the poor as the indigent, marginalized other. The centre-periphery model can also be applied to the relation between religions.3 Confrontation with other religions makes Christians realize that their own religion is not the only one. From the centre of their own religion other religions constitute the periphery, in the sense that they do not form part of the Christian religious self-understanding. Note that this relation should be understood in a cultural rather than a normative sense. It is not a matter of superior or inferior, but of an insider and an outsider perspective. By referring to marginality as the privileged place of God’s self-communication as (In)finite time and space we cut short any attempt to make the centre an absolute. My own religion, representing my auto-perspective, is not the only perspective on (In)finite time and space. More than that, confrontation with other religions may make me aware of (In)finite time and space in a new, strange way. If we don’t keep this possibility open (which is in fact what marginality as a theological notion requires us to do), we imprison God in that which we have made the religious centre of our lives. We deny God the possibility of revealing himself as (In)finitude in places which we have ruled out. (In)finite time and 2 Vatican II makes it possible to see other religions as ‘ways of salvation’ (Nostra Aetate, 3). The positive evaluation of other religions is based on a soteriological argument. Our notion of marginality as the privileged place of God’s self-revelation is an argument based on the theology of revelation. 3 This relationship has various dimensions, including an economic, a cultural and a political dimension. Often the dimensions are interrelated. Moreover, the proponents of the culturally dominant religion often constitute the socio-economically privileged group at the centre of political power. Here, however, I confine myself to the cultural dimension (also see chapter 6).

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space can also be found outside the religious times and places authorized by us. Does this mean that we have to abandon the centreperiphery model altogether? Can we relinquish the insider perspective completely and let ourselves be found in ‘strangeness’ or in the stranger by God as (In)finitude? We leave these questions for the moment, but will consider them in greater depth in chapter 6. For our argument it suffices that the option for marginality provides a theological basis for recognizing other religions as ways of salvation.4 It prevents us from treating any particular religion as absolute. A theory of religion must allow for the self-descriptions of all religions and religious communities. Any religious imperialism which turns one (dominant) religion into a centre of gravity from which to judge other religions should be avoided (Knitter, 1995, p.95). Hence the second criterion is that a concept of religion should recognize religious diversity and avoid religious imperialism. The third problem relates to the historical shift of the concept of religion from a theological category to a purely anthropological category. Religion is closely associated with all kinds of social, linguistic, political and personal phenomena that play a role in our lives. It is “one’s way of valuing most comprehensively and intensively” (Ferré, quoted in Adriaanse, 1999, p.242). Or: “religion is the function to overcome human finiteness by postulating something or someone that is assumed to be beyond this finiteness” (Ter Borg, 1999, p.403). Thus to some people money or sport may be a religion which transcends their finiteness. This reduction of religion to a category of human experience has given the concept a bad name in some theological circles. It is seen as a humanistic, insufficiently theological and insufficiently Christian category. The fear is that the experiential, common features of religion will become the norm for Christianity. Religion would then become the norm and principle to explain the meaning and content of revelation. In this way a human category becomes a straitjacket for the Christian Tradition when it wants to say anything about God. Transcendence is moulded on a category of immanence (Schüssler-Fiorenza, 2000, 4 Religious pluralism is acknowledged and is not considered deplorable. The contributions and value of different religions can be respected, and religion and revelation may be seen as interrelated, not incompatible (Schüssler-Fiorenza, 2000, p.22).

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pp.10-12). From this point of view, Christianity cannot be regarded as ‘a religion’. It is sui generis and cannot be reduced to religion; what is called religion cannot be equated with Christianity. To vouchsafe God’s transcendence these theologians underscore the irreducibility of transcendence to human reality. God is Totally Other, not to be slotted into what is defined as religion in terms of human categories. The concept of religion is also criticized from the opposite point of view, namely for being too theological, apologetic and protective. The gist of this objection is as follows (see Schüssler-Fiorenza, 2000, pp.13-15). Religion is a sui generis category that refers to experiences that are universally present in human life. Generations of scholars from Rudolf Otto to Mircea Eliade have elaborated on the distinctiveness and uniqueness of the experience of the mystery of holiness, or the reference to what is sacred to human beings. The problem with this approach is that the more successfully it defines religion as a sui generis category, the more it is criticized for being too theological. Thus the notion of the holy has a theological connotation that is not in itself universal. According to Schüssler-Fiorenza, the category of religion presents scholars with a dilemma. Our concept of religion should be able to skirt the Scylla of distinctiveness which isolates religion from society and the personal life of human beings, and the Charybdis of defining religion as a personal and societal phenomenon without any distinctiveness. On the one hand we should avoid making religion (more especially Christianity) an isolated category; on the other hand we should avoid reducing religion to other phenomena in personal or societal life. Distinctiveness does not exclude the possibility of locating the origin and influence of religion in personal and societal life. The distinctiveness of religion has to do with what is beyond reality, namely (In)finite time and space. Transcendent reality manifests itself in our reality (immanence). At the same time the worldly presence of religion (immanence) should not exclude the fact that religion cannot be reduced to its worldliness. If we reduce religion to a purely immanent category, it loses its transcendent aspect. Our concept of religion should meet this criterion, which is corroborated by the concept of transcendence-in-immanence that we developed in section 2.3.2. The crux of this model is that it seeks to conceptualize the relation between God and humans without introducing a divide between them. The moment one introduces a dichotomy (either/or) between transcendence and immanence, one is trapped in it. The model of (In)finite time and space seeks to conceptualize transcendence in conjunction

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with immanence without reducing the one to the other. Finitude is not the same as Infinitude but is open to it. And Infinitude addresses the innermost being of finitude. Authentic time and space should be conceived of as a dyad of finitude and Infinitude. Hence the third criterion relates to the capacity of a concept of religion to be both distinctive and integral to the totality of personal and societal life. It must be able to skirt the Scylla of distinctiveness that isolates religion from society and people’s personal lives on the one hand, and the Charybdis of integration which leaves religion indistinguishable from other cultural phenomena (‘Everything is religion’).5

3.2 Religion as experience The first conception of religion to be discussed is one that gives priority to experience. I follow Drisbey (1994), who characterizes this as an empiricist view of religion. We start by describing two instances of an empiricist view of religion. The first is William James, whom Drisbey cites as an example of this view. James is a psychologist and philosopher of religion. To illustrate that this position is also common among theologians, I refer to the Dutch theologian Kuitert, who recently wrote a book on the concept of religion entitled On religion: to its devotees among its practitioners (Kuitert, 2000). I shall then evaluate the empiricist view on the basis of the three criteria formulated in section 3.1.2. 3.2.1 Empiricist theories James (1929, p.31-32) defines religion as “the feelings, acts, and experiences of individual men in their solitude, so far as they apprehend themselves to stand in relation to whatever they may consider the divine” (James, 1929, p.31-32). The relation between individuals and “whatever they may consider divine” can be of a spiritual, physical or cultic nature. This implies that religion can be an offshoot of theological systems and church organizations. But these systems and institutions are not to be confused with religious experience, which represents their origin. According to Proudfoot (2000, p.56), James is not saying that he is not interested in theology or church institutions. His 5 If everything is religion, it becomes a redundant category. A category is only meaningful is one can cite examples of phenomena in real life that are not religion.

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first aim is to defend experience against belief and doctrine, these being the real backbone of religious life. “I mean prayer, guidance, and all that sort of things immediately and privately felt, as against high and noble views of our destiny and the world’s meaning” (James, quoted in Proudfoot, 2000, p.56). James distinguishes between two kinds of religious believers. First there are ordinary believers who follow the conventional observances of their religion. This religion has “been made for him by others, communicated to him by tradition, determined to fixed forms by imitation, and retained by habit” (James, 1929). But in addition to these ordinary believers there are religious people who are the founders of every church, not just the superhuman founders of religions (e.g. Christ, Buddha, Mohammed) but also the originators of Christian sects and religious movements. These are people who have the original experiences which set the pattern for the whole mass of suggested feeling and imitative conduct. “So personal religion should still seem the primordial thing” (James, 1929, p.31). Religion is a response to inner experience. Without this prior religious feeling, there would never be a need to construct theological concepts. In his definition of religion James refers to “whatever people consider the divine”. James is concerned about the possibility that ‘the divine’ may become a vague term, so he specifies that in every religion “gods are conceived to be the first things in the way of being and power. (...) What relates to them is the first and last word in the way of truth” (James, 1929, p.35). Religion could then be interpreted as “his attitude (...) toward what he felt to be the primal truth”, or “man’s total reaction to life” (James, 1929, p.35). Total reactions are different from causal reactions or usual and professional reactions: “To get at them you must go behind the foreground of existence and reach down to that curious sense of the whole residual cosmos as an everlasting presence, intimate or alien, terrible or amusing, lovable or odious, which in some degree everyone possesses” (James, 1929, p.35). The reverse is not true: not every total reaction is religious. A necessary feature of the religious attitude is that it is something solemn, serious and tender. A hostile or ironic reaction is not compatible with religion. The reason is that religion contains the universal message that “[a]ll is not vanity in this Universe, whatever the appearances may suggest” (James, 1929, p.38). Religion is inextricably connected with the question of purpose or a moral order in the universe. What then do we now mean by the religious hypothesis? Science

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says things are; morality says some things are better than other things; and religion says essentially two things. First, she says that the best things are the more eternal things, the overlapping things, the things in the universe that throw the last stone, so to speak, and say the final word. “Perfection is eternal,” – this phrase of Charles Secrétan seems a good way of putting this first affirmation of religion, an affirmation, which obviously cannot yet be verified scientifically at all. The second affirmation of religion is that we are better off even now we believe her first affirmation to be true (James, 1956, pp.25-26). The two things should be held together: belief in an unseen moral order and affirmation of that order, which makes us better off. For James, the fruits of religion are the most convincing argument for the truth of religious experience. “James may be blind to the value of rituals and institutions that are beyond his ken, but his aim is to examine ways of being religious by attending to their consequences, their fruits for life” (Proudfoot, 2000, p.57). By looking at the consequences of experiences James wants to avoid reducing experiences to their causes. Religion is a state of mind in which the fear of existence is washed away. As a psychologist, he is well aware that there are all kinds of pathological ways of dealing with religion. But true religion gives people the power to live in a happy state of mind. If one wants to study religion, one should not study it in an imperfect or derivative form but should try to discover what differentiates it from all other experiences (see James, 1929, p.48, note 1). Religious feeling gives the human subject “a new sphere of power. When the outward battle is lost, and the outer world disowns him, it redeems and vivifies an interior world which otherwise would be an empty waste” (James, 1929, p.48). This religious feeling comes to a person as – “[a] gift of our organism, the physiologists will tell us, a gift of God’s grace, the theologians will say” (James, 1929, p.47). We cannot possess it, in the same sense that we cannot fall in love with a person at a mere word or command. The priority of experience in religion needs to be interpreted in the context of James’ empiricist conception of the world: “James claimed that reality was directly revealed to us in experience and could be transformed into beliefs, knowledge and action without the intervention of conceptual thought” (Drisbey, 1994, p.5). Empiricism is a belief in the priority of perception over conception. According to Drisbey (1994, pp.5-6), this empiricist theory of experience enabled James to divide religious phenomena into two categories:

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  On the one hand he puts what is personal and private in religion – inner experiences, feelings, knowledge and private acts. Language is absent from this category; experiences are ineffable and knowledge is inexpressible. In the other category he put everything that is conceptual, corporate and institutional – ceremonies and theology, creeds, metaphysics and ecclesiastical organization. Here language dominates (Drisbey, 1994, pp. 5-6).

In theology, too, this priority of experience in religion is a commonly held position. I illustrate it with reference to the Dutch theologian Kuitert, who has recently published a volume on religion (Kuitert, 2000). Kuitert defines religion as a sense of God (Kuitert, 2000, p.21). Religion should not be confused with any idea or notion of God expressed in some code. Religion is an experience before any conceptualization of God in images of God, such as the Christian image of God as the Holy Trinity. At his starting point Kuitert takes Schleiermacher’s notion that living religion is a matter of feeling: “On the wings of strong feelings, the religious person rises to a height that can only be reached in religion” (Kuitert, 2000, p.29). People seek religion because they want to be touched in their deepest feelings. If religion fails to do that, it is not religion. A major error is to mistake doctrines of God for religious experiences. We need images, but they are not the same as reality (Kuitert, 2000, p.43). Any image of God is an expression, an imagining, an attempt to reach reality. Kuitert’s main objection is against the idea that belief means believing in certain conceptions of reality. He wants to go back to living religion, that is, being touched in one’s feelings (Kuitert, 2000, p.190). At the same time Kuitert realizes that we need words to express ourselves, so he does not reject the use of images altogether. The important thing is to see religious traditions as ‘drafts’ of faith, or orientations that help us on our way (Kuitert, 2000, p.145). They help us to find what is at the heart of every religion. Conceptions or images of God are important, but must not be confused with the key issue of religions, namely a sense of God. Why are people religious, even incurably religious? According to Kuitert (2000, p.87) people have a need to devote themselves unconditionally to something. This human need cannot be the explanation of the truth of religion. The sense of God cannot be reduced to a human need. There must also be something ‘out there’ in reality which evokes our experience. Or, put differently, this sense of God cannot be anything in the world. We need a criterion to judge what is

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a sense of God and what is not. This criterion is not the word ‘God’, which, according to Kuitert, is already a name that people give to their experiences. Words like ‘God’, ‘Totality’ and ‘eternity’ presuppose the experience in which religion is grounded. He calls this the “religious primeval experience”, which is universal in people and is also the root of all religions (Kuitert, 2000, p.115). The primeval experience comes first, both logically and in time. It is the source of religions (plural), and in this sense of religious conceptions as well. “Religion consists of a sense, which forces itself through experience to persons and which can be characterized best in the expression of a sense of complete dependence” (Kuitert, 2000, p.117). There are all kinds of terms for the religious primeval experience: a limit experience, the shaking of the foundation (Tillich), a sense of human finitude, experiences of contingency (i.e. all kind of things that can happen in life, although none of them will necessarily happen). Kuitert defines a sense as “something which we do not immediately put into words, but which we nevertheless register” (Kuitert, 2000, p.118). There is no inner experience without something that forces itself on human beings. The feeling of absolute dependence is only one side of the coin. The other side is a power that is greater than human beings. This power forces itself on people. “It is not realized by words. (...) If it has happened, one does not speak of a consciousness. Values and gestures are explicit, they hardly need interpretation” (Kuitert, 2000, p.118). Religions are interpretations of this religious primeval experience. The interpretations can go in different directions, depending on whether the experience leads to trusting submission or challenge. Absolute dependence leads to a sense of being secure in this power that is greater than anything people can do. The religious primeval experience can bring comfort, acceptance, strength, or reconcile people with their fate. At the same time there is no religion that does not challenge people to act and take the risk of intervening in reality (Kuitert, 2000, p.128). To act is to take a risk: things may turn out differently, worse than we anticipated. Religions help people to take this risk (e.g. rituals before major decisions in life known as rites de passage). The question of a criterion of the ‘sense of God’ is not adequately solved. Kuitert opposes an empty notion of transcendence (Kuitert, 2000, p.166). Many things in life can shake our foundations. Can we take everything to be God that exceeds our human powers? Kuitert refers to the creator as the Power-that-works-in-life. This interpreta-

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tion of the Power as the creator’s hold on humanity and the world is the positive turn of reality. “The faith of creation is a faith in the future, a trust in reality, although it can make us or break us” (Kuitert, 2000, p.178). If the fundamental question in life is ‘to be or not to be’, then faith in the Power as creator implies the answer ‘to be’. The destination to which the creator is leading the world is most strongly felt in situations where people experience an appeal from other people. An appeal from others, especially the powerless and the suffering, is an appeal from the creator (Kuitert, 2000, p.189). This idea of Kuitert comes close to William James’ belief in a moral order in the universe. 3.2.2 Critical assessment I have formulated three criteria to judge the concept of religion (see 3.1.2). Does the empiricist view of religion, as exemplified by scholars like James and Kuitert, satisfy these criteria? The first criterion refers to the concept of change and innovation that is implicit in the empiricist view. Is radical change possible in a religion or religious community? Does the change relate intelligibly to both tradition and the changing cultural-historical situation? According to Drisbey, radical change in a religion occurs when individuals have the original religious experience in a fresh and intense way. They use this profound experience to criticize the concepts and institutions of their religion (Drisbey, 1994, p.58). They can do so because the religious feeling is prior to concepts (James), or (in Kuitert’s terms) because the primeval religious experience comes first both logically and in time. The empiricist view is characterized by two assumptions. Firstly, it distinguishes clearly between words, concepts and institutions on the one hand, and religious feeling or experience on the other. Secondly, experience is assigned logical and chronological priority. On the basis of these two assumptions the empiricists regard experience as a critical force in religion and religious communities. The question is whether these assumptions are sound from the perspective of the relation between experience and words/institutions. According to both James and Kuitert religious experience is not just inner experience. James speaks about a perception of a spiritual world, and Kuitert refers to an experience of a reality ‘out there’. Both scholars want to avoid the idea that religious experience is just something in the mind (i.e. imagined by the subject) by insisting that it

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refers to some reality ‘out there’ (i.e. outside the perceiving subject). The perception of a spiritual world, however, is a private perception. This combination of something purely private and something real ‘out there’ is highly problematic. “The problem with purely private experiences is, as Wittgenstein has pointed out, that it is impossible to see how words referring to them can be formulated and used” (Drisbey, 1994, p.60). Words have to be publicly shared by people in order to be able to decide which usages are correct and which are incorrect. This is impossible if an experience is purely private, hence logically and chronologically prior to words. A second point of criticism is that experiences cannot be recognized as religious without reference to prior concepts.6 The same perception (e.g. thunder and lightning) can be perceived as a message from God or as a natural phenomenon. A person who describes an experience as religious is ‘perceiving something as religious’. Without some training in religious concepts it is not possible to recognize experiences as religious. Experiences cannot be seen as the source of concepts and beliefs, as the empiricists think. The third criticism of this private concept of experience is that experience cannot be regarded as evidence of the existence of a supernatural world. “In order to establish, that experiences of a certain kind count as evidence for the existence of something else, one must have an agreed rule of inference” (Drisbey, 1994, p.63). But such publicly agreed rules are precluded by the private nature of religious experience. To sum up our evaluation on the basis of the first criterion, we conclude that the assumptions of the empiricist view do not offer a tenable conception of change and innovation in religions. How religions or religious communities change internally is not intelligible from an empiricist point of view. The second criterion relates to the avoidance of religious imperialism (see 3.1.2). Does the empiricist’s view do justice to religious diversity? The priority it assigns to experience certainly indicates an intention to acknowledge religious experience in all religions. Certainly scholars like James and Kuitert do not claim exclusiveness for any one religion (e.g. Christianity) in their definitions of religion or what one would call religious. There can be authentic religious experiences in 6 For a learning theory substantiation of this view, see chapter 5. According to the empiricist theory of religion, religion originates in intra-mental processes. Learning is an individual process. We shall show, with reference to Vygotsky, that intra-mental activities originate in inter-mental activities. Hence religious learning processes also have a social character.

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all religions. The problem starts when these authors search for a criterion of what is ‘true’ or authentic. For James, true religion gives people a happy, trusting state of mind, grounded in the idea of an unseen moral order in the universe. But is this idea of a moral order universal? Are all religions aimed at happiness and trust? Kuitert does essentially the same thing when he speaks about a positive turn in reality based on the creator’s hold on humankind and the world. But is the experience of absolute dependence on a trustworthy Power-thatworks-in-life (i.e. the creator) universal? The problem with this universal claim is evident in the fact that Kuitert cannot call Buddhism a religion. The root of the problem lies in the empiricists’ aim to define a generic view of religion. A generic view is always a second-order concept based on a particular religion, which is then applied to other religions (Smith, 2000). For most authors in the Western hemisphere, such a view of a natural concept of religion derives from the Christian faith. There are two major objections to the claim that all people are naturally religious (see Stoker, 2000, p.67). The first is the exclusion of adherents of non-theistic religions (like Buddhists). Are they also experiencing a Power ‘outside them’ which has a positive hold on their future? The second objection is the exclusion of those who are indifferent to religion. A generic view of religion ascribes to such people a hidden/unconscious understanding of God. The most famous example is Karl Rahner’s concept of the anonymous Christian (Rahner, 1976). A generic concept that postulates a universal religious experience is offensive to people who do not want to be called religious. In a globalizing world a generic concept of religious experience cannot be a common denominator for discourse between religious and nonreligious people.7 Our third criterion is that a conception of religion should be able to avoid both the Scylla of distinctiveness which isolates religion from society and the personal life of human beings, and the Charybdis of 7 As a solution to the second problem, some authors want to replace the concept of religion with world-view as a generic category of human existence. “For human existence orientation is necessary. (...) Understanding is possible because the things do not appear in isolation but stand in a referential totality. Our human existence as a beingin-the-world means that the relation between humans and the world is internal. In connection with this the concept worldview can be seen as an ontological or anthropological category. It expresses the integrating and unifying character of our experience” (Stoker, 2000, p.73). The concept of world-view can be seen as common ground for a discourse between religious and non-religious people, but it does not solve the problem of defining religion in a way that is acceptable to all religions.

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defining religion as a personal and societal phenomenon without any distinctiveness. A concept of religion should be both distinctive and located in personal and societal life. Does the empiricist’s view meet this criterion? I think empiricist scholars would certainly like to meet it. At bottom they are searching for something which could be called ‘natural religion’. Among all the experiences people have there is one category that can be called ‘religious experience’. The defining characteristics of this category distinguish that experience from all other experiences. Thus to James not every reaction to the totality of existence can be called religious, but only those reactions which cause happiness, trust and confidence in the future. And to Kuitert religious experience is only that experience of total dependence which engenders a feeling of trust (‘to be’ instead of ‘not to be’). This defining characteristic is based on a theological norm: ‘an unseen moral order’ (James) or ‘the creator’ (Kuitert). The issue is not the introduction of a theological norm. Without it, it is not possible to arrive at a substantive interpretation of religious experience. The problem from the empiricist point of view is that it is impossible to locate the theological norm on the level of experience, and then identify this experience as universal. The theological norm would make religious experience not just a distinctive category but a category sui generis (also see Robert Segal, 2000). It is an experiential category isolated from the rest of human culture and from other experiences. But if the empiricists do not introduce a theological norm, they are unable to differentiate religious experience from other experiences. This would merge religious experience with other areas of human life or society: Religion would include everything in our societies which touches upon questions of sense and the search for an ultimate meaning of the world in which we live, in which case religious phenomena are diluted to the point of becoming indefinite nebulosities of ‘systems of signification’ (Hervieu-Léger, 1999, p.80).

The theological norm saves religious experience from an anthropological reduction, that is from becoming a purely immanent category, uninfluenced by transcendence. The reduction lurks round the corner because of the priority of experience in religion. It is avoided through the introduction of a primeval religious experience in which transcendence manifests itself. But the price of this solution is high. A primeval religious experience is not influenced by words and institutions. This isolation makes it hard for religious experience to be an integral part

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of other areas of human life and culture. The inclusion of a theological norm on the experiential level turns religion into an isolated category. It is completely different from anything else in life. Hence I conclude that the empiricist’s view does not meet the third criterion: religion is not seen as distinctive and at the same time as part of the rest of human life.

3.3 Religion as language The second concept of religion to be considered here gives language priority in religion, what may be called a linguistic or cultural-linguistic view of religion. We first describe this view by referring to two scholars who represent it: Alasdair MacIntyre, who is presented by Drisbey (1994, pp. 8-12) as a proponent of this view; and George Lindbeck, who has greatly influenced recent discussion on the concept of religion (Schüssler-Fiorenza, 2000, p.11). The first author is a philosopher of religion, the second a theologian. Afterwards we will evaluate the linguistic view on the basis of the three criteria formulated in section 3.1.2. 3.3.1 Linguistic theories In an essay written in 1957, MacIntyre gives a philosophical account of the logical status of religious belief. The position he adopts is the opposite of the empiricist’s view described in section 2.2. MacIntyre rejects the idea that “we have private experiences and invent words for them. But we learn words and find their application in our experience” (MacIntyre, 1957, p.177). This is as true of religious language as of any other. If religious language were a private code based on private experience, it would be impossible even for two believers to talk to one another. Religious language is at once public and familiar. When MacIntyre refers to religious language, he is not primarily thinking of the propositional language of religious doctrines. Religion starts in the vocative, performative and metaphorical language of worship. “It is not just that as a matter of historical fact the practice of worship precedes the explicit formulation of belief, but that we can worship without being able to say clearly what we believe” (MacIntyre, 1957, p.188). MacIntryre rejects an intellectualistic conception of religion in which religious belief precedes and directs religious prac-

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tice. Knowing how to perform particular religious practices does not depend on correct application of religious doctrines. The reverse is true: “In formulating doctrine we are trying to say what we do when we pray. So the language of liturgy is at the heart of the matter” (MacIntryre, 1957, p.188). What is characteristic about religious language? MacIntyre speaks about myths, which say that God does some things in life or in nature. Acceptance of these myths requires four things, two relating to the form of belief and two to the content of belief (e.g. Judaeo-Christian belief). First, “the crucial point about myth in a religious sense is that it is concerned with crucial situations in human life” (MacIntyre, 1957, p.191). Myths are about birth and death, love and suffering, pain and grief. To accept a myth is to accept a whole way of living. This is not the same as observing some or other rule in a certain situation. In life we have to adopt attitudes and make decisions where there is no clear rule and sometimes no rule at all. We are morally made and unmade in those decisions where there is no rule to make the decision for us. It is a question then of fundamental attitudes to the human and not-human worlds, of those attitudes which receive their definition in myths (MacIntyre, 1957, p.192).

A myth offers us a story that cannot be translated into a rule without losing its mythical character. Second, acceptance of a religious belief must be compatible with the practice of worship. Provisional or conditional acceptance of a belief would not make it possible to worship. Third, according to the Christian tradition a religious belief can only be accepted as a matter of free decision. To believe in God as a hypothesis would be the end of belief. We accept a natural law on the basis of the rigour of the arguments, but we cannot demonstrate the existence of God. “Having made our decision, we adhere to belief unconditionally, we commit ourselves as completely as one can ever commit oneself to anything” (MacIntyre, 1957, p.197). Fourth, acceptance of religious belief needs a justification of what appears prima facie to be nonsense. This justification cannot be located outside a religion. MacIntyre makes a comparison with the definition of sovereignty in a political system. The solution in this case is to name the person or body in whom sovereignty is to be said to reside. Because the sovereign power is the ultimate criterion of law, it has no logical justification outside itself. The same is done in the case of religion:

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Every religion is defined with reference to what it accepts as an authoritative criterion in religious matters. To accept or reject a religion is to accept or reject such an authority. In this way, MacIntyre is able to treat both theism and polytheism as religion, as well as monotheistic religions like Islam and non-theistic religions like Buddhism (MacIntyre, 1957, p.201). His definition is formal and contentfree. Another consequence is that it is impossible to justify religion by translating religious language into non-religious language. Such a translation would be a transition to another authority. In terms of the logic of religious belief this is impossible. “If religious belief was not fundamental, it would not be religion. Since it is, it can have no ulterior justification” (MacIntryre, 1957, p.209). He also rejects it from a theological standpoint. ‘Since the Christian faith sees true religion only in a free decision made in faith and love, the religions would by this vindication be destroyed’ (MacIntryre, 1957, p.209). To accept religious belief is not a matter of argument but of conversion, because there is no logical transition which will take one from unbelief to belief. There are no reasons which one can invoke to evade the burden of the decision. “The only apologia for a religion is to describe its content in detail: and then either a man will find himself brought to say ‘My Lord and my God’ or he will not” (MacIntyre, 1957, p. 205). The second example of the linguistic view is George Lindbeck. Lindbeck, like MacIntyre, opposes the idea that religion can be defined by a basic unity of religious experience that is primary in all religions, representing the norm and source of religious identity. Lindbeck opts for an intratextual approach in which the Christian scriptures are the norm. “An intratextual reading tries to derive the interpretative framework that designates the theologically controlled sense from the literary structure of the text” (Lindbeck, 1984, p.120). From a cultural-linguistic point of view, religion is defined as “a kind of cultural and/or linguistic basic structure and medium, which constructs the totality of living and thinking” (Lindbeck, 1984, p.32). Religion is a language that makes it possible to express beliefs and

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religious feelings. Without this basis in language no expressions are possible. A cultural-linguistic model inverts the relationship between ‘internal’ experience and ‘external’ religious and cultural factors proposed by the empiricist’s view. According to Lindbeck (1984, p.35), to become religious is to appropriate the symbolic system of a religion. A religion is above all an external word (verbum externum) that moulds the self and the world instead of expressing an already existing human self or a pre-conceptual experience. Just as culture and language are in the first place communal phenomena, so is religion. “(I)deas function in communal traditions of language and practice rather than in themselves or in their role in individual lives considered in isolation” (Lindbeck, 1990, 496). As for the cultural dimension of religion, Lindbeck sees religion as the substance of culture and culture as the form of religion (Lindbeck, 1984, p.34). Religion is the ultimate dimension of a culture, referring to what people consider as ultimate importance in their life. Religion is the source of the most important cultural phenomena. According to Lindbeck, there is too much emphasis on religions as bearers of salvation. This is responsible for the imperialist tendency to define what is religious and discard the uniqueness of religions. Instead of salvation, Lindbeck wants to see the uniqueness of religion as a matter of translation. Translatability rests on a double claim to comprehensiveness: First, every humanly conceivable reality can be translated (or redescribed) in the biblical universe of discourse with a gain rather than a loss of truth or significance, whereas, second, nothing can be translated out of this idiom into some supposedly independent communicative system without perversion, diminution or incoherence of meaning (Lindbeck, 1997, p.429).

The Bible is the resource of a universe of discourse, embracing others without itself being embraced. All reality can be assimilated into, or re-described in, the biblical idiom. There is no third language in which translation errors can be rectified. “Everything is clarified when looked at through biblical lenses (...), and is distorted without these lenses” (Lindbeck, 1997, p.430). This double claim to comprehensiveness is the general form of biblical untranslatability, and of all the world religions (Lindbeck, 1997, p.424). Of course, only one religion will prove to be truly comprehensive. Only one can ultimately be successful. But we will not know which religion that is until the eschaton.

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According to Lindbeck, religions employ a variety of interpretive strategies in their attempts to make originally limited or localized outlooks all-encompassing. One of these strategies in the Bible is the use of “a transhistorical metanarrative stretching from the beginning of time to its end, telling of events and realities remote from ordinary experience (and in that sense, moderns say, partly mythical)” (Lindbeck, 1997, p.432). Another strategy is figuration (analogy and metaphor). This figuration is important for the double claim mentioned above. Figuration turns the Bible into a cross-referencing, interglossing semiotic system which can be used even now, some would claim, to assimilate by redescription all the worlds and world views which human beings construct in the course of history (Lindbeck, 1997, p.432).

3.3.2. Critical assessment Does the linguistic (MacIntyre) or cultural-linguistic view (Lindbeck) meet the three criteria that were formulated above (3.1.2) for any concept of religion? The first criterion refers to the concept of change and innovation that is implicit in the linguistic view. Is radical change possible within a religion or religious community, and is it intelligible? Is the change intelligibly related to the tradition and to the changing cultural-historical situation? There are differences in the way MacIntyre and Lindbeck think about radical change in religion, but they agree on the key role of language systems in religions. Because of the key role of language both authors give more attention to tradition and community in religion than the empiricists do. This is a clear advantage. The linguistic view of change in religions becomes problematic “the more religions are seen solely in terms of language systems and the more arbitrary and isolated language systems are seen to be, both in relation to one another and in relation to the world of our experience” (Drisbey, 1994, p.67). As a result religious beliefs cannot be justified or disproved from the outside, nor can the criteria on which the beliefs are based be questioned from the inside. This makes internal change within religions highly problematic. Thus the first criticism is that “changes in allegiance from one set of beliefs to another cannot be seen as conclusions from evidence or any sort of rational inference from experience” (Drisbey, 1994, p.67). In MacIntyre’s view we accept a belief on the basis of some criterion of

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authority (such as the Bible). “The relation between experience and subsequent belief and behavior is a non-logical one, resembling the relation between an imperative and obedience to it” (MacIntyre, 1957, p.200; note 1). There can only be conversion to a certain belief and a way of life. A person believes because she or he credits an authority, which cannot be justified from the outside because it is the ultimate criterion. In this way, MacIntyre equates credibility with intelligibility. Or perhaps one should say that intelligibility dissolves in credibility, because of the non-logical relation between experience and faith. Does this not rule out any change of the ultimate authority which a person credits in life? MacIntyre does not want to go that far. “It is always open to a man to make his own experience his authority and so become the founder of his own religion” (MacIntyre, 1957, p.200; note 1). So in the end change is possible but not intelligible. At first sight, Lindbeck seems to offer a better perspective on change, because of the relation between culture and language. According to Lindbeck (1994, p.39), religious change or innovation is a result of collaboration between religion as a cultural-linguistic system and the changing situation. The application of a religious interpretive framework to a new context can cause uncertainty in people’s religious feelings and negative experiences. The new context calls for transformation of a religious tradition and opens up new religious experiences. According to Lindbeck, this transformation does not happen because people have new experiences of the self, the world or God as part of the changing cultural situation. What comes first are the phenomena of religion: its language, doctrines, liturgy and ways of life. New religious experiences result from the application of the framework of a religious tradition to a new situation. So when it comes to the relation between religion and culture, Lindbeck takes cognizance of the question of intelligibility of change in religion. However, he restricts intelligibility to the religious perspective and rejects the need for intelligibility from the perspective of the changing culture. The latter would imply an outside source of religion, which his intratextual concept of religion precludes. A religion (such as Christianity) is capable of incorporating any cultural change in its own conceptual horizon without stepping outside the textual body of its tradition (see the ‘double claim’ above). The meaning of a religion would be perverted if one were to translate any elements of culture, seen as an independent system, into the religious text. But culture is not an independent factor. Religion is the substance of culture, and culture is the form of religion.

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This resolves the need for religious change or innovation to be intelligible from the perspective of the changing cultural situation. Seen from the cultural context, change within a religion is not intelligible. Is there any possibility of radical change in an intratextual approach if there can be no innovation of the interpretive framework of a religion? No cultural change can shake the beliefs of a religion. Religious innovation is essentially only a re-description of the changing reality in the biblical universe. But how does one explain the diversity within religions, where different groups or communities do not regard each other as part of the same tradition? A second criticism is that “theology has an exclusively internal role within the language system that constitutes the religion” (Drisbey, 1994, p.68). This is not how Christian theology has understood itself historically. An exclusively internal theology would lead to a Christianity without apologetics, social ethics, different types of contextual theology (e.g. feminist, black or liberation theology). “The history of religions suggests that religions survive and fall by their ability to adapt to changing intellectual climates and social experiences” (Drisbey, 1994, p.68). A theology that is not vitally concerned with its relationship to the changing culture also loses its meaning in society. It loses its meaning as a dialogue partner, because everything it says about reality is untranslatable.8 People who do not belong to a religious tradition can only accept its explanation of reality without being able to understand it. In sum, then, we conclude that a linguistic theory of religion does not meet the first criterion. The second criterion concerns the avoidance of religious imperialism. Can the (cultural-) linguistic view do justice to religious diversity? The answer is: yes, it can. MacIntyre’s definition is formal and content-free. Every religion is defined with reference to what it accepts as an authoritative criterion in religious matters. Believers accept this authority as defining what is worthy of worship. To accept or reject a religion is to accept or reject such an authority. In this way, MacIntyre is able to treat both theism and polytheism as religion, as well as monotheistic religions like Islam and non-theistic religions like Buddhism (see 3.3.1). Lindbeck, too, satisfies this criterion. He applies his claim of the uniqueness and untranslatability of religions to all the world religions. He wants to avoid any colonialist tendency in the con8 This concept comes close to a traditionalist model of tradition. For a theological evaluation of this concept, see section 2.2.2.

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cept of religion. According to Lindbeck, this tendency results from a dominant focus on religions as bearers of salvation. In defining a universal, common idea of salvation, one always favours one concept of salvation above another. The focus on salvation should make way for an accent on translation. All religions and non-religious world-views compete with each other for the possession of a truly comprehensive outlook. Which one will ultimately be successful can only be decided at the end of the time. The worst thing that religions can do is to relativize their uniqueness. This would mean giving up their claim to comprehensiveness. If religion X could be translated into religion Y without any loss of meaning, it would not be unique: it could dissolve in religion Y with no loss. According to Lindbeck, religions should foster their uniqueness and their untranslatability. The third criterion is that any concept of religion should be able to skirt the Scylla of distinctiveness which isolates religion from society and the personal life of human beings, and the Charybdis of defining religion as a personal and societal phenomenon without any distinctiveness. The concept of religion that MacIntyre and Lindbeck present is based on its social and linguistic nature. The specific identity of a religious community is constituted by the communication within its own ranks. What distinguishes religion from everything else in society is the use of religious language. According to MacIntyre, people adhere to the criterion of a certain authority as defining what is worthy of worship in reality. This criterion has to be communicated to people. Without language a particular experience cannot be understood as a religious experience. Language comes first, experience second. For example, Luther could not have had his tower experience (German: Turmerlebnis), in which he discovered that only faith could justify human beings (sola gratia), if he was not familiar with biblical language (Lindbeck, 1984, p.39). But for both representatives of the linguistic view, religion is not only distinctive but also a sui generis category. This is evident in the fact that both authors consider any religious apologia impossible. For MacIntyre, acceptance of a religious belief rests on conversion. For Lindbeck religion is untranslatable into any other language system or world-view. Thus religion is isolated from the rest of culture and human experience. There is no ground for understanding religion in the rest of culture. One person will accept it; the other not. There is no bridge between religion and culture. A consequence of this sui generis concept of religion is that there can be no revelation outside

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religion. It is impossible to see revelation as a dynamic force in the complexity of the whole culture (Schüssler-Fiorenza, 2000). True, Lindbeck pays some attention to the relation between religion and culture, but the relation is unilateral: culture is not an independent factor. Revelation is restricted to what was already contained in the framework of the biblical universe. To summarize: the linguistic view fails to meet the criterion that the concept of religion should be distinctive and at the same time embedded in personal, cultural and societal life. While the concept of religion in a (cultural-)linguistic theory is distinctive, it is disconnected from the rest of culture.

3.4 Religion as practice The last concept of religion gives priority to religious practices. I will elaborate on this below, but here one can think of religious rituals, reading sacred texts, singing religious songs, attending religious gatherings. My analysis of religion as practice will be more detailed than in the case of the previous two models (religion as experience and as language). The reason is that this is the least developed approach in theology. Afterwards I will evaluate the institutional theory of religion on the basis of the three criteria developed in section 3.1.2. 3.4.1 Institutional theories Institutional theories of religion regard religion as practices embedded in the wider culture and structure of society. One can differentiate between two types of institutional theories (De Haan, 1999, p.22). In the structure-oriented type religious practices are interpreted as maintained or perpetuated by social systems. A key question in this approach is what organizational rules define the praxis. These rules (and the power to sustain them) are located in the social system. The second type of institutional theory is culture-oriented. Culture is seen as “those features of social practice that sustain and represent practice, and that at the same time are able to reproduce and reconstruct it” (De Haan, 1999, p.22). Social practices are sustained by the characteristics of human activities, such as certain tools, social rules and symbols. In this section we draw on institutional theories of the second type. There are two reasons for this choice. The first is that structure-orient-

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ed theories tend to adopt a functional approach to religion. Whether religion is interpreted as a sacred canopy (Berger) or the opium of the people (Marx), it is seen as a function of something else and not in its own right. This functional reduction of religion would conflict with our third criterion (3.1.2), namely that if religion is merely a function of something else, it loses its distinctiveness. The second reason is the scope of our analysis. I analyze the concept of religion with a view to the organization of religious learning processes (see chapter 5). I see learning as an introduction to the culture that we live in, and at the same time as a cultural practice in itself. This makes us more interested in a culture-oriented approach, though without denying the possibility of a structure-oriented approach. Nonetheless it will appear below that a culture-oriented approach cannot totally ignore the structural aspect (see F below). Thus we will draw attention to the influence of religious institutions on the process of attributing meaning to religious practices. Below we shall differentiate an institutional theory of religion in terms of six steps: A. A religious practice is a form of rule-governed or intentional action, with the rules creating an institutional fact. They constitute a particular practice, hence they are called constitutive rules. On the basis of a constitutive rule water becomes ‘baptismal water’, a book becomes ‘a sacred book’, a person becomes ‘a holy person’ and an action becomes ‘a religious action’. In the absence of such a rule there would still be water, a collection of stories and a person, but they would not have the same status that is ascribed to them in a religious practice. That religious status is ascribed in rule-governed or intentional human actions. A story only becomes a religious story if people in their dealings with that text ascribe a status function to it. Such attribution of meaning is crucial in a cultureoriented approach to religious practices. B. The rule-governed behaviour is shared by a group of people (a collective). A practice is always a social fact. Individuals participating in the same practice must share their rule-governed behaviour with other people. We then speak of collective as opposed to individual intentionality. Collective intentionality is structured as ‘we propose to do Y’. Even when a person prays a certain prayer in solitude, it could still be called a religious practice if the person realizes that he or she is sharing this activity with other people. Participation in a practice makes people part of a community. Without a community there can be no practice. According to cul-

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ture-oriented institutional theory, however, a community cannot be defined without reference to practices. Thus we speak of a community of practice. In practices individuals act with a specific intentionality which is embodied in the practice – that is, as members of a community. C. Tradition plays a major role in religious practices, specifically as regards the recognition or non-recognition of a status function. A collection of texts is given the status of a sacred book on the authority of tradition. The authority of the tradition does not have to be recognized before the practice can be performed. Participation in the practice implicitly and simultaneously recognizes that authority. Such participation (see B above) presupposes sharing a common purpose (collective intentionality) in the activity. By acting on the basis of collective intentionality an individual accepts the authority of a tradition that ascribes a particular status function to an object, person or action. By participating in a baptismal service, for instance, we accept the authority of the tradition that ascribes the status function of baptismal water to the water in the font. It is not necessary to recognize the authority of the tradition prior to the practice. By taking part in this collective activity one recognizes the authority of the tradition that calls this practice ‘baptism’. D. The collective intentionality with which an activity is performed makes a religious practice meaningful. Without that meaning there is no practice. But practices must not be reduced to mental activities (intentions). Intentions cause actions, but practices are also characterized by a particular structure and sequence, a context, agents and means (cultural tools used in the activity). Thus we speak of mediated action, implying both the intentionality of the agents and the religious ‘tools’ that are used. E. Religious practices differ from other cultural practices in that the status function ascribed to them is associated with transcendence. A particular action (prayer, Bible reading, meditation, singing, fasting) that has certain attributes based on a tradition puts the person in contact with God. The exact meaning of transcendence, and how it relates to immanence, is determined by the tradition. We refer, cautiously, to a working hypothesis (following N. Luhmann): religions assign meaning to practices according to the binary code of transcendence versus immanence. F. Religion as practice is defined at the local level of people’s social activities. The local level is not separate from the macro-level of

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society at large; religious institutions form part of the public order. This public order is evident in practices that are performed in society to promote religion. Even though we approach religious practices from a cultural perspective, we cannot ignore the structural dimension. In dealing with the structural dimension we shall use the concept of religious regimes. In addition we shall look at institutional processes between and within religions. (A) A religious practice is defined by constitutive rules. A religious practice is an institutional, not a natural, fact. It originates in human action, which differs from behaviour in that it is intentional (Searle, 1983; 1984). Blinking your eyes (e.g. when dust blows into them) is behaviour. When you wink at somebody to catch the person’s attention, that is an action. What distinguishes intentional actions is that the intention is a condition for performing the act (Searle, 1983, p.80). Without intentionality (e.g. capturing somebody’s attention) your eyelids would not move. Religion as practice is a specific form of rule-governed behaviour in that the rules involved in these practices create institutional facts. What does this mean? Some activity, object or experience ‘counts as’ a religious activity, a religious object or a religious experience. These ‘count as’ rules can be considered constitutive rules (Searle, 1990; 1995; 1997). Constitutive rules not only regulate actions, “they also create the very possibility of certain activities” (Searle, 1995, p.27). Genuflecting as such has no meaning, or it can mean different things. In the context of a liturgy, it expresses reverence for God. Institutional facts are created by constitutive rules. A constitutive rule takes the form of ‘X counts as Y in context C’. What is important is that the action created by the constitutive rule did not exist before the constitutive rule had been applied. People did not flock into buildings at the sound of a church bell before certain rules of church attendance gave meaning to this activity. In this sense, institutional facts are created by constitutive rules. Natural facts can exist independently of any human institution; institutional facts exist only in human institutions. They are created (constituted) by (constitutive) rules, without which they would not exist. Institutional facts are a specific subcategory of social facts. For example, a social group can be characterized by having a leader. But the leader (i.e. social fact) is not necessarily an institutional leader, like a priest or an imam. Not every social fact is an institutional fact. An

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institutional fact presupposes the ascription of a status function to a person, object or activity. This person ‘counts as’ a religious leader or a holy person. This collection of texts ‘counts as’ a divinely inspired holy book. Ascription of a status function is based on a constitutive rule. We list some salient features of constitutive rules (see Searle, 1995, pp.43-51). First, the Y term in a constitutive rule assigns a new status to the object designated by the X term, which it did not possess previously. Attached to that status is a function or set of functions. For example, the mullah’s call is given the status of summoning the faithful to the mosque; reading the Bible is assigned the function of connecting people’s life stories with the story of God’s dealings with humankind. Second, the physical features specified by the X term are insufficient to guarantee that it will fulfil the assigned function. There has to be continuous collective agreement or acceptance of the validity of the assigned function. If the adherents of Islam refuse to come to the mosque, the mullah’s call would lose its status function. He would still call the faithful to prayer, but his call would have lost its status: no one responds to it. If morning prayer is not collectively accepted in a religiously affiliated school, it loses its status. Note that it is a matter of collective agreement, not just the will or power of authoritative groups or religious persons (see Drisbey, 1994, p.117). For example, a priest can ring the church bells and give this act the status of calling the faithful to church, but if the faithful do not collectively assign this status function to the chime of the bells, it has lost its meaning. The cultural practice of going to church on Sundays lapses. Third, the creation of institutional facts is a conscious process. We take an institution for granted, because we grow up in a culture where that institution exists. What is more, we do not have to be aware that this institutional fact only exists by collective agreement. People could even have a completely mistaken idea about why something has a particular function. For example, pupils may think that teachers award marks for tests only to make life difficult for them. Or a child may think that pouring water on a baby’s head is meant to clean its scalp. But as long as people continue to recognize that X has the Y status function, the institutional fact is maintained. As long as people assign the sprinkling of water on a baby’s head the status of baptism, it remains an institutional fact. Fourth, the constitutive rule has normative status. A rule can be abused, which is characteristic of institutional facts. If you enter the

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classroom after the second bell, you have broken the rule signified by the ringing of the bell. If you do not close your eyes and bow your head, you are transgressing the rules of morning prayer (according to a certain community). Obviously the rules of communities can differ. In some religious communities (e.g. charismatic groups) prayer takes the form of disordered speech while standing up with raised hands. So practices can differ between religious communities, but within a community the constitutive rules decide what people ought to practise and which practices are correct. Fifth, which objects or actions fulfil a particular status function is a matter of convention. While the rule is that ringing a bell has the status function of getting pupils into the classroom, the fact that this function is fulfilled by the ringing of a bell is a convention. The symbol of the cross identifies people as followers of Jesus Christ. But is could have been a different symbol – as it in fact was in the early church (the sign of the fish, IXTHUS). Sixth, sometimes the labels associated with the Y expression (e.g. the label ‘certificate’) are partly constitutive of the fact created. There is no prelinguistic way to represent the Y element. We need words or other symbolic means to effect the shift from X to Y status. A sheet of paper with certain words on it has the status function labelled ‘marriage certificate’. If a person presents this certificate, we ascribe to him or her the status of being married. Without the label ‘marriage certificate’ it is simply a sheet of paper. (B) A practice community is created by collective intentionality. According to Drisbey (1994, p.141), “institutions are forms of behaviour that are shared by the members of a community”. The idea of the communal construction of meaning is strongly emphasized in social constructionism (Gergen, 1999) and sociocultural theory (Wertsch, 1998). Meaning is not something that originates in the individual mind; it is expressed in words (and other actions) and is deciphered in the minds of other agents (Gergen,1994, p.27). If meaning was preeminently individual, communication would be problematic. In sociocultural and social constructionist theory meaning is approached at the social level of human relations, not by taking the individual as its starting point (Penuel & Wertsch, 1995, p.86). Understanding does not stem from subjectivity, but from a system of language or signs common to a given culture. Understanding between people is generated by membership of the same culture. “It is not the individual who

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pre-exists the relationship and initiates the process of signification, but patterns of relationship and their embedded meanings that pre-exist the individual” (Gergen, 1994, p.28). This does not mean that the focus should be on tradition. Words or texts in themselves convey no meaning. They only generate meaning by virtue of their role in the realm of human interaction. Hence the focus is on participation, that is on a relational account of human meaning. In sociocultural institutional theory the relation between discourse and the practices in which people assign these labels to actions is important. How do we know what a ‘teacher’ is, or a ‘pupil’, a ‘classroom’, a ‘school’, an ‘examination’, a ‘blackboard’? How do we know what a ‘prayer’ is, or a ‘church’, a ‘funeral’, ‘a holy man’? We know what these terms mean by participating in the sociocultural practices of a school or a religious institution. We do not invent the meaning of these words. The discourse is influenced by the way the institution functions and the way people participate in these practices. To paraphrase Gubrium and Holstein (1990, p.12), an institution is a socially constructed object, a product of decidedly public actions and interactions. The meaning that people assign to institutional practices is given to them by the social structure: Institutions virtually “think” for their participants, providing models of social order through which experience is assimilated and meaning constituted. In particular, formally organized settings “think” and “talk” for participants through their conventional modes of discourse, practical agendas, and available images (Gubrium & Holstein, 1990, p.126).

One can hear the voice of the institution through the discourse of people. We borrow meaning from the social structure to express the meaning of our actions. Referring to Durkheim, Gubrium and Holstein (1990, p.152) speak of “patterns of collective representation, ways of putting together both ideas and experience to mirror who we are and what we do”. We share these institutional patterns with other people. Searle (1983; 1984) would say that they are part of our background knowledge. But who is this ‘we’ and ‘what’ is it that we share? We sometimes say that people share the same spirit. But what is the spirit of an institution? What is the spirit of the Christian religion? Is there something like a collective consciousness of what needs to be done and how to do it? And where is this collective consciousness located? In the adherents of a religion? In the practices they perform? In certain people autho-

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rized to act on behalf of the religious community, like bishops in Christian churches? What about religions (like Hinduism) that do not have this kind of authority? The notion of collective consciousness is important for every institutional theory of religion. George Dickie (1974; 1984), whose institutional theory of art forms the basis of Drisbey’s (1994) institutional theory of religion, struggled with this question. Who belongs to the art world? Artists (i.e. people who make or practise art) belong to the art world. But what is art? What some people call art, others don’t. If one identifies the institution of art with a group of persons, one runs into the problem that membership of the art world is restricted to the tastes and interests of a select group. On what basis do we select people who belong to the art world? (Drisbey, 1994, pp.114-115). The problem could be solved by authorizing a body of people to decide on criteria for selection. That would solve the problem of selection, but at a high price. It would locate collective consciousness in the minds of a restricted group of people and remove it from the minds of individuals, who will be acting on the authority of others rather than on the basis of a collective consciousness. And it would also detach this collectivity from the cultural practices in which people are involved. A satisfactory institutional theory of religion will not be based on the idea of the authority of groups of people, or of people acting on behalf of institutions, but promises to clarify the idea of the authority of tradition – of institutional practices – and the way they interact with the experiences and behaviour of individuals and communities (Drisbey, 1994, p.116).

What we call religion is not based on the will or power of authoritative groups of people, but on the authority of established practices that are interpreted as religious on the basis of a tradition. Any institutional theory that tries to define religion by defining the adherents of a certain religion will run into demarcation problems. Who belongs to the in-group and who to the out-group? How does one determine the characteristics of members of the in-group and the out-group? By participating in a cultural practice which is interpreted as religious in a certain tradition, people belong to that religion: they share its collective consciousness. There are different conceptions of collective consciousness or, in Durkheim’s terms, patterns of collective representation. We refer to an analysis by Larry May (1996), who differentiates between three

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conceptions of collective consciousness. First, “collective consciousness can refer to forms, and possibly the content, of reasoning that are genetically transferred to each member of a group of humans” (May, 1996, p.57). In this conception humans display an inherited responsiveness to certain situations and roles, such as parents towards their children or people’s altruistic acts towards strangers in need of help. But it fails to explain why, if they are genetically determined, some people seem not to have these feelings, and why they fluctuate so much in the lives of individual people. In the case of religion, this conception does not explain why some people display religious feelings while others do not. A second conception defines collective consciousness as a form of shared belief. “The shared beliefs may constitute a common stream of consciousness where the identities of the respective individuals are formed by mutual awareness” (May, 1996, p.57). That could explain why early childhood experience forms strong bonds between children and parents, but the explanation is less applicable to formal situations, such as co-religionists’ feelings towards each other. In the Catholic tradition people interpret Catholics all over the world as belonging to one church. But this religious world community is an “imagined community” (see Anderson, 1987), a “virtual reality of persons that will never meet each other”. The greatest problem with this conception is that collective consciousness is understood as merely existing in individual minds. Individualistic theories fail to explain the change and coordination of individual intentions and actions in group behaviour. The third conception of collective consciousness refers to collective consciousness as cognitive and emotional contents shared by members of a group or community. This collective consciousness operates through the individual mind, but it originates and resides in relationships, not in individual minds. Collective consciousness has a social basis and is formed by people’s participation in institutions. “Institutions are embodiments of collective consciousness in that they are both a repository and source of authority for many individual consciousnesses” (May, 1996, p.60). There are two dimensions of relationships that account for the similarity of values and beliefs held by members of a religious institution. The relationship conveys a sense of community (‘A belongs to B’) and of what is appropriate to do (‘A is responsible to B for x’). So the sense of belonging to a certain religion or religious group resides in interpersonal relationships. Unless one proceeds from individuals as living in relationships, it is impossible to

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understand how people can belong to a religious institution. At the same time, what people consider appropriate to do (or not to do) is part of this relationship. One could add the assignation of powers, rights or qualifications to the category of responsibilities (see Searle, 1995, p.100). Collective consciousness is not just an individual mindset (‘A is responsible for x’), but is conveyed in a relationship between people (‘A is responsible to B for x’). Collective representations (‘We are Christians’, ‘We baptize a child’) are constructed in relationships between people. A collective such as the Christian religion or a charismatic religious community consists in the fact that the participants think of it as a collective. In Searle’s terms, the individual members create the collective through the we-intentions they have in their relations with others. “The actual social collective consists entirely of individual agents with collective intentionality in their heads, nothing more” (Searle, 1997, p.449). Collective intentionality is the term that Searle uses for we-intentions (general form: ‘We intend doing A’). Collective intentions are intentions of individual members regarding an action which they perform together: ‘We are celebrating the feast of Divali’; ‘We are preparing students for their exam’; ‘We take part in a diaconal project among asylum seekers’. It is essential that institutional facts involve collective intentionality (Searle, 1995, p.26). Without it they would still be facts, even social facts, but not institutional facts. People who do not have the intention to celebrate Easter together could still congregate, but it would not be a religious practice. Searle identifies four characteristics of collective intentionality. First, if collective intentionality is just something in the mind, we could be radically mistaken. Is there a ‘we’ that refers to my we-intentions? Am I not just imagining this collective? Do others really share my weintentions? The reality of my engagement in collective behaviour with other people is not a matter of the contents of my mind. The condition for a we-intentionality is that there must be an action in which we are engaged. “Once you have collective intentionality then, if it is in fact shared by other people, the result is more than just yourself and other people: collectively you now form a social group” (Searle, 1997, p.450) Second, collective intentional behaviour (‘We are performing act A’) is not simply the summation of individual intentional behaviour (Searle, 1990, p.402). Suppose there are three people sitting in a room. One bows her head and folds her hands together. Another per-

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son does the same. A third starts reciting a text and then all three of them together sing a song. This might be seen as a set of I-intentions which happen to converge. It does not allow us to conclude that these people are acting collectively. In the case of a collective the ‘I intend’ derives from the ‘We intend’. In the scene described here it is important that the three people should share the collective intention, ‘We are praying’. The individuals’ intentionality can differ widely. One person is bowing her head and listening; another is reciting a text. But both share the same collective intention: ‘We are praying’. Whereas the collective intention is ‘We are doing A’, the individuals’ intentions will be ‘I am doing B’, ‘I am doing C’, and so on. Especially in complex institutional facts where people have different tasks and roles (e.g. in religious rites, religious instruction through interpreting holy texts) the individual intentions differ considerably from person to person. There could also be a difference between the individual intentions of a religious expert and a novice. Such differences are feasible provided, the participants in a practice share a we-intention. Third, we-intentions cannot be reduced to a set of I-intentions, supplemented with beliefs and beliefs about mutual beliefs (Searle, 1990, p.404). Suppose member A of a religious community intends to play her part in preparing young children to become full members of the community. A believes that there are preconditions for success, including that other members of the religious community will play their part in the preparation. A believes that the teachers in her community share a belief in preparing students for inclusion in the community (e.g. their first communion in the Catholic Church). In this example it is clear that there is still no we-intention, even though all the conditions for a set of I-intentions supplemented with beliefs are fulfilled. The reason why we-intentions can never be reduced to Iintentions is that collective intentionality implies cooperation. “The mere presence of I-intentions to achieve a goal that happens to be believed to be the same goal as that of other members of a group does not entail the presence of an intention to cooperate to achieve that goal” (Searle, 1990, p. 406). Institutional facts are social constructions born of a relationship between people. They do not reside in solitary individuals. Fourth, collective intentionality can only exist in an individual’s mind. There is no such thing as a group mind or a group consciousness (Searle, 1990, p.407). ‘We intend to prepare students for the examination’ can only be a mental state of teachers referring to a col-

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lective ‘we’ (the school). ‘We are listening to the minister’s sermon’ can only be a mental state of parishioners as a collective ‘we’. This does not preclude me having a collective intention that is not shared by others. We have noted that collective agreement to institutional facts could lapse. Suppose a religious ceremony (e.g. a mass) at the start of the school year loses the support of most teachers and students in a religiously affiliated school. I may still take part in this religious ceremony, but it is no longer expressive of a we-intention and will most likely cease to be an institutional fact in the school. The cause of its cessation is not that people approve or disapprove of the religious ceremony. Collective acceptance pertains to the status function, not to approval of this status function (Searle, 1997, p.453). As long as people accept the status function, an institutional fact will exist, whether they approve of it or not. For example, a large group in a religious congregation may disapprove of the minister’s preaching. As a result they may even stay away from most ritual practices in the congregation. But as long as they accept the person as their priest (i.e. his or her status function), the institutional fact will continue.9 (C) Tradition as conventional power in religious practices. Institutional facts depend on collective acceptance of a status function according to the formula ‘X counts as Y in C’. Or, to put it differently, the Y content is conferred on the X element by collective acceptance. We (members of the Catholic Church) accept that a priest has the status, and thus the function, to forgive the sins of the faithful on behalf of God. We (members of the Catholic Church) accept this ritual as a liturgy of penitence that reconciles the believer with God. So participation in this liturgy is understood as a religious activity on the basis of collective acceptance of the status function. But what is the content of this collective acceptance? What kind of status function does the collective accept? According to Searle, in a large class of cases the content involves some conventional power mode in which the subject

9 Searle also points to a second institutional dynamics resulting from the fact that smaller institutions may exist within larger institutions. For example, there are many different religious groups within the mainline Christian churches, such as charismatic groups, religious orders, feminist and liberation movements, fundamentalist groups. Some of these groups may remain within these larger institutions, which they want to change fundamentally. So they play along with their constitutive rules and accept their status functions, which they dislike and want to change. (See also point F, religious regimes and counter regimes.)

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relates to some type of action or sequence of actions (Searle, 1995, p.104). Not all kinds of power can be created by collective acceptance. The power to move mountains cannot be created in this way. A status function that has the power to regulate relations between people can be created by collective acceptance. This conventional (or ‘deontic’) power can be positive or negative. The first is where the agent is endowed with some new power, certification, authorization, entitlement, right, permission, or qualification granting the ability to do something he or she could not otherwise have done; and the second is where the agent is required, obligated, in duty bound, penalized, enjoined, or otherwise has had to do, or, what amounts to the same thing, is prevented from doing, something that would otherwise have been doable (Searle, 1995, p.100).

Searle sums up collective intentionality with regard to power status functions in the following formula: We accept S has the power (S does A) (Searle, 1995, p.104).10 What does this mean? Conventional power is always the power to do something or restrain someone else from doing something. ‘S’ refers to a single person or a group. ‘A’ refers to an act, or activity of this person or group. In terms of our example, ’S does A’ means that the priest forgives the sins of the faithful, or that the congregation is gathered for a liturgy of penitence. The human activity is regulated by a deontic power. ’S has power’ means that the agent is enabled to do something (positive power) or is required to do something which that person would otherwise not have done (negative power). This power conferred on the status function is collectively accepted (‘We accept’). Or, to put it differently, a collective intentionality (we accept, acknowledge, recognize, go along with) is conferred on the X term (the agent), where X counts as Y in C. “In the case of enablements we collectively grant power to some individual or group; in the case of requirements we collectively restrict the power of some individual or group” (Searle, 1995, p.105). It would be a misinterpretation to claim that our recognition of a given status function of an object, person or event gives it the authority associated with that status function. That is not the case. The authority rests with a tradition. Adherents of a religion invoke tradition in order to recognize an action as a religious ritual. In our 10 The following statement illustrates the formula: (We recognize (the priest has the power (the priest baptizes the child).

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collective intentionality we refer to the authority of a tradition. The power of convention is assumed in collective intentionality. Without convention individuals would have no collective intentionality to recognize the status function ascribed to an object, person or action. Conventional powers are not only granted to an agent, they can also be removed. A divorce decree, for example, can be seen as the removal of the conventional power of being married. According to Searle (1995, p.109), the content of the status function is the same (being married). In the case of divorce, we no longer accept the agent’s married status. Or, in the religious domain, an agent (priest) can lose his status function. He no longer has the powers connected with his function, such as celebrating the liturgy. This is a good example to illustrate the complexity of collective acceptance. In the Catholic Church a priest can be removed from office by the bishop. The bishop acts on behalf of all the members of the church. It may be, however, that a group of people (‘we’) still want to confer the status function of religious leader on this agent. We then have a complex situation in which one collective (members of the Catholic Church connected with the church hierarchy) removes the conventional powers, while another collective (members of a local congregation) accept the conventional powers connected with the status function of religious leaders of their community. Thus what is a religious (institutional) fact for one collective (local congregation) is no longer a religious fact for the other collective. The crucial question is whether or not the lowest level of participants in an institution interprets an activity or object as religious. According to Searle, the internal microlevel is ontologically primary (Searle, 1995, p.98). So as long as the members of the local congregation accept this agent as their religious leader, this institutional fact exists. As long as a group of people (collective) perform a practice with collective intentionality, it is a religious practice. Not being recognized as a religious institution (religious leader, object or ritual) by others can be highly problematic. This happens, for example, in a conflict between a religious institution and an institutional fact from another domain (like education). Physical education at school is an institutional fact with certain conventions, like the sportswear pupils are compelled to wear. The dress prescriptions implicit in this institutional fact may conflict with the prescriptions of a religion, such as the veil that women have to wear in some Islamic traditions. If the religious dress code is not accepted as an institutional fact, it can cause problems for adherents of this religion. Such conflicts

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become highly problematic when the state or public authorities are involved. In most Western countries some forms of religion are accepted by the official authorities as “eligible to benefit from tax concessions, a privileged position in the school curriculum and access to television advertising” (Beckford, 1999, p.38). Other forms of religion are not granted the status of religious institutions and do not benefit from these privileges. So non-recognition by others of an institutional fact can be highly problematic for the adherents of a religion. But as long as a sufficient number of people collectively accept the convention of a status function, the institutional fact exists. The veil as a religious dress code for women in some Islamic traditions remains a religious institution as long as enough Muslims collectively accept the institutional fact that wearing a veil (X) has a religious status function (Y). To be precise, the authority to accept the veil as a religious institutional fact does not rest with a group of people but depends on a tradition. Islamic tradition gives the veil deontic power, that is it ascribes a religious status function to the veil. (D) Religious practices as mediated actions. The analysis up to this point may give the impression that religious practices can be reduced to collective intentions, in the sense of something in the minds of the agents. Is there some mentalistic reduction lurking behind this conception of religious practices? Our emphasis on intentionality could create this impression. In fairness to Searle, we should note that he pays attention to other aspects of institutional facts as well. These include social objects (e.g. governments, schools, a church synod) and institutional material objects (e.g. a $20 bill, consecrated bread in Christian liturgy, a prayer shawl). Searle regards these social objects as ‘substitutes’ for patterns of activities (Searle, 1995, p.57). Ultimately, however, Searle is not interested in institutional objects as such, but in the processes and events where the functions implicit in the status function conferred on the object are manifested. A requirement for an institutional fact is the pre-existence of a common background, on the strength of which individuals can act collectively. Such a background is prerequisite for collective intentionality: “Background is the set of practices, skills, habits, and stances that enable intentional contents to work in the various ways as they do” (Searle, 1983,158). Without the mental activity of individuals stories, symbols, ritual practices and the like are ‘dead’. They have to be realized in human consciousness and the human body. But Searle is

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afraid that this background to human actions will become dissociated from intentionality, in the sense that a religious practice could consist of a ritual action (e.g. a scoffer making the sign of the cross) without the intentional content that gives it religious meaning, or in a religious object (crucifix, candle, icon) without the meaning residing in an institutional fact. Although I would concede this point, in our view Searle isolates the intentional aspects too much from other aspects of human actions.11 This isolation can pose problems when we want to identify a certain practice as religious. For example, a mass by Johan Sebastian Bach is not a religious practice when it is performed in a theatre, and even a performance in church may not be interpreted as a religious practice but simply as a concert. To judge this practice it is important to know who organized the mass. If it was the cathedral staff (and not a musical society), we would be inclined to see it as a religious practice. So the religious character of the agent who organized the Bach mass is an important factor in interpreting this practice as religious. I think that sociocultural theory can help us to overcome this isolation of intentionality. Intentionality is just one aspect of human actions. It merely tells us why people are doing what they do. Wertsch (1998, p.13) refers to the pentad human actions presented by Burke. This pentad consists of the following elements: act, scene, agent, agency and purpose. Act refers to what takes place, both in thought and in deed. The scene refers to the situation in which the act occurs. Agent indicates the person or group that performs the act. Agency refers to the tools or instruments used in the performance, and purpose indicates the intentionality of the agent. Hence in order to understand an action, one has to answer five questions: What? Where? Who? How? Why? Wertsch puts a lot of stress on the connection between agent and agency, or what he calls mediating tools. Mediating tools in religion could be all kinds of sacred objects. Drisbey (1994, pp.164-171) refers to four categories: 11 Perhaps the main reason is that Searle seeks to confine the cause of human actions to the intention underlying them. An action consists of an intention and physical movement. The intention content, for instance, is ‘I am baptizing this child’ and the physical movement consists in pouring water on the child’s head. The intention causes the movement (Searle, 1983, p.84). Without this causation one could not speak of intentional action. The presence of water is a necessary condition; the intentional content in the agent’s mind is the sufficient condition. Although we do not disagree with Searle on this score, we would like to see the totality of symbols, tools, skills and ritual practices as more than just a background to action. Background creates the impression of being extrinsic to the action, which is precisely what we want to avoid.

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1. Tools that are set apart to assist in ritual contact with the divine. “Rosaries, chalices, church buildings, holy water and books are all mundane objects with common functions, refashioned or set apart to represent the divine to us” (Drisbey, 1994, p.164). The eucharistic bread and wine have the power to put the believer in contact with God. Or the sweet pudding offered to the deity by a Hindu woman is the same as she makes for her family, but in a ritual context it is a tool for the woman to establish contact with the divine. 2. Tools connected with the manifestation or revelation of the divine. Some places are venerated because of the religious experience associated with them. Thus the caves at Lourdes, the Ka’aba in Mecca and the Wailing Wall of the Jews in Jerusalem are connected with major religious experiences for the adherents of different religions. A visit to these holy places is a treasured emotional experience. 3. Tools connected with people who appear to have a special relationship with the divine. “Most religions have a separate category of people, who by their lives and characters seem to display some aspects of divinity – saints, gurus and holy men and, occasionally, women. (...) Veneration of such people leads to the veneration of tombs, statues and relics, things that represent or remind, things they have touched” (Drisbey, 1994, p168). 4. Tools which act as a focus of spiritual power. Objects can be perceived to have special power to charm, harm, cure or protect. One thinks of the holy water of Lourdes, a St Christopher medallion or an African charm containing texts from the Qur’an. “Religiously powerful objects, such as relics, holy water, charms and amulets are seen to cure and protect because they focus the power of the divine by consecration, contact, similarity or representation – that is, by some sort of association. And it is just this element of association, this agreed meaning, that makes such objects institutional” (Drisbey, 1994, p.171). Because of this close connection between agent and mediating tools, Wertsch defines action as mediated action. “The essence of examining agent and cultural tools in mediated action is to examine them as they interact” (Wertsch, 1998, p.25). One should not focus on the two elements separately and then connect them. The emphasis is on the interaction between them. This interaction is such that the boundaries between them soon begin to erode. Imagine, for example, a situation, in which adherents of a religion are singing sacred songs from hymn

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books to organ accompaniment. Mediated action consists of the interaction between singers (agents) and the songs in the hymn book (mediating tools). It would be wrong to restrict the religious singing to the singers. Changing the mediating tools would transform the mediated action (Wertsch, 1998, p.44). For example, the use of an electronic organ instead of a pipe organ, or the introduction of new arrangements of familiar hymns in the hymn book, would change the singing. The close connection between agents and tools in a religious practice at least partly explains people’s strong resistance to any change in the mediating tools. It is not just the tool that changes (e.g. a different musical instrument) but the mediated action as a whole. It becomes a new practice, which needs renewed collective acceptance. In religious practices mediated actions (agent plus mediating tools) function in a historical, sociocultural and institutional setting. It is essential for a sociocultural approach to institutions to see these elements as interactive, not as isolated factors. The meaning of constitutive rules in a situation (e.g. the Bach mass in a church building) can only be understood in interaction with all the other determinants of the practice, such as the agent (cathedral staff), the scene (Holy Week), the purpose (collective intention to meditate on the suffering of Jesus Christ) and the act (the Bach mass, introduced by a meditative homily, arousing feelings which the participants understand as religious). To express this interaction the sociocultural approach uses the concept of mind. Thus one can ask “how institutions think” (Douglas, 1987). “Mind is viewed here as something that “extends beyond the skin” in at least two senses: it is often socially distributed and it is connected to the notion of mediation” (Wertsch, 1998, p.14). We said above that it would be wrong to reify the collective beyond the actions and intentions of individuals. Here we want to stress that it is equally wrong to confine collective intentionality to the mind (cognitive system) of individuals. What do we mean, when we say that we as a congregation know what it means to baptize a child? This knowledge is distributed over all the interactive components of the practice: act, scene, agents, agency and purpose. The priest knows how to perform certain actions. Certain objects are used in this practice (water, oil, salt). The congregation is familiar with certain words and gestures. The scene is defined by the building in which the practice takes place. The ‘mind of institutions’ is not something within them, separated from the world out there. Knowledge of a religious practice is distributed between the agents (within a community), the act (beliefs, feelings and all other

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aspects affecting the ‘deed’ of the agent), the purpose of the action (collective intentionality), mediating tools (institutional objects), rules (conferring a status function), social objects (structure) and the historical and sociocultural setting. A change in any one aspect could mean that people will not know how to participate in a religious practice. (E) Transcendent meaning of the status function in religious practices. A constitutive rule has the form ‘X counts as Y in context C’. In religious practices X can in principle be anything: a tree, a building, a hymn, a chalice, a story, or a routine practice in a ritual or a procession. X is a component of a practice, that is an intentional action in a social context. In our discussion of mediated action (see D) we indicated that every aspect of the action, plus the intentionality of the agent, determines the content of a religious practice. A building is not a religious practice but a place for ritual activities, and a book is a holy book in the religious practices of people who want to understand their own life stories in the light of stories handed down in a religious tradition. But what does ‘religious’ mean in religious practices? Among all the practices that people engage in, how can we define certain ones as religious? On what grounds do we do so? What criterion do we apply? This question is important: if religious practices are indistinguishable from others, we should drop the term ‘religious’ because it has become meaningless. One solution is to compile a list of aspects of religion. By way of example we cite the five aspects of religion identified in the wellknown theory of Glock and Stark: 1. The belief dimension comprises “expectations that the religious person will hold a certain theological outlook, that he will acknowledge the truth of the tenets of the religion” (Stark & Glock, 1968, p.14). 2. The dimension of religious practice includes rituals (formal acts of worship that adherents of a religion are obliged to perform) and devotion (informal acts of worship which they are free to choose within a religion). 3. The experience dimension refers to feelings, perceptions and sensations which involve some communication with a divine essence (God, ultimate reality, transcendental authority). 4. The knowledge dimension refers to the expectation that religious persons will possess some minimum information about the basic tenets of their faith and rites, scriptures and traditions (Stark & Glock, 1968, p.16).

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5. The consequences dimension identifies the effects of the first four dimensions in people’s day-to-day lives. Such a list of dimensions of religion raises several questions. The fifth dimension is different from the other four in the sense that it results from them. Practices are reduced to rituals and devotion. but why are social actions (diaconate) not included? And what are the difference and the connection between belief and knowledge? We believe that an approach based on religious practices, such as the one developed in this subsection, has various advantages over a list of substantive dimensions of religion, such as the one compiled by Glock and Stark. Firstly, our approach has the advantage of offering a coherent concept of religion. The different aspects of a religious practice interact with one another. There is also a second advantage. In many (Western) theories of religion there is a tendency to reduce religion to religious beliefs as its core: For all religions it can be said that theology, or religious belief, is at the heart of faith. It is only within some set of beliefs about the ultimate nature of reality, of the nature and intentions of the supernatural, that other aspects of religion become coherent (Stark & Glock, 1968, p.16).

This reductive tendency is unmistakably influenced by something that we noted in the history of the concept of religion in Western culture (see 3.1.1), namely a preoccupation with justifying religious beliefs in a modern culture that denies the truth of these beliefs. There is nothing wrong with theological and philosophical justification of religious beliefs (Adriaanse, 1999), but it is wrong if it leads to a narrow focus on religions as belief systems. In an institutional approach religions are understood as religious practices in which beliefs play an important role. But the idea that beliefs are the most important factor is in itself a cultural (i.e. conventional) decision. Who decides this? What historical, institutional and sociocultural conditions influence this idea? From an empirical point of view this reductive view can lead to strange conclusions. Can people accept the idea that a ritual practice puts them in contact with the divine without holding some religious core belief regarding the divine? If belief was a necessary condition to call something religious, this would be impossible. However, we know from empirical research that there are people who do not believe in God (i.e. not in a theistic sense) but still regularly participate in Sun-

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day services (Felling et al., 1986; also see 1.3.4). An institutional approach has no problem with this phenomenon as long as the participants in a religious practice accept the status function of the practice. A person can share a collective intentionality about a ritual which has the status and function of putting one in contact with the divine, without having any particular belief in God or a supreme power. Religion as practice is better defined as an act of believing than as a belief. Religion is a verb referring to an activity, not a noun. “To believe is belief in motion, belief as it is lived” (Hervieu-Léger, 1999, p.84). It is what the individual or collective agent does about the statement they claim to believe.12 Our answer to the question of when we call a particular practice religious is based on the action orientation inherent in our institutional approach to religion. We have said that an institutional fact originates through the ascription of a status function (see A above). Let us take the same example: water ‘counts as’ baptismal water and baptism ‘counts as’ the establishment of a personal relation between God and human beings. The nature of this status function determines whether the practice is considered religious. A religious status function relates to the binary code, ‘transcendence–immanence’. Every ascription of a status function should be interpreted in terms of this binary code. We derive this working hypothesis from Luhmann (1996). In section 1.1 we defined the process of functional differentiation as the division of 12 Belief refers to propositional content abstracted from actions. According to Searle “it is a mistake to think that belief and desire are the primary forms of cognition and volition” (Searle, 1983, p.104). Perception and action are the primary forms of intentionality because they involve a direct causal relation with the environment. I perceive a tree and I intend to climb it. The conditions of satisfaction are given in perception and action (there is the tree that I see, and my climbing fulfils my intention to climb it). Perception necessarily entails something that caused my perception (and my memory of what I perceived). Intention necessarily entails something that can be caused by a person or group of persons. Belief and desire can entail anything, because they subtract from the resulting state. I can believe anything: there is no need for an object that caused my belief. I can desire anything. It need not be something that I can cause. A critical test of intentions (one that works in most cases, according to Searle 1983, p.81) is to phrase the intention as an imperative. The intention of a religious practice refers to something that can be established by a person. Success is possible though not necessary, because I may fail to accomplish it. Thus I may intend to bow my head, light a candle, listen to a religious story, sing to the Lord, but I cannot intend to believe or desire something. ‘Believe’ or ‘want’ do not signify actions, so they do not have a natural imperative mood. We think this is important for organizing learning processes for children and young people. We can introduce children to a religious practice, but we cannot want them to believe something – or if we do, the conditions of satisfaction are not within our control (also see chapter 5).

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society into diverse systems, each operating according to its own rationality. The rationality of the economic system is determined by the binary code ‘possession–non-possession’, and economic practices need to be interpreted according to this rationality. A document compiled by a notary according to certain precepts ‘counts as’ a deed of sale of a house. Person A is selling the house, person B is buying it. The house, as a property, passes from person A to person B. In religious practices the status function relates to transcendence–immanence. Baptism ‘counts as’ the establishment of a covenant between God and the baptized person. Reading a Bible story ‘counts as’ reading about experiences or events through God’s eyes. Helping a fellow human being ‘counts as’ something done to Christ (Matt. 22). In section 2.3 we saw that the relation between transcendence and immanence is crucial in thought and talk about God in a Christian perspective. Theologically we opted for a model in which transcendence and immanence are construed as a dyad. We are not saying that this is the only Christian conception, nor that all religions have the same conception of transcendence and immanence. But in terms of our institutional approach all we need to do is formally define our own rationality regarding the binary code ‘transcendence–immanence’. How different religions conceive of transcendence and immanence and the relation between the two depends on their own traditions. People can only ascribe a particular status function to a person, object or action on the authority of a tradition (see also C above). An institutional approach does not allow for a blanket definition of transcendence and immanence. Nor is that desirable, for such a substantive definition might result in the exclusion of certain actions as religious practices on the basis of our definition of transcendence. As long as the participants of a religious practice interpret their own actions in terms of the relation between transcendence and immanence, there is no reason to question their self-interpretation. This does not preclude adherents of another tradition critically examining this self-interpretation. But our question is when we can speak of a religious practice (as opposed to an economic, political, medical, judicial or therapeutic practice); and our answer is that religion refers to meaning assigned in a perspective of transcendence. The meaning of transcendence is determined within each tradition. In chapter 2, I gave a definition from a Christian perspective.

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(F) Locating religious practices in society. The institutional approach that we have opted for in this chapter focusses on the construction of meaning in religious practices. Religious practices are institutional facts whose meaning is determined by a constitutive rule, which always entails the ascription of a status function to a person, object or action. Religious practices are embodied in human actions, more particularly in the purposefulness (collective intentionality) of those who accept the status function. This intentionality determines whether listening to a Bach mass is an aesthetic or a religious practice. A major advantage of our institutional approach is that it enables us to locate religious practices at every level of society: local, national and transnational. With a view to the organization of learning processes (see chapter 5) our prime concern is with the local level, that is interpersonal action in face to face relations. Yet the local level cannot be separated from the national and transnational levels. We shall examine this relationship on the basis of the concept of a religious regime. A religious regime may be defined as a totality of inter-institutional relations of dependency which are more or less formalized and legitimized by religious experts (Bax, 1985, p.25). This definition has two main elements. First, a religious regime is a constellation of power inasmuch as it determines which practices are beneficial to the religion and which are deviant or anomalous. Secondly, the constellation of power has an ideological base. This not only indicates the significance of religious practices, but also provides strategies for retaining and entrenching power (‘how to fight and how to win’). Religious regimes in a society are constantly evolving. Bax (1985, p.28) mentions three dynamic processes that ensure this evolution: 1. the religious regime’s relation to the secular regime 2. its relation to other religious regimes and 3. internal tensions and polarities between the dominant regime and counter regimes in a religion. We cite an instance of each of these dynamic processes. First we look at the relation between a religious regime and a secular regime. Van Rooden (1996) divides Dutch history into four periods on the basis of the relation between the religious regime and the secular regime of government (both national and local). The first period is from the establishment of the Batavian republic (1580) to the French invasion (1795). Van Rooden calls this the period of the public church. Society was characterized by a hierarchy of religious groups,

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with the Reformed church at the top. Local authorities had considerable influence over the church: the clergy had no financial say; these authorities could appoint new clergy and supervise the spiritual lives of religious groups on the basis of common morality. Data on church membership are scanty, but in Haarlem (1620) only an estimated 50 percent of the population belonged to a church two generations after the inception of the Reformation. The 17th and 18th centuries, by contrast, saw the emergence of strong confessional allegiances. This was a result of the ideology that church membership accorded with the lifestyle of a respectable citizen (Van Rooden, 1996, p.23). Indeed, local authorities adopted a policy of leaving welfare work to the local churches. Citizens had to belong to a church to qualify for welfare. These practices were the outcome of a particular relationship between the secular regime (government) and the religious regimes. The second period, that of ‘Protestantism’,13 lasted from the French invasion to the mid 19th century. It was a period of great ideological tranquillity. The new unified Dutch state recognized only citizens, not hierarchically related religious groups. In addition religious groups were no longer subject to local authorities but depended on central government. The secular regime assigned religion the role of bolstering the new nationalism. Ideologically, the unified state saw itself as a moral community of virtuous citizens. Religion was located in the bosom of the virtuous citizen. The secular regime used various practices to propagate the ideology of the nation as a moral community (Van Rooden, 1996, p.115f.). The first was mass participation in an annual day of prayer decreed by the States General. Government organized the training of clergy at a national level with a view to their cultural and social homogeneity. There were also practices to promote the ideal of the cultured citizen. Here authenticity was a key value. The requirement that one had to belong to a particular church in order to have a career in the civil service promoted hypocrisy, so it was abolished. The third period was that of the ‘pillarized’ society (late 19th century to 1960). The ideology of civic virtue continued, but citizens were 13 This term may lead to the misconception that there was an official Protestant church, but Protestantism was never an official religion. At most one could say that the Protestant component of the population was dominant in society (Van Rooden, 1996, pp.29-30). The expression ‘Protestant nation’ should be understood in this sense.

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now regarded as members of particular groups.14 The secular regime (state) viewed religious groups as separate, autonomous moral communities which interrelated on the level of society at large (specifically via their elites). In the Netherlands of the 20th century it was no longer possible to profess an undifferentiated Christianity, as was possible in, for instance, the 17th century (cf. Coornhert, Spinoza). This relation between the secular and religious regimes likewise translated into certain practices. The most visible was the organization of the public order by segregating the various religious communities (i.e. Catholic education alongside [diverse kinds of] Protestant Christian and public education). The various religious regimes set about mobilizing their members internally through processes characterized by authoritarianism and moralism. The aim was to draw clear ideological boundaries between their own and other religious groups. After 1960 the situation changed radically (see chapter 1). Again it was accompanied by a new relation between the secular regime and the religious regimes. The state wanted to shed all divisive symbolic acts (such as those at the opening of parliament). To government the continuance of practices (like religiously affiliated schools) based on membership of different religious communities is a thorn in the flesh. To illustrate the dynamics between religious regimes we take the process between the religious regime of the Reformation and that of the Catholic Church. Protestant regimes compelled the Roman Catholic Church to embark on a process of austerity and privatization (Bax, 1985, p.30). Up to that time penance in the Catholic Church had been a public, collective practice. External pressure from the Protestant regime gradually changed it into a private affair between priest and individual believer. The introduction of the confessional owes its origin to this process. Certain practices (private confession in the confessional) are associated with the influence of other religious regimes, more particularly in their interrelationship. To illustrate the internal strain between the dominant regime and counter regimes we cite an example from Islam. Hoffer (2000) did a study of Islamic faith healers in the Netherlands.

14 In this period being a Christian meant belonging to a church and there were sharp divisions between denominations. Between 1889 and 1930 there was also an increase in the number of non-church members (from 1,5% to 15%) (Van Rooden, 1996, p.38). Until about 1960 this percentage remained unchanged but after this there was a massive decline in church membership (see chapter 1).

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A major element in the therapy of Islamic healers is the use of verses from the Koran, which they claim contain baraka (beneficent power). They use verses from the Koran in faith healing and the manufacture of amulets. In addition Islamic healers perform rituals to detect and neutralize supernatural causes of disease. An example is the rituals to exorcize djinns (invisible beings) (Hoffer, 2000, p.146).

From the official Islamic point of view, in the sense of the Sunni faith proclaimed by ulama (scribes) and imams in mosques, these practices are condemned. Yet they are performed, not only by Islamic healers but also by imams. These imams are approached informally, for instance to make amulets or perform rituals. Although their position does not permit them to do so officially, they sometimes comply with such requests informally. It should be noted that the practices of this counter regime are also legitimized by tradition (Qur’an and hadith). This accords entirely with what we have said above, namely that ultimately it is the authority of a tradition that determines whether or not a particular practice is considered religious. 3.4.2 Critical assessment Does the institutional view of religion outlined above meet our three criteria (section 3.1.2)? The first criterion refers to the notion of change and innovation implied in the linguistic approach. Is radical change possible in a religion or religious community, and is it intelligible? Is the change intelligibly related to the tradition and to the changing cultural-historical situation? Institutional theory highlights the importance of the tension between tradition and innovation. Institutions must hold on to their tradition in order to survive. Religious traditions “depend on the idea of following rules and therefore have internal authority that we associate with tradition, the authority of established and handed down practices” (Drisbey, 1994, p.86). The conventional power of religious practices depends on collective acceptance of a status function by adherents of a religion. We accept these practices because they are handed down to us by our tradition. As mentioned already, these practices are rule-governed behaviour. Via these (constitutive) rules a religious tradition also hands down criteria for the intelligibility of religious practices. We know what a priest does, what his status is and what his religious functions are. In this way religious traditions take care of the historical continuity of institutions. At the same time inno-

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vation is an intrinsic part of religious practice. Innovations can be caused by changes on a societal level (i.e. the religious regime) and on a personal or biographical level (Drisbey, 1994, pp.88-91). At the societal level we have already referred to the transformation of religious practices caused by the dynamics between the religious and secular regimes, between the religious regimes themselves, and internally between the dominant regime and counter regimes. These dynamics were illustrated in subsection 3.4.1 sub F, I shall not elaborate on it further. At a personal level there is no physical division between the different cultural domains (e.g. work, politics, family, recreation, religion) in which people function in their lives. A person works as a teacher in a primary school; she is part of a family where she fulfils the role of a mother of children; she is doing a Spanish course in the evenings; she is a volunteer in a home for abused woman; and on Sundays she sings in a church choir. People’s experiences in one domain influence the way they feel and think in other cultural domains. But life events, too, can trigger religious innovation. There are positive experiences like finding a partner, the birth of a child, an unexpected new job; and negative experiences like breaking off an old friendship, the death of a loved one, a serious car accident, a life-threatening disease. Such personal experiences influence the way people feel and think in the religious domain. They may feel uncomfortable with certain images of God; certain rituals may become meaningless because they conflict with the experiential meaning of the life events; new symbols in a religious tradition may become important as commemorations of life events. Innovation is a dynamic process that is, intrinsic to religion, seen as practice, but it would be wrong to regard something like a life event as a cause of religious change in its own right. From an institutional point of view there is always tension between innovation and tradition. For institutions, “the central core of their authority is their nature as established practices. Discussions within religious traditions about possible changes in their practices, and subsidiary questions about who has the authority to make changes, threaten the feeling of coherence and security produced by the inherent authority of a tradition” (Drisbey, 1994, p.226). Practices are also inherently resistant to change because of their acknowledged status function. Participants in the religious practices of a tradition accept their conventional power. As a result the introduction of, say, a new prayer book or the ordina-

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tion of women causes tension with the authority of established practices. Drisbey (1994) observes that one always focusses on ‘conservatives’ who are opposed to religious change, thus confining the problem to certain groups within a religious community. But from an institutional point of view, all adherents feel the authority of the rules that are implicit in the practices in which they participate. Some adherents, while acknowledging the authority of the tradition, will be in favour of change and will no longer accept the conventional power of a particular practice. Other members will still accept it. As long as enough members of a religion support a practice it will exist as an institutional fact. We conclude that an institutional theory can deal with the problem of intelligibility of change in religion without reducing the tension between tradition and innovation to either of these poles: The new institution has to be intelligibly related both to the institutions it replaces (in order to be recognized as a religious institution) and to the historical situation that provoked it (in order to satisfy the needs of its participants) (Drisbey, 1994, p.228).

A religious group can be defined as a chain of memory (HervieuLéger, 1999, p.89). It can only justify a form of faith through the claim of that it is inscribed in the religious heritage. A religious group needs the authority of a tradition to legitimize an object, activity or experience as religious. “The heritage of belief functions simultaneously as a principle of social identification, ad intra (through integrating into a believing community), and ad extra (by differentiation from those who are not of the same heritage)” (Hervieu-Léger, 1999, p.88). But inscription in a tradition is always in terms of a specific biographical, historical and sociocultural situation. So the process of inscription in a religious heritage is at the same time a process of – possibly radical – change. The chain of memory of the religious group is elaborated, renewed, changed with every practice in which it manifests itself. The second criterion for evaluating this concept of religion is the avoidance of religious imperialism. Can the institutional view of religion do justice to religious diversity? Yes, it can, because from an institutional point of view there are no constraints on which practices (objects, symbols, experiences, agents) can be designated religious. In principle anything could be religious. The only constraint on individuals is their social context or tradition. “Religions are not the product, nor the property, of individuals; they grow in, and belong to, commu-

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nities” (Drisbey, 1994, p.224). The sweet pudding that the Hindu woman offers to the deity is a religious object only by virtue of Hindu tradition. The cross is a religious symbol to Christians, because the Christian tradition accepts it as referring to the life and death of Jesus Christ. From an institutional point of view religious imperialism is excluded principally because an institutional fact only exists on the basis of participants’ acceptance. The conferral of a status function on objects, persons or events only works in relation to people (Searle, 1995, p.97). Without the auto-perspective of participants in a religious practice, we cannot declare that a given institutional fact exists. All we can say from the outside is that a physical fact (a wooden cross) or a social fact (gathering of people) exists. To call it an institutional fact, we need to know the nature of the participants’ intentionality. If they accept it as a religious object, activity or experience, then it is a religious object, activity or experience. The third criterion is that we should not make religion an isolated category, nor should we reduce it to other phenomena in personal or societal life. The fact that religion is a distinctive phenomenon does not exclude the possibility of locating its origin and influence in personal, cultural and societal life, but its contextual embeddedness does not reduce it to any other function in life. Religion is not just an anthropological category. Does the institutional theory of religion meet this criterion? An institutional theory can avoid the problem inherent in a functional definition of religion. From an institutional point of view not everything can be called religion. In religious practices certain objects, persons or actions are assigned a status function which distinguishes them from other objects, persons or actions to which no religious significance is ascribed. By applying a constitutive rule a particular phenomenon is isolated as a religious phenomenon. Tradition determines what may be called religious. Religious practices differ from other cultural practices in that their status function is based on the meaning of transcendence–immanence. We have referred to a working hypothesis (3.4.1 sub E). How a religion interprets transcendence and relates it to immanence depends on its tradition, and can only be determined by intra-traditional criteria. What is excluded by this postulate is that transcendence and immanence could be wholly unrelated. If they were, religion would have nothing to do with personal life and human society. It would be quite incomprehensible in terms of the historical, social and cultural contexts in which people live. From an institutional point of view there is

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absolutely no criterion for accepting or rejecting a religious practice other than collective recognition of the authority of a convention (tradition). This gives an institutional theory of religion an open character15 without dissolving the distinctive quality of religious practices in the pool of cultural practices. We believe that an institutional theory of religion satisfies the third criterion: distinctiveness without isolation from personal and social life.

15 This open character is not uncritical. In chapter 2 we settled for an open concept of tradition, an open question about (In)finitude and openness towards marginality and the marginalized. We rejected the other normative positions: the post-traditional and traditionalist concepts of tradition (2.2.1, 2.2.2); the fundamentalist approach to the question of transcendence (2.3.1); and an approach from the centre (2.4).

CHAPTER FOUR

A SOCIALLY CONSTRUCTED RELIGIOUS SELF

Why do we describe someone as ‘a religious person’? Do some people do things that make us describe them as religious? Do religious people have certain ideas that prompt this definition? In short, on what grounds do we call a person religious? It is an important question, because religious education is about educating people (children, youths, adults), so we must know what kind of people we want to educate them to be. That raises a crucial problem of religious education. In this chapter we refer to the religious self rather than the religious person. The exact nature of the self dealt with in psychology will be explained in section 4.1. In this introduction we merely consider briefly what is meant by ‘the self’. Everybody has heard adolescents questioning themselves: Who am I? What do I want from life? But even before these troubled questions arise, we all know that there is such a thing as a personal ‘self’. Thus small children learn at an early age that they are distinct from their environment (McAdams,1993). When a child-minder removes something from the environment and the child does not like it, it will start crying. “Me,” it will say, or ‘I.’ This self-awareness is essential for human existence. Imagine going to bed at night not knowing whether the person who will wake up in the morning will be you. Or somebody hits you and you don’t know whether it is you who is feeling the pain. The ‘self’ refers to a causal, continuous, autonomous actor existing in time and space (McAdams, 1993, p.44) (also see 4.1.1 and 4.1.2). What, then, is the religious self? The way we define religion has implications for our definition of the religious self. In chapter 3 religion was defined in a cultural and institutional perspective as a particular practice. It is a special subcategory of the broad category ‘social practices’, to wit an institutional practice. Religion is a form of rulegoverned (intentional) behaviour in which, on the authority of some tradition, people assign religious status to certain things (objects, persons, actions); that is to say the significance of these things is interpreted in a perspective of transcendence versus immanence. The point at issue in this chapter is the relation between such religious practices and the religious self. How does the religious self relate to these prac-

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tices? We have identified six attributes of religious practices. Can these attributes be applied to the religious self? Any theory of the religious self, such as we shall work out in this chapter, must offer an answer to that question. – Can one actually assign participation in certain practices a focal place in the religious self? Should one not make a clear distinction between the self and any practices in which that self may engage? – To what extent can the religious self be defined as a relational self which constitutes itself in and via a community? – What does affiliation with the authority of a tradition mean to the religious self? Is it not a feature of the personal self that it is the seat of authority? – What significance does the binary code of transcendence versus immanence have for the religious self? – Can mediated action have any place in the religious self? How does the religious self relate to the religious ‘tools’ which it learns to use in religious practices? – To what extent is the religious self influenced by power constellations in which religious traditions are situated? Can the religious self also be regarded as a socially located self? These questions will be considered in section 4.2, but before that we shall determine what psychological theory to use in defining the religious self. Because of the relation between religious practices and the religious self we are looking for a psychological theory which roots the self in sociocultural practices. In our view social constructionism offers such a theoretical position (see 4.1.1). We then describe the concept of a dialogic or polyphonic (i.e. multi-voiced) self, developed by the Nijmegen personality psychologist H. Hermans (4.1.2). The concept of a polyphonic self is compatible with the premises of social constructionism. In the conclusion to the chapter we look into the problem of religious development (4.3). This is another fundamental issue if we are to determine the aims of religious education. Religious development is the ultimate aim of religious education.1 In the pedagogics of religion

1 An ultimate aim must be distinguished from a concrete goal at the level of the lesson or general goals at the level of a curriculum. An ultimate aim determines the direction in which pupils’ education is steered. Goals at the level of the lesson and the curriculum are considered to contribute to the realization of this ultimate aim.

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it is a major factor which we cannot evade in a fundamental study such as this. Our basic question is: what is religious development? After critically analyzing one of the current theories on the development of the religious self (4.3.1) we offer an alternative view, namely the development of the religious self through participation in religious practices (4.3.2). Here the concept of the zone of proximate development is focal.

4.1 Social construction of the self This chapter is entitled A Socially Constructed Religious Self. In choosing the title we placed ourselves in the broad trend of social constructionism as it emerged in psychology (and other disciplines) in recent years. Our grounds for aligning ourselves with this trend are fairly obvious in view of our institutional theory of religion. Religion as a practice is a social construction in which people assign transcendental significance to certain persons, objects or events on the basis of a tradition. In psychology the term ‘social constructionism’ has various meanings. In addition the mainstream of academic psychology fiercely contests (certain versions of) social constructionism. Hence our use of the term calls for elucidation, which we provide in section 4.1.1. There we first deal with the criticism of this school of thought and then relate our psychological theory of the self to other theories. 4.1.1 Social constructionist theories of the self Social constructionism takes its name from the thesis that, on the face of it, our knowledge of a particular phenomenon in the real world is self-evident (or ‘given’), yet such knowledge is culturally and socially determined (Hacking, 1999, p.12). Social construction may refer either to the constructed product or to the construction process. Sexspecific behaviour is a product created by social structures, the outcome of a history in which social and cultural factors play a role. But the process in which sex-specific behaviour is constructed is itself socially structured, in the sense that social and cultural factors interact in the creation of such behaviour. Certain behaviour by girls is corrected by adults as being unfeminine, and this is justified on cultural grounds (e.g. “The emotional bond with the mother is very important to children”). According to Hacking (1999, p.49) this is the aim of

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social constructionism: “displaying or analyzing actual, historically situated, social interactions or causal routes that led to, or were involved in, the coming into being or establishing of some present entity or fact.” Our main objective in this section is to determine how reality can be known in terms of social constructionism.2 Our reason for exploring this epistemological question is that it poses a problem. Despite a mountain of publications whose titles refer to the “social construction” of some phenomenon or other, social constructionism as a school in the social sciences has no solid base of common theoretical premises (Hacking, 1999). Although the various theorists all share the aforementioned aim, they seek to achieve it in different theoretical frameworks. An epistemological problem that keeps cropping up in the debate is this: if all knowledge of reality is socially constructed, does that not mean that all knowledge is relative? Can one still meaningfully speak of ‘reality’? Does it not consist entirely of social constructions? And is one social construction not as good as the next one, so that all ‘knowledge’ of reality is in fact relative? We shall approach this problem in two steps. First we consider how social constructionism proposes that social reality (e.g. institutional practices) can be known. To this end we use four hypotheses devised by Ken Gergen (1999). According to Gergen all representations of reality are linguistic and this linguistic meaning is socially and culturally constructed. But the converse is not true: not all of reality is language. In the process of social construction we must distinguish between objective and subjective in an ontological and epistemological sense (Searle, 1995). Ontology is about the way something ‘exists’; epistemology is how we can ‘know’ something. Then we will ask the same question about the human self. What do we refer to when we say that the self exists? How do we know the self? Here we propose the same solution as we offered to the question of knowledge of social reality. Following Harré (1998), we suggest a dual ontology: knowledge of the human self is based on language (or, more broadly, the human system of meaning) and on neurobiological processes within the human body. What is knowledge of social reality? Gergen cites four hypotheses in social constructionism. 2 Not all readers may be interested in this key problem (epistemology). To understand the next section (on the polyphonic self) it is not essential to read this section.

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The first hypothesis is that the way we understand ourselves and the world is not dictated by what actually exists (Gergen, 1999, p.47). There is no world independent of language. Everything that exists can be described in different ways. “There is nothing about ‘what there is’ that demands these particular accounts; we could use our language to construct alternative worlds in which there is no gravity or cancer, or in which persons and birds are equivalent, and punishment adored” (Gergen, 1999, p.47). From a constructionist perspective our understanding of the world is a linguistic convention, and this convention is not self-evident. We can use language to construct a different world altogether. The second hypothesis is that the way we describe and explain things stems from interpersonal relations. The meaning of the world is not decided by isolated individuals but forms part of the coordination of individual actions. Language and all other forms of representing the world are rooted in relationships. The third hypothesis is that through our description, explanation or representation of the world we also determine its future. “As our practices of language are bound within relationships, so are relationships bound within broader patterns of practice – rituals, traditions, ‘forms of life”’ (Gergen, 1999, p.48). Without a common language in which institutions are described and explained they would not exist in their present form. By describing the world differently we transform it. The fourth hypothesis highlights the importance of reflecting on our ways of understanding and explaining the world. In a world where there are many conflicting notions of goodness there are no universal answers. Good reasons, good explanations or good values always depend on a tradition which accepts certain constructions as good and real. “For constructionists such considerations lead to a celebration of reflexivity, that is, the attempt to place one’s premises into question, to suspend the ‘obvious’, to listen to alternative framings of reality, and to grapple with the comparative outcomes of multiple standpoints” (Gergen, 1999, p.49). The question is whether Gergen does not slip into a universal constructivism through his assumption that there is no reality apart from our linguistic representation of it. Only things that are spoken about exist. The notion appears to be perfectly in order. What would the street in which you live be apart from your description of it? Or what would poverty be apart from our definition of it? Obviously language is an important means of understanding and representing the world.

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But that does not mean that reality can be reduced to the words (embedded in relationships and practices) that we use to talk about it. Hacking (1999, p.24) calls that linguistic idealism. We can avoid this danger by making a distinction between what our speech refers to and the statements we construct about that referent. Our statement about a tree in front of our house presupposes the existence of such a tree. Its existence is a condition for our speech and we can know the tree objectively. It is not just something we choose to construct or not to construct. In this regard John Searle (1995, p.8) distinguishes between modes of existence in reality (i.e. ontology) and how we know something (epistemology). Things can be ‘ontologically objective’ or ‘ontologically subjective’. Mountains and trees are ontologically objective, because their mode of existence is independent of any perceiver or mental state. Pain and collective intentionality are subjective entities in an ontological sense. They exist in the minds of persons. There is also an objective–subjective distinction in an epistemic sense. Epistemically speaking, ‘objective’ and ‘subjective’ are primarily predicates of judgments (Searle, 1995, p.8). Either you like a painting by Van Gogh, or you do not. But you can know objectively that Van Gogh was born in the Netherlands. It is not something you can simply construe as you please. Institutional facts are ontologically subjective (i.e. a mental state of people). But this does not mean that they are also epistemically subjective. Perceiver-dependent institutional phenomena can be epistemically objective even though their ontology is perceiver-dependent and thus contains an ontologically subjective element (Searle, 1998, p.117).

Institutional facts, such as religion, are not found in physical facts (e.g. volcanoes or rain storms) but exist in people’s minds, that is to say in people who collectively assent to a status function (Searle, 1998, p.126). For the transition from facts to interpretation language is a crucial instrument, precisely because of its symbolizing function. A candle refers to the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Baptismal water refers to God’s creative activity. A candle, water, buildings, rituals, diaconal activity acquire religious meaning in people’s collective orientation. Remove people from religion and you are left with no religion at all. That does not mean that religion is based on a subjective way of knowing, as when one person finds Bach’s music beautiful and another dislikes it. As an institution religion has a certain structure based on rules for action. This structure of religion in the sense of religious prac-

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tice (see 3.4.1) makes objective knowledge of religion possible. People can explain why they concern themselves about vagrants and homeless people in a particular district. Or: what is the substance of their intentional orientation? Why does this concern about marginalized people have a religious status function? What form does the activity assume? These things can be known with epistemic objectivity and hence cannot be construed just as you please. I might use language to construct another world in which there is no such thing as money and hence no debt to other people, but that will not avail me much. As is evident from Gergen’s four hypotheses, social constructionism seeks to demonstrate the non-necessity of X. This relates more to the idea of X than to the fact of it (Hacking, 1999, p.28).3 The classification of certain behaviour as sex-specific may be contested. The concept of poverty may be debated, as in fact happens in the literature (see 2.4.1). The same applies to the characterization of certain practices as religious practices. Social reality is constructed, and it can be constructed differently if we use other concepts or define our concepts differently. This is possible because these concepts are culturally determined and evolved historically. By exposing their apparently self-evident nature it becomes possible for people to control their own future. This emancipatory or transformative intention is clearly apparent in Gergen’s third and fourth hypotheses. Knowing that a particular notion of the world is constructed enables people to consider it critically and reflectively and decide otherwise (see Hacking, 1999, p.58). So far we have spoken about our notions of social reality as constructions. Now we want to look more specifically at the human self. Is the human self also a social construct, and if so, in what respect? Let us start by stating that in mainstream psychology the self or the human person does not feature. What is known as first generation cognitive psychology was a reaction to behaviourism, which was only interested in human response patterns. What happens in between an external stimulus (“the light turns red”) and the response (“the traffic stops”) is unknown (a black box). First generation cognitive psycholo3 One of the first books to refer to the social construction of reality was a work with that title by Berger and Luckmann (1966). The subtitle of the book (A treatise in the sociology of knowledge) shows that it is not about reality as such but about ideas or knowledge of reality. The authors’ thesis is that we experience everyday reality as something fixed, taken for granted in society. This self-evident character of reality obscures the fact that our knowledge of it is constructed socially through human activities. ‘Any body of knowledge comes to be socially established as “reality”’ (Berger & Luckmann, 1966, p.3).

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gy tried to take this unknown space into account by searching, in the footsteps of the natural sciences, for causal processes in people’s mental activities (Harré, 1998, p.31). Ultimately these causal processes are rooted in the human neurobiological system. Once we understand these neurological processes, we understand human behaviour. Concepts like the self and the person are quite unnecessary to interpret human behaviour. And the idea of a social construction of neurological processes is flagrant nonsense. The distinction between ‘X the fact’ and ‘X the concept’ that we used to clarify the controversy about social constructionism can help us to resolve this dilemma as well. Every psychological study of an aspect of human life (e.g. consciousness or feelings) starts by assuming a neurological basis as prerequisite for all human activity (Harré, 1998, p.45). Without this ‘fact’ we cannot speak about a human self or humanly related activities and processes. At the same time any psychological practice or phenomenon is a skilled activity by one or more people: ‘A performance is skilled if it is intentional, that is directed to some end, and is subject to criteria of correctness, propriety, in short is normatively constrained’ (Harré, 1998, p.45). We say that a human activity is well or badly executed. We correct unskilled performers, like children or novices at a given sport. “This is how you should sit at table”, and: “Speak politely to strangers”. But what constitutes a skilled or proficient performance depends partly on the cultural and social processes underlying its structure and content. It is absurd to speak about neurological processes as social constructs. The notion of what constitutes a good intentional act, however, is a convention. Yet however self-evident this convention may be (at face value anyway), it is a product of social structuring and could have a different form and content. All activities through which human beings actualize themselves can be described from both perspectives. It is wrong to reduce either perspective to the other. It is important, moreover, to keep the two together when one speaks about human activities. Harré maintains that this premise is substantiated by the Russian developmental psychologist Lev Vygotsky.4 According to Harré (1998, p.27) Vygotsky’s developmental psychology is based on two principles:

4 Vygotsky is an important thinker cited by various authors whom we have categorized as taking a social constructionist’s view of both the self generally (see Penuel & Wertsch, 1995; Harré, 1998; Holland et al., 1998; Gergen, 1999) and the religious self (Alma, 1998; Jablonski, Hermans & Van der Lans, 1998; Day, 2001).

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(1) For each individual person thought and language have independent origins. Thought begins in the native activity of the nervous system, while language begins in social interaction. (2) The structure of the developed human mind comes about through the acquisition of skills in psychological symbiosis with others. Infants are assisted with their unorganized activities by adults. Through this interaction between child and adult the unorganized mental activities of neonates are structured. These mental activities are only possible because of an innate neurobiological basis. But the child’s intentional behaviour does not originate from nothing, nor does it presuppose a fully formed consciousness. The child discovers a relation between the word ‘mama’ and the fact that its mother passes it a particular object. The transition between reaching for an object with its hands and asking for it presupposes the origin of a self as a point of reference. In the absence of interaction with adults its unorganized mental activities will not become structured. According to Vygotsky everything happens at two levels: that of interpersonal interactions and that of individual consciousness. The inchoate and unstructured mental activity of neonates becomes “the mind of a person”, including that person’s sense of self, as a synthetic unity, by virtue of acquiring cognitive and practical skills, prominent among which are the skills of speaking (Harré, 1998, p.43).

Appropriation of dialogue between people results in intrapersonal dialogue which individuals conduct with themselves. Thus the activity in which a child asks itself whether it is time to go home is partly a result of a conversation with its parent(s), in which the adult impressed on the child that it should be home by a given time. In Vygotsky’s terms, intra-mental activities (within people) are linked with prior inter-mental activities (between people). Without these inter-mental activities there will be no rule-governed or intentional behaviour. What is totally impossible in the social constructionist view is any perception of the self as a non-observable (neo-Cartesian) mental space of causal mechanisms. The idea seems to be that an authentic human self (universal, invariable) is retained if one strips away everything that is perceived as extraneous to the self. This is in fact precisely what mainstream cognitive psychology looks for – universal causal mechanisms independent of context. From a social constructionist perspective there is only a human self which actualizes itself in mean-

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ingful, rule-governed behaviour. Harré (1998, p.32) cites Searle (1995), who maintains that human behaviour is intentional. Without intentionality and norms activities cannot be seen as expressive of a human self in relation to other people. What does that mean? What are we saying about a person when we ascribe self-value to him or her? Self-value does not refer to people’s causally effective inner processes. It is only meaningful when it refers to rule-governed behaviour which, on the basis of cultural conventions, is considered to express ‘self-value’. Self-value can be a complex personality trait. Maybe ‘evil’ is less complex. But even evil does not refer to neurobiological processes as hidden causes within the self. The only meaningful way to speak about traits of the self is as expressions of meaningful activities in relation to other people. What signifies ‘evil’ to one group of people in no way expresses evil in terms of another group’s convention. Thus social constructionist psychology of the self is based on a dual ontology (Harré, 1998, p.176), namely neurobiological processes embedded in the body of the human self, and a system of meaning embedded in skills, habits, practices and other human activities. But a dual ontology raises the problem of how the two ontologies interrelate. Harré (1998, p.44) seeks to solve this problem by means of what he calls a tool/task distinction. Human activities are performed with the aid of all kinds of tools. Social and institutional activities are inconceivable without such tools. Here we refer to our explanation of religious practices as mediated actions (see section 3.4 D). The baptism of a child as a religious practice is only conceivable in terms of all sorts of tools associated with this activity: certain objects (water, a font, oil, salt, special vestments), the set pattern of the baptismal ritual, certain actors (priest, parents, child, godfather, godmother), religious symbols and a religious system of meaning which, on the basis of a tradition, interprets this as a religious practice. The human body, too (especially the brain and central nervous system), may be regarded as a tool that is requisite for action. One can make a distinction between neurobiological and cultural bases of behaviour, but they should not be separated as the foundation of human activities. Hence although there is a dual ontology, there is no dualism. A given task presupposes both tools in close interaction. To conclude the section we reiterate our critical question: does a social constructionist theory of the self avoid total relativism? We used Harré’s premise that every activity of the human self has both a neu-

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robiological and a cultural-communicative basis. Is the neurobiological basis universal and the cultural basis particular and contingent? No, according to Harré both bases of human behaviour have a universal aspect that indicates the measure of what is humanly possible. Harré (1998, p.18) summarizes social constructionism in two theses or doctrines:5 (1) Human beings acquire their typically human psychological characteristics, powers and tendencies in ‘symbiotic’ interactions with other human beings, the necessary conditions for which are to be found in human ethology. (2) The essential linguistic basis for all human practices imposes a measure of universality on what a human being can meaningfully do, since there are moral and material conditions for the very possibility of language, while the essentially cultural nature of the semantics and syntax of linguistic and other symbolic systems imposes a measure of diversity on what a human being actually does. The first doctrine focusses on the ethological basis of human nature as a measure of what is humanly possible. A human being cannot accomplish something that falls outside the socio-biological possibilities of the human species. Harré’s reference to ethology appears to suggest a broader perspective than just the human brain and central nervous system, in that it places these physical conditions within social patterns of human interaction. The ethological basis is a measure of universality, while the cultural nature of the process of personality development offers a measure of diversity to what people can become. As human beings we can play football, sprint, cycle or play basketball, but this diversity of sports assumes a single socio-biological basis embedded in the human physical and social constitution.6 The second doctrine focusses on communication via the human system of meaning (specifically language). This linguistic basis of 5 The first doctrine relates to the cognitive system and the second to the system of meaning (i.e. lingual communication). Thus Harré remains true to Vygotsky’s earlier premise that language and thought have different origins. 6 Since then modern neuropsychology appears to have found a solid basis for this notion (Brandsford et al., 1999, chapter 5). Thus it would appear that the visual and auditory systems have neurological structures in the brain which determine what people are capable of seeing and hearing. But the extent to which these faculties develop depend also on the child’s experience. Thus Japanese children do not learn to distinguish between ‘r’ and ‘l’ because it does not occur in their linguistic experience.

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human activities likewise has a set of universal conditions, such as the ability to express feelings and perceptions. Without these conditions no linguistic system would be possible. But according to Harré every conversation also has universal moral conditions, such as the reciprocal assignment of rights to people. Thus if A is entitled to speak, then so is B. Local circumstances and situations cause diversity in people’s actual communication, but this does not alter the existence of universal conditions. In short, the two doctrines in which Harré summarizes social constructionism appear to be sufficiently solid to prevent lapsing into total relativism while still leaving scope for cultural diversity. At first glance the activities in which the human self manifests itself appear to be selfevident and inescapable. Social constructionism contests this self-evidence by showing that our notions of the self are culturally and socially determined. The self which we describe, analyze and profess to observe in and through all kinds of practices is a culturally and socially constructed self.7 4.1.2 The dialogic or polyphonic self What psychological concept of the self can we develop on the basis of the premises of social constructionism outlined above? In recent years a great many psychological theories of the self have emerged under the broad umbrella of social constructionism (Cox & Lyddon, 1997). We shall use a concept evolved by H. Hermans (and co-workers), known as the dialogic or polyphonic self. Distinctive features of this approach are that it presents the self as embedded in space and space as embedded in the self; posits an indissoluble link between self and other; roots the self in collective meanings; and views the self as an ‘embodied self’. These attributes are important if the self is to be related to practices, in our case religious practices. We shall construe the concept of the polyphonic self from its historical roots in the dialectic between ‘I’ and ‘me’, as developed by William James, and the narrative self that emerged in psychology in the 1980s. Such an approach

7 We shall examine the relation between the cultural and social factors in the construction of the self in more detail below (see 4.2.1). Culturalists ascribe all influence to cultural motives and activities. Radical constructivists ascribe all influence to social factors in particular situations (see Holland et al., 1998). We shall try to avoid both extremes and allow for the influence of both factors (also see 4.2.6).

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has the advantage that it displays both continuity and discontinuity with these concepts. Personal identity has something to do with continuity through time. The way we think about this is distinctively influenced by William James’ distinction between ‘I’ and ‘me’. According to James the I is equal to the self-as-knower which continually organizes and interprets experience in a purely subjective manner. The I has three characteristics: continuity, distinctness and volition (H. Hermans, 2001). When I think about myself, I perceive the sameness of the present self and the self of yesterday. In my thoughts I not only think about myself (present and past), but my identity is also constructed in thought. Personal identity has to do with a feeling of distinctiveness. The self exists separately from others. Another characteristic of the I is a sense of personal volition. In processing experiences I can appropriate or reject certain thoughts about myself. All three features express awareness of self-reflectivity. It is not immediately clear what my identity is, but in a sense I can step outside myself and reflect on myself. This self-reflective I is reflecting on Me. I can reflect on Me walking through the city, reading a book, eating with my family, driving a car, being irritated by other drivers. The Me is the self as I know it. The importance of James’ notion of self-identity is twofold. James extends the self to the context in which the self lives, thus overcoming the mind-body dualism of the Cartesian ego. The assumption is that there is an intrinsic relation between the I and the (material) Me. Secondly, although the self is distinct from other people, the perspective of the other is included as part of the self. Thus he overcomes the self-other dualism. In this way James takes an important step towards decentralizing the subject. The self cannot be conceptualized as a disembodied, self-contained ego. The narrative trend in psychology in the 1980s translated the distinction between I and Me into a narrative framework (H. Hermans & Hermans-Janssen, 2001). The I represents the author of the story, and the Me the actor or other character in the story. A person is identified as a motivated storyteller (H. Hermans & Hermans-Janssen, 1995). The narrative element incorporates contextuality into the self. A historical event can only be understood when it is located in the context of time and space. The self is constantly being affected by other actors and influencing them. Contextualism is critical of any mechanical view of the self. There is no determinism in the self, as expressed in a sentence like ‘All your problems are caused by the way you were

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brought up in this religious group’. Contextualism is also critical of an organistic view of the self, expressed in a statement like: ‘If you had greater religious maturity, you would understand’. There is no a-contextual, organic structure looming at the end of a series of progressive steps or stages of maturation. Contextualism also opposes formalism as manifested in personality trait models (‘She is a really emotional type’). In a story different events can be integrated in a plot. A story is sensitive to particulars of time and space, but also to the particularity of a specific actor. ‘The person as a storyteller does not react on stimuli but is oriented to the realization of purposes and goals and is involved in a continuous process of meaning construction’ (H. Hermans & Hermans-Janssen, 1995, p.9). In a story different actors can be integrated, referring both to actual persons and to imaginary actors (e.g. an ideal self such as a deeply religious person or a wise woman). In a life story there is room for changes over time that are not necessarily predictable. Life is a story with unexpected twists, unforeseen meetings, emerging situations and, above all, an open end. The characteristic of narrative brings together the notions of dialogue and self. There is dialogue both within the self and between the self and others. I do not tell my self-narrative only once but keep retelling it. At the same time others tell a story about me or include me in their story. So I not only construct the story of my life but am also the subject of narratives that are told about me. This dialogue can be between me and a real other, but also between me and an imagined other. ‘I walk in the street talking to my late father about a decision that I have to make in my life.’ The actors in a story can have opposing positions as protagonist and antagonist. In the real or imaginary space of the story I transpose myself from one position to the other. The third characteristic is that stories are populated by motivated actors who are purposefully oriented to the world. The theme of a story may vary (money, politics, sex, religion, folly, etc.) but there are only two basic themes in collective stories – heroism and love – and these themes are reflected in the psychological motives of individual people. ‘Two motives are distinguished: the striving for selfenhancement (i.e., self-maintenance and self-expansion) and the longing for contact and union with the environment or other people’ (H. Hermans & Hermans-Janssen, 1995, p.13). These motives bring coherence to events that are otherwise fragmented and dispersed over time and space. The concept of the polyphonic self integrates the distinction

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between I and Me and the narrative self-concept in a dialogic concept of the self. What is new about the concept of the polyphonic self? (1) There is not just one author of a self-narrative. This is the first characteristic of the polyphonic self: the retreat of the omniscient author. The self can be defined in terms of ‘a dynamic multiplicity of relatively autonomous I-positions’ (H. Hermans, 2001). ‘The I has the possibility to move, as in space, from one position to the other in accordance with changes in situation and time. (...) The I has the capacity to imaginatively endow each position with a voice so that dialogical relations between positions can be established. The voices function like interacting characters in a story. Each character has a story to tell about experiences from its own stance. As different voices these characters exchange information about their respective Me(s) and their worlds, resulting in a complex, narratively structured self’ (Hermans, Kempen & Van Loon, 1992, pp.28-29). (2) The other is not only outside but also inside the self. Self and other are mutually inclusive. The dialogic self is a social self, also when we speak about internal dialogue. In internal dialogue we always presuppose another party to whom we tell our story. A self-narrative is never told to nobody. It always has an addressee, and it is structured towards this addressee. Again, this can be a real other or an imagined other. Internal dialogue (within the self) can never be disconnected from external dialogue (between selves). The other that speaks to me becomes an I position within me with whom I am engaged in internal dialogue. The other that speaks inside me is a collective voice. Speakers constructing unique stories always speak in the social languages with which they are familiar. Our individual voice represents a collective voice. When I speak about God one hears the voice of the specific Christian denomination to which I belong. If one asks young children what they think on hearing the name ‘Holy Spirit’, one will get completely different meanings that can be traced to the different communities to which these children belong (see Jablonski, Hermans & Van der Lans, 1998). It is important to see the relationships as dialogic rather than logical. In a logical relation A excludes not-A. In a dialogic relation A and not-A coexist in the same space simultaneously. That means that the different I positions interact constantly, referring to a plurality of ‘worlds’ within the self. I am both angel and devil, hero and coward, brave and scared.

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(3) The embodiment of the self finds its basis in the assumption that space is not just outside but also within the self. ‘Dialogue implies spatially located interlocutors involved in question and answer, and in agreement and disagreement. (...) Moreover, given the intrinsic relationship between space and body, dialogues are not only spatial but also embodied’ (H. Hermans, 2001). A dialogic relationship also involves nonverbal communication. The spatial conditions in which the self-narrative is constructed influence the storyline: what an actor can and cannot do. The embodiment of the self moreover includes cultural tools that are part of the story. When telling a story about a car journey, we are implying a cultural tool (e.g. the car and its accessories) (H. Hermans & Kempen, 1995, p.104). Our self-identity is also embodied in cultural tools that represent certain cultural values. Driving a BMW is not the same story as driving a Fiat. A relational or dialogic perspective suggests that the self is distributed between the body and the environment. (4) The self is involved in a process of positioning and repositioning, of organization and reorganization. I believe in God, but there is also disbelief in me, as well as anger, love, anxiety, and so on. The contrasting poles of a personal identity construct ‘may be conceived of as voiced I positions that not only are intersubjectively related, but also differ in their relative dominance’ (Hermans, 1996, p.22). Discussions about the self should focus not only on stability, consistency and coherence, but also on possibly fertile instability, inconsistency and incoherence. Different I positions function like a countermelody in a polyphonic composition. In different conditions the relative dominance of one I position over other I positions may change. A less dominant I position (‘I feel nervous talking to women’) can become increasingly meaningful in new situations and thus acquire greater dominance in the self. Hermans also refers to the process of tension reduction (cf. Loevinger). When the tension between two I positions becomes too great, the dominance of the two positions may decrease simultaneously.

4.2 The ‘religious self’ In the heading of this section we put the term ‘religious self’ in quotation marks. This is because the religious self, like the ‘economic self’ or

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the ‘juridical self’, is a metaphor. There are no mental activities or psychological processes that one could call religious in contradistinction to non-religious activities. To do so would require the existence of specifically religious experiences, a claim we rejected in section 3.2. When we speak about a religious self we actually mean a self-in-religious-practices, so the term ‘religious self’ below should be read as an abbreviation for that. In chapter 3 we described religious practices with reference to six attributes. Below these attributes are related to the self-in-religious practices. 4.2.1 The self-in-religious-practices How does the self relate to the practices in which it is embedded? Is the human self an entity (‘something’) distinct from practices? There appear to be good grounds for such a statement, for a person may observe a situation and then act on the basis of certain intentions. People may reflect critically on situations and, on the strength of their reflection, decide to shape the situation in a particular way. Of course, people do not act in a vacuum. We are constantly engaging in practices: from the rituals of getting up in the morning – breakfast, going out into the traffic – to sporting activities in our leisure time. That may be so, but the human self is not identical with these social and institutional practices. If that were the case, it would disappear as an independent director of social and institutional practices. It would no longer make sense to speak about a human self. The self, such as the religious self, would become an aspect of religious practices instead of an autonomous individual. Instead of a human self that directs practices, it would become a product of social and institutional practices. In fact, it seems self-evident that the religious self and the practices in which it engages should be kept separate. It is this very self-evidence that a social constructionist theory of the religious self exposes. This does not mean that there is no truth in the common sense notion outlined above. But there is a very real danger that the human self may be reduced to a product of the activities in which human beings engage. In our exposition we shall try to steer clear of this danger while still linking the human self indissolubly with social and institutional practices. In a social constructionist perspective the self should be seen as a self-in-practices, which is how we speak about the self below. As a point of departure for our reflection on the self-in-practices we

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take Vygotsky’s notion that the human self evolves ‘as various forms of social practice become internalized by individuals’ (Penuel & Wertsch, 1995, p.84). In developing the self a child stands on the shoulders of past generations who have left behind practices in which children can develop their selves. In section 4.1.2 we described the self as a polyphonic self comprising various I positions. In their development these I positions are primarily social positions before they are transformed into personal dispositions (Holland et al., 1998, p.136). What do we mean by that? A child says, “I hate football.” This statement tells us something about her as a sportswoman. If you inquire more closely about other sporting activities, she may add that she quite enjoys judo and certain other games. How does the child arrive at such dispositions towards various culturally determined sporting activities? These I positions do not drop from the sky (‘a view from nowhere’) but refer to social positions within a practice. The child has belonged to a judo club for years and finds it great fun. She has also joined in a game of football in which she fell victim to aggression from other players. And her social positions in these practices acquired meaning in communication with other people. Thus one of her parents may have told her that football was not a sport for girls, while the same parent may have told her that judo is fun. Hence the self-inpractices is an outcome of participation in culturally determined practices (Wenger, 1998). In other words, the religious self is a self-in-religious-practices. It makes no sense to speak of a religious self if that self is not involved in religious practices. It is equally nonsensical to call somebody ‘sporting’ unless one can cite practices that can be categorized as sport. What we call religion (like sport) is determined by tradition (see 3.4.1 sub A). In a different cultural setting a particular definition of a person as religious or sporting would be incomprehensible, because one would be speaking of different practices. But we need not look very far for these differences. They are also to be found in Christianity. For some Christians lighting a candle before an image of Mary is an expression of the religious self; to others (e.g. some Christians from the Calvinist tradition) it is an expression of ‘idolatry’. Holland et al. (1998) explain the conceptual relation between the self and practices as follows. Firstly, practices may be seen as living tools of the self. Two things must be avoided. One is the idea that culturally and socially structured practices of the self are merely the husk of a ‘universal self’, a garment that the self can shed without changing

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its ‘essence’. The other thing to avoid is seeing these practices as static, stable moulds into which the self is poured, as if it were simply an imprint of these prescribed practices. The first notion we rejected above, following Harré (see 4.1.1). The second notion is that of culturalism, which assumes an all-pervasive depth structure which the self cannot escape. According to this view one has to look for prescribed practices of religious traditions in order to find the religious self. A child or an adult who prays reproduces the prayers of a religious tradition (Christianity, Islam, Hinduism). By regarding practices as living tools, that is as shaped by people in actual situations, we try to avoid both extremes. Religious practices are forms based on traditions on which individuals draw in the construction of a religious self. But in the construction process the social constellation plays a major role, along with the inherited forms. Power and freedom to deviate from prescribed forms are major factors in this social constellation. We shall consider this in greater detail below (see 4.2.6). Secondly, the behaviour of the self-in-practices is not expressive of a particular essence of the self but of practices which the self either identifies with or repudiates. The self not only participates in practices but also negotiates their significance. Participation should not be reduced to a process of identification. Processes of identification define which meanings matter to us, but do not in themselves determine our ability to negotiate these meanings. Another aspect of identity, therefore, is the issue of negotiability (Wenger, 1998, p.197).

Negotiability of the meaning, or (re)constructed meaning, of a practice refers to the ability and legitimacy of influencing that meaning in a social context. Identification without construction of meaning is a closed process in which the self is imprisoned. Construction of meaning without some measure of identification is impossible. Participating in a practice implies adopting a social position in that practice. It may be and may remain a marginal one, as will be evident below, but without identification participation in a practice is meaningless. Identification gives us material to define our identities; negotiability enables us to use this material to assert our identities as productive of meaning; and we weave these two threads into the social fabric of our identities (Wenger, 1998, p.208).

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Refusal to identify with a practice (e.g. non-participation in a particular religious activity) may also be a meaningful expression of the self. An Islamic child who refuses to take part in an Easter mass at a Christian school is expressing his or her identity no less than a Christian child who joins in this religious practice. Thirdly, the self-in-practices is distributed spatially over the practices in which it engages. The personality psychologist Hermans defines the polyphonic self also as a spatial self (see 4.1.2). Not only is the self in space, but space is in the self. On Palm Sunday a child takes part in a church procession to an old age home, where the children present palm crosses to the inmates. This procession takes place on the Sunday before Easter after a mass focussing on Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. The procession expresses the community’s belief in the resurrection and the diaconal implication of that belief (care for the marginalized). The child who takes part in this religious procession assumes a particular social position: that of a participant in a Palm Sunday procession. Other social positions are those of the priest, onlookers watching the procession, and the recipients of the palm crosses. For the sake of clarity: the space in which the religious self develops is not a geometrical but an action space.8 Religious practices, being institutional, presuppose coordination of interpersonal activities. By participating in this action space the child develops its religious self. But the self is not only located in an action space, that space is also inside the self. Through participation social positions become personal dispositions (Holland et al., 1998, p.136). By dispositions we mean the totality of a person’s notions, attitudes and skills. Participating in a Palm Sunday procession becomes a feature of the religious self. If you ask the child what it means to be religious (more particularly Catholic), it might well reply that it means participating in a Palm Sunday procession (and other practices). Expressed in terms of the polyphonic self, one might say that the child assumes a particular I position – that of a participant in a religious procession. Not only is the self situated in an action space; that space is also present inside the self in which the person can assume various I positions. And the self is not situated in one action space only, but in a multiplicity of action spaces relating to the diverse situations and spheres of life 8 See the analysis, based on Rosenstock, of the categories of time and space (see 2.1). Time and space are social categories, that is they can only be meaningful in terms of social relations between people or of existence in community with others.

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in which the person may be placed. In addition the self can assume several positions in the same action space. Thus the child can assume the I position of ‘participant in a procession’ as well as that of ‘onlooker and bystander at a procession’. Both positions may appeal simultaneously. From the first I position the child will indicate that it is fun to make a Palm Sunday cross and give it to these old folks. From the second I position the child would say that it is crazy to walk down the street carrying palm crosses because ‘all the people stare at you’.9 The polyphony of the self refers to the multiplicity of I positions that a person can assume. This polyphony of I positions is a result of the various social positions that a person can assume in the various action spaces in which she or he is situated (also see Holland et al., 1998, p.29). 4.2.2 The self-in-communities-of-religious-practice Hermans also refers to the polyphonic self as a dialogic self (see 4.1.2). By this he means that the self is continually in dialogue with other people. The dialogue occurs not just between different people but also within the individual. The self not only engages in dialogue with others; those others are inside the self, that is, interpersonal dialogue is continued within the self. This notion links the self indissolubly with the other. Put differently, the self is a relational self (also see Gergen, 1994, p.27). The premise is not separate individuals who then enter into a relationship with each other, for that would create an unbridgeable divide between individuals: the dialogue between self and other is ‘appended’ to the self-in-itself. In terms of the concept of the dialogic self such a notion is impossible. A self unrelated to others is inconceivable. In this case one begins not with subjectivity but with the system of language or signs common to a given culture. Social understanding is generated from participation within the common system. In this sense, it is not the individual who pre-exists the relationship and initiates the process of signification, but patterns of relationship and their embedded meanings that pre-exist the individual (Gergen, 1994, p.28).

Hermans derives the concept of ‘dialogue’ from Bakhtin (see Hermans & Kempen, 1993; Hermans & Hermans-Janssen, 2001), who developed 9 The palm fronds are fitted together to form a cross and are clearly identifiable to outsiders as Christian symbols. In a secularized society such as that of the Netherlands such a public display of religiosity is not taken for granted.

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it from ‘everyday’ communication between people. Communication assumes an utterance, someone else’s response to it, and a relation between the two. These three elements should not be disjoined. There is no such thing as a ‘floating’ utterance directed to no-one, nor a response from nowhere. Utterance and response cannot be conceived of except in relation to each other. Bakhtin bases his notion of dialogue on the model of ‘third-ness’ (Holquist, 1990, p.38): it is not a matter of A and B, who are then seen in a relationship, but of A, B and the relationship between them. This model makes it clear that self and other cannot be conceived of dichotomously but only in relation to each other. In the concept of the dialogic self, then, the self is indissolubly linked with the other. But for the religious self, seen as a self-in-religious-practices, this is not sufficient. To what extent can the other also be regarded as a community? Religious practices refer not only to other people but also to a community formed in and through these practices. By participating in religious practices people come to form part of a community which engages in these practices (see 3.4.1 sub B). Besides, we have seen that religious practices are not merely forms of rule-governed behaviour in conjunction with other people. A person who engages in a religious practice has a collective intentionality, for example ‘We are celebrating Easter’, ‘We are reading from the Bible as holy scripture’, ‘We are tolerant towards other religions’. In how far do the two characteristics of a religious practice (belonging to a collective and shared collective intentionality) form part of the religious self? In answering this question our point of departure is the idea that social practices have two sites that cannot be reduced to each other: the self and the collective. In social practices self and community evolve simultaneously. The identity of the self and that of the community are shaped in close interaction with each other. The connecting line for accomplishing this interaction is provided by social practices. Forms of personhood and forms of society are historical products, intimate and public, that situate the interactivity of social practices. It is in this doubly historical landscape that we place human identities. We take identity to be a central means by which selves, and the sets of actions they organize, form and re-form over personal lifetimes and in the histories of social collectivities (Holland et al., 1998, p.270).

The model of third-ness also applies to the religious self. But now the components are not self, other and intentional action, but self, community and religious practices.

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What do we mean by community in this instance? There can be no institutional practice without a community. To express the indissoluble link between practice and community Wenger (2000) uses the term ‘community of practice’. People who learn to take part in religious practices acquire certain dispositions, as explained above (see 4.2.1). Thus they are able to participate in certain ritual celebrations, say certain prayers (Our Father), understand certain biblical stories, and perform certain religiously inspired social activities. The individual shares the practices with other people. Bound together by these religious practices, they form a community of people who take part in these practices. Community and practices presuppose each other. If you abolish the practices, the community (as defined in and by the practices) ceases to exist. Through participation in religious practices a person becomes a member of a community. In concrete terms this means that we count people as members of the Catholic community if they join in the eucharist, say the Our Father, make the sign of the cross before praying, et cetera. The identity of the religious self is a form of competence, in the sense of an ability to join in religious practices associated with a community. Participation in religious practices not only (re)produces the religious self; the community, too, takes shape in and through these practices. That is why we pointed out earlier that one can speak of a co-construction of self and community via religious practices (Holland et al., 1998). Wenger mentions three characteristics of a community of practice. First, it is characterized by mutual engagement in a practice. A practice does not exist in the abstract, nor can it be reduced to conditional structures without any form of real human interaction. ‘Practice resides in a community of people and the relations of mutual engagement by which they can do whatever they do’ (Wenger, 1998, p.73). Without participation there can be no community of practice. It is not enough to be part of a network of relations, nor is spatial proximity sufficient to speak of a community of practice. Belonging to a social category (e.g. male/female, Dutch citizen, people with a particular title) is not enough either. Without active engagement in a religious practice there can be no community of religious practice.10 That does 10 This implies that it is not sufficient to determine whether a person is male or female. The question is what practices the person engages in which are considered to accord with femininity or masculinity within the male and female groups. What practices these turn out to be is a social construction (see 4.1.1), which is culturally determined and socially structured.

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not mean that there can be no diversity in their engagement. People can be more or less fully engaged in a community.11 That is evident in the various forms of church involvement that can be discerned (also see 1.3.4). People contribute to the same practice in very different ways. Not everybody has to have the same competence. In addition the ideas and attitudes of members of a given community of practice may differ greatly. Homogeneity is neither a condition nor a result of the development of a community of practice (Wenger, 1998, p.76). A second feature of a community of practice noted by Wenger (1998) is the common meaning assigned to the action. Wenger does not use the term ‘intentionality’ but speaks of a collective product of whatever is being done. In accordance with our definition of institutional practices by way of collective intentionality, we should like to refine Wenger’s terminology. Let us use the example of Palm Sunday yet again. All participants in the procession must share the collective intention, ‘We are celebrating Palm Sunday’. Without this shared meaning of the purpose of the religious practice in which they are engaged there can be no community celebrating Palm Sunday. What, then, would it be? There are various possibilities: anything from a spring festival to an act of charity to marginalized people in society (e.g. inmates of an old age home). Novices (peripheral members) at a particular practice will not necessarily grasp this collective intentionality, since they have not yet been initiated in the rules associated with that religious practice. Certainly in the case of complex religious practices (such as celebrating Palm Sunday by way of a procession after a mass) a novice may miss the point, or substitute a partial meaning for the whole. But even for initiates (core members) the meaning of a religious practice is not fixed. It is negotiable to its participants. Without this attribute the self is swallowed up by the community. Individuals may associate their own meanings with a practice and in so doing transform the shared meaning. Thirdly, according to Wenger (1998, p.82), a community of practice is characterized by the development of a common repertoire of tools necessary for the religious practices in which that community engages. The elements of such a repertoire can be extremely heterogeneous, ranging from stories, symbols, gestures, rituals and objects to buildings and roles. These elements do not derive their significance 11

4.3.

The development of the religious self will be examined more closely in section

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from themselves but from their place and function in the practice. The religious self is someone who is conversant with the repertoire of activities that distinguishes a community of practice. In practical terms, the child who goes to church on Palm Sunday knows how to behave in church. He knows that a Bible story about Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem will be read during the mass; he knows the symbol of the cross; et cetera. And because the person is conversant with this repertoire and can therefore participate in religious practices, we speak of the religious self as a self engaged in a community of practice. To conclude this section we want to clear up two possible misunderstandings. First, what we have said may be misunderstood by confining participation to just one community of practice. In most instances the religious self will be shaped by participation in several of such communities. Within a single religious tradition there are various communities of practice which people can join. Thus a person may sometimes take part in a Latin mass, and sometimes in a prayer service in the vernacular. Or someone may engage in forms of meditation and also join in forms of traditional prayer (e.g. saying the Our Father with the family before meals). But one can also think of participation in different communities of practice originating in different religious traditions. For instance, the same person may study both the Bible and some Hindu scripture. Or someone may go on a Catholic pilgrimage to Lourdes and on another occasion attend a New Age healing gathering. Secondly, the religious self is constituted by nonparticipation as well as by participation. An Islamic child who has to attend a Christian Easter mass at school can form her own identity through non-participation, thus affirming an Islamic identity. Even within the same religious tradition there can be non-participation. Somebody from a Christian background may be invited by a friend to a gathering of a Pentecostal movement. In such a case non-participation is an affirmation of the persons non-evangelical religious identity. 4.2.3 The religious-self-as-author To explain why a particular practice is called ‘religious’ one has to proceed from a tradition (see 3.4.1 sub C). Participants in a practice call it ‘religious’ on the authority of some tradition. Even ‘innovators’ of religious practices do so, merely proffering other elements of their tradition to lend ‘authority’ to the proposed innovation. This connection between religious practices and the authority of a tradition seems

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to imply that the religious self is constructed on the basis of that authority. Does that not mean that ultimately the religious self is based on an extraneous authority? This conflicts with an axiom of our culture, namely that the self is autonomous or at any rate should become so. It certainly confirms all suspicions that religion represents the oppression of individuals by the powerful (Marx) or the “slave morality” of people (Nietzsche). In short, it does not look like a plausible conception of the religious self in a globalizing world characterized by de-traditionalization (see 1.3.2) and privatization (1.3.3). The hold of traditions on religious people’s ideas, attitudes and behaviour has weakened considerably in a globalizing society, in which many traditions co-exist. Individuals are less prepared to be dictated to by prescribed social frameworks and feel less bound by prescribed behavioural models. In the Western notion of autonomy two trends in the concept of freedom converge, namely freedom from and freedom to (see Hermans, 1993). ‘Freedom from’ refers to freedom from external coercion. A free person is not constrained by external factors. ‘Freedom to’ has to do with freedom of choice. A person is free to choose a particular course of action, idea, et cetera. ‘Freedom from’ is also known as a negative concept of freedom: it expresses what one does not want. ‘Freedom to’ is a positive notion of freedom: it expresses what one wants (my/our choice). The concept of authorship subsumes the positive concept of freedom in the sense of the ability to choose; but the negative concept of freedom, in the sense of freedom from outside influence, is inimical to authorship. Negative freedom presupposes an autonomous self unrelated to other people. After all, as long as the self still perceives itself in terms of its relation to others, it will to some extent conceive of itself in terms of those others. For example, a child is invited to come and play with a friend. She would love to go, but at the same time she hears her mother’s voice telling her to come straight home from school. Freeing herself from her mother’s voice implies freeing herself from her relationship with her mother and deciding for herself what she wants to do. In a dialogic concept of the self the relationship with the other is indissolubly linked with the self (see 4.1.2). An isolated self free from his or her relations with others is inconceivable. When a person accounts for his or her decisions, it is always in relation to some public. Day and Tappan (1996, p.70) maintain that the self not only tells stories, but that this storytelling must be understood in the dramatic con-

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text of the theatre. Metaphorically one could say that on the stage of my life I tell my story to the other as my public. The public does not have to be physically present as in face-to-face contact. It could be an ideal other for whom the life story is constructed (Hermans & Hermans-Janssen, 1995; 2001). Thus the religious self may tell its story to a saint or some other religious ideal image. We not only construct our story in relation to others, we also do so by means of images, motifs and ideas taken from others. In this regard Hermans speaks of a ‘collective voice’ discernible in a person’s story. “When speaking with a personal voice, we speak simultaneously with a collective voice” (Hermans & Kempen, 1995, p.108). The words used reflect the voice of a social group. Speakers express themselves through language (Bakhtin, 1981, p.295). In producing unique utterances speakers always use social languages, and these social languages shape what they say individually (Wertsch ,1991, p.95). Meaning is grounded in the tradition that people belong to and the forms of life in which they live. A collective voice (in the form of a religious story or ritual) can help the self find its voice. But it also restricts our personal voice, even to the extent that the self feels imprisoned in this collective voice (H. Hermans, 1997). Thus people may find that the images they use to express themselves do not say exactly what they are trying to say. The religious-self-as-author not only tells its story to an explicit or implicit public; it does so with the voice of a social group. We hasten to add that this is not just one public or one voice; we are speaking of a polyphonic religious-self-as-author. Hence Holland et al. (1998, p.189) refer to the space in which Hermans locates the self as a ‘space of authoring’: a space in which the self writes its own life story. The various I positions within the self reflect the multiplicity of collective voices outside it. There is no single I position in the self that was not first encountered outside via another person. No voice comes from a void. To become oneself, one needs not only to have access to the collective stories of a tradition, but must also be able to choose and select, to appropriate according to one’s personal condition. In the appropriation of a collective voice assimilation and innovation go hand in hand. The process of choosing one’s own voice is called authoring (Bakhtin 1973, p.47). In terms of the positive concept of freedom the process of choice may be seen as an orchestration of different voices resounding within the self on a particular topic (see Holland et al., 1998, p. 180). The voices are given, but the self can create its own musical composition with them by harmonizing them in a particular way, or by fore-

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grounding one voice and muting others. It would be a misinterpretation to see the religious self as a conductor standing in front of or above the musicians. The religious self is more like a first violinist, one of the musicians, and in that capacity leading the harmony of the various instruments (Van der Ven, 1998, p.107). The polyphonic religious self is not assigned a pivotal position among the different voices. The first violin is part of the orchestra, not in some position outside it or above it. This metaphor also serves to illustrate the religious-self-as-author. As the author one may, for instance, choose to let a particular voice dominate, but that is just one I position in the midst of a polyphony, not a position above all the other voices. A person may, for example, express mystical longings to merge with (In)finite time and space. But she also has an agnostic I position and a militant I-position on behalf of marginalized others. It could be that at another point in her life one of these other positions was more dominant. But by opting for this orchestration of voices she constructs a particular self – a self-in-communities-ofreligious-practice, as indicated above. She joins a religious group with whom she spends every weekend in silent meditation. At the same time the religious-self-as-author tries to persuade a particular public with its orchestration of voices. More than that, in orchestrating the voices the individual already has a particular public in view which he or she wants to persuade. To use an example: one would stand little chance of persuading a group of rappers with a classical composition. But if one were to rearrange a famous classical composition in rap style, one would be more likely to succeed. Thus a pastoral worker will talk differently about his belief in the resurrection to church members than when dealing with outsiders who are not conversant with the stories, symbols and religious practices associated with Easter. It would be wrong to say that it is not the same person speaking in these different situations. But the changed public necessitates a different style of address in order to be intelligible to that public. One may also choose not to speak in the terms of a non-church public. In fact one would be speaking to non-church people but couching one’s story in high church terms. The important point is that one always has some public in view. No orchestration of I positions is not directed to a public.12

12 Bakhtin (1990) refers to this as an orientation to answering (also see Holland et al. 1998, p.180). The meaning of my utterance is co-determined by the answer to it. In a particular public the self constructs a recipient who understands the meaning of the message the way the self wants to be understood. This ‘recipient’ is not construct-

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Adopting a particular collective voice is always connected with religious practices. From this point of view a collective voice is the meaning assigned to a practice on the basis of tradition. We indicated above (4.2.1) that a person not only identifies with practices but also negotiates their meaning. In the process of appropriating a collective voice people try to establish a connection with their own views, values, attitudes – in short, with their own voices. Whether their process of appropriation manages to achieve this depends partly on the authority of the collective voice. Different degrees of authority are assigned to the voices or discourses of others. These discourses are either ‘authoritative’ or ‘internally persuasive’ (Bakhtin 1981, p.342). This distinction is important, because each type of discourse has a different potential for assimilating and innovating an appropriated voice. According to Bakhtin, examples of authoritative discourse are: religious dogmas, political doctrines, moral values, the words of a father, acknowledged scientific truth, a currently fashionable book. The authoritative word demands that we acknowledge it; (....) it binds us, quite independent of any power it might have to persuade us internally; we encounter it with an authority already fused to it. The authoritative word is located in a distanced zone, organically connected with a past that is felt to be hierarchically higher. (....) It is a prior discourse. It is therefore not a question of choosing it from other possible discourses that are its equal (Bakhtin, 1981, p.342).

What happens when meaning is constructed on the basis of authoritative discourse? Authoritative discourse demands unconditional allegiance. It does not allow free appropriation or assimilation of words that add meaning to our lives. Authoritative discourse is either wholly affirmed or rejected. It is bound to its authority (e.g. a political party, an institution, a church or a person). Rejection of an authoritative discourse implies rejection of its intrinsic authority. For example, it is not easy for a child to reject an authoritative word because it also implies separation from the collective (or person) who speaks this word to her. ‘Reciting by heart’ is the pedagogic method associated with authoritative discourse (Bakhtin, 1981, p.341). The collective voice has to be transferred to the child. ed from nothing but starts off as a social other in an actual communication situation. The inner speech reflects this interpersonal communication: within myself I address an imaginary public.

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The second type of discourse is internally persuasive discourse. Internally persuasive discourse is constantly evolving. It is a process of applying old words to new contexts. This process of appropriation and assimilation is more than just interpreting someone elses words. According to Bakhtin (1981, 346-347) “we can take [a word] into new contexts, attach to it new material, put it in a new situation in order to wrest new answers from it, new insights into its meaning and even wrest from it new words of its own, since anothers discourse, if productive, gives birth to a new word from using response”. Although an internally persuasive word is half our own and half someone else’s, it is intertwined with our own word through assimilation. ‘Its creativity and productiveness consist precisely in the fact that such a word awakens new and independent words, that it organizes masses or our word from within, and does not remain in an isolated and static condition’ (Bakhtin, 1981, 345). Another feature of internally persuasive words is that they are connected with the authority of a collective voice. The difference from authoritative discourse is that the authority in the process of appropriation is transferred from the outside to the inside, from the collective voice to the personal voice. For example, when children learn to participate in a religious practice, the practice depends on the authority of tradition (i.e. collective voice) for its religious character. When they become more involved and are allowed to attach their own meaning to it in terms of their own experience and ideas, authority gradually shifts from the outside to the inside. The child becomes the author of the meaning of the practices in which it is involved. It is not ‘because my parents or the priest says I have to do this’, but ‘I think this religious practice is meaningful and therefore I engage in it’.13 As stated above, authoring implies a shift from social speech to inner speech. Inner speech is not a clone of social speech. Holland et al. (1998, p.186-187) refer to Vygotsky’s distinction between the ‘sense’ and the ‘meaning’ of words. Meaning is the signification of a word or a symbol, which is stable and the same in different contexts. Sense is the connotational aspect of words connected with the living context in which they are spoken. Meaning is decontextualized; sense

13 A child must gradually develop the capacity to be the author of his or her voice. This awakening of an independent ideological life comes relatively late in human development (Bakhtin, 1981, p.345).

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is contextualized.14 According to Vygotsky, the process of moving from social speech to inner speech reverses the proportional weight of sense over meaning. He is not suggesting that it is a case of either meaning or sense, but that their proportional weight shifts. In social speech meaning dominates because the speaker wants to be understood by the other. In inner speech sense dominates because the person wants to be the author of his or her life. This presupposes, of course, that the appropriating voice speaks in internally persuasive discourse. An interesting implication of Vygotsky’s idea is the suggestion that in authoring sense plays a more dominant role than meaning. When I make a collective voice my own, emotions and feelings appear to dominate this process of appropriation. The same applies when I reject making a collective voice ‘my voice’. 4.2.4 A self authored in terms of a polyphonic (In)finitude In religious practices the status function (X equals Y) relates to the binary code of transcendence versus immanence. In chapter 2 we linked transcendence and immanence indissolubly in the model of (In)finite time and space. People who take part in religious practices will understand themselves in the perspective of (In)finitude. To give an example: Q attends the funeral of a close friend, P. Participation in this religious practice gives meaning to what Q is as a religious person. In the course of the ritual stories are read, ritual acts performed, et cetera, which assign meaning to P’s death as someone who has been taken up into (In)finite time and space. Let us suppose that Q is actively aware of being involved in a collective practice (‘We as a community are burying our deceased sister/brother’). By participating in this religious practice Q is constructing a religious self as living in relation to (In)finitude. According to Christian tradition death is not the end, because God takes the deceased into his or her (In)finite time and space. Just as God raised Jesus as the firstborn from the dead, so

14 Modern cognitive psychology distinguishes between three types of memory: semantic, episodic and action-oriented memory (Simons, Duffy & Van der Linden, 2000). It is always dangerous to relate concepts from different theories. Bearing this in mind, there seems to be some resemblance between Vygotsky’s concept of ‘meaning’ and that of semantic memory; and between ‘sense’ and episodic memory. Memories stored in episodic memory relate to events in which the person was actively involved. This implies that emotions, feelings and such aspects as the smell of something (e.g. incense in liturgy) are stored in the episodic memory.

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he/she will raise us. The status function assigned to this religious practice should be interpreted in terms of the meaning of (In)finitude. Through participation in this practice the self-in-communities-ofreligious-practice is construed as a self existing in (In)finite time and space. So far we have added nothing new to what was said in the preceding sections (4.2.1 to 4.2.3) apart from the significance of (In)finitude as a distinctive feature of religious practices. Is that all there is to it? In chapter 2 we explored the problem of theistic belief in a globalizing society. We posited that religious talk about (In)finitude is fundamentally linked with not knowing. In terms of an iconic hermeneutics we understood our talk about (In)finitude as speaking in images or symbols that open a window on God. The moment these images are dissociated from the movement from (In)finitude to finitude, they become reified and our icons turn into idols. (In)finitude is not finitude maximized. As long as we understand (In)finitude as the superlative of finitude we are still imprisoned in our own understanding of the world. We related this relinquishment of our certainty (Exodus motif) to a consistent option for marginality, and the marginalized other (see 2.4). In so doing we introduced a questing perspective, not a new certainty: listen to people who are marginalized in society; look in terms of what may not exist; go to places that are accorded no space in society or our personal lives; find what is unsightly and despised by those at the centre of power, what is not spoken about or maybe even smothered out of existence. In section 4.2.3 we said that there is no pivotal position in the orchestration of I positions within the self. Does the introduction of a transcendental perspective imply the introduction of such a fulcrum? In terms of our theological reflection on (In)finitude this cannot happen. Our icons of God set us thinking in terms of (In)finite time and space without allowing us to capture (In)finitude in our thoughts and speech. If that happens, we have substituted our finitude for (In)finitude. This conception implies that we have to rely on a host of images and metaphors that circle the mystery we call (In)finitude. We shall explore the meaning of this polyphony of our images of (In)finitude15

15 For the sake of clarity: we are not saying that (In)finite time and space are not one. In this chapter we are considering the social construction of the religious self. When we speak of a polyphonic God as the author of our lives it is not a dogmatic statement. It expresses the way in which the religious self deals with transcendence-in-

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for the construction of the religious self with reference to an analysis of religious speech by the Russian literary theorist, Mikhail Bakhtin.16 In the construction of a religious self-narrative we cast ourselves as heroes in a story of which God is the author. I am not the author of my life, God composes the plot of my life story. Just as an author of a novel determines the meaning of the hero’s life, the author-God gives meaning to the life of the human hero. The human being is God’s hero, God is our author. Against the background of this metaphor, we can explain the model of the multi-voiced or polyphonic authorGod.17 The model of the polyphonic God should be understood in the context of conflicting voices about God in society.18 When we communicate we enter into dialogue with people on some topic or other. Only the mythical Adam, who approached a virginal and as yet verbally unqualified world with the first word, could really have escaped from start to finish this dialogic inter-orientation with the alien word that occurs in the object (Bakhtin, 1980, p.279).

This dialogue is conducted not only between people but also inside us. On the topic of God’s activity in the world we hear different voices, like the voices of Job and his friends about the meaning of Job’s suffering coram Deo. There is not just one voice but a multitude of conflicting voices. The polyphonic God has two characteristics. First, he renounces control over his heroes; then he allows them to seek and express their own meaning, which is not inferior to that of their creator (see Coates, immanence. Underlying polyphony there is a dialogic conception of truth (see 4.1.2): A and not-A do not exclude each other totally as happens in logic, but can include each other to some extent. An analysis of this dialogic notion of truth may be found in ‘fuzzy’ logic (Zadeh, 1971; MacCormac, 1985). In between true and false there is also diaphoric and epiphoric truth. Diaphoric refers to the differences between A and B. Epiphoric refers to similarities between A and B. Religious metaphors always have both a diaphoric and an epiphoric aspect, some metaphors being more diaphoric and others more epiphoric. A diaphoric utterance has a shock effect. Many of the parables in the Gospels are of this nature. For a more detailed analysis of religious metaphoric language in terms of ‘fuzzy’ semantics, see Hermans (1990, pp.33, 87-94). 16 Bakhtin plays a major role in the literature of the dialogic self (see Hermans, Kempen & Van Loon, 1992). Core concepts in the psychological theory of the dialogic self such as ‘dialogicity’ and ‘voice’ derive from Bakhtin. 17 For a more detailed analysis of Bakhtin’s thinking on the monologic and polyphonic God, see Hermans (2001). 18 Bakhtin refers to social heteroglossia, which one could define as a polyphony of (partly) conflicting voices speaking on a particular topic.

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1998, p.86). Although the author remains on the outside, he does not utilize information hidden from the hero. When voices conflict (social heteroglossia) the polyphonic author is no longer able to speak with an authority beyond these voices. For Bakhtin, Dostoyevsky exemplifies this kind of author. From the first to the final pages of his artistic work he was guided by the principle: never use for objectifying or finalizing another’s consciousness anything that might be inaccessible to that consciousness, that might lie outside its field of vision (Bakhtin, quoted in Coates, 1998, p.88).

In the polyphonic novel, the playing field between author and hero is levelled. The hero can have different ideas, feelings, motives from the author. The author does not occupy a pivotal position that transcends the hero’s perspective on his or her life. Bakhtin transfers this idea of the polyphonic author to the multi-voiced God. The author-God remains in the position of an outsider. God is not a duplication of my consciousness. If the author-God were not other than the self, it would be impossible to finalize the story of my life. The perspective of (In)finitude is not the same as that of finitude. However, the polyphonic author-God does not speak on behalf of the hero. The hero has a right to self-definition, however hopeless, and also a right to wrestle with the meaning of life, however difficult. “The hero is by nature unable to give himself any kind of aesthetic form, since he lacks access to a comprehensive perspective on himself from which he might form a credible judgement” (Coates, 1998, p.88). According to Bakhtin life is a process of becoming. The hero must live with profound incompleteness and fragmentation. There is no option but to accept this as the human condition. The main problem that Bakhtin tries to solve with the model of a polyphonic God is the freedom of hero-man. Freedom is more important than happiness in the polyphonic author model. The author-God respects the freedom of his creation rather than guarantees that the hero will be blessed or justified (Coates, 1998, p.89). Bakhtin’s polyphonic model does not offer an easy explanation for the freedom of the hero. If there is total heroic freedom, how can the author design the life of the hero? If, on the other hand, the author has the final say, where is the freedom of hero-man? Can heroic freedom co-exist with creatureliness? Can authorial freedom co-exist with authorial constraint? Bakhtin is looking for a model of polyphonic authorship

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which oscillates between the poles of design and dialogue, or transcendence and immanence. If the poles of design and transcendence are stretched to the extreme, no freedom is left for the hero. If dialogue and immanence are stretched to the full, it means the death of the polyphonic author. How can the polyphonic author exist in a dialogic universe where author and hero both participate in creating the meaning of the latter’s life? Coates points out that this is where Bakhtin introduces the metaphor of the silenced author. In speech born of silence the author does not participate in the power struggle that usually inheres in speech in a context of social heteroglossia. Silence is a form of presence that does not perpetuate the power struggle inherent in a dialogue between two voices. For example, when we voice our belief in God, we exclude disbelief in God. Silence is a metaphor for the communicative position beyond the power struggle of voices striving for dominance. It is a truly dialogic position in the sense that it includes the conflicting voices without adding a new voice that would trigger the power struggle all over again. Silence is not a non-communicative position in the sense of a refusal to enter into the social heteroglossia. In one of Bakhtin’s latest works he refers to Christ as the model of silence in Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. The book contains a story of Christ returning to earth. It is a lengthy monologue by the Grand Inquisitor, explaining the church’s policy after the resurrection of Christ. The Grand Inquisitor is the opposite of Christ. He represents all that is problematic in discourse. He portrays the monologic voice, dominating all others, even using lies to manipulate. Christ remains silent during the discourse of the Grand Inquisitor.19 His only action is to kiss the Grand Inquisitor at the end. For Bakhtin, this kiss is a model of unuttered meaning (Bakhtin, 1986, p. 148). Christ does not have to assert his individuality because he knows who he is. He does not have to find himself in the other. Christ represents a meaning of life that does not seek words to define itself. He epitomizes selfassertion through self-denial. This form of authority aims at helping people to achieve self-understanding without imposing a definition on 19 This silence is also characteristic of the concluding chapters of the book of Mark. Jesus’ last words are his answer to Pilate’s question whether he is the king of the Jews. Jesus answers: ‘You have said so’ (Mk 15:2). From a dialogic point of view, even here Jesus does not add his (conflicting) voice to Pilate’s voice but reflects back to Pilate what he has said: ‘You have said so’. After that Jesus remains silent until his cry of abandonment by God on the cross (Mk 15:34) (Körrtner, 1999, 457).

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them. It is speech born of silence ‘which abstains from the projection of self, from any explicit ideology of its own, but seeks to help the other’s word to greater clarity’ (Coates, 1998, p.120). What does this imply for the polyphonic author-God? This author abstains completely from asserting his or her presence at the expense of the hero’s right to self-assertion. The polyphonic author is concealed within the polyphony of voices which the hero broadcasts to the world. The silenced author is not embodied directly in meaning but is known only indirectly. In order to find this silenced author we have to stop identifying absolute meaning with just one voice. This is not yet the silence that transcends the struggle between voices. The liberating or subversive strategies create an intermediate sphere of not knowing that gives way to the ultimate truth of God, which is silenced truth. It is precisely this position of not knowing which distinguishes marginality (and the marginalized). In our exposition of marginality we made a clear distinction between a God who turns to the marginalized from the centre and a truly marginalized God. The marginalized God is (In)finitude that has been silenced from the perspective of the centre. Irony and laughter are among the subversive strategies used by the polyphonic author. Irony is speaking with reservations (Bakhtin, 1986, p.132). By using irony the polyphonic author starts to question an established meaning. The embodied meaning may not be the absolute meaning. In this way irony can be liberating. Laughter can also free and unite us (Bakhtin, 1986, p.135). Laughter is available to everyone, not just to those who identify with a particular voice. It transcends opposition, indignation and anger. It is also the great equalizer: one perspective on the meaning of life is no better than another. Laughter ends the dominance of one voice over another. The polyphonic author-God is concealed in the subversive strategies of irony and laughter in the interest of the freedom and truth of hero-man. God plays the role of the medieval fool who turns reality upside down: The word removed from life: the word of the idiot, the holy fool, the insane, the child, the dying person, and sometimes women. Delirium, dream, intuition (inspiration), unconsciousness, alogicality [alogism], involuntary behavior, epilepsy, and so forth (Bakhtin, 1986, p.148).

When one studies the biblical parables, one finds the same strategies of irony and humour (Crossan, 1988, p.74ff.). When Jesus tells of a mustard seed that grows to a giant tree in which many birds can build

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their nests (Lk 13:18-19) the story is ludicrous to his audience. From their own understanding of the world they would think of the cedars of Lebanon, the image used in Jewish tradition. A mustard seed is an idiotic notion: it is minute. What Jesus accomplishes with such stories is that he places his listeners in a position of not knowing. Crossan speaks of the ‘dark interval’, which is also the title of his book (Crossan, 1988). This dark night (or silence) is not the destination, but one has to pass through the darkness to reach the light.20 The insight one achieves is not one’s property. One has to keep repeating the journey, so one’s thoughts about God never escape the polyphony in which (In)finitude presents itself to us. 4.2.5 A ‘mediated’ self-in-religious-practices In our analysis of religious practices we established that practices are a form of mediated action. Religious practices cannot be divorced from the ‘media’ or tools involved in them (see 3.4.1 D). In section 4.2.1 we referred to religious practices within the self. That is still fairly obvious, since there can be no practices without rule-governed behaviour by people. But it seems absurd to extend the self to include the things (symbols, objects, places) involved in religious practices. After all, one can hardly say that the religious self is distributed over things like sacred buildings (e.g. churches), implements used in rituals (e.g. a chalice, candles), or places where the holy has revealed itself in a special way according to some tradition (e.g. places of pilgrimage in various religions: Lourdes for Catholics, Mecca for Muslims). Yet this is exactly what we shall argue on the basis of our concept of a socially constructed religious self. We start with a nonreligious example which at first glance probably sounds as strange as our statement above. The Dutch poet Neeltje Maria Min wrote a poem entitled The house remembers me (Het huis herinnert zich mij). Taken literally, the sentence is absurd: houses have no memory. What the poet is trying to say in the title is that her memory 20 If one refuses to proceed via not knowing, Crossan calls it ‘mythical religion’: “A religion that gives one final word about ‘reality’ and thereby excludes the authentic experience of mystery” (Crossan, 1988, p.105). In contrast to mythical religion he speaks of parabolic religion which uses the parabola as its basic model for talking about transcendence. Such a religion “continually and deliberately subverts final words about ‘reality’ and thereby introduces the possibility of transcendence” (Crossan, 1988, p.105).

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should not be regarded as an act of recollection divorced from reality. What she is (her identity) cannot be separated from the physical things associated with actions in which she is or was involved. Memories are (in part) tied to things, events, odours, sounds, buildings. When the poet walks through the house in which she was born, all sorts of childhood memories surface. Thus the kitchen may bring back memories of the special significance that family mealtimes had for her. Of course, she could close her eyes and call to mind the same kitchen and the meals eaten in it. But such a thought would be an abstraction, presupposing an origin in an actual practice entailing certain tools. Hence from a social constructionist perspective on the self it is unusual to try to separate the self from the tools associated with practices (Penuel & Wertsch, 1995). What would a drivers identity be if one tries to imagine the ‘self-as-driver’ without a car? Or what is a school teacher? One can only think of a teacher in association with a group of children, lesson materials, a classroom, et cetera. For a theoretical basis of this notion we refer to Vygotsky’s concept of mediated action. Higher mental skills (e.g. remembering, analyzing, telling one’s life story) always require mediation via certain tools. In principle these could be anything (objects, symbols, graphs, routines and the like), but the cardinal tool is language (Jablonski, Hermans & Van der Lans, 1998). Through language (or, more generally, the semiotic system) people gain knowledge about how they act. There are institutional practices if people continue to participate in them and if the tools used in these practices continue to exist (Wenger, 1998, p.87). Given the tools, one can do anything. But a particular community of practice attaches a specific meaning to actions employing a particular tool. What constitutes a driver is determined partly by what one does with a car. Thus nobody will connect a driver with a container of livestock, although one can obviously keep chickens or other animals in a car. There are people who transport their dogs on the backseat of their cars. Yet nobody would attach the meaning of ‘kennel’ to a car. The meaning of tools is determined partly by their use in a particular community (of practice). Nothing stops a person from deviating from this given, normative use. The only problem is that others will no longer understand what you mean by a car if you regard it as a kennel. According to Vygotsky the acquisition of mediated action is characterized by a process of internalization (see Holland et al., 1998, pp.3637, 117). Initially the tools will be tangible and will be used conscious-

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ly according to the rules for proper usage. For instance, a child who is learning a particular prayer practice will be taught the appropriate posture; what prayers to say; when to pray; and what books are read during the service. Once the child has performed the practice sufficiently often, some of the external support may be withdrawn. In this phase (part of) the social dialogue is transformed into inner dialogue. The child no longer needs the presence of an adult to say these prayers. It also ‘knows’ in what sequence the various elements of the practice have to be performed – knowledge which is still firmly connected with the voice of the adult who taught the child. In due course the child masters all sorts of variations on the prayer practice and enjoys these. In the end mastery of the practice becomes automatic. The person is no longer conscious of the rules that guide his or her conduct, let alone that it is the result of a learning process. The person simply prays, and does so in a particular way, without any conscious activity. Vygotsky calls this final phase “fossilization” (petrification). What Vygotsky’s internalization process illustrates is that in the final phase people are unaware of the tools they use. But this is an abstraction, for as soon as somebody asks them why they perform a religious practice in a particular way, they will once again become conscious of their dependence on certain ‘tools’. Language (or the semiotic system) makes it possible to speak about the self in a decontextualized way. But one must realize that such a linguistic reconstruction of the self refers to practices in which the self is involved. One should not conclude from this that the tools used in religious practices are unchanging – anything but. Religious practices change, as does the meaning of the tools employed in them. The current process of globalization reinforces this transformation, as was seen in chapter 1. In section 1.3.1 we showed that, because of the mass communication media and geographic mobility, religious communities have lost control over the tools they use in their religious practices. We cited the example of the Hindu goddess Kali, who has been appropriated as a symbol by certain New Age groups and feminists in the USA. These practices would be religious if the women see Kali as a religious symbol on the basis of Hindu tradition. In the context of the process of de-traditionalization (1.3.2) we saw that the Christian community has many different interpretations of certain key concepts (e.g. life, death, God). Members of a religious community may use the same images and symbols from their tradition, but behind these lurk whole worlds of interpretive differences.

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This openness to continual reinterpretation is peculiar to religious images and symbols precisely because they are oriented to (In)finite time and space. Images and symbols, conceived of as icons (see 2.3.2), set us thinking about (In)finitude, but without allowing us ever to possess it. The religious tools people adopt from religious traditions put constraints on the religious self, but through the use of these tools by the same individuals their meaning constantly evolves. 4.2.6 A positional self-in-religious-practices The religious practices that form the self are local, embodied practices: concrete, located in time and space, interpersonal, face to face. We have seen that through the process of internalization people abstract from concrete situations and from the tools they use in these situations. No religious self can be formed without this foundation in practices. In section 3.4.1. sub F we pointed out that religious practices are embedded in religious regimes. A religious regime may be defined as a totality of relations of dependence between more or less formalized institutions that are ideologically legitimized by religious specialists (Bax, 1985, p.25). On the basis of a religious regime as a constellation of power it is decided what religious practices should be performed and how they are to be performed. In addition this normative concept is legitimized by offering an ideology: why is it ‘good’ to perform this religious practice, and in this particular manner? In society religious regimes are caught up in an endless dynamics: in their relation to secular regimes, in their relation to other religious regimes, and in internal relations between a dominant regime and counter regimes within a religion. What does this embeddedness of religious practices imply for our concept of the religious self? Two extremes should be avoided. The first is the possibility that the self can withdraw from the influence of religious regimes and their dynamics with other regimes. The other is that the self is at the mercy of these influences and has no scope to assert itself against such external forces. We want to avoid both the notion of a disembodied religious self and a deterministic notion whereby the self is wholly governed by its environment. The religious self must learn to deal with these influences from religious regimes and their dynamics. Let us look into the matter more closely. In our exposition of a social constructionist concept of the self (4.1.1) we indicated that both cultural and social factors play a role in self-con-

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struction. The two sets of factors cannot be reduced to each other (Holland et al., 1998, p.131). Cultural factors relate to the motifs, images, stories and activities in a particular culture on which individuals draw when assigning meaning to an action or practice. Social factors relate to power relations, privileges and behavioural styles that determine a person’s social position in a situation (local practice). Thus a teacher who tells her class about prayer does so in a particular lesson on the basis of Christian notions of prayer. In a social sense the situation is asymmetrical, in that the teacher has more power than the children in the class. This is evident in the mere fact that she decides that the religious learning process should focus on a Christian conception of prayer. Cultural factors in society are not free from conflict. H. Hermans’ concept of the polyphonic self differs from a narrative concept of the self in that it recognizes that the narrative motifs of a life story derive from a ‘collective voice’ (see 4.1.2). A collective voice about ‘God’ is not value-free but is normatively tinctured. When the Christian tradition describes Jesus Christ as the son of God, that is a normative notion. In a society, and in a religion,21 there are many collective voices on any issue. Bakhtin (1981, p.263) indicates this with the term ‘social heteroglossia’.22 Thus at any given moment of its historical existence, language is heteroglot from top to bottom: it represents the co-existence of socio-ideological contradictions between the present and the past, between different epochs of the past, between different socio-ideological groups in the present, between tendencies, schools, circles and so forth, all given a bodily form (Bakhtin, 1981, p.291).

The different collective voices on a subject do not co-exist peacefully. Bakhtin speaks of a conflict between collective voices because of their normative or ideological character. The notion of Jesus Christ as the son of God runs counter to a notion of Jesus as a prophet (Islam) or ‘a human being like everyone else’. The notion of a marginalized God runs counter to the theistic God of the powers at the centre of society. According to Bakhtin (1981, p.273) all the major collective voices in a culture (e.g. religious and secular world-views) are able to dominate

21 See the tension between dominant regimes and counter regimes in a religion (3.4.1). 22 Literally it means ‘opposing words or meanings’ on a particular theme or subject. We use it as a technical term.

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other collective voices.23 Indeed, they have a propensity to do so because of their ideological nature.24 They do it by assimilating the ideas of other collective voices into their own structure of meaning. Thus they appear to recognize the opposing collective voice while in fact recognizing only their own. For instance, one may discuss the Islamic conception of Jesus/Isa in terms of the Christian concept of Jesus Christ as the son of God. Or one may appear to be speaking about a marginalized God, whereas in fact it is a theistic God who benevolently condescends to the marginalized from the centre. Theoretically what happens is the following: the auto-interpretation of one collective voice is swallowed up by the allo-interpretation of another. At the level of social influences, too, it is a matter of power and the influence this has on the religious self. The religious self is not just an embodied identity (located in time and space) but a positional identity (Holland et al. 1998, p.138). In every institutional practice people play specific roles. Every role player has certain powers. Particularly in the case of institutional practices this is important, because here role players are vested with such powers on the basis of a tradition. From an institutional perspective a role refers to the power of a convention (or deontic power; see 3.4.1 sub C). Without this convention there would be no clergy with the right to baptize people and lay people who do not have that right. The collective intentionality shared by people in a religious practice is in fact directed to recognizing the power ascribed to role players in terms of a convention. As long as believers take part in religious practices (e.g. baptism) in which role players are given authority on the basis of convention (e.g. clergy authorized to baptize), these practices exist. For the sake of clarity: it does not depend on individuals’ (non)recognition of a particular role player. The existence of a given conventional power is grounded in the authority of a tradition. In short, in an institutional theory of religious practices we cannot avoid the problem of power and dominance. It features in all institutional practices, including religious ones. If one disregards it, one in

23 This is also one of the principles underlying Lindbeck’s cultural linguistic theory (see 3.3.1). According to Lindbeck Christian theology professes to do greater justice to the truth of religious dogmas from other traditions than happens in these traditions. We expressed our criticism of this ‘closed’ concept of tradition in section 3.3.2. 24 A distinctive feature of ideologies is that a particular normative notion of how society or human conduct should be arranged is associated with power. ‘When a particular definition of reality comes to be attached to a concrete power of interest, it may be called an ideology’ (Berger & Luckmann, 1966, p.123).

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fact incurs the risk of being unwittingly governed by them. Critical awareness of the problem of power and dominance is the best way to learn to deal with it in an emancipatory and transforming sense. How can one do this? Firstly, by trying to tolerate the conflict between collective voices. Clearly this is not easy. One criterion to determine whether it is actually happening is if the sense of foreignness associated with a collective counter voice is not repressed but is assigned a place in the religious self. The otherness is not just because the notion is alien but also because it is normative. In other words, emotionally one finds that particular notion repugnant. Thus a person who does not regard a particular religious practice as prayer at all may accept the perception of another (collective voice) that does consider it to be prayer. Or a theist may try to recognize the atheist view that God does not exist.25 Secondly, transformation happens when participants in a religious practice no longer endorse the relevant role definition and the meaning associated with it. The conventional power gradually loses its support base among participants in such a religious practice. For instance, the idea may take root among members in a critical local church that it is not right to reserve the prerogative to proclaim the gospel exclusively for the clergy. This shifting support base may lead to a scrutiny of the church’s own tradition(s) to find other role definitions of religious teachers. Thirdly, the dialectic between cultural and social influences may also offer possibilities for transformation. Thus a particular cultural conception may lose its cogency in altered social circumstances. In religious practices, for example, there is a particular conception of the roles of men and women. But when women find themselves in a different social situation (by emigrating to another country), or join women’s groups where different female social roles prevail, or get a job and thus cease to be dependent on men, cultural motives may lose their relevance.

4.3 Development of the religious self In this final section we try to determine how the religious self develops. The previous section afforded some insight into what may be regard-

25 We shall deal with this otherness in the encounter between religions, or interreligious dialogue, in detail in chapter 6.

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ed as a religious person. Having established what constitutes a religious person, the next question is how someone develops into a religious person. First we consider the research of psychologists of religion into the development of religiosity. The problem with this research is that it adopts a different approach to religion from that proposed in our study. Although there have been some moves to broaden the approach along the lines suggested by us (see Vergouwen, 2001), they are only tentative at this stage. Nonetheless we feel we cannot avoid a critical reflection on the existing literature. Secondly, we shall look at the development of the religious self through participation in practices. Here Vygotsky’s term “zone of proximate development” features prominently. 4.3.1 Religious development? The heading of this section carries a question mark. Is there in fact something like religious development? What does it consist in? And what is development? Below we attempt to provide a solid basis for the question mark in the heading. Is the current theory of religious development at all tenable? We do not think so, but one has to be careful not to throw out the baby with the bath water. We shall abstract certain insights from this kind of research that are useful for an analysis of the formation of the religious self. The literature offers two alternative theories of religious development. One was evolved by Fritz Oser, the other by Jim Fowler. Oser first presented his theory in detail in a book co-authored by Gmünder (Oser & Gmünder, 1984), then published a somewhat modified version in 1988 (Oser, 1988). There are any number of publications reflecting on the development theory of Oser cum suis from diverse theoretical angles. We refer specifically to the volume published by Anton Bucher and Helmut Reich in 1989.26 We shall not, however, deal with Oser’s theory and its critics in any detail. This is because

26 We also refer to a research project conducted at Louvain, headed by the psychologist of religion Dirk Hutsebaut (1995). In a longitudinal study of God concepts among youths Hutsebaut et al. found no relation between God concepts in different phases. He refers to changes in God concepts rather than development, because there is no systematic relationship in whatever changes over time. Hutsebaut’s basic criticism of many theories of religious development is that they are not based on longitudinal research. Defining (religious) psychological development on the basis of surveys which are restricted to one moment in time is extremely hazardous.

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Oser’s theory focusses on the development of religious judgment. Educational processes should aim at the attainment of a higher level of religious judgement (Oser, 1988, p.69), the word ‘higher’ referring to a higher level of ‘autonomy’ in the sense of learning to handle the polarities inherent in religious judgment (Oser, 1988, p.47). Oser is thinking about such polarities as freedom and dependence, hope and despair, sacred and profane, transcendence and immanence, trust and distrust. As will emerge below, Fowler’s theory is far broader and relates more closely to our social constructionist approach than Oser’s. Accordingly our analysis and reflection will focus on Fowler’s developmental theory. He speaks of “faith development” rather than “religious development” (Fowler, 1981). Fowler (1980, pp.64-65) defines faith as follows: The process of constitutive knowing, underlying a person’s composition and maintenance of a comprehensive frame (or frames) of meaning, generated from the person’s attachments or commitments to centres of supraordinate value which have power to unify his or her experiences in the world, thereby endowing the relationships, contexts, and patterns of everyday life, past and future, with significance.

Faith is a special form of knowing. Fowler aligns himself with what are known as constructivists (e.g. Piaget), who proceed from the premise that the way people apprehend the world tells us just as much about the knower as about the world that is known. There are formal and structural differences in people’s ways of apprehending the world and these can be ranked in a particular order. The order is not arbitrary but constant, invariable. It is always the same. The specific knowing of faith includes both rational knowledge (Piaget) and what Fowler (1980, p.61) calls the logic of conviction. By insisting that faith includes rational knowledge Fowler seeks to avoid an irrational definition of faith. Logic of conviction refers to universal or ultimate meaning. In Fowler’s theory faith closely approximates the term ‘ultimate meaning’.27 He calls the specific manner of dealing with ultimate meaning ‘holistic’, ‘imagistic’, symbolic. In addition the 27 Every rendering of this term entails its own problems, because some connotations of one concept are not properly rendered by the other. Vergouwen (2001) also prefers to speak of ‘faith’ (‘geloof’) and ‘believing’ (‘geloven’). In Fowler’s theory, however, faith is both religious and nonreligious. The concept of ultimate meaning is better able to include both elements.

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logic of conviction is not just a way of perceiving but of living – not just a particular orientation or perspective on the world but a particular embodiment of it. Faith or ultimate meaning is not just a form of knowing (logic of conviction); fundamentally it is also a relationship. It is a rational way of dealing with ultimate meaning. Fowler (1980, p.57) describes this relational dimension as follows: Faith is an active mode of knowing and being in which we grasp our relatedness to others and to our shared causes as all related to and grounded in a relatedness to power(s) and value(s) which unify and give character to an ultimate environment.

Faith or ultimate meaning is rooted in trust in, dependence on and involvement with others. All lasting forms of human association presuppose an implicit or explicit faith structure, comprising three elements: a self, others and shared trust in universal values.28 In any meaningful relationship that we are involved in or institutional context in which we work, we operate in a trust relationship with others and a shared commitment to common values. Every human being forms part of various such relational triangles of ultimate meaning. In each relational triangle there are three relationships: to oneself, to the other and to a centre of common value. This centre of common value may be religious or nonreligious. It could be God or (In)finite time and space, or it could be money, a career or music. Fowler identifies seven aspects of our dealings with relational triangles of ultimate meaning. The first three are intelligence (cognitive development), finding a perspective (social development) and moral judgment (moral development). These aspects play a role in ultimate meaning because, as we have said, this form of knowing includes rational knowledge. But they do not form part of the specific logic of conviction. Here Fowler distinguishes between four other aspects (see Vergouwen, 2001, pp.81-84). We shall examine them in more detail, since they constitute the real core of ultimate meaning. – The first aspect is bounds of social awareness. What role do significant others play in the construction of self-identity and meaning? What (moral) weight does one assign the existence and rights of other individuals and groups?

28

Fowler (1980, p.55) speaks of ‘centres of supraordinate value (CSV)’.

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– The second aspect is locus of authority. To what extent do people depend on significant others or prevailing ideas and institutional codes to legitimize their important values and beliefs? Or does authority reside in the individual self? – The third aspect is the form of world coherence. To what extent do people form a coherent picture of ultimate reality? To what extent do they critically reflect on their own system of meaning? How aware are they of differences between their own and other people’s systems of meaning? – The fourth aspect is the symbolic function. How do people deal with symbols, rituals, myths and metaphors? Are symbols converted into conceptually articulated meanings? Do they realize that symbols are a different way of knowing from conceptual thought? Below we shall briefly describe all Fowlers stages of religious development except the last one, in view of the criticism of it (i.e. whether this stage actually occurs in human existence). Our description is based on those of Fowler (1980; 1981; 1987) and Vergouwen (2001). The first stage may be defined as a relational triangle aimed at ultimate meaning in which intuition and projection are focal (Fowler: “intuitive-projective faith”) (age 2-6/7 years). This stage is characterized by experience governed by emotions and perception. Imagination is tied to forms of knowing dominated by perception. The child’s experiential world is organized through images and stories. These are vehicles for children’s expression of their intuitions and feelings about ultimate meaning. Because of a naive egoism children do not consistently distinguish between their own perspective and other people’s. They prefer stories in which the forces of good and evil are presented fairly unambiguously (either/or). Symbols or pictures of ultimate reality (God) are a mixture of anthropomorphic and non-anthropomorphic images. The second stage may be defined as a relational triangle aimed at ultimate meaning by means of literally interpreted stories (Fowler: “mythic-literal faith”) (age 6-12 years, but also later). Children structure their experience through stories but are unable, or barely able, to step outside this narrative train. As for social consciousness, in this stage they focus exclusively on the family and the primary group. Relations with people outside this group are determined by stereotyping. Rules and symbols are taken literally. In their dealings with others the image of reciprocity predominates: one will be honest and fair

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provided the other is equally so. The same is reflected in their dealings with ultimate reality (whether religiously defined or not). Their relationship with ultimate reality is instrumental (do ut des). They ‘bargain’ with ultimate reality: “If I do this, I well get that in return.” Or they picture an ultimate order of reality in which ‘good deeds’ are rewarded. The structure of their world-view is characterized by unreflectiveness. The meaning of things is implicit and concrete. Their empathic powers are rudimentary, resulting in one-sided identification with the primary group and stereotyping of outsiders. Their locus of authority is an extension of the orientation to the primary group: authority rests with parents or other significant others. The third stage is marked by conventional, synthetic handling of relational triangles aimed at ultimate meaning (Fowler: ‘syntheticconventional faith’) (age: adolescence, but also adulthood). The person can extricate itself from the train of concrete stories by means of acquired formal thought processes. A life story may be constructed conceived of as ‘a story about the stories’. A ‘personal’ system of meaning is constructed from the values and beliefs of significant others. That is why we speak of a conventional style of meaning attribution. Vergouwen (2001, p.203) emphasizes that in this stage the system of meaning is global and fragmentary. Inherent contradictions often pass unnoticed. In addition the signifier often lacks insight into the role of cultural and political-economic factors in the development of conventional beliefs. The truth of their own beliefs is felt rather than reasoned. In interpreting symbols, symbol and symbolized are inextricably linked. Symbols are interpreted emotionally (e.g. images of the hereafter or God). Ultimate reality (God) is seen as an extension of human relations, including all the emotions inherent in these. Hence the God image is predominantly interpersonal. World-view is characterized by a focus on the social environment. Self-identity relates strongly to the person’s roles and relationships. Authority is ascribed to persons and institutions approved by the group or social convention. The fourth stage may be defined as a relational triangle aimed at ultimate meaning governed by autonomy and reflection (Fowler: ‘individuative-reflective faith’) (age: late adolescence, adulthood). This stage is based on two crucial developments (Fowler, 1987, p.68). First, the still intensely felt system of meaning from the previous phase is critically questioned. The self-evident and familiar is called into question. Secondly, the person’s own identity is questioned. In so doing the person

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assumes authority for the orchestration of roles and relationships. Reflection on ultimate reality results in the construction of a personal ‘ideology’. The person ‘has’ an ideology distinct from the self. In this stage people also actively look for ideological kindred spirits. According to Vergouwen (2001, p.245) critical reflection has three components: a. critical questioning of previously held beliefs b. search for the real meaning of a religious attitude to life c. questioning of the implications of such an attitude. When it comes to authority, there is an internalization of authority that used to reside outside the person (in the group or a significant other). Social consciousness is marked by formal recognition of others’ beliefs and values. The person genuinely tries to understand the other in terms of that party’s own system of meaning (auto-interpretation). Vergouwen (2001, p.270) maintains that there is more sensitivity to symbols in this stage than Fowler (1987, p.70) indicates. Symbols are demythologized by translating them into a form of conceptual knowledge. Thus earlier anthropomorphic God images (e.g. God the father ruling the world in authoritarian fashion) are transformed in abstract concepts. In addition the person realizes the functionality of symbols of ultimate meaning in both a social and a psychological sense. Every social group has a symbolic system, and individuals have no option but to use these symbols when dealing with ultimate meaning. The fourth stage may be defined as a relational triangle aimed at ultimate meaning governed by integration (Fowler: ‘conjunctive faith’) (age: latter half of life). Fowler (1987, p.71) derived his name for this phase from the coincidentia oppositorum (conjunction of opposites) of Nicholas of Cusa (1401-1464). In this stage the person realizes that all kinds of previously held certainties have to be abandoned. Truth is far greater than can be captured in one ideology. All ‘black-white’ thinking must be transcended. Thought about ultimate reality is characterized by paradoxes (such as both immanent and transcendent) that must not be resolved but maintained. The person recognizes the fundamental limitations of our talk about ultimate meaning. In handling symbols she or he tries to overcome the demythologization of the previous stage: we must pay heed to symbols, because they can put us on the way to a truth that cannot be expressed in conceptual forms of knowledge. As for social consciousness, there is greater openness to other people’s systems of meaning. The person realizes that every tradition strives for truth, but that all of them succeed only partially.

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Having outlined Fowler’s theory of faith development, we need to consider some critical comments. We confine ourselves to a few major objections raised by Vergouwen (2001):29 1. Fowler’s proposition that there are successive stages of development in dealing with meaning is not adequately substantiated (Vergouwen, 2001, p.123). Fowler refers to a cumulative integration of stages, although he does not see them as hierarchic in the sense that lower stages give way to higher stages. In fact, Fowler holds that the earlier stages are subsumed in later ones, hence inclusion rather than substitution. To this end he uses the image of a spiral of development in which there is both upward and downward movement (Fowler, 1981, p.287). According to Vergouwen this is evidence of Fowler’s recognition of psychodynamic aspects of people’s approach to meaning, such as affective dependence on significant others or religious communities. Hence it seems advisable to dispense with claims to development for the time being and not speak in terms of ‘hard’ stages of development. The ‘stages’ described here should rather be regarded as different styles of dealing with meaning. In her own study Vergouwen (2001, p.333) managed to identify the first three styles (up to synthetic-conventional). But she suspects that after the conventional stage psychological development could be highly idiosyncratic, so that one cannot really identify constant factors.30 2. Theorizing on the distinctive character of the domain of meaning is still fraught with obscurities. When it comes to the succession of stages (see above) a distinction is made between horizontal and vertical reconstruction. Horizontal reconstruction refers to the interrelation of the seven dimensions in the domain of meaning. In this regard there are still many unsolved problems. The first three (intel-

29 For a detailed review of criticism of Fowler’s theory, see Vergouwen’s dissertation (2001). Her study contains references to a great many publications in different disciplines. 30 This claim by Vergouwen has far-reaching implications for theories of development psychology in the field of religion. If there is no conclusion to development (i.e. a stage beyond convention) it becomes directionless. This brings Vergouwen close to Hutsebaut’s argument that one can speak of change but not of development. Hutsebout (1995) also points out that some changes are reflective and others not. Sometimes people’s decisions are reflective, sometimes they are not. Hutsebout seems to suggest that there are no grounds to suppose that people’s choices in a later stage are ‘reflective’ whereas in earlier stages they are unreflective. Sometimes they are reflective, sometimes they are unreflective.

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ligence, finding a perspective, moral judgment) are not dimensions of meaning in the real sense of the word but necessary conditions for the process of meaning attribution (Vergouwen, 2001, p.123). But are they in fact conditions? Why should moral development (in Kohlberg’s sense) precede religious development? (See Day, 2001.) And much of the interrelation of the other four dimensions in the logic of conviction is obscure. Why these four dimensions and no others? Does symbolizing competence, for example, feature in every type of world-view construction?31 3. Fowler’s last stage is defined theologically and normatively in terms of the Christian tradition (specifically the concept of the kingdom of God). This stage would be difficult to define in terms of both religious and nonreligious contents.32 4. Fowler’s model greatly understates the possibility of stagnation and disruption. Social problems (e.g. unemployment, financial worry, poor housing, divorce) strongly influence people’s style of meaning attribution. On the basis of her own study Vergouwen (2001, p.334) posits that parents’ educational level is a major influence in this regard. Fowler’s first styles appear to relate more to lower educational levels. This has major implications for theorizing on religious socialization that often implicitly assumes a reflective, cognitive style on the part of the educator – a style that Vergouwen encountered in only 25 percent of parents. 5. Finally Fowler’s theoretical framework makes no allowance for the socio-historical context. The religious self appears to develop in an a-historical, a-cultural setting. In her study Vergouwen established certain relations between socio-cultural features and the religious styles identified by Fowler. The first feature, parental educational levels, has been noted already. A second feature is religious socialization style, whose importance Vergouwen demonstrated. Briefly, it means that when parents socialize a child in a mythical-literal 31 In this regard see the study by Heijmans (see paragraaf 1.3.1). The ‘aholic’ and ‘conglomerate’ types have no dominant aim in life. If so, can one speak of ‘ultimate meaning’ at all? Do symbols in fact play a major role in the conglomerate type’s attribution of meaning, which is pieced together from clichés and platitudes? 32 Fowler (1988, p.32) justifies this by maintaining that it is an eschatological metaphor rather than a particular salvation history associated with Jesus’ preaching. Thus he avoids making the kingdom of God an absolute while still adhering to his universalizing pretence. However, this idea is not based on a shared concept of the ultimate goal in life in different religions. It is even more problematic for non-religious world-views.

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way in the religious domain, there is a likelihood that the child will develop a mythical-literal style of attributing meaning. Mythical-literal socialization is characterized inter alia by not responding properly to children’s inquisitive (and troublesome) questions, coercion, and religious communication aimed at certainty and staunchness as key functions of religion (Vergouwen, 2001, p.300). The syntheticconventional style of religious socialization is dominated by an orientation to significant others, a search for consensus, a highly emotive version of religion, and ‘proper’ behaviour (i.e. in conformity with convention). Reflexive socialization is characterized by a communicative climate in which parents put the accent on philosophical reflection and personal responsibility and, as an extension of this, stimulate their children to work out their own world-view which, they claim, they will respect (Vergouwen, 2001, p.305). 4.3.2 Development from participation At the end of the previous section we indicated that there is no such thing as individual development of religiosity without a context (Vergouwen, 2001, p.326). This accords with the premise of ‘contextualism’ which underlies the concept of the polyphonic self developed by H. Hermans cum suis. Contextualism is inimical to organistic thinking deriving from the ‘growth metaphor’, in terms of which certain operations in people’s mental functioning in the religious sphere ‘develop’ according to a fixed pattern. Empirical research into religion raises serious doubts about this assumption. Does this mean that we can no longer speak about religious development? Should we dispense with the concept of development? No, it should not be discarded but linked with (learning through) participation in religious practices. We see religious development as development from participation in religious practices.33 What do we mean by development in this context? And 33 From an institutional point of view religious development is not comparable with cognitive development (Piaget). Cognitive development has to do with logical thinking. This is one form of human intelligence, along with language, musicality, spatial bodily movement, interpersonal and intrapersonal communication (see Brandsford et al., 1999, p.89). In terms of an institutional theory the question whether religiosity is a ‘distinctive form of knowing, as in Fowler’s concept of a logic of conviction, is not relevant. It is only relevant if one defines religion as a specific kind of experience (as happens in empiricist theories of religion see 3.2.1). As an institutional practice religion is comparable with such institutional practices as the economy, traffic, law and sport.

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how is this development accomplished over time? Where does it start and where does it end? The concept of development required for our theory should link the active, signifying human being with the socio-cultural context in which that person acts in relation to others. A concept evolved by Vygotsky, zone of proximate development, offers such a framework. We shall use this concept on the basis of a reinterpretation by Valsiner (1997). We can define a zone of proximate development (ZPD) as the space in which learning occurs (Litowitz, 1993, p.185). ZPD is the space between the actual and potential, that is between a person’s (here, a child’s) current possibilities and its potential in given socio-cultural circumstances. Development is the change process from the child’s actual to its potential capacity. ZPD is an action space. Actual behavioural competence is determined by letting the child perform a task or activity on its own. The same is done to determine whether the child has reached its potential capacity. Again, it needs to be measured by the child’s independent action in a given context. In their transition from current developmental level to potential developmental level people are supported by someone who is competent to perform the new (potential) activity. This supporting person is an ‘expert’ at the activity in question, while the person thus supported is a ‘novice’. The expert may be an adult or a more skilled peer (Stone, 1993, p.170). An example of the latter would be a child who is versed in certain Islamic practices explaining the significance of these practices to a child from a different religious tradition (e.g. Christianity). Or one could think of parents as religious experts introducing their children to religious practices (e.g. mealtime rituals, forms of prayer, Bible reading). The concept of expert will be explained more fully below, but for now we may define it as being more proficient in an action. Apart from an action space, the ZPD is also a social space. Social interaction is not seen only as a condition for learning or the context of the learning process. The social interaction is the manner in which learning occurs (Packer, 1993, p.262). More than that, social interaction is learning: ‘Thus children learn when they are “empowered” in their interaction with others, when they have become effectively socialized into participating in shared cultural practices’ (Packer, 1993, p.264). This definition of ZPD as a social space shows that it should not be conceived of as individual learning potential. ZPD indicates a developmental potential that is the outcome of interaction between a novice and an expert in a given socio-cultural context.

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Apart from social interaction, cultural tools are a major factor in development. In religious practices all kinds of tools play a role: objects, symbols, places, activity patterns, actors, stories (see 3.1 D). In religious practices these tools always have a particular meaning. The environment in which the activity occurs is not just structured but is structured in a meaningful way (Valsiner, 1997, p.175). The meaning is expressed in the intentionality of the actors. People act with a specific intention or goal in view (see 3.1.1 B). Hence the human system of meaning (language, images, symbols, gestures) is crucial in the appropriation of cultural tools. In religious practices the meaning of a particular practice, and the tools employed in it, are given a specific meaning in terms of tradition. But that is not the sole source of meaning in the action space of a ZPD. The expert (or more proficient person) and the developing child also assign a particular meaning to the practice. The developing person is not a passive recipient of religiously prescribed contents but a co-constructor of the system of meaning: The cultural meanings are not transmitted from society to the child’s parents and from them to the child in an immutable form. Instead, each participant in this social communication process is a co-constructor of the cultural meanings (Valsiner, 1997, p.175).

Thus the meaning created in an action space is always a product of the interplay between at least three factors: the religious tools used (e.g. stories, actions, roles, symbols), one or more experts, and one or more developing persons. In other words, ZPD as an action space is a negotiating space in which meanings are not fixed but in constant flux. The concept of ZPD refers to people’s future potential that can be developed, but it tells us nothing about children’s actual potential and limitations. To determine what development from actual to potential competence is feasible, one has to take into account their current ability in a given environment. ZPD tells us nothing about that. The psychologist Jaan Valsiner (1997) suggested amplifying the concept of ZPD with two other concepts. The first of these is what he calls a zone of free movement (ZFM).34 ZFM indicates the field of potential action in a given context, where some things can be done and others not. In this context a child can perform certain activities but not others. ZFM

34

Valsiner (1997) derived this term from Kurt Lewin’s field theory.

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regulates the relation between people and their environment (Valsiner, 1997, p.189). Regulate in what sense? There is not only a potential for action but there are also constraints. Every ZFM is closed to a greater or lesser extent. The situation has certain constraints, but so has the child. For example: a child faced with the death of a grandparent has certain action tendencies (possibilities) to deal with the situation. It has learnt to articulate its grief. It knows what it means to burn a candle for the dead. But there are also constraints. The family does not have a custom of expressing experiences or feelings in prayer. They do not wear special clothes to show that they are in mourning, neither are friends and acquaintances involved in their coping with bereavement. This example can help to clarify some other issues as well. In an educational situation the ZFM is determined by an adult. To the extent that the children are capable of taking responsibility for their own actions, the demarcation of a ZFM is delegated to the developing child. Adults also have certain ideas about what children are capable of in a given situation. Thus parents will not send their children on an errand to the shop if they think that the child is still too young. In some situations there will be quite a lot of constraints on the ZFM; in others it will be fairly open. Children playing outside during break at school have quite a wide field of potential action. But even here there are restrictions: playing does not mean uprooting plants from a flowerbed or hitting other children. A ZFM is both strictly determined and undetermined (Valsiner, 1997, p.191). The latter is because every ZFM interacts with other possibilities for action that do not form part of that ZFM. These could be actions that conflict with the action within the ZFM, but also ones that augment or broaden the possibilities. Thus a child may see sportspeople on television wearing black armbands to show that they are in mourning. This establishes a relation between the possibility of wearing black clothes and bereavement. Or the child may meet other children to whom lighting a candle has no (religious) meaning. In addition to the concept of ZFM Valsiner (1997, p.192) introduces a second concept: that of zone of promoted action (ZPA). The ZPA comprises a range of activities that are encouraged by an adult. In principle the ZFM is far more comprehensive than the ZPA. To revert to our example: a ZPA might entail the expression of grief. To stimulate this, an adult will start a conversation, demonstrating his or her own grief as an example to the child. But ultimately it will depend

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on the child whether it shows its grief or not. One can merely ‘tempt’ the child to display this behaviour; it cannot be forced (Valsiner, 1997, p.194). Religious development implies tempting the developing person to participate. Encouragement of certain behaviour does not necessarily mean coercion or religious indoctrination. If adults consider it desirable for children to show their grief, there is nothing wrong with encouraging them to do so. It only becomes coercion when ZFM and ZPA coincide. In other words: when the action encouraged by the adult is the only possible action. Valsiner (1997, p.203) defines the ZPD as a constrained openness or an open constraint. A ZFM is always characterized by certain constraints, but the developing persons can negotiate about these constraints and so transform the ZFM. They can attach their own meaning to certain actions. Or various actions may be promoted (ZPAs), from which children may choose. Hence Valsiner believes that a ZFM should be regarded as a fuzzy set of potential actions. This open-closed definition concurs with Hermans’ analysis of the polyphonic self situated in a spatial field of possible I positions. The different I positions are constructed in a ZFM in which the developing person has learnt to act. Development means breaking down a constraint. A person who develops religiously digests new possibilities of religious action. In a situation of bereavement people can express their grief, but they can also be stricken with silence; people express both faith and religious doubt about a God who is experienced as absent; they have different forms of prayer (lament, thanksgiving, etc.) and different rituals associated with death and bereavement. In short, more developed people have a broader range of possible behaviour in a situation than less developed people. Development implies greater flexibility, in other words less constraint by restrictions imposed by a contextually determined ZFM. In addition to flexibility there is a second criterion of development (see Valsiner, 1997, p.307). A developed person has integrated the various behavioural possibilities in his or her personal system of meaning. Flexibility alone is not enough. Taken to the extreme this could result in a person who always reacts differently to the same situation. Integration is equally important when it comes to development. We can work out the criteria of flexibility and integration more fully with the aid of the distinction between expert knowledge and novice knowledge. By taking part in religious activities (plural) one develops from a novice into an expert. An expert is not just a novice with a bit

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more knowledge and skills. Research into expert knowledge shows that experts organize their knowledge differently, solve problems differently, and reason and remember differently from novices (Dreyfus & Dreyfus, 1990; Snoek, 1989; Bransford, Brown & Cocking, 1999; Hutschemaekers, 2001). For a proper understanding of what it means to develop behavioural potential one must grasp what it is that experts and novices do in action situations. The novice is the starting point of development, the expert is its culmination. We hasten to add that development should not be regarded as a linear process towards a definite goal. The same person may be a novice in one situation and an expert in another. Or at a given point in their lives people may have experiences which make them feel novices all over again rather than experts. The term ‘religious expert’ may sound very formidable, as we have pointed out already. But expertise comes in all shapes and sizes. The terms ‘novice’ and ‘expert’ should be placed on a continuum, allowing us to speak of greater or lesser degrees of expertise or novicehood. Also, expertise is always tied to a particular environment and religious practice. Person A, who could be considered a religious expert in one context, may be a novice in another. This phenomenon occurs both between religions and within a religion. A Hindu priest (pandit) is a novice at a Christian mass; conversely, a Catholic priest is a novice at a Hindu practice. And within a religion an ordinary lay person may have greater expertise at certain religious practices than religious professionals. Here one thinks of parents who know how to involve children in rituals at home. What are the characteristics of experts and novices? Below we contrast some differences between experts and novices, based on the study by Bransford, Brown and Cocking (1999). 1. Experts recognize attributes and significant patterns of information that novices fail to identify. At first glance this may seem strange. After all, it is one and the same religious practice – surely one cannot extract different information from the same situation? To discern the difference between experts and novices one must realize that a complex action situation comprises a great deal of information. An example is a chess game, in which every arrangement of pieces presents infinite possibilities that can be pursued. Experts are able to break up such large volumes of information into meaningful entities (‘chunking’) through recognition of familiar patterns. Here one thinks of a chess player who recognizes not just the particular arrangement but also a whole series of follow-up moves. This does

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not apply to the novice. Novices in a sense see the disparate elements of a situation and, if asked to describe it, may offer one of these. Experts can also remember far more details of a religious practice than a novice through the same phenomenon of pattern recognition. In a religious practice (e.g. a prayer or a ritual) there are recurring patterns that experts will recognize. Novices still have to learn these patterns through regular participation. The same applies to problem solving. Experts recognize patterns in a particular problem, such as a situation of bereavement. A pastor who has often dealt with bereaved children will be able to form a picture of the problem from a particular response and thus devise possible solutions. Novices in a sense have to check their ‘existing knowledge’ step by step to find the best option for dealing with the situation. 2. Experts have acquired a great deal of factual knowledge, which is structured in a way that affords deep insight into the topic. They have organized their knowledge around concepts and rules in a particular domain (Bransford, Brown & Cocking, 1999, p.24). In the case of religion these could be key metaphors of Christianity, like creation, the kingdom of God, sin, grace, resurrection and Jesus Christ (Hermans, 1993). Or they might recognize a particular prayer based on a typology of prayers (Siemerink, 1987). Novices look at surface traits in an action situation. This is unavoidable, since they lack the organizing concepts of religions. In principle a novice may have just as much factual information about a practice as the expert. The expert’s knowledge is not so much greater; it is simply better structured. 3. Experts’ knowledge relates to contexts where it is applicable. Religious experts do not need to run through their whole repertoire of actions to see what is relevant in a given situation (Bransford, Brown & Cocking, 1999, p.30). One would be unable to retain such a large volume of information in ones short-term memory. But experts are able to recall just the information which is pertinent to the action situation in hand. Novices, on the other hand, are not sure what information would be applicable to that situation. They do not yet know the conditions to which certain information applies. Typically novices’ knowledge of religious tools comprises disparate elements in their consciousness which they do not know how or where to apply. Yet without such conditions for application it is knowledge that they can never retrieve.

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4. Experts can retrieve important facets of their knowledge with comparative ease. In a situation they act effortlessly. Effortlessly is not the same as swiftly. Often an expert will try to fathom the situation (see point 2 above) and will not settle for a solution right away. Effortlessly means that the expert knows at once what could be relevant to the situation. In terms of our exposition, an expert knows what elements constitute a particular ZFM. To novices that is not evident (Bransford, Brown & Cocking, 1999, p.32). They have to exert themselves to determine what information is relevant and what the options for action are. 5. Although experts have a thorough command of their subject, this does not mean that they are able to teach it to others. A good example is Snoek’s study (1989) of neurologists’ thinking. Experts think in terms of scripts of a particular disease. Scripts are information patterns to which they direct their actions. They are no longer consciously aware of all the rules underlying such a disease script. This makes it difficult for some experts to explain to others why they opt for a particular therapy. The same could apply to religious experts. The arrival of a novice in a particular practice forces them to analyze that practice into its constituent parts all over again. Novices to an unfamiliar religious practice, on the other hand, need to consciously construe the interrelationship between diverse elements of knowledge, so their actions are far more rule-based than the expert’s (Dreyfus & Dreyfus, 1990). 6. Experts have a varying degree of flexibility in their approach to situations. This is a result of their ability to reflect on their options for action and determine whether or not they are still adequate (Bransford, Brown & Cocking, 1999, p.35). This capacity for self-reflection is also known as metacognition. Bransford et al. call experts who have this capacity adaptive experts: given a situation, they can adapt their actions. Novices do not possess a capacity for self-reflection, hence they depend on experts to see in which respect their actions could be developed further. Thus experts are able to create their own ZPDs, while novices have to depend on the assistance of a more expert person. To conclude this section we examine a problem raised by the close connection between development and participation in practices. Is the ultimate aim of religious development in a social constructionist perspective membership of a religious community (church, mosque)? No,

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the aim of development is religious expertise, which could express itself in membership of a religious community. But these are two separate issues, as is evident in the fact that the novice may also be regarded as a member of a religious community. We use the term “membership” in the formal sense of belonging to a religious institution, which has a degree of reification, expressed in clearly defined roles, rules for membership and a certain level of organization.35 We shall examine this issue in more detail, since religious socialization is so often linked with initiation into a religious community (church, mosque). The heading of this section does not read ‘development in participation’ but ‘development from participation’. Development of the religious self is only conceivable in relation to others and to participation in practices. Development cannot consist solely in hearing and talking about participation. The religious self can only be conceived of as participating in religious practices and communities of religious practice (see 4.2.1 and 4.2.2). But this does not mean that the aim of developing the religious self is identical with participation in religious practices and, following from this, membership of a religious community (church, mosque). The aim of religious development is the acquisition of religious ‘literacy’ from participation in religious practices. Participation increases people’s expertise in the religious domain. They develop possibilities that they did not have before. In this regard expertise should not be dissociated from the tools which individuals learn to use, such as stories, symbols, rituals and customs, nor from other people who engage in these practices. Our concept of expertise must not be divorced from our definition of the religious self as a selfin-religious-practices. That does not imply equating the aim of the development of such a self with knowledge about and engagement in specified religious practices. The degree of participation and the practices that the self identifies with are not prescribed. The definition of the religious self is an open one. That is why we speak of development from participation. To clarify what this means for novices we use a concept evolved by 35 The question of what constitutes membership of a religious institution can be answered in various ways. Institutions can be characterized by the stringency of their rules for membership (Berger & Luckmann, 1966). Another important characteristic is the degree of reification in their presented image: ‘Reification is the apprehension of the products of human activity as if they were something else than human products’ (Berger & Luckmann, 1966, p.89). Some institutions present themselves as a kind of objective world, others as constructions of human activity.

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Lave and Wenger, namely legitimate peripheral participation (Wenger, 1998, p.100). In communities of practice there are varying types of participation. All participation implies a measure of non-participation. It is never total, because the individual’s identity does not coincide with the meaning of a given practice. Even core members of a religious community do not automatically participate in every activity, nor do they participate fully in those activities in which they engage (e.g. a person may not identify with a particular part of a ritual). Peripheral participation is an incomplete form of participation, with a greater or lesser degree of non-participation. On first encountering a religious practice a novice’s participation is necessarily incomplete. Novices have to rely on other participants with greater expertise in that practice before they can participate. In that case non-participation is a consequence of being a novice, because the novice is not familiar with a particular practice. But peripheral participation can also be a conscious choice. Here one thinks of children who encounter religious practices from a different tradition than the one they are raised in at home. For example, non-participation in Christmas celebrations at a Catholic school could be expressive of a Muslim child’s religious self. In the mass the story of Jesus’ birth is read, when angels told the shepherds that ‘for you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord’ (Lk 2:11). To the Muslim child the significance of Jesus as ‘Saviour’ may conflict with the interpretation of Jesus as a prophet. Thus non-participation may contribute to the development of the child’s religious self. The meaning of non-participation is also illustrated by the three attributes of a community of practice mentioned in section 4.2.2: individuals’ involvement with each other, collective intentionality and common tools. Non-participation could imply less involvement with other participants in a practice. The Muslim child at the Christmas mass will distance herself emotionally from the other participants. Non-participation may also imply not sharing the collective intentionality. The Muslim child attending a Christmas mass at a Catholic school does not share the other participants’ intentionality: “We are celebrating Christmas.” Finally non-participation can also imply that the novice shares few if any religious ‘tools’ with other participants in a community of practice. The Muslim child does share the connotation of Jesus as an ‘example’, as well as that of celebrating something in communion with other people. This illustration should not lead us to conclude that non-participation is a matter of all or nothing. There

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is always some measure of non-participation in a community of practice. Lave and Wenger not only refer to peripheral participation but to legitimate peripheral participation. Legitimate refers to novices’ right to participate peripherally (Wenger, 1998, p.101). This implies two things. First, novices are regarded as fully fledged participants in the practice. Their input in the situation adds to it, even if it conflicts with the meaning traditionally attached to that religious practice. The introduction of a novice is taken no less seriously than that of a religious expert. Secondly, novices have a right not to be initiated into a religious institution. They may end up opting to remain outsiders. Without this legitimacy the novice is trapped: take part once, and the outcome is fixed. We have defined this trap as the identification of the ZPA with the ZFM. When that happens we have development in, not from participation. Legitimate peripheral participation is prerequisite for the development of the religious self, not only for novices but also for experts. Wenger (1998, p.216) points out the wisdom of peripherality: There is a wisdom of peripherality – a view of the community that can be lost to full participants. It includes paths not taken, connections overlooked, choices taken for granted.

The potential of a religious practice to afford a glimpse into (In)finitude is not exhausted by the meaning expressed at the very core of this practice. A new context may reveal unsuspected meanings. By the same token new participants (novices) can disclose hidden meanings. Religious experts may ‘forget’ this wisdom of the periphery by assuming that a particular religious practice (or body of practices) fully express (In)finitude. On the basis of our theological reflection on thinking about God we have to reject this notion. That would be to turn a religious practice into an idol (a description of (In)finitude) rather than the icon (window on (In)finitude) it is meant to be (see 2.3.2). Every expert, not just the novice, has a ZPD. Development of the religious self is a continuous process. Every individual (expert and novice alike) must look to the periphery for their further development. This development-psychological imperative converges with our theological option for marginality as a privileged horizon of (In)finite time and space (see 2.4.2). Marginality is where our certainty – or rather, supposed certainty – about (In)finitude goes by the board. It is the place of unsuspected possibilities. Here we think primarily of the

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socio-economically marginalized. In religious practices economically marginalized people (the poor) can open up new perspectives on religious stories, rituals of reconciliation, religious symbols of power and disempowerment and religious customs. One also thinks of religious minorities who are ‘invisible’ in society from the point of view of the dominant cultural group (also see chapter 6). In addition one thinks of the marginalized people in every religious community in the form of religious subcultures or counter movements.36 Many of the founders of religious orders (such as St Francis in the Catholic Church) were initially regarded as renegades against the established order. Every periphery has a certain wisdom, no matter how aberrant it may seem from the dominant point of view. It is imperative that the religious self explores the periphery if it is to develop.

36 Waaijman distinguishes six types of counter movements in the history of spirituality: spirituality of liberation, devotion, religious adversaries, religious uprootedness (such as hermits), spirituality of martyrs and eschatological spirituality (such as mystics) (Waayman, 2000, pp.215-300)

CHAPTER FIVE

LEARNING FROM PARTICIPATION

What learning and didactic processes must occur in religious education to develop the religious self? In chapter 4 we explained what the religious self is and how it develops. The content of religion was explained in chapter 3. Having dealt with the aim and content, we now turn to the how of learning and knowing (De Corte et al., 2000). First we shall choose a learning theory which accords with an institutional approach to religion. There are various schools in the psychology of learning and knowing, known by various names. Following Jerome Bruner, we refer to them as behaviourism, cognitivism and culturalism (see 5.1). This last school is most compatible with an approach which sees religion as religious practice embedded in a community of practice, in which tradition and convention, together with the intentionality of participants, play a major role. The basic concept in culturalism is participation. On the basis of this concept we define four premises of this ‘new learning’: developmental, social, mediated and meaningful learning. We then elaborate on these four premises, following the Russian learning psychologist Lev Vygotsky and authors who base their work on his (see 5.2). We show that in Vygotsky’s theoretical framework the four premises are integrated: if you remove one, the whole theory collapses. Consequently we feel that Vygotsky offers a firm theoretical basis for participatory learning in religious education, even though a lot more empirical research is needed to substantiate the use of these premises in religious education. Section 5.3 looks into the didactics of participatory learning, that is how instruction is organized. Instruction refers to measures and conditions introduced in the learning environment of learners to promote learning (Boekaerts & Simons, 1995, p.4). These didactic pointers bring us to the actual teaching practice in religious education. Our discussion takes the form of examples and does not profess to be exhaustive. Educational practice is far too pluriform for that, and didactic methods subject to too much development.

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5.1 Participation as basic concept of the new learning Jerome Bruner was one of the architects of the cognitive revolution in educational psychology. In the introduction to his book, The Culture of Education (Bruner, 1996), he looks back on 30 years of scientific work. He describes his first book, The Process of Education (Bruner, 1966), as a highly individualistic, formalistic and intrapsychic approach to learning and knowing: – individualistic in the sense that the learner is seen as an isolated individual; – formalistic in the sense that the operation of consciousness is divorced from cultural tools and socio-cultural context; – intrapsychic in the sense that knowing is regarded as an information processing system within the person. The basic metaphor underpinning this approach to learning and knowing is the human mind as an instrument of computation. Human thinking may be considered comparable to the operation of a computer, conducting logical processes based on binary codes (zeros and ones). In contrast to the computer metaphor, Bruner (1996, p.6) posits the metaphor of the human mind as a text and thinking as textual interpretation. This metaphor places human thought in the midst of culture. Learning and thinking are situated in a cultural context and employ cultural means. That is why Bruner calls this second approach ‘culturalism’.1 The information in a socio-cultural context is usually vast, ambiguous, contained in fuzzy categories, sensitive to context and embedded in metaphorical systems of meaning. For the meaning making of the culturalist, unlike the information processing of the computationalist, is in principle interpretive, fraught with ambiguity, sensitive to the occasion, and often after the fact (Bruner, 1996, p.6).

Thinking as textual interpretation is different from thinking in binary codes (true/false). Bruner does not reject the second form, but distin1 Bruner uses the term ‘culturalism’ more broadly than we, following Holland, did in section 4.2.1. Holland confines the term to ‘cultural’ influences on the self and social practices. This concept of culturalism disregards social influences (also see 4.1.2, footnote 5). The assumption is that human behaviour is wholly determined by the cultural depth structure in a society or community. In Bruner’s work, by contrast, the term ‘culturalism’ includes both cultural and social influences.

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guishes it clearly from the first. He refers to two complementary forms of thinking. The one is logical and scientific, aimed at a well constructed argument (Bruner, 1986, p.11-13). The basic form of this argument is the proposition ‘If X, then Y’. The argument must convince the other party of the truth of a statement, which has a binary structure: A cannot simultaneously be B. The two are mutually exclusive. The test for truth is empirical. Truth is that which can be proved empirically on the basis of the proposition ‘If X, then Y’. The second form of thinking is narrative, aimed at constructing a good story. The story creates a textual world Bruner talks of ‘as-if worlds’: suppose life is like a garden in which a steward tends nature lovingly.... The thought on which this narrative mode builds is the imagination. The world disclosed in this text seeks to persuade the listener or reader of its closeness to ‘lived’ reality. Whether readers allow themselves to be absorbed into the world of the text depends on its plausibility, which is not the same as the empirical truth of the logical scientific mode. The truth of imagination is dialogical. A can be both A and, in some respects in a given context, non-A. Dialogical truth does not deal in black and white (binary codes) but in positions and oppositions which can to some extent include and evoke each other. According to Bruner (1986, p.14) a textual world creates two zones which are distinguishable but not separable. One is an action zone, comprising the various elements of the action such as the actors, purpose of the action, means and chronological sequence. The second is a mental zone shaped by the intentions, feelings and ideas of the actors. Their motives and intentions emerge from the plot of the story. The hero’s intentions become evident in what happens in the drama. Hence the mental zone presupposes the action zone. But without the mental zone of the semiotic system, Bruner maintains, one misses the distinctiveness of the narrative mode of thought. The culturalist approach is best suited to religion as the content (chapter 3), and to the development of the religious self as the aim (chapter 4), of religious education. Under the umbrella heading of culturalism one finds various trends in psychology, such as the socio-cultural approach (Wertsch, 1991, 1995), the cultural-historic approach (Van Oers & Wardekker, 1997), situated learning (Greeno, Collins & Resnick, 1996; Greeno, 1997), distributed cognition (Salomon, 1993; Cobb & Bowers, 1998) and social constructivism (Palinscar, 1998; Op ’t Eynde et al., 1998). The emergence of so many different schools under the same umbrella shows that there is as yet no powerful para-

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digm comparable to that of cognitivism. What the various schools have in common is their opposition to (first generation) cognitive psychology, in which they identify various biases. Cognitivism itself was a reaction to what is known as behaviourism. We shall briefly outline the three approaches (behaviourism, cognitivism and culturalism) (see Greeno, Collins & Resnick, 1996; De Corte, Greer & Verschaffel, 1996; Lightfoot & Cox, 1977). Then we examine culturalism more closely from the angle of the basic concept of participation. This leads us to identify four attributes: developmental, social, mediated and meaningful. In the case of each attribute we reject certain interpretations which we find untenable or biassed. Put differently: not everything that falls under the heading ‘new learning’ will pass critical scrutiny. Since the 1920s psychology has been dominated by what was termed behaviourism (Greeno, Collins & Resnick, 1996; De Corte, Greer & Verschaffel, 1996). This school was most influential in the USA (with famous names like Thorndike and Skinner), and somewhat less so in the USSR. According to this approach knowledge is a structure of associations made up of underlying skills. Mental processes such as thoughts, feelings and intentions are considered non-observable. Learning occurs when a person establishes associations between a stimulus and a response. The bell (stimulus) rings on the school ground and all the children assemble to go inside (response). The measure in which children display the desired behaviour depends on the strength of the association between the situation and the various actions. Learning occurs by reinforcing certain associations (e.g. praising children who come to class punctually) (cf. Thorndike, law of effect). In complex behaviours, such as arithmetical calculations, it is important to determine all the underlying stimulus-response associations. There have to be less complex associations if the learner is to be capable of more complex activities.2 The main criticism of behaviourism is that human thought is regarded as a ‘black box’. Only the input (stimulus) and output (response) are considered important; the mental activities in between 2 Gagné is one of the most prominent educational psychologists who, through task analyzes in the 1950s and 1960s, analyzed complex behaviours into less complex ones (e.g. discriminating and classifying). Later, in the 1970s, Gagné (also in collaboration with Briggs, 1979) broadened his educational psychology into the approach known as cognitivism, in which the substantive structure of a science featured more prominently in learning task analysis.

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(throughput) are disregarded. It can only explain simple human behaviours which strongly resemble those of animals.3 Behaviourism fails to account for complex actions. Consider, for example, a situation on the playground where different subcultural groups are engaged in a power struggle. When the bell rings, a series of complex response patterns is triggered. Some children want to go inside together, but not with certain other children. And the order in which they go in is expressive of the power structure in the group. In short, these responses make no sense if one does not know the meaning that individuals attach to certain response patterns. A behaviourist approach may result in a mechanistic notion of learning, to which learning content (e.g. a particular subject) contributes nothing. Psychologists largely agree that the mid-1950s saw a cognitive revolution in reaction to behaviourism. In this revolution computers played a key role by making it possible to simulate the process of information processing. Thus problem solving came to be seen as the application of heuristics4 to a problem area comprising diverse problems. By identifying (a limited number) of cognitive operations educators want to enable learners to enhance their problem-solving competence (De Corte, Greer & Verschaffel, 1996). In the cognitive approach learning is regarded as a constructive process of conceptual development and an increase in general cognitive abilities such as problem-solving strategies and metacognitive processes (Greeno, Collins & Resnick, 1996, p.16). Metacognitive processes refer to the ability to reflect on one’s own thinking and direct it through constant monitoring of the mental process. One impulse in cognitive psychology was recognition of the role of learners’ prior knowledge in information processing. People need organizing frameworks to absorb new information meaningfully, in such a way that they can recall and apply it in new situations. If an element is missing from their prior knowledge, it first has to be learnt before the learner can master a more complex cognitive operation. According to the cognitive approach transfer to a new situation depends on the availability of abstract mental representations (such as mathematical formulas or traffic rules) that are universally applicable to problem situations. Once a traffic rule or mathematical formula has been learnt, it can be

3 4

Most experimental research in behaviourism also relates to animal behaviour. That is, problem-solving strategies such as means-goal analyzes (see 5.3.3).

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applied to an infinite series of similar situations. The cognitive approach has produced an impressive number of studies, which have yielded a great deal of insight into human knowing and learning. In the mid-1980s cognitivism came under fire. The critics were primarily people who were using the approach themselves, hence their reaction was known as the second wave of cognitive psychology or second cognitive revolution (De Corte, Greer & Verschaffel, 1996, p. 497). Essentially this criticism boils down to what we cited from Bruner above: knowing and learning are regarded as individualistic, formalistic and intrapsychic. The first wave underplayed the social, affective, contextual and culture-historical aspects. De Corte et al. refer to the first wave’s ‘cold’ knowledge as opposed to the ‘warm’ knowledge of second wave cognitive psychology. There is fairly broad consensus among learning psychologists and educationists about first wave cognitive psychology, but it remains debatable whether one can actually talk of a new perspective on knowing and learning, or even of a new paradigm. The answer depends partly on whether one perceives the new approach as continuous or discontinuous with the ‘old’ cognitivism. Thus Boekaerts and Simons (1995) maintain that constructivism, as a ‘new’ trend, aims specifically at opening the ‘white box’ to which cognitive psychology is directed. People’s mental activities are constructed so differently that the main concern should be to open this white box. After that one must ensure that they can apply their acquired knowledge and skills in relevant contexts. The widespread belief in the existence of general knowledge and skills that are represented in the mind independently of context appears to conflict with the research on which constructivism is founded. In the human mind knowledge and skills are associated with experience gained in specific contexts (Boekaerts & Simons, 1995, p.11).

But within the schools mentioned by Boekaerts and Simons, such as the situated learning approach (Cobb & Bowers, 1999) and social constructivism (Palinscar, 1999), many authors rejected the notion that the premises of cognitive theory are confined to ensuring that the white box is opened. They point out that there has been a fundamental change in the basic metaphor of cognitive psychology, which sees human thought as an information processing system (see above). Human knowing and learning parallel data processing by a computer (Op ’t Eynde, Verschaffel & De Corte, 1999). The basic metaphor of culturalism is that of the person (learner) as a participant in socio-cul-

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tural practices. Depending on whether one sees continuity or discontinuity between this new approach based on a participation metaphor and the old approach based on the computer metaphor, one would speak of a second wave in cognitive psychology or of a totally new perspective. This positional debate in itself is unimportant, provided one does not lose sight of the shift in the basic metaphor. To what extent theorizing on knowing and learning is continuous or discontinuous remains to be seen. Far more interesting is the question of what the shift in the basic metaphor actually entails. What characterizes a perception of knowing and learning as participation in socio-cultural practices? The first point to be noted is that the debate is still very much alive. This is evident in the diversity of trends discernible within the new approach, such as the socio-cultural approach (Wertsch 1991, 1995) or culturalhistorical approach (Van Oers & Wardekker, 1997), situated learning (Greeno, Collins & Resnick, 1996; Greeno, 1997), distributed cognition (Salomon, 1993; Cobb & Bowers, 1998) and social constructivism (Palinscar, 1998; Op ’t Eynde et al., 1998). But this fact also calls for caution. We do not profess to offer a synthesis of a scientific field (learning psychology and education) that has not arrived at any synthesis of its own.5 Still, we cannot avoid giving a definition of the participation metaphor on which we base our view of knowing and learning. What are the underlying assumptions of the metaphor that knowing and learning occur through participation in socio-cultural practices? Our analysis is based on the three attributes identified by Bruner. The first attribute of participation, in our view, is the social character of learning as opposed to the individualistic perspective entailed by the computer metaphor (see above). Participation implies that people engage in an activity collectively. This social character is evident in the very names given to most trends in the ‘new learning’: socio-cultural approach (Wersch 1985, 1991), sociogenetic approach (Lightfoot & Cox, 19997) and social constructivism (Palinscar, 1998; Op ’t Eynde et al., 1999). But even Greeno (1997, p.5), a proponent of situated learning, finds his premise in social interaction in an authentic situa5 What strikes us as equally simplistic is to present only one school as the successor of behaviourism and cognitive theory, be it situated learning (Terwel, 1993) or social constructivism (Cobb & Bowers, 1999). We believe that many trends have emerged, all elaborating on the same basic metaphor. Hence we do not present just one trend as the sole alternative to cognitive theory (or the first revolution in cognitive psychology).

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tion. Seeing learners as participants implies two things. Firstly, the participants in the (learning) situation interact with each other; and secondly, they interact with the material and symbolic tools in the situation (Greeno, 1997, p.7). In this context the term ‘interact’ is extremely important. Greeno appears to be saying that participation in a social situation presupposes the activity of both the individual and other people (hence reciprocal), and that learners actively use tools which transform their knowing and learning. Cobb and Bowers (1999, p.5) affirmatively cite Greeno’s view that individuals’ actions should be seen as participation in social practices. Fundamentally knowing implies activity situated in a social practice, even when it occurs in the physical absence of other people. Learning implies change in the nature of participation in a practice. The question is how the social aspect relates to the individual aspect. Thus Greeno, representing the situated learning approach, and Anderson, representing cognitive theory, appear to be locked in a dilemma: either isolated individuals, or a social situation. Anderson et al. (1996, p.11) naturally allow for the social aspect, but confine themselves to its influence on the individual’s consciousness. Greeno, on the other hand, puts so much emphasis on social practice that individual mental activities appear to be entirely assimilated to the social situation. The social character of participation does not imply that individuals and their mental processes are absorbed (or, one might say, ‘evaporate’) into the collective. We reject such an interpretation of social learning as one-sided. We concur with Cobb and Bowers (1999, p.8), who emphasize that socio-cultural practices entail both individual mental activities and a community of practice. Both the individual and the social collective are active principles in the context of social practices. Put differently: they entail both an active child and an active environment (Lightfoot & Cox, 1997). We agree with Rogoff (1995) that the social (or interpersonal) level constitutes the link between the intrapersonal and the cultural or institutional level.6 The second attribute of participation is that it assumes that know6 Most of the literature pertaining to the ‘new learning’ either does not define the exact nature of social practices at all, or does so inadequately. Often there is little more than a definition of a situation involving two or more people. This is inadequate for a description of religious education. Religion is a social practice plus something else: it is constituted on the basis of rules that assigns a status function (‘X equals Y’) to an object, person or situation in terms of a tradition. In other words, religion is not just a social practice but an institutional practice.

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ing and learning are contextual, that is rooted in a socio-cultural context and more specifically in the cultural tools used in that context. This attribute contrasts with the formalism found in the computer metaphor. Knowing and learning are domain-specific. How can a person know how to act in one situation, yet the same person has no idea what to do in another situation? In terms of the basic metaphor of participation, knowing and learning are always bound up with the tools that one uses in a given situation (Palinscar, 1998; Wertsch, Tullviste & Hagstrom, 1993). Through learning children become participants in a culture, which means that they learn to use the tools of that culture (Carpay, 1993). This should not be seen as a process in which a passive child simply adopts the tools of her or his environment. The tools children appropriate transform them, and they transform the tools. Education must serve two lords, as Carpay (1995, p.318) puts it: the learners in their life world, and science and society. Hence, in contrast to formalism, the basic metaphor of participation is characterized by mediated learning, that is learning inseparably linked with certain tools. Anticipating on section 5.2.3, we mention here that this entails both psychological and cultural tools. In discussing this attribute we again need to reject an interpretation encountered in the ‘new learning’. Within constructivism there is a school which not only debates on learning theory but also presents an epistemological view. This is known as radical constructivism, of which Glaserfeld is a leading proponent (Boersma, 1995). The learner not only transforms the learning material (learning theory), but all knowledge is seen as a human construct (epistemology). We have already rejected the relativism to which this notion gives rise (see 4.1.1). The fact that the world which is known is always known by people does not mean that the world itself exists only in human mental constructs. Some knowledge of the world is false, however much it may be lodged in the learner’s mind as ‘knowledge of the real world’.7 The third attribute of participation is that it should entail a mean7 This does not mean that certain ‘misconceptions’ of the learner may not be meaningful to the person. In fact, the new learning emphasizes that one cannot simply ignore such misconceptions. Inasmuch as the old learning is premised on stable, universal scientific structures in a particular field, these misconceptions of learners are simply dismissed as irrelevant. One feature of the new learning is that learners must actively establish a connection between their prior knowledge and the cultural and scientific knowledge presented in the learning process. Acceptance of this premise of learning theory does not mean, however, that all knowledge is regarded epistemologically as a relative human construction.

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ingful activity or practice. This attribute contrasts with the reduction of knowing or learning to the epistemological self, that is to the intramental or intrapsychic functioning of individuals. In the ‘old learning’ (cognitivism) the learner or knower is reduced to what goes on in the person’s head, above the eyebrows. In situated learning, by contrast, it is assumed that expertise is spread throughout an action situation (Cole, 1993; Brown et al., 1993; Greeno, 1997). A learner solves an arithmetical problem in a particular context, together with other people and using certain aids (e.g. a calculator). The socio-cultural approach speaks of the mind that extends beyond the human body (Wertsch 1991a; 1991b; 1998). This implies that knowing and learning include everything in a given action situation – not just the learner (and his or her mental processes) but also fellow learners, the space (learning situation), the purpose of the action (intentionality), the time dimension and the broad cultural and institutional context. In terms of the participation metaphor knowing and learning must always be located in a total action situation or practice. On the basis of this totality we can speak of meaningful learning. The implications will be worked out below (see 5.2.4). Here we merely point out that the learning effect, seen as participation in a meaningful situation, is more than just cognitions; it includes the whole interrelationship of affective, motivational and social aspects as well. It also affects the learners’ selfimage, their conception of the nature of the acquired knowledge and the significance of the learning material for everyday life (Perret-Clermont, 1991). This complexity of knowing and learning stems from the premise of meaningful learning, that is learning in a meaningful activity or practice. Once again we want to avoid a particular bias or reductionist interpretation. Sometimes this attribute is taken so far that learning and knowing are reduced to physical action. The relation between the individual and the world originates in and through action. Without an activity one cannot speak of knowing and learning (see Kozulin, 1998, p.26, as a critique of Zinchenko, 1985). Participation in a practice is the activator or explanatory principle of the knowing and learning process, but the two are not identical. The effect of the learning process is intramental activity by the learner. Put differently: the premise of meaningful learning must not eclipse the intrapsychic functioning of the learner, which is focal in the ‘old’ conception of learning (as information processing). Another misconception to be avoided is that a meaningful situation is equated with an activity or practice as it

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occurs beyond the classroom walls. This misconception arises from the term ‘authentic learning’ that is used in the literature alongside and synonymously with meaningful learning (see Terwel, 1993; Carpay & Terwel, 1995). Authentic connotes genuine, original, pure, unadulterated. Applied to participation in religious practices, this would imply that learning situations in schools are equated with ‘authentic religious practices’ performed by religious communities. That would be to equate a learning situation at school with a liturgical practice in church or a prayer practice at home. We wish to avoid this confusion and therefore consider it wiser not to speak of ‘authentic learning’. Meaningful learning assumes a relation between the learning situation at school and religious practices elsewhere without identifying the two situations.8 The fourth and final attribute we want to pinpoint in the participation metaphor is that it is developmental. This attribute is mentioned mainly by authors who take Vygotsky as their basis (Scribner, 1984; 1997; Wertsch, 1985; 1991; Lightfoot & Cox, 1997; Van Oers & Wardekker, 1997; Kozulin, 1998). Developmental refers to the fact that people’s mental processes only make sense in terms of their genesis and change. What does that mean, and why is it an attribute of participation? By mental processes we mean activities such as remembering, communicating, analyzing, problem solving and articulating personal feelings. We shall dwell on this in more detail below (see 5.2.3), but for the purpose of our argument at this point the definition will suffice.9 These mental processes cannot be explained as stemming from an exclusively natural or biological source. They presuppose the mediation of the human semiotic system (signs) that gives them content and purpose, hence mental processes must be understood in terms of their origin in the human semiotic system. 8 Van Oers (1995, p. 271) points out a second misconception inherent in the term ‘authentic learning’. Neither the learners’ practice nor their learning is ‘authentic’ in the sense of original and unique. A learning situation is characterized by the influence of the learning environment on the child. Meaningful learning rejects the notion of a passive learner assimilating prescribed learning contents. The reverse is equally false, namely the idea of a unique, original form of knowing and learning. The new learning based on the participation metaphor assumes a two-way effect: an active child and an active environment (Lightfoot & Cox, 1997). 9 Note that ‘mental’ must not be narrowed down to conceptual or semantic knowledge. It includes every human psychic activity, whether it refers to episodic knowing (personal, situated, affective and narrative), conceptual knowing (semantic, concepts, principles) or action-oriented knowing (skills, procedural knowledge, implementation plans) (see Boekaerts & Simons, 1995).

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Let us cite an example (see Vygotsky, 1977, pp.104-105). A small child points at an object. Its mother interprets the gesture and asks, ‘Must mummy give you X’. She then passes the object to the child. This outside assistance (by the mother) causes the child to form a connection between gesture, utterance and response. Gradually the child discovers that the utterance, ‘Mummy, give’, has the same effect as the gesture. It discovers how to express its will with the aid of this utterance. What was initially solved for the child by someone else, it now learns to achieve for itself by saying, ‘mummy, give’. This example shows that the mental process of giving an order or expressing one’s will cannot be dissociated from the human semiotic system. We would not even know what giving an order means without the language the child has learnt to use. Use of the semiotic system also transforms the mental process, which originally consisted in a gesture and cries. Through participation the child has developed into a person capable of purposeful (i.e. intentional) action. It has acquired some expertise, not merely linguistic but also social. This relation to the human semiotic system is essential for religion. One can only gain insight into the meaning of religion from participation in religious practices. And, as indicated in section 4.3.2, the religious self can only develop from participation. In terms of the participation metaphor the ‘new learning’ may be described as developmental. This concept will be worked out in more detail below (5.2.1). Here we merely want to point out a misconception that can arise from the concept of development as used by Piaget and others. In this tradition development is regarded as a natural process that has the same structure and sequence for all people. Other people can promote the process from the outside, but that is not essential: if there is sufficient stimulation in the child’s environment, cognitive development will occur ‘by itself’. This concept of development (Piaget) differs in some respects from the concept of development that we have expounded on the basis of Vygotsky. Thus it is not necessarily linked with a particular (domain-specific) semiotic system, neither does it first have to manifest itself in interpersonal interaction before it becomes part of the person’s intramental functioning (see Kozulin, 1998). In our concept of development from participation neither element can be ignored.

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5.2 Premises of participatory learning Thus far we have identified four attributes of the new learning based on the metaphor of participation: developmental, social, mediated and meaningful. The definition of these attributes has not crystalized by any means (see above), but it is theoretically unsatisfactory to elaborate on the four attributes of the new learning without a clear framework. One option is to go back to the author who inspired many proponents of the new learning, Lev Vygotsky. This has certain advantages. Firstly, we can take the actual multiplicity of schools for what they are without attempting to synthesize them by comparing them. Such a synthesis is hardly feasible anyway, since new schools are constantly emerging. But we can acknowledge their approach to knowing and learning by turning to the author who inspired them. Even though these schools offer different explanations of learning and instruction processes, they have a common ground in the premises of Vygotsky’s theory. Secondly, reverting to Vygotsky enables us to develop a coherent framework. The coherence that is not (yet) manifest among the various contemporary schools is to be found in Vygotsky’s theory. Thirdly, Vygotsky is a thinker who concentrated preeminently on the foundations of knowing and learning. One gets the impression that some authors offer a list of guidelines for learning and instruction with no clear indication of how they are interrelated or grounded. Vygotsky provides a solid foundation, which makes him less sensitive to time and trends. But every solution poses fresh problems. Vygotsky (1896-1934) died young, so he did not have much opportunity to develop his theory fully. Hence we have to depend on his disciples and present-day interpreters for a coherent exposition of his premises of participatory learning. That is why we refer cautiously to premises inspired by Vygotsky rather than to Vygotsky’s premises.10 10 A further problem is that there are various groups of Vygotsky disciples. Thus Carpay (1999) points out that two such groups in Europe have broken with the American reception of Vygotsky since the 1960s. These groups in their turn have separated themselves from Russian learning psychologists who have carried on Vygotsky’s tradition (Davydov, ElKonin, Zinchenko). We shall abstain from any debate on who represents Vygotsky’s true heirs. The authors we rely on for an interpretation of Vygotsky form part of his reception in the USA since the 1960s and 1970s (Bruner, Valsiner, Wertsch, Scribner, Cole, Forman, Lightfoot & Cox) and of the Dutch-speaking group of authors (Carpay, Van Oers, Wardekker). We leave it to others to name his real heirs.

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We shall first deal with developmental learning (5.2.1), then with social learning (5.2.2), mediated learning (5.2.3) and finally with meaningful learning (5.2.4). As will appear from the discussion, these four attributes are interrelated in Vygotsky’s work. Developmental learning is always social, mediated and meaningful as well. And social learning is always developmental, mediated and meaningful. This must be kept in mind when reading the description that follows. The interrelationship provides a solid basis for the new learning based on the participation metaphor. Each attribute is integral to the overall theory. If you remove one of them, the whole structure collapses. 5.2.1 Developmental learning Participatory learning is developmental. What does this mean in Vygotsky’s framework? Certain mental processes – the higher ones – can only be understood in terms of their development, that is their origin and the change they bring about in the human psyche (Vygotsky, 1977, p.97). Higher mental processes differ from lower ones in that they cannot be explained solely in terms of people’s (neuro)biological nature, but also have historical, cultural and institutional roots. If you want to know what mental activity grieving entails, you have to look for it in the history, culture and institutional practices in which human beings are embedded. If you want to know what mental activity prophetic religious protest against poverty entails, you must look for its origins in history, culture and institutional practices. If you want to understand the mental process of a child interpreting its own life story in terms of a religious narrative (Bible, Qur’an, Torah, Vedas), then you must trace its origin in history, culture and institutional practices. The significance of this premise for religious education should not be underrated. Mental activity in the religious sphere cannot be understood without interaction between the developing person and religious practices, with all that these entail (stories, symbols, rituals, customs, roles, sacred places, etc.). A story (e.g. that of creation) or symbol (e.g. the cross) is fraught with the entire history of its evolution. For a child to interpret such a story or symbol means participating in that cultural history and the meanings associated with it. If the creation story actively assumes meaning for children, their angle on the world and their dealings with nature (animals) will change. They will see the world in the perspective of the story. It becomes a ‘tool’ in their dealings with the world, in the sense that once the story is known, the

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mental activity is different from what it was before. To Vygotsky cultural history is what distinguishes human mental activities from those of other primates. According to Vygotsky the history of the human species (or phylogenesis) is repeated in the evolution of the child (or ontogenesis); and the determinants of the child’s development (ontogenesis) are repeated in the development of a particular mental activity (microgenesis). In the evolution of the human species the crucial step was the transition from biological evolution to historical and cultural evolution (Scribner, 1985, p.122). Nature was transformed into culture. Humankind erects monuments to commemorate events (Vygotsky, 1977, p.59) or to enact religious practices (e.g. the temple built by the Jewish people in Jerusalem). These examples clearly illustrate how far mental activities like recollecting via monuments are removed from the lower mental activity of physical recollection, such as remembering a particular spring from the presence of certain vegetation.11 To Vygotsky historical evolution is also cultural evolution (and vice versa), and that is where we must look for the laws that govern human mental development. According to Scribner (1985, p.122) this notion of Vygotsky’s leads to the following premises. Firstly, human mental activities are not fixed (in the sense of being intrinsic to all human beings but are in constant flux under the influence of socio-cultural processes. Our understanding of the world in regard to mathematics, geography, economics, politics and religion differs from that of earlier generations. What these mental activities entail (the human mind) cannot be divorced from their evolution to their present form. Secondly, socio-cultural changes have a certain progression, just as hand tools antedate machines or counting in numbers antedates algebra. That is why Vygotsky speaks of evolution rather than just change. The most decisive step in this evolution was the emergence of signs, such as the monuments in our example. A whole complex of memories and meanings is evoked by an artificial, external object. In Vygotsky’s view (1977, p.61) such signs are instruments of social contact and communication. Culture is a collectively produced instrument to direct human behaviour. Perhaps this is 11 Pursuing this idea of Vygotksy’s, one could regard human culture as a tool kit used by humankind not to forget: not to forget how to live and die in the human way, not to forget how to love and make war, not to forget how to serve God and other human beings. Remembering is not passive, just as tradition does not consist in the stone monuments around us. It is an active process of assimilation, transformation and transmission (see chapter 2).

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most evident in language, which is preeminently an instrument for directing action. In the history of humankind language and communication between people were the most radical means of transforming mental activities. In this regard Vygotsky refers to the difference between material tools that can be used to shape objects (e.g. a shovel) and signs (e.g. language). Signs not only shape things but also indicate the direction in which they have to go to reach perfection (Vygotsky, 1977, p.104). Signs signify,12 they contain a particular meaning that indicates how they should be interpreted. In human evolution the use of signs in diverse forms (objects, symbols, language) was the crucial transition from nature to culture. Here the other three attributes of participatory learning are also discernible. – Social: a sign always presupposes a social context, a means of activating others and only afterwards a means of activating oneself (Vygotsky, 1977, p.103). – Mediated: a sign transforms the whole nature of a mental activity, just as a shovel changes the process of digging a well (Vygotsky, 1977, p.84). – Meaningful: a sign can only be understood as a component of a human action or practice and has affective, conceptual and actionoriented aspects (Vygotsky, quoted in Op’t Eynde et al., 1999). The development of an individual child (i.e. ontogenesis) is subject to the same influences as the evolution of the human species (i.e. phylogenesis). The difference is that whereas in human evolution (neuro)biological and historical-cultural factors developed sequentially, both factors operate simultaneously in the child’s development from the outset (Vygotsky, 1977, p.21). Hence it is not a matter of natural development, followed by culturally oriented development. The one does not supersede the other: the two factors coincide and merge (Scribner, 1985, p.125).13 Natural 12 Vygotsky distinguishes between signification and signalization (Vygotsky, 1977, p.60). A sign is more than an indicator, because it also incorporates the direction in which it wants to activate people. A stop sign makes it clear to drivers and pedestrians that they must stop. 13 This notion enables Vygotsky to avoid the pitfall of what is known in psychology as recapitulation theory, which equates children’s thinking with that of primitive people (Scribner, 1985, pp.127-132): just as primitive humans in human evolution were initially wholly determined by natural processes, so children are said to be influenced entirely by natural processes at the start of their development. Vygotsky (1977, p.18) calls this a form of mental laziness. Ontogenesis is not a replication of phylogenesis, because in child development nature and culture work hand in hand.

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processes direct the development of children’s elementary psychological functions, such as the formation of memory, perception and the use of practical tools. Social and cultural processes regulate the acquisition of language and other sign systems that are essential for the development of higher mental functions. In child development the two factors (natural and socio-cultural) mesh, so that one can in fact speak of co-development. Interaction between children and their socio-cultural environment is indispensable for their human development. This view refutes a mechanistic notion of knowledge as totally explicable in terms of (neuro)biological processes. It also refutes the idea of universal evolutionary principles, because the cultural factor co-determines the form and function of mental activities (Van Oers & Wardekker, 1997, p.176).14 In the development of higher mental functions (microgenesis), too, Vygotsky discerns a twofold influence by both nature and culture (Scribner, 1984, p.135; Wertsch, 1991a, p.23). These mental activities are only intelligible in terms of their origin in socio-cultural activities, which alter the form and function of the mental process. Or, as mentioned already, grieving, protest against poverty and injustice, narrating one’s own life story, as well as warring and loving, blaming and forgiving, beseeching and praising – all these change under the influence of social, cultural and institutional factors that impact on such human activities. This intertwinement of mental activities and sociocultural contents illustrates yet again why Vygotsky maintains that there are no universal evolutionary processes. So far we have dealt with the various determinants of development at different levels (phylogenesis, ontogenesis and microgenesis). But these are not the only characteristics of Vygotsky’s concept of development. He also looks at the developmental possibilities of learners, where he makes a distinction between the child’s actual and potential capacities. Learning means developing from actual capacity to potential capacity. The term Vygotsky uses to describe this is ‘zone of proximal development’ (ZPD). We have dealt with this concept in detail in section 4.3.2 when we discussed the development of the religious self. Here we merely mention the features of the ZPD synoptically. In the first place the ZPD is an action zone, action implying mental activities 14 This twofold influence of nature and culture was also mentioned when we worked out the position of social constructionism (see 4.1.1). Harré sees it as a basic principle of social constructionism. Including the socio-cultural factor should not lead to disregard of the natural or neurobiological factor. Vygotsky’s development theory avoids this reduction by recognizing two origins within a single development process.

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in the broadest sense of the word. For example: with the help of an adult a child is able to understand a Bible story. Or people can reconstruct their life story in dialogue with others. Secondly, the ZPD is a social zone. It is not an attribute of an individual, separate from the person’s environment and especially from other people. It is an attribute of a person in relation to others in a particular socio-cultural context. For example: a child can understand a Bible story with the help of an adult who has more expertise than the child. Thirdly, the ZPD is associated with cultural tools, in our case religious tools. The ZPD is co-determined by the Bible story (e.g. that of Zaccheus, or the parable of the prodigal son), from which learners extract certain narrative motifs to construct their own life story. The concept of ZPD does not tell us what the learner’s actual possibilities are. Following Valsiner we have defined the operational field of actual possibilities as the zone of free movement (ZFM). This zone comprises the behavioural options a person has in a given socio-cultural context. Not everything is possible in a ZFM. Every action zone, certainly a formal learning situation, imposes constraints on a child. In addition there is a zone of promoted action (ZPA), which may coincide with the ZFM. This happens, for instance, when a learner is allowed to interpret a Bible story in only one way. The teacher authorizes only one meaning of the story and the child is obliged to accept it.15 If the ZPA does not coincide with the ZFM, learners have a subzone of action in which they can exercise their own choice. Note: the ZFM is not totally free, even if only because the child has to concentrate on the meaning of a particular Bible story. When can we speak of a highly developed person? The concept of the ZFM makes it evident that in a particular socio-cultural situation a person has only certain behavioural options. We emphasize yet again that this is not merely an attribute of the person but of the person in a socio-cultural situation, in which help from more expert individuals may be available to a greater or lesser extent. Highly developed people are those who have a wide zone of free movement because of their expertise as actors in various socio-cultural contexts. Thus a person may have a lot of insight into narrative motifs that feature in Bible stories and into diverse methods of analyzing stories, or into different response patterns to cope with bereavement and loss. Highly devel15 For an analysis of authoritative discourse in the social construction of the religious self, see section 4.2.3.

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oped people meet two criteria: flexibility and integration (see 4.3.2). People who constantly react in different ways may be flexible, but they are not integrated unless the various reactions cohere. Integration means that the person not only has a good grasp of various possible courses of action, but can also indicate why he or she opts for a particular course of action. Possible courses of action are linked with different I-positions that the person has developed in the religious sphere. In dealing with the religious self-as-author we described integration as the ability to orchestrate the various I-positions that may exist in the polyphonous religious self (see 4.2.3). Thus people may be aware of religious doubts, unbelief, belief in a liberating (In)finitude and faith in a remote, absent God and can substantiate why they express one of these religious I-positions in a particular situation. Finally, when distinguishing between novices and experts we described the personal transformation process resulting from development in some detail. Through participation in practices people develop expertise in a particular field. That applies to mathematics, language and aesthetic training as much as to religion. The novice is treated and regarded as a legitimate participant in the activity, and as yet imperfect activities are perfected by co-participants or ‘understood’ as perfect (Van Oers & Wardekker, 1997, p.184). In section 5.3.1 we look in more detail at characteristics that learning must possess for the learner to acquire expertise. 5.2.2 Social learning According to Vygotsky participatory learning is also social learning. The social aspect is not just a vehicle of learning, which is actually accomplished within the individual. Learning itself is social. We have already underscored the social character of signs (or, more generally, of the semiotic system). Vygotsky maintains that we can infer the general law regulating human actions from the development of signs. The essence of this law is that in the process of development, the child begins to apply the same forms of behavior to himself that others initially applied to him. The child himself assimilates the social forms of behavior and transfers them to himself (Vygotsky, 1977, p.102).

Earlier we cited a simple example of this in the form of the order, ‘Mummy, give’. In a meaningful situation this utterance is initially made by the mother. Gradually the child will establish a connection

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between giving the order and being handed an object by someone else. Finally the child will assimilate the utterance. An internal mental activity has come into being (‘Mummy, give’), through which the child can influence other people. All higher mental processes, like all signs, are external to the individual to begin with. Through relations and, more particularly, through communication with others, that which is extraneous to the individual is assimilated. Do individuals’ internal mental functions have no other source? No, in the same way that higher mental functions are always shaped in interpersonal relations, so they are shaped within the person. In general, we could say that the relations between higher mental functions were at one time real relations between people. I relate to myself in the same way that people relate to me (Vygotsky, 1977, p.103).

Suppose I am talking to a child who tells me that people who do not belong to the Christian faith will not be saved. This notion (higher mental activity) was originally an external conception which the child assimilated in a social relationship. No child is born with such a notion, nor with the opposite notion that all religions lead to the same goal. In short, a natural explanation of this notion does not get us very far. Some such meaning initially existed outside the child, who assimilated it in an interaction. This process is also known as internalization (Wertsch, 1991a), interiorization (Van Oers & Wardekker, 1997) or appropriation (Rogoff, 1995). Vygotsky sums all this up in what he calls the general law of cultural development: [E]very function in the cultural development of the child appears on the stage twice, on two planes, first, the social, then the psychological, first between people as an intermental category, then within the child as an intramental category (Vygotsky, 1977, p.106).

What does it mean that every psychic function originates twice, first between individuals and then within the individual? It means, firstly, that intramental or intrapsychic functions can be traced to their genetic precursors at the intermental level (Wertsch, 1991a, p.27). This does not imply that intramental functions are replicas of intermental functions. Interiorization or appropriation is a transformation process. The transformation is reciprocal, that is that it entails both an active child and an active environment. That is why we speak of the co-construction of a mental function rather than a mere transmission of culture to the child. The child reconstructs the intermental activity

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on the basis of intramental functions already at its disposal (Van Oers & Wardekker, 1997, p.179). The learner has some prior knowledge associated with intermental activity that has been appropriated. Two children whose prior knowledge differs (Christian – non – Christian, church member – peripheral church member) will read and interpret the same Bible story quite differently. Learning implies establishing a connection with the child’s pre-existent mental activities. In religious education the existential questions that children or youths bring to the learning situation are important. Religious education has to establish a link between their existential questions and the mental functions that they acquire in a social context (such as interpreting a Bible story).16 At the same time learners also influence the social relationship in which learning occurs. Children also influence their environment. In other words, the social relationship and the concomitant intermental activity are co-constructed. When an Islamic child joins a class, she or he will influence the social relations in which a Bible story is read. Thus the child may ask the teacher or the story different questions. More generally, one should realize that a social group constitutes a local community of practice which actualizes a religious practice (also see 4.2.2). One should avoid the idea that a learning situation is determined wholly by religious tools (stories, symbols, rituals, customs, etc.) deriving from a religious tradition. A father who reads the Bible with his son at bedtime creates a different social situation from a congregation’s Bible reading in the course of the Sunday liturgy. One cannot say that a social situation is defined entirely by the cultural or religious tools that are used in it. Secondly, learning results are not individual but quasi-social. All higher mental functions retain their social structure within the individual: 16 We get the impression that children’s and youths’ existential questions are sometimes treated as if they are the questions of insulated individuals. That is, learners’ existential questions are treated as insulated entities which are then linked with an insulated religious tradition or religious practice. This static model does not accord with social learning on Vygotsky’s lines. Learners’ existential questions are dynamic constructions, co-determined by the social relations in which they are situated. Change in the social situation implies change in the child’s existential questions. A simple example illustrates the point. A father discusses death with his son at bedtime. The father has some idea of what death means to the child, but he also has his own ideas and feelings about death, which (partly) influence his son’s questions. From conversations with his father the boy has learnt what questions to ask. In short, what constitutes an existential question to the child is construed in a social interaction. If the same child is in a classroom, or with his mother or peers, his existential questions will change.

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On the face of it this seems strange. After all, intramental activities pertain to the individual, not to the group. To be sure, but they do not lose their social or dialogic structure. In this regard, see our exposition of the religious self-as-author (4.2.3). Individuals construe their life story with a collective voice, which resonates in the motifs they take over from the stories of religious traditions, or in the symbols and rituals they find meaningful. The socio-cultural antecedents of a collective voice remain associated with the stories, symbols and rituals that people appropriate. They write their life stories in the language (or, more generally, the semiotic structure) of one or more religious traditions. Without these ‘borrowed’ words or ‘acquired’ language no life story can be written. People not only assimilate these social origins into their intramental processes; their narration of their own life stories has a social orientation. The religious self-as-author always tells his or her life story to a particular public. As indicated already, this public does not have to be physically present (see 4.2.2). But every narrator has a recipient in mind, one who ‘understands’ the person and, by understanding, affirms the story. Someone telling a life story that nobody understands dies a social death. That does not mean that one is simply the author of a story dictated by others. One can also construe a story that deliberately conflicts with the ideas of a particular public. I may tell a life story which my father/mother/teacher/religious leader/ partner finds totally repugnant. But even then it is still a quasi-social intramental activity. In the third place, in our view Vygotsky’s conception of mental functioning applies to both social relationships and individuals. Mental functions like knowing, remembering and problem solving can occur in a twosome or group as well as within an individual. We indicated above that remembering is a major function of culture. The answer to the question ‘Who remembers?’ is not easy (Wertsch, 1991a, p.28). Let us consider a simple example. A child who has lost her bicycle key goes to a parent or minder to ask whether that person has any idea where the key is. The person asks the child directive questions, such as when she last rode her bicycle. The child and the adult check all the places where the child has been. Suddenly the child remembers that she left the key on the table in her bedroom. Is this

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process of remembering a mental activity of the child alone? That would be a serious reduction of the joint process that occurred in this situation. What applies to this fairly simple process of remembering, applies even more to our cultural memory. Who remembers the holocaust? Isolated individuals? Or is it a complex memory process distributed over individuals, groups, situations, the media, scientists, survivors, politicians? How do people faced with the sudden loss of a loved one remember how to mourn? Someone recounts what she experienced in a similar situation and why it moved her. Others produce stories, tracts, songs and poems that they find meaningful. It is in this social process, not just inside individuals’ heads, that people ‘remember’ how to mourn. That is why Vygotsky considers it appropriate to speak of mental activities between people, hence intermental activities. We hasten to point out a possible misinterpretation of this premise. Some authors come dangerously close to assuming that there is no longer any dividing line between what goes on inside and outside the individual (e.g. Rogoff, 1995, p.157). All that remains is intermental activity in a context and one can no longer speak of concepts, feelings or behavioural repertoires arising within individuals. The individual is assimilated, so to speak, into an interactional synchrony in a collective which dictates the form and meaning of individual actions (see the critique of Lightfoot & Cox, 1997, p.11). We believe that this conception stretches the meaning and content of intermental activities too far, and hence fails to recognize the co-construction that occurs in social learning. 5.2.3 Mediated learning Participatory learning is also mediated learning inasmuch as learners acquire mental tools with which they can act. Vygotsky (1977, p. 87) sees behavioural control as a process mediated by certain tools. From what we have said before it is evident that he is thinking particularly of signs. He himself associated language, being the main semiotic system, with mediated action, but this restriction is by no means essential (Wertsch, 1991a). In principle the entire semiotic system (i.e. system of signification) can be linked with mediated action. Besides language there are things like symbols, diagrams, maps, gestures, body language and spatial organization. The fact that Vygotsky concentrated on language in his treatment of mediated action is understandable in view of the capacity of language to structure people’s mental activities,

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transcending particular spatiotemporal contexts. We shall return to this when we deal with the transfer of higher mental activities below. When we speak of language or the semiotic system as a tool we do so metaphorically (Kozulin, 1998, p.17). Language is ‘like’ a tool in human knowing and learning. But compared with a material tool, such as a shovel for digging or a pencil for drawing, it is a special kind of tool. It is a psychological (Kozulin, 1998) or mental (Grigorenko, 1998) rather than a material tool. Psychological tools are those symbolic artifacts signs, symbols, texts, formulae, graphic-symbolic devices that help individuals master their own ‘natural’ psychological functions of perception, memory, attention, and so on. Psychological tools serve as a bridge between individual acts of cognition and the symbolic sociocultural prerequisites of these acts (Kozulin, 1998, p.1).

Someone who has acquired these mental tools can perform a particular activity. Mental tools are not used for material activities such as digging a well, but for mental activities such as remembering or problem solving. The mental activity (e.g. understanding a religious story) is not the same as the mental tool (the religious story). The latter is simply the means that makes the activity possible. It is not the actual activity, just as the shovel is not the act of digging. Although you need the tool to perform the activity, the latter is something different from the tool. The activities we have in mind when it comes to religious practices and the development of a religious self are higher mental activities (what Kozulin calls ‘acts of cognition’ in the quotation above). These intramental activities of individuals have a precursor in the social domain, namely intermental activities (see section 5.3.2). More precisely, mental tools are first used in a situation among people before they feature in the individual’s psychic functioning. Hence it is not enough just to present learners with mental tools (stories, symbols, rituals). These tools can be used to perform a particular mental activity (e.g. interpreting a story or construing one’s own life story). This mental activity must be appropriated by the person at the same time as the mental tool if a higher mental activity is be achieved. Kozulin (1998, p.85) makes a distinction between concrete tools (content knowledge) and psychological (mental) tools. An example of the former is the connection a child makes between New York, the city one drives through, and the name ‘New York’. Or children are shown a map of the USA and learn to give a dot on the east coast the

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name of ‘New York’. A characteristic of content knowledge is that people do not know how to use it in a new situation or context. If you want to teach the children where San Francisco is, you will have to show them the map again and mark a dot on the west coast of the USA. Mental tools, by contrast, are an atlas with an index which children have learnt to use to determine the geographical location of places. Once they have actually acquired this higher mental skill, they will be able to find new places with the aid of an atlas. The acquisition of a higher mental skill proceeds differently from the learning of content knowledge because of this very relation between mental skills and mental tools. How does the learning process differ? Firstly, learners must be consciously taught to use a mental tool by a more expert person (Kozulin, 1998, p.86). Imagine a situation where a boy finds a spade. It is not impossible that he will discover what to do with it (i.e. dig) without any adult assistance. But if the boy finds an atlas he will not know what to do with it. And if he does do something with it, it will not have any bearing on the mental function for which the tool was designed. Thus he may start colouring in the maps in the atlas. Now one could well ask, what is wrong with that? Colouring is also a meaningful human activity. Of course it is, the child has merely not acquired the ability to find a place on a map by looking it up in the index. And this ability is necessary to be able to plan a route competently, or find one’s way in a foreign city or country. If this is considered important, then one must consciously teach the child how to use this mental tool. Kozulin (1998, p.87) mentions an aspect of psychological (mental) tools that is extremely important for religious education, namely that they have semiotic meaning that is generated purely by social convention. The meaning of a mathematical symbol, a traffic sign, stock exchange reports, the layout of a letter, the school bell announcing a lesson – all these are incomprehensible unless one knows the cultural convention. This applies par excellence to religious practices, because they are a form of rule-governed behaviour based on a tradition. The tradition assigns a particular object, event or person a particular meaning (in technical terms, a status function). It is quite impossible to discover this meaning unless someone with (some measure of) expertise in the tradition presents it in an interpersonal process. In the process the novice learns to use the psychological tool (e.g. a Bible story) as a higher mental activity (e.g. interpreting). Where learning may go wrong is when learners are presented with a mental tool in such a

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way that it appears to relate to content knowledge. Hence even though the Bible story is read, they gain no insight into its religious significance. Or they learn what characters, places and events feature in the story, but they cannot put themselves in the position of a particular character and learn to understand themselves from that person’s perspective. Learning higher mental activities is aimed at understanding and excludes reproductive learning. Secondly, according to Kozulin (1998, pp.94-95) higher mental functions have to be learnt in a systematic, structured manner: they form part of a whole, comprise different elements, are sequential, relate to other mental tools, et cetera. This structure is very relevant to religious practices. Consider, for instance, the structure of rituals or the relation between symbols and rituals. All religions divide the year up on the basis of certain feasts (the liturgical year), and the feasts in their turn relate to certain stories, rituals and symbols. If one knows that in Catholic liturgy the Easter candle is brought in during the Easter vigil, one is better able to understand the meaning of this religious object than when it is presented as an isolated element. Similarly, the creation story in Genesis 1 has a certain structure that acquires meaning if it is understood in conjunction with the different days of the week. Religion is a thoroughly structured institutional practice. A learning process aimed at the acquisition of religious mental tools should be designed in such a way that learners gain insight into the structure of religious practices.17 Thirdly, mental tools that learners have appropriated as higher mental skills permit transfer to different contexts and tasks (Kozulin, 1998, p.86). The hallmark of higher mental skills is that people can apply them in diverse spatiotemporal circumstances. Applied to religious education this means that it is not enough for learners to be able to reproduce or recite the meaning of certain symbols in a religious story. A higher mental activity implies insight into the meaning of symbols so as to permit transfer to a different context. But transfer is

17 The participation concept may give rise to the misconception that it is sufficient to learn a kind of naive, pre-reflective manner of participating in religious practices. When one realizes that participation in religious practices presupposes higher mental functions, this is inadequate. To develop into an independent, expert participant in religious practices requires insight into the structure of these practices, as well as competence to act in relatively new situations and tasks. One should also realize that substantiated nonparticipation could also be an effect of the learning process (also see 5.2.4).

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something that has to be learnt; it does not happen spontaneously. A higher mental skill can be applied in other situations and contexts, but this transfer must be learnt! Thus learners may be able to understand a symbol when it features in another story or a ‘different’ religious practice such as a ritual or a religious feast. If this learning process occurs repeatedly in religious education, learners gradually develop religious metaphoric competence (Hermans, 1990). People who have acquired this competence are not only able to apply familiar symbols in new situations, but can also grasp unfamiliar symbols in ‘new’ contexts. They know that religious symbols are not to be taken literally in a particular religious community and they know strategies to discover their symbolic religious meaning. This example of metaphoric religious competence shows that certain higher mental activities enable learners to direct their own learning. They not only understand a symbol in a specific text but can direct their own process of understanding religious texts.18 To conclude this section we want to stress that the acquisition of higher mental skills presupposes the other three attributes of participatory learning. – Developmental: higher mental skills are not acquired all at once but usually presuppose development over time, each mental activity building on earlier ones (Van Oers & Wardekker, 1997, p.180). – Social: higher mental functions are acquired in joint activities in which one or more experts engage with the learner(s) (Grigorenko, 1998, p.209). – Meaningful: higher mental functions presuppose insight into the meaning of the mental tool (especially the semiotic system) in an authentic or meaningful action situation (Kozulin, 1998, p.67). 5.2.4 Meaningful learning Finally, participatory learning is also meaningful learning. What does that mean? Firstly, the content of the learning process is rooted in a historical, social and cultural context. This is a key premise in Vygot18 Current theorizing on knowing and learning devotes considerable attention to these skills of self-control and self-direction, subsumed under the heading of metacognitive skills (Boekaerts & Simons, 1997). Grigorenko (1998, p.209) points out that Vygotsky’s disciples (e.g. Bodrova & Leong, 1996) have taken this theme further. We concur with the view that it fits into Vygotsky’s theory and shall deal with it in section 5.3.3.

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sky’s thinking which we have stressed repeatedly in our discussion (see 5.2.1). We reiterate that this aspect is essential in an institutional approach to religion. The origin and meaning of religious practices are to be found in socio-historically situated activities in which individuals engage either marginally (as novices) or in more focal roles (as experts). Without participation in religious practices religious education is not feasible (also see chapter 4). Secondly, meaningful implies insight into situations where the learning material is applicable. This aspect, too, has been discussed at length as an attribute of higher mental activities. Learners who have acquired a higher mental skill can apply what they have learnt in new situations (see 5.2.3). This capacity for transfer should not be understood as decontextualized knowledge. It is still a matter of acting in a meaningful situation, that is one that has identifiable features of life outside the school walls. But the ability to transfer implies that learners are also able to apply the learning material in new situations which differ in certain respects from the situation in which a particular mental skill was acquired. There may be other actors or religious tools (symbols, stories, rituals, practices); the time or place may be different, or the actors may have other intentions; the action may be structured differently, or a familiar motif may be linked with new motifs. For learning material to be transferred learners must have some measure of insight into such variations in action situations or religious practices. Transfer has to be learnt, it cannot simply be left to the learner. For religious education this implies, in concrete terms, that learners must have had contact with many religious stories in relation to their own life stories; or have insight into a wide range of possible courses of action in situations of bereavement and grief; or are capable of championing the cause of the marginalized in diverse situations of injustice and oppression. In terms of expertise, religious growth means that the person is able to act in a great many situations (also see 4.3.2). This requires not only a richly varied behavioural repertoire but also knowing in what context certain behaviour would be meaningful. Thirdly, meaningful action has to do with the interrelationship between cognitive, affective, motivational and action-oriented learning processes. The accent on higher mental skills in the preceding section (memory, application, analysis, synthesis) should not create the impression that knowing and learning are aimed at a self-contained flow of thought. In Vygotsky’s theory that would be a reduction:

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[S]eparating affect from intellect makes the thinking process appear as an autonomous flow of mental thinking themselves, segregated from the fullness of life, from the personal needs and interests, the inclinations and impulses of the thinker (Vygotsky, quoted in Op ’t Eynde et al., 1999, p.6).

When one presents a religious practice as a series of actions stripped of intentionality (or purpose) and without affective and motivational aspects, one disregards the fact that these practices mediate human psychological processes. If we are speaking of human psychological processes, we cannot dispense with intentionality, feelings and motivational involvement. According to several authors (Wertsch, 1991a, pp.39-45; Cazden, 1993, p.205; Kozulin, 1998, pp.22-23) this view of Vygotsky is premised in his distinction between the socio-cultural meaning of signs (and significant practices) and their personal meaning (or sense).19 The difference between the two is readily apparent if one considers the difference between a word in a dictionary and its personal meaning. The dictionary meaning of the word ‘tree’ is universally accepted in society and is understood by everyone who uses it. But to a particular child the word ‘tree’ also means the tree in the back garden that is so delightful to climb and in whose shade one can shelter from the heat of summer. The same applies to all human practices, including religious practices. In a religious community a religious story has a particular meaning that can be looked up in exegetical commentaries. But to a particular person the story evokes certain feelings and personal motives relating to his or her own life story, to the way that person has learnt to understand (or not understand) other religious stories, to how personally valuable (or valueless) religion has become and to personal motives for wanting (or not wanting) to take part in a religious practice. If this personal meaning of practices is ignored, learning leads to alienation. The learning material no longer has any bearing on the learner’s personal structure of meaning. This personal structure of meaning, Vygotsky maintains, also originated in social interaction with people. In other words, it is a question of intramental processes resulting from intermental processes. Litowitz (1993, pp.186-187) strongly emphasizes this point when it comes to learning motivation. Is there such a thing as an innate 19 According to other authors Leontev in particular was responsible for this distinction (Van Oers & Wardekker, 1997, p.190). We leave it to Vygotsky’s interpreters to decide who was the intellectual parent of this distinction.

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human tendency to want to learn? If not, how does one explain the fact that one child is willing to occupy itself with religion and another is not? Litowitz emphasizes that personal motivation was an intermental activity before it became an intramental activity. The child learned from another person in a meaningful situation what involvement in a religious practice means. It then adopted this positive involvement as its own attitude. At bottom children’s motivation to learn stems from their desire to be like adults (Litowitz, 1993, p.187). In the development of a personal structure of meaning identification and non-identification play a major role. This fact is important for religious education. One not infrequently hears educators or teachers complain of children’s lack of involvement in religious practices. The point is that this statement should be interpreted as ‘the learners have not learnt to develop involvement in religious practices’, or ‘the learners have learnt to be negatively involved with religion’. In terms of Vygotsky’s theory intermental activities, and the concomitant (non)identification processes, are also the way to transform the personal structure of meaning. By putting learners in new, meaningful learning situations one creates a possibility that they may develop different feelings and motivations in regard to religious practices. A last point we want to make under the heading of meaningful learning is the relation between a learning situation and the learners’ social identity. This aspect has already been mentioned in relation to motivation. We mention it here in its own right because it comprehends much more than just motivation. To substantiate the point, we refer to a characteristic of the development of the religious self (see 4.2.3). In building its own life story the religious self-as-author assimilates elements of religious practices (e.g. narrative motifs, symbols, actions, customs). These religious meanings that are presented to learners from the outside represent the collective voice of a religious community in which these practices are performed and handed down to later generations. Someone who has appropriated the meaning of charity in a particular religious tradition will also identify with the collective voice that resonates in the concept. Such a person will interpret him/herself as charitable in terms of the Christian (Islamic, Hindu) religion. In other words, in the learning situation learners acquire a social identity as someone who may be identified via a particular collective voice (Litowitz, 1993). It is a mistake to regard learners as passive recipients of material that is presented to them. In every learning situation there is always

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some negotiation of social identity, proceeding not only from learner to teacher but also the other way round. For the learner this may lead to resistance against participating in a practice or against learning. From this perspective non-participation should not be seen (exclusively) as a (vexatious) problem of the learner, but as an effect of the learning situation! Learners may also deny a teacher the authority of an expert in a learning situation. Here one thinks of a Muslim child who listens to a Christian teacher speaking about Islam, or a child from the charismatic movement in the Catholic Church or a Pentecostalist movement who listens to a teacher speaking about Christianity. Conversely, teachers also ascribe a particular social identity to pupils. This may be expressed, for instance, as the right of certain children to participate in a learning situation (Chang-Wells & Wells, 1993, p.85). A teacher may consider certain knowledge irrelevant to the learning situation and thus deprive learners of the chance to make an input. Pupils who are never permitted to mention their own religious background in religious education acquire the social identity of people who possess no meaningful religious knowledge. Or the teacher may present religion in the form of an authoritarian discourse (see 4.2.3) and thus deny learners the possibility of attaching their personal meaning to the learning material. Meaningful learning also implies the social identity of both learners and teacher. The difference between learning situations at school and participation in religious practices elsewhere is that a learning situation is a form of ‘serious play’, a simulation or imitation of reality, an ‘as-if’ religious practice (also see 5.3.2 below). Pupils may negotiate their social role, or learn to determine their own position in religious practices. In our discussion of the development of the religious self we introduced the concept of legitimate peripheral participation from Wenger (1998) to convey this. Someone who encounters a relatively unfamiliar practice of a religious community may choose to remain an ‘outsider’ to this practice. This is a no less ‘legitimate’ position than that of learning to join in the practice. At the same time the input of the newcomer is considered equal to that of other participants in the learning situation. Even if a relative outsider differs from a more expert participant, this has no implications for the novice’s social position in the sense of being entitled to make the same input as other participants.

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5.3 Learning and instruction In the previous section we developed four premises of participatory learning on the basis of Vygotsky’s learning theory. In this section we shall work them out in more detail from the angle of instruction processes. Instruction refers to measures and conditions introduced in the learning environment to promote learning (Boekaerts & Simons, 1995, p.4). Instead of instruction one could also speak of the didactics of religious education. Here we shall not confine ourselves to authors who explicitly rely on Vygotsky and whose guidelines for the organization of instruction and learning processes are based on his theory. The reason for thus broadening the field is that studies of learning and instruction by educational psychologists and educationists in Vygotsky’s framework constitute but a fraction of all research done in this area. By confining ourselves to authors who explicitly base themselves on Vygotsky we would forego insights gained from qualitatively excellent empirical research. Nor is there any reason not to use these insights, provided they can be accommodated in the premises of participatory learning as outlined above. It should also be noted that the four premises we have defined are at a fairly high level of abstraction and permit diverse interpretations. The flip side of the coin is that these interpretations are much more ephemeral and, if you will, sensitive to trends than the four premises. A good example is the mountain of literature published over the past decade on the social dimension of learning, referred to variously as reciprocal learning (Brown et al., 1993; Brown & Campione, 1996; Palinscar, 1998), collaborative learning (Roelofs, Van der Linden & Erkens, 1999), cooperative learning (Veenman & Krol, 1999) and activating learning (Van Hout-Wolters, Simons & Volet, 2000). A second prefatory comment is that the strength of the four premises outlined above is the way in which they are interrelated in Vygotsky’s theory. This interrelationship was illustrated variously in section 5.2 and, to avoid repetition, it shall not be mentioned in this one. Only when insights from the literature may lead to conclusions that conflict with our four premises we shall point out their interrelationship. A third prefatory comment is that we do not pretend to deal with the subject exhaustively. Instead we admit roundly that at this stage we do not have all insights based on empirical research at our disposal (see Hermans, 1986; Van Iersel & Spanjersberg, 1993; Sterkens, 2001). What we offer is no more than examples, most of which can yield alternative interpretations.

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5.3.1 Didactics of developmental learning One didactic strategy that is compatible with developmental learning is known as scaffolding, which in Dutch literature is used as a technical term. We shall follow this practice. Literally the word means ‘a metal or wooden framework to support workmen and materials during the erection, repair et cetera of a building or other construction.’ 20 Scaffolding is a didactic strategy whose background is the model of the zone of proximal development. In essence it boils down to offering learners exactly as much help and support as they need to accomplish a task successfully. We have said that we intend referring to insights other than those of authors inspired by Vygotsky. In the literature scaffolding has followed the opposite route. The term was introduced in the mid-1970s by Wood, Bruner and Ross from the perspective of developmental learning (Bruner, 1986, pp.75-78). Nowadays, however, it also features in ‘mainstream’ educational psychology (see e.g. Simons, Van der Linden & Duffy, 2000, p.15). Here it is used in the framework of process-oriented instruction in which the teacher initially plays the role of an external monitor of learners’ learning, only gradually making them aware of their mode of knowing and learning. By degrees they come to regulate the process themselves, whereupon monitoring by the teacher decreases commensurately. These authors compare the process to the construction of a house. When adding a second storey one initially needs scaffolding, but once the floor has been built it can be removed. New scaffolding can then be fitted to this floor in order to build the next storey. More than that, the new storey itself serves as scaffolding for subsequent construction. Thus development can be regarded metaphorically as the gradual construction of a house that is good to inhabit. Ever since the introduction of the term there has been a good deal of discussion about its content and meaning. In addition it has become so commonplace in pedagogics that in some cases every form of help and support given to learners by teachers is referred to as scaffolding. When the term is used so loosely, it loses its specific meaning in terms of Vygotsky’s theory. We shall therefore consider a few points raised in the discussion so as to clarify the exact meaning of scaffolding as a didactic method. 20 See Collins English Dictionary (4th updated edition), 2000. Publisher: Harper Collins, Glasgow.

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The first question is, who directs the learning process? What is the teacher’s role and what part does the learner play? Stone (1993, p.180) points out that in the first debate on the term ‘scaffolding’ the learner was seen as a passive recipient of help from a more expert adult. The relation between learner and teacher is asymmetrical, because the teacher is regarded as the expert in the execution of the task. At the beginning of the learning process it is controlled entirely by the more expert adult. Through the adult’s involvement the child becomes capable of performing activities it could not have performed otherwise: “As the tutoring proceeded, the child took over from his parts of the task that he was not able to do at first but, with mastery, became consciously able to do under his own control” (Bruner, 1986, p.76). The question is whether it is accurate to picture the learner as a purely passive recipient at the beginning of the learning process and whether the more expert teacher in fact has sole control of it. A second question relates to the reduction of the learning situation to the internalization of learning contents. Can these contents be found in isolation or are they part of the overall practice situation? From the outset it is a matter of participation in practices and organizing one’s own participation in these activities (Packer, 1993). Scaffolding should not be restricted to the acquisition of knowledge, divorced from the co-construction of personal participation in practices. Thirdly, to begin with there was little consideration of the learning mechanism that is focal in scaffolding: how does transfer occur between teacher and pupil(s)? Stone (1993) points out the importance of the communication mechanism in scaffolding. The crux of a practice is a semiotic system. How can a link be established between the learner’s prior knowledge and new knowledge in a religious practice? What form should communication between teacher and pupil(s) take to ensure that the pupil makes this connection? A coherent answer to these questions may be found in a model developed by Rogoff (1995), which distinguishes between participation at three levels: a cultural, an interpersonal and an intrapersonal level. At the cultural level Rogoff (1995, p.143) refers to cognitive apprenticeship. Apprenticeship entails more than the dyad of expert and novice, in that it relates to all social and cultural aspects of the practice in which the novice joins. A novice does not simply do something together with an expert in an objective situation, but via the practice both of them are involved in a cultural semiotic system which transcends the action situation both in depth and in range. A music

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teacher and her pupils listening to a piece of music are doing far more than simply listening to sounds and a particular composition. Listening to music is a cultural activity to which a particular meaning is attached. The meaning relates not only to the interpretation of the music but also to the value and feelings associated with it. The composition does not come from nowhere but is culturally rooted in the tradition of a particular community of music lovers. Within this tradition listening to the piece of music moreover requires a certain attitude and maybe even a particular time of year when it is listened to (e.g. Bach’s St Matthew Passion, which is performed in the period before Easter). Teacher and pupil(s) thus participate in a complex semiotic system which culture imparts to this situation. What applies to music education also applies to religious education.21 A religious practice such as a story or feast has a semiotic system of its own by virtue of tradition and the various communities of practice which hand this practice down in diverse forms. Teacher and pupil enter into this semiotic system, which both imposes constraints on them and offers possibilities of understanding themselves and the world. This implies the following for the didactic method of scaffolding: – Teacher and pupil(s) cannot arbitrarily assign any meaning they like to a religious practice. If a rendering of the story of St Christopher no longer contains a single reference to the relation between God and humans, it may still be a beautiful and moving story but it will have nothing to do with the one that has been handed down in the Christian tradition (Bulckens & Roebben, 2001, p.30). Scaffolding requires expertise in the semiotic system of the religious practices on which a learning situation is based. – The expert is also a learner and the learner an expert. The expert is a learner of the tradition and the communities of practice that hand down a particular religious practice. Ultimately teachers’ expertise does not lie in themselves but in a religious semiotic system that extends beyond the learning situation in which teacher and pupils are involved. The pupils, too, may have some measure of knowledge of the religious semiotic system, for instance from insight into 21 In principle this applies to all areas of school education. In music and religion it is particularly obvious. These are culture-specific fields that cannot be isolated from the environing cultural system of the society in which the education takes place. But the same may be said of language, history, economics and geography, even of subjects such as mathematics and chemistry.

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elements of that system gained either at home or via the media. For scaffolding this implies that in regard to expertise the asymmetrical relation between teacher and pupil(s) is relative. Expertise is spread between teacher and pupils, also in the lesson material that is used, the Internet, the socio-cultural environment of the children and the tools that are employed. Pupils’ expertise can, moreover, be utilized in erecting the scaffolding for learning. Operationally this translates into questions like the following: ‘How do you think one can interpret this story?’, ‘What religious symbols can be found in this feast?’. – A final point to be raised here is the selection of meanings in a religious practice by both teacher and pupil(s). Tradition offers many divergent interpretations of a story like that of St Christopher. Both teacher and pupils select certain meanings in the story and leave others. In terms of the teacher’s role it is important to offer as wide a range of meanings as possible to afford pupils maximum opportunity for recognition,22 and also because some scaffolds ‘work’ for some pupils and not for others. One reason for this is the influence of the learners’ religious background and situation,23 which allow them to identify with a particular support (or scaffold) but not with another. Another point to be noted is that pupils should be allowed to make their own scaffolds. A teacher can never profess to know exactly what help is most appropriate for a particular pupil. Hence it is didactically desirable to challenge pupils to construct their own scaffolds. In interpreting a religious story (e.g. that of St Christopher) one could consider such questions as the following: ‘Which symbols in the story of St Christopher do you recognize from other stories you have read or heard?’, ‘What other feasts does Easter remind you of, and why?’. These examples show clearly that pupils are not passive recipients of information in a learning situation. At the interpersonal level Rogoff (1995, p.146) refers to guided participation, which he defines as ‘an interpersonal process in which peo22 This is reminiscent of the distinction between zone of free movement and zone of promoted action which we made in our analysis of development from participation (4.3.2). Some teachers emphasize only one interpretation of a story because they want pupils to appropriate this interpretation. This is an instance of the coinciding of the two zones. 23 For the complexity of this situation, see chapter 1.

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ple manage their own and others’ roles, and structure situations (whether by facilitating or limiting access) in which they observe and participate in cultural activities” (Rogoff, 1995, p.147). Participation refers to a social situation involving several people. It can be passive, in the sense of observing others performing a religious practice, but it can also entail direct interaction with others in a practice. Guidance in participation can be exercised by way of both cultural and social factors. In the case of cultural factors an example would be the significance or value of a particular religious practice. In the story of St Christopher, for instance, the human search for (In)finite time and space is focal. By participating in the interpretation of this story one is guided in a particular direction: that of seeing life as a search, specifically a search for (In)finitude, and specifically by championing the cause of the marginalised in society (see Bulckens & Roebben, 2001, p.36). Thus participation in a community of practice which interprets this story guides the participant in a particular direction. Of course, this does not mean that one necessarily has to allow oneself to be led in this direction. Following Rogoff we merely point out that cultural factors can guide one through participation in practice. In the case of social factors an example would be the role assigned to a person in a learning situation. This assignation of roles is very important to novices in a religious practice. Because novices do not have any expertise in a religious practice that is foreign to them, they risk being denied the right to make a proper input. In concrete terms: every interpretation of the St Christopher story by a novice will be dismissed as irrelevant. We tried to circumvent this problem with the term ‘legitimate peripheral participation’ (also see 4.3.2). Novices are fully fledged participants with the same rights as experts. Of course, this does not mean that the novice’s expertise is as profound or wide-ranging as the expert’s. A more expert person’s expertise at a religious practice enables him or her to guide the novice’s learning. Thus the expert may organize the interpretation of the story of St Christopher in small steps in accordance with the learners’ zone of proximal development. What should be noted is that the concept of guided participation highlights the social dimension of learning in a way that the term ‘internalization’ does not. Social interaction is regarded as a major scaffold of learning (also see 5.3.2). At the intrapersonal level Rogoff (1995, p.150) refers to participatory appropriation. This implies an active process on the part of the learner through participation in an activity or practice. Participation

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is appropriation and appropriation is participation. In other words, participation in a practice presupposes appropriation in the form of identification with, and negotiation of, the meaning of the practice. Conversely, appropriation presupposes participation since it is a matter of appropriating the meaning of that particular practice.24 A person who refuses to participate in the interpretation of the St Christopher story cannot appropriate its meaning. Because participation and appropriation presuppose each other, Rogoff sometimes simply speaks of appropriation. Participatory appropriation refers to the process “by which individuals transform their understanding of and responsibility for activities through their own participation” (Rogoff, 1995, p.150). Hence participatory appropriation is not just a matter of knowing and of transforming knowledge, but also of taking responsibility for the task of learning and knowing. What does that mean for the didactic method of scaffolding? At the beginning of the learning process the learner is by no means a blank page. She or he possesses knowledge acquired in past situations both at school and elsewhere. The new knowledge presented in the learning situation must be linked with this prior knowledge. Learning is not like (passively) recording music; it is more like composing one’s own piece by orchestrating the various compositions one has appropriated. The new music is slotted into the polyphony of pre-existent compositions. But the result of appropriation is to transform the person’s prior knowledge of music. The transformation may be more or less radical. For example: a person grasps a particular narrative motif, such as championing the cause of the marginalized; or a person may reach the personal insight that heresies and doubts are not indicative of lack of faith but are inherent in a profoundly religious search for (In)finitude. For scaffolding this implies that pupils should be helped to activate their prior knowledge and to relate it to the newly offered information (also see Van Oers & Wardekker, 1997, p.184). In religious education learners’ existential questions play a major role in activating their prior knowledge. For instance, if one wants to give pupils insight into certain God concepts in relation to death and suffering, one would help them explore their own ways of dealing with

24 This relation between participation in practices and development was dealt with in chapter 4. A religious self can only develop from participation in religious practices, but the distinctive character of that self varies because of differences in people’s ways of appropriating the meaning of these practices.

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grief and death. This exploration should preferably be as broad and profound as possible so as to anchor the new knowledge solidly in the learners’ prior knowledge. In so doing one must realize that the existential questions are themselves embedded in practices. In this sense the term ‘existential questions’ may be misleading, because it creates the impression that these questions exist in the learners minds.25 That would be a reversion to the ‘old’ concept of learning based on the computer metaphor (see 5.1). Learners’ existential questions, too, are embedded in practices in which the child was or is involved. These could be religious practices (e.g. the child may have attended a Christian or a non-Christian funeral), but they could also be nonreligious (e.g. dealing with the death of a pet). In addition one must realize that all meaning is co-determined by the public one is addressing. When it comes to existential questions children whose home background instils strong involvement with Christian rituals and customs will verbalize their own prior knowledge differently when speaking to Christian children than when speaking to non-Christian pupils or pupils from a different religious community.26 Appropriation implies taking responsibility for knowing and learning. We have already mentioned this use of the term ‘scaffolding’ (see Simons, Van der Linden & Duffy, 2000, p.15). Learning also requires regulating and monitoring the learning process. The aim is that learners should develop the ability to regulate the process themselves. That means that they must be able to monitor and, where necessary, correct all learning functions before, during and on conclusion of the learning process (Van Hout-Wolters, Simons & Volet, 2000). It entails such things as bringing their own prior knowledge into play, linking prior knowledge with new information, concentrating on the learning task, focussing on learning objectives and realizing to what extent they have been attained. In the case of novices at a particular practice, this task is initially performed by the more expert other in the learning situation, but the aim is that learners should gradually learn to take over

25 Traditionally the question-and-answer didactic method played a major role in religious education (especially catechesis) and, on careful analysis, it cannot be denied that this method is still widely used in present-day learning situations. 26 Didactically this fact can be used to decide between homogeneous or heterogeneous groups. One could also alternate in the course of the learning process, thus benefiting by both types of groups. Apart from the study by Sterkens (2001), little empirical insight has been gained into the effect of homogeneous and heterogeneous groups in religious education.

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this responsibility: harness their own prior knowledge, make their own connection between that knowledge and the new information, confine their attention to the learning process themselves, et cetera. We have repeatedly stressed that religious practices articulate the collective voice of a religious community. By the same token a story like that of St Christopher is not a universally human story27 but expresses Christians’ notions and values regarding the human search for (in)finitude. If one is aware of this value-laden meaning of religious practices, one will also appreciate the importance of not reducing participation to identification. In addition to identification, practices always include negotiation of meaning. Identification without (re)construction of meaning is a fallacy (see 4.2.1). At the same time one must realize that construction of meaning is impossible without identification. Negotiation of meaning implies that one lets oneself be challenged by the story of St Christopher. Even if one dismisses the story as irrelevant to one’s own life story, one will still have entered (peripherally) into its semiotic system. If learning amounts to transformation of knowledge, nobody emerges from a learning process unchanged.28 It can happen, however, that some pupils refuse to participate even peripherally. A case in point would be Muslim pupils who attend a Christmas celebration where carols are sung about the birth of God’s son or Bible stories are read in which Jesus is presented as the son of God. Because religious practices are value-laden, one should not immediately treat nonparticipation as a problem. Of course teachers find it a ‘nuisance’, for it means they have to provide a different learning route for such pupils. But this could also be the solution to the problem. The pupils could be given an assignment on nativity stories in their own religious tradition. Then one might give pupils from other religious traditions a joint project in which they could learn from each other. We shall return to this point below.

27 Unless, of course, one omits the religious dimension from the story altogether and transforms its meaning to a ‘universal human value’, that is if there is such a thing and it is not just the tacit assumption of a particular socio-cultural group (white, Christian, social middle class). But if one removes the perspective of transcendence, it is no longer a religious practice (see 3.4.1 sub E) and it would be more honest to replace the name ‘religious education’ with ‘socio-emotional education’. 28 In terms of the polyphonous religious self one would call it an I-position (shaped by narrative motifs from the St Christopher story) which the learner rejects as an existential perspective.

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5.3.2 Didactics of social learning The social process between people is not just the vehicle of learning, it is learning (see 5.2.2). This is epitomized most succinctly in the general law of genetic development, namely that all mental activities manifest themselves at two levels: first as intermental phenomena (between individuals) and then as intramental phenomena (within individuals). In recent pedagogic literature there has been enormous interest in the social dimension of learning. One strategy that has emerged in the Vygotskian perspective is known as reciprocal teaching (Brown et al., 1993; Brown & Campione, 1996; Palinscar, 1998). Reciprocal here refers to both the shared, two-way nature of the activity and its collaborative character. Brown and Campione (1996, p.195) classify reciprocal learning under collaborative learning. We shall first describe reciprocal learning and teaching as a learning strategy and then examine some characteristics of collaborative learning (Roelofs, Van der Linden & Erkens, 1999; Veenman & Krol, 1999). The reciprocal learning model rests on three interrelated theoretical premises: (1) mutual appropriation and (2) mutual negotiation (3) in a zone of proximal development (Brown et al., 1993, p.191). These authors see a class as composed of diverse zones of proximal development in which participants find their learning route along different ways and at different tempos. We want to stress that there is not just one zone but many different ones. Learners’ backgrounds are heterogeneous because of their prior history, prior knowledge and religious backgrounds. The zones of proximal development are not stable and static but are in constant flux as a result of the social dimension of learning. This dynamics is clarified by the concepts of mutual appropriation and mutual negotiation. Mutual appropriation refers to the process in which participants in a learning situation influence each other. Here it is not just a matter of an individual teacher and an individual pupil. The circle of participants in a learning process must be widened to include other pupils, experts in the school and outside it, parents, clergy and leaders of religious communities. Everybody in this wide circle may influence the learning process through direct or indirect interaction.29 When one 29 In the pedagogic sphere authors like to speak of didactic triangles, quadrangles or pentagons, with the accent on specific actors. These models always reduce the number of participants in the learning situation depending on how many ‘angles’ are

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removes a functionary of a religious community (e.g. a Catholic priest, an imam, a pandit) from the learning situation, the zone of proximal development changes, for this zone does not pertain to isolated individuals but results from mutual influencing between all participants in an activity. In concrete terms this means that pupils will gain greater insight into a religious story or ritual in the presence of a religious functionary, because this person offers knowledge that the participants in the learning activity do not possess. But Brown et al. speak of mutual appropriation. Not only do the learners understand the meaning of a story differently in the presence of a religious functionary; the reverse also applies. Learners introject their prior knowledge, biographies, (existential) questions and feelings into their interpretation of the story, and thus transform the knowledge of other participants as well. But it is not just a matter of mutual appropriation; there is also mutual negotiation.30 A pupil does not simply take over knowledge and skills from the other, even if that person is more expert at the religious practice than they are. Pupils reconstruct the knowledge presented to them to link it with their own prior knowledge, feelings and motivation. Communication in religious education is a process of construction and reconstruction of the semiotic system of a religious practice which is focal in the learning process. Hence the premise of the didactic model of reciprocal teaching is mutual appropriation and negotiation in zones of proximal development. This didactic model was developed in order to explicate activities that monitor the progress of understanding via a fixed structure so as to facilitate learners’ recognition of the model (Brown et al., 1993, p.195; Brown & Campione, 1996, p.296). The class is divided into groups of four to six pupils. Each group has a leader (teacher, pupil, older pupil, parent, outside expert) who leads the discussion of a religious practice (story, rite, custom, value). The learning process comprises four successive steps: questions, summary, clarification and prediction. Questions are asked to trigger discussion of the learning material (e.g. ‘What does the story mean to you?’). The isolated in the model. The distributed cognition approach, however, sets no limit on the number of participants who (co-)determine the meaning of the information. Increasing use of the digital highway (Internet) in education further extends the limits. 30 We dealt with the concepts of identification and negotiation in our exposition of the term ‘community of practice’ (see Wenger, 1998). Appropriation and negotiation in a zone of proximal development is analogous with identification and negotiation when participating in a community of practice (see 4.2.1).

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summary recapitulates the main ideas that have emerged from the discussion up to that point. Clarification deals with elements that are still obscure. And prediction refers to new situations in the future: “If in situation X charity causes you to act in this way, what would you do in situation Y?”, “Do you encounter this symbol in other Bible stories as well?”, “And in stories in other books?”. This cycle can be repeated several times and its fixed form gives pupils a hold on the learning process. We repeat: at first the group leader always takes the lead in each of the four steps. To the extent that pupils are capable of implementing the four steps themselves they are given this responsibility. Brown et al. incorporate reciprocal teaching in a research cycle that culminates in a community of learners. We shall return to it in the next section. In the cycle a second form of collaborative learning features prominently: the jigsaw method (Brown et al., 1993, p.197; Brown & Campione, 1996, p.301). This method entails dividing the class up into various study groups, each of which is given a learning task to perform. In religious education this could be a theme like how Catholic religious communities deal with death. The theme has different aspects, such as practices in the home, burial, cremation, rituals at the cemetery, Bible stories about death and resurrection. Each group is given a particular component to investigate. This can be done in many different ways, from self-discovery in which pupils look for information outside the school (newspapers, parents, grandparents, parish secretariat) to a learning situation in which the teacher provides them with all the necessary information. Note that within the group the steps of the reciprocal teaching model are observed consistently (see above). Once the different groups have completed their research the class is regrouped in learning groups which are given the overall learning task as an assignment. Now it is not just a matter of gaining insight into a particular aspect but of answering the question: ‘How do Catholics bury their dead?’. These newly constituted groups still contain members of the original study groups who have expertise on a particular aspect (such as practices in the home, cremation, grave-side rituals, etc.). All these experts’ knowledge is necessary to give an integrated answer to the question of how Catholics bury their dead. Following this concrete example of collaborative learning we describe certain characteristics of collaborative learning found in comprehensive studies of the field (specifically Roelofs, Van der Lin-

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den & Erkens, 1999; Veenman & Krol, 1999).31 Collaborative learning occurs when two or more people learn or try to learn something from each other. But putting them in groups is not enough.32 1. There must be some positive interdependence, in the sense that group members cannot attain their learning objective without contributions from other members. Each has to collaborate in order to achieve his or her own goal. This interdependence means that pupils in small groups collaborate, support and encourage each other, debate among themselves, share their material and rejoice in each other’s successes (Veenman & Krol, 1999, p.141). In the literature this is the hallmark of collaborative learning (also see Van der Linden, 1999, p.12), which is said to account for its superior cognitive, affective and motivational learning effects compared with individual learning. There is as yet no consensus in the literature on the reasons for these superior learning effects. One possible explanation of the superior cognitive learning effect could be the heterogeneous composition of the group. This increases the likelihood that group members will not understand each other, thus creating cognitive conflicts. The others’ input provokes questions: ‘How can you say that’?, ‘What do you mean by that?’. As a result participants in a collaborative learning group have to explain things to each other or argue their case in order to accomplish a learning task. Research shows that bright pupils learn a great deal from this because they have to articulate their insights and learning strategies. Other members’ questions oblige them to look at their insights from a different perspective and reconsider them. But weak(er) pupils also profit by the method because they learn from the thinking-aloud method of their peers. In this way other pupils provide a scaffold for their own learning process (Veenman & Krol, 1999, p.143). A second possible explanation is based on the theory of distributed cognition (Greeno, Brown, Palinscar) (see Roelofs, Van der 31 Veenman and Krol cite Johnson and Johnson (1999) as a major source on the model of cooperative learning. 32 Research in the USA shows that many teachers make use of certain forms of collaborative or cooperative learning. In Dutch primary education the situation is manifestly different. Although pupils work in groups, they do not work as a group, that is they do not work on a joint product that can only be created through the individual input of all group members. Only 6% of Dutch primary school teacher report usage of such a method (Veenman & Krol, 1999, p.145). Hence the mere fact that pupils’ tables are grouped together (as happens in most Dutch primary schools) means nothing!

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Linden & Erkens, 1999, pp.15-16). Collaborating individuals reach and maintain shared understanding through coordination and communication in an activity. Shared understanding is a product of co-construction and does not derive from individual understanding (as it does in the first explanation). Shared understanding is reached in and through collaboration between people. A person’s ability to perform a learning task is a result of support from others, the use of certain learning tools, consensus with other members on the meaning of the situation, and integration of personal prior knowledge through a process of mutual negotiation. Shared understanding is another learning result of this social interaction and interdependence. 2. Collaborative learning requires some sort of individual responsibility in the form of a specific, clearly defined contribution that the person has to make to the learning task. Each pupil must account for his or her input and relate it to the input of other group members. Each knows that his or her individual learning performance will be rewarded. If not, there will always be pupils who try to shift responsibility for the group product onto other group members (known as the ‘free ride’ effect) (Veenman & Krol, 1999, p.143). 3. A third feature is face-to-face interaction. According to Veenman and Krol (1999, p.142) the group should not be too big (usually four to six pupils), since in large groups not everyone joins in the interaction. The question is whether communication per se has to be face to face, as these authors maintain. Exchange of information and communication, we repeat, are characteristic of collaborative learning. If intermental activities are the learning route for intramental activities (see 5.2.2), the importance of communication cannot be underestimated. But exchange of information and communication need not necessarily occur in a face-to-face situation. Computers can also be used for collaborative learning, where the interacting parties are separated in both time and space. A didactic model which does this is the CSILE model (Computer-Supported Intentional Learning Environments) (Hewitt & Scardamelia, 1998). We can use the same example that was used above to illustrate how the model operates: ‘How do Catholics bury their dead?’. Via the computer pupils construct a knowledge map comprising various sub-areas (e.g. customs at home, grave-side rituals, etc.). This information is permanently available to all members of the learning community (class) on the computer. Each study group’s progress in its particular area is accessible at

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all times, even to pupils belonging to a different study group. In this way the concept of a learning community is embodied ‘symbolically’, because the progress of the entire community is visible at all times. We emphasized this idea before when dealing with reciprocal learning and the jigsaw method. Various interactions between pupils and experts are built into CSILE. All participants in the study can question other participants via the computer, and different answers can be given to each question. These are shown in a discussion area below the question (see Hewitt & Scardamelia, 1998, p.88). The computer can also link different questions. Thus questions about prayer icons can be linked with questions about customs, the burial ritual, the meaning of certain symbols or quotations from Bible stories. Finally, the program includes a search function which gives participants ready access to information on a particular topic. In short, the computer permits an interactive learning process that offers the same possibilities as face-to-face interaction. 4. Pupils should possess certain skills to be able to collaborate, such as listening, conflict resolution, soliciting help and helping others effectively. It is often a mistake to assume that they already possess these skills. Research shows that there can be no productive learning unless pupils have these skills (Veenman & Krol, 1999). In addition they must acquire an attitude of collaborative involvement (Roelofs, Van de Linden & Erkens, 1999, p.16). In ‘ordinary’ education pupils get the idea that learning is a kind of question-andanswer game in which one person (the expert) has the right answer and another (the novice) appropriates that answer. This attitude does not get one very far in collaborative learning. Brown et al. (1993, p.199) refer to an ethos of collaborative learning. It includes both skills (e.g. communication skills, conflict management) and certain attitudes and values (e.g. respect for other people’s inputs, involvement with that input, value of shared insights). 5. Finally Veenman and Krol (1999) mention the need to evaluate group processes. Evaluation may relate to the achievement or nonachievement of various learning objectives (cognitive, social, affective, skills) as well as collaboration (‘What is going well? Where are there hitches?’). This evaluation has to be planned as part of the overall learning process. The teacher must spell out in detail what pupils should consider in the evaluation. Evaluation forms part of all learning processes, so in itself it is not peculiar to collaborative learning and need not be included among the characteristics.

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Nonetheless we include it here, because in this form of learning evaluation of the group process is no less important than assessing the achievement of learning objectives. This element may conceivably be understated in some studies. To conclude this section we want to relate what we have said about mutual appropriation and mutual negotiation to one of the characteristics of institutional practices: collective intentionality. An institutional fact is created on the basis of a constitutive rule (‘X equals Y in context C’). On the basis of a constitutive rule a particular collection of stories from a particular historical period is considered a sacred book; a particular action is a religious ritual; and a particular symbol is a religious symbol (see 3.4.1 sub A). Recognition of the Bible as holy scripture and of certain gestures such as making the sign of the cross is not purely individual but presupposes assent by a group of people: ‘we’ read the stories in the Bible as holy scripture in which God’s intentions for humans and the world are revealed. We defined this common agreement as collective intentionality (3.4.1 sub B). But the collective intentionality may lapse. Thus a group of readers may read the Bible as if it were a novel or a magazine story. The stories may still absorb them, but the book itself loses its meaning as holy scripture. Put differently: Bible reading is no longer a religious practice. This does not mean that Bible readers cannot question the meaning of certain stories or even reject some of them. The important point is that they recognize the Bible’s status function. Without such recognition the Bible is no different from other books in the library, and in religious education it can be replaced arbitrarily with any other anthology of edifying stories.33 Religious education is not possible unless participants in the learning process recognize the status function of religious actions, objects and persons. Recognition of this status function does not imply tacit membership of a religious community. Education is learning about religion, not practizing it, just as music education at school is not the same as joining a music group (orchestra, band, percussion group). In religious education pupils participate with an as-if approach. This idea derives from a comment by Lightfoot and Cox (1997, p.9) on intermental 33 In this respect religious education is no different from any other school subject. The only difference is that this ‘problematic’ recognition is not felt in other subjects. But why are certain books regarded as literature in language teaching? Why are certain compositions regarded as music and dealt with in music teaching? Why is the biodiversity of certain biotopes considered important in biology teaching?

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activities as a basis of development in Vygotsky’s work. A feature of intermental activities is that learners act ‘as if’ they possess the same knowledge and skills as the more expert other in the learning situation. Pupils act ‘as if’ they understand the story, ‘as if’ they know what a ritual implies, ‘as if’ they grasp the meaning of a religious symbol. But if one were to remove the more expert other or the tools in the form of books, the Internet or learning procedures from the situation (i.e. the scaffolding, see 5.3.1), there would be no understanding of the text. This ‘as if’ position is the basis of learning but also of the distance inherent in learning. The pupils know that this shared world (‘We understand a Bible story’) is a form of serious play. Learners anticipate understanding; at the same time they know that they are anticipating something they have not yet accomplished. Unless pupils adopt an ‘as if’ position in a joint activity no learning will occur. This is of tremendous importance for religion as practice (and all the other cultural practices that abound in education), precisely because it deals in institutional facts. Without collective intentionality (‘we intend doing X’) there can be no practice. Standing on the shoulders of another person (especially a more expert person), pupils participate in a practice ‘as if’ they are able to perform it; ‘as if’ they understand the religious story; ‘as if’ it was a religious story in a sacred book (i.e. it tells us something about the relation between God and humans); ‘as if’ the story was meaningful for their lives. This does not imply that the result of an ‘as if’ shared activity must be equated with the meaning of the story that the individual pupil eventually appropriates or declines to appropriate. In Vygotsky’s terms: intramental activities are not replicas of intermental activities (see 5.2.2). In the context of this section on the didactics of social learning it must be emphasized that the ‘as if’ position of learners in a shared activity must be supported didactically. Such didactic support is analogous with the help given to children who are learning a game (Lightfoot, 1997).34 What do adults do when introducing children to a new game? – They set up the game together with the children (‘What do we need?’). 34 Lightfoot (1997, p.143) maintains that according to Vygotsky thought originates in the imaginary world of play. She describes adolescents’ identity development as a game of ‘as if’ positions. Youths take part in shared activities of subscultural groups and sometimes display all kinds of risk-taking behaviour (alcohol, narcotics, all-night parties). Such collective activities in peer groups could be seen as a game entitled ‘search for myself’.

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– They tell the children the object of the game. – They explain the roles and the principal rules. – Each child selects a particular role and via their imagination they transpose themselves to a shared reality. – In the course of the game the adult explains what is a good strategy and what is not. – The children are given instructions on cards which give them more insight into the significance of play situations. Let us explain the analogy with a lesson situation by means of an example. What does a kindergarten teacher do when she wants to read a Christmas story at a class Christmas party? She arranges the classroom in a particular way: draws the curtains, lights a candle, rearranges the chairs and tables. The Bible is put in a central position and the teacher talks to the children, explaining that it is a special book. She draws their attention to the season. How do we read the Bible? Not in a situation in which the children’s attention is not fully focussed on the story. Maybe she includes a moment of silence or meditation to get the children into a properly receptive and reverent state of mind. Then she reads or, even better, tells the story. She invites the children to transpose themselves to the story: the stable, the shepherds, Joseph and Mary, the angels, the newborn baby. “If you were a shepherd, what would you...?” She clarifies points where the children’s knowledge of the story is inadequate and paraphrases the meaning they have discovered in the story. The introduction of the physical Bible, the temporal and spatial arrangement, the way teacher and pupils engage in dialogue all indicate that they are dealing with a special story. The pupils have not the least difficulty assuming an ‘as if’ position of interpreting the Christmas story together as a story about the relation between God and humans. They learn to understand it ‘as if we understood the story’. It does not determine what they personally internalize: that will depend on their subsequent appropriation of the story, inter alia in relation to their own religious biographies. 5.3.3 Didactics of mediated learning In mediated learning we distinguished between mental tools and (higher) mental activities or functions (see 5.2.3). Religion as an institutional practice has all kinds of concrete manifestations: stories, sym-

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bols, customs, objects, places, venues, rituals, feasts (see 3.4.1 sub D). Through these tools we gain access to religious practices. The manifestations acquire religious meaning only from the intentionality of the actors. A cross is a religious object only by virtue of the actor’s intentionality, which assigns it the meaning of a Christian religious symbol. Without the intentionality of the people who visit Lourdes or Mecca or Benares these would not be places of pilgrimage. Learners have to discover this intentionality if they are to gain insight into the meaning of a religious practice. We deliberately say ‘discover’, because the meaning is not apparent in the manifestation itself. It is coincidental or contingent that a cross or Lourdes is assigned religious meaning in terms of tradition. A Tibetan who is given a cross would not know its religious meaning. A Japanese tourist visiting Lourdes has no idea of its religious significance as a place of pilgrimage to Roman Catholics. Hence in religious education there is no point in simply presenting pupils with religious manifestations. They have to ‘discover’ the meaning of these manifestations, but this is only possible through participation in religious practices. That is why we defined religious practices as mediated actions (see 3.4.1 sub D). From a learning perspective these religious tools are ‘mental tools’: one discovers their meaning through a mental activity of appropriation. Mediated learning, therefore, was defined as the acquisition of (higher) mental functions by means of mental tools (see 5.2.3). We identified three attributes of this learning process: (1) It is conscious, because the meaning of a practice cannot be found in superficial knowledge of manifestations. (2) The mental activity must be learnt systematically in a structured manner corresponding with the systematic and structured nature of religious practices. (3) The learning must permit transfer of the mental activity to other contexts. By acquiring higher mental skills learners develop expertise in a particular field. In section 4.3.2 we outlined six attributes of expertise, which we shall relate to the characteristics of mediated learning. Each of the following points includes examples of didactic methods that could promote the development of expertise. (1) An expert will recognize characteristics and significant information patterns that a novice may not spot. When non-Christian pupils first encounters a prayer like the Our Father, the text means little to them. Someone with the necessary expertise in the Christian tradition of prayer will recognize a certain pattern in this prayer: it starts with an invocation, followed by three you-prayers and three we-prayers, a

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eulogy and an affirmation. Experts in a given domain recognize such information patterns at a glance, because they have coherent structures of knowledge that enable them to recognize a situation at once. They know what kinds of prayers there are, which names of God are commonly used, what symbols feature in prayers, what biblical motifs may occur and in which seasons of the liturgical year particular prayers are used. Novices do not have this insight and must be consciously introduced to these meanings. Without such conscious introduction pupils wander like tourists in a foreign city or culture, not knowing what they are looking at. Without conscious introduction into religious practices there is a real danger that learners will acquire false knowledge rather than true knowledge (Bransford, Brown & Cocking, 1999). A common problem is that learners’ prior knowledge may be ‘inaccurate’ or even ‘false’. They may have appropriated inaccurate information about prayer on an earlier occasion. Or they may mistakenly assume that they already know everything about prayer. A learning strategy for overcoming this problem is bridging. This method boils down to bridging the gap between pupils’ misconceptions and the true facts by means of a series of analogous situations (Bransford, Brown & Cocking, 1999, p.167). It is not enough simply to present the true facts alongside the pupils’ false (existing) information without connecting the two in any way. As a didactic method bridging entails actively connecting the two so that the pupils’ knowledge is (re)constructed. It is important that pupils should first be given a chance to explain their prior knowledge. The problem in the parable of the good Samaritan (Lk 10), for instance, is: ‘Who is my neighbour?’. The pupils conceive of a neighbour as someone who lives in fairly close proximity to themselves. But this is not the notion conveyed in the parable. Nor ‘is’ someone your neighbour as a matter of course: people ‘become’ neighbours through a particular kind of behaviour, namely charitable behaviour. Thus the criterion governing the category of ‘neighbour’ changes from ego to alter. Bridging in this case could entail presenting pupils with a series of new situations in which they must indicate how one determines who is one’s neighbour according to both standards. This gives them greater insight into the difference between the two criteria. The learners could then be asked to compare the implications for the various situations when one applies the respective criteria. The ego criterion of neighbourly status is exclusive in that it always draws a line between insiders and outsiders. The alter criterion of ‘becoming a neighbour’ through charitable behaviour is inclusive.

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(2) Experts have accumulated a large amount of domain-specific knowledge, structured in such a way that they have a profound grasp of the subject. Religious practices are fundamentally structured activities. The learning process should be systematic and structured so that pupils can gain insight into the structured nature of religious practices. But this seldom happens. A classical weakness of curricula is that they are “one mile wide and one inch deep” (Bransford, Brown & Cocking, 1999, p.125). Pupils are introduced to an endless string of facts, titbits and superficial information without any really searching knowledge. It is far more meaningful to gain insight into a typology of prayers than to learn a whole string of prayers without grasping their nature and content. Often a spiral curriculum is used to probe the organizing structures of a scientific field (Brown & Campione, 1996. p.307). In this kind of curriculum certain elements of the learning material keep recurring at an ever deepening level so that pupils’ insight into the subject deepens progressively. Thus the Our Father may be introduced as a prayer in the course of the school year. Its structure is explained and the various elements are named with reference to different types of prayers. Subsequently the various God images in the Our Father are pointed out and explored on the basis of Bible stories. In addition to organizing the learning material throughout the curriculum one could consider certain forms of exploratory learning (Brown & Campione, 1996; Bransford, Brown & Cocking, 1999). This learning strategy is an exciting keen interest in present-day pedagogic literature. In this approach the learning groups are referred to as a community of learners, (Brown & Campione, 1993), community of inquiry (Carpay, 1999, p.318) or a knowledge building community (Hewitt & Scardamelia, 1998, p.22). The common denominator is a conception of learning as the development of expertise. A learning group is to be regarded as a research group in a ‘knowledge centre’, where individuals collectively build up a body of knowledge and solve problems. This notion does not accord with a learning environment which focusses on mastery of more or less fixed facts and elimination of errors and imperfections (Roelofs, Van der Linden & Erkens, 1999, p.26). Making mistakes is not a problem, since it can lead one to probe a research object more deeply. The point of departure is a genuine research question which has no simple answer. ‘How do Catholics/Muslims/Hindus bury their dead?’ is an open research question. ‘How many Pauline letters are there in the New Testa-

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ment?’ is a closed question allowing only one correct answer. A research question should raise a complex problem with many facets. In a conventional class activity pupils work on short, demarcated assignments which they finish in a brief period. In exploratory learning the aim is collective acquisition of greater competence in regard to a problem. To this end one has to keep abreast of progress in other people’s expertise. In addition fellow pupils have to report regularly on the expertise they have acquired. In a conventional learning environment pupils present reports so the teacher can see whether or not they have carried out an assignment correctly. In a community of learning or inquiry reporting serves a more comprehensive, collective purpose: that of probing a problem more deeply and accumulating a body of shared knowledge. To this end all members of the community need to have constant access to advances in other people’s knowledge. An extremely extensive model of a learning cycle encountered in the literature is the FCL model (Fostering Community of Learners) (Brown & Campione, 1996). Its backbone is the cycle: research – sharing – presenting. In the research phase various didactic methods are employed: reciprocal teaching, a research seminar under the guidance of an expert (who may be a fellow pupil!), consultation of experts (direct communication in an interview or indirect via the Internet) and guided writing. This last phase consists in pupils’ reports on their research activities. The report is subject to several revisions, in which both more expert people (teacher, external expert, parents, more expert peers) and other pupils comment on the report. ‘Do you think all readers will understand this?’, ‘Is this information necessary?’, ‘Can you say it in your own words?’, ‘Can you summarize it in a few lines?’, ‘Which information is most interesting to others?’, ‘How can you make readers understand the structure of your report?’. The aim is that pupils should develop competence in various forms of reporting, not only written but also by means of other media. The second phase is sharing information. We have already described the jigsaw method. One can also consider building up an integrated database on the computer or a question period in which pupils can question someone (an expert on a particular subject). The final phase entails presenting the collective expertise. Possible ways are an exhibition (also open to other classes and parents), a book or a newsletter, a design assignment (‘Design an imaginary prayer chapel’) or a test. (3) Experts’ knowledge relates to contexts in which that knowledge is relevant. You should not merely know what you are doing but also

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when and where this knowledge can be used. According to Bransford, Brown and Cocking (1999, p.31) a problem with many curricula and instructions is that they give pupils no insight into the application of their knowledge. In the case of religious education this means that pupils gain knowledge about religious stories, symbols, rituals, prayers, feasts and values, but their knowledge is unrelated to the lived world of religious practices. They may have been told something about prayer, but when they come into contact with it (at a requiem mass for a loved one, at work, in the media) this ‘book’ knowledge has no bearing on day-to-day reality. Research into arithmetic teaching shows that pupils do not apply their everyday knowledge (lived experience) to the solution of ‘textbook’ arithmetic problems. Even when they are presented with problems that require the use of everyday knowledge they make no attempt to apply it. Everyday life is not recognized in the context of a mathematical problem, so its knowledge is not invoked for the solution of such problems. Conceivably the same quandary exists in religious education as well. When pupils interpret the creation story (Gen.1 and 2) it is important that they also learn to apply it. The question is, is this application any different to a makebelieve story in (juvenile) literature or a pop song? Does it give pupils sufficient insight into contexts in which the creation story and motifs in that story feature in human behaviour? Should pupils not be made aware of the significance of this story in rituals (e.g. the Easter vigil), symbols (e.g. on a font in a baptismal chapel) or in the creed? Should pupils not learn to understand the way in which Christians, inspired by this story (good stewardship), deal with nature in a particular way? The same applies to other religions. What point is there in introducing pupils to the Hindu concept of non-violence (ahimsa) unless they are also shown how and where Hindus, inspired by this idea, protest against oppression or advocate a different approach to nature? Transfer of learning material requires, firstly, that pupils acquire a mental activity35 and, secondly, that they learn in what contexts the knowledge is applicable. (4) Experts are able to retrieve major aspects of their knowledge

35 If learners are merely introduced to a story (contents, structure, motifs) no transfer is possible. The story is a ‘mental tool’ by means of which pupils gain insight into the relation between God (the creator) and people and nature. What is transferred to other contexts is not the story (= mental tool) but the knowledge that life is a gift and is reliable (= mental activity).

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with little conscious effort. Put in a situation, an expert ‘effortlessly’ knows what is relevant, whereas a novice has to consciously search for relevant knowledge and skills to deal with the situation. How does one develop ‘effortless’ expertise? To do so learners must acquire a particular kind of mental functioning known as cognitive strategies (Boekaerts & Simons, 1995; De Corte et al., 1996; Janssens et al., 2000). In the literature a distinction is made between two kinds of cognitive strategies: learning strategies and heuristics. First we shall define the two strategies and then indicate how they can be fostered didactically.36 Learning strategies are (combinations of) mental activities relating to the assimilation, processing and retrieval of information. Here we distinguish between learning strategies for simple learning tasks and those for more complex learning tasks (Janssens et al., 2000). Learning strategies for simple learning tasks are memorizing, grouping and elaborating. Learning strategies for more complex learning tasks are selecting, relating, structuring, critical processing and applying. Selecting can be assisted didactically by making pupils underline or mark the main points in a text. Relating requires active recall of prior knowledge as a peg on which to hang new knowledge. Structuring may be done by revealing the global structure of the learning material by means of schemes and/or summaries. Critical processing may occur by adopting a personal stance or comparing information with other knowledge. Application is a matter of finding new contexts in which the learning material is relevant. Research has shown that better results are achieved in complex learning tasks (i.e. higher mental functions) if pupils use a variety of learning strategies in appropriating a mental activity. Heuristics are problem-solving strategies. A problem is characterized by having no immediate solution. Heuristics are systematic search strategies that help us to unravel a problem. In the absence of heuristics pupils lapse into blind hit-and-miss efforts (‘It’s sure to mean that’) or adopt a passive wait-and-see attitude (‘Teacher is sure to know the answer’). Each domain of knowledge has its own heuristics. 36 A strategy comprises a combination of cognitive, affective and behavioural skills (Boekaerts & Simons, 1995, pp.58-59). This is illustrated by the simple cognitive strategy of focussing attention. In a classroom there is not only the teacher’s voice coming from the front but also external noises. The pupils have to concentrate on the meaning of the teacher’s words (cognitive), keep their eyes fixed on her (behavioural) and be interested in what she is saying (affective).

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There is no point applying a problem-solving method from mathematics or history to religious education. In the mathematical domain a fair amount of research has been done into heuristics (De Corte et al., 1996; 2000). In the case of religion such research has not yet started. An example of a heuristics that could be developed on the basis of a theory of iconic hermeneutics (see 2.3.2) could have the following design. In iconic hermeneutics we can identify two movements which cannot be reduced to each other (see Van den Hoogen, 2000). The first is extricating the icon from the grip of our idols of God. This leads to silence, which is expressive of not knowing. Everything we take to be God from a this-worldly perspective is not (In)finitude. Following Bakhtin we identified two strategies that liberate people from the illusion of certain knowledge, namely irony and humour (see 4.2.4). The second movement is that of thinking in terms of God’s name, which opens up (In)finite space. This movement is characterized by receiving a call from (In)finitude and is expressed in praising God (see 2.4.3). For the sake of clarity: this praise is a gift from God (as in the book of Job), hence a movement from God to humankind. A similar heuristics can be applied to the interpretation of parables. Parables characteristically describe a world that deviates from people’s common sense notions (Crossan, 1998). We saw an example of this when we dealt with the parable of the good Samaritan (Lk.10). With the aid of a heuristics based on iconic hermeneutics we discovered that the use of self (ego criterion) to determine what it means to be a neighbour results in an idol. The criterion of becoming a neighbour through charitable deeds is analogous with the (In)finite’s gracious condescension to human beings. (5) Although experts are profoundly versed in their field, this does not guarantee that they can teach it to others. One must also learn to reflect on one’s own knowledge and skills. We have repeatedly stressed the focal importance of reflection and all forms of discourse. An example is the key role of sharing in the FCL model. The reciprocal teaching model, too, aims at explicating pupils’ reasoning and the way information is understood. Not all forms of communication between pupils is conducive to developing insight. Not all the communication between pupils in dyads or small groups is aimed at interpreting the learning material. It is crucial to have communication in which the participants are invited to substantiate their ideas or theories (Palinscar 1998, p.364). This is also known as interpretive discourse. Examples are requests for an explanation (‘What do you mean

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by...?’); requests to indicate the implications of an idea (‘How does this notion of yours affect...?’); questions about relationship (‘How does this idea of yours relate to what you said earlier about...?’). Pupils’ ability to reflect on a learning task appears to increase pro rata to the amount of interpretive discourse in the learning situation. (6) Experts have a capacity for self-reflection and self-regulation, also known as metacognition. Under the heading of metacognition the literature distinguishes between metacognitive knowledge and metacognitive skills (Boekaerts & Simons, 1995; De Corte et al., 1996; Janssens et al., 2000). Metacognitive knowledge refers to one’s concept of knowing and learning in general, and of one’s own knowing and learning in particular. Metacognitive skills are strategies to regulate one’s own thinking and learning processes. In religious education metacognitive knowledge relates to such things as pupils’ conception of their own ability to grasp what religion is about, what kind of learning tasks feature in religious education, what religion means to people in general and to oneself. The importance of such metacognitive knowledge for religious education should not be underestimated. A pupil who has the idea that religion is incomprehensible will not put much effort into learning tasks. Or a pupil who thinks that religion has a question-and-answer structure will be disconcerted if religion is presented in terms of a questing, probing perspective on (In)finitude. These metacognitive ideas of pupils do not come from nowhere. They are the products of earlier learning processes, both in school and elsewhere. The problem is that such notions are stubborn and not easily changed. What is very clear is that the way religious education is organized has implications for pupils’ metacognitive ideas. If religion is always presented in question-and-answer assignments, it will give pupils the idea that this is how religious knowledge is structured. Or if pupils are always presented with Bible stories which convey the same meaning as a preceding profane story, they will end up thinking that religious stories ‘don’t offer anything new’ and are in fact redundant. Metacognitive skills are mental activities through which people regulate their own thinking and learning processes. Self-regulation refers to one’s planning, monitoring and diagnosis of one’s own process of knowing and learning. Initially this is the task of the teacher as the more expert person, but it is important that pupils should gradually take it on themselves. To this end teaching should not be aimed only at achieving a particular learning result but also at the actual process of learning and knowing. This is known as process-oriented instruc-

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tion (Roelofs, Van der Linden & Erkens, 1999). A didactic technique in process-oriented instruction is for a more expert person (teacher, fellow pupil, outside expert) to verbalize her or his own reasoning process, hence not simply give pupils good answers but also show how these were arrived at. What answers did you rule out? What considerations brought you to this insight? A didactic technique for learners is to use thinking-aloud methods. Here the more expert person can intervene directly in the thinking process, or respond to a written report afterwards. Thus one might ask pupils always to leave a double margin on all assignments in which the teacher can write metacognitive comments. ‘How do you know this?’, ‘What answers have you rejected?’, ‘Do you think other pupils will understand this?’, ‘How would you explain this to a pupil who doesn’t come from your tradition?’. Pupils (above a certain age) could be invited to append similar questions to their fellow pupils’ learning assignments (also see comments on guided writing above), and an agreed reward may be given to encourage metacognitive reflection. The ultimate aim is that pupils should no longer (literally) write their metacognitive reflections in the margin but incorporate them in the actual assignment! 5.3.4 Didactics of meaningful learning We have identified four characteristics of meaningful learning (see 5.2.4). Firstly, the contents of learning are rooted in a historical, social and cultural context and learning is conceived of as participation in socio-cultural practices. Secondly, meaningful learning is aimed at insight into situations where the learning material is applicable. Thirdly, meaningful learning refers to an interrelationship of cognitive, affective, motivational and behavioural learning processes. And fourthly, meaningful learning takes cognizance of the relation between the learning situation and the learner’s social identity. Conversely, alienation sets in if learning (i) is unrelated to everyday reality (practice) in a particular domain; (ii) is not connected with the learner’s prior knowledge and it is not clear what the learning material can be used for in future (new) situations, both educational and otherwise; (iii) is reduced to just one aspect (cognitive, affective, motivational or behavioural), so that learners gain only limited mastery of a mental activity; and (iv) is not related to the learner’s social identity, both in the learning situation and elsewhere. We start with the first characteristic, which is focal in our theoriz-

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ing. Learning must be seen as participation in practices that have a historical, social and cultural origin. In section 5.3.2 we emphasized that religious education at school is not the same as practizing religion and becoming part of a religious community.37 But how should religion be incorporated into learning at school if that learning is to be meaningful? And what does ‘meaningful’ signify in this context?38 One explanation that is frequently encountered in the literature is that learning should entail tasks that are realistic in the sense of also being significant outside the immediate learning environment at school (Brown et al., 1993, p.189; Franssen, Roelofs & Terwel, 1995, p.302). The reality of religious practices can be approached at various levels, ranging from concrete (immediate, realistic) to abstract (indirect, remote). In figure 1 we reproduce a model from Dale (1969) which presents the form (medium) in which reality is presented on a continuum from concrete to abstract. Dale calls his model the cone of experience. The base of this pyramid is direct experience, that is participation in an actual religious practice in a religious community. At level 2 there is still participation in a practice, but it is simulated in the classroom, as when part of a religious ritual (e.g. a reading from a Gospel or the light symbolism of a Hindu ritual) is reproduced in a learning situation. At level 5 we find observation of a practice in the world outside the school (e.g. a visit to a church or a mosque). At level 7 pupils watch the same practice, not in real life but recorded on television (video). Level 10 is an abstraction of the image, with pupils listening to recordings of a practice. At the top level pupils read a text describing a particular practice. This text could include illustrative passages from the text of that ritual. But at the highest level there are no concrete references left. If learning is to be meaningful in the sense of genuinely lifelike, the religious practice should be presented in a learning task at

37 However, certain learning situations can strengthen pupils’ previously acquired religious identity and reinforce their membership of a religious community, as when pupils from a particular (Christian) tradition gain deeper insight into the religious practices of their tradition from their learning at school. The same possibility is implicit in the concept of peripheral legitimate participation. Novices may abandon their peripheral position and penetrate deeper into a community of practice (and develop into experts); but they may also turn their backs on the community of practice (Wenger, 1999). 38 As mentioned already, we avoid using the term ‘authentic’ (see 5.1, footnote 3). Among English authors the term can (hardly) be avoided. We will draw on authors who use this term in their discussion of the organization of the kind of learning we advocate.

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the lowest possible level of the cone of experience. The lower the level on the pyramid, the more effective the learning in the sense that pupils gain real insight into the meaning of the religious practice. The lower one operates in the pyramid, the more complete and contextualized the reality of the learning assignments that pupils have to do. In a textbook one needs far more words to describe reality than in direct observation or via television images. Meaningful learning is also learning in complete task situations (Roelofs, Van der Linden & Erkens, 1999, p.21). One cause of the alienation pupils may experience in education is that reality is cut up into fragments that are presented separately in learning assignments. This gives pupils the idea that religion consists of separate stories or symbols stripped of their practical context. They do not recognize such fragmentary knowledge in religious practices encountered in real life. This not only poses problems of transfer (i.e. application in new situations in the future) but, stripped of its context, a story, symbol or custom is also much harder to understand. Figure 1: Cone of experience (following Dale, 1969) Level

Media

Degree of abstraction

(12)

words (spoken/written)

abstract

(11) (10) (9) (8)

visual symbols (e.g. a drawing, a diagram) radio and sound recordings static images (photographs, diagrams) moving images: adapted mediated reality (excerpts from a practice, possibly augmented with animations) school television: actual mediated reality (recordings of a religious practice in a community) exhibition: adapted reality observations in practice (visit to a practice, study tour) demonstrations dramatized experience (theatre, role play, puppet play) derivative experience (models, simulation in class) direct experience concrete

(7) (6) (5) (4) (3) (2) (1)

Thus the meaning of a candle as a Christian religious symbol is grasped much better if it is presented in the context of the Easter litur-

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gy (Easter candle, Christ as the light of the world). Or the meaning of the creation story emerges much more clearly from an interview with members of the Franciscan order, which is inspired by this story to undertake ecological activities on the basis of good stewardship. That does not mean that a complete, integrated learning assignment is easier to execute. Contextualization also complicates learning because pupils have to determine what knowledge is relevant and how such a complex situation can be broken up into its components. Yet such learning assignments are pre-eminently suited to exploratory learning as described in the previous section. Learning higher mental skills in fact requires fairly complex learning assignments where the answers are not prescribed directly. In real life action contexts problems are often poorly structured (Brown & Campione, 1996). Pupils have to determine what strategy to use to find a solution. Does one have the relevant prior knowledge? What information is needed to solve the problem? Exploratory learning in lifelike, integrated learning situations is time-consuming, hence many teachers are reluctant to use this learning strategy. But the question is: of what use is knowledge that remains meaningless to the learner? In-depth learning (structure of knowledge, applicable knowledge) is more important than breadth (a lot, but superficial).39 The second aspect of meaningful learning – that is, applicability of the learning material – has been discussed in detail already and we shall not dwell on it here. The third aspect is the interrelationship of cognitive, affective, motivational and behavioural learning processes. The ability to participate in a practice (religion, music, traffic, communication) is a complex process requiring various forms of action control. Boekaerts and Simons (1995) mention motivational control, action control, emotional control and social control. We have stressed that the learning of higher mental skills should not be divorced from these forms of behavioural control. If it is, it leads to formalistic or ‘cold’ knowledge which is useless to pupils in practical situations outside the classroom. When pupils are placed in a situation of bereavement, they not only need insight into the various possible ways of 39 It is also debatable whether structuring learning material into larger, integrated units in fact takes much more time than the fragmented knowledge that is typical of current school curricula. What is spread over several school years in traditional curricula is integrated and presented in meaningful learning assignments in exploratory learning. When knowledge is fragmented time is ‘lost’ because one continually has to reactivate relevant existing knowledge.

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assigning meaning to it. One must also deal with their expectations (e.g. that they can cope with the situation), emotions and the reactions of other people in the situation. Below we shall first distinguish between different aspects in the socio-emotional area.40 Here we deal with affects, attributions, attitudes, emotions and motivation. Then we indicate how the various aspects can be supported didactically. The term ‘affective’ serves as an umbrella term for expectations, attitudes and emotions as a whole (Vermeer & Seegers, 1999, p.100). Thus affective is presented as the antithesis of cognitive. But this at once raises a problem, because one cannot strictly separate the two. Affective variables can be cognitively charged to a greater or lesser extent. Indeed, variation in cognitive content is a major criterion for differentiating between the various affective aspects. Thus expectations have a fairly high cognitive content, attitudes have less and emotions least of all (although it is not totally absent!). Expectations (or attributions) are notions about oneself and about the learning domain. Notions about oneself can be subdivided into pupils’ image of their own capacities in a particular learning area (‘I’ll never get the hang of religious education’) and the extent to which they think they can control their performance (‘You can’t learn religious education’) (also see Boekaerts & Simons, 1995, p.109). Attitudes indicate pupils’ approach to a learning area, such as enjoyment derived from religious education (‘I think religious education is fun’). Emotions are strong, subjective reactions to specific (learning) situations, such as insecurity, anxiety, stress or enthusiasm and pride. Apart from cognitive content the three types of affective variables also differ in stability, that is that they are subject to fluctuation in diverse situations. Expectations are the most stable, emotions least stable. Attitudes fall in between. This does not mean that pupils have expectations and attitudes independently of the learning environment and learning assignment (Järvelä, 1998). That would conflict with the culturalist approach, which forms the theoretical framework for participatory learning. We define motivation as the process in which purposive behaviour is activated and sustained (Vermeer & Seegers, 1999, p.100). To what extent are pupils prepared to exert themselves for the 40 We shall not elaborate on the aspect of social control, since this would be a repetition of section 5.3.2. There is a large amount of literature on motivational and socioemotional aspects of learning. For an overview, see Boekaerts & Simons, 1995 and Vermeer & Seegers, 1999. We do not profess to cover this literature or to compare the different theories critically.

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learning assignment they have to accomplish? How much trouble do they take to safeguard their input against all sorts of distractions? In actual motivational research pupils’ experience of the situation is in the spotlight (Boekaerts & Simons, 1995, p.121). Pupils attribute diverse meanings to a learning situation. Here Järvelä (1998, p.442) distinguishes between three orientations to the situation. Task orientation refers to a pupils intrinsic motivation to undertake a task and the stamina to master it. An orientation of social dependence is marked by a docile relationship with teachers and constant efforts to comply with their wishes. Pupils with this orientation stick closely to the successive steps of the instruction and the concomitant positive feedback. The third orientation is ego-defensiveness, expressed in a pupil’s avoidance behaviour under the influence of emotional conflict. Pupils may perceive certain threats or risks in a situation that could impair their egos (e.g. fear of failure or that their personal values may be ridiculed). How can these different aspects be supported in didactic processes? Let us start with motivation. How can we foster task-orientation in pupils? Boekaerts and Simons (1995, p.231) mention four strategies to achieve this. Firstly, one can plan success experiences by making the learning environment as secure as possible. Learning material is presented step by step, each step is thoroughly supported (scaffolding), social comparisons are avoided, and self-confidence is reinforced. A drawback of this strategy is that it does not prepare pupils for the reallife situation outside the classroom. A second possibility is to give pupils extrinsic rewards such as high marks, plentiful praise or exemption from tedious chores. This strategy, too, has disadvantages: it works best with able pupils and makes weaker ones dependent on the teacher. A third option is intrinsic reward: pupils’ interest is aroused by presenting the learning material in an enjoyable, intriguing way (e.g. by using new media). The fourth strategy aims at fostering motivation to learn. This refers to pupils’ skills to motivate themselves so that they find the learning task meaningful and wade into it. Pupils have to focus on the task but they should balance this against personal well-being (Vermeer & Seegers, 1999, p.112). ‘What part of the assignment have I mastered?, What do I need to complete the assignment?’. Järvelä (1998), working in a socio-constructivist perspective, lays far more emphasis on social support in promoting task-oriented motivation. To this end she uses the expert-novice model of cognitive

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apprenticeship (also see 5.3.1). The first strategy is modelling by the expert. To the pupil this model behaviour is not just a source of knowledge but also of motivation (i.e. wanting to be like the more expert other). The second strategy is to stimulate pupils to reflect on the differences between their own learning process and that of the expert or of other pupils (‘Can I learn something from the way they tackle it?’). The third strategy is scaffolding and coaching as forms of direct learning support, which is withdrawn gradually as the pupil gains control of the assignment. Strategies to support expectations (attributions) and attitudes strongly resemble those described with reference to motivation. In regard to pupils’ expectations about a learning domain, we want to reiterate a point that we have already emphasized repeatedly (Vermeer & Seegers, 1999, p.105). The nature and content of learning assignments in religious education influence pupils’ conception of the subject. When pupils are consistently given ‘pen and paper’ assignments on texts, it gives them the idea that religious education is a matter of solving textual problems (individually). When students discover in real-life, practical situations how religious people fumblingly and tentatively come to grips with certain existential experiences, it gives them the idea that religious education relates to exciting problems. A classroom atmosphere that is conducive to learning also helps pupils not to feel ‘socially anxious’ when they don’t know or are unable to do something. After all, the social norm is that pupils should help one another to construct a common base of knowledge. So far little insight has been gained into how emotions affect learning, let alone into strategies for positively supporting the role of emotions (Boekaerts & Simons, 1995, p.150; Vermeer & Seegers, 1999, p.105). Emotions may be regarded as a result of a discrepancy between anticipated and actual events. Positive emotions promote learning, negative emotions disrupt it. Thus one could expect pupils to be more emotional when they are on relatively new ground or when suddenly confronted with a difficult task (test). Emotions relate to the person’s interpretation of the situation, hence evaluation of the situation is a major factor in the control of emotions (Boekaerts & Simons, 1995; Op ’t Eynde et al., 1999). But little is known about the kind of situation and the pupils for whom a particular didactic approach is apposite. A final aspect that we noted in meaningful learning is the pupil’s social identity. Social identity affects aspects that we have already

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mentioned (e.g. expectations or attributions regarding the self and the learning domain), but it goes beyond that. Palinscar (1998, p.368) mentions some causes that preclude meaningful learning at school. (1) There is discontinuity between the culture (values, attitudes, ideas) at home and at school. (2) Communicative practices at home and at school are different. (3) Children from minority groups have adopted the stereotypes of the dominant group and regard school as a place of struggle and contrasts. (4) There is mutual mistrust between teacher and pupils. We have already stressed that social identity plays a major role in religious education because religious tools reflect the collective voice of a religious tradition and a religious community. The question is, how does one allow for pupils’ social identity – and, more particularly, for differences in social status – when teaching a religiously heterogeneous class? Empirical research in this field is still in its infancy. In the next chapter we inquire into inter-religious learning. Here we confine ourselves to didactic methods aimed at participation in group work by pupils with low social status. One model for this purpose, developed by Cohen (Stanford University in California), is called complex instruction (Terwel, 1993, p.63). Complex instruction is a form of collaborative learning in heterogeneous groups. The underlying idea is that pupils with low status do not stand much of a chance in interaction with fellow pupils and consequently do not perform well. There is a real danger that these pupils will benefit little if at all by group work. The status problem is dealt with in three ways (Terwel, 1993, p.64). First, pupils must be made to realize that an assignment requires a great many skills. This enhances the likelihood of positive learning experiences, because pupils can excel in various fields. Secondly, pupils are given an opportunity to play different roles in the group, such as that of leader, mediator and cleaner. Playing a high-status role may enhance status. Third, the teacher uses a certain strategy of extrinsic reward by giving positive feedback in the presence of the whole group or class. This feedback is direct and specific (linked to an activity of the pupil).

CHAPTER SIX

INTERRELIGIOUS LEARNING

How does one organize religious education in a religiously pluralistic context? That is the question to be answered in this chapter. The problem is dealt with extensively in the literature of religious pedagogics (Van der Ven, 1994; 2000; Van der Ven & Ziebertz, 1994, 1995; Sterkens, Hermans & Van der Ven, 1998; Sterkens, 2001; Dreyer, Pieterse & Van der Ven, 1999; Bulckens & Roebben, 2001). We shall build on this foundation, more especially on the distinction between mono-religious, multi-religious and inter-religious education (see 6.1). But there is one major point where we differ from the literature: we feel that the pedagogics of religion is overly concerned about the problem of truth in the theology of religions. This question cannot be avoided in a pedagogics of religion1 and it will be discussed in section 6.1 when we distinguish between various models of religious education in a religiously pluralistic context. But the theological debate on the question of truth offers no insight whatever into the content and nature of the conceptions of people from other religions. A major focus of the debate in the theology of religions is theological doctrines in regard to other religions (DiNoia, 1992). Proceeding from the Christian concept of revelation, these theologians debate whether other religions also have access to revelation and, if so, how (Clooney, 1992). Again, these are important questions, but they are questions about other religions and tell us nothing about how to engage in dialogue with them. Besides the truth problem there is also the problem of understanding the other: how do adherents of one religious tradition understand 1 In section 2.4.3 we demarcated the area of discussion of the question of truth in relation to reflections on (In)finitude, which remains bogged down in the attribution of predicates to God. In a globalizing society in which people are fumbling for (In)finitude within the horizons of our spatiotemporal conditions, and in which many experience the (In)finite as absent, intelligibility (a hermeneutic problem) seems a more pressing issue than truth. The truth question is also not quite the same as the truth claim that is implicit in dialogue. Christians who engage in dialogue with people from other religions claim validity for their own faith, and vice versa: adherents of other religions do the same. This truth claim is a necessary condition for a hermeneutic process in which people strive for mutual understanding.

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those of another? How do we gain access to the meaning of its religious practices? How do we understand what inspires people whose religious frame of reference differs from ours? This second set of questions is not at the same level as the truth problem but relates to hermeneutics or understanding. Hermeneutics does feature in the theology of religions, but in the pedagogics of religion it crops up only sporadically. Thus Dupré (1997, p.24) makes a distinction between truth of judgments and truth of being. Van Stekelenburg (1997, p.81), following Cantwell Smith, seeks to transcend the polemics between the theological propositions of different religions. Religion means to participate in a process of cumulative tradition aimed at faith. Understanding the other in dialogue occurs through participation in this process of cumulative tradition in another religious community. The German theologian Theo Sundermeier (1996) reflects at length on the hermeneutics of dialogue. This chapter starts with an analysis of the three approaches to religious education that are identified in the literature (see 6.1): monoreligious, multi-religious and inter-religious education. We evaluate them according to criteria derived from our definition of the substance and aims of religious education. In regard to substance we go back to the three criteria that we set for a concept of religion (see chapter 3). The overall aim of religious education is the development of a religious self, which occurs through participation in religious practices (chapter 4). The inter-religious learning approach complies best with our criteria. Nonetheless several hermeneutic questions remain unanswered in current theories on inter-religious learning, such as the purpose and method of learning to understand the other. Our reflection on the hermeneutics of inter-religious dialogue is conducted in the context of the general debate on multiculturalism. The hermeneutic issues debated in this context are analogous to those in the theology of religions. To understand the current debate on multiculturalism one needs to consider the input of the Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor on the hermeneutics of recognition (6.2.1). But his hermeneutics has not escaped criticism. We shall look into three of these points of criticism, on the basis of which we identify three principles of a hermeneutics of recognition: recognition of distinctiveness (6.2.2), recognition of suffering and injustice (6.2.3), and recognition of strangeness (6.2.4). Finally section 6.3 looks into the didactics of inter-religious learning. It builds on the didactics of religious education which we explored in section 5.3. In the didactics of inter-religious learning we identify

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the same four characteristics: development-oriented inter-religious learning, social inter-religious learning, mediated inter-religious learning and meaningful inter-religious learning. This didactics is based on the three principles of a hermeneutics of recognition as defined.

6.1 Religious education in a pluralistic context In this section we look into three approaches to religious education in a religiously pluralistic context. Each approach deals differently with the current religious pluralism in our society and in schools. Note that the distinction we make is purely typological: in educational practice one encounters various hybrids of these approaches. Our discussion of religious education always hinges on the dimensions of its content and goal. Content relates to religions (plural), and the goal has to do with pupils’ education in the field of religion. In chapter 3 we defined three criteria of a concept of religion. We shall use these as a yardstick to assess the various models and determine in how far they satisfy our criteria.2 The criteria are as follows (see 3.1.1): 1. There must be scope for religious change and innovation, and they must be understandable from both the religious tradition and in the socio-cultural context. 2. Religious diversity must be recognized and religious imperialism avoided. 3. Religion should be a distinctive factor within the totality of personal and social life, yet integral to it. The distinctiveness of religion does not extend to isolating it in the social world and people’s personal lives. And its integral nature should not make it indistinguishable from other cultural phenomena. The aim of religious education is development of a religious self, which occurs by way of participation in religious practices (see 4.3.2). 2 The question regarding the various models’ theoretical angles of approach to religion cannot be answered conceptually. Our premise is that each theoretical angle (religion as experience, language and practice) is linked with a particular approach to religious pluralism and religious education. Thus one cannot say that mono-religious education, either as a model or typologically, accords with an empirical, linguistic or institutional approach to religion. That is why our yardstick for validity are the three criteria of the respective concepts of religion rather than the three models. Following from our analysis of the concept of religion, we naturally indicate how the three models may be defined in terms of religion as practice.

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We interpret participation as legitimate peripheral participation. Participation implies both some measure of identification with a given practice and negotiation about its meaning. Unless one fathoms the meaning of a practice no learning can occur. And if there is no scope for negotiating that meaning it amounts to indoctrination. Participation is peripheral because when novices are introduced to a practice, they are free to decide whether or not they want to go on and develop expertise at this practice. To one pupil peripheral participation may be a step towards ongoing, more profound involvement; to another pupil the first introduction is the end of it. Either option promotes development of the religious self. Such participation is also legitimate in the sense that ‘novices’ are regarded as fully fledged participants in a practice. They have as much right to contribute to the construction of its meaning as more expert participants. 6.1.1 Mono-religious education Mono-religious education focusses exclusively on just one religion to which pupils are introduced. It is also known as a transmission model, because the aim is to transmit a particular tradition (e.g. Catholic tradition) to the pupils. The term ‘transmission’ may be misinterpreted as referring to a ‘tradition package’ which is passed on to pupils. That would be unfair to this approach. Transmission should be understood as appropriation, implying personal interpretation of the meaning of the religious tradition in relation to the pupil’s existing knowledge (experience, situation, existential questions). Of course, there is such a thing as a like-it-or-lump-it approach, when a religious tradition is presented in the form of an authoritarian lecture (see 4.2.2). But it would be an oversimplification to equate mono-religious education with such an approach to instruction in a religious tradition. The distinctive feature of mono-religious education is that it focusses on just one religion. This does not necessarily imply complete disregard of other religions. One version of mono-religious education does pay attention to other religions; the other does not. They are known respectively as the ‘soft’ and the ‘hard’ version. The ‘hard’ version confines itself exclusively to the Christian view on the premise that there can be no salvation outside Christ and his church. To Christians Jesus Christ is “the way, the truth and the life” (John 14:6). He is the gateway, in an exclusive sense, to God and hence to human salvation (John 10:9). The normative basis for this approach in the theology of relig-

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ions is known as exclusivism (Ziebertz, 1994; Knitter, 1995). Others refer to it as “a fortress strategy” (Küng, 1992): a religious tradition is treated as self-contained; everything outside it is irrelevant. If other religions are mentioned at all, one talks ‘at’ them, not ‘with’ them. In this ‘hard’ version one is hardly called upon to take note of other religions. Then there is a ‘soft’ version, which does look at other religions as ‘ways to salvation’. Human salvation is also attainable outside Christianity. There are people who have never heard the Christian message but whose lives nevertheless conform to the truth that Christ embodied. Accordingly they are not excluded from divine salvation. The normative basis for this approach in the theology of religions is known as inclusivism (Ziebertz, 1994; Knitter, 1995) or ‘embrace’ strategy (Küng, 1992): other religions are embraced on the basis of one’s own Christian truth. When other religions are referred to in either the soft or the hard version, it is from a Christian point of view. No allowance is made for their frames of reference inasmuch as these contradict the Christian self-understanding (or ‘auto-interpretation’). Thus one might dwell on the Muslim perception of Jesus/Isa as prophets, but only in terms of the Christian (auto-)interpretation. That implies accommodating the Muslim view in the Christian view of Jesus as the son of God. When one speaks of another religion such as Islam, one actually hears the collective voice of Christianity in that tradition. To use a metaphor, it is a kind of religious ventriloquism: one hears the other via one’s own voice. They are not discussed in terms of their own selfunderstanding (auto-interpretation), but only in terms of the Christian perception of their religion (allo-interpretation). The aim of mono-religious education is appropriation of a particular religion such as Christianity (Sterkens, 2001, p.50). Cognitively this means that pupils acquire knowledge of, and insight into, Christianity. Affectively mono-religious education aims at increasing their interest and involvement in a particular religion. As for volition, it is meant to instil a will to participate in certain religious (in this case Christian) practices, together with the skills for doing so. These aims apply to all pupils – not just Christians but also children from other religious backgrounds. They, too, have to gain knowledge of, and insight into, Christianity. Thus when talking about Islam the concern is not with Islam but with insight into Christianity (see the example of Jesus above). The mono-religious model will never have the aim of providing insight into Islam in terms of its own self-understanding. All pupils are set the same affective and volitional goals.

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How do we rate mono-religious education according to our previously defined criteria for the content dimension? Is there scope for change, and if so, is such change conceived of in terms of both the religious tradition and society? Here one should distinguish between two versions of mono-religious education, depending on one’s theological premises. The one version of the mono-religious model does not allow adequately for change either within religions or within religious people (Sterkens, 2001, p.52). Mono-religious education accords with a traditionalist concept in which religions are seen as self-contained phenomena (see 2.2.2). Each religion has its own rituals, stories, symbols and customs that are utterly unique. There is no need to contextualize, since context adds nothing to these rituals, stories and symbols. If contextuality is considered meaningless, religions are viewed as static and stable. What happens in the present is simply a repetition of the past. But there is another version of mono-religious education based on an open concept of tradition and certain forms of contextual theology. An example in Dutch religious education is known as experiential religious education. Like its precursors, catechetical education and kerygmatic catechism, it is a type of monoreligious education, that allows for social and personal contextualization of faith. This version of mono-religious education does satisfy our first criterion, the first version does not. To what extent does the mono-religious model allow for religious diversity? The answer is, quite simply, not at all. In the ‘soft’ version religions other than Christianity may be referred to, but only in a Christian perspective. When another religion is discussed one is actually listening to the voice of Christianity. Hence although we live in a religiously pluriform society, we are not living with people of other religions. This applies equally to children from these traditions who form part of an educational situation. The third criterion is the extent to which there is recognition of both the distinctiveness of religion, and its integration with society at large and with pupils’ personal lives. As far as the first element is concerned – that is, the distinctiveness of a religion – this is fully recognized. In a sense the pluralism of society helps to undergird the distinctiveness of Christianity: its rituals, stories, symbols, roles, occasions, feasts and customs are distinct from those of other religions. The second element of the criterion poses a far greater problem in the mono-religious model, not so much because the model does not allow one to consider these aspects but because there is no meaningful con-

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text in which to grasp what is peculiar to one’s own tradition. For context adds nothing to a religious story or ritual: whether a story is read in Cologne cathedral, the slums of Rio de Janeiro or a country like Indonesia where Christians constitute a religious minority makes no difference. Or, to be precise, it adds nothing to the interpretation of a religious story as an application of a tradition. How do we evaluate mono-religious education in regard to the development of a religious self? The religious self develops through participation, in the sense of legitimate peripheral participation. This is possible in mono-religious education, especially the kind that proceeds from an open concept of tradition. But there is another version which proceeds from a closed concept of tradition (as in catechism and other forms of ecclesiastic catechesis). Pupils must become increasingly experts at the practices that are characteristic of a particular religious community, such as Bible reading, prayer, rituals, liturgy and religious customs. As novices gain expertise they are incorporated more fully into the religious community. When it comes to participation in practices, the actual aim of developing the pupils (their religious self) shifts to concern for the continuity of the religious practices that characterize the religious tradition in question. It is a matter of initiating novices to the religious community in such a way that they become (fellow) custodians of religious practices and thus assure the future of the religious community. According to an institutional theory of religion practices become extinct when nobody performs them any more.3. Hence religious communities understandably seek to initiate novices into religious practices in order to make them vehicles for these practices. The learning goal is participation in practices rather than development through practices. But the question is whether the context of a school (including a Catholic school) is no different from that of a religious community. Do parents send their children to a Catholic school so that they can become members of the Catholic Church? Is the school a learning environment of believers who seek to penetrate more deeply into the existing faith of the community? Can one expect that all pupils have already subscribed to the Christian faith?4 Is it per-

3 In terms of a cultural institutional theory at any rate, religious practices vanish when they have no participants who share a collective intentionality which assigns religious status to actions, objects, symbols, persons, places and times. This differs from structural theories, which regard religious institutions as hardier, more enduring and more stable.

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missible to educate children from other religions to participate in Christian religious practices? What about their freedom to refuse to participate? 6.1.2 Multi-religious education This approach seeks to recognize the present-day pluralistic context by dealing with the multiplicity of religions in it. Whereas formerly people were only dimly aware of the existence of other religions, in a globalizing society adherents of different faiths live in the same street and their children attend the same classes. If one strolls around the inner city nowadays one passes shops selling exotic wares and restaurants where one can eat dishes from foreign cultures. Every major city in the Netherlands has prayer venues of other religions. The content of multi-religious education is this diversity of religions in society. This is also a reason for focussing on particular religions. All religions that are represented in our society (i.e. have a fair number of adherents) have a claim to attention. These religions are presented in terms of their own self-understanding (auto-perspective). Other religions are not viewed from the vantage point of a particular religion. Each is described in its own terms. There is a strong emphasis on the visible manifestation of a religion in people’s personal lives (private domain) and in society (public domain). What do religious people do? What customs do they observe? What are the typical symbols of the particular religion? What scriptures does it use, and how are they used? How do they arrange the places in which they gather for worship? What are their major feasts and what do they celebrate? The normative basis for this approach in the theology of religions is what is known as pluralism, or rather a particular version of the pluralist model premised on the equality of different religions. There is not just one way to salvation but many, all leading to the same ‘soterio-centric’ goal, namely human salvation (DiNoia, 1992). The reason for the diversity of ways lies in cultural differences. The ultimate aim is the same: merging with 4 The documents of the Congregation for Catholic Education distinguish between catechesis and religious education (see Hermans, 1993, p.259; Bulckens, 1994, pp.5354). Catechesis is directed to believers who want to grow in their faith. Accordingly initiation into the liturgy and the sacraments is integral to catechesis. The contents of religious education at school focus on the same elements of the Christian message as catechesis, but the overall aim is to give pupils insight into the identity of Christianity and what Christians try to accomplish in their lives in a coherent way.

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divine Reality with a capital R (the ‘Real’: Hick, 1995). This divine Reality may be personal or impersonal; it may have different names (Yahweh, Father, Allah, Brahman, sunyatta), but they all refer to the same Reality. The aim of multi-religious education is to introduce pupils to the plurality of religions. Cognitively they have to acquire knowledge of, and insight into, different religions. This knowledge focusses mainly on the physical manifestations of religions rather than their notions and ideas, although the latter are not excluded. Affectively the aim is to instil an interest in religions and cultivate a respectful attitude towards people from other religions. Respect is a major goal of multireligious education, because the idea is to help pupils learn to coexist peacefully in a multi-religious environment. Volitionally the aim is not to cultivate an inclination to participate in certain religious practices. On the basis that the unfamiliar is off-putting, pupils need to be introduced to different religions. The possibility of participation in religious practices is not envisioned in the multi-religious approach. How does the multi-religious model measure up to the criteria for the content dimension? The first criterion relates to a religion’s scope for change and innovation. The multi-religious model is not much interested in this, strange as it may sound in view of its acute awareness of the religiously pluriform environment in which people live. This is because religions are regarded as self-contained entities. One does not have to bother about their dynamics, either diachronic (over time) or synchronic (at the moment). Besides, one should not probe the dynamics of a religion, for that means getting involved in the process of transmitting a tradition (also see 2.2.3), something which falls totally outside the multi-religious conception. The second criterion concerns recognition of religious diversity and avoidance of religious imperialism. Recognition of religious diversity is in fact what inspires this model. Does that mean that it also avoids religious imperialism? Yes and no. There is no single religious perspective within which all other religions are interpreted. One seeks to recognize the auto-perspective of each and every religion. Inasmuch as multi-religious education proceeds descriptively (‘There are people who...’) it manages to avoid religious imperialism. But to the extent that its interpretive method is based on the notion that all religions are ways of salvation, leading to the same divine Reality, it lapses into imperialism. That may sound contradictory. After all, all religions are recognized as ways to salvation. But in this recognition it is postulated that all

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these ways lead to the same divine reality. In so doing , one dictates to all religions that they are directed to the same end. Does this accord with self-understanding of these religious? Do their adherents concur that their aim is the same as that of other religions? Does this not make every way relative, because ultimately they all lead to the same thing?5 The third criterion is that religion should be both a distinct part of personal and societal life and integrated with it. The multireligious model meets this criterion. It pays great attention to the distinctive character of each religion. Religion is also related to other cultural phenomena and the rest of people’s personal lives – which does not mean that it takes much interest in the latter. In fact, it tends to look at religion as a self-contained phenomenon, because the focus is exclusively on knowledge of the different religions. Finally we must ask in how far multi-religious education aims at developing the religious self. To what extent can a religious self be developed by multi-religious education? The model proceeds from a neutral, descriptive approach to religions. In other words, it is about participation in religious practices rather than development of a religious self through such participation. The multi-religious approach views religious practices from the outside: there are people who read these religious stories, use these symbols, perform these rituals, et cetera. Pupils are not included (peripherally) in the process of appropriating the meaning of religious practices. They are simply given information about the meaning of practices in particular religions. Thus development of a religious self is not an envisaged effect of multi-religious education. It may happen anyway, but it is not envisaged. 6.1.3 Inter-religious education Like the multi-religious approach, inter-religious education recognizes the religious pluralism in society at large and in schools in particular. But in contrast to multi-religious education the focus is not so much

5 This brings one close to a post-traditional concept of religion, in which traditions are more or less irrelevant (see 2.2.1). In postmodern society there are no longer any boundaries between people (Cupitt, 1997). People know perfectly well that they live in a world of differences (religious diversity), but these differences are not significant. The difference of the other is relative, in the sense of irrelevant. This notion conflicts with the view developed in this book that religious tools are inextricably tied up with religious expertise, although the latter cannot be reduced to the tools. One cannot ignore the differences in religious tools between religions.

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on (neutral) description of religions as on dialogue between adherents of different religions. Of course, dialogue without knowledge of these religions is not possible, but acquiring such knowledge is part of the process of dialogue. If the dialogue is based on a particular religion and aims at developing a particular religious identity (e.g. a Christian identity) it is known as a simple dialogic model. If it is based on different religions and aims at developing different religious identities, it is known as a parallel dialogic model. We shall first look at the simple model and then at the parallel model, adhering as closely as we can to the descriptions of these models in the literature. Questions raised by these models will be considered in the rest of the chapter. The simple dialogic model operates from the perspective of just one specified tradition (Sterkens, Hermans & Van der Ven, 1998, pp.181; Van der Ven, 2000, p.38). Dialogue presupposes a certain point of view from which one engages with others. In the simple dialogic model this viewpoint is a specific tradition such as Christianity. To engage in dialogue pupils must, firstly, have knowledge, insight and involvement in regard to the Christian tradition. Inter-religious education shares this objective with mono-religious education. Hence inter-religious learning includes everything envisaged in mono-religious education aimed at developing a religious self through participation.6 But in contrast to this latter model inter-religious education also seeks knowledge of, and insight into, other religious traditions. It tries to understand those religions in terms of their own self-understanding (autointerpretation) rather than in a Christian frame of reference. Hence the simple dialogic model is basically open to the meaning of religious practices in other religions. Cognitively it is a matter of knowledge of, and insight into, both Christianity and other religions, with the proviso that knowledge of other religions ultimately serves to deepen one’s insight into the Christian tradition. In a simple dialogic model Christianity is both the point of departure and the destination of dialogue. The ultimate aim of knowing more about other religions is to gain greater personal insight into the Christian faith. The principle is that 6 Inter-religious and mono-religious education are wrongly treated as diametrically opposed. One arrives at this conclusion if one regards mono-religious education as participation in religious practices (e.g. ecclesiastic catechesis) and inter-religious learning as encounter with other religions. Theoretically this is wrong in two respects. This does not mean that the general aims of the two kinds of learning are identical. The religious self developed in mono-religious learning is monologic; in inter-religious learning that self is dialogic.

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dialogue serves to broaden the vision that one has developed within one’s own tradition. Through dialogue previously obscure elements of one’s own tradition are highlighted.7 Affectively the simple dialogic model seeks to instil interest in Christianity as well as in other religions. Here it corresponds with multi-religious education, but the attitude of involvement is confined to the Christian tradition. Through dialogue pupils’ involvement with the Christian tradition may be reinforced. Here the simple dialogic model concurs with mono-religious education. Volitionally it is a matter of participating in a dialogue between religions. To engage in such dialogue pupils need to learn communicative skills and participate peripherally in the practices of other religions. But the aim is development of a religious self through participation, not participation as such which is the aim of the monoreligious model. The simple dialogic model assumes that one is dealing with pupils who have opted for a particular tradition. In a pluralistic class with children from diverse religions it is impossible to restrict oneself to a simple dialogue, i.e. from a Christian perspective. To Muslim and Hindu children Christianity is not the tradition in which they are brought up at home. Can Christianity be both the point and departure and destination of dialogue for them? Can one gear the dialogue to deeper insight into the Christian tradition and greater involvement with Christianity? There are two possible solutions to this problem. One is to have several simple dialogues running side by side; the other is to organize a parallel dialogue. What is the difference? In a simple dialogue one tradition is both the point of departure and the destination. This does not change if one synchronizes several simple dialogues in time. A parallel dialogue means that participants alternately adopt the perspective of each of the various religious traditions (Sterkens, Hermans & Van der Ven, 1998, p.182; Van der Ven, 2001, p.40). In such dialogue pupils engage other religions (e.g. Islam, Hinduism) from a Christian perspective and engage Christianity from a Muslim or Hindu perspective. An example will clarify how 7 In dialogue the point of departure and destination are not the same. Through dialogue I learn things about myself and the other that I did not realize before. That is how it differs from a monologue, in which starting point and end point coincide. In the end I see only myself reflected in the other. That is also the cardinal difference from the mono-religious model in which the other adds nothing to our religious thought, feelings and behaviour. Communication in the mono-religious model is not dialogue (even when other religions enter into it) but monologue.

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parallel dialogue functions (Hermans, Knoers & Van der Ven, 1997, p.195). In the Christian conception of the relation of humans to nature the notion of good stewardship plays a prominent role. People have nature on loan from the creator and as stewards they have to account for their use of this ‘borrowed property’. People may rule over nature provided they do so with due regard to the habitats of plants and animals. In Hinduism a nonviolent relationship (ahimsa) between people and nature is a key tenet, in terms of which people are encouraged to interfere with the natural environment as little as possible, and not to tamper with the genetic structure of plants and animals. In a parallel dialogue one might examine the Christian notion of good stewardship from the angle of the Hindu concept of ahimsa. In that case ahimsa would be the allo-perspective for examining good stewardship, the auto-perspective. From this perspective one could, for instance, consider whether the Christian notion of good stewardship is sufficiently critical of certain forms of human domination over the environment (e.g. genetic manipulation). Conversely the Christian notion of good stewardship can serve as an alloperspective from which to scrutinize the Hindu concept of ahimsa (auto-perspective). From the perspective of good stewardship one may critically question the Hindu notion that all living beings’ interests are equal. Are certain forms of human intervention in nature (e.g. genetic manipulation) not justified if it is done in the interest of the quality of human lives? To sum up: complex inter-religious dialogue is characterized by alternation between auto- and allo-perspectives. The auto-perspective of religion A is examined critically from the allo-perspective of religion B, and vice versa. In inter-religious education based on a simple dialogic model the cognitive requirement is that pupils should have knowledge of, and insight into, the various religions that come up for discussion. Affectively, moreover, they should be interested in these religions. However, the attitude of involvement may vary depending on their religious background. Children from a Christian background may develop greater involvement with their own tradition. The same applies to children from a Muslim background. The opposite – that is, greater involvement with the other tradition – is not required. Both cognitively and attitudinally the parallel dialogic model goes one step further. It implies extensive, coherent knowledge of another religion and the ability to engage in critical dialogue with one’s own religion in terms of the other religion’s self-understanding. Attitudinally it requires the

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same commitment to the other religion as to one’s own.8 From the angle of volition pupils are not required to become participants in religious practices but are given the opportunity to grow in their own religion. After all, they are gaining expertise in its practices.9 Where this model differs from the other two is that pupils learn to participate in dialogue with people from other religions. This implies mastery of communication skills as well as a positive attitude to the value of interreligious dialogue. How does the foregoing model of inter-religious education measure up to our three criteria? Inter-religious education deals extensively with change and innovation in religions. In fact, inter-religious contact is one of the sources of dynamics in religions (see 3.4.1 F). In the model of exchanging perspectives such change can be interpreted in terms of both the religious tradition and the altered context. The second criterion is openness to religious diversity and avoidance of religious imperialism. The inter-religious education model deals positively with religious pluralism. Meeting people from other religions offers opportunities to develop the religious self more fully. To this end one has to put oneself into the other’s perspective and review one’s own religious perspective on the world from there. Religious diversity is seen as an asset that can further development of the religious self.10 Criticism is directed not so much against the premise of inter-religious learning as against the methodological approach of exchange of perspectives. To what extent is it possible to compare reli8 These conditions will not easily arise in a class situation. It is more of a learning model for religious ‘experts’ who, as frontier-crossers, commute between religions. Such experts are at home in both traditions. Their position differs from the postmodern attitude according to which there is no longer any ‘home base’ and individuals live lives without any boundaries at all (Cupitt, 1997, p.120). They compile their own religious package without being socially constructed by the traditions they draw on. This postmodern position is fundamentally determined by the dynamics of ‘modernity 1’: novelty, irreducibility, mutability, contingency. For a critique of this position, see 1.1. 9 In this respect, inter-religious learning can accommodate the aims of mono-religious education. 10 One of the few empirical studies in this field, that of Sterkens (2001), affirms this. This is a study of children in the final two years at primary school. Sterkens distinguishes between children in a multi-religious learning situation (more than 15% of all children from non-Christian religions) and those in a mono-religious learning situation (less than 15% non-Christians). In a multi-religious situation Christian pupils acquire (1) more knowledge about the Christian faith; (2) more knowledge about other religions; (3) a more positive attitude towards the Christian religion. There is also (4) a more marked decline in their exclusive orientation to the Christian group; and (5) a more marked decline in their negative attitude towards non-Christian groups.

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gions in a way that permits an exchange of perspectives? Comparison is only feasible if there are common categories which adherents of different religions might view in different perspectives. These categories must be universal to all religions for the exchange of perspectives to be meaningful. Otherwise people might exchange perspectives, but the various perspectives do not affect each other because they relate to different things. The fact is that all attempts to find such universal categories, basic themes of human existence, anthropological constants or whatever one chooses to call them are controversial (Van der Ven, 2000, p.41). The moment one starts to define them, one does so from the point of view of a particular religion or world-view. There are no religiously neutral categories on which to base dialogue. Because of this aporia some authors opt for a simple dialogic model11 with the intention of broadening it into a parallel dialogue (Van der Ven, 2000, p.41). The purpose of thus broadening the dialogue is evident. It is to prevent a situation which makes no allowance for the strangeness or idiosyncrasy of the other within one’s own frame of reference. But how can this be done? The other only surfaces on the fringes of one’s own self-understanding. It is that which resists interpretation, which won’t be accommodated. But is understanding of the otherness or alterity of other religious traditions possible? Does understanding of the other presuppose a merging of frames of reference (horizons)? In short, what hermeneutics offers insight into this process of recognition of that which is alien and resistant to interpretation? The third substantive criterion requires that religions should be both distinct parts of personal and societal life and integrated with it. Although religion is distinct from other cultural phenomena, it should not be isolated in society and in people’s personal lives. It requires little proof that inter-religious education takes cognizance of the distinctive character of religions. When one deals with symbols and objects from the Hindu religion, one is not dealing with Indian art generally but with specifically religious symbols and objects. According to Hindu tradition, how do these symbols and objects put people in touch with the sacred and the transcendent? And what is sacred and transcendent to a Hindu believer? The question is whether the price of this sharp focus on the distinctive nature of religion is not forfeiture of its integration with societal and personal life. Once again one faces a 11 Or, as indicated above, several parallel simple dialogues (i.e. based on Christianity, Islam and Hinduism simultaneously).

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hermeneutic problem: can one understand adherents of another religion by simply looking into their religious background? Can understanding of religion be isolated from the rest of people’s social and personal situation? We will take up this hermeneutic problem in the next section. Finally we must consider to what extent inter-religious education, via both the simple and the parallel dialogic model, promotes development of a religious self. The distinction between development through participation and development in participation is crucial for inter-religious education. In the case of development in participation one would be initiating pupils from a Christian background into Muslim religious practices and pupils from a Muslim background into Christian practices. Obviously this is not the intention of religious education in schools. Inter-religious education merely entails getting pupils to understand a particular religious practice ‘from the inside’ (auto-perspective). They have to learn what Christians mean by good stewardship or Hindus by nonviolent action (ahimsa). To learn to understand from the inside they have to identify with the practice. Such identification from a peripheral position is an ‘as if’ identification (see 5.3.2): suppose I were a Christian and were to act as a good steward, or that I were a Hindu and were to act on the principle of nonviolence (ahimsa)? In this respect inter-religious education clearly differs from multi-religious education, in which pupils merely gain information about religious practices. Inter-religious education corresponds with mono-religious education in regard to legitimate peripheral participation in religious practices. In contrast to mono-religious education, however, participation is not confined to only one religion but extends to various religions with a view to self-understanding. This goal applies to both the simple and the parallel dialogic models. Both models aim at active understanding of religious practices. The difference is that in the simple model pupils have a particular point of departure and destination, whereas in the parallel model the dialogue partners may take each others’ point of view as their point of departure and destination.

6.2 Towards a hermeneutics of inter-religious dialogue Inter-religious education is the only learning model that actually gives pupils insight into a religion other than their own, and which uses the

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encounter with the other for the development of the religious self. In other words, it provides genuine encounter with the other which enriches pupils in a religious sense. The intention of inter-religious education is clear. The following questions all centre on understanding the other, that is the hermeneutics of dialogue: To what extent does inter-religious education really come to grips with the other? To what extent are religions seen as dynamic systems, pluriform in themselves and in constant flux? And is the religious dialogue firmly rooted in human life as a whole? These fundamental questions result in a focus on the hermeneutics of inter-religious dialogue. What does it actually mean to understand another person? And what is the purpose of dialogue with others? In order to understand the current debate on multiculturalism one has to analyze the Canadian philosopher Taylor’s hermeneutics of recognition.12 First we shall explain Taylor’s thinking (6.2.1) and then analyze three of the problems it raises: recognition of the equality of cultures (or religions), narrowing recognition down to cultural phenomena, and lack of scope for the otherness or alterity of the other. With the aid of criticism levelled at Taylor we shall define three principles of a hermeneutics of recognition: recognition of distinctiveness (6.2.2), recognition of suffering and injustice (6.2.3) and recognition of otherness (6.2.4). 6.2.1 A hermeneutics of recognition Taylor’s main thesis is that there is an essential relationship between identity (being oneself) and recognition by others. This relationship was not acknowledged in the past, certainly not in pre-modern society. People did not require recognition from others in order to have an identity. To our ‘modern’ ears this conjunction of identity and recognition of that identity by others sounds self-evident, but it is actually a result of two changes that occurred in the transition from the pre-modern to the modern era. The first change was the collapse of the social hierarchy that formed the basis of the honour due to people in social relations (Taylor, 1994, p.26-27). In pre-modern society such honour was intrinsically linked to social position: everybody knew 12 Taylor himself calls it a ‘politics of recognition’. Besides dealing with problems regarding understanding the other (i.e. hermeneutics), he also looks into the policy of the nation-state (i.e. politics) with a view to understanding the other.

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what honour was due to others by virtue of their social position. Not everybody was accorded the same honour because social positions were not equal. A peasant was not accorded the same honour as a cleric, a tanner was not accorded the same honour as a nobleman. Recognition of others depended on the ‘honour’ due to them, which was associated with a social hierarchy. Modern society is no longer based on a hierarchical system and the absolute sovereignty of monarchs, but on social equality and democracy. A person’s identity rests not on honour but on equality. Democratic society is based on the equality of all human beings. Taylor refers to a second transformation from pre-modernity to modernity. Modernity gave rise to a new notion of individual identity based on an ideal: being true to myself and my individual way of life (Taylor, 1994, p.28). Authenticity is the modern norm of individuality. The basis of this norm is a moral value that is deeply intrenched in every individual. The individualistic trend that characterizes modern culture is a transformation towards interiority, an orientation to ourselves as individuals with inner depth. That is why modern subjects consider it so important to be in touch with ‘themselves’. This is reinforced by the principle of originality. “Being true to myself means being true to my originality, which is something only I can articulate and discover” (Taylor, 1994, p.31). Both the ideal of authenticity and the ideal of human dignity resulted from the fall of hierarchical society. We need recognition of our identity by others because that identity is not solidly embodied in a social order. In modern society identity construction is a search for recognition by others.13 If identity calls for recognition, then non-recognition creates problems for a person. Non-recognition or mis-recognition has radical implications. A person or group is wronged when their environment presents them with a restrictive, humiliating or abhorrent image of themselves (Taylor, 1994, p.25). In the mirror held up by others the self is imprisoned in an image in which it does not recognize itself: “I

13 The striving for authenticity (coupled with originality) is another modern obsession. The search for the self is endless, because each time one comes up against the question whether the self one has found is in fact one’s ‘authentic self’ (also see 2.3.1). The more intensely one questions the authenticity of this self, the stronger the obsession to become oneself. The more passionately one questions, the more passion one kindles. In a hierarchical society identity construction is a closed process, corresponding with a traditionalist concept of tradition. In a globalizing society identity construction is an open process.

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am not what others say I am.” One might say, “Well then, don’t listen to what they say about you.” But it is not that simple. Firstly, individuals and groups need others to affirm their own, authentic selves. In modern society identity is not fixed. If others do not affirm my individual identity or our group identity, I/we cannot find that identity. Secondly, the problem of power and powerlessness centres on recognition by others. When there is non-recognition or mis-recognition of identity by a dominant group in society, it is not easy for the less powerful party to rid itself of that image.14 According to Taylor there are two conditions for this recognition. The first is that others must have the right to develop their own cultural identity. Everyone in society should have a chance to give continuity to their own culture (Taylor, 1994, p.61). Recognition implies equal respect for all cultures. This principle is opposed to any homogenizing trend in society that seeks to level differences. On the principle of equal respect people from diverse religions can count on recognition of their way of life.15 But this condition does not specify the nature of the recognition (positive or negative). It also says nothing about the meaning religions have for each other, and nothing at all about dialogue between people from different religions. Respect merely recognizes the others’ existence, not their meaning. But people are looking for recognition of their own identity, and respect does not affect ‘the other as such’. Hence Taylor sets a second condition, namely the principle of the equality of all cultures, or in our case religions. This principle is a first hypothesis for encounter with strangers. It is a supposition that still has to be proved but that one has to accept in order to be able to recognize their value. If I do not accept that others’ religions are equal to mine, the chances are that I will not recognize their religious background because it is inferior to my own. My superiority robs the other religion of its chances to contain something of value. Time will tell whether or not this assumption is true. Taylor (1994, p.67) refers to Gadamer’s concept of a merging of horizons. In our dialogue with 14 An example is the situation of Muslims who are constantly confronted in the media with the image of Islamic fundamentalism. Even if to the individual or his or her group Islam is no longer synonymous with fundamentalism, it is not easy to rid oneself of such an image because of the power of the media. 15 This does not mean that all cultural traditions can count on respect. If one propagates intolerance or the destruction of other cultures, for example, one has no claim to respect, because one’s position conflicts with the democratic principle on which modern liberal society is based. The liberal principle of equal respect is not axiologically neutral (Taylor, 1994, p.62). Not everything goes!

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others we need to evolve a new vocabulary which will make it possible to compare different religions. Given this common basis we can then proceed to establish the other’s value. So that if and when we ultimately find substantive support for our initial presumption, it is on the basis of an understanding of what constitutes worth that we couldn’t possibly have had at the beginning. We have reached the judgement partly through transforming our standards (Taylor, 1994, p 67).

Recognition of the other’s equality is based on credence that still has to be substantiated, but which I have to assume if there is to be any chance of recognition. It is this credence given to others’ worth that constructs their identity. Through such credence their uniqueness is recognized. That is precisely what modern people are looking for. Taylor (1994, p.72) refers to a religious and a profane idea underpinning the equality of cultures (religions). The first is Herder’s notion that divine providence did not ordain cultural variation for no reason. The variation has an intrinsic concord or harmony that people have to discover. A profane premise is the fact that each culture (religion) constitutes a hermeneutic horizon for a great many people. It is impossible that such a horizon will contain nothing that we cannot value as much as our own culture (religion). 6.2.2 Recognition of distinctiveness In Taylor’s view recognition is directed to the equality of cultures or religions. In terms of this recognition of equality every claim to superiority on the part of a culture or religion is refutable. One does not have to take account of an inferior thing. People are considered inferior on account of their cultural or religious background, with all that this implies: they are slighted, insulted, humiliated. They are assigned a lower social position than people who belong to a superior culture or religion. However good Taylor’s intentions, his recognition of the equality of all cultures or religions creates some major problems. Firstly the statement that all cultures are equal is meaningless (see Blum, 1998, pp.8284). To start with, one cannot assign all cultures or religions an aggregate value which can then be compared with the value of other cultures or religions. How does one calculate the aggregate value of Christianity, Judaism or Islam? How does one tot up the value in a

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religion of such diverse things as symbols, stories, rituals, sacred places, persons and feasts? Can one do more than indicate the value of certain things in one’s own religion? And if people are unable to express the aggregate value of their own religion, how much less so in the case of another religion. Secondly, it is not really feasible to compare elements of religion A with elements of religion B. How should one compare prayer in Christianity with meditative practices in Buddhism or prayer in a Jewish shul? To compare practices one needs to have common standards. The problem is that such standards are almost invariably defined from the angle of a particular religion. But without common standards the assertion of ‘equality’ does not make rational sense. Should one not abandon the whole idea of commensurability and simply speak of some value that one discerns in another religion? Can one say more than that there is ‘something’ in another religion that speaks to one? Thirdly, Taylor regards the attribution of equal value to all cultures (religions) as a moral norm, based on understanding of their value. It is a major problem, however, to persuade people that such understanding is a moral norm. What obliges me to understand the other? Why do I have to understand others in order to respect them? And why do I have to understand them totally in order to respect them? According to Blum (1998) Taylor’s problems stem from the fact that he ties the equal worth of individuals to the equality of cultures (see 6.2.1). The first concept is based on a person’s democratic right to have the same worth as everyone else in society. The second concept applies the notion of equality to cultures and religions. But people do not ask to be recognized as equal, they want recognition of what is characteristic of them, or peculiar to them. ‘Recognize me for what I am!’, not ‘Recognize me as an equal.’16 Minority groups in society have to contend with two problems (Blum, 1998, p.88): firstly they 16 The distinctive character of person A or group X may correspond with the distinctive character of person B or group Y. But person A and group X want to be recognized in their own right. The pitfall of comparison is non-recognition of person A or group X in respect of those qualities or attributes that correspond with person B or group Y. The underlying assumption here is that what is distinctive of B may not be distinctive of A. This entails the danger of recognizing only an attenuated version of person A. Secondly, A is not recognized but only A’s equivalence with B. As a result A is still not recognized in his or her own right. Thirdly, in a comparison one runs the risk of no longer viewing A in the whole of his or her context. Indeed, for comparison to be possible at all one has to decontextualize attributes. But lifted out A’s total context (e.g. the person’s socio-economic situation as well) they are no longer attributes of A.

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want their distinctive culture to be recognized; secondly they do not want to be treated as inferior because of their cultural distinctiveness. Taylor conflates the democratic right to personal equality and cultural equality. This obfuscates the hermeneutics of recognition, even renders it contradictory. Hence we adopt Blum’s suggestion to leave the entire dimension of equality versus non-equality out of the hermeneutics of recognition and simply speak of recognition of distinctiveness. Recognition of the distinctiveness of another religion circumvents the problems we encounter when we adopt an approach of equality (Blum, 1998, p.85). For one thing, such recognition does not require us to affirm the value of a religion in its entirety. It merely entails acknowledging that that religion or certain religious practices contain something of value.17 Secondly, it does not call for a comparison of religions. Recognition of distinctiveness entails looking at each religion in its own right. Each religion is entitled to be viewed as an independent entity without being compared with other religions. Thirdly, we are not looking for ‘equality’ but for something of value. Whatever one recognizes as valuable in another religion need not be assigned the predicate of ‘equal’. Nor is that what people from other religions ask when they seek recognition. They want recognition of the value of some religious practice in their tradition, not an assessment that it is of equal value. A theological approach that comes close to the hermeneutic method of recognition of distinctiveness is known as comparative theology (see e.g. Clooney, 1992; 1993; 1996). The object is to find out what the other has to say (Clooney, 1996, p. 295). To do that one has to dispense with sweeping statements about another religion and meticulously strive to understand a particular text or practice of that religion. The text or practice should be viewed in the context of the actions of a community rather than as an isolated element. The idea is to form as detailed a picture as possible in order to understand what is unique or distinctive about this text or practice. Proceeding in bold 17 Holistic theories of religion proceed from the premise that religions can only be understood in their entirety (Vroom, s.a.): a part can only be understood in terms of the whole. This contrasts with configuration theories of religion which do not assume that religions are strictly coherent systems. According to Tracy (1996) the metaphysics of religions is characterized by conceptual poetry. This concurs with the premise of an iconic hermeneutics (see 2.3.2). And within religions the interplay of stories, feasts, customs, rituals people and place reveal a richness that cannot be found in a compartmentalized version. Hence we agree with authors (like Vroom) who do not consider the assumptions of holistic theories of religion to be tenable.

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leaps with no regard to detail is anathema. Religions should also not be restricted to theological systems and then compared. There is such a trend in the theology of religions because of the approach to religions as ways to salvation (soteriology) (DiNoia, 1992). But religions are far more than that. DiNoia (1992, p.58) refers to three interrelated elements: “its complex of teachings about the aim of life, the shape life ought to take in light of this aim, and the dispositions that will foster uninterrupted (earthly or transworldly) enjoyment” (DiNoia, 1992, p. 58). The concept of religion as practice (see 3.4.1) has a similarly broad approach, preventing the reduction of religions to conceptions of (in)finitude and theological systems based on these. What does comparison entail? Do assessments of equality not worm their way in through the backdoor all over again? Comparison is not aimed at parity between religions. The goal is a dialogic reading, in which a text or practice from another religion is juxtaposed with a text or practice from one’s own tradition (Clooney, 1996, p.301). This juxtaposition of traditions assumes openness to the distinctiveness of the other religion – an openness which could also enrich one’s perspective on one’s own tradition. But the idea is to defer judgment as long as possible and carry on moving between the different religious practices. If one persists with this kind of comparison long enough, and moreover applies it to diverse texts and practices, they may gradually come to form a common ground (an ‘intertext’) (Clooney 1996, p.297). But this is more of a receding horizon for religious experts than a goal for the encounter between people from different religions.18 The hermeneutic process of juxtaposing religious practices makes good sense in terms of a social constructionist framework such as we developed in chapters 3 and 4. When one juxtaposes practices A and B, both appear in a different light. But when religious practices are regarded as self-contained entities contextual differences are meaningless. Our premise is that religious practices derive their meaning partly from the context (temporal and spatial) in which they are per-

18 Such an intertext also requires a community of people which incorporates this new story generated by two traditions in its religious practices. According to Clooney the excitement of the religious tourist is not the best basis for an intertext. It requires to be rooted in a religious practice among people (Clooney, 1996, p.303). Without such a collective practice the notion of a shared intertext has to be abandoned.

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formed: the people involved and their existing knowledge, and the religious tools that are used. Someone who is struck by some element of a practice from another religion will look with new eyes at a practice (story, symbol, custom, ritual) in her or his own religion. Hence it is not just a matter of juxtaposing. The other practice only has the potential to address us once it has become meaningful. And it is only then that our religious self will be developed. 6.2.3 Recognition of suffering and injustice A second criticism of Taylor’s hermeneutics of recognition is that the problem of cultural recognition of the identity of people from minority groups is isolated from the socio-economic problem of unequal distribution of power and wealth in society (Fraser, 1998).19 Minorities fight a double battle, both against prejudice because of their cultural and religious background and against the unequal distribution of power and wealth in our society. There is an analytical distinction between the two, but they are interrelated aspects of cultural and religious minority groups’ struggle against injustice (Fraser, 1998, p.20). Nonrecognition of cultural distinctiveness is often accompanied by social and economic marginalization. People from minority groups are over represented in occupations for the poorly qualified and the category of people depending on social security. Narrowing the issue of multiculturalism down to recognition of people’s cultural background is an old and obdurate problem. The theme of foreign cultures and intercultural communication first started featuring on the educational agenda in the 1970s (Leeman, 1996), entirely as a result of the migrant labour factor at that time. The main aim was to educate for the Dutch population, with the accent on the difference between Dutch culture and that of the newcomers. In the course of the 1980s government policy changed, largely because it was realized that the migrants had come to stay. They were no longer referred to as migrants but as ethnic minorities in the Netherlands. Intercultural communication was harnessed to promote a multicultural society – “a society that at the very least accepts cultural diversity and preferably welcomes it as an enrichment” (Leeman, 1996, p.6). Information flow was now aimed at preventing possible points of fric19 Under the inter-religious education model, too, we considered whether religion is not isolated from society at large and people’s personal lives.

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tion in the birth of a multicultural society. Lack of information about ethnic minorities among the majority was seen as a main cause of this friction. In the early 1990s minority policy became integration policy. Government education was now directed to nationals and foreigners alike. The dominant feature of official education and training in intercultural communication was known as the difference approach. Two broad trends are distinguishable in this approach (Leeman, 1996, p.11). The first was to outline differences between the dominant culture and the minority culture in general terms and then learn to interpret misunderstandings between representatives of these groups with the aid of background knowledge. The other trend was based on communication as a process of negotiating meaning in a social environment where certain preconceptions about people and groups were entrenched. The accent was on a process of intercultural communication and dialogical skills. The multi-religious education model as it has been developed so far and as applied in education relates closely to the intercultural education outlined above. The emphasis is wholly on knowledge of other religions in the hope that this will lead to respect for their adherents. However, the other is not just religiously different but also socio-economically deprived. Defining the problems of ethnic minorities as cultural problems is to deny processes of domination and disadvantagement. This is referred to as culturalization of the problem of multicultural society (Leeman, 1996, p.2 en p.12). It creates the illusion that all problems are solved if only one understands the other’s culture or religion. A second criticism is that problems of social injustice are more complex than just socio-economic disadvantagement of one group. Members of the same religious group cannot all be lumped together: people belong to different social groups at one and the same time. There may also be a combination of different forms of disadvantagement such as ethnicity (phenotypic attributes), gender (women), sexual orientation and education. There are also Christians (dominant religion) who belong to ethnic minorities. In short, it is important that people themselves should indicate what they find oppressive in a social, economic or religious sense. What one person finds oppressive in a given situation is not remotely oppressive to someone else (Leeman, 1996, p.14). The same person speaks in various voices:20 as a female, a member of 20

See section 3.1.2. for the concept of the dialogic or polyphonous self.

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a particular religious community, a member of a particular ethnic group. One should listen carefully which voice a person uses in a given situation. A third criticism relates to a static approach to culture or religion. A static identity imprisons a religious group in that identity (Jews, Hindus, Christians, Muslims). Identity is not a fact of nature but a social construct (Leeman, 1996, p.13). But when a dominant cultural group defines the identity of a minority group it may lead to stigmatization and stereotyping. The identity recognized by the dominant group is not necessarily the identity that the minority group ascribes to itself. This issue of power and the struggle for self-definition is inescapable. The religious self is a positional self situated in a power field of social positions (see 4.2.6). Culturally there are conflicting collective voices on a particular topic, with the voice of the dominant group seeking to ‘shout down’ other collective voices (in Bakthin’s terminology, social ‘heteroglossia’). When such shouting down is accompanied by the exercise of power, it boils down to ideology. An example would be Muslim children who are assigned a role in a learning situation and are then considered to possess no ‘relevant’ knowledge on a particular subject. Or the position of women in some religious communities who are not expected to disagree with men on certain issues. The problem of suffering and injustice makes inter-religious education a moral issue. The face of the suffering other cries out for justice. In the moral appeal made by the suffering, oppressed other, we get a glimpse of (In)finitude. If God is indeed a God “who gives life to the dead” (Rom. 4:17), then in his name we have to take up the cause of these others who are held captive on the fringes of existence, both culturally and socio-economically (see 2.4.2). This orientation to the other as a ‘non-person’ (Tracy, 1990, p.119) or ‘suffering other’ (Knitter, 1995, p.9) is a key category in the theology of religions. By giving the suffering and oppressed a privileged voice one can prevent any one religion from acquiring a privileged (i.e. dominant) position. According to Knitter (1995, p.80) the starting point for inter-religious dialogue is to be found not in the religions but outside them, in the fireplaces of human and planetary suffering that are burning around us. Suffering and injustice moreover constitute a universal category that is instantly recognized and acknowledged by everybody. In Knitter’s view they need to be recognized before we start comparing religions. Before any religious interpreta-

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tion of suffering and moral questions of how to deal with it, we need to attend to the suffering and injustice done to others (Knitter, 1995, p.89). The grounds for universal recognition lie in physical affliction. Everyone knows what it means to suffer pain, sorrow, hunger, sleeplessness, a dull sense of ‘numbness’. Knitter proposes making suffering and injustice a common ground for encounter between people of different religions. 6.2.4 Recognition of otherness A third criticism of Taylor’s hermeneutics of recognition relates to his aim of merging the frames of reference (‘horizons’) of cultures or religions. Such a hermeneutics of merging is already a step beyond classical hermeneutics, in which understanding the other in effect meant drawing the other into one’s own hermeneutic horizon (Sundermeier, 1996, p.12). A hermeneutics of merging does more justice to the other. One does not merge with something meaningless, one simply overpowers it. Understanding in a hermeneutics of merging also implies occupation of the foreign territory. The other’s alterity is no longer strange but has become part of me. But, does that not culminate in abrogating otherness? Sundermeier (1996, pp.72-77) distinguishes between four basic attitudes towards otherness or others. The first is to equate them with myself. In a positive sense it means that all people from whatever culture are put on an equal footing. This equality is defined exclusively from my own perspective. In effect this is to deny the otherness. The second attitude is to regard the other as the unknown, the not-me (‘alterity’). Again the other is not considered in its own right but as something in opposition to myself. In a sense one is looking at the opposition, not at the other. The opposition evokes anxiety and fear of alienation from my own culture. The third is an attitude of complementarity. Here one recognizes the hermeneutics of merging horizons: the other complements me. It exists not in its own right but as a detour to me. The other’s alterity is not tolerated, for the aim is to abolish the distinction between the unfamiliar (which perturbs me) and the familiar (in which I feel at home). The fourth attitude entails being oneself in the foreign context (Sundermeier, 1996, p.72-77). This attitude is paradoxical: accepting others in their alterity yet remaining myself. I am with the other and also with myself. To endure this paradox three conditions have to be met simultaneous-

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ly.21 (1) The other’s alterity is unalterable, but it does not exclude the possibility of familiarity. (2) My self-identity is open to the otherness within me. The other is not extraneous to, but part of, the self. 22 (3) There is a search for communion, for committed co-existence. Without this last condition one would still be able to ignore the other as something outside one’s community. Put differently, it entails a form of co-existence in which there is room for others. Together these three basic attitudes presuppose three kinds of openness: openness to the other which may be familiar, openness to what is other within myself, and openness to an inclusive community in which one coexists with others. How does one acquire this paradoxical attitude of being oneself in an alien context? Sundermeier (1996, pp.153-173) identifies four levels in this hermeneutic process. The first is observing from a distance. One distances oneself from the other to observe it accurately. This observation leads to a value-neutral description of the other. A true description of the other should not be coloured by my values or evaluation. The second level is participatory observation. A descriptive analysis (see the first level) still maintains a distance from the observed party. Participatory observation seeks to understand the other through participation. In a sense one crawls into the others’ context in order to understand them in their own terms (or in their auto-perspective). Participation should not be interpreted as ‘integrating with’ (Sundermeier, 1996, p.163). Metaphorically speaking, one is merely visiting the strange context as a guest. This is analogous to what we have called peripheral participation. In a hermeneutics of recognition a deeper level would be comparative interpretation. For this we refer to what was said above under the heading of recognition of distinctiveness (see 6.2.2). One does not compare religions in their totality but elements of different religions. These elements (stories, symbols, 21 Sundermeier (1996, p.132) mentions a fourth condition, namely adhering to principles of my equality with the other. In view of our criticism of the assumption of equality, we do not include this condition. 22 Again we refer to the concept of the polyphonous self, in which the other is inside the self and not outside it (see 4.1.2). In the perspective of inter-religious dialogue Panikkar (1979, p.218) speaks of perichoresis, which literally means something like mutual penetration. Perichoresis implies opening oneself to the other so that the other is no less present in me than I in the other. The other (alius) is a source of selfunderstanding and not just an object for interpretation (aliud). This in itself permits me to listen to others, to be known by them and not merely to know them. There can be no ‘true’ pluralism until the other has been explored (Panikkar, 1979, p.218).

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rites, customs) are juxtaposed as one keeps moving between the two religions. Rash and sweeping statements about similarities and differences are to be avoided. The aim of comparative interpretation is to probe the distinctive or idiosyncratic nature of the other more deeply and at the same time gain greater insight into oneself. It is not a matter of merging horizons but deepening one’s insight into self and other, so that both are recognized more fully. The fourth and last level is what Sundermeier (1996, p.226) calls ‘Konvivenz’ (lit. ‘co-existence’), a term derived from South American liberation theology. It indicates a form of co-existence marked by mutual aid, common deliberation on the well-being of all and joint celebration of feasts. It denotes unity with the stranger (specifically the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized) in which one is momentarily able to assume the perspective of the marginalized other. One looks from the other’s perspective, but the moment one tries to get a grip on it, it slips through one’s fingers. One also looks at oneself and the world with ‘new eyes’ without relinquishing one’s own perception (frame of reference). In Bakhtin’s terms (also see 4.2.4) one could call it a form of polyphony in which the various voices do not exclude or try to drown each other, but harmonize. This harmony is not a new voice, since that would simply provoke fresh conflict with other voices. At the same time the distinction between marginality and centre is transcended without being able to pin it down (in the sense of grasping it). The paradox of being oneself in a strange context is maintaining a silent presence to each other. But here we are clearly speaking about rare and unique moments in life. The first three levels (observation from a distance, participatory observation and comparative interpretation) should be seen as necessary but inadequate conditions for this paradox. For inter-religious education it is essential to be able to adopt this attitude, but it should not be confused with the supreme level of recognition of otherness in the experience of communion (what Sundermeier calls ‘Konvivenz’). To conclude this section we want to relate the experience of (In)finitude to the sense of otherness evoked by a different religion. In section 2.4.3 we said that this otherness is literally beyond our horizon. It lies on the fringes of our frame of reference. It is other for the very reason that we cannot capture it in our horizon. We said that marginality is a privileged position to glimpse (In)finitude. We literally have no words or images for what marginality discloses. This notknowing robs us of our images and conceptions of (In)finitude. More

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accurately, marginality destroys our idols of the (In)finite. There it becomes clear whether we are using our images of (In)finitude as icons or idols. Idols of the (In)finite are humanly made images that are powerless on the margins. Confrontation with the otherness of people from another religion is such a marginal situation. We get nowhere in that foreign context if we remain prisoners of our images. So must we throw our own Christian images overboard in inter-religious encounters? No, but we should see them as icons of (In)finitude. As icons they open up a window on the (In)finite. An image of God as a merciful father, for instance, points to the (In)finite without pinning it down to our definitions of mercy and fatherhood. The biblical prohibition of idolatry forbids us to mould (In)finitude after our own image and likeness. The not-knowing which is so characteristic of confrontation with marginality opens a way for the (In)finite to come to us. The starting point of this movement is the (In)finite itself, which we interpret from a Christian point of view as the God “who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist” (Rom. 4:17) (see 2.3.2). (In)finitude turns our world inside out. What we believe to be the centre, turns out to be peripheral and what we banished to the periphery turns out to be central. God’s name opens up (In)finite space in which our world turns out to be totally different from the order we had arranged in our hubris. That is why marginality (the other/stranger) is a privileged place: it not only confronts us with not-knowing (first movement) but also creates new knowledge (second movement). This new knowledge differs from ‘hubristic knowledge’ in that it entails awareness of humankind’s fumbling search for (In)finitude.23 But this ‘other’ perspective on (In)finite is also an icon. (In)finitude should not be imprisoned in the notions and practices of other religions either.

6.3 Didactics of inter-religious learning How should instruction in inter-religious learning be organized? The premise for this section is the analysis of religious education in chapter 5. Here we confine ourselves to the didactics, since the premises of 23 One of the problems with fundamentalism is that they have replaced this ‘fumbling search’ with ‘certain knowledge’ (see 2.3.1). Its God-talk reflects no awareness that (In)finitude may be different from any pictures we may have of it. The (In)finite that people search for was found before the search ever began. What has not been ‘lost’ need not be searched for. What one finds one already possesses.

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learning are not essentially different in inter-religious education. Inter-religious learning is based on the same principles: developmental, social, mediated and meaningful learning (see 5.2). But in planning the instruction one has to allow for the hermeneutics of recognition as outlined above: – recognition of the distinctiveness of the practices of other religions, which are juxtaposed comparatively with elements from one’s own religion (see 6.2.1); – recognition of suffering and injustice in which the suffering other directs a moral appeal with a view to joint efforts to alleviate suffering and injustice (see 6.2.2); and – recognition of otherness, which calls for three forms of openness: openness to the otherness that may be familiar, openness to the otherness in myself, and openness to an inclusive community in which we co-exist with others (see 6.2.3). One of the most hotly debated issues in the field of inter-religious learning is undoubtedly when it should start. It is not so much a question of the pupils’ age as of how well versed they are in their ‘own’ religion. Our discussion here offers no guidelines in this regard. The concept of development that we have adopted, following Vygotsky, offers no universal, age-linked answer to this question. That is because the zone of proximal development is not an individual attribute but an attribute of individuals in a social context, with all kinds of tools stipulated in carefully selected lesson material, expertise in a learning situation, proper systematic introduction to religious practices, and so forth. If (quite young) pupils are given a lot of support in a learning situation (inter alia by a more expert person, who need not be the teacher but could be a (fellow) pupil or an outsider), they are able to participate in a process of inter-religious learning. If it were possible to determine whether pupils are sufficiently versed in their own religion, this criterion would make inter-religious learning a utopia. After all, in our present globalizing society with its processes of homogenization, de-traditionalization, privatization and de-institutionalization (see chapter 1), there are hardly any pupils with sufficient religious expertise to engage in this dialogue without expert assistance. That shifts the analysis of the possibility of inter-religious learning to the zone of proximal development. Our description of the didactics of inter-religious learning rests on the assumption that the conditions for inter-religious learning in a lesson situation have been met, that is,

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that sufficient expert assistance is available to learners for the learning process to take place. The conditions that assistance to pupils must satisfy will be indicated in the description that follows. 6.3.1 Didactics of developmental inter-religious learning The meaning of the practices of other religions can only be understood in terms of their origin in sociocultural activities. People of other religions have expressed their joys and sorrows, their attitudes towards poverty and injustice, prayer and meditation, forgiveness and protest. These higher mental activities cannot be understood without the social, cultural and institutional factors that inform them. What mourning entails for a Muslim, a Hindu or a Jew cannot be divorced from the religious tools and practices through which members of those religions articulate their mourning. If one wants to gain insight into the meaning of mourning to people from another religion, one has to follow the same evolutionary course as the history in which a particular religious practice originated. It must grow in the learner in the same way as it grew in time. The possibility of articulating mourning in a religious practice is a potential development opportunity for the child. The religious self has a zone of proximal development: pupils’ current capacity can be extended to their potential capacity. The zone of proximal development is an action zone, a social zone, and it entails tools; in other words, pupils – together with, or in relation to, other people – perform a mental activity which involves religious stories, symbols, persons and customs (see 4.3.2). The didactic method to guide pupils from their current behavioural capacity to their potential capacity is known as scaffolding. Pupils are provided with as many scaffolds as they need to gain access to the meaning of a practice in another religion. This is essentially the same as the support given to novices to appropriate the meaning of religious practices in their own religion. The only way to discover this meaning is through participation. What such participation entails will be explained below at three levels: cultural, interpersonal and intrapersonal. Following Rogoff, we defined participation at the cultural level as apprenticeship (see 5.3.1). Expert and novice are both apprentices in a religious tradition that transcends them temporally and spatially. Religious practices have their own semiotic systems deriving from tradition and the various communities of practice (e.g. various movements

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within a religion) that have handed down these practices in diverse forms. Participation in such practices opens up new possibilities for participants to assign meaning to experience, but it also imposes constraints. Once a religious story from another tradition has acquired meaning for someone, she or he will see the world differently (e.g. a new angle on the meaning of suffering). But religious practices also restrict one’s view of the world, because they cannot be assigned just any arbitrary meaning. If one assigns a totally different meaning to a religious story from another tradition – or rather, the multitude of meanings of different interpretive communities in that religion – one misses the ball. Of course one is still assigning it meaning, but it has nothing to do with the relation between humans and (In)finitude to which the story or practice points (as an icon). In inter-religious learning participation should be based on a hermeneutics of recognition. That means, first of all, that the learning process is directed only to a particular element (or practice) of the other tradition, in which one seeks to discover its distinctive character through comparative interpretation. It is not like the game of finding the differences and similarities between two pictures, but requires studying oneself in the mirror of another, and vice versa: giving others a chance to scrutinize themselves in the mirror of one’s own religion. To make such a comparative interpretation one needs scaffolds in the form of a practice from one’s own tradition which is then juxtaposed with a practice from the other tradition. For instance, one could read a Bible story from the angle of the Qur’an and a story from the Qur’an is read from the angle of the Bible. Or a religious practice such as fasting in the Catholic tradition is juxtaposed with Ramadan in Islam. To a pupil who is familiar with the Bible story (e.g. the creation story in Gen. 1)24 another tradition’s account of the origin of the world is an unknown story. To discover its distinctive meaning it is studied, using the creation story in Genesis as a mirror. The aim is not to arrive at a judgment of the ‘value of Islam’. It is simply to discover an element in another tradition which enriches their reading of the biblical creation story. The ultimate aim is this ‘enrichment’, which 24 The extent of such familiarity varies greatly among pupils in present-day society (see chapter 1). This does not mean that inter-religious education is impossible, but that in many instances children also have to be allowed to appropriate the meaning of their own religion’s practices. This does not apply only to children from Christian homes (Catholic and Protestant), but also, increasingly, to second and third generation children from religious minority groups (Muslim and Hindu).

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helps pupils to develop their religious self. A second important aspect when using a hermeneutics of recognition is to relate the religious and cultural situation of people from another religion to their socio-economic situation. They read the religious stories from their tradition in terms of the context in which they live. When there is a prevailing sentiment in society that all Muslims are ‘potential terrorists’ or they are stigmatized as ‘fundamentalists’, it affects the way people (children) experience their religion. The same applies to a situation in which Muslim children hear beautiful sentiments expressed about solidarity or compassion, when at home their father tells them he has no hope of finding employment. For teachers this means that scaffolds have to be erected in the learning situation to give pupils from religious minority groups a chance to verbalize the social context in which they experience and interpret their religious background.Thirdly, there has to be recognition of otherness. This hermeneutic process also needs scaffolding. Here one must consider the four levels of recognizing otherness identified by Sundermeier: (1) observation from a distance; (2) participatory observation; (3) comparative interpretation; and (4) experiencing communion (Konvivenz). Methodologically the first three levels have been dealt with already. The fourth level is less easy to actualize in a learning situation at school.25 The object of this hermeneutic process is to develop three kinds of openness to the other. Learning to observe, participate and compare is aimed, firstly, at really discovering the alterity of the other’s religion. To this end one must learn to observe accurately and suspend judgment of the other. This is very different from snap judgments and sweeping statements about the strangeness of another religion (or even of all religions). That is to 25 As mentioned already (see 6.2.4), the highest level is achieved only momentarily. It is a form of communion in which the other as a stranger is close to me. This is very different from the various ways in which schools express awareness of being a learning and existential community. Thus some schools end the week with a joint assembly, which is experienced as expressing that all the children and teachers together constitute a community. But this kind of assembly is not concerned with the other as a stranger. This is in fact the bugbear of inter-religious dialogue in which one seeks to avoid the pitfall of a merging of horizons. The other is genuinely alien to me (in certain religious respects), yet I still see myself as belonging to the same community as that person. Maybe one should adopt Sundermeier’s proposal to achieve the highest level through joint celebration of religious feasts. Note: these feasts are not to be conducted in a neutral no man’s land but in a manner that allows participants to express their distinctive religious character (their own stories, symbols, rituals), in which they are strangers to others yet at the same time are themselves in practizing this feast which is experienced as a community (of practice).

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judge without looking and to talk without understanding. The hermeneutic process of recognizing otherness is the very reverse. The more one gets to understand the other, the stranger the religious practices in which they engage in accordance with their tradition. Interreligious learning should teach pupils to observe accurately and not judge rashly. There should also be scaffolds to help them articulate, and thus recognize, the otherness. Articulating otherness in the form of questions (‘Why do people in religion A do this?’) leads on to further study in the form of observation, participation and comparison. This hermeneutic process also makes it possible to discover the strangeness of one’s own tradition. ‘Actually, why do we fast in this way? What has it got to do with the relation between God and human beings?’ This strangeness within ourselves should not be abrogated either; it should be cherished, because it leads on to further discovery. Every discovery starts with a question (Dewey). When people no longer ask themselves questions, they cease to learn. Finally, we said, there should be openness to an inclusive community in which there is room for others. Co-existing with others is very different from assimilating people into our culture, so that we eventually see ourselves in them. Otherness perturbs us, hence it is hard to tolerate. In concrete terms, people from another religion mourn differently, pray differently, fast differently, use holy scriptures differently, have different religious practices (burial rites, slaughter of animals), speak differently about (In)finitude. In this respect, too, pupils’ learning process should be supported. It is not easy to co-exist with people who are alien to us in certain respects. We have to overcome some resistance in order to do so. Acknowledgment and recognition of this resistance is the first step. What does it mean to the other to be recognized/not recognized? What effect does it have whether one belongs to the dominant group or to a minority group? In addition to the cultural level, participation also features at an interpersonal level (see 5.3.1). This is known as guided participation, when novices join in a practice as fully fledged participants. Through the support or scaffolding provided by a more expert person they are capable of something that would have been impossible otherwise (see introduction to 6.1). This applies equally to insight into a practice in another religion or in their own religion. In addition it enables pupils to participate in the process of inter-religious encounter, which we have shown to consist in a threefold recognition: recognition of distinctiveness, of suffering and injustice, and of otherness. With gui-

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dance from a more expert person pupils are able to participate in this process as well. The crux of guided participation is expert support of pupils’ engagement in a practice. This expertise may be provided by the teacher, but certainly not exclusively. A pupil belonging to a different religion may act as the ‘expert’ who assists other pupils and the teacher to gain insight into a practice from the religious tradition which she or he has grown up with. The lesson material may also afford significant insight into a practice from a different religion (also see 6.3.4), and pupils may gain access to further sources on the Internet. Expertise may also be obtained outside the school (e.g. parents, religious professionals from other religions or school advisors). Participation at the intrapersonal level refers to participatory appropriation. Participation is appropriation and appropriation is participation. Appropriation is possible only if there is some identification with the meaning of the religious practice, but that meaning is also subject to negotiation. Construction of meaning always entails reconstruction as well. A vital scaffold for pupils in the process of appropriation is helping to activate their existing knowledge and relating the meaning of a religious practice to that knowledge. This includes not just their existing knowledge about their own religious tradition and practices from other religions, but also about encounter with people from different religions. This does not mean that they must have had past experience of such practices. Pupils pick up all sorts of ‘ideas’ from their environment: their parents, their peers, religious officiants, the media. They must be made aware of these ideas (feelings, evaluations, expectations) and actively relate them to ‘new’ knowledge about the other religion, their own religion and inter-religious dialogue. Initially the teacher directs the appropriation process, but this responsibility is gradually transferred to the pupils. Eventually they must learn to ask the questions themselves: what do I know about this myself, what is new information, what have I learnt now, how do I relate it to what I already know about this religion, et cetera. 6.3.2 Didactics of social inter-religious learning With reference to social learning we cited Vygotsky’s general law of genetic development (see 5.3.2). According to this law every mental function originates twice: first between individuals, then within them. If one accepts this principle, it has major implications for inter-religious learning. The idea that pupils form of the contents and goal of

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dialogue with people from different religions is a product of the way in which this encounter actually takes place. If it is organized as a search for similarities and differences between religions, pupils get the idea that inter-religious dialogue is a process of noting similarities and differences. Even if one were to tell them over and over again in the course of a lesson that it is not a matter of differences and similarities but of the distinctive or idiosyncratic character of each religion, it will have little impact because the nature of the learning process conveys another message. Pupils may fail to grasp what one means (intramental process), because they have not learnt in a learning situation what understanding distinctive contents (intermental process) entails. In positive terms, intermental activities (i.e. knowing and learning processes enacted between teacher and pupils and among the pupils themselves) must reflect the three hermeneutic principles identified in section 6.2. Hence in the process of comparative interpretation one has to look for the distinctive character of the practice from another religion. The inter-religious learning process must take note of suffering and injustice that strangers may experience in their socio-economic position or in some other context (e.g. gender-specific roles assigned to males and females). And in the learning process one must develop openness to the otherness of the religious practice, which does not exclude potential familiarity; for the otherness in oneself; and for an inclusive community which has room for others. In short, just as one should not talk about religious practices in order to understand their meaning, so one should not talk about inter-religious dialogue but actively conduct it. What pupils learn in such a process is a result of the intermental activities in which they have engaged. Following Vygotsky and Bakhtin we emphasized that the outcome of the learning process also has a quasi-social character (see 5.2.2). The religious self always addresses a particular public, even if there is no physical person present (also see 4.2.3, the religious self as author). It makes a big difference whether this public includes people from other religions or only one’s co-religionists. When one has learnt to pronounce on another religion in dialogue with others, one speaks differently than if one has learnt to do so in their absence. When one has the other in mind as one’s public, one in a sense edits one’s pronouncements from the other’s perspective.26 26 An analogy with a profane situation may clarify the point. Suppose you have a quarrel with person A. While speaking to persons B and C (physically or mentally),

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Social inter-religious learning is collaborative (see 5.3.2). The class is seen as a learning community which seeks to acquire shared knowledge on a theme. It could be a fairly simple question, such as the interpretation of fasting in different religious traditions or a comparative interpretation of religious stories. Or it could be quite a complex research question, such as how people in different religions bury their dead. To arrive at shared knowledge one could alternately use religiously homogeneous and religiously heterogeneous groups. Thus the entire class could focus first on fasting in Christianity and then on fasting (Ramadan) in Islam. When dealing with fasting in Islam Muslim pupils might act as experts to Christian pupils. Conversely, Christian pupils might play this role to Muslim pupils when it comes to fasting in Christianity. We are careful to say ‘might’, for in present-day society one could be dealing with pupils who are not really familiar with the tradition to which they belong by birth. In that case one could first divide the class up into religiously homogeneous groups. Pupils born into Christian homes will first concentrate on appropriating the meaning of Christian fasts, and those born into Muslim homes on appropriating the meaning of fasts in Islam. Then they can try to grasp the meaning of fasting in the other religion. This may be done by the class as a whole, but one could also have religiously heterogeneous groups in which children from different religions take turns at providing the expertise. This is particularly good for pupils from minority groups, since it gives them an experience of possessing relevant religious knowledge. Alternating between homogeneous and heterogeneous groups, again, gives pupils a chance to experience the difference it makes when one articulates religious meaning to a foreign public (see above). Not only do they learn to express themselves to others who belong to a different religion, but they also gain first-hand experience of the difficulty of making oneself understood properly because of the mutual unfamiliarity of religious traditions. Even when pupils operate in varying groups it remains important always to disclose the results of the groups to everybody. It should be clear at all times that they are building up a common store of knowledge. For the you express all sorts of opinions about A. B and C constitute the public that affirms your story. The moment you try to articulate the same viewpoint to person A, you notice the story changes. When addressing person A (physically or mentally) you have a different approach. It also illustrates the difference between having dialogue with someone (physically or mentally) and talking about somebody. This latter is typical of multi-religious learning.

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characteristics of collaborative learning, see section 5.3.2, where they are categorized as positive interdependence, individual responsibility, scope for interaction, learning collaborative skills and allowing for evaluation. 6.3.3 Didactics of inter-religious mediated learning In mediated learning we distinguished between mental tools and mental activities (see 5.2.3). A religious story is a tool; grasping the meaning of the story is a mental activity. The ultimate goal of learning is to gain insight, but this mental activity cannot be learnt without religious tools. This is mainly because in institutional practices the assignment of a status function is based on a convention. There is no reason whatsoever to regard a cross as a symbol of God’s transforming power which gives life to the dead. The cross has this religious meaning purely on the basis of the authority of the Christian tradition which interprets Jesus Christ’s death and resurrection in this way. Pupils must not only become acquainted with the mental tools of a religion (both their own and another one) but must also learn to use them as indicated in the tradition – or rather, traditions – of a religious practice. In learning to use the tools pupils must discover the intentionality of participants in that religious practice. That intentionality is not to assign super-individual meaning but is a shared or collective intentionality: ‘We are reading a sacred scripture that tells of the relationship between God and human beings.’ 27 This is also why pupils only gain insight into a practice from participation. Without participation one does not discover this collective intentionality. It is appropriated only in the mental activity of using religious tools (like a Bible story). That is why we stressed that higher mental activities have to be acquired consciously in a structured, transfer-oriented way (see 5.2.3). This applies equally to appropriating the meaning of practices from one’s own religious tradition and those of another religion. We shall not dwell on it here, since that would be a repetition of sections 5.2.3 and 5.3.3. In terms of the hermeneutics of recognition inter-religious dialogue is itself an institutional practice. The same rule applies: you can only 27 The formula for collective intentionality is: ‘We recognize that S has the power (S does A)’ (see 3.4.1 sub D). Here three elements converge: recognition of the authority of a tradition (certain stories carry the authority of sacred stories); power based on convention (a Bible story has the power to reveal God); the story puts people in contact with God (it makes me discover how God is actively present in the world).

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appropriate meaning by joining in a dialogue which embodies the hermeneutics of recognition. We shall look at this more closely in the rest of this section. We identified six characteristics of religion as an institutional practice (see 3.4.1). Do these characteristics also apply to inter-religious dialogue? What follows is an attempt at exploring this possibility.28 – In the first place a religious practice is a form of meaning attribution, in which people assign a status function to an activity, object, symbol, person, space or time. This takes the form of a constitutive rule: ‘X equals Y in context C.’ Here X is the (hermeneutic) process in which religions are compared interpretively. Y is the status of inter-religious dialogue. C is the context in which the dialogue happens (e.g. a situation in which pupils from different religions are present). – Secondly, the meaning is not attributed by an individual but is based on collective intentionality. All the dialogue partners share the intention of having an inter-religious dialogue. If I (proceeding from my tradition) believe that I am engaged in an inter-religious dialogue but others (proceeding from their traditions) do not share this intentionality, then we are not engaged in a dialogue. That does not mean that all participants fully realize what such collective intentionality implies. Novices in this kind of dialogue will adopt an as-if position (also see 5.3.2), relying on a person with greater expertise. – Thirdly, a practice is not designated inter-religious dialogue on our own authority. We go back to tradition which authorizes us to designate this practice an inter-religious dialogue. That applies both to those from the Christian tradition as to others coming from their respective traditions. Thus Catholics may invoke the decree on dialogue with non-Christian religions from Vatican II (Nostra Aetate), or Francis of Assisi’s dialogue with Muslims in his day. The example of St Francis moreover has the advantage that both Christians and Muslims can refer to a shared practice. – Fourthly, the status function (Y) has religious significance in the sense of relating to God or (In)finitude. We have already analyzed this in terms of the category of marginality. According to an iconic 28 To our knowledge there has been no analysis of inter-religious dialogue in terms of institutional theory. Our discussion does not profess to do more than sketch an outline for a meaningful analysis of this kind.

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hermeneutics, marginality is where our certain knowledge of God is exposed as an idol. In the unfamiliar context we become aware of this, thus creating new space for the (In)finite. This is an (In)finite which we do not comprehend but which apprehends us. This second movement is no less important, for otherwise it could create the impression that dialogue is aimed at not-knowing. Inter-religious dialogue is a religious practice because it gives us a new, enriched perspective on (In)finitude. Without this religious perspective there would still be a (cultural or social) dialogue but no (inter)religious dialogue. – Fifthly, an inter-religious dialogue is a structured practice. Without the collective intentionality of the participants there is no interreligious dialogue. But knowledge of inter-religious dialogue is distributed across the entire practice: the structure in which the discussions take place; the symbols used; the sources that are drawn on; the participants’ communication skills; the setting of the dialogue; the way in which the shared knowledge is made visible and accessible to everyone; and the various actors in the situation. – In the sixth place, a practice of inter-religious dialogue (in a localized situation such as a classroom) is influenced by the power of religious institutions. This applies both to one’s own religion, to the other religion and to the interrelationship of the two religions in society. Thus church leaders exercise power over people and institutions (e.g. a Catholic school), which enables them to forbid some practices and permit others. The mutual power relations between religions may also influence a practice of inter-religious dialogue. Thus Muslim pupils may believe that they have to defend their faith against the dominant Christian pupils. This notion reflects power discrepancies between religions in society. If inter-religious dialogue qualifies as a practice, how can pupils develop expertise in it? In section 5.3.3 we linked six characteristics of expertise with didactic methods to develop it. Here we shall relate these characteristics to inter-religious learning. (1) Expertise is the ability to recognize meaningful information patterns in a situation. When pupils are first introduced to a practice from another religion they recognize little or nothing in it. They have to be introduced to it in a structured manner. The same applies to the practice of inter-religious dialogue between pupils from different religions. At the start of the inter-religious learning

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process pupils already have some ideas about dialogue between people from different religions. This prior knowledge can further the acquisition of new knowledge, but it could also be ‘mistaken’ knowledge, such as believing that dialogue consists simply in comparing practices from the different religions. Such ‘mistaken’ existing knowledge should be activated in the learning process to enable pupils to correct their ideas about inter-religious dialogue. (2) Expertise entails profound understanding of a subject rather than just a lot of knowledge. Of course knowledge is necessary, but a major pitfall in education is the acquisition of superficial knowledge. Scraps of knowledge are often just flotsam floating in pupils’ minds. To acquire profound, structured knowledge it is better to have a few intensive sessions of inter-religious learning rather than learn all sorts of titbits of information about other religions.29 Two didactic methods may be useful. Firstly, inter-religious learning can be programmed into a spiral curriculum spanning several years. The same topic recurs several times at ever deepening levels of mastery. Secondly, one could use exploratory learning methods. In section 5.3.3 we cited the FCL model which comprises a cycle of research – sharing – presentation. A method like exploratory learning is also highly compatible with the nature of inter-religious learning as comparative interpretation in which elements from different religions are juxtaposed. In the process one keeps commuting between different religions, thus arriving at a more searching comparison. (3) Expertise relates to contexts in which one can apply what one has learnt. Transfer is something that has to be consciously learnt. It means that pupils who have learnt something about another religion must be able to apply it in an everyday situation where they come into contact with people from that religion. The same applies to inter-religious dialogue. Inter-religious learning must enable pupils to participate meaningfully in encounters with people from different religions. 29 In concrete terms this is reminiscent of a learning situation in which the last ten minutes of the lesson are devoted to establishing a relation with a practice from another religion. Apart from being too fleeting, it also gives pupils the idea that interreligious dialogue consists in quick comparisons. Not only is this a false impression, but it has a negative learning effect because such comparisons give pupils little structure and depth. There is a danger that such a situation may teach pupils that ‘this doesn’t have anything to do with me’.

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(4) Expertise also implies an ability to retrieve relevant knowledge without much effort. Someone who converses with a person from another religion for the first time does not really know how to proceed. The hallmark of expertise is that experts operate quite effortlessly in a situation of inter-religious dialogue. That does not happen automatically. To achieve it pupils have to learn cognitive strategies. Firstly, these are learning strategies (e.g. asking questions about a practice from another religion to grasp its distinctive character better). Secondly, they are problem-solving strategies (or heuristics), which are domain-specific. In the case of interreligious learning one could consider strategies relating to the hermeneutics of recognition, for instance teaching pupils how stories from different religions can be used to reflect each other. (5) Expertise is the ability to give others insight into the meaning of a practice. Hence it is not just a matter of appropriating the meaning of inter-religious dialogue but also to substantiate it to others. To this end pupils must learn to reflect on the practice of interreligious learning. Didactically this can be promoted by asking pupils to explain or questioning them about the implications of an idea or the relation between their own ideas and other people’s. (6) Experts have a capacity for self-reflection and self-regulation of their knowing and learning, also known as learning to learn. Pupils must gradually take over the teacher’s responsibility of planning, monitoring and diagnozing their own learning process. By thinking aloud teachers can show the steps of their thought processes. The same method (thinking aloud) can be used to get pupils to expound their own learning processes. 6.3.4 Didactics of inter-religious meaningful learning We identified four characteristics of meaningful learning (see 5.2.4 and 5.3.4). Firstly it has to do with practices that have historical, social and cultural origins. The practices in which pupils are taught to participate must – be as close to real life as possible – reflect the interconnectedness of real-life as closely as possible – be as complete as possible, hence approximate the complexity of real-life practices as closely as possible In figure 5.1 (see 5.3.4) we graded various media according to their degree of abstraction from (direct) experience. The higher one

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ascends the pyramid of experience, the harder it is for pupils to grasp the significance of inter-religious dialogue. Secondly, pupils should gain insight into the transfer of inter-religious learning to other situations. Transfer is more than just application of what they have learnt. It also implies knowing in what situations interreligious dialogue can happen and when it cannot. Every new situation differs from a learning situation in one or more respects. Which differences require a different dialogic structure and which do not? And how does one modify a new situation so that it is manageable from the angle of one’s existing skills and knowledge of inter-religious dialogue? Thirdly, meaningful learning has to do with the interrelationship of cognitive, affective and cognative learning processes. For a long time the tradition of intercultural communication put the emphasis entirely on knowledge and information about people from other cultures (Hermans, 2001). However, the problems in intercultural communication might well have related more to expectations, attitudes and feelings about the other. This also applies to inter-religious learning. Consider a learning situation in which a Bible story is interpreted. To Muslim pupils the Bible is not a divinely inspired holy scripture. Such a situation may evoke negative feelings and an attitude of resistance. If these pupils are not supported didactically to deal with these feelings and attitudes, they will constitute a barrier to learning. The pupils will do everything they can to avoid appropriating the meaning of this religious practice, such as not following the reading, not answering questions or even pointedly turning their backs on the teacher. These affective problems are inescapable in inter-religious learning, since religion is heavily value-laden. Religious practices have to do with people’s innermost feelings. To that extent the reaction of Muslim pupils to appropriating the meaning of a Bible story is adequate, since they know well that it is not a value-neutral book. It expresses the collective voice of the Christian religious community which recognizes this collection of stories, confessions, prayers and praise as the revelation of the (In)finite (also see 4.2.3). One didactic method to cope with the affective and attitudinal dimension of inter-religious learning is to foster task-orientation. The Muslim pupils’ avoidance behaviour is known as an ego-defensive attitude which seeks to protect them against possible threats to their identity (see 5.3.4). Didactically one should try to help these pupils to remain focussed on the task. In inter-religious learning this task is not just to interpret a Bible story but to make a comparative interpretation.

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Insight into the Bible story is gained in the perspective of a comparative interpretation, in which the Bible story is reflected in the mirror of a story from the Qur’an. To Islamic pupils this could enrich their religious self, just as the reverse process of using a story from the Qur’an as a mirror for a Bible story may be enriching to Christian pupils. A second didactic method is to teach pupils meta-affective and meta-motivational control. This kind of control entails awareness and expression of one’s feelings and attitudes. They are not denied but are regarded as ‘functional’ feelings and attitudes. Thus a pupil may realize perfectly well that these are religious stories from a holy scripture. Where do these feelings and attitudes come from? When did I internalize them? To whom (which public) am I articulating these feelings and attitudes? In what other situation do these feelings and attitudes feature, and what did I do in that situation? Besides these questions, which relate mainly to exploration of feelings and attitudes, they must also be related to other people’s feelings and attitudes. What are other pupils’ feelings when they try to discover the meaning of a story from the Qur’an? How do they deal with their feelings and attitudes? Finally, the feelings and attitudes can also be converted into motivation to delve deeper into the meaning of the strange religious practice. What exactly is strange in this other tradition? Can this strangeness in others help me discover the strangeness in myself? A final aspect of meaningful learning is the pupils’ social identity. What social and cultural role do others ascribe to me in the learning situation, and what role do I ascribe to them? This ascription of roles is reciprocal: teachers ascribe particular roles to pupils, but pupils do the same to teachers. And pupils mutually ascribes roles to each other. This ascription of social identity can have major implications in interreligious learning situations, where there are inequalities in regard to power, socio-economic status, communicative ability, gender, et cetera. This is an extremely complex problem about which very little is known in the field of inter-religious learning at this stage. All one can surmise is that it must play a major role. Thus Sterkens (2001) found that following a curriculum in inter-religious learning had no affective and attitudinal effects whatever on Muslim pupils. A possible reason could be that these pupils constituted a cultural minority in the classes that were researched. Learning is always in a class context, so that these pupils had to hold their own against a dominant Christian majority (Sterkens & Hermans, 2001, p.175). In inter-religious learning it is important that pupils should realize

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that they are relating to another religion without losing their commitment to their own. Put differently: they have to be themselves in the foreign context. Didactically this can be assisted by alternate use of homogeneous and heterogeneous groups. A pupil from religion A who is alone in a group dominated by religion B is in a very different situation from one who is placed in a group consisting entirely of co-religionists. A pupil from religion A who is alone in a group or class situation has to bear the entire burden of remembering a religious practice from her or his tradition. But no one individual is representative of the practices of the collective (Wenger, 1998, p.111). In addition this pupil has to articulate this meaning to others and not to members of his or her own group. To be intelligible, the pupil has to find terms and concepts from the others’ frame of reference. As a result the pupil is not able to say the same thing as in a group consisting of co-religionists. A final factor is discrepancies in power. Pupils from a minority group may withhold part of their opinion because they think the others won’t want to hear it, whereas pupils from the dominant group will not hold back at all. Some of these problems can be prevented by alternately placing pupils in heterogeneous and homogeneous groups. Thus one could first have pupils concentrate on the meaning of a practice from their own religion in a homogeneous group. They will acquire more knowledge about their own tradition as well as greater involvement with this practice. Then the class is regrouped in heterogeneous groups from both religions. The aim is to give them insight into the meaning of practices from the other religion. In this situation pupils alternately play the role of the expert, so that pupils from the minority group also have the experience of possessing relevant knowledge. Then everyone returns to homogeneous groups to form as comprehensive a picture as they can of the distinctive character of the practice from the other religion, using their own religion as a mirror. Finally they are once more put in heterogeneous groups to exchange the insight gained in the previous phase with pupils from the other religion. ‘We think that this is what is different in your religious practice. Do you agree? What have we missed? Where did we get it wrong?’ Both groups can communicate their self-understanding (autoperspective) to the other as well as what they understood from the other’s self-understanding. This sequence can be repeated several times and is rooted in the cycle of exploratory learning (see 5.3.3 and 6.3.3). The ultimate goal of inter-religious education is to develop the pupil’s religious self (see chapter 4).

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397

INDEX OF SUBJECTS

Affective 14, 255, 274, 278, 279, 284, 296, 297, 312, 314, 323, 326, 329, 330, 338, 377, 378 Allo-perspective 346 Apprenticeship 302, 332, 365 Appropriation 14, 54, 83, 140, 148, 153, 214, 232, 234-236, 259, 288, 305-307, 309, 310, 315, 317, 318, 337, 338, 369 Participatory also see participation As-if approach 315 Attitudes 6, 169, 225, 229,231, 234, 314, 330, 332, 333, 360, 361 Authority 3, 8, 33, 41, 42, 43, 54, 67, 68, 72, 77, 87, 1101, 103, 133, 149, 170, 173, 174, 175, 178, 183, 184, 188, 189, 1192, 194, 197, 201, 202, 203, 205, 206, 207, 230, 231, 234, 235, 239, 240, 247, 252, 253, 254, 299, 372, 373, 380, 386, 389, 392 of a tradition 8, 77, 178, 189, 197, 201, 203, 207, 230, 247 Authorship 23, 239, 392 Authenticity 44, 108, 199, 351 Autonomous person/individual/human being 90, 109 / 116, 154, 222 / 116, 117 Autonomy 37, 68, 90, 116, 118, 153, 231, 250, 253, 380 Auto-perspective 155, 156, 204, 341, 342, 346, 349, 379 Behaviourism 212, 269, 272, 273, 275 Buddhism 11, 16, 152, 166 Brazilianization 40 Bricolage 69, 74 Bricoleurs 70 Bridging 319 Category Anthropological 32, 144, 145, 151, 152, 157, 204 Sui generis 144, 158, 175 Catholicity 113, 114, 391 Centre-periphery model 138, 156, 157 Cognitivism 13, 269, 272, 274, 278 Collective intentionality 8, 77, 177, 178, 181, 185, 136, 188-190, 193, 196, 198, 211, 227, 229, 247, 266, 315, 316, 340, 372, 373, 374 Community / communities Religious 2, 7, 11, 12, 148, 153,

164, 172, 175, 183, 185, 186, 201, 203, 244, 264, 265, 266, 268, 295, 297, 298, 299, 307, 308, 310, 315, 327, 333, 335, 340, 359, 377 of learning 321 of practice 10, 228-230, 266, 276, 289, 303, 305, 310, 327, 365, 395 Cone of experience 328 Constitutive rule 8, 177, 179-181, 187, 194, 198, 201, 204, 315, 373 Constructivism 274, 277, 281, 282 Social- see social constructivism Context Cultural 101, 155, 174, 204, 270, 295, 326 sensitive to context 270 Institutional 151, 278 Religiously pluralistic 14, 334, 336 Socio-cultural 12, 258, 270, 286, 336 (Socio-)historical 100, 526 Social 194, 203, 224, 284, 289, 364, 367 Contextualization 18, 96, 329 Re- 95, 97 Contextualism 218, 219, 257 Contextual/contextual 18, 83, 95, 96, 104-106, 147, 174, 204, 218, 219, 236, 274, 277, 328, 339, 356 theology see Theology Contingency 3, 29, 30, 33, 41, 42, 44, 92, 97, 101, 135, 163, 347, 380 Convention 44, 51, 77, 79, 125, 160, 181, 182, 187-189, 195, 201-203, 205, 210, 213, 215, 247, 248, 253, 255, 257, 269, 293, 321, 342 Creator 119, 120, 142, 163, 164, 166, 167, 238, 322, 346 Creed 113, 152, 162, 199, 322 Critical correlation model 84, 92, 102 CSILE model 313 Culture Compression of culture 35, 53 Equality of cultures / religions 350, 353, 354 Culturalism 13, 269, 270, 272, 274 Multiculturalism see multiculturalism De-institutionalization 2, 3, 31, 33-35, 49, 50, 52, 53, 75-77, 81, 83, 98, 100, 364

398

  

De-privatization 49 De-traditionalization 2, 3, 19, 31, 33, 35, 41-44, 59, 65, 67, 68, 73, 92, 99, 102, 231, 244, 364 Developmental possibilities 285 Dialogic truth 90 Discourse Authoritative 234, 235, 286 Internally persuasive 235, 236 Emotions 55, 97, 98, 236, 252, 253, 330, 332 Eschatological 111, 139, 256, 268 Ethnicity 358 Evangelical 65, 71, 79, 109, 230 Expectations 42, 61, 149, 194, 330, 332, 333, 369, 377 Expert 10, 14, 73, 186, 258, 259, 261264, 267, 286, 293, 294, 299, 302, 303, 305, 307, 310, 314, 316, 318, 321, 323, 325, 326, 331, 332, 337, 364, 365, 368, 369, 379 Fact(s) Institutional 77, 100, 179, 180, 185-187, 190, 198, 211, 316 Social 179, 185 Faith/belief (An)-iconic 66 in God 3, 56, 63, 85, 107, 196, 240 Fossilization 244 Functional differentiation 27, 29, 31, 37, 46, 50, 68, 79, 196 Fundamentalism 78-81, 108, 109, 111114, 138, 140, 352, 363 Globalization 2, 4, 18-24, 29-32, 3437, 40, 43-45, 49-51, 56, 62, 67, 77-79, 82, 85, 86, 104, 108, 124, 125, 244, 381, 384, 389 A co-existence view of 19 Glocalization 24, 38, 40, 53 God Absent 110, 287 Eclipse of God 107, 134 Icon of 120 Images of 65–68, 107, 162, 202 incarnation 76, 135, 136, 150 Kenotic 94 Marginalized also see margin(ality) 7, 17, 32, 85, 124, 131-134, 136, 146, 156, 205, 212, 229, 237, 241, 246, 247, 268, 296, 306, 362 Polyphonic author-God 238, 234, 386 Name of 121, 122, 131 Group In-group 183 Out-group 183 Peer group 316

Hermeneutics Iconic 4, 5, 85, 97, 108, 114, 115, 119, 121, 130, 135, 138, 237, 324, 355 of the copying machine 102 merging of horizons 352, 367 recognition of distinctiveness 335, 350, 353, 355 recognition of strangeness 335 recognition of suffering and injustice 15, 350, 357, 364 Heteronomy 120, 153 Heuristic(s) 273, 323, 324, 376 Hinduism 11, 16, 43, 78, 183, 224, 345, 346, 348, 389 Homogenization 2, 3, 19, 31, 32-35, 37, 40, 53, 56, 58, 83, 92, 364 Hybridization 3, 36, 40, 54 Identification 10, 11, 131, 203, 224, 253, 267, 298, 306, 308, 310, 337, 349 Identity Christian 344 Cultural 385, 388 Group 50, 65, 78, 352 Individual 35, 51 National 78, 112 Personal 218, 221 Religious / world-view 16, 46, 56, 69, 148, 170, 230, 327, 344 Social 14, 298, 299, 326, 332, 333, 347 Static 359 Self- 218, 221, 251, 253, 361 Identity construction 38, 46, 56, 58, 85, 351 Ideological 198, 199, 135, 145, 156, 157, 154 I-position 10, 11, 90, 220, 233, 287, 308 Individualism 45, 48, 62, 108, 381, 386 Individualistic 12, 184, 270, 274, 275, 351 Innovation 7, 62, 63, 97, 101, 107, 144, 152-155, 164, 165, 172-174, 201-203, 230, 232, 336, 342, 347, 382, 384 Institution(s) 3, 7, 33, 34, 47, 49-53, 65, 67, 71, 93, 159, 161, 164, 167, 177, 179, 181-184, 187, 190, 193, 201-203, 210, 245, 253, 265, 340, 374, 384 Integration 56-58, 106, 146, 159, 254, 255, 261, 287, 313, 339, 348, 358 Intention/ intentionality Collective also see collective intentionality 8, 77, 177, 178, 181—

   190, 193, 196, 198, 211, 237, 229, 247, 266, 315, 316, 340, 372-374, 391 Intentional action 8, 177, 179, 191, 194, 227, 280 We- 185-187 Inter-religious dialogue 248, 335, 347, 349, 350, 359, 367, 369, 370, 372377, 392, 393 Intrapsychic 13, 270, 274, 278, 288 Islam 11, 39, 78-80, 88, 112, 113, 139, 148, 170, 174, 180, 189, 190, 200, 201, 224, 225, 230, 246, 247, 258, 259, 298, 299, 338, 345, 348, 352, 353, 366, 371, 378, 387 Jigsaw method 311, 314, 321 Job 142, 238, 324 Kenosis 94 Legitimate participant 287 Learning Developmental 14, 282, 301 Exploratory 320, 329, 375, 379 Inter-religious 14, 15, 333-336, 344, 347, 363-366, 368-371, 374378, 386, 392 Mediated 14, 277, 282, 291, 317, 318, 372 Meaningful 13, 14, 269, 278, 279, 282, 295, 298, 299, 326, 328, 329, 332, 333, 364, 376, 377, 378 Participatory 1, 6, 13, 17, 269, 281, 282, 284, 287, 291, 295, 300 Situated 13, 271, 274-276, 278, 380, 383 Social 14, 276, 282, 287, 289, 291, 307, 316, 369 Liberation 109, 132-134, 136, 174, 187, 268, 362, 387 Liberation theologians 132, 133, 136 Marginality 5, 7, 32, 85, 124, 128, 132, 134, 136, 138, 139, 143, 155157, 205, 237, 241, 267, 362, 363, 373, 374 Centre-periphery dialectic 131, 132 Consistent option for 5, 85, 134, 146, 237 Mass 3, 33, 35, 37, 38, 40, 44, 53-56, 58-60, 69, 88, 101, 154, 160, 187, 191, 193, 198, 199, 225, 229, 230, 244, 262, 266, 322 MacDonaldization 36 Mediated action(s) 190, 193, 215, 318 Meaning 3, 5-9, 14 ,15, 19, 20, 27, 43, 44, 50, 54 –58, 64, 67-70, 77, 78, 82, 84, 88, 89, 94, 97, 99, 100, 103, 123, 129, 131-133, 135, 137, 140-142, 144, 147, 150, 153, 156,

399

157, 160, 167, 171, 174, 175 ,177182, 191-194, 197, 198, 202, 204, 209-211, 215, 216, 219, 223, 224, 229, 233-241, 243-247, 250-261, 266, 267, 314-318, 325, 328-330, 335, 337, 343, 344, 352, 356, 358, 365, 366, 369-373, 376-379, 384386, 388-390, 392, 395 Systems of 9, 252, 254, 270 Memoria passionis 104 Metacognition 264, 325 Mental activity 14, 190, 214, 289, 282284, 288-295, 298, 318, 322, 323, 326, 365, 372 function(ing) 14, 257, 280, 285, 288-290, 293-295, 318, 323, 369, 384, 395 intermental 288, 289, 291, 292, 297, 298, 309, 313, 315, 316, 370 intramental 278, 280, 288-290, 292, 297, 298, 309, 313, 316 tools 14, 291–294, 317, 318, 372 Microgenesis 283, 285 Modernization 2, 18-20, 22, 26, 27, 31, 49, 62, 103, 387 Modernity 1 2, 3, 18, 27, 29, 30, 32, 34, 62, 97, 101, 103 Modernity 2 2, 18, 27-33, 62, 63, 101, 108 Moral order 94, 160, 161, 164, 166, 167 Motivation 14, 51, 77, 278, 296-298, 310, 312, 326, 329-332, 378, 394 Multiculturalism 335, 350 357, 381, 385, 392, 393 Museum 42, 101, 1002 Nation-state 2, 19-21, 23, 25, 26, 30, 32, 36, 38, 40, 45, 46, 49-52, 62, 65, 68, 78, 98, 112, 113, 124, 350 Novice 10, 186, 213, 229, 258, 261267, 287, 296, 299, 302, 305, 307, 314, 318, 319, 323, 327, 331, 337, 340, 365, 368, 374 Negotiable / negotiability 224, 229 Negotiating / negotiation 10, 259, 337, 358, 299, 306, 308-310, 313, 315, 369 Ontogenesis 283-285, 385 Ontologically objective 211 Open concept of tradition 17, 84, 102, 104, 106, 145, 154, 205, 339, 340 Panentheism 66-68 Pantheism 66-68, 118, 119 Participation Guided 368, 369, 390 in practices 12, 100, 264, 287, 302, 306, 327, 340

400

  

Legitimate peripheral 10, 11, 266, 267, 299, 337, 340 Metaphor of 13, 277, 281 About 265, 343 In 10-14, 50, 53, 100, 118, 122, 124, 177, 178, 184, 199, 207, 208, 223-225, 228, 230, 236, 237, 249, 257, 264-267, 275-280, 287, 294, 296, 302, 305, 306, 326, 327, 333, 335, 336, 340, 342-344, 349, 361 From 226, 257, 265, 267, 269, 280, 304, 366, 372 Participating 12, 18, 77, 80, 88, 177, 178, 182, 224, 225, 227, 236, 258, 265, 282, 294, 299, 305, 310, 345 Periphery 36, 129-131, 134-139, 156, 157, 267, 268, 363 Phylogenesis 284, 285 Pluralism 3, 27, 72, 79, 149, 150, 157, 336, 339, 343, 347, 361, 387, 390, 393, 395 Internal plurality 154, 155 Religious see religious pluralism 3, 72, 157, 336, 343, 347, 387 Power Conventional 187-189, 201-203, 247, 248 Deontic 188, 190, 247 Practice Personal meaning of 297 Religious see religious practice Praise 110, 141, 142, 324, 331, 377 Predicates 110, 121, 140-142, 334 Assigning predicates 121, 140, 141 Privatization 3, 19, 31, 33-35, 45-49, 53, 68, 70, 72, 73, 83, 92, 200, 231, 364, 389 Postmodernism 20, 384, 389, 392 Post-traditional 4, 17, 42, 84, 92, 93, 96, 97, 205, 343 Poverty 21, 26, 32, 40, 74, 85, 111, 124 –126, 128, 129, 134, 143, 210, 212, 282, 285, 365, 380, 395 in the Old Testament 128 Relative 26, 126 Quasi-social 289, 290, 370 Radical thesis 3, 19, 30, 31, 34, 41-43, 48, 59, 76, 94 Rationalization 2, 20, 27-29, 31, 44 Reciprocal learning / teaching 300, 309-311, 321 Reciprocity 84, 88-92, 98, 101, 104107, 154, 252 Reification 265 Religion / religious

Natural 149-151 Concept of religion 5, 7, 15, 16, 33, 98, 144-148, 150-152, 255, 257-159, 164, 166-168, 173, 175-177, 195, 203, 335, 336, 343, 356 colonialism 98 development 6, 9, 10, 14, 207, 208, 249, 256, 257, 261, 264, 265, 383 diversity 7, 71, 146, 149, 155, 157, 174, 203, 336, 339, 342, 343, 347 imperialism 7, 16, 146, 157, 203, 204, 336, 342, 347 language 146, 168-170, 175 pluralism 3, 72, 157, 336, 343, 347, 387 practice 6-12, 14, 18, 33, 53, 54, 56, 76 –78, 80, 82, 99, 100, 123, 146, 153, 169, 176-178, 185, 187, 189-198, 201-208, 215, 217, 222230, 233-237, 242-248, 257-260, 262-269, 279-283, 289, 292-299, 302-310, 315, 318-322, 327, 328, 335, 336, 340-344, 347, 349, 355, 356, 364-370, 372-374, 377-379 primeval experience 163 regimes 8, 9, 179, 198-202, 245 self 9-12, 15, 17, 33, 92, 153, 155, 156, 206-208, 213, 221, 223-233, 236-238, 242, 245, 247-249, 256, 265-269, 271, 285, 287, 290, 292, 298, 299, 306, 308, 335-337, 340, 343, 345, 347, 349, 350, 357, 359, 365, 367, 370, 379 tools 54, 245, 259, 263, 286, 289, 296, 318, 333, 343, 357, 365, 372 Respect 342, 352, 354, 358 Risk society 111 Rituals 3, 54, 98-100, 148-150, 155, 163, 176, 194, 195, 201, 202, 210, 211, 222, 229, 242, 252, 258, 261, 262, 265, 268, 282, 289, 290, 292, 294, 296, 307, 311, 313, 318, 322, 339, 340, 343, 354, 355, 367 Rule-governed 8, 11, 77, 177, 179, 201, 206, 214, 215, 227, 242, 293 Salvation 85, 104, 111, 113, 139, 143, 148, 150, 156, 157, 171, 175, 256, 337, 338, 341, 342, 356 Scaffolding 301, 302, 304, 306, 307, 316, 331, 332, 365, 368, 392 Self -identity see identity Narrative 219-221, 238, 386 Religious see religious -regulation 325, 376

   Self-as-author 230, 232, 233, 287, 290, 298 Self-in-practices 222-225 Self-in-religious practices 10, 11, 222, 242, 245, 265 Social constructionism 153, 181, 207, 208, 209, 212, 213, 216, 217, 285, 383, 385, 386 Social constructivism 13, 271, 275 Social construction(s) 9, 10, 69, 125, 153, 181, 186, 207-209, 212-217, 222, 228, 237, 243, 245, 250, 264, 285, 286, 356, 381, 383, 385, 386 Social structure 10, 182, 208, 289 Socio-cultural approach 275, 278 Sociogenetic approach 275 Space Compression of 2, 18-20, 26, 36, 85 Expansion of 21, 30 External 4, 84, 87-89, 92, 97, 98, 101, 105, 115, 116, 121, 122, 129, 153, 154 Geometrical 4, 86, 91 In/finite 4, 5, 17, 85, 107-110, 115-117, 120-124, 131, 134, 135, 139, 140, 142-144, 156-158, 167, 233, 236, 237, 245, 251, 262, 267, 274, 305, 324, 334, 363, 374, 377 Non-place 32, 37, 124, 129, 136 Pseudo- 4, 88, 89, 105, 117, 122, 124, 129, 154 Spiral curriculum 320, 375 Status 8, 10, 11, 16, 47, 72, 112, 145, 168, 177, 178, 180, 181, 187-190, 194, 196-198, 201, 202, 204, 206, 211, 212, 236, 237, 276, 293, 315, 319, 333, 340, 372, 373, 378, 389 Normative 180 function 8, 10, 11, 177, 177, 180, 181, 187, 190, 194, 196-198, 201, 202, 204, 211, 212, 236, 237, 276, 293, 315, 372, 373 Suffering 15, 40, 110, 121, 122, 124, 125, 133, 137, 140, 142, 164, 169, 193, 350, 357, 359, 360, 364, 366, 368 Subjectivism 110, 112 Syncretism 3, 36, 38, 40, 54 Syncretistic 58, 69 System Religious see religious system Semiotic 8, 243, 244, 271, 279, 280, 287, 291, 292, 295, 302, 303, 308, 310, 365 Task 7, 12, 23, 25, 87, 186, 215, 258, 272, 294, 301, 302, 306, 307, 311-

401

313, 323, 325, 327, 328, 331, 332, 377 Theism (theistic) 4, 66-68, 94, 115, 118, 119, 148, 170, 174, 166, 195, 237, 346, 347 Theology 18, 84, 85, 92, 93, 95, 97, 104, 107, 114, 115, 118, 119, 121, 132, 137, 140, 144, 147, 150, 156, 159, 162, 174, 195, 247, 334, 335, 337-339, 341, 356, 359, 362, 380, 382-384, 386-389, 391, 393 Comparative 382 Contextual see contextual theology Theories Institutional 176 Cultural 6, 7, 17, 34, 182, 340 Religious 177, 179, 182, 184, 185, 189, 190, 203, 265, 267, 340, 374 Linguistic 168 Thesis Coexistence Radical see Radical thesis 31, 34, 39, 41-43, 48, 59 Thinking-aloud method 326 Time Clock 4, 86, 89 Compression of 18, 26 In/finite 41, 85, 107-110, 120, 123, 124, 139, 143, 144, 156, 158, 233, 236, 237, 245, 251, 267, 305 Tradition(s) 2-8, 11, 15-17, 19, 31, 3335, 40-45, 53, 54, 59, 60-72, 77, 78, 81, 83-87, 92-108, 121, 123, 135, 140, 145, 148-151, 153-155, 160, 162, 164, 169, 171-174, 178, 182-184, 187-194, 197, 201-208, 210, 215, 223, 224, 230-236, 242, 244, 245, 247, 248, 256, 258, 259, 266, 267, 269, 276, 280, 283, 289, 290, 293, 298, 303, 304, 307, 308, 318, 327, 329, 333-352, 355, 356, 364-369, 371-373, 377-381, 384, 386, 387, 389, 393, 395 Authority of a tradition see authority 8, 77, 178, 189, 197, 201, 203, 207, 230, 247 Mystical 140 Transcendence 4, 7, 8, 17, 66, 67, 67, 69, 73, 85, 108, 115, 117-119, 122, 123, 130, 131, 135, 145, 146, 157, 158, 163, 167, 178, 196, 197, 204207, 236, 237, 240, 242, 250, 308 Transcendence-in-immanence 4, 7, 117, 118, 158 Transfer 14, 44, 184, 234, 235, 239, 273, 287, 292, 294-296, 302, 318, 322, 328, 369, 372, 375, 377

402

  

Type Aholic 57 Conglomerate 57-59, 70, 256 Mainspring 56-58 Mosaic 57, 59, 70 Voice(s) Collective 232, 246, 247, 359 Way Metaphor of the 89, 139

Model of the 90, 106 Wilderness 130, 131, 135, 136, 156 Zone of free movement (ZFM) 259, 286, 304 of promoted action (ZPA) 260, 286, 304 of proximate development (ZPD) 249 258

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Adriaanse, H.J., 157, 195 Alma, H.A., 213 Althaus-Reid, M., 136, 138 Ambert, A.-M., 125 Anderson, J.R., 184, 176 Augé, M., 31, 32, 37, 124, 129 Bakhtin, M., 226, 227, 232-135, 238241, 246, 324, 362, 370 Ballard, P., 66-68 Barz, H., 76, 77, 144 Bauman, Z., 41, 42 Bax, M., 198, 200, 245 Beck, U., 19, 21, 22, 37, 40, 46-48, 111 Beck-Gernsheim, E., 46-48 Becker, J.W., 85, 90 Beckford, J.A., 54, 76, 190 Beiner, W., 154 Bellah, R.N., 45 Benhabid, S., 22 Berger, P., 68, 72, 99, 118, 120, 122, 140, 141, 177, 212, 247, 265 Berges, U., 128, 129 Beyer, P., 20-22, 35, 45, 49-51, 68, 72, 73, 78-80, 112 Biemans, B., 65 Blum, L., 353-355 Bodrova, E., 295 Boekaerts, M., 269, 274, 295, 300, 323, 325, 329-332, 323, 325, 329332 Boer, T. de, 130, 131, 135, 156, 277 Boersma, K.Th., 277 Boeve, L., 95, 96, 137, 155 Borg, M.M. ter, 75, 75, 144, 150, 157 Bossche, S. van den, 99, 122, 123 Bowers, J., 271, 274-276 Bransford, J.D., 262-264, 319, 320, 322 Brown, A.L., 262-264, 278, 300, 309312, 314, 319-322, 327, 329 Bruner, J., 13, 269-271, 274, 275, 281, 301, 302 Bucher, A.A., 249 Bulckens, J., 303, 305, 334, 341

Campione, J.C., 300, 309-311, 320, 321, 329 Cannon, K.C., 132, 133 Caputo, J., 140, 141 Carpay, J., 277, 279, 281, 320 Cazden, C.B., 297 Certeau, M. de, 137-139 Chang-Wells, G.L.M., 299 Chatelion Counet, P., 140, 141 Clooney, F.X., 334, 355, 356 Coates, R., 238-241 Cobb, J.B., 150 Cobb, P., 271, 274-276 Cocking, R.R., 262-264, 319, 320, 322 Cole, M., 278, 281 Collins, A.M., 271-273, 275, 301 Congar, Y., 92, 95, 96 Coornhert, D.V., 200 Corte, E. de, 269, 272-274, 323-325 Cox, B.D., 80, 272, 275, 276, 279, 281, 291, 315 Cox, L.M., 217 Crossan, J.D., 241, 242, 324 Cupitt, D., 93, 94, 343, 347 Dale, E.A., 327, 328 Day, J., 213, 256 Dekker, G., 50, 70, 74, 76, 81 Deth, J.W. van, 53 Dickie, G., 183 DiNoia, J.A., 148, 334, 341, 356 Dobbelaere, K., 69, 77 Douglas, M., 193 Dreyer, J.S., 334 Dreyfus, H.L., 262, 264 Dreyfus, S.L., 262, 264 Drisbey, C., 152, 153, 159, 161, 162, 164, 165, 168, 174, 180, 181, 183, 191, 192, 201-204 Duffy, T., 236, 301, 307 Dupré, W., 335 Erkens, G., 300, 309, 312-314, 320, 326, 328 Ester, P., 60, 62, 74, 76 Featherstone, M., 32, 35 – 38, 40 Felling, A., 67, 194 Ferré, 157

404

  

Forman, E.A., 191, 281 Fowler, J.W., 249, 250-257 Franssen, H., 327 Fraser, N., 357 Friedman, J., 39, 40 Geffré, C., 84, 92, 102, 103, 143 Gergen, K.J., 181, 182, 209, 210, 212, 213, 226 Giddens, A., 22, 25, 30, 31, 35, 44, 111, 117 Glock, Ch.Y., 194, 195 Gmünder, P., 249 Greeno, J.G., 271-273, 275, 276, 278, 312 Greer, B., 272-274 Grigorenko, E.L., 292, 295 Gubrium, J.F., 182 Haaften, A.W. van 15, 16 Haan, H. de, 176 Habermas, J., 137 Hacking, I., 208, 209, 211, 212 Hagstrom, F., 277 Halman, L., 60, 74 Häring, H., 95- 111 Harré, R., 209, 213-217, 224, 285 Harskamp, A. van, 42, 44, 47, 79, 80, 108-110, 112 Hart, J. de, 50, 70, 74, 76, 77, 81 Heelas, P., 30, 41-43 Hermans, C.A.M., 213, 220, 295, 300, 334, 341, 344-346, 377, 378 Hermans, H.J.M., 9, 39, 207, 217-221, 225, 226, 231, 232, 246, 257, 261, 263 Hermans-Janssen, E., 218, 219, 226 Hervieu-Léger, D., 62, 167, 196, 203 Hewitt, J., 313, 314, 320 Hick, J., 342 Hijmans, E.J.S., 56-59, 70 Hoffer, C., 200, 201 Holland, D.C., 213, 217, 223, 225228, 232, 233, 235, 243, 346, 247, 270 Holquist, M., 227 Holstein, J.A., 182 Hoogen, T. van den, 121, 122, 324 Hopkins, D.N., 132, 136 Hout-Wolters, B. van, 300 Houtepen, A., 84, 107, 109, 118-123 Hunt, S., 80 Hutschemaekers, G., 262 Hutsebaut, D., 249, 255 Iersel, F. van, 82, 300 Jablonski, P., 213, 220, 243 James, W., 159-161, 164-167, 217, 218 Janssens, S., 323, 325 Järvelä, S., 330, 331 Johnson, D.W., 312

Johnson, R., 312 Kempen, H.J.G., 39, 220, 221, 226, 232, 238 Knitter, P., 150, 157, 338, 359, 360 Knoers, A.M.P., 346 Körtner, U.H.J., 142 Kozulin, A., 278-280, 292-295, 297 Krol, K., 300, 309, 312-314 Kuitert, H.M., 159, 162-167 Küng, H., 338 Lans, J. van der, 213, 220, 243 Lash, N., 149-152 Leeman, Y., 357-359 Lemaire, T., 115, 116 Leong, D., 295 Levinas, E., 130, 135 Lightfoot, C., 272, 275, 276, 279, 281, 291, 315, 316 Linden, J. van der, 236, 300, 301, 307, 309, 312-314, 320, 326, 328 Loo, H. van der, 28 Loon, R.J.P. van, 220, 238 Lindbeck, G., 168, 170-176, 247 Litowitz, B.E., 258, 297, 298 Luckmann, Th., 68-70, 212, 247, 265 Luhmann, N., 27, 28, 46, 50, 73, 74, 79, 178, 196 Luke, T.W., 32, 41, 43, 44 Luyn, A.H. van, 106 Lyddon, W.J., 217 MacCormac, E.R., 238 MacIntyre, A., 168-170, 172-175 Marion, J.L., 99, 119, 122, 130, 141 May, L., 183, 184 McAdams, D.P., 207 McDermott, R.F., 54 Mens, J., 77 Metz, J.B., 104, 136, 137 Moor, R. de, 74 Oers, B., 271, 275, 279, 281, 285, 287289, 295, 297, 306 Oosterveen, L., 92, 93, 98-100 Op ’t Eynde. P., 271, 274, 275, 284, 284, 297, 332 Oser, F., 249, 250 Packer, M.J., 258, 302 Palinscar, A.S., 271, 274, 275, 277, 300, 309, 312, 324, 333 Panikkar, R., 140, 361 Pattyn, B., 98 Penuel, W.R., 181, 213, 223, 243 Perret-Clermont, A.-N., 278 Peters, J., 45, 48-49, 50, 67, 70, 72, 74, 76, 81 Pieterse, H..J.C., 334 Platvoet, J.G., 151 Proudfoot, W., 154, 160, 161 Rahner, K., 166

   Reich, K.H., 249 Resnick, L.B., 271-273, 275 Rietbergen, P., 39 Rijen, W. van, 28 Roebben, B., 303, 305, 334 Roelofs, E., 300, 309, 311, 312, 314, 320, 326-328, 384 Rojek, Ch., 20, 27-29 Rogoff, B., 276, 288, 291, 302, 304306, 365 Rooden, P. van, 198-200 Rosenstock-Huessy, E., 84 Salomon, G., 271, 275 Scardamelia, M., 313, 314, 320 Scheepers, P., 45, 48-50, 67, 72, 81 Schillebeeckx, E., 18, 83, 84, 92, 97, 100, 119 Schreiter, R.J., 18, 26, 35, 36, 96, 112114 Schüssler Fiorenza, F., 104, 105, 144, 154, 157, 158, 168, 176 Scribner, S., 281, 283-285 Searle, J.R., 179, 180, 182, 185-191, 196, 204, 209, 211, 215 Seegers, G., 330-332 Segal, R., 167 Siemerink, J.A.M., 263 Simons, P.R.J., 236, 269, 274, 279, 295, 300, 301, 307, 323, 325, 329, 330-332 Smith, J.Z., 119, 141, 142, 145, 147150, 152, 155, 166, 335 Snoek, J.W., 262, 264 Spanjersberg, M., 82, 300 Spinoza, 119, 200 Stark, R., 194, 195 Stekelenburg, L. van, 335 Sterkens, C., 300, 307, 334, 338, 339, 344, 345, 347, 378 Stoker, W., 166

405

Stone, C.A., 258, 302 Sundermeier, Th., 335, 360-362, 367 Taylor, Ch., 15, 46, 335, 350-352, 354, 355, 357, 360 Terwel, J., 275, 279, 327, 333 Tilley, W.C., 83, 95 Tillich, P., 84, 163 Tracy, D., 92, 355, 359 Townes, E.M., 132-134 Troch, L., 104, 105 Tullviste, P., 277 Valsiner, J., 258-261, 281, 286 Vattimo, G., 135, 136 Veenman, S., 300, 309, 312-314 Ven. J.A. van der, 65-68, 118, 119, 233, 334, 344-346, 348 Vergouwen, C.G., 249-257 Vermeer, H., 330-332 Vermeulen, B.P., Verschaffel, L., 272-274 Volet, S., 300, 307 Vos, K., 86 Vroom, H.M., 355 Vygotsky, L.S., 10, 13, 165, 213, 214, 216, 223, 235, 236, 243, 244, 249, 258, 269, 279-285, 287-291, 295298, 300, 301, 316, 364, 369, 370 Wells, G., 299 Wenger, E., 223, 224, 228, 229, 243, 266, 267, 299, 327, 379 Wertsch, J.V., 39, 181, 191-193, 213, 223, 232, 243, 271, 275, 277-279, 281, 285, 288, 290, 291, 297 Witte, H., 113 Witvliet, T., 103, 104 Zadeh, L.A., 238 Ziebertz, H.-G., 334, 338 Zuidgeest, P., 110 Zürn, M., 19-26, 52

EMPIRICAL STUDIES IN THEOLOGY 1. Ven, van der, J. A. God Reinvented? A Theological Search in Texts and Tables. 1998. ISBN 90 04 11330 4 2. Viau, M. Practical Theology. A New Approach. 1999. ISBN 90 04 11440 8 3. Vermeer, P. Learning Theodicy. The Problem of Evil and the Praxis of Religious Education. 1999. ISBN 90 04 11650 8 4. Zuidberg, G. The God of the Pastor. The Spirituality of Roman Catholic Pastors in the Netherlands. 2001. ISBN 90 04 11700 8 5. Pieterse, H.J.C. (ed.) Desmond Tutu’s Message. A Qualitative Analysis. 2001. ISBN 90 04 12050 5 6. Zuidgeest, P. The Absence of God. Exploring the Christian Tradition in a Situation of Mourning. 2001. ISBN 90 04 12057 2 7. Hermans et al., (eds.) Social Constructionism and Theology. 2002. ISBN 90 04 12318 0 8. Sterkens, C. Interreligious Learning. The Problem of Interreligious Dialogue in Primary Education. 2001. ISBN 90 04 12380 6 9. Hermans, C.A.M. Participatory Learning. Religious Education in a Globalizing Society. 2003. ISBN 90 04 13001 2