![Sample our Humanities journals, sign in here to start your FREE access for 14 days]({"type":"image" , "src" : "/sda/5939/TOC-Subject-Sample-2021-Humanities.jpg"})
ABSTRACT
This paper revisits the question “Who Owns Religion?”, in the context of a recent analysis of debates in religious studies, marked by controversy and friction between members of religious traditions and scholars writing about those traditions. Habermas’s concept of a public sphere is at the center of an analysis by Laurie Patton that uses six case studies, including one involving the Sikh tradition. The paper reviews this conceptual framing and the accompanying analysis, provides a reconsideration of the Sikh case, which pertains to the construction of religious boundaries in that tradition, and draws more general lessons, including the functioning of academia as well as the contextual appropriateness of the concept of the public sphere. It argues that “eruptions” in the public sphere can be reduced by improvements in academic knowledge production, to provide a better foundation for navigating differences in modes of reasoning, or between the religious and the secular.
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to Jugdep Chima, Nathaniel Deutsch, Eleanor Nesbitt, and, most of all, to Rajbir Judge for detailed, cogent comments on an earlier draft. I also received a range of careful and insightful comments and suggestions from three anonymous reviewers. The current version is immeasurably better as a result of these inputs, though I remain responsible for all remaining errors, omissions and weaknesses in the paper. Some of the work for this paper was completed under the auspices of the Sarbjit Singh Aurora Chair in Sikh and Punjabi Studies.
Disclosure statement
No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).
Notes
1 The use of the term ‘owns’ can also be problematized and critiqued, since it is tied to a particular concept of property rights. In the analysis, the concept of ownership arises when legal control over certain types of representation of religious communities is asserted by various parties. We return to these issues later in the paper.
2 The overarching framework of the public sphere has been heavily debated, critiqued, analyzed and modified, and provides a broad tent the analysis. Issues of translation, inequalities, heterogeneity, secularity, individual rights, and the role of the state, have all been considered, both in Patton’s analysis and elsewhere (e.g., Fraser Citation1990; Taylor Citation1994; Connolly Citation1995; Rawls Citation1997; Habermas Citation2008; Sikka Citation2016; Gosselin-Tapp Citation2018; Hułas Citation2019; Kaltsas Citation2019).
3 Fraser (Citation1990) offers a broad critique of the benchmark concept of the public sphere, including the public sphere as (Patton, 85) ‘a kind of political theater, whereby actors on behalf of competing publics express and make a case for their interests.’ The instrumentality of religious and other dimensions of collective or cultural identities, and their constructed and dynamic aspects, perspectives that are important in Fraser’s analysis, are familiar in social science contexts (e.g., Singh Citation2022). Appiah’s approach is somewhat different, examining the politics of multicultural recognition from an ethical perspective that tackles the challenge of reconciling diverse collective identities with ideals of shared humanity
4 Without referencing the Habermasian public sphere, the intellectual exchanges in Asad et al. (Citation2009), pose the question, ‘Is critique secular?’ In that symposium, Asad (Citation2009) and Mahmood (Citation2009) examine the meanings, implications and interplay of the religious and the secular, especially in the context of the events surrounding, and subsequent to, the 2005 publication of cartoons depicting the Prophet Muhammad in a Danish newspaper. In particular, Mahmood reflects on critical theory’s reluctance to engage with ‘religion’s metaphysical and epistemological commitments’ (91). Patton (Citation2019, 4) also references this symposium, and its interrogation of the typical placement of critical theory above religious reason(s).
5 Ismailis are a heterogeneous subset of Shia Islam, and the particular group that is the subject of the case is the Sat Panth Ismailis.
6 Patton (Citation2019, 3–4, acknowledges this point more broadly, for several of her case studies, but its implications in the Sikh case are not fully realized there.
7 Specifically, being a ‘South Asianist’ does not imply any significant knowledge or expertise with respect to the history of the Sikh community, or of ‘very different Sikh communities.’ Examples of knowledge or expertise include language, familiarity with primary texts, and familiarity with secondary literature. For a more general analysis of some of these issues, see, for example, Das and Randeria (Citation2015). The general lack of engagement of many Western scholars with scholarly debates on Sikh history among India-based academics (e.g., Banerjee Citation1936; Citation1947; Narang Citation1946; Ray Citation1975; F. Singh, Citation1978; and Grewal Citation1994) is noteworthy. A recent analysis of some of these histories is H. Kaur (Citation2010). Of course, there are exceptions: for example, Judge (Citation2018; Citation2021; Citation2022) fully engages with sources while maintaining a rigorous critical approach.
8 There is a well-known quote by Asad (Citation2011, 292), ‘while the freedom to criticize is represented as being at once a right and a duty of the modern individual, its truth-producing capacity remains subject to disciplinary criteria, and its material conditions of existence (laboratories, buildings, research funds, publishing houses, computers, tenure) are provided and watched over by corporate and state power … ’ The argument in the current paper is that the material conditions listed in the quote have interacted with disciplinary criteria which lacked strong foundations and embodied their own inequalities. In other disciplines, the structures highlighted by Asad have contributed to recent prominent cases of data fraud in the sciences.
9 In that sense, an analogy can be made to histories that downplay the harms of slavery in the United States, and the affective impact of such histories: rather than a fine line between religion and race, what may determine eruptions is the accumulation of suffering from the abuse of power. The history of the Jewish people as an ethno-religious community is obviously pertinent as well.
10 I am greatly indebted to an anonymous reviewer for this summary, which I have adopted with some minor rephrasing.
11 In brief, the Khalsa involved a more homogeneous and distinct identity, along with new commitments to social action and social equality. Since Guru Gobind Singh was assassinated about a decade after the institution was created, and the period was one of intense conflict, political instability, and no human successor to the Guru, the meaning and role of the Khalsa within the Sikh tradition was contested from the start.
12 Patton’s summary of three phases of the process as framed by Oberoi, involving the categories Tat Khalsa, Sikh, and Singh Sabhas (the original reform organizations from within which the new Tat Khalsa emerged), is inaccurate, but the inaccuracies are not critical to the current analysis.
13 The process for Muslims in India was somewhat different, of course, given Islam’s very different history and structures, though Patton loosely asserts (148) the ‘similar transformations of unification and uniformity’ that Hindus and Muslims were undertaking or undergoing in the same time and place.
14 In fact, Pandian’s discussion is well before Oberoi’s book, and only references a very specific article (Oberoi Citation1987).
15 The term ‘strait-jacket’ comes from Oberoi (Citation1987, 30), and refers to the assumption that ‘modernity,’ unlike ‘tradition,’ is associated with reason and rationality. As discussed later in the paper, Oberoi’s point about the workings of elite power in the selection of various components of tradition, sometimes by appealing to reason, is not novel, and is applied somewhat misleadingly in the Sikh case. ‘Folk religion’ refers to local or popular practices, not sanctioned by religious leaders or officials (Bowker Citation2000), and often in peasant or other non-elite communities. This category characterizes all religions: its implications in the Sikh case are discussed later in the paper.
16 While Patton describes this as a later review, it is, in fact, the earliest of all the reviews cited in her work.
17 Patton also approvingly notes the influence of Oberoi on subsequent scholarship, particularly Barrier and P. Singh (Citation1996, Citation1999; Citation2004) and Grewal (Citation1997; Citation1998). While the first two authors mostly take similar scholarly positions to Oberoi, Grewal is actually quite critical of Oberoi’s historical research. This is taken up later in the section.
18 See N. Singh (Citation2021) for further details and references.
19 Indeed, the ten human Gurus all used the signature Nanak, signifying that they shared the same spirit or ‘light.’ This intertemporal unity and consistency of leadership is also at odds with Oberoi’s claims of lack of an institutionalized collective identity.
20 For example, the main Khalsa ruler, Ranjit Singh, offered patronage to religious orders and shrines across the board. He and other Khalsa rulers also adopted many princely or courtly conventions (Dhavan Citation2011) that were viewed unfavorably by Sikh ‘reformers.’ There is nothing to suggest that they viewed themselves indistinguishable from their Hindu subjects: for example, while Ranjit Singh’s Hindu Rajput wives followed him onto his funeral pyre, this was not the case for his Sikh wives.
21 Grewal (Citation1997, 29), the most authoritative scholar of Sikh history, is explicitly dismissive of Oberoi’s framing: ‘His [Oberoi’s] hypothesis of Sanatan Sikhism in the early nineteenth century appears to be vague and vacuous.’
22 Sahajdhari is a term for Sikhs who chose not to follow the Khalsa code, with its main manifestation being not maintaining uncut hair. Kuka is another term for Namdharis, discussed below. Nirmala refers to a strand of Sikh doctrine that relates Sikh teachings to there presumed Vedic antecedents. Sikhs in general have differing views on the connection of Sikh teachings to the Vedas, with a fairly typical belief being that the Sikh Gurus were directly divinely inspired.
23 One can add that many of these ‘Udasis’ differed significantly from the ascetics who were an early offshoot from the Sikh tradition (immediately departing from core teachings of Nanak opposed to asceticism), being later appropriators of this label. They included functionaries who took control of major Sikh sites of worship (gurdwaras) and often enjoyed lavish lifestyles. Banga (Citation2013) provides a clear overview of Grewal’s analysis.
24 On the other hand, Namdharis became fervent proponents of cow-protection, not something that is featured in Sikh canonical teachings or in early tradition. They, like the Nirankaris, have maintained an institution of a human guru, which is at odds with mainstream Sikh doctrine.
25 Murphy (Citation2000, 59) also points out that Oberoi’s ‘good guys’ upheld caste hierarchies, not only for social relations, but also for spiritual advancement, thereby contradicting basic teachings of all the Sikh Gurus. By contrast, the Tat Khalsa, though not without vigorous debate, rejected caste distinctions in both social and spiritual spheres. Interestingly, Bedi and Vahiria maintained their external Khalsa identity to signal leadership, while reinterpreting core Sikh doctrines to preserve their influence and income.
26 In addition to the Khem Singh Bedi (‘Sanatan’) group, which was arguably extreme in its own way, the opposite pole was occupied by Teja Singh Bhasaur, who advocated strongly for radical equality, and for a more restrictive approach to Sikh doctrine and canonical texts. While he might be lumped in with the Tat Khalsa, many of his positions were too radical for others in that group, and he was formally banished from the Sikh community in 1928.
27 A code of conduct was only agreed on in 1950. The effects of compromise are clear in the product – for example, the Khalsa identity is not insisted on as a requirement, but instead as an ideal of commitment to be respected. In the case of the standing of a secondary sacred text, the Dasam Granth, an expert committee was appointed, but, many decades later, no consensus has been reached. The process did diminish the role of Sahajdhari Sikhs, those who followed Sikh practices without any adherence to the concept of the Khalsa as a normative ideal, but the manner in which colonial rule ended, and the subsequent evolution of the politics of identity in India, would likely have hardened the boundary between Sikhs and Hindus in any case. A recent major survey of the religions of India (Pew Research Citation2021) indicated that about 75 percent of Sikhs keep their hair uncut (though the proportion is higher among women and lower for men), but only about 20 percent of those are initiates in the Khalsa. So, there is diversity in this most obviously visible respect. Different strands of thought flourish among the Sikh community, with a proliferation of sants – independent religious leaders – who depart from mainstream doctrines and practices in varying ways. Folk traditions also remain prevalent, as discussed in Murphy (Citation2000). Initiates of the Khalsa control major Sikh places of worship, and their revenue from offerings, but this does not translate into control over the Sikh community, which exercises its agency and expresses dissent relatively freely.
28 Murphy prefaces her discussion of the empirical reality by building on the work of Chatterjee (Citation1989), who also engages with popular religious movements in South Asia.
29 Patton (2) describes it as ‘a space that used to be occupied by the humanistic study of religion and saw itself as liberal, tolerant, and appreciative. In addition, that space was occupied by engaged, impassioned conversations about the issue, where a large majority of the interlocutors remained connected and respectful, even if in deep disagreement.’ One implication of this approach is that it can favor some versions of religiosity (liberal, tolerant, or with ‘soft’ boundaries) over others with polar characteristics. Thus, to quote an anonymous reviewer, ‘So liberal Muslims are more like liberal Jews in important ways, than each group is like conservatives/fundamentalists within the religion.’
30 Indeed, Appiah’s (Citation1994; Citation2005) analysis of these multiple aspects of identity is much more general than the particular public spheres and time period that encompass Patton’s concerns. Four of Patton’s examples raise normative issues that are not necessarily unique to religious communities, and could arise in the context of communities defined by ethnicity, race or other aspects of culture. Arguably, only the Virgin Birth represents the kind of challenge of translating religious reasons that occupied Rawls and Habermas.
31 In that case, the state was explicitly colonial, but in the Sikh case, there are continuing perceptions (rooted in experience) of similar attitudes from the post-colonial state of independent India.
32 She states (61), that ‘These two issues are the sources of noncomprehension, resentment, and contention between competing public spheres as well as the public spaces that erupt between the spheres.’
33 Asad (Citation2009) also discusses issues of property rights, and Mahmood (Citation2009) considers European legal frameworks which are based on human rights and protection from injury, but also embedded in frameworks that tend to respect majoritarian traditions, and so favor the dominant religion and culture.
34 With respect to Patton’s Sikh case study, the relative academic neglect of scholarly criticisms (Singh Citation1996; Grewal Citation1997; Murphy Citation2000) of the dominant narrative illustrates inequalities of access and recognition that are structural. The structural problems often relate to use of sources, and lack of familiarity and engagement with them among scholars relying on a particular work. For example, Oberoi’s discussion of the Udasis relies very heavily on the primary work of Sulakhan Singh (Citation1980; Citation1982; Citation1983) – which does not privilege later orthodoxy, but still recognizes the group’s heterodox and heterogeneous characteristics. But Oberoi fails to respect the latter’s nuances: see also S. Singh (Citation2002) and Sandhu (Citation2011). A second example of lack of engagement with sources is Leonard (Citation2007), who uses Oberoi uncritically and problematically to make claims about the 20th century trajectory of Sikhs in California, neither engaging with the actual historical sources, nor with other relevant ethnographic work (e.g., Gibson Citation1988): see N. Singh (Citation2016). In a third example, unrelated to the work of Oberoi, the common claim of a medieval Indian ‘Sant’ tradition, into which Sikhism’s founder Nanak is inserted, is based on a project of Hindu cultural nationalism, as well as having inherent scholarly flaws (Singh Citation2001; Citation2021a).
Additional information
Notes on contributors
Nirvikar Singh
Nirvikar Singh is Distinguished Professor of Economics at the University of California, Santa Cruz, where he held the Sarbjit Singh Aurora Chair in Sikh and Punjabi Studies from 2010 to 2020. His research and published articles in Sikh and Punjabi Studies have included work on analyzing the core doctrines of Sikhism in historical context, Sikh literature as an agent of social change in the early 20th century, Guru Nanak and Sikh identity, portraits of the Sikh gurus, Sikhs in California, challenges of translating the Guru Granth Sahib, Sikh attitudes toward daily economic life and economic systems, the Punjab economy, healthcare in Punjab, the impact of Covid on Punjab, and comparison of past conflicts in Punjab and Kashmir.