The authors of ancient texts imagined that dead bodies, animals, statues, the Cross, cities, and sometimes abstract concepts speak. Anthropomorphism (or prosopopoeia) in those texts was often a rhetorical practice, while sometimes it reflects an understanding of reality and realism different than the ones our modern conceptualizations and epistemologies yield.[1] Used literally or metaphorically, however, these instances of miraculous speech always highlight an interpretive framework: in the imagination of the author, the mute object becomes a discursive space to tell the reader what else happened. The author breathes life into the nostrils of the object to complete what was once an incomplete story.

My Religions of the West course surveys the intertwined histories of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Through analyses of literature and material culture past and present, the course enables students to build a foundational historical knowledge of these three religions and gain religious literacy. One of my major goals for this course is to develop the analytical tools to “read” and interpret material culture of various scales. To this end, I incorporate the rich history of buildings, landscapes, iconography, and cartography into my lectures. For example, in the first class I introduce the course material with a discussion of George Segal’s sculpture Abraham’s Farewell to Ishmael at the Pérez Art Museum in Miami.[2] Why is one of the bodies in this sculpture in a different color? How can we read the different arm gestures here? Which emotions are embodied in this artwork, and how do you feel looking at it? What functions as an ice-breaker exercise at the beginning of the term becomes an essential part of every lecture in this course. We analyze the Syrian landscape and late antique Christian architecture when we read the Life of Simeon the Stylite by Theodoret of Cyrrhus (d. 457). We talk about the Jonah Marbles, now at the Cleveland Museum of Art, when we read the representation of Jonah in the Book of Jonah in the Hebrew Bible, in the New Testament –Matthew 12:38-45, and the Qur’an – Q21:87-88, Q68:48-52.

Later in the term, when the students learn the essential vocabulary and concepts regarding the study of material culture, I take them to the Penn Museum to analyze a variety of objects related to religious practice in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. In this room, the objects pulled out from the museum storage greet us in a colorful display, accompanied by labels, magnifiers, and everything else that mediate between the mute object and us the observers. For about an hour we walk around the objects, kneel down and hunch over them squinting our eyes and talk about their stories. A miniature Torah scroll, a Hebrew incantation bowl, a puppet from Indonesia, icons, prayer rugs, and others help us think about the many embodied ways in which religion is experienced and expressed. Ordinarily, I ask my students to write a brief commentary on one of the objects that we have analyzed. It is a simple assignment that gives students the opportunity to explore an object they find interesting and learn the different aspects of an object’s materiality: commission, production, religious practice, audience, disposal, to cite a few. This year, inspired by the Everything is Alive podcast produced by Ian Chillag and Jennifer Mills,[3] instead of a regular commentary, I asked the students to write an object autobiography, and the results were phenomenal.

Giving voice to muted objects in the display cases or storage rooms of the Penn Museum transforms one from being a distant observer of history to a participant in its alterity.[4] One dis-imagines and loses herself to give space to an object which will never play a role in the unfolding of her own personal narrative. This simple exercise has thus turned to a practice of the selfless act of advocating for something unimportant and speechless, a moral obligation of the historian to her present moment, according to C.M. Chin.

I would like to bring in some examples from the student papers.

A Hebrew incantation bowl speaks from underground:

Every day, I do my duty to keep this demon far away from my owner. I protect him, his family, and his possessions. Sometimes I wonder why I don't get to interact with my owner as often as his prayer shawl, his prayer book, and his yarmulka do. Am I less important to him because I live out my life underground, out of sight? I wonder.

Then, the incantation bowl compares itself to other forms of spiritual protection:

I think I provide even better protection than other types of prayers and rituals. Psalms are merely recited out loud into the air, and sacrifices burn up in a matter of hours. However, I can sit in the ground for years and years, providing a constant physical component to the spiritual protection of my owner. [R. Weisberg]

*Hebrew incantation bowl, Iraq-Nippur, undated, Penn Museum*

The refreshing perspective of thinking with the object buried underground brings depth into our conceptualizations of space and religious ritual. Here is another example of an object reflecting on religious space:

As my caretaker prepares to embark on her daily ritual, she pulls me out of the briefcase, stored under the bed. Carefully, whilst still folded up, she carries me out of the bedroom, then lays me down flat in the middle of the living room. I feel no wrinkles in my cotton body as my geometric and floral decorative patterns face upwards towards the sky. […] Previously, without my presence, the living room was simply an area where my caretaker and her husband would retire for the night, to watch some television and catch up on the daily news. The kids would also use the space to play games, and as you can imagine, things got pretty messy. In fact, tiles from last night’s Scrabble match were still strewn around the room as I lay outstretched next to the couch. However, as soon as I was unfolded by my caretaker, the messy living room had been transformed from a mundane space into a sacred one. As my caretaker now steps onto me, she enters her ‘mosque’, her safe space to commence prayer. [D. Jacomen]

*Prayer rug, Iran, 20th c., Penn Museum*

While the incantation bowl and the prayer rug speak about the spatiality of religious practices they are involved in, a triptych icon bitterly reflects on its journey from its homeland Ethiopia to the Penn Museum:

As I sit here collecting dust in the collections storage of Penn Museum, I can’t help but wonder what led me to this point. I used to mean something. I used to have a purpose. Today I am nothing but object number 87-13-6--a show and tell item for an introductory religious studies course. I know I’m not much with my 8.3cm by 10.3cm by 2cm dimensions and peeling paint, but I used to be so much more than that. My journey to the Penn Museum began in 17th century Ethiopia, where I was originally created by a Coptic Christian artist. I remember it well. My creator endowed me with 3 wooden panels that fold into my body (my name does mean “three-fold” after all). My exterior was carefully decorated with very precise cross hatching and floral patterns. I was also given a horizontal wooden sleeve on my head that would later be used to turn me into a wearable item. After it was constructed, my three panels were painted with different religious images. [D. Weissman]

In another student’s imagination, the triptych has a name, Tory, and she narrates her personal journey from being an object of devotion in a lively home, surrounded by clerics and lay people, young and old, to an immobile object on a church wall:

Ah, I wish I were still useful in the way I was in those days. I mean, I don’t mind sitting here on this wall, visitors coming up close to marvel at my pretty pictures. But I long to be held and worn again. You see, when I was first made, I had the most pious and caring woman as an owner. I had a comfy spot in her home altar, where she would frequently come to pick me up, study my pretty pictures, and pray. When she passed away, I was given to our town’s church, where I was placed atop the altar. During Mass, I was worn by the priest and carried before the entire congregation. Children would run over to take apart my pieces and trace my figures with their small hands. I hope someday, I will be plucked off this wall and brought home, to be tinkered with and worn and cherished once again.” [Y. Wiesenfeld]

*Triptych, Ethiopia, 17th c., Penn Museum*

When objects come to life and narrate their own stories, human bodies that engage with them become more visible. Instead of describing objects’ religious functions in the passive voice, students, through the eyes of objects, imagine various sorts of human experiences shaped by those objects. Tory the Triptych, in the example above, tells us about a woman who owned the triptych, a priest that inherited it later, and children playing with it. Likewise, in the next example, we hear a puppet used in religious exhortation speaking about its puppeteer and his audiences:

[s]o I play the part as my master raises me up on the stage, moves my rods, voices my thoughts, and imbues me with life. It is such an honor to perform in front of so many people and I never get nervous because my master knows all of my lines and stage directions right down to the personality in my every step. […] The best part is, I not only perform in front of young people but older ones like my master as well. I strut and sway as I play out my story accompanied by live music.” [B. Vazquez-Smith]

*Puppet (wayang golek), Java, 19th c., Penn Museum*

The Islamic rosary, too, helps the reader imagine the human hand in prayer:

Every time he [my owner] chants a phrase, he uses his thumb to flick one of my beads down my string to track his progress. Click. Click. Click. This clicking feels like a refreshing chiropractic massage! [D. Jai]

The rosary, made of clay, in another paper, turns to its own body and questions humans’ motive to own prayer beads made of expensive material:

It’s remarkable that people have so much pride in having their prayer beads, but I can’t help but wonder if those who own flashier—and less practical—beads use us for what we have (status) and not who we are (mechanisms to enhance prayer). After all, as Younes Saramifar once wrote: “The shadows of meanings overwhelm [prayer beads’] material existence.” Does this hold true for those who care so much about the material itself?

Then, the same rosary continues to think about materiality in light of technological developments:

“Even a practice as storied and tradition-based as my own isn’t immune to the technological revolution. Now, there are ‘prayer bead’ substitutes that our ancestors could never have imagined: for example, look at this Islamic digital prayer bead counter (which is also marketed toward other religions).” [M. Sydney]

*Prayer beads, India, undated, Penn Museum*

There have been numerous innovative pedagogical tools that prioritize material forms of religion, helping students question epistemological and interpretive methods. In an AJR article, for example, Krista Dalton explains how she uses a crafts’ kiln to create incantation bowls with her students in her course on ancient Jewish magic. With this method, Dalton says, students learn to problematize conventional epistemologies while immersing in an embodied religious practice themselves. Erin Galgay Walsh in another AJR article explains how she uses poetry to re-interpret numerous narratives pertaining to religion in antiquity. Her students apply the contents and forms of late antique poetry as a guide to their own storytelling of well-known religious narratives, such as the encounter of Solomon and Beth-Sheba. Such exciting new teaching practices create innovative opportunities to give body, color, and sound to the numerous muted historical subjects. I have designed the object autobiography assignment with a similar intention: to invite my students to be a participant of history rather than an observer, to invite them to think, speak, and feel with the past.

In one of the final classes of the term, with Robert Ousterhout, we discussed contested religious spaces through the example of the change of the status of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul from museum to mosque in July 2020.[5] We talked about how in most of the Ottoman period the icons depicting Christ, Mary, emperors, and angels inside the building were not covered, while today a white curtain separates them from Muslim congregations during prayer. If we were to give voice to the mosaic of the Mother of God at the church’s apse, what would we imagine her saying about the quranic chapter of Maryam (Q19) being recited as the building was opening to its first Friday prayer after its re-conversion? Would we imagine the object reflect our own political and religious conventions back to us; or would we be able to imagine her debate with us? I hope my students are able to apply the creativity they displayed in their object autobiographies to the many political, religious, and cultural conversations we have today.

The quotations from the student papers are included in this article with the permission of the students. My deepest gratitude to Dane Jacomen, Daniel Jai, Matthew Sydney, Rebecca Weisberg, David Weissman, Yarden Wiesenfeld, and Bethany Vazquez-Smith for sharing their work, and for all of the students in the Religions of the West 2020 class for making teaching so pleasant.

Reyhan Durmaz is an Assistant Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Pennsylvania.

[1] Maia Kotrosits, The Lives of Objects: Material Culture, Experience, and the Real in the History of Early Christianity (University of Chicago Press, 2020), 25–30.

[2] https://www.pamm.org/exhibitions/george-segal-abrahams-farewell-ishmael. I would like to thank John Penniman (Bucknell University, Religious Studies) for bringing this sculpture to my attention and more broadly for sharing his thoughts while I was shaping this course last year.

[3] everythingisalive.com

[4] C. M. Chin, “Marvelous things heard: On finding historical radiance,” The Massachusetts Review 58, no. 3 (2017): 478–91.

[5] For a commentary on this development by Robert Ousterhout, see https://blog.iae.org.tr/en/uncategorized-en/from-hagia-sophia-to-ayasofya-architecture-and-the-persistence-of-memory.