9. Pomegranates

Stroumsa cites Goitein's description of the "symbiosis" characterizing the relationship the Jewish community had with its ruling Muslim culture (Stroumsa p. 5). However, symbiosis seems to be a misnomer when that relationship leads to the decline of one of the two parties. Goitein borrowed the biological meaning of the word symbiosis; biologically, the Oxford English Dictionary defines symbiosis as the "association of two different organisms (usually two plants, or an animal and a plant) which live attached to each other, or one as a tenant of the other, and contribute to each other's support." However, the OED also notes that the term has come to pertain to any intimate relationship, regardless of the beneficial or otherwise effects. If we accept a definition that ignores the quality of the relationship and merely acknowledges its existence, then the term is no longer useful. The Jewish community lived, worked, breathed with the Muslim community; this is a fact and is not arguable or interesting in and of itself. However, if we accept a definition of symbiosis as containing a value judgment, that is, that a symbiotic relationship is beneficial to both parties, then the claim becomes arguable.

Stroumsa extrapolates the decline of Arabophone Jewish culture from a letter Maimonides writes to a man desiring an Arabic translation of his Hebrew-language Mishneh Torah. Maimonides declines this man's request, Stroumsa believes, because the linguistic landscape of the Jewish community had shifted; Hebrew became privileged as the common Jewish language (p. 21). And, indeed, a further letter confirms the shift in the larger culture of the Arabophone Jewish world: Maimonides writes to a Jewish community in Southern France that "Most large communities are dead, the rest are moribund, and the remaining three or four places are ailing. ... You, brother, are our only [hope] for help" (Stroumsa p. 21-22). A symbiotic relationship would not result in one of the communities admitting large scale desolation. Clearly, the relationship overall was not beneficial for the minority community.

However, that is not to say that the relationship was awful, either. Maimonides clearly interacted with and participated in discussions of Islamic theology, as did other leading Jews in Muslim lands (Stroumsa p. 17). With regard to Christians, Griffith notes that "there was no general persecution of Christians as such in the Islamic world" (p. 148). Like Jews, it seems, "the history of Christians under Muslim rule is a history of continuous, if gradual, diminishment" (Griffith p. 14). Griffith explains that the political stance towards Peoples of the Book (he uses the term 'dhimmitude') is one wherein they experienced "legal disabilities that governed their lives [which] required subservience" (p. 16).

On the whole, though, I wonder if it is at all productive to discuss the relationship of minority religious groups within "Muslim culture and/or rule." As Stroumsa describes, Maimonides lived under four different types of Muslim rulership, and each of these had its own relationship to the dhimmi communities. The Muslim world and its leadership was not monolithic, and neither were its legal ideas of community relationships.

8. Horses

For the Mongols, religion was not distinct within everyday life, and so Mongol religion was viewed as an inextricable part of Mongol culture. DeWeese states that "life and health are the chief values" (p. 36). Further, the "Inner Asian focus on what makes life possible is communal and ancestral" (p. 36). Thus, religion is practiced as a communal life-sustaining effort; "'religious life' consists of ways of understanding and manipulating the world in order to maintain the central sacred value of (communal) life and (communal) well-being" (p. 37). To put it simply, community was extremely important. DeWeese explains that "their absence of indigenous [religious] terminology is...a sign that these "religious" conceptions and practices are so intimately linked with all aspects of life--that is, with all aspects of what being human is considered by those peoples to mean--that life is inconceivable without them" (p. 28). Mongols viewed the world through their communal values and through their identity as a community. And their religious identity was so intertwined with their communal identity that it is practically impossible to define the two separately.

When it comes to conversion, then, that simple act of self-designation as a Muslim, even if it is just a self-designation without any other religious action attached, is significant. DeWeese expounds on the weight of a name:

"The name and its utterance have a sacred character; utterance has power, and the correspondence of a thing's name and its essence or reality is assumed, not in some abstract or metaphysical sense as argued in Chinese or Indian philosophy, but in terms of a virtually physical and magical link between the name and the named. To call oneself "Muslim" or by a name whose mention evokes recollection of an Islamizer, or of an entire "sacred history" or genealogy linked to Islamization, is no trivial matter. To adopt a name is to change one's reality, and in this sense there is hardly a deeper "conversion" than a nominal one; in any case such a nominal conversion, reflecting a change of status, is particularly well-suited for expression through the discursive patterns of conversion narratives modeled upon legends of communal origin" (p. 55).

In Jackson's article, he writes of how Muslims believed that the Ilkhan Teguder "only 'claimed to be a Muslim'" (p. 274). According to what DeWeese writes above, the mere fact of Teguder's declaration of faith and the label of Muslim he attached to himself was a significant act; the label connotes a community association, and therefore the rejection of the previous label is a community disassociation as well.

This goes back to Mongol ideas of religion; religion was a communal activity that was performed for the purpose of promoting life, and so "to find that a particular individual or ruler or community has decided that the value system and complex of rites which the society in question has long recognized as efficacious for upholding life...is after all no more useful or effective than "the way of the Muslims," or is even less powerful, is to admit a transformation of enormous import" (p. 59). For one to say that one is becoming a Muslim, one is also saying, on the flip side, that one's previous system of beliefs is lesser than Muslim beliefs. This view of religion was shared by Islamic definitions; DeWeese notes that "the Islamic ummah defines itself, and other communities, on religious grounds...this often means that distinctive communal groups are expected to be marked by a particular religious orientation; to change one's religion is to change one's communal identity" (p. 23).

After the rejection of the old belief system, it is necessary to define what conversion to Islam means. DeWeese posits that, at least in Turkic connotations, to "make him a Muslim" means "not a change of heart...or of mind...but a change of status" (p. 23). Conversion is not judged on internal faith; that is believed to come later: "the formal and external manifestations of Muslim religious obligations, as ordained by G-d and exemplified by the Prophet, may themselves transmit the divine grace which alone can "turn" the soul toward G-d and lead to a "change of heart"" (DeWeese p. 26). Thus, it is the external actions which constitute the true signs of conversion and not any judgments on the internal faith of the convert.

So, for an early Mongol ruler to declare his conversion to Islam was, in effect, to state his intention to change communal identity, to no longer identify as a Mongol but as a Muslim, a member of the ummah. And any judgments on their sincerity are irrelevant to their status as a true, new member of the faith. However, conversion in Inner Asian societies was rarely an individual matter; rather, the "standard assumption [is] that "conversion" and the establishment of a "new" religion are first and foremost matters of state concern" (DeWeese p. 169).

An interesting example of the intersection between old communal attachments and new(er) Muslim identity is in ancestral hearth idols. "Ancestral offerings...involving the use of such jarringly un-Islamic "idols" are repeatedly mentioned by outside observers as a continuing presence in the homes of nomadic Muslim people of Inner Asia in the post-Mongol period" (DeWeese p. 41). DeWeese posits that these (originally) un-Islamic practices were "integrated...into the sacralized daily lives of people now considered as Muslims" and that the practices were themselves "Islamized" (p. 41). Perhaps, alternatively, they merely came to be seen as cultural practices, disassociated from religion. If the lines between religious and non-religious practice were unclear in pre-Islamic Inner Asian societies, where and how did they decide to draw the line between what was simply cultural and therefore acceptable to keep after conversion to Islam, and what constituted their old religious practices, which could no longer be acceptable?

Another example of a supposed clash between Islamic and Mongol values can be found in fermented drinks. Mongols drank both fermented milk (kymys) and fermented honey; fermentation renders those drinks alcoholic, which would make them forbidden to Muslims, who legally cannot drink alcohol. DeWeese relates through Ibn Battuta, who heard from Ozbek khan, that the practice of drinking fermented honey can be explained "through the adherence of Ozbek's people to the Hanafi madhhab, supposedly allowing them to consider fermented liquor to be licit" (p. 206). Instead of simply asserting Mongol cultural identity to allow the continued practice, these communities sought to substantiate the practice within their Muslim identity. Indeed, a theme throughout DeWeese's exploration of these communities' new identity is the "remarkable integration of the holy people and holy customs of the two traditions, Mongol and Muslim, still in the process of being assimilated one to another" (p. 223).

7. Slaves

Toledano writes of enslavement in the Ottoman empire as a "continuum of varying origins, cultures, functions, and statuses" (14). Thus, the experience of enslavement varied as to where the slave was from, who they were, who their master was, where they lived, and what tasks they were to perform. Toledano begins by challenging previous scholarship on the question of whether Ottoman slavery was mild or harsh; the Ottoman empire has been described as a "society with slaves" rather than a "slave society" to indicate that while Ottoman society did include ownership of people (Toledano reports the enslaved as 5% of the population (14)), enslavement was not fundamental to the operation of that society. To this question, Toledano retorts that "regardless of the alleged mildness of Ottoman slave experiences, bondage was a condition most enslaved people tried to extricate themselves from" (21-22). Despite the "natural desire for freedom" (22), however, Toledano also notes that enslavement itself was a form of social belonging.

In recasting the "master-slave" relationship as a relationship of "slaver-enslaved," Toledano is attempting to reframe the discussion of enslavement away from one of strict identity into a discussion of actions; he characterizes this relationship as a patronage system. In Ottoman society, individuals were attached to social groups, and enslavement was another form of attachment: the enslaved was attached to the household of the slaver. Slaves were by and large kinless, and so this social attachment through the slaver was one of the benefits of patronage. If an enslaved person were manumitted, that person would experience a break in the household bond and risk social marginalization as being unattached to any household; this social marginalization was severe, and unattachment was criminalized.

With this social landscape, Toledano explores the experience of enslavement and the variety of that experience through slave agency. Within the patronage system, those being patronized - the enslaved - had some amount of agency within their status. This was due in no small part to the household attachment, through which the enslaved formed a family bond with the slaver, which necessitated trust. Thus, there could be betrayal from either side in the relationship, which would allow the betrayed party to demand reparations. A certain amount of leverage could be gained in this relationship as well, as Toledano illustrates with the example of the kul/harem-type enslaved, or Mamluks. Mamluks could "improve their lot by showing efficiency and loyalty" and "good performance increased their value...which reduced substantially the hazards they ran" as elites (33-34). For Toledano, there was "no difference of kind between kul/harem slaves and other types of slaves, although there certainly were differences of degree among them within the category of Ottoman slavery" (21). Therefore, although Mamluks were indeed elites, their agency functioned inside the same slaver-enslaved paradigm common to all types of Ottoman enslaved persons.

While Toledano attempted to evaluate Mamluks within the overall Ottoman system of enslavement, Ayalon frames the Mamluks as a unique institution, and evaluates not their enslaved experience, but rather the effects of their unique requirements and tasks. Ayalon, while agreeing that Mamluks were indeed "part and parcel of the Muslim slave system," believes that these slaves constituted "a very special category within that system" (90). The most notable feature of the Mamluks is that it is a one-generation class: children of Mamluks are not themselves Mamluks and therefore the supply of Mamluks must constantly be refilled. Additionally, Mamluks were a military body, and thus their tasks were narrowly defined but easily evaluated from a historical standpoint. Ayalon attempts to contextualize the Mamluks in a description of the four fronts of the dar al-islam, the four regions bordering the Islamic world.

The African and Indian fronts were inconsequential in relation to Mamluk institutions, as neither became a source for Mamluk recruits and neither posed a military threat that would necessitate Mamluk armies becoming involved.

Ayalon describes the Eurasian front both as the "great story of Islam" and as a "huge human reservoir" (96). Most Mamluks came from this area, and Ayalon notes that the "most common word used for the Mamluk is 'Turk'" (98). Most Muslims did not acknowledge much difference between Mamluks, Turks and Mongols. Interestingly, Ayalon writes that "the infidels of yesterday vanquished the Muslims of tomorrow" (99); this idea denotes the perception of Mamluks as reformed warriors fighting for their new faith: a born-again army. Additionally, on this front, the Mamluks engaged in much warfare and succeeded in extending the borders of the dar al-islam. Here, they were successful.

On the Christian European front, Ayalon describes a separate Mamluk system than on the Eurasian front, one with more difficulties. Here, military resistance was more adept, and Christian navies easily managed to destroy the Mamluk navy. On this front as well, Mamluk supply lines were blocked, and so "no real Mamluk army could be formed" (105) in Fatimid Egypt because they were lacking access to viable recruits. Later, the Ottoman empire with its Mamluk system stood against Christian invasions, but Ayalon believes that ultimately, "the Mamluk socio-military system could not withstand the growing European technological superiority" (107). In the end, Ayalon seems to blame what he sees as Islamic inferiority on this front in part on its inability to reform its military, specifically due to the military's reliance on Mamluk units and cavalry.

The two approaches complement each other in a way, with Toledano describing the internal landscape of what it meant to be an enslaved person, Mamluk or other, in Ottoman society, and Ayalon providing the external context for the specific purpose of the Mamluk institution. There were unintended effects on both sides: internally, the system created an inroad for migration and integration into Muslim society by out groups, and externally, the search for Mamluks contributed to an outward push to expand the boundaries of the Muslim world, successful or not, and created trade networks to supply people for Mamluk recruitment.

6. Wool

Ghazali defines sufism as the desire for and practice towards attaining a "heart empty of all save G-d and adorned with the constant remembrance of G-d" (p. 51). The practices Ghazali uses to attain this are seclusion, solitude, and spiritual exercise and combat. The latter can be further broken down into the purification of the soul, the cultivation of virtues, and the cleansing of the heart (p. 55-6). Unfortunately, Ghazali does not elaborate on how exactly to cleanse the heart, but does cite a few books he read on sufi theology.

Ghazali describes sufis as "masters of states" (p. 52), explaining that mastery of various states enables a person to perceive various realms. The senses are all distinct states, and so, for example, the sense of hearing enables a man to perceive sounds and tones. However, hearing does not allow a man to understand what is and is not sensible, and so discernment is another state. Ghazali remarks that intellect is the highest state before prophecy, and while it is intellect that many men have attained, it is prophecy towards which the sufis aspire. Prophecy is what is used to understand acts of worship, such as why some services are longer than others (p. 66). Ghazali makes no claims of being a prophet or having attained any level of the state of prophecy, but recognizes its existence and its superior nature and understanding.

The sufi Way described by Ghazali leads to near-constant revelations and visions, of "angels and the spirits of prophets and hear voices coming from them and learn useful things from them" (p. 57). With this description, Ghazali seems to posit an intermediary stage between intellect and prophecy. He then puts forth further stages that cannot be described with words, and in which the practitioner attains a closeness to G-d, the end which Ghazali describes as "being completely lost in G-d" (p. 57).

These stages can only be attained through what Ghazali terms "fruitional experience" which differs from learned knowledge. He claims that the philosophers have only knowledge, which is theoretical, and that they have not actually experienced that which they claim to know. As such, without that experience, they cannot truly know it. Further, his direct complaint against the philosophers is that they do not cede that there are possibilities beyond their knowledge. Specifically, he questions, "Why, then, can there not be in the revealed ordinances certain properties of healing and purifying hearts, which are beyond the grasp of wisdom based on reason, nay more, that can be discerned only by the eye of prophecy?" (p. 75). Ghazali is offended that the philosophers do not even admit the possibility of higher states beyond "wisdom based on reason."

As to the relation of sufism to mysticism: a mystic is dictionary-defined as one who, through contemplation and self-surrender, seeks union or self-absorption into the deity or the absolute. Compared to Ghazali's definition of a sufi, one who seeks to be "completely lost in G-d," a sufi and a mystic are not terribly far apart. Ghazali mentions that there are some who would go so far as to say that sufis seek a "union" or "indwelling" with G-d, but as Ghazali points out, that is incompatible with Islamic theology of the deity, wherein G-d is unknowable and completely one; the idea of G-d consisting of a union between a man and G-d himself is completely at odds with Islamic theology and badly reminiscent of the Christian Trinity, which is soundly renounced throughout the Qur'an. However, a sufi does seek closeness to G-d, as close as one can get without heresy, and the practices Ghazali describes are indeed contemplation and self-surrender, per the definition of a mystic, and as such a sufi could constitute an Islamic mystic.

5. Cotton

Caliph al-Ma'mun
al-Ma'mun clearly considered religious authority to be concurrent with political authority; he "specifically declared himself the imam al-huda, "the rightly guided leader"" (p. 67). His self-declaration as an imam shows that he considered himself to be a religious leader, although he was not himself terribly learned in hadith or fiqh or other proving grounds of religious knowledge. He is instead often described as partial to poetry and verse. And indeed, he was able to successfully carry out an inquisition and get most religious leaders to agree with him on his opinion regarding a matter of theology. It could be argued that he was simply using his political power to grab religious power, but I would argue that he did so successfully, if not ethically. The end result is still religious leaders conceding to his authority on a theological matter. However, while he may have considered himself a religious leader, and was able to get others to agree while he was alive, general opinion, in his biographies, apparently did not agree. Cooperson describes how his "early biographers depict him as a king, not a "knower" and an heir to the Prophet" (p. 67).

Imam 'Ali al-Rida
Many biographical sources explored by Cooperson confirm al-Rida's belief that he was the inheritor of the Imamate. Various criteria are discussed as to who can succeed the previous Imam; important criteria are the ability to answer religious questions (having knowledge, 'ilm), descendance from and designation by the previous Imam, and washing the previous Imam's corpse. However, even these major requirements can be fuzzy. Regarding 'ilm, Cooperson writes that in Shiite thought, 'ilm worthy of an Imam "came to encompass knowledge of everything, including the past, the future, and the secret thoughts of men" (p. 105). With this definition, it would be impossible for anyone to claim the Imamate; indeed Cooperson notes that al-Rida rejected this extensive definition of 'ilm, himself favoring a traditional definition. Regarding the washing of the previous Imam's corpse, this requirement was also artfully skirted. al-Rida was not in the same city as his father when he died, and therefore could not have washed his corpse; to get around this, it was said that al-Rida had magical powers, and one story relates how he was invisible while washing the corpse, and this is why there were not eyewitnesses (p. 81).

As for political power, Cooperson notes that Shiite religious authorities were not supporters of the Caliphate, and that to many, al-Rida's association with political power was not conducive with his status as Imam; it "upset every preconceived notion of how caliphs and Imams were supposed to behave" (p. 73). Further, his appointment "upset the longstanding arrangement by which the Imam held himself aloof from an office he was not permitted to occupy" (p. 105). Clearly, there was a distinction in Shiite circles between political and religious authority; the two were not supposed to mix.

Ahmed ibn Hanbal
ibn Hanbal believed that religious authority stemmed from knowledge, 'ilm, but he strictly limited 'ilm to two realms: Qur'an and sunna, the latter being transmitted in the form of hadith. ibn Hanbal believed that it was the duty of the hadith scholars, himself included, "'to guide the errant, warn against perdition, revive the dead with the Book of G-d, and use the Prophet's sunna to save the ignorant and damned'" (p. 108); in his mind, the hadith scholars were the one who had rightful "heirship to the Prophet" (p. 117). His rejection of the caliph's theological viewpoint was an extension of this belief that the caliph was simply a political figure, and as such had no claim to religious authority.

ibn Hanbal's views on authority wavered between disapproval and obedience. ibn Hanbal was an ascetic, who rejected anything he deemed "illegitimate" according to sunna; according to ibn Hanbal, "caliphal wealth was illegitimate" (p. 114) and thus state trappings were disapproved. However, ibn Hanbal also cited hadith which stated that "Muslims should submit to the authority of their leaders" so long as those leaders do not command disobedience to G-d, and even then, the disobedience should not extend to taking up arms (p. 125). Political authority rested solidly with the caliphate, but that authority did not extend to theology.

Bishr al-Hafi
al-Hafi, like ibn Hanbal, relied on sunna for religious guidance and "kept aloof from the state" (p. 155). However, unlike ibn Hanbal, he was critical of hadith and instead "devot[ed] himself to pious renunciation" (p. 155). He denied the religious authority of those who only learned hadith, yet did not "practice what they teach" (p. 168); for al-Hafi, authority came from experience. This is bolstered by his actions during the mihna; Cooperson relates that al-Hafi said that ibn Hanbal "is a worthier heir of the Prophet [than al-Hafi]" (p. 182) due to his willingness to be jailed and flogged for his beliefs. This statement also sheds light on al-Hafi's views on political authority; clearly, if he sides with ibn Hanbal, he disagrees with the caliph that the political office entitles him to religious authority as well. This is explained by al-Hafi's asceticism more generally, in that he was attempting to emulate the "renunciation ascribed to the Prophet and his Companions [which] suggested a preoccupation with the next world rather than the present one" (p. 154). If al-Hafi looked mainly toward the world to come, then he would simply fail to take an interest in the present world, to which the caliphate and all forms of political authority staunchly belong.

4. Paper

Why do we think that written documents connote greater security of information?

The main lesson to take from Kilito's book, The Author and His Doubles, seems to be that written documents are anything but secure. What is to stop an author from affixing his name to a work he did not compose? If the true author, the person who actually wrote the work, is still alive, he can denounce the plagiarism. Or, opposite, what is to stop an author from attributing his own writing to someone else altogether? If the someone else is alive, they can again say that they did not write this. But if the someone else is dead, then who is to say that they did not write it themselves.

But overall, why does it matter who really and truly wrote something? Kilito cannot remember the reason his French teacher gave to that question, yet he does believe that to know the author is a worthwhile endeavor. For what, then? In fiction writing, it cannot be necessary, because anyone can determine if a story is entertaining or worthwhile to read. In that case, the only useful thing in knowing the author is to obtain their other works, so the name is merely a reference to a certain category of books, namely those books that are written by X. The actual name and biography are inconsequential, because the only relevant information is that this person is good at writing stories.

In non-fiction writing, however, the author becomes more important, because the information contained within the book is no longer simply a story, and its purpose is no longer entertainment. Non-fiction writing purports to be true, and therefore opens up the possibility that it is lying. As such, the information in non-fiction writing needs to be judged as correct and useful, or not.

To judge information, it is necessary to know who the author is, simply because to judge the information on its own merit would require that every person have the ability to do so. Since this essentially means that every person would have to already know whether the information given was true or not, then the purpose of writing it down would be useless. Everything would be common knowledge, except that the human brain is probably not capable of containing such a vast amount of knowledge.

Authors become useful, then, when we need to judge a text's information without having the ability to judge it ourselves. We look to the author as an information guide, and so, instead of judging the information itself, we judge the author. If they were writing about physics, for example, we as readers would expect that the author was knowledgeable in physics, and so to know that this person was a tenured professor at a well-known and prestigious university would bolster their claims to knowledge and encourage the reader to judge them favorably. If judged favorably, the information is accepted; if judged to be unlearned, then the information the author transmits is rejected as well.

But again, what if one is not able to judge the authors? If one does not know their pedigree or their schooling, one can hardly be expected to know whether they are reliable in their information. This is where the Fihrist comes in. Of one poet , al-Nadim writes, "al-Khalidiyan edited his poetry at al-Mawsil, making it excellent: about three hundred leaves" (p. 373).

But if a book is put forth under a false author, then one does not have the correct biography with which to judge the contents. And so, the whole system is stopped, because if one author is attributed falsely, then who is to say that others are not also falsely attributed. There is no real mechanism to stop misattribution to or from an author who is not stil alive to protest. Just because it is printed does not mean it is true; falsehoods are still false when set in type. Nothing makes written words any more secure from fraud than speech. Absolutely nothing.

What it comes down to is trust in memory and trust in caretakers. With a work memorized by someone trustworthy, the work is only as secure as the person's memory. Should they forget any part, then the work is no longer secure. Even better would be to have the work memorized by two trustworthy individuals, who can check their memories against one another to ensure that neither is misrepresenting the work when recited. However, there could still arise an instance wherein neither one is certain about a particular passage.

In a written work, once the written text is verified, it can be stored. Written text cannot mutate itself and so it will preserve itself as long as environmental conditions allow. Of course there is always the possibility of a person editing it or changing it, but with proper care and subsequent storage, a copy can be made with no words changed and no confusion. The classic example of this is scriptures, which have been passed down in written form quite unchanged for centuries now. Unfortunately, both the Hebrew and Arabic scripts are not sufficient to fully express which words are meant in any given sentence, and it seems that this has caused problems in reading the Qur'an, at least, although any further analysis of this phenomenon is beyond my knowledge. Any discontinuity in scriptural transmission orally, before they were written down, is also beyond my knowledge.

3. Camels

Sizgorich transmits an idea from Somers, in which "it is frequently the case that individuals develop an understanding of their own place in the cosmos by imagining themselves as actors in an ongoing narrative" (24). Islam saw itself as a continuous tradition. It built upon earlier Judeo-Christian faith traditions in accepting their prophets and the believers as 'people of the Book,' placing themselves in the larger Judeo-Christian Biblical narrative.

Sizgorich: "texts of 'hybrid' lineage, part jahiliyya-style Bedouin war narrative, part pious tale in the late antique tradition"

writing about Islamic history with an assumption of total discontinuity ignores the context of the community. The revelation may have been completely discontinuous, an entirely unique and inimitable text, but the world into which that revelation was given had history already that interacted with and molded any community.