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“The Whole Law Consists Only in Loving One’s

Neighbor”: Spinoza on What the Bible
Commands of All Mortals
June 11, 2015 / amt6vr / 0 Comments
Hasana Sharp
McGill University1
The command in Leviticus (19:18) to love your neighbor as yourself strikes Sigmund
Freud as shocking. He nds the propensity for self-love to be self-evident and
overwhelming, such that it is only with tremendous social pressure (repression) that we
come to accept (or not) the legitimacy of the neighbor’s claim to respect, love, and equality.
The neighbor invites our aggression rather than our love, but we spontaneously regard
ourselves as meritorious and lovable.2 Despite appearances to the contrary,3 Benedict de
Spinoza does not nd self-love, at least in its genuine form, to be either self-evident or
easily achieved. Among his central concerns in the Theological-Political Treatise is the
propensity to “despise reason” and nature, expressed in our fascination with the
supernatural, the exceptional, the unknown and the unknowable.4 In the Ethics, Spinoza
often condemns human arrogance, pride, and boastfulness, which seems to suggest that
humanity is prone to excessive self-love.5 But such pride is based on a false view of what
we are. By priding ourselves on imaginary rather than real qualities, we work against our
primordial striving toward genuine self-a irmation and self-love, grounded in self-
understanding.6 Pride in our illusory qualities is a root cause of personal bondage and
social hatred. Human freedom, for Spinoza, is “di icult and rare” precisely because it is not
at all easy to love ourselves, and, thus, neither is it easy to love one another. Due to the
great importance Spinoza places on love of self and other, he identi es the commandment
to love your neighbor as yourself as the complete expression of divine law.
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For many, the distillation of divine law into a single imperative—adherence to which is
both necessary and su icient for salvation—was sacrilege. Despite the support from both
Jewish and Christian traditions for identifying the commandment to love your neighbor as
the fundamental lesson of Scripture, the controversial character of Spinoza’s approach to
the Bible and religion continues to obscure the genuine ethical content of what he calls
“true religion,” something he recommends for “all mortals.” Spinoza continues to be
understood as an unrepentant iconoclast who barely contained his contempt for religion,
except insofar as it might be a useful political tool for managing the unruly masses.7
Without denying Spinoza’s considerable challenges to clerical authority and traditional
understandings of scripture and its interpretation, I nd that the divine imperative to love
your neighbor as yourself aligns strongly with Spinoza’s considered ethical prescriptions
and philosophical views. There is no reason to see his endorsement of the basis of religious
ethics to be a pragmatic concession to the dominant worldviews of his time. Rather, he
wholeheartedly endorses the maxim of neighbor- and self-love as a guiding principle
appropriate to “all mortals,” and as an antidote to our strong susceptibility to hate our own
natures.
I will proceed in this essay to outline Spinoza’s famous and in uential prescription for
biblical hermeneutics with an eye to its preparation for a life of loving obedience to the
divine law. I will then discuss the theological warrant for his reduction of divine law to
neighbor love. I will conclude with a brief sketch of how loving our neighbors as ourselves
coheres with the project in Spinoza’s magnum opus, the Ethics. When we consider how
di icult and rare it is for fragile human beings, tossed about on the waves of fortune, to
love ourselves and our neighbors, we will see the salutary force of this prescription for all
mortals, ignorant and wise.
Interpretation of Scripture
Spinoza’s relationship to the Bible is controversial. For (the entirely justi ed) fear of
persecution, he published his Theological-Political Treatise anonymously. It was widely
condemned by his contemporaries as vile, impious, and dangerous. It was called a “most
pestilential book” by virtue of its implied rejection of a supernatural God and its express
insistence that the Holy Bible was composed by human hands, lled with human thoughts,
and best understood as a part of nature no di erent from any other nite thing.8 The
Treatise’s stated goal is to establish philosophy, religion, and politics as independent
domains, which entails designating the proper scope of each one. Philosophy is the activity
associated with truth-seeking, politics determines which actions are just and unjust, and
religion teaches obedience to a moral code through imaginative narratives. The restriction
of the Bible’s role to moral instruction and the inculcation of obedience leads many,
including (especially) Spinoza’s contemporaries, to see his ambition as radically
de ationary. Spinoza does not see the Bible or the prophets as conveyers of metaphysical
truths, and neither does he see either study of the scriptures or observance of particular
ceremonies to be universally obligatory for salvation. Yet, anticipating this very objection to
his conclusions about the scriptures, he insists that his aim is not to dissolve biblical
authority but to enhance it.9 If we keep in mind his sincere approval of the commandment
to love our neighbors as ourselves, his defense of his ambition to strengthen the power of
the text becomes more plausible.
A cursory glance at Spinoza’s Treatise is su icient to see why it was shocking, “a book
forged in hell.”10 Spinoza presents his techniques of reading as weapons to bring to bear
against clerical abuse. Throughout the Treatise, he denounces the “many” who seek to
enslave the multitude “under the pretext of religion.”11 Those who sought to preserve
clerical power unquestioned were right to see the Treatise as an enemy tract. Against
anyone who demands conformity to any number of doctrines or ceremonial practices,
Spinoza argues for the legitimacy of an idiosyncratic approach to Scripture. He insists that,
knowing herself best, each person is authorized to adapt the word of God to her own
temperament and to judge for herself which portrait of God and which religious rites most
enable her to practice a life of justice and charity.12 If one understands authority not as
immunity to questions and divergent interpretations, but rather as the power of the text to
be a source of wisdom, morality, and well-being, Spinoza’s approach to the scriptures can
be seen to make the text more rather than less powerful.13 His model of interpretation
aspires to confer the maximum bene t to students of Scripture by authorizing them to
conceive the doctrines in whatever way most moves them to obedience. Spinoza claims
that such responsiveness to particular individuals is the only way for each to practice
obedience to the divine law wholeheartedly, which is nothing other than the imperative to
love our neighbors as ourselves. Such love is, according to Spinoza, the basis of the
greatest power we might cultivate and enjoy. If the Bible can be its source, then it, too, is
maximally powerful.14
Spinoza decries how Scripture is so often “twisted.” In particular, he is concerned that it

becomes a means to foment hatred when its message is, indisputably, love. The hatred he
picks out is not just the hatred of in dels or outsiders, but also the hatred of what makes us
the kinds of beings that we are. He accuses “false religion” of teaching us to despise reason
and nature, which, for him, amounts to despising ourselves. Since humanity is “a part of
nature,”15 true religion and veridical interpretation arouse love of (our) nature and reason by
directing us to the source of our mental (and bodily) powers: our neighbors. Spinoza’s
reading of the Bible as a natural thing is motivated by the profound importance he places
upon learning to see and love ourselves and our neighbors as natural beings. To see
ourselves and others this way involves unlearning the dominant model of perceiving
humanity as “a kingdom within a kingdom,”16 an exception to the natural order, and seeking
God only in the ostensible interruptions of nature’s typical operation.17 An important step,
on what he acknowledges to be an arduous journey, is understanding that “the method of
interpreting Scripture does not di er at all from the method of interpreting nature, but
agrees with it completely.”18
In order to combat our inherited predilection for what is super- or anti-natural, he

prescribes a method of reading on the model of natural science, according to which
everything is, in principle, ascertainable by “the natural light.” A consequence of
understanding the text, the prophets, or the clergy as expressive of some kind of singular
and exceptional intelligence is that we worship precisely what is not like us. We imagine a
Creator severed from creation, metaphysically distinct, superior, and remote. Accordingly,
we divinize only the aspects of humanity that we imagine (falsely, in Spinoza’s view) to be
least like that of other beings, least determined by natural laws, and thus most exceptional.
But, for Spinoza, veneration of the supernatural is a species of self-hatred. For him, God is
nothing other than nature, the totality of power by which all things exist and act. Every part
of us, even what we imagine to be most base, is divine because every part of us is natural.
We are composed of the universal and in nite power of God/nature, and we act according
the divine/natural laws that condition and enable our existence. All beings are aspects of
God that express nature’s in nite power in a particular and determinate way.19 Scripture is
historically one of the key sources of belief in the supernatural. Insofar as Scripture might
encourage passion for what is above or outside of nature, such as miraculous suspensions
of the natural order, it works against genuine self-love and self-knowledge. Thus, Spinoza
seeks an alternative to styles of explanation that depend upon irrational mystery and the
inaccessibility of meaning to the ordinary person.
Spinoza explains that to study nature is to ascertain how it “acts” and what it does, and
thereby to discern its patterns of cause and e ect. Similarly, he suggests that we seek
Scripture’s component parts, its patterns, and its actions. Although there are in nitely many
things in nature about which we cannot be certain, we have rules by which to study nature
which can assist us in becoming more capable of acting e ectively and joyfully in the world.
As a part of nature, the Bible is no di erent:
In examining natural things we strive, before all else, to investigate the things
which are most universal and common to the whole of nature – viz., motion
and rest, and their laws and rules, which nature always observes and through
which it continuously acts – and from these we proceed gradually to other less
universal things. In just the same way, the rst thing to be sought from the
history of Scripture is what is most universal, what is the basis and foundation
of the whole of Scripture, and nally, what all the Prophets commend in it as an
eternal teaching, most useful for all mortals.20
Spinoza calls “common notions” the features of nature predicable of all beings universally,
such as the laws of motion and rest.21 These foundations of reasoning are universally
present in everyone since we all participate in these general laws, and it is by becoming
aware of them that we come to know anything else.22 Just as everyone can grasp the most
fundamental laws of nature, everyone can perceive the universal teachings of Scripture.
Thus, although no one can acquire exhaustive knowledge of Scripture’s meaning, “[o]nce [a]
universal teaching of Scripture is rightly known,” we can easily discern more speci c
directives about how to live well, as they “ ow from this universal teaching like streams.”23
Spinoza lists among the most common properties of scripture the imperative rst
expressed in Leviticus 19:18: love your neighbor as yourself. Although many narratives in the
Bible describe and address ancient peoples and the ceremonies that are incumbent only
upon them to perform, its common notions convey the form of obedience that is “most
useful for all mortals.” If and when the Bible helps anyone to observe the divine law of
neighborly love, its authority is not only preserved but enhanced. One might think that the
Bible enjoys such authority only by virtue of historical accident. Yet, given that Spinoza
rejects the notion of an interventionist God, the historical accumulation of authority in
people’s lives is no less real or potent by virtue of being historical. Indeed, the only agency
Spinoza recognizes is the kind with a natural history. The Bible is, as Warren Montag notes,
“both the producer and product of collectivity.”24 As long as it continues to motivate and
connect people, and the more it is able to generate love in us for ourselves and our
neighbors, it sustains its e ective power.
Love Your Neighbor as Yourself
Philosophical as well as theological reasons might have prompted Spinoza to select the
commandment to love your neighbor as yourself as the totality of divine law, obedience to
which is necessary and su icient for salvation.25 This section will primarily concern the
theological reasons, and in the next we will nd them reinforced in Spinoza’s most
comprehensive philosophical text, the Ethics. In one way, Spinoza’s selection of the
commandment to love your neighbor as a “common notion” and the fundamental teaching
of the Bible is not at all controversial. Both Christianity and Judaism recognize the
commandment as the foundation of piety. Paul tells the Romans:
Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves
another has ful lled the law. The commandments, “You shall not commit
adultery; You shall not murder; You shall not steal; You shall not covet”; and
any other commandment, are summed up in this one word, “Love your
neighbor as yourself.”26
Similarly, in his letter to the Galatians, he asserts that “the whole law is summed up in a
single commandment, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’”27
The law is rst declared in the Old Testament in what is sometimes referred to as the
“ethical” chapter of Leviticus. Chapter 19 outlines how Moses’ people ought to approximate
God’s holiness through just treatment of one another. Of utmost importance are the
interdiction of hatred and vengeance and the prescription of love:
You shall not hate in your heart any of your kin; you shall reprove your
neighbor, or you will incur guilt yourself. You shall not take vengeance or bear a
grudge against any of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as
yourself: I am the Lord.28
The importance of this commandment to the Jewish tradition is underscored in a well-

known story from the Bablylonian Talmud:
It happened that a certain heathen came before Shammai and said to him,
“Make me a proselyte, on condition that you teach me the whole Torah while I
stand on one foot.” Thereupon he repulsed him with the builder’s cubit which
was in his hand. When he went before Hillel, [Hillel] said to him, “What is
hateful to you, do not do to your neighbour: that is the whole Torah, while the
rest is the commentary thereof; go and learn it.”29
In both biblical traditions, there is strong precedent for the claim that the totality of divine
law can be distilled into the single commandment to love your neighbor as yourself.
Spinoza is not being especially innovative, let alone “pestilential,” by claiming that the
foundation of religion—that is, the common notion shared among each of the fragmentary
elements of the Bible—is the imperative to love your neighbor as yourself.30
Yet, in another sense, declaring the command to love your neighbor to be the totality of
divine law invites controversy, since there is a history of anti-Jewish polemic associated with
this commandment. Spinoza himself seems to adopt the anti- or, at least, post-Jewish
presentation of this ethical rule in his analysis of the Hebrew state:
[I]n order for the Hebrews to be able to preserve the freedom they had
acquired, and have absolute control over the lands they occupied, it was
necessary…for them to adapt religion only to their own state, and to separate
themselves from the other nations. Therefore it was said to them: love your
neighbor and hate your enemy (Matthew 5:43). But after they lost their
sovereignty and were led into captivity in Babylon, Jeremiah taught them to
look after the peace (even) of that city to which they had been led as captives
[Jeremiah 29:7]. And after Christ saw that they were to be dispersed through
the whole world, he taught them that they should treat absolutely everyone in
accordance with religious duty.31
Spinoza here invokes popular anti-Jewish Christian polemics contending that Mosaic law is
both improved upon and rendered super uous by Christ’s universalization of the imperative
to love your neighbor.32 He cites the contentious passage from Matthew that attributes to
Judaism a command to hate your enemies, which is nowhere found in the Jewish moral
code.33 In fact, the passage in Leviticus, as we saw, condemns hatred and vengeance and
proceeds to urge Jews not only to love their neighbors but to “love the stranger as yourself,
for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”34 Thus, although Spinoza identi es the
commandment to neighbor love as the foundation of religion and the only expression of
obedience necessary for “all mortals,” he does not present it in a way that harmonizes the
two traditions of the Book. Rather, Spinoza appears to weight the scales on the side of
Christian universality and even to encourage anti-Jewish sentiment.
Why would Spinoza do this? Marginalizing the Jewish a irmation of the law seems not
only to be counter-productive, but also to contravene the imperative of charity and love. I
do not have a fully satisfactory answer, but I will venture some observations. We can note,
with commentators as diverse as Leo Strauss and Susan James, that the audience Spinoza
seeks to persuade is Christian.35 Throughout his Theological-Political Treatise, he freely uses
the Jews as a negative example, representing them as “childish.”36 The Hebrews were
forced to observe many ceremonies, and their daily lives were subject to rigorous discipline
and surveillance because, he contends, they were only just released from slavery. They
required oversight and strict education in order to cohere as a people and to acquire the
habits of freedom that they could only later exercise on their own.37 The lesson he draws
from this is that, in a diverse and modern society like seventeenth-century Holland, such
oversight and management of behavior by political or religious leaders is unnecessary. He
argues that neither clergy nor government ought to take Moses as a model. Indeed, clergy
ought to be more like Jesus and provide strictly moral education, concerning themselves
with the hearts and minds of their congregations rather than the outward expressions of
their devotion.38 So, although Spinoza forsakes the opportunity to harmonize Jewish and
Christian doctrine, he exploits Christian narratives of superiority to assert the imperative to
separate political rule and religious teaching. He claims that, while interdictions on behavior
are the purview of civil government, religion ought to promote worship in whatever way
best enables a particular constituency to observe the command to love their neighbors as
themselves. It is therefore important to Spinoza’s case that the theocratic rule exercised by
Moses is no longer either legitimate or prudent. The state ought to remove itself from the
business of regulating quotidian religious practices and beliefs. Spinoza maintains that life
in a religiously diverse society is more suited to an idealized Christian model, according to
which the respect for the moral law is internal (written on the tablets of the heart) and
divine sovereignty is rmly distinguished from human rulers.39
We have yet to consider more carefully what the command to love our neighbors as
ourselves entails. What is love? “And,” as an uppity lawyer is said to ask Jesus, “who is my
neighbor?”40 The Talmudic commentary typically interprets the passage in Leviticus as a
fundamental lesson in self-restraint, reciprocity, and fairness. The imperative to love your
neighbor, according to Nahmanides, is a kind of “overstatement.” The point is less about
the importance of warm feelings or a ection toward one’s fellows and more about
compensating for our spontaneous self-preference and doing our duty. For Nahmanides
(and the rabbinic authority he cites), it is not wrong to prefer your life over that of others—
for example, in a case of extremely limited resources—but under normal circumstances, we
ought to combat our tendency to want goods for ourselves alone. The love that we owe the
neighbor refers to the duty to bene t others, to contribute to their spiritual and material
well-being. Cultivating such an attitude is not mere benevolence, he counsels, but liberates
us from the “degrading jealousy” of others’ goods and virtues which erodes our self-regard
and poisons our relationships.41
Similarly, Rashi nds the command to refer to quotidian a airs in interpersonal

relationships. His commentary is unconcerned with parsing the precise character of love
and focuses instead on the avoidance of hate, through obeying the directive to “reprove
your neighbor.”42 When someone acts o ensively, one will be inclined to duplicate the
o ense rather than, as Nahmanides puts it, pursuing the means to erase it from one’s
heart.43 By remaining silent, one does not have the opportunity either to correct the other
person or to be corrected oneself. One’s hatred could easily be corrected by learning that
the other’s reasons were valid, or, as Ibn Ezra notes, by learning that you “hate someone
because you suspect him of something which never happened.”44 Loving your neighbor like
yourself involves seeking the opportunity to share a point of view on reasons for action and
on what is right and wrong. In contrast, coveting the idea that the other is wrong and you
are the one wronged (and therefore right) is a recipe for hatred and the perpetuation of
injustice. Loving one’s neighbor involves preserving equality among neighbors by sharing
hurt feelings and seeking justice in one’s relationships.45
Leviticus commands its readers not only to love their neighbors, but also to “love the
stranger as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”46 The Passover holiday
and the daily Jewish liturgy remind Jews of their former slavery, the memory of which is to
assist them in doing justice and extending love not only to the neighbor but also to the
stranger, the unknown and su ering among them. The regular exercise of remembering the
servitude of one’s people and their subsequent liberation by God is supposed to help Jews
to walk in the ways of God, to imitate divine charity and justice by bringing others out of
slavery and into freedom.47
The Jewish commentary does not typically represent others as identical to oneself, be
that other a fellow Jew or a stranger. Nahmanides, for example, regards it as acceptable to
give one’s own life ultimate value such that the other is not interchangeable with herself,
even if she is very much like herself. Loving the neighbor as myself involves an analogy. I
strive to relate to you in the same, or a very similar way, as I relate to myself. With
analogies, the terms are not interchangeable, but the relationship between them bears
some strong similarity. You are not me, but an appreciation of my own high self-regard is
entirely unproblematic as long as I am able to extend it, when possible unreservedly, to my
neighbor and to the vulnerable in my community. The neighbor is not another self, but
another whom I love like myself by virtue of a relevant similarity. What we have in common
includes our comparable defects, needs, and su erings imposed by bondage but also by
our potential for liberation through the imitation of God.48
Exaggerating the distinction from Jewish law, Christian teachings insist, “Not only those
with whom we have some connection are called our neighbors, but all without exception;
for the whole human race forms one body…even those who are most alienated from us,
should be cherished and aided even as our own esh.”49 Christianity represents the
universalization of the divine law as a transformation rather than an adoption of Jewish
ethics,50 which Spinoza appears to endorse in his preference for a non-legalistic and
staunchly universalistic orientation to religious ethics.51 Rather than presenting love as
something that is imaginatively extended from oneself to another distinct self, however, the
imagery of the Christian scriptures suggests a stronger identi cation between self and
other.52 In the New Testament, individuals are parts of a single whole, members of a single
body united by Christ:
For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think too
highly of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober
judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned. For as
in one body we have many members, and not all members have the same
function, so we, who are many, are one in the body of Christ, and individually
we are members of one another.53
Indeed, the body does not consist of one member but of many. If the foot
would say, “Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” that would
not make it any less a part of the body. . . . God so arranged the body, giving
the greater honor to the inferior member, that there may be no dissension
within the body, but the members may have the same care for one another . . .
Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it.54
The command to love your neighbor in both traditions is framed as an imperative to

counteract our self-preference and our susceptibility to react with hatred to insults and
injuries. While the rabbis of the Talmud treat the law as part of a juridical project of
instituting justice, it is more typical of Christian writings, especially since Augustine, to point
to the problem of self-love as a deadly poison threatening human community as such.
Perhaps as a result of this greater concern with the viciousness of pride and self-preference,
the Christian counter-measure for self-love is more radical, involving a strong identi cation
with the other as a di erent part of the same body, necessary not only to my ourishing but
to my survival. The other is a necessary part of a whole to which I belong. Loving the other
means eliminating any rm distinction between her and myself, while allowing that she
appears and acts di erently (like an “eye” rather than a “foot”).
Spinoza concludes that the di erent perspectives on justice in the Old and New
Testaments can be explained by the fact that the ancient Hebrews lived in a well-ordered
commonwealth that treated equals alike. He represents the ancient Hebrew
commonwealth as a strikingly just society in which no one was vulnerable to poverty and
property rights were more fairly apportioned than in any society since.55 Spinoza explains
that the ancient Hebrews were not counseled by Moses to turn the other cheek because
they could expect fair judgment from the appropriate authorities. The early Christians, on
the other hand, “were oppressed and living in a corrupt state where justice was completely
neglected,” and thus, Christ discouraged them from seeking redress.56 In a society replete
with oppression, we endure frequent and often unbearable insults and injuries. This is
precisely the situation in which we are most inclined to prefer ourselves and to desire
vengeance against our neighbors. In Leviticus, however, love is commanded in a context in
which basic material equality, neighborly practices of exchange and resource sharing, as
well as just legal institutions are in place. In such a situation, the reactionary self-love born
of injury and the corresponding hatred of peers that the divine command aims to overcome
are not as intense. With the great oppression su ered by early Christians, the dangers of
self-love aroused by social contempt become overwhelming. As a result, the command to
love the other as (part of) oneself becomes more vigorous. Both traditions, however, see the
imperative to neighbor love as the foundation of a life in the image of God—that is, a life of
liberty, wisdom, and communion. There is evident theological warrant for Spinoza’s
embrace of obedience to the divine command as the utmost necessity for all mortals.
Neighborly and self-love as the foundation of a good life coheres also with Spinoza’s Ethics.
The Ethics traverses the passage from bondage to freedom, tracing an exodus from an
illusory form of self-love born of powerlessness and su ering to a genuine form of self-love
born of agency and community with others.
Love and Ethics
In the Theological-Political Treatise, Spinoza laments the common tendency of people

to “thirst for things rare and foreign to their nature” and to “spurn their natural gifts.”57
Rather than nding strength and pleasure in the natural knowledge that is common to all of
humanity, people yearn to have their ignorance con rmed by supernatural events and
charismatic personalities.58 One of the aims of the TTP is to demonstrate how religion that
fosters attraction to the exceptional rather than the common fosters a society of inequality
and ignorance. Spinoza advocates instead a universalistic religion that encourages us to
worship something common to all (God or nature), but which would also allow such
worship to take forms adapted to the idiosyncrasies of individuals and collectives. He
suggests a common law as the foundation for all piety—the command to love our
neighbors as ourselves—but advocates wide latitude for the rituals, behaviors, and
descriptions through which this love is expressed. Spinoza’s ideal of “true religion”
maintains a tension between the universal and the singular. Each ought to love herself and
her neighbor, but each self and neighbor is a unique expression of divinity or nature. Thus,
obedience remains under-de ned as whatever allows one to act consistently with the
command.
Albeit in a very di erent idiom, Spinoza’s Ethics presents the life of the nite being as
one de ned by this tension between the common and the singular. Like the TTP, the Ethics
aims to demonstrate that our power derives from what is common, and yet we must live
and act in a way that is sensitive to particularities. A fundamental premise of the Ethics is
that involvement with others, dependency on our neighbors and God or nature, is the
condition of rather than the obstacle to our freedom (also called “beatitude” or “salvation”).
The Ethics culminates in an account of freedom as the “intellectual love of God,” which
follows from the transformation of our bodies from a condition of radical dependency to a
condition of tremendous capacity and rich consciousness of self, nature, and others.59 This
transformation is the fruit of love. Love is precisely the joy that follows from an encounter
with another who “agrees with our power.”60 This agreement can be understood as a
combination of powers that makes each involved stronger in mind and body. The journey
towards liberation is one from a state of utter vulnerability to external causes to a condition
of joy in oneself as a singular expression of divine (or natural) power. This journey is only
possible when circumstances are such that our susceptibility to external powers becomes a
strength rather than a weakness, as we undergo more and more enabling, loving
encounters that make us into increasingly powerful beings.
The life of the nite being is traversed, according to Spinoza, by a constant vacillation
between joy and sadness, love and hate. When one loves, Spinoza claims that “one
necessarily strives to have present and preserve the thing he loves.”61 Self-love, self-
preservation, and self-enhancement describe the basic motive of nite beings.62
Nevertheless, I have argued that humans often strive in ways that undermine our
preservation and power, and thus we can be plagued by self-hatred. The imperative to love
others, to have present and preserve them, is the means to our own preservation, pleasure,
and power. Individuals cannot persevere or thrive outside of human community, but no one
can bond to the human community as such. We bond to our proxima, those nearby who
care for us and for whom we care. The power to enjoy what we have in common, those
powers of mind and body distinctive of humanity, comes through the creative and often
challenging e ort of adapting ourselves to the common work of building a shared world.
Hate, in contrast, arouses a desire for destruction. We are repulsed by what hurts us,
and we seek to “remove and destroy” it.63 It is impossible, however, to live in community
with others and to avoid being hurt, and so we need ways to “reprove” our neighbors, to
instruct one another in our singular needs. Although we are strengthened by what we have
in common, according to Spinoza, each individual and each people di ers from one
another. There is no single rule by which we could provide what is good for one another:
“For one and the same thing can, at the same time, be good, bad, and also indi erent. For
example, music is good for one who is melancholy, bad for one who is mourning, and
neither good nor bad for one who is deaf.”64 Neighbors provide for one another, but we
also harm one another, intentionally or not. In order to avoid destroying that network of
exchange, care, and instruction without which we could not exist, we need practices by
which we can correct one another and be corrected. We need practices of justice as much
as we need those of charity.
Although Spinoza is well-known for his bold criticisms of clerical abuse and his radical
revisions of fundamental theological concepts and doctrines, he nevertheless advocates
whole-heartedly the ethical command fundamental to both Judaism and Christianity: love
your neighbor as yourself. Obedience to this command is not easy, but it leads to the most
enabling forms of understanding: “The more we understand singular things, the more we
understand God.”65 The more we understand our neighbors and ourselves, the more we
participate in “the very love of God by which God loves himself, not insofar as he is in nite,
but insofar as he can be explained by the human mind’s essence, sub specie æternitatis.”66
Notes
1. The warmest thanks to Julie Cooper, Jacob Goodson, Keith Green, Warren Montag, Will Roberts, Joseph Rosen, Adam
Winer, and Yves Winter for their encouragement and feedback on this paper.
2. Sigmund Freud, Civilization and its Discontents, trans. J. Strachey (New York: W.W. Norton, 1989), 66-69.
3. By virtue of his conatus doctrine, the principle that all beings by nature endeavor to preserve themselves and oppose
whatever threatens to destroy them, Spinoza appears to be an ethical egoist.
4. He reiterates this concern throughout the Theological-Political Treatise (hereafter TTP), but see, for example, Chapter I,
paragraph 2. Citations from the TTP will be from the Israel and Silverthorne translation (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2007) and will include the chapter in Roman numerals and paragraph number in Arabic numbers (e.g, TTP, I.2). I will
also have the bene t of Edwin Curley’s forthcoming translation and editorial notes, for which I am grateful to Professor
Curley.
5. See, for example, Benedict de Spinoza, Ethics, Part IV, proposition 57, scholium. All references to the Ethics are to The
Collected Works of Spinoza, vol. I. ed. and trans. E.M. Curley (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985). I adopt the
following abbreviations for the Ethics: Roman numerals refer to parts; ‘p’ denotes proposition; ‘c’ denotes corollary; ‘def’
denotes de nition; ‘d’ denotes demonstration; ‘s’ denotes scholium (e.g., ‘E, IIp38c’ refers to Ethics, part II, proposition 38,
corollary).
6. Spinoza’s term for genuine self-contentment is acquiescentia in se ipso. For a careful analysis of this a ect as an
antidote to pride, see Julie E. Cooper, Secular Powers (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013), ch. 3.
7. The overwhelming majority of readers of the TTP, in his day and ours, interpreted Spinoza as an antagonist of religious
ethics, viewing it as a useful tool of social control but super uous for philosophers and other rational people. Although this
view continues to have many advocates, a number of recent scholars have challenged this orthodoxy, including Julie E.
Cooper, Eugene Garver, Susan James, and Nancy Levene.
8. For a brief overview of its immediate reception, see Jonathan Israel, in Spinoza’s Theological-Political Treatise: A Critical
Guide, edited by Y. Melamed and M. Rosenthal (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010).
9. TTP, XII.2-3.
10. As Steven Nadler emphasizes in his book, “A Book Forged in Hell”: Spinoza’s Scandalous Treatise and the Birth of the
Secular Age (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011).
11. TTP, Pref.8: “Many, with the most shameless licence, are eager…under the pretext of religion to turn the heart of the
multitude (who are still at the mercy of pagan superstition) away from the sovereign powers, so that everything may
collapse again into slavery” (Curley’s translation).
12. TTP, XIV.13.
13. Nancy Levene interprets Spinoza’s biblical hermeneutics as a kind of liberation theology. See, for example, Spinoza’s
Revelation: Religion, Democracy, and Reason (Cambridge: CUP, 2004), 78.
14. Of course, power understood as greater value to individuals and society is a di erent kind of authority than that sought
by those whom Spinoza targets with blistering criticism.
15. E, IVp4s.
16. E, IIpref.
17. Among the most controversial of Spinoza’s arguments in the TTP is his rejection of miracles, understood as suspensions
of natural causality. According to Spinoza, divine perfection entails that “the laws of nature are so perfect and so fruitful
that nothing can be added to or detracted from them” (TTP, VI.22). True love of God involves not the appreciation of
astonishing events that cannot be explained, but the a irmation of nature (including ourselves) as it is, in its lawfulness
and regularity.
18. TTP, VII.2 (Curley’s translation).
19. This is a summary of some basic principles from Spinoza’s Ethics.
20. TTP, VII.6 (Curley’s translation).
21. E, IIp38-p39.
22. We might think of this as Spinoza’s naturalist version of Platonic recollection.
23. TTP, VII.7.
24. Warren Montag, Bodies, Masses, Power: Spinoza and his Contemporaries (London: Verso, 1999), 16.
25. I do not in this paper address the content of salvation for Spinoza, which is a source of signi cant controversy among
commentators. For now, I will just point out that salus can also refer to well-being and health as well as spiritual eternity.
In my view, living in accordance with the maxim to love your neighbor as yourself is necessary for any measure of
salvation, whether it is understood to include the beatitude that accompanies a robust experience of the eternity of mind
described in the conclusion to his Ethics or whether it is understood to include only peace and self-contentment enjoyed in
this life.
26. Romans 13:8-10. Spinoza himself refers to this passage when he asserts that “obedience to God consists solely in love
of our neighbor” (TTP, XIII.3). Spinoza generally used the Tremellius Bible (1590). I am using the New Revised Standard
Version, which is what is cited in the recent versions of Spinoza’s TTP.
27. Galatians 5:14.
28. Leviticus 19:17-18. Spinoza cites this passage three times in the TTP (I.39; VII.33; XIX.28). Spinoza’s express citations of
the Bible are rather constrained for a book that concerns Scripture and its interpretation. He cites the Hebrew Bible much
more often than the New Testament (103 direct). Among NT citations, he cites Paul’s letter to the Romans most frequently
(8/26).
29. b.Shabbath 31a, ed., I. Epstein, trans. H. Freedman,: http://www.come-and-hear.com/shabbath/shabbath_31.html
(accessed 19 June, 2014).
30. See TTP, V.10, VII.27, XII.34, XIII.8, XIV.9, XIV.14-18, XIV.24, XVI.52, XVII.86, XIX.9.
31. TTP, XIX.29-30.
32. Daniel Lasker analyzes Spinoza’s invocation of medieval anti-Jewish and anti-Christian polemics in the TTP. The anti-
Jewish tropes in the TTP are easily discernible. The anti-Christian arguments, when they are not directed at corrupt
preachers, are more subtle, but it is clear that Spinoza is critical of aspects of both doctrines. See Lasker, “Re ections of
the Medieval Jewish-Christian Debate in the Theological-Political Treatise and the Epistles.”
33. Although, as Curley points out in his edition, the Old Testament “does sometimes represent God as commanding the
Jews to take harsh vengeance on their enemies” ( e.g, 1 Samuel 15:3), vengeance and hatred are nowhere presented as
moral precepts and are expressly condemned in the ethical and legal writings of the Torah.
34. Leviticus 19:34. See also, Exodus 23:9.
35. Leo Strauss, Persecution and the Art of Writing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988) and Susan James, Spinoza
on Philosophy, Religion, and Politics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).
36. TTP, III.2.
37. TTP, XVII.25.
38. Steven Fraenkel, “The Invention of Liberal Theology,” Review of Politics 63.2 (2001), 287-315.
39. This is not to say that Spinoza was a “secularist” in the strong sense that demands total separation of church and state.
He advocates a national religion and acknowledges the importance of a set of basic beliefs for (at least) social harmony.
Yet, he is a secularist in the weak sense of denying the unity of divine and human legislation in every case, except for that
of Moses.
40. Luke 10:29.
41. Nachmanides, Commentary on the Torah (Leviticus), trans. C. B. Chavel (New York: Shiloh Publishing House, 1974), 292-
293.
42. Torah Reading for Kedoshim (with Rashi Commentary): http://www.chabad.org/parshah/torahreading.asp?
aid=15582&p=1&showrashi=true (accessed 19 June, 2014).
43. Nahmanides, 292. In further support of instruction as an antidote to grudge-bearing, he cites Proverbs 6:23: “For the
commandment is a lamp, and the teaching a light, and reproofs of instruction are a way of life.”
44. The Commentary of Abraham ibn Ezra on the Pentateuch, vol. 3: Leviticus, trans. J.F. Schachter (Hoboken, NJ: Ktav
Publishing House, 1986), 103.
45. I thank my research assistant Adam Winer for his invaluable assistance with the Talmudic commentary.
46. Leviticus 19:34. Although “the stranger” has more recently been interpreted as a recent convert to Judaism, the ger of
the Bible refers to stranger in the generic sense, especially the su ering widows, orphans, etc.
47. Cf. Psalms 146:7-9.
48. Deuteronomy 10:12.
49. John Calvin’s commentary on Leviticus 18.
50. See Kenneth Reinhard’s contribution to The Neighbor: Three Inquiries in Political Theology (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 2013).
51. According to Graeme Hunter, Spinoza endorsed the theology of radical Christian movements, members of which he
counted among his friends and political allies. Spinoza himself does not appear to have adopted Christianity, but we can
see a inities between Spinoza’s account of true religion (TTP, XII) and radical Christians in the seventeenth-century, like
Quakers and Collegiants. (Radical Protestantism in Spinoza’s Thought, [Hampshire: Ashgate Publishing, 2005]).
52. One could nd examples in Jewish mysticism of a doctrine of the insigni cance of the individual self in relationship to
the divine. One would not, however, nd divine communion mediated by a third term, like the gure of Christ.
53. Romans 12:3-5.
54. 1 Corinthians 12:14-27.
55. TTP, 17.25.
56. TTP, VII.7.
57. TTP, I.2.
58. TTP, VI.1.
59. E, Vp39s.
60. E, IVp31-35.
61. E, IIIp13s.
62. E, IIIp6-9.
63. E, IIIp13s.
64. E, IVpref.
65. E, Vp24.
66. E, Vp35.
PDF Version
Muslim Women against Apartheid: Muslim

Women for Universal Values
June 1, 2015 / amt6vr / 0 Comments
Georgina Jardim
University of Pretoria
The anti-Apartheid struggle in South Africa is one of the axiomatic campaigns against
racism in the twentieth century. The word ‘apartheid’ became the byword for intractable
divisions in societies. It has been applied as a descriptor for the Israel-Palestine con ict, for
sexual disparity as ‘gender apartheid,’ and the like. The exclusive racial connotation of this
historical movement as ‘black and white,’ however, obscures the diversity of those who had
vested interests in maintaining the status quo as much as it obscures those who engaged
with dismantling Apartheid. An overlooked, or rather subsumed, aspect of movements
against Apartheid is that of Muslims, and in particular of Muslim women. Muslim women
founded or took part in various forms of resistance, such as trade unionist movements,
protest actions, and charitable activities across racial and religious divides. They took up the
cause of social equality often under threat to their own safety from the Apartheid regime,
from autocrats in the resistance movements, or even from their own community.
Extracting Muslim women as activists in the anti-Apartheid struggle implies that

religion, and in particular Islam, was an organizing and mobilizing factor in the political
sphere of twentieth century South Africa. However, the Muslim minority of South Africa is
fragmented and diverse; it has divisions along hermeneutical as well ethnic lines, and it
should not be seen as a homogenous entity. The Muslim voice against Apartheid was itself
fragmented because of internal debate about modernity and traditionalism, as will be seen
in the description of political movements that arose among Muslims. Furthermore, the voice
that set the agenda for women during the anti-Apartheid struggle was more often from
black working-class women who mostly subscribed to customary African beliefs and
Christianity, and it was in the midst of these contending discourses that Muslim women
made their mark.1 In the process, Muslim women not only challenged injustices in the
Apartheid state, but they also revisited Islamic propositions of ethics and gender equality in
terms of justice for all. Their activism was formed by cooperation beyond the Muslim
community and in dialogue with discourses other than the Islamic in a reformist stance.
The preamble to the Apartheid state constitution theocratically claimed belief in the
sovereignty of God with which Muslims and other religions could be in accord, but it
di ered in the manner and extent to which this belief imposes limits on human powers.2
Liberatory readings of the Quràn stressed that humans are to actualize the will of God on
earth while also “ ghting in the cause of Allah for the downtrodden of the earth” (Q4:75).3 It
is the second of these two principles to which the Apartheid state was blind and that caused
it to be held in worldwide condemnation, galvanizing disparate voices and philosophies to
cooperate. In this way, Islamic values were understood in humanist terms, with liberation
and dignity being the prerogative of the human agent—whether Muslim, non-Muslim,
black, or white. Thus, while Muslim women’s engagement against Apartheid was not unique
in terms of protest activity or the demands made on them, their activism shows how
women can engage injustice for society as a whole. Bringing to the fore Muslim women’s
public engagement in this context is to envision Islam as a pathway to religious and
political pluralism, and it nds liberatory reasonings of Islamic scriptures together with
others for the sake of common humanity.
This article does not present a theoretical or theological exposition of Muslim women’s
activism as much as it provides a description of a transitional context wherein feminist
consciousness, religion, and politics intersected. Muslim women’s activism in the
transitional context of South Africa shows the web of complexity that women have to
traverse, not only as activists but often as part of daily life. Their testimonies of the struggle
illustrate that the care of their children often had to be weighed over and against care for
the oppressed. Loyalties to family and community came into con ict with loyalties to the
cause of justice and its agencies. The physical threat to their lives and livelihoods required
immense courage, all the while grounded in, or at least in conversation with, the principles
and texts of religious faith. This article will therefore describe and explain Muslim women’s
activism within an historical overview of the Muslim engagement with anti-Apartheid
movements that gave rise to the articulation of an Islamic feminism by both women and
men through the idea that Islam demands human agency in the quest for social justice.4
While the formulations of parity and equality were not universally welcomed throughout
South Africa and have not been unproblematic in their implementation, Muslim women’s
voices were established and legitimized as constituent of South African society. As a result,
they provide us with a moment for re ection on the interaction between human agency and
religious sub-texts in pluralist societies and transitional contexts in the wider world.5
A Tradition of South African Muslims
The current Muslim population comprises approximately 1.5% of the South African
demographic which, despite its small number, has been rooted in South African society for
centuries.6 The rst documented Muslims in South Africa were brought from Malaysia to the
Cape in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries as slaves or prisoners of the Dutch East
India Company. The second noteworthy group of Muslims were Indian indentured laborers
imported by the governors of the then British colonies in southern Africa in the nineteenth
century. Therefore, the ethnic demographic of South African Muslims is such that those of
the southern-most parts are considered mostly of Malay descent, with a history of
resistance against colonial rule going back to the seventeenth century. In north-eastern
parts of South Africa Muslims are mostly of Indian parentage and the remainder derives
from various African, Middle Eastern, or indigenous backgrounds. The ethnic divisions of
Malay and Indian were entrenched in Apartheid’s racial policies and remain to some degree
a part of South African Muslim identity today. As Rayda Jacobs, a South African Muslim
author who hails from the Cape, says in her 2003 novel:
It was that old Indian-Malay thing that’d been going on for years. The Malays
were never going to be easy about their daughters marrying Indians, and the
Indians were always going to think that they were better than the Malays. The
term Malay is of course another carbuncle […] My forefathers might’ve come
from the islands around the Indian Ocean, but I’m no Malay. The government
did a terrible thing in the nineteen forties when it made meat of the Malays,
and sh of the Indians. And that’s how it’s been since. There’s a rift. Not a big
one, but occasionally you’ll hear a story.7
It is ironic that the injustice of exclusion and oppression of Apartheid was perpetrated
by a white minority who had su ered brutality at the hands of the British Empire at the turn
of the 20th century in their struggle for independence.8 The Anglo-Boer war can be
understood in terms of anti-imperialism and the formation of sovereign identity. Thus, it
forms a part of the anti-colonial movements in Africa that sought to put an end to the
British conquest of South African peoples, both black and white. As a result, the discourses
that mobilized Apartheid and its discontents were not so much characterized by secularism
against Orientalism, which forms the narrative of the ‘clash of civilizations’ in the European
and Anglo-Saxon world.9 In South Africa, Muslims were not the primary Other in the state’s
nationalist agenda, but they were marginalized together with a large cast of others due to
their ethnic identities rather than their religious identity. The main discourses for articulating
the injustices of Apartheid were Marxist or socialist, particularly through labor movements.
The Communist Party of South Africa continually played a role, although those who wanted
to follow a purist Communist line became somewhat separated from mainstream African
resistance movements and operated in exile after South Africa’s Suppression of
Communism Act of 1950.10 Nevertheless, an increasingly radical approach to the entrenched
Apartheid regime made much use of the revolutionary language and ideology of Marxist
socialism, which was seen as the most e ective way of undermining the power of the white
capitalist minority. Muslims acted across the range of these movements, and the early
Muslim campaigners against racism saw the diversity of ideas and races in South Africa as
no obstacle to unity or religious expression. For example, a long-time leader of the
Communist Party, Yusuf Dadoo (1909–82), made a pilgrimage to Makkah and bore the title
of Haji with pride.11 In the earlier part of the twentieth century, much of the activism against
the encroaching segregationist policies of the South African government were inspired by
the work of Mahatma Ghandi and other anti-colonial movements. Muslim professionals and
activists shared a platform with Ghandi and supported his anti-colonial activism, with little
regard to his Hindu background.12
The Prophetic Activism of Muslim Women
For women, Ghandi’s critique of power provided a means to articulate gender injustice,
not for its own sake, but as part of a collective mobilization for equality. Ghadija Christopher
(born Gool, b. 1896), for example, spoke on a stage with Ghandi’s wife at a rally in 1932.
Later in 1954, Ghadija organized a protest against racially biased sentences in two separate
rape trials of a ‘colored’ man and a ‘white’ man. The ‘colored’ man was sentenced to death
for raping a ‘white’ woman while the ‘white’ man was sentenced to only nine months
imprisonment for raping an Indian girl. The protest condemned these unequal sentences.
Registering women’s engagement against the con uence of systematic racism and sexism,
it presented its condemnation in a joint memorandum from the Child Welfare Society and
Women’s League.13 The egalitarian activism of Ghadijah Christopher continued in the work
of her daughter, Zuleika (b. 1924), who practiced as a medical doctor in South African state
hospitals where she became acutely aware of the disparity caused by segregated medical
care. Zuleika was one of the rst to articulate a politics of medicine, arguing that it was
futile to treat the symptoms of diseases without addressing the underlying socio-economic
problems in society. Her work may be seen as prophetic in the light of South Africa’s
HIV/AIDS epidemic in the early twenty- rst century and in light of other critiques of the
global monetary system and health issues in the developing world.14
Zainab Asvat was likewise inspired by her father’s involvement with Ghandi’s anti-
colonial movement. A contemporary of Nelson Mandela, she took part in a 1946 passive
resistance campaign where she was attacked by a mob of white government supporters.
The campaign included a diversity of ethnicities and persuasions, with the ‘white Christian’
Reverend Michael Scott later recounting that he had witnessed Zainab exhibiting a better
understanding of mercy from her practice of Islam than the mob had exhibited in its
professed Christianity.15 Zainab’s younger sister, Amina, likewise took a political stand from
early on. Amina refused to sing the national anthem at school at age eleven (which, at that
stage, was “God Save the King”) because of her awareness of injustices in South African
society. Amina remained an activist. On one occasion, she was imprisoned for two weeks
for arranging a protest march, and she was then banned for ve years while her husband
was under house arrest after the Sharpeville massacre of 1960.16 She su ered constant
harassment by the security police while her husband was imprisoned, during which time she
also had to care for their family as sole breadwinner. Muslim women were often involved in
resistance through the work of their husbands, and they were regularly harassed,
imprisoned, or tortured to divulge secrets of the resistance movements.17 They were also
subjected to periods of solitary con nement, which in Nina Hassim’s case (b. 1936) lasted
for fty days.18
While the main focus was on the racial politics of South Africa, there was an implicit
connection with gender inequality that found expression in women’s literary contributions.
Amina Desai (1919–2009) and her sister Halima, for instance, regularly wrote letters under
pseudonyms to the newspaper Indian Views in the early 1940s to express their opinions not
only on the political situation in South Africa, but on gender relations in the Muslim
community.19 Some of these pieces by women were so astute and in uential that many did
not believe they could have originated with a female author. Halima Gool (1916-1992), who
wrote under the pseudonym ‘Hawa Ahmed’ or ‘Muslim Girl,’ challenged the androcentrism
that prevailed in society and in the resistance movements, so that most male readers were
convinced it must have been a man writing under a woman’s pseudonym.20
Organized Islam in South Africa
For the most part, organized Islamic leadership (termed ulema and jamiat respectively)
did not voice political opposition, as they saw themselves mostly as cultural organizations
to educate Muslims and maintain Muslim socio-religious culture. Muslims who became
involved politically, therefore, were mostly courageous individuals who purposefully chose
ethical care and justice to help and advocate on behalf of the oppressed. In the mid-
twentieth century, Muslim scholars graduating from training overseas began to marginalize
local Muslim leaders, and divisions formed along Deobandi lines over and against more
modernist approaches, such as Barelvi thought. In the southern-most parts of South Africa,
Muslim opinion was represented by the Muslim Judicial Council formed in 1945, while the
Deobandi-in uenced faith leadership formed the Jamiat ul-Ulema in 1934 in the north and
the Majlis al-Ulema on the east coast in 1952. These groups represented the most organized
and identi able Islamic faith leadership in South Africa from the 1960s onwards.21 While the
more modernist groups, such as the Muslim Teachers Association (est. 1951) and the Cape
Muslim Youth Movement (est. 1957) had vociferously opposed the state’s nascent Apartheid
laws, they articulated their protest in terms of left-leaning unity movements rather than in
terms of expressly Islamic ideas.
Muslim women at this time often became activists after attending universities, at work
when they became acutely aware of the injustices of Apartheid, or when they joined
relations who were involved in the resistance movements that were becoming integral to
the articulation of a South African feminism. And yet, their activism remained removed from
the growing feminist consciousness of Europe and other westernized nations in its focus on
collective rather than female su rage for the larger part of the twentieth century. Muslim
women’s activism re ected the immense diversity and contradictions of the gender
struggle, as a con uence of currents within the broader liberation movement. Fatima Meer
(1928-2010), for instance, was born in a polygamous household to a Muslim father and a
mother of Jewish and Portuguese descent. Meer described her huge extended family as a
happy one, calling her father’s rst wife ‘Ma’ together with her biological Ma.22 Her political
activity started at age 16 when she raised funds for the 1944 Benghali famine, and she later
helped to form a local women’s league to work across racial and religious boundaries,
providing child care services for working mothers in the area. Meer developed a friendship
with Winnie Mandela, with whom she was incarcerated in 1976. The multifaceted aspect of
the gender struggle is also clear in Rabia Motala’s life (b. 1932), showing how male
dominance itself cannot be homogenized. Rabia’s father ended her schooling after primary
school and had her working in his store or dress-making until her marriage at age 19.
However, her husband Chota recognized her love of learning and encouraged her to
complete her schooling, after which she enrolled for a degree at university. Chota and Rabia
campaigned together against Apartheid, and the couple was later appointed as rst
ambassadors to Morocco by President Nelson Mandela.
Notwithstanding Muslim women’s tacit and explicit contributions to anti-Apartheid

movements, women, as elsewhere in the world, were symbols of the South African Muslim
community’s commitment to political transition. Nelson Mandela wrote about Amina
Pahad, who was imprisoned by the Security Police, in his autobiography:
I often visited the home of Amina Pahad for lunch, and then, suddenly, this
charming woman put aside her apron and went to jail for her beliefs. If I had
once questioned the willingness of the Indian community to protest against
oppression, I no longer could.23
Another struggle leader, Walter Sisulu, came to the same conclusion, saying that his initial
assessment of ‘Indian women’ as conservative and unwilling to involve themselves in
public life changed after meeting Amina Pahad and her comrades. And yet, these Muslim
women’s cross-political involvement with non-Muslim and socialist organizations often
came at the high price of accusations of apostasy from Islam. This was the case for Cissie
Gool (1897-1963), who was one of the founders of the Anti-Fascist League in 1935 and who
protested the growing threat of fascism in Europe whilst campaigning for equality in South
Africa.24
Apart from a few exceptions, the ulema were characterized in the main by socio-
political quietism in the 1950’s and 60’s, emphasizing religious matters without articulating
socially relevant ideas or inspiring greater political activism.25 Conservative faith leaders
may have tacitly endorsed resistance against racial oppression, but anxiety remained about
the blurring of boundaries, especially the sexual boundaries of conservative Islam that they
feared would result from cooperation with non-Muslims. Pregs Govender, an Indian activist
and later parliamentarian, writes in her memoirs that a mixed social event for secondary
school students raised a furore that was headlined in a local newspaper. The mosque had
asked Muslim girls to boycott the event because it would lead to zinah (lit. fornication,
social upheaval).26 Even so, many of the Muslim girls did not comply with the mosque’s
advice, and they seem not to have received censure from the mosque after the event. It is
therefore evident that many clerics understood their role as vanguards against modernity
and conservers of traditional Islam, while mosque congregants interpreted their faith in
terms of the pluralism encountered in their daily lives. Shamima Shaikh, on whom more is
said below, responded to questions about why she had involved herself in protest
movements by citing from the Quràn:
The answer is simple: we respond to the injunction of the Quràn “to enjoin
what is right and forbid what is wrong,” as we did when faced with the terrible
injustices of apartheid and oppression on the basis of race and class.27
The Struggle in Islamic Terms
Some commentators suggest that the attitudes of organized Islam changed with the
death of Imam Abdullah Haroon in 1969 in police custody.28 Haroon was a Pan-Africanist
Congress member; a faction that was more focused on black consciousness than the
African National Congress (ANC) in the anti-Apartheid struggle. Haroon canvassed overseas
support, in particular from Canon John Collins in London (1966) who was coordinating
international funding to assist political detainees and their families in South Africa. Yet
Haroon was considered a thorn in the side of his contemporaries, who resented his political
activities. He was even known by some in his community as the ‘kā r (in del) imam.’ A
recent documentary by Khalid Shamis, the British-born grandson of Haroon, points to the
ambivalent attitudes of the Muslim community at this time, even with the death of
Haroon.29 Shamis opines that conservative Muslims in the Apartheid era were largely
complacent with their reasonably undisturbed lives. He concludes that though Christianity
had a privileged status in public life and education, Muslims could attend mosque, travel,
and adhere to traditional views and practices without censure from the Apartheid regime.
One could argue that the Apartheid system of segregation, justi ed under the slogan
‘separate but equal,’ actually suited some of the conservatives who were intent on
sheltering the Muslim community from un-Islamic in uence. The clerical establishment did
not, therefore, feel a particular urgency for getting politically involved. Instead, Shamis
reported that many of Haroon’s contemporaries found him objectionable because he was
drawing the attention of the Apartheid regime. They therefore contrived a critique of his
lifestyle as unacceptable: Haroon was criticized for amboyant dressing and promoting the
study of ne arts among his children. He sent his daughter overseas to study at the age of
eighteen, and he screened James Bond lms in the madrassa for fundraising events. Most
controversially, he initiated religious classes for males and females, and he allowed women
to participate in the mosque’s executive.30 The internal Muslim critique against Haroon was
therefore very much in gendered terms—that is, until a masculinist narrative of his torture
and death was emphasized by Muslim activists in the early 1980’s, when Muslim
organizations adopted overtly political tones. Haroon was then held up as a Muslim icon of
resistance, and his death became considered a martyrdom in the cause of the anti-
Apartheid struggle.31 Haroon ‘the Maverick’ became a rallying gure who consolidated
Muslim resistance against Apartheid, but the ambivalence toward political activism that
characterized attitudes toward Haroon in his lifetime was to resurface when women
became the subject of Islamic articulations of liberation.32
The two events that galvanized South African Muslims more categorically were the 1976
Soweto student uprising against the Apartheid state’s education policies, and the 1979
Islamic Revolution in Iran. At this time, Muslims organized around socially and politically
relevant expressions of Islam that had been articulated by Muslim individuals and leftists
for decades. The two historical events led to more overt political action and articulation of
an Islamic response to the anti-Apartheid struggle, together with the formation of new
organizations and a iliations. The most noteworthy of these were the Muslim Youth
Movement (MYM) and Qibla. Muslims were vitalized to turn to texts from the Quràn and
Sunnah for wider and more general meanings to bridge Muslims and non-Muslims alike in
terms of resisting tyrannical oppression and establishing divine order in Creation.33
Relationships in the early Madinan society, as re ected in the Quràn, provided the text for
explicating social relations in segregated South Africa: the awliya’ (associates) and kā run
of Q3:28 became signs of the oppressive white minority, and the muna qūn (hypocrites) of
Q4:137-9 become the description of Muslims who participated in the tricameral
parliamentary system introduced by the Apartheid state. Those organizations that allied
themselves with non-Muslim resistance against Apartheid developed views on inter-faith
dialogue, the labor movement, and gender discrimination, whereas the conservative ulema
became more focused on carving out an Islamic space within South African politics. The
most radical conservative wing envisioned an Iranian-style Islamic revolution for South
Africa, albeit as a minority of Muslim opinion.
Muslim activists sought an understanding of Islam that was compatible with modernity,
some taking inspiration from the political thought of Sayyid Qutb and Abu’l Alla al-
Maududi, together with a focus on da’wah (lit. invitation to faith) as a form of outreach and
help across racial and religious divides. The MYM codi ed what Abdullah Haroon had
already put into practice in the 1960s, believing that mosques ought to be multi-purpose
centers that holistically addressed not only the needs of the Muslim community, but the
needs of society in general. The mosque should include a place of worship for both men
and women, a library, a community center, and a political center, and they therefore
identi ed four issues as central to their program:
1. that one could read the Quràn without an alim (learned interpreter) to become fully
conversant with the primary principles of Islam;
2. that women should attend mosque to the same degree as men;
3. that the Friday khutbah (sermonic address) should be delivered in the language spoken
by the community;
4. and that the giving of zakah (prescribed charity, one of the Five Pillars of Islam) should be
organized nationally, with zakah-collectors paid out of a central fund.34
These four issues were opposed by the ulema on each count, and when the World Muslim
League of Pakistan promised large sums of money on the condition that the Muslim
community unite under one umbrella body, the MYM itself was thrown into disunity. Some
members broke away to a iliate with a newly formed Islamic Council of South Africa in
1976. Particularly in the western Cape, closer contact with the labor movement resulted in
the MYM taking a softer approach toward socialism and contextualizing Islam in terms of
social justice. In their threefold campaign on living wages, women’s rights, and drug abuse,
the MYM worked with other organizations who had similar goals wherever possible,
whether Muslim or not.35 The MYM successfully engaged with the anti-Apartheid struggle,
and non-Muslim parties recognized it for its contribution to this struggle more so than other
Muslim organizations. Farid Esack, together with Ebrahim Rasool, changed the
organization’s name to Call of Islam in 1984 and took a strong stand on gender equality,
especially as racial liberation came to fruition with the release of Nelson Mandela from
prison in 1990. Esack was appointed by Nelson Mandela as the rst Gender Commissioner
of South Africa, and Rasool became premier of the western Cape. Esack was raised by a
single mother in abject poverty and attributes his commitment to gender justice to
witnessing his mother’s triple oppression, as he terms it: patriarchy, apartheid and
capitalism.36 Yet Esack was not esteemed by all in the Muslim community, and the MYM’s
‘women in mosque’ campaign attracted a vitriolic response from the clerical
establishment.37
South African Islamic Feminism
Despite fragmentation of the Muslim voice, these radical Muslim expressions

dislocated conservative power at the time, while creating a permanent space for Muslim
legitimacy in pluralist South African politics post-1994. Radical, mostly young South African
Muslims reached an understanding with other worldviews in the context of a broad
commitment to the struggle for justice, nevertheless placing primary emphasis on the
commitment to Islam. The accommodations with non-Muslim activists were framed by the
Qurànic idea of wilayah (just rule) with the objective to establish a just society in South
Africa for all, including a diversity of race and religion.38 Therefore, Muslim struggle for
justice in South Africa rst and foremost aimed at purging the non-Islamic society of
injustice and then to guarantee freedom for Islam within a new pluralist order.39 These dual
objectives continued to re ect the divided approach of Abdullah Haroon’s Muslim
community through conservative strains of Islamic discourse, on the one hand, and radical
strains on the other. By 1992, the radical strain of Islamic discourse was exerting pressure on
the conservative ulema due to its alliance with the successfully changing social-political
landscape in South Africa, giving shape to an Islamic feminism.
At this time, Na’eem Jeenah and Shamima Shaikh, a married couple who expressed
liberation in particularly gendered terms, were leaders in the MYM. Na’eem was the general
secretary of the MYM during the 1980s, editing its mouthpiece Al Qalam. He met Shamima
when they were both arrested during a consumer boycott campaign. Together, they played
a decisive role in the MYM, with Shamima a founding member of the MYM’s Gender Desk.
The couple documented their Hajj together in 1997 after Shamima had been diagnosed with
cancer.40 Nevertheless, during this time, Shamima was the founding chairperson of the
Muslim Community Broadcasting Trust, initiating a community-based radio station in the
Johannesburg area called “The Voice.” She also protested women’s exclusion from
participation in mosque prayers and eventually launched an alternative congregation where
women and men were considered equals.41 Shamima critiqued gender arrangements of the
Muslim community and wider society, assuming that the Islamically justi ed
democratization of society naturally included women. The Voice, therefore, articulated
women’s rights, inter-religious tolerance, and anti-racism in Islamic terms, but Shamima
tragically succumbed to cancer four months after the radio station started broadcasting in
1997. Shamima had arranged before her death to have her funeral prayers led by a female
friend and for women to be part of the service in every funerary space.42 While Na’eem
continued publishing on feminism and Islam, the radio station eventually became
embroiled in gender battles that diverged from its origins. Muslim women broadcasting
and acting as executives of the radio station became opposed by traditionalists who argued
that women’s voices were a part of their body that should be concealed and excluded from
public. The government’s Gender Commissioner at the time, Farid Esack, found that the
case contravened equality laws of the new South African constitution, and the radio station
lost its licence in 1998.43 Esack himself was called a South African “Salman Rushdie” and
faced several death threats.44 In the meantime, a compromise seems to have been struck
with the re-founding of Radio Islam, in which women broadcasters present “programs for
sisters.” However, another controversy was sparked in November 2013 with the live
international airing of a women’s conference, where women were heard “laughing and
giggling.” However, the exposure of this issue has remained in internet forums and has not
attracted headline news.45
Feminist Voice in South African Politics
The tension between progressive, conservative, and radicalist Muslim expressions

remains in South Africa, and the question is to what extent these internal debates are
in uenced by ethnic divisions, or to what extent they are fueled by external geopolitical
discourses, especially in relation to feminism. While women became increasingly
outspoken on gender equality as part of the anti-Apartheid struggle, they often had an
ambivalent attitude towards feminism. The label of ‘feminist’ had not yet found widespread
expression within the anti-racist movement through organizations such as the Women’s
League and the Federation of South African Women. In the governing white community,
despite the presence of liberals in government from 1909 onwards, the Liberal Left never
won a respectable share of the vote in Parliament. Afrikaner nationalists, with their
corporate ethic, had an inherent distrust of the English liberalism of which feminism was
seen to be a part.46 While parity before the law seemed to be a natural part of the
democratic struggle, feminism was viewed with suspicion as a white/English intellectualist
agenda. Working-class women began to oppose programs by the state or NGOs that
seemed to have little bearing on their daily struggles, a stance encapsulated in the 2003
accusation that “while…feminists are concerned with getting out of the kitchen, our ght is
to get a kitchen.”47 Nevertheless, in Islamic discourse towards the end of Apartheid, an
Islamic feminism crystallized out of the liberation struggle. Muslim liberation movements
identi ed gender equality as a distinct objective for their faith community, together with
wider consultations towards a constitution for post-Apartheid South Africa. In this, liberal
Muslim thought was actually ahead of its conservative counterparts and other
religious/traditional communities in South Africa, who remained implacably suspicious of

feminism.48
Since the establishment of the ‘new’ South Africa, the relationship between democracy
and gender mainstreaming, just as elsewhere, has not been straightforward. Several
commentators have argued that the gains made for women during the struggle against
Apartheid were subjugated by the national agenda for liberation which was often a ‘macho’
a air dominated by male leaders of the resistance movements and not limited to the
Muslim demographic of South Africa.49 After 1990, civil society fragmented, and grassroots
organizations were subsumed into political parties, mostly into the ANC as the
internationally recognizable face of the anti-Apartheid struggle, represented by the iconic
presidency of Nelson Mandela. Muslims who participated in resistance against the
Apartheid regime often became part of the political elite in the new South Africa, bringing
new forms of accountability.50 Radical Muslim groups, who were involved in the
negotiating process and who had helped bring down Apartheid, came to blows with the
clerics, and they to some extent succumbed to conservative Muslim tradition and ceded
representation of the Muslim voice to the ulema for the sake of unity. The MYM, which had
worked and gained respect in the broader South African society because of its campaigns
for women’s rights, became overrun with global geopolitics and repositioned itself in terms
of international feminist discourses with the fading of the memory of struggle.51
Nevertheless, Muslim participation in politics over the rst two decades of the new
democratic South Africa remains largely committed to pluralism in South Africa, with
Muslim votes showing widespread support for political parties other than the two Muslim
parties on the ballot.52 While there are critical Muslim voices disapproving of the post-
Apartheid constitution that allows gay rights, abortion, and decriminalization of
prostitution, some of the most progressive movements within Islam are found in South
Africa. Amina Wadud led her rst Friday sermon at the Claremont mosque in Cape Town in
1994, and in 2004 Inner Circle, an organization that welcomes sexual diversity under the
leadership of an openly gay Imam was established. More recently, an ‘open mosque’ was
initiated in September 2014 under the auspices of the Oxford scholar Taj Hargey, who was
born in Cape Town. Muslim women continue to take principled positions against
oppression, continuing their critiques of abusive power where they see it in the new
governing regime, albeit as individuals rather than as representatives of Islamic
organizations. Ferial Ha ajee, editor of the prominent newspaper City Press, for instance,
was embroiled in a public row in October 2013 for criticizing harmful traditional practices
and ‘reversed racism.’53
These events and movements are not without controversy, both in South Africa and
internationally. Nevertheless, despite di erences among Muslim women and fractures
within the Muslim community, Muslim women continue to represent collective interests and
to respond creatively in shaping a pluralist South African identity, conceiving of a
progressive religion that is committed to human equality. Their contribution questions
simplistic notions of patriarchy as ‘men oppressing women,’ showing that social behavior
and political action come to be pervasively gendered, with repressive behavior and codes
often being assumed by women and men who are determined to protect their privileges
and power. Yet, the growth of an Islamic feminism out of the South African political
transition demonstrates how Islamic faith may campaign for common values. Therefore, the
intersection of political context and religious intent in Muslims women’s activism asks
whether an exact line can be drawn between the religious and the secular in public life, and
indeed whether secular society stands to lose an important mobilizing and modulating
voice when it calls for the exclusion of religion in public debate. Furthermore, in the face of
the overwhelming media exposure of militant Islamist politics in the post-9/11 world,
Muslim women’s contribution to the end of Apartheid re ects the diversity of Islamic
legacies that may enrich experiences of political transition.
Muslim Women’s Activism against Apartheid as Scriptural Reasoning
In terms of a pragmatic evaluation of scriptural reasoning, the activism and re-visioning

of Islamic ethics by Muslim women during the struggle against Apartheid displays a
prophetic pragmatism in the public sphere.54 In their cooperation and dialogue with
multiple contending ideologies, the selection of Muslim women’s actions recounted above
were informed and negotiated by their religious allegiance, yet religion did not trump
public engagement or political expression in common terms with others. It could be argued,
however, that a majority of South African society at the time was religious in character, as
evidenced by the establishment and wide acceptance of the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission headed by Archbishop Desmond Tutu. The ethnic, tribal, linguistic, and racial
diversity of South Africa presumed a broad religious rationality as part of public discourse
that had not precluded cooperation with atheistic exponents. Religiosity did not, therefore,
need to t a particularly secular agenda as de ned in Western terms, where ‘secular’ has
come to be understood as that which is non-religious. Rather, the secular space of South
Africa was constituted in a negotiated settlement, where plural communities pragmatically
a orded each other a democratized worldly space. Therefore, religious beliefs and
opinions did not have to vie for credence, but they had to negotiate the ‘compromizable’
and ‘uncompromizable’ of their creeds in a setting where others were doing the same. In
this context, scriptural reasoning in its broadest sense facilitated political revision, and it
conformed to Habermas’s claim “that religious people can express their attitudes, desires
and needs in religious language without being immediately judged as incompetent for not
being able to provide a secular reason.”55 The constitution, then, provided a secular
measure founded on equality as de ned by universal human rights, with recourse to
customary law for judgment of religio-cultural norms. By these means, South Africa
acquired one of the most liberal constitutions in the world while accommodating
conservative beliefs and practices.
The positive appraisal o ered here does not mean to suggest a utopian resolution of
the South African question, and much justi ed criticism has arisen in and of the political
sphere after 1994. Gender equality remains contentious in public life, and the judicial
resolution of issues of religious beliefs and practices within customary law are not always
unproblematic. Yet, it is the implementation of safeguards and accountability that is more
often at fault than the negotiated principle. It could be said that current political dilemmas
in South Africa have resulted from assumptions, both nationally and internationally, that
communal reasoning was accomplished when the Apartheid state was successfully
removed. The structures that facilitated this transition have therefore been dismantled,
often resulting in the loss of opportunity and space for reasoning through the political
dilemmas of the new South Africa.
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Notes
1. Gertrude Fester, “The South African Revolution: Protracted or Postponed?” Voicing Demands: Feminist Activism in
Transitional Contexts, ed. Sohela Nazneen and Maheen Sultan, (Zed Books, London: 2014), 84.
2. The Republic of South Africa Constitution Act of 1983, renegotiated through an Interim Constitution dated 1993 to the
nal form in the Constitution of South Africa in 1996.
3. Farid Esack, On Being a Muslim: Finding a Religious Path in the World Today (Oneworld, Oxford: 1999), 5–7.
4. Sa’diyya Shaikh, “Transforming Feminisms: Islam, Women and Gender Justice,” Progressive Muslims: On Justice, Gender
and Pluralism, ed. O. Sa , (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2003), 147.
5. See the report by the International Federation for Human Rights (FIDH) to the European Parliament on women and the
‘Arab Spring’ (2012):
http://www.europarl.europa.eu/document/activities/cont/201206/20120608ATT46510/20120608ATT46510EN.pdf
6. http://www.pewforum.org/2011/01/27/future-of-the-global-muslim-population-regional-sub-saharan-africa/
7. Rayda Jacobs, Confessions of a Gambler, (Overlook Press, New York: 2003), 9–10.
8. See Thomas Pakenham, The Anglo-Boer War (Abacus, London: 1979, reprinted 2004), xvi-xvii, 493-5, 509. In particular,
the scorched earth policy of Field Marshal Kitchener resulted in more than twenty-thousand deaths of Afrikaner women
and children in British “concentration camps.”
9. Elizabeth Hurd argues that secularism de nes Western political relations, and that Islam in particular has been the
Other against which Europe has de ned its secularism through colonial enterprises. (The Politics of Secularism in
International Relations, [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008], 55.
10. James Leatt, Theo Kneifel and Klaus Nürnberger, eds., Contending Ideologies in South Africa (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,
1986), 141–2.
11. Vahed, Goolam, Muslim Portraits: The Anti-Apartheid Struggle (Durban: Madiba Publishers, 2012), 88.
12. Ahmad M. Kathrada, Memoirs (South Africa: Zebra Press, 2004), 43.
13. Vahed, Muslim Portraits, 73–4.
14. Ibid., 75.
15. Kathrada, 44-5.
16. The Sharpeville massacre on March 21, 1960 followed a day of protest against the carrying of pass books in which 69
people were shot dead by police.
17. Vahed, Muslim Portraits, 101.
18. Ibid., 152.
19. Ibid., 92.
20. Ibid., 134.
21. Abdulkader I. Tayob, “The Muslim Youth Movement (MYM) of South Africa,” Journal of Islamic Studies 12 (1992), 105.
22. Vahed, Muslim Portraits, 235. See the obituary to Meer in The Guardian at
http://www.theguardian.com/world/2010/mar/29/fatima-meer-obituary.
23. Nelson Mandela, Long Walk to Freedom: The Autobiography of Nelson Mandela (London: Little,Brown & Co, 1995),
104.
24. Nadia Davids, “‘This Woman is not for Burning’: Performing the Biography and Memory of Cissie Gool,” Social
Dynamics: A Journal of African Studies 38, no. 2 (2012), 253-76.
25. C. du P. le Roux, “Hermeneutics in the South African Context,” Journal of Islamic Studies 8 (1998), 23.
26. Pregs Govender, Love and Courage: A Story of Insubordination (Pretoria: Jacana Media, 2007), 44.
27. Na’eem Jeenah, “The National Liberation Struggle and Islamic Feminisms in South Africa,” (presented at the Annual
Conference of the American Council for the Study of Islamic Societies, University of Victoria, Canada, May 2003), 4.
28. Ursula Günther, “The Memory of Imam Haron in Consolidating Muslim Resistance in the Apartheid Struggle,” Journal
for the Study of Religion 17, no. 1 (2004), 117.
29. Ilham Rawoot, “The Imam Who Was and Wasn’t,” Mail and Guardian 10 (June 2011), accessed on May 23, 2014.
http://mg.co.za/article/2011-06-10-an-imam-who-was-and-wasnt
31. Günther, 117–8.
32. Haroon was certainly not the only Muslim to have died in police custody. Ahmed Timol (1941-71) died at the same police
station under similar circumstances to Steve Biko (http://www.sahistory.org.za/people/ahmed-timol). Another case that
led his family to take up the cause of death in detention of the Security Police was that of Hoosen Ha ejee (1949-1977).
(Vahed, Muslim Portraits, 137–9.)
33. Le Roux, 25.
34. Tayob, 112.
35. Ibid., 119.
37. Jeenah, 6.
38. Le Roux, 26.
39. Ibid., 26–7.
40. Journey of Discovery: A South African Hajj (1997), distributed by the Afro-Middle East Centre.
41. Esack, 133-4.
42. Ibid., 135.
43. Charlotte A. Quinn and Frederick Quinn, Pride, Faith and Fear: Islam in Sub-Saharan Africa (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2003), 145.
44. http://articles.baltimoresun.com/1998-02-09/news/1998040081_1_radio-islam-muslim-broadcasting. Accessed on
June 16, 2014.
45. http://www.muftisays.com/forums/14-peoples-say/8006-cii-channel-islam-internation-south-africa-concerns.html.
Accessed on June 16, 2014.
46. Leatt et al., 57–8.
47. Fester, 111.
48. See also Sa’diyya Shaikh, 148.
49. Jeenah, 8. See also evidence of regressive public policy with regard to women, expressed by the vice-chair of the
Human Rights Commission of South Africa (2010) as the ‘honeymoon’ being over in South Africa (110).
50. Inga Niehaus, “The Muslim Minority and Civil Society in South Africa,” Religion and the Political Imagination in a
Changing South Africa, ed. Eve Mullen and Gordon Mitchell, 123.
51. Jeenah, 9.
52. Niehaus, 124.
53. http://themediaonline.co.za/2013/10/exclusive-ha ajee-draws-a-line-in-the-sand/
54. Brad Elliot Stone, “Making Religious Practices Intelligible in the Public Sphere: A Pragmatist Evaluation of Scriptural
Reasoning,” Journal of Scriptural Reasoning, 10, no. 2 (December 2011). Accessed on January 25, 2015.
http://jsr.shanti.virginia.edu/volume-10-no-2-december-2011-public-debate-and-scriptural-reasoning/making-religious-
practices-intelligible-in-the-public-sphere/
55. Ibid.
PDF Version
City on a Hill…Still?
May 28, 2015 / amt6vr / 0 Comments
Jason Byassee
Vancouver School of Theology
Introduction
William Deresiewicz recently argued in The New Republic that no one should send their
child to an Ivy League school. The education is monstrously expensive and substandard,
reputations aside. His solution? Go to a religious college. They’re the only places that
understand what education is for, beyond preparing you to succeed in the market. In the
18th and 19th centuries, circuit riding preachers founded little schools to be outposts of the
kingdom of God, places devoted to the then-radical idea that women and minorities should
be educated too, places where the life of the mind was honored to the glory of God. It still
happens, astonishingly.1
It remains an important task to continue to remember the events of 9/11. I fear that my
title may be a little too grand. Blame my background in journalism. “City on a hill still”
echoes Jesus’ observation in Matthew that a “city on a hill cannot be hidden” (Mt. 5:14).
Jesus is referring to the kingdom he brings in his cross and resurrection. Early American
settlers, like the Puritans in New England, thought of themselves as building “a city on a
hill” in the new world, one free from the Church of England’s ossi ed, faithless presence,
one where a society can be built on Scripture in a commonwealth of God. In our lifetime,
President Ronald Reagan used “city on a hill” language to describe America’s role in the
world; he added an adjective, that America is a “shining” city on a hill. Note the shift—Jesus
speaks of his kingdom, brought with his cross and resurrection, but we Americans, from the
Puritans to current day, think that refers to the U.S.A., brought with our ideals and arms. A
famous book on American civil religion calls the U.S. a “nation with the soul of a church.”2
How does a nation with the soul of a church respond to a terror attack? With two wars,
nearly $4.5 trillion dollars, 140,000 dead Iraqi civilians, 20,000 Afghan ones, and 8,000
western coalition soldiers. Whatever all of that means, it sounds quite di erent than what
Jesus was talking about. I don’t know very much about any of that because I serve a
congregation in the college town of Boone, North Carolina. I spend my time neither
debating whether America is or ever was a city on a hill, nor what wars we should ght or
not; I spend my time baptizing and burying and preaching and organizing our life together. I
am going to argue in this paper that Christians should be so busied with life in the church
that they have to stop and think hard about a question like how we can remember 9/11 and
how we should remember it well.
We ought to worry about anyone who has a soundbite ready for that. There is enough
work to do for Jesus’ kingdom that Christians should nd themselves perplexed by the way
other Americans think of life and faith. So my title may be too ambitious, which I do
recognize. The calendar my congregation abides by looks more American than Christian.
We plan our summer between Memorial Day and Labor Day; Jesus is necessary to neither
of these “holidays.” Veterans need recognizing at the 4th of July and Veterans Day, but again
no Jesus required. America’s commercial holidays jump from Valentines Day to Easter to
Mother’s and Father’s Day to Christmas. I nd myself noticing dates of signi cant American
battles as much as any other—June 6 for D-Day, December 7 for Pearl Harbor. Our calendar
is pockmarked by memorials to warfare. 9/11 is just the latest of those. The thing is, for
Christians, Jesus dominates the calendar. He splits history into BC and AD. Preparation for
his birth is called Advent. Lent anticipates his death and resurrection. Ordinary time is
where we live most of the time. Do we understand how these are a competing set of holy
days, those around America’s military history on the one hand, and those around Jesus’
history—as God with us—on the other?
When the anniversary of 9/11 rst came around after I arrived at my church, I preached
on Christ’s command to forgive. His words in the Gospel of Matthew:
You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbour and hate your
enemy.” But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute
you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun
rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the
unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do
not even the tax-collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers
and sisters, what more are you doing than others? (5.42-47)
I told the congregation that I have no idea what that means in the context of a terror act
that kills 3,000 people, or in the context of a global war on terror that has killed many times
that many since then. I also told them some stories of forgiveness: of Christians whose
families had been tortured and killed who forgave their murderers in imitation of Jesus. And
I was frank with them, that I don’t know what that means for us. I had war veterans out
there from WWII to Afghanistan, whose service I honor. I said that Islam is a beautiful faith
that was hijacked that day as well. I assumed that was a pretty harmless, boilerplate sort of
thing to say, but the next day I had someone red in the face in my o ice with stacks of
books proclaiming that Islam is dangerous, evil, and barbaric. One of those authors turned
out to be a charlatan. While others are not frauds, they are plainly wrong. I told him that
Christians need to pray for our Muslim neighbors and friends, and we need to ask their
prayers for us. The kingdom Jesus brings is one where we love enemies. We share Jesus
with Muslims; they have a place for Issa in their faith. We are commanded to listen to them
in their di erences and honor them. This has to happen over food, with our kids playing
with one another. I am not recommending a kumbayah, “let’s all just get along” kind of
Christianity. This is how to be a neighbor in a world without borders where, if we are not
careful, we will assume the other is a threat rather than someone beloved by God and by
us.
The rabbis tell a story about a student asking a teacher when it is dawn. Is it when you
can see well enough to tell a sheep from a dog? No, the rabbi said. Is it when it is light
enough to tell one kind of tree from another? No. It is when you can see the face of a
stranger and recognize in it the face of a brother or sister. Until then, no matter how light it
is, it is still very dark.
There are three parts to my paper. First, I want to talk about neo-liberal politics,
especially as it is presented in Thomas Frank’s screed about this his home state, What’s the
Matter with Kansas?, and how it has ipped from a blue to red state in the electoral
scheme, even as that hurts most Kansans’ economic interests. His is a con dent neo-
liberalism which thinks that if we just inform people of the issues, they will vote better.
Christianity thinks all people are a good deal more wicked than that, so I will assess Frank’s
neo-liberal attempt at solving our political problems. Second, I want to talk about Joseph
Bottum’s An Anxious Age,3 which argues that the collapse of the mainline church is the
biggest political change in our country over the course of the last 50 years. Without
mainline Protestant support, Bottum is not sure America can survive as a democratic and
capitalistic country. Bottum also thinks abortion is the original sin in America, and it
explains all of the other political problems. Third, I will talk about my own teacher Stanley
Hauerwas and will describe him as a neo-orthodox gure (everybody gets a “neo-“). While
Hauerwas would not like that description of him, he is a Christian paci st for whom
following Jesus in a world of war must become a non-violent practice. If abortion is the
original sin for Bottum, war plays that role for Hauerwas. I will argue that the neo-liberal
and neo-conservative are two sides of the same coin, and I will show how Hauerwas “wins”
as a Christian agitator for non-violence. Throughout the paper, I will revisit stories of my
church and of encounters with Muslims, which I hope honor Islam as a great religion from
which we all can stand to learn. The way to do that, of course, is to be a con dent enough
Christian to say how you disagree with them. The answer to the question, “city on a hill…
still?” is yes. Of course the church is still the city on the hill; America thinks of itself as that,
but it is not. Theologically speaking, and only when viewed in light of the genuine city of
God, can we see America for what it is: our home, a good place like other good places, but
not exceptional with regard to God’s election.
I will start with a story about a friend on a plane, who is on her way to a “mission trip”
and happens to sit by a Muslim interlocutor. After talking for some time, he asks her
politely, “Why isn’t God enough for you? Why do you need Jesus also? Surely Allah, the all-
compassionate, the all-merciful, is enough. With him you lack for nothing, without him you
must lack everything.” My friend, then a youth group member and now a pastor, did not
have an answer. She went back home devoted herself to nding one, pursuing an expensive
divinity school degree, and we can only hope that she has an answer now. It represents a
basic airplane conversation we might expect a Muslim neighbor to begin, and it could
happen at a park or in the classroom hallway or over the vegetables in the grocery store
just as well. Why is Jesus such a big deal? Shouldn’t God be enough? I found the question
haunting. Would I know how to answer it? It is asked in good faith. This is not about an
election campaign or a debate; it is an innocent conversation with genuine interest after
which the two would never see one another again. Could most Christians respond? Is there
a response? I will return to these questions at the end of this paper.
Neo-Liberalism
When I teach writing, as I often do, I encourage students to read about the places to
which they travel. When in Morocco, read about Morocco; when in China, read about China,
and when in Kansas, read about Kansas. The United Methodist Bishop of Kansas and
Nebraska, Rev. Scott Jones, has an intriguing thesis on “what’s the matter with Kansas.”
That is the 2004 book title on the Sun ower State that drew headlines and responses all
over the world. The premise of Thomas Frank’s book is that voters in the newly red state
Kansas vote against their own economic interests. This is a deeply conservative place, but it
votes for neo-liberal economic policies that hamper unions, lower taxes on the wealthy,
hurt workplace and food protection, and, in short, make it better to be wealthy and worse
to be poor. Why do poor people vote to make these things happen? He hopes Kansas will
prove as a test case on the question of why America is so bitterly divided.
Bishop Jones thinks the bitter division in this country is due to the decline of main street
Methodism in county seat towns. Churches in little towns like Win eld, Kansas were places
where folks of all political stripes met together, worked on problems together, argued over
budgets, and learned to respect one another. But those Methodist churches are either
closed or struggling now, just like many businesses on main streets in Kansas and county
seat towns all over America. The churches to which those folks have ed, if they still go to
church, are Pentecostal and Roman Catholic, which often do not care as much about folks
meeting together across their di erences and honoring one another. Jones’s thesis is a
thesis that cannot be proved, of course, and it is oddly self-congratulatory for us Methodist
ministers to claim our decline has caused decline elsewhere. The oddity, however, does not
make it a false claim.
Frank describes a remarkable switch in Kansas history. This is a place where

progressives were once not latte-drinking, Ivy League-educated, pointy-headed
intellectuals. Progressives were John Brown: ery anti-slavery zealots who moved to Kansas
to keep slavery from expanding beyond slave-holding Missouri. The mural of John Brown in
the state capital of Topeka has him leading his fellow free soilers into a tornado-strewn
countryside with his arms outstretched, a Bible in one and a ri e in another. Lawrence was
founded as the “Boston of the Prairies,” its main street even named Massachusetts as a sign
of its New England anti-slavery inspiration. When William Quantrill destroyed Lawrence on
behalf of the Confederacy in 1863, Kansas’ ery allegiance to freedom for all people was
sealed eternally. There was a reason that the landmark Supreme Court legislation against
segregation happened in Topeka in 1954. Brown vs. Board of Education originated in
Kansas as a hat tip to a state that had always stood on the side of the underdog.
What’s the Matter with Kansas?
According to Thomas Frank, Kansas was hoodwinked. The conservative Right in this
country always resented the New Deal, labor unions, the Great Society, and any
government aid for the poor. The conservative Right resented the university-trained experts
who handed down these dubious gifts. Sometime around when Ronald Reagan added
“shining” to Jesus’ “city on a hill,” the conservative Right got what they wanted. They
managed to link Kansas’ populism and anger with conservative causes. There may have
been a time when siding with the Democratic party meant taking the side of the working
family, making access to education and health care universal, making the workplace and the
food supply safe, against millionaires and bosses and elites. But that changed. Perhaps it
was the advent of 24 hour cable that changed it, or hate radio, or maybe it was the
Democrats’ own fault. But now the Left is identi ed mostly by its consumer tastes: latte
sipping Volvo or Subaru driving know-it-alls who look down their noses at the plains as
yover country, who vote democratic, who strive to include gays and lesbians, who degrade
di erences between genders, who are for free love and abortion and against NASCAR and
patriotism. I put it in a way that I hope sounds ridiculous or even funny, but it is exactly what
we are told on cable television’s endless loop. Conservatives are now ordinary, authentic,
workaday patriotic Americans. Liberals are now e ete Europe-loving sellouts.
So what’s a Kansan to do? Vote conservative. Very conservative. This is part of what
Frank calls the great backlash. Ordinary Christian conservatives in Kansas are sick and tired
of being looked down on by the Liberal east and west coast elites. The real ght in this
state, as of ten years ago, was between moderate Republicans and conservative
Republicans. They claim to care about values, to be against homosexuality and Hollywood,
but as soon as they are elected, all they work to do is cut taxes. Wichita, Kansas was one of
the hardest hit cities economically in the wake of 9/11, with Boeing using the opportunity to
circumvent unions and shed jobs that would never come back; places like Garden City,
Kansas out west of Dodge City are the only places of growth, where animals are farmed by
immigrant workers for low wages and in dangerous conditions. Meanwhile, Mission Hills,
the Kansas City suburb, has a median income of $190,000, making it one of the wealthiest
counties in America. The appeal of the backlash is that somebody in the US Senate will
stand up and holler “Stop!” to smut and porn in our entertainment industry and the collapse
of small town American values. But the only result has been a reduction in taxes for the
wealthy and a decrease in bene ts for the poor. Once upon a time, Kansas mobs took
pitchforks and torches and took to the streets against slavery and for oppressed African-
Americans. Now, these mobs approach the mansions in Kansas City’s suburbs and shout
“We are here to cut your taxes!” Frank describes the backlash in this way:
This is a rebellion against ‘the establishment’ that has wound up cutting taxes
on inherited estates. Here is a movement whose response to the power
structure is to make the rich even richer; whose answer to the inexorable
degradation of working-class life is to lash out angrily at labor unions and
liberal workplace-safety programs; whose solution to the rise of ignorance in
America is to pull the rug out from under public education.4
The last line refers to the 2005 state legislature decision to let public schools teach without
reference to macro-evolution, which Frank calls a “barking idiocy.” I remember an NPR story
on evolution in Kansas where a proponent expressed hope that what was born there would
take root everywhere, and people would remember it all started in Kansas. Those standard
changes were reversed in 2007.
Frank’s book became an object of derision in many quarters. Surely Kansans are smart
enough to tell what is good for them and to vote accordingly. Frank was playing into his
own argument by playing the expert from elsewhere, telling poor benighted Kansans what
to do. But the book is better than that. He praises conservatives for building a movement in
this country, which liberals have failed to do. He criticizes Democrats for dropping any
opposition to free market economics, leaving abortion and cultural disdain as the only
arena in which they di er from Republicans. He observes that people do not spontaneously
understand their place in the grand sweep of things. Conservatives tell a story: Christians
are looked down upon and need to stand up for themselves. They vote accordingly. Then,
their elected representatives vote to cut taxes again. The pattern is as true today as ever,
with much of red America deeply angry over “Obamacare” and Democrats as out of touch
as ever.
In the spirit of Frank’s book, allow me to make an observation about Christianity and
Islam. A major Christian leader in this country, trying to be sympathetic with Islam, asked a
Muslim woman friend why Sharia law is so popular in Muslim countries. It appears even to
sympathetic outsiders to be harsh and oppressive to women, and not only to them. She
responded that with so many despotic leaders, many propped up by the US, Sharia grants
power to something else besides the state—namely to the Qur’ān. It might not be ideal,
but it is a lot better than dictatorship. Frank’s book and that story show the need for
something more than politics and economics to determine our lives, and in the next
section, Jody Bottum makes that more apparent still.
Frank’s book is not much fun to read. Its moral zeal feels like you are eating broken
glass, jolly only if you nd yourself on his side but miserable otherwise. In relation to the
claim made in the rst paragraph of this paper, that parents should send their children to
small Christian colleges, let me remind my readers that small Christian colleges were once
an argument in this debate. Not that these places made an argument; they were an
argument because they o ered education to all people—especially to the poor.5 Small
Christian colleges o er disciplines for a renewal of the mind in the image of Christ, who
loves and forgives his enemies. Women and minorities taught just as much as white men. In
Kansas, for instance, the owering of little institutions of grace on the prairie was a sign of
the outbreaking of the kingdom of God. In Win eld, Kansas, the United Methodist
Southwestern College sits on a hill—of which there are not very many in Kansas—and
shines not as a training ground for Democrats or Republicans but for Christian disciples.
These are not places where Christians think of themselves as persecuted, looked down on,
or resented. No, Christians see these institutions as the places where they studied, learned,
and became servants of others, where they learned how to stand up for their convictions
without being violent. Perhaps Main Street Methodism has a chance to be a source of
grace, rather than resentment, once more.
Neo-Conservative
Joseph Bottum was editor of First Things, a Catholically-informed journal about faith,
politics, and American culture. He has also long written for the National Review, a
conservative political journal. Both journals actively shape political opinion in this country. A
disclaimer: as an orthodox Christian thinker myself, I too have written for First Things. For
me, however, Christian orthodoxy is not married to political conservatism in the U.S., but for
those publications and for Bottum, they very much are married. His book An Anxious Age
argues that the most important fact in American culture in the last 50 years is the collapse
of mainline Protestantism. For him, the mainline churches—our own Methodists, the
Presbyterians, Lutherans, Disciples, and northern Baptists (not Southern)—functioned like a
state church did in Europe. They provided the moral language necessary for the country’s
support. They gave a vocabulary both for patriotism and for appropriate critique. As
membership in those churches has dropped from some 50% of Americans in the 1960s to
less than 10% now, there is a vacuum in that cultural space in this country. Bottum says
those churches are corpses, all the while not knowing that they are. (Those numbers are
disputed, and so is their meaning. You won’t be surprised to learn that Bottum is
responding to that dispute.) Without a central church in our culture, all we have to identify
ourselves by is the market or our political allegiances. The stool has no third leg on which to
stand. Catholicism provided it for a while, from about 1995 to about 2002 in Bottum’s
reckoning. Presidents and politicians used Catholic language for politics, like just war,
natural law, and the dignity of human life. We have six Catholics on the Supreme Court now,
three Jews, and no Protestants at all, but when the Catholic priest sex abuse crises broke
out in about 2002, that moral authority vanished. This book’s tone is as grim as Frank’s. You
would think Bottum would be con dent enough in God and God’s coming kingdom not to
fear as gravely as he seems to do.
Bottum is a commentator for whom abortion explains everything. What hope there is in
the Catholic Church for recovery from the loony 1960s comes from the pro-life movement,
since every diocese, however liberal, has a pro-life o ice. Catholic converts among the
young, among Protestant intellectuals, and among celebrities, suggest a rebirth of the
Catholic Church and its 67 million people in America. Catholics no longer vote as a bloc as
they once did from their ethnic immigrant enclaves, voting mostly for Democratic machine
politicians and union supporters in eastern cities. They now vote no di erently than anyone
else, a fact Bottum laments. But there is hope. Younger people poll more anti-abortion than
their elders, perhaps because of the in uence of 3D ultrasounds and research on DNA that
suggests our identity is set as soon as we are conceived. But Bottum’s view is a
declensionist one: things are bad and getting worse. He closes by imagining a day when
post-Protestant liberals ban Roman Catholicism from the social sphere altogether.
The most interesting portion of the book is what Bottum calls the Erie Canal Thesis—
the claim that you cannot understand American culture without seeing the ferment of faith
in upstate New York in the 19th and 20th centuries. This is the part of New York that feels
more southern than northern, and it looks more like Kansas than Manhattan. The Second
Great Awakening ripped through that area in New York, converting folks by the thousands,
populating churches that became the mainline. Mormonism was born there, too. So was
spiritualism, the e ort to communicate with the dead with Ouija boards and table knocking
that yielded us countless bad movies and youth group lock-in crises. The descendants of
those mainline converts are mostly politically liberal now. They have left the church. They
remain Protestant even if they do not know it. They express this with their looking down on
the unenlightened and their sneer at the religiously vulgar. Bottum calls these elites the
“poster children.” They are elect still, but simply not Christian. Those who do not share their
views, namely the conservatives, deserve the ire that revivalist preachers once poured on
the damned.
It is a whale of a thing to accuse someone of being religious when they do not know
they are, and I assume folks have always thought they were right and their opponents
wrong whether they are religious or not. Bottum writes as if this country does not have a
South. In my part of the world, Protestant faith is very much alive and well; it provides
plenty of patriotism and plenty of criticism of America. Bottum also ignores Evangelicalism.
His dismissal is because Evangelicals have never had enough structure of belief to support
a country’s culture, while Roman Catholics have had too much of one. How a book can talk
about the last fty years of faith in America without talking about Evangelicalism (there is
no mention Billy Graham) is beyond me.
In the spirit of Bottum’s book, and its blasé con dence in the superiority of Christianity,
let me tell you about a Christian leader in South Sudan, a friend named Joseph Taban
Lasuba, now of blessed memory. He describes the way that both Muslims and Christians
su ered under Bashar Al Asad when Sudan was one country. The di erence between them
is that Christians have the language and apparatus of forgiveness. His Muslim friends had
no such language, so all they could do was get angry and then become destructive of
themselves or of others. So Taban styled himself as an apostle of forgiveness to his Muslim
neighbors. He has the scars they have, and he has a savior who has scars too.
Frank and Bottum share misery, though from di erent sources. What is especially
remarkable is that both authors work hard to avoid any mention of Jesus. It is striking that
the new Left and new Right are so similar in this country. They both tell people how to vote
but not who to worship. Places like Southwestern College and vocations like mine do not
exist or make sense if Jesus is not Lord. Both authors also omit any mention of 9/11 or the
“war on terror.” This country has been at war now for over 13 years, and yet, in most of our
lives, we ignore it. This is because war is the normal American condition. We cannot
understand America without it ghting. Frank does mention that Wichita was hit harder by
9/11 than any city other than New York, and Bottum is right to say that mainline churches’
denominational leaders only bring up America to criticize it. (Our parishioners, my
parishioners, southern and evangelical as they are, only bring up America to bless it, but
never mind.) Here, Stanley Hauerwas can ll in the gap.
Neo-Orthodoxy
Stanley Hauerwas does not t your stereotype of a theologian, whatever that may be.
He has a Texan accent with a twang, which everybody tries to imitate but no one can. He
cusses as often as possible. He is a paci st, which becomes di icult to tell from the violent
way he talks. He loves Jesus and the church, and he wants the church to live more faithfully
to the gospel. If abortion explains everything for Bottum, war explains everything for
Hauerwas. America likes war a lot. Hauerwas argues in his recent book, War and the
American Di erence, that war is the central act of worship for Americans. War constitutes
us as a people. It is unclear whether there could be an America without war. He does not
mean that we, as a people, are particularly bloodthirsty or any worse than anybody else.
What he means is that, for many, serving in the military is the most morally determinative
event in their lives. I see this as a pastor. Folks want their military service spoken of at their
funerals. They are buried shrouded in ags, whereas we used to shroud co ins in baptismal
palls. Their fellow veterans re salutes for them graveside. You can be pretty sure what
someone worships by what they want their dead body wrapped in, to save them from the
grave. We, in the church, have relegated funerals to the nation-state. Veterans in my church
are buried shrouded in ags, with 21-gun salutes, as though these military rituals are what
will actually resurrect them. I have no quarrel with naming their “service,” as it is beautifully
called, as important in their lives, but should we so blithely give away graveside mourning
to these alternative liturgies? Those who hear those stories, see those burials, and talk to
those men learn how morally serious that sacri ce was. Then, they feel the need to have to
sacri ce themselves to be worthy of such sacri ces. War, for America, is a sacri cial system.
It is its own religion. This is why Hauerwas is so much against it, because the only true
sacri ce made is by Jesus on his cross. After his death, there are no more sacri ces
necessary. War in America competes for the space that Jesus claims as Lord. Because of
this, Hauerwas would accuse both Frank and Bottum of simply being “liberals.” They both
want the project of America to turn out right, that is to say, in their respective ways.
Hauerwas argues, quite simply, that religious people on both the right and the left share the
presumption that America is the church. America is the shining city on a hill. While liberals
and conservatives have their disagreements over how that should look in actual practice,
they agree that America is the “last best hope of humanity on earth,” in the words of
Abraham Lincoln’s second inaugural address. The church has to say that this is false. The
church has to confess that it is the church of Jesus Christ.
We should notice that Hauerwas is willing to say the word “Jesus” as part of his
arguments. That is what makes him a Christian theologian. Frank makes no such claim.
Bottum is a conservative Catholic who claims to write from that vantage point. He has quite
a lot to say that illuminates contemporary Catholicism, some illuminating things to say
about Protestantism, but very few things to say about God. If you grant that there is a God,
you might also grant that those who believe in him and order their lives around him may
talk about him. Hauerwas argues that, after the ascension of Jesus, everything bears witness
to the rule of Christ, even if it does not mean to or know it does. Many who study war speak
as though it is the natural condition of humanity, that we are war-making creatures by
nature. Christians know that cannot be true. Though we sin terribly, and history is a pile of
bones, we are created for peace. Furthermore, Christ is our peace, as Ephesians says. We
o er one another the peace of Christ in worship. We try to embody that peace in our lives.
All forms of sin, including war-making, have been cruci ed and defeated in the cross of
Christ. These powers and principalities still pop up in such forms of violence, from time to
time: in Iraq and Afghanistan, in Baltimore and Ferguson, in our hearts and communities.
The peace of Christ’s resurrection will ll the world one day, and the church is a signpost of
that peace in the meantime.
As you may guess, Hauerwas has his critics, Bottum included, who call him a typical
“liberal,” but whatever else Stanley Hauerwas is, a liberal he is not. If you ask Hauerwas
what would be better than liberal democracy, he would reject the question. It is not for
Christians to rule or take power or say how to do so. We are not nonviolent as a strategy to
rid the world of war. We are nonviolent because, in a world at war, we cannot imagine any
other way to act and to live. The best argument against violence is this—Christians are
commanded to turn the other cheek, not to return evil for evil, true enough for us. But what
about for our weaker neighbor? It is one thing to say that I should sacri ce my life instead of
participating in violence. It is yet another thing to say that a weaker neighbor should be
sacri ced for my convictions. In the just war tradition, Christians rely on violence to keep a
neighbor from being harmed, not for their own sake. Hauerwas’s question back would be,
how do drone attacks keep a weaker neighbor from being harmed?
What does all of this have to do with 9/11 and its liturgical anniversary? When I
preached on that secular feast day a few years ago, I told a few stories. I told about
Maximilian Kolbe, who went to his death in place of a Jewish father in a concentration
camp. I told of dissidents in communist countries who died forgiving their murderers. These
stories work because they are so like the story of Jesus, who dies forgiving his cruci ers and
empowers us by his Spirit to do the same. My stories made people angry because it is so
di erent than the rhetoric for war we hear from our civil religion, but I hope they were angry
because they heard the gospel. Perhaps I heard it too. When 9/11 hit, Peter Storey, a
Methodist bishop of South Africa and great leader against apartheid, said that America’s
response of wanting to know who did it and with whom to go to war was typical. South
Africans would want to know who hurt them in order to know who to forgive, and this
means that South Africans are more Christian than we are. Hauerwas points out that by
calling it a “war” on terror we honored Osama bin Ladin. We speak of him as a warrior, a
soldier. He was a mass murderer. Soldiers are more honorable than that.
So What?
Where to go from here? The simplest answer is that Christians have to talk to Muslims.
We have to learn from one another, as modern liberalism insists, but we have to go further
still. We have to disagree with one another, which is much harder. John Courtney Murray, the
great mid-century Catholic social thinker, used to say a genuine disagreement is a great
moral act. It is hard to gure out what you think, what I think, where we di er. And how
much harder here? How many of us have Muslim neighbors we talk to about ultimate
things, let alone religion? This is what the world needs us to do. If we fail to do so, the only
people left making meaning are (a) governments, (b) insurgent groups with their weapons,
and (c) the clueless media. It may seem uncomfortable talking about religious di erence,
but it remains much better than violence.
I have been involved in a practice called Scriptural Reasoning (SR), which was born out
of the thought of Peter Ochs, a rabbinic Jew at the University of Virginia, and David Ford, a
Christian theologian at Cambridge University. In SR, you argue as Christians, Muslims, and
Jews over each other’s scriptures. You are not using the interreligious-politeness part of
your brain, but you use the most deeply faithful part—the part with which we read Scripture
and love God. And you can see disagreements most clearly. The groups started with only
Christians and Jews. Then Muslims became involved, and the Jews all relaxed while the
Christians got nervous. Muslims and Jews share similar dietary customs; Muslims and Jews
know that they do not t in with modernity. Christians say, “Hey, I thought we were reading
Scripture, what’s with this Qur’ān stu ?” The Jews respond, “well, what were we doing when
we were reading the New Testament? That’s not scripture for us Jews.” Conversations need
three partners. This is why marriages need marriage counselors and why Christians believe
in the Trinity.
I was struck in those groups by how much I learned simply from talking to esh-and-
blood Muslims, which is embarrassingly di icult for me to say. We were speaking about the
Qur’ān’s story of Noah. In that story, unlike the Jewish Torah and the Christian Bible, Noah
has a son who will not get on the ark. The boy says that he will run up the mountain and be
ne, but he drowns. In the Jewish and Christian version, Noah and his family of survivors
might be tempted to think that they are morally special. God judged everyone else, after all,
but in the Qur’ānic version, Noah is on the ark with a broken heart. His own boy is now
gone. Far from superior, he must feel broken, which is how all sinners should feel.
Modernity has its pretensions about interreligious dialogue. It should be polite, and it
should dwell on similarities rather than di erences. But we all know that the interesting
stu is in the di erences, and here the Qur’ān says something of which I nd myself jealous.
Peter Ochs, the Jewish philosopher behind SR, says that he does not want to talk to a
Christian who does not want to convert him. These di erences matter for life and death and
salvation. We should argue as if they do, because they do.
Miroslav Volf’s book on Islam is another example.6 He argues that the version of the
doctrine of the trinity that the Qur’ān rejects is one the church has never held. We have
never believed that God is divided in three or works as three people on a committee. We
believe the three persons of the Trinity are more one than anything in creation. When he
describes the trinity as a three-fold pattern of action by the one God, Muslim listeners get
interested. It turns out that the incarnation is a bridge too far: that God can be born of a
creature and nurse at her knee is what makes Christianity Christian, and it is an unbearable
loss of majesty for Islam. But now we nd ourselves in a lovers’ quarrel rather than a clash
of civilizations.
So what of the Muslim airline passenger’s question to my friend? Why is God not
enough? Why do we also need Jesus? And, in a Muslim’s mind, why do we also need the
Holy Spirit, the angels, the saints, the eucharist and baptism, and why all these physical
things that we venerate and worship? I sometimes wonder if Islam is a tidied up version of
Christianity: none of this Trinity nonsense; none of this paci sm or just war business. One
God with a full stop, no incarnation and no sacramental system. I, instead, like the
messiness of our Christian mysteries. Why is God not enough? He is. God has poured
himself out totally in Jesus, and Jesus and God together have poured themselves out totally
in the Holy Spirit. The three together pour themselves out in our lives as Jesus, who dies for
us and rises to save. God does not have to keep himself safe from the world. It is no loss of
grandeur for God to become esh, and it shows God’s grandeur to be more grand than we
thought: that with no loss to himself, God could bend lower than us to save us.
In the 5th century in north Africa (then Christian, now Muslim), Augustine argued that all
of human history sees two cities: a city of God and a city of humanity, over against one
another. In due time, God will establish his city in full; for now, however, the church is the
earnest, the down payment on the city of God. We should not be surprised when the city of
God breaks out in the midst of this world, as God broke out in the esh of Mary. We should
not be surprised when the city of humanity in which we all live is violent, its life brutish,
nasty, and short. The two cities share di erent ends: love of God and neighbor in one case,
domination of neighbor and disdain of God in the other. I want to be clear here that no
earthly city, no country, no people, are the city of God full stop. Even the church is only on
the way to being God’s city. God will bring that city in full in his own time. In the meantime,
all earthly approximations of the city of God are just that—approximations. The church, in
Paul’s language, is the down payment on the city, or in mine the acorn that will ower forth
into the tree of life. We are on the way, but we are not there yet.
Notes
1. William Deresiewicz, “Don’t Send Your Kids to the Ivy League Schools: The Nations Top Schools Are Turning Our Kids
Into Zombies,” The New Republic, (July 21, 2014). http://www.newrepublic.com/article/118747/ivy-league-schools-are-
overrated-send-your-kids-elsewhere
2. Sidney Mead, A Nation with the Soul of a Church (New York: Harper and Row, 1975).
3. Joseph Bottum, An Anxious Age: The Post-Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of America, (New York: Penguin Random House
Publishing, 2014).
4. What’s the Matter with Kansas? (New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2005), 7.
5. See Stanley Hauerwas’s chapter “To Love God, the Poor, and Learning: Lessons Learned from St. Gregory of Nazianzus”
in The State of the University: Academic Knowledges and the Knowledge of God, (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd, 2007).
6. Allah: A Christian Response, (San Francisco: HarperOne, 2012).
PDF Version
Play and Particularity: A Response to Higton and

Muers
Mike Higton and Rachel Muers, The Text in Play: Experiments in Reading Scripture
(Eugene: Cascade Books, 2012), 260 pgs. $29.
Mark Randall James

The University of Virginia
In The Text in Play: Experiments in Reading Scripture, Higton and Muers commend and
exemplify a form of scriptural reading they call “serious play.” This paradoxical expression
denotes a dialectical form of scriptural interpretation that moves between serious attention
to Scripture’s “grit” and di iculty, which they correlate with the “letter” of Scripture, and
playful experimentation with its possibilities, which they designate Scripture’s “spirit.” They
o er their book as a series of “experiments” rather than a de nitive theory of scriptural
hermeneutics, demonstrating how a moment of playfulness in the interpretation of
Scripture can help to open up latent possibilities within the text. Most chapters consist of
readings of particular scriptural passages, in the general spirit of those who have advocated
a return to the “theological interpretation of Scripture.”1 Our authors distinguish
themselves, however, by their unusually meditative style and their consistent interfaith
engagement. Their readers get to see them at work, meditating playfully on texts and
problematizing received readings. So many books theorize about interpretation; our
authors actually interpret.
The book is divided into three sections. In the rst section, the authors o er a series of
explicitly Christian experiments in playful reading. In the second section, they examine and
model the interfaith practice of Scriptural Reasoning (SR). Their notion of ‘serious play’ is
explicitly developed from their experience practicing SR; hence, this middle section is the
heart of the book. In the shorter third section, the authors o er a series of scriptural
re ections on the natural world.
Dialogue and Destabilization
The Text in Play is thoroughly dialogical in character.2 The chapters are written by two
di erent British authors, of di erent Christian persuasions and with di erent academic
emphases: Higton is an evangelical charismatic Anglican and systematic theologian, and
Muers is a Quaker and ethicist. Their readings also unfold dialogically, performing for their
readers the back and forth of the interpretive process rather than simply presenting the
abstracted results of this process. They tend to o er successive interpretations, each stage
calling into question or making more complex the reading tentatively and naively o ered in
an earlier stage. This way of writing forces the reader to attend as much to process as to
result, and particularly to the forms of argument and reasoning presupposed by various
reading strategies.
A good example is chapter 4, “Keeping a Hard Text in Play I: Will the Real Women
Please Stand Up?” The chapter aims to exhibit how ‘serious play’ can reinvigorate Christian
reading of di icult and divisive texts like I Timothy 2:8-15, which includes that infamous
command, “Let a woman learn in silence with full submission.” A rst reading draws the
apparently straightforward lesson that women are forbidden from teaching men. But they
immediately note certain “neutralizing strategies” made available by the text itself (28).
First Timothy is a letter written to a particular community in a particular context, which
suggests that Paul’s exhortations are not necessarily valid for every context. Moreover,
Paul elsewhere commends the ‘spirit’ over the ‘letter;’ might not the spirit of this passage
simply be that the church should conduct itself so as not to o end the surrounding
community? The rst reading thereby performs the familiar impasse between ‘conservative’
and ‘liberal’ interpretations.
Higton and Muers try to overcome this impasse by o ering further ‘playful’ readings:
What if, even though this is a text that originally addressed women and called
them to silence, the appropriate Christian response to it is to recognize that
Christian readers are all called to learn in silence with full submission? What if,
in the terms of this text, we are all women now? (29)
They suggest three di erent routes to this reading. First, the text’s reference to women
“saved by childbirth” evokes the gure of Mary, whom many Christians have seen as a type
of the whole church. Might it not be that, as suggested in Ephesians 5:21-22, the submission
of women here, like that of Mary, is a model for that of everyone in the church? A second
route expands First Timothy’s surprising reading of Genesis 3. If First Timothy grounds the
silence of women in the fact that Eve was deceived, was not Adam also deceived? A third
route argues that since women plainly do teach men elsewhere in the canon, it may be that
men too should submit to women. This observation also provides a general warrant for
playful readings, for it shows that it may be impossible to harmonize a plain sense reading
of every canonical text. This sort of argument, of course, has been used since Origen to
justify non-literal reading strategies.3
Like many of their readings, this chapter culminates in an assertion of playful reading’s
fundamental instability: “[I]n destabilizing a rst reading that was understood as a stopping
point, [the second reading] has initiated an ongoing process of rereading and re ection.
The play must go on…” (32). Similarly, for example, chapter 7: “I think it is important that
Christian readers let the di iculties of the text stand, and pay attention to them — that they
avoid trying to nd answers and resolutions that would mean they didn’t have to face
them…” (67). They summarize their whole book: “We do not, in this book, o er a resolution.
…Rather, we advocate a rhythm of reading practice, a certain style of ongoing interpretative
argument” (19).
One might worry that there is something oddly stable about all this destabilization,
something altogether too tidy about the way our authors encourage us to “acknowledge”
the di iculties of Scripture and “wrestle with” its grit. Our authors do recognize that
Scripture can ‘destabilize’ only in relation to the serious e ort to seek an appropriate
stability, and some of their essays (particularly in section III) draw clearer ethical and
theological conclusions. They acknowledge that real lives are at stake (30) and that
concrete decisions must sometimes be made by churches struggling with these texts,
rejecting what they call “a laissez-faire pluralism” (40). But they o er few explicit clues
about how to move from playful reading to decisive action. I wish they had re ected more
on the dialectic between stability and destabilization and o ered more guidance about how
a moment of playful reading might relate to the di icult, zero-sum choices that often face
Christian churches and individuals.
Scriptural Reasoning
The practice of Scriptural Reasoning is the matrix out of which their style of playful
reading has arisen. Their experience of interfaith dialogue has obviously enriched the way
they read texts, even when reading as Christians for Christians. Muers’ delightful essay
“Literal Reading and Other Animals I: Setting Free the Mother Bird” (193-218), for example,
engages with medieval Jewish and Christian commentaries in a rich discussion of the bird’s
nest pericope in Deut. 22:6-7 and its implications for an ethic of compassion. Our authors
also engage carefully and sympathetically with the Qur’an, evidently with the expectation
of learning not only about Islam but also about God and His ways in the world, yet they do
so without collapsing or trivializing the profound di erences between Christianity and
Islam. Thus, in chapter 14, Higton o ers a close reading of Sura 2:258 that leads to insights
about the notion of prophecy within the Christian tradition (156). Other Christian thinkers
have felt free (or obligated) to engage with Islamic texts — for example, Aquinas reading
Ibn Sina,4 or medieval Arab Christians interacting with the Qur’an5 — but such
engagements are all too rare. Our authors present a commendable model of how interfaith
dialogue itself can be part of productive and disciplined Christian reasoning.
One of the most valuable pieces in this book is chapter 9, by Mike Higton, which
presents a redacted version of an actual SR conversation about Sura 40:78, intended to
function as a primary text of sorts for scholars who discuss SR (94-109). There are, of
course, obvious limits to what any single example can display of a whole practice like SR,
but it seems to me that Higton succeeds in producing a text that is quite characteristic of a
great many SR conversations. His descriptive re ections on this conversation (109-112) are
particularly rich and full of insights about SR as a practice. These four pages are worth the
price of the book!
For example, Higton describes SR reading as “exegesis without exegesis,” reading that
attends carefully to the details of the text without producing a single, systematic reading.
In Higton’s sample text, the participants meditate on a number of possible interpretations
of what it is to be a “messenger” and a “vain-doer,” without the exhaustive exegetical work
that would characterize a traditional or historical commentary. Higton also points out how
SR conversations lead to an “ambiguity of voice,” the tendency for readers to speak for a
moment as if the Scriptures of others were their own. One Jewish reader, for example,
notes that God’s messengers must “[wait] on a message that is utterly beyond [their]
control,” illustrating the point with reference to Moses and Muhammad (106). A Christian
reader paraphrases a Qur’anic text without caveat: “Listen out for messengers, they’re all
around you” (98)! Discussions of the text tend to provoke consideration of assumptions and
background knowledge, what Higton calls “exploring the penumbra” around the text. And
— a crucial observation — “running jokes” tend to emerge, a sign of the playful intimacy
that SR can develop among those who practice it.
Higton’s coinages are particularly useful for characterizing the unique interfaith
rationality that SR fosters. For example, he describes SR conversations as exhibiting a
dynamic of “stuttering and motoring,” which he displays in part through the device of
writing stage directions that note where two participants eagerly interrupt each other, or
where participants pause before changing the subject. In this way, Higton calls our attention
not only to the content of the discussion but to its character as a dynamic performance of
embodied individuals, not unlike what one nds in the best Platonic dialogues. Higton also
describes SR conversations as generating ad hoc “pick-and-mix” vocabularies. For example,
the conversation returns repeatedly to the metaphor of immunization and contagion to
illuminate the way “vain-doers” resist God’s messengers. Participants also “pick-and-mix”
philosophical vocabulary or doctrinal terms from their own traditions, some of which “take”
in the conversation and some of which do not. Higton also points to a dialectic of
“playfulness and discipline” in which participants o er playful and imaginative hypotheses
and then return to the rough ground of the text. The implication is that SR can sometimes
take on an almost scienti c character: hypotheses are formulated and then tested against
the particular data at hand.
By combining an exemplary dialogue with thick description, Higton’s text should

provoke re ection on the character of the shared but ad hoc rational discourse that can
emerge between members of di erent religious traditions through SR, discourse that may
be enabled rather than undermined by traditional reading practices and religious

commitments.
SR and the Problem of Particularism
Our authors are at their best when they are o ering close, exploratory readings of texts
and careful empirical descriptions; this is evidently one of the skills they have cultivated
through the practice of SR. The book is weaker when they attempt to o er a general
apologia for SR. Their central argument is that SR exempli es the sort of ‘public’ discourse
that is possible between religious traditions within the framework of a particularistic
account of religious rationality. By ‘particularistic’ (my word, not theirs) I mean, negatively,
a suspicion of general or transcendental attempts to articulate universal structures of
humanity, rationality, religion, or whatever. Positively, I mean a commitment to the tradition-
speci city of discourse, especially religious reasoning. Where particularism is o ered
(usually by well-intentioned critics of modernity) as a universal theory of rationality, it
becomes self-defeating, an instance of the sort of universal account of rationality it claims
to reject. My fear is that our authors have run aground on this contradiction.
One sign of this is a tendency to conjoin particularistic rhetoric with universalistic claims
about the character of reasoning and faithfulness for all religious traditions. The
particularistic emphasis is expressed programmatically in Higton’s account of the
rationality exhibited by SR:
[SR] practitioners engage in it without an agreed account of why they do so,

without an agreed account of what it is that they are doing, and without an
agreed hermeneutic or theory of scripture. They do it without the sanction of a
theory of argumentation structuring the neutral space within which their
traditions can meet. But they do it nonetheless, and as they do so their
di ering patterns of religious reasoning mesh into something public:
something in which participants’ minds are changed by means of discussion
and engagement. (113)
Though participants engage in SR for tradition-speci c reasons,
those reasons and those practices somehow make for a sustainable common
practice. One can provide contestable Christian accounts, contestable Jewish
accounts, contestable Muslim accounts — but any attempt to unify these into
a general account cannot be anything other than a tentative post-hoc
approximation, with an authority for the participants of the three traditions

considerably less than the authority of the individual accounts produced from
within their own traditions. Acceptance of such a general account could not
meaningfully be o ered to the members of religious traditions as a condition
for the possibility of their participation in Scriptural Reasoning…(113f)
Higton is surely correct that SR, as a practice, aims to respect the integrity of particular
religious rationalities and the tradition-speci c reasons for which individuals may
participate in SR. The trouble is that he also wants to argue that SR as a practice is
consistent with faithful adherence to any particular religious tradition. In order to execute
this task, he is forced to o er an overly-generalized theory of tradition that tends to
undercut the particularity of the traditions that participate in SR. In what follows, I shall
focus on what I regard as the clearest example of this problem: Mike Higton’s account of
tradition in chapter 16.
Higton’s particularistic intent is quite explicit in the rhetoric and form of the chapter. It
unfolds as a reading of a particular Christian scriptural text, the rst chapter of Mark’s
gospel. It then proceeds to explore issues raised in his reading by proposing aphorisms and
commenting on them. As a genre, the aphorism is well-suited to the particularist, since
aphorisms typically express tradition-speci c wisdom, true only generally and for the most
part, and since aphorisms remain vague until wisely applied in a particular context.
Similarly, commentary is a form of discourse particularly appropriate for the development
of tradition-speci c forms of reasoning, since it takes some form of received wisdom as its
starting point.
As Higton’s reading proceeds, he emphasizes at several points that he o ers his claims
primarily for Christian readers, and only secondarily and tentatively for those outside his
tradition — a characteristically particularistic avowal. He states this most explicitly in a
footnote near the end:
Note that I have slipped here from talking about the meaning of ‘tradition’ in a
Christian context (or at least one construal of what ‘tradition’ means in a
Christian context, which I o er for the recognition primarily of Christian
readers) to using the term in the same way for Judaism and Islam as well.
Implicitly, I am o ering this construal of the meaning of ‘tradition’ to Jewish
and Islamic readers in the hope that they will recognize that an analogous
construal is possible for their religious houses — without any certainty of
success. (185)
His particularistic intention is clear. He frames his discussion of tradition as rst and
foremost an act of intra-Christian dialogue, drawn from Christian sources and o ered to a
Christian audience. Only insofar as there may exist analogies between his tradition and
others — analogies which he, as an outsider, is not competent to judge — can his
proposals also prove useful for members of other religious traditions to consider.
The claim that he has “slipped” only at this point into speaking about tradition in
general terms is puzzling, however, for as far as I can tell, the whole chapter outlines a
general and normative theory of tradition applicable to all religions. From the rst, Higton
frames his reading of Mark in terms of general questions about tradition with general
analytic categories already to hand, primarily “the interplay or tension between continuity
and discontinuity, faithfulness and innovation” (168). Higton confesses that his study has
led him to discover a more complex relationship between these categories, but he never
questions the adequacy of these general categories themselves.
One of the hermeneutic consequences of reading Mark framed by these general

categories is that he adopts a classic modernist reading strategy: he interprets the gures of
Jesus and John the Baptist as exemplary of these general categories. For example: “Jesus,
speaking ‘a new teaching — with authority’ in the synagogue, is doing what always
happens in the synagogue, if the synagogue is a context for the faithful continuing of
devout life” (180, emphasis original). Or: “For Mark, John’s ministry represents, in its
eschatological immediacy and its liminality, the starkest version of the equation between
faithful continuity and prophetic challenge — but in doing so he simply dramatizes what is
always and everywhere the necessary nature of tradition” (180). Now to read Jesus and John
as exemplary of all tradition seems dubious. Both, after all, are remembered in Mark and
other texts as highly innovative gures whose ministries ultimately led to a radical breach
within the Jewish tradition. Indeed, Jesus’ “new teaching with authority” is speci cally
remembered as a distinctive mode of tradition, in contrast to other modes, that marked him
out as the Messiah. Unlike the scribes and Pharisees, who passed on ancient teaching on
the authority of Scripture or the elders, Jesus taught something new and on his own
authority. Surely on Mark’s view, this is not at all what “always happens in the synagogue”
— no one would suspect that Jesus is the Messiah if that were the case. If these gures are
nevertheless exemplary of how all tradition functions, it can only be in a highly general and
uninformative sense.
Higton’s hermeneutic here resembles not so much the playful reading he and Muers
commend elsewhere as it does that of the arch-universalist Immanuel Kant. Kant too
regards Jesus as exemplary of a general concept given in advance, that of the morally
perfect individual. As Higton’s Jesus exempli es what faithful continuance of devout life
“always” entails, and as his John dramatizes “what is always and everywhere the necessary
nature of tradition,” so Kant’s Jesus is exemplary of a moral disposition that is “perfectly
valid for all human beings, at all times, and in all worlds…”6 As a reading of the scriptural
text, of course, Kant’s interpretation is forced, but this need not trouble him if — as he
argues — the ground of the moral law is our universal reason. Higton’s forced reading,
however, cannot be so easily reconciled with his laudible commitment to develop
theological ideas in dialogue with the sources of his tradition.
One nds a similar problem when one considers Higton’s aphorisms. Higton tends to
formulate and comment on his aphorisms as though they express timeless truths, thereby
undermining their putatively aphoristic character. He frequently formulates his aphorisms
using universal quanti ers (“all” and “every”): e.g. aphorism 1, “all action is the action of our
past”; aphorism 2, “every action tells a story”; and aphorism 11, “all tradition is invented in
response to change.” To be sure, this fact does not decisively indicate that Higton intends
his claims to function universally, since words expressing universal quanti cation need not
do so in an aphoristic context. “A watched pot never boils” is not intended as a universal
claim about all pots, notwithstanding the universally quanti ed “never”. But Higton’s
commentary on his aphorisms only accentuates his ambition to o er a universal theory of
tradition. “One always and inevitably acts in a way that is thoroughly beholden to one’s
past,” he says of aphorism 1 (173). Of aphorism 2: “My second aphorism makes the claim that
all action tells such stories” (174, emphasis original). Of aphorism 3: “all action construes the
past” (174, emphasis original again). He also shows that his account applies not only to
Christianity but to all religious traditions by his choice of examples. We saw above that his
theory extends to “what always happens in the synagogue,” i.e. within Judaism; elsewhere
he even applies his account to secular traditions that develop in the workplace (175).
Only later in the chapter do his aphorisms adopt speci cally Christian language, which
Higton repeatedly describes as “translations” of his general claims. For example, in
aphorism 12 he makes the general claim that no tradition exists without continually o ering
proposals about how to “construe” the past and social mechanisms for recognizing certain
construals as legitimate. In aphorism 13, he o ers a Christian translation: “Tradition cannot
exist without prophecy.” He then comments:
I have said that tradition is inherently and unavoidably marked by speaking out
of the construed past, into a changed situation, proposing a way forward —
and speaking in such a way that the faithfulness and authority of this proposal
is recognized. You could therefore say that tradition is impossible without
prophecy: without authoritative and faithful forthtelling. And so, for the
Christian tradition, the making of proposals (the activity of construal that is at
the heart of tradition) can be understood as the prophesying of the members
of the body of Christ. (179, emphasis original)
Higton proceeds from a general account of making “proposals” within traditions to its
Christian translation in terms of “prophecy”. The plausibility of this translation depends on
construing prophecy as “authoritative and faithful forthtelling”. But much is lost in this
abstract formulation. It ignores, for example, the particular institutions of prophecy
remembered in the Hebrew Bible or the “thus says the LORD” immediacy of the classical
prophets. Since most of Judaism and much of Christianity claims, in an important sense,
that prophecy has ceased, if “tradition cannot exist without prophecy,” this can only be the
case according to a fairly idiosyncratic de nition of prophecy. One begins to suspect that
what content “prophecy” has here is largely controlled by his general account of the
process of proposal and recognition within all traditions.
I suggested above that Higton produces a universal theory of tradition, contrary to his
particularistic intentions, because of an apologetic desire to show that Scriptural Reasoning
as such is consistent with faithfulness to any particular tradition. Higton states this
apologetic thesis about SR as follows: “[P]articipants in Scriptural Reasoning do so as
people who belong to di erent traditions,” and indeed, they “make Scriptural Reasoning
possible precisely by remaining faithful to their traditions in the process” (185). One way to
see the di iculty is by noticing an equivocation between these two clauses. When we
speak of SR as involving “people who belong to di erent traditions,” we use the word
“tradition” in a minimal and primarily referential sense to describe a rule that is largely
constitutive of SR. That is, we mean only that for SR to be SR, a session should ordinarily
include participants who identify themselves as Jews, Christians, or Muslims, and that these
participants are under no obligation to bracket their religious identity or to translate it into
putatively universal terms.7
By contrast, the claim that participants “make SR possible precisely by remaining

faithful to their traditions in the process” must have a very di erent status, for it is surely
not a constitutive rule of SR, as if SR participants were required to o er readings that they
(let alone other participants or the facilitator) regarded as “faithful” to their own tradition.
Instead, if we take the word “tradition” in the same minimal and referential sense as
Higton uses it in the rst clause, his claim must be taken as an empirical one. To evaluate it
empirically, we would need to examine the rules of SR — for example, that participants are
often encouraged to speak in their own voice and o er their own interpretations (which at
least some traditions some of the time surely discourage). The free-wheeling character of
Higton’s sample SR conversation in chapter 9 exempli es the freedom that SR sessions
typically accord to each individual interpreter. We would also need to examine the e ects
of SR. I have known some individuals who confess that participating in SR makes them feel
guilty, and others who have been reprimanded by religious authorities for participating in
SR. Higton and Muers themselves emphasize the potentially disruptive character of SR’s
playful style of reading; one suspects that at least some traditions some of the time
construe disruptive reading as unfaithfulness.
It is no wonder that Higton pro ers, instead, a constructive and normative de nition of
tradition that incorporates an a priori account of what faithfulness to any tradition consists:
namely, that it must include the activity of rereading and re-construing the inherited sources
of one’s tradition (185). The normativity of his account is so sharp that he can state that his
account of tradition “comes close” to the assertion that “a real tradition cannot exist this
side of the eschaton” (183). Only if one accepts this normative and universal account of
tradition does it follow, as Higton wants to argue, that SR participants pursue faithfulness
to their traditions “in the only way that faithfulness is possible: by going back to the sources
of their traditions (to their inheritance) and looking at them again with fresh eyes” (186).
Given the general scope of Higton’s whole account, it is very di icult to see how he can
then legitimately limit its validity only to “the meaning of ‘tradition’ in a Christian context.”
Although this caveat is intended as an expression of epistemic humility, its e ect in this
context is that Higton both commits himself to truth claims about the traditions of those
outside of his own community and insulates himself from direct criticism of those claims by
a particularistic retreat.
Beyond Particularism
If SR is, at least implicitly, suspicious of universalizing theories, it does not so much

replace universalism with particularism as require individuals to attend to particulars, which
is not the same thing. By focusing one’s attention on short passages and a few individuals,
SR creates the conditions for testing general claims and assumptions, whether about one’s
own text and tradition or those of another. Neither purportedly universal claims and
reasons, nor tradition-speci c ones, are left untouched. Indeed, in certain circumstances
(e.g., where participants have more or less equal power), it may be that making a claim
general enough to implicate others is an important part of the process of tempering it
appropriately. One suspects that, had Higton said in the context of an SR session that all
tradition looks like Jesus teaching in the synagogue, or that faithfulness always requires
going back to the sources with fresh eyes, he would have been challenged by some of his
interlocutors precisely because ‘tradition’ is not a Christian-speci c category but is rather
contested territory. One may theorize about ’tradition’ in general, but not without
considering empirically how Jewish or Muslim or any other tradition functions, in dialogue
with members of those traditions. The vastness of the empirical task should check one’s
universalizing ambitions, and SR is one context in which this occurs. Indeed, SR may
actually teach us that if particularists were less tentative about o ering their claims to
members of other traditions, they might be more tentative in how they ultimately formulate
and hold them.
It might have been more faithful to our authors’ generally empirical orientation, their
commitment to epistemic humility, and their deep insight into the way SR can be both
generative and destabilizing, had they described SR in something like the following way.
Many traditions have made the practice of studying their original sources with the
expectation of receiving new insights a fundamental part of the life of that tradition; the so-
called Abrahamic religions have, generally, been exemplary instances of this; and one of
the potential bene ts of SR for such a tradition is that, by reading one’s own text with those
for whom it is unfamiliar, exciting and useful new insights frequently come to the fore. But
such insights can potentially be quite troubling or destabilizing, and it would be impossible
to say that this destabilizing might not lead some to be unfaithful to their tradition, at least
as some SR practitioners or others within their tradition construe faithfulness to that
tradition.
I o er these comments in a spirit of deep sympathy with Higton and Muers. They have
shown how practicing and re ecting on Scriptural Reasoning might renew the way we read
and argue, how ‘serious play’ might help us overcome some of the deepest and most
entrenched habits of modernity, and how Christians in particular can enter into interfaith
dialogue in a spirit of genuine humility and openness. I hope Christian theologians and
readers of Scripture will have ears to hear all that Higton and Muers have to teach.
Notes
1. For good introductions to the theological interpretation of Scripture, see Stephen Fowl, ed., The Theological
Interpretation of Scripture: Classic and Contemporary Readings, (Cambridge: Blackwell Publishing Ltd., 1997), and Stephen
Fowl, Theological Interpretation of Scripture, (Eugene: Cascade Books, 2009).
2. The acknowledgements (ix-xi) discretely attribute most of the chapters to one or the other of our two authors. I went
back and forth about whether I should attribute particular chapters to one or to both. Following their lead in the
acknowledgements, I nally opted for the former course. The one exception to this is my discussion of chapter 4, which
the acknowledgments do not attribute to either author (perhaps an editorial oversight?).
3. See Origen’s On First Principles 4, Commentary on John 10, and many other places.
4. See David Burrell, “Thomas Aquinas and Islam,” Modern Theology 20, vol. 1 (January 2004), 71-89.
5. See Sidney Gri ith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008), 166-169.
6. Religion within the Bounds of Mere Reason 6:66, in Allen W. Wood and George di Giovanni, trans. and ed., Religion and
Rational Theology, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 108.
7. Compare Nicholas Adams’ statement that “the principal conditions for participation [in SR] seem to be membership of
one of the traditions and the desire to understand members of other traditions’ interpretations of their own scripture, and
their interpretation of one’s own scripture” (Habermas and Theology, [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006],
241). He also makes the helpful observation that “scriptural reasoning thus means, for its participants, acknowledging that
their particular traditions do not encourage their joint reading of scripture, but doing it anyway” (240). The more sharply
these traditions discourage SR, the less tenable is Higton’s claim that one can do SR while remaining faithful to one’s own
tradition.
PDF Version
Review of William Young, Uncommon

Friendships: An Amicable History of Modern
Religious Thought
William Young, Uncommon Friendships: An Amicable History of Modern Religious

Thought, (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2009), 317+xi pgs. $36.00
W. C. Hackett
Australian Catholic University
This capacious and well-rounded book returns to a classical yet severely neglected
theme within theology and philosophy: friendship. It focuses on friendship in three modern
and idiosyncratic iterations (and what genuine friendship is not idiosyncratic, or even sui
generis?): rst, the intellectual and religious friendships of Jewish philosopher Franz
Rosenzweig and the lesser-known Jewish-Christian thinker Eugene Rosenstock-Huessy,
whose respective theoretical outputs are grounded on an impassioned and even erce
religious disagreement that friendship rst made possible; second, of Jewish philosopher
Emmanuel Levinas and atheist writer Maurice Blanchot, school-friends who were engaged
in a life-long conversation that passed through and was even sustained by the discontinuity
of their “in nite separation” by means of each one’s willingness to listen and to be
transformed by the other; and third, of feminist authors Catherine Clément and Julia
Kristeva, who possess a complicated relationship to the phenomenon of religion in general
but, more particularly, to Indian religion(s) and Christianity, and who give the strong
impression of being engaged primarily in an intellectual register. This, of course, is not a
criticism of their friendship, of their philosophies, or of their faiths; rather, it simply raises
the questions of their relationship as a model for inter-religious friendship, which seems to
be lacking something signi cant that is powerfully present in the other friendships
examined. For both Kristeva and Clément, there appears to be an extrinsic relation between
one’s philosophical-political project and one’s religious faith. For Kristeva, religion is
understood primarily in therapeutic terms and for the support and liberation it provides to
individuals; for Clément, syncretism is a means toward critiquing traditional Western
hierarchies of meaning. For both of them, religion lies at the service of a political project.
Among present-day research in the history of religious ideas, this book possesses a
unique and poignant focus on friendship across boundaries of belief (or unbelief) and
explores the biographical and intellectual tensions, failures, transformations, questions,
and accomplishments that such challenging friendships generate in the lives and writings of
these six gures. In a world where the boundaries of belief seem to de ne who gets to
count as fully human in the eyes of this or that group of “believers” or “unbelievers,”1 this
book is a passionate witness to the value that irreducible religious di erences have (a) for
individual beliefs, (b) for the forging of a common, human understanding across
boundaries, and (c), therefore, for the inseparably intellectual and spiritual tasks in which
believers and unbelievers (and those somewhere along the continuum in between)
continue to engage in contemporary Western letters.
This is a book of intellectual history, “an amicable history of modern religious thought”
as the subtitle expresses it. It takes the inter-religious friendships as central and formative
components of the persons involved and, therefore, of the thought-products of such
persons. This is the most fundamental thesis of the book, since its demonstration leads
Young toward broader re ection on the theological and religious signi cance—the
irreplaceable signi cance—of friendship in general. The value of such a thesis is found in its
compelling explication of the view that thinking is achieved only under the real conditions
of historical, embodied, inter-personal, and remarkably messy experience. An un-provable
thesis—or better, a conviction—generated from this view is that inter-religious friendship

is a context for the most profound re ection on religion. The proof is nowhere else but in
the pudding, for Young successfully attempts to show in nine learned chapters the
surprising and almost miraculous ways that religious thinking is tested and intensi ed
through honest encounters sustained over many years, encounters for which only genuine
friendship provides such conditions.2
The introduction should strike the reader as a bit exaggerated, arguing from a simplistic
supposition that ancient friendship “privileged” sameness and remained “exclusive,”
whereas modern friendship is based upon di erence and becomes “inclusive.” Surely
“sameness,” something shared in common, is necessary for “modern” friendships as much
as it is for ancient friendships—even if what is shared is not the speci c religious identity of
the individuals. Besides the fact of the “sameness” of humanity, which ought not to be
passed over lightly, what is shared, in some cases more than others, is the experience of
simply being “religious”—an experience which is similar for Jews as for Christians and,
paradoxically, for atheists as for believers.3 Also shared in these friendships, perhaps most
acutely, is an intellectual commitment to the question(s) of religion. However, this is not a
uniquely modern phenomenon. As historians such as Robin Darling Young, Tony Grafton,
and Megan Williams have shown, the trace of inter-religious friendship, based on common
access to libraries by the intellectual elite (in Alexandria, for example) or on traditions of
reading common texts (such as Aristotle), can be found in antiquity in the most conspicuous
places. The argument of the historical research mentioned here is similar to Young’s own:
inter-religious friendship lies at the base of the religious ideas of certain thinkers who are
sometimes crucially important in their respective traditions.
Taken heuristically, however, the introduction is insightful. Its thesis quali es as a

relatively sound observation: today more than ever we have come to nd that fundamental
di erences (and what di erences are more fundamental than religious di erences?)
actually o er positive and even irreplaceable contributions to our human experience (and
what similarities, therefore, are more like one another than religious di erences?). If we
have learned anything from the Continental philosophy of the last century, to which each of
these gures has made a lasting contribution, it is this: to understand ourselves, we need
the other. Our others are woven deeply into the fabric of ourselves as much as we are; they
make us who we are! If religion manifests the deepest possibilities and richest expressions
of human experience, then religious alterity is more important than any other form for
understanding ourselves, our world, and the Creator who remains our common origin and,
together we hope, our common end.
Sameness and di erence are required for friendship, and in equal measure: sameness is
the condition for di erence, as each of these friendships share a common language, a
common historical moment, a common nationality, common intellectual interests and
sources, etc., and di erence is the condition for coming to realize what there is and what
can be held in common. In both ancient and modern conceptions of friendship, sameness
and di erence are equally present. In today’s terms, however, they are gured di erently: a
devout Catholic today no doubt feels closer in spirit to a Muslim of traditional morality than
to the producer of pornographic lms who lives next door. We live a certain way because
we believe in God; you live a certain way because you, it seems, do not.
As Young shows, this irreducible tension of sameness and di erence is deeply fruitful:
its major fruit, at least for this reader, is a renewed awareness that what one knows in the
religious domain is only ever known partially, and that amicable tension simultaneously
increases such knowledge and unknowledge. The God that is known is never coincident
with the act of knowing; the knowledge of non-knowledge—as the ancients certainly knew
was the highest sort of knowledge4—is intensi ed in an irreplaceable way by the goad of
inter-religious friendship. This certainly speaks to this reader’s own experience and calls me
again to embrace the restless challenge of my beloved others, as a path of encounter laid
down through the providential guidance of the Beloved Other. If the reader is like me, he or
she will be found writing him or herself into the blank spots of the text as it is read and
studied. The memories and hopes, the failures and fragments of inter-religious encounter
that invariably brand one’s own thinking by at once perplexing and illuminating it become a
more coherent story through taking up re ectively the three-fold journey of this book.
The conclusion reserves some re ective remarks on the nature of inter-religious

friendships, marked by aspects such as “hospitality,” “receptivity” and “vulnerability,” in
order to display a “new form of harmony” that is structured by deepening di erence. This
unfolding play of unity and di erence in the harmony of love between persons, passing
through the strange domain of inter-religious encounter that strives for unity in the
preservation of di erence and respects di erence as an expression of solidarity, emerges in
the form of authentic friendship as a living image of divine beauty that can never be
captured but only received and adored.
Through this nal re ection, Young o ers three images that attempt to communicate
the essence of the friendships he studied: (1) “competitive virtuosity”: the relentless
competition, one-upmanship, and ceaseless struggle for the possession of what the other
has in a more authentic manner. The competitive virtuosity which shapes the relationship
between Rosenzweig and Rosenstock-Huessy is an antagonism most charitably pictured by
Young as an improvisational competition between dueling musicians; (2) “ecstatic sobriety”:

Levinas and Blanchot’s friendship is marked by an exposure that puts oneself into question
and discloses the necessity of responsibility out of which an “element of goodness” may
shine out;5 and (3) “open chords”: Kristeva and Clément’s friendship is marked by
simultaneous completion and openness to revision, wherein harmony and di erence are
expressed through the central chord form of blues music that gives startling voice to deep,
searching sentiment.
If Rozenzweig’s and Rosenstock-Huessy’s friendship is the most humanly interesting, it

is also the least instructive (except perhaps in the negative) regarding the ideal of inter-
religious friendship. Levinas and Blanchot, on the other hand, are two immensely
fascinating personalities whose friendship became, as it were, the living esh of their
theories as these theories unfolded through their mainly epistolary conversation over the
course of their lives. If we are to measure quality by the meaningful satisfaction or joy the
friendship o ers its participants, in an inverse proportion with each other, these rst two
friendships would certainly make for good cinema as far as the quality of the friendship is
concerned. Finally, the friendship of Kristeva and Clément is certainly an exemplary and
inspiring instance of communication, collaboration, and creative delity in di erence.
Ultimately, according to Young, these inter-religious friendships are our tutors in our own
tasks of “learning to listen” to each other—a listening that becomes the work of God in us
and can be accomplished most radically together, as our hands remain an open space that
welcomes the hands of the other.
While it is impossible in a brief review to analyze the speci c contributions each study
makes to research in the thought of any one of these gures, much of the material will be
valuable for specialists. Young’s juxtapositions and probing questions certainly throw into
deep and fresh relief the ideas of each thinker, contextualizing them and showing the role
played by friendship in the genesis of their individual theories. What must be stressed, for
now, is that this book makes a true contribution to contemporary religious re ection by
showing again and again the “fruit” of inter-religious friendship for religious belief. It
reciprocally displays the fruit of religious belief for friendship and, therefore, for our
common humanity. The most important contribution of this book is that, through the
friendships that it chronicles, it demands that we look at ourselves, at our beliefs, and our
friendships: if we indeed are blessed by heaven to have inter-religious friendships (and who
today does not?), we must allow them to challenge our thinking as we think from within our
own religious heritage(s) that we hold so dear. The transcendence and mystery of the love
within friendship, which springs from out of the heart of the humanity expressed within
con icting religious faiths, keeps faith and hope alive in surprising ways. If the phenomenon
of such friendships is a testament to the poignancy and profundity of human experience, it

is also thereby a living trace of the divine mystery. It is good, even necessary, that we
attend to this trace. Only friendship will allow us to do so in a manner that surpasses all of
our facile reductions to what is comfortable, easy, and instrumentalizable. Therefore, only
friendship provides a path that rightly honors the divine mystery in order to become a living
testimony to it.
Notes
1. Or, for that matter, think of the modern nation state and its institutionalization of ever-more hegemonic and intrusive
“unbelief.”
2. The three major divisions of the book correspond to the three distinct friendships noted above and range from about
one hundred pages (Part I, on Rosenzweig and Rosenstock-Huessy; Part II, on Levinas and Blanchot) to fty pages (Part III,
on Kristeva and Clément). These sections are framed by an introduction on the history of inter-religious friendship in
Western thought and a conclusion that sketches some indications toward a new account of friendship based on the three
investigations of the book. I will only mention the basic theses of these framing portions of the book, and I will leave it to
the reader to discover the most interesting and compelling parts of the book for him or herself: the overall dramatic but
intermittently banal, the often tense, even tragic, but never insigni cant—in short, the deeply human stories of three
friendships that radiate through the lives and thought of six important religious thinkers of the twentieth century.
3. If Maurice Blanchot is not “religious” through or even because of his atheism, then there are no genuinely religious
people at all.
4. I refer to Thomas Aquinas’ aphorism, surely a summary expression of ancient religious thought and with corollaries in
Jewish, Islamic and even pagan philosophical re ection: “We know God truly only when we believe that he is above all
that men can think about God” (De veritate 8, 1, ad. 8).
5. This serves as an “inversion” of the Stoic account of friendship for which friendship is a means toward the exercise of
individual virtue, of one’s own self-perfection.
PDF Version
“He Is Our Peace”: The Letter to the Ephesians

and the Theology of Ful lment — A Dialogue
with Peter Ochs
October 24, 2013 / Jeremy Boggs / 0 Comments
David F. Ford
Cambridge University
This paper is an engagement with an old text and a new text for a speci c context. The
old text is the Letter to the Ephesians, which has fascinated me for years. The new text is
Peirce, Pragmatism and the Logic of Scripture by Peter Ochs (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1998). The context is the Society for Scriptural Reasoning, which is one of
the readerships Ochs had in mind when writing his book. I am not competent to judge Ochs’
reading of Peirce, but his book is also about the logic of scripture. It therefore invites a
review in the form of testing its capacity to help in interpreting a scriptural text, and that
particularly suits the SSR. This is very much an initial exploration of Ochs’ none-too-easy
book, and it is a relief to know that Ochs himself might well be at our meeting to correct
what I write here. As it is too early to have weighed (or even to have understood
adequately) much of what Ochs says, my aim is to try to enter a little into the signi cance of
his book by using it to redescribe and interpret theologically a more familiar text, in this
case the Letter to the Ephesians.
1. Introducing Ochs
First I will give a minimal introduction to some of Ochs’ ideas which will be used later in this
paper:
The main thrust of Ochs’ argument is to show how Peirce o ers a “pragmatic reading”
of the modern Cartesian-Kantian philosophical tradition so as to correct and rede ne it,
especially through engagement with the experimental methods of the natural sciences. One
key feature of Peirce’s correction is to show how that tradition’s claims to discontinuity with
the past were part of a misconstrual of transcendental philosophy’s own nature and
signi cance. In fact, Peirce and Ochs claim, the Cartesian-Kantian tradition is better seen as
a correction of features of the tradition of medieval scholastic (and earlier) philosophy, and
both traditions are to be understood in relation to “common sense.” The common sense of
any community needs to be open to correction, but it also contains many “indubitable
beliefs” on which people act and in which it is wiser to trust rather than indulge in a
Cartesian principle of radical doubt. E orts at correction should be stimulated by “real
doubts”— avoiding, for example, a foundationalist attempt to meet every “paper doubt.”
Failing to do justice to the tradition or community of which they are part is one aspect of
a broader Cartesian-Kantian failing. This is the tendency to describe judgements,
statements of fact and propositions in dyadic, subject-predicate terms rather than in a
triadic logic of relations (Ochs, Peirce, Pragmatism, and the Logic of Scripture, 254 ). An
important implication of this is that there is a “third grade of clearness” in the meaning of a
conception, beyond Cartesian “clarity” and “distinctness”. The third grade conceives “the
practical e ects which the object of a conception would have” (Ibid., 36, Ochs quoting
Peirce), what Peirce calls the conception’s “interpretant”, and it includes attending to when,
where, how and by whom it is received. There is here no rejection of clarity and distinctness,
but a correction and supplementing of them in a way which especially insists on the
signi cance of discourse, symbolic action and dialogue, as well as community, tradition and
common sense. Many key concepts cannot be clari ed in the abstract: they await further
determination as they are applied or communicated in a speci c context.
This leads to the helpful idea of “vagueness,” which refers to a meaning which is neither
determinately speci c nor indeterminately general, but rather only discloses its meaning by
way of some interpretant (Ibid., 37). Since “vague entities de ne one another dialogically”
(Ibid. 211), and some concepts are “irremediably vague” (Ibid., 226) (including indubitable
beliefs and many other concepts concerning metaphysics, values and theology), there can
be no undergirding foundationalism: “a logic of vagueness is at the same time a logic of
dialogue” (Ibid.).
Part of that dialogue in a tradition is its constant attempt to deal with its own problems,
su erings, contradictions, “burdensome” elements, doubts and incompletenesses.
“Pragmatic reading” responds to problems in the “plain sense” of the texts of a tradition by
drawing on the resources of the tradition itself in order to correct or rede ne it for particular
readers in particular situations, taking their “common sense” both seriously and critically.
Ochs describes how Peirce himself did this as he corrected and rede ned his earlier
“pragmatism” in his later “pragmaticism”. He also shows how the logic of dialogue can
(and, where the issues at stake are as embracing as those in philosophy and theology,
should) lead beyond the boundaries of one tradition and bring di erent communities of
readers into conversation.
In his nal chapter Ochs promotes this by addressing various communities of pragmatic
philosophers as well as Rabbinic and Christian pragmatic interpreters of scripture. He sees
Rabbinic and Christian pragmatists agreeing on the need for a critique of modernist
philosophy using a scriptural corrective and also on the need for “a reformational reading
of scripture” which rereads “scriptural texts as vague symbols of rules of conduct that are
de ned only in speci c contexts of action within respective communities of readers”(Ibid.,
310f). He then urges that both communities of scriptural pragmatists need to be in dialogue
with each other, and concludes with guidelines for such a dialogue.
What follows is an attempt to see what happens when a Christian interpreter of the
Letter to the Ephesians tries to grapple with the problems and vaguenesses of that letter
before a Society of scriptural reasoners who are mostly Christian but who also include
Rabbinic interpreters, a Muslim respondent and others.
2. The Problem
“[T]he pragmatic meaning of a conception is the sum total of its practical consequences
for the long run of experience…” (Ibid., 113). How might that maxim relate to the quotation
from the Letter to the Ephesians in my title? The whole verse is: “For he is our peace, in his
esh he has made both groups into one, and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the
hostility between us” (2.14). The reference is to Jews and Gentiles, and in view of “the long
run of experience” over nearly two thousand years it must constitute a major problem for
the interpretation of Ephesians today. If pragmatic scriptural reading aims to read “in
response to human su ering” and “with a community of readers for the sake of changing
the practical and communal conditions of su ering” (Ibid., 313), then in view of the terrible
history of Christian persecution of Jews there is a need for correction of Christian
conceptions of Jews. The constructive question is whether there might be a valid and strong
reading of Ephesians that not only resists Christian hostility to Jews but even allows the
communities today to be of mutual blessing. How might this tradition not only correct itself
but even surpass itself with the aid of a pragmatic reading of Ephesians?
How might Ephesians have contributed to that terrible history? Its plain sense lends
itself to a realised eschatology in which Jews and Gentiles are made one in the church. It is a
short step to a supercessionism which sees no further role in history for the Jewish people
outside the church, or at best regards Judaism as a negative shadow of Christianity. The
strong emphasis on ful llment in Ephesians reinforces this. If one links the universal scope
of 1.10 (“… a plan for the fullness of time [oikonomian tou pleromatos ton kairon], to gather
up all things in him [Christ], things in heaven and things on earth”) with the ecclesial
triumphalism of 1.22-3 (“and he [God] has put all things under his [Christ’s] feet and has
made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who
lls all in all [to pleroma tou ta panta en pasin pleroumenou]”), then one can understand
how Jews could easily be written out of history, with all sorts of appalling consequences
when Gentiles became dominant in the church and the balance of power between Judaism
and Christianity shifted in favor of the latter. Much more could be said about this, but the
main point is simple: using the language of peace and unity (with di erences uni ed within
the church), Ephesians focuses in the church the ful llment of God’s oikonomia, and runs the
danger (which has been ful lled over and over again) of the continuing Jewish community
being regarded as outside or opposed to God’s oikonomia and therefore to be distanced,

disrespected or even eliminated.
3. Resources for Correction in the Plain Sense of Ephesians
Might the plain sense of Ephesians itself resist this danger? Are there materials for the
correction of this tendency of the tradition? The most obvious resistance comes in the
ethics of Ephesians. It is an ethic of non-coercive communication, of speaking the truth in
love (4.15), of “all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love”
(4.2). If such speech and action were to characterise relations with those outside as well as
inside the community then, whatever the beliefs about Jews in relation to God’s oikonomia,
there would be respect, communication and peace. The root of this resistance within
Ephesians is in who Jesus Christ is believed to be. All the uniting, ful lling and peacemaking
is seen as being done through Christ’s embodiment of love, gentleness, patience and giving
up self for others without limit (cf. 4.31, 5.1-2).
It is also worth remembering the probable context into which the letter was written: a
small, vulnerable church in a thriving, pluralist city of about a quarter of a million people
where there were a great many more Jews than Christians. The letter shows that this church
clearly needed great encouragement and a strengthening of its identity, and what was
appropriate then and there might not be so in another situation.
Yet none of that is good enough. It might expose how much Christian treatment of Jews
has been unethical by Christian standards, and it might contextualise the rhetoric of
Ephesians so that its statements cannot simply be turned into general guidelines from
which all sorts of new conclusions can be drawn directly in new situations; but it fails to
tackle the issue of the prominence of Jews and Gentiles in the letter, in which peace
between them is made central to the musterion of the Gospel, and it ignores the basic
theological issue of supercessionism. How might this be faced?
First, it is to be noted that Ephesians itself can be read as correcting and rede ning the
Pauline Christian tradition. It is generally seen as dependent on the Letter to the Colossians
(out of 2,411 words in Ephesians, 26.5% are paralleled in Colossians, once with 29
consecutive words repeated verbatim), so it is especially interesting to note where the two
diverge. Among the notable divergences are the two themes of my title. Ephesians
develops the Colossians themes of the church as the body of Christ and of “peace through
the blood of his [Christ’s] cross” into an explicit focus on peace between Jews and Gentiles
in the church. And the Colossians theme of pleroma (the fullness of God dwelling in Christ –
1.19, 2.9) is maintained and intensi ed in its cosmic scope and its relation to Christian living,
and developed explicitly in relation to “the fullness of time” (1.10), the church, and love in the
community (3.14-21).
There are many directions the discussion of this could take—deeper into the
comparison and contrast of Ephesians and Colossians; backwards, especially to Paul in his
Letter to the Romans; forwards to later Christian writers; and backwards, forwards and
sideways into Jewish and Hellenistic contexts. But for present purposes it is enough to try
to identify with a broad brush the signi cance of what Ephesians has done. It has intensi ed
the universality of its conception of ful llment (frequent use of “all”, “all things”,
“everyone”) at the same time as intensifying the particularity of the community’s musterion,
de ned as: “… that is, the Gentiles have become fellow heirs, members of the same body,
and sharers in the promise in Christ Jesus through the Gospel” (3.6). This particularity is
reinforced in Ephesians through far more use of the Septuagint than in Colossians. It is
crucial to note the sort of unity described between Jews and Gentiles: the Gentiles are given
the privilege of sharing a Jewish heritage. This heritage is the unsurpassable horizon of the
church. That is where Ephesians leaves the matter: the conjunction of, on the one hand, a
universalizing soteriology of abundant reconciliation, peace and love, to be completed in
“the fullness of time,” with, on the other hand, a small community in which the musterion of
unity between Jews and Gentiles was a reality. The two dimensions are embraced by Jesus
Christ, as the one in whom all things are gathered, and the Holy Spirit, as “the pledge of our
inheritance toward redemption as God’s own people, to the praise of his glory” (1.14).
After all that, the massive problem remains: what about those of “God’s own people”
who do not acknowledge Jesus Christ in the way the author does?
4. Pleroma in Ephesians: A Pragmatic Reading
In Ochs’ terms, I have identi ed “something burdensome in the plain sense” (Ochs, 6.)
of Ephesians. This now stimulates me to suggest what he calls a midrashic, or pragmatic
interpretation. As he says, such a reading is to be judged by how well it resolves the given
problem “for a given community of interpreters” (Ibid., 7.) —- in my case, the Society for
Scriptural Reasoning at the end of a century marked by the Shoah. What might be the “non-
evident meaning” (Ibid., 6.) of Ephesians on this matter in line with the leading tendencies
of the letter?
In this case, the problem is not mainly in what Ephesians says explicitly. It lies more in
its “pragmatic meaning” in the millennia that followed—though in fact for many Christians
the problematic reading has been read as the plain sense and has shaped their “common
sense.” Ochs might say that the “irremediably vague” concept of pleroma was later given
overprecise (“errantly clear”) pragmatic de nitions whose decisive supercessionism ruled
out any continuing positive role of Jews in God’s oikonomia, with disastrous implications.
An appropriate response to this is to o er a better (in Ochs’ terms, a more valid and
stronger) pragmatic de nition of pleroma.
What might that be? Since this paper is meant to be a stimulus to discussion rather than
a full treatment of the subject, I will only sketch some of the elements of a possible
pragmatic reading. They will be in the form of questions and notes focused as commentary
on particular verses in which the noun or verb form of pleroma appears:
[With all wisdom and insight God] has made known to us the mystery of his
will, according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ, as a plan for
the fullness of time, to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and
things on earth. (4.1 Ephesians 1.9-10)
How is this gathering up to be envisaged? If it is done with wisdom, love and

gentleness, aiming at what seems inconceivable when we look at the fragmentations,
divisions, wounds and enmities of the world, then we have to imagine boundaries of selves
and communities as radically transformed. If the horizon of their Jewish heritage is
unsurpassable for Christians, and if, for both Jews and Christians, practical orientation
towards an utterly good “fullness of time” has the status of an “indubitable belief”, which is
“irremediably vague”, then the implications of a logic of vagueness being “at the same time
a logic of dialogue” (Ibid., p.226) must mean that there is a dialogical imperative here.
Christians have no privileged overview of ful llment—in fact the “vagueness” and universal
scope of ful llment mean that it constantly calls for further determinations from a wide
range of interpretants. So the pragmatic reading of these verses will lead into a range of
respectful dialogues (not just between Jews and Christians, but with Muslims, atheists, etc.)
as well as into all sorts of other activities that “gathering up all things” might require – the
arts, scholarship, the sciences, economics, politics and so on. And part of the vagueness is
allowing for transformative surprises (Response 1):
And [God] has put all things under [Christ’s] feet and has made him head
over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who lls
all in all. (4.2 Ephesians 1.22-3)
If 1.10 makes clear that the fullness has yet to be completed, then the nature of the
eschatological community is a fascinating question. How does it relate to present Christian
and Jewish and other communities? Eugene Rogers, following on from George Lindbeck’s
contention that both the church and Israel should be regarded as types, not of Christ, but of
“the people of God in fellowship with God at the end of time,” (Eugene F. Rogers, Jr.,
“Supplementing Barth on Jews and Gender: Identifying God by Anagogy and the Spirit,”
Modern Theology, Vol. 14, No. 1 [January 1998], 63) makes a convincing case for the
contribution of an “anagogical” interpretation of scripture, reading it in the light of the
eschatological community. His own anagogical reading (which is strikingly “pragmatic” in
Ochs’ terms) is in line with Ephesians: the basic plot is a Jewish one oriented towards
consummation, with Gentile redemption a sub-plot. God’s faithfulness to the covenant with
Israel is permanent. There “are not two stories, much less two covenants, but two ways the
Spirit excites gratitude for the blessings of Abraham in the readers of the Bible, who in this
too can become sources of mutual blessing” (Rogers, “Supplementing Barth,” 64). And it is
worth remembering that there are many other Gentiles besides Christians (Response 4):
I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what
is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of
Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be lled with all the
fullness of God. Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to
accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine … (4.3
Ephesians 3.18-20)
God is the most important consideration of all in relation to pleroma . This prayer
acknowledges that, it denies that Christians or others have an overview of the meaning of
plerom; in Ochs’ terms the text is “an ultimately vague sign of the God whose activities
correct it and clarify its meaning” (Ochs, op. cit. 287. Cf. the continuation of this passage:
“By the logic of pragmatism, a vague sign ‘reserves for some other sign or experience the
function of completing [its] determination’ (5.505). Therefore, if God is the object of an
ultimately vague sign, then whatever de nes this sign would also be vague, and only God
would complete the determination of the sign of God.”) The meaning of “fullness” has to
take into account the in nite dynamic abundance of a God of love, ful lling prayers in ways
we could never have imagined. The God identi ed here questions many of the terms and
presuppositions in which Christian supercessionism has been expressed – concerning
linearity, binary oppositions, completeness, closure, the boundaries of communities,
election, and salvation (Response 5; Response 8):
… until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the
Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature [eis helikias tou
pleromatos] of Christ. (4.4 Ephesians 4.13)
Ephesians Chapters 4-6 is about some of the communal, personal and institutional
practices which are involved in pragmatically interpreting pleroma. The idea of “learning
Christ” is used (4.20), and that conjures up a vast, complex learning process (including much
“unlearning”), involving exchanges with individuals, communities and disciplines who are
part of the “gathering together” of 1.10, and shaping habits accordingly (Response 5):
Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery; but be lled [plerousthe]
with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among
yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts, giving
thanks to God the Father at all times and for everything in the name of our
Lord Jesus Christ. (4.5 Ephesians 5.18-20)
Ephesians is saturated with praise and prayer, and this imperative about the shaping of
ordinary life is vital for working out practically the implications of pleroma. The logic of
praise as perfecting what is perfect, the logic of thanks as completing what is completed,
and the similar logic of blessing: it is these, learnt and practiced daily over centuries, that
need to inform understanding of and participation in pleroma. (For a reading of Ephesians
which takes these verses as its hermeneutical key, see David F. Ford, Self and Salvation:
Being Transformed [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, November 1998], Chapter 5,
“Communicating God”s Abundance: A Singing Self”; Response 6).
But since these dynamics can, as those centuries demonstrate, also go so terribly
wrong, it is salutary to try to learn disciplines of reading which encourage facing up to the
burdens, failings, errors, su erings, and remediable or irremediable vaguenesses
occasioned by interpretations of scripture. One of the great strengths of Ochs’ approach is
that it both encourages a tradition to nd within itself the resources for its own correction
and rede nition, and also to “believe that, through the mediation of particular community
members, communities of scriptural reading may themselves enter into dialogues that
strengthen each community’s practices of reading by complementing and clarifying them”
(Ochs, op. cit., 314). The attempt to ful ll this double programme is at the heart of the
Society for Scriptural Reasoning. This paper makes some tentative points (far more
concerned with the rst than the second part of the programme) and I look forward to much
correction, rede nition, complementing and clari cation in Orlando.
Messianism in the Christian Kabbalah of Johann

Kemper
Elliot R. Wolfson,
New York University
A number of scholars have duly noted the complex and fascinating spiritual odyssey of
Moses ben Aaron of Cracow who became Johann Kemper of Uppsala. Kemper’s conversion
to Christianity from Judaism would have been interesting enough, but what adds to this
intrigue is the fact that all of his compositions, which are written in Hebrew, demonstrate
beyond any doubt that he possessed complete mastery over traditional Jewish learning of
both an exoteric and an esoteric nature. Indeed, the primary goal of Kemper’s treatises was
to establish the truths of Christianity on the basis of the Jewish sources, including most
importantly the classical work of kabbalah, the Zohar. With respect to this e ort Kemper
shared the basic strategy that was adopted by the Christian kabbalists of Renaissance Italy.
Following the pioneering research of Chaim Wirszubski, we may distinguish two patterns of
Christian kabbalah: the utilization of the older Jewish esoteric teachings to con rm the
truths articulated by Christianity, and the Christianizing application of kabbalistic methods
of interpretation to construct new ideas and symbols. It seems to me, however, that, in the
nal analysis, the latter pattern is a species of the former, and thus we can speak of the one
overall agenda that informs the Christian kabbalah. Indeed, it is necessary to contextualize
the latter in the larger development of the Christian attempt to appropriate Judaism, which
can be charted in three distinct stages: The rst (evident already in the New Testament and
the Patristic writings) is restricted to the use of Hebrew Scripture to prove the truths of
Christianity; the second (which becomes prominent in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries
due to the increase in the phenomenon of Jewish apostasy) is focused on the use of the
Talmud to achieve this end; and the third (which is a central component of the fteenth and
sixteenth centuries, although it may have an earlier manifestation attested in the High
Middle Ages) relates to the use of the kabbalah as con rmation of the Christological
presuppositions. Response 1
In a fundamental way, however, Kemper is di erent from the notable Christian

Hebraists who availed themselves of the esoteric lore of the kabbalah such as Johannes
Reuchlin and Giovanni Pico della Mirandola. Kemper’s rabbinic background imposed upon
him the need to preserve the nomian framework of the kabbalah even as he sought to
undermine that framework by proving the truths of Christianity on the basis of the
traditional texts. The literary works composed by Kemper display an astonishing blend of
rabbinic halakhah and Christian spirituality, and the bridge that links the two spheres of
religious discourse is the kabbalistic symbolism derived primarily from the zoharic corpus.
With great exegetical ease and remarkable ights of speculative fancy, Kemper reinterprets
the halakhah through the lens of the kabbalah in a Christological light. The intricate weaving
of these di erent strands is re ected in Kemper’s somewhat unusual messianic stance as
well. According to Kemper, the esoteric import of Christian messianism cannot be fully
appreciated unless one has a grasp on the history of rabbinic culture as expressed
particularly in the mystical tradition. Beyond trying to persuade Jews of the truths of
Christianity, Kemper is implicitly privileging one whose religious path mirrors his own. His
works, therefore, can be seen not only as an ongoing attempt at self-legitimization, but as a
more subtle a irmation of the Jewish orientation regarding the innate superiority of the Jew
as the real Israel who possesses the knowledge of the truth.
Many examples could be adduced to illustrate the claim that I have made, but for the
purposes of this study it will be su icient to provide one that deals with an issue that
divided the religious orientation of Jews and Christians from very early on in their complex
mutual histories, the rite of bodily circumcision. In a passage from Beriah ha-Tikhon, which
is the second part of the massive commentary on the Zohar that is called Matteh Mosheh or
Maqqel Yaàqov, Kemper interprets the zoharic explication of the rite of circumcision. The
thrust of the original passage in the Zohar is that circumcision entails the inscription of the
Tetragrammaton as the sign of the covenant upon the esh of the Jewish male, which
corresponds to the phallic gradation of the divine, the attribute of Yesod. The zoharic
authorship speaks as well of the supernal waters owing down upon the sign of the
covenant, which justi es the attribution of the term “living soul” (nefesh hayyah) to the baby
who has been circumcised. Additionally, a connection is made between that sign and the
foreskin, on the one hand, and the distinction between pure and impure animals that Israel
can or cannot eat, on the other. That is to say, the foreskin corresponds to the demonic
potency, which is related to the impure animals, and the sign that is manifest after the
removal of the foreskin corresponds to the divine potency, which is related to the pure
animals.
Kemper elaborates in a Christological manner on these themes and notes that the
supernal waters mentioned in the Zohar refer to the waters of baptism, which are the
primary means through which one gains access to God. Echoing an archaic theme of Jewish
esotericism, Kemper relates that circumcision is the inscribed letter or sign (òt rashum,
which is the Hebrew translation of the zoharic rendering of the biblical òt berit, the “sign of
the covenant,” as òt rashima’), which is related to the Tetragrammaton. This inscription is
characterized further as the “sign of truth” (òt èmet ), an “inner, spiritual sign” (òt penimi
ruhani) that replaces the circumcision of the esh (milat ha-basar). I note, parenthetically,
that from other passages in his compositions it is evident that Kemper identi ed the biblical
notion of the sign, such as the rainbow revealed to Noah or the head and arm phylacteries,
as the Messiah. Analogously, the sign of circumcision inscribed on the esh alludes
symbolically to the messianic gure, an allusion that is transferred to the rite of baptism,
the circumcision of the spirit that displaces that of the esh. As a result of the baptismal
immersion, therefore, the person is truly called the “living soul.” Moreover, Kemper notes
that when the carnal sign of circumcision is removed, the distinction between Israel and the
nations with respect to prohibited and permitted animals will be abrogated since that
distinction rst arose as a result of the sign of circumcision. Needless to say, the notion that
circumcision of the esh will be nulli ed is not apparent in the zoharic text, but Kemper
presents this Christological position as if it were the standard kabbalistic teaching.
What is so remarkable is that Kemper exegetically relates the overcoming of Jewish

ritual to the presentation of that ritual in the symbolic language of the kabbalah. Thus,
Kemper focuses on the custom mentioned in the Zohar regarding the throne of Elijah that is
set up at the ceremony of the rite of circumcision. In spite of the fact that this was a
widespread Jewish practice in his day, Kemper laments that the “deranged Jews” (ha-
yehudim metorafei daàt) do not discern that “by way of the secret” (àl derekh sod) Elijah
alludes to the messiah, for he is the “Lord the righteous one,” the “archon of peace,” the
“angel of the covenant,” who established and ful lled the covenant that God made with
Adam regarding the seed of woman trampling the head of the serpent. The force of
Kemper’s logic is that the Jewish ritual, particularly as it appears in the kabbalistic tradition,
re ects the Christological truth that the Jews reject. The Jewish people, therefore, preserve a
religious custom whose meaning escapes them. The argument comes full circle when
Kemper writes: “Know that Elijah numerically is fty-two ( b”n), which refers to the son (öb),
that is, the son of God. But the Jews do not understand, and they do not want to know such
matters.” In a similar vein in Matteh Mosheh, Kemper interprets the nexus between the
Tetragrammaton, circumcision, and cleaving to the divine attribute called saddiq (the
righteous one) in the Zohar, as a clear indication that the kabbalah a irms that the ultimate
purpose of circumcision is to facilitate the act of conjunction with God. Through a clever
exegetical move, related especially to the verse “And your people, all of them righteous,
shall possess the land for all time; they are the shoot that I planted, my handiwork in which I
glory” (Isa. 60:21), Kemper concludes that righteousness is linked to Christ (based on the
play of words between neser and nosri). Hence, the mystical rationale for circumcision is to
occasion the union of the soul with Jesus, the everlasting sign of the covenant that bears the
ine able name.
The speci c example of circumcision is illustrative of the more general position that
Kemper takes with regard to the status of normative Jewish law. That is, Kemper o ers a
symbolic interpretation of biblical rituals, even though he accepts the standard Christian
critique of the law (traceable to Paul) and urges his Jewish readers to recognize that it has
been surpassed. In his own language from another passage in the aforementioned
composition: “Thus is the essence of the rationale for the ritual commandments that have
been abrogated and nulli ed in the New Testament inasmuch as all of them were merely an
image (defus) and a shadow (sel) of that which was to come.” Kemper’s main e ort is to
remove the stumbling-block that prevents Jews from believing in the truths of the New
Testament, which he thinks is related to the implicit antinomiamism of the Christian
viewpoint. The polemical strategy that he adopts to convince the Jews is to argue that the
commandments possess an enduring spiritual value but that their practical application is
limited to a speci c time in history. The awareness that the commandments are to be
interpreted typologically would facilitate the acceptance of the New Testament on the basis
of the simple logic that if the rituals are merely an image of the true form, then once one
possesses the latter the former is no longer necessary. In order to make this argument
cogently, however, it is necessary for Kemper to extol the symbolic virtue of the
commandments. Only one with intimate knowledge of the rabbinic tradition could mount
such an argument with rhetorical success.
Indeed, to the best of my knowledge, this form of argumentation is not characteristic of

the Christian kabbalists; it is distinctive to a gure like Kemper who was capable of living
with one foot in both worlds. Even other Jewish apostates who utilized kabbalistic
symbolism to advocate on behalf of Christianity, such as Ludovico Carretto, do not
exemplify this tendency. The polemical tool employed by Kemper may be stated in the
following way: the subversion of the tradition was possible only by recapitulating the
tradition. This posture is exempli ed, for instance, in Kemper’s comment in another
passage in Beriah ha-Tikhon that all those who believe in Jesus “are called Israel (yisra’el),
the just ones (ha-yesharim) who believe and have faith in the just God (èl yashar ), and He
brought these ones out from the iron furnace, the side of impurity, and they ascended to the
Son, which is the Shekhinah. This is alluded to in the commandments of circumcision and
the paschal sacri ce.” The true nature of Israel—what it means to be a Jew in the spiritual as
opposed to carnal sense—is linked to the belief in the just God, that is, Jesus, who is also
identi ed with the kabbalistic symbol of the Shekhinah, for the letters of the word larcy are
transposed into the expression rvy la. Appropriating the Johannine tradition, moreover,
Kemper explicitly identi es the Messiah as the Torah or the Word, the “mystery of the bread
of the New Testament.” Kemper extends this older notion and links Jesus symbolically to
the holiday of Pentecost, the ftieth day after Passover, which in the rabbinic imagination
celebrates the giving of Torah at Sinai. Having identi ed Jesus in this manner, Kemper is
able to apply the kabbalistic interpretation of Pentecost to the Messiah. That is, according
to the standard symbolism a irmed in works of theosophic kabbalah, Pentecost is
identi ed with the third of the ten gradations, which is called most frequently Binah, the
attribute of God’s understanding. This gradation, moreover, is depicted by the symbol of
the mother. The identi cation of Jesus and the Torah, and the further linkage of the Torah
and Pentecost, facilitates the correlation of Jesus and Pentecost, which is interpreted in light
of the kabbalistic association of Pentecost and Binah, which is characterized as the divine
mother. The merging of the kabbalistic and the Christological symbols thus leads Kemper to
a fascinating application of the female image of motherhood to Jesus (Response 2)
In several contexts, Kemper reiterates and explains this symbolism in slightly di erent
terms: Jesus is identi ed as Wisdom or the Word, which is related to the second rather than
the third of the ten se rot, and by virtue of this function Jesus produces and sustains
everything that is created in the manner of a mother that gives birth and nourishes the
infant. For our purposes it is not necessary to attempt a resolution of these ostensibly
con icting explanations. What is far more important to the discussion of Kemper’s hybrid of
kabbalistic and Christological messianism is the fact that the adaptation of the kabbalistic
symbolism facilitates the application of feminine images to Jesus, a position that is
re ected as well in the identi cation of Jesus as the Shekhinah, as we have already noted in
passing. For Kemper the ascription of the feminine symbols to Jesus is of supreme
theological signi cance insofar as it articulates in a metaphorical way the foundational
tenet of Christian faith, the belief in the incarnation of the divine in the esh of a mortal
human being. The point is underscored in the following passage in Matteh Mosheh wherein
Kemper remarks that the characterization of Jesus as the son must be complemented by
that of the daughter:
“Son” and “daughter” are mentioned with respect to that supernal gradation. He is
called “son” when he sits to the right of the Father. “[The Lord established his throne in
heaven,] and his sovereign rule is over all” (Ps. 103:19), before him “every knee shall bow
down” (Isa. 45:23), and then he is the son that inherits the property of his father. … Do not
be astonished by the fact that he is contained in the name “mother” and that of the “son,”
for with respect to the ten se rot as well he is comprised in the right side and that of the
left, Hokhmah on the right and Binah on the left. He is called “daughter” when he descends
to the earth, “impoverished and riding a donkey” (Zech. 9:9)… then his power is weakened
like a female, and with regard to this aspect it is possible to apply to him the name
“daughter,” that is, the daughter does not inherit in the place of the son. … For that very
reason he is called as well Zeèir Ànpin, for he diminished and lowered himself to bear the
su erings on behalf of human beings to atone for their sins.
The key to this unique turn in the path of Kemper’s thought is the awareness that the
kabbalah preserves a foundational truth about the Christian faith. The appropriation of the
archetypal symbols of mother and daughter from the language of the kabbalah to depict
Jesus is based ultimately on the ancient belief regarding the nature of the Messiah as the
incarnation of the Torah. The mystery of Jesus assuming bodily form for the sake of atoning
for human transgressions is framed more speci cally in terms of the technical terminology
of the kabbalah that is related to the feminine attributes of the divine. Most interestingly,
Kemper interprets the zoharic idiom, Zeèir Ànpin, literally, the “small face” (qesar
àppayim), as referring to the feminine aspect of Jesus, for in his view this expression
denotes the diminishing of his stature by entering the corporeal world, which is set against
the exalted state when he is enthroned to the right of God in the heavenly abode. The upper
status of divine wisdom, therefore, is related to the metaphorical image of the son
occupying a throne alongside the throne of glory, whereas the lower status is expressed by
the image of the daughter. Elsewhere in Matteh Mosheh Kemper attributes the title Zeèir
Ànpin to Metatron on account of the fact that “he diminished himself” (Response 3).
To appreciate this comment it is necessary to bear in mind that Kemper repeatedly

notes in his compositions that Metatron is identi ed as Jesus. (Indeed, the third part of
Matteh Mosheh is called shaàr metatron ). This identi cation stems from the fact that in the
kabbalistic texts themselves Metatron is characterized both as the glory of God and as the
highest angel. This dual role is appropriated by Kemper to express an ancient belief in
Christianity regarding the status of Jesus as the glori ed angel, that is, the angel that is the
divine glory. From the Christological vantage point this implies that the glory is embodied in
the form of an angel that is manifest in the physical world. The technical designation of God
as Zeèir Ànpin is another way of conveying this basic idea. What is of most interest to
point out is that in recent years it has been suggested that originally the symbol of Zeèir
Ànpin in kabbalistic sources from the period of the Zohar (late-thirteenth and early-
fourteenth centuries) did indeed refer to the feminine Shekhinah, which was contrasted with
the masculine potency designated as Àrikh Ànpin, the “long face.” It appears that
Kemper’s Christological orientation led him to recover what may have been the original
intent of this symbolic locution.
The speci cally rabbinic character of the tradition regarding the incarnation of Jesus is
highlighted in another passage wherein Kemper demonstrates his astonishing exegetical
prowess by interpreting the biblical notion of the two loaves of bread connected to
sacri ces as a reference to the rabbinic dual Torah: the Written Torah refers to the Old
Testament and the Oral Torah to the New Testament. Such a symbolic interpretation would
have been unthinkable for the standard exponents of the Christian kabbalah. Only one who
had lived within the nomian framework of halakhah could identify the foundational text of
rabbinic law, the Oral Torah, as the New Testament, which, in Kemper’s own view, espouses
a decidedly antimonian perspective. The dialectical relationship that pertains between the
two poles is such that one cannot speak meaningfully of the one without the other. The New
Testament represents the departure from the law of the Old Testament, but this departure
is itself encoded in the symbolic identi cation of the New Testament as the Oral Torah of
the rabbinic tradition. The paradox of this identi cation entails the recognition that breaking
away from the law in the most complete sense is the means to ful ll it.
The antinomianism is related more speci cally to his understanding of the universal and
spiritual nature of the messianic redemption, which he also deduces on the basis of an
intimate knowledge of rabbinic and kabbalistic sources. Thus, for example, in Beriah ha-
Tikhon, Kemper interprets the zoharic claim that on the feast of Tabernacles the Messiah
will come, alluded to in the biblical name hag ha-‘asif , the “festival of gathering,” in terms
of the rabbinic tradition that during this festival the goodness of God over ows to all the
nations. Kemper links this notion to the baptismal formula adopted by Paul, “There is
neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for
you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Gal. 3:28). Kemper interprets the zoharic reworking of the
rabbinic motif as an allusion to the eschatological soteriology of Paul, the universal
application of messianic salvation to the point that there is a breakdown of cultural,
socioeconomic, and gender binaries. Again we see the complex exegetical strategy that
marks his way of thinking: the nomian impulse of the rabbinic tradition, which ostensibly is
at odds with the antimonian tendency of Christological messianism, is turned against itself
to yield its very opposite. The key to this hermeneutical inversion is the reading of the
rabbinic texts through the lter of the hypernomianism of the kabbalistic symbolism. The
symbolic explanation of the Jewish liturgical cycle that Kemper deduces from the Zohar
allows him to assert that the Sabbath and all of the festivals allude to Jesus. The complexity
of his position should be readily apparent: the messianic truth of Jesus is encoded
typologically in Jewish law. Kemper’s kabbalistic understanding of Christian typology is
such, however, that it is not necessary for one to abrogate the law in order to express that
truth. By ful lling the halakhah with the proper kabbalistic intention one can live a faithful
Christian life.
The point is well illustrated in another passage wherein Kemper sets out to interpret the
custom recorded in the Zohar, which can be traced to the German Pietists, regarding gazing
at one’s shadow on leil ha-hotam, the eve of Hoshanah Rabbah on which one’s fate for the
upcoming year is sealed. Kemper relates that in his time there were Jews who mistakenly
interpreted the meaning of the zoharic text in terms of a folkloristic practice of looking at
one’s shadow by the light of the moon. The correct explanation of the custom recorded in
the Zohar involves the recognition that the shadow refers to Jesus, who is the image of the
Father. The superstition that Kemper attributes to the Jews, which is the historically and
philologically correct explanation of the custom, is rejected in favor of the Christological
interpretation, which is presented as the true meaning of the zoharic passage.
The extent to which Kemper reinterpreted the kabbalistic tradition in light of his
Christian messianism is evident from his remark in Matteh Mosheh concerning the custom
to say “for the sake of the uni cation of the Qadosh barukh hu’ and his Shekhinah,” which
was instituted by kabbalists in the sixteenth century. According to Kemper, this formula
“comprises all of the threefold unity (shilush ha-yihud) … the Qadosh barukh hu’ refers to the
Father … and in the expression `his Shekhinah’ they comprehended the Son and the Holy
Spirit, for both of them are comprised in the word Shekhinah.” It would be ludicrous, of
course, to assume that Kemper imagined that the Jews who utilized this liturgical formula
actually understood it in the Christological way that he proposes. What is essential is his
opinion that the symbolic meaning of this formula relates to the Christian belief in the unity
of the threefold hypostases of the divine. Unwittingly, therefore, the Jews a irm the
fundamental dogma of the Christian faith each time they utter this kabbalistic introduction
prior to saying a blessing or performing a ritual action. Halakhic observance is thereby
transformed into an act of giving witness to the truth of the Trinity.
Needless to say, according to Kemper, the Jews are ignorant of the Christological
essence of their ritual practices. On occasion Kemper even employs a rabbinic text in his
e ort to discredit the Jews of his time, as we nd, for example, in the following passage that
concludes a discussion of the essential connection between the Shekhinah and the
community of Israel, which is clearly based on the kabbalistic perspective: “However, the
Shekhinah has departed from the Jews in this time in accordance with their dictum in the
Talmud, ‘The Shekhinah journeyed ten times,’ and hence neither the name ‘Israel’ nor the
‘community of Israel’ applies to them, and they àre like the beasts that perish’ (Ps. 49:13),
‘they have eyes, but cannot see’ (ibid., 115:5), and they do not pay heed to discern words of
the tradition (divrei qabbalah) like these with a balanced mind and on a just scale (lishqol
be-shiqqul ha-daàt u-ve-kaf mo`znei sedeq), but rather they grope like a blind person in a
chimney.” In the course of his writings, Kemper provides speci c examples of Jewish ritual
that demonstrates both the implict mystical (i.e., Christological) meaning of the rituals and
the ignorance of Jews regarding the spiritual intent of their own tradition. Thus, in the
section on the trinity (shaàr ha-shilush) in his Matteh Mosheh, Kemper elaborates on a
number of Jewish customs that allude symbolically to the trinitarian belief. In that context,
he addresses the larger hermeneutical question that we have been pondering:
The matter is that their mentioning of the three patriarchs [in the standing
prayer of eighteen benedictions] instructs about the Trinity (shilush), and
the fact that they end [the blessing magen àvraham] by referring to one
[patriarch, i.e., Abraham] instructs about the unity (yihud). Do not wonder at
the fact that I presented to you in this place that one may nd in their
prayers many secrets. … He who has a brain in his head will conclude that
the patriarchs point to the Trinity, and by way of this deception they denied
and contradicted all belief in the Trinity, and Satan assisted them in this
matter, until the point that the wisdom of kabbalah was also lost. But know
that even today they have very ancient and just customs that instruct about
the Trinity, but they cover their faces with a mask.
Rabbinic ritual, especially when it is refracted through the prism of kabbalah, attests to
the elemental truths of Christianity. Thus, in another passage from Beriah ha-Tikhon,
Kemper relates that the “Jews have an ancient custom of eating a meal on Saturday night,
which they call the melawweh malkkah, that is, to escort the Sabbath that is departing from
them.” Kemper then relates that the eating of this meal alludes to the rabbinic tradition
regarding the bone that will survive whence the body will be reconstructed in the
eschatological future. From his perspective the Jewish practice of eating this meal is indeed
“precious,” for “it alludes to the bread that is the body of the Messiah, which is the just
Sabbath in which all of the believers shall take rest. He is the master of Sabbath and when it
departs he shall give bread to those who believe in him, for they are his bride and he is the
bridegroom, the ‘bridegroom of blood’ (Exod. 4:25-26), for he gave his blood on behalf of
his bride. … You can nd this custom in a book that is called Tiqqun Shabbat Malkhata’ , but
the Jews presently destroy the custom and this tradition (qabbalah) as is their destructive
way.” The Jewish ritual symbolically comprises the Christological truth and thus it points
beyond itself. The Jews are unaware of the spiritual depth of their own actions, but there is
always the potential that they shall discern the messianic impulse that lies beneath the
external layer of their tradition (Response 4).
Kemper’s theoretical position naturally re ects the split consciousness of his own
existential situation. He cannot divest himself completely of his rabbinic upbringing even
though he is a fully committed Christian. On the contrary, the veracity of his Christian
a iliation is con rmed most precisely by the rabbinic and kabbalistic sources. Another
fascinating example of the spiritual pull inside Kemper’s heart is found in his explanation in
Matteh Mosheh of the custom mentioned in the Zohar of shortening the letter àlef in the
utterance of the word èhad, “one,” in the recitation of the liturgical a irmation of the
monotheistic faith, shema` yisra’el yhwh èlohenu yhwh èhad, “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our
God the Lord is one” (Deut. 6:4). The Pharasaic/rabbinic tradition (transmitted in the name
of Aqiva) to elongate the word èhad is presented by Kemper as a response to a Jewish-
Christian practice, which alludes to the mystery of the diminution of Jesus. Even in this case
where the rabbinic custom is set in opposition to an alleged Christian practice, Kemper
relies on Jewish texts to establish the facticity of the latter. The zoharic text serves as the
pretext to establish a supposedly original context to account for this liturgical gesture.
When viewed from that vantage point it is clear that this example, like countless others that
could have been provided, illustrates the point that, according to Kemper, the halakhah
itself contains symbolic references to the basic tenets of the Christian faith, although it
often takes the spiritualized reading of the Zohar to cast light on the messianic potential of
Jewish ritual. The dissemination of this belief represents the distinctive element of Kemper’s
messianic teaching.
It is with respect to this orientation, moreover, that Kemper’s Sabbatian background

becomes crucial. Various scholars have noted this connection and, most recently, Kemper
has been described as a disciple of the Sabbatian prophet, Zadoq of Grodno who appeared
between 1694-1696. The precise historical and literary connections are of less importance to
me than the general impact that this relationship had on Kemper’s attitude toward the
messianic potentiality of traditional Jewish law when interpreted kabbalistically. On an
historical note, however, it is important to remark that in Matteh Mosheh Kemper relates
that in 1695 there was a messianic upheaval in the Jewish community. He writes: “What a
great confusion there was amongst the Jews. They emptied their homes and sold
everything… they prepared and established the way to go up by foot with the Messiah to
Jerusalem with security and trust. There was one particular person in Vilna whose name was
R. Zadoq, and he was the principal and chief cause for this confusion.” Although Kemper
does not make this connection explicitly, one may conjecture that the messianic
disappointment occasioned by this event in 1695 may have served as a catalyst for his
conversion to Christianity one year later. The path of Sabbatian messianism apparently led
to a dead-end for Kemper—yet another false start, but it did open up a new path for him
expressed in his embrace of the Christian faith. One may conjecture that the decision to
convert allowed Kemper to preserve the religious impulse of Sabbatianism while still
moving beyond the spiritual gridlock that he may have felt by remaining an observant Jew
(Response 5).
Contrary to the general attitude adopted by many scholars, antinomianism of an

absolute and unquali ed sense is not characteristic of either Sabbatai Sevi or most of his
followers. Even those who accepted the breaking of normative halakhah as an expression
of their messianic belief, the break with tradition was not viewed as unconditional and
permanent. The example of the Dšnmeh is the exception to the rule, although the portrait
o ered by scholars turns the exception into the rule. The antinomianism exempli ed by the
pseudo-Messiah and his adherents is a form of hypernomianism, which should be
contrasted with the metanomianism that characterized the attitude of St. Paul in relation to
Pharisaic Judaism. To be sure, in the writings of the Sabbatians themselves there is much
debate concerning the question of the temporary or permanent abolition of traditional
religious laws and customs. One thing, however, that the extreme and moderate Sabbatians
shared in common was the view that antinomian acts, the maàsim zarim, are endowed
with religious signi cance, for they are dialectically related to the halakhic tradition. That is,
breaking the law is for the sake of ful lling it. Indeed, the literary evidence suggests that
even after the apostasy Sabbatai Sevi himself continued to live a con icted life,
manifesting, as Scholem put it, “double-faced behavior as a Jew and a Muslim.” One is here
reminded of what may be called the “Marrano complex,” a spiritual a inity that was already
noted by Abraham Cardoso, who wrote in one of his letters: “In the future the King messiah
will don the garments of a Marrano, and on account of that the Jews will not recognize him.
In short, in the future he will be a Marrano like me.” Indeed, the dissemination of the
paradoxical ideology of Sabbatianism can only be understood in light of a widespread
spiritual disposition in communities of the Sephardi Diaspora brought on by the duplicity
that was essential to the Marrano existence, Jew on the inside and Christian on the outside.
Notwithstanding the logical and historical reasonableness of this claim, it must be

pointed out that the dialectical relationship of antinomianism and traditional observance in
Sabbatian ideology strikes an even more paradoxical chord than the Marrano situation as
well as the general antagonism toward Jewish law that lies at the heart of Pauline
Christianity. For Sabbatai Sevi and his supporters, acts of breaking the law were considered
themselves religious rites. The point was well understood and succinctly expressed by
Scholem whose words unfortunately have not been well heeded by subsequent scholars:
“And this and nothing else is the true heritage of Sabbatai Zevi: the quasi-sacramental
character of antinomian actions, which here always take the form of a ritual, remained a
shibboleth of the movement, not least in its more radical o shoots. … The performance of
such acts is a rite, a festive action of an individual or a whole group, something out of the
ordinary, greatly disturbing and born from the deep stirring of emotional forces.” Perhaps
even more paradoxical than the notion of the holy sinner is the idea of cultic sinning, which
in some cases even involved uttering a blessing or a liturgical formula before a
transgression was committed. In Sabbatian ideology, the overturning of Jewish ritual is
itself a ritualistic performance, and thus transgressing the Torah yielded the invention of
new forms of ceremonial behavior. From the perspective of Sabbatian messianism, then,
redemption does not imply the complete abrogation of the halakhah. On the contrary,
redemption is predicated on keeping the faith, which involves ful lling the will of God
through the commandments, even if that may entail an action that ostensibly appears to be
an abolition of the law. To put the matter somewhat di erently, the dialectic of Sabbatian
spirituality is based a reversal of the Aristotelian principle of non-contradiction, that is, a
thing is both itself and its opposite. This logic of the paradox is highlighted by the
identi cation of the holy messiah with the impure serpent, which is expressed through the
numerical equivalence of the two relevant Hebrew terms jyvm and vjn (both equal 358).
How could the identity of opposites be expressed more powerfully? When this is applied to
the question of ritual action, then we can conclude that transgression is the ultimate
ful llment of the law. The acceptance of this dialectic should mitigate against the notion of
the de nitive abrogation of the law and the unquali ed departure from the nomian
framework. To obliterate the halakhic world entirely would be to erase the very context that
a ords one an opportunity to realize the paradox of messianic spirituality.
It is precisely this dialectic that best captures Kemper’s approach. On the surface his
goal was to convince both Jews and Christians that classical rabbinic and kabbalistic
literature contain allusions to the secrets of Christianity, the recognition of which
necessitates on the part of Jews the acceptance of the messianic claims of Christianity and
the concomitant rejection of the legalism and ceremonial formalism of the Jewish traditions.
Beyond this aim, however, is another one that is somewhat more subtle and daring: the
nomian tradition itself preserves hints that point toward the truths of the Christian faith.
Ostensibly, the latter surpasses the former, but from the esoteric perspective, which is
provided by the kabbalah in particular, even the halakhah comprises the mysteries of
Christianity. Kemper’s messianic calling is related to the task of exposing these elements of
Judaism (Response 6).
Kemper expressed his messianic role particularly through a commentary on the Zohar
by rendering explicit the Christological secrets he thought were encoded in that text.
Indeed, from Kemper’s vantage point, since the Zohar was written several years after the
cruci xion of Jesus, for political reasons it was necessary for Christological matters to be
written in that work in an esoteric manner (be-lashon nistar). In another context, Kemper
cites and analyzes one of the more overt messianic passages in the Zohar, which o ers a
detailed account of the advent of the Messiah in the Galilee. In the course of his analysis,
which includes a comparison of the zoharic text to parallel accounts in the New Testament,
Kemper notes that this section was undoubtedly one of the “ancient writings” that made its
way into the zoharic text, which he describes as “a book assembled from the manuscripts of
R. Simeon ben Yohai.” Even before the incarnation of the Messiah (hitgashmut ha-mashiah),
therefore, the Jews had a tradition about the messianic age related to astrological
phenomena and the sign of the covenant in the form of the rainbow. On several occasions
wherein he discerns references to Jesus, Kemper states that had the Pharisees read the
words of the Zohar they would not have persecuted Jesus. The essential point from my
perspective is that these examples (and others that I could have cited) demonstrate that
Kemper viewed the zoharic anthology as a repository of messianic secrets that were
deliberately concealed on account of their Christological orientation. On occasion he
extends this viewpoint to the unusual legends (haggadot meshunot) in the Talmud: the
intention of the rabbis in these seemingly bizarre aggadic passages was to relate in a
concealed manner truths about Jesus. If one does not embrace this hermeneutical principle,
then the language of these texts would appear to be ridiculous. Kemper’s own messianic
role was to expose these very secrets, to reverse the code of esotericism, as it were, by
uncovering what he considered to be the true messianic intent of the aggadic and
kabbalistic symbolism. The exegetical process itself, therefore, is imbued with messianic
signi cance. In spite of his conversion to Christianity and the apparent repudiation of
Judaism, in his mode of argumentation, Kemper remained faithful to his rabbinic training,
for the most meaningful way that he expressed his Christian faith was through textual
interpretation. In particular, the hermeneutical act of disclosing the mysteries hidden
beneath the surface of the Zohar is for him the true sign of messianic conviction and the
primary means by which one attains the ultimate salvation of mind and body.
The Rules of Scriptural Reasoning

October 24, 2013 / amt6vr / 0 Comments
Robert Gibbs
University of Toronto
rb.gibbs@utoronto.ca
Peter Ochs has o ered us a de nition of our work together, a process of de ning WHY we
are doing what we do. His speci c expertise in explaining the logic of inquiry and his basic
aid in this moment of de nition is clear to all. I do not think that wrangling over that
de nition will contribute to our conversation, and so I will move in quite a di erent
direction. One other thing that I will not do is explore exactly HOW we do our scriptural
reasoning. A hyper-commentary on the essays by several of us and then on the responsive
abstracts, digging into the textual practices of this group, is far too grand a task for a short
abstract. Moreover, while I think WHY we are engaging in scriptural reasoning helps orient
our work, I am less convinced that the re ection on HOW is bene cial at this point in our
society.
But my direction is to consider what we do when we are not working together–a somewhat
counter-intuitive way of de ning a practice and its rules, I grant. When we come together,
however, we bring the conversations and writings we produce when we are not together.
We have, if not loyalties, then at least responsibilities to others, those ones who would not
choose to meet with this assembly, and perhaps not even to read our collaborative work.
Thus, I propose a centrifugal process of de nition as a complement to Ochs centripetal
inquiry into why we reason as we do. Our work, our rule, then, for this dispersing de nition,
this dissemination more than de nition, wants to ask us to consider di erent contexts in
which we o er our scriptural reasoning. In a short space and time, I will not try to make this
rigorous, but let me propose a schematic of sorts. There are two major contexts for our
scriptural reasoning not in this society: 1) in our religious communities, and 2) in our
academic communities. I doubt that my experience is the norm for all of us, but if you can
accept the anecdotal nature of these comments, I hope that it can spark a conversation for
our group. 1) I teach in the Jewish community in various contexts: in synagogues, in adult
education programs, and in a liberal Kolel (a Bet Midrash, or Lehrhaus ). These audiences
are intellectual but not academic, and certainly not philosophical. Most of my time, I o er
them Jewish texts (Bible, Rabbinic texts and philosophical commentaries and discussions).
In the Jewish community there is a real thirst for scriptural reasoning at this time–as adults
want not merely literacy in Jewish texts, but indeed, want the questions, the insight, and
above all the experience of learning. In conversations with others who teach scriptural
reasoning in the religious community, I have often heard corroboration of my discovery; it is
some of my very best teaching.
These adults bring their lives to the texts, and so resist the texts and engage their own
modernist assumptions vigorously, but they learn (and they teach me). The religious
communities are important interlocutors for our work, and they require of us a translation
of what is often technical, and almost always complex and di icult, into what can be
approached directly. The practice of teaching texts, of reading texts together–both
traditional ones and contemporary ones–helps to equalize the disparity between an

academic teacher and a member of the community.
The second sphere of interaction is with academics, usually ones who are not themselves
involved with Scripture (indeed people who are at best indi erent to Scripture and religion,
and at times simply hostile). While the religious communities are less inclined to interpret
themselves as postmodern; the people I engage in the academy are often so, but not
without more than a little suspicion that what we call scriptural reasoning is simply pre-
modern fundamentalism. The task in these dialogues, however, is not simply an apology (”
see, what we are doing is engaging with modernity and my Jewishness does not prevent
me from participating as an academic” ). Rather, there is a richer level of interaction
possible; the problems that arise in a wide-range of disciplines in the academy are parallel
to our own struggles to reconstrue our relation to Modern Western Thought.
I will give you three examples among current Ph.D. students of mine.
First, there is a Philosophy student who is working on the topic of Home. She is interested in
how philosophy has construed home, and particularly addresses the place of women (in the
home?). She is struggling with Levinas, Hegel, Marcel and Plato. Her work is bound to
philosophical texts, yet her reading and inquiry not only is postmodern but also is in some
interesting tangent with Scriptural Reasoning. Her explorations are not simply a modernist
critique of some philosophers, but a working with their texts–a re-reading that can learn but
also must mark the inadequacies of this tradition. (And who can fail to see that our modes
of reasoning require a re-interrogation of our religious traditions on this very same question
of women and home!)
A second student is working in Philosophy of Law. The intellectual imperialism of modernist

legal theories in relation to other cultures and other polities in the world trouble her. As
long as the only thing that counts as reasonable law is what law is in modern Christian
culture, the interpretations of other cultures and other kinds of laws are con ned. Her task
is to develop ways of thinking about legal texts–and legal-theoretical texts–in ways that do
not reduce those texts to a xed set of modern rationalist visions of law. She is not destined
to become an expert in halakah , or canon law, but our work with traditional religious legal
texts is interesting at least at a theoretical level for her. Just as we have to struggle to nd a
way to reason about legal texts that is not simply a premodern traditionalism nor a
modernist reconstruction of our religious legal traditions, so she is trying to nd
postmodern models for interpreting legal texts.
Last, a third student is working on pedagogy and drama. She is writing about several
popular and school theatrical productions that all deal with bearing witness to su ering.
The lines between witness and didacticism, emotional exploitation, and authoritarian
control are the ones she is drawing. Her theoretical support comes from Levinas and a
wide-range of drama theorists. Her “texts” are not merely the scripts, but the practices of
teaching students in student productions, rehearsals, and dramatic performances. The
change in theory from seeing popular drama as an instrument for social change to seeing it
as a way of bearing witness is remarkable. While she is not allergic to the religious
overtones of witness, her work requires a concept of witness that belongs in drama. Her
problems, as playwright, dramaturge and theorist, are parallel to our explorations at two
levels: at the level of liturgical performance, and at the level of witnessing to su ering. She
does not need a master-concept, but needs to re ect on these textual performances to
interpret the scripts and the performances in such a way as to explore (both sympathetically
and critically) the ethics of witness.
I choose these three students in part to elucidate three areas where my work (and ours)
overlaps with other academic disciplines: 1) in philosophy, 2) in law, and 3) in drama, or if
you prefer performativity. In these areas, we have much to give, but also much to learn. Of
course, there are texts we do not know and local theorists that are unfamiliar. But the
struggles of scholars and students in these elds o er insights for us that exceed a pre-
emptive judgment that they are simply lost in secular or universalist thought, or condemned
in the aftermath of modernism to stumble in the dark. Just as we learn from our passionate
if less intellectually expert religious communities, we also learn from our academic
colleagues who are engaged closely with texts in ways parallel to our own. And we also
o er some of the fruits of our labor together. Our passionate reading, and our
contemporary needs in our reading display a kind of engagement that allow for a recovery
of lost possibilities–possibilities not merely for knowledge, but possibilities for practice–at
the personal level (women and homes), at the communal level (law and non-modern
models of legal reasoning), and in liturgy (performing witness).
The relations, therefore, with others when we are not together are complex. But not only
are they not extrinsic to Scriptural Reasoning, they are also not merely a missionary
proclamation. Our intimate relations with others are not merely an extra in uence on our
work, but lie deeper even in our work together. When we write for each other and talk with
each other, those others are also here. Their interests and questions inform our own
questions. And when we meet with them, we are continuously speaking AND listening
about the practices we are developing for reasoning with Scripture.
Title Page | Archive
© 2002, Society for Scriptural Reasoning
Meeting Notes: Exploring Di erence and

Particularity
Kris Lindbeck, Trinity University
Le courage de nos di erences . Without becoming irresponsible, to accept what divides us,
with humility and pride.
–Dag Hammarskjold [31]
Rabbi Joshua ben Levi said concerning written biblical and oral Rabbinic law: “Scripture,
mishnah! that which in the future a dedicated student will teach before his master, was
already given to Moses on Sinai.”
–Talmud Yerushalmi [32]
Introduction
The Scriptural Reasoning session at the 2001’s AAR/SBL took place from 9:00 to 11:00 on
the last evening of the conference, a time neither easy nor convenient. It testi es to the
number of scholars seriously engaged with scriptural reasoning that more than thirty
people, many well known in their own elds, attended the meeting, and that our
conversation continued up to, and a bit past, the o icial end of the session. The discussion
ranged widely, touching on issues raised by the main papers, by the commentaries, and by
the course of the discussion itself. The multiplicity of faith commitments and disciplines
represented, and the number of complex ideas presented, made for a discussion that was
exciting but frustrating in its brevity. Many participants left the room saying it would have
been good to have had three or four hours together, rather than two.
As has become customary, no papers were read in full. The main papers had already
appeared on the web , [33] and were brie y introduced by their authors, who began the
discussion. After that, those who had written commentaries before the meeting joined in,
and in the last half of the session the discussion became general. This triple structure
allowed for common themes to emerge while at the same time giving everyone a chance to
speak. In addition, the choreography of the meeting, emphasizing discussion rather than
presentation, encouraged one of the key elements of scriptural reasoning in practice:
willingness to think out loud, to be surprised by new ideas, other peoples’ or one’s own.
The following description of the meeting is arranged topically, and is thus necessarily
partial, as it emphasizes key themes mentioned in the introduction: the meaning of
interpretive disagreement; the problem of eisegesis; and the understanding of particularity
and universality. [34] The fourth theme, the use of traditional interpretation, is so
thoroughly woven through the rst two themes that it would have been arti cial to give it a
separate section. Traditional interpretation highlights the divergence between traditions
(for example Jewish and Christian readings of the Tanakh/Old Testament), and also raises
the problem of eisegesis. The question of “reading in” arises in part because attention to
traditional interpretaton can make it di icult to encounter the original texts for themselves,
and also because many traditional readings, such as trinitarian interpretations of Genesis
18, seem to be eisegesis from the perspective of modern historical study.
While this topical approach has rhetorical and logical advantages, it does short-change
minor themes and overlook valuable individual comments. Fortunately, some of the
discussion passed over here is taken up by two commentaries written after the meeting by
Chad Pecknold and Jon Cooley . The conclusion of this essay will brie y discuss their
contributions and also highlight a crucial question raised by Peter Ochs. How, Ochs asked,
do we turn to scripture in these troubled times? While none of the responses explicitly
given was complete, I will argue that the meeting itself, in some sense, enacted an answer
to this pressing inquiry.
Notes on the Meeting
I. Interpretive Disagreement
Interpretive disagreement within and between traditions was the issue that began the
meeting, with Watson’s opening remark that both papers share an emphasis on
disagreement–Wolfson highlighting interreligious di erences, whereas he, Watson, is
concerned with intra-Christian ones. Watson continued that while there is a common view
that within Christianity di ering interpreters simply add new insights to those who came
before, this is not the case. Celebration of multiplicity is too simple when there are real
disagreements that should not be forgotten.
This does not mean, however, that any view may be dismissed or discounted. Watson
expressed his interest in Eugene Rogers commentary as a modern equivalent of
Augustine’s typological reading. As Genesis describes Abraham’s meal with God, the
planned sacri ce of Isaac, and his restoration–so the New Testament recounts the last
supper, cruci xion and resurrection. Rogers seeks to make a typological link between the
two, with Genesis 18 as a foretaste of the nal feast. So, Watson concluded, it is possible to
breathe new life into an Augustinian reading, though he is still unconvinced that it
completely works.
After reviewing his own paper, Watson then turned to aspects of Wolfson’s essay that he
found di icult. Wolfson, he noted, is looking for links between Gen 17 and 18, but even
though Wolfson’s paper fascinated him, he found it di icult to follow how Wolfson draws
these links. Watson read from Wolfson’s quote of a midrash on Job, “from my esh I would
behold God,” [35] which, Wolfson argues, “encapsulates the rabbinic ethos that reward is
consequent to action. Here it is the rite of circumcision that is singled out as the means that
facilitates God’s appearance before Abraham, a point underscored by the exegesis of the
verse from Job, that is, after the foreskin has been removed, one envisions God from the
esh of the penis.” Watson summarized his di iculties with this interpretation in two points:
1. He has a Christian unease with the intense symbolism associated with circumcision in
Rabbinic and later Jewish readings. How can it perform such “mystical feats and functions?”
2. He nds it hard to see such a strong connection between 17 and 18 in the text itself. How
can one see the theophany of Genesis 18 as a reward for circumcision? If this explanation
appeared in a commentary, no one would buy it. [36]
Wolfson responded that he agreed on the level of di iculty of the midrash he presented.
This, he continued, is precisely the “spiritual nub” which undoes the connection between the
three faiths. By adhering to the undoing of the knot we have an opportunity for
conversation, but not for re-tying the knot.
In Rabbinic thought, as in Plotinus, like sees like. One has to become divine-like, which
happens in circumcision according to the Rabbinic tradition. Wolfson continued that he
could not compromise at the base level of exegeting the tradition, though he wished he
could, for he found it disturbing and problematic. Furthermore, he added, the emphasis on
circumcision as a spiritual possibility may be as di icult for a feminist Jewish interpretation
of scripture as for a Christian one.
This exchange between Watson and Wolfson presents a strong example of how traditional
interpretations highlight di erences between faiths. Still, as Wolfson simultaneously points
out, di erences within faiths may parallel some of the di erences between them. To be
parallel, however, is not to be identical. Both Wolfson himself and some Jewish feminists
may be fully as uncomfortable with a spiritual emphasis on circumcision as Christians are.
The Jewish readers, however, will be uncomfortable for di erent reasons, probably
stemming from egalitarian and/or feminist principles; they will not share a Christian
discomfort with “law,” which from a Jewish perspective is simply the embodiment of grace
in Divine commandment.
Nevertheless, as Watson concludes, disagreements are signs of hope. They mean

conversation is taking place. Furthemore, as his paper records, disagreements happen
within each tradition, not just among the three traditions. In dialogue across religious
boundaries too there may be convergences as well as divergences, not dissimilar to
dialogue within one’s own tradition.
Another explicit discussion of interpretive di erence between traditions came later in the
session, as Basit Koshul , of the University of Virginia and Concordia College, spoke on the
status of circumcision in Islam, responding to a point raised in Wolfson’s paper, that
circumcision seems to be almost overlooked in the Qur’an. Koshul explained that
circumcision is not explicitly commanded in Islam, in either the Qur’an or the Hadith. There
is, however, a tradition from Abu Hanifah (founder of the major school of Muslim law, 700-
767 C. E.) stating the principle that anything in Mosaic law not explicitly denied in the
Qur’an is still in force. Koshul continued that keeping circumcision seems a reaction to–or a
prevention of–a “Marcion” heresy in Islam, which would reject the Old Testament God and
discard all customary law not explicitly mentioned in the Qur’an. Rather, the torah, with a
small “t,” is maintained in Islam.
Nevertheless, Koshul continued, the claim of ancestral election is discarded in Islam. In the
Qur’an, one of Noah’s sons drowns, and in-laws of Abraham die in God’s judgment of
Sodom. What is promised to Abraham is not particular to his biological progeny, but can
become universal to those who have faith in the one creator God. Thus Allah’s dialogue with
Abraham, in which He reminds Abraham that His will concerning the wicked of Sodom
cannot be abrogated, is a reminder to Abraham of what had been forgotten in the days of
Noah, and to us of what has been forgotten in the days of Abraham (cf. Koshul’s
commentary for more on this point).
I, Kris Lindbeck (a visiting professor at Trinity University) asked, what are the similarities
between the ways in which Christians and Muslims universalize Abraham as founder of our
faiths?
Koshul responded with modest good humor that the Christians–or Paul anyhow–go wrong
when they abrogate the law in adopting Abraham as father of their faith. Faith is not
enough. And the Jews, for their part, emphasize the law too much. Muslims universalize
while putting proper and useful emphasis on faith and law.
This nal comment of Koshul’s struck me as very helpful for understanding where Islam
di ers from Christianity and Judaism. It was pointed out after the meeting that Koshul’s
response, so appropriate to my question, was also a standard Muslim teaching about
Islam’s relationship with the two other faiths. In fact, his response is basic to Islam in the
same way that the age-old Christian statement that Christianity teaches grace and Judaism
teaches law is basic to Christianity–though the Muslim formulation seems a more accurate
simpli cation. Thus Koshul’s comment served in the long run to raise the question of our
responsibility as scriptural reasoners to learn more about Islam–certainly a good reminder!
The next point in the discussion useful to highlight is an example of how when one explores
interpretive disagreement between traditions sometimes agreement also becomes evident.
Aaron Mackler (a professor of medical ethics and Conservative rabbi) asked Watson
whether there may be an a inity between traditional views of baptism and circumcision.
After baptism can one better see God–is this a point of contact with Wolfson? Yes, Watson
replied, there is a connection. In the reformed tradition stemming from Calvin there is a
strong emphasis on the link between circumcision and baptism. Furthermore, Watson
added that perhaps there is also a connection between the inscription of the wounds of
Jesus and circumcision, although no one at the meeting followed up his intriguing idea. (It is
interesting, however, that in the commentaries, Young compared the circumcision to the
Eucharist–the body of Christ–as a eshly welcoming of God’s presence.)
II. Eisegesis and Exegesis
Just as exploration of interpretive disagreements may lead to valuable inter-religious

comparisons, the same is clearly true of the issue of eisegesis, germane to all forms of
reading. Furthermore, the de nition of reading out and reading in is particularly important
for scriptural reasoning, because SR studies scripture in a context attentive not merely to
historical and literary issues, but also to questions of truth.
A highly illuminating discussion of the issue of eisegesis, particularly as related to the use of
traditional interpretation, began with a complex question from Alon Goshen Gottstein ,
scholar of Rabbinics and founder of the interfaith Elijah Institute in Jerusalem. Gottstein
remarked that he struggles with the question of reading in and/or reading out. On one level
he sees that the accumulated interpretation of tradition is a necessary part of our common
baggage. As such, traditional interpretation makes it di icult to decide when it is useful to
look at the original text rather than look at the interpreters, and can even at times
overwhelm the original text.
On another level, Gottstein continued, one must ask when we should distinguish between
explaining a text and reading into it for the sake of our interpretive ventures. We try as
scholars not to read into the text, but if we reject the exegesis/eisegesis dichotomy as
Wolfson does, are we not saying that our position as a link in the chain of tradition justi es
our reading-in? And if one reads in, one skips important possibilities of the original text.
For example, Gottstein continued, how do we know that the case of Abraham is
paradigmatic, that the Rabbinic application to Abraham of the verse “in my esh, I shall see
God” means that circumcision is a universal requirement for seeing God? In other words, if
the sight of God follows circumcision, how do we know this is universal? This idea is
Wolfson’s reading in. [37] Rather, Gottstein concluded, God’s presence to Abraham is made
available by his descent to earth, not a phallic preparation.
Wolfson responded that he does not embrace the idea of an original text, as he accepts
Foucault’s idea of genealogies as opposed to origins. Thus the beginning of anything is
marked by multiplicity, not singularity. On the other hand, Wolfson added, it is a fair
question whether his own reading is a reading-in.
Divine justice is embodied–that is the key point, the one he, Wolfson, cannot dispense with.
Gottstein’s disagreement does not threaten his view, though he wishes that Gottstein
presented his question as unraveling Wolfson’s argument. “I too,” Wolfson concluded, “Am
uncomfortable with a phallocentric God.”
Watson then responded to Wolfson’s remark that it was fair for Gottstein to ask whether
the use of “in my esh . . .” was a reading-in. Watson, while agreeing that the
exegesis/eisegesis dichotomy should in theory be dissolved, admitted that he himself
makes the distinction in practice. He holds that Augustine’s reading is a reading in, whereas
Justin’s may be indeed a reading out. Thus, Watson, concluded, even if we can’t theorize the
distinction, we need to work with it.
Important as it is for understanding the right use traditional interpretation, the question of
eisegesis also came sharply to the fore with the proposal of a modern midrash by Bonna
Devora Haberman, resident scholar of women’s studies at Brandeis University. [38]
Haberman pointed out that, as Avram became Abra h am, Sarai also received a new letter
from the Divine Name, YHWH, becoming Sara h . The angels in the story, she continued,
perhaps come not for Abraham, but for Sarah, to tell her, as Abraham has already been told,
of the son they will be given. How long, Haberman wondered, does a man have to wait,
ritually and/or physically to have intercourse after circumcision? This is the time between
chapter 17 and chapter 18. The use of that newly circumcised male member is for the
fathering of that special child. Thus the sex between Abraham and Sarah is signi cant. She
is a high priestess; she is the place, the site, where this new child will come into being, so
she is metaphorically found “within,” in the tent.
Watson responded that in light of Haberman’s comments it is interesting that the sexual
intercourse between Abraham and Sarah is not mentioned, unlike Genesis 16:4 where
Abraham “went in to Hagar, and she conceived.” Instead, where you would expect a
reference to Abraham and Sarah’s intercourse, you have God appearing to her. The divine
appearance substitutes for the physical relationship in the text, saying only “The LORD
visited Sarah as he promised” (Gen. 21:1).
Wolfson began by thanking Haberman for her ideas, which complicate the narrative in
interesting ways. Nevertheless, Wolfson emphasized, the lineage is carried out through the
male; the covenant is through the male child, through circumcision. This retains a certain
weight, despite the ssure in the text that Haberman presents.
Later in the meeting, Laurie Zoloth-Dorfman, Professor of Jewish Studies and Social Ethics
at San Francisco, responded to Haberman in the context of a discussion of circumcision and
particularity, implicitly characterizing Haberman’s views as reading-in. Zoloth-Dorfman
noted that in her view any notion of the centrality of a woman’s contribution–and of
Sarah’s priestly role–is anachronistic. This baby, the male child chosen for circumcision then
and now, is going to be our chosen baby, marked as human rather than animal, and further
marked as Jewish rather than Gentile. To be so chosen is an extraordinary gift. A
phallocentric God is not so terrible, she added, joking that alternatively perhaps we could
cut o some of the ears!
Haberman, however, continued with her main point in earnest, responding that Sarah sees
the angels without having been circumcised. Furthermore, Sarah is able to be with God and
laugh, in the inner place where she can conceive.
Haberman’s midrash most obviously raises the question of eisegesis: does she propose
reading-in, and if so is that a problem? Zoloth-Dorfman’s comments relate Haberman’s
interpretation to another key issue, the relationship between particularity and universality
in Judaism. Haberman’s reading of Sarah as priestess, removed as it is from Jewish practice,
neither endorses nor questions Jewish particularity. When, however, Zoloth-Dorfman
connects Abraham’s circumcision to the brit milah of baby boys today, she explicitly
embraces Jewish particularity, ending the meeting with the issue raised by Wolfson near the
beginning.
Particularity and Universality
In his synopsis, Wolfson began by summarizing his conclusions on the connection between
Genesis 17 and 18, between circumcision and theophany, circumcision and the Jewish ethical
mission. In Rabbinic sources, the link is explicit, whereas “the pre-text [of circumcision] is
signi cantly ignored or distorted in the two other traditions . . .” According to biblical idiom,
Wolfson continued, the particularity is etched on the body, and nished by reading from his
concluding paragraph
Steve Kepnes later took up the issue of particularity, summarizing some of his commentary
on Wolfson. Kepnes spoke of how God works in Genesis, taking away a piece of esh, and
adding a personal element to his name –from Abram to Abraham–which is inscripted onto
Abraham and furthermore into the letter of the Torah, making the covenant eternal. The
insertion of the letter he means that an element of the Divine name has been added to
Abraham.
Wolfson took up the idea, noting that Abram in becoming Abraham becomes a fuller being.
He grows into a calling, and when he pleads for Sodom in Genesis 18 it is his moment of
adopting or assuming the new role.
Watson then referred back to the text of Genesis, “No longer shall your name be Abram,
but your name shall be Abraham, for I have made you the ancestor of a multitude of
nations” (17:5). He asked how Jewish exegesis makes sense of bringing in the “many
nations” at the addition of the letter he, because one would expect Abraham to be father of
“one nation” at this moment of particularity.
Wolfson responded that this is precisely his point: the grounding and legitimation of the
universal is found in the particular. Furthermore, Wolfson continued, he agrees that Paul’s
universalism is not the only view found in the New Testament. There is evidence for a more
Rabbinic approach, maybe in Matthew, maybe in communities that did not reach us, but left
some trace in the text.
These comments of Wolfson’s are a good place to conclude our detailed account of the
meeting, as they form a provisional conclusion to the issues of universality and particularity
that Wolfson raised in his paper. They also call to mind a number of commentaries that
suggest aspects of particularity and embodiment in Christian life today: in the Eucharist (
Hardy, Rogers, Young ), in the church’s obedient life of discipleship, ( Elkins ) and in the
ethical life and mission of the community. ( Craig ).
Scriptural Reasoning as a Response to Crisis
One nal theme from the meeting merits further mention, though it appeared more in
questions than in answers. Kurt Richardson, then at Boston University, began the meeting
by saying that scriptural reasoning speaks to our urgent concerns and our personal and
communal lives, clearly referring to the tragedy of September 11th. Neither Watson nor
Wolfson, however, followed up on his lead, though Watson noted that he had composed his
paper shortly after 9/11, giving it “an eerie quality.” Later on, Peter Ochs of the University of
Virginian asked both Watson and Wolfson how we can turn to scripture in these troubled
times, and both responded brie y, but a detailed and explicit answer to how scriptural
reasoning addresses present crises never materialized at the meeting itself.
Watson remarked to Ochs that he does not care for the language of “turning to the text,”
because ideally one should live in the text and see the world through the text. Even this, he
added, does not bring instant answers to crisis. Ochs expressed agreement that one should
live in the text, but stood by his question: as people who see the world through the text,
how may practitioners of scriptural reasoning respond to today’s crises? Wolfson’s answer
to Ochs, though di erent from Watson’s, was similar in its refusal to suggest immediate
solutions. Wolfson rst of all admitted that he personally does not always nd it helpful to
turn to texts in times of crisis. Nevertheless, Jewish tradition (like the Christian tradition
from which Watson speaks) advocates constantly reading and digesting sacred texts to nd
new meaning. Ideally, thus, Cordovero (as discussed by Wolfson) is right, the text and the
reader are never the same, because both are constantly renewed. Text and reader are never
separated in a historically situated shidduch (“match”), but also resist one another,
remaining in creative tension.
Both these answers were interesting, but neither provided a satisfying response to the
urgency of Ochs’s question, nor to the related question posed by Jon Cooley in his
commentary written after the meeting, “Why read a religious text . . . and what value,
religious or otherwise, could possibly arise from reading one, if there is no immediate
relation to the historical situation, to su ering?” The key problem, I think, is to ask whether
and how Ochs and Cooley’s questions may be answered. Ochs’s question was timely,
heartfelt, and necessary, but it could also have been impossible to answer fully in a public
gathering soon after the devastation of 9/11. No one present, quite simply, was prophet
enough to nd the right words.
Almost none of the Rabbinic sources on the destruction of Jerusalem come to us from the
rst generation after its destruction, or the following generation of the Bar Kochba revolt
and its bloody suppression, when the tragedy was still raw and unexplained. Those
generations were involved in remembering Temple rites, preserving and elaborating law,
developing legal midrash, learning and teaching. Only later, when the tragedy had become
a historical metaphor for all human and Jewish su ering, for the problem of theodicy, was it
addressed directly. Christian sources, in contrast, do preserve a contemporaneous witness
to the Jerusalem’s destruction. They do so, however, because they can distance themselves
from the Jewish community and its tragedy, or because, like Mark in his “little apocalypse”
(13:5-31), they view it as the birth pangs of the End Time. In either case, the destruction
became bearable to the community by being t into a wider framework, a framework that
obscures the tragedy of innocent su ering.
Cooley’s enquiry, “Why read a religious text . . . if there is no immediate relation to the
historical situation?” may be a similarly necessary but unanswerable question, at least when
taken in isolation. In as far as religious texts are brought into “immediate relation” with
historical crises and acute su ering, the answers derived from them, if direct and explicit,
tend to be personal and/or traditional. Each believer, each close community of readers, and
every American obliged to preach in the latter half of September, had to nd answers to
support faith, courage, and right action. Certainly many of these answers were from
scripture, but they were usually taken from prior responses to su ering and applied to the
new crisis. Analogously, the words of the twenty-third Psalm, “Yea, though I walk through
the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me,” are read at every
Jewish and Christian funeral. Someone who derives comfort from them, however, is not
doing scriptural reasoning, though he or she may be experiencing God’s love and wisdom
profoundly.
At the meeting in Denver, rather than giving an answer, scriptural reasoning enacted an
answer to the present crisis. In coming together to discuss and to do scriptural reasoning,
participants testi ed that they found intrinsic value in its process and goals, regardless of
their immediate practical application. Scriptural reasoning, as a thoughtful and complex
form of interreligious dialogue, enacts right relationship between faiths. Furthermore,
scriptural reasoning, unlike most academic approaches to text, is explicitly concerned with
the truths that are encountered in scripture. It enacts a way of reading that brings people’s
whole selves–intellect, academic training, passion, doubt, and faith–into relationship with
these truths through a communal practice.
No doubt some of the virtues of scriptural reasoning can only be fully realized in smaller
groups that meet more regularly, [39] but the yearly meeting of the National Society comes
close enough to attract many seeking an encounter with scripture in community, an
encounter that, though incomplete, is valuable and memorable. Scriptural reasoning also
provides tools for its practitioners to eventually nd answers in scripture for the present
crisis, for themselves and, God willing, for their communities. Making a tentative beginning
in this direction, some of this year’s commentaries, particularly Koshul’s and my own (
Lindbeck ) begin to explore how an understanding of Abraham’s righteousness may repair,
rather than exacerbate, con ict among the faiths that see him as spiritual ancestor.
Chad Pecknold’s brief but evocative post-meeting commentary uses Peircean categories,
such as abduction and reparative judgments, to further re ne how scriptural reasoning
enacts a response to contemporary troubles. He writes , “Not only in times of crisis, but
perhaps especially in times of crisis, we turn to Torah. That is, we turn towards that which is
most generative –the embodied covenant, the Word, the invitation to renewal–and the
promise of laughter.” Pecknold is particularly strong in his description of scriptural
reasoning as a kind of serious play, both in its uncensored openness to testing new
readings, and in its acceptance of humour. This latter point is in harmony with the humour
of a number of this year’s commentators, particularly Elkins who compares the task of
nding an appropriate title for Genesis 18 to the New Yorker contest in which one writes the
caption to an unlabeled cartoon.
Jon Cooley’s commentary, is also, as alluded to above, deeply concerned with how
scriptural reasoning can serve to meet current political crises, as well as the personal
tragedies and crises that are endemic to each family’s life. He points out that it “takes
courage not to look elsewhere [for answers], when there are countless possible sources of
succour and rejuvenation available–especially when it is from within the indwelt world of a
set of religious texts that a trauma/tragedy arose.” Another useful aspect of Cooley’s
commentary is his recollection and discussion of a remark made by Ben Quash , Dean of
Peterhouse in Cambridge. Quash spoke of the “legibility of bodies,” in the context of Paul’s
statement that “I carry the marks of Jesus in my body,” and asked how this relates to
Wolfson’s comments on circumcision. Cooley carried Quash’s question into explicit
relationship with the issue of particularity that was a leitmotif of this session. He proposed
that “the history, the very identity-creating practices” of each person are etched his or her
body no less than physical circumcision, and may–or may not–serve as vehicles for
theophany.
Particularity, embodiment, theophany, ethical mission: from the beginning of Wolfson’s

paper to the end of Cooley’s, participants in this session touched on these concepts again
and again, de ning them and connecting them in diverse ways. Individuals and religious
communities in Islam, Judaism, and Christianity are called to do more than discuss God’s
will, more even than to do it; they strive in some sense to embody that will in the world.
Scriptural reasoning, as a generous and demanding way of living with and in sacred texts,
in community, can contribute to this ongoing struggle.
A Final Note on Exegesis

Bonna Haberman’s re-visioning of Sarah is relevant to scriptural reasoning because it
exempli es a family of post-modern approaches to exegesis increasingly popular in the
modern academy, especially, but not exclusively, among feminists. Practices such as
fashioning new myths and giving voice to the silent characters in the Bible are allied to
scriptural reasoning (as the SSR has understood it so far) in that they use heart and
imagination, are often deeply attentive to gaps in the text, and concern themselves with the
relationship between interpretation and ethics. These approaches can also be problematic
because in some hands they tend to overlook the history of interpretation within traditions
and, even more profoundly, because they can be overly individualistic, cut adrift from
communal authority and philosophical scrutiny alike. In my view, however, there are
practitioners of this set of approaches who have a great deal to o er scriptural reasoning,
especially those who are also deeply immersed in other elds, such as Phyllis Trible with
her mastery Hebrew Bible scholarship, and Aviva Gottlieb Zornberg with her encyclopedic
grasp of Rabbinic and later midrash, psychology, and contemporary literary theory.
To widen the point further, it is a historical accident of its founding that scriptural reasoning
has until now been mostly the province of philosophers of religion, theologians, and
students of post-biblical texts. Many–though certainly not all–biblical scholars of
theological and/or literary bent are absorbed with questions of truth and meaning that also
occupy scriptural reasoning, and have much to teach the society.
Gathering at the Table for Scripture Study: A

Jewish-Christian-Muslim Trialogue about Jonah
Texts
Michael G. Cartwright
University of Indianapolis
Gathering at the table for study and fellowship is a practice with deep roots in Judaism as
well as in Christianity and Islam – although with di erent sets of cultural associations,
religious resonances, and social implications. Such “table studies” ( chevruta ) of two to
three persons for textual study are fairly common in Jewish communities, although more
often than not these scripture study groups have been primarily focused on texts from the
Torah discussed in isolation from non-Jewish traditions. In Christian contexts, the inclusion
of persons at or exclusion of persons from such “tables of fellowship” has been identi ed as
an important mark of the integrity (or lack thereof) of the communities of those who bear
witness to the messianic age in Jesus Christ. In Islam, hospitality to fellow Muslims as well
as to strangers is also a characteristic of those communities that would dare to claim to be
true to their belief in Allah as the Bene cent, the Merciful.
Of course, Jews and Christians have been engaging in dialogue about a wide range of
topics for the past two centuries in various contexts and locations. Jewish-Christian
dialogues about biblical texts were already taking place in medieval Europe, although it
must be said that Jewish hospitality to Christians was rarely reciprocated in kind. [i] Indeed,
the public disputations of the Middle Ages might best be described as the antithesis of
hospitality. By contrast, discussion between Muslims and Christians about Scripture texts is
much more recent, and attempts to foster Jewish-Muslim dialogue have also been di icult
to sustain until recent decades.
Thanks in part to the collaborative e orts of the Children of Abraham Institute and the
Society for Scriptural Reasoning, scripture study “trialogues” between Muslims, Christians,
and Jews are becoming more common in academic circles. The Trialogue Scripture Study
Group [ii] that met together in the Fall of 2002 in Indianapolis, Indiana is an example of a
kind of table study that is less commonly known – but which is also quite possible to do –
particularly in urban contexts where substantial populations of Christians, Muslims and
Jews live in closer proximity to one another. This report serves as an account of one such
“table study” and is intended to encourage Muslims, Christians, and Jews in other
communities to consider taking such initiatives in their own settings.
I. Introducing the Indianapolis Trialogue

A. Purposes: This “pilot project” in interfaith dialogue was inspired by the work of the
Children of Abraham Institute and emerged out of conversations about the new
“ecumenical and interfaith” emphasis at the University of Indianapolis associated with a set
of initiatives known as The Crossings Project. [iii] In the most technical sense, then, this
group was formed at the suggestion of two members of the University of Indianapolis
religion faculty, who contacted the senior rabbis at Congregation Beth-el Zedeck, Dennis
and Sandy Sasso, about whether they and their synagogue might be interested in
participating in a Trialogue. The Sassos, in turn, were instrumental in providing information
about contacts in the Muslim community.
In a broader sense, the group came together by the interests and concerns of the
participants, who responded to the invitation to join in this endeavour. Indeed, the group
could not have been formed if informal conversations had not already been forming in the
Indianapolis area. The fact that conversations between Jews, Christians, and Muslims were
occurring on a regular basis is an indicator of the existence of interfaith leaders. This is
particularly true of the two rabbis in our group. As visible leaders in a variety of interfaith
initiatives, Dennis and Sandy Sasso provided insightful leadership, often making it possible
for the conversations to continue in circumstances that made it more likely that we would
have a dialogue instead of a trialogue. [iv]
We also gathered in the lingering shadow of the events of Sept. 11, 2001. The previous year
had been marked by a few notable examples of xenophobia, and we were all aware that
such concerns were still very much in evidence in the wider American context. [v] During
the period of time that we met together, one member of our group was stunned to discover
that prejudicial words had been attributed to him that he had deliberately sought to avoid in
the context of writing an editorial about the work of our Trialogue Group. [vi] Finally, we
came to our table study with a growing awareness that the USA was preparing to engage in
a war against Iraq, a nation with a predominantly Muslim population. Sometimes we were
all too aware of the ways in which the threat of war could create conditions that might
divide us. At other times, our conversations were surprisingly free of such anxieties.
B. Participation : The initial goal was to gather ve persons from each of the Abrahamic
traditions, all of whom would agree to gather on ve occasions for discussion of scripture
texts from the TaNaKH , the New Testament, and the Qur’an . [vii] Although we were able to
meet on ve occasions, we were not able to have consistent representation from the
Muslim community. Indeed except for the last meeting, we typically had only one or two
persons representing the Islamic tradition. This circumstance required that we make various
kinds of adjustments in the ways that we structured our gatherings. [viii]
Various participants made adjustments in their schedules in order to make it possible for
the group to continue to meet. After the initial gathering at the University of Indianapolis,
Congregation Beth-el Zedeck hosted the second meeting. Then we met at Christian
Theological Seminary and North United Methodist Church for the third and fourth
gatherings. On all these occasions, we took time to share refreshments and informal
conversation as well as to learn about our host institutions, where relevant or necessary to
do so. In these ways, the Jewish, Christian, and Muslim communities of Indianapolis were all
able to o er hospitality at one time or another during the fall of 2002.
C. Di erences That We Embodied : The diversity of our group can be registered in several
ways. We gathered as company of clergy and lay people, more of the latter than the former.
[ix] Diverse perspectives ranging from pre modern to modern to post modern could be
found among the scholars, clergy and lay participants in our group. [x] Other professions
and civic roles were also represented. [xi] Not surprisingly, we brought di erent interests to
our reading of these texts. [xii] Many of us – perhaps all – had previous experience with
“crossing” social barriers. [xiii]
Some participants had known each other for years. In most cases, however, we had little
prior acquaintance with one another. Because we met together on ve occasions for
discussion and study of selected texts, we began to move beyond mere acquaintance to
form relationships. Over the course of our four previous meetings, we had enough time
together to be able to enjoy laughter and even to tease one another with gentle a ection.
As this “pilot project” came to a close, we had the sense that friendships were beginning to
develop as well as the prospect of future collaborations.
D. Commonalities Amid the Di erences : We shared interests, some of which were

discovered in the course of our conversations. Other commonalities became apparent in
the context of our actions and the ways that we o ered hospitality to one another. For
example, on the last occasion that we gathered, one of the participants – a woman rabbi! –
held a Muslim child in her lap. This pair truly “put a face on the dialogue” by drawing
pictures of the participants gathered around the table. [xiv] Meanwhile, her husband – the
other rabbi – held the child’s sister on his lap while actively contributing his perspective to
the conversation. The ease with which members of the group interacted with the children
present on this occasion was but one indicator of the bonds of trust that we had built with
one another.
Later that evening, we listened with interest to the perspectives of the young Muslim
woman who had recently completed her undergraduate studies and was now studying at a
nearby law school. As she shared about her experiences of learning Bible narratives from
the other Abrahamic traditions, the older Christian and Jewish participants found
themselves thinking about their own childhood memories of Bible stories as well as
considering their own roles as parents of adolescents and young adults. In these respects,
we found ourselves beginning to realize the kinds of questions that persons outside our
traditions have about the ways we read the holy writings of our own traditions.
II. Background to the Conversation at the Fifth Gathering

We came together to discuss texts about Jonah with the awareness that we tended to
regard our enemies like Jonah did, but perhaps we are more ready than the Hebrew prophet
was to believe that “enemies ultimately turn into people who repent.” [xv] The selection of
the three sets of texts that we agreed to read for the nal session of our Trialogue Scripture
Study Group (Dec. 12, 2002) was prompted by a passing remark made near the end of the
previous gathering hosted by North United Methodist Church.
A. Hardening of Pharaoh’s Heart: During our Nov. 13, 2002 gathering, we had discussed a
set of texts from Exodus related to “the hardening of Pharoah’s heart” as understood in
three traditions. We had read essays by Shaul Magid , Stanley Hauerwas , and Vincent
Cornell , which served as examples of the divergent ways that the three traditions
understood this scriptural phrase.
For some of us, the texts about the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart were troubling, because of
what they appeared to be saying about God in relation to the exercise of free will by human
beings. These texts raised the spectre of the problem of evil, and God appears to be
responsible for the injustices described in the texts (the slaughter of the rst born children
of the Egyptians, etc.).
Others of us read these texts as o ering a portrait of God as an actor in human history. The
issues of the presence or absence of limits to the moral agency of human beings were of
less concern to these participants than issues about the character of God rendered in the
stories. The God of the Book of Exodus, who liberates the children of Israel from slavery to
the Egyptians, displays the characteristics of covenant delity, justice, etc.
B. Discovering Tawhid : All of this led us to a rather extended discussion of the Muslim
concept of tawhid, the unicity of God. “The fundamental message of the prophets is all the
same – ‘There is no god but God.’ In brief, Muslims understand the word God to refer to the
reality that reveals itself through the Koran, and they understand god to refer to anything
that is falsely described by any of the qualities that the Koran ascribes to God.” [xvi] While
the concept’s de nition is clear, several Christian participants were puzzled about how this
concept has shaped Islamic traditions, particularly in relation to the various names and
attributes of Allah. More speci cally, how does the concept of tawhid help us to make sense
of the “hardening” of Pharaoh’s heart, and the actions of God as slayer of the innocent as
described in the Exodus narratives?
These concerns led to a more extended explanation of how the unicity of God is
understood in Islam in the context of historical relationship and circumstances. The
following commentary about tawhid from Murata and Chittick’s book The Vision of Islam
(1994) provides a clear and succinct summary of the issues that we discussed at length,
interspersed with various side-references and follow-up queries.
As the governing and controlling Lord of all creation, Allah “interrelates

with each creature in di erent ways. Moreover, with any given creature, the
ways in which he interrelates change over time. . . .
God is Life-giver and Slayer, but he does not give life to a single creature
and take it away at one and the same time under the same relationship. In
other words, he gives someone life, sustains that life for a period of time,
and then takes it away. He may be giving life to some people and taking it
away from others at one and the same time.”
Relationships become much more subtle as soon as we ponder the

situation. Every birth – every giving of life – is also a death, a slaying. A
child is born into the world, but dies from the womb. A person dies from
this world, but is born into the next world. Life-giving and slaying are not so
di erent after all. All the opposite qualities have subtle relationships that
allow us to show that their opposition is not absolute. Rather, their
opposition might better be called complementarity. As soon as we
understand that the two opposite names are in fact two sides of the same
coin, we come closer to tawhid, or to showing that unity underlies
multiplicity. [xvii]
With clari cations such as these in view, we began to re ect on those aspects of the Jewish
and Christian traditions where something like the concern of tawhid is present. As the two
rabbis in our group observed, there is no shortage of texts in the Hebrew Scriptures that
emphasize the unicity of God. Some of these texts have proven troubling to Jewish readers.
Isaiah 45:7 is a good example to consider because of the ways this particular verse has
been used in the context of Jewish prayers. “I form light and create darkness, make weal
and create woe, I the Lord do all these things.” Out of concern that God not appear to be
responsible for evil, rabbinical leaders re-read this text in ways that remove God from
having responsibility for evil. As a result God’s responsibility for “woe” disappears in the
liturgical formulation, “who makes peace and creates all that is” found in various Jewish
prayer books. As Rabbi Sandy Sasso explained, “the change in the Jewish liturgy is an e ort
to combat dualism and a irm the unity of God as the source of all.” [xviii] This example
displays how dualistic patterns of thinking have been dealt with at di erent points in the
history of the Jewish people.
Although these kinds of references were o ered in response to questions raised by Muslim
and Christian participants, they also led us to talk more broadly about the ways that our
own traditions have bent prayer forms in order to help people deal with texts that they nd
bothersome for one or another reasons. For example, John Wesley’s “Sunday Service for
the People Called Methodists” (1784) – a modi ed version of the Church of England’s Book
of Common Prayer – heavily edited passages from the Psalms such as verse 9 of Psalm 137.
Even Benedictine communities, which are well-known for their intensive practice of praying
the Psalter in weekly, monthly, and annual cycles, have found it di icult to integrate some
of the more di icult texts of the Bible.
C. Extrabiblical Narratives : Near the end of this discussion, one of the rabbis present
recalled that there is a Jewish legend about Jonah that identi es the king of Nineveh, who
repented in response to the prophet’s message of impending destruction, with the Pharaoh
described in the story of the Exodus . [xix] The same Pharaoh who did not repent when
Moses proclaimed the Word of the Lord, is represented in this midrash in a di erent way.
Pharaoh/the King of Nineveh repents when Jonah announces the judgment of God upon the
people of Nineveh.
The implication of this legend appears to be that despite the fact that the book of Exodus
portrays God as having “hardened Pharaoh’s heart,” that is not the end of the story. When
viewed within the wider scope of divine purpose even Pharaoh displays the capability of
repentance in response to the word of God announced through the prophet. While this
perspective is not o ered in direct commentary about the book of Exodus, this extra-
biblical perspective does appear to have implications for the way the relationship of God
and humankind is understood in the context of history. This more “universalist” perspective
pro ers the hope that in the end, even our enemies can repent.
This midrash about Jonah and the King of Nineveh intrigued several of the Christian and
Muslim participants, who were not familiar with the midrashic traditions as their Jewish
counterparts were. More generally, we all were intrigued by the unexpected connections
that had been made between the Exodus narrative and the story of Jonah in the Jewish
tradition of commentary on the Torah.
D. Texts to be Read : With this particular narrative and the broader context of our
conversations about the Muslim doctrine of tawhid in view, we decided that we would
conclude this cycle of our trialogue about scripture texts by reading the most signi cant
texts about Jonah from each of the three traditions. Since the Muslim congregation at
Masjid al Fajr was hosting this nal gathering of our Trialogue, we asked the imam of the
Nur-Allah Mosque to choose the texts from the Qur’an. He suggested that we read verses
96-100 from Surah 10 “Yunus” (or Jonah) and verses 139-148 from Sura 37 “Those Who Set
the Ranks.” He agreed to provide participants with supplemental commentary material on
these texts. In the meantime, we determined that we all would read and/or review the four
chapters of the book of Jonah from the TaNaKH along with Matthew 12:33-42 and Luke 11:27-
32 , the two gospel texts from the New Testament that deal with the “sign of Jonah.”
III. Gathering at the Table in the Mosque

A. Gathering : This nal gathering of the Trialogue Scripture Study Group was the kind of
engagement that the African-American novelist and social critic James Baldwin would
probably have applauded. African-Americans, Christians and Muslim alike, Euro-Americans
both Christian and Jew gathering around the table to talk about something other than race,
each listening with care to the perspectives of the others in a searching conversation about
our respective religious traditions. Baldwin no doubt would have rejoiced at the prospect of
such a “welcome table” hosted by Muslims in this Midwestern metropolis. However, it is
also fair to say that this author of The Fire Next Time (1963) would almost certainly have
urged this company of American citizens not to deceive themselves about the limited
signi cance of such a gathering. After all, many of the problems that Baldwin wrote about a
hundred years after Lincoln’s 1863 “Emancipation Proclamation” remain very much a
present reality in the USA.
We met at Masjid al Fajr , the mosque of one of the older Muslim communities in the
Indianapolis metropolitan area. Founded in the early 1970s by a group of African-American
Muslims, this building was built over a period of years (1978-1992). The congregation
dedicated this mosque for prayer in 1992. Over the years, the congregation has attracted
participation from Muslims of various ethnic and social backgrounds. An adjacent building
that is used for a Muslim parochial school opened ve years ago. Although we had
discussed meeting at one of the mosques earlier in the fall, the group had chosen to wait
until after the conclusion of the month-long Ramadan fast so that our Muslim participants
could more comfortably host our gathering. The imam of this mosque could not be with us
on this occasion, but several members of the congregation were present to serve as our
hosts and to participate in this nal session of the Trialogue.
As members of our group arrived at the mosque, we were welcomed by our hosts for the
evening, Ismail Abdul Alim and Imam Michael Saahir. After taking a tour of the “place of
prostration” and learning about how this space was used by the men, women and children
of this Muslim congregation, we all moved downstairs to a spacious meeting room on the
basement level. As we left the prayer room, several young Muslim men were arriving to
perform their ablutions before performing their evening prayers at the appointed time of 8
p. m. As we got settled, we talked about various concerns, including things that had
transpired since our gathering the previous month. Shortly, the Muslim call to prayer
sounded throughout the building. Our hosts excused themselves brie y to participate in the
prayers with other men who had gathered upstairs. At their invitation, most of the Jewish
and Christian members of the trialogue group walked upstairs to observe these members of
the Mosque making salat. Fifteen minutes later our discussion resumed.
B. Queries and Responses : In each of the gatherings, we found it helpful to take some
time to address questions that may have been only incidental to the texts in question, but
which were important to address given the interests and concerns of the participants. Such
queries re ected the simple fact that the knowledge base of the three traditions that we
each brought to the Trialogue was uneven. Because we took seriously our spotty
understanding and/or real ignorance of one another’s traditions, we felt free to ask
questions of one another that opened up various avenues for discussion.
Some questions were evoked by the setting in which we had gathered. Meeting in a
mosque gave Christian and Jewish participants the opportunity to observe members of the
Muslim congregation engaged in the practice of evening prayer as well as the
congregation’s enactment of rituals of preparation (ablutions, etc.) that occurred before the
salat. The rst set of queries, therefore, involved information and clari cation about the
rituals associated with evening prayer.
A second set of questions arose as a result of the circumstance of having a Muslim woman
present for the rst time. [xx] Ms. Kameela Shaheed, the daughter of one of the Muslim
participants, prepared our refreshments and had joined us for the evening’s conversation.
Later Kameela shared her perspective about the importance of water as a symbol of
Paradise in the Qur’an, thereby providing a nice connection at the end of our gathering with
the visual images of washing feet that we all had upon our arrival.
A third set of questions arose from Muslims who sought clari cation from the Christians
and Jews present about the origin and authorization for their prayers. An elderly Muslim
man who joined our conversation for a brief time expressed his puzzlement about the
status of the Bible in relation to the prescribed prayers of the Jewish and Christian
traditions. Noting that “revelation stops” with the death of the Prophet Muhammad, he
stated: “We do not deviate an inch from what the Prophet says. Nobody tells us something
di erent after him. We follow his teachings without traditions.” (I doubt that this
perspective represented the views of the Muslims in our group who participated in the
previous four sessions of our conversation, but given that no one directly contradicted his
views, it is not possible to say this with certainty.) From this man’s angle of vision, the fact
that there is additional “input” of Christian witnesses such as Mark the Evangelist or Paul
the Apostle (beyond the teachings of Jesus) did not make sense.
This question called forth di erent responses from the Jews and Christians present.
Christian participants explained that unlike Muhammad, Jesus did not write any of the texts
of the New Testament. These writings of the apostolic period are “witnesses” to the life,
ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus. Jewish participants also o ered clari cation in
response to the Muslim man’s query. One of the rabbis clari ed that the Torah is not the
exclusive source of prayer in the Jewish tradition. The rst codi ed prayer book does not
come into existence until the 9 th century C. E., when Rav Amran Gaon edited it. From that
point, the Jewish prayer book continues to grow.
This set of queries gave our group the opportunity to make explicit our awareness of some
of the signi cant di erences in the ways Scripture is used in the three traditions. For
example, some Christians follow a lectionary of readings and others do not. According to
Jewish participants, the appointed readings from the Torah are arranged according to a
liturgical calendar that is based on the lunar cycle. Seven times in a period of nineteen
years, an extra month is added to reconcile the lunar calendar with the solar calendar. [xxi]
This conversation, in turn, intersected with the dialogue that emerged about the set of three
texts that we had agreed to read in preparation for this nal gathering of our trialogue.
IV. Report on Discussion of the Texts

A. Discussion of Qur’anic Texts — Suras 10:96-100 and 37: 139-148 : Our Muslim hosts for
this particular dialogue stressed the importance of understanding this particular text in the
Qur’an in the light of the Prophet Muhammad’s revelation to the people at a particular point
in time. Sura 10 is an early “Meccan surah” that is, it has its origin in the period when
Muhammad was trying to teach the people about existential issues. [xxii] At the beginning
of Muhammad’s mission, the people of Mecca found it di icult to grasp the Prophet’s
message about the hereafter and revelation. The concept of human beings being brought
back for judgment and being held accountable was foreign to them. These were old stories
that the merchants of Mecca had heard before, but they did not accept the concept of
accountability in the hereafter. Muhammad was addressing this set of concerns in the
context of these familiar narratives.
Paraphrasing texts from various places in the Qur’an, the imam from Nur-Allah Mosque
o ered the following explanation: “The one who has not faith can be described this way: He
who feeds not the hungry and doesn’t clothe the naked. In Islam, faith is understood as
translated into action.” This can be illustrated by the example of the “Five Pillars” of Islam.
In the rst pillar, the Muslim states his or her belief in Allah. The other four practices are
ways of enacting his or her faith in Allah.
When the two Qur’anic texts are read alongside the texts from the Hebrew Scriptures and
the synoptic gospels, the resurrection language of Sura 37:144 stands out. The righteous
action of the Ninevites is regarded as su icient in the Hebrew texts, not faith (belief). In the
Qur’an, faith (belief) becomes the focus. One of the Muslim participants noted that where
the Qur’an refers to the repentance of God, the doctrine of tawhid provides the context for
explaining perceived inconsistencies or contradictions.
Several of the Christian readers of the Qur’anic texts about Yunus (Jonah) were struck by the
fact that the Qur’an does not attempt to retell the narrative of Jonah, [xxiii] but simply
presupposes that the other narrative has a currency that is available to readers of the
Qur’an. Having “grown up” hearing the story of Jonah at home and in Sunday School,
several Christian participants wondered how “a thirteen year old Muslim boy or girl would
learn the story of Jonah.” This question was referred to Kameela, the daughter of one of the
participants in our group. She did not attempt to speak for all Muslim children and youth,
but she indicated that she had taken courses on the Old Testament and New Testament
during her undergraduate studies. She had also felt encouraged throughout her teenage
years to read texts outside the Qur’an that might provide context for understanding the
Prophet’s teachings.
B. Discussion of TaNaKH Texts — Jonah 1:1-4:11 : Our discussion initially focused on the
character of Jonah and his recalcitrance in the face of God’s decision to repent. Some of the
Christian readers were intrigued to see that while Jonah seems to have had a good
understanding of God’s attributes, he does not act in ways that re ect that understanding.
Does this discrepancy indicate a lack of faith on the part of the prophet or something else?
Later, the two rabbis in our group called our attention to the liturgical context of the use of
the book of Jonah. The book of Jonah is read on Yom Kippur , the Day of Atonement. Like
other texts from the Prophets (Isaiah 57-58, etc.), this book testi es to God’s power to save
an individual (like Jonah) or an entire nation. Yom Kippur conveys a very personal message
to each member of the synagogue. One person went so far as to describe his experience
each Yom Kippur as being like being in the belly of the whale. In a sense, this “high holy
day” comprises an invitation to hear again the Torah, to consider the ways in which
Adonai’s instructions for his covenant people have not yet been heard. Like the book of
Ruth, the story of Jonah can be read as o ering a universalizing perspective that stands in
contrast to the concerns registered in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah about the corrupting
in uences of foreign peoples, and the need to purify the post-exilic community that is
represented as “returning” to Zion with the intention of rebuilding the Temple.
We also learned that the name of the prophet Jonah comes from the same word as “dove”
in Hebrew. Of course, the dove is closely associated with the story of Noah (Genesis 6-9).
The dove and the rainbow are symbols of God’s promise not to destroy the world again.
There is another parallel: In the story of Noah, God’s repentance is indicated at the
beginning of the story (Genesis 6:5-6). At the end of the story of Jonah (3:10), God repents. It
is very striking that the same phrasing occurs in these two contexts.
In the Jewish tradition, it is not the fact that God repents that is remarkable but the timing of
the repentance that is most noteworthy. We noted that there is a tension in Christianity on
this point. Some Christian traditions are more comfortable with the prospect of divine
repentance of avowed actions than others are. [xxiv]
C. Discussion of New Testament Texts — Matthew 12:33-42 ; Luke 11:29-32 : Like the texts
from the Qur’an, these two texts from the synoptic gospels presuppose the narrative of
Jonah rather than retell the story from the TaNaKH. Most of our conversation about these
texts focused on the two concerns that appear to have been laid alongside one another by
the writers of the Gospels: the judgment that the people of Jesus’ time have brought upon
them, and what the “sign” of Jonah signi es.
First, the sign of “Jonah” is invoked as a word of judgment. “This generation is an evil
generation; it asks for a sign, but no sign will be given to it except the sign of Jonah.” (Luke
11:29) The judgment against the unrepentant people who have witnessed Jesus’
proclamation of the Kingdom of God is invoked in the context of the memory of the
di erent response to Jonah’s proclamation: even the Ninevites repented. On the last day,
they will judge the generation who heard Jesus but did not repent.
The “sign of Jonah” also has been invoked in these two texts in a second way — as an
image for understanding the resurrection of Jesus. While it is clear that the earliest Christian
communities associated the three days that Jonah spent in the belly of the whale with the
resurrection of Jesus on the third day, this notion appears to function as a kind of archetype
of the “depths” of human experience, particularly when correlated more speci cally with the
full narrative of Jonah as found in the TaNaKH.
It is di icult to say which of these concerns has gured more prominently in Christian
exegesis of these texts from the synoptic gospels but there is no question that the “sign” of
Jonah has proven to be an evocative image that has been put to various uses in the course
of exploring Christian identity. [xxv] We did not discuss the connection with “wisdom” in
these texts except to note that the “Queen of the South” functions in the text in much the
same way as the repentance of the king and people of Nineveh: even the Gentile peoples
repent when given an opportunity to hear the Word of God.
V. Gathering the Threads of Conversation

A. Comments and Queries: By the end of this fth session of our trialogue, several
di erent questions and observations had been voiced. No attempt was made to establish a
consensus about these matters, but in several of these instances, the character of the
conversation suggested that these viewpoints were not unique to one person.
1. Some members of the group thought that they discerned a “progression” in the three sets
of texts with respect to what God requires. In the text of Jonah the Hebrew prophet, the
righteous action of the Ninevites is regarded as su icient, not the faith (belief) of the
Ninevites. In the New Testament texts, the fact that the people have not obeyed is taken as
that they did not hear the word of God spoken by the prophet(s). In the texts from the
Qur’an, faith (belief) becomes the primary focus – with the assumption that righteous action
will be consistent with the faith professed by true worshipers of Allah.
2. As the commentaries suggest, in the context of a irming tawhid, the narratives of Noah,
Pharaoh, and Jonah (Yunus) all are read as texts that display prophets and peoples acting
responsibly in ways that are consonant with their believe in the sovereignty of God. The
texts from the New Testament by contrast, constitute an indictment of the people of God
for having failed to hear God’s word.
3. Some of the Jewish participants suggested that the text of Jonah can be read as an
indication that there is not an ultimate predetermination of all things. By contrast, the texts
from the Qur’an do not re ect such ambivalence about human freedom.
4. The emphasis on judgment in the Christian texts appears to shine the spotlight on human
recalcitrance to hear the Word of God as proclaimed by Jesus, and by contrast shies away
from the implication that God repents of his actions. Other participants suggested that the
Christian understanding of God is more complex.
B. Recognitions: At the end of this particular discussion (and the ve discussions as a

whole), members of our group were left with a growing awareness that the three traditions
intersect in ways that should not be ignored.
1. Unexpected Convergences: Although we did not attempt to explain to ourselves how the
three Abrahamic traditions might also be interdependent, we were struck by particular
convergences. For example, the Qur’an appears to presume that Muslim readers will need
to consult texts such as the TaNaKH and New Testament from time to time in order to fully
grasp the Qur’an itself. While we would not claim to have probed deeply into this set of
three texts, we do have a greater awareness of the evocative depths that can emerge when
these texts are read together.
2. Stories of Repentance and Reconciliation: We did not attempt to make any particular
correlation with what we learned about the repentance of the peoples of Nineveh or the
repentance of God with how our respective traditions think about reconciliation between
peoples. Nevertheless, some of us found ourselves making new connections in the context
of this trilateral conversation that enabled us to read the interpretive texts of our traditions
of our respective “houses of God” with renewed awareness of the importance of telling
stories of repentance for interfaith reconciliation.
3. Patterns of Identi cation and Unorthodox Connections: In our conversation, we noted the
tendency to identify ourselves with Jonah and our enemies with Nineveh. We also
recognized, however, that this is not the only pattern of identi cation that might exist in the
context of these three sets of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim texts. Recalling that the nal
discussion of our group was actually suggested by an extra-biblical commentary (the
identi cation of Pharaoh, whose heart is hardened in the Book of Exodus with the King of
Nineveh who repents in the book of Jonah), it might be useful to give focused consideration
to the roles of imaginative commentaries about scripture in altering the way we have read
the holy writings of our respective traditions. [xxvi] In this particular instance, given the
stated interests by several women in the Trialogue, conversation about the legend about
Jonah’s wife [xxvii] might also be provocative. Given that the Jonah texts overlap with texts
about divine judgment and the prospect of God choosing to destroy cities or even all of
creation, having a conversation about the tensions between these text and those texts like
Jonah that portray God as repenting of such intent could lead in several di erent directions.
C. Concluding Speculation: Prospects for Further Conversation: It is tempting to

speculate about how – if we had the opportunity to bring our Trialogue Scripture Study
Group together again – we might extend our conversations by exploring the relationship
between the texts in Genesis 6-9 and Jonah and one or more of the later New Testament
epistles (2 Peter 3: 1-13) with regard to judgment and the ways they appear to revise the vow
of God (Genesis 9:8-17) not to destroy creation again. [xxviii] I can imagine that discussion
of these texts would evoke questions, e.g., “How do these early Christian re ections extend
the story of the repentance of God ?” Other questions may not be so obvious, but we might
ultimately nd ourselves confronting their insistent interrogation if we took the time and
trouble to follow the logic of these texts with respect to portrayals of God and the
destruction of creation. What, if any, imperative can be discerned in such texts for those
who claim to be “children of Abraham” to bring about reconciliation between peoples so
that God does not resort to “the re next time”?
To address this latter question of course, would require that we hear the voices of Jewish
and Muslim participants. What if any parallel texts exist in the Qur’an that we should
consider alongside such texts as the ones from Genesis and 2 Peter? What other texts
might be brought into the conversation from the Torah, Prophets, and Writings of the
Hebrew Scriptures? These are questions for another time. It is beyond my competence as a
Christian reader of scripture to project the ways that Muslim and Jewish participants might
approach such a conversation. This is but another reminder of why it is such a privilege to
gather at the table of study with one another. Given the relative poverty of our knowledge
of one another’s traditions of scripture interpretation, we discover yet again how much we
rely on one another to access the rich insights that can be gleaned from the holy scriptures
of one another’s traditions. [xxix]
[i] As Sandy and Dennis Sasso rightly point out, “In the late Middle Ages and Renaissance,
Jewish scholars taught Hebrew to Christians so that they could have access to the original
text of Scripture.”
[ii] The following persons participated in the Fifth Trialogue gathering: Prof. Wilma Bailey,
Christian Theological Seminary; Nancy Bate, Congregation Beth-el Zedeck; Michael G.
Cartwright, Univrsity of Indianapolis; Stuart Green, Congregation Beth-el Zedeck; Perry Kea,
University of Indianapolis; Martha Yoder Maust, Shalom Mennonite Church; Sidney Miskin,
Congregation Beth-el Zedeck, Imam Mikal Saahir, Nur-Allah Mosque, Ismail Abdul Saleem,
Masjid al-Fajr; Rabbi Dennis Sasso, Congregation Beth-el Zedeck, Rabbi Sandy Sasso,
Congregation Beth-el Zedeck; Kameela Shaheed, Masjid al-Fajr. Judge David Shaheed, who
is a iliated with both Masjid al-Fajr and Nur-Allah Mosque, was not able to attend this last
gathering of the Trialogue, but he had participated in each of the previous gatherings. Imam
Umar al-Khattab participated in the rst of our gatherings, but was not able to participate in
the remaining four conversations due to schedule con icts.
[iii] This Lilly Endowment-funded project will create eight di erent sets of theological
exploration of vocations initiatives at the University of Indianapolis between July 1, 2002
and June 30, 2005. Some of these programs are speci c to the Christian faith; others are
intended to be interfaith in conception and operation. The restructuring of our campus
ministry to encompass “ecumenical and interfaith” programming displays the dual intent of
reaching out to non-Christian engagements at the same time that the university continues
to expand its commitment to providing Christian students with enriched opportunities for
Christian formation. For further information about the new “ecumenical and interfaith”
emphasis at this university, see the booklet “Giving and Receiving Hospitality: Ecumenical
and Interfaith Programs at the University of Indianapolis,” by Michael G. Cartwright
[iv] I am grateful to Sidney Mishkin for o ering his perspectives on this aspect of the
Trialogue.
[v] At the time that Michael Cartwright made the initial round of contacts (August 2002), the
popular press was reporting on the controversy in North Carolina that swirled around a
freshman orientation involving Michael Sells’ book Approaching the Qur’an: The Early
Revelations . The decision of the faculty at the University of North Carolina to require
students to read this book during the summer prior to enrolling at the University evoked
concerns from various quarters.
[vi] Rabbi Dennis Sasso wrote an editorial column entitled “Jews, Christians, Muslims seek
dialogue on faiths” for the Indianapolis Star newspaper that was published on Nov. 5, 2002.
The text that Sasso had submitted to the newspaper for his monthly column stated:
“Christianity bypasses the Mosaic covenant at Sinai and reverts directly to God’s initial
promises to Abraham.” The editor who was responsible for the editorial page for that
particular issue of the newspaper changed Sasso’s text to read “Christianity supersedes the
Mosaic covenant at Sinai and ful lls God’s initial promises to Abraham.”
Sasso formally requested that the error be corrected. In his letter to the editor (Nov. 5,
2002), Rabbi Sasso explained his disappointment with the change that had been made: “I
had purposely avoided the language of supersessionism and ful llment. While that is the
teaching of classical Christianity and of many evangelical fundamentalists today, the
Second Vatican Council revoked such teaching for Catholics and many mainline Protestants
have followed suit. I would certainly never have used such language myself. The whole
purpose of my essay was to show that Jews, Christians and Muslims can come together and
transcend such triumphalist and supersessionist notions.”
[vii] In our rst three sessions, we focused on texts that register the ways in which Jews,
Christians and Muslims understand themselves as “children of Abraham” (Genesis 18-19,
Luke 1: 67-80 and selected verses from Sura 2 “The Cow”). During the fourth session, we
discussed how the theme of the “hardening of Pharaoh’s heart” in the book of Exodus was
understood in all three traditions.
[viii] We had originally planned to divide into two or more smaller conversations at each
gathering, but given the fact that at times there was only one Muslim present, this was not
viable.
[ix] One of the Christian participants was an ordained United Methodists clergyman. Two of
the Jewish participants were senior rabbis of a large suburban congregation a iliated with
the Conservative and Reconstructionist traditions of Judaism. Two of the Muslim
participants were imams of local mosques, both of which have been in uenced by the Sunni
tradition.
[x] While the two university professors were colleagues and members of the same
department, one is a member of the Ekklesia Project and the other is a member of the Jesus
Seminar (groups that typically are regarded as working from near-opposite sets of
assumptions about the life, ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth). We also
had scholars with expertise in the Hebrew Bible and New Testament and scholar-clergy
with expertise in the Jewish and Christian liturgical traditions.
[xi] Two members of our company were lawyers, one a local attorney, the other a judge.
One person, who is employed by the Indianapolis Fire Department, serves as an imam of a
mosque during those portions of time that he is not scheduled for duty at the rehouse.
Several members of the Trialogue are involved in education in various settings. In addition
to the two university professors, a biblical scholar from a local seminary participated in our
group. One member of our company was a professed monastic in a nearby Benedictine
community who teaches religion at a Catholic parochial school while another person
teaches writing in several di erent contexts. One person was a local physician who was a
founding member of a local Mennonite fellowship.
[xii] Some lay readers were interested to know how these texts registered personally. Some
scholars and clerical participants were interested to register patterns of interpretation
between the traditions that re ect various historical disruptions in the identity of Jewish,
Christian and Muslim traditions. Still others asked questions about psychological aspects of
the interpretation of these texts.
[xiii] Some of the Muslim participants had grown up in Christian families and congregations.
More than one of the Jewish participants had grown up in contexts strongly marked by
Christian in uences. One of the Christians has been involved with Jewish-Christian dialogue
and more recently has participated in “trialogue” conversations through the Children of
Abraham Institute. One or two of the Christians had studied Muslim texts and traditions in
other contexts. Several had traveled or spent time in Israel and Palestine; one person had
lived for short period of time on the West Bank during the al Aksa inti dah where he had
daily contact with Muslim individuals and communities. Another had lived in Galilee a
quarter of a century before, serving as a volunteer in a hospital that served a predominately
Arab-speaking population. While there were African-American as well as Euro-American
participants, in the context of this trialogue the principal marker of our identities was
religious a iliation not racial background.
[xiv] I am grateful to Rabbi Sandy Sasso for clarifying this matter.
[xv] Rabbi Dennis Sasso quoted this comment attributed to Harold Schulweiss.
[xvi] Sachiko Murata and William C. Chittick, The Vision of Islam (St.Paul, MN: Paragon
House, 1994), 47. As Murata and Chittick have observed, “When someone says, ‘I don’t
believe in God,’ Muslims familiar with their own religion’s teachings nd it easy to reply, “I
don’t believe in the God you don’t believe in either.'”
[xvii] Ibid., 67-68.
[xviii] I am indebted to Sandy and Dennis Sasso for clarifying this particular example.
[xix] According to the summary of these tales provided by Louis Ginzberg in Legends of the
Bible (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1956), the Nineveh to which Jonah
went was a “monster city covering forty square parasangs and containing a million and a
half human beings” (606). Ginzberg describes how the prophet conveyed his message of
destruction to the inhabitants:
“The voice of the prophet was so sonorous that it reached to every corner of the great city,
and all who heard his words resolved to turn aside from their ungodly ways. At the head of
the penitents was King Osnappar of Assyria. He descended from his throne, removed his
crown, strewed ashes on his head instead, took o his purple garments, and rolled about in
the dust of the highways. In all the streets royal heralds proclaimed the king’s decree
bidding the inhabitants to fast three days, wear sackcloth, and supplicate God with tears
and prayers to avert the threatened doom. The people of Nineveh fairly compelled God’s
mercy to come upon them. They held their infants heavenward, and amid streaming tears
they cried, ‘For the sake of these innocent babes, hear our prayers.’ …” (606).
In some versions of the Jonah legend, the King of Nineveh is identi ed with Pharaoh. Even
in the version cited above, it is clear that the behavior of the king and the inhabitants of
Nineveh are precisely the opposite of the recalcitrance of Pharaoh described in Exodus. It
would not be surprising, therefore, that this linkage would be made either at the level of
behavior (repentance versus non-repentance) or by name.
[xx] From the outset, Christian and Jewish women participants in the Trialogue group ad
expressed the hope that they would have the opportunity to engage Muslim women in
these conversations. Much to their disappointment, during the rst four sessions, only men
from the Islamic community had participated. While the conversation on this occasion did
not focus on women’s perspectives as such, this interest probably did inform some of the
questions that Christian and Jewish participants asked. Following this gathering, one of the
Christian participants in our group began exploring the possibility of bringing together a
group of Christian, Jewish and Muslim women in 2003 to discuss various issues of common
interest.
[xxi] I am grateful to Rabbis Dennis and Sandy Sasso for clarifying this matter.
[xxii] Michael Sells o ers the following explanation in his book Approaching the Qur’an:
The Early Revelations (Ashland, OR: White Cloud Press, 1999). “The Suras from the Meccan
period brings in more extended discussions of sacred history and the prophets known in
the Biblical traditions. The message of the Qur’an is more explicitly tted into a prophetic
lineage beginning with the creation of Adam, the rst prophet of Islam, extending through
the stories of Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, John the Baptist, and Jesus,
prophets of the Arab tradition such as Hud and Salih, and ending with Muhammad.” (14)
[xxiii] Apart from references to Jonah as “Dhu al-Nun” – the man of the sh — the closest
that we get to an explanation is found in Surah al-Sa att (37:142).
[xxiv] For example, in the African-American Christian tradition, there is a spiritual that
brings the memory of Lazarus and Dives (Luke 16:19-31) together with the memory of the
parable of the Wise Man who built his house upon the rock from Matthew 7:24-29. The
spiritual in question – “Better Get your Home In-A Dat Rock, Don’t You See” – has proven to
be evocative in a variety of contexts, particularly in the writings of African-American
advocates of civil rights. This is the basis of James Baldwin’s prophetic critique of American
Christian racisim in his book The Fire Next Time (New York, NY: Dell Books, 1963). In the
conclusion of this book, Baldwin invokes the concluding line of the spritual: “God gave
Noah the Rainbow Sign, no more water, the re next time.” Some commentators have
suggested that this spiritual expands into an extra-biblical tradition that goes beyond the
re of judgment envisioned in the Jewish-Christian midrash on Genesis 9 found in 2 Peter

3:1-13.
[xxv] We were reminded that this notion inspired Thomas Merton, one of the great
monastic writers of the twentieth century, who published a journal of his life from 1946 to
1953 under the title The Sign of Jonas (1953).
[xxvi] Or to put this same point somewhat di erently, the exercise of wisdom would seem
to require that we know when we need to initiate innovations in order to remain faithful to
the revelation that we believe that we have received. I am indebted to conversations with
Caroline Simon of Calvin College for this insight.
[xxvii] Consider the following Jewish legend about the prophet Jonah’s wife. “Like Jonah, his
wife was known far and wide for her piety. She had gained fame particularly through her
pilgrimage to Jerusalem, a duty which, by reason of her sex, she was not obliged to ful ll.
On one of these pilgrimages it was that the prophetical spirit rst descended upon Jonah.”
Louis Ginzberg, Legends of the Bible (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America,
1956), 608.
This suggestion that a woman was part of the drama of repentance associated with the
prophetic narrative of Jonah, the canonical text of which is strictly male in its orientation,
adds an additional level of subversive tension that calls for further midrash about the
possibilities of the surprising ways that God brings about repentance and reconciliation in
the midst of human history.
[xxviii] If this suggestion were embraced by the group, I would suggest that we look at
some of the “double-voiced” readings of Scripture that arose in the African-American
Christian tradition in which “Egypt” and “Ham” were used in ways opposed to the
ideological uses of Euro-American defenders of slavery. For a case study of the
hermeneutical profundity of the African-American Christian Tradition’s “double-voiced”
pattern of interpreting Scripture, see Michael G. Cartwright, “Ideology and the
Interpretation of Scripture in the African-American Christian Tradition” in Modern Theology
9/2 (April 1993): 141-158.
[xxix] I am grateful to Mary Wilder Cartwright, Martha Yoder Maust, Sidney Mishkin, Rachel
Muers, Michael Saahir, Dennis Sasso, and Sandy Sasso for their comments on an earlier
draft of this report. While I have tried to take into account concerns that members of the
Trialogue Group raised at various points in the composition of this article, this views
expressed in this paper express my own views. I take it for granted that some members of
the group may disagree with some of the judgments that I have o ered.
1 2 3 4 5 6
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Current Issue
Vol. 17, No. 1 (August 2018): Special Issue on Re-enchantment and Scriptural Reasoning
Introduction
What is Tafsīr al-Qurʾān bi’l-Qurʾān?
Mohammed Rustom’s “What is Tafsir al Qur’an bi’l-Qu’ran?”: Re ections of a Jewish Reader
Death and Dreams in Genesis: A Critical Response to Alan Levenson’s Joseph
Death and Dreams, Family and Faith: A Response to Goodson and Keith
The Energetics of Attraction: Daniel Hardy’s Theological Imagination, Sociopoiesis, and the
Measurement of Scriptural Reasoning
With a Lowercase “S”: Scriptural Reasoning and the Religiously Una iliated
The Re-enchantment of Education: C. S. Lewis’s Idea of the Holy
The Holiness of Education: A Review of Gabriel Haley’s “The Re-enchantment of Education: C.S.
Lewis’s Idea of the Holy”
Learning to Use Language with C.S. Lewis: A Response to Haley’s “The Re-enchantment of Education”
Reverence for What? A Response to Haley’s “The Re-enchantment of Education”
Eloquence as Re-enchantment: A Reply to Gabriel Haley’s “The Re-enchantment of Education”
Review of Sarah Coakley, God, Sexuality, and the Self: An Essay ‘On the Trinity’
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Home Current Issue Archive Statement of Purpose Calls for Papers

“The Whole Law Consists Only in Loving One’s

Spinoza decries how Scripture is so often “twisted.” In particular, he is concerned that it

In order to combat our inherited predilection for what is super- or anti-natural, he

Love Your Neighbor as Yourself

The importance of this commandment to the Jewish tradition is underscored in a well-

Similarly, Rashi nds the command to refer to quotidian a airs in interpersonal

The command to love your neighbor in both traditions is framed as an imperative to

Love and Ethics

In the Theological-Political Treatise, Spinoza laments the common tendency of people

whatever threatens to destroy them, Spinoza appears to be an ethical egoist.

Cooper, Eugene Garver, Susan James, and Nancy Levene.

Secular Age (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011).

collapse again into slavery” (Curley’s translation).

12. TTP, XIV.13.

Revelation: Religion, Democracy, and Reason (Cambridge: CUP, 2004), 78.

by those whom Spinoza targets with blistering criticism.

18. TTP, VII.2 (Curley’s translation).

19. This is a summary of some basic principles from Spinoza’s Ethics.

20. TTP, VII.6 (Curley’s translation).

22. We might think of this as Spinoza’s naturalist version of Platonic recollection.

23. TTP, VII.7.

Version, which is what is cited in the recent versions of Spinoza’s TTP.

27. Galatians 5:14.

29. b.Shabbath 31a, ed., I. Epstein, trans. H. Freedman,: http://www.come-and-hear.com/shabbath/shabbath_31.html

(accessed 19 June, 2014).

31. TTP, XIX.29-30.

34. Leviticus 19:34. See also, Exodus 23:9.

on Philosophy, Religion, and Politics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).

36. TTP, III.2.

37. TTP, XVII.25.

40. Luke 10:29.

42. Torah Reading for Kedoshim (with Rashi Commentary): http://www.chabad.org/parshah/torahreading.asp?

aid=15582&p=1&showrashi=true (accessed 19 June, 2014).

Publishing House, 1986), 103.

47. Cf. Psalms 146:7-9.

48. Deuteronomy 10:12.

49. John Calvin’s commentary on Leviticus 18.

Chicago Press, 2013).

53. Romans 12:3-5.

54. 1 Corinthians 12:14-27.

55. TTP, 17.25.

56. TTP, VII.7.

57. TTP, I.2.

58. TTP, VI.1.

Muslim Women against Apartheid: Muslim

Extracting Muslim women as activists in the anti-Apartheid struggle implies that

A Tradition of South African Muslims

The Prophetic Activism of Muslim Women

Organized Islam in South Africa

Notwithstanding Muslim women’s tacit and explicit contributions to anti-Apartheid

The Struggle in Islamic Terms

South African Islamic Feminism

Despite fragmentation of the Muslim voice, these radical Muslim expressions

Feminist Voice in South African Politics

The tension between progressive, conservative, and radicalist Muslim expressions

religious/traditional communities in South Africa, who remained implacably suspicious of

Muslim Women’s Activism against Apartheid as Scriptural Reasoning

In terms of a pragmatic evaluation of scriptural reasoning, the activism and re-visioning

Fester, Gertrude. “The South African Revolution: Protracted or Postponed?” In Voicing

31, 2014. http://ursulaguenther. les.wordpress.com/2010/05/the-memory-of-imam-