Monday, April 02, 2012

The Vajra as Implement, Emblem and Symbol



Vajra and Bell     

The Tibetan ritual implements coming next (after this) on our itinerary are not just artistic representations to be ‘read through’ to the high religio-philosophical matters of which they are, in some in-truth mysterious way, both medium and indication, only to be then dispensed with; they are objects in their own right, not just stand-ins for something else. Neither were they meant to lay immobilized as ‘objects’ in museum display cases, however justifiable this might seem from an aesthetic or ethnological point of view. They are supposed to do things. One thing they do is ‘mark’ deities, telling those who are versed in iconography their identity.  In this iconographical context (and occasionally in ritual contexts as well) they are called, in Tibetan, chagtsen (phyag-mtshan), literally, ‘hand-signs’ (or perhaps more simply ‘marks’), or less literally yet preferably, ‘emblems.’ They are also instruments for performing a broad range of ritual actions. They might in truth be called the ‘tools-of-trade’ of most every Tibetan religious specialist.[1]
In ritual texts, they are usually called lagcha (lag-cha, literally, ‘hand-piece’ and less literally yet certainly ‘tools’), although they might be subsumed under broader categories like yojé (yo-byad, ‘requisite items’), Damdzé (dam-rdzas ‘sacred commitment substances’) or damtsiggi yenlag (dam-tshig-gi yan-lag, ‘sacred commitment appendages’). These latter categories include a large number of the concrete items employed in the course of the ritual, and not just the implements as such, but even substances intended as offerings and/or sacraments. While a great variety of these items may be ‘required’ in the conduct of a particular ritual, this does not mean that they all need to be visible to the eye of an innocent bystander. The items employed in tantric rituals are very frequently mentally transformed (or as the ritual texts also say, ‘generated’) into much bigger or more elaborate versions of themselves, or even at times into something else altogether.  
Consulting the Tibetan text that describes a monastic ritual, the newcomer to a Tibetan monastery in India or Nepal may be surprised to see that the throwing of flowers called for in the text has turned into the throwing of rice in the ritual performance (barley corns were used for this purpose in old Tibet). This is no problem to the monk participating in the rite. For them the grains of rice are flowers, and are conceived of as such. Some ritual requisites might be difficult or impossible to procure. If the ritual handbook calls for an elephant to be present, to give one real example, Tibetan ritual officiants would most likely not do like Hannibal and bring an elephant over the mountain passes from India and try to squeeze it through the temple doors. Rather they would make use of a ritual ‘flash-card’ (called tsa-ka-li) with a picture of an elephant while they conceive in contemplation the presence of an actual elephant.  
In some, or even many cases the contemplative conception of the item is considered sufficient, and no external representation is needed.  Ritual implements likewise may on some occasions be substituted with flash-cards or other illustrations,[2] or they might be generated in the mind of the contemplative. Vajras, for example, are very frequent in visualization practices that were never even intended to be ‘acted out’ externally in a ritual. Clearly the boundaries between contemplative visualization and concrete ritual action are and probably always have been open to a certain amount of re-negotiation. Although it would, it is true, be highly desirable to record all the ritual, liturgical and contemplative contexts in which each implement occurs, in what follows we will have to be content with some occasional and limited indications of ritual utilization. The Tibetan ritual world is vast, exceedingly complex, and does not lend itself to fast and easy encapsulation. I have no hope of knowing everything about it in this life.
Furthermore, all these things belong to the realm of esoteric ritual. They are ‘secret,’ although this word requires some comment. ‘Secret’ belongs to the traditional triadic classification system of outer, inner and secret. Here I offer little more than a superficial description of outer appearances (as well as historical developments in the same) and a few glimpses into the interior symbolic aspects. These inner aspects are for the most part not my own intuitions (or theoretical deductions), but those of my Tibetan or, less often, Indian authorities. These same authorities have their own standards of what may be expressed in language and divulged in books with black letters. To go beyond these would be to break the ‘bonds’ (dam-tshig) of the relationship between the Vajrayānists and the divine image of their high aspirations or, which is to say practically the same thing, between the Vajrayānists and their lineages of teachers.  
The rule to be followed here is never to use the words ‘it is nothing but,’ but to remain open to as-yet unsuspected meanings. Given the requirement of prior experience, ‘secrets’ are such because they keep themselves secret from those who are not well enough prepared to see what’s there. Secret-ness, too, is the very platform on which revelations are made. Without secrecy there would be no mystery, without hiddenness or mystery, no revelation. I think that mystification, meaning secrecy for its own sake or for self-aggrandizement, if not entirely absent, was not the usual motive.  (Craft guilds’ trade secrets may be another matter.) Anyway, no secrets will be told here, and none should be expected. We will deal with sources that are already public, and in most cases published. I fear some will become impatient if everything doesn’t become entirely transparent all of a sudden, once and for all. If you are like that you will soon be disappointed. But if you are ready to go on, well, let’s get started.
The Vajra, together with its counterpart the Bell is, of all the various symbolic implements used in Tibetan Buddhist ritual, iconography and literature, the most significant from several perspectives. It is precisely its pervasiveness within the tradition of tantric Buddhism[3] which is most frequently identified by the name Vajrayāna, ‘the Vehicle of the Vajra,’ that make its meanings so difficult or impossible to pin down with any grand illusions of simplicity. It will be very important for readers of the following comments to distinguish our contemporary historical constructions from Buddhist, both Indian and Tibetan, understandings and usages. Here, as is so often the case, the meanings we find through historical tracing and etymology may have little to do with (or may on occasion, even if not here, directly contradict) the understanding of the particular religious culture that actively employs the symbolic item. Origin is, after all, not necessarily destiny.  
In this place we would rather give greater weight to interpretations found in Tibetan-language sources, since for Tibetan Buddhists these things are very much part of a living world of tradition, and as such demand respect. Furthermore, Vajrayāna may be defined quite simply as Buddhism of the esoteric kind; ‘esoteric’ because it requires initiation and a personal relationship with a lineage holder, as well as personal experience of that which is symbolized (to translate this into plainer English: Those who demand a full and fully genuine comprehension of the symbolism might do well to stop reading this and instead pursue the traditional methods).  While the simpler aim here is to find explanations — preferably not made up explanations — that are historically demonstrable (or disprovable, or at the very least traceable) and intellectually satisfying, these explanations should also be tested for their resonance with the general realm of Things Buddhist and Things Tibetan.
It is usual to understand the Vajra to mean originally a thunderbolt, while Tibetan Buddhists understand it to mean ‘adamant’ or ‘diamond.’ Often Tibetans have simply transcribed the word Vajra into their own alphabet as Badzra (Ba-dzra), but the Tibetan translation for Vajra is Dorjé (Rdo-rje), which might be etymologically analyzed as ‘Stone’ (rdo) ‘Lord’ (rje), an epithet for the diamond, Lord of Stones.[4] As we will see, the symbolic significances of Indra’s weapon (which may or may not be precisely or exclusively a thunderbolt) and of the diamond are united by the qualities of hardness and durability.
It is certain that the first mentionings, about two hundred and seventy-five in all, of something called a ‘Vajra’ occur, very approximately four thousand years ago, in the then-oral text of the Rig Veda as a hand-held weapon of the god Indra.[5] Even if commonplace, the statement that this Vedic Vajra is a thunderbolt excites controversy. Its identity as a thunderbolt may be at least in part a product of nineteenth-century comparativists who preferred to find natural (and therefore universal) phenomena behind mythological items.[6] Most twentieth-century Indologists[7] see Indra’s Vajra as an at least partially metallic — gold, copper or iron — instrument along the lines of a hammer, axe or club (or even, according to one not very well received suggestion, a harpoon[8]) which Indra kept always in hand. It is sometimes said to have a thousand knots or a thousand edges.[9] The Vedic Vajra might be thrown at the enemy and made to rotate in its flight, or used in hand-to-hand combat in order to cut like an axe or smash like a club. It was made up of a wooden shaft tied to the metallic head with a kind of twine. 
It is interesting that there are passages in the Rig Veda that describe the Vajra-weapon as ‘stable’ and ‘durable,’ since these words could equally apply to the Tibetan understanding of the Vajra as a diamond. Another scholar of Vedic studies[10] has connected the Vajra to some rather large (one to two hand-lengths in size) copper instruments found in Indian archaeological sites which have two sharpened prongs extending outward forming a ‘V’-shape. In their appearance, they are somewhat anthropomorphic (and hence called ‘anthropomorphic figures’ in archaeological works), with the extended prongs looking like outspread human legs. 


Anthropomorphic Figure, so-called
These might have originally been attached to a wooden shaft to form an instrument for striking. 

Regardless of these speculations, I think it was a weapon for battle. It may be that some more obvious metaphors for war, the gathering storm cloud of soldiers with lightning-like weapons, came to the foreground as time went by. Battle imagery is always being used for peaceful purposes. Poetry has no problem plowing with metaphorical weapons.
The other types of instruments that we will look at now are, unlike the Vedic weapon, not meant to be held by an attached handle. They are rather ‘scepters’ in form, relatively small at the center where they are most usually held, and with each of the two ends being a mirror image of the other. This type of Vajra is found, with more or less minor variations, in all the ‘Northern’ Buddhist countries as well as in medieval Indian art. Although there are many problems that cannot all be addressed here, it is most probable that the form of this Buddhist and Indian Vajra had its transmission from Greece by way of the Middle East, perhaps as early as the Hellenistic Period. The medieval Indian and Tibetan (and Silk Route, Japan, etc.) Vajra is strikingly similar to the Keraunos held by Zeus in Greek art. Behind the shape of the Keraunos may be still earlier Mesopotamian and Hittite representations of lightning held in the hands of depicted deities.[11]

Weather God Hadad at Gaziantep, Turkey
(I believe the photo has been reversed)
It may not be at all obvious that our usual contemporary representation of the lightning bolt as a (usually single) zig-zagged line is itself a cultural product that was not even in use just three hundred years ago.[12] The oldest recognizable human representations of lightning in Middle Eastern history (ranging from about 2000 to 1000 bce) are rather fork-shaped, with two or three long and wavy tines.[13] It was in about 1000 bce that lightning became most commonly represented in a similar manner, but having a double-ended form that begins to approach the form of the Tibetan Vajra. In another century or two, the central tine became straight and tapered to a point, while the tines on either side tended outward, often in a form reminiscent of the horns of an ox. This is the typical form of the Greek Keraunos.
Detail from an ancient Greek vase
(look
here)
It is tempting to see this Greek divine weapon of Middle Eastern origins as the source of transmission of the Buddhist form of the Vajra, given their obvious similarities that have often been noticed.[14] The main differences are not in the major outline but in the details. Where the outer prongs of the Keraunos bend outward, they always turn inward toward the central prong in the Tibetan versions, and very often touch it, as we will see. The shaft (including the central prongs) of the Keraunos often has a spiralling incision in it, while they may or may not have something like the rounded bulge at the center that is always seen in the Tibetan Dorjé.
The main problem that confronts us is how to account for the transmission from Greece to India and beyond. The logical time and place for us to look is the Gandhāran art of the early centuries ce. It was in Gandhāra, in the area of modern northern Pakistan, that the Buddha image was produced under strong Greek artistic influences (even if the Buddha image might have originated, as many Indian scholars argue, in the city of Mathurā in northern India). The Vajra does exist in Gandhāran Buddhist art, but in a form that does not very closely resemble either the Keraunos or the Indian and Tibetan Vajra. The Gandhāran Vajra looks like a plain, solid squared beam about the length of the forearm of the figure bearing it, only attenuating at the center where it is held.[15] This very different form makes it impossible to claim that this apparent Greek influence reached Indian Buddhism by way of Gandhāra. This leaves us still in the dark about a particular route of transmission that would explain the similarities of the Keraunos and most non-Gandhāran Buddhist Vajras.
To briefly summarize, we may say that while the Vedic Vajra weapon seems to have had a form of some kind of club or axe with an attached handle, the Buddhist Vajra has its particular form because of influence, at some as yet not precisely specified time, by way of the Middle East, or very possibly by Greeks residing in areas to the northwest of India. Even given the likelihood that this historical picture is basically defendable or even simply true, we still haven’t gained much idea about what the Vajra means in Buddhism, and more particularly in the Buddhism of Tibet, which is pervaded by the tantric form of Mahāyāna (‘the Great Vehicle’) known as Vajrayāna (‘the Vajra Vehicle’).


[1] One way of thinking about these weapons/tools, in Sanskrit āyudha, is from the perspective of the one who makes them, the traditional Indian artisan.  From this point of view, the making of tools requires tools, and there is the ever-present danger that the artisan may be injured by the very tools required in the creative process. This entails a cult of tools, in which the tool, often more or less identified with a deity (or the ‘weapon’ of a deity), requires ritual propitiation. More material for thinking along these lines may be found in Brouwer (1988). Risking banality, we might dryly note that these tools, however divinized they may be, are necessary for the construction of divine images.
[2] I have in my personal library copies of two different woodblock prints of ‘substitution drawings’ (dod ris [this does not mean just ‘representation’!]) of items that tantric initiates ought to have in their possession. One of the two texts, printed on a single long folio, was acquired in 1993 at the monastic printery of Sera Monastery near Lhasa in Tibet.  The other is a photocopy of a seven-folio print originating from Kumbum (Sku-’bum) Monastery in Amdo, northeastern Tibet, probably in the 19th century (from the personal library of Thubten J. Norbu, former abbot of Kumbum), which in its colophon mentions two still earlier versions. Illustrated in both are a wide variety of tantric requisites, including Vajra, Bell, Bone Ornaments, drums, rosaries, Bodhisattva ornaments, skullcups, fire offering implements, ritual vases, animal hides, ropes, snares, hooks, choppers, swords, banners, and still more. The Sera print is quite similar, down to the details, to the more artistically rendered Sku-’bum version. In both versions, the first two implements illustrated are, quite properly, the Vajra and Bell.
[3] All the Tibetan sects accept tantra in its Buddhist form, even while simultaneously continuing to revere and practice non-tantric forms of Buddhism. This distinguishes Tibet from other ‘Northern’ Buddhist countries such as China and Japan where tantric texts, rituals and ideas tended to be made the exclusive preserve of separate tantric schools. I leave discussion of the Bon school and the similarity of their chags-shing sceptre with the vajra for another occasion.
[4] In order to refer without ambiguity to the mineral substance ‘diamond,’ Tibetans use the word pha-lam or, very often, rdo-rje-pha-lam (a compound of near-synonyms). It has been suggested that the specific meaning ‘diamond’ is also reflected in the use of the word vasira in a Khotanese text, which might imply a route of influence, although the time and reasons for the linkage of the concept of ‘diamond’ with the Vajra remain, in my opinion, obscure (see Gibson 1997: 50).  It may be worthy of note that the verbal root behind the Sanskrit form vajra is vaj, which generally means ‘to go, move, roam about,’ a meaning not very well suited to diamonds, but fully appropriate for a self-propelling magical weapon.
[5] See Chakravarty (1997: 96); Kumar (1996). In the Iranian Avesta, the vazra is a weapon used by the god Mithra. Earlier artistic representations of Indra in India do not bear anything that might correspond to the Vajra. These Hindu Vajra representations seem to make their first appearance in in art of the 10th to 12th centuries in a form quite similar to Indian Buddhist and Tibetan Vajras (Devendra 1965: 130-131). In other words, Indian Buddhist artistic representations of pronged Vajras seem to occur before Hindu representations of Indra with a Vajra. Some have perceived the earliest artistic occurrences of Vajras in decorations for early Buddhist stūpas at Sanchi and Bharhut (see Banerji 1980: 171), but then again, while these are surely identifiable as Vajras (especially when seen in the hands of the Buddhist form of Indra!), they do not yet have the familiar shape (see drawings in Sivaramamurti 1949: 22-23, figs. 2 a-d and 3 a-b). These statements should not be considered to be anything more than tentative. Dkon-mchog-bstan-’dzin (1994: 312-313) tells a story, evidently of Puranic Hindu origins, of how the first Vajra used by Indra was made from the footbone of a sage (rishi) named Curd Drinker (Drang-srong Zho-’thung). This is none other than the Sage Dadhīka, discussed by Giuliano (2008), with the story briefly told in Granoff (2009: 61). According to this context, the Vajra weapon could not be harmed by any other weapon. It would throw itself at all who showed ill will, hit anyone at whom it was thrown, kill anyone it hit, and guide to liberation whoever it killed. There is more on the Puranic sources in Agocs (2000: 65-67), and for Epic sources, see Whitaker (2000). Of course in more recent times the Vajra came to be held in the hands of other Hindu deities besides Indra, and was used in Jaina iconography (Banerji 1980).
[6] One may note the remarks on the symbolism of the Vajra by Guenon (1962/1995: 121-128, 224-5) and Snodgrass (1992: 174-177), which are both comparativist and universalist, but in the area of metaphysics or cosmology rather than ‘nature’ per se (which is not to deny the particular information that is to be found in these and other writings by the same authors). We wouldn’t pretend to entirely escape the perils of comparativism here, but it is our main aim to find and convey particular, and particularly Tibetan, understandings of the symbolism, whenever possible. ‘Nature’ and ‘the universe’ will be given their due when warranted by the sources. I see little reason for polemic against the ‘traditionalist’ school largely inspired by René Guénon, including in particular the Bostonian art historian Ananda Coomaraswamy, or for that matter against the ‘history of religions’ school from Mircea Eliade, except for the fact that they tend to universalize ahead of time, before letting traditional particularities of culture and locale, not to mention history, have their say (on Eliade’s pan-Babylonianism, see the critique by Korom [1992], which also contains pertinent remarks about the comparative enterprise). In any case, we should probably remind ourselves constantly of the human tendency to approach dialogue by first creating ‘linkages,’ in particular etymologies (and apparent linguistic cognates) both false and supportable, as a method of developing rapport, which might then be used to promote a sense of common cause in political or other fields. This etymological method is by no means limited to word-history, but to other aspects of history as well, including artifacts and, yes indeed, symbols. (Consider for a moment the not entirely hypothetical but nevertheless truly preposterous example of European [neo-?]Nazis seeking to create linkages with Chinese Buddhists or Tibetan Bonpos on the basis of one supposedly ‘shared’ symbol.)  Seeing our own sacred symbolism in use in another culture produces a shock of recognition that can as quickly be followed by a shock of non-recognition (like an Israeli seeing a Star of David [Magen David, widely known as the Seal of Solomon] in use in a Newari or Tibetan Buddhist ritual, for example). Certainly if there is anything ‘to’ the universality of symbols, it isn’t in the symbolic forms themselves, but rather in that which they might serve to symbolize. The very strong Buddhist insistence on the Bodhisattva ideal of helping everyone under the motivation of the universally applied emotions of love and compassion ought to preclude the very possibility of its symbols being appropriated by persons who live on hatred of the ‘other.’ Still, the world is a confused and confusing place, and, as a quick internet search may reveal, just such appropriations are taking place at this very moment.
[7] See Apte (1957), for example.
[8] Kumar (1996) supports this idea.
[9] Chakravarty (1997: 97).
[10] Gupta (1975).  Gupta’s suggestion about ‘anthropomorphic figures’ being identifiable with the ancient Vajra has not been especially well received (see for example Smith 1979).
[11] Smith (1962) shows how an iconographical form of Zeus, which he calls the ‘Striding Zeus,’ derived from Middle Eastern sources.  In this form, Zeus wields a Keraunos in the right hand as if ready to hurl it at an (absent) opponent (many examples in Cook 1925: 740 ff.; for arguments about historical transformations in the shape of the thunderbolt starting from the ancient Near East, see the same work, pp. 764-785). For a 1st-2nd century Roman example that appears to be walking, yet holding the Thunderbolt in a resting position, see Polichetti 2010.


Striding Zeus
wielding a Keraunos
The ‘Striding Zeus’ bears a striking artistic resemblance to some depictions of Vajrapāṇi (for examples, see especially Santoro 1979). According to Cook (1925: 722), the thunderbolt is the most frequent attribute of Zeus from the 6th century BCE onward, although he also argues that its importance gradually waned in subsequent centuries. Generally the thunderbolt would be held in the right hand, whether or not it was wielded above the shoulder level, and the left hand might be extended straight out to form a perch for an eagle (often missing in the surviving examples; this latter attribute has no visual analogue in Tibetan art, but perhaps it has an elusive mythic analogue in the relationship between Vajra Wielder and the garuḍa bird). 

"Vajra Man" in the Jokhang, after Schroeder
Intriguing, too, in this regard are depictions of a Vajra Man (Vajrapuruṣa), with a half-Vajra emerging from his head, in reliefs found in Nagarjunakonda, in Andhra, South India (see Giuliano 1998). Anthropomorphized weapons are quite frequent in Indian religions and certainly date back at least as far as the 5th century or so CE, since they are mentioned by the famous Indian poet Kālidāsa (see Agrawala 1964 for a study of the humanized forms of Viṣṇu’s weapons, but see also Agrawala 1965: 211-212). The Vajra Man makes an appearance also in the carved wooden lintels of chapel doors in the Jokhang, which may date from the 7th century (Schroeder 2001: I 429, 474-477). One author (Vajracharya 2004: 44) suggests that we ought to locate the origins of humanoid weapons (āyudha puruṣa) in the classic textbook of Indian drama, the Nātyaśāstra, which says that separate actors should represent and bear the attributes and vehicles of the deity. This solves a problem of stagecraft, since deities could not be so easily represented on stage with all their multiple hands, or actually riding on their accustomed vehicles.
In Gandhāra, we find some images of Vajrapāṇi that incorporate aspects of the iconography of Hercules, such as the use of lion-skin clothing (and otherwise near-nudity). The club of Hercules was replaced with the Gandhāran form of the Vajra (illustrated in Mustamandy 1997: 24, fig. 4), which is itself relatively club-like. For a fascinating comparative study of Vajrapāṇi and Hercules, see Flood (1989). For a very impressive collection of artworks inspired by Hercules, see this page.
[12] Wilk (1992).
[13] The tines might also be ‘zig-zagged,’ but with the zig-zags formed entirely of obtuse angles. One may easily observe from viewing actual thunderbolts, that they tend to fan out into a fork-like pattern as they approach the ground. The Hittite storm god holds a lightning symbol, composed of three wavey tines emerging upward from the closed fist of his left hand, an axe wielded high in his right (see Hawkins 1992 for illustrations).
[14] See especially Blinkenberg (1911: Chapter 6, ‘The Classical Greek and the Tibetan Thunderweapon’).
[15] Many examples are illustrated in Santoro (1979). With its square-shaped ends, the Gandhāran Vajra does seem to resemble the cube-ending chags-shing of the Tibetan Bon religion more than any other known type of Vajra. This is interesting in light of the Bon idea that their religion originated in a place to the west of western Tibet which they call Stag-gzig (pronounced ‘Tazik’). Note an example of an unusual sculptural representation of a Vajra from Mathurā in North India (probably nearly contemporaneous to the Gandhāran Vajras) which, having three triangle-shaped proto-‘prongs’ visible at each end, seems to approach the later form of the Vajra. See the illustration in Coomaraswamy 1971, pt. 1: plate 15, figure 2. Perhaps from approximately the same epoch we have an example of a Vajra from the gateways surrounding the Stūpa at Sāñcî (see Hummel 1953: 983, fig. 6; 984). This latter Vajra has a shape all its own, attenuating toward the center like the Gandhāran Vajra, but with a rounded rather than a squared form, and with a single obtuse spike sticking out of each of the two circular ends. Still another very different type may be found in the art of the Silk Routes of Central Asia, in which each of the two ends looks like a rhombus (the obtuse angles at the sides and the acute angle at the ends), with tiny circular ‘jewels’ set into each of its angles (Hummel 1953: 983, figs. 3-4). Another, quite early, Central Asian version had the shape of the fleur-de-lys at each end (a very clear sculptural version from the 4th or 5th century site Rawak, northeast of Khotan, illustrated in Rhies 1999: I fig. 4.66). LaPlante (1963: 272, cited in Linrothe 1999: 42, n. 4) says that pronged Vajras probably did not come into wide use before the 8th century, and the 8th century, we might add, was the very time when Buddhist tantra was (well, by this time most certainly) emerging into the light of history. LaPlante also has a worthwhile discussion of earlier forms the Vajra took.


Varied historical forms of the Vajra, after Hummel

...More on the Buddhist symbolism of the Vajra and its parts in the continuation, where there will be more references to the Tibetan-language sources...
click HERE if you want to go there now.

§   §   §

On the internet:
My vote for the best presentation on the subject of Vajras on the internet is at khandro.net:
http://www.khandro.net/nature_thunder.htm
http://www.khandro.net/ritual_vajra.htm

You can see an amazing array of visual material for thunderbolt-related iconography at this page that forms a part of Noosphere:
http://atil.ovh.org/noosphere/trident.php

This other page by Dante Rosati is profusely illustrated, and arranged chronologically:
http://drilbudorje.tripod.com/_Dorje.htm


Thunder, Perfect Mind:
http://www.gnosis.org/naghamm/thunder.html

This page is also worthwhile:  
http://www.sundial.thai-isan-lao.com/sundial_vajra_literature.html

There is a very impressive and unusual Korean example in the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston displayed here.

Here is an article I want to return to, one about the lightning of Zeus in Greek myths.

I've ignored commercial sites, or sites I regard as overtly or overly sectarian, but if you see other interesting sites, I'd like to add them, so do send us the link in the "comment" box, if you will.
§   §   §


What does the Tibetan thog-lcags or lightning metal have to do with lightning? This is an interesting question (not followed up on in this particular blog), although it might be answered along the lines of Blinkenberg's 1911 book, as well as the article that ought to be found in a PDF form here.  

§   §   §

References to literature:















Agocs, Tamas 2000 — The Diamondness of the Diamond Sūtra, Acta Orientalia Hungarica, vol. 53, nos. 1-2 (2000) 65-77.
Agrawala, R.C. 1964  — Cakra Puruṣa in Early Indian Art, Bhāratîya Vidyā, vol. 24, nos. 1-4 (1964), pp. 36-45.
Agrawala, V.S. 1965 — Studies in Indian Art, Vishwavidyalaya Prakashan (Varanasi 1965).
Apte, V.M. 1957 — Vajra in the Rigveda, Annals of the Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute (Poona), vol. 37 (1957), pp. 292-295.
Banerji, Arundhati 1980 — Vajra: An Attribute of the Hindu, Buddhist and Jaina Deities, contained in: Journal of the Bihar Purāvid Pariṣad, vols. 4-5 (January-December 1980-81) [Dr. K.K. Datta Commemoration Volume], pp. 169-177.
Blinkenberg, Chr. 1911 — The Thunderweapon in Religion and Folklore: A Study in Comparative Archaeology, University Press (Cambridge 1911).  Read it HERE.
Brouwer, Jan 1988Coping with Dependence: Craftsmen and Their Ideology in Karnataka (South India), doctoral dissertation, Rijksuniversiteit (Leiden 1988).
Chakravarty, Uma 1997 — Indra and Other Vedic Deities: A Euhemeristic Study, D.K. Printworld (New Delhi 1997).
Cook, Arthur Bernard 1925Zeus God of the Dark Sky (Thunder and Lightning) (identical to volume 2, part 1, of Zeus: A Study in Ancient Religion), University Press (Cambridge 1925).  Available HERE.
Coomaraswamy, Ananda K. 1971 — Yakṣas, Part I and Part II, Munshiram Manoharlal (New Delhi 1971).
Devendra, D.T. 1965 — A Note on Lightning in Iconography with Special Reference to the Vajra, contained in: Parnavitana Felicitation Volume (Columbo 1965), pp. 123-134.
Dkon-mchog-bstan-’dzin 1994Bzo-gnas Skra Rtse’i Chu-thigs [‘The Arts: A Drop at the Tip of the Brush Hairs’]  Krung-go’i Bod-kyi Shes-rig Dpe-skrun-khang (Beijing 1994).  A modern textbook on Tibetan art history and techniques, ‘Drop of Liquid on the Tip of the [Brush-]hairs.’
Flood, F.B. 1989 — Herakles and the ‘Perpetual Acolyte’ of the Buddha:  Some Observations on the Iconography of Vajrapāṇi in Gandhāran Art, South Asian Studies, vol. 5 (1989), pp. 17-28.
Gibson, Todd 1997 — Inner Asian Contributions to the Vajrayāna, Indo-Iranian Journal, vol. 40 (1997), pp. 37-57.
Giuliano, Laura 1998 — Il Vajrapuruṣa in due rilievi di Nâgârjunakoṇḍa, Rivista degli Studi Orientali, vol. 72 (1998), pp. 143-176.  The same author has written an Italian doctoral dissertation about the early Indian Buddhist and Central Asian Vajra, although I haven’t been able to see it yet.
Giuliano, Laura 2008 — Some Considerations on a Particular Vajra Iconography: The Skambha, the Yūpa, the Bones of Dadhīca amd Related Themes, Rivista degli Studi Orientali, n.s. vol. 81 (2008), pp. 103-126.
Granoff, Phyllis 2009 — Relics, Rubies and Ritual: Some Comments on the Distinctiveness of the Buddhist Relic Cult, Rivista degli Studi Orientali, vol. 81 (2009), pp. 59-72.
Guenon, René 1962/1992 — Fundamental Symbols: The Universal Language of Sacred Science, tr. by Alvin Moore Jr., Quinta Essentia (Cambridge 1992). First published in French in 1962, as a compilation of previously published articles.
Gupta, Tapan Kumar Das 1975 — Der Vajra: eine vedische Waffe, Alt- und Neu-Indische Studien series no. 16, Universität Hamburg, Franz Steiner Verlag (Wiesbaden 1975).
Hawkins, J.D. 1992 — What Does the Hittite Storm-God Hold? contained in:  Diederik J.W. Meijer, ed., Natural Phenomena:  Their Meaning, Depiction and Description in the Ancient Near East, North-Holland (Amsterdam 1992), pp. 53-82.
Hummel, Siegbert 1953 — Der lamaistische Donnerkeil (Rdo-rje) und die Doppel-axt der Mittelmeerkultur, Anthropos, vol. 48 (1953), pp. 982-987. On the author, look here.
Korom, Frank 1992 — Of Navels and Mountains: A Further Inquiry into the History of an Idea, Asian Folklore Studies, vol. 51 (1992), pp. 103-125.
Kumar, Arun 1996 — The Vajra of Indra: An Archaeological Approach, contained in: C. Margabandhu and K.S. Ramachandran, eds., Spectrum of Indian Culture: Professor S.B. Deo Felicitation Volume, Agam Kala Prakashan (Delhi 1996), pp. 447-452.
LaPlante, John D. 1963 — A Pre-Pāla Sculpture and Its Significance for the International Bodhisattva Style in Asia, Artibus Asiae, vol. 26 (1963), pp. 247-284.
Linrothe, Rob 1999 — Ruthless Compassion: Wrathful Deities in Early Indo-Tibetan Esoteric Buddhist Art, Serindia (London 1999).
Mustamandy, Chaibai 1997 — The Impact of Hellenised Bactria on Gandharan Art, contained in: Raymond Allchin, Bridget Allchin, Neil Kreitman, Elizabeth Errington, eds., Gandharan Art in Context: East-West Exchanges at the Crossroads of Asia, Regency Publications (N. Delhi 1997), pp. 17-27.
Polichetti, Massimiliano A. 2010  —  Tantra in Asylum — The Veiovis of Monterazzano's Thunderbolt: Harbinger of Indian Tantric Vajra?  Contained in:  Pierfrancesco Callieri & Luca Colliva, eds., South Asian Archaeology 2007: Proceedings of the 19th Meeting of the European Association of South Asian Archaeology in Ravenna, Italy, July 2007, Volume II: Historic Periods, BAR International Series no. 2133, Archaeopress (Oxford 2010), pp. 255-257.  Offprint courtesy of the author.
Rhies, Marylin Martin 1999 — Early Buddhist Art of China & Central Asia, Brill (Leiden 1999), vol. 1: Later Han, Three Kingdoms & Western Chin in China and Bactria to Shan-shan in Central Asia.
Santoro, Arcangela 1979 — Il Vajrapāṇi nell’arte del Gandhara: Ricerca iconografica et interpretativa (Parte prima), Rivista degli Studi Orientali, vol. 53 (1979), pp. 293-341.
Schroeder, Ulrich von 2001 — Buddhist Sculptures in Tibet, Visual Dharma Publications (Hong Kong 2001), in 2 vols.
Sivaramamurti, C. 1949 — Geographical and Chronological Factors in Indian Iconography, Ancient India: Bulletin of the Archaeological Survey of India, no. 6 (1949), pp. 21-63.
Smith, Robert Houston 1962 — Near Eastern Forerunners of the Striding Zeus, Archaeology, vol. 15 (1962), pp. 176-183.
Smith, R. Morton 1979 — Review of Gupta (1975), contained in: Journal of the American Oriental Society, vol. 99, no. 3 (1979), pp. 536-537.
Snodgrass, Adrian 1992 — The Symbolism of the Stupa, Motilal Banarsidass (Delhi 1992).
Vajracharya, Gautama V. 2004 — Atmospheric Gestation: Deciphering Ajanta Ceiling Paintings and Other Related Works (Part 2), Marg (Mumbai), vol. 55, no. 3 (March 2004), pp. 40-51.
Whitaker, Jarrod L. 2000 — Divine Weapons and Tejas in the Two Indian Epics, Indo-Iranian Journal, vol. 43 (2000), pp. 87-113.
Wilk, Stephan R. 1992 — The Meaning of the Thunderbolt, Parabola, vol. 17, no. 4 (Winter 1992), pp. 72-79.

Although I haven’t absorbed its content yet (I just located it), I very much recommend the article by Monika Zin that can be found HERE.


•    •    •



Storm god Hadad of Aleppo, late Hittite, 9th century BCE, said to have been brought as war booty to Babylon by Nebuchadnezar II.  Seen in the Archaeology Museum, Istanbul, 2012.




Saturday, March 17, 2012

Generating Sacred Symbols


Lumbini 2011



Preface

What you will find below if you scroll down a bit is a short section from a book manuscript I’ve been working on since I can remember. It doesn’t have a real title yet, or to put it more accurately, it has had a large number of titles so far. It’s about the symbolism of ritual objects such as the Vajra and Bell and commonly-seen devotional practices within the world of Tibetan (and Indian) Buddhism, but entering into other worlds when doing so makes sense to me or helps me make sense of things. If you have any particular or general reactions to it, be so kind as to let me know. I’ve already rewritten it so many times, I can’t even see the end of revision. Perhaps you can help me with that. I did very much enjoy the task of finding suitable illustrations.


The general trend of thinking may be a surprising one (someone even told me that it was dangerous, although I find that a little melodramatic). I hold that the distinction between religion with and religion without images is not of any great account...  

I had two pivotal real-life experiences that could in some part account for the essay that I hope you will find time to read. In 1989 or so I had a brief stop in Paris on the way to Nepal. With the impressions of Catholic piety fresh in my mind (especially women taking holy water and making light offerings), I witnessed similar things going on at Bodhanath and concluded that “Devotion is a single emotion.” One expression of veneration was equal to the other, fulfilling the same human needs. I knew this with immediate certainty.

Some years later I was in the Mediterranean visiting a secluded place that had once been sacred to the Greek god Pan. I can’t really encapsulate it in a few words, and I very much doubt it had anything to do with Pan, but it happened when I saw on the side of a large rock face a small empty niche that may at one time have held a divine representation. This emptiness made a very large impression...  An emptiness that is nevertheless a fullness, bursting with every possibility...  There ready for any kind of projection of sacred forms... Open to any kind of revelation. Well, I guess it could have had something to do with Pan...

In what follows I try to posit a general idea — I hesitate to use the word theory — about the manner in which religious symbols or icons or imagery (use whatever terms you like) grow inside religious cultures. It’s an idea that is itself largely owed to Indian and Tibetan Buddhism, but I think it will make sense to those who are not very familiar with that world.

I should apologize for and explain my use of the word ‘emotion’ in this little essay. I mean by it something broader than emotion per se. I mean something more like Buddhist Abhidharma 'mental states' theory. It covers a large range of human reactions to things, some of them more trends of thinking than those feeling|sentiment types of things English speakers usually mean by this word. There are mental states that are positive and conducive to growth, like generosity and open-mindedness, and there are others that are negative and have bad consequences...  like hatreds and addictions. Well, there are more excuses and apologies that ought to be made, but let’s not spend so much time introducing the introduction that we don’t just get started.





• 
 •       •



This exploratory study of the implements used in monastic and anchoritic rituals of Tibetan Buddhism, while broadly speaking ‘cultural-historical,’ lays emphasis on their symbolic interpretation. It is a human-istic approach in the sense that sacred symbols are seen as a part, an especially significant part, of the growth of humanity’s religious cultures. The late modern world’s structuralist and cognitivist approaches to symbolism have proven inadequate, I would say, because of their neglect of the inevitable human emotional factors, let alone the question which sorts of emotions are at play. If we admit that religious devotion engages a complex of emotions, still, how can we describe it, and further how can we put our fingers on precisely how symbolisms of various sorts might engage with this or that emotion or emotional complex? 

According to one wellknown definition, a symbol is “an object or a pattern which, whatever the reason may be, operates upon [people], and causes effect in them, beyond mere recognition of what is literally presented in the given form.”[1] It may be well to add that religious symbolism has its effect on us, as believers, because it seems to place us in contact with blessings and powers linked to our particular religious sacraments, founders, our holy figures and objects (including holy books), our saints and relics. That is why we generally do not confuse religious symbols with the usual types of figures of the literary kinds, no matter how much they might otherwise resemble each other. 

Metaphors, however evocative, do not usually have sacramental powers.[2] In our use of the term, ‘religious symbolism’ is closely equivalent to sacred art, the ‘sacred’ being a quality going above and beyond, but without cancelling, questions of aesthetics.[3] But if religious symbolism is sacred art, we still have to muse over that age-old question, What is art for? What is its (actual, practical, ideal or ideological) relationship with the human world?
Symbolism, of some type and degree, is universal to religion. Even though some iconoclastic religions (or sects and movements within them) have tried to do away with symbolic mediation, they have never really succeeded. Even religions who have achieved limited success in doing away with two- or three-dimensional artistic imagery, the imagery of their scriptures — perhaps even of their calligraphy, the symbolism of the Word itself, or the potencies of the very letters — remained, as for example in post-Hellenistic Judaism,[4] Islam and various types of Protestant Christianity.[5] Still, even in these latter cases the human tendency to engage with forms religiously, particularly in moments of private prayer or meditation, has by no means been eliminated.[6] 



It may well be that religions that have retreated into the minimal forms of visual representation might be the very religions that have most tended to ultimatize a deity with maximally personalized attributes in their minds’ eyes. It seems as if each religious culture has negotiated, to its own satisfaction, the tensions between immanence and transcendence. Should we simply respect their conclusions as appropriate to their specific conditions, as factors meant to maximize their survival capabilities, or some such anyway, after-the-fact explanation?
Why would a religious culture insist on stopping at some more minimalist point in the scale of divine manifestation?  One common response of the minimalist traditions has been that taking the next step would bring greater involvement, would excite the senses and their associated emotions, leading the devotee to sensual and emotional excesses, which would cause immorality and its attendant social ills or disruptions.  At the same time, the transcendent divine would be compromised by being brought too close to the human scale of things. I suggest that the minimalists’ standpoints make sense within their particular spheres of religious culture, but when we stand back and attempt to take a broader view of religious phenomena, a different way of comprehending their attitudes might emerge.  

Consider (and reconsider) the possibility that those religions that accept maximal modes of manifestation might at the same time possess more powerful methods for transforming the devotee’s sensual and emotional tendencies in the direction of transcendence, that they might have ways of using the greater sensory and emotional involvement that more fully incarnated (fleshed out, elaborated) imagery supplies to the human imagination in the service of those trans- or supra-human goals religions recommend.  They may have greater confidence in the kinds of human potential that keep those options open.  

In short, I suggest that religious cultures employing maximal immanence may possess the power-sources to effect maximal transcendence.  True, this would depend not only on the religion, but on the religious person, on their experience, emotional maturity and wisdom.  (We really do need to question and resist the tendency in religious studies classes even nowadays to utter statements implying ‘ethnographic wholism,’ for example, that Buddhists [or Tibetan Buddhists or Catholics or Sikhs or Bonpos, etc.] are like such-and-such and believe such-and-such.  We also need to put to the test any assumptions we might have that they do whatever it is that they do entirely because of what is written in their holy books, assuming they have them.)
The ability of sacred images to contract into syllables, into emblems, into empty thrones and finally even into empty space (as well as ‘expanding’ in reverse order) is perhaps most clearly exemplified in Tibetan Buddhist sādhana practice in which divine forms of Buddhas may be consciously ‘generated’ through these different levels at a single sitting.  The five degrees of manifestation, called ngönjang (mngon-byang) in Tibetan, abhisambodhi in Sanskrit, are: 


Five Degrees of Manifestation
(illustrated by the Letter 'A', Japanese Shingon)

These levels are especially relevant for the class of tantras known as Yoga Tantras, in use by the Japanese Shingon School among others, but remain of significance (or we could even say a necessary background) for the classes of Great Yoga or Highest Yoga Tantras[7] in which Tibetans tend to specialize. One early Tibetan source[8] very explicitly supplies the homologies for the meditative process that are to be found in ordinary human birth: [1] entering the empty womb, [2] the semen and blood of the father and mother, [3] the incarnating consciousness in the form of a letter, [4] the formation of a Vajra in the case of a male and of the Lotus in the case of a female, and [5] the completion of the body over nine or ten months. 

There are clear ‘parallels’ (although I think it preferable to use the weightier traditional word, ‘correspondences’) between ideas about human conception and gestation, the degrees of divine manifestation, and the sādhana practice of visualizing the divine Buddhist ideals the Vajrayânist aspires to not only embrace, but fully embody.


Empty Niche
This Yogatantra list merits contrast with a comparable set of five basic possibilities for sacred representations that has been perceived, by archaeologists and scholars (and not articulated, nota bene, by the religions themselves), in the ancient Middle Eastern religions considered as a whole:





Here the absence of the aural word-and/or-letter possibility most demands discussion. Differences between ancient Egyptian and Mesopotamian on the one hand, and Hindu and Buddhist image cults on the other, may be underlined by the relative importance of consecratory mouth-opening in the first instance, and eye-opening in the second.  The first would appear to indicate an oracular or prophetic relationship with deity (and not only the ability to receive food and drink offerings), while the second underlines a visionary relationship, even if the other senses are not neglected, this being entirely a question of emphasis.[11]  This would seem to indicate variable degrees of emphasis on the verbal or visual symbolic levels.  

Still, the importance and perhaps even the primacy of vision in Mesopotamian image cults is the subject of an article by Irene Winter.  Kabbalistic speculations on the divine ‘faces’ (partsufim), meaning the types of divine self-presentation in light of our human limitations, while (nearly) entirely limited to the formal and sonic qualities of the letters of the Hebrew alphabet, would certainly be worthy of consideration in this regard.[12] Still, this would lead us to wonder about the apparent absence (or neglect?) of letters/sounds as divine aspects in the archaeological evidence from the ancient Middle East.  That prophetic utterance and scriptural text might both be seen as in some real sense divine or holy has been so commonly accepted as primary in those religions that it might very well go without saying. (And of course sonic phenomena are not often to be seen in archaeological digs.  In the absence of sound recording what artefact would we expect to find?)


Empty Throne
(Byzantine era, San Marco, Venice)
Still, these comparative considerations placed aside, there is something about the internal history of Buddhism itself that might help explain at least some of the ‘five degrees of manifestation.’ As is very well known, the Buddha was not represented in human form for the first centuries of Buddhist history. Although there are some dissenting voices, it is usually believed that the earliest Buddhist art, typically involving a devotional scene around the Bodhi Tree and the seat where the Buddha gained enlightenment, but without any depiction of the Buddha Himself, signifies that there was in those times a restriction on representing the Buddha in human form. Still, when we look into this, it would seem that not a single Buddhist scriptural passage forbids Buddha images. One scholar has well argued, however, that these are ‘pilgrimage’ scenes, that they naturally depict the Buddha’s seat without the Buddha seated in it because that is just how pilgrims would have found it in Bodhgaya in those times. 


Venerating the Empty Seat

The meaning of the Buddha’s seat may have quite concrete roots in Buddhist history. It is said that the Buddha during His life always sat on a seat set apart from the gathering of His followers, but even during the absence of the Buddha, a special seat was still reserved for Him, and it was believed that in times of need, the Buddha could suddenly, or even miraculously, make His appearance on the seat to provide guidance. After the death of the Buddha, His seat remained a powerful symbol of His continuing presence (and the possibility of visionary manifestation). At root, perhaps the symbolism is one of traditional Indian hospitality for guests, in which the guest is offered a seat (with a better and more honorable seat for the more worthy).[13] Regardless of the reasons, the ‘empty throne’ would in early times sometimes show a triple jewel (triratna) above the seat, symbolizing Buddha, Dharma and Sagha.  This does, at least in a general way, resemble the ‘emblem,’ the fourth degree of manifestation, which would precede the full image in visualization practices detailed in later texts.[14]

Making the transition to Mahāyāna and Vajrayāna, the early symbolism of the seat went a few steps further (but with the further steps ‘suggested’ by earlier steps). The seat became a lotus seat, since the lotus is a symbol of purity (of purity that emerges out of and transcends impurity) and of pure, or divine, birth. Similar ideas about the birth (or rebirth) of deities from lotusses were apparently known in ancient Egypt.[15] The Vajrayāna emphasis on homologies between Buddha manifestation (and visualization) and reproductive/ birth processes led them to place a sun and moon on the seat, symbolizing the male and female reproductive substances, just as the seed-syllable that appears in the next stage of manifestation stands for the reincarnating consciousness. This, or something very like this — for there are controversies in this area, as in others — is basic Vajrayāna, which consciously applies methods of spiritual practice that reflect and utilize, in what is regarded as an effective way, the processes of birth and death (as well as intervening stages of growth, coming-of-age rites, etc.) as these processes were understood in Indian Buddhist science and culture.

These considerations on the cross-cultural and intra-cultural equivalency of different levels of symbolic manifestation, always involving various divine compromises in the face of our human sensory capabilities (our ability to ‘see’ and ‘hear’ in particular), inform the following chapters.  Turned back on the investigator, they may well threaten his representations of them, or even his right to make them. We have to wonder how much we should be informing the traditions we study, and how much those traditions should inform us — and, of course, how much our information depends on those who have been more or less zealous in informing the traditions they study from those varied external viewpoints of the human sciences we now know as ‘theory.’ 

As an aside, we may point out that the Greek word theoria, from which ‘theory’ is taken, is rather roughly equivalent to what we mean nowadays by pilgrimage.[16] Of course, it includes as well journeys to festivals, and even journeys undertaken in order to see how other people live, rather like modern tourists. Herodotus was just such a ‘tourist’ when he went to do his fieldwork in North Africa. But generally it referred to a kind of contemplative seeing of sacred objects of various sorts, rather closely resembling the act known as ‘seeing,’ in Sanskrit darśana, in Indian religious culture. It is one of those curious and ironic twists of word history that has transformed theory, the effort to go out and see things for ourselves, into a group of brandnames of intellectual baggage that may often form an obdurate obstacle to seeing things directly in any meaningful way.

To be continued...  Here



[1] Goodenough (1988: 40).  One might also compare the discussions by various authors of the meaning of symbolism in Werner (1991). Recommended for its illustrations, as well as for its attempt at wide coverage of Tibetan symbolism, is Levenson (2000), although it might well be criticized on a number of grounds.  On an entirely different level, although also intended as a very popular presentation, is Thurman (1995). By the way, what may be the oldest synagogue that still exists (completed in 244 CE), preserved in a museum in Damascus, is the Dura-Europas Synagogue that is the main subject of Goodenough’s book. There was no prohibition against the representation of the human figure. And as Elverskog (2010) in a book I've mentioned here before shows quite clearly, there have been times and places in Islamic history when human figures, even of the Prophet, could be painted.

[2]  Some might prefer to use a concept like ‘participatory’ or the like, in place of ‘sacramental,’ as does Ladner (1979).  This would seem to lend a more sociological bent (just as the word ‘sacramental’ might lend itself to an emphasis on history), even if intended in a broader sense — a presumed or experienced interrelationship with the universe of beings and the beyond. I think it is precisely on account of their non-participation — their cynical distanciation, their reduction of the symbol to something both arbitrary and merely subjective — that the modern structuralists, and even more so their followers among the so-called post-moderns, fall from and at the same time fail to comprehend traditional ways of using and understanding symbols. Surely, as Ladner argues, the medieval Christian understanding of symbolism differs from that of the structuralists in fairly essential ways. At the risk of failing, and of course with what might with justice be considered an excessive emphasis on history, I attempt to approach the Tibetan sources in an exploratory way that should not predispose us to view them through modernist or post-modernist or, for that matter, ‘new age’ filters. I believe historical explorations of the better sort result in fresher as well as more refreshing understandings.

[3] One ought to at least consider the possibility, as put forward by Kapstein (2004: 272-3), that the sacred and the artistically sublime are somehow parallel, that encountering sacred objects culminates in a sense of their holiness (or ‘the sacred’) just as viewing museum art or listening to music may culminate in aesthetic rapture. Both outcomes depend on personal immersion in a particular artistic or religious culture. Neither outcome necessarily excludes the other. But at the same time we should not presume that the experience of the sacred is simply aesthetic (making note of Coomaraswamy’s puzzling use of the translation ‘aesthetic shock’ that appears below).

[4] See especially Idel 2001. Jewish theologians, Kabbalists and Hasids, in their varying ways, have often located the presence of the Author of the Torah in the very letters of the physical book. Of course, in general practice, on a popular level, the Torah scroll forms the one and only focus of cult within the synagogue. It is placed in the sacred ‘cabinet’ (aron) at the front and center of the synagogue/temple, just like the empty (yet architecturally framed and emphasized) qiblah of the mosque that indicates the sacred direction of cultic worship toward which prostrations and prayers are oriented.


A Curtained Torah Ark in Safed (Tsfat)
[5] We might want to add Confucianism, in at least some of its historic phases, to this list of non- and anti-iconic religions. It is at the same time true that there were times and places in which Confucianists practiced a regular cult devoted to his person, with consecrated icons forming a part of it.  For more on this, see Murray (2009).

[6] And it is instructive to observe the point at which a particular religion or sect stops, because it is usually apparent what the next logical step in representation would be. For instance, in many Baptist churches, while unadorned Crosses may very well be placed in a raised central location in the church, decorative frills or figures of any kind are avoided. The full-bodied sculptural representation of Jesus dying on the Cross they would see as little less than idolatry. Some Protestant sects, while they do not deny that it is the death of the physical form of Jesus that most potently symbolizes redemptive power, nevertheless shrink back from picturing it three-dimensionally in anything but their minds’ eyes (two-dimensional pastel paintings reproduced within the zippered leather bindings of their Bibles being for most of them neither noteworthy nor problematic).
Fra Angelico, "The Crucificion," 1442

[7] Great Yoga is, in Sanskrit Mahāyoga, while Highest Yoga is often re-Sanskritized as Anuttara Yoga although Yoga Niruttara is probably the correct form, as H. Isaacson (Hamburg) would anyway insist.

[8]  See ’Jig-rten-mgon-po 2001: VI 5.

[9] Ornan (1995) and Ornan (2005) concern a period in Babylonian and Assyrian history (generally corresponding to the period of temple reforms in Jerusalem), in which there was a strong tendency to replace anthropomorphic deities with their emblems (niphu). 

[11] For an accessible source on the five levels of manifestation in Indian and Tibetan Buddhism, see Beyer (1973: 109-111).  For the Middle Eastern types of visual representation of deity listed here see van der Toorn (1997: particularly the words of Izak Cornelius on pp. 41-2).  On the history and symbolism of the animals (or cherubim) that elevate old Middle Eastern thrones (or, indeed, ‘chariots’) of the gods, see L’Orange (1953), who finds strong evidence of their ‘astral’ character.  These animals support the throne when conceived as such, but pull it when it is considered to be a chariot.  Animals likewise uphold the seats of divine figures in Indian and Tibetan Buddhism (in specific cases, like that of Mārîcî, we do find chariots pulled by animals, in this case seven pigs, symbolically echoing the seven horses that pull the chariot of the sun), where the technical term for them is, in Sanskrit, vāhana, a word covering the meanings of both ‘mount’ and ‘conveyance.’  Indian and Tibetan Buddhism also know of animal-headed deities, and even of deities that have both animal and human heads.  


Sûrya at the Golden Temple of Patan -
Notice the seven horses
However, in all cases, the animal bearing the throne is considered to be part of the throne rather than part of the deity.  On the representation of the divine throne, in which the angelic cherubim figures are the upholders of the throne, once found in the Holy of Holies of the Jerusalem Temple, see Haran (1985: 220 ff., 246-259).  The gold and ivory throne of Solomon was flanked by lions (I Kings 10:18-20), and its later iconography, too, is of interest, since the Virgin Mary and various earthly kings like Henry VI could also be placed on it in artworks (Ragusa 1977; Weiss 1995; Shalev-Eyni 2006), and because, as in Tibetan icons, the throne absorbed elements from the architecture surrounding it.  The boundaries between throne, niche and palace are sometimes somewhat blurred.  See Winter (1992), the article by Angelika Berlejung in van der Toorn (1997), Bentor (1996), and the contributions contained in Dick (1999) as well as Walls (2005).  There are some interesting comparative comments on eye and mouth opening in Thompson (1991: 8-10).

[12] Thanks are due to Menachem Kallus, who kindly shared with me some of his writing on this subject in his (then) forthcoming dissertation. Rather similar to this Kabbalistic idea, but quite different in its rationales, the famed rationalist Moses Maimonides (1136-1204) interprets certain ‘irrational’ demands of the deity, especially animal sacrifices, as resulting from ‘divine condescendence’ (in Greek, synkatabasis; in Arabic, talaṭṭuf), an accommodation to human, and decidedly not divine, needs (Stroumsa 2001: 16).  When we see that just such rationales may be used for worship focussed on images, while bearing in mind that Israel’s Jerusalem temple cult was largely premised and focussed on the presence of an anthropomorphic image even in the absence of any depiction (Haran 1985), then the ‘Mosaic distinction’ (Assmann 1996), that dividing line between true religion and paganism that underlies so much else in the history of European and American thinking, while not easily erased, loses some of it’s ‘naturalness’ and solidity, and translation and dialog become possible.

[13] This discussion is essentially a paraphrase of Kariyawasam (1966: 130), to which the reader is referred for greater elaboration.

[14] Although there is a great deal of literature on this particular subject (and still much more on the question of the origins of the Buddha image), most of it is summarized or cited in Tanaka (1999), Huntington (1990), and van Kooij (1995).

[15] There are a number of studies on Lotus symbolism, and only a few of them will be mentioned here.  On the early Indian symbolism of the Lotus, see especially Coomaraswamy (1971, pt. 2: 56-60).  On Egyptian ideas about deities born from lotusses, see Moret (1917).  On both Egyptian and Indian deities on lotusses, see Morenz & Schubert (1954).

[16] For arguments and justification for what follows, with further documentation and references, see Rutherford (2000).  Of course darśana (as well as Tibetan lta-ba) also often means ‘view’ in a more philosophical sense, and there are still other problems lurking here.  I must leave some wrinkles to be ironed out some other time.


~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Referenced publications —


Assmann, Jan 1996 — The Mosaic Distinction: Israel, Egypt, and the Invention of Paganism, Representations, no. 56, Special Issue: The New Erudition (Autumn 1996), pp. 48-67.
Bentor, Yael 1996 — Consecration of Images and Stūpas in Indo-Tibetan Tantric Buddhism, E.J. Brill (Leiden 1996).
Beyer, Stephan 1973 — The Cult of Tārā: Magic and Ritual in Tibet, University of California Press (Berkeley 1973).
Coomaraswamy, Ananda K. 1971 — Yakṣas, Part I and Part II, Munshiram Manoharlal (New Delhi 1971).
Dick, Michael B. 1999 — ed., Born in Heaven, Made on Earth: The Making of the Cult Image in the Ancient Near East, Eisenbrauns (Winona Lake 1999).
Elverskog, Johan 2010 — Buddhism and Islam on the Silk Road, University of Pennsylvania Press (Philadelpha 2010).
Goodenough, Erwin R. 1988 — Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, Bollingen Series, Princeton University Press (Princeton 1988).
Haran, Menachem 1985 — Temples and Temple-Service in Ancient Israel: An Inquiry into Biblical Cult Phenomena and the Historical Setting of the Priestly School, Eisenbrauns (Winona Lake 1985). I can’t recommend this book highly enough.
Huntington, Susan L. 1990 — Early Buddhist Art and the Theory of Aniconism, Art Journal, vol. 49 (1990), pp. 401-407.  You can read it, without the illustrations, here.
Idel, Moshe 2001 — Torah: Between Presence and Representation of the Divine in Jewish Mysticism, contained in: Jan Assmann & Albert I. Baumgarten, eds., Representation in Religion: Studies in Honor of Moshe Barasch, Brill (Leiden 2001), pp. 197-235.
’Jig-rten-mgon-po 2001 — The Collected Works (Bka’-’bum) of Khams Gsum Chos-kyi Rgyal-po Thub-dbang Ratna-śrî (Skyob-pa ’Jig-rten-gsum-mgon); [Tibetan title page:] Khams Gsum Chos-kyi Rgyal-po Thub-dbang Ratna-shrî’i Phyi-yi Bka’-’bum Nor-bu’i Bang-mdzod, H.H. Drikung Kyabgon Chetsang (Konchog Tenzin Kunzang Thinley Lhundup), Drikung Kagyu Institute (Dehradun 2001), in 12 volumes.
Kapstein, Matthew 2004 — Rethinking Religious Experience: Seeing the Light in the History of Religions, contained in: Matthew Kapstein, ed., The Presence of Light: Divine Radiance and Religious Experience, University of Chicago Press (Chicago 2004), pp. 265-299.
Kariyawasam A.G.S. 1966 — Āsana, contained in: G.P. Malalasekera, ed., Encyclopaedia of Buddhism, Government of Ceylon (Colombo 1966), volume 2, fascicle 1, pp. 127-132.
Kooij, K.R. van 1995 — Remarks on Festivals & Altars in Early Buddhist Art, contained in: K.R. van Kooij, et al., eds., Function & Meaning in Buddhist Art, Egbert Forsten (Groningen 1995), pp.  33-44.
Ladner, Gerhart B. 1979 — Medieval and Modern Understanding of Symbolism: A Comparison, Speculum, vol. 54 (1979), no. 2 (April), pp. 223-256.
L’Orange, H.P. 1953 — The Iconography of Cosmic Kingship in the Ancient World, H. Aschehoug & Co. (Oslo 1953).
Morenz, Siegfried & Johannes Schubert 1954 — Der Gott auf der Blume: Eine ägyptische Kosmogonie und ihre weltweite Bildwirkung, Artibus Asiae Supplementum series no. 12, Artibus Asiae Publishers (Ascona 1954).
Moret, M.A. 1917 — Le lotus et la naissance des dieux en Égypte, Journal Asiatique, 11th series, vol. 9 (1917), pp. 499-513.
Murray, Julia K. 2009 — “Idols” in the Temple: Icons and the Cult of Confucius, Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 68, no. 2 (May 2009), pp. 371-411.
Ornan, Tallay 1995 — The Transition from Figured to Non-Figured Representations in First Millennium Mesopotamian Glyptic, contained in:  Joan G. Westenholz, ed., Seals and Sealing in the Ancient Near East, Bible Lands Museum (Jerusalem 1995), pp. 39-56.
Ornan, Tallay 2005 — The Triumph of the Symbol, Pictorial Representation of Deities in Mesopotamia and the Biblical Image Ban, Academic Press, (Fribourg 2005).
Ragusa, Isa 1977 — Terror Demonum and Terror Inimicorum: The Two Lions of the Throne of Solomon and the Open Door of Paradise, Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, vol. 40, no. 2 (1977), pp. 93-114.
Rutherford, Ian 2000 — Theoria and Darśan: Pilgrimage and Vision in Greece and India, Classical Quarterly, New Series vol. 50, no. 1 (2000), pp. 133-146.
Shalev-Eyni, Sarit 2006 — Solomon, His Demons and Jongleurs: The Meeting of Islamic, Judaic and Christian Culture, Al-Masāq, vol. 18, no. 2 (September 2006), pp. 145-160.
Stroumsa, Guy G. 2001 — John Spencer and the Roots of Idolatry, History of Religions, vol. 41, (2001), no. 1 (August), pp. 1-23.
Tanaka, Kanoko 1999 — “The Empty Throne” in Early Buddhist Art and Its Sacred Memory Left Behind after the Emergence of the Buddha Image, contained in: W. Reinink & J. Stumpel, eds., Memory & Oblivion: Proceedings of the XXIXth International Congress of the History of Art Held in Amsterdam, 1-7 September 1996, Kluwer Academic Publishers (Dordrecht 1999), pp. 619-624. There is also a book on the subject by the same author.
Thompson, Laurence G. 1991 — Consecration Magic in Chinese Religion, Journal of Chinese Religions, vol. 19 (1991), pp. 1-12.
Thurman, Robert A.F. 1995 — Inside Tibetan Buddhism: Rituals and Symbols Revealed, edited by Barbara Roether, Collins Publishers (San Francisco 1995).
Toorn, Karel van der 1997 — ed., The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East, Peeters (Leuven 1997).
Walls, Neal H. 2005 — ed., Cult Image and Divine Representation in the Ancient Near East, American Schools of Oriental Research (Boston 2005).  The book is not very long, not difficultly technical, & fascinating in its content.
Weiss, Daniel H. 1995 — Architectural Symbolism and the Decoration of the St.-Chapelle, The Art Bulletin, vol. 77, no. 2 (June 1995), pp. 308-320.
Werner, Karel 1991 — ed., Symbols in Art and Religion:  The Indian and the Comparative Perspectives, Motilal Banarsidass (Delhi 1991).
Winter, Irene J. 1992 — Idols of the King: Royal Images as Recipients of Ritual Action in Ancient Mesopotamia, Journal of Ritual Studies, vol. 6, no. 1 (Winter 1992), pp. 13-42.


~   ~   ~   ~   ~


Visual materials

Our frontispiece offering of jasmine and gold-leaf comes from the general area of the Ashokan pillar at Lumbini, Nepal, photographed in 2011.  

If you would like to find more about the empty throne in art, try searching the internet for the Greek word hetoimasia and see what you come up with.  









~   ~   ~   ~   ~



Qiblah of the Prophet’s Mosque, Madinah
To continue reading, go here.

 
Follow me on Academia.edu