Reconstructing Folk Religion

Despite the overwhelming evidence of meaning being a subjective experience, most people still believe in the idea that there are specific meanings that can be attributed to our actions, as well to art. The meaning may be partially subjective, but it is still there waiting to be uncovered. No matter a person’s edginess, no matter the avant-garde-ness of a person’s artistic vision, most people still believe that art should mean something. And, that something should be accessible, even if through hard work.

It’s an idea that has been passed down through generations, though it has taken many twists and turns to get here. Most of us oscillate between subjectivity and objectivity. A particular thought may be subjectively good or bad, but the fact that we can actually have thoughts is considered objectively a good thing. German theologian and philosopher, Friedrich Schleiermacher, spoke about the inherent meaning in an art piece in the eighteenth century, only he took the idea even further. For him, it wasn’t enough that there was a knowable meaning in works of art, but that meaning was so objectifiable, so tangible, that it could be present one minute and gone the next. Schlieremacher believed that at the moment a work of art was conceived it became “rooted in its own soil, its own environment,” and that “[art] lost its meaning when it was wrenched from this environment.”[1] In this way, Schleiermacher felt that if a work of art was taken out of its original context, taken down from the walls of a church for example, then the meaning that was once there was lost forever.

To Schleiermacher, the spiritual significance of a religious icon is dependent on the icon remaining in its “soil,” in its original context. Taken out of this “environment” the artifact is depleted of its significance. In order for meaning to return, the context of the object’s original state must be reconstructed by trying to understand the artist’s original intent, or, in best case scenarios, having the art returned to its original location. The German philosopher, Hans-Georg Gadamer, calls these attempts at regaining the artwork’s lost vitality acts of reconstruction.[2]

The term “reconstruction” may sound familiar to spiritually-minded readers, as we see examples of this practice outside literary criticism. Known in the pagan community as polytheistic reconstructionism, it is the act of uncovering pre-Christian spiritual practices in order to reclaim and reinvest in them. Digging through the past to find what informs today is a way of linking previous spiritual practices with their contemporary practitioners. Doing so helps establish authenticity, as well as enhance one’s spiritual experience. Many people feel good knowing that the ritual they are performing can be traced back through the centuries. The same can be said about objects. For a ceremonial witch interested in reconstruction, the meaning and significance of a cauldron or athame is increased, if the implementation of those artifacts can be linked to a previous time when they were used. Reconstruction allows those who might feel separated from their spiritual lineage to reclaim an otherwise lost tradition.

Reconstruction takes place in any spiritual community attempting to legitimize or enhance their praxis by tethering it to a previous time and place. Californian Zen monks sitting zazen while wearing traditional Japanese robes in meditation rooms designed to look like Kyoto zendos are attempting to recreate the conditions, and possibly the experiences, of the original Zen practitioners. “Hot yoga,” which is practiced in 100-plus degree rooms, is done in order to recreate the warm environmental conditions of India, yoga’s birthplace. Even people in the process of reclaiming an ancestral cultural tradition, learning the language of their great-grandparents, affecting accents not their own, are, in a way, recreating the conditions of their ancestors in their own body expressed through their vocal cords.

All of the above function as a way to place oneself in the soil of one’s spiritual tradition. It’s a way of creating meaning by placing one’s current spiritual practice in conversation with practices that came before it. And, it all has an effect. We recreate the past in order to bring it into the present. It helps us to feel connected to something larger than ourselves. Even if we’re only “dressing the part,” we begin to feel a part of something.

But, reconstruction is not entirely without its shadows. Gadamer takes a far more critical view of reconstruction stating that:

Reconstructing the original circumstances, like all restoration, is a futile undertaking…. What is reconstructed…is not the original…. Even a painting taken from the museum and replaced in a church, or building restored to its original condition are not what they once were—they become simply tourist attractions.[3]

While I don’t think efforts to reconstruct the past are entirely “futile,” there is truth to what Gadamer is saying. In many spiritual communities, especially those where practices are clearly modern inventions, connecting contemporary practices to the past can be difficult at best, and in some cases totally unfounded. Overemphasizing a spiritual practice’s validity by establishing a tenuous historical connection often reads as forced, and may even devalue the legitimacy of a practice had one not attempted to make the connection in the first place. After all, not every spiritual act must have a historical precedent.

This affectedness can also spill over into personal expressions of reclaiming one’s ancestral tradition. Dressing like an early twentieth century paesano, while speaking in an Italian accent you didn’t grow up with, can read as both inauthentic and pretentious. Without an acknowledged personal or political stance to support it, performing cultural affects primarily serves as a way to signal one’s beliefs and interests to others. This “solidarity signaling” is a kind of posturing, the clothing and accessories functioning as costumes, a means to attract attention and show allegiance to a political group or subculture. To affect one’s speech allows the speaker to express affiliation without having to state that affiliation. If I pronounce every word of Italian origin with an accent I didn’t grow up with, people may assume I am more connected to my past than I am. Signaling turns solidarity into a performance, one that feels forced or put on. It quickly becomes a self-centering act, drawing attention to oneself rather than to the culture or politic in question. To use Gadamer’s language, signalling through affects ultimately turns people into tourist attractions.

Not all signaling has at its root a disingenuous motive, however. Reconstructing environmental conditions is particularly useful in spiritual and mindfulness practices where repetition is emphasized. Yogic postures, seated meditation positions, and breathing techniques are meant to be repeated day in and out. Silent rooms help to recreate the quiet of ashrams, which themselves are meant to recreate the solitary conditions of Himalayan caves. Psychedelic practices using plant medicines depend on “set and setting” as a container for potentially intense experiences. The specifics of religious architecture of, say a church, are meant to orient congregants toward the divine.

Reconstruction can be a subversive act, as well. Historically marginalized communities wearing the clothing styles of their ancestors is a way in which people reclaim what was, literally, stolen from them. African-American spiritual communities embracing the dress of Nigeria and the Congo may, even if as a secondary aftereffect, challenge white social and cultural norms. Mexican-Americans wearing shirts emblazoned with the flag of their birthplace challenge the idea that patriotism is exclusively the product of a single country. Both of these may function as either intended or unintentional responses to the proliferation of an assumed, even if at times silent, white supremacy in the United States. Looked at from a different angle, descendants of Europe learning to speak in their grandmother’s native tongue, may also be making a political statement about whiteness, as many Euro-American ancestors had shed their indigenous culture a century prior in order to “trade up” the ladder of social hierarchy. In this way, reconstruction functions as a means to reclaim and repurpose what was abandoned in an effort to appear more white.

Reconstruction can also have a deliberate effect on religious practices. After all, why go through the trouble of setting up elaborate altars and shrines if they don’t affect us differently when done “right?” Anyone who’s pondered where to place a religious object in their home knows that religious icons, statues, and artifacts “feel better” when they’re put in the “right spot.” I can’t tell you the number of corners, second bedrooms, cupboards, floor spaces, shelf spaces, out of the way spaces, central spaces I’ve moved my altars to over the years. All in an effort to have them “feel right.” If a painting with religious significance is hung on a wall with paintings of less religious significance, the religious work may feel deflated or “just like another piece of art.”

The correct environment for religious objects also has an effect on how those objects perform. When I was initiated into the Lucumi tradition, and was presented with my Warriors, I was given very specific instructions as to where in my apartment these emissaries of the unseen world should be placed. Ignoring these instructions meant there was a good chance the Warriors wouldn’t “work.” For Eleggua, Ogun, and Ochosi, this meant they were to be placed near the entrance. Osun was to be placed high up on a shelf or on top of a bookcase.[4] These areas were their environments. Thresholds and high shelves were their “soil.”

Whenever I moved these spiritual guides to other areas of the apartment, which I almost never did, they felt flat. They would go quiet as if they had fallen asleep. Even when I was having work done on my apartment, and needed to move things around, I thought at length about where they should move to, going as far as asking my godparent in the religion to ask through divination where the orisha wanted to be placed. After all, these are sentient beings. They are alive.

Some of the objects, specifically my Eleggua, were handmade by my padrino, my spiritual godfather in the religion. My padrino took great pride in making my Eleggua, telling me that it was the first of its kind he had fashioned himself.[5] In it being handmade there was a great significance for me, as well. This particular object felt very much alive.

Many of the other objects I received were clearly purchased at one of the many botanicas around New York City. There was certainly a significance to their being gifted to me, symbols of my commitment and new status in the religion, but they were still made in a factory, possibly in less than ideal working conditions, by people who may or may not have cared about what they were making. In other words, the context in which they were created was spiritually suspect, at best. If this was indeed the case, how was I to come to know their significance? What was the soil of a religious object made in a factory? For me, the answer came on the Lower East Side of Manhattan almost ten years prior.

~ to be continued ~

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[1] (Gadamer quoting Schleiermacher 166) Gadamer, H. (1974). Truth and Method. University of Michigan.

[2] Ibid.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Eleggua guards doorways. He is both gate and gatekeeper. Ogun and Ochosi aid in goals and acquiring the tools needed to fulfill those goals. Osun, set up high, is the lookout, and warns of any unforeseeable harms.

[5] Eleggua has many different identities, known as caminos, or roads. Before a new initiate is presented with their Eleggua, divination is used to determine which Eleggua will travel with you. My padrino had previously made many an Eleggua. But, the camino on which my Eleggua walked was a first for him.