Handbook of Hyper Real Religion PDF

Handbook of Hyper-real Religions
Brill Handbooks on
Contemporary Religion
Series Editors
Carol M. Cusack, University of Sydney
James R. Lewis, University of Tromsø
Editorial Board
Olav Hammer, University of Southern Denmark
Charlotte Hardman, University of Durham
Titus Hjelm, University College London
Adam Possamai, University of Western Sydney
Inken Prohl, University of Heidelberg
Volume 5
The titles published in this series are listed at brill.nl/bhcr

Handbook of
Hyper-real Religions
Edited by
Adam Possamai
Leiden • boston
2012
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Handbook of hyper-real religions / edited by Adam Possamai.

p. cm. — (Brill handbooks on contemporary religion, ISSN 1874-6691 ; v. 5)
Includes index.
ISBN 978-90-04-21881-9 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Religion and culture. 2. Popular culture—
Religious aspects. I. Possamai, Adam.
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contents
Preface ................................................................................................................. ix
. Eileen Barker
INTRODUCTION
RELIGION, POPULAR CULTURE AND BAUDRILLARD
Yoda Goes to Glastonbury: An Introduction to Hyper-real

. Religions ........................................................................................................ 1
. Adam Possamai
Hyper-real Religion Performing in Baudrillard’s Integral Reality ..... 23

. Martin Geoffroy
PART one
20TH CENTURY CASE STUDIES OF HYPER-REAL RELIGIONS
Occultural Bricolage and Popular Culture: Remix and Art in

Discordianism, the Church of the SubGenius, and the Temple
of Psychick Youth ....................................................................................... 39
. Danielle Kirby
Heaven’s Gate, Science Fiction Religions, and Popular American

. Culture ........................................................................................................... 59
. Benjamin E. Zeller
Brain, Biological Robots and Androids: Prophecies in the Realm

. of Science Fiction and Religion .............................................................. 85
. Carly Machado
vi contents
PART two
21ST CENTURY CASE STUDIES OF HYPER-REAL RELIGIONS
“A World Without Rules and Controls, Without Borders or

Boundaries”: Matrixism, New Mythologies, and Symbolic
Pilgrimages .................................................................................................... 111
. John W. Morehead
Alternative Worlds: Metaphysical Questing and Virtual

Community amongst the Otherkin ....................................................... 129
. Danielle Kirby
Real Vampires as an Identity Group: Analyzing Causes and

Effects of an Introspective Survey by the Vampire
. Community ................................................................................................... 141
. Joseph Laycock
The Sanctification of Star Wars: From Fans to Followers ................... 165

. Debbie McCormick
The Spiritual Milieu Based on J. R. R. Tolkien’s Literary

Mythology ..................................................................................................... 185
. Markus Altena Davidsen
PART three
THE INTERNET, COMPUTER GAMES AND
CASUAL DEALINGS WITH THE HYPER-REAL
RELIGIOUS PHENOMENON
The Road to Hell is Paved with D20s: Evangelical Christianity and

Role-playing Gaming ................................................................................. 207
. John Walliss
“An Infinity of Experiences.” Hyper-real Paganism and Real

Enchantment in World of Warcraft ....................................................... 225
. Stef Aupers
Dealing a New Religion: Material Culture, Divination, and

Hyper-religious Innovation ...................................................................... 247
. Douglas E. Cowan
contents vii
Who Is Irma Plavatsky? Theosophy, Rosicrucianism, and the

Internationalisation of Popular Culture from the Dime Novel to
The Da Vinci Code ....................................................................................... 267
. Massimo Introvigne
The Gods on Television: Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayan, Politics and

. Popular Piety in Late Twentieth-century India ................................. 279
. Carole M. Cusack
Hinduism and Hyper-reality ......................................................................... 299

. Heinz Scheifinger
PART four
REACTING TO THE HYPER-REAL RELIGIOUS PHENOMENON
Poetic Jihadis: Muslim Youth, Hip-hop and the Homological

. Imagination .................................................................................................. 321
. Kamaludeen Mohamed Nasir
Playing for Christ: Christians and Computer Games ............................ 339

. Lauren Bernauer
Some Angel Some Devil: Harry Potter vs. The Roman Catholic
. Church in Poland ........................................................................................ 359
. Krzysztof Olechnicki
Contemporary Atheism as Hyper-real Irreligion: The Enchantment

. of Science and Atheism in This Cosmos .............................................. 375
. Alan Nixon
CONCLUSION
ANOMIE, ALIENATION AND THE FUTURE OF
HYPER-REAL RELIGIONS
Fantasy, Conspiracy and the Romantic Legacy: Max Weber and

. the Spirit of Contemporary Popular Culture ..................................... 401
. Johan Roeland, Stef Aupers & Dick Houtman
viii contents
Conclusion: The Future of Hyper-real Religions? .................................. 423

. Adam Possamai
Contributors’ Biographies ............................................................................. 429

Index .................................................................................................................... 435
Preface
Eileen Barker
In olden days (or at least in much of mid-twentieth century Western sociol-

ogy of religion), enquiring whether people believed in God, or whether they
attended a place of worship on a regular basis, was commonly considered
an adequate method for determining whether or not they were religious.
More recently the questions have become increasingly sophisticated, rec-
ognising not only that there are religions, such as branches of Buddhism,
that do not acknowledge a God at all, but also that conceptions of god(s),
deities, Supreme Beings and the like are far more diverse than had been
suspected by many. One relatively recent interest has been in what is
meant by those who call themselves ‘spiritual but not religious,’ provoking
an interest in New Age and other versions of ‘the new spirituality’, and in
how such concepts tally with modern or (perhaps more frequently) post-
modern society. Another development has been the growing awareness of
Eastern religions and the recognition of a distinction between what the
Chinese scholar C. K. Yang identified as institutional and diffused religion:
the former being “a system of religious life having (1) an independent the-
ology or cosmic interpretation of the universe and human events, (2) an
independent form of worship consisting of symbols (gods, spirits and their
images) and rituals, and (3) an independent organisation of personnel to
facilitate the interpretation of theological views and to pursue cultic wor-
ship.” Diffused religion, on the other hand, “is conceived of as a religion
having its theology, cultus, and personnel so intimately diffused into one
or more secular social institutions that they become part of the concept,
rituals, and structure of the latter, thus having no significant independent
existence” (Yang 1991: 294–295).
Such a distinction threatens the widely accepted separation of
Durkheim’s conscience collective into the sacred and profane—a separa-
tion that is threatened in a somewhat similar, yet radically different way
by the concept of a hyper-real religion, defined by Adam Possamai as
“a simulacrum of a religion created out of, or in symbiosis with, commodi-
fied popular culture which provides inspiration at a metaphorical level
and/or a source of beliefs for everyday life.” Simulacra are simulations that
x eileen barker
make no distinction between an object and its representation but which

can be seen as more real than the ‘real’ and are, thus, ‘hyper-real.’
This book examines some of the issues that this concept of hyper-real
religions raises for contemporary analyses of homo religiosus, exploring the
boundaries of what might usefully (if sometimes controversially) count
as religious or spiritual beliefs and practices. Drawing on the empirical
examples offered in the rich array of chapters, questions are asked about
the wide variety of ways in which contemporary cultures provide new
resources, with which people can attempt to transcend what might be
considered the profane by employing images available in popular media,
and by both discovering and creating sacred space in cyberspace.
New syncretisms and new ways of ‘being religious’ would appear to
have become available on a global scale hitherto well-nigh unimagina-
ble. Indeed, several of the groups or movements that are discussed in
the following pages might seem to be quite incredible. Yet the members
of Heaven’s Gate would appear to have believed in their ‘theology’ of
extra-terrestrials with sufficient sincerity to take their own lives. But how
seriously can we take the 390,000 Britons who declared themselves Jedi
Knights for the 2001 national Census? Surely, most people would argue,
this was nothing more than a disruptive joke? How seriously can we take
Discordianism, the Church of the SubGenius or the Church of the Flying
Spaghetti Monster, alternatively known as Pastafarianism? However, while
members of such ‘parody religions’ might be doing their best to shock or
to celebrate the absurd, there is seriousness in the manner in which they
recontextualise and/or ‘remix’ selected facets of contemporary culture to
create their Monty Pythonesque Weltanschauungen. Furthermore, mem-
bers of hyper-religions are not merely consumers, they can be active cre-
ators in an on-going construction both of their religions and (as part of a
dialectical process) of popular culture.
For some, role-playing is serious play as a technique to summon the
‘powers within’ and align oneself with an imagined ‘higher’ or ‘magical’
Self. But sometimes it is not the consumers themselves but their critics
who are the believers in the power and efficacy of the constructs of pop-
ular culture—as when certain Christians are convinced that the Harry
Potter books and films are an evil influence on the young and/or that role-
playing games are Satanic and can lead to suicide. Yet other Christians,
recognising the attraction that role-playing games can hold for the young,
have introduced special Christian competitors and, we learn, a hyper-real
irreligion has evolved as a competitive alternative to the religious world-
views that gain their inspiration from popular culture.
preface xi
It would seem that there is no limit to the range of contemporary

media (such as music, dance, comics, film, videos, psycho-active chemi-
cals and plants and now, above all, the Internet) that can give rise to these
new forms of religiosity. There is a virtual online community of those, the
Otherkin, who believe themselves to be spiritually and/or physically other
than human. Many of the resources that are drawn upon have lain lurking
in the cultic milieu to which Colin Campbell drew our attention in the
early 1970s; shades of Theosophy and Freemasonry, bits and pieces from
Aleister Crowley and Gerald Gardner, vampire myths and science fiction
have all contributed to one or other of the hyper-real religions described
in this book.
To apply the term hyper-religion raises a number of theoretical and
methodological issues, several of which are discussed by the contributors
to the volume. First, one might question the usefulness of expanding the
concept of religion and its study to include what might alternatively (or
complementarily) be looked upon as little more than secular fiction. One
might consider that to call a religion a hyper-religion is to introduce an
evaluative element when social scientists should remain methodologically
agnostic, not judging one religion as either more or less ‘really’ religious
than another. And, perhaps most pertinently for social constructionists,
one might question the whole concept of reality. All social reality has
been described as symbolic interactionism. This does not deny that social
facts exist, independent of the volition of any individual; but, it can also
be argued, they do not exist independent of individuals (consciously or
unconsciously) recognising them. Of course, what is real for some is not
real for others and, as Scheifinger’s analysis of Hinduism points out, phe-
nomena can be experienced as possessing different levels or gradations
of reality—and Hindu representations have always stood for the real and,
thereby, become real. Perhaps the methodologically agnostic social con-
structionist might insist that all religions can be seen and/or should be
analysed by the social scientist as hyper-religions.
The concept of hyper-real religions could be criticised as an ambigu-
ous one and, indeed, in some ways it is—as is evidenced by the variety of
ways that it is taken up by the contributors to this volume. But this very
ambiguity is perhaps its strength rather than its weakness, for this is an
exciting volume that takes the sociology of religion to places it does not
usually visit. It not only points to novel developments in contemporary
society that can be fruitfully analysed with the tools of the sociology of
religion, encouraging us to sharpen those tools when they can been seen
to be too blunt; it also stimulates us to recognise things, or at least ask
xii eileen barker
questions, about older religions that we may not previously have noticed
or queried. It offers a genuinely innovative addition to the discipline.
References
Yang, C. K. 1991. Religion in Chinese Society: A Study of Contemporary Social Functions of

Religion and Some of Their Historical Factors. Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland.
INTRODUCTION
RELIGION, POPULAR CULTURE AND BAUDRILLARD

Yoda goes to Glastonbury:
An Introduction to Hyper-Real Religions
Adam Possamai
Introduction
Hyper-real religion refers to a simulacrum of a religion, created out of, or

in symbiosis with, popular culture, which provides inspiration for believ-
ers/consumers. The most commonly known twenty-first century examples
are Jediism (from the Star Wars films) and Matrixism (from the Matrix
films). However, this phenomenon is not limited to full-blown cases and
can also involve people being religiously inspired by popular culture while
playing a game such as World of Warcraft or being influenced by con-
spiracy theories.
Western culture appears to be dominated by simulations (Baudrillard,
1988), which are objects and discourses that have no firm origin, no refer-
ent, no ground or foundation. The ‘spectacle’ and these simulations are part
of consumer culture in which signs get their meanings from their relations
with each other, rather than by reference to some independent reality or
standard. Baudrillard’s (1988) theory of commodity culture, which is the
source behind the coining of the term hyper-real religion, removes any
distinction between objects and representation. In their place, he pictures
a social world constructed out of models or ‘simulacra’ which have no
foundation in any reality except their own: for example, theme parks rep-
resenting Hollywood films or Mickey Mouse cartoons rather than ‘reality’;
day-time television viewers speaking about soap opera characters rather
than ‘real’ people; and popular news broadcast that are more about enter-
tainment than information about ‘real’ social issues.
In this world, there is no fixed meta-code. (Post/Late)Modern society
is saturated by images with the media generating a ‘non-material’, a de-
materialised concept of reality. It seems we live in an economy of signs
in which signs are exchanged against each other rather than against
the real.
If Marx’s vision of society was a giant workhouse, Baudrillard’s (1998)
vision is that society is now structured by signs and symbols in which it
becomes difficult to distinguish the real from the unreal: from this, hyper-
reality—that is a situation in which reality has collapsed—takes over.
2 adam possamai
This vision portrays contemporary Western society in which people seem

to seek spectacle more than meaning. In this hyper-real world, fictions
offer a library of narratives to be borrowed and used by anyone ready to
consume them.
Although hyper-real religions have existed since at least the 1960s, the
Internet has been instrumental in the growth of this phenomenon. The
Internet is now more than just a tool for work or research for academics
and the military. It expands the realm of democracy beyond any possible
dreams of a 1789 French revolutionary. As regards religion, the Internet is
no longer simply a cyber-billboard where people simply post messages;
through Web 2.0 the Internet is now a powerful social technology allow-
ing people to interact at broadband speeds about issues ranging from per-
sonal to political and religious. A broad range of groups adopted this new
technology and some of them established this symbiosis between religion
and popular culture which is observable in cyberspace. Rather than stand-
ing up on a soap box and speaking about the faith derived from Star Wars,
or spending hours photocopying a Jediist manifesto and mailing it to a list
of people (and paying for stamps), one can simply create a website that
anyone in the world can access. Further, ‘preachers’ do not have to reveal
their identity. They can hide their identity behind a screen and even use
pseudonyms and are thus protected from the threat of stigmatisation in
the offline world.
Referring to Luther’s reformation, Horsfield and Teusner (2007: 283)
argue that “the development of printing did not instigate changes in
Christianity but Christianity was affected by these changes taking place in
the wider culture.” The same could be argued with regard to the Internet
and hyper-real religion. It is tempting to argue that just as Luther was
able and ready to capitalise on the printing press to promote an alter-
native Christianity addressing the cultural and social issues of his time,
these hyper-real religious promoters on the Internet are also addressing
the social and cultural issues of our time. But this comparison is far from
being extendable to a full-blown reformation, akin to the Protestant one,
in our current religious landscape.
It is one thing to claim that, especially since the advent of the Internet,
people are creating new religions out of popular culture, and another to
analyse the different levels of creation and reaction associated with this
phenomenon. Some people might get a thorough inspiration from popu-
lar culture, whereas others might get just a touch of inspiration. Others
might be firmly located within a mainstream religion and also find inspi-
ration in popular culture, or even counteract this hyper-real phenomenon
an introduction to hyper-real religions 3
by claiming, for example, that it needs to be abolished. To distinguish

between these shades of grey in the interrelations between popular cul-
ture and religion, this chapter aims first to describe three ideal-types
(in the Weberian sense) of social actors involved in this phenomenon.
Ideally, statistical data from these spiritual actors would have been helpful
to refine these idea-type categories. Unfortunately, no research so far has
been able to survey these practitioners. However, we do have data con-
cerning people’s perception of this phenomenon, the analysis of which
will form the basis of the second section of this chapter.
Sub-Types of Hyper-Real Religions
Three ideal-types of hyper-real religious actors could be argued to exist.

These are:
1. Active consumers of popular culture leading to the practice of hyper-real

religions.
According to previous research, some individuals actively consume popu-
lar culture to create new types of spiritualities, e.g. Jediism (McCormick,
this volume) and Matrixism (Morehead, this volume) or to enrich existing
spiritualities (e.g. neo-paganism). For example, the Church of All Worlds
is a neo-pagan group that was founded by Tim Zell in Missouri in 1962
and moved to Ukiah, California, in 1967. This group bases its teaching in
part on Robert Heinlein’s science-fiction novel Stranger in a Strange Land
which narrates the story of Valentine Michael Smith, a Martian-raised
human with god-like powers, who taught humankind how to love. The
group does not limit its reading to this novel and even extends its con-
sumption to the Star Trek mythos. As one of its members states:
[t]his whole period (late 1960s) fell under the shadow of the Damoclean
Sword of impending nuclear holocaust, and a dominant Christian cul-
ture that fully embraced an apocalyptic mythos. For many of us, a power-
ful antidote to that mythos was found in science fiction, and particularly
Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek, with its Vulcan IDIC: ‘Infinite Diversity in
Infinite Combinations.’ CAW [Church of All Worlds] and Green Egg avidly
embraced this vision of, as Roddenberry said, ‘a future everyone will want
to be part of.’1
1
Internet site, http://www.greenegg.org/issues/123/oberonedit123.html. Accessed 05/
01/00.
4 adam possamai
As part of the consumption of science-fiction narratives by specific groups,

one should not forget the Heaven’s Gate group that committed mass sui-
cide in San Diego in 1997 (Zeller, this volume). Its members believed that
a UFO was travelling behind the Hale-Bopp comet and that by leaving
their physical bodies behind, they would reach the extraterrestrial realm.
They also watched The X-Files and Star Trek almost religiously and took
fiction seriously. Indeed, as one member expressed a week before the infa-
mous event:
[w]e watch a lot of Star Trek, a lot of Star Wars, it’s just, to us, it’s just like
going on a holodeck. We’ve been training on a holodeck . . . [and] now it’s
time to stop. The game’s over. It’s time to put into practice what we’ve
learned. We take off the virtual reality helmet . . . go back out of the holo-
deck to reality to be with, you know, the other members on the craft in the
heavens . . . (cited in Robinson 1997).2
Horror stories can also provide a reservoir of cultural content to be reli-
giously consumed. In 1966, in San Francisco, Anton LaVey founded the
Church of Satan as a medium for the study of the black arts. His assump-
tion of the inherent selfishness and violence of human beings is at the
base of its non-Christian teaching. According to LaVey, Satan is mistakenly
believed to be a long time opponent of God, and is rather a hidden force
in nature that can be tapped into. In The Satanic Rituals, which is used by
some (see below) as a basis for metaphysical growth, LaVey (1972) refers to
the metaphysics of H. P. Lovecraft, the author of weird fiction who wrote
most of his tales during the 1920s and 1930s. H. P. Lovecraft developed
a pantheon of gods called the Ancient Ones, for example Cthulhu, Yog-
Sothoth and Nyarlathotep, who are waiting in secrecy before coming back
to earth to conquer the human race. In The Nameless City (1921), Lovecraft
introduced the mad Abdul Alhazred, who had penned the ancient tome
The Necronomicon. This book claimed to reveal all secrets of the world,
especially those of the Ancient Ones. It became a standard prop in all later
stories, and many readers believed it actually existed. Lovecraft always
claimed that his stories were fictional and that he was a total agnostic.
However, LaVey (1972), believing that “fantasy plays an important part in
any religious curriculum”, developed some rituals for his Church of Satan
based on this fictional mythology. The following is a ceremony extract:
2
As Robinson (1997) comments, these members had envisioned death as the ultimate
Trekkie trip to the final frontier.
N’kgnath ki’q Az-Athoth r’jyarh wh’fagh zhasa phr-tga nyena phragn’glu.

Translation: Let us do honor to Azathoth, without whose laughter this world
should not be.
Hanegraaff (2007) lists groups who are more or less directly inspired
by Lovecraft stories for their magical works, such as the Illuminates of
Thanateros and the Autonomatrix. His analysis confirms the view among
these religious actors that all systems of knowledge are socially con-
structed and culturally biased, and that in a Nietzschean sense, no one
belief is more true than any other. Following this nihilist logic, their ideol-
ogy is open to refusing the distinction between fiction and reality.
Coming back more specifically to neo-paganism, the literature labelled
“fantasy” (Harvey 2000, 2006; Lurhmann 1994) and “medieval romances”
(Rose 2006) seems to express and explore neo-pagan issues. J. R. R. Tolkien’s
The Lord of the Rings, Marion Zimmer Bradley’s The Mist of Avalon, Brian
Bates’s The Way of Wyrd, Terry Pratchett’s Discworld corpus, and even
William Gibson’s cyber-punk Neuromancer and Richard Wagner’s operas
are all parts of a cultural reservoir which contributes to neo-pagan think-
ing. While there is no ‘biblical’ text of reference in neo-paganism, the con-
struction of the pagan self entails reading works of fiction. These fantasy
books describe a pagan world and consequently contribute to the pagan
experience of the reader (Harvey 2006).
In Ellwood (2004), we discover how some people involved in the ‘craft’
use popular culture as a method of practising magic. In this text, the
author explains how he uses the character of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
as a god-form of protection, equality, and magic. Instead of using magic
and incantation in the name of one god, as often practised in religions
comprising a large pantheon of gods, certain neo-pagans replace more tra-
ditional gods with icons of popular culture. The importance behind these
magical practices/rituals is to focus one’s energy on the characteristic of
this god/pop icon. For example, as the author explains:
[l]et me give you a quick example. You may want to go on a diet, but know
under ordinary circumstances you’d have trouble keeping to it. You can use
the magick of working with a pop culture entity to help you. Who do you
use? Were I to go on a diet I’d use the pop culture entity Jared, who repre-
sents the Subway franchise. You’ll see him a lot on US television and each
time he’s showing the benefits of a successful diet. So what you do is create
a god-form out of Jared. Observe the commercials, take notes on attributes
you’d want your Jared god-form to have and then on the first night of the
diet and each night after invoke the Jared god-form to help you keep to the
diet. Now on a humorous aside you may find yourself having an inexplicable
6 adam possamai
craving for Subway subs, but so be it. As long as you are dieting and reach-
ing your target weight it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you invest
Jared with your belief that he will keep you dieting. Use chants, images, and
whatever else as needed. (Ellwood 2004, p. 187)
According to this testimony, a pop icon should be used only as long as a
person needs it. After this, the practitioner should move to another. If this
is not done there is a danger that the person might start believing in the
icon too deeply, instead of using it for a specific purpose.
Whereas twentieth century forms of hyper-real religions were using
popular culture in a secondary fashion (for example, the Church of Satan
being inspired by the stories of Lovecraft and neo-pagan groups by SF
stories), the twenty first century hyper-real religions (e.g. Jediism and
Matrixim) use works of popular culture as their central themes. These
twentieth century hyper-real religions have their spirituality defined
somewhat independently from popular culture. There are no Lovecraft
or Discworld spiritualities; however, there is now a Star Wars spirituality.
Indeed, in Jediism, for example, the Star Wars works of popular culture
are used as a direct source of inspiration (Possamai 2010).
Parts I and II of this handbook explore these specific types of hyper-real
religions. Part I deals with pre-Internet cases such as Discordianism, the
Church of the SubGenius and the Temple of Psychick Youth (Kirby), and
Heaven’s Gate (Zeller) and the Raelian movement’s (Machado) inspira-
tion from science fiction. Part II moves to the Web 2.0 realm with groups
and networks such as Matrixism (Morehead), the Otherkin (Kirby) and
Vampires (Laycock), Star Wars (McCormick), and Tolkien’s Middle Earth
(Davidsen).
2. Casual consumers of popular culture leading to a sharing of characteris-

tics with hyper-real religions.
Some consumers are already part of established mainstream religions
and use popular culture to strengthen their belief system. As explained
in Possamai (2005), a case in point is ChristianGoth.Com, which is a vir-
tual environment for Christian Goths and other Christians. It does not
aim at converting regular Goths to Christianity, but at proving to pastors
and anyone else that not all Goths are Satanists or witches. This site even
quotes Isaiah 9:2: ‘the people who walked in darkness have seen a great
light; those who dwelt in the land of the shadow of death, upon them a
light has shined.’ As one Christian Goth claims:
[o]nce I received the Christ, I never lost my culture. There were certain
things that had to go, certain things that didn’t glorify God. But I still loved
Siouxsie and Bauhaus [popular Goth bands] along with my new found faith
in the Lord Jesus. I found that contrary to popular ‘Christian’ opinion, I
could still wear lace and velvet (and, God forbid—eyeliner?)3
Some heavy/black metal bands view themselves as Christians. The popu-
lar group, Demon Hunter, has appeared on the soundtrack of the movie
Resident Evil 2. It lies between being a ‘Christian band’ and a group of
Christians in a secular band, even though it is on a Christian recording
contract.4 Mortification is another band, based in Australia.5 This Christian
style of music is sometimes referred to as ‘White Metal’ or ‘Unblack
Metal.’
There are Christian role-playing support and advocacy groups such as
the Christian Gamers Guild.6 These groups promote Christian role play-
ing groups without rejecting science fiction and/or fantasy narratives. One
statement on this site sums up quite well this tendency among Christians
to use the newest forms of popular culture for their faith:
Christians have too long allowed non-Christians to dominate the imaginal
world of role-playing, which was originally inspired by Christian men like
J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis, not to mention Dante, John Bunyan, and
John Milton. I think it’s time to be a creative force in role-playing and
other forms of gaming for the true author of all creativity and imagination,
Almighty God Himself.
Other casual consumers of popular culture leading to a religious work
might not belong to a religious group, but might nevertheless believe
in something beyond their everyday life. With the growth of spirituality
in western societies, more and more people find their inspiration from
popular culture. If the following analogy is permitted, hyper-real actors of
the first type would be like Catholics attending church regularly, whereas
actors of the second type would be like Catholics who believe without
belonging. They might, for example, find inspiration in The Da Vinci Code
and feel more spiritual thanks to this work of popular culture, but they
do not necessarily actively engage in (hyper) religious practices. Taking
into account this ideal-type, we can assume that the hyper-real religious
phenomenon is more extended than initially thought.
Internet site, http://www.fehq.org/public/gothchrist.htm. Accessed 23/08/2004.

3
Internet site, http://www.demonhunter/net. Accessed 23/08/2004.

4
5
Internet site, http://hem.passagen.se/bransell/mortification.html. Accessed 23/08/
2004.
6
Internet site, http://www.geocities.com/TimesSquare/2964/. Accessed 23/08/2004.
8 adam possamai
For example, one Generation X respondent mentioned that he had

a Catholic upbringing and watched the Star Wars series when he was
young. Years later, when he became a young adult and re-watched the
series, he realised how much these works of fiction influenced his current
view on spirituality, even more than Catholicism. However this is far from
making him a Jediist.
Whereas the first type of consumers deals with popular culture as a
primary or secondary source of inspiration for their religious work, in this
second ideal-type, we find actors who, in a way, tend to dabble with this
phenomenon. They might get some sort of inspiration from popular cul-
ture rather than be part of a more organised set of beliefs. Part III of this
handbook explores some of these more casual dealings in, for examples,
the computer game of World of Warcraft (Aupers), role playing games
(Wallis) and Tarot cards (Cowan). Conspiracy theories (Introvigne) are
also shown to have some connection with the hyper-real religious phe-
nomenon when the demarcations between culture, mythical history and
religion are blurred. To finish Part III, we move to a popular Indian tele-
vision series (Cusack) and Hinduism in cyberspace (Scheifinger) to rea-
lise that this hyper-real religious phenomenon might be new only in a
Western context.
3. Religious and secular actors opposed to the consumption of popular

culture leading to the practice of, or to the sharing of characteristics with,
hyper-real religions.
In this category, members of a religious or secular group would be against
the hyper-real religious phenomenon. This is seen, for example, in a
Christian forum with texts such as: “[t]hough not as overtly and sym-
pathetically occultic as the Harry Potter series, Tolkien’s fantasies are
unscriptural and present a very dangerous message.”7 On a promotional
Internet site8 for a video against Harry Potter, ‘Harry Potter: Witchcraft
Repackaged. Making Evil Look Innocent,’ we are told that sorcery is being
introduced in schools disguised as children’s fantasy literature. The video/
DVD is aimed at explaining to parents how to teach children that spell-
casting is forbidden territory. The site then lists a few accounts from
children, such as “I feel like I’m inside Harry’s world. If I went to wizard
school I’d study everything: spells, counterspells, and defence against the
Internet site, http://forums.christianity.com/html/p681045. Acccssed 23/08/2004.

7
Internet site, http:///www.chick.com/catalog/videos/0127.asp. Accessed 04/08/2004.

8
dark arts” (Carolyn age 10) or “It would be great to be a wizard because
you could control situations and things like teacher” ( Jeffrey age 11). It
then concludes by stating: “Stop and Think: what will these children
do when invited to visit an occult website, or even a local [neo-pagan]
coven?”
Fundamentalist/literalist Christian groups are more than just a market-
ing niche for global popular culture. For example, Walt Disney’s promo-
tion of its adaptation of C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
as a ‘Passion of the Christ for kids’ is an attempt to secure worldwide
Christian support for the film (Hastings and Laurence 2005). There are also
pressure groups against certain forms of popular culture (for example,
Imax cinemas’ refusal to show movies such as James Cameron’s Volcanoes
of the Deep Sea that suggest that Earth’s origins do not conform with bibli-
cal description [McKie 2005]) and against the use of non-Christian pop-
ular culture for religious practice. For example, while Dan Brown’s film
adaptation was shown at Australian cinemas, the Anglican Church in
Sydney showed a trailer in two hundred and fifty cinemas telling cinema-
goers about their website, which challenges the theories in The Da Vinci
Code (described as ‘Harry Potter for adults’). The film was banned from
a cinema on the Central Coast, N. S. W., because of the way it depicts
the Catholic Church. As detailed above, these pressure groups demonise
hyper-real religious actions on the Internet and at church, and one might
wonder if they are working towards setting off the type of full-blown
moral panic which turns minority groups into scapegoats for negatively
perceived social changes (see Possamai and Lee 2011).
Part IV of this book explores these various reactions such as that from
various Muslim communities trying to weaken the hyper-real religious
component of Muslim hip hop music (Nasir), or of Christian groups try-
ing to prevent their believers from accessing hyper-real types of content
in computer games (Bernauer). Finally the cases of Polish Catholics’ rejec-
tion of Harry Potter due to the fear of the manifestation of hyper-real
religious elements based on that character (Olechnicki) and the push
towards a hyper-real irreligious phenomenon by the new atheism (Nixon)
are explored.
In the concluding chapter to this handbook, Roeland, Aupers and
Houtman analyse this whole phenomenon in the light of the classical
theories from Durkheim, Marx and Weber on alienation and anomie to
argue that this whole phenomenon might propose salvation for a mean-
ingless world devoid of magic and mystery and counter-act the spread of
anomie.
10 adam possamai
Results From A Survey
I was commissioned by an academic unit of my university to design a sur-

vey of religious and spiritual practices by students and staff, the results of
which form the basis of another article (Possamai and Brackenreg 2009).
This university has six campuses spread through Sydney’s western sub-
urbs and is one of the largest in Australia, with more than 35,000 students
and almost 2,600 staff. I took the opportunity to insert four extra research
questions into this survey.
The survey was posted online in 2007–2008. A sample of 2,000 students
and 500 academic and administrative staff was randomly selected via
computer software. Two different emailing lists were then generated. Two
emails were sent towards the end of the second semester in 2007 and one
at the beginning of the first semester of 2008 inviting staff and students
(in a separate email) to fill out the questionnaire.
In total, 217 people completed this survey which is an overall response
rate of 8.7%. 94 students and 100 staff replied to the survey. 23 respon-
dents remained silent about their status within the university. The mini-
mum response rate for staff is strong at 20%, with that of students much
weaker at 4.7%. This sample reflects a randomised selection across reli-
gious and atheist groups, gender, and generations of people working and/
or studying in a university environment.
As detailed in Table 1, this sample represents a group of students and
staff from a university which has a religious diversity almost in line with
the regional and national one. The survey clearly under-represents the
Christian average (by around 10%) and over-represents the Muslim one
(almost two times the Sydney average). The percentage of Other Religion
such as Baha’i and neo-paganism are also over-represented in the survey.
Table 1. Religious diversity of the sample

Australia (%) Sydney (%) Survey (%)
Buddhist 2.09 3.69 2.8
Christian 63.23 63.32 53.5
Hindu 0.74 1.69 0.9
Judaism 0.44 0.83 0.5
Muslim 1.7 3.88 7.8
Other Religion 1.19 1.21 4.5
No Religion 18.48 13.98 18.5
Religious Affiliation 11.09 10.26 11.5
Not Stated
Overall, it can be stated that this sample is a reflection of the increasing

religious diversity in Australia (Bouma 2006) but is more post-Christian
than the Australian average.
Specifically regarding the use of popular culture for religious/spiritual
purpose, a previous survey by Hjarvard (2008) in Denmark found that
people’s interest in spirituality can grow from being exposed to the stories
of Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings and The Da Vinci Code. The computer
game, World of Warcraft, as explored by Aupers in this volume, can also
facilitate an interest in spirituality. The survey designed for this chapter
also confirms similar findings.
Table 2 indicates that the respondents in this university based sample
regard popular culture as a source of inspiration. However, people who
indicated in the survey that they were religious and/or spiritual are also
inspired by genres of popular culture such as music (40.6%), movies
(30.4%), television series (15.2%), and it is mainly nature (52.15%) and
philosophy (45.6%) that provide the greatest source of spiritual/religious
inspiration. It should be noted from the previous section that inspiration
from popular culture can be understood at different levels, and that the
survey question was not framed to explore these distinctions. The results
of the survey that we are exploring for this section of the chapter are not
about people’s growing interest in these works of popular culture, but
rather their opinion on the process of using popular culture for one’s
religion/spirituality. As there is a difference of level of inspiration from
popular culture, it is expected that there would be a difference of level of
opinion on the use of popular culture for religious/spiritual work.
Table 2. Sources of Inspiration

As part of your religion and/or spirituality, do you also find spiritual inspiration
from other sources such as (tick as many boxes as you wish)
Frequency Percentage
Computer Games 2 0.9
Graphic Novels 3 1.4
Films 66 30.4
Music 88 40.6
Nature 113 52.1
Novels 57 26.3
Philosophy 99 45.6
Television series 33 15.2
No, my only source of inspiration is from 32 14.7
my religion and/or spirituality
Other 37 17.1
12 adam possamai
Table 3 focuses on people’s opinions about the use of a recent piece of

popular culture for spiritual/religious purposes: The Da Vinci Code. 29.3%
of those who knew about this story thought that it could provide people
with spiritual/religious inspiration, whereas 8% people were of the opin-
ion that people using that type of inspiration should be opposed. The
majority of the respondents (44.3%) thought that this is just a work of
fiction and that it should only be considered as such.
The answers to the next question (see Table 4) are even more telling.
24.1% of those who replied do not see a problem with people creating a
religion out of popular culture, 43.7% do not mind that these works of
popular culture lead to some inspiration but think they should not lead
to a religion per se. 14.1% of people feel that this hyper-real phenomenon
is wrong and should be opposed.
These questions were not created to test the validity of the ideal-types
illustrated in the previous section, as the intention was not to find out
about people’s practices, but rather about people’s opinions on these prac-
tices. There are strong indications that there are two extreme minorities:
Table 3. The Da Vinci Code

The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown describes the story of a secret organisation aiming
at protecting the direct line of descendants from Jesus. Which of these statements
would better fit your position on this novel/movie (only tick one (1) box)
This is a fiction story and should only be 94 44.3
read as such
This is a fiction story that can provide 29 13.7
inspiration for people who have a
religion and/or spirituality
This is more than a fiction story and it 33 15.6
provides some clues about religion
and/or spirituality
This is just a work of fiction but because 17 8
it can provide the wrong inspiration
for people’s religion and/or spirituality,
something should be done about this.
I do not know what this story is about and 39 18.4
cannot answer this question.
Table 4. Star Wars and The Matrix

Some people use works of popular culture such as the movies Star Wars and
The Matrix for inspiration as part of their religion and/or spirituality. Which
statement do you agree with (only tick one (1) box):
It is reasonable for people to create new 48 24.1
religions/spiritualities from works of popular
culture.
It is reasonable for people to select works of 87 43.7
popular culture and be inspired by them for
their existing religions/spiritualities but it is
not reasonable to create new religions and
or spiritualities.
It is NOT reasonable for people to find 36 18.1
inspiration from works of popular culture for
their religion/spirituality but nothing needs
to be done about this.
It is NOT reasonable for people to find 28 14.1
inspiration from works of popular culture for
their religion/spirituality and something
should be done about this.
some people are at various levels supportive of this type of activity and
others are of the opinion that it needs to be actively opposed. In between,
the large majority of people surveyed are amenable that these narratives
should serve only as a source of inspiration. To shed more light on the
respondents’ perspectives, some cross-tabulations have been constructed.
As in previous research (Hughes et al. 2004; Marler and Hadaway 2002)
respondents were asked to align themselves with one type of religious
and/or spiritual identity, as presented in Table 5.
The larger group of the sample claim to be religious and spiritual
(46.5%), and more people claimed to be neither religious nor spiritual
(17.5%) than religious only (13.4%). This is in agreement with previous
research conducted in Australia (Hughes et al. 2004) and in the United
States (Marler and Hadaway 2002). Across age groups, the ‘religious and
spiritual’ category is also stronger than the ‘religious only’ and the ‘spiri-
tual only’ categories. These ‘spiritual only’ actors are not churchgoers and
are more likely to be agnostics who experiment with alternative spirituali-
ties and/or Eastern practices. From such research, it appears that there are
14 adam possamai
Table 5. Religion and Spirituality

Would you say that you are (only tick one (1) box):
Religious Only 29 13.4
Spiritual Only 46 21.2
Religious and Spiritual 101 46.5
Neither Religious nor spiritual 38 17.5
No Answer 3 1.4
two types of spiritual actors; one that claims that he or she is still religious
(the majority according to the two tables above), and one that is not reli-
gious. The 17.5% claiming ‘no religion’ in the sample is close to the result
of the latest Australian national census (18.48% in 2006).
When this variable is cross-tabulated with the question on Star Wars
and The Matrix above, (see Table 6) some interesting findings emerge. It
appears the people who are against this phenomenon and would want to
actively oppose it will more likely be both religious and spiritual (68%)
than neither religious nor spiritual (11%). Out of all those who claim that
this phenomenon is reasonable, those who are religious only (6%) are the
least likely to agree with this statement.
The results for people from the sample who are neither religious nor
spiritual are more polarised. They either state that the phenomenon is
reasonable (32%) or not reasonable (31%), but only 8% would wish to
act against it. Those who are ‘spiritual only’ tend to be more positive with
this phenomenon than all other types. 58% of them consider reasonable
the use of fiction as only a source of inspiration, and 35% condone the
further step of the creation of new spiritualities. Except for the ‘neither
religious nor spiritual’ category, all categories (‘religious’, 44%; ‘spiritual’,
58%; ‘religious and spiritua’l, 42%) consider it valid that these works of
fiction be used as a source of inspiration.
From this cross-tabulation, it appears that being ‘spiritual only’ is
an indicator of a more positive attitude towards this phenomenon,
whereas being both ‘religious and spiritual’, rather than ‘neither spiri-
tual nor religious’, or ‘religious only’, is a signpost for people ready to act
against it.
Table 7 shows that of the people who oppose the use of The Da Vinci
Code for inspiration and want to act on this, those who claim to be both
religious and spiritual (94%) are still in the majority, but at a much higher
Table 6. Type of Religious Actor, Star Wars and The Matrix

Type of It is reasonable It is reasonable It is NOT It is NOT
religious for people to for people to reasonable for reasonable for
actors create new select works of people to find people to find
religions/ popular culture inspiration inspiration
spiritualities and be inspired from works from works of
from works of by them for of popular popular culture
popular culture. their existing culture for for their religion/
religions/ their religion/ spirituality
spiritualities spirituality but and something
but it is not nothing needs should be done
reasonable to to be done about this.
create new about this.
religions and or
spiritualities.
Religious Only 6 / 11 14 / 44 19 / 26 18 / 19 100
Spiritual Only 31 / 35 29 / 58 6/5 3/2 100
Religious and 40 / 20 45 / 42 44 / 17 68 / 21 100
Spiritual
Neither 23 / 32 12 / 29 31 / 31 11 / 8 100
Religious
nor
Spiritual
100 100 100 100
level than above. No one who is ‘spiritual only’ or is ‘neither religious nor
spiritual’ is ready to oppose this phenomenon. Of the people who seem
to see more than a fiction in this story, it is those who are ‘spiritual only’
(45%) who are in the majority.
Of the people who are ‘religious only’ (64%), or ‘neither religious nor
spiritual’ (66%), the great majority see in this story only a work of fiction.
Of those who are ‘spiritual only’, 33% see more than a story and 18% see
a source of inspiration.
These results should be considered in the light of findings from Possamai
and Lee (2011) in which we find from the same sample and survey, that of
the people who believe that ‘Only one religion and/or spirituality is the
expression of the truth and only this one is valid’, 82% claim to be both
spiritual and religious.
If we take as a working assumption that ‘spiritual only’ people tend to
work in networks outside of a specific religion, that the ‘religious only’
category pertains to people who are not strongly active in their religion
16 adam possamai
Table 7. Type of Religious Actor and The Da Vinci Code

Type of This is a This is a This is more This is just I do not
religious fiction fiction than a a work of know
actors story and story that fiction fiction but what this
should can provide story and because it story is
only be inspiration it provides can provide about
read as for people some clues the wrong and
such who have about inspiration cannot
a religion religion for people’s answer
and/or and/or religion and/ this
spirituality spirituality or spirituality, question
something
should be
done about
this
Religious 19 / 64 3 / 4 6 / 4 6 / 7 15 / 21 100
Only
Spiritual 17 / 33 28 / 18 45 / 33 0 / 0 18 / 16 100
Only
Religious 37 / 35 59 / 17 37 / 12 94 / 16 51 /20 100
and
Spiritual
Neither 27 / 66 10 / 8 12 / 11 0 16 / 15 100
Religious
nor
Spiritual
100 100 100 100 100
(perhaps even claiming to be part of a religion without necessarily believ-

ing in it), and that people who are both religious and spiritual are reason-
ably active within their own religion, we would expect that it is these
people, adhering to and active within one faith (rather than, for example,
atheists), who are most likely to have the strongest reservations regarding
this phenomenon. Those most likely to support it would tend to be part
of what can be assumed to be the alternative spirituality scene. Research
of the qualitative type would need to be conducted to shed more light on
these findings.
The data from this survey on people’s opinions on the hyper-real phe-
nomenon indicate that those who are ‘spiritual only’ are the most likely to
be supportive of it whereas those who are ‘both religious and spiritual’ are
more likely to be actively opposed, and more strongly, than those who are
‘neither spiritual nor religious’, or who are ‘religious only’.
How then to explain antagonism towards hyper-real religions? The

implication here might be that these religions are simply not regarded
as bona fide religions. This suggests a struggle when it comes to defining
what is to be considered a religion and what is not, especially in a field
where authority is fluid.
Authentic or Fake Religion in a Weak Authorative Field?
In a devolved and ‘glocalised’ consumer world of instant and continuous

communication, who can speak authoritatively for these diverse hyper-
real religious groups and reflexive religious individuals? In Max Weber’s
theory of authority, it is clear that the legitimacy of information cannot
be understood as being under either traditional authority or charismatic
authority. Jediism is not traditional, and Jediists make no claim to tradi-
tional legitimacy. The network is clearly not charismatic because it can-
not be legitimised by a single person who can rise above the e-network
to assert global authority, and no routinised charisma could significantly
influence the ever-changing Web. The new forms of authority are not
legal-rational, because there is no hierarchical organisation, and no linear
chain of officers.
Authority on the Internet is devolved, dispersed and dissipated (Turner,
2007). As the educated and elite purveyors of religion are now challenged
by a global spiritual marketplace, especially on the Internet, forms of
religious authority are being redefined. Looking at Weber’s typology of
authority, Turner (2009) proposes that global commercialism has inverted
the traditional relationship between the virtuosi (purveyors of official reli-
gions) and the masses (consumers of popular religions). In this sense we
see religions created out of popular culture at the grassroots level rather
than by certain forms of religious authority. But does a lack of authority
undermine the validity of a religion and turn it into a fake religion?
Debray (2005) demonstrates how the word ‘religion’ emerged in Latin
with the birth of Christianity. Indeed, the word, as we understand it, is
not found in Sanskrit, Hebrew, Greek or Arabic. The author points out
how the word ‘religion’ became a universal entity emerging from a Roman
Christian locality. Christianity did not begin as a religion (the notion was
unthinkable in the Jewish culture), and did not grow into one during the
first two centuries of the Christian era, because Christian theologians
formulated their thoughts within a Greek language which ignored this
Latin category. It only became a religion—in the sense of the word as
18 adam possamai
we understand it—in the third century. Christians made a political move

to have their faith viewed as a religion so that their belief system would
become valid in the Roman world. Before Constantine, Christianity was
seen in the Roman world as superstitio (pejorative) and was thus per-
ceived negatively as a type of popular religion. Christianity had to become
religio (laudatory) to be accepted into the mainstream and thus able to
develop in the Roman world. In 341 the appropriation by Christianity of
the Latin word religio (that is, official religion) became so successful that
Christianity became accepted as religio and Roman paganism relegated to
superstitio (i.e. popular religion). This reversal of perspectives, establish-
ing Christianity as the official religion, clearly demonstrates the power of
labelling politics. It is for such reasons that Beckford, using a social con-
structionist approach, thinks that
religion is . . . a particularly interesting “site” where boundary disputes are
endemic and where well-entrenched interest groups are prepared to defend
their definition of religion against opponents. The history of anti-witchcraft
movements in many parts of the world, particularly the Inquisition, is pow-
erful evidence of the deadly length to which some interest groups go to
enforce their definition of “true” religion. (2003: 13)
The defining of religion can thus be seen as a site of power in which
groups try to impose their personal view and agenda, for example reject-
ing ‘pagan’ practices from medieval Christianity, or authenticating mira-
cles and shrines. And this politics of definition could also be reflected in
this discussion on religions in symbiosis with popular culture.
Fake religion or parody religion are terms that have been applied to
groups like the Discordians and the Church of the SubGenius (see Kirby’s
chapter in this volume) that appear to profess a religion, even if their sati-
rist approach to facts and beliefs seems to parody religion (Chidester, 2005;
Alberts, 2008). Even if they are fake, however, they must follow the tem-
plate of established religions in order to be able to mock them. Chidester
(2005: 209) describes how a campaign by the Discordians using the search
engine Yahoo changed people’s perspective on this group. Discordianism
was listed on the Internet as a ‘parody religion’ and one member raised
this issue thus: “I ask that either you move us into the same category as
the rest of the religions, or tell me what the criteria [are] to become a ‘real’
religion so that I might show how Discordianism meets [them]” (quoted
by Chidester 2005: 209). For any social scientists following the cultural
constructivist approach to religion, such a reply would imply that label-
ling this group as fake is problematic.
Recently, Cusack (2010) underlined that religion is not independent

from its social and cultural context, and has not been left untouched by a
shift to a post or late modern world. Part of these late modern novelties, in
this context, are found in the invention of religions from popular culture.
What she calls “invented religions” re-shape popular cultural discourses for
religious (or quasi- or pseudo-religious) purposes. Popular culture is used
here as a source of inspiration. Reality, revelation or historical continu-
ation are not needed to justify the existence of these invented religions.
Davidsen (this volume), thinking along the same lines, would rather make
reference to fiction-based religion (i.e. a religion that uses fictional texts as
its main authoritative, religious texts). Taking a sociological perspective,
especially a Marxist one, one could easily argue that we did not have to
wait for late modernity to find invented religions, as this label could be
applied to all religions and could even be read as a tautology.
The terms “invented religion” and “fiction-based religion” are indeed
appealing to those researching in this field. Although Cusack (2010) refers
to this invention and localises this recent phenomenon in contemporary
culture, the term hyper-real makes specific reference to Baudrillard’s
hyper-reality (see Geoffroy’s contribution to this volume) which only
exists in our televised and cyber world.
In 2005 I first used the term “hyper-real religion” to refer to a simulacrum
of a religion created out of popular culture, which provides inspiration for
believers/consumers at a metaphorical level. Some of the contributors to
this book have since advanced some constructive comments. For exam-
ple, Davidsen (this volume) argues that for some people Middle-earth is a
real space, be it an ancient place in our world or a current one on another
plane of reality or in another dimension. In the light of this case study,
Davidsen is rightly critical of the claim that hyper-real religion exists only
at a metaphorical level.
Aupers (this volume) questions the use of this term as it can have nega-
tive connotations in referring to some religions as superficial, meaningless,
unreal or alienating. I believe that the same comment could be applied to
the notion of invented or fiction religion as well. Whatever the appella-
tion, many social commentators would argue that any religion in a state
of fusion with popular culture would represent the above traits, and it is
only as these religions gain more credibility (perhaps with the following
generation) that this stigma might lose its strength. Applying this concept
of hyper-real religion to Hindu gods, Scheifinger (this volume) makes the
interesting argument that it is a Western construction. In his chapter, he
20 adam possamai
concludes that although the claim that the Internet and hyper-reality go
hand in hand appears highly plausible, online replications of images of
Hindu deities are no more hyper-real than their original counterparts in
a pre-consuming society. This raises questions as to the universality of
the concept of hyper-real religion and suggests that perhaps this concept
only fits within a post-Christian environment where popular culture is
fully commodified.
These comments and critiques help to refine my 2005 definition
of hyper-real religion into one more appropriate for 2011. It becomes:
“A hyper-real religion is a simulacrum of a religion created out of, or in
symbiosis with, commodified popular culture which provides inspiration
at a metaphorical level and/or is a source of beliefs for everyday life.”
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Berlin, Frankfurt am Main, New York, Oxford, Wien: P. I. E.-Peter Lang.
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http://www.charlesstrongtrust.org.au/.
——. 2010. “Hiperrealidad Religiosa Y Cultura De La Participación En Australia.” In
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bólico en el mundo actual. Mexico. 309–336.
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79–97.
Hyper-real Religion Performing in Baudrillard’s
Integral Reality 1
Martin Geoffroy
Introduction
Hyper-real religion is an original conceptualisation brought forward by

Australian sociologist Adam Possamai (2005). This concept is based on
what he calls a ‘re-adaptation’ of theories from the Frankfurt School and
French sociologist Jean Baudrillard to an approach more inspired by
Weber’s classic theories involving the active role of the social actors in
society. The purpose of this chapter is to analyse more closely Possamai’s
hyper-real religion theory by revisiting Baudrillard’s hyper-reality theory
and its articulation in what he refers to as ‘integral reality.’ This will allow us
to bring forward a critical point of view on hyper-real religion as a concept
by demonstrating that it is more a re-interpretation than a re-adaptation
in Baudrillard’s case. The fundamental question of this chapter being, is
this re-interpretation of Baudrillard’s hyper-reality theory a valid one?
The first part of this chapter will attempt to define Baudrillard’s hyper-
reality concept, and then compare it to Possamai’s re-interpretation into
hyper-real religions by discussing the seduction of simulation in hyper-real
religions. The core of the chapter will bring forward a more critical point
of view on the concept of hyper-real religion itself through Baudrillard’s
writings and explain what hyper-real religion is. The third part of the
chapter will portray religious fundamentalism as a reaction to integral
reality and link it as another type of resistance to hyper-real religion. A
more critical point of view on Baudrillard and Possamai’s theories about
fundamentalism will be developed in the fourth section of this chapter.
I will develop a new concept based on a re-interpretation of Baudrillard’s
work: integral religion. I will conclude this chapter by explaining why the
hyper-real religion concept is relevant to a rigorous analysis of the many
new spiritual movements flourishing in Western societies.
1
As a predominantly French-speaking bilingual author, I think that most translations
of Jean Baudrillard’s work do not adequately transmit his thought. I have therefore chosen
for this chapter to freely translate Baudrillard’s ideas from the original French versions of
his books.
24 martin geoffroy
What are Hyper-reality and Hyper-real Religion?
For Baudrillard (1981), hyper-reality is what appears to be more real than

reality itself. For instance, the physical violence delivered every day via
all manner of broadcast is more real to us than actual violence, which
we practically never see in our daily lives. Thus, hyper-real violence is
much more common in Western culture than real violence. The simula-
tion of violence has taken over real violence in terms of their representa-
tion in the culture. American professional wrestling companies like World
Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) are a good example of the violence sim-
ulation described by Baudrillard. The wrestlers simulate violence every
week on television in an elaborate scenario based on a sacralised quest
for power, prestige and supremacy. Many of them have crosses on their
costumes, and some wrestlers simulate archetypal characters like ‘Death,’
as the ‘Undertaker’ has done with great success for the last twenty years.
WWE is the perfect illustration of the implosion of medium with reality
described by Baudrillard; there is a lot of information but it has no mean-
ing in reality, only in what they call the ‘WWE universe.’
Throughout his career and until his death in 2007, Baudrillard applied
this hyper-reality conceptualisation to a variety of topics such as contem-
porary art, architecture and especially mass media, almost always from
a very critically negative point of view. Strangely, he never applied it to
religion or spirituality. Even if he was considered at the end of his career
to be a post-modern thinker, Baudrillard began his career in the 1960s
with a somewhat Marxist critique of consumption society. It is probably
his historic materialism background that prompted the French sociolo-
gist to declare early in his life that “God is dead.” In one of his last works
Baudrillard (2004: 15) maintained that “the disappearance of God leads
to the realisation of the world” and that this undertaking puts us on the
road to what he calls ‘integral reality.’ This chapter will later explain the
concept of integral reality; suffice for now to say that hyper-real religions
would certainly be for Baudrillard a by-product of the integral realisation
of happiness. But it is surely hard to believe that Baudrillard would agree
with what Possamai calls a ‘re-adaption’ of his hyper-reality concept as
applied to religion in the contemporary world. It is clear that in the opin-
ion of the French sociologist religion has been out of the hyper-reality
picture for a long time. In fact, he said that “the disappearance of God
has left us facing reality” (Baudrillard 2004: 14) and that hyper-reality
has now replaced reality altogether. For him, religion would probably
be an illusion of modernity and it would be impossible for it to exist in
hyper-real religion and baudrillard’s integral reality 25
hyper-reality, because our present value system excludes all forms of pre-
destination of evil (Baudrillard 2004). Without the metaphysical presence
of God and the Devil battling in the heavens for our souls, Baudrillard
(2004) maintained that there is no more mythological presence of Evil in
the world: that hyper-reality is pushed to its limits and falls into integral
reality. So it is unclear how hyper-real religion can be a re-adaptation of
Baudrillard’s concept when he does not acknowledge the existence of reli-
gion itself in his work.
But what does Possamai consider to be a hyper-real religion? “By hyper-
real religion I thus refer to a simulacrum of a religion partly created out
of popular culture which provides inspiration for believers/consumers at
a metaphorical level” (Possamai 2005: 79). For Baudrillard, popular cul-
ture is nothing more than a form of alienation and cannot be a source of
inspiration at any metaphorical level. So, it would be much more accurate
to characterise Possamai’s conceptualisation as a re-interpretation than as
a re-adaptation of Baudrillard’s concept of hyper-reality. Indeed, it seems
logical to qualify hyper-real religion as a simulacrum of religion that func-
tions at a metaphorical level, but what happens when these metaphors
are thought no longer to exist? Baudrillard argues that the virtual world
does not have any consciousness of its own illusions, and since most of
Possamai’s examples of popular culture exist only in cyberspace (e.g.,
Jediism) it is difficult to believe the claim that the original concept of
hyper-reality can be adapted to fit the purpose of studying religion and
spirituality in the contemporary (cyber) world. It has to be re-interpreted
in a broader theoretical frame that would be closer to Melucci’s (1996)
culture codes analysis, for example, than Baudrillard’s very bleak view on
the subject. We could consider then that hyper-real religions are guided
by metaphorical culture codes concerning questions of ultimate mean-
ing. It is clear to me that Possamai perceives hyper-real religions more
as developing cultural resources than as mere illusions that have been
disappearing for a long while. I think that English sociologist James A.
Beckford’s (2003) classic theories on religion as a cultural resource would
be more helpful in describing hyper-real religions than Baudrillard’s some-
what ambiguous position on the question. Hyper-real religions seem to
be closer to what Forgues (2009) calls a ‘symbolic activity’ that manifests
when a person embarks on an ‘individualistic path.’ For those who view
religion as a symbolic activity, images of religion have become more real
than religion itself. Symbolic activities preoccupied with imagining or re-
imagining systems of ultimate meaning would be, in this sense, hyper-
real religions. Thomas Luckmann’s (1967) invisible religion theory could
26 martin geoffroy
also have been considered to describe hyper-real religions because of its

concerns for ultimate meaning systems at the metaphorical level and its
description of the displacement of religion from the public to the private
sphere.
Then why should we use Baudrillard’s theories in the composition of
the definition of hyper-real religions? Maybe because the French sociolo-
gist’s writings are easy to re-interpret since they open a lot of theoretical
doors that rarely reveal fully fledged theories, especially on religion. If we
accept the idea of hyper-real religion as a re-interpretation of Baudrillard’s
original vision, then it becomes possible to develop it beyond the impos-
sible application presented by Possamai’s re-adaptation position. If we fol-
low Baudrillard’s idea that modern society is now structured by sign and
symbol and dominated by simulation, we could say that the masses are
not attracted to hyper-real religions because of their inspirational values,
but more for the seduction of simulation itself. The French sociologist once
said that seducing is accepting to die as a reality and produce oneself
as an illusion (Baudrillard 1979). He meant that in order to be seductive,
any object or person would have to present not as it is/they are, but as a
perfect model of itself/themselves. Hyper-reality is thus ruled by the “pre-
cession of simulacrum” (Baudrillard 1981: 10). The hyper-religious person
would be more attracted by the seduction of the simulation of religion
because, according to Baudrillard (2004), religious metaphors do not exist
anymore. Hyper-religion could then be considered as some sort of role-
playing game where the individual is seduced, thus accepting to die as a
reality, in a totally simulated universe, or even a multiverse, as is now said
in the gaming world. Philippe St-Germain (2009) has demonstrated that
players of the classic video game Mortal Kombat have created and are cre-
ating a form of sacred ritual around murdering an opponent. They usually
‘finish’ their adversary by using a secret weapon only known to experts of
the game, thus symbolically separating themselves from the lesser play-
ers and creating for themselves an elite status among other players. For
St-Germain this ritualisation of status through power is mainly inspired
by a form of hyper-real eastern esoterism. Thus, the expert player almost
becomes a god in the virtual multiverse.
For Baudrillard (1981) simulation is now generated by models of reality
without any origin or actual reality. This substitution for reality by the
signs of reality is described by him as hyper-reality. Hyper-reality is opera-
tional, the product of the synthesis of combinatory models. Hyper-reality
happens when the simulacrum of reality succeeds over reality itself. For
Baudrillard (2004) a simulacrum does not hide the truth, but the absence
of truth. He cited the Christian icon as the first form of divinity simula-
crum; the religious icon does not represent divinity, but a model of divin-
ity. In that sense, the image of Jesus with a beard and long hair that we are
familiar with in our Western civilisation is not real, but merely a simula-
crum of divinity, a hyper-real divinity. In a more contemporary example,
which perhaps bears some relation to hyper-real religion, Baudrillard
(1981: 25–26) said that Disneyland is the “miniaturised religious enjoy-
ment” of real Americana. We could extend this description to the many
mega-churches and religious theme parks that exist today in the United
States, like Holy Land in Orlando, Florida, where ‘Jesus Christ’ is crucified
and resurrected six days a week. This ‘living biblical museum’ reproduces
different moments from the Bible on a grand scale, with actors dressing
up as characters from the Holy Book. Baudrillard describes this kind of
process, where the simulacrum of history seems to be more real than his-
tory itself, as ‘retro’ history, a form of hyper-real history. Religious history
can in this sense be considered essentially hyper-real, in that real history
disappears in the shadow of its own simulacrum. From Baudrillard’s point
of view, hyper-real religions would be essentially individualistic because
the imperative to submit to a model no longer exists: the individual has
become the model. In fact, the individual is an integral part of the model.
Baudrillard has illustrated this theory with two very relevant examples:
hyper-museums and hyper-markets. The Contemporary Museum of Paris,
also known as ‘Beaubourg’, is for Baudrillard the ultimate hyper-real con-
struction because it seeks to destroy contemporary art by submitting it
to consumption and manipulation by the masses. The masse circulates
through the museum without any understanding for contemporary art.
When the museum is too crowded, one can only circulate in its architec-
tural network of plastic pipes, finding no meaning in the visit other than
the pleasure of being part of a massive event. Baudrillard would certainly
call it a ‘non-event,’ and the museum a “monument of cultural dissua-
sion” (1981: 100). The second example is hyper-markets such as Wal-Mart.
Baudrillard thought that hyper-markets have become a space-time contin-
uum of all the operationalisation of social life, a singular structure of habi-
tat and traffic. The subdivisions of the modern suburb are built around the
shopping mall and the hyper-markets like Carrefour or Wal-Mart. They are
“negative satellites” of the city center that usually bring about the end of
the downtown area. They are “poles of simulation” that attract the masse
into their all consuming orbits (Baudrillard 1981). Mega-churches are very
similar to the description Baudrillard gives of hyper-museums and hyper-
markets because they simulate religion for the masses. Mega-churches’
28 martin geoffroy
architectures are directly inspired by shopping malls and are also usually
situated in suburban areas. They are usually providers of hyper-real reli-
gions, with the few exceptions of some fundamentalist mega-churches.
This discussion leads to my first conclusion: the hyper-real religion con-
cept is a derivative of Baudrillard’s hyper-reality concept, since the French
author never bothered to elaborate a full analysis of religion in his works.
Many theories more appropriate to the analysis of hyper-real religion have
been suggested here but it is clear that, even if Possamai’s description of
hyper-real religions does not fully correspond to Baudrillard’s definition
of hyper-reality, it seems to work as a re-interpretation of hyper-reality. In
the next section, I am going to explain Baudrillard’s integral reality theory
and its application to religion.
Integral Reality: Religion and the Ultimate Accomplishment of the

Self in the “One-dimensional Man”
For Baudrillard (2004), integral reality is brought about by an irreversible

movement of world totalisation. The technical realisation of reality and
its constant performance has created a complete failure of representation
systems. It is this hyper-realisation of all possibilities and their maximum
performance that creates integral reality. And the simulation hypothesis
is perceived as diabolical by the reality integrists. Integral reality is the
murder of reality and loss of any imagination of the real. Furthermore, the
ideal of integral happiness necessitates the sacrifice of life to a functional
existence where the individual is urged to be happy, and to give all the
signs of happiness. Thus, integral reality has created a new religion, the
religion of the accomplishment of the self, a religion where this accom-
plishment is the end itself. But, not unlike in older religions, accomplish-
ment is fast becoming more of an obligation than a choice. This “excess of
liberty,” as Baudrillard would say, creates a contrary impulse in the masses
that directly leads to the implosion of all sociality. Integral reality is the
ultimate accomplishment of system circularity and the masses’ refusal to
participate in this system is characterised by inertia. Power tends to try to
dominate with signs empty of meaning, but the masses resist with their
indifference.
Hyper-real religions are mostly about accomplishment of the self
through the consumption of popular culture (Possamai 2005). In my own
research on the New Age Movement (Geoffroy 1999, 2000), I have found
indeed that this new religion of the self—some would say, with irony, the
self-absorbed—is in many ways a simulation of a religion, especially of

religious rituals. Baudrillard was surely critical of any spirituality based on
the development of the self: he thought that when the quest for the devel-
opment of a personal identity becomes so central, when existence is so
individualised and atomised that any exchange is impossible, individual-
ity becomes a simulacrum of alterity. Individuality is a simulacrum, there
is no real free choice. Since reality was invented by occidental modern
reason, we can only represent objective reality without ever being able
to evaluate its own objectivity. For Baudrillard (2004), objective rational-
ity has replaced religious values, but is only a disenchanted descendant
of the same religious values. God may not be dead yet, he still lives on
in cyberspace. Possamai (2005) maintains that, indeed, it seems that for
these spiritual consumers the real and unreal have imploded and that
this might have created an unclear sense of distinction between them.
Baudrillard believed that virtual reality is a modern fetishism. In the case
of many spiritual consumers, life on the Internet has indeed become more
real than reality itself. Their attachment to virtual reality has created a
quasi-religious form of spiritual fetishism where spirituality is sold as a
commodity. Baudrillard believed that, in virtual reality, images are not
coming from the order of representation, but are characterised by decod-
ing and visual consumption.
We could say that hyper-real religion consumers are worshipping
a model of religion instead of the original because no one can identify
what is true religion anymore. This confusion is caused by the failure of
representation systems due to the development of integral reality. Only
hyper-real religions can truly survive in the spiritual market described
by Possamai and many other authors. But for Baudrillard and Possamai,
fundamentalism may well be the last stronghold of resistance against
the empire of hyper-real religions and integral reality: a ‘negative’ force
against what I have called before the ‘new positive thinking’ (Geoffroy
2000). As Possamai (2006) pointed out, some inspiration for the theorisa-
tion of hyper-real religions can be found in the works of some intellectuals
from the Frankfurt School. From my perspective it can be found mostly
in Herbert Marcuse’s classic One-dimensional Man. For Marcuse (1968),
‘negative thinking’ is characterised by a systematic critique of society. As
a radical critique of advanced industrial society, One-dimensional Man
proposed to demonstrate the different social control mechanisms that
influence the modern individual. Marcuse characterises ‘positive think-
ing’ as a way of thinking reduced to an operational scheme in the service
of the domination of particular interests, which is similar to the positive
30 martin geoffroy
thinking we can find in practically all New Age discourses. The forced
integration of any opposition forces to the dominant way of thinking
imposed by capitalism in our modern society is so advanced, according
to Marcuse, that even liberty can be used as a domination instrument.
The German intellectual believed this liberty of choice is ‘conditioned’ by
the market which is constantly inventing ‘false needs’. These needs can be
found in the many forms of leisure that boost the ego, thus giving the illu-
sion of liberty of choice. What Possamai describes as hyper-real religions
could very well correspond to what Marcuse defined as ‘positive thinking’
that uses technology to intrude more efficiently into the private sphere
of the individual, thus creating the illusion that spiritual mass consump-
tion is vital to life. In our Western societies, freedom of expression and
liberty of choice in the religious market are valued as sacred. The mere
act of describing religion as a product confirms that all forces opposed to
production are now absorbed by the market. The ‘negative attitude’, as
Marcuse called it, is thus perceived as an illness that must be cured. In
the fifties, in an essay on Freud’s psychoanalysis, Marcuse was criticising
the neo-Freudian school for prescribing social adaptation through therapy
(Marcuse 1955). In today’s individualist and personal growth oriented cul-
ture, it seems obvious that a person is basically judged on his or her emo-
tional performance. New Age therapies such as neo-reiki or channelling
are often used in today’s corporate businesses for controlling emotions.
Expressing emotions is always permitted in the workplace, but only in the
context of a personal growth objective, which goal is a subtle integration
to consumer society. The emotional performance is the result of a ‘new
positive thought’ that assumes it can cure the world of its wound by feed-
ing it with a pseudo-cosmic conscience, what Marcuse called ‘happy con-
science’. For Marcuse, today’s religious pluralism would be just an illusion
hiding the fact that this pluralist administration is still seeking to control
and impose conformity upon the masses. In advanced industrial societies,
the individual is forced to conform to a happy conscience, which prevents
her/him from questioning the social system and thus liquidates all opposi-
tional cultural elements. For Marcuse, mass communications are reducing
art to market product. Indeed, religion on the Internet is reduced to a
commodity like any other; it would have no more nor less transcendental
value from Marcuse’s point of view.
Baudrillard goes much further because, unlike Marcuse, he thought
masses are not alienated, but are in fact responding to oppression with
their absence of response. Marcuse’s critical thinking can only work on
the presupposition that masses are naïve and stupid, but Baudrillard
simply gave them more credit than Marcuse; Baudrillard believed that the
non-responsive masses are deliberately provoking the implosion of the
social system by plunging it into an endless circularity of the same hyper-
real models. In integral reality, there are no more images because they are
exploited as products. To illustrate his integral reality concept, Baudrillard
continued his ongoing negative critique of contemporary art by saying that
art has just become a community of artists talking about themselves: only
interface and performance counts in integral reality. And the same could
apply to religion. Integral religion could be a religion where networks of
individuals are talking about each other, mostly but not exclusively about
questions related to ultimate meaning. The interface between different
networks, Facebook for example, permits the exercise of this performance
of religion. Integral religion is definitely a performance religion where the
value of symbolic numbers is more important than a real moral impact.
The measurement of the performance of the interface with reality is more
important than the existence of reality itself.
In this section, I have explained that Baudrillard’s integral reality con-
cept is characterised by the technical realisation of reality in the virtual
world. The world totalisation and domination of the computer binary
model has taken over reality and provoked a major failure of all repre-
sentation systems, including all systems concerning questions of ultimate
meaning. For Baudrillard, integral reality has no inherent meaning; it is
only an orbital circulation of models of reality. Integral religion would
then be a religion without any meaning other than that given to it by the
masses who manipulate and use its symbols. Jediism could be described
as an integral religion because it is totally created and manipulated by
the masses for their entertainment purposes. Jediism is also an integral
religion because it works in a completely fantasized world that has no
link with reality. Integral religion is an invention that surpasses all other
religions in its ability to convey self-realisation. It is completely individu-
alistic, but paradoxically needs an audience, albeit a virtual one, in order
to function.
Fundamentalism as a Reaction to Integral Reality
In this multiverse where the individual can become an avatar of herself/

himself in a system of general exchange, there is a growing contradic-
tory impulse, a resistance to this totalisation of freedom equal in force
to the deregulation it has brought upon the world. Baudrillard (2004)
32 martin geoffroy
explained that this negative force could only come from a passion for the
rule, any kind of rule. Paradoxically, that is why religious fundamentalism
endures in contemporary society, as a negative reaction to the empire of
self-help forced upon us by integral reality. Indeed, many individuals still
refuse to accept the unending quest for ultimate liberty and self-realisa-
tion set upon them by integral reality; fundamentalism is therefore their
only refuge. For Baudrillard (2004), when there is no more possibility of
dialectic resolution of conflict, a growing struggle is produced between
extremes. These extremes, the ultimate realisation of the self and fun-
damentalism, are in fact two sides of same coin. They are religion at its
extremes (Geoffroy 2004, 2009). Possamai (2005) argues that fundamen-
talist groups are hypo-consuming their way through integral reality by
firmly restricting consumption inside the boundaries of religious dogma.
This hypo-consumption tenders an acceptable selection of popular cul-
ture to members of fundamentalist churches. Good examples might be
found in many Protestant fundamentalist and Catholic integrist groups2
that restrict or forbid their members any use of modern communication
devices like television or computers. For many of these groups, these
devices are the instruments of the Devil. Quebec’s St-Michael Pilgrims,3
a Catholic fringe movement that defends the integrality of the Catholic
doctrine, is an example of a group resisting all manner of modern com-
munication devices like television, computers, cell phones and radios.
Since they cannot control all media anymore, they selectively restrict all
access to media except their own output. In their case, the only media
they allow are their newspaper Michael, their auto-published books and
their website. They are hypo-religious because of their non-participation
in the dominant model of hyper-real religion. They must strictly obey the
rules and regulations of their religious movement and renounce many lib-
erties of modern life. They are not bound by their individual pleasure but
by their duty to their group.
But Baudrillard’s theory about all forms of fundamentalism being oppo-
sitional forces to the completion of integral reality is far from flawless. For
example, in the case of Catholic integrist groups Baudrillard’s theory can
2
For a distinction between fundamentalism and integrism, see Geoffroy (2010).
3
The Pilgrims of St-Michael is a Canadian Catholic movement founded in Montreal in
the 1930s by Gilberte Côté-Mercier. It is an integralist-traditionalist fringe group based in
Rougemont, Québec and still functions inside the Roman Catholic Church rule. It fiercely
advocates Major Douglas’s social credit political doctrine. For more details see Geoffroy
(1998; 2010).
be applied mostly to traditionalist-integralist groups, like the Pilgrims of

St-Michael, because these groups usually stick fiercely to tradition. But it
is more difficult to apply it to mystical-esoteric groups, like the Army of
Mary,4 for instance. This group relies enormously on a re-interpretation
and a mix of classic Catholic myths with esoteric and mystical traditions.
And since they are constantly manipulating metaphors to confirm the
charisma and divinity of their leader, they could very well be a funda-
mentalist hyper-real religion. In this case, I think Possamai’s hypo-religion
concept is more adapted and applicable to most fundamentalist groups
than are Baudrillard’s theories, because practically all fundamentalist and
integrist groups practice one form or another of selective and restrictive
consumption, thus confirming Possamai’s theory that they are hypo-reli-
gious because of their hypo-consumption. This is the case of the Army
of Mary, who gives absolutely no credit to all media and opinion coming
from the ‘outside’ world or even to the Catholic Church, especially since
2007 when they were excommunicated. But fundamentalism and integ-
rism cannot be integral religions because they are based not on hedonist
and individualistic values but on strict dogma and rule.
Explaining New Religious Movements as Hyper-real Religions:

A Critical Point of View
The purpose of this chapter was to provoke the beginning of a discussion

about Possamai’s theorising of hyper-real religions, with a more critical
point of view concerning how he has used Baudrillard’s work, and also
to examine the links between Baudrillard’s theory and Marcuse’s One-
dimensional Man. I have demonstrated that the hyper-real religion con-
cept is a derivative re-interpretation of Baudrillard’s hyper-reality concept.
I have also shown that Baudrillard’s integral reality has brought forth the
advent of integral religion.
It seems to me that all hyper-real religions are performance based, and
that, as elaborated in this chapter, endless performance and total realisa-
tion are the trademarks of integral reality. But as I have also demonstrated
4
The Army of Mary is a Canadian group founded in Quebec City in the sixties by Marie-
Paule Giguère. It is a Catholic mystical-esoteric group based in Lac-Etchemin, Quebec,
whose members submitted to the Roman Catholic Church rule until 2007, when they were
formally excommunicated from the Church because of their fundamental belief that their
leader Marie-Paule Giguère is “the terrestrial reincarnation of the Virgin Mary.” For more
details see Geoffroy (2001; 2010).
34 martin geoffroy
in this chapter, it is usually impossible to adapt Baudrillard’s theory to fit

a purpose such as explaining the existence of new religious movements
in contemporary society, because of the heuristic complexities inherent
in the French philosopher’s work. However, the possibilities for diverse
interpretations of Baudrillard’s work are endless and his theories can cer-
tainly be useful when they are used as a descriptive tool relating to an
empiric reality, as is the case with most of Possamai’s work. In this sense,
Possamai (2005) has certainly reached his objective: to develop what he
calls a Weberian approach which views social actors as agents, but as still
carried by socio-cultural forces. But Possamai’s concept is certainly not an
adaptation of Baudrillard’s theory; it is a valid interpretation applied to a
social topic, religion, which the French philosopher never took seriously
throughout his career.
I remain critical of all market-based theories concerning religion, espe-
cially new forms of spiritualities. I am not convinced that all metaphors
can be sold as commodities. Still, I agree with Possamai that these alterna-
tive networks have potential in creating a form of spiritual emancipation
that could reside outside the market and in the human power of imagina-
tion. This theory remains to be clearly demonstrated and I’m quite sure
Baudrillard would disagree with us, because he denies the very existence
of imagination in his integral reality theory.
References
Baudrillard, J. 1970. La Société de Consommation. Paris: Gallimard.

——. 1979. De la Séduction, Paris: Gallimard.
——. 1981. Simulacre et Simulations. Paris: Gallimard.
——. 2004. Le Pacte de lucidité ou l’intelligence du Mal. Paris: Galilée.
Beckford, J. A. 2003. Social Theory and Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Forgues, É. 2009. L’activité symbolique, la formation de soi et la société. Paris: L’Harmattan.
Geoffroy, M. 1999. “Pour une typologie du nouvel âge.” Cahiers de recherche sociologique.
33, 51–83.
——. 2000. “Le processus d’institutionnalisation du mouvement du nouvel âge.” Religio
logiques. 22, 57–71.
——. 2000. “Marcuse et la nouvelle pensée positive.” Possibles. 24:2, 98–112.
——. 2001. “Le mouvement du nouvel âge.” In J.-M. Larouche and G. Ménard, ed., L’étude
de la religion au Québec. Bilan et prospective. Québec: Presses de l’Université Laval,
227–235.
——. 2004. “Theorizing Religion in the Global Age: A Typological Analysis.” International
Journal of Politics, Culture and Society. 18:1–2, 33–46.
——. 2010. “L’intégrisme catholique et le fondamentalisme protestant.” In S. Lefebvre, and
R. Crépeau, ed., Les religions sur la sphère mondiale. Québec: Presses de l’Université de
Laval, 59–79.
Geoffroy, M. and J.-G. Vaillancourt. 2008. “Les Bérets Blancs à la croisée des chemins.” In
B. Ouellet and R. Bergeron, ed., Croyances et sociétés. Montréal: Fides, 173–185.
——. 2001. “Les groupes intégristes catholiques. Un danger pour les institutions sociales?”
In J. Duhaime and G.-R. St-Arnaud, ed., La Peur des Sectes. Montréal: Fides, 127–141.
——. eds., 2009. La religion à l’extrême. Montréal: MédiasPaul.
Marcuse, H. 1968. L’homme unidimensionnel. Paris: Minuit.
——. 1955. Éros et civilisation. Paris: Minuit.
Melucci, A. 1996. Challenging Codes: Collective Action in the Information Age. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
Possamai, A. 2005. Religion and Popular Culture: A Hyper-Real Testament. New York: Peter
Lang.
St-Germain, P. 2009. “Les dimension du secret: violence et sacralité dans les jeux de
combat.” In M. Geoffroy and J.-G. Vaillancourt, ed., La religion à l’extrême. Montréal:
MédiasPaul, 101–124.
PART one
20TH CENTURY CASE STUDIES OF HYPER-REAL RELIGIONS

Occultural Bricolage and Popular Culture:
Remix and Art in Discordianism, the Church of the
SubGenius, and the Temple of Psychick Youth
Danielle Kirby
Introduction
Religious and spiritual bricolage is a common feature of contemporary

religiosity, be it mainstream or alternative. The juxtaposition of other-
wise disparate ideas and beliefs has, in recent years, moved beyond the
traditional spheres of religion and now encompasses a raft of material
previously thought of as unequivocally secular. This interweaving of the
spiritual and the popular has given rise to new forms of religiosity, much
of which defies traditional understandings of the sacred. While the recent
popularisation of the Internet has meant that such practices are now most
commonly viewed within a digital context, these alternative spiritual bri-
coleurs are by no means limited to, or necessarily created by, the bur-
geoning digital world. Three such spiritual or metaphysical groups that
heavily engage with popular cultures and occultural bricolage that pre-
date the mass adoption of the Internet are the Discordians, the Church of
the SubGenius, and the Temple of Psychick Youth.
The proximity of the sacred to the popular has on occasion been
approached somewhat dismissively within the late modern world, and is
often supposed to suggest a lack of genuine religious sentiment on behalf
of participants (Partridge 2004b: 122–123). Such a critical perspective is
often reinforced by the conflation of contemporary spiritual participants
as simply passive consumers of cultural products. The Discordians, the
Church of the SubGenius and the Temple of Psychick Youth are particularly
interesting within this context in that they all engage with popular culture
content in ways that instead highlight active participation and engage-
ment. Coming from broadly similar locations within the occultural world,
these groups demonstrate a variety of methods of engaging with popular
culture that range from the juxtaposition of numerous texts through to
the creation of public art. As in many cases of alternative spirituality, the
spiritual and popular content and context in these cases cannot be disen-
tangled, and in fact are at least to a degree mutually constitutive. Further,
it has been acknowledged that popular culture both functions as a forum
for the exploration of spiritual ideas and provides the source material for
40 danielle kirby
beliefs (Partridge 2004a: 54–56). So rather than focusing on the latter point,
this chapter will explore the former through the particular instances of
Discordianism, The Church of the SubGenius, and the Temple of Psychick
Youth. This chapter primarily seeks to expand our notion of popular cul-
ture-based spirituality by illustrating some of the ways in which spiritual
participants create, rather than consume, popular culture artefacts.
Popular Culture and Consumption
Possamai (2007: 1–2) has described hyper-real religions as “religions and

spirituality that mix elements from religious traditions with popular cul-
ture . . . These hyper-real religions are a simulacrum of a religion partly
created out of popular culture which provides inspiration for believers/
consumers.” This description clearly delineates the field of engagement of
hyper-real religions: they are spiritualities with significant popular culture
content. Generally speaking, beliefs such as Jediism, Matrixism, or various
Paganisms tend to exemplify this type of spiritual behaviour, most notably
in that they take popular cultural artefacts and integrate them into a spiri-
tual framework. However, implicit in this model is the construction of the
spiritual seeker as consumer and/or audience member, receiving the text
in a kind of secularised parallel to more traditional religious revelation,
albeit received in these cases from the creators of media content rather
than a deity.
[T]exts are consumed by the reader, construct who the reader is, and (re)
define the reader’s self in his or her involvement in this culture of desire. If
malls are crowded with shoppers who construct their sense of self through
buying commodities . . . spiritual consumers construct their sense of self
through consuming popular culture. (Possamai 2005: 66)
With regards to popular cultural engagement in general, and postmodern
religion specifically, this unidirectional model is becoming less and less sat-
isfactory as a mechanism to describe actual behaviours, most particularly
when viewed in relation to online engagement. The staggering increase in
both the creation and acknowledgement of user generated content (Ritzer
2010), for instance, is a clear indication that such static frameworks do not
parallel actual practice for many. In a recent work, Lessig (2008) notes
the relationship between what he terms read-only and read/write cul-
tures. The former, read only culture, denotes a unidirectional framework
of cultural participation. In this model, professional artists create works
that are disseminated through official channels to the audience. When
occultural bricolage and popular culture 41
structured like this, cultural production effectively requires the recipient

of the cultural artefact to be a passive receiver, a contented beneficiary
of tailored artistic expression. This is not, of course, to suggest that the
role of an audience member is passive in terms of meaning making, but
rather simply that this model assumes that the text as a complete artefact
is received as an endpoint by the audience. Variants then are produced in
terms of interpretation, not through active alteration, extension, or recre-
ation of the text itself. On the other hand, the read/write structure is one
far more mutual in its forms of engagement and less strict in adherence
to an either/or approach to cultural roles. In such a structure, there is no
reason why an audience member cannot also be a creator, or re-creator,
of cultural product. The twentieth century has largely been dominated
by read only culture, but this habit has been reversed with the arrival
of the Internet and other modern media. “This new vernacular culture
encourages broad participation, grassroots creativity, and a bartering or
gift economy. This is what happens when consumers take media into their
own hands” ( Jenkins 2006: 136).
The process of creation rather than consumption warrants attention
within the milieu of popular culture-based religiosity, if only as a mecha-
nism through which to balance a scholarly understanding of such pro-
cesses. Further, it seems a reasonable proposal that framing analysis
through the notion of consumption brings with it all the derogatory bag-
gage this notion has accrued in recent years. Cultural consumption, of
music, art, film, literature and so on, are central to the leisure pursuits of
western society and there is no basis upon which to denigrate this pro-
cess per se. Capitalism is currently the mechanism by which such things
operate, and to critique on this basis renders the majority of the practices
of the western world vulnerable to the same evaluation. Tacit in much
analysis of this sort is a hidden elitism that harks back to the high and
low culture divisions of earlier times. Such static hierarchies of quality
are not only out of date, but they also deny the complexities of appre-
ciation and engagement as they occur within the contemporary western
world. Beyond this, however, locating the element of consumption as the
central factor of popular culture related beliefs can place the emphasis
on inappropriate aspects of these beliefs and further tends to occlude the
personal meaning and creativity inherent within such stances.
It therefore seems a valid undertaking to explore some metaphysical
positions that imbricate popular culture and spirituality and yet shift
the emphasis away from the traditional conflation of the participant as
consumer. This chapter seeks to demonstrate that the relationship
42 danielle kirby
between spiritual engagement and popular culture, the realm of hyper-

real religion, is not simply constituted through the consumption of texts
but rather constitutes a more complex field of endeavour which includes
active engagement and textual creation. By exploring some alternative
aspects of the hyper-real, it is hoped that we may open the way for a
repositioning of the role of consumption in hyper-real religions. The
Discordians, the Church of the SubGenius, and the Temple of Psychick
Youth, as with many other spiritualities, do not simply consume popular
culture, they are also the creators and recontextualisers of it.
Narrowing the gaze somewhat, it is also important to note that there
is a wide variety in the specific manner in which spiritual questers imbri-
cate their spirituality and the particular elements of their popular culture.
While this chapter looks particularly at self-publishing, remix and perfor-
mance as especially creative and participatory techniques, there are many
more methods that popular spiritualities rely on and utilise. Groups like
the Otherkin (Kirby 2009) for instance, may sometimes transpose specific
elements from popular culture narrative into alternative frameworks not
necessarily indicated in the original context. Such transposition can be
selective and may, for instance, mean a belief in dragons of a Tolkienesque
nature without the concomitant belief in the existence of Middle-earth.1
Alternatively, others may harvest their source material for an overriding
ethic or philosophy without particularly asserting the actuality of the cre-
ated world itself: Jediism (Possamai 2005) and the Church of All Worlds
(Cusack 2010) are good examples of this type of approach. Both these
groups demonstrate a sincere and abiding respect for the philosophies
contained respectively within Star Wars (Lucas 1977) and A Stranger in a
Strange Land (Heinlein 1961), but the relationship is sometimes less of a
specific borrowing than an acknowledged source of inspiration.
These methods, the transposition of textual elements outside of origi-
nal contexts and using the text as philosophical support, are but two of a
plethora of approaches available to the spiritual bricoleur engaging with
popular culture. Both of the above examples work in broadly similar ways,
in that the text is received as a finished product, and then reappropri-
ated at the discretion of participants. Examples such as remix and original
artistic creation, as will be explored below, rather shift the emphasis more
towards the authorial role. Discordianism, the Church of the SubGenius,
and the Temple of Psychick Youth demonstrate, in a sense, the flipside
Middle-earth is the world in which J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings is set.
1
of the hyper-real, where they create, rather than consume, contemporary

popular culture in the practice of their spirituality.
It should also be noted that the Church of the SubGenius and
Discordianism have traditionally been dismissed as joke religions by the
academy.2 From a certain point of view this attitude is perfectly valid, in
as much as humour and an ironic sense of the world is utterly central
to these philosophies. Scholars of religion tend to look to the passionate
seriousness of the participant as the measure of religious sincerity. This
is understandable in light of the methodological issues that confront the
scholar of religions, and, to a degree, is in line with phenomenological
approaches that prioritise the experience of the participant and there-
fore necessarily rely upon the expressions of religiosity as portrayed. We
assume, in the face of a multitude of different forms of religiosity, that it is
only in so far as the participant is incapable of heretical self-depreciation
or, to use the traditional word, blasphemy, that such an individual’s beliefs
are genuine and worthy of respect. Approaches such as this simply do not
function in the westernised late modern world, and even less so in rela-
tion to the younger generations and their spiritual and/or religious atti-
tudes (Beaudoin 1998). Irony culture is now essentially entrenched within
everyday communication, particularly noticeable in an online context,
and this affects all aspects of every day life. To assume that individuals,
who generally treat their experience as ironic, would suddenly achieve
some solemnity and sincerity in relation to their spiritual beliefs is simply
ridiculous. As Droogers (2004: 138) has so insightfully pointed out, “ ‘play-
ful’ and ‘serious’ are not necessarily opposites.”
Unfortunately though, the demarcation of these and other like beliefs
as simply sophisticated jokes has meant that the underlying substance to
the various philosophies has often been overlooked or simply ignored. In
terms of classification, Discordians and the Church of the SubGenius, I
would argue, are religions or spiritualities masquerading as a joke rather
than the other way around. They are also spiritual/magical manifestations
of a broader cultural shift towards irony and irreverence that is by no
means limited to spiritual endeavours, but rather has become an inte-
gral element in contemporary western society. It has been pointed out
that post-modern parody “both legitimises and subverts that which it
parodies” (Hutcheon 2002: 101). Irony, then, often offers a sign of
2
See Cusack (2010). This text provides a detailed exploration of Discordianism and the
Church of the SubGenius, amongst others.
44 danielle kirby
self-conscious legitimation of the views of participants, and this certainly

appears to be the case here.
Irrespective of the technical classification of these groups, however,
they are integral elements of contemporary occulture, both in their own
right and as source material for other occultural practices. Occulture, in
its simplest definition, refers to “often hidden, rejected and oppositional
beliefs and practices associated with esotericism, theosophy, mysticism,
New Age, Paganism, and a range of other subcultural beliefs and practices”
(Partridge 2004: 68). Discordianism and the Church of the SubGenius are
clearly ideologically continuous with one another, whereas the Temple
of Psychick Youth is philosophically quite distinct from the other two.
All three, however, resonate strongly with the left hand path magical and
occultist traditions. Indeed, their various public texts can all be considered
to be magical texts par excellence. Further, at root they all share a belief
in breaking down normative modes of thought and practice, which is evi-
dent across all their various endeavours. Finally, while these groups have
all migrated online since the popularisation of the Internet, it should be
noted that they previously existed comfortably offline as well. Their texts,
though perhaps best understood in relation to the more recent broad cul-
tural practices of digital media, nonetheless predate mass expansion of
such practices. These groups can thus be seen as early articulations, if not
seminal exemplars, not only of popular culture-based religiosity, but also
of the tendencies of contemporary digital culture.
Discordianism
We are a tribe of philosophers, theologians, magicians, scientists, art-

ists, clowns, and similar maniacs who are intrigued with Eris Goddess of
Confusion and with her Doings. ( Jackson 1994: 1)
Discordianism has been a persistently present, if somewhat unusual,
metaphysical movement since the 1950s (Cusack 2010; Doherty 2004).
Originally developed by Kerry Thornley and Greg Hill, Discordianism
combines various Buddhist and Pagan ideologies within a bricolage com-
prised of mythology, chaos, conspiracy theories, numerology, and anything
else they deem appropriate. Discordianism is most clearly premised in a
fundamentally absurdist approach to the world with a deep and abiding
investment in ontological terrorism. Practice is utterly personal, as indeed
is affiliation, but there is a clear emphasis upon transgression, most
evident through their use of subversive humour in their literatures, public
interventions, and practices.
Discordianism is, at the core, a religion of liberation. Mal-2, Omar and Mord
devised a creed where all restrictions were to be violated, all standards over-
turned, and all expectations disappointed. (Cusack 2010: 49)
In addition to Paganism and Buddhism, Discordian thought is heavily
indebted to artistic movements such as Surrealism and Dada, and stands
as a clear instance of ontological anarchy as lived experience. Articles
of the (possibly non) faith include the sovereignty of the goddess Eris,
the malevolence of the Illuminati, the law of fives, and the supremacy
and general desirability of chaos. Discordians gleefully assert that every-
one is a pope, and generally encourage both pranks and utter personal
liberation.
If you want in on the Discordian Society
Then declare yourself what you wish
Do what you like
And tell us about it
Or
If you prefer
Don’t ( Jackson 1994: 32)
In practice, Discordianism often imbricates with other religious, spiritual,
and magical areas of engagement. The continuities are most clearly evi-
dent within the Neo-Pagan movement and the practice of magic, particu-
larly chaos magic. It should be understood that one may be, for instance,
a Pagan and a Discordian, or a magician of an Erisian bent. It is also worth
noting that both the Church of the SubGenius and the Temple of Psychick
Youth are similarly flexible. Like many elements of the occultural world,
these ideas tend to support, rather than exclude, one another.
The Principia Discordia—’Zines and KopyLeft
There are two particular Discordian texts worth mentioning here: the
Principia Discordia and the Illuminatus! Trilogy (Wilson 1975). The Principia
Discordia is the original manifesto of the Discordians. The content ranges
from the absurd to the sublime, and is simply a collection of Discordian
thoughts, ramblings and so on. Originally written by Malcalypse the
Younger and Lord Omar Khayyam Ravenhurst (the Discordian personas
of Greg Hill and Kerry Thornley), the text exhibits a kind of profound
countercultural zen, with textual assertions such as “a Discordian is
Prohibited from Believing What he Reads” (Jackson 1994: 4) and quota-
tions such as “King Kong died for your sins” (Ravenhurst 2006: 48) allow-
ing for some insight into the metaphysic. The Principia Discordia was
46 danielle kirby
originally a photocopied collection primarily written and collated by Greg

Hill (Cusack 2010), which has, fifty years later, still maintained circulation
and is indeed in print in a number of locations. It is also freely available
online, as is associated Discordian material.
The other particularly important text of the Discordians is the The
Illuminatus! Trilogy. This cult science fiction novel effectively popular-
ised the Discordians when it was released in the mid 1970s (Magrathea
2003), and placed their philosophies in a slightly more accessible narrative
form. The text is framed as an instance in the eternal struggle between the
Erisian movement and the Illuminati, albeit in an extraordinarily com-
plex and convoluted form. In the context of the Illuminatus! books, the
Illuminati represent those for the forces of order, the technocracy and so
on, whereas the Erisian movement is for chaos and discord. The Illuminatus
trilogy takes the Principia Discordia, and incorporates the overall content
as well as using it as a text which exists, and is quoted, within the book.
It weaves Discordian content into an intricate web that includes Atlantis,
police drama, the history and conspiracy theories around the Bavarian
Illuminati,3 dolphin intelligence, magic, the contemporary mythology of
John Dillinger and a great many other things. Over thirty years since its
publication, the trilogy is still extremely popular, and maintains a signifi-
cant following, as does its Discordian and occultist author, the late Robert
Anton Wilson.
Leaving aside the fact that both of these texts are very much popular
culture documents in their own right, it is also worth looking at some of
the particulars of the Principia Discordia. Since its inception, the Principia
Discordia has been, and remains, a public domain document, with the
original authors eschewing traditional copyright for their more idiosyn-
cratic KopyLeft. In the contemporary digital world we are becoming
increasingly familiar with these sorts of texts, from creative commons
3
The Illuminati, apparently, did actually formally exist from 1776 to 1787, when, after
receiving unwanted government attention, it was shut down (Barkun 2003: 48–49). The
stated goal of the group was the destruction or removal of institutionalised political and
religious authority, and they invested deeply in complex schemes to both avoid notice and
develop a select core able to enact the group’s goals. At its largest, the Bavarian Illuminati
numbered approximately 2500 members. With other sporadic resurgences linked closely
with anti-Semitism, the belief in the Illuminati conspiracy resurfaced most recently in the
late 1950s, with the development of the John Birch Society (Barkun 2003: 50). It is worth
mentioning the provenance of the conspiracy as it has developed into one of the most
well-known and enduring conspiracies of the West, and has become a significant subcul-
tural and occultural theme.
through to popularly known structures such as wikis, as well as with less

generalist practices such as the publication of source code. Within the
context of Discordianism, this has resulted in the existence of many differ-
ent versions of the Principia Discordia in both digital form and hard copy.
While they all share the same core texts of the original Principia, any given
editor may choose to remove or add text as desired.
Discordianism and the concept of KopyLeft go hand in hand. Although
just a small part of the counter-culture gestalt, I believe that the Principia
Discordia was probably one of the earliest expressions and strongest
champions of this idea, which has since seen such concepts as the “Open
Source Software” initiative, with endeavours such as the Linux Operating
System. Remember: if it’s not KopyLeft, it’s not Discordian. This concept
is at Discordia’s very heart, ye and its spleen, gonads and pineal gland. Or
something. I remember stumbling across the Discordian internet site some
meatboy had constructed and copyrighted—I laughed and laughed and
laughed at the sad-arsed bastard. No doubt Eris will accordingly soften him
sorely. (Swabey 2002)
What is fascinating in this context is that such a process, at least to a
degree, actively encourages participants to engage with the creation and
extension of the text itself, not just necessarily supporting replication
of the content. In thus engaging, Discordians have effectively created
an ongoing, perpetually developing public text that has itself been the
source of inspiration for other popular culture texts, not to mention a
raft of idiosyncratic religious and spiritual practices. The most obvious
and direct instance is the Illuminatus! trilogy discussed above, but this
is but one of many examples of this process. The version of the Principia
Discordia quoted here, for instance, was published at the whim of a games
company who loved the text and wanted to make it available. In addition
to the material from earlier versions, they have also included more recent
Discordian content. That games company in turn has created specifically
Discordian games that are available for purchase.
While the Principia Discordia has now been reproduced a number
of times in both hard and electronic copy, it is also of interest that the
original version was initially created as a ’zine. ’Zines are self-published,
often photocopied or hand made works that are generally created and
distributed outside of usual commercial channels (Poletti 2008). Already
acknowledged as a significant, if underground, movement in the 1980s
(Zweig 1998), ’zines have continued to hold their appeal and still con-
stitute a present and active part of contemporary popular culture. Key
notions generally present within the production of ’zines and the cultures
48 danielle kirby
surrounding them include DIY approaches, strong positions against mass

production, and the de-emphasis of marketability. There is also an estab-
lished culture of exchange or gifting, and an intensely personal and idio-
syncratic approach to content.
Zines . . . have never tried to be a profitable commodity and this is, in part,
what has kept them vital. They are usually traded or sold at cost through a
vast underground network of other zine makers and zine readers. (Zweig
1998: 4)
The focus upon public domain texts as iterated through the Principia
Discordia and the broader notion of KopyLeft, and the grassroots anti-
commodification ethic of ’zine cultures both emphasise a participatory,
rather than consumer, culture. While undeniably a part of contempo-
rary popular culture, the underlying orientation of Discordians is away
from consumption, and towards personal participation and individual
creation.
There are three particular points that the Principia Discordia and the
Illuminatus! trilogy demonstrate regarding the Discordian relationship
to popular culture. Firstly, the texts themselves are manifestations of the
practice of the Discordian philosophy. Certainly the content and struc-
ture, but in the particular case of the Principia Discordia, also the format
and means of distribution are utterly instances of Discordian ideology and
practice. Secondly, the Principia Discordia is a public domain text which,
while maintaining a constant core, has been developed and reused many
times by different participants in the approximately fifty years since it
was originally composed. Thirdly, both the Principia Discordia and the
Illuminatus! trilogy have become popular culture documents in their own
right, with the documents used both as inspiration for other groups and
as specific texts and concepts to remix.
The Church of the SubGenius
The Church of the Sub-Genius is the classic example of what is generally

thought of as a joke or parody religion. Clearly a child of the Discordians,
the Church of the SubGenius combines in it an eclectic mix of conspiracy
theories, UFOlogy, social commentary, ontological terrorism, religious
remixing and Western occultism. Presentations of their ideologies, such
as the Book of the SubGenius (Stang 1983) or the Bobliographon (Stang
2006) conceptually and visually hark back to a collage style, with a bar-
rage of material presented in no overtly apparent order. Central tenets
include the coming of the alien Xists in 1996, the awesome power of Bob
Dobbs, the ultimate salesman, and the general unpleasantness of the elder
gods. In terms of agenda, the Church of the SubGenius seems intent upon
shocking people out of normative patterns of thinking in regards to all
areas of human engagement, be they personal, political or spiritual. It
is inherently postmodern insofar as while materials are presented with
ironic and subversive humour, this is indeed part of the philosophy that
is being propounded—as with the Discordians, they are their own best
example. The Church of the SubGenius also has its own unique magical
system, termed ‘Slack’, for which techniques and methods for its accrual
and disbursal are offered. It should also be noted that in addition to its
books, the Church of the SubGenius has also made films such as Arise! The
SubGenius Video (Holland 1992) which provide further expression of their
ideology whilst maintaining stylistic continuity. They also regularly stage
public events, such as an annual party on 5 July celebrating the anniver-
sary of the Xists not coming to earth to transport all SubGenius off in a
spaceship, as well as regular ‘devivals’.4
In terms of ideology the Church of the SubGenius and Discordianism
are extremely well aligned. Even SubGenius texts are visually similar to
Discordian texts, and they share the penchant for both bricolage and the
absurd. The SubGenius publications, however, appear to reference a far
broader selection of popular culture, as can be seen through their first
publication, the Book of the SubGenius. Where the Discordian texts men-
tioned above tend towards original textual creation, albeit with the inclu-
sion of extant popular culture content, the publications of the Church of
the SubGenius are far more explicit in their remixing of popular culture.
The Book of the SubGenius—Remix and Bricolage
The Book of the SubGenius is a text both fascinating and entertaining (Stang
1983). The text not only draws upon popular fiction sources, but also tradi-
tional religions and occulture, as well as more mainstream themes. It bor-
rows from a huge swath of culture, parodies everything in sight (including
the Church of the SubGenius itself ), and recontextualises it into a strident
call to arms for the forces of absurdity. The list of broader cultural sources
in the Book of the SubGenius is immense. The elder gods of Lovecraft’s work
Internet site, http://www.subgenius.com/newdevivals.html. Accessed 13 July 2011.

4
50 danielle kirby
take up residence next to ancient astronauts and Jehovah (Stang 1983).

Conspiracy theories, UFOs, and Buddha are discussed alongside a notion
of our shared Yeti heritage and the SubGenius version of the Overman
(Stang 1983). These, and many more, occultural themes are in turn juxta-
posed with political and social commentary, critiquing constructions such
as the nuclear family or the idea of working for a living.
The attitude taken toward the popular culture material in the Church
of the SubGenius can be most easily interpreted through an understand-
ing of remix. Remix is a technique that centres upon the juxtaposition
and recontextualisation of extant cultural artefacts. At the simplest level,
it may mean combining two separate elements of source material, such as
placing a soundtrack over film for which it was not designed. On the other
hand, remix might include multiple sources of content that are treated
in such a way as to be virtually unrecognisable. Whether there are one
or many sources of content for the remix, the underlying process itself is
one of bricolage.
The kind of use of sources seen in the Church of the SubGenius goes far
beyond simple referencing. Rather, it comprises an explicitly creative pro-
cess in the degree to which disparate narratives and ideas are interwoven
as well as radically juxtaposed. Like many recent popular culture texts,
they constitute a veritable web of references that provide a kind of list of
affiliation across texts. Beyond this web, however, there is a demonstrable
capacity to strip references of their original meaning without necessarily
losing their function as icons. To take an instance from the Book of the
SubGenius, the role of Jehovah is reworked into an immensely power-
ful alien being, a far cry from the Judaeo-Christian god. By reframing the
Judaeo-Christian god as an alien, the SubGeniuses co-opt both narratives
without in any way representing either. Similarly, their consistent use of
1950s ‘American dream’ imagery in no way infers adherence to that moral-
ity or way of life, but rather simultaneously critiques and subverts it.
As well as the kind of conceptual juxtaposition already mentioned,
the visual layout of these texts is equally based in bricolage. Any given
page may include text, pictures, diagrams, slogans, and quotes: the lay-
out as well as the content is overwhelming in every sense. Beyond this,
though, remix is not only a method of expression and a technique of cul-
tural adoption and subversion, but also an integral technique of spiritual
behaviour in these contexts. In as far as radical juxtaposition forces the
individual to reconsider normative methods of approaching the content,
it is in fact guiding the reader into taking on the ideological stance of the
group.
Remix and bricolage are prevalent techniques within the cultural

endeavours of contemporary western digital culture, and have come to
form a huge portion of both commodified and private textual creation.
These developments have tended to blur the role between performers and
audiences, between the creators of popular culture objects and those who
enjoy them. Consumers are
playing a more active role in shaping the flow of media throughout our
culture, are drawn together by shared passions and investment in specific
media properties or platforms, and often create new content by appropri-
ating, remixing, or modifying existing media in clever and inventive ways.
( Jenkins 2007: 357–358)
Remix culture does not engage only with juxtaposition, but more gener-
ally with recontextualisation. The underlying premise tends to be one of
exchange and interrelation rather than the static, modernist view of the
created object that sees a work as distinct, discrete and, most importantly,
copyrightable. In a far more postmodernist vein, remix cultures gener-
ally see no problem with extending, recontextualising, or changing the
text, with or without legal permission (Mason 2008). In a secular context,
remix has been applied to every from of cultural production from music,
visual art, text, film to game.
Today’s notion of creativity and originality are configured by velocity: it’s
a blur, a constellation of styles, a knowledge and a pleasure in the play of
surfaces, a rejection of history as objective force in favour of subjective inter-
pretations of its residue, a relish for copies and repetition. (Miller 2004)
Remix culture is not a phenomenon limited to only one form of art, or to
only one subculture. It denotes a far broader shift in attitudes to content,
to authenticity, and to context. Bricolage of this sort has been implicated
as an integral element of the subversion of consumerism in subcultural
contexts (Hebdige 1997) in as much as consumables are not utilised as
intended, but are reworked by individuals. In this sense objects become
‘owned’ rather than just purchased. Remix implies a process that extends
somewhat beyond bricolage in that it does not just juxtapose disparate
content to shed light on otherwise obscured implications, but rather uses
juxtaposition to create new artistic and popular products that are com-
plete in and of themselves (Mason 2008).
The radical juxtaposition of content, the subversive humour and the
overwhelming visual style of the Book of the SubGenius are all emblematic
of the Church of the SubGenius. In this case, the point to emphasise is the
process of remixing extant cultural artefacts and concepts into something
52 danielle kirby
decidedly original. While the consumption of popular cultural artefacts is

evident, it is simultaneously de-emphasised by the processes of remix, by
what is done with, and to, these cultural artefacts.
The Temple of Psychick Youth
Moving somewhat laterally within the worlds of popular cultural religios-

ity, the final exemplary group to be viewed here is The Temple of Psychick
Youth (TOPY). TOPY is perhaps more firmly entrenched within the explic-
itly occultural milieu, but nonetheless has definite impact on, and loca-
tion within, popular culture. It began as an offshoot of Psychic TV, an
experimental conceptual art group started in 1981 (Kinney 1994) which
focused upon transgressive forms of ontological terrorism via music, film,
and performance art. The Temple of Psychick Youth was the title given
to the overtly occult endeavours of members and fans. TOPY was heav-
ily influenced by Chaos and Sex magic from the Golden Dawn/Crowley
school of thought, although the group out-rightly denied adherence to any
one form of practice, rather stating that information gathering, of both
experiential and literary types, and its dissemination were the group’s
major priority. Thee Psychick Bible, for instance, contains essays relating
to the practice of sex magic, sleep related magic, psychick discipline, and
many other themes relevant to the practice of magic (P-Orridge 2009). The
original TOPY group formally disbanded in 1991 in the wake of police raids
on various TOPY homes, inspired by fears of satanic ritual abuse (Keenan
2003). As is a fairly familiar story, these fears stemmed largely from media
hype and misrepresentation, although perhaps some confusion can be
understood on behalf of the authorities with regards to a group that did
not maintain boundaries between art, ritual and magic. For all the claims
of disbanding, various incarnations of the Temple of Psychick Youth are
still present and active (The Temple of Psychick Youth 2001).
To give an idea of the mission statement of the Temple of Psychick
Youth, here are some extracts from Thee Psychick Bible.
We have reached a crisis point. We are aware that whole areas of our experi-
ence are missing . . . we are faced with the debasement of man to a creature
without feelings, without knowledge and pride of self . . . We have been con-
ditioned, encouraged and blackmailed into self-restriction, into a narrower
and narrower perception of ourselves, our importance and potential. All
this constitutes a Psychick attack of the highest magnitude. Acceptance is
defeat . . . Right Now you have these alternatives: to remain forever part of
a sleeping world . . . To gradually abandon the hopes and dreams of child-
hood . . . to be permanently addicted to the drug of the commonplace . . . Or,

to fight alongside us in Thee Temple Ov Psychick Youth. Thee Temple of
Psychick Youth has been convened in order to act as a catalyst and focus
for the Individual development of all those who wish to reach inwards and
strike out . . .
Our function is to direct and support. Work that is needlessly repeated is
simply wasteful. Accordingly, we will be making public books, manuscripts
& other recordings of our progress, in various formats, video and audio.
These do not contain meaningless dogma but are examples of our interests
and beliefs in action. They are made not as entertainment, but as experi-
ence, not the mundane experience of day-to-day but of the Spirit and Will
triumphant. (P-Orridge 2009: 33–34)
And, to present the current TOPY attitude, here is an extract from the cur-
rent Temple of Psychick Youth website. It is not officially associated with
the original members, but participants feel themselves to be continuing
the overall goals of the original founders.
Thee Temple ov Psychick Youth (TOPY) exists to promote a system ov func-
tional, demystified magick, utilising both Pagan and modern techniques. It
is a process ov individual and collective experimentation and research with
no finite answers, dogmas or unchallengeable truths. It is for each to dis-
cover his or her own understanding ov thee questions that suggest them-
selves, and through that voyage ov discovery to find their personal and true
identity, thee True Will.
In the case of the Temple of Psychick Youth and Psychic TV, the complexi-
ties of the relationship between popular culture and spiritual engagement
are given full expression. In this group, the space between the audience
and the creator, or the spiritual quester and public performer, is both
minimised and made effectively irrelevant. Of course, TOPY is not alone
within spiritual and religious contexts in making their own cultural prod-
ucts. Nonetheless, it is notable that they were/are equally engaged as both
spiritual and artistic participants, rather than one interest being subservi-
ent to the other.
The concepts of such things as ritual or the perception of a non-physical
reality are misunderstood and now commonly seen as retrograde steps
towards barbarianism and superstition. The Temple wishes to re-integrate
such concepts into the human experience, and has therefore developed,
quite consciously, a practical, logical, and presentable system to help this to
be done. (Dwyer 2000: 36)
Their art was their magic and their magic their art, which also more or
less was their lived experience. Because they were creating public art,
their work and hence their ideologies and experiences were accessible
54 danielle kirby
to a wider audience than might otherwise have been the case. This audi-
ence then, in part, assumed ever more active roles, effectively moving
from observer to participant. See, for instance, The Family of Psychick
Individuals (FOPI), a group that has developed from the original fan base
of Psychic TV (Partridge 2004b) and shares its ideology. This inclusive atti-
tude was encouraged in the original incarnation of the group, and remains
a focus, as is highlighted on the current TOPY website in the ‘TOPY is . . .’
section. One of the primary issues of interest with TOPY is that the enact-
ment of their music and performance art was not divorced from the enact-
ment of their rituals—the popular culture and the religious, spiritual, and
magical aspects were not distinguished. The two continually informed one
another, and placed ideas such as active participation and internalisation
in a quite new context.
Psychic TV—Outright Textual Creation
PTV’s cut-up of reality is aimed at short circuiting the training the brain has
had—to twist up the map of that shared geography and make the viewer
find his own way, rather than accepting what emanates from the TV screen
without thought. (Dwyer 2000: 34)
The Temple of Psychick Youth and their associated endeavours are inter-
esting in this context precisely in that they did not draw upon popular
culture so much as make it, and yet are still inextricably bound up in that
sphere of engagement. Moreover, their method of creation was to a degree
both a magical and political act. The music and performances of related
groups such as Throbbing Gristle, Coil and Psychic TV were, and still are,
in many cases deliberate attempts to alter normative ways of thinking
(Rushkoff 1994). These groups focused upon magical strategies such as
popular performance as ritual, effectively involving their audiences as par-
ticipants in magical as well as musical activities (Partridge 2004b).
Genesis P-Orridge, one of the founders of the Temple of Psychick Youth,
articulates this point clearly in reference to particular compositional
techniques.
Sampling, looping and re-assembling both found materials and site specific
sounds selected for precision of relevance to thee message implications
of a piece of music or a transmedia exploration, is an alchemical, even a
magical phenomenon. No matter how short, or apparently unrecognisable
a ‘sample’ might be in linear time perception, I believe it must, inevitably,
contain within it (and accessible through it), the sum total of absolutely
everything its original context represented, communicated, or touched in

any way. (P-Orridge 2003: 32)
This attitude renders the process of composition a magical, transfor-
mative act in itself. That such compositions are then made available as
popular culture artefacts which may in turn be used in others’ spiritual
practice clearly illustrates the impossibility of making a strict demarcation
between what is popular and what is spiritual.
While somewhat obvious, it should be noted that the use of aural and
visual stimuli to facilitate alternative states of consciousness has long
been a part of religious practice of many forms. Again, however, it seems
relevant to draw the distinction between adopting an extant popular cul-
tural artefact (i.e. a piece of music or film) for that purpose, and deliber-
ately creating one with religious/spiritual/magical outcomes in mind. Like
the Discordians and the Church of the SubGenius, the texts of TOPY and
their related endeavours are both the manifestos of their respective meta-
physics, and (to a degree and in their various ways) the actual practice
of their respective magical/spiritual systems. TOPY, however, encourages
spiritual experimentation through artistic creations, many of which are
audio or visual artefacts that then become popular culture artefacts in
their own right.
Conclusion
Popular culture religion is marked not only by consumption but also by

creation and active participation. The examples of the Discordians, the
Church of the SubGenius, and the Temple of Psychick Youth demonstrate
that, firstly, the relationship between popular culture and modern alter-
native spiritualities can be quite complex. Not only do these metaphys-
ics borrow from existing popular culture texts, but they also rework and
remix them, as well as creating original texts of their own. Secondly, their
various attitudes towards active participation and remix suggest that we
cannot conflate the notion of popular culture religion, or hyper-real reli-
gion, with a consumer-only paradigm. The relationship between popular
culture artefacts and idiosyncratic alternative religiosity is most emphati-
cally not a unidirectional flow, but rather a field of engagement where
audiences are also performers, viewers become authors, and the spiritual
seeker may simultaneously be an artistic creator. Thirdly, in some cases
the mechanism of engagement with popular culture can be in itself a
spiritual act.
56 danielle kirby
The argument made here is not that these, and other like groups, are
not simply consumers, but rather that they are participants within popu-
lar culture, creators and consumers, audiences and performers. Inherent
in such a position is the suggestion that an attempt to develop interpre-
tative frameworks for popular culture spiritualities needs to also account
for such behaviours. While the Discordians, the Church of the SubGenius,
and the Temple of Psychick Youth are all fairly explicit in their owner-
ship of popular culture, it should be noted that there are any number of
alternative religions and spiritual movements that, while perhaps not so
overt, nonetheless emphasise creation rather than consumption in their
religious and spiritual practice. Given that so much of contemporary belief
is becoming intertwined with the popular, it seems entirely possible that
there will be many new creative techniques emerging through the imbri-
cation of the spiritual and the popular.
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Heaven’s Gate, Science Fiction Religions,
and Popular American Culture
Benjamin E. Zeller
Heaven’s Gate: A Science Fiction Religion?
Few who remember the 1997 Heaven’s Gate suicides forget the details: the
purple shrouds covering the dead, the lethal mix of phenobarbital-laced
applesauce and vodka, the rolls of quarters and Nike shoes. Indeed, the
thirty-nine individuals who ended their terrestrial existences in Rancho
Santa Fe, California between 22 March and 24 March, 1997 took great care
in orchestrating their ritual suicides. Not surprisingly, the earliest media
reports seized on these details. Coverage fixated on the material culture
of the Heaven’s Gate dead, as well as the medical histories of its mem-
bers, several of whom had been surgically neutered. Each print, television,
and radio account seemed to offer an even more bizarre account of the
group, feeding an audience that had been primed for decades to expect
religious cults—particularly those in California—to demonstrate odd
behavior.
As more information on Heaven’s Gate slowly trickled out, media out-
lets shifted from describing the physical surroundings of the Rancho Santa
Fe dead to their worldview. A combination of Christian millennialism,
New Age self-transformation, and ufology, scholars still debate the theo-
logical makeup and history of Heaven’s Gate. Yet from the earliest days
of the coverage of the 1997 suicides, the mass media has fixated on one
element in the movement’s worldview: its connection to science fiction.
Heaven’s Gate was, if one believes TIME, Newsweek, and the Los Angeles
Times, a “science fiction cult,” or at least one that formulated its religious
ideology using a foundation of science fiction (hereafter SF).
Newsweek’s near issue-length coverage of Heaven’s Gate offers a rep-
resentative sample of how the mass media framed Heaven’s Gate with
recourse to SF. In massive bold-faced font, Newsweek introduced its nearly
thirty-page treatment of Heaven’s Gate by labeling the group a “strange
brew of twisted Christian theology, castration, science fiction, belief in
UFOs and mastery of the Internet” (Thomas 1997: 27). The second article
in the special section, which focused on religious quests and the search
60 benjamin e. zeller
for spirituality, began by labeling the movement a “farrago of early-

Christian heresy and 1970s-era science fiction,” though it did not elabo-
rate on what aspects of SF appeared in the movement (Beals 1997: 37).
Lest readers miss these references, the next article in Newsweek’s exami-
nation of Heaven’s Gate—and the only Newsweek article that took care to
unpack and attempt to understand the worldview of the religion—made
the group’s SF credentials part of the article’s byline, trumpeting: “What
did ‘Do’s’ [group leader Marshall Herff Applewhite’s] followers believe? A
bit of everything, from the Gospels to science fiction to Eastern Mysticism.
Inside their twisted theology” (Stone 1997: 40). The article that followed
made occasional allusions to SF popular culture, commenting on the
popularity of UFO films in the 1970s and the analogies between Heaven’s
Gate’s ‘sci-fi universe’ and another new religion, that of Scientology (Stone
1997). Even the Newsweek articles unrelated to the movement’s ideology,
such as a consideration of the place of the Internet in Heaven’s Gate’s
recruitment, invoked the mantle of science fiction. The magazine’s spe-
cial section on the group concluded with an editorial by renowned SF
author Harlan Ellison—an original Star Trek series writer, among other
genre accolades—that disparaged believers in SF religions as having fallen
into a “simplistic, pulp-fiction view of the world” of conspiracies, science
fiction conventions, UFO sightings, and other “nonsense” (1997: 49).
The Los Angeles Times, which because of its geographic proximity to
Rancho Santa Fe became the newspaper of record for the coverage of
Heaven’s Gate, similarly framed Heaven’s Gate as a product of science fic-
tion. The 2 April edition of the Times referenced a popular SF television
series in the subtitle of its front-page article on the group. “ ‘I Want to
Believe’ is the mantra not just for TV’s ‘X-Files’ but also for many Americans
who look to science or sci-fi—or what lies in between—to explain life’s
mysteries.” The following article focused on how Heaven’s Gate was part
of “an increasingly popular culture in which the search for meaning has
turned to a fuzzy fusion of science and science fiction” (Harmon 1997: 1).
Another article in the Times, this one a guest editorial, even blamed the
mass media, particularly book publishers and television producers, for
feeding “the public a steady diet of science fiction fantasy, packaged and
sold as real,” that Heaven’s Gate transformed into its ‘pseudoscientific’
religion (Kurtz 1997: 5).
Religious journalists were no less affected by the desire to portray
Heaven’s Gate as somehow a product of science fiction. The Christian
Century, stalwart bastion of the American Protestant mainline, led off
its news item on Heaven’s Gate by calling the group “a quasi-religious
science fiction religions, and popular american culture 61
group that mixed elements of apocalyptic Christianity with sci-fi space

travel” (The Christian Century 1997: 382). A Catholic contributor to the
progressive Evangelical journal Sojourners similarly introduced his analy-
sis of the group with a reference to the movement’s consumption of SF,
as the product of “gross misrepresentations of Christian beliefs, laced with
doses of New Age, science fiction, and TV fantasy (the group loved X Files
and Star Trek)” (Nangle 1997: 41). The obsession was not lost on media
self-observers. Harper’s columnist Christine Lehmann criticised her fellow
journalists, who “dwelt obsessively on the exotic sci-fi trappings of the cult
and its now-infamous Web site” (1997: 15).
Two clear facts emerge from these media representations of Heaven’s
Gate. First, in its coverage of this alternative religious movement the
media acted as social gatekeeper, determining that Heaven’s Gate rep-
resented a ‘twisted’ and ‘bizarre’ theology aberrant from American social
and religious norms. Such a function of the media hardly surprises long
time observers of new religious movements (NRMs). Sean McCloud has
demonstrated that from 1955 onward, media outlets intentionally framed
an ‘American religious fringe’ through exoticising and sometimes demo-
nising NRMs. McCloud argues that this functions not only to exclude
NRMs and other alternative religious groups, but to support the notion
of a religious mainstream from which some groups deviate. This fringe,
McCloud indicates, “functions as a ‘negative reference group’ in the pro-
cess of identity construction” (2004: 6). In this way, Heaven’s Gate came to
represent precisely what journalists determined American society should
not be. Yet the media’s representation of Heaven’s Gate linked this to a
new element: the many references to science fiction. At times, SF religion
itself came to serve as a “negative reference group,” as Ellison’s editorial
suggests. Certainly other alternative and new religious groups possess
SF elements. Scientology, the Raelian Church, and the Nation of Islam
all believe in UFOs and extraterrestrials, not to mention the numerous
flying saucer religions and channeled extraterrestrial groups in the New
Age spectrum. Yet coverage of those religions seldom dwells on the SF
elements. Media outlets generally cover Scientology through the lenses
of celebrity and deception, the Raelians through those of technology and
sexuality, and the Nation of Islam through the lens of race. Something was
different about Heaven’s Gate that made its science fiction elements more
central. But what was that?
Though one can find much at fault in journalistic coverage of Heaven’s
Gate, the media’s treatment of the group through the lens of science fic-
tion was completely appropriate. In fact, Heaven’s Gate functions as a
prototypical science fiction religion. Scholars have understood Heaven’s

Gate in many way; a Christian new religious movement, a religious off-
shoot of ufology, a New Age apocalyptic group. I have argued elsewhere
that Heaven’s Gate was fundamentally a Christian movement that adopted
central elements of the New Age and ufology subcultures in forming its
unique worldview (Zeller 2006). I do not repudiate that stance here, only
add to it: as a Christian new religious movement, Heaven’s Gate engaged
in a variety of hermeneutical methods to read its central text, the Christian
Bible. One such hermeneutic is what I called an extraterrestrial herme-
neutic (Zeller 2009). Though not a hermeneutic per se, Heaven’s Gate’s
absorption of central elements of the science fiction genre into its world-
view make the group an example of a Christian NRM that is also a science
fiction religion.
Science Fiction and Religion
As for the concepts of religion, art, or music, no single definition of sci-

ence fiction exists. In many cases, consumers of science fiction (like those
of religion, art, or music) disagree on the nature of the category and even
whether particular examples merit inclusion. Still, scholars of the SF genre
have offered a general guide to understanding what SF means and why it
draws people. James Gunn, a professor of literature and one of the leading
researchers of SF, has offered one of the most influential of such defini-
tions, predicated on the notion of change:
[s]cience fiction is the branch of literature that deals with the effects of
change on people in the real world as it can be projected into the past, the
future, or to distant places. It often concerns itself with scientific or techno-
logical change, and it usually involves matters whose importance is greater
than the individual or the community; often civilization or the race itself is
in danger. (Gunn 2005: 6)
The notion of change is at the heart of Gunn’s definition. Typical science
fiction stories either dwell on the concept or assume it as the dramatic
focus of the story. To take a representative example, Gene Roddenberry’s
original Star Trek series imagined a future of spaceships, unified human-
ity, and interstellar conflicts. All these represent major changes from the
present circumstances of his 1960s viewers. As a science fiction produc-
tion, Star Trek considered the ramifications of such changes, playing
them out on national television. Yet the characters of Star Trek act as real
people would, within the limits of storytelling that Rodenberry imposed,
and the abilities of the actors. They experience normal human psychology
and biology, and have the range of feelings and motivations appropriate
to present-day humanity. As Star Trek’s hero Captain Kirk (by that time
promoted to Admiral Kirk) said in the fourth of the franchise’s films, “I’m
from Iowa, I only work in Outer Space” (Nimoy 1986). The series dwelt
on real-world problems. Famously, it featured episodes that commented
on race relations, war, the counterculture, and intergenerational conflict.
Science fiction asks ‘What If?’ but its answers assume the conventions of
everyday reality.
Yet SF stories are often weighty, as Gunn’s definition notes. SF deals
with threats to civilisation, humanity, and even the universe. This is in
fact part of SF’s attraction. Audience members tune in to watch Captain
Kirk and Mr Spock save the universe every week, after all. One of the
most beloved of science fiction’s series, Isaac Asimov’s Foundation novels,
involve the efforts of a single man, and then an organisation, to stave off
the end of civilisation throughout the entire universe. George Lucas’s Star
Wars films similarly involve weighty matters: a band of rag-tag freedom
fighters attempting to overthrow a cruel despotic empire. More recently,
the hit series Battlestar Galactica, a reimagining of another 1970s televi-
sion series by the same name, assumed as its premise that a single star-
ship of post-nuclear holocaust survivors represented the only hope for the
existence of not only civilisation but the human species itself. In all cases,
such science fiction stories assume changed circumstances (e.g. interstel-
lar travel, unified humanity, near-genocide of the species, and so on), proj-
ect these onto characters who act in real-world ways, and comment on
issues of major importance to today’s readers and viewers.
Yet change is not the only way of understanding SF. Canadian-Croatian
scholar Darko Suvin has offered the second major approach to under-
standing the genre, predicating his definition on the twin concepts of
estrangement and cognition. He writes that science fiction is “a literary
genre whose necessary and sufficient conditions are the presence and
interaction of estrangement and cognition, and whose main formal device
is an imaginative framework alternative to the author’s empirical environ-
ment” (Suvin 1979: 7–8). Somewhat more arcane than Gunn’s definition,
Suvin looks to science fiction as a creative exercise in the construction of
alternative worlds. With its space ships, time machines, telepathic abili-
ties, faster-than-light travel, and even world peace, SF is estranged from
the real world and its present scientific and social development. Yet SF
offers cognitive explanations for these departures, often in the form of
technology or science. As Suvin (2005) argues, SF explains the mechanics
of the flying carpet, or at least assumes that there are mechanics, rather
than relying on some sense of magic, supernaturalism, or mythic powers.
Suvin calls these “cognitive” responses to estrangements, meaning that
they work within the confines of rational, naturalistic, and scientific lim-
its, rather than appealing to a sense of wonder, miracles, or supernatural
powers. Carl Freedman (2000) explains this distinction between cogni-
tive and non-cognitive disjunctions from reality as the heart of science
fiction. SF explains disjunctions from the real world through cognitive
means, whereas other genres (namely folktale, myth, and fantasy) use
non-cognitive means to imagine their disjunctions. In following Suvin
and Freedman, I use the concept of ‘cognitive’ similarly ro mean rational,
empiricist, and naturalistic.
Suvin and Freedman’s insistence on the distinction between cognitive
and non-cognitive reasoning, and with it their implication that any form
of supernaturalism violates SF’s cognitive assumptions, reminds us of
certain antipathies between science fiction and religion. SF authors have
a certain public reputation for disparaging religion and religious belief,
some of which is earned. Isaac Asimov’s aforementioned Foundation
(1951) features an advanced technocratic society creating and employing
a religion to control the masses, in a formulation that Karl Marx would
find deeply familiar. Gene Rodenberry’s original Star Trek series even fea-
tures the crew of the Enterprise encountering—and then defeating—an
extraterrestrial who had appeared on Earth using the alias of the Greek
god Apollo. The implication was clear: extraterrestrials founded Earth’s
religions by passing themselves off as gods, and by the end of the episode,
Kirk bluntly declared to Apollo, “we don’t need you anymore” (Ralston,
Coon and Daniels 1967). Best-selling SF author George Zebrowski’s short
story “Heathen God” (1971) went one step further, replicating the early
Christian Gnostic heresy by portraying the Biblical deity as an insane
childlike alien, responsible for creating a broken world and all of the
troubles that followed.
Yet for all this, science fiction also features certain sympathies with
religion, as a close examination of the two definitions reveals. Assuming
Gunn’s approach to SF, two commonalities stand out. First, both SF and
religion fixate on notions of change. Religion looks forwards and back-
wards, trying to alleviate the human discomfort with change at the same
time that is recognises the need for change. Mircea Eliade (1954), one of
the founders of the academic study of religion, described religious ritual
as seeking to restore the primordial time of the origins, replicating the
first acts of cosmogony. Other scholars, following the leads of nineteenth
century anthropologists E. B. Tylor and J. G. Frazer, have argued that reli-

gion functions as an attempt to understand the greatest change of all: the
transition from life to death to whatever happens afterwards.
Like SF, religion highlights “matters whose importance is greater than
the individual or the community,” as Gunn describes. Theologian Paul
Tillich (1965) called the realm of religion that of “ultimate concern,” and
insisted that beliefs about the nature of the self, society, and the divine
functioned as the heart of religion. Emile Durkheim (1915), another founder
of the academic study of religion, wrote that religion is above all else the
recognition of the power of society and its cohesive bonds, and translation
of the notion of society as greater than the self onto the divine realm. That
religions often focus on questions of purpose and salvation supports these
contentions, as well as an obvious parallel to the genre of SF.
Certainly SF often ventures into the realm of religion. At times, these
ventures represent the appropriation of religion for narrative purposes,
most notably what some SF authors call ‘Shaggy God’ stories, defined by
Gary K. Wolfe (2005: 21) as “tales that seek to achieve a sense of wonder by
mechanically adapting biblical tales and providing science fiction ‘expla-
nations’ of them.” Yet far more often, SF considers religious themes rather
than merely replicating religion. Walter M. Miller Jr’s classic A Canticle
for Leibowitz mused on the nature of faith and its continuation in a post-
apocalyptic world. The television series Star Trek: Deep Space Nine cen-
tered on a character torn between his own agnosticism and instance on
free will, and an extraterrestrial-imposed religious mission and destiny.
J. Michel Straczynski, creator of the Babylon 5 television series, suc-
cinctly argued that science fiction must consider religion, explaining that
“[i]f you look at the long history of human society, religion—whether
you describe that as organised, disorganised, or the various degrees of
accepted superstition—has always been present . . . To totally ignore that
part of the human equation would be as false and wrong-headed as ignor-
ing the fact that people get mad, or passionate, or strive for better lives”
(1993, n.p.). In fact, Straczynski’s epic television series featured religion as
one of the core elements driving its plot and character development. Not
surprisingly, numerous novels and short stories consider religious themes,
and four different anthologies of SF and religion stories exist.
Yet these sympathies extend beyond the mere consideration of similar
themes. No less a commentator than Isaac Asimov (1986: v) wrote that “it
is impossible to write science fiction and really ignore religion.” Religious
questions, he argued, percolate throughout SF, for example those involv-
ing the universality of God, creation, and the meaning of existence. Alexei
and Cory Panshin (1989) have argued that science fiction functions as
mode of modern mythmaking, crafting stories of meaning that appeal to
a modern audience just as religious myths did for earlier societies. Taking
a somewhat more positive view of religion, Patricia Warrick and Martin
Harry Greenberg (1975: xii) introduced their anthology of SF short stories,
The New Awareness: Religion Though Science Fiction, by arguing that sci-
ence fiction brings religion and science together, and along with them,
creates meaning: “[humanity] needs both science and religion, disciplines
that can no longer ignore each other. Each serves a similar function: to
help man [sic] shape his universe enough to make it comprehensible.”
Religion and SF share common interests: explaining and considering such
topics as the nature of humanity, the future, the purpose of life, free will,
the origin of life, and the eventual end of the species.
Given the sympathies between SF and religion, the concept of a sci-
ence fiction religion is not surprising. As I use the term, a science fiction
religion is a religion that features two characteristics. First, it has incor-
porated facets of the science fiction genre into its beliefs, practices, and
worldview. These facets may include elements drawn from particular
works of science fiction, or more general themes. But in some way, science
fiction religions have borrowed from the literary genre of SF. Heaven’s
Gate used the language of Star Trek in its religious practice, for example.
Second, the science fiction religion functions like science fiction literature,
meaning that the religion postulates a significant change—one estranged
from the world as most people know it—and responds to that change.
Here I extend and combine the definitions of SF proffered by Gunn and
Darko. At its heart a science fiction religion shares with the genre of sci-
ence fiction the postulation of a radical new future dependent on hitherto
unknown technology, science, or discoveries about the natural universe,
such as the existence of extraterrestrial life, time travel, space ships, or
ESP. Each of these represents a radical change from the current world.
Darko would call these developments estrangements, since they radically
alter the manner in which human beings now understand themselves and
the world and require some sense of resolution. Yet science fiction reli-
gions, like SF more broadly, offer cognitive responses to these changes. In
offering cognitive—rather than supernatural or miraculous—responses,
a science fiction religion insists on the same restrictions that hold in the
SF genre. Borrowing the concepts and terms of science and technology,
a science fiction religion offers religious responses to imagined changes.
Therefore, as I use the term, a science fiction religion is a religion that
a) has adopted elements of the SF genre, in order to b) envision and
explain a perceived change, and c) using cognitive means, resolve the

estrangement of that change.
Science Fiction Religion and Heaven’s Gate
Despite its eventual nature as a SF religion, Heaven’s Gate did not emerge
from a science fiction background, but a far more conventional Christian
one. Its founders Marshall Herff Applewhite (1932–1997) and Bonnie Lu
Nettles (1928–1985) predicated their movement’s theology on their read-
ings of the New Testament’s book of Revelation, and from the earliest days
of the group, understood their religious work as part of a millennial sce-
nario detailed in that text. As I have argued elsewhere, they even taught
a variant of a form of Christian millennialism known as dispensational-
ism, popular in the Evangelical and Fundamentalist Protestant American
subcultures, emphasising this approach’s belief in a rapture of the faith-
ful, during which the saved ascend into the heavens to their greater glory
(Zeller 2006; Zeller 2010).
Though fundamentally Christian, Heaven’s Gate filtered its understand-
ing of Christian theology through the lenses of ufology and the New Age.
As Brenda Denzler has demonstrated, the adherents of ufology form a
diverse subculture of individuals who not only believe in UFOs, but make
the pursuit of them and beliefs about them central aspects of their lives.
Though Denzler cautions against attempting to strictly define or delin-
eate ufology, she indentifies the subculture as focused on “mak[ing] the
existence of the UFOs not just something that might be believed or not,
but a demonstrable, empirical fact of life” (2001: 32). This empiricism
carried over into Heaven’s Gate, but the movement also absorbed cen-
tral theories, texts, and ideas from the ufology subculture. In essence, it
absorbed the popular culture of ufology, and with it the beliefs in UFO
crashes, government cover-ups and conspiracies, subterranean bases,
alien-human hybrids, and most importantly, following in the wake of
Erich von Däniken’s best-selling Chariots of the Gods?, a view of the Bible
as a record of extraterrestrial contact with humanity. Yet the group mem-
bers filtered these beliefs through the lens of SF, specifically the sub-genre
of SF concerned with alien visitation of Earth and government cover-ups
of such visits. Avid television watchers, the adherents of Heaven’s Gate
cited both Star Trek: The Next Generation (ST:TNG) and The X-Files as
favorites. Both series feature such visitations and cover-ups. In the case
of ST:TNG, when the technologically advanced humans of the Starship
Enterprise visit more primitive extraterrestrial worlds, they attempt to do

so undercover, and when discovered seek to hide evidence of their visits.
Set in the modern world of 1990s America, The X-Files portrays alien visita-
tions and cover-ups from the other perspective; that of humans visited by
extraterrestrials.
Despite Heaven’s Gate’s origins as a Christian movement, media observ-
ers had a point when they considered it a ‘science fiction cult’. Heaven’s
Gate did speak in the language of SF genre, mimicking the language of
Star Trek, The X Files, and Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Its members
watched science fiction films and television series frequently, and in their
final recorded video messages—effectively suicide notes—many identi-
fied with the genre of SF. One Heaven’s Gate member even signed off
her video message mimicking Captain Kirk’s famous line from the Star
Trek television and film series (“Beam me up, Scotty”) with her own salu-
tation, “Thirty-nine to beam up!” ( Jwnody 1997a). Another, the Heaven’s
Gate member calling himself Ollody, concluded his exit video by declar-
ing that the heavenly truths “could be accepted by humans more easily in
the form of science fiction,” and explaining that the group had hoped to
create a SF television series to teach their beliefs (Ollody 1997). According
to numerous interviews with former members of the group, adherents
regularly watched both Star Trek: The Next Generation (ST:TNG) and The
X-Files as part of their regular religious practice, and saw both as offering
religious messages (Gleick 1997). As I argue in the remainder of this chap-
ter, Heaven’s Gate satisfied the definition of a science fiction religion. In
short: Heaven’s Gate adopted central elements of the SF genre in order to
envision and explain a perceived change—in their case, the presence of
extraterrestrials as semi-divine figures—and ultimately sought resolution
to the estrangement created by that fact through recourse to the language
and concepts of science fiction.
Heaven’s Gate incorporated elements from science fiction directly into
its worldview. The group’s members believed in UFOs, interstellar wars,
alien technologies, and human-alien hybrids, and referred to God as an
extraterrestrial being. Despite these SF elements, the movement did not
incorporate them willy-nilly. Rather, Heaven’s Gate carefully introduced
material drawn from SF in order to support and explain the basic conten-
tion that underlay the group, and which represents the substantial change
which Heaven’s Gate perceived. The movement declared that the Jewish
and Christian Bible was a record of extraterrestrial contact with Earth,
and that Earth functioned as a laboratory and classroom for extraterres-
trials. Human beings existed because extraterrestrial beings—referred to
as god(s) by primitive human beings—planted us here, and would return

at the end of the current civilisation in order to harvest the current crop.
The planet would then undergo a ‘spading under’ process, resulting in
the complete destruction of the current order. Only those humans who
accepted the teachings of the extraterrestrials and chose to follow them
would survive this process. Heaven’s Gate members believed that the
Bible revealed all these concepts through coded language and symbol.
Without doubt, this understanding of the world radically differs from
the normative view of other religious and secular people. It represents
a radical change, no less so than the changes envisioned by SF. Rather
than naturally evolved or divinely created, human beings are the products
of extraterrestrial manipulation, and rather than either divinely inspired
or the product of history, the Bible represents a record of extraterrestrial
contact. Such changes in the fundamental nature of humanity and the
underlying text of the Western world clearly represent radically important
changes. Further, both lead to estrangement, since they effectively deny
the assumed nature of the world and its inhabitants. Like SF, Heaven’s
Gate proclaimed a reality estranged from that assumed by most people,
and used the language of science fiction—UFOs, space aliens, telepathy—
to do so. The estrangement that the leaders and adherents of Heaven’s
Gate proclaimed bears the hallmark of the SF genre. It mimics specific
stories claiming the extraterrestrial origin of Earth’s religions, namely the
aforementioned Star Trek episode, “Who Mourns for Adonais,” as well as
the film Stargate, which features space aliens creating ancient Egyptian
religions to manipulate humanity. One Heaven’s Gate member calling
himself Rkkody (all members took new names consisting of three dishar-
monious preliminary letters, and ending with the suffix ‘ody’), even cited
Stargate as both an accurate depiction of the origin of Earth’s religions as
well as a good teaching tool, indicating the reflexive awareness of the use
of SF within the group (Rkkody 1997).
Like SF, Heaven’s Gate offered solutions to the estrangement through
cognitive means, specifically a worldview that incorporated those beliefs
and allowed its adherents to live in light of them. Further, the movement
offered an ultimate solution to the estrangement of life as a human being
living on a minor planet surrounded by a cosmos filled with superior extra-
terrestrials: departure from the Earth and physical metamorphosis into
a perfected extraterrestrial being. As a science fiction religion, Heaven’s
Gate’s response to the estrangement was in keeping with the cognitive
assumptions of the SF genre. Its response drew from both elements of the
SF genre as well as the cognitive approach of science fiction, satisfying
the definition of a SF religion. In keeping with Gunn’s assessment of SF,

the change and solution envisioned by Heaven’s Gate represent ultimate
threats to the human species, and in this regard, Heaven’s Gate followed
in the line of the classics of the SF genre: extraterrestrial beings threat-
ened to annihilate life on Earth. A staple of science fiction stories, this
apocalyptic approach declares that human beings have sullied the Earth
beyond repair, and a cosmic judgment threatens to destroy humanity for
the sake of the universe. The hit 1951 science fiction film The Day the Earth
Stood Still had an identical theme, in the words of its extraterrestrial hero
Klaatu, who warned humans that the price of human violence was plane-
tary holocaust: “this Earth of yours will be reduced to a burned-out cinder.
Your choice is simple: join us and live in peace, or pursue your present
course and face obliteration” (Wise 1951). Heaven’s Gate declared that the
extraterrestrials proclaimed the same basic message, namely that human
beings had polluted its garden, and only worldly destruction would allow
the cosmic gardeners to reseed the beds. As the Heaven’s Gate member
named Jwnody (1997b) wrote just before her suicide, “[t]he weeds have
taken over the garden and truly disturbed its usefulness beyond repair—it
is time for the civilisation to be recycled—‘spaded under’.” Like SF more
broadly, the SF religion declared the change that it perceived threatened
the very nature of human civilisation. Like Klaatu and other SF protag-
onists, the leaders of Heaven’s Gate insisted that human beings faced
a choice, either to remain in their sullied human condition and face
destruction, or evolve into a higher social consciousness. As Gunn has
described of SF, Heaven’s Gate’s worldview was both weighty and impor-
tant: its members declared that humanity itself was threatened, and that
only those who accepted their teachings would escape destruction.
Heaven’s Gate offered two solutions to the estrangement during its
history, one during the movement’s first decade, and the second during
the latter decade of its history. The first solution involved bodily trans-
formation into a space alien and departure aboard a flying saucer, and
the group promulgated it from its founding in the mid-1970s—Applewhite
and Nettles attracted their first adherents in 1975, but laid the ground-
work of the movement two years earlier—until approximately the mid-
1980s. Recognising the fundamental estrangement brought on by their
belief that human beings existed only as a crop planted by a superior
race of extraterrestrials, Heaven’s Gate offered a chance to transcend
humanity—the ‘human level’, as they called it—and join the extraterres-
trials in space—the ‘next level’. Accomplished through a yoga-like pro-
cess of overcoming human attachments, feelings, and desires, a successful
candidate for ‘the process’ would metamorphose into a new extraterres-

trial creature. In keeping with the cognitive approach of the SF genre and
science fiction religion—using Savin’s language—Applewhite and Nettles
emphasised the physical and material nature of this transformation. In
the words of Heaven’s Gate’s founders to an early interviewer, “when one
leaves his humanity and makes the graduation, he moves into an entirely
different consciousness. His body changes just as the chrysalis changes
caterpillar to butterfly. The body chemically, biologically, changes over”
(Applewhite and Nettles 1976: 76). All of Applewhite and Nettles’s early
material repeats this cognitive approach. After they had transformed into
space aliens, a UFO would descend into the Earth’s atmosphere, pick up
the new members of the heavenly kingdom, and return to outer space.
Late in the history of Heaven’s Gate, the group’s leaders modified its
means of dealing with the estrangement that their SF worldview intro-
duced. Rather than envision the transformation into extraterrestrial life
as a purely biological one, they looked to a form of salvation involving
the transfer of consciousness from the human body to a perfected alien
one. Labeling this transfer an ‘upload’, and describing it as akin to copy-
ing software from one computer to another, the adherents of Heaven’s
Gate used explicitly cognitive (that is, physicalist and materialist) rather
than non-cognitive (that is, supernatural or mythic) language to describe
the process. Individuals who successfully completed the training program
offered by the movement, which entailed severing attachments to the
human body and human ways of being, and found the approval of the
extraterrestrial beings supervising the final harvest of Earth’s crop of sen-
tient beings, could hope to experience this uploading process. In this way,
the members of the movement provided a response to the estrangement
brought on by their beliefs that extraterrestrials functioned as gods, look-
ing at humans as gardeners relate to plants.
Here, Heaven’s Gate invoked aspects of SF popular culture in its devel-
opment of this cognitive solution to the estrangement of their theology.
Consciousness transfer, especially understood in a quasi-computerised
manner, had become a SF trope by the time that Heaven’s Gate adopted
this approach in the mid-1980s. One of the most famous examples of con-
sciousness transfer in SF is Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001:
A Space Odyssey, its novelisation, and its sequel 2010: Odyssey Two (novel)
and 2010 (film), in which the computerised Jupiter monolith uploads hero
David Bowman’s mind into the monolith itself, which later reappears to
warn his fellow humans of several imminent dangers. The first of these
movies, released in 1968, predates the emergence of Heaven’s Gate, but
the studio released the second film in 1984, during precisely the era in
which Heaven’s Gate developed its consciousness transfer doctrine (Clarke
1982; Clarke and Kubrick 1968; Hyams 1984; Kubrick 1968). Heaven’s Gate’s
beloved Star Trek television series also postulated such technology, partic-
ularly in the plots in ST:TNG involving the character Data, the self-aware
android. “The Schizoid Man,” an episode from The Next Generation’s sec-
ond season, featured a human transferring his consciousness into Data as
a means of seeking immortality (Landau 1989). While most readers and
viewers looked to 2001, 2010, and ST:TNG as entertainment or perhaps fic-
tional musings on a highly technical metaphysical topic, the members of
Heaven’s Gate—as befitting adherents of a SF religion—might very well
have seen these SF stories as sources. Without a doubt, Heaven’s Gate
used the cognitive approach of science fiction to explain this process,
using technical and technical-sounding terms to explain and define con-
sciousness transfer. Like SF, they sought to explain the mechanics behind
what religious people might call the soul’s ascent to heaven or reincarna-
tion, paralleling the approach of SF.
A Science Fiction Religion in Practice
The religious overtones of Heaven’s Gate’s message are clear (self-trans-

formation, transcendence, heavenly salvation). Yet Heaven’s Gate clearly
also appealed to the ufological subculture and the SF genre. Calling the
heavenly beings ‘extraterrestrials’ and ‘aliens’ marked the movement in
this manner, as did their reference to the extraterrestrial transport ves-
sels as ‘UFOs’, ‘spacecraft’, and ‘flying saucers’. This rhetoric signifies
the movement as distinct from the many other religions that similarly
offered views of heavenly salvation, but also shows how the group drew
from the SF genre and popular ufology. In addition to proffering a world-
view predicated on the SF genre, Heaven’s Gate incorporated numerous
SF elements into their religious ritual and practice. This is most evident
in the language that the members of Heaven’s Gate used to talk about
their living situation, themselves, and their ideas about the divine. Such
spoken practices served to help the members of Heaven’s Gate under-
stand and relate to the major change that their movement envisioned—
the true nature of humanity and the means of its salvation—and seek to
resolve the estrangement wrought by that change. Tellingly, the leaders
and members of the movement sought to avoid explicitly supernaturalist
language and practices, leaning instead on more technological language
and practices oriented towards the empirical physical reality. In this way,
the group members followed the lead of SF, with its dependence on cogni-
tive means in resolving the estrangement of change. As both Christopher
Partridge and I have argued, Heaven’s Gate was a remarkably non-super-
naturalist religion (Partridge 2003; Zeller 2010). The movement’s nature as
a SF religion explains why.
One of the central ways that the leaders and members of Heaven’s Gate
put their SF religion into practice was their relationship with space, where
space means the more banal three dimensions of existence rather than
the regions beyond Earth’s atmosphere. Yet it is through their engage-
ment with livable Earthly space that the members of Heaven’s Gate
sought to transport themselves into Outer Space. As theorist Thomas A.
Tweed (2006: 74) has written of the religious engagement with space,
“[r]eligions . . . involve finding one’s place and moving through space. One
of the imperfections the religious confront is that they are always in dan-
ger of being disoriented. Religions, in turn, orient in time and place.” The
religion of Heaven’s Gate allowed its members to orient themselves on
Earth, but like many ancient sailors, they did so with recourse to the heav-
ens. Unlike stellar navigators, Heaven’s Gate not only mapped space using
the stars, they created spaces meant to bring themselves to the stars, at
least symbolically.
For most of its history Heaven’s Gate was nomadic, with members
moving relatively frequently between temporary dwellings. In the group’s
early history its members stayed in campgrounds, public land, and spaces
borrowed from sympathetic spiritual seekers. Later, after the movement
gained funds from several well heeled converts and another member’s
inheritance, they tended to rent houses. Throughout this time, the mem-
bers of Heaven’s Gate sought to transform these borrowed spaces into
sacred space, but they did so using the specific vernacular of SF religion.
Their temporary abodes became ‘crafts’, short for spacecrafts. Former
Heaven’s Gate member Rio DiAngelo (2007: 29) explains why in his mem-
oir of his time in the movement: “it is our understanding that ‘Next Level
Beings’ [extraterrestrials] do most of their tasks from a spacecraft. So, we
were taught to do all of our tasks as if in a laboratory in board a space-
craft with crew minded accuracy.” Robert W. Balch (1995), who studied
the group during its early days, reported a similar phenomenon of calling
their homes crafts during the group’s formative period of 1975 and 1976.
Renaming their houses as crafts, the members of Heaven’s Gate created
sacred spaces meant to duplicate those in the literal heavens, outer space.
They did so using the language of SF. In addition to calling their homes
‘crafts’, DiAngelo (2007: 30) explains that the group’s members called bed-
rooms ‘rest chambers’, kitchens ‘nutri-labs’, laundry rooms ‘fiber-labs’, and
offices ‘compu-labs.’ Members recast their excursions out of the house to
earn money through odd jobs or to engage outsiders, ‘out of craft tasks.’
The practices described by DiAngelo and Balch illustrate what Tweed
(2006: 103) has written of religious individuals, that they are constantly
engaged in “constructing, adorning, and inhabiting domestic space.
Religion, in this sense, is housework. It is homemaking.” Heaven’s Gate’s
members created homes through rhetorically reconstructing them as
spaceships. This transformed rented or borrowed houses, campgrounds,
or warehouses from merely ordinary space into sacred space, space that
religious people—the adherents of Heaven’s Gate—could live within.
They did so using terms drawn from SF, remaking kitchens as nutri-labs
and bedrooms as rest chambers. Most importantly, the members’ excur-
sions outside this intensely insular and sectarian community, certainly
fraught with anxiety and danger, became more manageable ‘out of craft
tasks’, akin to spacewalks. Rather than invoke the supernatural, as nearly
all the religious people in Tweed’s study of sacred space do, the members
of Heaven’s Gate looked to explicitly cognitive means to remake their
space. Rather than rituals, they used rhetoric. Rather than altars, they
altered their language. Yet renaming this space nevertheless functioned
as important religious practice, orienting the members of Heaven’s Gate
within a space that was at once Earthly and not Earthly.
Another practice that members of Heaven’s Gate employed involved
transforming themselves into members of a SF spaceship crew, rather
than individual spiritual seekers who had joined a new religious move-
ment. The members of the group referred to each other as crewmembers,
wore uniforms, shared similar diets, adopted identical grooming habits
for both men and women, and generally sought to function as individual
units within a whole. Balch reports that adherents followed extremely reg-
imented lives, and redefined their activities in quasi-scientific (or quasi-
SF) language, such as ‘fuel preparation’ rather than cooking, or ‘brain
exercises’, rather than puzzles (1995: 157). The adherents of Heaven’s Gate
modeled these religious practices on the quasi-militaristic model of space-
craft operation presented by most SF serials, novels, short stories, television
series, and films. Most notably, the group’s beloved Star Trek employed
this model, as several members of Heaven’s Gate made explicit in their
exit videos and statements. Such members sought to live within such a
crew and to function as members of a highly developed and coherent
group dedicated to peaceful maintenance of the universal order. Though
the angels of Western religious traditions seem an apt parallel, the mem-
bers of Heaven’s Gate looked to SF rather than religion as their guide in
developing this ‘crew-consciousness’. The group’s ’88 Update combines the
movement’s acceptance of consciousness transfer, this focus on crew, and
its wider acceptance of the broader ufological claim of crashed UFOs and
conspiracy theories when it declares of the group’s members, “they were
briefed as a crew aboard a spacecraft about how they would incarnate
into human vehicles in order to do a task. They left their Kingdom ‘world’
and came into this ‘world’ beginning in the late 1940’s. They feel that some
left their Next Level bodies via so-called UFO ‘crashes’ ” (Heaven’s Gate
1988: 10). Like the movement’s rhetorical transformation of Earthly into
outer space, Heaven’s Gate’s adherents’ self-understandings as crewmem-
bers served a central role in the group’s religious practice.
Not surprisingly, the rhetorical use of SF functioned as one of the main
modes of God-talk in Heaven’s Gate, and was the center of their religious
practice. The movement sometimes copied language directly from specific
SF products. Most frequently, they turned to Star Trek. The movement’s
one-third page advertisement in the national American newspaper USA
Today, published May 27, 1993, best represents this approach. Transposing
the story of the incarnation of Christ into that of Star Trek, the adver-
tisement proclaimed: “Two thousand years ago, the true Kingdom of
God appointed an Older Member to send His ‘Son’, along with some of
their beginning students, to incarnate on this garden. While on Earth as
an ‘away team’ with their ‘Captain’, they were to work on their overcom-
ing of humanness and tell the civilisation they were visiting how the true
Kingdom of God can be entered.” Here Heaven’s Gate referenced the ‘away
team’, a concept from the fictional Star Trek universe of a small group of
crewmembers descending from their spaceship so as to engage in some
activity on a planet’s surface. They also referred to Christ as a ‘Captain’,
alluding to the main characters of the various Star Trek television series,
namely Captain Kirk from the original series and Captain Picard from Star
Trek: The Next Generation (Heaven’s Gate 1993).
The advertisement continued, explaining the nature of the Heaven’s
Gate movement both with reference to Christ and his apostles as well
as Star Trek. “That same ‘away team’ incarnated again in the 1970’s [sic]
in the mature (adult) bodies that had been picked and prepped for this
current mission. This time the ‘Admiral’ (the Older Member, or Father,
incarnate in a female vehicle) came with the Son—‘Captain’—and his
crew.” Alluding to the rank system in Star Trek’s quasi-military Starfleet,
the authors of the advertisement portrayed the movement’s founders as
both divine figures and SF characters, Applewhite/Christ/Captain, Nettles/

God the Father/Admiral (Heaven’s Gate 1993). Readers of the advertise-
ment who had seen Star Trek would surely have thought of the pairing of
Admiral Kirk and Captain Spock from the various Star Trek motion pic-
tures produced in the decades before the advertisement, especially Star
Trek IV, released two years earlier, which featured the Enterprise crew
visiting twentieth-century Earth in an attempt to “save the planet from its
own short-sightedness,” in the words of the film (Nimoy 1986).
Heaven’s Gate’s USA Today advertisement used other language drawn
from Star Trek as well, most notably its reference to human morality as a
“prime directive.” In Star Trek the prime directive is a moral imperative of
not interfering with another culture’s natural development. For Heaven’s
Gate, here drawing on a New Age sense of individual self-transformation,
the prime directive was the moral requirement to not interfere in another
person’s spiritual development. The advertisement ended with another
Star Trek reference, and one that combined the group’s Biblical, ufol-
ogy, and SF language. The members of the movement would depart on
“the true ‘Enterprise’ (spaceship or ‘cloud of light’).” This brief statement
combines the multiple languages that Heaven’s Gate spoke. Even casual
consumers of SF would recognise the reference to the Enterprise, the
spaceship that ferries the crew of the original Star Trek series and ST:TNG
between its adventures, and over the course of the televisions series even
develops a life of its own as something more akin to a character than an
object. Heaven’s Gate also utilises a more generic term, ‘spaceship’, a con-
cept with which readers of the advertisement familiar with ufology would
more closely identify. Finally, the movement referenced the Biblical tradi-
tion and the “bright cloud” (elsewhere, “cloud of light”) said to be present
at divine events, and what Heaven’s Gate believed was a UFO (Heaven’s
Gate 1993).
Other Heaven’s Gate sources repeated this phenomenon of utilising
the language of Star Trek. The group’s Internet posting of 16 January,
1994, “Last Chance Statement,” repeated the same claims, as did the
title of the movement’s final Internet statement, “Heaven’s Gate ‘Away
Team’ Returns to Level Above Human in Distant Space,” though the lat-
ter statement itself avoided any direct reference to Star Trek other than
its title (Heaven’s Gate 1994; Heaven’s Gate 1997). The most extensive
treatment is found in Jwnody’s (1996) “ ‘Away Team’ from Deep Space
Surfaces Before Departure,” which not only directly references the two
aforementioned Star Trek series, but in its title possibly also alluded to
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine (1994–1999), a series still airing new episodes
at the time of the suicides. Jwnody continued the trope of referring to

herself as a crew-member on an away team mission in the company of her
Captain and under the command of her Admiral. Jwnody (1996) uses Star
Trek quite intentionally, calling it a metaphor and implying that people
might understand Heaven’s Gate better through the lens of SF. She writes,
“[m]etaphorically speaking, in 20th century human vernacular, I am
a member of the current ‘Away Team’ deployed from deep space. As a
young and extremely fortunate student, I have been working closely with
the ‘Captain’ and he in turn with the ‘Admiral’ (Chief Administrator of this
civilisation since its inception) on this remarkably complex mission.”
The group was certainly intentional about its use of SF. Jwnody, who
in addition to writing the aforementioned statement also co-edited the
movement’s self-published anthology, made the use of SF a cornerstone in
her attempt to engage the wider world. Her overview of the movement’s
history and theology served as the introduction to the group’s anthology,
and as one of its intellectual leaders, Jwnody was in the position to deploy
SF as a means of reaching her target audience: educated, intelligent, ques-
tioning Americans. She explained in her overview, “[t]o help you under-
stand who we are, we have taken the liberty to express a brief synopsis
in the vernacular of a popular ‘science fiction’ entertainment series. Most
readers in the late 20th Century will certainly recognise the intended
parallels. It is really quite interesting to see how the context of fiction
can often open the mind to advanced possibilities which are, in reality,
quite close to fact” (Jwnody 1997b). Jwnody’s use of quotes to set apart the
concept of “science fiction” indicates her discomfort with the term. This
discomfort arose not from disagreements with the validity of the genre or
its claims, but the fact that SF was in fact, in her own words, “quite close
to fact.” Not fiction at all, science fiction represented a means of com-
municating the deep religious truths that Jwnody believed Heaven’s Gate
offered. Like her earlier material and the movement’s USA Today adver-
tisement, Jwnody’s overview in the group’s anthology made extensive use
of Star Trek, and sought to portray the group as crewmembers on an Away
Team mission to Earth, led at first by their intrepid Admiral (Nettles) and
Captain (Applewhite), and later by the Captain alone.
Heaven’s Gate as Hyper-real Religion
As a SF religion, Heaven’s Gate engaged in what might seem a somewhat

odd practice of drawing ultimate religious value from the patently unreal
stories of literature and entertainment. Despite Jwnody’s claims to the

contrary, science fiction is still fiction. Yet in finding absolute meaning in
the unreal, Heaven’s Gate was hardly alone. David Chidester has described
a rich canopy of such activities throughout American culture, what he
has called “authentic fakes”: popular culture doing the work of religion.
Chidester’s Authentic Fakes: Religion and American Popular Culture argues
that more than merely being permeated by religion, American popular
culture actually possesses the qualities and functions as religion through
their shared mimetic process of play. Both religion and pop culture play
with what it means to be real and authentic. Both engage in playful recon-
sideration of the categories of life: what it means to be human and to be
part of a community, to possess a body, and to have desires. Both are
“an arena of human activity marked by the concerns of the transcen-
dent, the sacred, the ultimate—concerns that enable people to experi-
ment with what it means to be human” (Chidester 2005: 1). Such playful
engagement with the nature of what it means to be human represented
the heart of Heaven’s Gate’s religious agenda, and like the authentic fakes
that Chidester considers—the “fake religions” of Coca Cola, Disney, and
invented internet faiths—the movement employed popular American cul-
ture to do so. Heaven’s Gate ultimately challenged the very assumptions of
the nature of humanity, but did so by drawing on the fictive. In this way, it
implicitly challenged what Americans assume to be real vs. fake, reality vs.
fiction. The notion of authentic fakes explains why religious groups such
as Heaven’s Gate find resonances within the SF genre. Like other popular
culture, SF can do the work of religion. Yet by its very nature, SF pos-
sesses powerful sympathies with religion. It directly asks what it means
to be human, and how change affects humanity. It postulates problems
and offers solutions to them, just as religions do. Unsurprisingly, science
fiction religions such as Heaven’s Gate employ SF to do religious work.
One of the first peer-reviewed articles on Heaven’s Gate, Hugh Urban’s
“The Devil at Heaven’s Gate,” asks a similar question of how and why this
religious group made use of imaginary material in its approach to religion.
Leaning on the theoretical approach of Jean Baudrillard, Urban (2000:
270) argues that “[Applewhite] and his followers in Heaven’s Gate reflect
the intense ambivalence and alienation shared by many individuals lost in
late twentieth-century capitalist society. In a world in which the boundary
between the real and the imaginary, the original and the simulation, or
the human body and the computer screen, is growing increasingly blurred,
the search for ultimate meaning, or even a coherent personal identity,
often becomes more complex, even seemingly futile.” In Urban’s reading,
the members of Heaven’s Gate responded to the ambiguity of modernity’s

permeability between imagined and real by creating a form of hybridity.
They developed a religion composed of ‘simulations’ as Baudrillard would
call them, images that appear more real than the originals from which
they are copied. In their particular case, these images were taken from
SF and technological tropes, and transformed into religious truths. This
helped the members of the group respond to the technological, market-
driven, postmodern world and its flattening of truths, facts, and fictions.
Urban’s approach has its flaws—Heaven’s Gate was not an “online reli-
gion” (in Urban’s words) or involved in computer technology until very
late in its existence—but his overall argument is valid. The members of
Heaven’s Gate responded to the postmodern situation of rapid techno-
logical growth, the explosion of cyberspace, commoditisation, and the
decline of the Enlightenment value of pure rationality, through the cre-
ative intermixing of fact and fiction.
Yet another related theoretical approach, Adam Possamai’s concept of
the hyper-real religion, provides even greater traction. Possamai draws
on the concept of hyper-reality, as also developed by Baudrillard, which
postulates a state wherein reality and fantasy combine, and the approxi-
mation (or simulacrum, or simulation to use the language of Baudrillard
as read through Urban) of reality becomes more real that reality itself.
Possamai extends this concept to that of religion, defining hyper-real reli-
gion as “religions and spirituality that mix elements from religious tradi-
tions with popular culture.” He explains:
[a]t a metaphorical level, these social actors are inspired by popular culture
to express their spiritualities. At one end of the spectrum we can find groups
such as Jediism from the Star Wars movies, Matrixism from the Matrix tril-
ogy, and neo-pagan groups using stories from the Lord of the Rings and Harry
Potter. At the other end of the spectrum, we see members from mainstream
religions, such as Christians, being influenced or inspired by, for example,
The Da Vinci Code . . . which illustrates the interest that some people from
mainstream religions and spiritualities could have in the hyper-real religious
phenomenon. (Possamai 2007: 1)
Heaven’s Gate certainly follows the definition that Possamai has set
out for hyper-real religion. Popular culture, in the form of SF, inspired
the religious practices and beliefs of Heaven’s Gate, and the movement
clearly falls in the spectrum that Possamai develops. Extending the basic
approach of Baudrillard, hyper-real religions do not distinguish between
reality and fantasy, or popular culture and religion. Hence a member of
Heaven’s Gate could explain to an interviewer that the SF film Stargate
revealed the actual history of Earth without the slightest sense of irony
(Rkkody 1997). Within Heaven’s Gate, the distinction between the fic-
tion of Stargate and other SF and the reality of the world around them
disappeared.
The notion of hyper-real religions permits scholars to take the fictive
elements of Heaven’s Gate seriously, and understand why its members
incorporated SF into their worldview and practices. As Possamai (2007: 2)
explains, “[t]hese hyper-real religions are a simulacrum of a religion partly
created out of popular culture which provides inspiration for believers/
consumers. These contemporary expressions of religion are likely to be
consumed and individualised, and thus have more relevance to the self
than to a community and/or congregation.” This radically individualised
nature of the religion of Heaven’s Gate appealed to its adherents and
potential converts. Members of the movement railed against traditional
religions as supernaturalistic, unscientific, ritualistic, and old-fashioned.
Through the incorporation of SF elements into their worldview, the mod-
ern twentieth-century Americans who joined Heaven’s Gate were able to
claim what they followed a more satisfying alternative, a scientific, mod-
ern religion that offered naturalistic—cognitive—responses to their reli-
gious questions.
The adherents of Heaven’s Gate used the language of science fiction
for a simple reason: to communicate what they considered their most
important messages. Heaven’s Gate was a SF religion, as I have defined it.
It drew from the genre of SF in its practices and theology. It envisioned
a radical change that led to estrangement, and offered a cognitive solu-
tion to that estrangement. As a hyper-real religion, to use Possamai’s lan-
guage, the adherents of Heaven’s Gate collapsed the distinction between
popular culture and religion, fiction and reality, and used SF in their
practices, theology, and attempts to explain their group to outsiders. The
group’s members believed in the existence of extraterrestrial life, and that
extraterrestrials had shaped human evolution, history, and religion. They
believed that aliens regularly interacted with human beings, and religions
recorded these interactions using symbolic or mythological language.
They also believed that what religions called salvation represented the
chance for humans to evolve into extraterrestrial beings, either through
physical metamorphosis (during the first decade of the group’s existence)
or through consciousness transfer methods (during the second decade).
These beliefs marked the tenets of Heaven’s Gate as estranged from most
other religions, and indeed from the assumptions and worldview of most
Americans. Yet the religious system of Heaven’s Gate offered a solution
to that estrangement, namely a ritualised means of living like a space

alien, reshaping one’s human life and existence to cleave to the example
of the extraterrestrial crew. Ultimately, Heaven’s Gate offered its members
the opportunity to transcend their human limitations and the estrange-
ments of living as a limited species in a planet controlled by higher beings,
through transforming themselves into those higher beings—‘Next Level’
extraterrestrials, in the words of the group. Group members labored
to demonstrate that this was a purely rational, naturalistic, non-ritual
response, i.e. a cognitive means of responding to the estrangement. In
their attempt to communicate with outsiders, they naturally turned to
the SF popular culture that had influenced them, intentionally deploying
Star Trek, The X-Files, and Stargate not only as the basis of their religious
beliefs and practices, but as a means of explaining their religion. In the
end, the very-real members of Heaven’s Gate shed their Earthly bodies as
a crew, dressed in matching uniforms inspired by the television fiction
Star Trek.
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Brain, Biological Robots and Androids: Prophecies
in the Realm of Science Fiction and Religion
Carly Machado
Introduction
Today the brain occupies centre stage in all kinds of debates, inquiries,
discussions and hopes concerning human beings, including the future
development of the species and its potential for improvement. In the
background, different social contexts and agents provide a variety of
stages on which the brain plays a series of leading roles. In the popular
science disseminated in the mass media, images of the brain are seen on
numerous magazine covers and television shows on an enormous vari-
ety of topics. Talking about human behaviour and personality—normal
or pathological—in the mass media today almost invariably means dis-
playing coloured images of the brain as evidence of the human subject’s
functioning and responses to every kind of situation. Flourishing around
the borders of this popular science is a self-help literature that promotes
brain ‘exercises’ as means to personal development, disease prevention
and the overall enhancement of a person’s quality of life.
The popular science filling magazines, television shows and self-help
books across the Western world draws from the scientific production of
neuroscience and what Ehrenberg (2009) identifies as its ‘strong program’.
By this the author means that neuroscience—whose influence extends far
beyond its more obvious objectives, such as making progress in the treat-
ment of neurological diseases—presents the general public with a proj-
ect for developing a “neurobiology of the personality” (Ehrenberg 2009:
189) in which the individual and spirit are fully explicable (albeit not yet
explained) by biology. This enables a powerful fusion between the social,
cerebral and mental. Ehrenberg argues that the ‘strong program’ functions
from three perspectives: theoretical, conceptually postulating the brain as
the basis of the spirit; practical, clinically proposing a fusion between neu-
rology and psychiatry; and social, where the brain is posited as a means of
describing and understanding social behaviour and, as a consequence, as
a category of identification—that is, a means of recognising a social agent
and his or her profile.
86 carly machado
This convergence of neuroscience’s ‘strong program’ with the mass

media results in a super-potentialised brain with powers at the limit
between the scientifically explained natural world and a supernatu-
ral world yet to be revealed, readily able to be embedded in a magical-
religious dimension specific to modernity (Pels and Meyer 2003; Aupers
and Houtman 2010). In the particular religious context of the Raelian
Movement, the brain occupies this sacred central place, manifesting the
transparent revelation of the essence of human behaviour projected in
images of the organ, and a prophecy that contains an unbounded poten-
tial for the development and enhancement of human capacities. Hence,
pursuing the idea of a magic specific to modernity as discussed by Pels
and Meyer’s (2003) and Aupers and Houtman’s (2010) recent work on
religions of modernity, we can identify the fashioning of diverse modern
imaginaries around the construction of scientific evidence relating to the
functioning of the brain and its potential—some of which are religious,
confounding the secular expectation of a rigid opposition between mod-
ern science and the religious dimension.
However the magical-scientific message of the Raelian Movement, like
that of other groups with techno-religious imaginaries (especially contem-
porary new religious movements), is not only directly informed by scien-
tific publications properly speaking—indeed, on evidence, these play a
minor role—but is primarily informed by the popular science dissemi-
nated in the mass media and by other cultural imaginaries fashioned by
images of science in mainstream culture including, for example, science
fiction. The sacredness conferred to the brain by Raelianism, focused here
specifically, is built of elements taken from scientific publications on neu-
roscience (again, probably a comparatively minor source) and from the
popular science found in magazines, on television and on the Internet
(swamped by images and formulations of the brain) as well as images of
the brain found in scientific fiction.
It is important here to make it clear that Raël, prophet and leader of
the Raelian Movement, never related any aspect of his message to science
fiction (sci-fi or SF), nor made any reference to his interest in this genre.
On this topic, Susan Palmer, in her book on the Raelian movement, says:
“I asked Raël in our December 1994 interview if he had read science fic-
tion as a boy. He replied he had not but had been interested rather in
poetry and philosophy” (2004: 33). However, analytically it is relevant to
highlight that, born in France in 1946, Claude Vorilhon (birth name of
Raël) was a boy during the 1950s and a teenager during the 1960s, two
very important decades for sci-fi, especially on film. According to Bould
brain, biological robots and androids 87
(in Slonczewski and Levy 2003), the 1950s witnessed an SF movie boom
centred in the USA, although a significant number of SF movies were also
made in Europe, Asia and Latin America.
In France, several of the filmmaker-critics associated with Cahiers du cin-
ema and the nouvelle vague made SF movies, including Un amour de poche
(A Girl in his Pocket, Kast 1957), Les Yeux sans visage (Eyes Without a Face,
Franju 1959), La Jet’ee (Marker 1962), Alphaville (Godard 1965), Fahrenheit
451 (Truffaut 1966) and Je t’aime, je t’aime (Resnais 1967; Slonczewski
and Levy 2003). The New Wave for sci-fi occurred during the 1960s, says
Broderick: “The emergent movement, a reaction against genre exhaustion
but never quite formalised and often repudiated by its major exemplars,
came to be known as the New Wave, adapting French cinema’s nouvelle
vague. Auteurs such as Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut broke with
narrative tradition at the start of the sixties, dazzling or puzzling viewers
with tapestries of jump cuts, meanderings, all-but-plotless immersion in
image” (in Slonczewski and Levy 2003: 49–50).
Even when it is officially avoiding any reference to UFO religions or sci-
fi, the Raelian message is full of concepts and images related to the sci-fi
imaginary: space travels, spaceships, extraterrestrial beings, high-tech reali-
ties and androids among many others. When I first started my research in
2005, the Raelian Movement avoided the use of images in books, maga-
zines or websites, especially images of the Elohim. After some years, these
images started to appear more frequently, bringing with them the ines-
capable and unmistakable (though not explicit) reference to sci-fi films; it
may be that this connotation is the very reason for the dearth of images
that I noticed previously. Raël’s clothes, the Elohim’s spaceship, the appear-
ance of the Elohim themselves, and many other images from the Raelian
Movement’s official website and videos can be traced to sci-fi films.
The Raelian version of the Old Testament, a significant part of Raël’s first
book, is also full of sci-fi images. The Tower of Babel is presented as actu-
ally being a “rocket” (Raël 2001: 22). The trumpets of Jericho are depicted
as a technological aid from the Elohim to the Jewish people who, through
“highly amplified ultrasonic waves,” were able to reach their goal (Raël
2001: 33). Samson’s hair appears in Raël’s version as “antennae” through
which the Elohim1 could communicate with him and reinforce his leader-
ship and knowledge (Raël 2001: 35–36). These are some examples among
1
In his books, Raël calls the extraterrestrials by the name of Elohim. More explanations
about the Raelian message will be presented later in the chapter (see note 2).
88 carly machado
Fig. 1. Raelian Movement website homepage (rael.org)
Fig. 2. Video still: spaceship from “Message from the Designers”

Fig. 3. Video still: the spaceship and the Elohim from “Message from the
Designers”
many others. Raël’s attempt to present a scientific version of the Bible

actually produced a biblical sci-fi plot in terms of its characters and sce-
nario. His references are clearly not based in the scientific realm, but in
sci-fi imaginaries. However, presenting himself as explicitly aligned to sci-
ence fiction production, and thus answering ‘yes’ to Susan Palmer’s ques-
tion about his interest in sci-fi, was a risk Raël could not take. His message
must not be read as fiction, but as actual reality and real prophecy.
The article “The Singularity of the Raelian Message,” written by the
Raelian Kathleen Watterson (2009) and published on one of the move-
ment’s official website, presents an emblematic argument representative
of the official Raelian perspective on the difference between science fic-
tion and the Raelian message. Watterson (2009) refutes Arthur C. Clarke’s
(1984) statement that “[a]ll attempts to predict the future in any detail
appear ludicrous within a few years,” arguing that all predictions Raël made
were totally right. Says Watterson (2009), in reference to some examples
of Raël’s prophecies presented in her article: “[a]ll this Rael described way
back in the mid 1970s, when such ideas seemed more like imaginative sci-
ence fiction. Many people laughed back then. Even today, when all that
Rael has written is proven daily on the science pages, some people are
wallowing in confusion, bombarded by conflicting information.” The dis-
tinction pointed out here, and relevant to any official Raelian argument,
designates sci-fi as pure fiction unable to deliver any real prediction, and
Raël’s prophecy as a precise anticipation of future reality. But a critical
90 carly machado
investigation of the Raelian movement and its beliefs cannot avoid the
presence in it of sci-fi imaginary.
Far from making any attempt to approximate the Raelian message of
fiction or reality, or to evaluate its truthfulness (or otherwise), this chap-
ter aims to take seriously the intimate relation of the Raelian prophecy
to sci-fi stories in order to amplify possibilities of understanding its out-
reach. Significantly, sci-fi is usually called upon as a way of devaluating
UFO religions as fictional (as opposed to real) imagination; this explains
Raël’s unwillingness to express any interest in sci-fi. Analysing the rela-
tion between sci-fi and religion is an effort to understand the relevant
interfaces between religion, science, fiction and imagination, which I
hope will become clear further on this chapter. As we shall see, scientific
ideas are even more radically extrapolated in fiction than in popular sci-
ence, which, though media-based and aimed at the general public, still
refers—albeit to a relative extent—to an ethic of scientific dissemination.
However the free production of science fiction—in general only distantly
connected to scientific knowledge per se and to its projections for the
future—operates not only through the apparently predictable effects of a
‘false’ real, ‘almost’ real or ‘not yet’ real—a fictional real—but also as evi-
dence of a ‘more than’ real—a hyper-real—imbued by a sacred potential
through which the future is announced.
While academic discussion has generally focused on the direct relation
between religion and science, I propose exploring the impact of popular
science and science fiction on the construction of contemporary techno-
religious messages. Arguing that science-related religious questions origi-
nate within institutionally framed religious contexts, and can only be
addressed on the basis of these supposedly rigid boundaries between sci-
ence and religion, means abandoning a much more complex approach to
the phenomenon of techno-scientific religions. I propose that it is essen-
tial to examine the rich boundary zones in which science itself acquires
religious and prophetic overtones: within the area of scientific production
itself (Machado 2003; Zandbergen 2010), and also in contexts formed by
the media, artistic production and entertainment—outside of both sci-
ence and religion—where categories overlap even more intensely, free of
the dogmas specific to each of the scientific and religious domains, gener-
ating fictions and truths that circulate in the social imaginary as realities
and, in the process, produce realities.
Here I look to discuss religious constructs of the brain in the spe-
cific context of science fiction, connecting its fictional production of a
hyper-reality to the sacred dimension of the brain in the Raelian

Movement and its message. This focus is based on various complemen-
tary perspectives that, combined, form my overall proposal. The pres-
ence of the brain in science fiction output is highly significant in terms
of quantity and extremely relevant in terms of questions relating to ‘the
human,’ its essence, its limits, its materiality, substantiality and immortal-
ity. As for the religious question, science fiction is an area rich in imagery
of ‘more-than-natural’ phenomena in which the supernatural frequently
acquires highly significant dimensions, especially in the case of techno-
religious beliefs and their projections of the future. In the specific case of
the Raelian Movement, the message formulated by its prophet is awash
with elements drawn from science fiction, including life on other planets,
intergalactic journeys, spaceships, androids and so on, thereby confirming
the importance of this field of cultural production to the formulation of
Raelian conceptions and beliefs.
In “Religion and Spirituality in Science Fiction Narratives,” Possamai and
Lee (2010) identify a number of possible connections between science and
religion in sci-fi narratives. Emphasising the idea of multiple modernities,
the authors distinguish a variety of different and sometimes unexpected
connections between science and religion, atheism and religion, science
and spirituality, and so on. “Contrary to the earliest modernist Project that
saw the future as a more technologically advanced place in which religion
would not have a place, and which was reflected in the large majority
of the earlier science fiction narratives, today, some mainstream science
fiction stories project a different view of modernity which still supports
scientific inquiry and progress but, at the same time, embraces the cel-
ebration of religious, spiritual, and atheist diversity” (Possamai and Lee
2010: 216).
I therefore propose a careful examination of imagery of the brain in
science fiction, specifically as an important element in any analysis of the
Raelian Movement’s ideas, but also, more generally, because the fictions
produced about the brain offer us an insight into the magical and sacred
dimension enveloping the brain in other religious contexts, as well as in
areas that are not directly religious, such as the mass media and science
itself. From this point of view, the future projects contained in the scien-
tific research that, in turn, informs fictional works is reflexively affected by
the supernatural and hyper-real effects of science fiction itself on objects
of scientific studies and what these studies seek, investigate, research or
even expect from these objects themselves.
92 carly machado
Neuropsychology, Biochemistry and Prophecy in the Raelian Movement:

On the Brain, Neurons and Hormones
To obtain a clearer idea of the way in which the brain is depicted in the
Raelian Movement, a more detailed introduction to the cosmology of this
group is needed. Created in 1973, the Raelian Movement is led by Raël, a
prophet who conveys messages from the extraterrestrial creators of the
Earth and humanity: the Elohim.2 Referring to two encounters with the
Elohim, one on Earth and another when he was taken to their planet,
Raël’s message propounds the belief in and support for scientific advances
of every kind as a way of enabling the enhancement and evolution of
humankind and the individual. The Elohim, their way of life and their
planet are projected as an ideal to be attained by followers, hence the
term ‘Elohimisation’ given to the process of personal development pro-
posed by the movement.
The project for humanity and subjectivity propounded by the Raelian
Movement invokes a maximum potency with minimal effort, an ideal to
be obtained primarily through technological advances. The Raelian mes-
sage points to a future where work no longer exists, life is eternal and
people live solely for pleasure. All the ‘ties’ of human life will therefore
need to be undone: family, marriage, work, moral and sexual restrictions,
everything. The planet of the Elohim is the hi-tech prophetic scenario pre-
sented by Raël in his message. As a vision of the future available in the
present—made possible through Raël’s space journey to their planet—
the way of life and moral standards projected by the Raelian message for
the developed terrestrial individual are presented as the mainstream of
Elohim society.3
To achieve the level of evolution already attained by the planet of the
Elohim, the terrestrial human being therefore needs to prepare him or
herself for this degree of freedom and for complete openness to pleasure.
2
The Raelian Movement is presented as an atheist religion in which the creators of
human life are recognised as superior human beings living on another planet, whose mis-
sion was to people the Earth by developing their cloning projects here. Completely deny-
ing the existence of any type or form of God or gods, Raël claims in his message that the
notion of God derives from a misunderstanding of the name ‘Elohim,’ meaning ‘those who
came from the sky,’ referring to the extraterrestrial creator beings rather than a super-
natural or divine God, as in the usual and mistaken (in the Raelian view) translation of
the Bible. In one of his books (The Message of the Extraterrestrials) Raël retells the book of
Genesis, presenting a scientific version of the events described with the aim of demystify-
ing any theological or Christian interpretation of them.
3
About UFO religion and the Raelian movement, see Battaglia (2005).
Raël dubs this preparation ‘deprogramming’, an inverse kind of brainwash-

ing in which traditional values are rationally abandoned to be replaced by
the values associated with all kinds of individual freedom. More conscious
than ever, followers must free themselves from everything learnt as cor-
rect and immerse themselves in moral and sensual experiences in order to
expand their subjectivity and ‘Elohimisation’. The extraterrestrial model
of subjectivity projected as a goal for Raelian development leads in prac-
tice to a terrestrial subject disconnected from culture and society in the
name of a scientific, transnational, planetary and global worldview.
In the Raelian message, the techno-religious means of ‘deprogramming’
the subject and thereby promoting personal development involve actions on
the brain and the body, the latter specifically through sensuality and sexual-
ity. The brain is the concern of the movement’s psychologist, Daniel Chabot,
writer of a number of books, including La Sagesse du Plaisir and Plaisir et
Conscience, both works which are intended to be scientific reinterpretations
of Raël’s ideas. The body is tackled by biochemist Brigitte Boisselier.4
“The brain is the original Matrix,” Chabot claims. “There are molecules
for all our behaviours and emotions.” In Raelian neuropsychology, Chabot
argues, the brain is the core component of the person, with interconnect-
ing neurons forming the personality. Chabot expounds the truths of this
neuropsychology by showing videos with sequences of images demonstrat-
ing brain functions, emotions, biochemistry, the hypothalamus and other
components. His aim is to show how the brain works and the dynamic of
emotions, using the images to reveal the truth of the science/Raelianism
connection. Audio-visual input is a constant tool in Chabot’s presentations,
the images and simulations core elements in the pursuit of public visibility
for Raël’s ideas. The images displayed by Chabot—scientifically produced
neuroimages or images simulating mental processes—allow us to per-
ceive how leaders of the Movement try to produce through this appeal of
4
The Raelian Movement’s organisational profile is called the ‘Structure’ of the
Movement. The Structure is formed by those responsible for spreading the message of
the extra-terrestrial and all the Raelian projects. Composed of regional, national and plan-
etary leaders, it’s also divided into teams with specific tasks. The Raelian leaders are called
guides and are organised in levels (from 0 to 6) according to their responsibilities assumed
within the Structure, and also their status. Only Raël is a guide level 6, the so-called ‘Guide
of guides.’ Daniel Chabot is a planetary guide level 5, responsible for the Raelian University,
in charge of spreading the knowledge of the Raelian message all around the world. Brigitte
Boisselier is also a guide level 5. In view of her planetary recognition and efforts related to
the Raelian human cloning project and its corporative interface—Clonaid—Brigitte was
chosen by Raël to replace him as the leader of the Raelian Movement in the case of his
death (Machado 2009; Machado 2010).
94 carly machado
colourful images a revelatory effect for those members enchanted (in the
double sense of the word) by the clarity of the images and thus of the ideas
presented.
Chabot’s main objective in displaying the images is to show the dam-
age that can be caused to the brain by wrong behaviour. Among these
behaviours he highlights drug use and criminality. In the conception
developed and advocated by Chabot, morality shapes the brain. Every
attitude leaves a different mark, a variation capable of being identified
in the images: the brain of a cocaine user differs from brain of a cannabis
user (the latter less damaged than the former), just as a murderer’s brain
differs from a thief’s. In general the simulations presented by Chabot are
grossly deformed, even in the cases of less damaged brains, since achiev-
ing the desired impact of the image depends on the visual intensity of the
cerebral deterioration. Chabot explicitly stresses the importance of the
displayed images, saying that science ‘now’ enables us to see things that
could once only be described. Alongside this imagery of cerebral dam-
age, Chabot also formulates practical suggestions, with the claim that the
brain can nonetheless recuperate and create new connections. He thus
offers this piece of advice: “look after your brain.”
Chabot sacralises a brain/person paradigm and elevates it to the sta-
tus of a key category of the Raelian project of human enhancement and
development. In specific terms of an analysis of the brain/person relation
in the field of the neurosciences, Ortega (2009: 249) discusses the ‘cerebral
subject’ as an important historical category in the exploration of processes
of subjecification: “[c]erebral subjects form and are formed through tech-
nologies of the self sustained, in part, by the specialised knowledge and
its divulgation by the media and by popular culture.”
According to Ortega (2009), in the area of biosociability the cerebral sub-
ject gives way to the appearance of cerebral self-practices of neuroascesis,
that is, discourses and practices of how to act on the brain to maximise its
performance, leading to the formulation of what Ortega calls neurosocia-
bilities and neuroidentities. These constitute forms of objective selves, or
“objective self-fashioning,” to use Joseph Dumit’s expression (2004, cited
in Ortega 2009: 249) to refer to the process of forming an objective self—a
category of person developed through specialised knowledge.
Ortega (2009: 249–250) claims that the “notion of the objective self
refers to a comprehension of subjectivity that sets out from technical,
scientific and medical discourses on objectivity, that is, an objectified
subjectivity, a form of self in which the phenomenological and subjective
perspective of the first person is reduced to the third person perspective
expressed through medical technologies and the objectifying discourses

and practices.” Pursuing his argument further, Ortega claims that these
‘objective facts’—which he himself places in quote marks—are gleaned
by individuals from what is transmitted by the media. Capitalising on the
transparency of images of the brain, the media thereby generates causal
relations between mental states and cerebral structures, leading the public
to interpret these images as the objective records—explicitly questioned
by Ortega—of emotional and mental states. Ortega (2009) argues that
neuroascesis is a neoliberal technology of self-governance in which each
individual is effectively a business entrepreneur responsible for managing
his or her own life. Cerebral self-help therefore contributes to the produc-
tion of citizens capable of and responsible for governing themselves and
others.
Ortega’s critical perspective about the idea of a ‘cerebral subject’ (see
also Ehrenberg 2009; Azize 2008) adds important questions to reflections
on the Raelian religious (and utopian) neurobiology of personhood. While
the Raelian prophecy highlights only positive aspects of a possible scien-
tifically cerebral transparency as a way to human development, Ortega
points to political projects of control, which go along with scientific and
religious ones, and must be taken seriously.
Focusing exclusively on positive aspects of the brain/person paradigm,
inside the Raelian movement not only intellectual concepts about the
brain are taught and learned, but also practices are developed in order
to religiously enhance the brain and the person. The connection between
Raël’s prophecy and Chabot’s neuropsychology is made by the biochemist
Boisselier5 and her presentation of sensuality and sexuality. As well as hav-
ing a high public profile gained as a result of media interest in cloning,6
Boisselier is also one of the Raelian Movement’s leading figures. The main
theme of her presentations is sexuality, her talks taking elements from
biochemistry and biology and combining them in ways that delineate her
conception of humans and their development. In one of her talks at the
5
The ideas formulated here are field notes made during Boisselier’s talks at the 2005
Raelian European Seminar and also while watching her videos and interviews in different
Raelian meetings and on Raelian official websites.
6
Cloning of Eva, a human baby, was jointly announced by Raël and Boisselier, the
latter presented as the scientist responsible for the project and for CLONAID, the human
cloning company supposedly created by the Raelian Movement to conduct research and
projects in the area.
96 carly machado
2005 Raelian European Seminar, held in Barcelona, Boisselier presented

on the topic: “we are biological robots.”
Boisselier formulates her Raelian biochemistry through an unusual
equation that combines DNA, consciousness, culture and past experiences.
In the middle of this fourfold schema are endocrine glands, pleasure and
displeasure receptors, instinctive mechanisms and memory. After presenting
the biological mechanisms that lead to actions and behaviour, Boisselier
turns to speak specifically about the relation between hormones, sex and
emotions. By contrast to Chabot who focuses on the brain in his argu-
ments, Boisselier places the body as the central issue for debate. While he
focuses on ‘neurones’, she talks about ‘hormones’. In the practices set out
by Boisselier, sensual and sexual experiences configure the ways for depro-
gramming and reprogramming the brain, which is stimulated by provoca-
tive and thus liberating experiences. As practical exercises in sensuality
and sexuality, the Movement promotes a variety of events that mobilise
its followers to varying degrees of stimulation, from morning public talks
to night shows and parties. The senses stimulated during shows are mainly
sight and hearing, while during night parties, people’s bodies as a whole
are stimulated by the incorporation of roles (like a religious carnival) and
by dancing strongly percussive rhythms from different parts of the world.
Normally Raelian seminars start their activities with more passive experi-
ences in which participants watch more than act, moving gradually to
events increasingly more encompassing, mobilising bodies with a sensory
bombardment assailing the eyes, ears, mouth and skin of the participants,
intensifying the sensual and sexual experience.7
Boisselier formulates her argument for the human capacity for change
in the keynote idea of one of her talks, namely that “we are biological
robots” and that we can therefore use biology to reprogram ourselves
in the desired direction. In the Raelian message, ‘biological robots’ were
presented for the first time as non-human ‘others’. In Raël’s book on his
journey to the planet of the Elohim, he indicates the existence of these
beings with a human form and a human body but without subjectivity—
7
The Raelian shows are dominated by musical presentations, dance, sensual perform-
ances and strip-teases. The parties are theme-based with the most frequent theme being
the swapping of sexual roles—where men and women dress as the opposite sex—and the
African festival in which African dance and rhythm set the tone for bodily experience.
The sensual night is organised into different environments, each one providing a different
sensory experience, such as walking blindfolded, tasting things without seeing them, giv-
ing and receiving massages, etc. For more information, see Machado (2009).
androids—created to perform every type of work: domestic, professional

and sexual. However, conceiving humans as biological robots is Boisselier’s
own formulation and implies working with the logic of programming as
a basic principle of human functioning. ‘Robots’ call into question the
notion of autonomy and are defined as hetero programmable. Boisselier
emphasises the different biological levels involved in the programming
of the robot-person: sensual experience—where smells define attractions
and repulsions between people; sexuality—regulated by instincts and hor-
mones that anticipate consciousness; and genetics itself—DNA—which
essentially anticipates everything else. The Raelian project represented by
Boisselier focuses on nature’s control of the body and biology’s control of
culture. In the bio-techno-religious categories of the Raelian Movement,
therefore, biological robots play an important role as cyborgs intermediat-
ing the biology-culture relation.
Elsewhere I have analysed the relation between the Raelian message
and science fiction from a broader perspective (Machado 2010). As I
tried to argue, the elements that make up Raelian cosmology are derived
from real scientific worlds on the one hand and science fiction on the
other hand, blurring the distinctions between real and virtual. At this
point my specific interest resides in linking the centrality of the brain
in the Raelian message—its totalising role in terms of shaping the per-
son, their current state and their transformative potential—to the imag-
ery constructed around this category in science fiction. One of the most
important points to discuss in this respect is the theme of the scientific-
enchanted potential of the brain-person, as presented by Daniel Chabot,
in relation to the ambiguous image of the ‘biological robots’ presented
by Brigitte Boisellier, where the hyper-autonomy of the brain-person co-
exists with a sensual-sexual hetero-programming and a genetic-biological
determination through which the Raelian person can be deprogrammed
and reprogrammed.
While in Raelian prophecy this project of conceiving the person as a
mixture of the autonomous and the automaton is tension-free, an analysis
of these themes in science fiction can help us gain a better understanding
of the project’s ambiguity and its consequences. Science fiction is recog-
nisably a rich field of creative output involving the exploration of impor-
tant questions about human anxieties, moral issues and ethical dilemmas.
Whether in its utopic or dystopic versions, science fiction always fore-
grounds a tension generated by the unpredictable consequences and latent
risks of technical-scientific developments for society and the individual,
whether a happy ending is reached or not. The absence of any tensions in
98 carly machado
Raelian morality in terms of the consequences of a hi-tech future makes

it more like fiction, while the unease and anxieties of science fiction take
on the contours of reality and truth. The futurist scenario of the Raelian
message apparently has close and complex affinities with science fiction.
Brains and Androids in Science Fiction
As discussed above, the notions of brain and ‘biological robots’ are

central to the Raelian message concerning a person’s development or
‘Elohimisation’. However, we arrive at a tension between a hyper-auton-
omous conception of the person as one capable of morally programming
the brain in any chosen direction of development, and a notion of the
person as a ‘biological robot,’ hetero programmable through the pathways
of sensuality and sexuality as external stimulations. These two images—
the autonomous brain and programmable androids—are found in abun-
dance in science fiction and we could even say that they appear in the
social imaginary as intrinsically hybrid science fictions and projections.
However, the various fictional characters and plots of sci-fi multiply the
possibilities of success and failure for the futurist projects of brains and
androids, generating a variety of useful angles for analysing the Raelian
formulation of these categories. Science fiction is produced in various for-
mats and languages: novels, magazines, comic strips, TV shows, films, and
so on. In this chapter I concentrate not on the media language of these
productions, but on the characters and plots of some science fiction sto-
ries in the belief that—for the specific purposes of this study of the brain
and androids in sci-fi—characters and plots can help inform the core of
the argument being developed.
To advance our discussion, we can take a closer look at some of these
characters and the plots in which they are immersed. As a broad frame-
work, the following main characters can be identified in science fiction:
1) hyper-developed human brains—expanded in size or potency—that
create evolved human beings; 2) bodiless human brains; 3) brainless
human bodies; 4) human brains in non-human bodies or environments,
and 5) artificial intelligences that develop without the cerebral human
substrate, generally through the use of machines. Surrounding these
characters we can identify plots that raise the possibility of immortality
through the potential for intelligent life outside the body, and those ques-
tioning the limits of humanity though the depiction of brainless bodies
and humanity-less intelligences. Other plotlines focus on the possibilities
for creating the naturally human through artificial intelligence and, at the
extreme limit of this project, the creation of a perfect artificial intelligence
implying the creation of the more-than-human, the more-than-natural,
inverting the relation between the divine creator of a human creature
to arrive at the opposite: the human creator of a divine creature. These
plots are pervaded by questions concerning the forms of domination and
subordination found between the human, almost-human and more-than-
human. The theme of agency acquires unexpected contours, sometimes
inherent to the human brain, at other times dispensing with it and emerg-
ing from artificiality. Slonczewski and Levy (2003) point to an intimate
relationship between science fiction and life sciences, especially biology,
highlighting a trend away from so-called ‘hard science fiction’, which is
interested mainly in the physics of space travel or intergalactic warfare,
towards a ‘softer hard science fiction’ focused on biology, especially ques-
tions relating to the genome.
The great adversary is no longer an alien superpower, but the enemies
within—cancer, AIDS, and bio-weapons—as well as the accidental results
of genetic manipulation, and our own lifestyle destroying our biosphere. The
engineering challenge of the future is less a matter of machines replacing
living organisms than of machines imitating life’s complexity. (Slonczewski
and Levy 2003: 174)
Among the main themes of this biological science fiction are questions
relating to the fields of sexuality and reproduction, genetic engineering,
mutation and evolution, the environment and biosphere, intelligence
and the brain (Slonczewski and Levy 2003). In the specific context of this
chapter, we can highlight these themes as core aspects of the Raelian mes-
sage: the imagery populating this interface between science fiction and
biology assumes a prominent role in the Raelian belief in a biotechnologi-
cally evolved future. In Raelian terms, sexuality is free, completely discon-
nected from reproductive ends, meaning that assisted reproduction and
cloning have emerged as the human reproductive ideal. DNA represents
the ‘soul’ as revealed by science, and human evolution lies at the heart of
the process of terrestrial development. Mutation is the only theme not
found in the Raelian message and this absence is significant: the icons of
Raelian biology are presented as successful versions of biotechnological
projects without failures or margins of risk. Mutation in general brings to
light the dangers of ‘in between’ versions of life, and the tension intrinsic
to a potential technological slip simply does not fit into the Raelian proj-
ect of complete scientific success.
100 carly machado
Turning to the theme of intelligence and the brain, innumerable sci-

ence fiction stories are pervaded by questions relating to the increase,
decrease or alteration of human intelligence or human cerebral functions
and how these alterations fundamentally change the nature of humanity.
Thus in this fictional scenario the nature of human intelligence is directly
related to the brain’s physiology, and also to the essence of humanity.8
In these fictional works we can identify different kinds of evolutions or
involutions of the human brain in its supposedly natural environment—
that is, the human body and person. We can observe a rich set of imag-
ery concerning the undeveloped potential of the human species, centring
on the still unknown potential of the brain. This field of the scientifically
or fictionally possible operates in delicate conjunction with the field of
beliefs, since the formulation of what does not yet exist, but still could,
takes place not in the context of evidence but in the context of belief in
the possible, with scientific, fictional and religious dimensions.
With regard to the aims of this chapter, emblematic sci-fi characters
and plots will be depicted as a way of offering concrete elements to the
sequence of this argument. The chosen focus inside the wide field of sci-fi
production is the work of Isaac Asimov, and this choice is based on three
main aspects: 1) Asimov’s transit through scientific and fictional fields,
and also popular science; 2) his importance to sci-fi productions, such as
his offering important frameworks in Foundation and Robot Series which
were used by several other authors; and 3) the presence in his stories of
emblematic brain related characters and specially relevant plots which
raise discussions pertinent to this investigation.
Trained in biochemistry, Asimov produced a striking corpus of work
in science fiction (especially the Foundation and Robot Series) but also
wrote works of popular science and professional scientific publications
(D’Ammassa, 2005). In this sense, Asimov provides an important exam-
ple of the tenuous boundaries between the fictional and the scientific
in terms of the creation of elements belonging to the field of beliefs in
the possible. This is the case with The Human Brain: its capacities and
functions, published in 1962 as a work of popular science, but which also
figures as a scientific reference book in the area. In 1987, Asimov wrote
Fantastic Voyage II: Destination Brain. This work of fiction further explores
8
According to Slonczewski and Levy (2003), many early twentieth century authors
dreamed of the enhancement or transcendence of human brain-power. Some examples of
this argument are J. D. Beresford’s The Hampdenshire Wonder (1911), Olaf Stapledon’s Odd
John (1935), A. E. Van Vogt’s Slan (1940, 1946) and Poul Anderson’s BrainWave (1954).
Asimov’s scientific interest in the brain through a plot in which Soviet

scientists hold hostage a polemical American scientist and shrink him
and themselves down to microscopic size in order to enter the body—
specifically, the brain—of a renowned and eccentric Soviet scientist in a
coma, to retrieve his memories.
In Asimov’s work we can find examples of practically all the versions of
the brain and artificial intelligence present in science fiction. The works
cited above highlight Asimov’s interest in the brain as the human organ
of intelligence. In his acclaimed Robot Series, however, Asimov creates a
fundamental image for the idea of artificial intelligence: the positronic
brain. This technological device was fundamental to the development of
robots in Asimov’s work since this artificial brain was the main structure
responsible for robotic enhancement of almost all human cognitive and
emotional skills.9
More interested in robot software—the programs controlling robots’
actions—and less in physical infrastructure or hardware, Asimov formu-
lated the Three Laws of Robotics as a set of programmed rules indispens-
able to the positronic brain. According to D’Ammassa (2005: 194), the
Three Laws are:
[f ]irst, robots cannot injure a human being either through direct action or
failure to act in their defense. Second, robots must obey the orders of human
beings unless those orders conflict with the first law. And third, robots must
protect their own existence except where that would conflict with either of
the first two laws.
The positronic brain ushers in the possibility of creating an artificial intel-
ligence and, developing this possibility, explores the limits between the
robotic and the human when the former is endowed with intelligence.
These ideas can be found, for example, in two influential works, I, Robot
and Bicentennial Man. Initially a collection of short stories written by
Asimov in 1950 (including the story in which Asimov first formulated the
Three Laws of Robotics), I, Robot was released as a film in 2004. The robot
at the centre of the film, Sonny, acts out the tension between his positronic
brain and his capacity to evaluate when application of the Three Laws to
his decisions is relevant. This leads him to take unexpected actions that
are initially considered dangerous by humans, but later perceived as ethi-
cally sustainable. His main antagonist in the film is VIKI—an enormous
9
In 1992, with Robert Silverberg, Isaac Asimov published a short story entitled The
Positronic Man, based on The Bicentennial Man from 1976.
102 carly machado
super-powerful positronic brain that, exploiting the limits of the Three

Laws, uses her own interpretation of these rules to control a rebellion of
robots against human beings, justified by the argument that humans at
that moment are their own worst threat and therefore need to be domi-
nated and controlled by robots for their own sake.
In examining I, Robot we can highlight not only the issue of the artificial
creation of intelligence, but also its risks, which point above all to a com-
plex ethical scenario of domination and subordination of humans by non-
humans and vice-versa. The issues relating to the free will of the robots
programmed on the basis of the Three Laws and the morality implied in
the right (or lack of right) for humans to dominate robots, exposes another
field of blurred boundaries—this time in the context of morality and eth-
ics—between the fictional, scientific and religious. Just as in the earlier
discussion of beliefs in the possible, the ethical dimension of scientific
developments in artificial intelligence brings to light religious issues, such
as free will, that are directly implied in the type of relation formulated
between superior and inferior beings, divine and human. These questions
concern the agency and autonomy of creators vis-à-vis their creators, as
well as the ethics—could we say bioethics?—implied in the possibility of
human beings in the future creating beings superior to themselves both
physically and mentally, and the relation that can be predicted, projected
or imagined between creators and creatures when the former are inferior
to the latter.
Bicentennial Man, produced as a film in 1999, is based on the 1993 novel
by Asimov and Silverberg, The Positronic Man, itself originally based on a
short story published by Asimov in the 1970s with the same title as the
film. Andrew, the story’s protagonist, is a robot who, possessing human
emotions and thoughts, embarks on a project to become recognisably
human. He therefore alters his hardware, making for himself a human
body with skin, body hair, organs and a nervous system. In love with Portia
and anxious to marry her, Andrew asks the World Congress to recognise
him as a human being. The final sticking point of the political opposi-
tion to his request is the impossibility of accepting the existence of an
immortal human being. After this setback Andrew invests in the project of
growing old and develops technology enabling him to become mortal by
injecting blood into his body. In parallel to Andrew’s initial immortality
and later aging, Portia, his lover, is kept alive thanks to a biotechnological
apparatus developed by Andrew, which is capable of practically immortal-
ising Portia. At two hundred years old and on the verge of dying, Andrew
is officially declared human by the World Congress and his marriage to
Portia is finally recognised. Hearing this announcement on the television,

Andrew dies and next to him Portia switches off the equipment keeping
her alive so she can die with her newly recognised husband.
Bicentennial Man foregrounds the theme of artificially produced human-
ity and the complex negotiations between nature and culture involved
in this composition of the human somewhere between the natural and
the artificial. In contrast to I, Robot, where Sonny desires recognition,
respect and autonomy as a robot, in Bicentennial Man Andrew wants to
be a human and undertakes the project of humanising himself in the most
literal and fullest sense of the term. As well as through his brain and intel-
ligence, Andrew also develops into a human through his acquisition of
skin, body hair, organs and nervous system. Nothing about his appear-
ance differentiates him from a human being. He uses his own artificial
intelligence to develop an artificial humanity. This is the dilemma set up
by the story, which simultaneously creates an artificial immortality for
the humanity of Portia, and an artificial mortality for the ‘positronicity’
of Andrew. At the end of the story, Portia—whose humanity was never
in question—is practically an immortal robot thanks to the equipment
keeping her alive, cyborg-like, while Andrew is finally recognised as a
human when he becomes mortal, despite this mortality being artificially
produced.
Bicentennial Man highlights issues directly relevant to the religious
field. Mortality and immortality—the human condition and its project
for salvation, respectively—are conceived in technological and artifi-
cial versions, producing a techno-religious imagery of eternal life and, at
the same time, highlighting the dilemmas inherent to immortality and
the inevitability of death as a defining mark of the human condition. The
immortal provokes questions concerning the humanity of any human
capable of dispensing with death. The World Congress rules that it is not
possible to recognise any human as immortal. Hence the immortal is not
human. The scientific, fictional and inherently religious view of eternal
life brings into question the possibility of extending the human condi-
tion beyond death. Immortality thus implies a life in another condition,
whether scientifically and/or religiously projected—robotic, angelic, spiri-
tual, informatic or virtual.
As well as the techno-religious dimension contained in the possibili-
ties and impossibilities of immortality in Bicentennial Man, the work
also allows us to identify important aspects of a model of the human
being involving particular criteria of humanity and a planned process of
humanisation. So, the question about what it means to be human and
104 carly machado
how to achieve it in Bicentennial Man is not a one-answer interrogation.

Different projects of humanity are presented in sci-fi works, as in religious
beliefs. Between the natural and the artificially human, a specific project
of humanisation takes concrete shape in Andrew, passing from the mod-
elling of ways of thinking, feeling, acting and reacting to the shape and
composition of his body itself, inside and out. This modelling of Andrew
is above all a self-modelling in which humanising the self is above all a
self-conducted process directed towards the desired model or project of
humanity to be attained.
Despite my focus so far on Asimov’s work, many other science fiction
works feature brains and androids as important characters.10 One of the
relevant fields of possibilities explored in science fiction is the notion of
humans evolving through brain enhancement.11 A background presump-
tion here is that biotechnological manipulation is a legitimate means
of improving humankind—capable of much more than it currently
achieves—and that this potential is present in the brain. However these
evolved human individuals or groups are also associated with tensions
and the risks of dissociation and crisis.
Artificial intelligence in science fiction also suggests another possible
direction for development of intelligence beyond the human potential. In
1972, David Gerrold wrote When Harlie Was One, a book in which the com-
puter Harlie is the main character. H.A.R.L.I.E.—an acronym for Human
Analog Replication, Lethetic Intelligence Engine—“was built using what
Gerrold calls ‘judgement circuits’ which allows [sic] the computer to pro-
gram itself (i.e. ‘learn’), to seek out further information, and to formu-
late original ideas” (Enniga 2010). What is unique about Harlie is its (his)
decision to “build a Graphic Omniscient Device (G.O.D.), an extension to
Harlie’s brain that will be able to answer any research question, compute
any probability, and in general, will free mankind from making errone-
ous decisions about anything” (Enniga 2010). In Gerrold’s Harlie we can
identify another dimension to the science-fiction-religion relation: rather
than making machines more like human beings (as in Bicentennial Man),
the development of artificial intelligence—by turning to transcendence
10
The Puppet Masters ( Jack Finney 1951), The Brain Stealers (Murray Leinster 1954), The
Girl Who Was Plugged In ( James Tiptree Jr. 1973), as presented by D’Ammassa (2005).
11
Beggars in Spain (Nancy Kress1991), Beggars and Choosers (Nancy Kress 1994) and
Beggars Ride (Nancy Kress 1996), The Fourth ‘R’ (George O. Smith 1959, also published
as The Brain Machine), Brain Child (George Turner 1991), as presented by D’Ammassa
(2005).
in the unexpected configuration of a perfect intelligence—moves beyond

the human and towards the representation of God (Harlie’s G.O.D). The
image of the developed human brain feeds the image of a superior human
being, while the depiction of a perfect artificial brain suggest the possibil-
ity of creating God. A curious imaginary connection between the human,
the machinic and the divine emerges: the enhancement of the human
brain enables the creation of extremely highly developed machines with
‘almost’ human consciousness and intelligence who turn their creators
into those who create humans, in other words, gods. In their final creative
act, these humans/gods create machines even more perfect than them-
selves and finally produce not artificial humans but artificial gods—or
more than natural gods: supernatural, in other words.
This analysis of the roles played by the brain in science fiction has
looked to bring to the fore a series of important questions for any analysis
of techno-religious imaginaries where the category of the brain and other
connected elements operate. Using these themes and questions as a basis,
we can now turn to how they play an extremely important role in a variety
of religious contexts, and focus specifically on the Raelian Movement and
its alien prophetic message.
Final Considerations
Over the course of this chapter I have stressed the importance of analysing
the imaginaries produced in the space between science and religion in
order to comprehend techno-religious configurations, their beliefs and
principles. Where the apparently watertight categories of science and reli-
gion interconnect and merge, we can identify elements that are produced
not within the two domains but in the fields of meaningful production
between them, including the area examined here, science fiction.
Seeking, then, to understand the reasons for the strong presence of
the brain in the Raelian message we investigated images of the organ in
science fiction, identifying in the sci-fi output elements that can help us
to comprehend the techno-religious setting in which Raelian beliefs are
produced, maintained and reinvented. Extrapolating from this survey of
science fiction and its changes over time, we can suggest that the Raelian
message also migrated from a ‘hard’ version to a ‘softer’ version of the
hard one. Raël’s first books focused on the alien and galactic dimension
of the Elohim and their planet. Spaceships, space travel, technological
equipment, other planets, fantastic objects: all of these elements provided
106 carly machado
the setting in which the prophecy of the Elohim was transmitted to Raël.
In his description of the first encounter, the prophet claims to have been
led inside the Elohim spaceship, while in the second encounter he was
taken to their planet. Gradually, though, the prophecy announced by Raël
loses its emphasis on the alien technological infrastructure and even on
any direct relation with the extraterrestrial creators, and transforms into a
more biological version of the message. On one hand the prophecy turns
to focus on the biotechnological potential of scientific development, cen-
tring on themes of cloning, stem cell technology and genetic engineer-
ing. In Yes to Human Cloning (2001), Raël’s third book, spaceships and
space journeys give way to DNA and the genome. On the other hand, the
contact between Raël and the Elohim becomes embodied. He no longer
meets the creators physically, either on Earth or by visiting their planet,
but the Elohim start to speak directly through his mouth. The physical
presence of extraterrestrial beings loses its sway over the Movement as
Raël’s humanity becomes the locus from which the alien presence must
be projected.
But the changes continue. While in the 1990s until the turn of the 2000s,
DNA biology and cloning operated as fundamental Raelian techno-sacred
icons, during the first decade of the twenty first century DNA has given
way to the brain, as we saw earlier in the discussion of Daniel Chabot’s
neuropsychology. Reflecting on the sciences that inform the production of
fictional or religious imagery, it is worth noting that a concurrent shift of
emphasis took place within the life sciences away from genetics towards
neuroscience. The Raelian belief in the potential of the brain is based on
the evidence produced by neuroscience and subsequently diffused and
developed in the cultural imaginary, in the scientific environment itself
and in popular science and science fiction, creating a plural context of
possible futures that is shared by Raelians but certainly not limited to the
Raelian Movement.
Hence in discussing the relation between science fiction and life sci-
ences, I have tried to present some of the key aspects of the images and
depictions of the brain and intelligence in this area of fictional produc-
tion, looking to highlight dimensions of direct relevance to notions of the
brain and person found in the Raelian Movement, including autonomy
and automatism, domination and subordination, the relation between
the natural, artificial and supernatural in the realm of artificial intelli-
gence, and so on. Returning to the main theme of this article, it can be
argued that the possible futures glimpsed today for human potential and
human development tend to involve the brain as conceived as the centre
of the personality, religiously reaffirming neuroscience’s ‘strong program’

(Ehrenberg 2009), and even more intensely potentialised by science fiction
imagery. However, the assumption of this neurobiology of the personality
as a sacred truth does not inform the Raelian Movement through its ‘purely’
scientific version—indeed a fiction—but through various versions focused
on issues of autonomy and automatism, humanity and non-humanity,
mortality and immortality, delicately and dangerously articulated in sci-
ence fiction as consequences of the predictions and imagery fashioned
from the brain, androids and artificial intelligence. Tracing some of the
characters and plots found in science fiction, we saw that brain and per-
son form a cohesive whole in the imagery of these works. Improving the
brain means improving the person, preserving bodiless brains means pre-
serving the person, placing brains in other bodies (human or non-human)
implies the transference of the person, creating artificial intelligences on
the basis of non-human substrates means creating persons. In science fic-
tion, manipulating the brain therefore implies manipulating the self and
subjectivity, whether towards success or towards failure.
In this chapter, sci-fi plots and characters helped us think about some of
the religious, political, moral and ethical projects related to social impacts
of neuroscientific developments, and their consequences in terms of
social life. Science fiction and its imaginative contribution to the creation
of possible worlds is a privileged locus where strong scientific programs
live side-by-side with equally strong ethical questions that challenge these
programs to prove their strength and power. In fiction, the success and
failure of scientific projects sets in motion notions of truth and falsity,
possibilities and impossibilities, of an extremely rich and pertinent kind
for the analysis of techno-religious movements.
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PART two
21ST CENTURY CASE STUDIES OF HYPER-REAL RELIGIONS

“A World Without Rules and Controls, Without
Borders or Boundaries”: Matrixism, New Mythologies,
and Symbolic Pilgrimages
John W. Morehead
Introduction
In 1999 a film appeared in theaters that would make an interesting con-

tribution not only to science fiction cinema, but also in a number of areas
beyond it, as its impact reverberated beyond the silver screen. The film
was The Matrix. It told the story of Thomas Anderson, a young computer
programmer by day, computer hacker by night under the alias ‘Neo’. For
Anderson things do not quite seem right in the world, and a part of his
quest for resolving his unease is finding the mysterious figure of Morpheus,
another computer hacker, considered a terrorist by government authori-
ties. As the story unfolds it is Morpheus who finds Anderson. He offers
him an opportunity to find out the answers to his questions and existen-
tial angst, and in particular, what the mysterious ‘matrix’ is. Although it is
nearly impossible for Anderson to accept, he comes to learn that what he
had assumed to be reality is a ‘computer-generated dream world’, a virtual
simulation created by a race of machines. Instead of living their daily lives
as they assume through their experiences of ‘reality’, human beings are
grown in farms and plugged neurologically into the simulated reality of
the matrix as a means of control so that they can provide an energy source
from their bodies for the machines. Later, very reluctantly, Anderson
comes to accept that he is indeed Neo, the chosen One, prophesied to
come and set humanity free from its bondage. As the story reaches its
climax, Neo learns to control, and eventually reshape the matrix accord-
ing to his own will, and lead the battle against the machines in order to
save the human race.
The Matrix was a success with viewers as its writers and directors, Andy
and Larry Wachowski, brought together a number of influences, including
cyberpunk, comic books (especially Japanese manga), mythology, martial
arts and wire-work fighting from Asian cinema, to create a dynamic sci-
ence fiction thriller. The success of The Matrix would spawn two other
films that formed a trilogy, The Matrix Reloaded (2003) and The Matrix
Revolutions (2003). It also produced The Animatrix (2003), a collection of
nine animated shorts in the style of Japanese anime that explored aspects
112 john w. morehead
of the Matrix storyline and broader narrative. It also spawned three video
games including Enter the Matrix (2003) and The Matrix: Path of Neo (2005)
for console systems, and The Matrix Online (2005), a massively multiplayer
online game for Internet play.
The Matrix also had a significant impact in other areas of popular cul-
ture beyond film and videogames. In philosophy it raised questions related
to epistemology; how we know what we know and take for granted as
real in daily life (e.g. Irwin 2002; Irwin 2005; Lawrence 2004; Grau 2005).
In so doing it incorporated philosopher Jean Baudrillard’s ideas related
to symbols, signs, and simulations of reality or hyper-reality (Baudrillard
1994; Messler 2006; Henley 2010).1 The Matrix also touched on religion.
Given the complex and multilayered aspects of The Matrix, it is not sur-
prising to find divergent readings of the religious aspects of its narrative.
These include writers who see elements of the Christian story reflected
in the film in the form of Neo as a Christ-figure prophesied to provide
deliverance and who would later seemingly rise again from the dead
(Seay and Garrett 2003), others who recognise these elements but who
also see Buddhist ideas (Ford 2000), still others who see both Buddhism
and Gnosticism in the film, (Flannery-Dailey and Wagner 2001), and some
who engage in Muslim (Hamid 2005), Taoist (Lawrence 2004), and Hindu
Vedantin (Lännström 2005) interpretations.
The incorporation of aspects from differing religious traditions in the
Matrix trilogy, and cinema’s provision of “sacred content that can be used
by audience members for play and serious reflection”, even as religious phe-
nomena “which can compete with the Bible and other religious texts in the
imaginative and practical lives” of individuals (Laderman 2009: 21), have
come together to birth a new expression of spirituality. The film trilogy has
become the metaphorical inspiration for the formation of a new religious
movement based in part upon its mythic narrative, a hyper-real spirituality
(Possamai 2007) called Matrixism. Before exploring a few facets of this inter-
esting spirituality it is necessary to briefly sketch its history and doctrines.
Summary of Matrixism
The origins and description of the varying expressions of Matrixism must

be pieced together from Internet sites and interactions with those who
1
Apparently Baudrillard has stated that the Wachowskis have misunderstood his the-
sis, and this has become the focus of academic discussion.
matrixism, new mythologies, and symbolic pilgrimages 113
helped create it.2 Although Matrixism surfaced in its public manifestation

in 2004, it claims a longer history going back to 1911 with a connection to
the Bahá’í Faith. The Bahá’í Faith is traced to its founder Bahá’u’lláh (1817–
1892), who is considered the last of several Messengers from God (Smith
1999).3 These include Abraham, Moses, Buddha, Krishna, Zoroaster, Jesus
Christ, and Muhammad. Matrixism points to Bahá’u’lláh’s son, ’Abdu’l-
Baha, who made references to ‘the matrix’ in various speeches which were
later published in book form (’Abdu’l-Baha 2007). These references are said
to include sayings such as, “In the beginning of his human life man was
embryonic in the world of the matrix” (www.geocities.com/matrixism n.d.).
Those who identify with Matrixism, calling themselves Matrixists, Pathists
(newmatrixism.com n.d.), Futurists, or Redpills (matrixism.org n.d.), see
such references as points of connection between the Bahá’í Faith, the
religious significance of the Matrix films’ narrative as metaphor, and the
spirituality of Matrixism. In this way Bahá’í is understood by Matrixists as
a predecessor of Matrixism, much like Christianity arose as a sect out of
Judaism, and Islam arose in connection with reactions to Christianity and
Judaism (Michael X 2009).
Moving from the history of Matrixism to its beliefs and practices,
Matrixism involves holding to The Four Tenets, the first three understood
as coming from The Matrix, and the final tenet coming from common
religious experience and a connection to “a mystic text of the Bahá’í reli-
gion” (Michael X 2009). These include: “1. Belief in the prophecy of The
One” (newmatrixism.com Home), a messianic figure like The Matrix’s
Neo who was prophesied in works of fiction and the world’s religions;
“2. Acceptance of the use of psychedelics as sacrament” (newmatrixism.com
n.d.); “3. Recognition of the semi-subjective multi-layered nature of real-
ity,” a reference not to the belief in a literal matrix computer simulation
2
Sources for understanding Matrixism are threefold. They include “Michael X,” one
of the original and primary ‘authors’ of the religion, and the original website at http://
geocities.com/matrixism, which is now defunct, although a portion of this original web-
site is archived at http://www.newmatrixism.com/archives.php. Michael X created the
“Matrixism: The Path of the One” website and served as its webmaster. However, as of
February 2010 he is no longer affiliated with Matrixism. Michael X’s website was followed
by another expression of this spirituality, “Matrixism: Science and Philosophy of the
Matrix,” at http://www.matrixism.org. This site is maintained by an individual who goes
by the name “henreman.” Finally, there is “The New Matrixism: Following the Path of the
One to Enlightenment,” at http://www.newmatrixism.com. Matrixism also has a Facebook
page, but the website URL provided there was not active at the time of the writing of this
chapter.
3
Internet site, http://www.bahai.org. Accessed 10/12/2010.
c ontrolling human beings (the computer simulation of The Matrix is

viewed as a “metaphor for the rules, norms and values of society,” as well
as to the hyper-reality of the media age) (original at http://geocities.com/
matrixism/faq.html; website now unavailable), but rather a recognition
that reality has more depth and complexity than is commonly understood;
and “4. Adherence to the principles of one or more of the world’s religions
until such time as the One returns” (newmatrixism.com n.d.).
Ritual is found within Matrixism in two forms. As described in the
second of The Four Tenets, the first ritual is in the use of psychedelics,
which are understood as a means of accessing various aspects of the
“multi-layered nature of reality,” as well as enabling glimpses of and com-
munion with the divine, which must be experienced directly (Michael X
2009). Computer hacking also functions as a ritual. Through hacking it is
believed the individual experiences hyper-reality through active and cre-
ative participation (Michael X 2009).
Additional elements of Matrixism include its two holy days of 19 April
as Bicycle Day which commemorates Albert Hoffman’s experimental
use of psychedelics, and November 22 as the Day of Remembrance and
Reflection, the anniversary of the day of the deaths of Aldous Huxley,
C. S. Lewis and John F. Kennedy (www.geocities.com/matrixism/faq.html,
website no longer available). Matrixism also has a symbol associated with
it, 赤, the Japanese kanji symbol meaning ‘red’, which first appeared in the
Enter the Matrix video game. The meaning of this color symbolism refers
to the scene in The Matrix where Morpheus presents Thomas Anderson
with a red pill that, if swallowed, represents his desire to accept truth
wherever it leads in his awakening to the hyper-reality of the matrix.
Matrixism is a spiritual pathway with an international following. The
original website allowed Matrixists to register their email addresses
as a means of declaring themselves followers of this spiritual pathway.
From 2004 to 2008 over two thousand people declared themselves to be
Matrixists. The registration form for the website was later closed and the
original author of Matrixism considered the spirituality a decentralised
movement with an unknown number of adherents. More recently several
websites report 16,000 followers of Matrixism, but no information is pre-
sented as to how this figure is arrived at.
In 2008 another website surfaced claiming to represent Matrixism
(matrixism.org n.d.), and still another expression surfaced called ‘The New
Matrixism’ (newmatrixism.org n.d.) the same year. Both of these forms took
most of the material and concepts from the original Matrixism website
with minor modifications. In terms of the relationship between the original
form and the more recent expressions, the first new expression from 2008
claims “no relationship with the so called ‘original’ Matrixism” (henre-
man 2010). The website for The New Matrixism states that it is “merely a
refinement of what was presented on the website [for the original expres-
sion of Matrixism] in 2004.” Some of the refinements involve an attempt
to address what was seen as ‘unclear and confusing’, including a move
away from the original form of Matrixism’s repudiation of pornography
and professional sports (newmatrixism.com n.d.). Although those associ-
ated with the original expression of Matrixism consider it a decentralised
religion, friction has existed between the various forms, not only with one
expression alleging no connection to other expressions altogether, but
also in those connected to the original form alleging plagiarism by those
who created the Matrixism.org website (Michael X 2008).
With a basic portrait of this spirituality established, attention is now
turned to a consideration of aspects that help provide a greater under-
standing of not only Matrixism, but also other hyper-real religions as
significant aspects of the contemporary spiritual quest in the Western
world. This brings together two research areas, new religious movements
or minority religions, as well as science fiction as a form of the quest for
the sacred. The discussion that follows draws upon the proposal of Irving
Hexham and Karla Poewe regarding the significance of myth in under-
standing new religions, coupled with the work of other scholars who
suggest that science fiction is an especially significant source of mythic
inspiration for our time. Then I will consider how science fiction mythic
narratives provide new religions like Matrixism with the imaginative tools
necessary to engage in practices similar to more traditional religions. By
drawing upon Jennifer Porter’s exploration of fan participation at Star
Trek conventions as a form of pilgrimage in fulfillment of an embodied
ideal, combined with the thesis of Roger Aden on participation in imagi-
native narratives of alternative worlds that allow adherents to transcend
and critique the habitus of daily life as well as grand narratives of culture,
I suggest that the symbolic pilgrimage of Matrixism parallels pilgrimage as
found in more traditional religions, yet also differs in that they take place
primarily in the realm of the sacred imagination.
Myth, New Religions, and Science Fiction
Irving Hexham and Karla Poewe (1997) have suggested that myths are
important to an understanding of new religious movements. Indeed, in
their view myths function as the “operating systems of new religions”

(Hexham and Poewe 1997: 69) where myths are intimately connected to
primal spiritual experiences. In addition, they claim that myths are sig-
nificant to the “thought patterns and behavior in our postmodern, hi-tech
world [which is] deeply symbolic” (Hexham and Poewe 1997: 73).
Scholars define myth variously, but Hexham and Poewe define it as
“a story with culturally formative power. This definition emphasises that a
myth is essentially a story—any story—that affects the way people live”
Hexham and Poewe 1997: 69; emphasis in original). They go on to state
that what is important in this understanding of myth “is not the story
itself but the function it serves in the life of an individual, a group or a
whole society” (Hexham and Poewe 1997: 69; emphasis in original). Two
aspects of Hexham and Poewe’s definition of myth stand out. First, as
they state, a myth may or may not be historically or scientifically true, but
rather than focusing on this understanding of myth in dismissive fashion
as scholars tend to in the post-Enlightenment period, this is not the best
way in which to define the topic. Regardless of whether it is ‘true’, the
significance of myth is found in the powerful ways in which these mythic
stories impact people’s lives. Second, emphasis is placed on the function
of myth for individuals as well as larger groups, and with this consider-
ation in mind more traditional sources for myth in the form of cultures
and religious traditions are complemented by popular culture serving as
a potent reservoir for mythic ideas.
After defining myth for the purposes of their discussion of new religions
Hexham and Poewe (1997) remind us that in our modern society there
are no overarching myths that provide a common basis for shared belief.
They acknowledge the continued significance of the Christian myth for
the West, particularly America, but they recognise that “most Westerners
no longer find in Christianity the basic imaginative and mythological
framework by which they understand their place in the world” (Hexham
and Poewe 1997: 83). This loss of mythic inspiration and narrative context
through Christianity has left a variety of mythic fragments that exist in
the West, which are then scooped up and combined into a more coherent
whole resulting in the creation of new mythic narratives. This includes
a process which Hexham and Poewe describe as “box-myth-making” the
construction of a “myth within a myth” (Hexham and Poewe 1997: 68),
which involves not only the incorporation of several mythic fragments
woven together, but also the inclusion of a meaningful personal myth
wrapped within a larger cosmic myth.
Hexham and Poewe continue their discussion by identifying differing

types of “personal mythological fragments” as well as “fragmented cosmic
myths” (Hexham and Poewe 1997: 84). In their typology two mythic frag-
ments are applicable to a discussion of Matrixism, including the personal
mythological fragment of “pseudoscientific myths” (Hexham and Poewe
1997: 84), and the fragmented cosmic myth of “decline and transforma-
tion” (Hexham and Poewe 1997: 89). Pseudoscientific myths are “science-
fiction-type stories that reduce people’s skepticism and their resistance
to explain primal experiences in essentially occult terms” (Hexham and
Poewe 1997: 84). As an example of a pseudoscientific myth Hexham and
Poewe point to the Star Trek television programme of the 1960s. They
argue that the futuristic scientific and evolutionary framework of the pro-
gram allowed the producers of the program to portray ‘strange happen-
ings’ in a way that was acceptable to viewers. This included things that in
some contexts might be viewed as paranormal or supernatural, but which
were interpreted in a more scientific sense due to the futuristic possibili-
ties presented by science fiction.
Hexham and Poewe also state that science fiction “provided a bridge
between personal and cosmic myths.” Turning from the personal myth-
ological fragment of pseudoscientific myths to the cosmic mythological
fragment of decline and transformation, these are defined as “elements
of popular mythology that provide a cosmic dimension to personal myths
by expressing pessimism concerning modern society. They are genera-
lised stories about the decline of civilisation and the end of the world”
(Hexham and Poewe 1997: 89).
These two mythological fragments come together to provide an insight
into understanding the power of the mythic narrative of the Matrix films
for Matrixists. Beginning with an application of the personal myth frag-
ment of pseudoscience, The Matrix and its sequels scoop up a number of
myths from a variety of sources and weave them together in a credible
fashion. As James McGrath has stated:
[t]he Wachowski brothers retell older stories, or rather, use motifs distilled
from older stories and myths, and this is clearly something that has been
done before—one thinks of Jung’s archetypes, George Lucas’ use of Joseph
Campbell’s ideas of universals in world religions and mythology in Star
Wars. But they also do something significantly different. Unlike Lucas and
many authors in the fantasy genre, the Wachowskis find a way to weave
ancient myths into a new story which does not involve the same suspension
of disbelief that stories of miracles, myths, and monsters do. They envisage
a scientifically plausible world in which the implausible elements of tradi-
tional religious and mythic stories can be retold believably. (McGrath n.d.)
Through a credible science fiction narrative the Matrix trilogy combines a

number of mythic fragments for a high-tech age that increasingly interacts
with computers, the Internet, and other expressions of cyber-reality. This
then enables the viewer to engage the myths with a sense of real possibil-
ity and then to incorporate them into a personal narrative.
As part of the construction of box myths the personal myth of pseu-
doscience enables readers to engage the various mythic fragments within
the trilogy and to extract those of interest, which are then reformulated
and connected via a science fiction framework to the larger cosmic myth
fragment of decline and transformation. “Myths of transformation bring
together a profound mistrust of modern science with a deep respect for
science myth and a belief in the immanent cosmic transformation of
human beings” (Hexham and Poewe 1997: 90). Both of these elements are
exhibited within the Matrix trilogy through the concern of human beings
about technology that holds them captive, and the possibility that human
beings might transform themselves, at least through the One, as a means
a means of battling the machines.
Popular culture is filled with expressions of the decline of civilisation,
whether from atomic war, contagion, zombie plague, or more recently,
ecological disaster. The Matrix trilogy presents its own vision of the end of
the world through warfare between humans and machines with humans
‘scorching the sky’ in attempt to deprive the machines of the sun as their
power source. This depiction of the decline of civilisation in the Matrix
trilogy may be understood as an expression of postmodern apocalyptic
that brings together the differing strands of concern about the end of the
world at the hands of human beings as well as machines (Rosen 2008).
The expression of the myth of pessimism and the decline of civilisation
is clearly present within the Matrix trilogy, but what of transformation?
The transformational aspect may be seen in two ways. First, as a result of
the apocalyptic war with the machines human civilisation has not only
declined, but has also been transformed, even if it exists in the form of a
computer-generated simulation as a means of forcing human beings into
slavery. Second, those human beings who have been extracted from the
matrix and awakened to the true nature of reality have experienced their
own personal transformation and fight a battle with the machines. These
humans are headquartered in Zion as the human city of hope, working
toward the defeat of the machines and a transformation for all of human-
ity. The Matrix trilogy may be understood then as incorporating the cos-
mic myth of decline and transformation.
At this point in the analysis we are in a position to consider the signifi-
cance of an application of myth to new religious movements in general, as
well as to hyper-real religions such as Matrixism. In one sense the emer-

gence of new religions in the modern era reflects, in part, an attempt to
re-enchant the world with sacred stories and meanings (Partridge 2004).
Those new religions that spring out of the major world religions take the
central myths of those faiths as their point of departure, with subsequent
modification. With other new religions, like the Church of Scientology
(Chryssides 1999) and the Raëlian Movement International (Chryssides
2003) for example, the ‘secular’ stories or myths of science, technology,
and human psychology are appropriated as a point of departure and are
reworked with a mix of ancient and modern mythmaking. Scientology
takes up elements of psychology and esotericism and allies this with
mythic fragments from science fiction (Hexham and Poewe 1997) to gen-
erate a new trajectory on human origins so that we might experience our
full human potential through the ‘tech’ of the various personal auditing
sessions and courses that can be taken. The Raëlians take up the process
of cloning and rework it to incorporate variations on the Judeo-Christian
myth of origins from Genesis and then combine this with UFO and alien
myths (Hexham and Poewe 1997) in order to arrive at an understanding
of cloning as a vital step in human evolution in keeping with our origins
and destiny with alien civilisations in the cosmos.
Just as myth sheds light on facets of new religions, it also helps us
understand the new, hyper-real religion of Matrixism. The Matrix trilogy
incorporates a number of mythic elements that function as sources for
metaphorical inspiration. The various mythic strands are drawn upon
in the creation of personal box myths. The personal myth fragment of
pseudoscience depicted through science fiction presents a credible form
for considering new ideas related to new ways of seeing need in order
to recognise the ‘multilayered nature of reality’. This personal myth is
connected to the cosmic myth fragment of cultural decline and transfor-
mation expressed as pessimism regarding human being’s slavery to the
system and inability to recognise the multilayered and mediated reality
around us. Personal transformation comes as the individual ‘wakes up’ to
the truth of the real world and becomes empowered to control it.
Myth thus provides a significant aspect for consideration for those
exploring new religions and hyper-religions, a largely neglected aspect
with great research potential.4 Scholars would do well to reconsider this
research trajectory.
4
Myth is helpful not only for understanding those new religions with close ties to pop-
ular culture, but also those such as the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints wherein
It is also worth noting that science fiction represents an important genre

for mythic expression in late modernity. In his volume on the changing
spirituality of the 1960s, Robert Ellwood (1994: 309) includes a number of
helpful illustrations which he refers to as ‘counterpoints’. One of these is
titled “New Mythologies, Easy Rides in Space and Time.” This small sec-
tion looks at the religious or spiritual significance of science fiction and
fantasy in the late 1960s and quotes Michel Butor to the effect that “sci-
ence fiction is ‘the normal form of mythology of our time’.” Ellwood (1994)
discusses “the creation of new mythologies from the fabrics of science fic-
tion and fantasy,” and he notes that the “time of shifting religious imagi-
nation” of the 1960s “may yet turn out to be among the most far-reaching
developments of the decade.” In a more recent volume, an introduction
to myth in religion, Ellwood (2008) maintains the significance of myth
not only for an understanding of religion in general, but also for science
fiction and fantasy as modern expressions of myth. These sentiments have
been echoed by other writers exploring modern mythology in connection
with science fiction (Perlich and Whitt 2010; Voytilla 1999; Wagner and
Lundeen 1998; Whitt and Perlich 2008), and scholars like Em McAvan
have argued for the significance of this in what she terms the “fantastic
postmodern sacred”:
[t]he postmodern sacred then consists of texts that are consumed in part for
their spiritual content, for an experience of the transcendent ambivalently
situated on the boundary of formal religious and spiritual traditions. The
postmodern sacred is everywhere once one begins to look for it, for popular
culture is rife with the detritus of millennia of religious tradition. Because of
the suspension of the usual rules of the ‘real world’ in their textual universes,
the postmodern sacred occurs most of all in the literary and visual genres of
science fiction, horror and fantasy (what I have termed the “fantastic post-
modern sacred”). (McAvan 2010)5
Given the increasing popularity and success of science fiction and fantasy
at the cinema box office, in television, and literature it is likely that this
will continue to function as a mythic reservoir for religious and spiritual
exploration (Cowan 2010).
the overarching myth of evolution is combined with mythic fragments from Protestantism
resulting in a new mythic structure within which the Latter-day Saint situates their own
personal narrative.
5
McAvan develops this more fully in her unpublished 2007 PhD dissertation, “The
Postmodern Sacred: Popular Culture Spirituality in the Genres of Science Fiction, Fantasy
and Fantastic Horror,” Murdoch University, Perth.
Science Fiction, Religion and Pilgrimage
In the preceding section I argued that a consideration of myth brings an

important facet to our understanding of new religions, including hyper-
real religions such as Matrixism, and that science fiction should be under-
stood as a significant form of mythic expression with spiritual possibilities
for our time. In this final segment I address science fiction narratives as
a forum for spiritual exploration that can result in expressions of religion
that resemble more traditional forms of religiosity. I will explore the pro-
cess of religious pilgrimage by bringing two differing research trajectories
together in application to Matrixism. First, I will consider Jennifer Porter’s
contention that fan participation at Star Trek conventions can be under-
stood as an expression of pilgrimage for some attendees who are seek-
ing participation in the science fiction franchise’s sacred ideals. I will also
explore Roger Aden’s thesis regarding participation in fantastic narratives
that enables fans to transcend the habitus of daily life and the failed grand
narratives of culture as they seek sacred places of imagination. The result
is a form of symbolic pilgrimage that is similar to pilgrimage in more tra-
ditional religions.
‘Star Trek’ Conventions and Pilgrimage
A chapter by Jennifer Porter in a volume on the anthropology of pilgrim-

age and tourism stands out in relation to the religious significance of sci-
ence fiction with its exploration of fan culture at Star Trek conventions
(Porter 2004). Although the television series was only on for three sea-
sons in the late 1960s, and did not do well in the ratings at the time, it
developed a devoted fan following, and in syndication the number and
devotion of fans grew over time. One of the results of this was the devel-
opment of conventions held throughout the United States, a phenomenon
that has continued since the first gathering in 1972 (Jindra 1994). Today
fans come together from around the world, often in costumes represent-
ing their favorite characters from the various installments of the Star Trek
franchise, whether human or alien, who celebrate the vision set forth by
the program’s creator Gene Roddenberry. Probing for depth in this pop-
culture experience, Porter begins her discussion of Star Trek convention
attendance as pilgrimage by reminding readers that anthropologist Victor
Turner told his students to take note of the significance of science fiction,
because in this genre one finds the “futuristic frameworks [for] expressing
mythic and liminal states and concerns” (Porter 2004: 160). Porter finds
both “mythic and liminal states” in her exploration of the academic lit-
erature on pilgrimage combined with fieldwork at Star Trek conventions
with fans.
Although Star Trek conventions are usually considered a form of secu-
lar entertainment, Porter argues that participation in these events can
be understood as something deeper, specifically as a form of pilgrimage
or sacred journey. She supports this assertion by drawing attention to
anthropologist E. Alan Morinis, who states that even a secular journey
can be understood as pilgrimage if the “journey [is] undertaken by a per-
son in quest of a place or a state that he or she believes to embody a
valued ideal” (Porter 2004: 161). Morinis also states that these destinations
“share being an intensified version of some ideal that the pilgrim values
but cannot achieve at home” (Porter 2004). Further, these journeys can
be understood as ‘sacred’, and “it is the pursuit of the ideal (whether dei-
fied or not) that defines the sacred journey” (Porter 2004: 161). The ideal
that many Star Trek fans pursue is the “doctrine of IDIC—an acronym for
Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination” (Porter 2004: 165).
The IDIC doctrine or ethic was first presented in the third season of the
original series. It arose out of Gene Roddenberry’s humanistic philosophy,
and it refers to the idea of tolerance in the midst of diversity, exemplified
in the racial and even planetary species makeup of the original crew of the
Starship Enterprise that included characters made up of men and women,
whites, an African American, an Asian, a Russian, and an alien Lieutenant
Commander from the planet Vulcan. The tolerance in the midst of diver-
sity symbolised within the Enterprise crew was then projected outward
as an ideal of the United Federation of Planets, of which the Enterprise’s
crew was a part, as they explored the universe and encountered various
alien races and civilisations. This IDIC ethic is embraced by fans attending
conventions and is so significant that Porter characterises it as the “root
paradigm” of Star Trek fandom (Porter 2004: 165).
With the IDIC ethic in mind this then becomes the ideal which fans
seek as a form of pilgrimage in keeping with Morinis’ definition discussed
above as “the pursuit of a place or state in which intensified ideals not
attainable at home are embodied” (Porter 2004: 167). Yet even with the
significance of the travel of a fan from home to the convention site as
a part of the definition of pilgrimage Porter questions the “centrality of
‘place’, or ‘space’ ” in the definition and suggests that scholars focus more
on “nongeographically centered pilgrimage” or “decentered space” (Porter
2004: 167) as an important alternative concept in defining pilgrimage. In
this regard Porter concludes “it is not space or place but rather fandom
that represents the true center of the convention pilgrimage process.”
(Porter 2004: 168). In her conclusion, Porter (2004: 173) discusses the need
to reconsider the concept of travel and centered space in relation to pil-
grimage studies:
[i]f one relocates the object of scholarly attention from the space and the
journey as integral frames to pilgrimage processes, however, and focuses
instead on the participants as the “sacred center,” the scope of pilgrimage
studies suddenly becomes much more broadly defined.
Imaginative Journeys and Sacred Pilgrimage
This shift in emphasis from travel to geographical places to the internal

dynamics in the fan as primary in defining sacred pilgrimage is signifi-
cant, and becomes an even more important concept when considered in
connection with Roger Aden’s thesis regarding fan cultures and symbolic
pilgrimages to alternative visions of promised lands (Aden 1999).
Aden lays down a theoretical foundation for his thesis with a discus-
sion of the habitus and grand narratives. By habitus Aden (1999: 3) refers
to Pierre Bourdieu’s concept that he defines as “our collective, cultural
sense of place that is forged through the reproduction of history.” This
habitus functions as a set of rules, “an unwritten set of norms, behaviors,
expectations, that a culture deems commonsensical” (Aden 1999). These
rules operate in conjunction with grand narratives that have served as a
foundation for American life, and in which Americans situate their experi-
ences. Aden (1999) identifies two primary narratives, including the idea of
America as sacred garden, and also a secular paradise connected to tech-
nological progress. With the rise of modernity the garden image has given
way to the narrative of technological utopia. Yet in spite of the hope put
in this narrative, during this same period increasing doubt has arisen that
has eroded confidence in grand narratives in general, and especially that
of secular technological utopia. As Aden (1999: 35) writes, “[t]he promised
land of technological paradise has not only failed to deliver on its vision of
economic plenitude, it contributes to our growing sense of displacement
as members of a social community.”
This sense of dissatisfaction with the narrative of technological para-
dise, has led to various rhetorical responses, one of which involves the
creation of “a collection of postmodern narratives in which we find a mul-
tiplicity of changing places through play” (Aden 1999: 45). These narratives
are popular stories of the imagination that function as “alternative visions

of places that matter” (Aden 1999: 8). In the examples of these popular
stories explored by Aden, one of them is The X-Files television program,
an extremely popular and influential program defined variously as science
fiction or horror, usually involving the paranormal and which regularly
critiqued the government and accepted national narratives, and also sug-
gested that reality is far broader and mystical than commonly understood.
Aden (1999: 10) argues that when an individual explores and participates
in various imaginative narratives from popular culture that this represents
a “symbolic pilgrimage, those purposeful, playful, repeated journeys in
which we imagine ourselves leaving the material world of habitus to enter
the symbolic world of promised lands.” Like Porter, Aden also interacts
with Victor Turner’s thinking, in this case considering pilgrimage in con-
nection with the communitas that is experienced as a result of the journey
to a sacred symbolic place in the company of others. Aden (1999: 8) says
this participation in the “ritualistic journey of the mind to spiritually pow-
erful places” results in symbolic community which can provide a sense of
spiritual fulfillment not only through interactions with other fans, but also
“through our construction of these symbolic communities in a transcen-
dent plane that exists above the material moorings of our habitus” (Aden
1999: 95; emphasis in original).
Having considered Star Trek conventions in connection with the pur-
suit of the embodied ideal of the IDIC ethic as a form of pilgrimage, and
participation in imaginative narratives and fan cultures as a form of sym-
bolic pilgrimage, aspects of the insights from these ideas are combined
and applied to an understanding of Matrixism.
Just as fans of Star Trek embrace a particular valued ideal imparted by
science fiction, so do those who follow the pathway of Matrixism. In the
latter case the ideal is one of critique and liberation. The critique comes
in the form of the grand narrative of technological progress, and this
results liberation in the form of new perceptions and a new understand-
ing of the “multilayered nature of reality.” As discussed at the beginning
of this chapter, this new understanding incorporates a number of beliefs
and practices as the outworking of the ideals of Matrixism. And since,
as Porter argues, the individual making the quest represents the ‘sacred
center’ rather than the journey to a geographical place in pursuit of an
embodied ideal, Matrixists may be understood as engaging in some form
of pilgrimage. This idea is strengthened when connected to the idea of
symbolic pilgrimage through imaginative narratives.
Matrixists share in the general dissatisfaction with the grand narrative

of technological utopia, even going so far as to consider whether the tools
of our alleged freedom instead confer some level of illusion and imprison-
ment. As a result they look to the Matrix films as an imaginative story that
critiques the habitus of daily life, those unwritten rules and assumptions
of culture, as well as the narrative of technological utopia. But the Matrix
films not only provide a means of critique, but also present an imagina-
tive narrative through which an individual can transcend the habitus and
dominant cultural narrative in order to enter into an alternative world
of promise. Participation in this imaginative narrative results in symbolic
pilgrimage enjoyed not only by the individual, but may also come in con-
nection with others who connect via online fora.6 To the extent that the
individual develops a sense of connection to others pursing the same
understanding of reality through Matrixism it may be that feelings of and
a form of communitas results. Through a new perspective on reality and
participation in the community of like-minded individuals, however small
and mediated by cinema and cyberspace, Matrixism provides a vision of
an alternative world in which an individual can find ultimate fulfillment.
Conclusion
What are we to make of new expressions of the sacred and spirituality

like Matrixism? During the course of my research in sharing with a few
individuals my findings and reflections on this topic, it was not uncom-
mon to encounter expressions of incredulity. Most people find the idea
of Matrixism absurd, and question whether those who identify with it
really take it seriously. Such people argue that surely pop-culture and a
science fiction trilogy cannot be legitimate sources for religious inspira-
tion, and no religion founded upon such elements is to be taken seriously.
This reaction on a popular level is often shared by academics, particularly
theologians, as relayed by Gary Laderman in his discussion of new and
alternative forms of religion in popular culture:
6
Those following the pathway of Matrixism may connect with like-minded individu-
als online through sites like The New Matrixism Forum, http://www.newmatrixism.com/
forum/general-chat, or the Matrixism Facebook page, http://www.facebook.com/group
.php?gid=2237867490.
I can hear my New Testament and Systematic Theologian colleagues read-

ing this with skepticism if not disgust—and indeed I’ve encountered these
kinds of reactions in public forms. “Surely anyone identifying their religion
as Jedi is just being silly,” they say. Or “How do you know this is genuine
religion and not just some passing fancy?” I imagine after the death of Christ
members of the early Christian community faced the same kind of incredu-
lity and disdain.
My response: Welcome to the twenty-first century, when sacred matters
are not limited to the monotheists or confined by conventional religious
traditions. Bono and Warren Buffet, Master Yoda and Obi Wan Kenobi are
legitimate and guiding religious lights whose words and actions stir the
imagination and rally the faithful in ways those of us who study religion are
only beginning to understand. (Laderman 2009)
Religious and spiritual expressions like Matrixism, particularly those
inspired by narratives of the fantastic, including science fiction, fantasy,
and even horror, represent new and vibrant forms of religiosity that will
likely continue to have great appeal for individuals in the future. It is the
responsibility of scholars, and I hope even theologians, to sympathetically
understand them and how they make connections to the sacred.
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Alternative Worlds: Metaphysical questing and virtual
community amongst the Otherkin
Danielle Kirby
Introduction1
The advent and subsequent popularisation of the Internet and the World
Wide Web has given rise to significant transformations within the religious
world, effecting communicative and sometimes structural changes that
have been variously embraced by both mainstream and alternative forms
of religiosity (Dawson: 387). The long term impact of this transition is cur-
rently unknown, but already new methods of religious participation have
arisen that range from emailed prayer requests (Larsen 2004: 17), to the
acceptance of virtual ritual participation (Larsen 2004: 19) as valid religious
practice. The religious presence within the virtual world of the Internet is
considerable (Larsen 2004: 17), as all major and many alternative religions
have located themselves within the virtual landscape (Cowan 2004: 120).
On the fringe of this religious expansion into the worlds of cyberspace,
however, are groups that situate themselves well outside the frameworks
of religiosity as are commonly accepted as valid (Helland 2004: 23). These
groups are not only innovative in the content of their beliefs, but are also
unique in that they have apparently developed as communities almost
entirely on the Internet. Hyper-real religions (Possamai 2005; Possamai
2006; Possamai 2007) constitute a notable element of this religious relo-
cation, most particularly remarkable in their overt proximity to popular
culture source material and postmodern relation to notions of fiction and
truth. This chapter looks at one such group, the Otherkin, with an aim to
providing an introduction to the community, focusing upon the shared
central philosophies of the constituent members, and the locales within
which the community as a whole functions.
The Otherkin fall into the category of hyper-real religion in a fairly
unproblematic fashion, taking as the definition that they are “religions
1
This chapter was originally published in Through a Glass Darkly: Reflections on the
Sacred, ed. Frances Di Lauro (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 2006). This current version
has been updated to reflect developments within the Otherkin community.
130 danielle kirby
and spirituality that mix elements from religious traditions with popular
culture” (Possamai 2007: 1). In the case of the Otherkin, the relevant reli-
gious tradition is perhaps best understood as contemporary paganism and
more broadly western occultism, but, as will be demonstrated, the explicit
utilisation of popular culture source material for unequivocally spiritual
and metaphysical means is clearly evident within the community.
The Otherkin2
The Otherkin are a loosely affiliated group of likeminded individuals who

have formed a virtual online community. Their shared belief is that some
people are, either partially or completely, non-human. To quote, “Otherkin
is a collective noun for an assortment of people who have come to the
somewhat unorthodox, and possibly quite bizarre, conclusion that they
identify themselves as being something other than human” (Windtree n.d.).
Further, they are “an alternative community that accepts everything from
therianthropes to extraterrestrial fae” (Ten 2005). Therianthropes are a
“deity or creature combining the form or attributes of a human with those
of an animal” (Walens 1987), and fae are an alternative term for fairies
(Newall 1987: 246). In practice, there are a variety of self-knowledges sup-
ported within the community, including constructions of the individual as,
for instance, a human body with a non-human soul, multiple souls within
the one body, a human who is a reincarnated non-human, and there are
even occasionally those who claim physical status as non-human. The
types of non-human entities referenced in this context include dragons,
elves, vampires, lycanthropes, fairies, fae, and angels, as well as a plethora
of specific creatures sourced from ancient myth through to popular cul-
ture media creations.
Beyond the premise of the group, there seems little in common across
the community, with participants engaging in an eclectic personal mix of
magic, philosophy, metaphysical questing and self-inquiry. As an interim
classification, the Otherkin fit broadly within the ideas encapsulated by
the Neopagan movement and religions of re-enchantment (Partridge
2004), although it needs to be stressed that such a classification is only
2
The material pertaining to the Otherkin community has largely been drawn from
otherkin.net and associated sites. All quotes are directly referenced, and general state-
ments are the result of an ongoing synthesis of Otherkin material, and are subject to
reworking as is necessary.
alternative worlds: metaphysical questing 131
general. To construe this group as specifically Neopagan or technopagan

obscures the focus of the participants. The Otherkin relationship to pagan-
ism should be seen as a shared body of knowledge rather than in terms
of similar intentions or practices, although individual participants may or
may not adhere to some form of pagan belief. There exists a shared body
of knowledge common to paganism and western esotericism in so far as
participants utilise concepts with facility that are broadly accepted within
these areas: ideas such as astral travel, dream interpretation, alternative
realities, magic, reincarnation and the like see, for instance (Hanegraaff
1998; Harvey 2000; York, 2000). There are further parallels between
Otherkin and pagan beliefs in their willingness to consider fiction (that
is acknowledged as such) as a valid evocative spiritual tool. There are
also some structural similarities between paganism and the Otherkin, or
perhaps rather an absence of structure that is common to both groups:
most specifically in the weight and priority given to personal lived expe-
rience (Harvey 1996: 10), and the lack of unified creed or dogma (Hume
1997: 51; Ireland 1999: 99). As a community, the Otherkin function largely
without formalised authority structures, and, with regards to their online
presence, focus largely upon support and information sharing within the
community (Zaleski 1997: 111–112).3
Otherkin.net
Otherkin.net is one of a number of focal points for the Otherkin com-

munity online. Between 2006 and 2011, its listed membership has ranged
from between 798, to over 2500 in 2010, with present numbers at 348,
reflecting a recent update of inactive profiles. As it is not necessary to
sign up to access Otherkin information there are likely to be many more
casual browsers, and there are, of course, any number of other sites that
Otherkin may choose to engage with. This constituency is thinly spread
across the world, with American, Asian, and European countries most
heavily represented (Otherkin.Net 2003). Judging from the members
names, there is no particularly obvious gender inequity, although it is
impossible to be sure, given the overt identity construction that occurs
online. The site contains a wealth of information, including essays, links
to Otherkin websites, media reports on Otherkin, an Otherkin directory,
3
Zaleski notes that the internet may well prove to be more intrinsically supportive of
groups that do not hold to a hierarchical structure.
132 danielle kirby
and events information. The entire site reflects a grass roots philosophy in
so far as it does not present a monolithic message, but rather attempts to
make accessible a variety of views about the nature of the Otherkin. For
instance, the essay section reflects this tendency well. A new member or
interested seeker is initially directed to introductory papers outlining the
general substance of what constitutes the Otherkin. Beyond this recom-
mended reading, there is a large selection of articles, sixty-seven on the
website as of November 2011,4 written by Otherkin about Otherkin. The
content of these articles range from personal reflections upon the experi-
ence of being an Otherkin (Dandelion_Ae 2001), to expressions of discon-
tent with certain trends evident within the community.5 There are papers
pertaining to specific aspects of their belief structure, such as soulbonding
(O’dea 1999) and magic (Hedgie 2002), as well as papers that admonish
participants for various forms of illogic (Seavixen 2004). This variety is
reflective of the diversity of interest and focus within the group, and is
indicative of their generally inclusive attitude.
There are a number of cosmological assumptions that underpin the
community that diverge from more traditional constructions of a religious
or spiritual milieu. Primary amongst these is the largely tacit postulation
of multiple and/or parallel universes; alternative worlds separate to our
own but not entirely unrelated. As a general rule, a spiritual or religious
hierarchy is conceptualised as just that—a vertical axis with god/des/s
at the top, humans somewhere in the middle, and the relevant negative
aspect of the divine is located at the bottom. The Otherkin construction
of the cosmos, on the other hand, is one far more densely populated
with alternative spaces, and also one seemingly devoid of absolute value
judgements that would infer any scale of relational importance that could
be mapped into a linear system. Although not clearly stated, the strong
impression is given that, to an Otherkin paradigm, multiple alternative
worlds are at least potentially infinite in number. If a pagan philosophy
asserts the animation or ensoulment of the non-human parts of this world
(Hume 1997: 44; Harvey 1996), the Otherkin en masse extrapolate this ani-
mism not just into the regions of this world, but into many others also.
4
Internet site, http://otherkin.net/articles/bytitle.html. Accessed 2/11/2011.
5
For instance, deploring the tendency to construct their position in binary opposition
to the prevailing mainstream western culture Dandelion_Ae. Us vs Them [Online]. Website
Us vs Them. At: http://www.otherkin.net/articles/usThem.html. Accessed 27/1/2005.
Otakukin
The origins and/or locations of these multiple worlds are not clearly stated
within the community, nor does it appear to be an issue of any specific
interest to participants. The creatures populating both this and other
worlds, however, seem to lie closer to the heart of Otherkin self-inquiry.
Take, for instance, the case of the otaku kin or ota’kin (Ten 2005). The term
otaku comes from the Japanese, literally meaning house, but colloquially
used somewhat similarly to ‘geek’ or ‘nerd’, albeit with more sociopathic
overtones (Schodt 1996: 43–46). This particular branch of the Otherkin
network specifically refers to those participants who experience their non-
human aspect through anime and manga.6 A slightly more broad term used
in regards to this type of belief is mediakin, which pertains to characters
sourced from media without the necessary Japanese association.
The Otakukin appear to be somewhat fringe even within the Otherkin
community, presumably at least partially due to the overtly fictional
and extremely recent sources for such characters and creatures. The pri-
mary issue appears to be one of authenticity: creatures from traditional
mythology and the cannon of the fantasy genre are accepted as validly
archetypal, if not outright actual, whereas more recent additions to that
particular pantheon are considered somewhat more suspect. The otaku
kin, as they premise their metaphysics in explicitly popular forums, have
various understandings to explain the processes by which a fictional cre-
ation can be more than a figment of the author’s imagination. To quote
from the Temple of the Ota’kin,
[t]he initial concept of a supposedly ‘fictional’ paradigm and/or cosmology
having partial or complete basis in an alternative reality is not uncommon
among Otherkin. Sections of the community accept as reasonable extrapola-
tions of fact Tolkien-esque elves and fae, Pernian dragons, and other pheno-
types resembling or derived from allegedly ‘fictional’ sources. (Ten 2005)
The article then goes on to offer two potential explanations of the meth-
ods by which reality can be ascribed to fictional sources.7 The first refers
to an author essentially acting as a channel or conduit, not necessarily
intentionally, and relating as fiction what is actually an alternative reality.
6
Anime is an umbrella term used to refer to Japanese animation and cartoons, while
manga refers to comics. These genres are often heavily laden with myths, legends, fantasy,
and apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic themes (Napier 2000).
7
For a more detailed discussion of the role of authorship and text in Otherkin terms,
see Kirby (2009).
134 danielle kirby
The second possible explanation effectively states that, by repeated atten-

tion and focus, individuals (as participants interacting with and within the
specific texts) give weight, power, and specifically energy to the thought
forms, thus allowing them a life beyond the confines of the text.
Soulbonding
Constructions such as this are important foundational assertions of an

Otherkin paradigm, and are necessary in order to understand the type of
conceptual frameworks within which the Otherkin function. While there
are a number of various concepts that fall into this category, soulbonding is
the example that will be referred to here, as it is quite a complex conglom-
erate of relatively simple ideas that also reaches beyond the bounds of
the Otherkin community. To briefly summarise, soulbonding refers to the
various relationships that may develop between a participant and another
entity, physical or otherwise, and it is approached as it is named: as a bond
between souls. A soulbond is “someone with whom you tend to reincar
nate time after time . . . even to the extent of having agreed to permanently
share soul development” (O’dea 1999). Alternatively, it is “the adoption into
one’s mind, into personal mental space, of characters from history, video
games, films, books, TV, anime, daily life” (Ragland 2005), “a fictive or real
person adopted into one’s mindspace” (Astreasweb.Net 2007). As is to be
expected, the idea is not a static one, but rather a cluster of experiential
knowledge which is emphasised differently according to the agenda and
philosophy of each individual participant.8 To quote one participant,
I have my own ideas about what Soulbonds are. Like most Soulbonders, I
believe that my Soulbonds are truly alive and not just made-up things. I’ve
heard a lot of people propose that story-worlds really exist, and story-makers
“channel” them from wherever they really are. This is a great explanation for
some people, but it doesn’t quite work for me.
My own belief is that a thing that has love, devotion, or even plain fasci-
nation poured into it gains a sort of spiritual life. In our era of mass commu-
nications, where fictional characters can reach millions of people, massive
amounts of life are poured into these characters, and I believe that this gives
8
It should be noted that the data on soulbonding is sourced from a variety of personal
home pages and the like, and most particularly the soulbond database (http://illvision
.net.sbdata/ n.d.), which is a now defunct site that was designed to collect and make avail-
able information on soulbonding for participants based upon personal experiences, and as
of August 2005 contained 30 participant responses to an apparently participant-composed
questionnaire.
them life as spirit-entities. I see Soulbonders as people whose love and fasci-
nation for a character is so great that it gives spiritual life to their own vision
of a character (reality, especially in fiction, is subjective. No two people have
exactly the same take on a given character), creating a Soulbond, who is at
once an aspect of that character’s spirit, an aspect of the Soulbonder’s per-
sonality, and a unique person with a will of their own. (Gilkey n.d.)
Soulbonding at the spiritual/metaphysical end of the Otherkin paradigm
becomes a full blown interpersonal relationship, and occurs in all the vari-
ety that human to human relationships may, be that as a lover, a friend,
or a mentor and so on. In these cases, the non-human entity is an entirely
self-contained individual, albeit almost never physical, and interacts with
the participants as such. Participants may experience their soulbonds as
nominally outside themselves, and although some refer to having had
their bodies taken over occasionally, this does not appear to be a regular
occurrence. The spaces within which the soulbonds exist vary between
participants, with some locating them within a ‘soulscape’, others within
the physical realm, and others referencing the astral, and others again
simply referring broadly to alternative realities or dimensions. A souls-
cape appears to be one’s inner space, a personal landscape contained
within the self that may or may not extend beyond the bounds of the
psyche (Also 2011).
In a slightly different context, soulbonding is also used to refer to the
nature of relationship that can occur between an author and their fic-
tional creations (Fenrir). In this situation, the soulbonded character is
not necessarily understood as animated beyond the bounds established
by mainstream western perspectives of reality, and is still by and large
treated as a product of one’s own psyche. Alternatively, soulbonding is
viewed by some as the end result of an entity finding pathways into this
reality, the access point being the body of the participant (Jade 2002).
Another accepted form of soulbonding, which rests much easier within
the bounds of popular western culture, is simply one that occurs between
two human people, generally lovers. There are, of course, many more vari-
ations upon this theme, but these brief examples suffice to indicate the
spread of interpretations placed upon the same term.
Virtuality
The spaces within which these fictional characters and non-physical enti-
ties occur and exist, be it a personal soulscape, the astral, or an entirely
distinct alternative reality, are (to some extent at least) related to and
136 danielle kirby
reinforced by the new spaces afforded by the internet. It is entirely rel-

evant that public discussions about soulbonding have apparently largely
taken place on the Internet, as is the existence of the Otherkin network as
an almost entirely online phenomenon. This is not to dismiss or diminish
the validity of such beliefs, but rather to highlight the continuity between
the content of such paradigms and the nature of online engagement.
Both the structure of community interaction and the specific beliefs are
benefited from online participation. Not only are some pragmatic issues
facing the community immediately overcome, such as the geographic
spread of participants (Willson 1997: 147), but the very virtual world they
populate in itself reinforces the experiential reality of non-tangible worlds
within which one may make perceptible, in both the physical and the
virtual worlds, actions originating in a non-physical context. The idea that
one may have meaningful communication with an unknown disembodied
presence (Holmes 1997: 37) is no longer confined to the realms of fantasy
or mysticism, but is rather a simple fact of everyday life. Email, online
banking and shopping, web surfing and the overabundance of other types
of online activities all tacitly reinforce the premise of genuine disembod-
ied engagement and interaction. Further, in the western technologised
world at least, the lived experience of the world incorporates in large por-
tions communication media that simultaneously attenuates and facili-
tates interaction (Holmes 1997: 43), and this has been ever increasingly
the case for a number of decades. Personal tangible interaction is no lon-
ger necessarily the mainstay of human engagement, and this development
is playing itself out within the sphere of religious and spiritual activity as
much as any other.
The Otherkin community are developing in relation to these new spaces.
While there are occasional physical meetings, or gathers, the pragmatics
of physical geography makes it nigh on impossible for any offline meet-
ing to be representative of the community at large. Correspondingly, the
few physical gatherings that there are appear to be aimed more towards
specific sub-sections of the community rather than attempting to facili-
tate all. The Otherkin appear to function within smaller units, generally
divided by the types of creatures associated. This means that there are,
for instance, elvish, angelic, or draconic communities that nominally
associate themselves with the term ‘Otherkin’, but create their own, more
specific discourses and spaces in more personally meaningful and rele-
vant contexts. There are also other communities that, to an outsider per-
spective, appear to share the same philosophy, yet clearly disclaim any
association with the Otherkin. It has been noted, and certainly appears
to be the case here, that new religious movements in their initial stages
often appear to be “expressions of marginal subcultures” (York 2000: 141).
Indeed, the entirety of the Otherkin network can be seen as a large num-
ber of extremely specific and small subgroups that interlink and exchange
at the whim of individual participants. Take, for instance, two elvish web
rings: A Ring of Elves and Elven Realities.9 Web rings provide an extremely
interesting example of virtual geography insofar as they represent com-
munities of interest in a participant-oriented and created environment.
These two web rings both contain largely similar pages, all obviously ori-
ented towards elflore, but they represent two discrete information path-
ways. They interrelate only through the Elven Realities website, as this site
is linked to both web rings, and then more broadly to each other through
the Otherkin network. The fact that these sites, to an outsider, appear to
be largely similar is not reflected in participants chosen affiliations, and
demonstrates the ease and facility with which subgroups are simultane-
ously discrete and inter-relational. On the other hand, any one particular
linkage should not necessarily be assumed to hold deep significance due
to the ease and simplicity with which these connections are made. Such
arrangements also reiterate the need for extremely careful research tech-
niques when dealing with these forms of interaction, as association can be
easily and incorrectly assumed simply on the basis of subject matter.
Conclusion
Although admittedly brief, this chapter has gone some way towards pro-
viding a précis of the Otherkin community. While its area of concern may
be situated well outside the bounds of what is generally considered to
constitute a religion, there can be little question that the internal focus
upon superempirical experience (Griel 1994: 3) locates it firmly within
the sphere of personal metaphysical or spiritual inquiry. Simultaneously,
the Otherkin highly proximate relationship to popular fictional narrative
clearly locates such beliefs within the framework of hyper-real religiosity.
This relationship becomes most apparent within the context of Otakukin
and Mediakin, and related concepts such as soulbonding, but is nonethe-
less present within the broader community as well. With regards to the
9
A web ring is a series of sites that the designers choose to link together, which can then
be navigated between in various forms. See http://m.webring.com/hub?ring=elvenrealities
http://n.webring.com/hub?ring=aringofelves n.d.
138 danielle kirby
general paradigm asserted, the Otherkin appear to be closely related to

Neopaganism and more generally to other forms of self-reflexive10 western
esotericism. Structurally, they clearly function as a segmented polycentric
integrated network (York 2000: 142). As this type of organisational con-
figuration was first noted in relation to a certain type of new religious
movement, of which belief systems such as Neopaganism and Wicca
stand as premier examples, it is unsurprising that this should be the case.
However, the community’s reliance upon the Internet as the primary
source of interaction and communication calls into question the useful-
ness of this form of categorisation. The specific nature of the Internet,
particularly the World Wide Web, is designed precisely to be negotiated in
such a non-hierarchical manner, and it follows that groups situated within
such a locale would be inclined towards these types of flexible interaction
(Zaleski 1997: 111–112; Dawson 1999: 168). The Internet stands as a genuinely
new space, with its own unique geography, language, and cultural norms.
While it supports a vast array of religious discussion and participation, it
is in cases such as the Otherkin community where the significance of the
medium comes to the fore. Although beliefs of this nature undoubtedly
existed before the introduction of the Internet, this new global space has
allowed an unparalleled opportunity for the consolidation of such person-
alised spirituality into a larger community.
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Real Vampires as an Identity Group:
Analysing Causes and Effects of an Introspective
Survey by the Vampire Community
Joseph Laycock
Introduction
When I first began doing ethnography with the Atlanta Vampire Alliance
(AVA) in 2007, the self-identified vampires I met expressed irritation that
scholars had presented their community as a religious movement. For
most self-identified vampires, vampirism is not a ‘religion’ in the substan-
tive sense of having an institution, sacred texts, a catechism, or religious
leaders. Although some vampire groups do conform to this model of reli-
gion, they represent an increasingly small percentage of the so-called ‘real
vampire community’. However, groups such as The Temple of the Vampire
have received a disproportionate amount of attention from religion schol-
ars, precisely because they are amenable to a substantive model of religion.
For this reason, my article, “Real Vampires as an Identity Group,”* sug-
gests that new models are needed to understand this community and its
beliefs. Analysis focuses on an introspective survey of the vampire commu-
nity carried out by the AVA through their LLC, Suscitatio Enterprises. The
“Real Vampire and Energy Worker Research Survey” suggests a complex
and multifaceted discourse about what being a ‘real vampire’ might mean.
The survey also covers a broad range of discourses with questions about
medical background, religious affiliation, socioeconomic status, and the
consumption of popular culture. This attempt to define vampirism through
a consensus gentium suggests that scholarly analysis of the real vampire
community should focus less on institutions and more on ‘cognitive
praxis’—that is, the ideas and identities that this community makes possi-
ble. In trying to understand the religious dimension of this community, the
notion of ‘hyper-real religion’ is more useful than a substantive model.
There is an undeniable relationship between the real vampire com-
munity and fictional depictions of vampires, particularly in role-playing
games such as Vampire: The Masquerade. Real vampires do not claim to
be the beings portrayed in novels and films, however, they often argue
* An earlier version of this article appeared in Nova Religio, 14:1. It has been reproduced
here with permission.
142 joseph laycock
that popular culture provides useful vocabulary to describe metaphysical

experiences that would otherwise be ineffable. Furthermore, in the 1990s,
live action role-playing games served as an important venue where self-
identified vampires could find one another. However, the real vampire
community differs from other movements treated in this volume in that
they have gone to great lengths to distinguish themselves from vampire
role-playing games. This is due in large part to a double homicide commit-
ted in 1996 by Rod Ferrell, a sixteen-year-old self-identified vampire who
also played Vampire: The Masquerade. The murders led to a moral panic
and a fear that teenagers playing the role-playing game would lose track
of reality and commit actual crimes. This narrative has now resurfaced
with the success of the Twilight series. Several self-appointed ‘occult crime
experts’ and evangelical leaders have suggested that teenagers who read
Twilight will identify as actual vampires and commit murders.
Since 1996, both self-identified vampires and enthusiasts of vampire
role-playing games have sought to dissociate from one another to avoid
the narrative of ‘the delusional role-player’. The AVA deliberately sought to
avoid soliciting responses from individuals engaged in role-playing games.
The survey also asked self-identified vampires what vampire fiction they
consumed and contained questions to assess whether respondents could
distinguish terminology derived from role-playing games from terminol-
ogy created by the real vampire community.
However, the attempts of groups like the AVA to extricate themselves
from popular culture have been undermined by a trend towards ‘viral’
marketing and games that deliberately confuse fiction and reality. In
2008, HBO created an ersatz blog, Bloodcopy, to promote their televi-
sion series, True Blood. Bloodcopy presented news and advertisements as
if the premise of True Blood was reality. Actual news stories were pre-
sented alongside fictitious ones concerning the civil rights of vampires.
Bloodcopy even falsely reported that it had been acquired by an actual
blog, Gawker. BusinessInsider reported on this acquisition and was later
forced to retract it. In its effort to further blur the lines between fiction
and reality, Bloodcopy contacted the real vampire community online and
attempted to draw them into the web of viral confusion.
Earlier this year, Merticus, my chief contact with the AVA, discovered
a vampire role-playing game being played using Twitter accounts and a
Ning social networking site created for the game. Players were assum-
ing the roles and online identities of actual members of the real vampire
community. One player was posing as Merticus and, in the game, had
been kidnapped by the Volturi––the antagonists of Twilight. Merticus’
real vampires as an identity group 143
d iscovery of his fictional doppelganger pushes Baudrillard’s notion of the

hyper-real to dizzying heights. The continued challenges faced by the real
vampire community suggest that the relationship between contemporary
belief systems and popular culture is quite complicated with numer-
ous historical and discursive layers. The notion of ‘hyper-real religions’
as a theoretical tool opens up a sizable territory for further exploration.
Finally, the moral panic surrounding the fear of teenagers, vampire media,
and violence suggests a real need for scholarly analysis on the relationship
between fiction and emerging belief systems.
Real Vampirism
‘Real vampirism’ is a self-descriptive term used by individuals who feel a

need to consume blood or to feed on the ‘subtle’ energy of other people
in order to sustain their physical, mental, and spiritual health. The modi-
fier ‘real’ is used to distinguish these individuals from ‘lifestyle vampires’,
those who participate in a vampire subculture and dress in manner remi-
niscent of the undead, but who do not require any sort of ‘feeding’ to
maintain their health.
Several trade books were written about real vampires from the mid-
1980s through the 1990s, including Vampires Are (Kaplan 1984), American
Vampires (Dresser 1989), Vampires Among Us (Guiley 1991), Blood Lust
(Page 1991), Something in the Blood (Guinn and Grieser 1996), and Piercing
the Darkness (Ramsland 1998). A common problem for these authors,
however, is that it is extremely difficult to locate vampires and solicit
interviews. The vampire community was less cohesive and self-aware in
the 1980s and early 1990s. There were no channels through which large
numbers of vampires could be reached. Furthermore, many vampires are
reluctant to speak with journalists or researchers. Thus, these books often
give only the perspective of the most vocal and exhibitionist members of
the community.
Stephen Kaplan created the Vampire Research Center in 1972, adver-
tising it in numerous places, including Playboy magazine (Kaplan and
Kane, 1984: 70). The majority of ‘vampires’ calling the center, though,
were probably hoaxes. For instance, Kaplan dedicates an entire chapter to
“Elizabeth” who repeatedly called the center claiming to be 439 years old.
Other researchers relied heavily on vampire fan clubs such as The Count
Dracula Fan Club, started by Jeanne Keyes Youngson. Although estab-
lished to study the vampires of literature and folklore, the club received
144 joseph laycock
numerous letters from self-identified vampires who wanted to tell their

story. These letters, which Guiley describes as ‘confessional’ in tone, pro-
vided much of the material for trade books on vampires (Guiley 1991: 73).
Guinn and Grieser were able to do a bit better. They contacted Michelle
Belanger, a leader in the vampire community, and solicited interviews
through her publication, The Midnight Sun. Finally, Ramsland gathered
data by posing as a vampire both online and in New York night clubs,
going so far as to create a vampiric persona, “Malefica,” for the project.
Generally, these books take a journalistic approach to vampires and
present the phenomenon as an alternate lifestyle. A number of scholarly
articles have also been written about real vampires, understanding vam-
pires either as a cultural phenomenon or as a cluster of ‘vampire religions’
(Keyworth 2002: 355–370; Perlmutter 2004: 2). These approaches tend to
assume that real vampirism is an ‘extreme’ or ‘religious’ form of lifestyle
vampirism. But this assumption ignores the real vampires’ claims that
they did not choose their condition, rather that it exists independent of
socially constructed categories. Any model of vampirism as a new reli-
gious movement must acknowledge this emic perspective. Furthermore,
looking at vampires as a distinct category of person opens up new areas
of discursive analysis: How have real vampires sought validity as a distinct
category? How did this concept arise and through what channels has it
gained legitimacy in the vampire subculture?
In the winter of 2007, I began an ethnographic study of the Atlanta
Vampire Alliance, a group established by and for real vampires. Based on
these observations, I present a different strategy for understanding real
vampires. Although there is undeniable interaction between real and life-
style vampires, the two groups are fundamentally different in their orien-
tations. A lifestyle vampire chooses to adopt a particular subculture—and
is free to leave it. While real vampires may or may not engage in this
subculture, they perceive their need to feed as inherent in their nature,
more akin to a genetic quality or a sexual orientation than a cultural affili-
ation. In light of this, it is more useful to consider real vampirism first and
foremost as an identity group centered around this perceived difference.
Approaching real vampirism as an identity group incorporates the real
vampires’ own understanding of vampirism as an inherent quality inde-
pendent of cultural affiliation, and in turn allows for a richer understand-
ing of vampire discourse and a more accurate assessment of the religious
dimensions of vampirism.
Real vampirism has emerged as an identity category through two decades
of discourse. An ongoing dialogue has taken place through small groups
of real and lifestyle vampires (sometimes known as Houses or Orders),

vampire newsletters and magazines, zines (simple, non-commercial pub-
lications often produced using only a photocopier), and since the 1990s on
the Internet. From this dialogue, a nebulous entity known as ‘the vampire
community’1 has emerged. My contacts in Atlanta tended to define the
vampire community in the broadest and most inclusive sense possible. It
is an acephalous entity understood to contain both lifestyle vampires and
real vampires, as well as non-vampires who act as donors, and other allies.
Despite the somewhat inchoate character of the community, and while
the institutions, traditions, and cultural lexicons within the vampire com-
munity often conflict with one another, its existence has become a source
of identity for many vampires.
Pursuing metaphysical and biological concepts of vampirism, the real
vampire community defines itself as a subset of the total vampire com-
munity and there is now an accepted taxonomy of real vampires based
on the manner in which they ‘feed’. ‘Sanguinarian’ vampires literally con-
sume small amounts of blood, typically human. ‘Psychic’ vampires have
the ability to draw subtle energy out of other people, often without any
physical medium for transference. Vampires who use both feeding tech-
niques are known as ‘hybrids’. This feeding taxonomy is only one exam-
ple of how real vampirism has become an increasingly tangible identity
through discourse.2
During my period of observation, Suscitatio Enterprises, a limited lia-
bility corporation created by AVA members, was engaged in “The Vampire
and Energy Work Research Survey: An Introspective Examination of the
Real Vampire Community.” This was a global survey aimed at reaching
as many vampires as possible. Subjects were asked to complete a basic
survey featuring 379 questions, followed by an advanced survey featuring
an additional 609 questions. These surveys addressed issues ranging from
1
There is currently debate within the community as to whether the term ‘vampire com-
munity’ should be capitalised. The term ‘VC’ is frequently used in Internet discourse.
2
Although there was once a disagreement over whether psychic vampires are real vam-
pires, this debate has largely died down. There is now a theory that sanguinary vampires
require blood because it contains subtle energy. According to this theory, all real vampires
are, in a sense, psychic vampires. This idea is reflected in a t-shirt sold by the AVA, featur-
ing a vampire pouring blood into a martini glass. A speech balloon asks, “How do you take
your prana?” (Prana, a Sanskrit word for “breath,” is commonly used by real vampires to
describe subtle energy.) See internet site, http://www.cafepress.com/houseava. Accessed
14/04/2008. Virtually all members of the Atlanta Vampire Alliance engage in psychic feed-
ing. Of these, about 60 percent also engage in sanguinary feeding and are therefore con-
sidered hybrids.
146 joseph laycock
income and education level, to medical history, to spiritual beliefs and

philosophical attitudes, to feeding habits, to psychic abilities and theories
about vampirism. Despite the length of the survey, 650 responses were
received before the project was concluded on 31 October 2007. The survey
project has been a massive undertaking requiring substantial resources
of time and money. It is currently the object of much anticipation and
excitement within the community. Vampire groups from as far away as
Ohio and California have invited the AVA to present their preliminary
research.
According to AVA members, the project has both intercommunity and
intracommunity goals. The first is to create a form of resistance to outside
characterizations of the community. Vampirism is often confused with or
represented as a mental illness, a ‘cult’, or a role-playing game. Suscitatio
Enterprises lists one of the goals for the survey as “raising the standard of
proof required to make successful arguments about the community.”3 The
second goal is to collect a body of data that will allow the vampire com-
munity to analyse itself and the phenomenon of real vampirism.
The AVA is unusual in pursuing these objectives through the collec-
tion of survey data. One might expect an American religious group to
respond to negative characterisations through advocacy groups such as
CAIR (Committee on American Islamic Relations), or through litigation
(e.g., Church of Scientology). On the other hand, intracommunity ques-
tions about what it means to be a member of a religious or cultural group
are typically left to organisational or intellectual leaders—not a consensus
by self-identified members. During my time with the vampires, I tried to
understand why this particular form of discourse appealed to their needs.
The key to the discursive value of the survey lies in understanding the
real vampire community as an acephalous identity group rather than a
unified religious or cultural entity. Consider David Keyworth’s definition
of vampirism: “The contemporary vampire subculture can be defined as
a multi-faceted, socio-religious movement with its own distinct collec-
tive community and network of participants who share a similar belief
system and customary lifestyle that reflect their concept of the vampire”
(Keyworth 2002: 256). Although this is more accurate than other religious
and cultural definitions of vampirism, my contacts in the AVA still found
3
Suscitatio Enterprises, PowerPoint presentation given by Merticus and Zero in Los
Angeles, 30/10/2007. While an ‘introspective survey’ may be not be considered a high stan-
dard of proof, it should also be noted that claims about the vampire community are usu-
ally based on web sites and books produced by journalists for a popular audience rather
than any active data collection.
it objectionable. Keyworth is correct in describing the community as

multi-faceted, and it is true that there are such things as vampire belief
systems and lifestyles, but these are not ubiquitous nor do they unify and
define the community.4
What does both unify and define the real vampire community is iden-
tity as a vampire. For real vampires, this identity is seen as inherent and
independent from cultural or religious ascription. A Christian or even a
Wiccan can become an apostate, however, a real vampire sees her condi-
tion as an immutable state of existence. One vampire even told me he
would prefer to be like everyone else if it were possible. Conversely, some
believe that an individual with no concept of vampirism or subtle energy
can still engage in vampiric feeding without realising it (Konstantinos
1998: 245–251).
The idea that the real vampire community is formed by an inherent
quality rather than subcultural participation is reflected in the struc-
ture of the community, which is dialogical and acephalous. While some
real vampire groups incorporate hierarchy and social titles, the majority
of vampires value self-determination and are mistrustful of institutions
(Leanan 2007: 120–121). Because there is no unifying leader or organisa-
tion, statements on behalf of the vampire community carry little author-
ity. There is no accepted ‘vampire catechism’ to define vampirism, nor
would the community likely accept one.
With this understanding, it becomes possible to see why a survey is best
suited to the needs of the community. Through a consensus gentium, the
survey paradoxically provides a source of authority to a community that
is suspicious of authority. By offering a body of data, the survey creates a
sort of normative center against which real vampires can understand their
identity as vampires. In turn, this also provides a means of resistance to
outside characterisations of the community. Said one vampire, “This is
what it’s going to take to show how we really are.”5
Among the Vampires
My observation of the AVA lasted from February to December 2007.

Negotiating entry with the group was understandably difficult. In our first
4
One of my most important contacts within the AVA described his religious beliefs as
non-denominational Protestant.
5
Maloryn, personal communication with author, Decatur, Georgia, 19/02/2007.
148 joseph laycock
meeting, AVA members jokingly described themselves as ‘paranoid’. Most

members were concerned with keeping their identities as vampires con-
cealed from their coworkers. Several contacts described growing up in the
Bible Belt and feeling oppressed for not conforming to a Protestant norm
(Eclecta 2007). A conservative religious climate has been cited in shaping
Southern vampire culture, which is more discreet than vampire cultures
in New York City and Los Angeles.6 Most of my contacts were unwilling
to have interviews tape-recorded, saying simply that it made them feel
uncomfortable.
Like many vampires, AVA members refer to one another by ‘commu-
nity names’. Some of my contacts, for example, included Eclecta, Merticus,
Maloryn, and Zero, and throughout my research I have not used the legal
names of these individuals. Also used in Internet dialogue and in print,
community names seem to have a number of social functions, only one
of which is to protect the vampire’s identity.
Another difficulty was that ethnographers do not enjoy a good track
record with this community and many outside representations of vam-
pirism have been sensationalistic. Members complained to me that vam-
pires are only interviewed for TV specials that air around Halloween, and
expressed annoyance that any lucid explanation of vampirism was always
accompanied by ominous music. The AVA members had also read the aca-
demic literature about their community and found it upsetting, particularly
Dawn Perlmutter’s claim that, “Vampirism, the most recent manifestation
of the occult, has led to many crimes, ranging from vandalism to murder”
(Perlmutter 2004: 7).
When a rapport was reached with the group, there was still a meth-
odological problem regarding my mode of rational interpretation as an
ethnographer. While many real vampires interpret subtle energy as a
metaphysical phenomenon that transcends the laws of nature, others
believe that vampirism is a natural phenomenon not currently under-
stood by Western science. The concept of psychic vampirism has formed
in dialogue with models of complementary medicine, which often holds
the same interstitial state between science and metaphysics. Because of
the diversity of opinion, it is more accurate to describe real vampirism as a
form of “subjugated knowledge”7 (Foucault 2007: 7)—that is, whether real
Merticus, personal communication with author, Atlanta, Georgia, 22/11/2007.

6
The term “subjugated knowledge” was coined by Michel Foucault.

7
vampires regard themselves as supernatural entities or simply possessed of

an unrecognised health condition, their claims are generally disqualified
by more dominant forms of discourse. As a form of subjugated knowledge,
there is a concern within the community about whether outsiders can
ever understand the vampire’s reality. One AVA member advises fellow
vampires, “While it is nice to share a part of yourself with others, many
of those with whom we share do not have the capacity to understand
who we are because they do not even know themselves . . . Putting trust
in another being about your true self leaves you in a vulnerable position”
(Eclecta 2007: 111).
My contacts became aware that I taught at a secondary school and
eventually I was asked, “You’re a teacher, what would you do if a student
told you they could see other people’s energy? And that the energy was
leaving other people and flowing into them?”8 This was a tough question
that cut through many of my defenses as an ethnographer. Because the
question invoked my duties as a public educator, I could not claim that I
would interpret the student’s claims in a relativistic or phenomenological
way. Instead, I neglected to answer the question, and in so doing revealed
the range of difference between my world and theirs.
During my observation I was able to attend several business meetings
of the AVA at which the survey project was discussed. These meetings
were held in fashionable restaurants around Atlanta, and I found that
AVA members were not uncomfortable discussing vampirism in public.
It was not uncommon for them to make reservations using a community
name or even “Atlanta Vampire Alliance.” The individuals who attended
these meetings were primarily Caucasian and in their late twenties to early
thirties. Although there was a preponderance of black clothing, the group
did not seem concerned with fashion or appearance. (No one seemed to
notice when someone arrived in an oversized fluorescent yellow t-shirt.) In
addition to observation, I conducted formal interviews with several mem-
bers and became active with the group’s mailing list and online forum.
Social and organisational gatherings occur regularly in the American
vampire community, the largest being The Endless Night Festival held
every year in New Orleans.9 In October 2007, the first Twilight conference
Eclecta, personal communication with the author, Dunwoody, Georgia, 20/03/2007.

8
The Endless Night Festival is the brain-child of vampire and former club promoter
9
Father Sebastiaan. It began in 1997 and has become one of the largest vampire gatherings
in the world, with attendees from several continents. It is primarily a social function featur-
ing a ‘vampyre ball’ and a ‘dark bazaar’. Internet site, http://www.endlessnight.com n.d.
150 joseph laycock
was held in Los Angeles. Twilight is modeled on an academic conference

and features lectures and discussion groups. In June 2007, I traveled with
AVA members to Medina, Ohio, where they presented their preliminary
research findings at a vampire ‘open house.’ The open house took place
in a hotel and was hosted by House Kheperu,10 an organisation founded
by Michelle Belanger, an important writer and public intellectual for the
vampire community. The open house was more scholarly than social and
anticipated the first Twilight conference held the following fall. Spending
a weekend at this event allowed me to observe real vampires from other
parts of the country and to see how the AVA’s research was being received
by the community at large in the United States.
The open house also gave me the opportunity to participate in an
energy workshop. As a non energy-worker, I struggled to find a method
of understanding the significance of subtle energy for vampires. From
my ethic perspective, I was trying to achieve a type of understanding
described by Robert Orsi (2004: 162) where “difference is not otherness.”
Attendees were divided by skill level into beginner, intermediate, and
advanced levels. Making no pretense about my inexperience with energy
work, I attended the beginner’s workshop.
I tried to approach this experience using the phenomenological con-
cept of “embodied rationality” (Stoller 1998: 251–252). Without struggling
to accept or interpret any claims about subtle energy, I participated in
simple energy exercises with a variety of partners (both real vampires and
otherwise). During these exercises I did indeed feel tactile sensations in
my palms and fingertips. While I did not attempt to rationalise or assign
meaning to these sensations, by allowing myself to feel them I was able to
achieve a more sympathetic understanding of the vampire life-world.
In fact, the vampires themselves seem to approach the matter of sub-
tle energy in a way that is phenomenological rather than dogmatic. It
is understood that different energy workers have different facilities for
detecting and manipulating energy. Relatively few vampires I spoke with
claimed they could actually see energy. The majority described detecting
it as a tactile sensation, a temperature change, or even as a flavor. Michelle
Belanger described vampires who have claimed they can feed simply by
holding their hand over an electrical outlet. She showed little skepticism
towards this claim, but simply noted that this feeding technique would
not work for her.
Internet site, http://www.kheperu.org. Accessed 14/04/2008.

10
The heterogeneous experience of subtle energy was one of the factors

that inspired the Vampire and Energy Work Research Study. In addition to
gathering sociological data about vampires, the survey was also designed
to accumulate a body of phenomenological data from the reported anom-
alous experiences of vampires.
Survey Methodology
It is difficult to convey how ambitious a project the survey is compared to

the size and resources of the AVA’s Limited Liability Company, Suscitatio
Enterprises. Paper copies of the survey had to be mailed to real vampires
who did not have Internet access or did not wish to submit their responses
in digital form. Surveys were translated into French, Spanish, German, and
Russian. Promotion, distribution, and analysis cost more than $5,800, with
a total estimated post-analysis cost of $8,500.11
Vampires working on the survey had a variety of educational back-
grounds as well as different research interests. A registered nurse and a
medical technologist were especially interested in medical and genetic
aspects of vampirism and worked to design relevant sections of the sur-
vey. Another member has a background in cultural anthropology and was
an important contributor to the survey’s design and interpretation.
AVA members stated that they anticipated their methodology would
be attacked and endeavored to make their study as sound as possible.
They taught themselves research methods using several texts on survey
methodology. The design of the survey used a double-blind submission
process and was based largely on the work of Floyd J. Fowler of the Center
for Survey Research at the University of Massachusetts at Boston. 650
responses were received. Finally, quantitative and qualitative data were
analysed using a concurrent triangularisation strategy based on the work
of J. W. Creswell of the University of Nebraska at Lincoln.
To determine the effects of the survey on vampire identity, the impor-
tant methodological questions are what operational definition of a
‘vampire’ was used and how responses were solicited. While Suscitatio
Enterprises has stated that it is not attempting to create an exclusive
11
Suscitatio Enterprises, Research & Project Budget Outline. Internet site, http://www
.suscitatio.com/financial/budgetexpenditures.html. Accessed 15/06/2008.
152 joseph laycock
definition of vampirism, the survey methodology clearly challenged some

concepts of vampirism while attempting to screen out others completely.
Although no self-identified vampires were rejected from the data sample,
these methodological choices ultimately affect the role of the survey in
validating and shaping a new category of identity.
The survey’s title states that it is an introspective examination of the
‘real vampire community’. Although the modifier ‘real’ is not always used
in the survey’s literature, the instrument itself was designed to discourage
responses from lifestyle vampires. Survey promotion was also designed to
screen out individuals engaged in vampire role-playing games. The rela-
tionship between the vampire community and role-playing games is quite
complicated and each group has borrowed from the other in the past. The
relationship became strained in 1998 when 17-year-old Rod Ferrell, a role-
player, murdered two people in Florida. At his trial, he stated that he was
Vesago, a 500-year-old vampire. The trial focused on Ferrell’s mental prob-
lems, drug addiction, and history of sexual abuse rather than his interest
in role-playing games. Nevertheless, the case became sensationalised and
brought negative attention to role-players and vampires alike.12 Currently,
both groups avoid each other partly for fear of being confused with role-
players like Ferrell who lack the ability to distinguish reality from fantasy.
An AVA member commented, “We tend to avoid role-players so we don’t
risk contributing further to the blurring of lines between our distinct and
related groups.”13
In promoting the survey, web sites and online groups frequented by lifestyle
vampires or role-players were avoided as much as possible. These elements
were typically referred to as ‘flakes’. One member related that, “Those peo-
ple are flakier than a croissant factory.”14 Additionally, Suscitatio Enterprises
offers their operational definition of a vampire on their web site:
[a] vampire is essentially a blood drinker or an energy feeder that may display
various levels of psychic ability. The vampires that are the focus of this study
are individuals who cannot adequately sustain their own physical, mental,
or spiritual well-being without the taking of blood or vital life force energy
from other sources; often human. Without feeding (whether by a regular or
infrequent schedule) the vampire will become lethargic, sickly, and often
go through physical suffering or discomfort. Vampires often display signs of
12
Both Perlmutter (2000: 13) and Keyworth (2002: 363) saw the Ferrell case as relevant to
their analysis of the vampire community. A summary of the case can be found at internet
site, http://www.courttv.com/archive/verdicts/vampire.html. Accessed 4/01/2008.
13
14
Maloryn, personal communication with author, Decatur, Georgia, 19/02/2007.
empathy, sense emotions, perceive auras of other humans, and are generally
psychically aware of the world around them.15
While this definition is widely accepted, it is not without its critics, espe-
cially from occult groups such as the Temple of the Vampire and the
Order of the Vampyre (a branch of the Temple of Set). These groups share
a common discourse about feeding on the energy of others and ‘vampiric
magic.’ However, they have begun to dissent from the dominant discourse
that understands vampirism as an inherent condition with unique health
needs.16 Instead, occult groups have begun to reframe their projects as a
sort of ritual apotheosis that is available to everyone.17 While both models
of vampirism are considered to be part of the vampire community, a dis-
cursive struggle exists over the concept of ‘real vampirism’.
In addition to strategies for soliciting the surveys, and presenting an
operational definition to respondents, the survey built in a mechanism
to determine how conversant with vampire discourse respondents are
and how their ideas about vampirism are shaped. A section labeled
“Knowledge” is essentially a multiple-choice quiz to see if the respondent
can distinguish different paradigms of vampirism. For example, ques-
tion 207 presents the terms: kindred / masquerade / embrace / cain /
book of nod. The respondent must then select what group this lexi-
con is associated with: life-style vampires, role-playing games, occultism,
and so forth. All of the terms in question 207 are taken from a vampire
role-playing game and are not used in the vampire community. Thus, if
a respondent incorrectly matched the terms and lexicon on question 207,
this would suggest that they have confused role-playing games with real
vampirism or that they are not conversant with relevant discourses in
the vampire community. Additionally, the knowledge section also asks
respondents to indicate on a checklist which books they have read regard-
ing vampire fiction, folklore, and real vampirism.
I asked an AVA member if they simply exclude responses from vampires
who answered incorrectly on the knowledge section or made fantastical
claims about their experiences with vampirism. He responded, “No. We
can’t”.18 Instead, the data is tracked and correlated to look for differences
15
Suscitatio Enterprises, Definitions and Precedent. Internet site, http://www.suscitatio
.com/research/definitions.html. Accessed 8/01/2008.
16
Michelle Belanger, personal communication with author, Atlanta, Georgia, 3/09/2007.
17
The Temple of Vampire’s website provocatively asks visitors, “Do you want to live
forever?” Internet site, http://www.vampiretemple.com. Accessed 14/04/2008.
18
154 joseph laycock
between vampires with more accurate or accepted knowledge and those

with less exposure to the vampire community. In time, analysis of the
knowledge section may produce, for example, different trends among
vampires who have read Anne Rice versus those who have not.
From an Institutional Model to an Identity Model
In order to understand real vampirism, analysis must shift from an insti-

tutional model to an identity model. This is especially true of the religious
dimensions of vampirism. Dawn Perlmutter (2000: 11) writes, “Vampires
pride themselves on practicing the antithesis of Christian ethics and this
is apparent in the ritualised sexual and violent activities that permeate
their interactions.” This description, however, is completely inconsistent
with my experience with the AVA.19 While some vampires spoke criti-
cally of Christian institutions, many of them affirmed Christian ethics.
On a survey question about religious identity, Christianity was the fifth
most common response.20 The characterisation of vampires as a religious
alternative to Christianity has come about in large part because schol-
ars have overemphasised institutions that are peripheral to the vampire
community. Vampire institutions such as the Temple of the Vampire and
the Ordo Strigoi Vii, for example, are modeled after traditional religious
institutions, complete with hierarchies and documents such as the ‘The
Vampire Bible’.21 Qualifying as new religious movements, they promote
specific metaphysical doctrines and often feature charismatic leaders,
mystagogues, in Weberian terms.22
19
One vampire sent me a text-message to wish me a Merry Christmas.
20
Survey Question 155 asks, “Which faith, discipline, paradigm (spiritual/fraternal),
or religion do you identify with? (Check all that apply).” Fifty-one options follow featur-
ing a combination of world religions as well as Pagan and esoteric groups. The top seven
groups with the highest number of responses were: 1) Magick, 2) Wicca, 3) Neo-Paganism,
4) Occultism, 5) Christianity, 6) Shamanism, 7) Agnostic/Atheist/Humanist/Irreligious.
Both Vampirism and Vampyrism were not among the fifty-one options but were com-
mon write-in responses. (Suscitatio Enterprises, internet site, http://www.suscitatio.com.
Accessed 14/06/2008.)
21
Strigoi Vii’s website may be viewed at internet site, http://www.strigoivii.org. Accessed
14/04/2008. The Vampire Bible is only available for purchase directly from the Temple of the
Vampire. Internet site, http://www.vampiretemple.com/bible.html. Accessed 14/04/2008.
22
For Weber (1964: 55), the mystagogue combines elements of the magician and
prophet. However, where the prophet’s soteriology is based on a religious ethic or a moral
example, the mystagogue offers salvation through arcane initiation.
However, according to the results of the survey, 74 percent of vampires

have no affiliation with any sort of group or institution, even on the local
level.23 Furthermore, many of those vampires who did join these institu-
tions did so only as a means to learn more about their self-discovered
identity as a vampire. (Belanger 2004: 18)24 This suggests that the real
vampire community cannot be accurately characterised by studying these
institutions.
Instead, it is more profitable to focus analysis on the broader category
of identity groups. Amy Gutman (2003: 9) defines identity groups thus:
[i]dentity groups are politically significant associations of people who are
identified by or identify with one or more shared social markers. Gender,
race, class, ethnicity, nationality, religion, disability, and sexual orientation
are among the most obvious examples of shared social markers around
which informal and formal identity groups form.
According to Gutman, identity groups will always exist as long as indi-
viduals are free to associate. Some are formal groups to which member-
ship is optional (e.g., the NAACP or the League of Women Voters), while
others are nominal groups based on sociobiological markers (e.g., African-
Americans or women). In the latter case, placement in this group is not
a matter of choice.
Because real vampires believe that they are of a different ontological
nature than other people, they see vampirism primarily as a nominal social
marker. Some vampires may additionally see their identity as vampires
as a cultural or religious identity. This may result in what Christopher
Partridge (2005: 2335) has called “ad-hoc vampire religionists.” One vam-
pire, for example, argues that vampire identity is distinct from the vam-
pire lifestyle, just as ethnic Judaism is separate from the Jewish religion
(Sanguinarius 2007: 125–127). As Jews share an ethnic identity, vampires
share an ontological identity.
Identity and Discourse
How has ‘real vampire’ become a category of person and what is the
role of discourse in this process? Outsiders assume vampirism to be a
Suscitatio Enterprises, internet site, http://www.suscitatio.com. Accessed 14/06/2008.

23
Catherine Albanese (2007: 7) suggests that American metaphysical organisations

24
have always been “joined somewhat warily” due to a suspicion of authoritarian voices.
156 joseph laycock
c ulturally constructed phenomenon.25 Vampires themselves understand

vampirism as an empirically measurable condition around which a cul-
ture has formed. At AVA meetings, vampires discussed vampirism as a
subject for physicists and genetic biologists, not social scientists and reli-
gion scholars. Should vampires be approached as a social category like
‘Yankees fans’ or as an objective category like ‘people with red hair?’ In
theorising the origin of vampires as a category of person, the emic per-
spective of the vampire community should be acknowledged.
Critical theorists have observed that seemingly ‘objective’ categories
may in fact be constructed through discourse. Following Foucault’s notion
of the ‘constitution of subjects,’ various theorists have suggested that sta-
tistical analysis in the nineteenth century actually manufactured new
categories of people—especially categories of mental illness and concep-
tions of sexual orientations (Hacking 1986: 226). Similarly, social scientists
have observed how the category of ‘young people,’ which seems to have
an objective reality, was given new meaning due to social changes in the
1960s (Eyerman and Jamison 1991: 20).
Ian Hacking, however, suggests a theoretical compromise between social
and empirical categories, that helps to balance emic and etic perspectives
of vampirism. In his essay, “Making Up People,” Hacking argues that peo-
ple spontaneously come to fit their categories through a process he calls
“dynamic nominalism.” Drawing on the medieval dichotomy between
realism and nominalism, Hacking refutes both realism—in which catego-
ries have an objective reality—as well as nominalist claims that categories
have only a linguistic reality. Instead, he suggests a sort of dialectic pro-
cess where a kind of person comes into being at the same time that the
kind itself is being invented. For Hacking, created categories of people are
very real. They are neither the products of nature, nor socially constructed
but rather seem to have characteristics of both. Furthermore, each new
category that arises affects every person. Hacking (1986: 232) writes, “the
outer reaches of your space as an individual are essentially different from
what they would have been had these possibilities not come into being.”
25
Current scholarship on this community assumes that real vampirism evolved from
vampire movies and novels. Both Keyworth (2002: 355–370) and Perlmutter (2003: 279–283)
consider the novels of Anne Rice and other vampire fiction as a primary source of
the vampire community. While Anne Rice’s novels have had an undeniable influence
on the culture and aesthetics of the vampire community, vampire fiction alone does not
account for the ontological claims of vampires or the metaphysical models created to
explain vampirism.
Dynamic nominalism makes it possible to explore the discursive influ-

ences on the category of the real vampire without dismissing claims that
vampirism has an empirical reality.
The concept of a vampire as a living person first appeared in the nine-
teenth century, approximately the same time in which statisticians were
gathering data on mental conditions. An early description of an individual
as a vampire who drains not blood but energy appeared in 1892, in an
essay of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn:
A few years ago, I noticed that invariably after a prolonged interview with a
certain person, I felt exhausted. At first, I thought it only the natural result of
a long conversation with a prosy, fidgety, old gentleman; but later it dawned
upon me, that being a man of exhausted nervous vitality, he was really
preying upon me. I don’t suppose that he was at all externally conscious
that he possessed a vampire organisation, for he was a benevolent kind-
hearted man, who would have shrunk in horror from such a suggestion.
Nevertheless, he was, in his inner personality an intentional vampire, for he
acknowledged that he was about to marry a young wife in order, if possible,
to recuperate his exhausted system. The next time, therefore, that he was
announced, I closed myself to him, before he was admitted. I imagined that
I had formed myself a complete investiture of odic fluid, surrounding me
on all sides, but not touching me, and impenetrable to any hostile currents.
This magical process was immediately and permanently successful—I never
had to repeat it (Frater Resurgam 1892).26
Throughout the twentieth century, books have emerged for Pagans
and occultists describing how to protect oneself from psychic vampires
(Konstantinos 1998: 176–83; Fortune 1997: 71; Orloff 2002).27 As in the case
above, the vampires described in these texts are often unaware that they
are vampires. Vampires such as Michelle Belanger have described read-
ing these texts and realising these descriptions of occult threats seem to
apply to their own experiences. Most likely, Belanger’s experiences existed
before she read about vampires, but the category served to interpret her
26
Several theories were promoted before 1892 explaining vampires in terms of occult
science. The earliest of these appears to be that of Eliphas Levi, who describes a sort of
vitality draining vampire in Dogma et Rituel, written in 1856 (Levi 2001: 126–127). “Thoughts
on the Imagination” is significant both because it accuses a specific person of vampirism
rather than describing an abstract concept and because it has been widely promoted by
Michelle Belanger through The Psychic Vampire Codex.
27
In 2002, O: The Oprah Magazine featured an article describing how to protect oneself
form “energy vampires,” prescribing visualising a barrier of white light as a defense (Orloff
2002).
158 joseph laycock
e xperience. Applying the theory of dynamic nominalism, I speculate that

if the psychic vampire did not exist as a category, individuals with this sort
of experience would not be vampires. Instead, they would be something
else. Indeed, Belanger (2004: 36) has emphasised that vampire legends are
necessary to explain her experience because Western culture lacks terms
to describe subtle energy or its transfer.
‘Otherkin’ are another group that has formed an ontological identity in
dialogue with occult defense manuals (Windtree n.d.). Like the vampire
community, the Otherkin are an acephalous identity group. An Otherkin
may identify as an incarnated angel or demon or as a mythological beast
such as a faery, elf, or dragon. Some otherkin relate their own experience
to entities described in 1930 by occultist Dion Fortune (1997: 79):
[t]here are many of us who have met people who might well be described as
non-human, soulless, in that the ordinary human motives are not operative
with them, nor do the ordinary human feelings prompt or inhibit them. We
cannot but love them, for they have great charm, but we cannot but dread
them as well, for they spread an infinitude of suffering around them.
Probably Fortune could not have imagined a community of self-identified
‘non-humans’, and yet her book helped bring this community into being.
Like vampires, Otherkin find themselves identifying with the description
of a dangerous occult other.
After these categories came into being, individuals who resonated
with them formed informal identity groups such as the vampire com-
munity, and vampirism became a social movement as well as a category.
The vampire community has created its own discourse, redefining and
‘de-otherising’ the concept as put forth in the occult defense manuals.
Most importantly, the vampire community has actively promoted the
vampire as a category of person. During a late night discussion at a vam-
pire gathering, one AVA member commented, “I got to the point where
we were like, ‘Everyone shut up and just make some progress’.”28 The term
“progress” was used quite often when vampires discussed their commu-
nity’s goals.
‘Progress’, however, did not seem to entail any sort of public recogni-
tion. There seemed to be little interest in defining vampirism as a legal

28
religion or even as an acknowledged medical condition.29 Indeed, some

believe that vampires should remain ‘in the shadows’ or even that public
knowledge of vampirism will lead to action by the government or reli-
gious institutions either to oppress vampires or control them. What sort
of progress, then, should the vampire community be making?
In Ohio, I discussed documents created by the community such as “The
Black Veil v2.0” (an ethical code for vampires created by Michelle Belanger
and Father Sebastiaan, another vampire leader) and the “Donor’s Bill of
Rights.”30 The vampires informed me that these documents were created,
not because there was actually a problem with vampires acting unethi-
cally or donors being mistreated, but rather because the existence of these
documents signified that the community was making ‘progress.’31 Progress
refers to strengthening the concept of the vampire as a valid identity and
gaining agency in defining that identity.
This insight serves to interpret the motivation for and the discursive
effect of “The Vampire and Energy Work Research Survey.” Oliver Krueger
(2005: 7) argues that while the Internet promotes dialogical rather than
hierarchical forms of organisation, it also facilitates new structures of
authority and discursive agency. The normative authority of the survey
data is an example of Internet-enabled agency.
Suscitatio Enterprises has stated that they are not attempting to cre-
ate a universal definition of vampirism. However, the data provided by
their survey can hardly help but have a normative effect on the concept of
the vampire. The effect of the knowledge section, which allows Suscitatio
Enterprises to correlate responses with how much respondents know
about the community, will likely enhance this normative effect dramati-
cally. In fact, some real vampire groups have begun giving the survey to
potential members as a sort of application test. In other words, the nor-
mative effect of the survey is quite powerful. Ron Eyerman and Andrew
Jamison (1991: 5) have argued that knowledge production in itself is a form
29
Robert Paul Rice, a Utah prison inmate and self-identified ‘Druidic Vampire,’
requested access to blood as part of his religious diet. My contacts in the AVA had no
sympathy for Rice, who also demanded conjugal visits on religious grounds. They did not
consider Rice’s claims to be representative of real vampirism and viewed his case as nega-
tive publicity on par with the Ferrell case. Internet site, http://www.thecovenorganization
.com/prisoner-demands-vampire-diet. Accessed 12/01/2008.
30
The Black Veil v2.0 can be viewed at internet site, http://www.sanguinarius.org/articles/
black_veil_2.shtml. Accessed 14/04/2008. The Donor’s Bill of Rights can be viewed at inter-
net site, http://www.sanguinarius.org/articles/dbor.shtml. Accessed 14/04/2008.
31
Zero, personal communication with author, Medina, Ohio, 23/06/2007.
160 joseph laycock
of social action that creates a ‘cognitive space’ where new ideas and issues
emerge. The actors who make this cognitive praxis visible are known as
“movement intellectuals (Eyerman and Jamison 1991: 98).” The survey cre-
ates a cognitive space by defining the vampire as a category of person: it is
progress. By organising the survey and disseminating its findings, the AVA
have become movement intellectuals.
It should be noted that defining a category is not the same as assigning
someone to that category. AVA members have repeatedly been approached
by people who offer a list of symptoms and want to know whether or
not they are a vampire. Their position has consistently been, “We do not
diagnose. It is not our role to confirm or deny whether one is a vampire—
that is something only the individual can come to know through serious
introspection and experience”32 However, Hacking suggests that as new
categories of people are created, individuals will spontaneously fill these
categories through dynamic nominalism. Thus, we can predict that as
people encounter the survey data, some will discover that they are, and
have been, vampires. Furthermore, as ‘vampire’ becomes more entrenched
as a category of person, the rest of us will become ‘non-vampires’, where
before we were not.
Conclusion
These wider implications of knowledge production and identity are lost

if the real vampire community is reduced to a cluster of institutions.
Eyerman and Jamison (1991: 59) argue for “a cognitive approach” to social
movements, seeing them as producers of knowledge that create an intel-
lectual space and then dissipate into mainstream culture. The greatest
obstacle to this “cognitive approach,” they argue, is the tendency to iden-
tify movements with organisations, parties, and sects rather than ideas or
“cognitive praxis.”
By looking at the types of categories and identities emerging from the
vampire community, one can also find implications for related identity
groups and modes of religiosity. Oliver Krueger shows that the majority
of Wiccans are “eclectic practitioners” with no affiliation to a coven or
group. This is attributed to “self-initiation” rituals readily available on the
Internet. Like vampires, Wiccans do not need an outside entity to validate
Merticus, electronic communication with author, 22/11/2007.

32
them as part of a group. Krueger (2005: 4–5) argues that Pagan initiation
now refers to a “state of spiritual identity” rather than affiliation with a
group or coven.
It may come as no surprise that there is significant interaction between
the vampire community and Pagan communities. Many real vampires
practice forms of Paganism and during my research I received an invi-
tation to a vampires versus witches softball game. What Pagans and
vampires share is participation in an identity that is dependent on subju-
gated knowledge. Paganism is a religion, and vampirism is sometimes a
religion—however, both groups find themselves outside of the religious
and scientific episteme.
In addition to vampires, a growing number of ontological identity
groups are forming communities facilitated through Internet dialogue.
Along with the Otherkin, ‘Therians’ also believe they have a mental, emo-
tional, spiritual, or shamanistic connection to or shared kinship with a
particular animal. Several other categories of people are just beginning
to gain momentum through the Internet: ‘walk-ins’, ‘indigo and crystal
children’, ‘otakukin’, and ‘multiple systems’ are all ontological categories
of beings with which individuals have begun to identify (Lupa 2007).33
Together, these groups are creating the type of cognitive praxis that
Eyerman and Jamison attribute to a full-blown social movement. Collectively,
these groups are sometimes referred to as “awakened” (Belanger 2004: 270).
This term represents the production of a collective identity (Eyerman and
Jamison 1991: 117). The terms ‘mundanes’ or even ‘muggles’ are sometimes
used to refer to those outside of these groups.34 This is the identification
of the oppositional other, which is also crucial to the cognitive praxis of a
social movement (Eyerman and Jamison 1991: 119). Finally, the survey dem-
onstrates the existence of an effective communication network between
various groups and organisations, which is a necessity for a social move-
ment to endure (Eyerman and Jamison 1991: 107).
The motto of the vampire House Kheperu is “seek your own truth.”35
I predict that Internet facilitated surveys and other forms of knowledge
33
For more on these concepts see Lupa 2007. Lupa herself is a therian and describes
the nature of her connection to wolves.
34
The term ‘muggle’ was coined by author J. K. Rowling in her Harry Potter fiction
series and refers to individuals with no magical abilities. In 2003, ‘muggle’ was added
to the Oxford English Dictionary. Internet site, http://news.bbc.co.uk/cbbcnews/hi/uk/
newsid_2882000/2882895.stm. Accessed 14/04/2008.
35
See internet site, http://www.kheperu.org. Accessed 14/04/2008.
162 joseph laycock
production through a consensus gentium will become the discursive mode

of choice for these groups. The otherkin community has already expressed
a desire for their own survey and I anticipate that similar projects will
become prolific among ‘awakened’ groups such as therians and otherkin
as well as identity-based religious movements seeking to reify their sense
of identity. Without prescribing or defining, these databases may come
to function as a sort of ontological lighthouse for those who continue to
‘seek their own truth.’
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The Sanctification of Star Wars: From Fans to Followers
Debbie McCormick
In the Beginning
Communication technologies are a vital conduit for religious groups to

provide information to, and develop relationships with, their follow-
ers. Religious organisations and individual clergy are increasingly utilis-
ing digital technology to enhance, diversify and simplify the practices of
their faith; today Jews from around the world can fax their prayers to the
Wailing Wall in Jerusalem; fortune tellers in China can provide computer-
generated astrological charts; and television has globalised evangelism
(Kurtz 1995). The Vatican was one of the first major religious organisations
to go online when they launched their website in 1995. In his address for
World Communications Day in 1990 Pope John Paul II expressed his view
on the potential for technology to facilitate religious communications:
[w]ith the advent of computer telecommunications and what are known
as computer participation systems, the Church is offered further means for
fulfilling her mission. Methods of facilitating communication and dialogue
among her own members can strengthen the bonds of unity between them.
Immediate access to information makes it possible for her to deepen her
dialogue with the contemporary world. In the new “computer culture” the
Church can more readily inform the world of her beliefs and explain the
reasons for her stance on any given issue or event. She can hear more clearly
the voice of public opinion, and enter into a continuous discussion with the
world around her, thus involving herself more immediately in the common
search for solutions to humanity’s many pressing problems. (Wotjyla 1990)
While Catholicism and other traditional religions have benefited in many
ways from their use of communication technologies, the broad appeal
and easy access these technologies provide has also paved the way for
the emergence of sects and new religious movements (NRMs). Advances
in communications technology have afforded potential members of NRMs
the means to connect and cultivate their ideas.
All religious traditions have at sometime in their history been subject
to human mediation, and it is not uncommon for old ideas to be modified
or blended, repackaged, and marketed as new products. In the modern
era the “old wine in new bottles” is marketed and sold through the overt
166 debbie mccormick
and explicit religious themes that are presented in works of popular cul-
ture. At a time when more people go to the cinema than attend church
(Kohn 2005), the messages transmitted by popular culture have the poten-
tial to both inform and influence. While audiences may not be intention-
ally seeking information about religion, Schofield Clark (in Kohn 2005)
explains that in relation to young people:
[i]t’s not that they’re looking for religion, or even that they’re interested in
religion. They think religion may not be very important in their lives, but
they still pick up understandings about religion from popular culture, in
places like fantasy film.
In this chapter I describe how, over a period of more than three decades,
fans of the Star Wars series of films harnessed emerging communications
technologies to form a religious community and how technology, con-
versely, almost led to the demise of the nascent religion.
A Long Time Ago in a Galaxy Far, Far Away . . .
In the beginning there was the film. Six Star Wars films have been released
and re-released over a period of four decades beginning in 1977 with Star
Wars Episode IV: A New Hope and ending in 2005 with Episode III: Revenge
of the Sith. In each of the decades they were released, the films ranked at,
or near the top of the list of Top 10 Films by Decade and Year (Dirks). Spin-
offs from the film series include books, comics, collectables and a wide
array of merchandise from costumes to Lego™. The LucasArts gaming
division was founded in 1982 and since then the Star Wars games, which
are based on characters from the films, have been translated into eight
languages, distributed worldwide, and appear regularly in the top rank-
ings for computer game sales (LucasFilm Entertainment Company 2010).
The constant flow of films, merchandise and games over the past thirty-
four years has entrenched the lore, characters and philosophy of Star Wars
into the vernacular of the West; “May the Force Be with You” (Star Wars
Episode IV: A New Hope 1977), a quotation from the first Star Wars film
that was released in 1977, was judged eighth in the most recognisable film
quotations of the past one hundred years by the American Film Institute
(American Film Institute, 2011). So recognisable was the quotation that in
1999, a buyer offered 6.7 million US dollars on the online auction site eBay
for the Internet domain name (Fierman 1999).
George Lucas, director of the series, describes what he believes to be
the attraction of Star Wars:
the sanctification of star wars: from fans to followers 167
I’m telling an old myth in a new way. Each society takes that myth and
retells it in a different way, which relates to the particular environment they
live in. The motif is the same. It’s just that it gets localised. As it turns out,
I’m localising it for the planet. I guess I’m localising it for the end of the mil-
lennium more than I am for any particular place. (Moyers and Lucas 1999)
The myth Lucas refers to is the ‘Monomyth’, also known as the ‘Hero’s
Journey’ (Larsen and Larsen 1991) which was posited by Joseph Campbell
(1975) who became Lucas’ close friend. Although the Monomyth has been
intellectually criticised in many different quarters (Brin 1999; Manganaro
1992; Pearson and Pope 1981) Lucas believed it had a timeless global appeal
(Larsen and Larsen 1991). Lucas’ plan for localisation was also furthered
by using the deliberately ambiguous spatial and temporal context of
“a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away” (Anon. 1999); the considerable
use of religious and moral imagery in the narrative likewise found univer-
sal resonance.
Lucas explains that despite the use of religious and moral imagery and
religious themes in Star Wars it was not his intention to instigate a new
religious movement:
[w]hen I wrote the first Star Wars, I had to come up with a whole cosmol-
ogy: What do people believe in? I had to do something that was relevant,
something that imitated a belief system that has been around for thousands
of years, and that most people on the planet, one way or another, have some
kind of connection to. I didn’t want to invent a religion. I wanted to try to
explain in a different way the religions that have already existed. I wanted
to express it all. (Moyers and Lucas 1999)
While Lucas denies he planned to invent a new religion, he concedes that
he wanted to
try to awaken a certain kind of spirituality in young people—more a belief
in God than a belief in any particular religious system. I wanted to make it
so that young people would begin to ask questions about the mystery . . . I
think it’s important to have a belief system and to have faith. (Moyers and
Lucas 1999)
While it may not have been Lucas’ intention to create a new religion, fans
recognised, interpreted and augmented the base philosophies that were
expressed in the films and christened the derivative ‘Jediism’; a follower
explains:
Jediism is both an old and new religion; we did the same thing that religions
have done for thousands of years . . . we assimilated spiritual teachings from
other and ancient faiths. Taoism, Zen Buddhism, Mysticism, as well as the
honourable martial arts philosophies; this spiritual mixture is potent. We

call this fusion ‘Jediism.’ (Temple of the Jedi Force n.d.)
Conversely, the religious metaphors found in the Star Wars films have
been appropriated by “almost every single religion [who] took Star Wars
and used it as an example of their religion; they were able to relate it to
stories in the Bible, in the Qur’an and the Torah” (Moyers and Lucas 1999).
Although proponents of Jediism cite ancient religious traditions as the
basis of its tenets and popular culture as its vehicle, Jediism also shares
an obligate relationship with communications technology that is revealed
in an historical juxtaposition.
1970s—Fanning the Flames
When the first episode of the Star Wars series of films (originally known
simply as Star Wars but later renamed Episode IV: A New Hope), burst
onto cinema screens around the world in 1977, the first off-the-shelf per-
sonal computers also made their debut in retail stores, and the first major
demonstration of an internet (then called ARPANET, Advanced Research
Projects Agency Network) was conducted with transmissions between
the United States and the United Kingdom (Computer History Museum
2006). These three events would have a profound impact on global culture
and share a common, albeit unlikely, connection with the inception of a
new religious movement.
The religious themes in Star Wars immediately generated discussion
and debate in the general, academic and religious media (Collins 1977;
Curtis 1980; Ingersoll 1980). During the late 1970s and early 1980s personal
and group discussions about the film were bounded by the publically
available communication channels of telephone, personal mail, and ‘let-
terzines’ (fan published newsletter style publications). The challenges of
connecting and communicating with other fans during this period are
described by Langley (2005):
. . . finding fandom used to be pretty much a had-to-stumble-across-it affair.
A local fan club or zine publisher might post a flyer announcing an upcom-
ing meeting/zine on a bulletin board in a local library, school, grocery store,
etc. A pro con [convention] might come to town (SF cons, or ST cons when
they began), or a local club might put on a small fan con. Reading a zine
on the local mode of public transportation might prompt excited questions
from a total stranger next to you, who would turn out to be a fan-in-waiting.
[. . .] Once in fandom, ‘penpal’ correspondence was common, as fans found
other fans through directories, letter columns, and letterzines. Fans found
more zines through flyers inserted in other zines, ads in letterzines (later,
adzines became common), by picking up flyers at a con, or through private
correspondence. Some zine editors established mailing lists and sent zine
flyers out by direct mail.
While discussions about the characters and the plot were abundant and
profound, in an historical recollection of the major letterzines of the
period Nowakowska (2001) reports that during this time
questions about the nature of the Force and the philosophical wanderings
that flow from such inquiry [had] not yet made it into general conversation.
The American legal tradition of treating religion and philosophy as purely
individual interests keeps many fans from making comments about their
interpretations of the Force and the SW [Star Wars] ‘world view.’ Interest in
such discussion was not helped by an early story wherein Luke is likened to
Christ and brings Han back to life, mostly because the writers were loudly
dogmatic in their insistence on a Christian interpretation of the Saga. Also,
there had been enough public dismissals of the Force as irrational (i.e., anti-
scientific) to inhibit many fans. Some stories and fannish SW universes have
dealt with the subject at this time, but ROTJ [Return of the Jedi] must be
released before philosophy becomes an unavoidable topic.
In the time leading up the release of Return of the Jedi in 1983, technology
was being developed which would facilitate and accelerate online discus-
sions between existing fans and, at the same time, enable new fans from
around the globe to join the conversation.
1980s—In the beginning . . .
In 1979 Tom Truscott and Jim Ellis, two Duke university graduate students,
developed a programme which enabled users of the emerging online com-
munication network to trade information, news and research results between
several universities in the United States (Kehoe 1992). Chains of messages on
single topics formed discussions, also known as threads, and the topic groups
were referred to as ‘newsgroups.’ These newsgroups were hosted on a net-
work of computers that became known as Usenet (Kehoe 1992).
The popularity and use of Usenet as a system of communication and dis-
cussion grew quickly; “what began as two or three sites on a single network
in 1979, expanded to 15 in 1980, to 150 in 1981, to 400 in 1982” (Usenet Learning
Centre n.d.) and by 1986 the number of messages being posted annually had
grown from 4,000 in 1981 to more than 100,000 (Google Groups Team 2011).
The exponential increase in messages during the 1980s stimulated a free
flow of information about a broad range of Star Wars related topics, and
among the many discussions about characterisation, plot and the genius
of George Lucas are burgeoning conversations between fans seeking a
deeper understanding of the religious themes in the three films that had
been released during that decade. The reference points for these discus-
sions included existing religions (Hsing 1983, Spafford 1982) and religious
themes from other popular culture contemporaries of Star Wars IV such
as Kung Fu, a television series based on the wanderings of a Shaolin monk
(Faust 1984).
The discussions during this period reflect nascent, external, theoretical
musings and there is little or no evidence of internalisation and/or any
form of organised personal or public practices of any of the philosophical
tenets; a situation that would change toward the end of the decade with
the introduction of online computer role-play games.
During the 1980s the continuing preoccupation by fans with all things
Star Wars, was driven by the release of Star Wars Episode V: The Empire
Strikes Back in 1980 and Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi in 1983.
Interest in the films resulted in the development of ‘spin-off ’ products,
which included merchandise, books and computer games. Video games
that could be played on television screens or computers had been avail-
able since the 1970s but the proliferation of personal computer ownership
during this decade fuelled the growth of the commercial, mass-produced
games market.
In 1978 a group of undergraduate students at the University of Essex, in
the United Kingdom, recognised the potential for emerging online tech-
nology to be utilised for playing ‘pen-and-paper’ based role-playing games
(RPGs) which were a favourite pastime of many university students at
the time. In 1978–1979, Roy Trubshaw and Richard Bartle developed what
is generally acknowledged to be the first multi-player online role-playing
game, which they dubbed a MUD (Multi-User Dungeon) (Cuciz 2001;
Koster 2000; Mena 2005). The game was a text-based, player-developed,
character-driven fantasy adventure based on Dungeons and Dragons, the
paper-based role-playing game developed in 1974. The genre created by
Dungeons and Dragons was described as “a brand-new type of game with-
out boards or set goals in which all the action took place in the players’
minds” (Gamespy 2004). The profound immersion experienced while par-
ticipating in online role-play games (RPGs) created a fertile environment
for discussions that would contribute to the establishment of a doctrine
and the genesis of Jediism.
The use of MUDs as a means of exploring religious identity through
fantasy in a virtual world was integral in the development of Jediism; a
devotee explains:
[t]here came a point in which people desired to play Jedi and Sith roles, not
just other fictional characters. These people began to flock together and cre-
ate their own role-playing groups, playing online games and conversing in
chat rooms. The first Jedi, as you know them here and at other Jedi websites,
originated from these places. It was when a few of them began to see more
to a Jedi then [sic] just a RPG character, where some fans began to relate
most of their life with the fictious [sic] Jedi, no matter how fake or childlike
they seemed. There was more about the Jedi then [sic] fighting with lightsa-
bers or levitating tables and chairs, they perceived [sic].
With such realisation, some began to believe in a new concept, applying
the wisdom which the fictional Jedi carried within the Star Wars Universe and
applying it to their own, realistic lives. These so-called ‘Jedi’ were rejected by
many, becoming as outsiders. As they left their small RPG groups in search of
a new paradigm, they began soughting [sic] to find others like their own. It
didn’t take long until some did as a few began to create their own websites.
Shortly afterwards, a community was born. (TheJedi.org, jedi.ws 2006b)
1990s—Reaching Out to the Masses
In the early 1990s the Internet exploded into the public realm. Universities
and governments in more than 100 countries became connected, and in
1995 commercial and public users were granted access. The launch of
browser technology later that year facilitated document and page search-
ing, further increasing the potential for global communication and paving
the way for the exponential growth of the Internet. Public access to the
Internet had a rapid and profound effect on the ways people commu-
nicated, and increased the scope for global discussion and collaboration
between businesses, education and community groups, and individuals
with common interests.
Although there had been no new additions to the Star Wars series of
films since 1983 the devotion of the fans continued to grow, and when the
Internet became publically available as a method of communication, con-
versations between Star Wars fans leapt off the pages of fanzines and onto
Usenet discussion forums. In the first half of the decade there were 2,300
Usenet threads relating to the religious themes in the Star Wars films; in
the second half of the decade from January 1995, when the Internet was
opened up to the public, to December 1999, there were more than 26,000
message threads for the same themes1 (Google Groups 2006).
1
These data were the result of using the search criteria ‘star+wars+and+religion’ in a
search of Usenet messages which have been archived at Google Groups since 2000 <http://
groups.google.com/advanced_search?q=&>. Accessed 2/03/2012.
By the end of the decade a transition from fans to followers was firmly
established. The ideas discussed in forums and RPGs began to crystallise,
and through the continuing exploitation of emerging technologies, commu-
nities based around, what had been dubbed Jediism, began to emerge.
The New Millennium—The Crash and Growth
When the Internet became publically accessible in 1995 the major focus
was the development of commercial applications and websites, however
unexpected events would once again facilitate conditions that would be
conducive to the continued organisation and growth of Jediism and the
Jedi community.
When the NASDAQ—the technology arm of the United States stock
market—crashed in 2000 many commercial Internet enterprises became
victims, and the business world was cautious about investing in new
technology companies. During this time, technology companies began to
rethink the philosophy behind online communication and turned their
attention toward “socialisation, interaction and communication . . . focus-
sing on people, not sales” (Boyd in Oliver 2006). The focal point of web
development began to shift to what was becoming commonly known as
social software (Allen 2004) or social networking applications. These new
applications, which included blogs, wikis and user-developed websites,
required little or no technical expertise and enabled users from around
the globe to publish their thoughts and viewpoints, interact, connect and
form communities. Most Jediism sites that launched during this period
embraced the emerging online tools and used them multifariously.
Many Jediism sites that launched during this period began with lofty
intentions that failed to materialise, however some achieved their objec-
tives and played, and in some cases continue to play, a significant role
in the consolidation of beliefs and the development of community. The
Jediism sites that began (and in many cases, ended) in the first decade of
the new millennium can be loosely categorised according to their explicit
and implicit purposes: learning and teaching the applied practice of
Jediism; developing and maintaining community; expounding the theol-
ogy; and portal sites which were a combination of these elements.
Learning, Teaching and Applied Practice
Advances in communications technology and social networking applica-

tions since the start of the new millennium have enabled sites that focus on
learning and teaching theoretical and applied Jediism to develop extensive,

well organised educational frameworks. In keeping with canonical termi-
nology, most Jedi education sites are called academies or ‘praxeum’—a
term coined in the Jedi Academy Trilogy (Anderson 1994) books—which
means “the distillation of learning through action” (Anderson 1994). The
challenges associated with delivering an organised program of instruc-
tion to a diverse global community have impelled teachers of Jediism to
become early adopters of communications technologies.
The assignments and set readings are presented as web pages or text
files, and student essays are submitted using blogs or mail forums. Some
academies encourage their Padawans (students) to blog their reflections
and activities during training. Some more formal, structured sites include
exams and accreditation. The levels of attainment range from three or
four tiers, up to intricate, multi-level systems (Volkum n.d.), however all
sites audited for this research include the levels of Padawan and Knight,
which have their origins in the Star Wars canon.
The range and scope of subjects delivered through these academies varies,
however most focus on a combination of moral and philosophical develop-
ment through assigned readings which comprise teachers reflections, clas-
sic philosophical texts, and spiritual readings from other, complementary
faiths; physical fitness through the practice of martial arts; and mental exer-
cises designed to harness power of The Force (Jedi Teal’c Nyal n.d.).
There is no ‘standard’ curriculum among these academies; however the
influence of Eastern spiritual traditions is a constant. The Force College
offering is representative of many education sites:
[t]he training we offer comes form [sic] various traditions, such as: Daoism,
Buddhism, Hinduism, Kabbalah, Kung-Fu, Samurai . . .
The basic training covers: feeling the force, manipulating it, give [sic] it a
taint (of consciousness), force meditation, force combat, introduction to
telekinesis . . .
All training material has to be downloaded (PDF eBook, Windows Media
videos). An appropriate training requires about 30 minutes per day.
Previous experience in qi-gong or martial arts will help you advance faster in
the Force combat training. Yet, it is not a requirement. (Lepine n.d.)
Although most courses of instruction are self-paced and instructor facili-
tated, some have prescribed semesters. The Jedi Organization (Volkum
n.d.) offers an explanation of their interpretation of the range of alterna-
tive modes of study:
• Tdents
he Academy Method—This is when a qualified instructor teaches stu-
within a classroom setting. In other words, the Academy method
is allowed courses taught in a style you may find at a college or univer-

sity. It’s a more modern format.
• The Traditional Method—You are probably more familiar with this for-
mat relating to Jedi training. Basically, a mentor teaches a student in a
private, one-on-one setting. This is the most original format. Keep in
mind this method may vary. For example, a mentor might teach two
students instead of one.
• The Solo Method—Sometimes, a student wishes to learn on one’s own.
They work better by themselves. We can understand this. What this
method is about is allowing a student teach themself [sic] within a con-
trolled setting. It’s a very loose format. This doesn’t mean the person
can just learn anything they want; we set a basic criteria [sic] they have
to generally follow in order for us to recognise their effort.
• The Praxeum Method—What this method allows is a unique format
which students learn from another Jedi website/school other than JEDI.
In other words, it is an external setting. Praxeums can be looked at as
finishing schools, a school teaching specific educational skills while
focusing on the basics. For example, a Jedi school which presents a
Taoist aspect to their teachings. Before you decide to train at another
area, find out if it is approved by the faculty first (TheJedi.org, jedi.ws
2006a).
Although Jediism education sites have embraced cyberspace as a location

for teaching, some groups, such as The Jedi Knights of Canada (http://
www.angelfire.com/ca4/jediknightsofcanada/ n.d.) also attempt to create
the impression of a physical presence by including images of large, college
like structures on their websites. While these images of physical structures
may be used to create the illusion of a physical presence, some groups
make purposeful efforts to establish communities that meet face-to-face
and social networking applications facilitate these endeavours.
Developing and Maintaining Community
Community is the lifeblood of Jediism and most sites provide some oppor-
tunity for social networking—usually a mail forum with a discussion topic
dedicated to ‘Community’. A smaller group of sites have the develop-
ment and maintenance of community as their central focus; these groups
extend the opportunity for community development by providing Jediists
with the means to make themselves known to other members, organising
on- and offline gatherings and social events, and compiling and distribut-
ing member information and statistics.
The Order of the Jedi site explains. “We are in an ero [sic] of science and
technology. We use various web tools to meet online, such as email, skype,
and a video conference system. Members recieve [sic] email invitations to
public web events” (2010). The Jedi Resource Center and Jedi Gatherings
Group which commenced in 2006 describes their purpose as
bringing Jedi together in real life. We utilise the online medium in order to
organise offline meetings and activities between Jedi around the world. Our
goal is to provide the resources and means of communication necessary to
aid in creating, organising, conducting, and promoting these real life func-
tions. (2011)
Their site houses a range of tools for developing and maintaining com-
munity including a mapping application that enables members to visually
indicate their location and to connect with other Jediists (Figure 1).
The site invites members to “[h]elp connect with others in your area
by adding your location to the Jedi Map. You may be surprised how many
Jedi might be nearby. Signing onto the Jedi Map will also assist us in
informing you of possible upcoming Jedi events in your area” (The Jedi
Resource Centre & Gatherings Group n.d.).
Fig. 1. Member map of Jedi Resource Centre/Jedi Gatherings Group (http://

jediresourcecenter.org/vb/vbgooglemapme.php?do=showmain)
Other tools provided by the group to facilitate on- and offline com-
munity include:
Jedi Gathering Roster—This is your chance to find out more about the his-
tory of past Gatherings, where they occurred, who attended, what activities
were involved, post Gathering thoughts, etc.
Chapter Roster—This feature provides contact details and a little bit of
background information for various Jedi Chapters and other offline Jedi-
related groups. Check it out to see if you can find a local group in your area
to join.
JRC Photo Album—Take a look at pictures from past Gatherings and get
a better idea of what goes on at these events.
Community Calendar—Use the Calendar to post or receive reminders
about upcoming Jedi Gatherings, Chapter meetings, Community Service
events, and any other Jedi-related activities.
Member Blogs—Each member can also create their own Jedi Blog to
chronicle their offline training and progress along the Jedi path. Comments
can be posted directly to individual entries and members also have the
option of subscribing to other member blogs. (The Jedi Resource Centre &
Gatherings Group n.d.)
The Jedi Resource Centre group has more than three hundred members;
almost a third have posted a message to the mail forum since they joined.
Although the majority of members hail from Western nations (United
States of America, United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, New Zealand)
there are representatives from all corners of the globe.
Although Jediism is practiced globally the geographic diversity of its
followers limits the formation of offline congregations. Despite these limi-
tations some followers have become ordained celebrants and offer Jediist
ceremonies to celebrate or commemorate life’s milestones including:
Welcoming
A ceremony which honours a new life into the world. As per the parents
choosing, a prayer of the protection of the light of the force is placed.
Definition explanation: gladly received
Unification
A ceremony otherwise known as Marriage.
Definition explanation: A bringing together into a whole.
Journey Complete
A ceremony for those who have completed their journey on earth, and have
once again become one with the force.
Definition explanation: Ones passing from human form back into the force.
(Order of the Jedi n.d.)
Establishment of Doctrine and Theology
The philosophy that is at the heart of Jediist education and community

has evolved democratically through more than three decades of mostly
online conversation and negotiation, resulting in various assertions of
doctrine. The doctrine of the Temple of the Jedi Order (Temple of the Jedi
Order) includes a ‘Definition of Religion’, a ‘Statement of Beliefs’, ‘The
Jedi Oath’, ‘The 16 Teachings of the Jedi’, and ‘The Jedi Creed’. Social net-
working applications have once again been vital to the process; the Jedi
Church has utilised an online voting system to pose questions related
to health (is it good for Jedi to donate blood? is it ok for Jedi to accept
blood transfusions?), morality (is it ok for Jedi to be gay? is it ok for Jedi to
have abortions?), and religious validity (are there elements of fiction in
all religions?).
One of the most vigorously debated topics in the establishment of
Jediism’s tenets has been the primacy of its canon. While most sites agree
that the philosophy underpinning Jediism is predominantly based on
Eastern traditions including Taoism, Hinduism and Buddhism views on
the source and extent of its canon are divided. The official LucasFilms
position is that
“Gospel,” or canon as we refer to it, includes the screenplays, the films, the
radio dramas and the novelisations. These works spin out of George Lucas’
original stories, the rest are written by other writers. However, between us,
we’ve read everything, and much of it is taken into account in the over-
all continuity. The entire catalog of published works comprises a vast
history—with many off-shoots, variations and tangents—like any other
well-developed mythology. (Rostoni and Kausch 1994)
Canon ‘purists’ however, insist the films are the primary source; a stance
supported by George Lucas who said “the movies are Gospel, and every-
thing else is Gossip” (Hays 1980: 45).
Despite the disputes about the primacy of source(s) there is a univer-
sally acknowledged and cited Jedi Code:
There is no emotion; there is peace.
There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.
There is no passion; there is serenity.
There is no death; there is the Force.
(Star Wars Databank n.d.)
The Force, which is the cornerstone of Jediism, has been described as
“the mystical energy field that permeates the universe surrounding
everything and flowing through all life” (Emfinger n.d.). In keeping with
his desire to instil “more a belief in God than a belief in any particular
religious system” (Moyers and Lucas 1999), Lucas created the concept of
The Force as an enigmatic abstraction that has become central to Jediist
philosophy.
Some Jediism sites have attempted to link the origins of The Force to
more established faiths in what is perhaps an effort to establish credibility
and distance themselves from those they refer to as ‘fictional’ Jedi. The
Order of the Jedi (Order of the Jedi n.d.) advances an historic view that
locates the origins of the term ‘The Force’ in Eastern philosophy:
Jediism is a philosophy and religion based on the personal cultivation of our
relationship with The Force. The term “Force” was used up to 3000 years
ago by the Daoist immortals, and was made first popular in a Chinese text
written in the 6th century BC. The text is entitled “Tao te King,” and can be
translated in various manners, such as “The way of the Force.”
The term “Force” was used in Hinduism as a quality and power of the
divinity Indra, lord of minor gods, various aspects of the unique unnamed
God. The Force was call [sic] in Sanskrit “Vajra,” and described in the same
was [sic] that we describe the Force in Jediism. The Force was also called
“Ka,” as a property of Vishnu, the One God united with the creator Bramha
and the transformer Shiva.
The ways of Jediism are mostly inspired by Buddhism and Taoism.
Although modern movies are useful for inspiration, we do not base our ways
on science fiction, but on the true inner culture of the Force.
The Jedi Creed group also distances itself from its Hollywood origins,
explaining what the site authors see as the differences between fans and
followers:
[w]hat made this belief creditable [sic] was having a solid separation
between fantasy and realism: Jedi do not require powers depicted in Star
Wars. They do not have lightsabers or wear robes. They do not need to be
very young to be trained. They do not affiliate themselves with a govern-
ment, or travel to a temple. They don’t even have to know of Star Wars,
Yoda, or George Lucas. (Volkum n.d.)
The quest for mainstream legitimacy has resulted in some groups seeking
legal recognition as a religion or other non-profit group. The first organisa-
tion to achieve this status was the Temple of the Jedi Order which became
the “first international church of Jediism, incorporated December 25, 2005
by the Secretary of State of Texas as a non profit church, religious, edu-
cational and charitable corporation” (Temple of the Jedi Order n.d.); this
was followed in 2009 by a Canadian group, The Order of the Jedi (Order of
the Jedi n.d.).
The desire for authenticity extends to a pragmatic approach to the

practice of Jediism in which followers claim they integrate the outlook
and values of the faith into their own lives (Temple of the Jedi Order n.d.).
The integration of Jediism into the lives of its followers is not sought with
the intention of excluding other religions. The innocuous requirements of
practicing Jediism makes it a guilt free addendum to traditional religions
and provides many followers with an outlet for the articulation of aspects
of spirituality they may not be getting from their traditional religions.
A Jedi Padawan explains her choice:
[t]he Jedi teachings are the yellow brick road to modern day Christian living.
The teachings of the Bible are no less important, I dont [sic] mean to imply
that. The Bible is timeless and to me, represents my Truth in this world.
Where the Bible uses parables, the Jedi teachings use a direct approach.
They coorelate [sic] with each other, going hand in hand, neither contra-
dicting the other.
Being a Christian means I love the Lord and follow his Word, being a Jedi
means I constantly seek knowledge and enlightenment. Jediism is the lit
path to my ultimate goal: knowing my Saviour. (Rachattainingblog 2006)
Adherents are assured that, from a Jediist perspective, they should feel
no philosophical conflict in practising their beliefs in parallel with tradi-
tional religions because Jediists believe that “all religions have truth, and
[ Jediists] are not bound to our Doctrine only. Jedi are encouraged to learn
as much as they can about others in order to increase their knowledge”
(Order of the Jedi n.d.). The Temple of the Jedi Order group have extended
this sentiment and combined tenets of Jediism with traditional faiths to
form five hybrid ‘rites’; the Five Rites (Traditions) are Pure Land, Abrahamic,
Pagan, Buddhist, and Humanist (Temple of the Jedi Order n.d.).
The Challenge of Darkness
It is ironic that at the beginning of this decade the technology that had
been intrinsic to the inception and growth of Jediism would be instru-
mental in events that caused a devastating setback in its advancement.
Most countries conduct a census of their population at various inter-
vals to obtain a “snapshot” of social indicators that can be useful for plan-
ning purposes (U.S. Census Bureau 2010). Many include questions about
religious affiliation, which provide an indicator of the changes to stated
religious affiliations of populations who complete the survey.
The power of individuals to affect these classifications was tested in 2001
when a series of events surrounding the National Census that was to be
held in a number of countries that year commanded the attention of the

media and governments in Australia and internationally. In a global email
campaign that began as a prank, Australian, British and New Zealand citi-
zens were encouraged to designate ‘Jedi Knight’ (Natchers 2001) as their
religious affiliation in the National Censuses that were being conducted
that year.
The incident captured the interest of both the public and the media to
the degree that the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) was compelled to
release a statement responding to reports that it might fine people who,
in reply to the email campaign, stated their religion as Jedi Knight in the
National Census (Australian Bureau of Statistics 2001). The campaign
drew similar responses from the Office for National Statistics in Britain
and Statistics New Zealand (Emery 2001; New Zealand Press Association
2001; Newport UK 2003).
The possibility of legal consequences did not deter 390,000 (0.70%)
Britons (Newport UK 2003), 71,000 (0.37%) Australians (Anon 2002), and
53,000 (0.13%) New Zealanders (Perrott 2002) who heeded the ‘call to
action’ and indicated a religious affiliation with Jediism. Despite the num-
ber of responders, the three governments refused to recognise Jediism as
a religion. The reason cited by the ABS was that Jediism did not fit within
the High Court of Australia’s legal definition of a religion.
The credibility being sought by the followers was eroded by association
with the prank, and in-fighting among Jediism members caused a number
of sites to close down during that time which has been referred to as “The
Challenge of Darkness” (TheJedi.org, jedi.ws 2006b). It would be two years
of decline before the community began to revitalise and re-establish its
credibility with the development of several new websites.
Conclusion: Future Challenges
As a religious movement that exists almost entirely on the web, the vital-
ity of the Jediism community depends on continued communication and
interaction among its geographically diverse followers. The links that have
been formed as a result of common beliefs are tenuous and would be
unlikely to continue without social networking applications.
The attenuated nature of Jediism and the fickle participation of its fol-
lowers is redolent of the general state of religious participation in a post-
modern society where religious institutions and traditions compete for
adherents, and worshippers shop for a religion in much the same way that
consumers assess their options for goods and services in the marketplace
(Warner 1993). Sherkat and Wilson’s (1995: 997–998) description of a reli-
gious marketplace is an apt metaphor to describe a religious landscape
where “[d]ecisions are made on the basis of not only what is desired but
what is known about alternatives.” The emergence and use of social soft-
ware has provided the opportunity for individuals to ‘try on’ new, old and
mixtures of religious ideas.
While the development and growth of the use of social software has
proved a boon for new religious movements such as Jediism, it comes
with risks which were evidenced in the fallout from the Census incidents
in Australia, Britain and New Zealand. The incidents demonstrate the
‘double-edged’ nature of the democratic global transmission of informa-
tion and are examples of how tools of construction may also become
instruments of destruction.
At the time of Jediism’s inception and early development the control
and flow of information was held by those who had technical ability and
access to the Internet. The availablility and ease of use of communication
technologies has resulted in an environment where public producer-con-
sumers, or “prosumers” (Toffler 1981) contribute to debate and discussion
with religious and other authorities. The tools that allow for the devel-
opment and dissemination of user-created content have provided activ-
ists with vehicles to spread information and disinformation supporting
their particular agendas (Alam 1996; Yoon 2010). Some governments have
responded to these expressions of ideas by attempting to censor con-
tent and restrict access to applications including Google (Mufson and
Whoriskey 2010), Facebook and Twitter (Kirkpatrick 2010).
The legitimacy of the Jedi as a religion may be questionable and the Jedi
census controversy may have been a one-off event, however the continu-
ing dilution of the authority of mainstream religions and the proliferation
of new ways of articulating religious beliefs have created an environment
that is conducive to the development of other online religious movements
that will demand attention and interpretation by communities, religious
organisations and governments.
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The Spiritual Milieu Based on J. R. R. Tolkien’s
Literary Mythology
Markus Altena Davidsen
Introduction
The present volume attests to a growing scholarly interest in new religions

that incorporate popular fiction into their beliefs and practices. Such reli-
gions are variously referred to as ‘hyper-real’ (Possamai 2005), ‘invented’
(Cusack 2010a), or ‘fiction-based’ (Davidsen 2010) religions. Studies in
the field have examined, for instance, Lovecraft-inspired Chaos Magick
(Hanegraaff 2007), the Otherkin (Kirby 2009a; Kirby 2009b), Matrixism (e.g.
Morehead this volume), the Church of All Worlds (Cusack 2010a: 53–82;
Cusack 2010b), and Jediism (Possamai 2005: 71–83; Davidsen 2010).1
Scholars see these organised groups as extreme examples of an increas-
ing interconnection between popular fiction and alternative spirituality,
contributing to a re-enchantment of the world (Possamai 2005: 103–104;
Partridge 2004).
So far nothing has been published on spirituality based on The Lord
of the Rings and J. R. R. Tolkien’s other writings, though two traditions of
scholarship have touched upon ‘Tolkien and religion’. Theologians and
Tolkien scholars with a theological agenda have emphasised the fact that
Tolkien was a convinced Roman Catholic and sought to show that his
fiction is deeply Christian (e.g. Pearce 1998; Birzer 2003). Some have sug-
gested using The Lord of the Rings in religious education and Bible study
groups (Arthur 2003). The theological approaches focus on Tolkien’s writ-
ings and his person, but pay little attention to the reception of his works.
Scholars of contemporary Paganism, on the other hand, have emphasised
that Tolkien was and is widely read in Pagan circles, and that his works
1
Chaos Magickians incorporate elements of H. P. Lovecraft’s horror cycle, the ‘Cthulhu
Mythos’. They invoke the monster gods from those tales and become possessed by them.
The Otherkin is a movement whose members believe themselves to be ‘other-than-human’,
for instance, elves, dragons or vampires. Matrixism is based on the Matrix film trilogy by
Larry and Andy Wachowski. The Church of All Worlds is inspired by Robert A. Heinlein’s
science fiction novel Stranger in a Strange Land (1961), but its practice also includes Pagan
elements. The church has played a major role in the organisation of American Paganism.
Jediism is based on George Lucas’ Star Wars films. Its members believe in the Force and
identify with the Jedi Knights.
186 markus altena davidsen
inspired contemporary Paganism on a spiritual level. However, most

scholars of Paganism, especially those who are themselves Pagans, are
fast to rebuff Tolkien’s influence as merely general and metaphorical in
character (Harvey 2000; Harvey 2007: 176–177; York 2009: 306).
It is indisputable that Tolkien provided significant inspiration for con-
temporary Paganism on a general and metaphorical level. What this chap-
ter aims to show is that Tolkien’s work also has been used by religious
groups for whom Tolkien’s writings are absolutely central and who believe
that important parts of his mythology refer to real supernatural beings,
events and otherworlds in a straightforward and non-metaphorical way.
In what follows, I will sketch the history of this Tolkien spirituality from
the 1970s till today with an emphasis on the twenty-first century.2
Tolkien’s fantasy writings about the Middle-earth universe function as
the main authoritative, religious texts in Tolkien spirituality. These writ-
ings, which are collectively referred to as ‘the Legendarium’, include The
Hobbit (first published in 1937), The Lord of the Rings (first published in
1954), and The Silmarillion (first published in 1977), which provides the
mythological background. Some serious Tolkien religionists study in
detail the twelve-volume History of Middle-earth series (first published
1983–1996), which is a collection of drafts of The Silmarillion and related
material.3
Peter Jackson’s film adaptation of The Lord of the Rings was released
in 2001–2003 and caused an immediate increase in Tolkien spirituality.
A substantial portion of those engaged in Tolkien spirituality today, were
first introduced to Middle-earth through the films. Though most of them
went on to read the books, the films remain the most important source of
inspiration for many. Needless to say, just as in the Tolkien fan commu-
nity, individual Tolkien religionists using the books and films respectively
as authoritative texts regard each other with suspicion. But they all look
forward to 2012 where they hope that the film adaptation of The Hobbit
will generate a renewed interest in Tolkien spirituality.
Tolkien spirituality obviously has much in common with the fascina-
tion of Tolkien’s narrative world found among Tolkien fans. Nevertheless,
2
I use ‘Tolkien spirituality’ as a convenient shorthand for ‘spirituality based on Tolkien’s
literary mythology’. Since the shorthand might suggest otherwise, I want to stress that
Tolkien spirituality focuses on Tolkien’s works rather than on his person.
3
The Silmarillion and The History of Middle-earth were edited and published by Tolkien’s
son Christopher Tolkien after his father’s death in 1973.
the spiritual milieu & tolkien’s literary mythology 187
Tolkien religionists use Tolkien’s works in an inherently religious man-

ner that clearly differentiates Tolkien spirituality from Tolkien fandom.
For instance, most Tolkien religionists believe that Middle-earth is a real
place. Some of these believe that Tolkien tells the ancient history of our
world, while others believe that Middle-earth exists on another plane or in
another dimension. Even more central in Tolkien spirituality is the ritual
interaction with various superhuman beings from Tolkien’s Legendarium.
Some Tolkien religionists additionally claim to be (partly) Elves, descen-
dants of the Elves (Quendi) of Tolkien’s narrative. In contrast, Tolkien
fans regard Middle-earth as a fictional place and do not engage in rituals
directed at Middle-earth’s supernatural beings.
There is no central or umbrella organisation for Tolkien spirituality,
and the initiatives are so scattered that we cannot even speak of a move-
ment. Inspired by Colin Campbell’s (1972) notion of the ‘cultic milieu’,
I will therefore use the term ‘milieu’ to denote the loose social organisation
of Tolkien spirituality and henceforth speak about the ‘spiritual Tolkien
milieu’. At least in the Internet era, individuals and groups engaged in
Tolkien spirituality have been sufficiently interconnected to form a
‘milieu’, where the different groups to some extent share and exchange
ideas, practices and members. Furthermore, the spiritual Tolkien milieu
can be seen as a sub-milieu within the general cultic (or esoteric) milieu.4
This is the case because most individuals engaged in Tolkien spirituality
are also engaged in other alternative religious practices and subscribe to a
variety of those alternative religious and scientific views that characterise
the esoteric milieu, for instance astrology, healing, tarot, yoga, UFOs, grail
lore and lay lines. It is the spiritual Tolkien milieu that is the analytical
object of this chapter, rather than any specific group.
In what follows, I will describe what individuals engaged in Tolkien
spirituality believe and practice, discuss the ontological status they attri-
bute to Tolkien’s narrative world, and analyse the ways in which they com-
bine Tolkien material with other religious elements. Taking a historical
approach will enable me to compare the two waves of Tolkien spirituality
before and after the film adaptation of The Lord of the Rings and the rise of
the Internet. Later, I will relate my findings to Adam Possamai’s concept
of hyper-real religion. My first task is to sketch some of the features of
4
To avoid the pejorative term ‘cult’ I prefer to use the term ‘esoteric milieu’ rather than
‘cultic milieu’.
Tolkien’s writings that provide what we can call ‘religious affordances’ and
so make his texts usable as authoritative, religious texts.
Religious Affordances in Tolkien’s Legendarium
Tolkien’s writings are not used as religious texts without reason. On the
contrary, they share a number of features with conventional religious texts
that promote their transformation from fiction to religion. These features,
which I call religious affordances, include (a) an elaborate cosmology and
theology (in The Silmarillion and The History of Middle-earth), (b) a frame
narrative connecting the narrative world to our own (in The Lord of the
Rings), and (c) Tolkien’s personal experience of being inspired during the
writing process (in his letters). In this section I will briefly outline each
of these in turn.
The cosmology and theology according to the lore of the Elves, includ-
ing an account of the creation of the world, is recounted in detail in The
Silmarillion. In the beginning, before the creation of the world, only the
supreme creator god existed, who is called Eru (the One) or Ilúvatar (All-
father). Eru first created an order of spiritual beings, the Ainur (Holy
Ones), and the Ainur assisted Eru in the creation of the world by singing
it into existence. Some of the Ainur subsequently went into the created
world as incarnated beings to further shape it and rule it in Eru’s name.
The fourteen most important of these incarnate Ainur are called the Valar
(Powers); the lesser Ainur are called Maiar. One evil Vala, Melkor, wanted
to rule the created world for himself and rebelled against the rest of the
Valar, becoming Morgoth (The Black Enemy), taking a number of Maiar
with him in his Fall. After a mighty war, Morgoth was bound by Ilúvatar in
the Void outside of Creation, but his servants continue to plague the world.
Sauron, the main evil power in The Lord of the Rings, is a fallen Maia and
a former servant of Melkor. Following a human revolt against the Valar
provoked by Sauron, the Valar have withdrawn from the inhabited world
at the time of The Lord of the Rings, but are occasionally referred to. This is
true especially for one of them, Elbereth (Star-queen), to whom the Elves
sing hymns. The wizards Gandalf and Saruman who play an active role in
The Lord of the Rings are both Maiar.
Several kinds of lesser carnate beings were also created, including
humans, Elves, Hobbits and Dwarves. For Tolkien spirituality, the majes-
tic, artistic, and almost immortal Elves are of the greatest significance and
function as spiritual role models. This is feasible, partly because Tolkien’s
Elves (Quendi) are portrayed as very human, even to the extent that some
unions between Elves and humans take place.5 As a result, Elven blood
flows in the veins of some of the human kings in Tolkien’s world. Further,
through a union between the Elf Thingol and the Maia Melian, Maian
ancestry and thus a divine spark originating from before the creation of
the world, is blended into this bloodline.
The entire created universe is referred to as Eä (It Is), but the narrative
takes place exclusively on one particular planet, Arda (Earth). Originally,
Arda was comprised of two main landmasses: Middle-earth, the home of
Men and Elves, and Aman (the Blessed Realm) in the West, the abode of
Valar and Maiar. At the end of The Lord of the Rings, however, the Elves
have also left for Aman, which has been separated from the physical
world. With the ‘straight way’ gone, humans can only visit the Blessed
Realm in dreams, and humans believe that their souls go there when they
die, before leaving Eä to be with Ilúvatar.
The second religious affordance in Tolkien’s writings is the frame nar-
rative which links the fictional mythology to the world of the reader. In
the foreword, prologue and appendices of The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien
constructs a tradition of commentary and editing, claiming (in jest) that
he is not the author, but merely the publisher (and translator) of material
originally written by others. The Hobbit Bilbo is presented as the author
of The Hobbit, his nephew Frodo as the author of The Lord of the Rings,
and The Silmarillion is presented as a collection of Elvish lore. Tolkien has
said that his stories take place in our world, but that the time is imaginary
(2006b: 239). Therefore his works are not real history, but “feigned his-
tory,” a term Tolkien uses in the foreword to the second edition of The
Lord of the Rings (Tolkien 2007: xxiv).6 It is this fictional imitation of his-
tory that enables Tolkien religionists to treat Tolkien’s narrative as real
history. They are not alone in doing so. According to William Ratliff and
Charles Flinn (1968: 143), British lending libraries generally catalogued The
Lord of the Rings as non-fiction in the 1950s, which surprised and upset
Tolkien. Also, revisionist grail historians such as Laurence Gardner (2003:
1, 6 and 315) assume that Tolkien had obtained esoteric, historical knowl-
edge. which he hinted at in his books.
5
In her PhD thesis on the Otherkin movement, Danielle Kirby (2009a: 112–113) makes
the point that the spiritual identification with non-human beings has been facilitated by
an increasingly humanised depiction of non-humans in fantasy literature and films.
6
It falls outside the scope of this chapter to show in detail how Tolkien constructs this
feigned historicity. See Flieger (2005: 67–73) for a detailed discussion.
The third important religious affordance is found in Tolkien’s letters

and in the interviews he gave in the last years of his life about The Lord
of the Rings. On many occasions he claimed some kind of inspiration or
revelation and saw himself as a recorder rather than an author. He writes
in a letter about his stories that “they arose in my mind as given things”
(Tolkien 2006b: 130). Tolkien seems to have interpreted this as the work-
ing of God’s grace. But he writes in terms sufficiently vague for others to
interpret his inspiration as Gnostic insights or channeling. In any case,
Tolkien’s statements on inspiration are used by individuals engaged in
Tolkien spirituality to legitimate their views concerning the scriptural sta-
tus of his writings.
The First Wave of Tolkien Spirituality
The Lord of the Rings was first published in 1954–1955, but it was not
until the paperback edition in 1965 that Tolkien rose to massive fame
and became a “campus cult figure” according to one observer (Ellwood
1994: 134). The hippies of the late 1960s found their own ideals expressed
in the hedonistic Shire culture of pipeweed and mushrooms, identified
themselves as Hobbits, wore ‘Frodo Lives’ and ‘Gandalf for President’
badges, and took Tolkien-inspired names for themselves and their com-
munes (Hinckle 1967: 25; Ratliff and Flinn 1968; Walmsley 1984). They also
used The Lord of the Rings as a psychedelic manual (Clifton 1987; Ratliff
and Flinn 1968: 144). The Pagans of the 1970s and 1980s shared Tolkien’s
love for nature and expressed this by naming their sanctuaries after Elven
localities such as Rivendell and Lothlórien. But even though Tolkien was
an important source of inspiration most Pagans did not use Tolkien mate-
rial in ritual.7
The earliest known religious group that was clearly based on The Lord
of the Rings was active in the Mojave Desert in the United States in the
early 1970s. Robert Ellwood, Professor Emeritus of World Religions at the
University of Southern California, tells this anecdote:
[a]bout this time [in 1973], back in southern California, we [Ellwood and his
wife who were themselves active in the Los Angeles Mythopoeic Society]
heard about a group centered around a mystical woman living in the Mojave
7
Graham Harvey mentions that some Heathens have developed Tolkien-inspired lit-
urgy (2007: 68) and that practitioners of Chaos Magick have integrated Tolkien material
(2007: 97), but he does not refer to any particular groups nor say how common it is.
Desert who was convinced that The Lord of the Rings saga was actual his-
tory, and Tolkien knew it, though for reasons the author deemed compel-
ling he veiled the chronicle in fictional form. She had regular conversations
with Elves, Dwarves, and Hobbits, and moreover was convinced that the
actual site of Gondor was what is now the Mojave Desert. She believed that
Aragorn’s castle was buried out there, and by psychic means had deter-
mined the location of the ruins. She was continually announcing archeo-
logical excavations to be conducted by her group, then postponing the date
for one reason or another (Ellwood 2002: 133).
Another 1970s group that would prove much more influential was the Elf
Queen’s Daughters who claim that an Ouija board spirit had instructed
them to take this name in 1975 (Love 2005: 36). The group was interested in
many different kinds of esoteric practices, but was also clearly influenced
by Tolkien. According to one member, they sang the Elven hymns from
The Lord of the Rings to Elbereth, and when the core group tired of being
Elves after a few years, they named themselves Tooks after a prominent
Hobbit family (Love 2005: 36). Even though the Elf Queen’s Daughters was
a short-lived group, it is important because it marks the beginning of the
Elven movement—which in turn sparked the Otherkin movement in the
1990s—and attests to the initial Tolkien influence on both movements.
Some of the original members of the Elf Queen’s Daughters came to call
themselves the Silvan Elves (after the wood Elves in Tolkien’s books) and
continue to occupy a prominent place in the Elven movement, now refer-
ring to themselves as the Silver Elves.8
Perhaps the largest and most successful organisation integrating
Tolkien material in its spirituality is the Tribunal of the Sidhe.9 The group
was founded in 1985, and initially Robert Graves’ The White Goddess and
Tolkien were the most important sources of inspiration. The Tribunal of
the Sidhe does not read Tolkien and Graves as accurate history, but do
take Graves’ account of the Tuatha Dé Danaan and other magical peo-
ple from European legend and Tolkien’s stories about Valar, Maiar and
Elves to be mythical references to the real phenomenon of ‘changelings’.
Changelings are spiritual beings whose real home is in another world,
but who sometimes become incarnated, by choice or chance, in this
8
Internet site, http://silverelves.angelfire.com. Accessed 12/07/2011. Zardoa Love is a
former member of the Elf Queen’s Daughters and now one of the Silver Elves. His mas-
ter’s thesis in depth psychology (Love 2005) provides information on the early history of
the Elven movement.
9
The description of this group is based on interview and email correspondence with
circle leader and founding member Lady Danu.
world. The members of the Tribunal believe that they are ‘changelings’
themselves, and they visit their ‘home’ by means of astral projection. The
Valar are regarded as the most powerful type of ‘kin folk’ from the home
world, and for instance the fertility Valië (female Vala) Yavanna has been
invoked in ritual. They say that they found out, with ‘magickal research’,
that Tolkien was a changeling himself, a bard of the kin folk, who chose
to be incarnated to tell the true story of the kin folk in mythical form.
Even though Tolkien clearly plays an important role, most of the beliefs
and rituals of the Tribunal of the Sidhe are not Tolkien-based, and Tolkien
material is combined with Wicca, Norse and Celtic mythology, shaman-
ism and ceremonial magic. Everything centres on the notion of ‘change-
lings’ which is foreign to the Legendarium. The Tribunal of the Sidhe still
exists today with more than twenty circles worldwide, most in the United
States, including a circle formed by second-generation members.10
Another American group, the Order of the Red Grail, which blends
Christianity and ceremonial magic, made a quite elaborate Valar ritual in
1993 that circulated among Pagans in the United States and New Zealand
and was later published online.11 A member of the group has told me, how-
ever, that neither this nor other Tolkien-inspired rituals form a part of
their regular practice. They view the Valar ritual as a more playful, experi-
mental and less serious one than their usual rituals, and only consider the
Valar to be fictional or at best mytho-poetic representations of real meta-
physical powers or archetypes. Nevertheless, the group has continued to
perform the ‘High Elven Valar Working’ occasionally at Pagan festivals.
The groups that I have sketched above all belong to the first wave of
Tolkien spirituality. In the first wave, Tolkien’s writings were used as a
source of spiritual inspiration, but (with the exception of the Mojave
Desert group) Tolkien’s texts were not the main source of authority (and
certainly not the only one). Rather, Tolkien lore was integrated into and
subordinated to other material. This is obviously the case in groups that
view the Valar as only archetypal images (like the Order of the Red Grail).
But it is also the case in groups that believe in the Valar as discrete beings
(like the Tribunal of the Sidhe). In other words, religious ideas and prac-
tices based on Tolkien’s literary mythology were, in the twentieth century,
one ingredient among many others in the esoteric milieu that individuals
10
Only a few of these circles reach out to the public. One that does is Lady Danu’s Circle
of the Coyote. Internet site, http://thechangeling.ning.com. Accessed 13/07/2011.
11
Internet site, http://fifthwaymysteryschool.org/valar.html. Accessed 13/07/2011.
and groups could add to their menu, but one could not yet speak of an
independent spiritual Tolkien milieu. Having been founded in the 1970s
through to the 1980s, the first wave groups naturally based themselves
on Tolkien’s books and began their existence offline. Even though all the
groups that are still active today have some kind of online presence, they
remain essentially offline groups.
The Second Wave of Tolkien Spirituality
The second wave of Tolkien spirituality has taken form in the twenty-first
century. The most important cause of the renewed spiritual interest in
Tolkien was Peter Jackson’s film adaptation of The Lord of the Rings which
was released in 2001–2003. For many of those engaged in Tolkien spiritu-
ality today, these films constitute a more important source of authority
than the books. Additionally, the second wave of Tolkien spirituality is
primarily organised online. In the years just after the movies came out,
at least nine online groups were formed devoted to Tolkien spirituality.
One called itself Middle-earth Pagans, and others crafted names in Elvish
meaning things like The Elven Path (Tië Eldaliéva), and The Silvership
of the Valar (Ilsaluntë Valion).12 In these groups, people from around the
world (but mostly from the United States and other English-speaking
countries), meet and exchange knowledge, experiences and ideas about
how to form a Tolkien-based spiritual path. While the move online has
made specialisation and global co-operation easier, it has in most cases
come at the cost of relatively unstable and incoherent organisation.13
Most of these groups are collectives of networked solitaries who do
their rituals alone and offline. As far as I know, none of the second wave
online groups has managed to organise offline meet-ups, but at least two
groups experimented with group rituals using phone or Skype. I par-
ticipated in one such Skype ritual in September 2009 with members of
Tië Eldaliéva to celebrate Enderi, the Middle-Days, a three-day festival at
12
For the discussion board of Middle-earth Pagans see http://mepagans.proboards.
com/index.cgi. Accessed 13/07/2011. The home page of Tië Eldaliéva can be found at http://
www.lassiquendi.com/TheHiddenRealm. Accessed 13/07/2011. Ilsaluntë Valion is located at
http://westofwest.org. Accessed 13/07/2011.
13
Cowan (2005) draws a similar conclusion in his study of online Paganism. Cowan’s
study is especially relevant for Tolkien spirituality since he primarily studies Pagan and
Wiccan discussion groups on Yahoo! and similar sites where most spiritual Tolkien groups
are still anchored.
the middle of the Elven year. The frame of the ritual was strongly Wicca-
inspired: a ritual circle was cast, energy raised and sealed and the direc-
tions acknowledged. At the end of the ritual the circle was re-opened. The
lack of physical co-presence (the three participants were located in the
Netherlands, the United States and Canada) was not seen as a problem.
This had to do with the fact that the core of the ritual involved the imagi-
nation rather than anything physical. Calantirniel, the leader of the ritual,
read a visualisation sequence aloud which was meant to transport those
listening to the Blessed Realm. We were left with Oromë, the hunter Vala,
and there was a twenty minute meditation break, after which the partici-
pants reported those of their experiences and conversations with Oromë
that were not considered too private. Ilsaluntë Valion, which is a splinter
group from Tië Eldaliéva, also used Skype earlier, but members say that
they had troubles getting into the proper ritual state of mind using Skype,
and the group has stopped doing online rituals.
Apart from the move online, the most striking change from the first to
the second wave of Tolkien spirituality, is that Tolkien’s Legendarium is
now credited with increased authority in two ways: Tolkien’s texts now
play a more central role, even when they are combined with elements
from other traditions, and Tolkien’s mythology is attributed a higher
degree of reality. In what follows, I will discuss these two trends which
together reflect the formation of a spiritual Tolkien milieu of relative inde-
pendence from the broader esoteric milieu. I will also reflect on how the
Internet facilitated its formation.
Centrality: Tolkien’s Legendarium as Narrative Frame or Reconstructed

Tradition
With the exception of the Mojave Desert group, all groups in the first wave
Tolkien spirituality integrated Tolkien’s fiction into and subordinated it
to other material. In contrast, all second wave groups use Tolkien’s writ-
ings as the most central texts, and other material is here subordinated
to the Tolkien framework. It varies, however, exactly which other mate-
rial is combined with Tolkien and how this is done. Broadly speaking,
three groups of Tolkien religionists, Middle-earth Pagans, Middle-earth
Christians and Legendarium Reconstructionists, combine Tolkien mate-
rial with other alternative religious beliefs and practices, each in a differ-
ent way.
Tolkien religionists with some sort of Pagan background make up the
largest group and tend to self-identify as ‘Middle-earth Pagans’. Many of
them cross-pollinate an eclectic form of Wicca with Tolkien spirituality

and identify various supernatural characters from Tolkien’s world with
the God and the Goddess. Laurasia, the founder of the group Middle-earth
Pagans, told me that she has used Gandalf as an image of the God and the
Elven queen Galadriel as an image of the Goddess. This use of Gandalf as
an archetypal image did not, however, prevent her from viewing Gandalf
as an independent being with whom she had a personal relation. In fact,
Gandalf was also her spirit guide. Among Middle-earth Pagans it is com-
mon to do rituals focused on Gandalf and the Elven Lords and Ladies
Elrond, Celeborn, Arwen and Galadriel (rather than on the Valar), to
celebrate the days of Frodo’s recovery and Aragorn’s coronation, and to
believe that Middle-earth really exists. Some claim that the lore revealed
to Tolkien was essentially Pagan, but that Tolkien Christianised it to fit
his own beliefs; a suggestion that would probably have the deeply devout
Roman Catholic Tolkien turn in his grave.
It is a good question, however, whether Tolkien would have preferred the
second group of Tolkien religionists who bring their Christian background
into play with their Tolkien-based beliefs. These Middle-earth Christians
do share some notions with Tolkien himself, though: they equate Eru with
the Christian God, they see him as the source of inspiration for Tolkien’s
stories, and they speak of the Valar as a kind of angels (rather than as dei-
ties) just as Tolkien did. But like the Middle-earth Pagans, they believe in
the reality of Middle-earth in a way that Tolkien himself did not, and their
Christianity is open to all kinds of esoteric beliefs and practices.14 In fact,
the Tolkien-inspired Pagans and Christians have much more in common
than they have differences between them. Both groups have an inherently
eclectic approach to spirituality and engage in many of those practices and
beliefs that make up the esoteric milieu in general. Next to discussions about
Valar and Elves on their online forums, one will find threads about astrol-
ogy, clairvoyance, crystals, psychic vampires, grail legends, Atlantis, UFOs,
energy healing, reincarnation, past lives, ancestral memory and more.
Middle-earth Pagans and Christians share what I call a narrative frame
approach to Tolkien’s mythology. They use the Legendarium as a herme-
neutic key or religious perception filter through which they interpret other
religious traditions. This allows them to integrate beliefs and practices from
various sources into a relatively coherent whole. For instance, the Atlantis
14
The Indigo Elves is an example of a group led by a Middle-earth Christian. Internet
site, http://indigocrystals.proboards.com/index.cgi?. Accessed 13/07/2011.
myth and the Noah Flood myth are generally taken to be mythological
references to the same ‘real’ historical event, namely Eru’s destruction of
the continent Númenor which is recounted in The Silmarillion. Legends,
myths and fairy-tales about elves, dwarves, fairies, trolls and so on are
viewed as echoes of real beings who populated the world in the time that
Tolkien writes about, and archaeological findings of early humanoids are
interpreted as evidence for this view. It is similarly attempted to show how
the coastline of Middle-earth matches that of pre-historical Europe.15 Like
many other alternative religionists, those engaged in Tolkien spirituality
have spirit guides, but theirs prove to be Maiar, and past life regression
shows that they lived past lives as Elves before the War of the Ring. The
grail or dragon bloodline featuring in esoteric grail lore and revisionist
history is identified with the Elven/Maiar bloodline from The Silmarillion.
Since the Elves are astrologers and practitioners of magic and alternative
healing, such practices can be included in the mix, and belief in aliens is
sometimes creatively added by allowing for the existence of Star Elves.
The Skype ritual mentioned above not only showed a Wiccan influence,
but also included references to chakras and the Christ Consciousness and
used Hindu mudras and flower essence. While Tolkien’s mythology is used
throughout as a narrative frame, these combinations of Tolkien elements
with other alternative beliefs and practices make clear that the spiritual
Tolkien milieu is a sub-milieu of the esoteric milieu in general.
The third type of Tolkien religionists has a different approach, which
can be termed reconstructionist. The Reconstructionists are purists who
want to create a tradition based only on Tolkien’s mythology. In their own
words they are strictly ‘Legendarium-based’. They use the Elven ritual cal-
endar given in an appendix to The Lord of the Rings and value the twelve-
volume History of Middle-earth higher than Tolkien’s other writings (not
to mention the movies). This is because they prefer to use Tolkien’s ear-
liest and unedited story drafts which are believed to be closest to his
original experience of inspiration. Where Tolkien’s lore lacks something,
as in the case of rituals, the Reconstructionists prefer to develop their
own rituals rather than to borrow from existing traditions like Wicca or
Christianity. In the group Ilsaluntë Valion, which is the clearest example
of this approach, many ritual elements are even believed to have been
15
The use of archaeological evidence as a source of legitimisation in Tolkien spirituality
mirrors strategies found in other new religions (cf. Cusack 2011).
revealed to members by Elves and Valar. An Elven spirit guide of one of

the members writes part of the group’s meditation sequences, a Valar has
taught another member a ritual blessing which the group uses, and a third
member has done ‘Gnostic research’ into the names of the Valar in their
own divine tongue, Valarin. These names are used by the group to estab-
lish contact with the Valar, prior to the meditative journeys to the Blessed
Realm, which form the group’s main ritual practice.
The practice of using a specific mythological tradition as exclusive
textual basis (in casu Tolkien’s Legendarium) and to combine scholarly
studies and ritual divinatory techniques as strategies to reconstruct the
culture and religion ‘behind the text’ is inspired by Heathenry and Celtic
Reconstructionism. This practice has indeed been brought to Tolkien
Reconstructionism by members with Pagan Reconstructionist back-
grounds. Other Tolkien Reconstructionists have been active in Elven lan-
guage groups and similar forms of intellectual Tolkien fandom prior to
their involvement in Tolkien spirituality. It is interesting to note that the
Elvish language community—led by David Salo who later wrote all the
Elven dialogue for The Lord of the Rings films—in the mid 1990s also took
a reconstructionist turn. Language reconstructionists began to ‘reconstruct’
the grammar and vocabulary of Tolkien’s two Elvish languages ‘behind’
the actualisations of them in Tolkien’s writings using standard philological
methods. They also began to use the languages creatively, for instance for
the composition of poetry. Reconstructionist Tolkien spirituality combines
the reconstructionist tendencies within Paganism and philological Tolkien
fandom.
Tolkien Reconstructionists do not depend as exclusively on Tolkien as
they claim. In practice many of those who consider themselves strictly
Legendarium-based and consciously purge flower essences, chakras, crys-
tals and Wiccan circles which they consider ‘New Age’ and low style,
are still happy to integrate more intellectual elements from the esoteric
milieu into their Tolkien tradition. Such intellectual elements include
Neo-Gnostic readings of Jung, Henry Corbin’s idea of the ‘imaginal realm’,
advanced astrology and alternative archaeology. On the one hand there-
fore, the Tolkien Reconstructionists are situated as firmly within the
broader esoteric milieu as the Middle-earth Pagans and Christians. But on
the other hand, within the spiritual Tolkien milieu, the Reconstructionists
represent the pole of relative disembeddedness and independence from
the esoteric milieu, while the Middle-earth Pagans and Christians repre-
sent the pole of relative embeddedness and dependence.
Reality: Mytho-historical and Mytho-cosmological Beliefs

The strong trend towards increased centrality of Tolkien’s mythology from
the first to the second wave of Tolkien spirituality is accompanied by a
trend towards a higher degree of reality attribution or ontologisation of
the narrative world. In the first wave, the degree of reality attribution var-
ied widely between the groups: both the Elven groups and the Order of
the Red Grail saw the Valar as merely metaphors or, at best, archetypal
images. The Tribunal of the Sidhe viewed the Valar, Maiar and Elves as
independent, spiritual entities, but cosmologically re-positioned them as
three examples of ‘kin folk’ and potential ‘changelings’. Only the Mojave
Desert group believed in the historicity of Tolkien’s writings.
In second wave Tolkien spirituality, the picture is much clearer in favour
of high reality attribution. The most common stance here, shared by most
Middle-earth Christians and Reconstructionists and many Middle-earth
Pagans, is that Tolkien’s works are about the real world and contain a
historical core. Individuals holding this view sometimes term it ‘mytho-
historical’. They believe that the earth was once populated by Elves and
Hobbits, and that the Blessed Realm, which was once intertwined with
our world, now exists as a transcendent otherworld. The mytho-historical
Tolkien religionists maintain that the narrated events of the Legendarium
have taken place in the real world prior to their fixation in the narrative
text, but do allow for mistakes and inaccuracies in Tolkien’s mythologised
account.
Almost equally common is the view that can be called mytho-
cosmological. Those who hold this view believe in the reality of (at least
some parts of) Tolkien’s cosmology, but do not believe that he tells the
history of our world. There are two variations of this view. Some believe
that the Valar and the Blessed Realm exist in a transcendent world that
one can travel to in meditation. Individuals holding this view do not
identify Middle-earth with the physical world, but have no problem
doing otherworld-directed rituals together with mytho-historical Tolkien
religionists. The second version of the mytho-cosmological view is that
also (or primarily) Middle-earth, rather than the Blessed Realm, exists
in another dimension. This last view is particularly common among
Middle-earth Pagans for whom the movies serve as the authoritative texts.
Because the movies lack the ‘feigned history’ frame narrative identifying
Middle-earth with the real world, Middle-earth itself can be seen as an
otherworld.
The Internet and Second Wave Tolkien Spirituality

While impulses towards Tolkien spirituality before the Internet only man-
aged to survive within a more general Pagan framework (as in the Tribunal
of the Sidhe), the second, online, wave of Tolkien spirituality attributes a
high degree of centrality and reality to Tolkien’s works. I do not think
that is accidental. On the contrary, I will argue that the Internet strongly
facilitated the formation of groups dedicated to Tolkien spirituality.
Already before the advent of the Internet, a small group of people existed
who shared three characteristics: they were long-time Tolkien fans, they
were active participants in the esoteric milieu at large, and they wanted to
synthesise those two engagements. These individuals experienced ridicule
and were treated as outsiders both in the Tolkien fan community and
among fellow religionists in the esoteric milieu. Some of them actively
searched for like-minded individuals, but it was only with the coming of
the Internet that they were able to find each other on a scale sufficient for
group formation. The Internet made it easy to set up a group devoted to
a very specialist interest on Yahoo! or another social site, and it became
equally easy for interested individuals to search for such groups and join.
The Internet thus allowed a ‘long tail’ of small, specialist groups to form
and gain critical mass for further development, and groups dedicated to
Tolkien spirituality were among these. Not all new spiritual Tolkien groups
were created by long-time fans, though. Most Middle-earth Pagan groups
were founded and joined by people who were fans of the film adaptation
of The Lord of the Rings rather than of the books, and who were already
active in other Pagan Internet groups.
Many of those who joined one of the new Internet-based spiritual
Tolkien groups did so mostly out of curiosity and soon left or became pas-
sive. Others did not find the group inspiring and preferred to practise on
their own. Another group lost interest after a while and moved on to new
forms of spirituality based on popular fiction, many as vampires. For those
who found group membership rewarding and stayed active, two processes
could be observed after the initial group formation. Firstly, the beliefs and
practices of those individuals developed and consolidated. Members gen-
erally arrived with a vague belief that Tolkien’s writings contained more
than metaphorical, and possibly historical, truth. Through study and con-
versation with each other, members expanded their knowledge of the
Legendarium over time and mutually reinforced their belief in its histo-
ricity (or cosmology). Together they practised interpreting other religious
traditions in the light of the Tolkien’s mythology, and ritual experiences
of interaction with the Valar, Maiar and Elves consolidated the members’
belief in those entities. The second process was that different views of
what to believe, how to practise and how to organise the groups led to
schisms, with the splinter group typically stressing the centrality and real-
ity of Tolkien even more than the mother group.
To sum up, the Internet promoted the formation of a self-conscious
spiritual Tolkien milieu, firstly by helping people get together who already
had an ambition to construct a Tolkien-based spiritual tradition, and sec-
ondly by offering a platform for recruitment and outreach. This brought
together a critical mass of Tolkien religionists which started the self-pro-
pelling processes of belief consolidation (through conversation and ritual)
and group competition and specialisation, thus further developing the
already present tendency to ontologise Tolkien’s mythology.
Tolkien Spirituality as Hyper-real or Fiction-based Religion
In this last section I will briefly discuss my main findings, the two trends
towards increased centrality and reality attribution from the first to the
second wave of Tolkien spirituality, in relation to Adam Possamai’s ideas
about hyper-real religions. The centrality trend corroborates similar find-
ings in Possamai’s material, but the tendency among Tolkien religionists to
believe in the reality of Tolkien’s narrative world conflicts with Possamai’s
notion that hyper-real religions provide inspiration on a ‘metaphorical
level’ only.
Possamai (2003: 37, 2005: 79, 2009: 85) uses the term ‘hyper-real religion’
to refer to any “simulacrum of a religion created out of popular culture
that provides inspiration for believers/consumers at a metaphorical level.”
According to Possamai, hyper-real religions have existed since the 1950s
in the form of, for instance, Scientology, the Church of Satan, the Church
of All Worlds and the Neo-Pagan movement. In this first generation of
hyper-real religions, the inspiration provided by popular fiction had a sig-
nificant, but merely supportive and secondary character (Possamai 2009:
89). The Internet and the rise of so-called ‘participatory culture’,16 however,
has been the catalyst for a new generation of hyper-real religions that
16
Participatory culture is a term used by cultural studies scholars to denote the trend
among contemporary individuals to actively participate in popular culture rather than just
passively consume it. Participatory culture refers to, for instance, blogging, fandom and
gaming (see Jenkins 2006).
are largely Internet-based and use popular fiction as a primary source of

inspiration, appropriating it as “the spiritual work itself ” (Possamai 2009:
90). The Star Wars based religion, Jediism, is Possamai’s prime example
of second-generation hyper-real religion which he also calls hyper-real
religions.com (Possamai 2009: 87–90).
In other words, Possamai observes a trend for hyper-real religions in
general towards the use of specific popular cultural texts as increasingly
central and framing spiritual resources. The increased centrality that
Tolkien’s mythology enjoys in the second wave of Tolkien spirituality
compared to the first wave, and the new importance of the Internet as
a meeting place, communication tool (and occasionally ritual space) fit
precisely into this picture. The two waves of Tolkien spirituality can be
seen as instantiations of the two generations of hyper-real religions identi-
fied by Possamai.
The increased attribution of reality to Tolkien’s mythology in second
wave Tolkien spirituality eludes Possamai’s framework, however, since he
understands a hyper-real religion (of any generation) as providing “inspi-
ration for believers/consumers at a metaphorical level” (my emphasis).
I have shown that a large portion of Tolkien religionists, especially of the
second wave, actually believe that Tolkien’s works contain a historical
core, a belief that is very clearly not metaphorical.
The straightforward conclusion would be that Tolkien spirituality does
not belong to the category of hyper-real religions. It is not the only solu-
tion, however. As I read Possamai, he is more concerned to show that new
religions based on popular fiction have appeared since the 1950s, than to
argue strongly for the necessarily metaphorical belief in such religions. It
should therefore be possible to re-describe the category of religions based
on popular fiction without tying it to metaphorical inspiration.
Carole Cusack (2010a: 125) has pointed out a further potential for mis-
understanding inherent in the very term ‘hyper-real’ religion, that should
be taken into account as part of such a reformulation: the adjective ‘hyper-
real’ in ‘hyper-real religions’ is borrowed from the French philosopher Jean
Baudrillard, but Possamai uses it in a way that differs from Baudrillard’s.
In Baudrillard’s work the term carries the dystopian connotation of the
inability to distinguish at all between fantasy and reality. It does not do so
for Possamai, who simply uses the term hyper-real religion to refer to the
fact that such religions are inspired by popular fiction. Surely hyper-real
religions succeed in creating an imagined worldview that to some extent
usurps empirical reality as the social reality of its adherents. But in doing
so, they simply achieve what all religions do.
For these reasons I suggest the use of the more neutral term fiction-
based religion for the category to which Tolkien spirituality belongs—pos-
sibly together with other of the religions discussed in this volume. In my
understanding, a fiction-based religion is a religion that uses fictional texts
as its main authoritative, religious texts. That a text is authoritative for a
religion means here that its members use terminology, beliefs, practices,
roles and/or social organisation from the authoritative text as a model for
their own real-world religion. The term fiction refers to a narrative where
the narrated events are presented without the ambition on behalf of the
author of referring to events that took place in the real world prior to their
entextualisation.17
Tolkien spirituality as discussed in this article, especially of the second
wave, fits my definition of fiction-based religion. Tolkien spirituality is
fiction-based, because its main authoritative texts, Tolkien’s Legendarium
and Jackson’s film adaptations, are not meant by their authors to rep-
resent events that took place in the real world before being entextual-
ised. And it is religion because it brackets the intended fictionality of the
author and ontologises (parts of ) the narrative world by postulating the
existence of a trans-empirical reality populated by Elves and Valar and
engaging with them in ritual.
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Paganism. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 283–309.
PART three
THE INTERNET, COMPUTER GAMES AND CASUAL DEALINGS WITH

THE HYPER-REAL RELIGIOUS PHENOMENON
The road to Hell is Paved with D20s:
Evangelical Christianity and Role-playing Gaming1
John Walliss
Introduction
Recent years have witnessed a growing academic debate around the inter-
section of religion and popular culture. The majority of this work, how-
ever, has been textual/analytical in nature, and to date there has been little
examination of either the ways in which audiences make use of, negoti-
ate, or resist the variety of religious themes found within popular culture,
or the potential ways in which popular culture may act as a resource for
individuals’ spiritual exploration. Over the last half-decade, however, this
pattern has begun to shift with a number of commentators calling for a
more ‘audience centered’ approach to the study of religion and popular
culture. David Morgan (2007), for example, in a wide-ranging discussion
of the field has called for scholars to consider the ways in which popular
culture texts are received, rather than just how they are produced and
distributed. Similarly, looking towards developments in communication
studies over the latter half of the twentieth century, Jolyon Mitchell (2007:
42) has argued for a move beyond seeing the media as “myth-makers” or
“instruments of communication” towards “how and where audiences con-
struct their own myths, rituals, and meanings out of what they see” (see
also Schofield Clark 2003; Lynch 2007).2 In addition, several monographs
have also been published that take as their starting point the intersection
of popular culture, religion and everyday life. Amy Frykholm’s (2004) study
of readers of the Left Behind series, for example, deconstructs the notion
that there is a single reading or readership of the series, and explores the
ways in which a variety of readers, ranging from evangelicals through to
non-believers, respond to and negotiate the texts. Similarly, both Lynn
1
Versions of this chapter were presented at the Mid-West and North East PCA confer-
ences in Detroit and New York, October 2009. For non-gamers, a D20 is a 20–sided die.
2
This approach is, of course, not wholly new. A number of older studies focused on the
ways in which different religious audiences responded to the mass media. See, for exam-
ple, the chapters in Kintz and Lesage (1998) and Stout and Buddenbaum (1996; 2001).
208 john walliss
Schofield Clark’s (2003) From Angels to Aliens and Stewart Hoover’s (2006)
Religion in the Media Age examine the ways in which individuals both use
popular culture as a framework for understanding and exploring their reli-
gious identities and filter what they see in media through their respective
beliefs.
This chapter contributes to this debate by examining the phenomenon
of evangelical Christian role-playing gamers, focusing on the ways in which
their beliefs and hobby intersect.3 Evangelical gamers, I will show, are in
an ambiguous position in that for over three decades their hobby has
been the subject of a range of criticisms by their fellow evangelicals, who
have claimed that the role-playing games (hereafter RPGs) are Satanic and
‘a doorway to the occult’. They therefore have to negotiate these criticisms
and carve out a social space for themselves among their fellow-believers
as Christians who play RPGs. In doing so, however, they also have to poten-
tially negotiate uncertainty—and possibly even hostility—from fellow
gamers who may associate them with the evangelical critics of RPGs. They
also, therefore, need to carve out a space for themselves among their fel-
low gamers as RPG players who are also Christians. Last, but by no means
least, they also have to carve out a space for themselves as ‘Christians’
and ‘gamers’ or ‘geeks’ within a broader culture that often looks on both
with disdain. None of these spaces, however, is secure, and in my analysis
I will explore both the strategies used to maintain them and the potential
dissonances and ambivalences that they engender.
This chapter is divided into two main sections. In the first, I will pres-
ent a brief overview of the evangelical critique of RPGs that emerged in
the late 1970s/early 1980s. Secondly, following on from this, I will draw on
a range of primary materials and interviews with gamers themselves to
examine the ways in which evangelical Christian gamers attempt to both
respond to these critiques and create a specifically Christian space within
the role-playing community.
3
The analysis presented in this chapter is based primarily on interviews conducted
with twenty evangelical Christian gamers based in the United Kingdom and the United
States. An initial call for interviewees was posted on online Christian gaming forums and
interviews took place over the telephone and via email and Skype. The first draft of this
chapter was passed to them and any comments or suggestions integrated into the final
draft. All those who took part are where appropriate referred to in the chapter via pseud-
onyms. Online postings are cited to screen names.
the road to hell is paved with d20s 209
Dark Dungeons
The roots of the evangelical critique of RPGs may be traced back to the
deaths of two teenage boys in the late 1970s/1980s: Dallas Egbert III and
Irving ‘Bink’ Pulling II. Egbert, a sixteen-year-old child prodigy, with a
history of mental illness and drug use, disappeared from Michigan State
University in August 1979, leaving behind a suicide note and what was
believed to be a map of the steam tunnels under the university made
out of drawing pins on a notice board. William Dear, a private detective
hired by Egbert’s family to investigate the disappearance interpreted the
evidence to suggest that Egbert, an avid Dungeons and Dragons (D&D)
player, had become lost while playing a form of ‘live action’ role-playing
in the tunnels, a theory that was quickly picked up by both the local and
national media. In reality, however, role-playing had no involvement at all
in Egbert’s disappearance. Far from being trapped below the University,
believing himself to be a character in a role-playing game gone awry,
Egbert had instead gone into the tunnels on the night of his disappear-
ance with the intention of taking his own life with sleeping pills. When
he awoke the next evening, he went to a friend’s house, staying there a
week while he recovered. Egbert then travelled to New Orleans, where he
again attempted suicide, before finally moving to Morgan City, Louisiana,
from where, a month after he had left the Michigan State campus, he
telephoned Dear and revealed his location to him. In the popular imagi-
nation, however, D&D stayed intimately linked with the Egbert case, not
least as a consequence of both Egbert’s suicide in 1980 and the publication
of a fictionalised account of the case, Mazes and Monsters by Rona Jaffe
in 1981. In addition Dear, out of respect for the Egbert family, only set the
public record straight in 1984 in his book The Dungeon Master (Dear 1985),
two years after a made-for-TV movie of Jaffe’s book was aired on the CBS
network (Cardwell 1994; Waldron 2005).
By this time, however, the alleged link between D&D and self-destruc-
tive behaviour had been further cemented into the popular imagination
with the suicide of another gifted, but troubled young man, Irving ‘Bink’
Pulling II. Pulling, like Egbert had a history of mental illness and violent
and unusual behaviour. Nevertheless, when he committed suicide in June
1982, his mother, Pat Pulling, blamed his actions on a ‘death curse’ that she
claimed had been placed on him on the day he died, during a D&D game
that he played as part of a school program for gifted children. According to
Pulling (1990: 9), her son had killed himself rather than become “a follower
of evil, a Killer of man” as stipulated in the curse. After failing to sue both
210 john walliss
her son’s school and TSR Inc., the manufacturers of D&D, in 1984 Pulling’s
mother founded BADD (Bothered about Dungeons and Dragons) with
Dr Thomas Radecki, the director of the National Coalition on Television
Violence (NCTV). The following year, they filed a petition with the Federal
Trade Commission demanding that labels be placed on RPGs, warning
that they were hazardous and could lead players to commit suicide. The
Consumer Products Safety Commission, however, concluded that there
was no evidence to support BADD’s accusations and that, therefore, there
was no justification for any warning material. Consequently, BADD turned
its attention to lobbying members of Congress and other organisations
(such as the media, schools and churches), claiming that RPGs could not
only cause suicidal behaviour but were linked with Satanism and ritual
killings (see Martin and Fine 1991). Both Pulling and Radecki also offered
‘expert’ testimony in various court cases in which a defendant claimed
that their actions had been inspired by playing RPGs.
The tactics employed by BADD and other evangelical critics of RPGs
developed over the course of the 1980s, with a variety of claims being
made about the negative consequences for the individual—and, indeed,
the moral order—of playing RPGs. Primarily, it was claimed, following
Pulling’s accusations over her son’s death, that players were learning gen-
uine occult rituals and spells from playing RPGs and using this knowledge
to put curses on others. Thus, for example, in the Jack Chick tract Dark
Dungeons (1984), a young female player, Debbie, is invited to join a Witches’
coven after ‘the intense occult training’ she has undergone through play-
ing D&D. In the next panel, she is shown telling the Dungeon Master, who
is also the High Priestess of the coven, how she had cast her first real spell
the previous evening; a ‘mind bondage spell’ against her father who ‘was
trying to stop [her] playing D&D’. The result, she exclaims, “was great”:
rather than stopping her playing, her father had instead “bought [her]
$200.00 worth of new D&D figures and manuals [sic].”
Linked with this, it was also claimed that playing RPGs led individu-
als to commit suicide or other violent acts. Another character in Dark
Dungeons, Marcie, for example is shown committing suicide because her
character, “Black Leaf,” has died in a game of D&D. “It’s my fault Black Leaf
died,” she claims in her suicide note, “I can’t face life alone!” When Debbie
goes to tell the Dungeon Master/High Priestess this, she is told that “[her]
spiritual growth through the game is more important that some loser’s
life” and that “[i]t would have happened sooner or later. [Marcie’s] char-
acter was too weak.” As part of their campaign against RPGs, BADD and
other evangelical critics published lists and publicised the cases of indi-
viduals who, they claimed, had committed violent acts as a consequence
of their involvement with RPGs. Thus, for example, the BADD leaflet
Dungeons & Dragons: Witchcraft, Suicide and Violence listed the names
of suicide victims, adding how each shared “one common denominator:
ALL WERE HEAVILY INVOLVED IN DUNGEONS & DRAGONS” (quoted
in Martin and Fine 1991: 114; capitals in original). Similarly, in The Devil’s
Web, Pulling (1990: 85, 88) claimed that “fantasy role-playing games have
been significant factors in at least 125 deaths,” ranging from a store clerk
murdered by a sixteen year old boy “obsessed with guns, violent movies,
paramilitary magazines and the game of Dungeons and Dragons” through
to the sixteen people murdered by Michael Ryan in Hungerford in the
United Kingdom in August 1987.
Finally, underpinning both these claims, RPGs’ evangelical critics
alleged that the games were, to quote William Schnoebelen’s Straight
Talk on Dungeons and Dragons (1984), “essentially a feeding program for
occultism and witchcraft.” Central to these allegations was the idea that
not only did the games contain genuine magic rituals and spells, but that
players, whether willingly or not, allowed evil spirits to gain possession
of them through the games. Once they were possessed they would, it was
claimed, at the very least become involved in Satanism, and possibly also
commit violent or anti-social acts. Indeed, Rick Jones (1988: 99), the author
of Stairway to Hell, went so far as to claim that this was the “ultimate (but
well hidden) purpose of the ‘game’ ”:
[l]iterally millions of young people are unknowingly participating in genu-
ine occult practices and opening the doors for demons to enter their bodies
through this seemingly innocent game. By the time they find out they were
hood-winked, it’s too late. They have taken that last step down the stairway
to hell and are greeted by the engulfing flames.
Similarly, Leithart and Grant (1987: 10; emphasis in original) in their
Christian Response to Dungeons and Dragons, alleged that “D&D has
become a modern-day catechism . . . [containing] a summary of the princi-
ples and an introduction to the fundamentals of the occult.” As such, they
argue, D&D and other RPGs “should simply be off limits to Christians”
(Leithart and Grant 1987: 10).
As David Waldron (2005) notes in his discussion of the evangelical
‘moral panic’ against RPGs, the impact of these allegations on gamers
in the late 1980s and early 1990s was profound.4 Drawing on a variety of
For an excellent collection of contemporary news articles concerning an early 1980s

4
D&D “moral panic” in the Canadian city of Nanaimo, see http://forum.rpg.net/showthread

.php?t=459104. Accessed 8/07/2009.
212 john walliss
c ontemporary materials from within the gaming community, he argues that

gamers described a variety of responses from authority figures, ranging
from minor harassment by teachers, police and clergy to that of more
substantial issues of seizing property, bashings, loss of privacy, expulsion
from school for continuing to play after a ban had been put in place and
harassment/arrest for supposed satanic desecration of graves and churches
etc. (Waldron 2005: 28)
Consequently, gamers developed a variety of responses to the accusations,
ranging from apologetics and attempts at self-censorship (such as TSR
removing references to supernatural monsters from the second edition of
Advanced Dungeons and Dragons), through the use of humour to satirise
the claims,5 to systematic attempts to repudiate them and highlight the
perceived irrationality, superstition and bigotry of their evangelical crit-
ics. In 1990, for example, the Game Manufacturers Association (GAMA)
commissioned the fantasy author Michael Stackpole to produce a refuta-
tion of the claims promulgated by Pulling and BADD. ‘The Pulling Report’
certainly pulled no punches, accusing Pulling of numerous inaccuracies,
exaggerations and of being highly questionable in both her investigation
techniques and use of evidence. To quote the Report’s conclusion:
[Pulling] has, willfully or negligently, manufactured reports concerning sui-
cides and murders related to games and Satanism. She has promoted indi-
viduals who are, at the very least, in need of serious psychiatric help to deal
with their emotional and psychological problems. She has repeatedly repre-
sented herself as an ‘expert witness’ concerning games of which she knows
little or nothing. She has perpetrated a deception concerning the circum-
stances surrounding the senseless death of her son . . . Clearly Pat Pulling is
5
There are, for example, a number of satires of Dark Dungeons available on the web
(see http://www.humpin.org/mst3kdd/, http://www.unhelpful.org/chyx/, http://www.you
tube.com/watch?v=qeV5xjjVFfk, http://www.gamegroup.org/comics/dd.php, http://www
.enterthejabberwock.com/?p=133. All accessed 6/04/2009). There is also a spoof RPG
Darkest Dungeons (http://scruffyco.com/darkestdungeons/) apparently in development
in which, according to its developers, “players take on the roles of Gamers in a group of
young people playing the wildly popular . . . and horrifically dangerous game, ‘Advanced
Darkest Dungeons’ and the Characters those Gamers play. The Gamers compete to get
their Characters to ‘The 9th Level’ without turning to occultism, killing themselves, failing
out of school, or loosing their grip on reality. They must constantly appease their game
master (called the Evil DM, or EDM) to gain favor. Their friends and family (and even
the other Gamers) constantly attempt to pull them away from the game . . . or pull them
deeper in. They become embroiled in a battle between Corruption and Sanctity. Traveling
too far towards either one, however, will ultimately prevent them from reaching the fabled
9th Level of the Dungeon.
a ‘cult crime expert’ only in her own eyes and those of her cronies, allies and
disciples. (Stackpole 1990)
Being a Christian and a Gamer
Pulling’s and other evangelicals’ attacks on RPGs, however, had their great-
est impact on Christian gamers who, according to Waldron (2005: 37),
“described the highest level of harassment from parents, teachers, friends
and clergy.” Even today, a quarter of a century after Dark Dungeons and
Schnoebelen’s Straight Talk on Dungeons and Dragons were first published
and over a decade since BADD ceased to exist following Pulling’s death, a
recurring theme in both my interviews and postings on Christian gaming
forums is the unease, and sometime hostility, that Christian gamers often
encounter from their fellow Christians because of their hobby. One of my
interviewees, Marlene,6 described the problems that she encountered in
2001 when she encouraged her children to play a RPG at home:
I had no idea of the can of worms I was opening. I got letters. One lady in
our home study group wrote me this letter saying ‘I can’t believe that you
have gone over to the devil. You’re doing Satanic things’. She’d read through
the Monsters Manual [a rule-book supplement containing information on
monsters and other creatures that can be encountered in a D&D game] and
talked about ‘the horrendous things you now believe in’, and ‘how can [you]
talk about being a Christian and be part of a game like this?’. There was
almost a Church disciplinary sort of thing where we were asked about what
we thought we were doing . . . It was surreal . . . It left a really bad taste. There
was even someone in the Church Elder’s Council who said, ‘I don’t know
much about D&D. All I know is that it’s Satanic’. I thought: y’know, this is
not worth it . . . (emphases in original)7
Such experiences are echoed by Michael J. Young, the author of the
Multiverser RPG and chaplain of the Christian Gamers Guild, who writes:
I get letters from well-meaning pointy-headed narrowminded people of
faith who are convinced that I must be deceived by the devil, that I could
not possibly be a good Christian if I believe that these games are safe and
not instruments of evil. (Young 2007: 3)
Similarly, the fansforchrist.org forum features a thread entitled “Reaction
you received when you ‘came out of the Dungeon’, ” in which posters
6
Unless they requested otherwise, all interviewees will be identified by pseudonyms.
7
Marlene [pseud.], interview by author, e-mail, Liverpool, May 2009.
214 john walliss
relate their experiences of ‘coming out’ to their fellow Christians as a RPG

player.8 For some, such as ‘Silverton’ (posted on September 16, 2008.),
there has never been a need to hide his hobby. However, others, such as
‘Tonyngc’ (posted on September 14, 2008.), describe a situation similar to
that of Marlene and Young in which he has “had friends look at me with
horror, as if I had just sprouted horns and was carrying a pitchfork.” Yet
others such as ‘Tink’ (posted on September 15, 2008.) are still firmly ‘in
the dungeon’: “*peeks out of the closet* still there. :-) I tried, but ended
up getting condemned and I explained it away and have not brought it
up since.”9
In response to this, Christian gamers, like their secular peers, have
developed a series of rebuttals and counter-arguments to defend their
hobby; these often being couched in theological and/or Biblical terms.
Primarily, Christian gamers argue that RPGs are not Satanic and do not
teach players, whether consciously or unconsciously, ‘genuine’ magical
rituals. In particular, a distinction is drawn between, on the one hand,
the ‘fantasy magic’ of the gaming world and, on the other, the ‘real world
magic’ of occultism. To quote Stephen Weese (2003), the webmaster of
fansforchrist.org and author of God Loves the Freaks (Weese 2006):
[t]he magic that we are forbidden to practice in the Bible comes from one
source—Satan. God and Satan are here in the real world with us. Fantasy
stories take place in other worlds, in other realities that never have hap-
pened and never will . . . When a character in the fantasy world accesses
magic, they are simply tapping into a power source that is built into their
world, not calling on evil spirits, demons, or the devil.
Thus, while not denying evangelical concerns regarding magic/occultism,
Christian gamers argue that there is no link whatsoever between this and
the ‘magic’ that they may use in their games. Indeed, for some Christian
gamers imagining and playing within a world dominated by magic is in
many ways a lesser evil than doing so in a world in which all forms of
magic and supernaturalism are banished by the forces of secularism. In
several of his writings, for example, Michael Young (2002b: 9) has urged
Christian gamers to be more afraid of “atheism and agnostic natural-
ism and materialism,” rather than “imaginary magic,” “for these lies will
8
Internet site, http://www.fansforchrist.org/new/viewtopic.php?t=5744. Accessed 19/05/
2009.
9
See also the “Gaming is of the Devil” thread on the Christian Gamers Guild Forum:
http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/Christian_Gamers_Guild/message/23963. Accessed
21/05/2009.
destroy far more souls in our age than will ever fall prey to witchcraft or
Paganism.” For Young, then, it is better for a game to promote a belief in a
supernatural power, however distant that may be from Christianity, rather
than for it to discourage belief in the supernatural per se (see, for example,
Young (2001b).
Of course, critics could still argue that RPGs feature evil—even, in some
cases, demonic—elements and that Christians should, if they take the
Biblical injunction to “abstain from all appearance of evil” (I Thessalonians
5:22 KJV) seriously, therefore still not play them. RPGs look evil, it could
be argued, therefore they should be avoided. However, as Lynette Cowper
and others within the Christian Gamers Guild who authored an online
FAQ about Christians and RPGs note, this argument misinterprets the
Biblical quotation. Rather than warning against “things which look evil,”
they argue, the quotation should be read as a warning against evil in all
its appearances. Going further, they, and other Christian gamers argue
that in many ways the presence of evil elements within the game is
not only desirable, but essential both in terms of storytelling terms and
for giving the players something to battle against (Cowper, Young and
Cardwell n.d.).
Christian gamers are also critical of the so-called ‘weaker brother’ argu-
ment. Stemming from St Paul’s vow in 1 Corinthians 8:13 that “if meat
make my brother to offend, I will eat no flesh while the world standeth,
lest I make my brother to offend,” this argument suggests that Christians
should abstain from activities (such, as for example, playing RPGs) in case
their doing so leads other, weaker brothers (and sisters) astray. While
accepting, as will be discussed below, that some games do have problem-
atic aspects to them, Christian gamers respond to the ‘weaker brother’
argument on both Biblical and practical levels, arguing that it not only
misrepresents, theologically and historically, the meaning of the passage,
but that who exactly the ‘weaker brother’ is never made explicit. As Young
(2001a) ironically puts it:
[t]here’s a funny thing about this weaker brother argument as it applies
to role playing games: I’ve never heard it made by a weaker brother. That
is, most of those who object to role playing games on the basis that they
might cause someone to fall into sin aren’t the least bit tempted either to
play such games or to fall into the particular sins they believe the games
promote. They aren’t going to become witches or sorcerers; Pagan worship
or ritual does not appeal to them. There is probably less chance that they
will suddenly go on a violent rampage than that nuclear war will break out
by three o’clock tomorrow. They aren’t in the least bit concerned that these
games are going to lead them to sin. Rather, they imagine that there might
216 john walliss
be someone else—some hypothetical other brother somewhere in the

universe—for whom the ideas within these games might present a tempta-
tion. They don’t know any such person, but the possibility that he or she
might exist gives them a basis on which to condemn the game.
Indeed, turning the accusation on the accuser, Cowper, Young and Cardwell
(n.d.) argue that the “true weaker brother” is the one who believes that
their faith gives them the right and authority to tell others (whom they
perceive to be ‘weaker’) what they should or should not do.
In addition to deploying theological/Biblically-based arguments,
Christian gamers also draw upon many of the criticisms of Pulling, Chick
and the other critics of RPGs used by non-Christian gamers. The FAQ by
Cowper et al., for example, refutes a number of the allegations promul-
gated by evangelical critics in the 1980s, arguing that several of the critics
themselves are completely unreliable and may in fact be fantasists. All
those that I interviewed were also critical of the allegations made by some
of their fellow Christians, although often this was mixed with a sense of
frustration. ‘Tim’, for example, said that he reacted with “a combination of
sadness and humour” to critics such as Jack Chick, adding that “by spout-
ing hateful ignorance, [such critics] turn a rather large section of modern
culture away from Christ.”10 Such sentiments were echoed by ‘Strider’ on
the fansforchrist.org forum who blamed Chick in particular as “a prime
example of why some gamers arent [sic] friendly to Christianity” and
bemoaned the fact that “whenever someone starts ranting nonsense then
some folks are going to believe they speak for the rest of us and get the
wrong idea. It burns bridges and loses us friends” (posted on March 10,
2009). Another poster, ‘jedi-knight2005’, put it more bluntly “Chick tracts
should be BURNED!!!” (posted on February 13, 2009).11
This frustration is felt particularly strongly as a number of Christian
gamers believe that not only is fantasy a Christian medium, but that
RPGs themselves may also be tools to witness to the “unsaved” (Schofield
Clark 2003). Another recurring theme in both my interviews and in the
online Christian gaming material is that the world of D&D in particu-
lar has its basis in the literary work of two notable Christian apologists,
C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien, and that the creators of the game, Gary
Gygax and Dave Arneson, were themselves Christians. (For a discus-
Tim [pseud.], interview by author, e-mail, Liverpool, May 2009.

10

11
2009.
sion of the Christian themes found within Tolkien in particular, see, for
example, Wood 2003).12 Similarly, it is claimed, both the magic and clear
dualism between good and evil found within the fantasy genre is more
akin to a Christian vision of the world than RPGs’ evangelical critics would
accept. Rather than the presence of magic in gaming worlds being a bad
thing, it can instead be what Young (2002a) terms an “apologetics to the
heart”, “a way of undermining disbelief, of subtly suggesting that there
is a greater reality undreamt by most.” Far from being a “doorway to the
occult,” RPGs may thus be “a mission field that is white unto harvest”
( John 4:35) to quote Cowper, Young and Cardwell (n.d.): a way of pre-
senting a Christian message to the “unsaved” (or, at the very least, a way
of demonstrating to them that, to quote one Christian gamer, “Christians
aren’t all freaky hate-mongers who say ‘you must do this, you must not do
that’ ” (Mattingly 2009).
This outline is by no means exhaustive. It does, however, give a taste
of some of the key counter-arguments presented by Christian gamers in
their attempts to both respond to the criticisms of RPGs made by other
Christians and, by extension, to carve out a social space for themselves
among their fellow believers. This space is, however, fluid and character-
ised by some degree of ambivalence. While, on the one hand, Christian
gamers defend their hobby against accusations that it is satanic or danger-
ous and argue for fantasy as both a Christian medium and a tool for evan-
gelisation, there is still, on the other, an acknowledgement among some
that RPGs do still nevertheless have theologically problematic aspects to
them. While generally accepting of RPGs, ‘Bob’, for example, noted the
presence of many “dark games on the market; games—such as D&D,
The Call of Cthulhu, or Vampire: The Masquerade—that he believed can
easily be used to introduce players to the occult and New Age beliefs.”13
Similarly, notwithstanding his dismissal of the “Doorway to the Occult”
claims as “patently false,” Steve Weese (2003) still expresses a degree of
discomfort with the presence of demons in D&D:
[p]ersonally, as a Christian, I will say I don’t like the idea that there are
‘demons’ in D&D. I would rather there not be, and in any games that I run
myself I exclude them. I know that demons are real and would rather not
play around with the concept. Since D&D is so versatile, it should be no
12
See for example the video recording of Gygax speaking at a panel on Christianity and
Gaming at Gencon 2007 on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_tBx4ITJLpE.
13
Bob [pseud.], interview by author, e-mail, Liverpool, May 2009.
218 john walliss
problem to fully enjoy D&D without including any demons . . . as a Christian,

I would recommend for a good D&D experience just to cut out the demons
altogether.
A more broad concern with the presence of magic in many RPGs was also
expressed by ‘Eric’.
Magic is a big question for me. If we assume it to be what we in the real
world would call magic, then it’s a problem because everything I understand
about that is that it is satanic. That said, it’s relatively easy to fix that by
making it into a science of sorts that uses natural forces much as one uses
the laws of physics.14
This strategy of removing or redefining potentially problematic content
recommended by ‘Eric’ and Weese is one of several employed by some
Christian gamers who feel uncomfortable with either entire gaming sys-
tems or aspects of them. One thread on the fansforchrist.org forum, for
example, was started by a member who had bought a RPG source book
which had the statistics for Lucifer and other demons, and who was asking
whether he should “trade the book off, ignore this or do like my gut wants
and use a sharpie [a permanent marker pen] to remove the offending entry”
(julian_grimm posted August 19, 2008). Responses ranged from one mem-
ber who recalled having burned a similar book (Ajmucha August 19, 2008),
through another who recommended that the poster “get rid of it, deface it,
whatever you do to need to feel comfortable” (Voltronfan posted August
20, 2008), to yet another who suggested that he should “pray over the book
directly, that God give you direction in regards to dealing with it, and, if
there is demonic influence involved, that God drive it out” (Comsquare
Ashes Parsec posted August 20, 2008).15 In a similar vein, ‘Bergj89’ (posted
January 26, 2009), writing on the Christian Gamers Guild forum, sought
advice for his wife who was uncomfortable playing a druid character, not
least because the Dungeon Master not only wanted her to have “a defined
deity preference,” but also “want[ed] the religious aspect played up in
the course of the game.” This situation, ‘Bergj89’ claimed was making his
wife feel increasingly uncomfortable as she “really isn’t comfortable with
pretending to be a worshipper of anybody besides Jesus.” One solution to
this put forward by several respondents was that ‘Bergj89’s’ wife might try
and attempt to modify her character to reduce the dissonance between
Eric [pseud.], interview by author, e-mail, Liverpool, May 2009.

14

15
2009.
her own personal beliefs and those of her character. ‘Sizzaxe’ (posted
on January 27, 2009), for example, suggested that ‘Bergj89’s’ wife might
“ ‘pioneer’ a new order of druids that focus on the innate energies within
nature and its attunement to the creation” or even model her character “off
of a Celtic type Christianity,” while ‘agapeesel’ (posted January 29, 2009)
suggested that she offer to play a slightly different character (a ranger with
druidic powers), “who couldn’t accept worshipping the ‘god’ in the game
and so went solo.” A number of other posters told ‘Bergj89’ that they were
praying “for peace in [his] game.”16
A second strategy, then, employed by some Christian gamers uncom-
fortable with some RPG material is to ‘Christianise’ it, either by grafting
Christian elements onto the material or reinterpreting it through a Christian
lens. The Christian Gamers’ Guild e-zine, The Way, The Truth, & the Dice,
for example, has featured several articles in which their authors described
the ways in which they either added Christian elements to game settings
or reinterpreted and modified an existing game that dealt with demono-
logical themes so that it accorded with Biblical accounts (Aubuchon 1999;
Barnes 1999; Meier 2000). James Aubuchon (1999: 3) discussed the ways in
which Spiritual Warfare could be added to the generic role-playing game
system, FUDGE, to simulate “the battle that goes on in the souls of men
against sin and the forces of darkness.” In Aubuchon’s system, when char-
acters find themselves in the presence of certain demons or ‘defilements’
they will be tempted to commit sins.17 If they give in to the temptation
they are said to have suffered a “spiritual wound” and will, at best, become
“Distracted” and unable to pray or, at worst, will become “Overcome” and
engage in the sin “and immediately lose a level of holiness” (1999: 3). Once
a character’s holiness level becomes “pathetic,” Aubuchon recommends,
they should “be removed from the game. They have become unfit for duty”
(Aubuchon: 5). Players, however, can resist defilements by either praying
or quoting at a defilement a passage of scripture that refers directly to it.
A third strategy employed by those who feel dissatisfied with either
adapting or retrofitting their faith onto existing games is to play one of
the small number of exclusively Christian games available, such as The
Way, DragonRaid, or Holy Lands. In each game, players encounter none
of the problematic material (allegedly) found in the RPG systems nor do
16
Internet site, http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/Christian_Gamers_Guild/message/
24092?threaded=1. Accessed 27/05/2009.
17
These include such things as ‘sexual immorality’, ‘witchcraft’, ‘murder’, ‘homosexual-
ity’ and ‘vain philosophy’.
220 john walliss
they have to play characters that do not share their faith. Rather, in each
game, a Christian worldview is central and the emphasis is often as much
on the development of faith or Biblical/theological knowledge as it is on
enjoyment. In DragonRaid, for example, players, known as ‘Twice Born’
LightRaiders, serve ‘the OverLord of Many Names’ (i.e. Jesus) by battling
dragons and other dark creatures (that represent demonic forces and
other evils) and attempting to ‘rescue’ ‘Once Born’ creatures by telling
them about ‘the Great Rescue’ (which is the salvation purchased for them
by the ‘OverLord of Many Names’).18 Similarly, in the historical RPG Holy
Lands—billed by its creators as ‘THE Christian RPG’—players pit them-
selves “against various demons, devils, and sorcerers who want to destroy
the medieval church.” Far from being an adherent of some polytheistic
magical system, a character in the game (like the players themselves) thus
“believes in, proclaims, and fights for God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the
‘real’ message of eternal salvation;” a salvation that is achieved, in classic
Protestant style, through characters’ “profession of faith, not by their ser-
vice to the religious.”19
Such attempts to either ‘retrofit’ Christianity onto games or make char-
acters conform to players’ beliefs is, however, by no means universally
accepted among Christian gamers, nor are Christian RPGs like DragonRaid
or Holy Lands widely played by Christian gamers. Some gamers, for exam-
ple, recognise that RPGs are just a game and that they are neither playing
themselves nor committing a sin by either having their character exist in
a polytheistic setting or cast spells. As one gamer cogently put it, “I very
much doubt whether God cares if I play a Pagan, or cast Magic Missile in
a make believe world LOL. I know some folks have a problem with that
but they should probably take some time making sure they’re OK with
themselves first.” Others, such as ‘Kim’, are keen to keep separate their
beliefs from their hobby:
I take my beliefs very seriously and therefore don’t discuss a serious topic
like theology/Christianity unless there is a serious mood, which is usually
not the case for people meeting for a *game*. I also don’t usually incorpo-
rate my beliefs into a game for a similar reason; by incorporating God into a
game, you make Him merely a story element to entertain.20
18
Internet site, http://www.dragonraid.net/info. Accessed 27/05/2009.
19
Internet site, http://www.holylands.net/. Accessed 27/05/2009.
20
Kim [pseud.], interview by author, e-mail, Liverpool, May 2009.
Yet others question whether bringing God into gaming actually creates
more problems than it solves. While doing so, they suggest, removes the
problems of playing polytheistic characters, it could, as Cowper, Young
and Cardwell (n.d.) argue, reduce God and theological questions to mere
entertainment:
[p]eople often complain about the polytheism in the game. But then, what
would they prefer? Would they want Game Masters around the world decid-
ing the will of the True and Living God? Would they really want these games
to more directly portray the battle between God and Satan, and the out-
comes to be subject to some high school student with no more understand-
ing of the Bible than of the Koran (or possibly more of the Koran) to decide
these things for God?
Conclusion
Christian gamers, then, are not cut from the same cloth, but, rather, may
be better understood as being on a continuum in terms of how their beliefs
and hobby intersect. On the one end would be those gamers who wish
to (sub)merge their gaming into their beliefs so that there is no incon-
gruity between either what they believe in and their characters’ beliefs
or between the ‘real world’ and the ‘gaming world’. Such gamers would,
as in several cases cited above, feel uncomfortable playing non-Christian
or ‘evil’ characters, using magic, or having evil/Satanic/demonic forces
in their games, even as villains. They would also actively seek to remove
offending content or reinterpret it through their beliefs and may even, in
an attempt to fully merge their beliefs and hobby, play explicitly ‘Christian’
RPGs, such as Holy Lands. On the other end would be gamers who prefer
to keep their beliefs and hobby as separate as possible. Whether because
they feel uncomfortable reducing God and their beliefs to “mere enter-
tainment” or simply see RPGs as “just a game,” such individuals do not feel
any need to make their hobby overlap with their beliefs. While they may
feel uncomfortable with playing an evil or immoral character, they would,
for example, defend the use of magic or playing non-Christian characters
in a game by making a clear distinction between, on the one hand, what
they believe and what they see the nature of reality to be and, on the
other, what their characters believe and the nature of the gaming world.
Thus, while they would consider themselves to be a Christian gamer—in
the sense of being a Christian who happens to have a particular hobby—
they wouldn’t typically feel a need or desire to emphasise that particular
identity, in the same way as they wouldn’t see themselves (or expect to be
222 john walliss
seen) as, for example, “a Christian who watches TV” or “a Christian who
plays football.” If they were a member of a forum discussing RPGs at all,
it would consequently be more likely to be a generic forum (such as, for
example, the official D&D forum), than a specifically Christian one.
These categories are, however, not fixed, and it is possible that gam-
ers may move along the continuum either as their beliefs change or in
response to changing external realities. It is possible, for example, that
a member of the latter category may, if they found their hobby under
resurgent criticism from their Church, families and/or evangelical peers,
become more aware of their identity as a ‘Christian gamer’, and use that
identity as a way of negotiating the criticisms. However, it is arguably
more likely the case that as evangelical concerns steadily move further
away from RPGs towards other areas of popular culture, that Christian
gamers will find themselves less and less having to utilise the various
forms of apologetics highlighted above. Instead, if they are called upon to
justify their hobby at all, it is more likely to be against accusations that it
is ‘sad’, ‘geeky’ or ‘nerdy’ than a “doorway to the occult.”
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“An Infinity of Experiences.” Hyper-real Paganism
and Real Enchantment in World of Warcraft
Stef Aupers
Introduction
It’s from the death of God that religions emerge . . .

(Baudrillard 1994: 26)
In The God Delusion well-known atheist and out-spoken critic of religion
Richard Dawkins (2006) triumphantly states that the Bible is fiction.
Scientists, biblical scholars and historians, he argues, have undermined
the factuality, and hence the literal interpretation of the Holy Scriptures,
and this makes the existence of a God incredible. As such, he contin-
ues, there is no distinction between the Bible, legends as ‘factually dubi-
ous’ as the stories of King Arthur and popular fantasy fiction: “The only
difference between The Da Vinci Code and the gospels is that the gos-
pels are ancient fiction while the The Da Vinci Code is modern fiction”
(Dawkins 2006: 123).
Dawkins’ argument is deeply problematic. Not so much because he
degrades the Bible to the realm of fiction but because of his typically
positivistic assumption that sacred texts—once deconstructed, falsified
and bereft of their ultimate truth claims—can never be at the basis of
religiosity and spirituality. But is it true? Leaving aside the revival of fun-
damentalist groups involved in Biblical literalism in the United States,
we can nowadays also detect a shift from a literal interpretation of the
Bible to a more symbolic reading, an approach that has mainly developed
since the 1960s in ‘new theology’ (Campbell 2007: 250–273). Obviously,
factuality and literalism are not absolute conditions for religion to remain
vital. Most important for this chapter, however, is the fact that the erosion
of Christianity is accompanied by the rise of a new type of spirituality
(Aupers and Houtman 2010; Campbell 2007; Hanegraaff 1996; Heelas et al.
2005; Houtman and Aupers 2007) that is often informed by or based on
popular fiction (e.g. Partridge 2004; Possamai 2005; Schofield Clark 2003).
Media products, like The Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Star Trek, The X
Files, Charmed, The Matrix, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and, indeed, The Da
Vinci Code, are nowadays infused with religious, spiritual and metaphysical
226 stef aupers
worldviews and are, in turn, often treated as “sacred texts” (Partridge 2004)
that are used to actively construct “subjective myths” (Possamai 2005) or
private “systems of ultimate significance” (Luckmann 1967). Moreover,
media texts and popular fiction are at the basis of new social forms of
religion—of cult formation in real life and on the Internet—and motivate
veritable “media pilgrimage” (Reijnders 2010).
In his pioneering work on this fiction-based type of spirituality Adam
Possamai (2005) dubbed this “hyper-real religion,” employing a concept
from the work of Jean Baudrillard. In this chapter I will use a case study of
so-called Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games (MMORPGs),
most notably World of Warcraft, to provide an in-depth study of ‘hyper-
real religion’. I will analyze the way these ‘enchanting’ worlds on the
Internet are constructed (or rather, designed) and if, how and why gamers
derive spiritual meaning from play in these environments. The analysis is
based on multiple sources, but mainly on a content analysis of four popu-
lar online computer games (Ultima Online, Everquest, Dark Age of Camelot
and World of Warcraft) and about twenty qualitative in-depth interviews
with Dutch players of World of Warcraft.
The qualitative nature and hence particular focus on (spiritual) mean-
ing in this study is relevant for at least two reasons. First of all, most aca-
demic studies of fiction-based religions are still mainly explorative and
sensitizing; they point out that fiction and spirituality are combined in the
contemporary spiritual milieu without analyzing, in more empirical detail,
how and why particular ‘texts’ are productive in the formation of contem-
porary spirituality. On a more theoretical note, however, it seems that real
spiritual meaning based on popular fiction is not only under studied in
the social sciences, it is often a priori denied. Obviously, this is the posi-
tion taken by advocates of secularization, like Bruce (2002) or Dawkins
(2006), mentioned in the introduction. But even Possamai’s fruitful con-
ceptualization of fiction-based spirituality as ‘hyper-real religion’ and the
argument that it is part and parcel of the ‘cultural logic of late capitalism’
has strong connotations of it being essentially ‘superficial’, ‘meaningless’,
‘unreal’ or ‘alienating’ since it is based on the critical, neo-Marxist theories
of Jean Baudrillard and Fredric Jameson. ‘Hyper-real religion’, from this
perspective at least, is an oxymoron since ‘real religious meaning’ and the
‘hyper-real’ are by definition incompatible. On the basis of this study of
World of Warcraft, particularly through an analysis of the meanings play-
ers attribute to the game, I hope to demonstrate that this dichotomous
and implicitly moral picture is deeply problematic.
“an infinity of experiences” 227
Designing a Hyper-real Religion
“Hyperreality”, Jean Baudrillard (1994: 1) argued, is a model “of a real with-

out origin or reality” and as such it abolishes the typically modern claim
of a referent in the real world. Hyper-reality, in other words, no longer
reflects reality but has become a reality in and of itself; it masks, obscures
or even abolishes the real since, Baudrillard famously claimed, the ‘map’
has become the ‘territory’ (1994). Throughout his work he discusses the rise
and prominence of hyper-reality in fields of politics, science, media and
culture and emphasizes the difficulty in countering—let alone disman-
tling—its logic through subversive practices and ‘anti-discourse,’ since it
relentlessly neutralizes resistance by transforming it into yet another con-
sumer item, “sign,” or “hyper-reality” (Baudrillard 1998: 78). A paradigmatic
example of a hyper-real environment is the realm of digital simulation
(Baudrillard 1998: 61) and particularly, a computer game. As Kline, Dyer-
Witheford and de Peuter (2003: 69–70) rightly comment about the latter:
“[f]inding examples of Baudrillard’s hyper-reality in the world of video
and computer games is like shooting fish in a barrel”.
The online computer game World of Warcraft that is—at the moment
of writing—played by about fifteen million people is an outstanding
example of a hyper-reality. After all, Azeroth, the universe of World of
Warcraft, is a ‘model of the real without origin or reality’: notwithstanding
its imaginary, fiction-based content it is an utterly realistic, three-dimen-
sional environment that is both shared (people from different countries
inhabit the world) and persistent (the environment is twenty four hours
a day online and continues to exist even when players are not interact-
ing with it). Moreover, these online computer games generate a unique
culture, social structure, economy and ecology that change over time. As
such they are considered as ‘more than games’ and are generally described
as “virtual worlds” (Bartle 2004) or “synthetic worlds” (Castranova 2005).
Not surprising from this perspective is the fact that a “significant number
of people think of Norrath [the world of the game Everquest] as their
main place of residence . . . they treat the game world as their life world”
(Castranova 2005: 59).
World of Warcraft, Everquest and other games in the genre, however,
are not only ‘models of the real without origin or reality’, they are dis-
tinctly other-worldly in content. This, then, makes them hyper-real reli-
gions. More than ninety five percent of the Massively Multiplayer Online
Role-Playing Games are based on the ‘fantasy’ genre and are brimming
with myth, magic, and enchantment (Woodcock 2009). In this first section
228 stef aupers
I will demonstrate that these online worlds are particularly influenced by

neopagan spirituality and the fantasy fiction of J. R. R. Tolkien, influences
undergirding that these are indeed realities consciously based on inter-
textual references rather than on a postulated truth in the real world. In
the second section I will analyze whether, and if so, how and why gamers
derive spiritual meaning from play in these ‘hyper-real’ environments.
From Middle Earth to World of Warcraft
Neopaganism consists of many sub-branches and communities and this

diversity in the milieu can by and large be understood as the result of
the imperative to ‘reinvent’ your own pagan tradition (Adler 1986; Berger
1999; Hanegraaff 1996; Luhrmann 1991; York 1995). There are, however, core
doctrines and practices. Motivated by a fundamental critique on the alien-
ating and ‘disenchanting’ consequences of modern science, technology
and Christianity, neopagans are “romanticizing the premodern” (Partridge
2004: 77). Our ancient forefathers, it is argued, still lived in harmony with
nature, the rhythm of the cosmos and the sacred that permeates every-
thing, a meaningful way of life that is lost in the modern world. From
this perspective, neopagans freely delve into all kinds of premodern tra-
ditions and cultures since “the only dogma . . . is that there is no dogma”
(Luhrmann 1991: 7): some firmly ground their ideas in the Western esoteri-
cal, hermetical or Gnostic tradition, whereas others seek alignment with
ancient Greek mythology and Eleusinian cults, Celtic legends, the Norse
tradition, Jewish Cabbalistic mysticism, the ‘wisdom’ of Native Americans
or ancient Egyptian cultures. Whereas neopaganism encourages individ-
ual ‘cutting and pasting’ of premodern religiosity—resulting in a diverse
and fragmented milieu—it can essentially be characterized as an animis-
tic and polytheistic ‘nature religion’ (Adler 1986; Berger 1999; Hanegraaff
1996; Luhrmann 1991; York 1995). Nature is seen as a vital and sentient
environment. In addition, neopagans worship various gods and goddesses,
like the goddess of fertility and her male counterpart, the horned God, in
Wicca. Magical practices, rituals and spells are probably most important
in the neopagan milieu, since, as one of Adler’s (1986: 170) respondents
says: “It’s a religion of ritual rather than theology. The ritual is first, the
myth is second.”
It can be argued that neopaganism is itself a hyper-real religion
(Possamai 2005). After all, from its emergence in the 1950s until the pres-
ent, neopaganism has been fed by the media and the media has been
informed by paganism. Neopaganism is, first of all, a ‘literary culture’ and

“potential magicians enter magic through browsing in its bookstores”
(Luhrmann 1991: 238). Participants ground their worldview in books that
claim objectivity and authenticity, like historical or anthropological works,
but also use fictional works to design and legitimate their own traditions
(Possamai 2005). Even the primary work of the founder of Wicca—Gerald
Gardner, a British colonial administrator and lay anthropologist who pub-
lished on his alleged involvement in various secret pagan communities
and covens—is known to be a fictional ethnography. In general, contem-
porary pagans are quite aware of the socially constructed nature of their
own traditions. They self-consciously create their own ‘mytho-poeic his-
tory’ in what they consider to be “a myth-impoverished world” (Luhrmann
1991: 238, 241). Since the 1960s, the neopagan imagination has been partic-
ularly mediated by ‘science fiction’ and ‘fantasy fiction’—it is substantially
shaped by the works of Robert A. Heinlein, J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis,
contemporary television series like Charmed or—especially among young
people—supernatural ‘pulp’ horror like Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Partridge
2004). The most important influence from fantasy fiction is the work of
J. R. R. Tolkien. The Lord of the Rings is mainly based on Norse mythology
and its imagined world Middle-earth—inhabited by mythical creatures like
hobbits, elves and wizards—was immediately embraced by the spiritual
counterculture when it was published as a paperback in 1965. Moreover,
it is fed by and feeds into the neopagan imagination since it conveys “a
polytheistic-cum-animist cosmology of ‘natural magic’ ” that, Tolkien felt,
is important since “the ‘war’ against mystery and magic by modernity
urgently requires a re-enchantment of the world, which a sense of Earth-
mysteries is much better placed to offer than a single transcendent deity”
(Curry 1998: 28–29). Like neopagans then, Tolkien was deeply hostile to
the disenchanted modern world—the sovereignty of capitalism, science,
technology and the disrespect vis-à-vis the natural world that accompa-
nies it. The Lord of the Rings has been described as an “implicit diagnosis
of modernity” informed by ‘radical nostalgia’ that promotes a “neo-pagan
reverence for nature” (Curry 1998: 25, 29; Schick 2003; Kraus 2003).
The fantasy fiction of Tolkien has deeply informed the neopagan move-
ment but spilled over to other media forms as well: it set the standard for
the booming business of pagan series on television, like Charmed or Buffy
the Vampire Slayer and fantasy movie blockbusters, like the LOTR tril-
ogy directed by Peter Jackson: The Fellowship of the Ring (2001), The Two
Towers (2002) and The Return of the King (2003). In addition, and most
important for this chapter, it influenced the prominence of pagan fantasy
230 stef aupers
in contemporary online computer games. Richard Bartle—probably the

most influential designer in the field of online games—confirms: “[t]he
single most important influence on virtual worlds from fiction is Tolkien’s
The Lord of the Rings trilogy” (2004: 61–62). Already in the 1970s and 1980s
technicians, hackers and programmers were often great fans of the work
of Tolkien. The rooms at the AI lab at Stanford were named after Middle-
earth locations, and computer scientists built three elven fonts for the
Stanford printers (Levy 2001). Turkle argues: “[t]he personal computer
movement of the 1970s and early 1980s was deeply immersed in Tolkien
and translated his fantasy worlds into hugely popular (and enduring) role-
playing games” (2002: 18). Middle-earth, so it seems, appealed to their feel-
ings of disenchantment in modern society, but also to their habitus as
modern technicians (e.g. Aupers 2007). As to the latter, Tolkien himself
maintained that ‘mythopoesis’, ‘myth-making’ or the creation of a true
‘secondary world’ is not a frivolous matter. Although the content of the
world should break with reality (and therefore be appealing), its form,
structure and detail should be “derived from reality” and reflect “the inner
consistency of reality” (Tolkien 1939: 16). In an interview with GameSpy
(2003), game designer Richard Bartle recently stated that this was indeed
why he used Tolkien’s work as a blueprint for online games: “[h]e
[Tolkien] showed it could be done. He showed you could create a consis-
tent, believable, enthralling world that didn’t—couldn’t possibly—exist.
Middle Earth is a world of and for the imagination.” In the words of Davis:
“The Lord of the Rings didn’t just make you want to escape in another
world; it made you want to build your own” (1999: 208).
And so they did: Tolkien died in 1973, but around that same time his
pagan world was reproduced in cyberspace. Middle-earth became an
interactive place in the digital realm. In 1976 a Stanford hacker, Donald
Woods, and a programmer, Will Crowther, developed Adventure, the first
text-based role-playing game on the computer. Adventure “turned out to
be one of the most influential computer games in the medium’s early
history” (King and Borland 2003: 31). An important shift came in 1980s
when Trubshaw and Bartle developed the ‘Multi-User Dungeon’ (MUD)
that made it possible to explore this textual world with other people
across the country. Between the end of the 1970s and the beginning of
the 1990s, text-based role-playing games and MUDs were booming. Some
examples that are directly derived from the work of Tolkien are The Shire
(1979), Ringen (1979), The Lord of the Rings (1981), LORD (1981), Ring of
Doom (1983), Ringmaster (1984), The Mines of Moria (1985), Bilbo (1989),
The Balrogian trilogy (1989) and Elendor (1991). In 1997, finally, Richard
Garriott launched Ultima Online on the Internet, one of the first three-
dimensional Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games. Ultima
Online became a big success and a stimulus for other companies to develop
MMORPGs for the market. In 1999 Sony launched Everquest, (played by
730,000 people—Everquest II included) while Microsoft followed that year
with Asherons Call (played by ‘only’ 120,000 people). Other popular games
are Dark Age of Camelot (250,000 players) and, launched in 2004, World
of Warcraft—an online world that has had three extensions since then:
The Burning Crusade (2007), Wrath of the Lich King (2008) and Cataclysm
(2010). World of Warcraft is currently inhabited by more than ten million
people (Castranova 2005; Woodcock 2009).
“A World Awaits . . .”
No less than ninety five percent of the contemporary MMORPGs are based
on the ‘fantasy genre’ (Woodcock 2009). Let’s look at four popular ones:
Ultima Online, Everquest, Dark Age of Camelot and World of Warcraft.1 These
virtual worlds are designed as real places: players are immersed in a three-
dimensional environment where laws of physics reign, where apples fall
when you drop them, where nature flowers, where millions of artifacts
and objects are located and where people interact with each other and
the environment. Most manuals of the games therefore contain a detailed
map of the online world that is, in all cases, divided into various imag-
ined countries, provinces, cities, villages, pools, ponds, oceans and islands.
Players of EQ step into a world called Norrath; players of UO are inhab-
itants of Britannia; WoW consists of the provinces Kalimdor, Lordaeron,
Khaz Modan and Azeroth while DAoC is divided into the regions Albion,
Hilbernia and Midgard. The main narratives of these games differ, of
course, in many respects but all hark back to an imaginary medieval soci-
ety that is as yet untouched by the juggernaut of modernity (Aupers 2007).
Not unlike neopagans in the spiritual milieu then, the producers of online
worlds construct, or literally design a ‘mythopoeic history’ by ‘cutting and
pasting’ premodern religions, myths and sagas and by offering it for further
1
The game manuals of World of Warcraft (Blizzard Entertainment 2004) and Everquest
(Sony Online Entertainment 2004) used for the analysis are small books provided with
the gaming software. The manuals of Ultima Online (Electronic Arts Inc.) and Dark Age of
Camelot (Mythic Entertainment) are retrieved from the Internet, at http://guide.uo.com,
accessed 01/2005 and http://daoc.goa.com, accessed 03/2005, respectively. Unless indicated
otherwise all quotations in the following section are derived from these four manuals.
232 stef aupers
consumption. The narratives are often derived from well-known Western

legends, but also from popular fiction varying from Tolkien’s The Lord of the
Rings, to James G. Frazer’s Golden Bough and Joseph Campbell’s The Hero
with a Thousand Faces (Bartle 2004). By using such inter-textual references
to other popular (fantasy) texts, Krzywinska argued, designers constitute
an appealing “combination of otherness and familiarity for players” thereby
enhancing feelings of immersion and “being in a world” (2008: 138).
In line with the approach set out by Tolkien, in short, MMORPGs are
both extremely realistic and distinctly otherworldly (Castranova 2005:
80). This otherworldliness, instigated by premodern, mythical and magi-
cal content, is actively used in marketing and advertisement to seduce
potential consumers. In the manual of WoW and UO one can read:
[a]world awaits . . . Descend into the World of Warcraft and join thou-
sands of mighty heroes in an online world of myth, magic and limitless
adventure . . . An infinity of experiences await. So what are you waiting for?
If you’ve ever felt like you wanted to step out of yourself, your life, into
one that was full of fantasy and adventure—virtual worlds offer you this
opportunity . . . You choose your own virtual life and immerse yourself into
the mystical, medieval world of Britannia . . . Ultima Online is the place where
you can be whatever you want to be.
These are, the manuals demonstrate, not just profane worlds, but ‘other,’
more exciting worlds brimming with pagan legends, mysteries and magic.
There are, however, profound differences between the four game worlds.
The culture of UO, for instance, is rooted in specific Anglo-Saxon legends
and was originally guided by ‘Lord British’ (Richard Garriot) who resided in
his castle just outside of the capital of Brittania. DAoC is a good example of
a game that is exclusively based on Northern European myth and legend.
At the beginning of the game, players can choose to be part of one of three
territories that each have their own culture, religion and customs and are
at war with each other: they can chose to inhabit Albion (portrayed as
Medieval England and informed by ‘King Arthur legends’), Midgard (por-
trayed as ancient Scandinavia and informed by ‘Viking mythology’) and
Hilbernia (portrayed as ancient Ireland and informed by ‘Celtic lore’). In
the manual of DAoC, these three territories try to convince players to join
them in their battle against the ‘Dark forces of evil’ by claiming that they
are the purest and most spiritual land of all. As Albion argues: “[w]e are
the protectors of the land of Arthur, the greatest of Kings. Ours is the
fair land of Albion, and none fairer doth grace this Earth.” Midgard states:
“[c]ome to the land of the ancient gods and wield your sword and ham-
mer with us.” Hibernia, finally, strikes back by stating:
[o]thers may tempt you with mighty deeds and fine words, but in Hilbernia
we keep closest to the oldest of the spirits of the Earth. Ours is the most
mystical, imbued with the spirit of ancient days and long forgotten powers.
If you desire to fight with us against the encroachment of evil and darkness,
come to the most magical land of all, Hilbernia.
Being ‘the most magical land of all,’ so it seems, is an important asset in
rivalry in the game, as well as in the competition between online game
worlds competing on today’s market. In recent applications of the game
DAoC, new territories are opened up, like the “highly advanced civiliza-
tion” Atlantis (which is, according to legend, the pinnacle of spirituality),
Stygia (“a searing desert where adventurers will encounter creatures from
Egyptian mythology”) and Volcanus (“Here you will encounter . . . the
warlike Minotaurs”). The examples make clear that the main goal of the
game producers is to create a setting for their players that is enchanting—
exactly because it transcends modern society. Unencumbered by histori-
cal accuracy, they cut, paste and sample various popular legends and
myths and combine them into new idiosyncratic worlds. In these games,
for instance, it is possible to encounter a Minotaur (derived from Greek
mythology) in ancient Europe. Time and place are subordinated to the
imperative of pagan enchantment. While the designers of DAoC and UO
still base their designs loosely on familiar places in Northern Europe, and
their premodern legends and myths, the location may also be another
planet. This is the case with Norrath, the world of EQ. WoW is even com-
pletely abstracted from this-worldly time and space. Although it seems
to be mainly influenced by Norse mythology (and some of the regions
even refer to Mayan and African culture), it has almost no referent in
the ‘real world.’
In sum, the environments of these games are infused with premodern
legends, myths and sagas. As well, the Christian tradition is downplayed
in favor of primarily polytheistic and animistic forms of religion. As to the
former, various gods and deities (both good and bad) are prominent in
all the games. As to the latter, players are encouraged—or even obliged
if they want to proceed in the game—to perform various ‘quests’ to col-
lect spiritual objects, like ‘totems’ or weapons imbued with ‘mana’. Most
relevant for the players, however, is the ‘art of magic’. Before the game
starts, players construct an ‘avatar’ or character and choose between
various races, classes and professions. Abstracted from the differences, it
can be concluded that in every game there is the choice to become an
explorer, a fighter or a magician. Magicians, in general, have supernatu-
ral powers and are skilled to perform rituals and cast spells to heal their
234 stef aupers
allies and attack their enemies. As in most aspects of the games, how-
ever, the possibilities to develop one’s character as a magician are enor-
mous. Magicians are divided into sub-classes. Without being exhaustive:
in EQ one can for instance become a sorcerer, warlock, wizard, enchanter,
illusionist, coercer, summoner, necromancer, conjurer, druid, warden,
fury, shaman, defiler or mystic. In DAoC one can, for instance, become
a cabalist, rune master, bone dancer, spirit master, healer, bard, mental-
ist or animist. Again, this is just a small sample of the options available.
Each sub-class has specific abilities and skills. In the manual of WoW,
for instance, the mage, druid and shaman respectively are characterized
as follows:
[t]he mage is a master of powerful mystic energies, able to use magic in the
most spectacular and destructive of ways. Mages are a fragile class, with lit-
tle health and poor fighting abilities. However, they make up for this physi-
cal weakness with their awesome spell casting . . . Mage spells fall into three
schools: arcane, frost and fire.
The druid is a formidable class with good healing ability, potent offensive
spells, excellent buffs, and the unique ability to shape change into different
animal types. In its animal form, the druid can adopt new roles, such as that
of a warrior or rogue . . . Druid players have spells that cover three categories:
healings, buffs, and offensive spells.
The shaman is an effective spell caster, but can also fight extremely well
with mace and staff. The shaman’s line-of spirit spells enables it to perform a
variety of useful non-combat actions. It can resurrect allies, turn into a ghost
wolf for increased movements, or instantly teleport to town. The shaman’s
unique power is totems. Totems are spiritual objects that a shaman must
earn through questing.
Resurrecting the dead, healing, draining souls, summoning spirits, teleki-
nesis, teleporting, paralyzing, creating energy bolts, becoming invisible,
shape shifting, causing earthquakes; the spells and the possibilities of per-
forming magic in the games are various. In addition, players can develop
their magical skills when they are progressing in the game. In fact, they
can have a magical career. As DAoC states: “[f]or those who wish to dabble
in the arts of magic and mysticism, there are several paths that lead to a
mastery of the arcane.” In DAoC they can do so by joining magical schools
and guilds. They can become part of the Academy (“the school founded
by the famous wizard Merlin”), the Guild of Shadows or the Church of
Albion. In UO, there are eight levels of magic containing sixty-four magi-
cal spells and rituals. The novice starts at the first level (low-magic) and
can advance until the eighth level (high-magic). In this last phase, one can
attain great—almost omnipotent—magical powers.
Playing with Pagan Magic: “I want to believe . . .”
The assessment that popular online worlds are suffused with the pagan
worldview and magic does not necessarily mean that they are experienced
as spiritual. The motivations of several game designers, however, provide a
first indication that the implementation of pagan fantasies in game worlds
is not just esthetically informed. In an interview with Richard Bartle I
asked, “Why do so many virtual worlds feature magic?” and he turned it
into a topic of discussion among game designers on the blog Terranova.2
The answers ranged from explanations that magic is a functional trope
to enhance the boundaries between the real and the game world (that is,
to construct a self-enclosed ‘magic circle’ of play (Huizinga 1950) with its
distinct rules, time and space) to speculations about the intrinsic value of
magic, myth and mystery and its importance in the modern world. As one
typical designer noted about the latter:
[m]agic is growing in popularity . . . It’s a very compelling way to view the
world and can provide more meaning and agency than a viewpoint that
is strictly materialist . . . In a nutshell, we want the magic that was stripped
by rational materialism to return back into our lives. Immersive 3D worlds
provide a nice playground to this end.
Game designer Brian Mortiarty claimed at the Internet Game Developers
Conference in San Jose, California in 1996:
[i]f we could design reality for our minds, what powers would we grant
ourselves . . . Why should we settle for avatars when we can become
angels? . . . Spiritual experiences are, in fact, our business. Ours will be an
economy of spirits.3
The question remains, whether, and if so how, players identify with these
fantasy worlds and whether they themselves experience them as ‘really’ or
‘truly’ enchanting. The ‘disenchantment of the world,’ Max Weber famously
argued, generates a nonreligious and disillusioned worldview. Under the
influence of science and technology, he commented, an otherworldly ori-
entation will be gradually replaced by a worldview that is more realis-
tic and objective but at the same time undermines the meaning of life.
Modern astronomy, biology, physics or chemistry can describe the world
2
Internet site, http://terranova.blogs.com/terra_nova/2005/09/magic.html. Accessed
13/07/2011.
3
Brian Moriarty, “The Point Is” (1996), at http://ludix.com/moriarty/point.html. Accessed
13/07/2011.
236 stef aupers
as it is, but cannot (and should not) teach anything about the ultimate
meaning of the world. In a totally ‘disenchanted world,’ Weber argued,
“the worlds [sic] processes simply are . . . and happen but no longer signify
anything” (1948: 506).
Interestingly enough, the majority of players of World of Warcraft
interviewed subscribe to this existential situation: first of all, they pride
themselves on being atheists incapable of believing in ‘supernatural’ or
‘transcendent’ realms and especially traditional forms of religion. One
typical gamer argued that “[r]eligions like Christianity and Islam are from
the past and no longer relevant for me. They are based on a society from
two thousand years ago . . .” Others state that “there’s nothing holy about
the Bible,” that religions are just ‘fairytales’ and that “only fools believe
in God.” They essentially perceive themselves as too rational and sober
(nuchter in Dutch) to believe and often actually claim that, essentially,
scientific knowledge can solve and de-mystify all mysteries. As self-pro-
claimed ‘true atheists’ they accept many secularizing scientific proposi-
tions derived from evolution theory, physics and computer sciences. One
of the gamers provides the most explicit and radical example of this thor-
oughly rationalized and disenchanted perspective. He comments:
I am completely irreligious. I think a human being is nothing more than an
animal—a mechanical organism and you can best compare a human with
a computer. The body is like a closet—in this closet you’ll find the hard-
ware, everything we learned is written on this hardware, our brains, and
our personality is therefore nothing more than software interacting with
the world.
Many of the gamers are not only nonreligious but have ‘lost faith’ in a
more general sense too. They overtly complain about the meaninglessness
of contemporary modern society: the ‘emptiness’ of politics, the problem
of unchecked modern capitalism, relentless consumption and the unfore-
seen consequences of science and technology. One gamer argues: “[s]ociety
is all about power and status. You need a job, you need money . . . And all
those technologies . . . We lose sight of what is really important. People for-
get: what are you actually living for?” Another comments: “[m]otivated by
the aim for more profits we develop technologies we do not understand.
We can not see the consequences for humanity but they will be dramatic,
I think.” And more bluntly: “[w]hy should I invest in such a world that is
so fucked up?”
On the flipside of this critical analysis of modern, disenchanted society
as meaningless is a quite romantic picture of more traditional, premodern
society. One gamer notes:
[t]here’s this nostalgic longing for the past when all these things where not
there yet. In the old days everything was better. The countryside, sunny
summers when everybody was happy. If you walk through the world of
World of Warcraft this is all there. And you are not constantly confronted
with high-tech.
The affinity with the rural, pre-industrial environment of WoW can thus,
first of all, be understood as motivated by the disillusions of living in a
disenchanted modern society. Like neopagans, the majority of WoW play-
ers romanticize the premodern past: they praise the simplicity, primitivity
and ‘authenticity’ of ‘their’ virtual world and, most ironically, emphasize
the lack of technology. From their perspective Azeroth—the universe
of World of Warcraft—is an isle of meaning and enchantment in a thor-
oughly disenchanted modern world. But how do they relate, more spe-
cifically, to pagan religion, polytheism and magic that suffuse the online
world? As noted, gamers proudly present themselves as too ‘rational’ to
believe. But there’s another side to this story—a feeling of loss and disil-
lusion: gamers can not believe in the supernatural but, argue, very much
like FBI agent Fox Mulder in the popular television series the X-Files that
they ‘want to believe’. As one gamer stated: “I would really like that there
was more than we can see in life. Telepathic connections between people,
or special super powers that people are born with—forces that are promi-
nent in everyday life.”
Paradoxically, their disenchanted stance motivates these youngsters to
enjoy ‘superpowers’, magic and pagan spirituality online. In this virtual
environment, after all, they can freely play with pagan spirituality without
believing or without being swallowed up by a belief system. “Within these
worlds you accept everything as it is,” one gamer typically comments. “It
is as it is because it is made that way.” Is this engagement with media-
tized paganism ‘just’ play then—merely entertainment in a game world?
Things are more complicated than that: play may be understood as an
alibi to seriously engage oneself with the meaning of magic, myth and
spirituality. More than that: while playing, gamers often experience the
environment, including its supernatural entities and propositions, as real.
Such ontological transformations occur, as we will see, especially through
the activity of role-playing.
Role-playing: Summoning the Powers Within
Magic is about turning a let’s pretend fantasy of being a witch or a wizard

into a serious assertion about the world. (Luhrmann 1991: 327)
238 stef aupers
Magical rituals are most important in the contemporary neopagan move-

ment since magic is the method by which one crosses the border from
the mundane to the realm of the sacred. Although the sacred, the divine
or the ‘spiritual world’ is located in the natural environment as a whole,
neopagan magic has a strong focus on unleashing the ‘god within’. Thus
it is part of the contemporary spiritual milieu where a Christian tran-
scendent god is replaced by ‘self-spirituality’ (Heelas 1996; Aupers and
Houtman 2006; Houtman and Aupers 2007). Through the influence of
‘bricolage’ and ‘perennialism’, the ‘god within’ has many labels, derived
from various traditions: participants refer to the ‘higher self ’ (derived from
Theosophy), the ‘divine spark’ (from the Gnostic tradition), the ‘Buddha
self’ (from Buddhism), the ‘soul’ (from Christianity) or the ‘inner child’
(from humanistic psychology). Writing about the neopagan movement,
Helen Berger refers to this alleged spiritual core as the ‘magical self ’—
a second identity that lies hidden in the deeper layers of consciousness
and is invoked in many contemporary neopagan rituals. Berger (1999: 33)
emphasizes the primacy of this ‘magical’ or ‘divine’ Self in ritual perfor-
mances, procedures and formulations: “[l]ook within yourself; everything
for which you are searching is there. Know thou art goddess/thou art god.”
Once the ‘divine’ or ‘magical self’ is awake, neopagans assume, one crosses
the border from the profane world to the sacred world where everything
is possible and interconnected.
It has been assessed in many studies on paganism that ‘play’ and ‘role-
playing’ are at the heart of such neopagan rituals to summon the pow-
ers within (Adler 1986; Berger 1999; Luhrmann 1991). Most convincingly,
Luhrmann argues on the basis of her extensive fieldwork that the model
of ‘play’—or a context of ‘let’s pretend’, ‘as-if ’ or ‘make-believe’—forms an
integral part of the magical act. Magic involves role-playing: in rituals, the
participants are called by another ‘magical’ name; they often wear exotic,
arcane clothes (especially in the tradition of ‘the Western Mysteries’);
they speak in hermetic vocabularies; they formulate archaic sentences
and utter strange words. In doing so, modern magicians play, and often
mimic, magical behavior derived from fiction in the media:
[m]agic involves and encourages the imaginative identification in which the
practitioner ‘plays at’ being a ritual magician or a witch; the theatrical set-
ting and dramatic invocations are directed at evoking precisely that sort of
complete identification with what one imagines the magician to be. Here
the role models are taken from fiction: the magician fantasizes about being
Gandalf, not about being his coven’s high priest. (Luhrmann 1991: 333)
Neopagan magic is, however, not ‘just play,’ but ‘serious play’ since role-
playing is constitutive for genuine, out-of-the-ordinary experiences and
motivates ontological transformations: in the process of role-playing, fic-
tion becomes real, make-belief instigates belief and play is gradually expe-
rienced as serious magic. As Johan Huizinga noted in Homo Ludens (1950:
13): “[t]he disguised or masked individual ‘plays’ another part, another
being. He is another being.” In the context of neopaganism, a housewife
becomes the Greek goddess of the hunt, Artemis, a teacher becomes Osiris
and yet another participant a powerful priest of an ancient Mayan cult, a
Celtic druid or Siberian shaman.
Role-playing, in short, is a technique to summon the ‘powers within’ and
align oneself with an imagined ‘higher’ or ‘magical’ Self. This applies to the
activity of online gaming as well. Before the game starts, players choose an
archetypical ‘character’ or ‘avatar’ which functions as a digital representa-
tion of the player. According to Kolo and Baur (2004), the role of the magi-
cian is most popular among ‘all players’ (at least in UO). By incarnating
a role as, for instance, a sorcerer, warlock, wizard, enchanter, illusionist,
coercer, summoner, necromancer, conjurer, druid, warden, fury, sha-
man, defiler or mystic—players become active subjects in the enchanting
online world. Like neopagans, gamers are ‘naming’ their characters and
in doing so they are often inspired by popular legends, myth and histori-
cal knowledge. As one gamer notes: “I gave it a beautiful name derived
from history—my character lived during the Roman Empire. That’s what
I really like. And that’s the way I experience it in the game.” The enhance-
ment of a feeling of agency is furthermore built into the design of the
online games: players have seemingly endless choices to make about the
gender, race, class, work and physical appearance of their characters and
everyone can thus, in theory, be a truly ‘authentic’ individual in the game
world. As displayed on the website of the the game Asheron’s Call: “[e]nter
the vast and magical world of Dereth, where a new and heroic identity
awaits you! . . . After selecting your attire and facial features from millions
of possible combinations, customize your skill set to make your character
truly unique.”4 Once they are in the game, individual role-players shape
and are shaped by the broader narrative of the game world—its imagined
history, tales about violent wars between good and evil alliances and, of
course, its pagan culture brimming with enchantment and magic.
Internet site, http://ac.turbine.com/. Accessed 09/2010.

4
240 stef aupers
The affinity between neopaganism and online gaming is evident. In

both cases the concrete practice of role-playing blurs the distinction
between playing and being, between a virtual identity and real identity.
And more than that, through role-playing, people paradoxically gain
access to dimensions of the self and experiences that do not surface in
real life. Game designer Richard Bartle (2004: 155–156) refers to this pro-
cess as the “role-playing paradox”:
[y]ou’re not role-playing as a being, you are that being; you’re not assuming
an identity, you are that identity; you’re not projecting a self, you are that
self. If you’re killed in a fight, you don’t feel that your character has died,
you feel that you have died. There’s no level of indirection, no filtering, no
question: you are there . . . When player and character merge to become a
personae [sic], that’s immersion; that’s what people get from virtual worlds
that they can’t get from anywhere else; that’s when they stop playing the
world and start living it.
My own research validates this point to a large extent. Most interviewed
players of World of Warcraft emphasize that they increasingly identify
with their avatars, especially since they invested a lot of time, energy and
work in them. One typical gamer argues that, “it has become a part of me”
whereas another states: “[the character] clearly possesses a fragment of
my soul . . .” Once players experience the in-game character as real, they
project personal desires and idealized identities on the avatar. Like neopa-
gans then, they unleash and play out their ‘better selves,’ ‘magical selves’
or ‘higher potentials’ that cannot be expressed in everyday life. “A hero
that follows his own path and does his own thing—that’s the way I have
designed him. And I like playing with the idea that I am him.” “He is a part
of me, something that I would like to be,” one player contends. “You can
be someone else. I think it is a beautiful world full of fantasy—a world
that you encounter only in books. Unlike in real life, you can become a
real hero,” says another. While finally, respondent number three states:
“[i]t says something about your dreams: you play the person that you can-
not be in real life but would like to be.”
In the online realm of World of Warcraft, in short, gamers freely immerse
themselves in pagan worldviews and unleash, what Berger calls, the ‘magi-
cal self’ through the activity of role-playing. More important: role-playing
proves to transgress the boundaries between the real and the virtual and
players admit that they often experience their magical self and its magical
actions as real. While immersed in play they often ‘forget’ that World of
Warcraft is in fact a computer game, mediated by technological hardware,
software, keyboard and a screen. Typical are statements like: “I don’t have
the feeling that I am sitting behind my laptop—that I am using a mouse or

that I have to push a button . . .” As a result, one gamer comments: “[y]ou
are there—living the fantasy . . . You are the wizard and can do extraor-
dinary things. And you can actually do that together with other people.”
Another adds: “[e]specially when you are a wizard, someone who knows
how to cast spells, you really feel you have power. Like Gandalf in the
movie . . . The evil ones are just scared. It has impact.” A third gamer notes:
“[t]he impossible becomes possible. In City of Heroes you are a superhero
with supernatural powers; you can do there what you can not do in real
life. I can’t lift things with my thoughts, but I can do this in City of Heroes.
Just like Spiderman and the X-Men. And that is really cool!”
Is this real magic? Like neopagans our gamers are aware of the con-
structed, man-made nature of ‘their’ metaphysical world and magical
actions. Yet they are not very interested in such ontological consider-
ations. Experience is key; over and over again they conclude: “I experience
it as real.” Magic, Sigmund Freud (1999) argued a century ago, is all about
the ‘omnipotence of thought’; magicians take seriously their subjective,
and, according to Freud, infantile and narcissistic desires to control the
natural world with thoughts and feeling. Online environments provide the
opportunity to, literally, play out such magical desires and fantasies.
Conclusion
The erosion of traditional Christian religion has given rise to all kinds of
spirituality including fiction-based or ‘hyper-real religion.’ Compared with
traditional forms of religion, such forms of spirituality no longer refer to
a ‘real truth’ out there: it is mediatized, self-referential and by and large
builds upon inter-textual references, i.e. references to other fictitious
narratives in novels, movies and popular consumer culture. The online
computer game World of Warcraft provides a good example. It is clearly
a reality in and of itself—a ‘magical’ otherworldly world that draws on
narratives from an imagined pagan past, the fantasy of Tolkien and other
forms of popular fiction.
Given its hyper-real character, postmodernists like Jean Baudrillard or
Fredric Jameson would a priori deny the spiritual significance of a game
like World of Warcraft. More than that, the existence and popularity of
such games would probably be considered symptomatic for a postmod-
ern culture that is governed by ‘simulations and simulacra’, a society that
encourages ‘surface’ over ‘depth’ (Jameson 1991) yet at the same time
242 stef aupers
mourns the death of reality. “When the real is no longer what it was,”
Baudrillard (1994: 6) argued, “nostalgia assumes its full meaning. There
is a plethora of myths of origin and signs of reality—a plethora of truth,
of secondary objectivity, and authenticity.” World of Warcraft can, from
this perspective, be understood as a ‘myth of origin’—a simulation of an
innocent premodern spiritual culture that is fed by nostalgia for the real
but, tragically, only further contributes to its loss. The question remains:
should the proliferation of ‘hyper-real’ religions like World of Warcraft
simply be understood as a sign that ‘real’ religion is dead—is it indeed ‘a
hyper-real testament’, as Adam Possamai (2005; emphasis added) suggests
in the subtitle of his book?
This can be doubted. Ironically, it seems that such typically postmod-
ern positions are often informed by a modern ontology that holds a clear-
cut distinction between ‘reality’ and ‘fiction’; the ‘real’ and the ‘virtual’; the
‘authentic’ and the ‘fake’. Such distinctions are not just descriptive, but are
above all hierarchical and normative: religions based on fiction, located
in the virtual world are considered of less value than ‘real’ (traditional)
religions. This ‘ontological fundamentalism’ is no longer feasible: ‘what is
real’ and ‘what is fake’ can and should not a priori be established in the
social sciences but should be empirically informed.
From this perspective, this study analyzed the meanings young Dutch
gamers attribute to the hyper-real religious environment of World of
Warcraft. It is demonstrated that the distinctions between the ‘real’ and
the ‘fake’ are not so clear-cut and stable as many academics would have
them. Motivated by a stance that can be described as ‘ontological rela-
tivism’ or ‘ontological pragmatism’ (Aupers 2004; 2007) players of World
of Warcraft willingly negotiate and transgress such boundaries. They are,
as Rushkoff (1994) accurately phrased it, ‘reality hackers’. Unburdened
by essentialist and moral considerations about ‘what is real’ and ‘what
is fake,’ they freely choose realities that are above all experienced as real,
meaningful or spiritual. This particular focus on experience as the ulti-
mate key to determine what is good, just and real is especially salient
in the spiritual milieu (Hanegraaff 1996; Hammer 2001; Possamai 2005).
In the field of spirituality Partridge (2004: 75) rightly notes: “[o]nly per-
sonal experience . . . can provide immediate and uncontaminated access
to truth.” Clients of reincarnation therapy, for instance, don’t necessarily
believe in the ‘objective truth’ of reincarnation, yet they experience their
past-life experiences as subjectively real and veritably spiritual (Aupers
1998; 2011). Neopagans acknowledge the socially constructed nature of
their historical claims, yet they experience such claims as genuinely real
and truly spiritual.
In a similar vein then, players of World of Warcraft obviously do not

believe in the ‘reality’ of the mysterious online world of Azeroth or the
magic they perform online. Through the transgressive act of role-playing,
however, they increasingly experience their ‘magical avatars’ and the vir-
tual world as real, meaningful and spiritual. From an emic perspective
(that is leading here in the inductive formation of theory) such experi-
ences can not easily be falsified. My respondents would probably fully
agree with Pine and Gillmore (1999: 36) that: “[t]here is no such thing as
an artificial experience. Every experience created within the individual is
real, whether the stimuli be natural or simulated.” And they would surely
relate to what Markham (1998: 120) stated about experiences in an online
environment: “[w]hen experiences are experienced, they cannot be ‘not
real’. In a broader sense, terms such as real, hyperreal, not real, or virtual
are no longer valid or meaningful as definitions of our experiences because
our experiences are not easily separated in these binary oppositions.”
Instead of indicating the end of religion then, the experience as real
of enchanting online games like World of Warcraft may be exemplary for
a transformation of religion. Focal in this may not be just the rapid pro-
liferation of hyper-real environments producing all kinds of enchanting
narratives, magical practices and the like, but primarily the epistemologi-
cal transformation from (religious) belief to (spiritual) experience. It is
from the focus on experience as the royal road to sacred truth that almost
everything—including a commodified, ‘hyper-real’ computer game like
World of Warcraft—can become part of the religious domain.
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Dealing a New Religion: Material Culture, Divination,
and Hyper-religious Innovation
Douglas E. Cowan
Dealing a New Religion: Material Culture, Divination,

and Hyper-religious Innovation
“What witch doesn’t love a good divination system?” asks Linda Bellaluna
(2002: 19), priestess-initiate in the Sisterhood of the Silver Branch, an
online Goddess spirituality group (www.thesilverbranch.org), and colum-
nist on ‘witchcrafting’ for newWitch (now Witches & Pagans), a modern
Pagan magazine initially marketed to adolescents and young adults. Each
month, Bellaluna teaches her readers how to create different magical
objects for use in ritual, devotion, and, in this case, divination. To make a
“personal amulet oracle,” for example, she suggests that readers glue small
pictures to the backs of “vase gems” (flat-sided glass pastilles) and draw
them at random when seeking insight, wisdom, and guidance. The pic-
tures should be carefully chosen and the oracle created in the context of
a ritual environment, with strict attention paid to the selection of images
and the intent behind the oracle’s design. “The hard part,” she writes,
“is figuring out what kind of information you want to be able to receive
from your oracle, and what kind of symbolism to incorporate so you’ll get
answers that are actually useful” (Bellaluna 2002: 19). In addition to the
creation of the oracle as a magical act in and of itself, Bellaluna stresses
both the haptic relationship with and the fashion statement made by the
objects themselves.
Like any divination system, the more you play with your amulets the better
your readings will be, so keep them nearby and consult them often. Carry a
couple with you as touchstones on tense days, or choose one to slip beneath
your pillow for dream guidance. Oh, and show them off, because your one-of-
a-kind oracle is going to be too cool to keep to yourself! (Bellaluna 2002: 20)
Although in her column Bellaluna does consider some aspects of the
epistemology underpinning divination practice, at least as many modern
Pagans understand it, note that what she describes in her column is not
an intellectual exercise requiring belief in complex, abstract notions of
god and goddess, or the ontological vagaries of the “unseen order” (James
248 douglas e. cowan
1999: 61). Rather, this is an interactional devotional practice that both

depends on and is facilitated by materiality and the sense of touch as “an
instrument of knowledge” (Chidester 2005: 71). The more the practitioner
handles, touches, caresses, and ‘plays with’ the amulets she has created,
the more they will reveal the information to which Bellaluna believes their
very creation has granted them access. “Keep them nearby,” she advises,
counsel that speaks directly to their material nature. Carry them as “touch-
stones on tense days,” guidance that could not more clearly indicate the
material character of the practice. That is, they have no power sitting in a
shoebox tucked in the back of one’s bedroom closet. Efficacy is a function
of proximity and tactility. Their ability to guide, to calm, to do whatever
the practitioner believes they can do is precisely related to the physical
contact between the creator and the creation. It is in this bond that their
contribution to religious belief and practice is realised—or in our case,
hyper-realised.
Two aspects of this relationship particularly interest us here: material
culture as a constituent of religious identity, and divination culture as an
exemplar of hyper-religious innovation through material culture. With
a few notable exceptions—Phillip Lucas’ work on the use of megalithic
sites by contemporary nature worshippers (2007), Sabine Magliocco’s
discussion of modern Pagan artwork and altarcraft (2001), or Nikki Bado-
Fralick and Rebecca Sachs Norris’s research into religious toys and games
(2010)—material culture has been all but completely ignored in the study
of new religions. If material objects are mentioned at all, they are dis-
cussed either as epiphenomena to new religious belief, practices, and the
discourses within which they are embedded, or as an ephemeral entrée
to what are regarded as more important analytic concerns—conversion
processes, institutional routinisation of charisma, new religious violence,
or failed prophecy. They are not treated as aspects of new religious culture
worthy of study in their own right or capable of disclosing aspects of new
religious understanding unavailable through other means of analysis (cf.
McDannell 1995; Schlereth 1985; Upton 1985).
Unfortunately, it seems the importance of material culture, the things
we use to establish and practice our different and diverse faiths, is all too
easily lost in the heady shuffle of ritual participation, doctrinal belief,
and the ethical and moral dicta that are often defined by the latter and
enacted in the former. Arguing, for example, over whether a Wiccan altar
must be placed in the northern quadrant of the sacred circle (or east or
west, depending on whom one reads; cf. Buckland 1987; Farrar and Farrar
1984; Starhawk 1979), or whether a statue of the Virgin Mary is an appro-
dealing a new religion 249
priate addition to a Goddess altar (Cowan 2005), misses a number of

important aspects of the discussion: the material fact of the altar itself;
the physical presence of this statue or that as an instantiation of one’s
religious devotion; the complex mythistory—both Christian and Pagan
in this instance—that informs the discourse; the unspoken language of
object and arrangement that demarcates the sacred space these objects
signify; and, finally, the implicit and explicit relationships of power that
are embodied in the objects and embedded in disputes about them.
Put bluntly, scholars of religion—especially scholars of new religions—
need to take things more seriously, to embrace, as it were, a Hegelianism
of the left in their search for new religious understanding. That is, we
need to pay closer attention to things and to the meanings those things
have for new religious groups and adherents. “Without artefacts, mate-
rial goods,” argues archeologist Colin Renfrew (1998: 1), “many forms of
thought simply could not have developed.” Further, material culture is
“not only reflective of social relations and of cognitive categories, it is
to a large extent constitutive of these as well” (Renfrew 1998: 3). Once
recognised, this insight could not be more clearly displayed than in the
“social relations” and “cognitive categories” populating the vast and varied
landscapes of human religious history and behaviour. Art historians David
Morgan and Sally Promey (2001: 16) concur, asking, even more pointedly,
“in what manner are material things constitutive of religion? How do
material objects participate in the practices that make up religious lives?
How do such practices rely on material objects? . . . How do objects help
generate and maintain the narratives, institutions, and rituals that make
sense of a lifeworld?” Or, in our case, how do material objects contribute
to the creation and reification of new and emergent religious lifeworlds,
especially hyper-real lifeworlds drawn from popular culture? Too easily
we forget that things only have the meanings we give them, but that the
meanings we give them often characterise and control our use of those
things, consequently shaping the traditions in which objects are used and
reused. Among these traditions are the myriad divination cultures that
have for millennia marked human interpretation of and interaction with
the unseen order.
Although many researchers have investigated divination and oracu-
lar practice as social phenomena, much of this work has been restricted
either to antiquity (Berchman 1998; Gordon 1997; Lambert 1997) or to non-
Western cultures (Jordan 1982; Pugh 1988; Sharma 1970). Classic works by
anthropologists William Bascom (1969) and Victor Turner (1975), for exam-
ple, discuss the various means of Ifa and Ndembu divination respectively,
research on African oracular practices that has been revisited and aug-
mented many times since (Abimbola 1989; Mendonsa 1979; Reynolds
Whyte 1990). Wai-Ming Ng (2000) has considered the importance of the
I Ching in Tokugawa Japan, while Suzuki (1995) and Benjamin Dorman
(2006) examine oracular and divination practices in late modern Japan.
In North America, however, divination practices and processes have
not yet attracted the scholarly attention they deserve, particularly as these
impact new religious innovation and development. To be sure, there
have been a number of studies related to astrology—horoscopes, after
all, remain the most common form of popular divination, with approxi-
mately twenty five percent of North Americans believing that the position
of the stars affects their lives in some way (Lyons 2005; Feher 1992; Munk
2007; Wuthnow 1976)—and a number of volumes have appeared in recent
years on the origins of the occult Tarot (Auger 2004; Decker, DePaulis
and Dummett 1996; Decker and Dummett 2002; Farley 2009). However,
we know considerably less about the ways in which these practices con-
struct, contribute to, or reinforce both personal and social lifeworlds. One
notable exception is the dissertation work of sociologist Danny Jorgenson
(1992), who learned the skills of a professional Tarot reader in order to
carry out participant observation at New Age fairs and psychic festivals.
Given the popularity of divination in late modern society and the dra-
matic increase in new tools for accessing the unseen order—whether this
is conceptualised as a supernatural realm populated by a variety of non-
empirical entities or as the natural world of the unconscious (collective or
otherwise)—the paucity of research in this area remains obvious. Mediums
and channels notwithstanding—though here a case could be made for the
body as the material locus for communication with the unseen order—
material culture is endemic to divination. After all, even Johnny Carson
had his faux swami turban and famous sealed envelope on The Tonight
Show. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine divination apart from the material
culture through which it is instantiated. Theriomancy, for example, seeks
insight into the divine mind through the behaviours of various animals,
including birds (avimancy), fish (icthyomancy), horses (hippomancy), and
ants (myrmomancy). Among the Azande, termites are used to divine the
solution to problems or questions, the answer depending on which of
two different branches the insects find tastier. Divination in many parts
of the Cameroon often involves a large spider and a ‘deck’ of cards made
from the dried leaves of a plum tree (Zeitlyn 1993). Many people in rural
Europe and North America are familiar with dowsing, or ‘water-witching’,
which depends on an adept’s used of a split stick or twisted coat-hanger.
Thrown bones, shells, and stones have offered insight to cultures around
the world. Scapulomancers burned the shoulder bones (scapulae) of dif-
ferent animals, then read the pattern of cracks that appeared. Whether
consulted through the counting of yarrow stalks or the throwing of coins,
the venerable I Ching has figured in divination for more than two thou-
sand years and has contributed to everything from political decisions to
marriage advice, and from the quest for personal growth in the New Age
to the search for a Russian whaling fleet in the early years of Greenpeace
(Hunter and Weyler 1978: 61). The runic alphabet that was once the basic
Anglo-Saxon orthography (Elliott 1989) has been mythologised and trans-
formed into a popular divination system supposedly given to humans
by Odin himself (Pennick 1992). Similarly, the Irish ogham alphabet,
interpreted through the poetic imagination of Robert Graves’ The White
Goddess (1975), has been popularised in the modern Pagan Celtic revival
as a divination tool (cf. Thorsson 1992). Artfully carved in bone or wood,
painted on carefully selected stones, or sometimes offered as divination
card decks, both runes and ogham are available from numerous modern
Pagan outlets, both online and off. Consider, though, what any of these
would be without their material component.
First, materiality lends substance to imagination, concretising and real-
ising the abstractions that so often constitute religious belief and practice.
While in the context of a Tarot reading, for example, the querent (pos-
sibly) and the reader (certainly) will be aware of the meanings encoded
in the major and minor arcana, neither is required to rely on imagination
alone as they seek the guidance of the cards. Since both are looking at
the same image—say, the Five of Swords, which is often interpreted to
indicate despair, loss, or failure—the material reality of the card imparts
a finality, a sense of closure to the interpretation. In our imagination, we
can run away; when our cards are on the table, as it were, we are forced to
face them. In this way, the material nature of the cards serves as an exter-
nal locus of validation and standardisation, necessary functions of the
power relationship that exists between the querent and the reader. Faced
with cards that indicate significant problems for the querent, the mate-
rial objects—their ‘objective’ nature—allows the reader both to maintain
control of the reading and to distance herself from the reading’s content.
“It’s not me telling you this,” we can hear her say, “just look at the cards.”
Second, material culture functions as a kind of prosthetic memory, an
external hard drive for complex concepts and extended interpretations.
As Linda Bellaluna advises, young Pagans who make their own divination
system are encouraged to carry the stones around with them, to remind
them of the attributes with which they believe the individual images are
imbued. Though they may not remember the entirety of the system they
have created, individual physical objects act as meaning cues in the con-
text of interpretation and divination. Divination artifacts such as runes or
Tarot cards also participate in what anthropologists are beginning to iden-
tify as ‘culturfacts’, material objects that are not only purposive within a
particular social context (a divinatory reading), but are more generally
symbolic of the culture embedded within that context (the modern Pagan
or New Age milieu). They encode information that both allows for the
performance of particular religious or spiritual identity and makes pos-
sible the transfer of meaning between or among participants.
Third, this possibility for shared meaning through material culture
immanentises the potential for an exchange relationship, for an ongoing
commodification and commercialisation of divinatory practice. It’s not
hard to imagine that a Tarot reader who simply describes the images she
sees would soon find herself short of customers. Laying the cards out, on
the other hand, especially in the context of a ritually prepared physical
environment, inviting the querent to look and see for himself, offering
something visible (the cards) for something tangible (the fee) all realise
the reading in ways simple description can never approach. “These days,”
writes Isaac Bonewits (1989: 17), founder of the neo-Druid movement, Ár
nDraíocht Féin, “occultism is spelled o¢¢ulti$m,” and nowhere is this more
the case than with the expanding market of divinatory technologies.
Finally, use is as often as not a history of reuse, and, as Eric Hobsbawm
(1983) has pointed out—symbolic reuse of a thing often becomes possible
only when its practical use has expired. In The Wiccan Web: Surfing the
Magic on the Internet, popular Pagan authors Patricia Telesco and Sirona
Knight describe how obsolete computer equipment can be put to magical
reuse. Individual keys pried from an old keyboard and kept in a special
cloth bag become a divination tool similar to runes or bones. Pulling the
‘Caps Lock’ key, for example, suggests that one should “stop shouting or
projecting your energy so much”; the ‘Num Lock’ key, on the other hand,
indicates “you’re too caught up in logical thinking” (Telesco and Knight
2001: 97, 98). A screwdriver can become a magic pendulum, while a blank
computer monitor acts as a crystal ball, a scrying tool (cf. Cowan 2005:
16–18). Judging by the explosion of popular interest in Tarot, however,
the ‘wicked pack of cards’ remains one of the most fashionable means of
divination and one that reveals most clearly hyper-religious innovation.
The Wicked Pack of Cards: Subcultural Intertextuality and Tarotic Variety
According to Aeclectic Tarot (www.aeclectictarot.net), a website run by

an Australian Tarot enthusiast, more than a thousand different Tarot
and oracle decks are currently available either commercially or privately,
with many more in various stages of design and production. Indeed,
Tarot seems more popular than ever, with choices ranging from assorted
interpretations of the venerable Rider-Waite deck, one of the first to be
offered widely and the one many Tarot readers still regard as the bench-
mark of their craft, to those reflecting an astonishing array of religious
and spiritual traditions, from decks that attempt to remain faithful to the
European tarotic tradition to others that freely synthesise and syncretise
images and interpretation from a wide variety of cultures, both religious
and popular. Many are marketed by major publishers such as U.S. Games
Systems or Llewellyn in the United States and Lo Scarabeo in Italy, while
others are self-published.
Practitioners of ceremonial magick, for example, can choose between
Aleister Crowley’s Thoth Tarot, the Enochian Tarot, and the Golden Dawn
Tarot, while those who resonate with Native American spirituality have the
Santa Fe Tarot, the illustrations of which are more ideographic than rep-
resentational and whose suits, rather than the traditional cups, pentacles,
swords, and wands, are water, buffalo, lightning, and rainbows. Similarly,
in its minor arcana Julie Cuccia-Watts’ Ancestral Path Tarot oversimplifies
four different traditional cultures to illustrate the information allegedly
encoded in the suit cards: Pagan Britain (cups), Native America (circles
or pentacles), mediæval Japan (swords), and ancient Egypt (staves or
wands). Not surprisingly, Wiccans and witches have an embarrassment
of riches when it comes to the Tarot, including, but hardly limited to, the
eponymous Pagan Tarot, Robin Wood Tarot, Tarot of the Old Path, Sacred
Circle Tarot, and the Witchy Tarot, which Aeclectic Tarot describes as “full
of cutely drawn long-legged Witchy stereotypes.” For those interested in
the mythology of the British Isles, there are, among others, the Arthurian
Tarot, the Avalon Tarot, the Celtic Tarot, and the Merlin Tarot (which
Aeclectic Tarot rates as “disappointingly repetitive and difficult to inter-
pret intuitively”). In The Grail Tarot, John Matthews, a well-known fig-
ure in the revival and reinvention of Celtic spirituality, offers “A Templar
Vision.” In this deck’s major arcana, for example, the Fool (usually the first
trump card in the series) becomes “The Grail Seeker,” while the Magician
is “The Gnostic Christ,” and the High Priestess, “The Magdalene.” Most
often depicted as a man and a woman, the Lovers card is rendered as
“The Two Knights of the Temple,” an image that, according to the deck’s
guidebook, “emphasises the loving relationship between the brothers of
the [Templar] Order” (Matthews 2007: 26). Although Matthews describes
the image—two men riding tandem on a horse—as part of foundational
legend of the Knights Templar, it is hard to avoid the arcanum’s rather
unsubtle homoeroticism, a charge that figured prominently in the perse-
cution of the Templars in the early fourteenth century.
Still other decks exhibit no particular religious or historical affiliation.
Patrick Valenza’s surrealist-inspired Deviant Moon Tarot, for example,
which uses a Punch-and-Judy styled imagery, was voted the most popular
new deck in 2008 (according to Aeclectic Tarot), while five different decks
use vampires to depict the tarotic journey and nine feature angels of one
sort or another. Drawing on the immense popularity of such New Age
classics as Fritjof Capra’s The Tao of Physics (1975) and Gary Zukav’s The
Dancing Wu Li Masters (1979), the Quantum Tarot uses images from NASA’s
Hubble telescope to illustrate cards that ostensibly combine the intuitive
divinatory capabilities of the cards with theories of quantum physics.
Lest we think, though, that the choice of tarotic imagery is relegated
solely to the intellect—the region above the neck—in recent years a
number of ‘adults-only’ decks have appeared that draw on different
erotic traditions to generate new tarotic pathways and invoke the sexual
imagination as a means of divinatory insight. Luca Raimondo’s Tarot of
Casanova evokes the famous Venetian womaniser and memoirist, paint-
ing into the cards the erotic intrigues of eighteenth-century Venice that
Casanova described in Story of My Life (1794). Considerably less aristocratic
in its imagery is the Decameron Tarot of Giarcinto Guadenzi and Luciano
Spadanuda, whose cards demystify the various aspects of sexual behav-
iour in the same bawdy manner as Boccaccio’s classic collection of erotic
stories. On the other hand, with its almost Sadean imagery and explicit
reference to bestiality, rape, and child sexual abuse, Amerigo Folchi’s
Tarocco Erotico dei Giardini di Priapo (‘The Tarot of the Erotic Garden
of Priapus’) is considered by Aeclectic Tarot far too sexually explicit for
many enthusiasts. Considerably more romantic in its imagery, the Tarot
of Sexual Magic encourages practitioners to explore their own sexuality
through the rather gentle eroticism of its images. And, for modern Pagans
who are interested in the more embodied side of the Craft, there is the
Sensual Wicca Tarot. Drawing on the imagery associated with such well-
known Indian erotic classics as the Ananga Ranga, the Gita Govindam, the
Koka Shastra, and, of course, the Kama Sutra, the Kama Sutra Tarot “seeks
to connect its users with a rich tradition of sexual intercourse as a path to
bliss and enlightenment” (Madan 2007: 5).
Italian artist Milo Manara’s Erotic Tarot recalls artwork for which he
is well known to a generation of Heavy Metal readers (e.g. 1995; 2004),
and crosses all boundaries, both literary and imaginal, with no principal
allegiance to any. In the major arcana, for example, the Fool is Pinocchio
lying in the lap of the Blue Fairy, while the Magician is a scantily clad
young woman pointing a screwdriver (her magic wand) at the erect,
mechanical member of a robot dinosaur she has assembled in her work-
shop. As playful as these are, much of Manara’s imagery is more explicitly
transgressive. The second trump card, the Priestess, invokes decades of
“nunsploitation” cinema (see Cowan 2008: 239–248), centuries of anti-
Catholic propaganda, and the history of ‘marriage night’ mystical experi-
ence in Roman Catholicism. A beautiful young nun in full habit stands
before a table and picture frame, her face raised in rapture, her skirt raised
to expose her mons veneris. Is the frame, though, a mirror and she delight-
ing in her own sexuality, or does it contain a holy picture or icon while
she displays her sex for the glory of God, her husband in the conventual
sense? We are left to decide on our own. The Priest card, on the other
hand, is considerably less ambiguous and depicts a Cardinal in full regalia
who appears to be surprised by a young woman urinating on the stone
steps of a cathedral. However much the Church may try to censor our
biological needs and desires, it seems they always surface somehow. There
is inevitably a ‘return of the repressed’. Indeed, the Tower card, which
always follows the Devil in the major arcana and which in many inter-
pretations symbolises imminent, institutional destruction or collapse, is
the famous gothic cathedral at Chartres. Slashed with rain and lowering
clouds, its massive presence is threatened by the irresistible pressure of
the human urge to eros.
As should be obvious by this point, Tarot decks are designed to access
particular stocks of subcultural knowledge—the Arthurian legends, mod-
ern Paganism, New Age spirituality, the current popularity of vampire
lore, or the erotic imagination—and are, therefore, relentlessly intertex-
tual, combining and recombining an astonishing array of images and ideas
into what becomes for practitioners a meaningful, material whole. That is,
the images, the tactility of the cards, and the various divinatory arrange-
ments function interdependently as a meaning-making system. Lose any
one aspect and the system itself is weakened. The conceptual plasticity of
the cards presents an open-ended field on which any particular subcul-
tural interest may be mapped, any religious tradition or practice realised.
Consider, then, as an extended example of this, the realisation and com-
modification of H. P. Lovecraft’s dread Necronomicon, one component in
the hyper-realising of a Lovecraftian magical religion.
The Necronomicon Tarot: Hyper-realising Lovecraft
The Cthulhu Mythos, tales of elder gods known as the Old Ones, and of
the myriad madmen, demi-humans, and simple victims born from the fer-
tile imagination of Howard Phillips Lovecraft (1890–1937), could not be
more a part of popular culture. Brought to light first in the classic horror
pulps of the 1920s and 1930s—most prominently, Weird Tales—elements
of his dark fiction have evolved into a Lovecraftian subgenre and include
pop culture products ranging from video games (Call of Cthulhu, 2005),
graphic novels (e.g. Mike Mignola’s Hellboy, which was brilliantly realised
onscreen by director Guillermo del Toro), an ever-expanding bibliography
of shared world fiction, and extreme metal rock groups such as England’s
Cradle of Filth, to a variety of mid- and low-budget films either culled
from Lovecraft’s oeuvre (e.g. Dagon, Reanimator, The Dunwich Horror) or
inspired by it (e.g. John Carpenter’s In the Mouth of Madness; cf. Cowan
2008; Migliore and Strysik 2006).
Despite the fact that there is neither systematic organisation nor
conceptual consistency to the Cthulhu Mythos, within two decades of
Lovecraft’s death, fans and devotees began to use elements of his short
stories and novellas to fashion a kind of ‘Lovecraftian magick’—among
the first of these, occultist Kenneth Grant, one-time secretary and protegé
of Aleister Crowley. Central to many of these new hyper-religious innova-
tions is speculation about The Necronomicon (The Book of Dead Names),
allegedly an ancient compendium of Cthulhian magic that was said to
cause insanity in those who read even a few of its dread pages and is used
in a number of Lovecraft’s stories as the mechanism through which the Old
Ones are called back into our world. Although it was nothing more than
a literary device Lovecraft invented to lend both an eldritch atmosphere
and an aura of authenticity to his work, books alleged to be translations of
the real Necronomicon began to appear in the 1970s. The most well-known
of these is the so-called Simon Necronomicon (1977) and its companion
volume nearly thirty years later, The Gates of the Necronomicon (2006),
written, perhaps, by a disciple of Aleister Crowley, to whom the first vol-
ume is dedicated.
Since then, debates have raged within the Lovecraftian pop subcul-
ture about the origins and ontology of the book itself. In their exhaus-
tive study, The Necronomicon Files, Daniel Harms and John Gonce (2003)
demonstrate clearly that the book is a Lovecraftian creation—a pulp
fiction, as it were—despite the cottage industry it has generated since
the days of pulp. Some enthusiasts, however, continue to argue that The
Necronomicon is real, that Lovecraft perhaps read a copy in a university

library, and that this caused the nightmares that plagued him throughout
his life and on which he drew for much of his fiction. Others maintain
that Lovecraft himself was a black magician who sought the secrets of the
dead through the book and only barely disguised his efforts in short story
form. Still others want The Necronomicon and the dark magics it is said to
contain to be real(ised).
“The public wants the Necronomicon to exist,” writes Canadian ritual
magician Donald Tyson (2000: xi) in his preface to The Necronomicon
Files, “indeed, it demands that it exist.” Further, he concludes, while “it
seems almost a crime to debunk the living and growing myth of the
Necronomicon . . . it is arguably a still greater crime to sell books claiming
that they are the genuine Necronomicon when no such text ever existed”
(2000: xiii).
“When no such text ever existed”: remember that phrase, because in
recent years, Tyson has done more than anyone to realise and reify a sys-
tem of Lovecraftian magic based explicitly on the Necronomicon. In less
than five years, he has published not only his own version of the text itself
(2004), but a massive ‘autobiography’ of its putative author, the ‘mad Arab’
Abdul Alhazred (2005), the Grimoire of the Necronomicon (2008), a hand-
book of ritual magic and the framework for a magical order devoted to invo-
cation of the Cthulhian pantheon, and a nicely illustrated Necronomicon
Tarot (2007a), which includes an almost de rigueur companion volume,
the Secrets of the Necronomicon (2007b). In 2010, he published The 13 Gates
of the Necronomicon (2010a), which is subtitled “A Workbook of Magic,”
and a biography of Lovecraft himself (2010b). Challenging Lovecraft’s well-
documented skepticism of all things mystical—despite the literary genre
in which he made his reputation—Tyson posits that the author’s active
and disturbing nightmare life contributed far more to the Cthulhu mythos
than other biographers allow and reveals far more about the reality of the
shadow world his stories describe.
Attractively boxed, the Necronomicon Tarot follows an emerging trend
in the commodification of Tarot: shelf presentation and retail security,
value-added marketing, and the impression of conceptual gravitas—all
of which speak to the popularity of the genre. By avoiding single-deck
packaging in favour of a large, illustrated box, the Necronomicon Tarot
can be placed alongside other books in the Divination section of one’s
local box bookstore, or face-fronted on the shelf to encourage browsers.
From a security point of view, it is clearly more difficult to slip a box the
size of a dictionary into one’s pocket, backpack, or messenger bag, than
it would be a single deck of cards. Moreover, placing the Tarot beside

other components in Tyson’s Necronomicon series is meant, obviously,
to persuade customers to purchase not only the divination deck, but the
accompanying material as well. Inside the box, purchasers find the Secrets
of the Necronomicon, which describes the particular meanings assigned to
the cards as well as instructions on their use. Playing to the popularity of
Lovecraft and Cthulhian imagery among the Goth subculture, the cards
themselves come in a black organdy bag, the dark, gauzy feel of which
both reveals and occludes the images within—not unlike Lovecraft’s fic-
tion. All this colludes to present the material with a conceptual gravitas
to which it might not otherwise pretend. These are, after all, pulp fiction
horror stories brought to life. That said, as Morgan and Promey (2001: 16)
point out, “it is important to bear in mind that material culture scholars
read texts as objects. Books are things that clergy proudly display in their
studies or families display on parlor tables”—or, we might add, writers,
artists, and marketers display on bookstore shelves.
But, What of the Cards Themselves?
Although inflected with Lovecraftian imagery, the minor arcana follow

traditional understandings of the suit cards, a trait common among many
Tarot decks since it is considerably more difficult to create seventy-six
images entirely particular to a deck than it is to set the deck apart through
the images of the major arcana. In the Necronomicon Tarot, the Cthulhu
Mythos emerges in the twenty-two cards that symbolise the Fool’s journey
to enlightenment and self-understanding.
The Fool, for example, is the naked, corpulent Azathoth, “the blind
idiot god” whom the narrator in Lovecraft’s “The Haunter of the Dark”
describes as “Lord of All Things, encircled by his flopping horde of mind-
less and amorphous dancers, and lulled by the thin monotonous piping
of a daemonic flute held in nameless paws” (1999b: 354). The Magician,
on the other hand, is Nyarlathotep, the “crawling chaos,” an amorphous
entity who appears throughout the mythos and whom Lovecraft portrays
in his novella “The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath” as the “soul and
messenger” for “the blind, voiceless, tenebrous, mindless Other Gods,” at
the centre of whom sits Azathoth (2004: 157). The Empress, who in most
tarotic interpretation represents all the positive aspects of female fertil-
ity and the maternal instinct, is the demonic generatrix, Shub-Niggurath,
whom the narrator of “The Mound” describes as “a kind of sophisticated
Astarte” whose worship was “supremely obnoxious,” perhaps for its overtly
sexual nature (Lovecraft 2001: 375). She is the many-breasted goat-god-
dess, who holds death on high (a skull in one clawed hand, a hangman’s
noose in the other) while hordes of her squalling, impish progeny crawl
around at her hooves. Many of Lovecraft’s stories turn on human/non-
human miscegenation, the fictional result, perhaps, of his own very real
racism (cf. de Camp 1975; Joshi 1996), and this trait is most obvious in
the Lovers arcanum. Ordinarily depicting a happy couple in a romantic
union, the Necronomicon Tarot presents a not-quite-human priest presid-
ing over the wedding of the “Deep One and Bride,” an amphibious being
and his human bride. Drawn largely from the novella, “The Shadow Over
Innsmouth” (1999c), the imagery depicts the deliberate interbreeding
between species, something that Lovecraft always described in the direst
possible terms. Finally, there is the Devil, the arcanum traditionally asso-
ciated with subordination, entrapment, and enslavement. Here is Cthulhu
himself, high priest of the Old Ones, rendered by artist Anne Stokes almost
directly from Lovecraft’s description in “The Call of Cthulhu.” “If I say,”
writes the narrator, “that my somewhat extravagent imagination yielded
simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature,
I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing. A pulpy, tentacled
head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings”
(Lovecraft 1999a: 141).
As Jean Baudrillard (2005) points out, objects are the excerpted reflec-
tions of a larger, more totalising conceptual order. In this sense, every
object function as a metonym for the system of object-ideas within which
it is located and to which it contributes. Thus, we ought not consider the
Necronomicon Tarot in abstraction, but as one component in the larger
hyper-real project Tyson presents.
Fitting precisely into the entrepreneurial model of new religious devel-
opment identified by sociologists William Sims Bainbridge and Rodney
Stark three decades ago (1979) and meant to be used in conjuction with
the Tarot, the Necronomicon, and his ‘autobiography’ of dread text’s author,
Tyson (2008: xiii) intends the Grimoire as “a workable system of magic
based on the lords of the Old Ones,” as well as “the external framework for
an esoteric society devoted to group practice of this system of magic.” That
said, one might question just how ‘esoteric’ it could be when all the books
and the boxed Tarot set are prominently displayed in such bookstores such
as Barnes and Noble, Borders, and Chapters, and Tyson himself depends on
royalties from them to make a living. “Drawn forth from the astral plane,”
reads the Grimoire’s back cover blurb, “set down in cold print, behold the
one true book of ritual magic of the Cthulhu Mythos” (2008). And, on the
first page, we read how “fans of Lovecraft now have the opportunity to reli-
ably and safely get in touch with the Old Ones and draw upon their power
for spiritual and material advancement” (2008: ii).
How, then, does Tyson hyper-realise his new religious system? In addi-
tion to systematising, materialising, and commercialising both doctrine
and practice through the material culture of books and divinatory tools,
and framing a dichotomous choice for the user that pits “a purely materi-
alistic viewpoint” and “the scorn of academia” against “the quiet assertion
of practicing magicians” (Tyson 2007b: 9), he reimagines Lovecraft and his
biography, and from this conjectures both the reality of The Necronomicon
and the ontology of the Old Ones. That is, through a constructed history
and a construed antagonism (which is little more than a fallacy of limited
alternatives), he establishes the framework for a primary group devoted
to his interpretation of the ontology of the Old Ones.
It is clear that Lovecraft suffered from terrifying dreams and nightmares
for most of his life and that this dream-life inspired many of his stories.
That he actually believed he was in contact with anything supernatural,
however, is denied by both his definitive biographers (cf. de Camp 1975;
Joshi 1996) and by his own correspondence with friends and colleagues.
For example, in a 1925 letter to fellow horror writer Clark Ashton Smith,
Lovecraft wrote that “I am, indeed, an absolute materialist so far as actual
belief goes; with not a shred of credence in any form of supernaturalism”
(Harms and Gonce 2003: 12).
Tyson, however, simply ignores this and reimagines Lovecraft as sleep-
ing prophet à la Edgar Cayce. “I have come to believe,” he writes in the
Grimoire, “that [Lovecraft] was a sleeping seer who drew forth from his
dreams archetypal realities that lie on the edge of human consciousness,
and which have found expression in various veiled forms in our religious
myths” (Tyson 2008: xxii). In one deft move, Tyson shifts Lovecraft’s own
biography from the Hegelian left to the right, obviating the thoroughgoing
materialism that the writer himself professed, substituting a more super-
naturally inclined one of Tyson’s own imagining. This is an important first
step in hyper-realising a Lovecraftian religion, because an obvious ques-
tion for someone like Tyson—indeed anyone who seeks to hyper-realise
religious belief, practice, and products from popular culture—is: how do
you reconcile your attempt to establish an entire ritual and religious sys-
tem with the reality that all the components are fragmentary, fictitious,
and disavowed as anything more than that by their original author? For
Tyson, as for true believers in many religious traditions, the answer is to
reinvent the founder and so to invent a tradition (cf. Lewis 2007).
Next, Tyson (2008) moves from a reimagined biography of Lovecraft to

a non-falsifiable argument that since no one can prove that the Old Ones
do not exist they very well may, and then to an historical speculation (also
non-falsifiable) that the English occultist John Dee both possessed and
translated The Necronomicon. Indeed, because he is appealing primarily to
those who are already predisposed to believe in the reality of supernatural
entities, Tyson creates an entirely self-referential rationality within which
the Old Ones not only exist, but are essentially benevolent toward human-
ity, or at least benignly uninterested us. This is very different, for example,
from Tim Zell’s use of Robert A. Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land (1961)
as the foundational myth for modern Pagan Church of All Worlds. Neither
Zell nor his coreligionists have tried to convince anyone that Valentine
Michael Smith is anything other than a fictional character or that there
is a civilisation on Mars like that Heinlein describes in his novel. They
simply took elements of the story as the organising framework for their
religious and spiritual practice. Tyson’s effort is very different. However
much stock he actually puts in the reality of the Old Ones—and there is
no evidence to support an a priori dismissal of his sincerity—his writings
present them as real.
This is most clearly demonstrated in the introductory material to the
Tarot and the Grimoire. In both volumes, Tyson’s presentation of the Old
Ones is reminiscent in a twisted way of the ontological argument for the
existence of God proffered by Anselm of Canterbury to the Benedictine
monk, Gaunilo of Marmoutiers, in the eleventh century. If the existence
of something in reality is superior to its existence in the mind, and we
imagine a certain thing to be supremely great, then somewhere—perhaps
outside of space and time as we understand them—that thing must exist.
“The main purpose of this grimoire,” he writes, and to which we must
add the other volumes and the Tarot, “is to provide a practical system
of ritual magic based on the mythology of the alien gods known as the
Old Ones, who are described in the fiction of H. P. Lovecraft, and appear
prominently in Lovecraft’s Necronomicon” (Tyson 2008: ix).
In conclusion, it is important to parse this opening sentence a bit, since
it reveals important aspects of the hyper-religious innovation Tyson con-
structs. First, he wants “to provide a practical system of ritual magic,” a
move that takes the Old Ones out of the realm of fiction, places them
in the context of real behaviour and consequence, and treats them as
real entities—not unlike Colonel Kurtz escaping the Heart of Darkness
to wreak havoc in downtown Toronto in Timothy Findley’s novel,
Headhunter (1999). Following on this, Tyson indicates in several places
throughout his Necronomicon corpus that these elder gods, the Old Ones,
were merely ‘described’ by Lovecraft in his fiction, not invented by him

as a pantheonic framework for that fiction. This difference is significant
when we consider the lengths to which Tyson goes to rationalise the exis-
tence of the Old Ones.
In Secrets of the Necronomicon, Tyson (2007b: 8) echoes Lovecraft and
characterises the Old Ones as “a race of godlike beings from beyond the
stars who ruled the Earth in its distant prehistory, and who wait with reptil-
ian patience for the stars to once more come right in their courses, so they
can resume their despotism and enslave humanity.” On the other hand,
in the Grimoire, he contends that “it is not the intention of the Old Ones
to exterminate humanity in order to cause human suffering, but rather
it is a necessity of their great work of many ages that humanity either be
transformed into a spiritual condition that will not hinder the elevation
of the Earth, or be removed from this planet” (Tyson 2008: xx). Not unlike
Lovecraft himself, who never systematised the Cthulhu Mythos or the
pantheon of the Old Ones—and like many religious leaders throughout
history—Tyson’s theological imaginings are not entirely consistent.
They are, however, hyper-real in two different ways. First, following
Adam Possamai, they illustrate the process of religious innovation and
formation from popular culture. More than that, though, Tyson claims
that his creation is hyper-real. “It was left to others,” he writes, “myself
among them,” though perhaps including in this the work of Kenneth
Grant and the Simon texts, “to seek to draw the Necronomicon forth from
the astral plane, where Lovecraft glimpsed it in his dreams and set it down
in cold print. All re-creations of the Necronomicon are only echoes of dif-
ferent portions of the one true book of the customs of the dead, which
exists in its entirety only in the akashic records, but not in this world”
(Tyson 2008: x). That is, the true Necronomicon resides in a vast, super-
natural repository of universal knowledge—the Akashic Records popular
among theosophists and anthroposophists—and extant only on the astral
plane or in a dimension different from ours. Hyper-real, it takes us out of
normal, accepted, conventional reality in the same way science fiction’s
‘hyperdrive’ takes us out of normal, accepted, conventional space/time.
Pop culture becomes religious culture.
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Who Is Irma Plavatsky? Theosophy, Rosicrucianism,
and the Internationalisation of Popular Culture
from the Dime Novel to The Da Vinci Code
Massimo Introvigne
Introduction
Why did The Da Vinci Code become such an extraordinary bestseller? Not
only its critics who, on average, rated the novel as good but not exceptional,
but also its author Dan Brown, were surprised. In the London copyright
case in 2006 wherein he was accused of plagiarism, Brown (Introvigne
2006) told judge Paul Smith that “many people have told me they actually
prefer [his previous and originally unsuccessful novel] Angels & Demons
to The Da Vinci Code,” and he seemed to share this opinion. However,
Brown testified that
a great deal of the success of The Da Vinci Code is down to the excellent
promotion the book received. The Da Vinci Code got a huge launch. My first
three books were barely promoted. There were more Advance Reader Copies
given away for free of The Da Vinci Code than the whole print run for Angels
& Demons. I am convinced that The Da Vinci Code would have failed if it
had been published by my previous publishers—equally, I think Angels &
Demons would have been a big success if published by Random House with
as much fanfare as they brought to The Da Vinci Code. (Introvigne 2006).
But was its popular success really all due to the money spent on advertis-
ing? Theologians, social scientists, and literary critics often disagree. For
many theologians, the success of The Da Vinci Code is both good and bad
news: it attests to a substantial contemporary interest in Jesus Christ, and
an equally substantial eagerness to explore alternative versions of his story
from the one usually told by mainline churches. Some Christian groups
have been keen to prevent a different reading of the gospels (Moore 2009)
that could lead to a hyper-real religious construction by the lay popula-
tion. In this sense, the threat was not so much the fear of people creat-
ing a full-blown hyper-real religion out of this novel (as is the case for
Jediism and Matrixism, based on films, for example), but more of people
constructing a new type of gospel, in which the demarcations between the
official history and popular culture are blurred. In this sense, as Neo-Pagan
268 massimo introvigne
groups find inspiration for their religion from popular culture, the same
process had to be prevented in Christian groups influenced by The Da
Vinci Code. In this hyper-real phenomenon, readers of Brown’s conspiracy
theory might simply question the official Christian story, or might even
fully embrace the new version carried by popular culture. For many social
scientists, the fact that Angels & Demons failed in 2000 (of course, it was
rescued from oblivion and made into a bestseller in 2004 and a film in
2009, but only after the triumph of the Code) may have to do with some-
thing that occurred between 2000 and 2003: the events of September 11,
2001. Before 9/11, conspiracy theories were becoming passé and unfashion-
able. 9/11 proved that conspiracies (however one prefers to interpret this
notion) do exist and often succeed in history, making literature on con-
spiracy theories popular again. Conspiracy theories succeed because they
present history as both scary and strangely reassuring. The extreme com-
plexity of history, so difficult to grasp for the layperson, is reduced to a few
conspiracies: of the Jesuits, the Illuminati, the Priory of Sion, Opus Dei, the
Vatican, perhaps the CIA, Mossad or Al Qaeda. Conspiracies surrounding
the Antichrist have a long history and regularly resurface during periods
of crisis (McGinn 1994). Madame Helena Petrovna Blavatsky (1831–1891),
who founded the Theosophical Society, interpreted human history as the
perennial struggle between a benevolent Great White Lodge led by more-
than-human Ascended Masters, and a malignant Black Lodge.
Freemasonry. Esoteric Brotherhoods and Conspiracy Theories
There is now considerable scholarly study of conspiracy theories (see

Ciuffoletti 1993; Barkun 2003) and it is one of the arguments of this
chapter that when conspiracy theories are used in a religious fashion,
they are part of the hyper-real religious phenomenon. Indeed, people
can be inspired at various levels by a mix of historical facts and popu-
lar history/culture (or mythical history, see below) for their religious
work, where the difference between reality and fiction becomes blurred.
While we can regard grand metaphysical theories such as Blavatsky’s as
meta-conspiracies, historians deal daily with micro-conspiracies (such as
Al Qaeda’s 9/11 co-ordinated terrorist attacks) which obviously do exist,
and at least occasionally succeed. Somewhere in the middle are macro-
conspiracies. Unlike meta-conspiracies they do not rely primarily on
supernatural explanations, although these may occasionally be involved.
But unlike micro-conspiracies, the aim of a macro-conspiracy is not con-
who is irma plavatsky? 269
fined to a single event or set of events, no matter how historically impor-

tant the event may be. Allegedly, macro-conspiracies aim at explaining/
influencing the whole of human history, or at least a good deal of it.
Jesuits, Freemasons and Jews have typically been accused of trying
to control history as a whole. The idea that Freemasonry organised the
French Revolution, although historically false, was seriously suggested by
widely read authors who were both Catholic, such as the former Jesuit
Father Augustin Barruel (1741–1820), and Protestant, such as the Scottish
scientist and philosopher John Robison (1739–1805). Interestingly, both
Barruel (1799) and Robison (1795) argued (falsely, as latter scholarship
amply demonstrates, see Le Forestier 1914) that Freemasonry organised
the French Revolution through a German secret society, the Illuminati.
The Illuminati were established in Ingolstadt, Bavaria on 1 May 1776 by
law professor Adam Weishaupt (1748–1830), and did have a political aim,
to overthrow the Catholic and conservative Bavarian monarchy. Had they
not been dismantled by the Bavarian authorities in 1787, they may have
organised a kind of French Revolution in Germany two years before the
one that took place in France. On the other hand, persistent mythology
notwithstanding, they had nothing to do with the French Revolution
proper—nor with the revolution in America (see Stauffer 1918).
Both Barruel and Robison also contributed to spreading legends about
both the Illuminati and Freemasonry by failing to distinguish in modern
esoteric societies between what Masonic scholarship defines respectively
as ‘authentic history’ and ‘mythical history’. Freemasonry, for instance,
according to its ‘authentic history’ (i.e. a history based on documents veri-
fiable by professional historians) is a late development of the trade guilds
of stonemasons, who lost their commercial importance and ended up
having more members who joined because of the Freemasons’ beautiful
legends than because they were professional builders or architects. When
this situation became obvious Freemasonry was re-organised in 1717, and a
professional writer of legendary histories for newly founded organisations,
Presbyterian pastor James Anderson (1684–1739), was promptly hired in
order to produce a ‘mythical history’ of the order, involving Noah, Solomon
and his personal architect Hiram, Saint John and other characters of both
sacred and profane history. For the Freemasons who had hired Anderson,
his mythical history was not a fraud but a legenda or legend, a word which in
Latin means ‘what should be read.’ While the ‘authentic’ history was widely
known as true but was somewhat uninspiring, Anderson’s legenda was read
aloud in Masonic lodges and inspired much meditation and philosophi-
cal debate. Most Freemasons of the nineteenth century were well aware
that the ‘mythical history’ was not literally true; the same applies to those
Illuminati who knew that their order did not exist before 1776, although its
founder, Weishaupt, had produced a mythical history dating back to pre-
Islamic Persia and the Italian Renaissance. A similar condition surrounds
the modern Rosicrucians and also the Priory of Sion, which did not exist
before Pierre Plantard (1920–2000) legally established it in 1956. Plantard
later produced a mythical history dating it back to Merovingians, the Knight
Templars, and the Crusades (see Introvigne 2005a; Introvigne 2005b).
The distinction between ‘authentic’ and ‘mythical’ histories is crucial for
the whole social scientific study of esoteric societies. By no means should
‘mythical’ history be considered fraudulent or unimportant: it is often
due to meditating on the myth that members have meaningful spiritual
experiences and regard their membership in such societies as rewarding.
On the other hand, only the most naïve members regard the ‘mythical’
history as literally true, and only the most controversial leaders pres-
ent the ‘mythical’ version as supported by historical evidence (Plantard
did this with the Priory of Sion. He sold titles under the auspices of the
newly founded organisation pretending that it was a century-old order,
and ended up in jail for fraud). Readers of Dan Brown, and occasionally
Brown himself, confuse ‘mythical’ and ‘authentic’ history with respect to
the Priory of Sion, the Illuminati, and Freemasonry itself, thus adding to
this hyper-real phenomenon.
Of course the creation of a mythical history has been the practice,
not only of religious or esoteric groups, but of their enemies as well.
Barruel and Robison took advantage of the mythical history created by
the Freemasons and the Illuminati, but added a number of elements in
order to make them appear more sinister. Before confessing that all his
writings were part of a huge hoax, the French impostor Léo Taxil (pseud-
onym of Gabriel Jogand (1854–1907) went much further. He claimed that
Freemasonry was controlled by a still more secret society, Palladism, which
in turn was led by Satan, who occasionally appeared in Masonic meetings
in the form of a crocodile. Although obviously ridiculous by twenty-first
century standards, Taxil’s books were not only widely read, but taken seri-
ously for several years by a number of European governments and also by
the Vatican itself. Only in the late 1890s the latter concluded correctly that
they were part of an elaborate hoax, compelling Taxil in 1897 to publicly
confess his fraud (see Introvigne 1994).
While Taxil was pro-Jewish and denied that Jews were behind Masonic
conspiracies, other Catholic and non-Catholic authors claimed just the
opposite. The idea that Jews used Freemasonry to control the world gained
currency throughout the nineteenth century and was consecrated by the

Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a false document created by anti-Semitic
right-wing Russian extremists between 1902 and 1903 and passed to the
Russian secret police who made the text known throughout the world.
By 1910 it had been proved that the authors had fabricated the document
by combining two different texts. The first was a book written by an anti-
Bonapartist lawyer Maurice Joly (1829–1879) during his exile in Belgium,
about a conspiracy by the heirs of Napoleon I (1769–1821) to control the
world. The Protocols simply substituted the Jews for Joly’s (1864) heirs of
Bonaparte. The second was a discourse pronounced by a fictional rabbi in
the popular German novel Biarritz. The novel was signed by John Retcliffe
(1868), a pseudonym disguising the identity of anti-Semitic journal-
ist Hermann Goedsche (1815–1878). Although this information has been
widely available for almost a century, the Protocols of the Elders of Zion
are still widely used in anti-Semitic propaganda, are officially reprinted
by governments of Arab countries, and even quoted in the by-laws of the
Palestinian party Hamas.
Conspiracy theories are not only, nor even mainly, disseminated by
allegedly scholarly or investigative works. They prosper because they are
the stuff of popular literature (for a novel poking fun at this whole pro-
cess see Eco 2010). Though definitions of popular culture are the subjects
of considerable debate (see Walz 2000), most refer to the concept of the
‘serial’: popular literature is easy to read because it keeps offering the
same characters through a long series of issues and stories (Bleton 1995).
Although enjoyed by all classes, it is certainly true that popular literature
first persuaded the newly alphabetised masses of the nineteenth century
to read regularly. The genre started with the feuilleton, a name created
by French journalist Louis-François Bertin (1766–1841) for a detachable
supplement enclosed with a daily newspaper, including news about the-
atrical productions. It was used in the 1840s for serialised novels whose
parts appeared daily in a newspaper. The chapters should perforce leave
their heroes in a ‘cliffhanger’ situation in order to persuade the reader to
buy next day’s edition.
Freemasonry and Popular Culture
Although famous novelists such as Alexandre Dumas (1802–1870) and

Charles Dickens (1812–1870) did participate in the feuilleton game (where
authors were better paid than in the writing of volumes), Eugène Sue
(1804–1857) emerged as the king of the feuilleton precisely because he

realised that the conspiracy theme was perfectly fitted to the genre. In
his 1856 feuilleton on Le Juif errant (The Wandering Jew), Sue portrayed
two well-known subjects of conspiracies fighting against each other: the
Jews and the Jesuits. Although, for the anticlerical Sue, the Jews were vic-
tims and the Jesuits villains, his material was later occasionally used for
anti-Semitic purposes. Other authors elected to stay on safer ground by
portraying fictitious secret societies—one such was the prolific Paul Féval
(1817–1887), who devoted a number of feuilletons to an organisation known
as Les Habits Noirs (The Black Coats). An Italian reader would have rec-
ognised, however, obvious references to the Mafia in The Black Coats, and
the same is true for the most successful Italian feuilleton, I Beati Paoli by
William Galt (1921), offered to the readers of the Palermo daily Giornale di
Sicilia in 239 instalments between 1909 and 1910, and published as a book
in 1921. The Beati Paoli are presented as noble avengers of the innocent in
nineteenth-century Sicily. They do use illegal means, and may correspond
at least partially to an historical organisation. There has been an endless
debate in Italy on whether the novel, the most widely read in Sicily for
one century, may be a covered apology for the Mafia. Although the author
Luigi Natoli (1857–1941), who wrote under the pseudonym of William Galt
and was in fact a Freemason, was certainly not friendly toward organised
crime, modern Mafia leaders have proudly proclaimed the Beati Paoli as
their noble forerunners (Montemagno 2002: 51).
From the feuilleton originated the dime novel, sold separately from
the daily newspaper. The first dime novels were simply novels written
as a whole and then cut into chapters (usually ending in a cliffhanger
in the tradition of the feuilleton) and sold as weekly instalments. Later,
the dime novel adopted the slogan “each instalment a complete story”
and, although the main characters were the same, each sixteen to thirty
two page booklet, with its richly illustrated cover, included a story which
could be read without knowledge of the previous issues. Such knowledge
was useful however, particularly when cycles featuring the same villains
were offered. The modern dime novel emerged from the previous British
‘penny dreadfuls’ (often devoted to what we call today ‘true crime’ stories,
although some were only alleged to be true), through a number of leading
publishers in the United States, including Beadle and Adams and Street
and Smith. The latter, established in New York in 1855, went on to create
a worldwide dime novel market by entering into a joint venture with the
German company Eichler, which in turn had branches in several European
countries, including France, the Netherlands, Italy, and Sweden. Street
and Smith and Eichler endowed two characters above all with worldwide
fame: Buffalo Bill and the detective Nick Carter. When World War I started
in 1914, the latter’s stories may have had a worldwide weekly readership of
seventy five million (Cristofori and Menarini 1987), more than any subse-
quent comic book, and more even than The Da Vinci Code.
After World War I, the dime novel was slowly replaced in the U.S. by
pulps (which included not only one, but different stories of the same
genre, while keeping alive Nick Carter and creating new Western heroes
such as Zorro). In Europe Eichler went bankrupt, because its owner was
officially ostracised in Germany as a Jew and elsewhere as a German
(he ended up committing suicide). But other companies bought licenses
from Street & Smith and promoted Nick Carter et al. until the 1940s, not
to mention many local imitations. Dead in the U.S., the dime novel was
alive and well in Europe throughout the early 1950s and continued in the
Netherlands and Germany until the 1970s. In the meantime, American
pulps had been largely replaced by comics, which were experiencing
decreasing sales because television was the new kingdom where the serial
hero now reigned.
The most successful dime novels prospered by proposing, once again,
secret societies and conspiracy theories. Some of them returned to crimi-
nal secret societies, like the various series devoted to Giuseppe Petrosino
(1860–1909), a real-life NYPD detective who fought the Mafia and was
killed by them in 1909 in Palermo. German authors of the Petrosino dime
novels quickly ran out of realistic Mafia incidents, and started recycling old
Sherlock Holmes stories as ‘true crime’ Petrosino adventures. Many con-
spiracies were ‘romantic,’ insofar as a damsel in distress, usually a princess
destined to reign in some minor Central European kingdom, was abducted
and replaced by a look-alike adventuress (Nathan 1990). Eichler and other
German companies excelled in producing such material, which was then
translated into several languages. Other conspiracies involved spies who
were often connected to miscellaneous secret societies and organised
crime. Contrary to what many have argued, it was not World War I but
the war between France and Germany in 1870 that generated the first
dime novels devoted to spies. The first series is probably the French Jeanne
l’Alsacienne, started by Georges Le Faure (1856–1953) in 1887, which ran for
two hundred and eleven issues and was continued by other Le Faure series
involving increasingly sinister German-led conspiracies.
Other authors introduced esoterica into the dime novel. Some differ-
ences are worth noting between the cases in France and United States,
the two countries where in the early twentieth century dime novels had
the largest audience. Well before the establishment of AMORC (Ancient

and Mystical Order Rosae Crucis) in the United States in 1915 by Harvey
Spencer Lewis (1883–1939), Rosicrucianism was well known in France.
Two organisations, the anticlerical Kabbalistic Order of the Rosy Cross
and the pro-Catholic (if unorthodox) Catholic Order of the Rosy Cross,
of the Temple and the Grails, had been established in Paris in the 1880s
and the fight that sprang up between the two groups in the 1890s was fol-
lowed with amusement by the popular media and nicknamed “the War
of the Two Roses.” Crucial to the amusement were the antics of Joséphin
Péladan (1858–1918), the leader of the pro-Catholic group (and the son of
a very pious and well-known French Catholic author), who signed himself
‘Sâr Péladan’ and was often seen in Paris dressed in the most eccentric
Oriental garbs.
The real-life Sâr Péladan was the model for a dime novel character, the
Sâr Dubnotal, a Rosicrucian who solved a number of mysteries (including
the Jack the Ripper case) through meditation and hypnotism. It is unclear
whether the author was really, as some have claimed, Norbert Sevestre
(1879–1945), a respected author of novels for young adults. The series was
published by Eichler both in Germany and in France in 1909 and ran for
twenty issues only. Ironically, critics have argued that it was too well writ-
ten for the average reader of dime novels (Lofficier and Lofficier 2003). A
direct derivation of Sâr Dubnotal (both were schooled by Indian yogis)
was a later dime novel hero of the 1920s, Fascinax, a French creation prob-
ably attributable to well-known novelist Gustave Le Rouge (1867–1938).
This series, which ran for twenty-two issues in Paris in 1921 and had two
successful Italian translations in 1924 and 1949, starts in the Philippines
with the mortal struggle between two powerful yogis, the benevolent
Nadir Kritchna and the villain Numa Pergyll. Both know the secrets of
the Rosicrucians, but Pergyll prevails and has Kritchna sentenced to
death on false accusations. Kritchna is, however, saved by a British M.D.,
Dr George Leicester, who is then schooled by the yogi in Rosicrucian
magic and becomes the esoteric superhero Fascinax, ultimately able to
defeat Pergyll and other miscellaneous villains. The interesting idea in the
Fascinax series is that not all Rosicrucians or all yogis are good; some are
evil, and may try to use their magic to become masters of the whole world
(or, at least, the whole international criminal underworld). This denotes a
return to the conspiracy theme.
The different American and French approaches to esoteric conspira-
cies emerge from the differences between the original American stories
and the European Eichler translations—prepared in France by popular
author of romance novels Jean Petithuguenin (1878–1939)—of the Nick
Carter dime novels involving Dazaar, one of the most famous villains ever
to cross swords with the American arch-detective. The original Dazaar
cycle was created in 1904 for Street and Smith’s New Nick Carter Weekly
by Frederic Van Rensselaer Dey (1861–1922). Dey did not create Nick
Carter: the first stories were written, following outlines from the publish-
ing house, by John R. Coryell, 1848–1924. But Dey was its most prolific and
celebrated author before committing suicide in 1922. In the first episode,
published by Dey (1904a) as the New Nick Carter Weekly no. 372, a mys-
terious and strikingly beautiful woman knocks at Nick Carter’s door. Her
name is Irma Plavatsky, and she very much resembles Olga, the leader
of the Russian Nihilists, who had previously fought Nick Carter but had
ended up saving his life by sacrificing her own (we will later learn that
Irma is Olga’s cousin). Irma tells Nick that she has a double personality:
kind and benevolent when she is her normal self, she is possessed for
long periods by the evil Tibetan magician Dazaar and, when possessed,
performs the most evil deeds, which she only vaguely remembers after
each episode of possession ends.
Nick originally does not believe the story, but later becomes persuaded
that it is literally true, and that Dazaar is able to possess not one person
only, but seven prominent New York socialites. Nick’s Japanese assistant,
Ten-Ichi, the son of the Mikado, reveals to the detective that he has pre-
viously met Dazaar in Japan. Dazaar is a century-old Tibetan Ascended
Master, who has been expelled by the Great White Lodge and has created
a powerful organisation, controlling inter alia all of the world’s Satanist
lodges, and aimed at dominating the whole world. It takes several weeks,
and horrible tortures by Dazaar’s Tibetan acolytes and possessed socialites,
before Nick discovers that only six of the seven New Yorkers are innocent
citizens unwittingly possessed by Dazaar. The seventh, Irma Plavatsky
herself, has lied to the detective and is Dazaar in his most permanent
incarnation. Irma/Dazaar is captured, brought to trial, and sentenced to
death. She dies in jail before being executed, vowing that her posthumous
vendetta will kill Nick’s wife, Ethel. The latter is in fact killed several weeks
later, apparently by a hit man connected to organised crime. Nick how-
ever discovers that the killer has been paid by Dazaar, who has only faked
her death and is alive, well and living in a luxurious Manhattan hotel.
As the story further unfolds, we learn that members of the Great White
Lodge, when old, magically exchange their souls with those of young
men, thus in fact implanting their old soul, completed with powers and
memories, in a new body, while the poor young men acquire the bod-
ies of the decrepit magicians and quickly die (the possibility of this
‘Avataric magic’, or exchange of bodies and souls, was seriously discussed
in Rosicrucian circles at that time). White Lodge members had, however,

always used male bodies. Dazaar is the first Master who has decided to
try a female body, thus violating White Lodge rules and being sentenced
with expulsion. His experiment has created in the otherwise omnipotent
Master a crucial weakness, the potential for human love. In fact, Dazaar
as Irma Plavatsky is in love with Nick Carter and, when s/he discovers that
the recently widowed detective is dating his attractive neighbour Cora
Tempest, not only does s/he abduct Cora, but s/he vows to win Nick’s
love or to die. In order to save Cora, Nick consents to marry Irma in her
new headquarters, the Palace of the Vampires. Nick, however, is a mas-
ter of disguise and Irma in fact marries Chick Carter, Nick’s adopted son,
disguised as the detective. In the last battle, a furious but exhausted Irma
shoots herself out of love for Nick. In her last breath s/he wishes—as
reported by Dey (1904b) in the New Nick Carter Weekly (number 396)—to
deliver him forever from the only enemy he could never have defeated
through merely human means.
The name of Irma Plavatsky obviously reminds the reader of Madame
Blavatsky, and was recognisable as such in New York, where the New Nick
Carter Weekly was published by Street and Smith. In fact, in the previ-
ous decades the tabloid press had often published lurid exposés of the
Theosophical Society and of Blavatsky herself, accusing her of being a
fraudulent Spiritualist medium and even a Satanist (Santucci 1999). It
is also important to note that, while Tibetan Buddhism is today widely
respected, in the early twentieth century many Orientalists regarded it as
an inferior form of Buddhism or an entirely different religion, ‘Lamaism’,
dominated by magic or perhaps black magic (Lopez 1998). Millions of read-
ers were thus exposed through the Dazaar saga to the idea that Theosophy
and Tibetan Buddhism were indeed potentially dangerous religions.
The Eichler group had Dey’s Dazaar cycle not only translated, but
somewhat rewritten, by Jean Petithuguenin. The French version reflects
the strong reaction by the French religious and esoteric milieu against
Oriental religions and the Theosophical Society, called by some ‘la haine
vers l’Orient’ (‘the hate of the East’). The Rosicrucian competition had
denounced Blavatsky as fraudulent and evil, and exalted the superiority of
the Christian esotericism of the Rosy Cross over the barbaric and demonic
Oriental religions. Works by Catholic missionaries also frequently claimed
that Tibetan Buddhism was demonic in essence. It is thus not surprising
that Petithuguenin (whose version of the Dazaar stories was used by Eichler
throughout Europe) depicted an even bleaker picture of the Tibetans, even
in a racist and inaccurate manner calling them ‘Tibetan negroes’.
Irma Plavatsky is also a different character in the version by

Petithuguenin. Here, there is a real Irma Plavatsky who has died but was
once a beloved fiancée of Nick Carter in Paris. Dazaar has borrowed her
body from the grave; hence the romantic relation with Nick and the detec-
tive’s ambivalent attitude toward her. Nick’s wife Ethel is downplayed,
and the attractive neighbour Cora Tempest eliminated entirely from the
European version. The woman Irma kidnaps and Nick seeks to rescue is not
Cora but Ida Jones (Nick’s cousin in the European translations but only an
able assistant—not a relative—in the original American stories). And in
the finale, Irma Plavatsky in the version by Petithuguenin does not shoot
herself, but is magically ‘called back’, or dissolved, by the Great White Lodge
she has betrayed. Her last words in the version by Petithuguenin (1908: 16)
are also different: “[a]ll is lost . . . All has been in vain . . . I failed to solve
the ultimate enigma.” In Péladan’s Rosy Cross the ‘ultimate enigma’ was a
code word used in order to indicate the ‘eternal woman’ and the mystery
of love. It was precisely this enigma that Eastern religions and cultures
were regarded as unable to solve, because (at least as presented by mis-
sionaries and Orientalists) they were considered as lacking an adequate
anthropology and as debasing women for lack of a Christian or even secu-
lar, Victorian moral code. As a male, a Tibetan ‘Lamaist’ or a Theosophist
such as Dazaar may have been a match for the highly moral Victorian hero
Nick Carter. By incarnating into a female body, neither Theosophy nor
Tibetan Buddhism may seriously compete with Christianity and Victorian
ethos, and Irma Plavatsky is fatally doomed. And all this notwithstanding
the fact that, while Helena Blavatsky was definitely not good-looking, and
even somewhat masculine (she explained this by claiming to be the rein-
carnation of a male magus, Paracelsus [1493–1541]), Irma Plavatsky was
one of the most beautiful women ever depicted in the dime novel world.
Conclusion
From this exploration beginning with the dime novel, it becomes clear
that the success of The Da Vinci Code did not spawn a totally new literary
genre. It is, rather, a story in the long tradition of conspiracy theories that
incorporate religious themes and blur the difference between ‘authentic’
and ‘mythical’ histories for the viewer/reader, contributing to the hyper-
real religious phenomenon. It can be argued that the success of The Da
Vinci Code taps into the increased interest in religious conspiracy theories
the post 9/11 period of social anxieties.
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The Gods on Television: Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayan,
Politics and Popular Piety in Late
Twentieth-century India
Carole M. Cusack
Introduction
On Sunday mornings from January 25, 1987 to July 31, 1988 between eighty
and one hundred million Indians watched Ramayan, a seventy-eight epi-
sode television series directed by Ramanand Sagar (Kumar 2006). This was
a realisation of the Ramayana, one of India’s most loved stories, an epic
regarded as smrti (“that which is recollected”) scripture, and was shown on
Doordarshan (the national broadcaster, founded in 1959). Though derided
by critics for its gaudy costumes, extremely slow narrative pace, and low
quality special effects (Lutgendorf 1990) Ramayan evoked spontaneous
outbursts of popular piety and became an important focus of devotion,
with viewers performing purification rituals before the programme began
and adorning television sets with flowers and incense, consecrating them
as altars (Mitchell 2005).1
Further, Ramayan coincided with a sharp upsurge in Hindu nation-
alism and religious fundamentalism, which was partially fuelled by the
series’ presentation of a Hindu world menaced by demons (the “Other”)
(Wu 2008). The presence of a mosque, the Babri Masjid, on the site of
the alleged birthplace of Rama (who is an avatar or human manifesta-
tion of the god Vishnu) in Ayodhya was a particularly inflammatory issue
(Rajagopal 2001). This mosque was demolished by Hindu nationalists on
December 6, 1992 (Karner 2005). In the wake of the demolition, “riots
across the country . . . left 2,026 dead and 6,957 wounded” (Rajagopal
2001: 17). Although the destruction of the Babri Masjid took place four
years after Ramayan ceased being screened, there is evidence that the
serial’s presentation of Rama and Sita as Hindu exemplars of morality and
1
I am grateful to my research assistant Dominique Wilson for her skill and patience in
locating materials, photocopying and taking preliminary notes. My thanks are also due to
Don Barrett for his sympathetic interest in my researches and his assistance in clarifying
my thoughts during the researching and writing of this chapter.
280 carole m. cusack
honour, and of Ayodhya as a perfectly governed kingdom, fuelled anti-

Muslim (and anti-non-Hindu generally) feelings and actions.
The stars of Ramayan attempted to carry their popularity from televi-
sion into politics, with Deepika Chikhalia (who played Sita) being elected
in the 1988 by-elections to a Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), the Hindu
nationalist party, seat. Other members, including Arun Govil (Ram) and
Dara Singh (Hanuman) also flirted with politics. The Hindu tradition has
always allowed for the presence of gods on earth, through the concept of
the avatar, and television simply allowed a larger number of people to
focus that belief on the cast of a religious programme. Enormous crowds
gathered wherever the stars (particularly the actors who played Ram, Sita
and Lakshman) appeared, in order to receive darśan, the “auspicious” see-
ing of the deities (Eck 1985: 3), and riots and even terrorist bombings were
among the more unfortunate side effects of the Ramayan phenomenon.
This chapter argues that Ramayan concretised a religious and aesthetic
vision that was deeply imbricated with Hindu nationalism, and that its
enthusiastic viewers received it religiously in their daily lives. Watching
television became for many a religious act, and personal devotion to
the actors playing the gods emerged as a form of popular piety. Ritual
and practice marked out Ramayan-watching as an act of worship. This
devotional attitude was also in evidence among viewers of the ninety-
four episode serial of the Ramayana’s sister-epic the Mahabharata, which
was directed by B. R. Chopra and screened from 1988 to 1990 (Gillespie
1995). Further, many were moved to political action, including violence,
as seeing the gods on television drew attention to the perceived enemies
of Hindutva (Hindu-ness) that existed within India itself. This response
was possibly, and even probably, deliberately engineered, as television is
“an obvious means of projecting a glorified vision of national identity”
through a national broadcaster which is “an arm of the nation-state”
(Rajagopal 1993: 92).
Previous studies of Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayan have been scattered
and fragmentary, concentrating on specific aspects of the phenomenon,
such as the aesthetics of the video release (Lutgendorff 1990), gender
issues in the responses of female viewers of the serial (Mankekar 1999),
and the ways in which televised religious epics interact with popular
politics (Rajagopal 1993, 2001). To date there are no published studies of
Ramayan from a religious studies perspective, or that focus on the serial
as the begetter of a distinctive form of popular piety. This volume analyses
case studies of contemporary religions that are deeply imbricated with
popular cultural forms. Adam Possamai calls these phenomena “hyper-
the gods on television 281
real religions,” drawing on Jean Baudrillard’s concept of the hyper-real,

in which “a new reality logic based upon simulation rather than repre-
sentation constitutes the dominant organizing principle” (Luke 1991: 349).
For Baudrillard, autonomous cultural representations, detached from any
ultimate reality, actually displace the real. He argues that this happens
when technologies such as film, television and the Internet claim to be
more than representations; for example, “by claiming that it captures
the real, the television effectively obliterates the real” (King 1998: 50).
Baudrillard’s theory of hyper-reality abandons Marx’s focus on produc-
tion to focus on consumption, and the resultant commodification of cul-
ture and proliferation of simulacra. Thus the Marxist vision of production
(which generates commodities, things or representations) being inextri-
cably linked to the condition of alienation is for Baudrillard replaced by
consumption of simulacra and “the ecstasy of communication” (cited in
Mendoza 2010: 57).
Academic studies of hyper-real new religious forms, and of contempo-
rary religious beliefs and practices incubated within popular culture, tend
to treat the Internet and other information and communication technolo-
gies as the primary sites for the development of such phenomena, despite
Baudrillard’s personal fascination with television. Such studies also tend
to focus exclusively on Western religions founded on Western popular
cultural phenomena. An additional complication is that within this emer-
gent field of religious studies, there is as yet little recognition that such
popular cultural manifestations may supplement traditional religious
beliefs and practice, without undermining the religion in question (as,
for example, Dan Brown’s novel The Da Vinci Code could be understood
to undermine orthodox Christianity). A study that exhibits all these ten-
dencies is Hugh B. Urban’s (2000) article about Heaven’s Gate, a UFO-
based religion founded in the mid-1970s by Marshall Herff Applewhite
and Bonnie Lu Nettles (better known as Bo and Peep, Ti and Do, or “The
Two”), which is chiefly notorious due to the suicide of thirty-nine mem-
bers in California in March 1997. The theology of the movement was a
bricolage of Christian doctrines and New Age concepts, and the fact that
several members were web designers led Urban (2000: 289) to describe
Heaven’s Gate as “an ideal religion for the age of simulation and tech-
nology in postmodern America.” This chapter stands in sharp contrast to
these trends; it a historical and cross-cultural contribution to the emer-
gent field of hyper-real religion, in that it analyses a phenomenon that is
more than twenty years old, mediated by a technology, television, that is
almost a century old (Williams 1990). Further, it deals with India, which
is one of the emergent economic powers of the early twentieth-century

world, but which in the late 1980s was a far from prosperous society, in
which shared viewing of televisions was still a luxury activity. Finally, the
religion interacting with the televisual ‘hyper-real simulacrum’, Hinduism,
is an ancient tradition, the beliefs and devotions of which were supple-
mented rather than supplanted by Sagar’s Ramayan.
In this chapter, it is argued that the cinematic and televisual media
were peculiarly appropriate vehicles for the experience of the divine
within the Indian religious context. This is partly because Hinduism lacks
explicit distinctions between this world and the otherworld, and between
the gods and human beings. First, the development of the genre of mytho-
logical films in India is sketched and the Sagar Ramayan is contextualised
within this genre. Then the ways in which Ramayan represents a source
of popular-culture mediated religion are examined, and these new devo-
tional forms are linked back to traditional Hindu understandings of darśan
(seeing the divine) and bhakti (loving devotion). Finally, the imbrication
of this televisual piety with Hindu nationalist politics is reviewed. The
chapter concludes that the hyper-reality of this religious form was only
imperfectly realised, in that the popular cultural rituals supplemented
rather than disestablished traditional ritual.
Ramanand Sagar, the Ramayana, and the Indian Cinematic Tradition
The first moving picture, Workers Leaving the Lumiere Factory, was made
by Louis and Auguste Lumiere, and was first shown in Paris in March
1895 (Barnouw 1993). The new medium rapidly became popular, and
among Western film-makers religious subject matter was explored from
almost the beginning of non-documentary film production. In India, the
Maharashtrian Brahman Dhundiraj Govind (known as “Dadasaheb”) Phalke
established the “mythological” genre of films after seeing a film about the
life of Jesus. In 1913 he made Raja Harischandra (“King Harischandra”),
based on an incident from the religious epic the Mahabharata, and in 1917
he made Lanka Dahan (“The Burning of Lanka”), based on an incident in
the companion epic, the Ramayana (Lutgendorf 1990). The great potential
for film-related (and even film-created) religious devotion was recognised
early; in 1918 the management of the Wellington Cinema in Madras pre-
miered Phalke’s Sri Krishna Janma (“The Birth of Krishna”) in conjunction
with “a major south Indian Hindu festival season” (Hughes 2005: 217) to
fuel popular devotion among the local people.
The mythological genre became a staple of the “Bollywood” film-makers

of Bombay, despite criticism including that of C. R Reddy, the future Vice-
Chancellor of Andhra University, who, as early as 1919, urged realism and
modern life as the preferred style and subject matter of the emergent film
industry (Hughes 2005). However, Mahatma Gandhi (1869–1948) gave his
seal of approval to mythologicals when he confirmed that the only film
he had ever seen was Vijay Bhatt’s Ram Rajya (1943), a retelling of the
Ramayana (Lutgendorf 1990). A later very successful adaptation of this
tale was Homi Wadia’s Sampoorna Ramayana (1961). The epic Ramayana
tells of the hero Rama, an avatar of the god Vishnu, and his marriage to
the beautiful and virtuous Sita. Rama (the son of Queen Kaushalya) has
three brothers: Bharata (the son of Kaikeyi); and the twins Lakshmana
and Shatrughna (sons of Sumitra), who all marry kinswomen of Sita.
Through the treachery of his father Dasharatha’s youngest wife Kaikeyi,
Rama, Sita and Rama’s most loyal brother Lakshmana are exiled to the
forest for fourteen years. During this exile, Sita is abducted by Ravana,
the demon-king of Lanka. Rama and Lakshmana, in alliance with the
monkey-god Hanuman and his monkey army, besiege and burn Lanka,
defeat Ravana and rescue Sita. Finally, Rama returns to Ayodhya, where
his brother Bharata has governed the kingdom for him, and is crowned
king (Valmiki 1927, passim). In Ayodhya Rama “banishes the pregnant
Sita because of rumours that she was unchaste while a captive of Ravana.
Sita finds shelter with a sage in the forest and gives birth to twins. When
the twins become teenagers, they vindicate her honor and the family is
reunited. But Sita refuses to return to Ayodhya with Rama: the earth splits
and she is swallowed by it” (Mankekar 1999: 169–170).
The earliest version of this tale is in Sanskrit, attributed to the poet
Valmiki, and was probably written in the fourth century B.C. (Zaehner
1966). Multiple retellings exist in a range of subcontinental languages.
Stephen Cross says of the sixteenth-century Ramcharitmanas of Tulsidas,
this “beautiful retelling . . . in the Hindi language . . . is today perhaps the
most loved and popular book in North India” (Cross 1994: 95). The film
director Ramanand Sagar was born Chandramauli Chopra in Lahore in
1917, and died in 2005. With his five sons he ran Natraj Studios and had
made a number of popular films. Sagar was a deeply religious man, with a
life-long devotion to the Tulsidas Ramcharitmanas, and was “involved for
some twenty-five years in a group that met regularly to recite and discuss
the Hindi epic” (Lutgendorf 1995: 325). His initial proposal to Mandi House,
Doordarshan’s headquarters, was for a fifty-two episode series based on
the Ramcharitmanas. This was initially rejected, at least partly on the
grounds that the series could foment social discord. Sagar’s religious and
nationalist intentions were signalled in the proposal, which asserted that
“Ramayan is not only a great epic of Himalayan dimensions, it is also a
repository of our social and moral values. The real challenge . . . lies in see-
ing this immortal epic with the eyes of a modern man and relating its mes-
sage to the spiritual and emotional needs of our age” (Rajagopal 2001: 80).
The project was approved in 1986 and the final version had seventy-eight
episodes and was shown weekly from January 1987 to July 1988.2
Ramanand Sagar employed approximately three hundred actors in the
series, and the action takes place in a number of defined environments,
including the luxurious palace of Ayodhya, the wilderness where Ram, Sita
and Lakshman are exiled, the various ashrams of holy men and gurus, and
the island of Lanka. The purpose of the series was not merely entertainment
but also the inculcation of piety and religious values through pedagogical
direction. Actors participating in the project had to give up alcohol and
cigarettes and eat only a vegetarian diet (Lutgendorf 1995). Ram, Sita and
other characters were presented as role models, the embodiments of virtue
and appropriate action, and of submission to dharma (law). Sagar’s project
to educate the public in piety and social norms by means of his Ramayan
meant that he took certain liberties with the story. Written versions say lit-
tle of Rama’s childhood or teenage years; Sagar portrayed an idyllic infancy
in the palace with the three doting queens, Kaushalya, Sumitra and Kaikeyi,
and then the stern discipline of Guru Vashisht’s ashram where the four
brothers (Ram, Bharat and twins Lakshman and Shatrughn) are educated.
Lutgendorf (1990: 148) observes that the content of Guru Vashisht’s teach-
ings “are revealing: a blend of yoga and Vedanta (illustrated with cakra
graphics and out-of-the-body special effects), Gandhian nationalism, and
an idealized Vedic socialism.” Sagar’s depiction of Vedic sages as teachers
of ancient Indian wisdom is unproblematic, but his claim that this “antici-
pated Western science . . . it was scientific knowledge, it was spiritual . . . the
product of mysticism and experimentation” gave, as Rajagopal (2001: 106)
argues, “the otherwise somewhat nebulous Vedic goings-on a startling
sense of contemporaneity.”
The series began with discussion among the great gods, Brahma (the
creator), Vishnu (the preserver), and Shiva (the destroyer). Thus viewers’
attention was drawn to the religious nature of the tale from the beginning.
2
In Hindi the final “a” of the Sanskrit names is dropped; thus Ramayana becomes
Ramayan, and Rama, Bharata, and Lakshmana become Ram, Bharat and Lakshman.
In the opening scene, Shiva and Brahma persuade Vishnu that he must
descend to earth as an avatar to save the world from destruction. Elizabeth
Burch comments on the use of the split screen (with the lower half show-
ing the ocean and the upper half the sun) which is utilised to transmit
this theological message. She argues that this technique means that the
characters “float suspended, electronically . . . against a dense background
that is ‘painted’ to be shimmering . . . The technical aspects . . . relate to the
religious narrative and audiences must know the story . . . to know that.
Vishnu is . . . the ocean (Nara), which was spread everywhere before the
creation of the universe . . . In Ramayan, Vishnu is represented in human
form in the upper portion of the screen with the other gods” (Burch 2005:
509). Sagar self-consciously connected himself to the tradition of Ramlila,
retellings of the Ramayana, downplaying any originality in the series, and
placing it in a conservative religious tradition. Yet he was also conscious
of the contemporary power of his retelling, and inserted himself in the
narrative, introducing events at the start of each videocassette of episodes
and appearing in the narrative “to join assembled deities in singing the
praises of the newly-crowned Ram” (Lutgendorf 1990: 143).
The aesthetics and style of Sagar’s Ramayan owe much to the
Natyaśastra, a text attributed to the sage Bharata, a historically unat-
tested figure, and composed around 200 C.E. It is an instruction manual
for actors, and contains detailed material on the physical representation
of mental and emotional states, through a range of gestures and pos-
tures; for example, quick movements may express anger, but also pos-
sibly assertiveness, threats or intolerance, whereas slow movements may
evoke sadness, unwillingness, or grief. Of especial importance in capturing
certain states are facial expressions, in particular the eyes (Bharata 1967).
In Sagar’s Ramayan, this tradition of elaborate gesture and exaggerated
emotion is clearly apparent. It is exaggerated because of the extremely
slow pace of the series, in which, for example, a whole episode may be
devoted to King Dashrath’s funeral, and the expressions of grief among
the royal family and their retainers. This traditional Indian theatrical sen-
sibility (which also included classical and folk music, and imitation of the
style of religious iconography) was married to Bollywood devices such as
complex sequences of dance and singing, saturated colour and elaborate
costumes (Burch 2002).
Ramanand Sagar deliberately cast unknown actors, stating that he “didn’t
want the star to cast his image on Ram. I wanted Ram to cast his image
on whosoever is playing him” (Lutgendorf 1990: 144). He was spectacularly
successful with this strategy, and Arun Govil (Ram) and Deepika Chikhalia
(Sita) became overnight sensations. Purnima Mankekar’s interview-based

research has revealed that many modern Hindus believe that they can
learn, in a spiritual sense, from watching television. For example, Aparna
said that if one had the right attitude television was powerful; “When
you read the Gita, you should read it with a certain bhaav [feeling] in
your heart. It’s the same . . . when you watch something on television”
(Mankekar 1999: 24). Other interviewees confirmed that “Ram, Sita, and
Lakshman looked exactly as they had imagined them,” an impression that
Mankekar attributed to the presence of religious calendars and iconogra-
phy in their homes and Sagar’s deliberate realisation of that style in the
serial (Mankekar 1999). Sagar’s version also engaged the television audi-
ence in certain specific ways. For example, when Ram, Sita and Lakshman
are exiled, the written texts focus on their experiences in the forest. Sagar
alternated between the palace and events there, and the exiles. Further, he
strengthened the roles of the female characters (particularly Lakshman’s
lonely young wife Urmila), which appealed to modern audiences, and he
depicted the demon king Ravan as an impressive and honourable charac-
ter (in contrast to some earlier portrayals) (Elgood 1999). Audiences were
provided with a variety of role models of moral excellence. Even those
characters who had committed evil acts (such as Kaikeyi, whose jealousy
resulted in Ram’s exile), were redeemed through ascetic suffering and
penitence (Lutgendorf 1995).
Ramayan was also shown in countries with large Indian diaspora com-
munities, such as Mauritius, Britain, the West Indies and Canada. It was
enormously popular, with about one-eighth of the population watching.
Mishra (2002: 220) comments that even though there were criticisms
of the serial—“Kamleshwar, a journalist, spoke of . . . ‘definitely inciting
Hindu fundamentalism’, and the South Indian politician M. Karunanidhi
read it as . . . ‘a vehicle for the imposition of Hindi’ ”—it was still unde-
niable that those espousing mainstream Indian values embraced Sagar’s
retelling and regarded it as culturally appropriate, educational, and reli-
giously profound.
Ramayan Viewing: Darshan in Daily Life
Viewing Ramayan constituted a religious experience for many Indians.

In order to watch that week’s episode, people often gathered outside
shops selling televisions or in tented areas where one television could be
seen. Lutgendorf (1990) comments on reports from Indian newspapers;
for example, an article in Dainik jagaran described a busy Benares inter-

section, where each week a crowd of several hundred gathered to watch
a television set up “on a makeshift altar sanctified with cow dung and
Ganges water, worshipped with flowers and incense . . . [and] 125 kilos
of sanctified sweets (prasad) which had been placed before the screen
during the broadcast” (Lutgendorf 1990: 137). This devotional behaviour
might also include religious discourses or singing hymns before the epi-
sode started, and one of Mankekar’s informants said that “her mother and
grandmother would bathe and purify themselves before the serial came
on, and would sit in front of the television set with their heads covered
and hands folded, just as they would when participating in a Hindu ritual
or while getting the darśan of a deity” (Mankekar 1999: 201). Two central
concepts unique to India are in operation here: darśan and bhakti.
Bhakti is a form of religiosity that involves deep personal and emo-
tional devotion to a deity by a worshipper. The devotee surrenders herself
absolutely to the deity, and the relationship is one of mutual love. The
key text for the introduction of this emotional piety to the Indian reli-
gious tradition is the Bhagavadgita (“Song of the Lord”), an extract from
the Mahabharata, in which Krishna, an avatar of Vishnu, persuades the
Pandava hero Arjuna to fight despite his despair at killing his Kaurava
relatives who are massing for war against the Pandava. Krishna reveals
that doing one’s caste duty with love and devotion is a path to moksha
(liberation) equal to that of renunciation and withdrawal from society
as an ascetic (Mascaro 2003). This form of Hindu piety rapidly became
popular (the Gita dates from approximately 100 B.C. to 100 C.E.) and the
Gita remains the most loved Hindu scripture. The Vaishnava (focused on
Vishnu) tradition is the most fertile site of bhakti, and Krishna and Rama
the most prominent deities receiving such devotion. Indeed, religious and
cultural activities such as Ramlila performances and pilgrimages to holy
sites like Ayodhya are driven by devotional piety; in fact, Ramlila confirms
the link to darśan, as “throngs of spectator devotees . . . wait for hours to
glimpse the human icons of Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana enact in brief
vignettes the drama of their exile” (Eck 1991: 50).
The key term here is “spectator devotees,” as images (both mental and
physical) have always been important in the Indian tradition (Patton
2005: 16). Diana Eck (1985: 3) explains that Hindus rarely say they are
going to the temple to worship; rather they go to “stand in the presence
of the deity and to behold the image with one’s own eyes, to see and be
seen by the deity.” In the pre-modern era, the darśan would have been of
famous images of the deities, and of holy people such as sadhus and gurus.
Unlike the Western Christian tradition which separated the transcendent

God from the material creation and permitted only Jesus Christ to be the
divine in flesh, India has a long tradition of recognition of the divine in
natural sites (such as the Ganges) and in human beings. Eck (1985) notes
that tens of thousands of people took darśan of Mahatma Gandhi on his
travels throughout India. Western observers often criticised Hindus as
“idol worshippers”; it is more useful to consider the Indian religious tradi-
tion as one which is radically polytheist and in which almost everything
may offer a glimpse of divinity. The “seeing” of darśan operates in two
ways: the deity sees the devotee, gives darśan, while the devotee takes
darśan. Seeing also is used in the sense of profound knowledge, rather
than mere looking at (Eck 1985).
With this in mind it is easy to understand that the mediation of images
of the gods through television in no way compromises or diminishes their
power. Mankekar (1999: 199) notes that for her informants “the fact that
their bhakti was electronically-mediated seemed to make little difference
to the to them. Indeed . . . the televisual medium seemed to encourage a
particular form of bhakti through the visual process of seeing or darśan.”
Many episodes of Ramayan consciously drew attention to the way the
televisual medium increased the possibility of darśan. For example, when
Ram is in Mithila courting Sita, a scene of him walking through the streets
of the city, the song accompanying the footage tells “how the people of
Mithila are mesmerized by Ram’s beauty and grace,” and in episode seven
a “bhajan, or devotional hymn . . . describes how ‘the form of the Lord’ is
the embodiment of grace” (Mankekar 1999: 200). It is important to note
that this interpretation entirely contradicts Baudrillard’s understanding
of hyper-reality; rather than reality being superseded by the simulacra on
the television screen (Luke 1998), the televisual spectacle that is Ramayan
gains its authority from representing the world of the divine, the gods of
the Indian religious tradition.
The theory of rasa (juice, quintessence) found in the Natyaśastra is
relevant here. The Natyaśastra argues that “aesthetic forms ought to acti-
vate an emotion already present in the . . . audience who must cultivate
their own aesthetic sensibility” (Lynch 1990b: 17–18). The text identifies
eight primary emotions. These are “love, humour, courage, distrust, anger,
astonishment, terror, and pity” (Lynch 1990b: 18). When an artistic form
evokes an emotional response in a spectator, this response has the capac-
ity to be an experience of rasa, quintessence, which is the “divine bliss
inherent in all humans” (Lynch 1990b: 18). It is important to note that
bhakti, darśan, and rasa all operate as reciprocal phenomena. In bhakti
the devotee loves the deity who loves the devotee, in darśan the devotee
sees the deity who sees the devotee, and in rasa the aesthetic form makes
possible the experience of both one’s true self and divinity; “what is por-
trayed is essentially in oneself and is the essential self” (Lynch 1990b: 18).
Thus, watching Ramayan on television can never be a passive exercise; the
viewer is totally engaged with the religious drama, and this engagement
is intelligible in the light of traditional theological and aesthetic theories.
This perception also offers a challenge to those scholars of religious stud-
ies who understand consumption to be an essentially passive process.
Within Ramayan elements that may be puzzling to Western viewers
are clarified by reference to these conventions, the Natyaśastra, in rep-
resenting darśan and bhakti. For example, there are many shots of feet
that precede the identification of the character by seeing their face. This
sometimes is linked to humility and spiritual advancement, for example
in “the scene where the king [Dashrath] makes a barefoot pilgrimage to
his priest to conduct a sacrifice that will bring fertility to his wives” (Burch
2005: 513). However, techniques such as having characters gaze in a par-
ticular direction (which draws the viewers’ eyes in the same direction)
may lead subtly to class and caste realisations among the audience. Burch
(2005: 513) comments that in “Ramayan, many shots show actors looking
down or away from the expected directions during conversations . . . [this]
makes sense since it would be viewed as disrespectful for peasants to look
directly at kings or gods. It is a subtle aspect of the culture that viewers
could know that relates to religious caste and class differences as well.”
This is particularly true in the Indian context, but Charles Harvey (2004)
has argued that viewing visual entertainment is a transformational experi-
ence, whether the content of our viewing is based on scripture or science
fiction, because when we view a film or a television programme, “we enter
its world on its own terms” (Harvey 2004: 263).
It has been demonstrated that Ramanand Sagar’s intentions in making
Ramayan were religious, and that the serial itself is undeniably religious
in that it was a televisual adaptation of the Ramayana, a treasured reli-
gious classic of the Hindu tradition. Due to the specific cultural conditions
of India, the viewing of television was accorded sacred status quite eas-
ily, as an extension of the attitude that sees cinemas as “the temples of
modern India” (Mishra 2002: 1). In fact, it has been argued that being on
television intensified the religious aspects of Ramayan, in that it brought
the deities closer and into intimate and repeated contact with the audi-
ence. Pious people who watched the serial had their religious certain-
ties confirmed, where others were moved to new piety. Poonam, one of
Purnima Mankekar’s interviewees, “said that the Ramayan had reminded

her of the power of faith and that she was now a fervent devotee of Lord
Ram. She sometimes dreamed of him, and in her dreams he looked just
like he did in the serial. She said that the Lord Ram spoke to her in her
dreams and reassured her that she would pass her exams” (Mankekar
1999: 203).
Hindutva Politics and Ramayan-Generated Piety
One aspect of the Ramayan phenomenon that seems novel and fresh is
the way in which a highly self-conscious, contemporary television rendi-
tion of an ancient epic was harnessed to the Hindu nationalist political
cause. Although there is no verifiable historical evidence of the site of
Rama’s birthplace, the traditional site has been in Ayodhya, where since
1528 a mosque, the Babri Masjid, has been standing. This mosque was
erected by the Mughal Emperor Babur, who is believed by Hindus to have
been the demolisher of the sacred Rama temple. Hindu nationalist politics
embraces many causes, but broadly seeks to diminish the significance of
any non-Hindu cultures and peoples in the Indian subcontinent. Thus, the
theory of Indo-European migration into the subcontinent “as had been
advocated by European linguists and historians since the latter part of the
nineteenth century” is rejected. Rather, the position favoured is that advo-
cated by Golwalker in We, or the Nationhood Redefined (1939) that “Hindus
have always been the indigenous ‘children of the soil’ ” (Witzel 2006: 204).
Similarly, although scholars cannot point to any evidence that Rama was
worshipped in the first millennium C.E., many assert that sites now bear-
ing his name were places of pilgrimage and devotion as early as the fifth
century C.E. (Bakker 1991).
In the later part of the twentieth century, the Congress Party, which
had ruled India since partition in 1947, lost ground as the Bharatiya Janata
Party (Indian People’s Party, or BJP), a Hindu nationalist party, gained in
popularity. A movement, the Ram Janmabhumi (birthplace of Rama) cam-
paign, caught the popular imagination. It called for the rebuilding of the
Rama temple in Ayodhya, and the demolition of the Babri Masjid. Even
their political opponents were reluctant to oppose the BJP’s campaign,
arguing only that the temple should be re-erected without damage to the
mosque. In the 1989 General Election the BJP increased “its Parliamentary
seat total from two to eighty-eight” largely due to the Ram Janmabhumi
campaign (Rajagopal 2001: 14).
Ramayan had been serialised on Doordarshan from January 1987 to July

1988, and directly fed into national sentiment concerning the perceived
Muslim occupation of the site of Rama’s birthplace. This means that the
serial fed into the most important phase of the Ram Janmabhumi cam-
paign, when it was transformed from a relatively obscure religious fixa-
tion to the issue that captured the nation’s imagination. Arvind Rajagopal
(2001: 30) described a procession from Delhi to Ayodhya: “in . . . one pro-
cession . . . volunteers dressed to look like the television versions of Ram
and his brother Lakshman, with their bows strung, [and] posed for photo-
graphs in front of a pile of bricks intended for the proposed Ram temple,
dubbed Ram shilas, using the Sanskrit shila for brick to underline that this
was religious, not political work.” Scenes in the serial fuelled these sorts
of religio-political activities, such as that which showed Ram praying to a
parcel of earth from Ayodhya during his exile.
Just as the serial presented the ancient realm of Ayodhya as a polity
superior to that of the late twentieth century, and the wisdom of Vedic
sages as anticipating Western science, the campaign to destroy the
Babri Masjid was constructed as the latest phase in a historic struggle.
Rajagopal (2001: 65) notes that pamphlets handed out to “pilgrims” to
Ayodhya described the battles that “have been fought over the birthplace
of Ram . . . thousands of Hindus . . . had died in the cause . . . at the hands
of Muslim rulers . . . Devotees of Ram . . . would strike at night, attempting
to rebuild the temple that the forces of the . . . emperor Babar would tear
down by day.” While it was true that violence in the modern era over that
particular piece of ground first “occurred in 1855 in the context of an ongo-
ing struggle for control of Faizalabad by Muslim administrators, Hindu
landholders, and British officials” (Stoler Miller 1991: 788), that too derived
from a specifically modern colonial context. Like Sagar’s Ramayan, the
Ram Janmabhumi movement denied that it was new, a product of the
twentieth century, and took refuge in the mantle of time-honoured reli-
gious tradition. In addition to its focus on the site of Ayodhya, the move-
ment promoted the mythology of Rama because it “is more powerful than
history itself. In medieval times the ‘rakshasization’ (demonization) of the
Muslim other was crucial to the recovery of this myth” (Mishra 2002: 209).
Rakshas (demons) in Sagar’s Ramayan bore the signs of being non-Hindus,
being the ‘Other’ (generally non-Hindu, but specifically Muslim).
Many critics have argued that Sagar presented Ravan, the demon king
of Lanka, in a positive light. Rajagopal (2001: 106) noted that “Ravan, the
demon king, is portrayed as a devout worshipper of Shiva and a connois-
seur of the arts: our introduction to the court of Lanka is with a lengthy
performance of classical bharatanatyam dance.” Certainly, Arvind Trivedi,

the actor who portrayed Ravan, was in receipt of rapturous attention from
fans, despite being the villain of the piece. However, interview research
by Mankekar indicated that devout Hindu viewers tended to see Ram
and Ravan as diametrically opposed, good versus evil. She notes that “the
Otherness of the rakshasas is [seen in their] ‘culture’, lifestyle, and, most
important, their moral inferiority. They are usually depicted as antagonis-
tic to brahmins and as sexual predators . . . The conflict between the two
kinds of ‘morality’ is laid out in one of the opening scenes when Vishnu
descends to the earth to rid it of all the rakshasas” (Mankekar 1999, p. 176).
In conversation with female Hindu viewers, Mankekar heard repeatedly
that the Indian government was too lenient towards Muslims, particu-
larly through the recognition of polygamy (coded as moral inferiority),
and Muslim women told her that they refused to watch the serial, express-
ing hostility toward its Hindu nationalist agenda. One Hindu informant,
Renuka, insisted that “[t]he Ramayan has taught us a lot about Hinduism,”
and claimed that until it was screened many people she knew were reti-
cent about signalling their Hindu identity. After the serial’s great impact,
they now felt that it was “alright to be traditional . . . Ramayan has taught
us to be proud of our heritage” (Mankekar 1999: 181). Mankekar’s research
is supported by the findings of Marie Gillespie’s research into “devotional
viewing” among the Hindu diaspora in London. Her interviewees showed
religious respect toward the viewing of mythological films and television
serials; incense was lit at the start of such programmes, and puja may be
performed. “Furthermore, once a sacred film or serial is switched on it
must be viewed until the end out of respect—a devotee would not stand
up and leave his or her guru in mid-sentence. Food should not be eaten
while viewing, except prasad or holy food that has been blessed. If, for
instance, Krishna appears on screen, the mother will encourage the chil-
dren to sit upright and make a salutation, as in an act of worship in a
temple” (Gillespie 1995: 362; see also Gillespie 1993).
The overwhelming identification with Ramayan and its sister serial
Mahabharat by Hindu viewers, and evidence that Muslim and Marthoma
Christian families boycotted the serials, would suggest that in India televi-
sion reinforces existing religious identities and does not create opportu-
nities for dialogue between members of different faiths. Those who built
religious activities around their viewing of the serials were Hindu, and
the rituals they performed were Hindu and made sense in the religious
context of darśan, bhakti and rasa, as demonstrated above. The sternly
anti-iconographic stance of Islam and the mediated stance of Christianity
are very far from the radical plurality of images found in the Hindu tradi-
tion. It has been argued that “Doordarshan, by telecasting Hindu religious
serials day after day may provide an opportunity for the not-so organised
Hindus to amplify their religious identity” (Thomas and Mitchell 2005: 42).
Some of the fruits of this amplified Hindu identity are new, popular cul-
ture mediated religious practices; others, sadly, include anti-Muslim vio-
lence (of which the destruction of the Babri Masjid stands as the nadir)
and the marginalisation of all minority religions in India. From the point
of view of Western theorists of information technologies, this is logical.
Harvey has drawn attention to the ways in which “[w]e become what we
behold, and then in a dialectical turn-about, we make the world in terms
of what we have become” (Harvey 2004: 266).
Conclusion
It has been argued that Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayan was conceived by

the director with overtly religious and probable Hindu nationalist moti-
vations, and was presented to television audiences as an ‘authentic’ reali-
sation of the ancient Rama mythology. In fact it was a distinctively late
twentieth-century cultural artefact, and not just because it employed
the televisual medium. It was intimately imbricated with contemporary
Hindu political discourses of nationalism, and the Ram Janmabhumi
movement in particular, and the involvement of a number of the actors
with the Bharatiya Janata Party would seem to deepen this connection.
The rapturous reception that the serial received was evidenced by the
fact that bazaars were deserted, weddings and funerals delayed, and buses
and trains stopped during the broadcast of Ramayan on Sunday mornings
(Lutgendorf 1995).
It is undeniable that Ramayan fuelled expressions of Hindu nationalism.
The two discourses were linked by certain general features: the demoni-
sation of the religious and cultural “Other,” and the “construction of an
ancient past in which Hindus existed as a clearly defined, unified commu-
nity . . . and the rulers [were] just and honest” (Mankekar 2002: 144). The BJP
quickly realised that the serial offered political opportunities and Deepika
Chikhalia (who played Sita) was elected in the June 1988 by-elections as a
BJP candidate. In the same election other stars campaigned in character:
Arun Govil appeared as Ram in Uttar Pradesh representing the Congress
Party, and Dara Singh (Hanuman) campaigned as well (Lutgendorf 1990).
However, as Lutgendorf noted, people were not overly persuaded by these
politicised actions, and non-aligned public appearances by the stars were

attended by far larger and more appreciative crowds. Yet Ramayan did
contribute to the assertion of Hindutva, “the ‘Hindu-Hindi’ religio-linguis-
tic hegemony of the northern Indian states over the rest of India” (Sinclair
and Harrison 2004: 45), at least partly because, as Rajagopal (2001) wryly
observed, the desires stimulated by electronic media are not always obe-
dient to mainstream social and political processes.
This book is an investigation into new forms of religion and spirituality
that are produced through the medium of popular culture. Adam Possamai
has termed such forms “hyper-real religions” (Possamai 2005). This con-
cept reflects Baudrillard’s notion that the hyper-real is a simulacrum, “in
which entertainment, information, and communication technologies
provide experiences more intense and involving than the scenes of banal
everyday life, as well as the codes and models that structure everyday life”
(Kellner 2007). The situation of Ramayan partially fits this model, but has
some important differences. The devotional activities that accompanied
broadcasting of Ramayan replaced more traditional religious behaviours
for some viewers, and the screening of the final episode saw spontaneous
festivities across the country. One reporter characterised this as “an ‘early
Divali’ (similarly, the slaying of Ravan several weeks before had been
observed in some areas as an out of season Dashara festival)” (Lutgendorf
1995: 328). This suggests that the hyper-real (or the popular cultural) fes-
tival has replaced the canonical religious celebration. Yet the reality was
more of an augmentation of devotional life; the canonical festivals con-
tinued to be celebrated by devout Ramayan viewers. If Ramayan cannot
be understood in terms of the hyper-real, it may be that the technological,
religious and social context of India in the 1980s did not manifest such a
cultural shift (although twenty-five years later, with India emerging as an
economic superpower, with a significant information technology sector,
the situation may have changed sufficiently for a Baudrillardian analysis
to be sustained).
In conclusion, the television-mediated devotion that Ramayan gen-
erated was a culture-specific phenomenon in India and among Indian
diasporic communities. The experiences of viewers were shaped by tradi-
tional religious and artistic concepts and reflected mainstream Hindu reli-
gious tastes. There was general agreement that the televisual medium was
a site of darśan: Rajagopal observed people watching a black and white
television in a shop window, and when he enquired as to their motivation,
he was told by Ashok Kumar Gupta, a mechanic, “[m]any people watched
it out of devotion. They felt that God was giving them darśan” (Rajagopal
2001: 93). Yet caution should be exercised in categorising Ramayan-

generated forms of piety as hyper-real or even decisively new, as they
were definitely connected to traditional Hindu modes of piety. Rather
than conforming to the consumer culture model, in which “signs get their
meaning from their relations with each other, rather than by reference
to some independent reality or standard” (Possamai 2002: 49), Ramayan
testified to the relative stability of the Hindu understanding of Valmiki’s
ancient epic Ramayana, and the range of styles and meanings that were
socially acceptable in representing this sacred story. A further tension is
evidenced by the fact that Daniel Lerner, in The Passing of Traditional
Society (1958), championed electronic media because he believed they
promoted modernisation in developing countries. He argued that “indi-
viduals can thus identify with those in hitherto distant or unfamiliar roles,
and form bonds of association based on new sets of symbols, he argued,
thereby leading the way out of traditional society” (cited in Rajagopal
2001: 11). The televised Ramayan was mediated by a contemporary elec-
tronic technology, but the irony is that the ‘unfamiliar roles’ and ‘new
sets of symbols’ that its viewers began experimenting with were actually
modern re-imaginings of the ancient Hindu past.
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Hinduism and Hyper-reality
Heinz Scheifinger
Introduction
According to Jean Baudrillard, “culture is now dominated by simula-

tions” (Poster 1988: 1). By a simulation, Baudrillard means that there is
no distinction between an object and its representation. He calls these
simulations ‘simulacra,’ and asserts that the world is made up of these
simulacra which “have no referent or ground in any ‘reality’ except their
own” (Poster 1988: 5). Consequently, these simulacra become more real
than the real—hyper-real. Drawing inspiration from this, Adam Possamai
(2007a) gives the name ‘hyper-real religions’ to those religions in which
“elements from religions and popular culture are so much exchanged
between each other that it becomes hard to find the ‘reality’ of the reli-
gions behind [them].” Thus, a hyper-real religion is, in fact, “a simulacrum
of a religion” (Possamai 2007b).
In making this assertion, Possamai deviates somewhat from Baudrillard.
Because Baudrillardian theory posits that even mainstream religions are
hyper-real, it follows that there can be no ‘reality’ hidden within Possamai’s
hyper-real religions. Despite this, Possamai’s classification still makes
sense. For example, even if Baudrillard’s overarching argument that the
world is made up of simulacra is rejected, the idea that in many cases
there is no distinction between an object and its representation can still
be retained. This is the approach that is implicit in Possamai’s understand-
ing of the new hyper-real religions. From this viewpoint it becomes logical
to speak of a new religion which mixes popular culture and religion as
being hyper-real because its religious underpinnings are indeed difficult
to discern. Alternatively, if it is accepted that mainstream religions are
already hyper-real, we can still appreciate that there is a fundamental dif-
ference between them and those religions that Possamai terms hyper-real.
This is because, from this perspective, the blurring of religion and popular
culture in the latter constitutes an exacerbation of hyper-reality.
Although Baudrillard’s idea that simulacra are ubiquitous is undeniably
interesting and important, as it does make us think about the nature of
that which we perceive, simply accepting that simulacra are everywhere
300 heinz scheifinger
ultimately fails to allow us to recognise and to understand the distinctive

characteristics of the hyper-real religions considered in this volume. It is
also the case that merely accepting that the world is made up of simulacra
does not allow us to constructively consider incidences of hyper-reality in
mainstream religions. Because in this chapter I will consider Hinduism
in the light of the notion of hyper-reality, in my explanation of why this
is the case (and in my proposal of a modification of the approach which
does allow us to consider instances of hyper-reality), I will use examples
from that multi-faceted religious tradition.
David Smith directly draws upon the ideas of Baudrillard to demon-
strate that the characteristics of Hinduism are hyper-real. He argues that
the Hindu temple is a simulacrum because it is a simulated environment—
“the palace of the God” (Smith 1993: 160): “[t]he whole temple is simula-
tion, the forms of the deities, their being fed and dressed, their retiring for
the night” (Smith 1993: 162). Smith (1993: 163) also mentions the temple-car
which is used to transport deities during festivals and points out that it is
a “simulacrum of the sky-flying vehicles of the gods.” Smith provides these
examples in order to demonstrate the central thesis of his (1993) article,
that there are parallels between the premodern and the postmodern (he
uses Hinduism “to exemplify the premodern” (Smith 1993: 158)). Although
he successfully achieves this, outside of this context this does not tell us
very much. There is little doubt that these aspects of Hinduism which
allow humans to gain access to the divine are hyper-real simulacra—
even devout Hindus would assert that few are likely to be able to directly
experience the divine and that therefore these simulations become, to all
intents and purposes, real.
However, the adoption of an approach which accepts either that reli-
gions (or aspects of religions) can become hyper-real or that hyper-reality
can be exacerbated, overcomes this limitation. It is prudent to adopt the
latter approach. Crucially, it does not negate Baudrillard’s central idea
upon which any discussion of hyper-reality ultimately rests. Besides,
as the examples provided by Smith demonstrate, at least in the case
of Hinduism, the notion of simulacra is difficult to deny. Furthermore,
countless modifications occur in successive presentations of aspects of
mainstream religions and this has gone on since the inception of these
respective religions. Therefore, the real has been lost and representations
have always stood in for the real and become the real.
For example, there are several textual versions of the Hindu epic the
Ramayana and these versions have evolved over the years (Smith 1993).
Because the origins of the gods that feature in the story are obscured,
hinduism and hyper-reality 301
the images of the gods as portrayed in these successive multiple versions

are already hyper-real. However, although the fact that there are multiple
texts means that it is not possible to consider the differences between
one authoritative text and a modern presentation of the Ramayana such
as the televised serial shown in 1987–1988, a general comparison can still
be made. This is possible because this new mode of presentation consti-
tutes a significant break with textual sources which, although they may be
varied, share the same mode of presentation. We can then conclude that
the televised serial gives rise to an increase in hyper-reality because for
some Hindus their perception of, for example, the god Rama comes from
the image portrayed in the television series and not from more traditional
sources. Indeed, the hyper-real nature of the series is apparent in a num-
ber of ways—something that will be considered in due course.
Certainly it may be difficult or impossible to identify possibly subtle
changes that have occurred in the past in aspects of religions and the con-
sequent increase in hyper-reality that these changes give rise to. However,
clear differences in aspects of religion between contrasting modes of
presentation can be exemplified through the utilisation of an approach
which accepts that simulacra are ubiquitous but that it is possible that
aspects of mainstream religions can undergo an exacerbation of hyper-
reality. This approach adds a new dimension to Baudrillard’s theory and
can ultimately throw light upon changes that are occurring within main-
stream religions.
In his (1993) article, Smith inadvertently adds further weight to my
claim that such an approach is valuable. In addition to the simulacra
mentioned above, he also identifies another aspect of Hinduism which
is a simulacrum—one that is fundamentally different from his other
examples. Smith reveals that in the diaspora some Hindu temples have
a recently reprinted volume containing Vedic hymns displayed in a glass
case. He argues that it is likely that this is “in imitation of the role and
status of the [Sikh holy book] the Adigranth and the Koran.” Because this
text is generally not read in the temples “it is in fact the simulation of
scripture” (Smith 1993: 164). In this case, something concrete (written-
down Vedic hymns) has undergone a significant change. Instead of being
utilised in order to aid recital, this contemporary presentation of Vedic
hymns now serves a new, symbolic function. Consequently, for those who
attend temples which house such a volume, the nature of Vedic hymns in
this new form becomes the real even though this presentation has a role
that is vastly different to previous ones. This is in contrast to the other
simulations mentioned by Smith which are simulacra of non-concrete
spiritual realms that do not tell us anything significant about changes

that are taking place within Hinduism. The fact that Smith separately
mentions the new manifestation of the Vedic hymns in a footnote—in
contrast to the afore-mentioned simulacra which are treated prominently
in the main text—suggests that he implicitly recognises the differences
between these types of simulations. However, instead of considering in
detail the nature of relatively recent altered presentations of aspects of
Hinduism, he chooses to concentrate upon providing evidence to back up
the central claim of his article.
Of course, ‘Hinduism’ is a term which encompasses an extraordinarily
diverse array of religious traditions originating in the Indian sub-continent
which may have markedly different philosophical approaches and ritual
practices. It is not necessary here to enter into debates as to the validity
of the term or the nature of Hinduism. Instead, key features of Hinduism
will be exemplified in my demonstration that some of Baudrillard’s asser-
tions are problematic when applied to Hinduism as a result of its distinc-
tive characteristics. Following my critique of Baudrillard, in the context
of Hinduism I will consider the claim that religious replications become
more hyper-real than their original counterparts. This leads to a consid-
eration of manifestations of Hinduism online—a worthwhile undertaking
because the introduction of the Internet has led to an upsurge in interest
in Baudrillard’s ideas regarding simulacra, with the claim being that the
Internet has a special role to play in the creation of hyper-reality. If this
is indeed the case, then the Internet has a double-pronged effect when
it comes to religion and hyper-reality. Possamai (2007b) has identified
the Internet as being a key factor in the transformation and growth of
hyper-real religions as it facilitates “a shift from using popular culture as
a source of inspiration . . . to having popular culture appropriated as the
spiritual work in itself” on account of the participatory culture that it
engenders. But it could also be the case that key aspects of established
religions that are presented on the Web undergo a marked exacerbation
of hyper-reality.
Baudrillard and Religious Images
Baudrillard not only considers the nature of images in general; in his

Simulacra and Simulations (1988a) he specifically applies his idea of the
simulacrum to religious images, which leads him to interesting conclu-
sions which invite theoretical analysis in the light of Hinduism. This is
because of the supreme importance of religious images within Hinduism

which, to a large extent, unifies many of the diverse Hindu religious tradi-
tions. Although images are, of course, important in many other religious
traditions, images within Hinduism are crucial because of the fact that
they are necessary in order for devotees to receive darshan. Darshan
involves “seeing the divine in an image” (Eck 1985: 3). It “means ‘sight’,
and it implies both beholding the deity and being seen by the deity. An
exchange takes place through the eyes, and devotees may feel that they
have been granted a vision of the deity or have experienced the divine,
favoured glance” (Beckerlegge 2001a: 62). Darshan can form part of a puja
ceremony in which a deity or deities are propitiated, but it is also a reli-
gious practice in its own right. It is a central component of Bhakti (or
devotional) Hinduism which is the most widespread contemporary mani-
festation of Hinduism.
It is important to emphasise though, that images are not only relevant
to the Bhakti traditions. According to the influential philosophy of Advaita
Vedanta, which does not advocate the belief in a personal god with attri-
butes, the worship of images of deities can never be an end in itself. This
is because, alone, the practice cannot lead to moksha or enlightenment.
However, as Gwilym Beckerlegge (2001a) points out, philosophically
minded Hindus usually still regard the image as being of some use and
an acceptable focus of devotion for those Hindus who are not philosophi-
cally inclined. Indeed, the former may regard use of the image as being
necessary for those Hindus who do not commonly engage in philosophi-
cal reflection, because it can (over successive life-times) eventually lead
to a path which can foster an appreciation of the formless Truth. For
this reason, even the founder of Advaita Vedanta Shankara did not reject
image worship and actually composed a number of devotional hymns
(Beckerlegge 2001a). I shall have more to say regarding Advaita Vedanta
philosophy and its intersection with the Bhakti traditions in my critique of
Baudrillard’s ideas concerning religious images when they are considered
in the light of Hinduism.
In Baudrillard’s opinion the simulacrum does not represent the real—
it becomes the real. He therefore concludes that this is why iconoclasts
wanted to destroy images of God. He asserts that iconoclasts sensed the
‘omnipotence of simulacra’ as they have the facility of “erasing God from
the consciousnesses of people.” This suggests that “ultimately there has
never been any God; that only simulacra exist; indeed that God himself
has only been his own simulacrum” (Baudrillard 1988a: 169). As for the
i conolaters, Baudrillard (ibid.) claims that they were “content to venerate

God at one remove.” He also adds, however, that perhaps they were aware
of the nature of simulacra but did not want to unmask images as this would
reveal the fact that there was nothing behind them (Baudrillard 1988a).
This view is very problematic indeed when applied to Hinduism.
Firstly, Baudrillard only makes a distinction between iconolaters and
iconoclasts. He does not appreciate the diverse range of meanings that
are placed upon the image in Hinduism by devotees. Even amongst those
that afford primacy to images and engage in ritual worship, different
meanings are attributed to the image. For example, although an image
of a deity is known as a murti—a term which implies that the deity is
literally embodied within the (usually three-dimensional) image—it may
be regarded by a devotee as being the embodied deity, the location of the
deity’s power, or representative of the deity. Such views are in addition to
the afore-mentioned one that Hindu religious images can be a spiritual
aid for those who need it, a view which is often held by those who per-
sonally eschew image worship (see Beckerlegge 2001a). Regardless of an
individual’s approach towards images of Hindu deities, use of the image
should certainly not indicate iconolatry in the sense that it is the actual
image that is being worshipped. A striking example of this is that images
of deities that have previously been the focus of devotion during festivals
are discarded at the end of the festivities (Eck 1985).
In another crucial way it appears that Baudrillard’s view of religion is
ethnocentric, which again calls into question the general applicability of
his theory of simulacra to Hinduism. Baudrillard is of the opinion that
those who used images were content to venerate God ‘at one remove.’
However, a consideration of the afore-mentioned philosophy of Advaita
Vedanta challenges this idea. Advaita Vedanta holds that an individual
must realise that everything that is impermanent is unreal and that the
only thing that is changeless and hence real is their pure consciousness
(known as the atman). This type of realisation differs from ordinary reali-
sation and refers to perfect understanding on an experiential level. Before
such realisation this consciousness is known as the jiva and is present in
successive physical incarnations. However, realisation results in the merg-
ing of the atman with the formless Brahman (the use of the word ‘merging’
should not give the impression that there is actually a duality at any stage
between the atman and Brahman). By its very nature, Brahman cannot be
sufficiently defined but it can be tentatively referred to as being “undif-
ferentiated existence, consciousness and bliss” (Krishnananda 1994: 102).
Although deities may be propitiated in order to secure boons, not all of
those who engage in the worship of deities are unaware of, or uninterested
in, the concept of Brahman. From many perspectives within Hinduism,
the image can certainly be used as an aid in the quest to gain apprecia-
tion of the formless Brahman, which, “though it is everywhere, it cannot
be seen” (Krishnananda 1994: 102, my emphasis).
In the case of Hinduism then, it appears that Baudrillard’s view that
those who use images are afraid to unmask them because this would
reveal the fact that there was nothing behind them, is inappropriate. It is
more apt to suggest that it would be a desirable goal for many Hindus to
be able to unmask the image because behind the image is the ‘opposite’ of
‘nothing.’ It is thus fair to say that it is necessary to be careful when consid-
ering Baudrillard’s idea of simulacra in the light of Hindu religious images.
Baudrillard does not entertain the notion that, owing to the unique way
in which individuals may perceive Hindu religious images as distinct from
other simulacra, it is possible that other variables might come into play.
In fact, Baudrillard’s theory of hyper-reality can even be read as a super-
ficial version of Advaita Vedanta philosophy. For Baudrillard, that which
we perceive on a daily basis is unreal and that which stands behind it is
the real. In Advaita Vedanta philosophy, even that is an illusion which,
ultimately, must be realised.
Baudrillard also makes a further claim that calls into question the appli-
cability of his ideas to Hinduism. In Fatal Strategies (Baudrillard 1988b:
200) he asserts that “gods can only live and hide in the inhuman . . . and
not in the human realm . . . [and that] . . . a human-god is an absurdity.” In
contrast to this claim, Hinduism has a long history of belief in avatars or
manifestations of God on earth in physical form and this belief is still very
popular today. A good example of a contemporary avatar is Sathya Sai
Baba who enjoys a huge worldwide following, but there are also countless
others who enjoy lower levels of popularity. For example, David Pocock
(1973: 98–99) writes that it is common that men are elevated to the “status
of godhead.” Furthermore, in addition to avatars, gurus in Hinduism are
also seen as being God (see Hutchinson 1996: 110; Juergensmeyer 1996)
(there is thus an overlap between an avatar and a guru). It is also impor-
tant to note that during the Hindu wedding ritual the bride and groom
‘assume a divine form’ and are worshipped by their family and friends “in
much the same way as deities are worshipped before their images in tem-
ples” (Fuller 1992: 30–31, my emphasis). In addition to these examples that
show that a ‘human-god’ is certainly not an absurdity in Hinduism, there
is the example of priests in some Hindu temples who, on one level at least,
actually become the god Shiva during worship (Fuller 1992).
The way that some Hindus perceived and reacted to the afore-mentioned
1987–1988 televised serialisation of the Hindu epic the Ramayana provides
yet further evidence to suggest that gods and humans in Hinduism are
not mutually incompatible. This Hindu epic tells the story of Rama’s exile
from his kingdom, his quest to rescue his wife Sita from the clutches of
Ravana in Lanka, and his reinstatement as a righteous king. The televised
transmission was incredibly popular and even had the effect of causing
the principal actors and the gods that they were representing to become
intertwined in the minds of some viewers—something that Baudrillard’s
claim cannot accommodate. Because of this,
many of those who watched the series conducted themselves as if receiving
darshan in front of a murti. Some bathed, put on clean clothes and removed
their shoes before the transmission began. In some areas, a television set was
set up as the focal point of a shrine. It was draped in garlands, anointed with
the substances used in conventional puja rituals, and incense was burned in
front of the screen. After the transmission, prasad [sanctified offerings] was
distributed . . . (Beckerlegge 2001a: 92)
Therefore, ironically, although Baudrillard (1988b: 200) says that “a human-
god is an absurdity,” the blurring which occurred between actors and deities
meant that for some Hindus, the on-screen images projected by the actors
stood in for the real. This not only resulted in some Hindus worshipping
in a novel manner—it was also influential in other ways. As Carole Cusack
(this volume) shows, themes from the series were appropriated by Hindu
nationalist groups, its deified actors entered politics, and it led to an upsurge
in Hindu nationalism. Therefore, this popular rendering of the Ramayana
is a clear example of an exacerbation of hyper-reality within Hinduism.
The distinction between the actors and the gods that they played became
blurred and the televised series (unlike more traditional presentations of
the Ramayana) contributed to a rise in anti-Muslim sentiments. This shows
that Baudrillard’s general notion of simulacra is certainly worth holding on
to. This is despite the fact that it is necessary to discern different levels of
hyper-reality in order to identify the significance of new presentations of
aspects of religion, and that a consideration of certain of his ideas in the
light of Hinduism suggests that these ideas are not universal.
Religious Replications
In addition to the fact that some aspects of Baudrillard’s ideas are prob-
lematic when certain features of Hinduism are considered, the claim that
replications in religions necessarily give rise to hyper-reality is also highly

questionable when Hinduism is taken into account. That replications of
aspects of religions become hyper-real has been proposed by the cultural
anthropologist Paolo Apolito (2005). In his consideration of Catholic reli-
gious sites in Europe he concludes that, as a result of modernity, there
has been “a general delocalization of the sacred.” In the case of Lourdes
this began in the 1870s with ‘imitation grottoes’ (Apolito 2005: 152).
According to Apolito, such reproductions play a key role in the delocalisa-
tion of ‘sacred statuses’ (Apolito 2005: 153) and he further argues that this
delocalisation reaches its culmination with the Internet. Crucially, although
Apolito admits that some elements of localisation remain, because of the
changes wrought by the Internet this aspect is of limited importance. In
short, Apolito claims that replications of aspects of Catholicism—especially
those on the Internet—are hyper-real because they become more relevant
to religious consumers than their original counterparts.
A consideration of replications of various aspects of Hinduism is more
complex and does not necessarily lead to the conclusion that they become
more hyper-real. Replication has long been a feature of Hinduism. Although
conditions of modernity have indeed facilitated copies, the status of a rep-
lication is often attributed to a natural feature such as a river and so the
role of modernity in giving rise to replications is irrelevant in such cases.
Even though in Hinduism a natural feature may be accorded the status
of a replication and, theoretically, be deemed sufficient in fulfilling a reli-
gious role, in most cases these replications are unlikely to challenge the
importance of the original. For example, the River Soar in Leicestershire,
England “has been officially approved as the ‘Ganges’ [Ganga] where
British Hindus . . . can scatter the ashes of their dead, instead of flying
to India to perform the last rites” (Sonwalkar 2004). Dan Martin (2006)
further reports that performing the last rites at the Soar is very popular
and even attracts Hindus from abroad. However, if given the choice, most
devout Hindus are highly likely to prefer that, when they die, their last
rites be performed at the Ganga and not in Leicestershire. The Soar is
thus better understood as being a convenient acceptable substitute to the
River Ganga as opposed to a hyper-real simulacrum.
In addition to natural features that are accorded the status of a rep-
lication, human-made copies are also ubiquitous in Hinduism: deities,
temples and towns can all be replicated. For example, the Kedarnath
temple in the important pilgrimage city of Varanasi is replicated in the
Himalayas. The original temple and its replication are intertwined to
the extent that a pilgrim can perform a pilgrimage to the Kedarnath temple
in the Himalayas without leaving Varanasi (Eck 1993). Another example

is Varanasi’s Vishwanath temple (which is widely accepted as being the
prime temple to Shiva (see Fuller 1992) and, consequently, is one of the
most important Hindu temples). It is replicated in the town of Uttarkashi
in the Himalayas, which is, in itself, a replication of Varanasi. Varanasi is
also replicated a further two times in the south of India where these towns
contain many temples which replicate Varanasi’s Vishwanath temple and
which, it is claimed, offer the same benefits as performing worship in
Varanasi (Eck 1993). However, these replications do not become hyper-
real, because the original still retains its prime importance. For example,
the fact that the Kedarnath temple in the Himalayas is still inextricably
related to the one in Varanasi means that the original temple does not
decline in importance in the same way that Apolito argues that Lourdes
did following the introduction of imitation grottoes. Although these grot-
toes are replications and are therefore related to Lourdes, crucially they
are not mythologically related to Lourdes as in the case of the replications
in Hinduism outlined above. It is for this reason that the Catholic repli-
cations can be understood as being more hyper-real than their original
counterparts, while these replications in Hinduism cannot.
It needs to be acknowledged, though, that in Hinduism replications
also do not necessarily need to have a myth justifying their sacred sta-
tus (see Narayanan 1996). This initially suggests that such copies can be
more hyper-real than their original versions. Examples of such replica-
tions are the so-called ‘New’ Vishwanath temple on the campus of the
Benares Hindu University (BHU)—not to be confused with another ‘New’
Vishwanath temple situated in the Mir Ghat area of the city—and the
lingam (the non-anthropomorphic representation of Shiva) which it
houses. This temple has no mythological association with the ‘original’
Vishwanath temple1 that it replicates and even stands outside the sacred
geography of Kashi (the religious name for Varanasi). Despite this, the
New Vishwanath temple is very popular and the official line there is that
worshipping this temple’s lingam is of the same value as worshipping the
lingam at the Vishwanath temple, even though the latter is considered to be
a jyotilingam (a ‘self-manifest’ lingam believed to be especially sacred).
1
The temple has actually been rebuilt a number of times in the vicinity of the current
temple following repeated destruction.
Because there is no recognised mythological link, such replications

could theoretically constitute an exacerbation of hyper-reality in the same
way as do the imitation grottoes in Catholicism referred to by Apolito.
For example, if the claim made at the New Vishwanath temple regarding
the lingam there is accepted, it means that it is not necessary for devo-
tees of Vishwanath to visit the original temple. Furthermore, there is even
the added advantage that the New Vishwanath temple is inclusive in a
way that the original is not. Non-ethnic Indians are welcome to enter the
temple and to perform worship, which is not the case at the original tem-
ple. Therefore, there are aspects of the New Vishwanath temple which for
some devotees actually make it more desirable than the original. However,
the extent to which the New Vishwanath temple can be regarded as a true
replication is questionable. For example, the temple’s entrance policy is a
direct response to the one in place at the original temple. The temple is
also architecturally different to the original and the grounds are spacious,
which is in direct contrast with those at the Vishwanath temple, where
the congested environment is seen in negative terms by the Honorary
Manager of the New Vishwanath temple. For these reasons, the New
Vishwanath temple at BHU is perhaps best regarded as being another
temple to Vishwanath rather than a replication. Furthermore, the claim
that the worship of the lingam at the New Vishwanath temple is equal
to that of the original is not universally accepted—and this further sug-
gests that the temple and the lingam are not more hyper-real than their
original counterparts.
Apolito’s assertion, though, that it is especially replications facili-
tated by the Internet which give rise to delocalisation and a consequent
increase in hyper-reality, deserves consideration. As pointed out in this
chapter’s introduction, the commercial introduction of the Internet has
caused Baudrillard’s ideas regarding images to attract renewed interest.
The reason for this increase, it seems reasonable to suggest, is that with
each successive communications technology the notion of the simulacrum
becomes stronger, as images drift further away from their original refer-
ence points. In the following investigation as to whether this is indeed
the case in the context of Hinduism, it is replications of images of Hindu
deities on the Web that I will consider. This is because of the central role
of images of deities within Hinduism, which I have already emphasised.
Before considering the status of the online images, it is necessary to take
into account views as to the nature of cyberspace.
Cyberspace and Hyper-reality
Manuel Castells (2000) directly draws upon the ideas of Baudrillard and
explicitly asserts that the Internet has a special role to play in the for-
mation of hyper-real phenomena. The central feature of Castells’ theory
regarding the Internet and simulacra is his claim that the Internet gives
rise to a hyper-real environment—a view also held by Margaret Wertheim
(1999) who has written specifically on the nature of cyberspace. Whereas
the Internet and the Web can be easily defined, the emergent feature
of cyberspace is more elusive. The Internet is “the worldwide network
of networks” that “connects millions of computers . . . around the globe”
(Whittaker 2002: 196), which consists of the various interlinked com-
puters and other hardware and the software protocols that “govern the
exchange of data between machines” (Whittaker 2002: 4). Amongst other
services, the Internet hosts the Web, which refers to the huge number of
various interconnected websites. A concise definition of cyberspace is a
space “within the electronic network of computers” (Vasseleu 1997: 46).
However, there are a multitude of opinions as to the nature of this space.
According to Wertheim (1999: 39), cyberspace
. . . exists beyond physical space . . . cyberspace itself is not located within the
physicalist world picture. It is a fundamentally new space that is not encom-
passed by any physics equations . . . cyberspace is an emergent phenomenon
whose properties transcend the sum of its component parts . . . [It] is a ‘place’
outside physical place . . . Despite its immaterial nature, this realm is real.
In effect, Wertheim is asserting that cyberspace is a hyper-real place—it
is not physical yet it exists and can be inhabited by various phenomena.
The philosopher John Caputo also holds such a view, believing that cyber-
space constitutes a space which he explicitly refers to as being ‘hyper-
real’ (Caputo 2000: 67) because it undermines materialism and “deprive[s]
the material world of its rigid fixity and dense and heavy substantiality”
(Caputo 2000: 76).
Castells outlines a Baudrillardian theory of simulacra and then consid-
ers this environment in greater detail. He asserts that “there is no separa-
tion between ‘reality’ and symbolic representation” (Castells 2000: 403)
but wishes to make it clear that although communications technologies
and simulacra do go hand in hand, this has always been the case and has
not just arisen as a result of electronic communication. Castells claims
that “all realities are communicated through symbols [and] in human,
interactive communication, regardless of the medium, all symbols are
somewhat displaced in relation to their assigned semantic meaning.”

Therefore, according to this view: “In a sense, all reality is virtually per-
ceived” (Castells 2000: 404). Castells further argues though that the role of
the Internet is especially significant in engendering hyper-reality because
it not only induces virtual reality but actually constructs real virtuality
(Castells 2000: 403). The reason for this is that:
[i]t is a system in which reality itself (that is, people’s material/symbolic exis-
tence) is entirely captured, fully immersed in a virtual image setting, in the
world of make believe, in which appearances are not just on the screen through
which experience is communicated, but they become the experience. All mes-
sages of all kinds become enclosed in the medium because the medium has
become so comprehensive, so diversified, so malleable that it absorbs in the
same multimedia text the whole of human experience, past, present, and
future. (Castells 2000: 404, emphasis in original)
If such claims concerning cyberspace and hyper-reality are accepted then
this would suggest that the defining characteristic of images that are
present on the Web (and therefore, according to this view, located within
cyberspace) is hyper-reality. It is important to note though that these
claims are somewhat hyperbolic—a charge that has also been levelled
against the work of Baudrillard (see for example Poster 1988). Indeed,
the view that cyberspace is a place has met with opposition. Some are
reluctant to even acknowledge its existence, seeing the Internet as merely
being a tool which enables, for example, the dissemination of knowl-
edge or ease of communication (see for example Dawson 2001; Brasher
2004: 114). However, although the more extreme claims regarding cyber-
space may often be rejected, the idea that cyberspace is a hyper-real non-
physical space does have support. For example, research into the mapping
of cyberspace has led the geographer Martin Dodge to conclude that “the
space-time laws of physics have little meaning online” (Dodge 2005: 118)
and this echoes the claims made by Wertheim—while Michele Willson
(2000) and Pramod Nayar (2004) are also of the view that cyberspace con-
stitutes an environment.
Such an approach does appear to make sense because people meet
‘there’, they perform various activities ‘there’ (see Arthur 2002: 305), and
they talk of ‘entering’ cyberspace and ‘visiting’ websites (Beckerlegge
2001b: 222, 257). However, in his criticism of hyperbole surrounding
the Internet Douglas Cowan (2005) dismisses these metaphors as being
misleading, while according to Massimo Introvigne (2000) the fact that
people talk about cyberspace without being able to fully articulate just
what this environment is, demonstrates that it is a classic example of
a social construction. On the other hand, it is difficult to disagree with

Christine Hine’s (2005) conclusion that the fact that ethnographers suc-
cessfully claim cyberspace as a field site indicates that it is a form of social
space. In short, the claim that cyberspace is a hyper-real environment is
contested. But even if the notion that online images inhabit a hyper-real
environment and are thus automatically especially hyper-real is rejected,
it might still be the case that images of Hindu deities on the Internet are
more hyper-real than their original counterparts.
Online Images of Hindu Deities
Images of Hindu Deities are widely available on the Internet. They can be
found on, for example, websites dealing with Hinduism in general (from
an objective/academic perspective or from a Hindu perspective), websites
representing specific traditions within Hinduism, or the websites of Hindu
temples or institutions. The images are often generic depictions of uni-
versal deities which are not associated with a specific location. However,
there are also many images online (projected, for example, via a webcam)
of particular murtis at physical places. It is the latter that I shall consider
here because a direct comparison can be made between the perceived
status of these online replications and their original counterparts which
can clearly illuminate possible significant differences. This is not the case
regarding generic images of universal deities which do not a have a single
corresponding image in the physical world.
Although an original image in a Hindu temple is already a simulacrum,
it is possible that whereas this image is secure within a referential con-
text, the image replicated on the Web is far removed from this context
and becomes even more hyper-real. This is something that can be inves-
tigated despite the points that I have made which call into question the
applicability of certain Baudrillardian ideas when Hinduism is taken into
account. For example, I have demonstrated that Baudrillard’s theory of
simulacra cannot recognise that Hindus hold different views as to the
nature of images of deities. But, if the different views held by individuals
are taken into account it is then possible to gauge whether or not, to the
holders of these views, online images of Hindu deities are more hyper-real
than their offline counterparts.
Because darshan is a central feature of Hinduism, when considering
the nature of images of Hindu deities online it is crucial to assess the
extent to which these images can allow for darshan to be experienced by
devotees. This is something that is directly dependent upon the different

views held by devotees as to the nature of original images. Darshan can
be had from online images of Hindu deities (Scheifinger 2008) but the
perceived efficacy of this darshan may be less than that from an original
image (Scheifinger 2009). For those to whom a murti is considered to be
an embodied deity, an online replication cannot have an equal status and,
consequently, the darshan that it can provide is not as powerful as that
from the original image. Therefore, for such devotees, it is still necessary
to gaze upon a physical murti in order to receive full darshan. Because of
this, the online image does not become more real than, or even as real as,
the original image.
Whilst images of Hindu deities do not have a fixed status that can be
objectively assigned to them, and instead the nature of images is subjec-
tive, in some cases there may be a commonly held view as to the nature
of a particular murti. This therefore allows us to make general statements
regarding the status of such a murti’s online replication—provided that it
is recognised that there will always be some Hindus who hold a different
view as to the nature of that murti, which will result in a different con-
clusion. For example, the prevalent belief regarding the murti of the god
Jagannath (a form of Vishnu) which is housed in the famous Jagannath
temple in the pilgrimage city of Puri in the eastern Indian state of Orissa
is that it contains an essence which is actually Brahman (see Scheifinger
2009). Mahimohan Tripathy (2003: 11) informs us that:
Lord Jagannath is also called Darubrahma. It means the prime soul enshrined
in wood. He is shrouded in mystery like Brahma in Vedanta philosophy. In
the sacred body of Jagannath, something unknown has been kept in a cav-
ity. This ‘something’ is called Brahma [Tripathy uses the term ‘Brahma’ for
‘Brahman’].
Because the Jagannath murti is made of wood, it needs to be replaced
periodically (along with the murtis of his brother and sister) on certain
auspicious days in a ceremony known as the Navakalebara (new body)
ceremony. During this ceremony, after the new murtis are made, “the life
substances (brahma) from the old images are transferred secretly into the
new images” (Tripathy 2003: 43). Because the old murtis are replaced and
the essence is actually transferred to a cavity inside the new murtis, it is
clear that it is this essence that is the focus of devotion. Because Brahman is
believed to be literally enshrined inside the Jagannath murti which resides
in the Jagannath temple, other murtis of Jagannath do not hold the same
power (Jagannath is replicated in many temples in India and elsewhere in
the world). Therefore, whilst an image of Jagannath on a computer screen

may be an image of the actual Jagannath murti containing the essence
which is Brahman, it is not identical with it because the essence cannot
be present in an image which is a replication. Consequently, as a result of
the important difference between the physical murti and its replication on
the Web, online darshan of Jagannath is not of the same value as darshan
received from the original image—a view that was stated explicitly by the
Jagannath temple’s spokesperson.
In contrast, for those Hindus who do not hold that Brahman or gods
or goddesses are literally present within physical images and who instead
regard these images as being primarily a symbolic aid to the contempla-
tion of the divine, images replicated online can have the same status as
their corresponding images in the physical world. Those holding such a
view do not necessarily deny the sacredness of original images that reside
in temples or elsewhere or the worth of the practice of receiving darshan.
Officials at the important temple to the goddess Kali at Kalighat, Kolkata,
at the temple in Varanasi dedicated to the Mother Goddess as Annapurna
(which, according to Diana Eck (1993), is the second most important
temple in that city) and at the afore-mentioned New Vishwanath temple
(BHU) all share this view. These officials were unanimous in asserting
that online replications of images of the deities housed in their respective
temples can provide a darshan experience equal to that from the original
murtis (although it is worth pointing out that visiting a sacred site can still
be desirable for a number of other reasons). This view which arises from
the belief that a murti is not literally an embodied form of a deity is, of
course, congruent with the philosophy of Advaita Vedanta. Unsurprisingly
then, the officials that I spoke with at the latter two temples made it clear
that they align themselves with this philosophical approach.
It is worthwhile mentioning here a point made by Joanne Waghorne
regarding the articulation of aspects of Advaita Vedanta philosophy by
educated Hindu interviewees. Waghorne (2001) points out that, largely as
a result of intellectual theory since the nineteenth century, the belief in
embodied gods in Hinduism has often been seen as ‘an embarrassment’
(Waghorne 2001: 286) to both scholars and educated Hindus and is often
simply “characterized as an expression of ‘popular worship’ ” (Waghorne
2001: 281). Waghorne (2004: 205) alludes to the fact that this has led to
her having to listen to what she terms the ‘all-is-one cliché’ on numer-
ous occasions in interviews with educated Hindus. It is conceivable that
this is the reason that the officials at the Annapurna temple and the New
Vishwanath temple express a viewpoint which emphasises that murtis
are symbolic, as opposed to being embodied gods. Nevertheless, such

a viewpoint can still accommodate the view that darshan is important.
Its articulation thus does not necessarily obscure, in the presence of an
interviewer, a respondent’s possible alternative belief that gods can be
embodied in a literal sense.
For those Hindus who hold that gods and goddesses are not literally
present within physical images, but who still recognise the value of par-
ticular deities, online images of murtis appear to undergo an increase in
hyper-reality because they seem to have become freed from their origi-
nal referential context—yet they can still provide a necessary function
for devotees. However, just because these images on the Web appear to
be separated from those which they replicate, yet are still able to offer
darshan at the same level, it does not mean that the original physical murti
is rendered unimportant. It is the particular deity that has been replicated
online which gives it meaning. For example, those who seek to receive
darshan from an image of Kalighat Kali on the Web, wherever they are in
the world, are entering into a relationship with the Kali of Kalighat—not
a generic Kali with no link to an actual place.
The inherent relationship between the original image and the online
image is exemplified when the widely held belief that a deity’s power is
affected by actions performed to its murti is taken into account. Charles
Brooks (1989) explains that the power of deities is directly related to the
level of devotional service that their murtis receive from pujaris (Hindu
‘priests’), emphasising that the services of the pujaris are crucial. According
to this commonly held view within Hinduism, an image of a deity on the
Web can only give an efficacious darshan if the physical murti is given
adequate service. It is clear then that online replications still retain a cru-
cial link to their respective original images. Because of this, even in cases
in which an individual’s belief as to the nature of a murti means that an
online image is able to provide a level of darshan identical to that from
the original image, these replications are not more hyper-real.
It might initially appear that only those Hindus who believe that
images of deities are purely symbolic would regard corresponding online
images as being more hyper-real. These individuals reject the significance
of particular physical murtis and the idea that rituals to them must be
performed. As a result, there is no discernable link between an original
image and its online replication and this does allow the latter to stand in
for the former. However, for those who adhere to this more strict inter-
pretation of Advaita Vedanta philosophy, the very fact that images of dei-
ties are always purely symbolic means that an increase in hyper-reality is
irrelevant. And, as Smith (1993: 161) points out, it is even possible for such
Hindus to “remember that it is all . . . maya, without substance.”
Conclusion
In the foregoing discussion I accepted Baudrillard’s claim that the world

is made up of simulacra but asserted that if we want to identify possi-
ble changes in the nature of religious phenomena it is necessary to dis-
tinguish between different levels of hyper-reality. I demonstrated that
Baudrillard’s ideas regarding simulacra have difficulty accommodating the
ways in which images of Hindu deities are perceived, and that replica-
tions in Hinduism in the ‘offline world’ are not necessarily more hyper-
real than their original counterparts. Despite the incompatibility between
Baudrillard’s theory of simulacra and Hinduism, in looking at the claim
that the Internet engenders hyper-reality I was able to show that if indi-
viduals’ views as to the nature of murtis are taken into account then it is
still possible to discern whether or not replications of images of Hindu
deities on the WWW become more hyper-real. Although the proposition
that the Internet gives rise to an increase in hyper-reality through allowing
online images to break away from their original referential contexts seems
convincing, I argued that online replications of murtis do not become
more hyper-real. This is even the case when murtis are not regarded
as being the embodied form of gods and goddesses, which means that
the efficacy of online darshan can be the same as that received from an
original image.
In my discussion of Hinduism and hyper-reality I have only been able
to consider some aspects of Hinduism. I concentrated largely upon images
of Hindu deities because they play a crucial role within Hinduism. I do
not claim that various aspects of Hinduism are immune to increases in
hyper-reality. On the contrary—I have highlighted Smith’s (1993) example
of how a new presentation of Vedic hymns becomes more hyper-real than
previous manifestations, and I also mentioned the hyper-real nature of the
televised serialisation of the Ramayana. The exacerbation of hyper-reality
in the latter was largely as a result of the blurring that occurred between
humans and gods—something which happened despite Baudrillard’s
(1988b) claim that any fusion between humans and gods is absurd.
Although I have only considered some aspects of one (multi-faceted) reli-
gious tradition, my discussion of Hinduism and hyper-reality has shown
that some influential claims concerning hyper-reality—including per-
suasive ones regarding the Internet—are not universal. Thus, although

Possamai (2007b) demonstrates that the Internet is instrumental in the
growth and development of hyper-real religions, we should not simply
accept that the Internet and hyper-reality always go hand in hand.
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part four
reacting to the hyper-real religious phenomenon

poetic jihadis: Muslim Youth, Hip-hop and the
Homological Imagination
Kamaludeen Mohamed Nasir
Introduction
Hip-hop is a genre that crosses analytical boundaries such as culture, eth-

nicity, class, political orientation and identity with seeming effortlessness,
and manages to create moral, cultural, commercial and political debates
to varying degrees. In recognition of these boundary crossings, there is a
growing sociological literature on the influence of hip-hop and rap music
on urban minorities and on global culture, and even on its contribution
to a global economy (Rose 1994; Perkins 1996). Many Western universi-
ties today offer courses on the sociology of hip-hop. Todd Boyd, profes-
sor at the University of Southern California, claims that “[h]ip-hop is the
best way to grasp our present and future. Martin Luther King’s ‘I Have
a Dream’ speech is less important today than DMX’s ‘It’s Dark and Hell
Is Hot’ ” (Boyd 2004: 12). Boyd claims that through hip-hop, the rest of
America will assimilate with black culture. According to a rapper from
Public Enemy, “[r]ap music is Black folks’ CNN” (Gilyard 2008: 98). This
reference to rap music as an alternative source of information can also
be understood as a critique of mainstream media’s misrepresentations of
groups which exist at the margins of society.
This chapter examines the global rise of a social group whom I call the
‘poetic jihadis’ that fuses hip-hop with Islamic symbolisms. I posit that
this leads to an interpretive confusion with regard to the message of these
hip-hoppers, given the different brands of Islam espoused by the hip-hop
ummah and the discursive limits of the hip-hop lexicon. The confusion
arises partly due to a replicating of the structurations of the habitus as
expressed in hip-hop music of a particular locality. Although Bourdieu
calls for a contextualisation of the social actor within his habitus, the con-
sumption of hip-hop music also promotes a worldview that is homolo-
gous with a distant Other. Hence, there is a tension as to whether the
youth is actually ingesting Islam or a hyper-real version of the religion as
manifested through popular hip-hop culture. Whilst these contemporary
Muslim hip-hoppers may or may not be members of a hyper-real religious
322 kamaludeen mohamed nasir
group, by their (conscious or unconscious) references in their songs to the

lexicon and iconographies of hyper-real religions, they enter into a hyper-
real religious mode. This is further compounded by attempts by moral
entrepreneurs to manage the youth through music. While this chapter
will consider the developments in the hip-hop ummah as a whole, I will
bring forth specific examples from observations made of Muslim youth in
specific localities. I will demonstrate how hip-hop has been appropriated
by the poetic jihadis to galvanise the concerns of urban minority Muslim
youth living as part of the September 11 generation.
Hip-hop’s Tenuous Relationship with Islam
Despite the popularity of hip-hop amongst Muslim youth around the

world, the choice to be a Muslim hip-hopper is still marked by tough prac-
tical questions, the most fundamental of which is: is music halal (permis-
sible)? The religious fatwa with regard to the status of music in Islam is
diverse, ranging from a total prohibition of music, to allowing music as
long as the song complies with Islamic precepts such as the ruling against
uttering profanities.1 It is understandable then that one of the discussions
within the Muslim hip-hop ummah centers on the contestation between
the notions of ‘Muslim hip-hop’ and ‘Islamic hip-hop’. Generally, Muslim
youth involvement in hip-hop still comes as a challenge to Muslim reli-
gious ‘authorities’ who do not see the elements present in hip-hop as
being in sync with Islamic values. Hip-hop is still largely seen as a sign
of Western moral decadence and liberal norms. A number of social crit-
ics have also slated the heavy emphasis on ‘bling bling’ (materialism)
and ‘bagging honeys’ (sexual relations with beautiful women) in hip-hop
music and culture, as hip-hop’s concern with other topics, such as social
justice, fades to the background. These factors make the fusion of Islam
into hip-hop all the more controversial.
One area of contention pertains to the management of the body. The
fact that the Muslim body is constructed as a site of moral judgement leads
to the demonising of the performative aspects of hip-hop music, such as
the sexualised or violent body associated with particular dances and the
unruly crowds during public performances. In this regard, hip-hop can
be seen as a response to the disciplining of the body within the context
1
Internet site, http://www.witness-pioneer.org/vil/Books/Q_LP/ch4s3pre.htm#Singing.
muslim youth, hip-hop and the homological imagination 323
of traditional Islamic music. Having said this, there are also significant
attempts by Muslim hip-hoppers to ‘Islamise’ hip-hop performance.
Our deen is not meant to be rocked! . . . I see these so-called Muslim sistas
wearing a hijab and then a boostier [sic], or a hijab with their belly-button
sticking out. You don’t put on a hijab and try to rock it! Or these brothers
wearing Allah tattoos, or big medallions with Allah’s name—Allah is not to
be bling-blinged! Banjoko. (Aidi 2004: 122)
The notion of Islamic hip-hop therefore emerges as an attempt by Muslim
hip-hoppers to reconcile themselves with Islamic religious requirements
in music. It is adopted amongst Muslim youth who believe that hip-hop
can be compatible with one’s Islamic convictions. The term ‘poetic jihadis’
is not arbitrary. Notwithstanding the apparent tension between hip-hop
and Islam, many Muslim hip-hoppers tend to couch their craft within
the rubric of the Islamic tradition (Alim 2006a; Mandaville 2009). Suad
(2007) stresses that poetry has an exalted place in pre-Islamic Arabia that
confers on its practitioners social status and symbolic power. A continu-
ity of this longstanding tradition is found in the Qur’an which is viewed
by Muslims of all ages as a text of superior linguistic pedigree. In fact,
Prophet Muhammad was reputed for his use of poetry as a missionis-
ing tool. Seeking to emulate the Prophet, who is regarded as endowed
with the tools that are deemed most appropriate in engaging his audi-
ences, hip-hoppers utilise the rhymes and idioms of Islamic symbolism
to engage the youth of today. As one prominent former hip-hopper,
Napoleon, handsomely puts it, “Moses was sent with magic, Jesus with
medicine, and Muhammad with poetry” (Suad 2007: 130). In this light,
Muslim hip-hoppers thus see themselves as progeny of the ‘Muhammadan
mission’.
The Creation of a Hyper-real Religion and Rise of the Hip-Hop Ummah
It is essential that this study trace the nascence and evolution of the
poetic jihadis in light of the influential black civil rights movement of the
1950s and 1960s. I posit that the emergence of the poetic jihadis as a social
group is intertwined with the birth of versions of Islam that arise from a
particular facet of protest culture. This section argues that it is important
to contextualise the surfacing of strands in Islamic thought and practice,
as seen in the form of the Nation of Islam (NOI) and the Five Percenters.
Their emergence has to be examined against the backdrop of the black
civil rights movement that sought to address the ‘innermost concerns’ of
the blacks and to provide them with ‘a survival kit’ (see below) against
economic marginality and political discrimination.
In the case of black culture, protest [is] inspir[ed by] the people’s innermost
concerns. Needless to say a protest culture such as we have in the major
urban black centres is also in important psychological respects a survival
kit. It also suffers from too shamelessly [sic] a preoccupation with certainty
and the need for the elimination of ambiguity. It would be a serious cultural
tragedy if this protest culture should lose touch with traditional African cul-
tural forms. It should continue to enrich itself from this source in its specific
idiom. On the other hand, some strands of the current urban black culture
are absorbed from the black experience, notably in the United States and
post-colonial Africa (Manganyi 1982).
As Cornell West (2001: 142) evinces in his treatise Race Matters, “the
basic aim of black Muslim theology—with its distinct black supremacist
account of the origins of white people—was to counter white supremacy.”
Muslim hip-hop culture was therefore born in the age of segregation and
institutionalised racism, serving the function of a social critique against
the unemployment and lack of attention experienced by a particular eth-
nic group.
This chapter will lay bare the presence of a hyper-real religion by pur-
suing West’s proposition. This will be done by tracing the evolution of
Islamic rhetorical devices, metaphors and imageries within a popular cul-
ture of Black Nationalism and black protest which had in turn spawned
new ideologies. As black music entertainers incorporate aspects of the
protest movement into their music, the conceptions of their protest take
on more overtly religious features. For example, the song “Bring The Noise”
by Public Enemy lauds the NOI leader, Louis Farrakhan, as “a prophet
and I think you oughta listen to what he can say to you.” Another Five
Percenter, Nas, also dedicates a song to Farrakhan in his Untitled album
(Miyakawa 2005). Hence, hip-hop culture becomes the hyper-real medium
through which the promotion of black awareness, identity construction,
as well as defiance against explicit discrimination and marginalisation are
expressed.
You don’t wanna come here sit ’n’ listen to Farrakhan for two hours, that’s a
little bit too much. But turn on the box and the [Public Enemy] are getting
to you with the Word, and whities sayin’ ‘Oh, my God, we gotta stop this’!
But it’s too late now, baby! When you got it—it’s over, when the youth got
it—it’s over . . . the white world is coming to an end (Farrakhan 1989, cited
in Gardell 1996: 68).
The practice of hip-hop, as manifest in the lexicon of Muslim black hip-

hoppers in the United States, illuminates the fluidity and variegated
nature of Islamic representations in urban America. The hip-hop culture
is seen most poignantly in the friction between Sunni Muslims, the NOI
and the Five Percenters. To be sure, the majority of allusions to Islam in
American hip-hop spawn from adherents of the Five Percenters (known
more often amongst its members as The Nation of Gods and Earths) which
was formed in 1964 by Clarence 13X as a breakaway group of the NOI.
Members of this group include influential figures in the American hip-
hop scene such as the Wu Tang Clan, Busta Rhymes and Rakim. The Five
Percenters reject the NOI’s notion of Farad Muhammad as Allah. On the
contrary, they believe that the black man himself is God and that ALLAH
is actually an abbreviation of Arm Leg Leg Arm Head (Aidi 2004: 111). The
group refers to women as Earth and believes that, as three quarters of the
Earth is covered with water, so must the female body be. Therefore, it will
be no surprise to see the females covering their hair and wearing clothes
that do not accentuate the figure of their body. The name Five Percenters
is derived from the teaching that eighty five percent of people on Earth
are oblivious to, and will not arrive at, the truth, whilst ten percent of
those who do know the truth will use their knowledge to reap benefits
by exploiting the ignorance of those who are unaware. Hence, only the
remaining five percent are conscious of the true nature of the black man
as God or Allah (Nuruddin 1994; Nuruddin 2006). Sunni Muslims view
Five Percenters’ theology as blasphemous while the latter views the for-
mer as belonging among the ten percent category. In the main, the Five
Percenters’ referring to each other as ‘Gods’ is in direct contradiction to
the mainstream Muslim belief in the One-ness of God.
The Science Fiction Foundations of the NOI and Five Percenters
The hyper-real nature of the heterodox African American Muslim groups

can also be observed through their assimilation of ideas from science fic-
tion. Nuruddin (2006) asserts that there is a strong presence of “science
fiction motifs” in the ideology of the NOI and the Five Percenters which
is disseminated widely through hip-hop culture. The science fiction of the
NOI and its offshoot, the Five Percenters, is concerned with the question
of origins. The myth revolved around the work of a certain menacing and
‘crazy’ black scientist called Yakub who existed six thousand years ago in
a time when the Original People, who were the blacks, lived singularly on
planet Earth “like gods in a technologically advanced utopia” (Nuruddin

2006: 147). Nuruddin presents as evidence a work called An Original Man:
The Life and Times of Elijah Muhammad in which it is stated that
Yakub had a super intellect and thirst for knowledge. He began school at
age four and displayed a penchant for scientific inquiry. Known as the ‘big-
headed scientist’ on account of his unusually large cranium which symbol-
ised his vanity as well as his mental powers, he earned degrees from all of
the colleges and universities in the land by the age of eighteen. Though one
of the preeminent scholars of the Nation of Islam, his greatest achievement
took place outside of school when he was just six years old. While toying
with two pieces of steel, he learned the secret of magnetism, that opposites
attract. The larger lesson for Yakub was that if he could create a race of
people completely different from the Original People, that race could attract
and dominate the Black Nation through tricknology—tricks, lies and decep-
tion. The essence of the black man, which consisted of a black and brown
germ, was the key to creating such a race. If he could simply graft or separate
these germs until none of the original black genetic code was left, he would
be able to create a species of man, called ‘mankind’, who would rule the
earth forever (Clegg 1997: 49).
Yakub and his sixty thousand followers were banished to an island called
Pelan due to the havoc they wreaked in the capital, Mecca. In Pelan, Yakub
constructed genetic engineering laboratories and engaged in an elaborate
eugenics project where he created a master race that was “physically
weak, spiritually and morally depraved, yet intellectually cunning” that
he could control in order to be the undisputed leader on earth (Nuruddin
2006: 148). Nation of Islam’s theology mentions that the history of the
Original Man happened in twenty five thousand year sequences, with that
of Yakub being the latest cycle. In fact, in an earlier cycle, a scientist, in his
failed attempt to detonate planet Earth, had flung a large chunk of earth
into space, and this became the moon (Nuruddin 2006). The theology of
the NOI also makes reference to the Mother Plane, known to the world
as the Unidentified Flying Object (UFO). Louis Farrakhan describes the
Mother Plane in great detail in the following speech:
The Honorable Elijah Muhammad told us of a giant Mother Plane that is
made like the universe, spheres within spheres. White people call them
unidentified flying objects (UFOs). Ezekiel, in the Old Testament, saw a wheel
that looked like a cloud by day, but a pillar of fire by night. The Hon. Elijah
Muhammad said that that wheel was built on the island of Nippon, which
is now called Japan, by some of the original scientists. It took 15 billion dol-
lars in gold at that time to build it. It is made of the toughest steel. America
does not yet know the composition of the steel used to make an instrument
like it. It is a circular plane, and the Bible says that it never makes turns.
Because of its circular nature it can stop and travel in all directions at speeds
of thousands of miles per hour. He said there are 1,500 small wheels in this
Mother Wheel, which is a half mile by-a-half-mile. This Mother Wheel is
like a small human built planet. Each one of these small planes carry three
bombs . . . That Mother Wheel is a dreadful looking thing. White folks are
making movies now to make these planes look like fiction, but it is based
on something real. The Honorable Elijah Muhammad said that the Mother
Plane is so powerful, that with sound reverberating in the atmosphere, just
with a sound, she can crumble buildings (Farrakhan 1996).
The NOI and Five Percenters’ hyper-real theologies and jargons are con-
flated with many terminologies from the Muslim tradition. For the Five
Percenters, Harlem is ‘Mekkah’, Brooklyn is ‘Medina’, Queens is ‘the
Desert’, the Bronx is ‘Pelan’, and New Jersey is ‘New Jerusalem’. As men-
tioned, the beliefs of the Five Percenter hip-hoppers are often codified in
their lyrics. For example, the phrase ‘whassup G’ refers to another black
male adherent as ‘God’, not ‘Gangsta’ as is often believed. In addition,
popular hip-hop slang such as ‘represent’ and ‘break it down’ can also
be traced to the influence of the Five Percenter hip-hoppers. So too can
the popular hip-hop expressions ‘word’ and ‘peace’; the expression ‘peace’
originates from the Moorish Science Temple, an Islamic precursor to the
group (Fauset 2001: 42). ‘Word’ is an exclamation of the Five Percenters’
affirmation of truth identified in the statement of another God (Nuruddin
1994). As will be shown in the following sections, these Five Percenter
terminologies and the combative style of ex-NOI Minister, Malcolm X’s
“jihad of words,” are reproduced throughout the hip-hop ummah beyond
the context of the Five Percenters and NOI.
Provincialising Hip-Hop from its African American Roots: Hyper-realising

the Hyper-real Religion
Hip-hop’s changed, ain’t a black thing anymore G

Young kids in Baghdad showing 2 on 3
Holla West Coast?! Naah, West Bank for life
Upside Down, holla for my Moros aight
Spit rhymes in Arabic on the same level like Jada
You wouldn’t know if you should head bang or belly dance playa
I’m that type of sand nigga type of Johnny Conchran yaw dig
World wide like H. C. Andersen, I won’t quit
Don’t depend on the rap game, I depend on my brain
Ya stereotype me; I knock you out like Prince Naseem.
Outlandish, ‘El Moro’ (Bukdahl 2004: 80–81)
The song above, by a Danish Muslim hip-hop group, demonstrates how the
complexion of the genre has mutated and how it is appropriated beyond
its African American origins. It also illustrates the inversion of the term
‘G’ by a non-Five Percenter hip-hop group. Its usage here is closer to the
‘Gangsta’ insinuations, which is an innovation upon the original reference
to the Five Percenters’ ‘God’. Whilst maintaining the symbol as popular
hip-hop jargon, the term has thus been done violence to, removed from
its theological origins and even decentered from its African American
roots. In this instance, it ceases to refer to the struggle of the blacks in the
streets, and has instead mutated into a term of reference and a rallying cry
among young Muslims who feel under siege the world over.
There is a decentering of the understanding of the hip-hop generation
as defined as “those young African Americans born between 1965 and 1984
who came of age in the eighties and nineties and . . . share a specific set
of values and attitudes” (Kitwana 2002: 4). However, as Kitwana has per-
ceptively observed, six major driving forces have been indispensible in
fuelling the hip-hop generation—“the visibility of black youth in popular
culture, globalisation, the persistent nature of segregation, public policy
surrounding the criminal justice system, media representations of black
youth, and the general quality of life within the hip-hop community”
(McMurray 2007: 76).
Hip-hop music in the contemporary scene is hence used by diverse
social groups who find themselves at the margins of society. In the con-
text of this study, hip-hop’s social commentary and confrontational style
lend a voice to Muslim youth who utilise ‘hip-hop activism’ as a vehicle
to assimilate into mainstream society on one hand or, on the other hand,
to create an alternative identity of the Other. In the post September 11 era
of increased ‘Islamophobia’, hip-hop has also been used to battle public
misconceptions of Islam as well as to articulate everyday injustice faced
by Muslims locally or globally.
It’s about speaking out against oppression wherever you can. If that’s gonna
be in Bosnia or Kosovo or Chechnya or places where Muslims are being
persecuted; or if it’s gonna be in Sierra Leone or Colombia—you know, if
people’s basic human rights are being abused and violated, then Islam has
an interest in speaking out against it, because we’re charged to be the lead-
ers of humanity.
Mos Def (Aidi 2004: 110)
Inspired also by African American hip-hoppers from a Sunni Muslim
background, such as Mos Def, Islamic hip-hop in the US today is increas-
ingly characterised by young Muslims from various ethnic backgrounds

pronouncing their identity whilst espousing local and global messages
of justice and equality, in solidarity with their Muslim brethren. Aidi
(2004: 112–113) cites the Pakistani American group Aman, who sings about
“being Muslim Robin Hoods fighting for justice in a foreign land” in their
song entitled ‘Arabian Nights’, and Palestinian American duo Hammer
Bros., who rap about being “originally from the Holy Land living in the
belly of the Beast, trying to rise on feet of Yeast” in their pro-intifada song
‘Free Palestine’.
Beyond the United States, hip-hop activism also serves as a strategic
platform for anti-Islamophobic mobilisation among Muslim youth in
France and Britain. Writing about England’s Fun-Da-Mental and France’s
IAM, Ted Swedenburg (2001: 58) states that “[i]n both countries Muslims
are attempting to construct cultural, social and political spaces for them-
selves as ethnic groups (of sorts), and are massively involved in anti-racist
mobilisations against white supremacy . . . Fun-Da-Mental’s expressions of
pride in Islam appealed to Muslim youth who had been raised on British
popular culture yet also felt wounded by British Islamophobia.” Bennett
(2000) postulates that hip-hop culture is popular among non-Anglo migrant
youth living in cities globally owing to their feeling of alienation and the
affinities they draw from the oppositional image embodied in the genre.
An example of such hip-hop activism is Australia’s Muslim hip-hop
group, The Brothahood. The Brothahood has members from Lebanese,
Egyptian, Turkish and Burmese backgrounds. To a certain extent, the direc-
tion of their music parallels that of Australian hip-hop in general, insofar
as it calls for a rethinking of Australian national identity and embarks on
a “project of attempting to build a multicultural national identity in place
of a racist monocultural model that is now gaining strength in Australian
national politics” (Iveson 1997: 47).
I was born and raised here in Australia . . . I don’t listen to Arabic songs and I
don’t speak the language that much. I grew up as a Muslim listening to hip-
hop . . . The problem I had was that I couldn’t relate to a lot of the hip-hop
out today with all this rapping of violence, girls and drugs. So I started writ-
ing about who I was and what I feel as a Muslim and Australian . . . We basi-
cally try to break down stereotypes and barriers that we face as Muslims in
Australia. There is a huge gap between Muslims and everyone else. Muslims
stick to each other and non-Muslims are scared of us because of what they
see and read in the media. We hope that our music bridges the gap so that
non-Muslims aren’t so scared of us and can see us as regular people . . . We
noticed our music was attracting a lot of Muslim youth so we decided to use
it as a tool for the sake of Allah to remind people, especially youth, but more
importantly ourselves about this beautiful deen and way of life. We hope
we are able to perfect it so that it eventually becomes an alternative to the
negative, material based hip-hop on the airwaves today.
The Brothahood (Saeed 2008)
Management of the tensions between hip-hop and Islam through the
incorporation of the nasheed element has enabled some Muslim youth,
who had considered music as haram and un-Islamic, to take a more sympa-
thetic view of hip-hop groups like The Brothahood. In addition to express-
ing their everyday religiosity, tracks from The Brothahood talk about their
piety in Australia post September 11, reminiscent of a growing trend in
global Muslim hip-hop groups (also seen in Britain’s Mecca2Medina and
America’s Native Deen). The group articulates a diverse array of issues
related to migration, xenophobia, media prejudice, Islamophobia and the
exclusionary treatment exacted upon Muslims in the name of national
security, whilst also exerting their rights to citisenship in Australia. These
result in the production of socially conscious tracks like ‘The Silent
Truth’.
From beer I refrain, prayers I maintain
Can’t get on a plane without copping all the blame
People can’t you see that we are all the same
Children of Adam but playing the blame game
It’s a shame, and that’s the damn well truth
If I hear another word I’m going to cut your ass loose
News got you scared that I’m going to knock out your tooth
So gullible, you believe in mother goose
How cute, but that doesn’t make it right
Australia is mine too so I’m going to put up a fight
You want to send me back? Yo send me back where?
Australia is the place where I let down my hair
you don’t care, but that’s in your nature
they find an excuse they can to rate and then hate you
The Brothahood, ‘Silent Truth’ (http://www.musicsonglyrics.com/the-silent-
truth-lyrics-the-brothahood.html)
In essence, hip-hop as appropriated by the poetic jihadis is an attempt to
reconcile two seemingly colliding cultures. It is a rebellion against both
the exaltation of misogynous and Afrocentric themes in hip-hop, and the
conservativeness of Islamic music such as the nasheed. As hip-hop culture
undergoes an ‘Islamisation’ process when appropriated by this segment
of Muslim youth, the lyrics remain devotional although they incorporate
a heavy dose of social reality. It is interesting however, that despite the
global dispersion of Muslim hip-hop, groups of diverse ethnic origins

make references to the African American civil rights struggles in their
lyrics. Fun-Da-mental’s ‘Wrath of the Black Man’, a song conceived around
a Malcolm X speech, is perhaps one of the most explicit.
Explaining the Double Hyper-realisation: Homological Imagination
Hip-hop activism amongst globalised Muslim youth can be conceptua-

lised as what Baudrillard has called a “reality by proxy.” I contend that
the essence of global Muslim hip-hop lies in its simulation of a transient
“simulacrum of reality” rather than any interaction with any ‘real’ real-
ity (Baurillard 1988: 4–5). Through a revisionist approach to the under-
standing of Islamic orthodoxy that goes beyond the first and second
level simulations of counterfeiting and production respectively, the Five
Percenter theology has already appropriated Islamic iconography at the
hyper-real level. A ‘double hyper-realisation’ then occurs as mainstream
Muslim hip-hoppers seek to reclaim the orthodoxy of their religion whilst
maintaining the Five Percenter hip-hop parlance. In fact, in the context of
the mass consumption of hip-hop culture among Muslim youth globally,
the Islamic hip-hop lexicon of the poetic jihadis has shed the meanings
originally embedded in the Five Percenter and NOI messages. Therefore,
hip-hop jargons and black iconographies have been ‘violated’ to take on
a ‘realer than real’ feel. Hence, the global Muslim youth hip-hop culture
demonstrates a “generation by models of a real without origin or real-
ity” and “is no longer a question of imitation, nor duplication, nor even
parody. It is a question of substituting the signs of the real for the real, that
is to say of an operation of deterring every real process via its operational
double . . .” (Baudrillard 1994: 1–2).
This double hyper-realisation is achieved via two key processes which
can be discerned by examining the disciplining of the body, and the dis-
ciplining of language. The first process of a double hyper-realisation is
evident in the Islamising of the performativity of the Five Percenter and
NOI hip-hop culture among contemporary young Muslims. The notion of
bodily discipline is a strong feature of Islamic hip-hop in contemporary
society. Its practitioners strive to conform to a body regimen that is in
line with the tenets of Islamic principles. All-male groups such as The
Brothahood, Mecca2Medina and Native Deen are modestly dressed, per-
form with less aggressive gyrations and are less likely to be bling-blinged,
display tattoos, or take off their shirts during a gig. As mentioned above by
Banjoko, among the female hip-hop fans the place of Islamic dress codes
in such a musical genre has been increasingly debated.
I don’t believe in conforming to what TV says hip-hop is about . . . Hip-hop is
a “very misunderstood art form,” often highlighted in the media as “a form
of threat or negativity.” But vice can be found everywhere, it doesn’t take
hip-hop to promote violence, sex or drugs . . . Hip-hop culture is merely an
art form to be appreciated, especially for those with talent and passion. I’m
a practising Muslim and hip-hop has not done anything to change that.
Shakirah (cited in Anon 2003)
Shakirah, the co-founder of www.sghiphop.com, performs in gigs in
Singapore and Malaysia organising hip-hop events and running a hip-hop
store called The Cube. However, her fascination with hip-hop does not
extend to the fashion associated with it. She avoids body-hugging tops,
opting instead for long-sleeved shirts, slacks and the hijab (Anon. 2003).
The second process aims at mainstreaming the hip-hop jargon to give
it more conventional and ‘authentic’ connotations. These interpretations
are made to satisfy Sunni Muslim requirements, or at other times they are
decentered to refer to a plurality of religions, as in the case made above on
the appropriation and transposing of various hip-hop idioms to unravel
a global and inclusive interpretation. Muslim or ‘Islamic’ hip-hop, from
its NOI and Five Percenter beginnings, has been co-opted from a move-
ment that is subversive within the domain of Islamic theology to a more
consumerist and palatable medium through which to voice Muslim youth
discontent. Turning theological symbols on their heads, Muslim hip-hop
culture can be seen as a social movement aiming not only to promote
multicultural living but also to project a ‘real’ Islam into hip-hop through
the infusion of elements of nasheed and Islamic devotional music. Hence,
having begun as a challenge to the supremacy of the white over the black
man, hip-hop is repositioned as a global movement for Muslim youth of
the September 11 generation.
The consumption of hip-hop culture among Muslim youth exhibits
a significant degree of homological imagination. This is most evident
if we examine the evolution of hip-hop idioms. Language structures
an individual’s perspectives of the world and functions as the vehicle
whereby these worldviews are communicated. The contribution of hip-
hop and the African American experience is to impart to urban minor-
ity youth “a cultural vocabulary and historical experience with which
to bond and from which to draw elements for local repertoires of resis-
tance” (Aidi 2004: 119). In this instance, the popularity of hip-hop culture
seems to prove the extent to which Americanisation pervades even Islam.

This has led certain quarters to advocate an essentialist and reduction-
ist Americanisation thesis in explaining the lived experiences of Muslim
youth.
I understand homology in the Bourdieusian sense, as referring to “the
source of the functioning of the consecration of the social order” which
conceals the power relationships just as it serves to manifest itself under
the pretence of neutrality (Bourdieu 1988: 204). Following Bourdieu, I
maintain that in imagining a singular habitus, young transnational Muslim
hip-hoppers “are united in a relationship of homology, that is, of diversity
within homogeneity characteristic of their social conditions of production”
whereby “each individual system of dispositions is a structural variant of
the others, expressing the singularity of its position within the class and
trajectory” (Bourdieu 1989: 60). As Bourdieu perceptively observes, each
position comes with a set of “presuppositions, a doxa, and the homology
between the producers’ position and their clients’ is the precondition for
this complicity, which is all the more required when fundamental values
are involved” (Bourdieu 1984: 240). Therefore, an individual at any stage of
every society deals with a set of social positions which is tied to a relation
of homology to a set of activities or commodities which are themselves
characterised relationally (Bourdieu 1998).
Various factors can be said to have contributed to this homological
imagination. Amongst the key factors would be the notion of solidarity.
Groups like The Brothahood are not just verbal mujahidins (Alim 2006a),
but also engage in operationalising Islam. They performed in ‘Free Gaza’
benefit concerts held in March and July 2009 to lend their support to the
Palestinians. Proceeds of these concerts were donated to the Palestinian
cause. The Brothahood also performed for the first time at the Free Gaza
Concert, their latest pro-Palestinian track, called ‘Act On It’. The group’s
global message and outlook is also manifest in their dressing. In a Sydney
concert, one of the singers came on stage wearing a “Free Burma” t-shirt,
jeans, zikr beads and a skullcap.
The second factor would be the perceived sense of persecution. The
notion of justice for the minorities is central to this homological imagina-
tion. Words like ‘outlaws’ and ‘outsiders’ are used by the Muslim youth
to describe their status vis-à-vis the larger society. This identification is
a double-edged sword in the sense that it might be precisely the similar
social conditions they face that makes African American hip-hop music
appealing to these Muslim youth, and/or it might be the discursive con-
straints within the hip-hop vocabulary that necessitate Muslim youth to
subscribe to an ‘us versus them’ mentality in the process of immersing

themselves in the music.
The attempts by Muslim youth to synchronise disparate cultural sym-
bols, social structures and value systems through a homological imagina-
tion manifests in a hyper-real appropriation of the hyper-real religion of
the NOI and the Five Percenters. Even at the level of analysing Muslim
hip-hop coming from America, hip-hop’s messages do not essentially con-
vey images or symbols depicting the social reality of everyday life in a
post-industrial community. The esoteric messages and insider language
codified within the hip-hop jargons of the Five Percenters and the NOI
more often than not transcend comprehensibility for many consumers of
hip-hop music. Since “linguistic relations are always relations of symbolic
power,” any attempts at rationalising from a merely linguistic perspective
without taking into consideration the totality of the matrices of power
relations makes the analysis unintelligible (Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992:
142–143). At one level it seems that the hip-hop language borrowed from
these groups has become normalised and is reproduced among the global
hip-hop ummah to represent symbols that are detached from their origi-
nally intended meanings.
The idea that Muslim youth are simply mimicking black American cul-
ture, devoid of any direct mentorship by its ‘original’ practitioners, has
been generally attributed to the amount of exposure given by the media
to ‘black’ music and the glamourising of the lifestyle in the music genre.
However, to take on an such a reductionist approach in understanding
Muslim youth consumption of hip-hop is to lose sight of the homological
imagination that emerge in the global conversations within the hip-hop
ummah. A more nuanced reading of the phenomenon reveals that, as hip-
hop originally symbolised the struggle of the black man and his attempts
to speak truth to power, its music as well as the accompaniments of its
culture confers a symbolic status to its practitioners. This is evident if one
examines the influence of Malcolm X on global Muslim hip-hop. Malcolm
X, an eminent African American civil rights leader and an Islamic activist
who started off with NOI but later switched to the more orthodox Sunni
tradition, has since become a central figure in Muslim hip-hop, with many
hip-hop songs invoking his name and speeches (Alim 2006a). In fact, the
influence of African American icons such as Malcolm X and Muhammad
Ali has also been cited by a significant number of converts to Islam the
world over. The rhetorical style of Malcolm X’s “jihad of words” (Floyd-
Thomas 2003) which he had deployed successfully as a “potent political
and religious strategy” (Turner 2003) has been much reproduced in the
global hip-hop scene. However, owing to the complexity of his personal

background, replicating Malcolm X in global Muslim hip-hop usually
comes at the expense of ignoring the structural conditions that make up
his habitus. The symbolic status of figures such as Malcolm X can also be
viewed as a product of secular consumerism; he is romanticised as a sym-
bol of the rebellion, as a Che Guevera of the Muslim world.
The adoption of such symbols has, to a degree, led to an unproblematic
internalisation of black street culture amongst a section of Muslim youth.
‘Gangsta’ hip-hop, a popular subgenre of hip-hop culture, is a source of
moral panic among many media observers and members of the com-
munity. New York Times columnist David Brooks, in his article “Gangsta,
in French,” talks about a struggle between “Osama bin Laden and Tupac
Shakur” among poor young Muslim men. In the aftermath of the Paris
riots, he pointed to the rioters’ immersion in hip-hop and rap culture,
and their replication of black American ghetto gang culture as a form of
global hegemonic resistance (Brooks 2005). These youth primarily envision
their everyday lives as resembling the struggles of the African American
street culture.
Due to the sheer magnitude and rate at which Muslim youth are glob-
ally immersing themselves in and reproducing hip-hop culture, it is inevi-
table that hip-hop culture also takes on a somewhat ‘glocalised’ form. To
be sure, from the examples that I have cited of Muslim hip-hop groups,
the nodes of cultural influence in Muslim hip-hop are increasingly dis-
persed. Furthermore, diasporic young Muslims are not only subjected to
the social policies of their host countries that influence attitudes towards
migrant status, but also policies that influence the socioeconomic status
which is intimately linked to the locality where they reside. As a case in
point, Western Sydney, an area of Australia where a significant number
of Muslim migrants live, has long been stigmatised as ‘unrefined’ and is
distinguished by its high level of social problems. Vocal accents originat-
ing from the particular locality, which is labelled as ‘woggie’ or ‘westie’
accumulate less cultural capital. Hence, young Muslims utilise an amal-
gamated form of black street language and Arabic to challenge the power
relationships that are embedded in a predominantly White Christian
nation. “Lebspeak” (Cameron 2003) emerges amongst the second-gener-
ation Lebanese youth in Western Sydney, countering conventional deco-
rum by ingesting hip-hop jargons into their everyday speech. This results
in the creation of new jargon like “ ‘fully sick bro’, awesome, Habib (a form
of ‘mate’), Yallah (let’s go), as well as the more colourful swearing (mo-fo,
for example)” (Butcher 2008: 374).
What Kitwana (2002) has correctly identified as the main forces driving
the hip-hop generation are also the primary factors fuelling the homo-
logical imagination in the hip-hop ummah. The advent of globalisation
and the continued visibility and representation of black youth in popu-
lar culture and the media resonate with the sense of alienation felt by
young Muslims, and is further reinforced by what is perceived as a prej-
udiced criminal justice system and the concerns of living in an age of
Islamophobia. Hence, as this chapter has demonstrated, there is a fusion
between the hyper-real religious nature in which Muslim hip-hop origi-
nates and the mental structures of its contemporary global Muslim youth
practitioners which has resulted in a double state of hyper-reality.
Conclusion
The consumption and production of hip-hop amongst Muslim youth brings

with it various presuppositions that should not be taken for granted. This
chapter has demonstrated the nuanced way that hip-hop is consumed
within Muslim youth. Youth participation in hip-hop culture is structured
to varying degrees by both national and transnational factors. In the case
of the consumption of hip-hop culture, it can be argued that there is an
attempt to replicate the structurations of the habitus as expressed in the
struggles of, not only the African American experience specifically, but
the hip-hop ummah as a whole (Alim 2006a; 2006b).
Hip-hop culture amongst urban minority youth exists in dialectical rela-
tionships with government institutions, political parties, media, religious
groups and among the youth themselves, who attempt not only to claim
and assume moral guardianship but to redraw existing moral boundaries.
Following Bourdieu (1989), these practices do not exist as dualisms (such
as a conflict between structure and agency), but rather accentuate the
consequences of the youth’s living within a structure. Youth attain their
dispositions, consciously or unconsciously, from a structural framework.
The challenge remains for the youth to reconcile themselves with seem-
ingly colliding social norms. This can be conceptualised via the mode of
the homological imagination.
One would be remiss to see hip-hop activism and the struggle for jus-
tice by the poetic jihadis as merely aimed at a confrontation between
Muslims and non-Muslims. The vibrancy within the hip-hop ummah,
itself characterised by a re-reading of the religion, cannot be taken for
granted. In essence, the poetic jihadis amongst the Muslim hip-hop
ummah have bridged the gap between the seemingly colliding genres of
nasheed and hip-hop with the notion of jihad as central to their endeav-
ours. Inadvertently, a double hyper-realisation occurs as the producers of
mainstream Muslim hip-hop seek to maintain the Five Percenter lexicon
whilst also subverting elements of it. Hence, lyrics within hip-hop music
not only document struggles with the non-Muslim Other, but are also part
of sartorial strategies of resistance within the religion itself. What is indeed
ironic is that the quest for religious authenticity and justice further adds
to the hyper-real nature of the endeavour. For the everyday consumers of
popular Muslim hip-hop, the entry of the Muslim hip-hop jargon into the
hip-hop landscape can thus be seen as what Baudrillard has termed “a
carnival of signs” (Sweetman 2000; Fisher 2002).
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Playing for Christ: Christians and Computer Games
Lauren Bernauer
Introduction
In recent times there have been outcries against the media content and
imagery that society (and especially its children) is exposed to. As a result
of these concerns over violence, sexual explicitness, and narratives that
promote an interest in the occult through a hyper-real religious process,
as well as of a desire for media that praises their God, devout Christ-
centred Christians have been creating and producing their own version
of popular mainstream culture. Most notable is their music scene, which
finds Christian versions of Heavy Metal, Rock, Pop, Rap, Country and
many more genres being performed, recorded, and sold to a Christian
audience. While their music has been particularly prolific, there are other
popular culture media being similarly converted for Christian consum-
ers. This phenomenon has also been recognised in the satirical comedy
of The Simpsons, with the episode “Thank God it’s Doomsday” parodying
the famous Left Behind books and films (Payne 2005), and “Alone Again,
Natura-Diddily” in which both Christian music and Christian computer
games make appearances (Maxtone-Graham 2000). Research on this phe-
nomenon of Christianity’s engagement with popular culture has mostly
been concerned with some of its more prominent manifestations, such
as the music scene (Romanowski 2005) and Left Behind (Frykholm 2005).
Also, John Walliss (this volume) has written a chapter on the Christian
response to role-playing games, which is often viewed as quite negative.
Like Walliss’ contribution, this chapter examines the Christian response
to another ‘geek’ hobby which, rather than remaining niche, has become
mainstream: computer gaming. Instead of viewing computer games in a
wholly negative light, and wishing to ban them altogether, Christ-centred
Christians are creating and publishing their own video games. The founder
of the Christian Game Developers Foundation and creator of Catechumen,
Reverend Ralph Bagley, has stated:
[s]imply forbidding our children from playing video games is not the
answer . . . We have to give them quality alternatives that match the excite-
ment of secular games while promoting Christian values—without the vio-
lent or sexually explicit content. (Davis 2005)
340 lauren bernauer
In light of the growth of the gaming industry and continuing concern over
the impact of computer games, especially those that could lead to a non-
Christian hyper-real religious phenomenon, this chapter will examine
the way Christian groups have appropriated mainstream games and con-
verted them into entertainment that they consider doctinally and morally
acceptable. In addition, this chapter considers websites that have been
created to review mainstream games in light of their potential appropri-
ateness for Christian consumers, and also groups of Christians that play
online games and the sets of rules they impose upon themselves and their
guilds while engaging in this activity.
Violence and Other Moral Objections
Computer games have been a leisure pastime within Western society since
the 1970s, when arcade games began to make an impact on the hobbies of
children and teenagers. Even at this early stage there were concerns about
game content, with Exidy’s DeathRace2000 being deemed by the general
public to be unsuitable for consumption, and suggestions that violence in
arcade games caused the rise of violence in everyday life (DeMaria and
Wilson 2002: 27–28). In the late 1970s and early 1980s, video games entered
households through gaming consoles such as the Atari 2600, Nintendo
Entertainment System (NES) and Commodore 64. As technology pro-
gressed, video games became playable on the personal computer, which,
over the years, has created a divide between video game consoles and
computer gaming (Bray 2008). As an overall genre of entertainment the
gaming industry is extremely successful, with its annual revenue exceed-
ing that of Hollywood films in 2004 (Lynch 2005: 52).
Fueled from the beginning by parental concern, the controversy over
video and computer games has grown in recent years, with questions
raised as to whether violence in popular games is desensitising the players
(often presumed to be children), or even creating killers (Grossman 2009:
316–320).1 After the Columbine High School massacre, the fact was publi-
cised that both Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold played Doom, a first-person
1
Computer games are by no means the only media to be criticised for corrupting and
desensitising the younger generations. Concerns were raised over violent movies after the
under-age murderers of James Bulger claimed they were inspired by Child’s Play 3. There is
also the issue of violent music, most notably rap, and the response to Ice-T’s Cop Killer and
concern that it would lead to listeners to be violent towards the police (Ferrell 1998).
playing for christ: christians and computer games 341
shooter (FPS) game, and this was followed by the unfounded rumour
that they had created a map of their school in the game and rehearsed
their horrific plan (Gilbert n.d.). In Britain there was also the accusation
that Warren Leblanc, who brutally murdered Stefan Pakeerah, owned the
violent game Manhunt and was obsessed with it, and that this obsession
led to the gruesome killing (BBC News 2004). Investigators later reported
that they did not find a copy of the game in Leblanc’s possessions, but
rather that his victim, Pakeerah, owned a copy (Fahey 2004). Some activ-
ists against violent games, such as disbarred United States attorney Jack
Thompson, go to great lengths to tie violent crimes to the circumstance of
a criminal having played video games, especially first-person shooters:
[o]n those rare occasions when a student opens fire on a school campus,
Thompson is frequently the first and the loudest to declare games respon-
sible. In recent years he’s blamed games such as ‘Counter-Strike’, ‘Doom’
and ‘Grand Theft Auto III’ for school shootings in Littleton, Colo., Red Lake,
Minn. and Paducah, Ky (Benedetti 2007).
In the aftermath of the Virginia Tech massacre, Thompson proclaimed
that Seung-Hui Cho had trained in the game Counter Strike even before
Seung-Hui Cho’s identity had been linked to the crime (Benedetti 2007).
Thompson also intended to bring a lawsuit against the makers of Manhunt
on behalf of Stefan Pakeerah’s family (Fahey 2004).
While there are concerns over game addiction, chiefly brought to the
fore in connection with the Massively Multiplayer Online (MMO) game
World of Warcraft, violence is the predominant moral issue raised con-
cerning games. Countries such as Germany and Venezuela have banned
violent games, and Australia has not introduced a R18+ rating for games,
resulting in popular titles such as the zombie apocalypse first-person
shooter Left 4 Dead 2 being banned, or in game producers having to
modify and reduce the impact of certain aspects of their games (Colwill
2009). Other concerns such as drug use or sexual themes are often aired,
but violence remains the main concern for critics of computer and video
games. Christian game developers therefore emphasise this issue when
promoting their games as a moral and safe alternative to mainstream
games (Davis 2005).
The concept of hyper-reality is also quite important, as the absorption
of players into the game world is controversial, as it has been important
in other areas of popular culture:
[t]here is much debate in our time about the effects of entertainment upon
consciousness, personality and behavior. Our analyses can cast light on this
342 lauren bernauer
debate. Virtually every parent in the contemporary western world knows

of the ‘‘glazed eye’’ phenomenon when calling his or her children after
they have been absorbed in some of their favorite TV. At these moments
the world has become less real than the work; the pure phenomenon of
the entertainment event has ontologically outweighed the everyday world
(Harvey 2005: 265).
The world of computer games is much more captivating than that of tele-
vision as, rather than being an observer to a story, the player is partici-
pating in the world of the game and his/her actions may lead to ‘world’
changing consequences. Indeed part of the controversy about violence
in computer games concerns the fact that rather than merely simulating
the violence, the player is engaging in violent acts, hence the supposed
blurring between the virtual reality of the game and real life. With that
concept in mind, it could be seen that because of the hyper-reality of com-
puter games, Christian deeds done in computer games could be consid-
ered as of equal importance to those performed in the physical world.
Christian Computer Games
Christian computer games are not a new phenomenon; they originated in

the mid to late 1980s when game company Color Dreams was causing minor
waves, producing the gaming system on which their games were played.
As a consequence of designing games for the Nintendo Entertainment
System (NES) without a license from Nintendo, Color Dreams was slowly
impelled to change the type of consumers it attracted. Nintendo did not
pursue Color Dreams legally, but rather told retailers that if they stocked
and sold the unlicensed games, Nintendo would no longer allow them to
sell Nintendo products (Nielsen n.d.). Rather than seek a license to pro-
duce the games, Color Dreams instead began to create and sell Christian
video games for the NES under the new name of Wisdom Tree. These
were marketed through Christian bookstores—places in which regular
computer games were not sold.
During the late 1980s and early 1990s, Wisdom Tree produced games
that focused on Christian morals and beliefs, while drawing inspiration
from popular game titles such as The Legend of Zelda and Mario Brothers,
and reusing old Color Dreams games to create new ones. These new
games often had similar game play to the popular titles, but their stories
would be about Christianity, and their activities might involve using Bible
knowledge to defeat an enemy, or playing through levels based on Bible
stories. As co-owner of the company, Brenda Huff, has stated,
[b]asically, what we were doing was taking the garbage out and putting
Bible content in. That’s the whole reason for the company to begin with.
We marketed almost 100 percent into the Christian bookstore market, not
through secular channels. It took a while to get in. We got picked up by
Focus on the Family, which gave us pretty much of an industry okay (Kent
2001: 399).
While most of their games just borrowed elements from the popular titles,
Wisdom Tree also produced a clone of a game from the Castle Wolfenstein
series, Wolfenstein 3D. Changing the models in the game, Wisdom Tree
converted the original scene from a castle full of Nazis that the player
must shoot and kill while hunting for Hitler, to Noah’s Ark, where the
player must slingshot food at animals to pacify them. Super 3D Noah’s
Ark was the only unlicensed game for the Super Nintendo Entertainment
System, successor to the NES (Kent 2001: 400). Wisdom Tree was the main
Christian video game developer during these early years, but with game
technology moving toward computers, the creation and production of
Christian games declined.
Due to the trend to personal computers, the Christian games industry
stalled for a while, as it no longer had the aid of a set-up company. Wisdom
Tree had flourished because it already possessed the game designers and
experience to build upon when the company took a different direction with
its game content. However, by the early 1990s the company had essentially
gone out of business; even now they only reproduce their old NES games
for computers. A few years later, however, there were Christian games
being developed for the home computer, with one of the notable ones
being N’Lightning Software’s Catechumen, essentially a game like Doom,
but one in which there is no gore, and the player wields a sword rather
than a gun. The aim of the game is to fight and destroy minions of Satan
who are in the tunnels under second-century Rome, and to purge the evil
from Roman soldiers, leaving them penitent and praying to God. While
the game does have its own story, it follows in the footsteps of Wisdom
Tree by drawing upon mainstream game titles. This trend has continued
throughout Christian game design, with Virtue Games’ Nacah and Isles of
Derek drawing upon the popular Myst and its sequel Riven, as mystery and
puzzle solving adventure games (Namma 2005).2 More recently there has
2
The creators of the Myst series were devout Christians, and there are Christian reli-
gious themes in the game, though they are quite subtle (Pearce and Artemesia 2009: 73).
It can be assumed that the subtle nature of the message in the games was not enough for
344 lauren bernauer
been a Christian game produced by Rebel Planet, The Axys Adventures,

that is graphically quite similar to the recent Legend of Zelda games. These
games essentially create a story that suits the mainstream title they are
copying, and use the similarity as one of their main selling points. In Isles
of Derek, a community is without faith because a demon stole their only
Bible generations ago, so the player must discover its location and bring
the people back into the fold (Virtue Games 2006). Axys Adventures sees a
faithful community being attacked by an evil outside force, and the player
controls their champion, Axys, who goes out and fights against the corrup-
tion this evil force is causing in the land (Rebel Planet 2007).
One Christian game available on consoles is based on the Christian
cartoon Veggie Tales, although it was not produced by a Christian com-
pany but by mainstream developers who have produced numerous other
console games. Those games that are based on other Christian media, like
Veggie Tales, Adventures in Odyssey and Left Behind,3 do not seem to draw
on mainstream games as much as those that are trying to create their
own story. The only games that copy mainstream titles competently are
Guitar Praise and Dance Praise (which are Christian versions of Guitar
Hero and Dance Dance Revolution), simply because the format is quite
straightforward and is not forcing a Christian story or game play into the
model of a mainstream game. These games are for the computer, rather
than the consoles the original games are played on, and use USB ports for
the guitar and dance pad peripheral devices. The games also have multi-
player capabilities, which the majority of Christian computer games do
not, and thus allow the players to involve their friends in the game. There
are some Christian games that still incorporate elements from well-known
titles even if they do not directly mimic these titles. Examples are the
non-denominational Bible Champions and its Catholic counterpart Gospel
Champions, where stories from the Bible are played out and the player
interacts with them; however the game also has coin collection similar to
that seen in Super Mario Bros games.
Despite their appropriation of mainstream games themes, Christian
computer games also seek to teach the players lessons. The Adventures in
Odyssey games state that they teach children the lessons of truthfulness,
praise, forgiveness and trust (Digital Praise n.d.). Many of the games also
use knowledge of the Bible to aid in puzzle-solving, and this has been
the Christ-centered designers, who instead created their own version of the game with an
explicit Christian message.
3
It should be noted that Jack Thompson spoke out against Left Behind: Eternal Forces
due to the violence in the game (Zach 2006).
a key element of Christian games since Wisdom Tree was producing

them. Bible Champions and Gospel Champions also market themselves to
churches and Christian schools, thus gaining the benefit of easy access to
all the families in the schools’ communities. Gospel Champions also fol-
lows the schools’ Mass readings schedule:
[t]he Gospel Champions video game reinforces Gospel readings by recre-
ating the same Gospel stories that children hear in Mass into fun action/
adventure video games. Each month your kids play a Gospel story game
that sequences with the Lectionary. As children play the games on their
home PCs, they learn by seeing and hearing the story; and then by doing
activities related to the story. This incredibly affordable series lets ALL your
children play games on their home PC that reinforce the Gospel Readings
and Catholic Faith. (Third Day Games n.d.)
Those designers who create an original story and setting for their games
tend to embed in them as much Christian and Biblical knowledge as pos-
sible. There are even Bible quiz games, which have been some of the more
popular Christian games (Michael and Chen 2006: 217). This heavy focus on
Christianity is, as with contemporary evangelical music, possibly the main
deterrent to the games finding a place in the greater gaming community.
Why, it might be asked, is the Christian version of the Legend of Zelda-
inspired game on the computer, when Zelda games have only appeared as
console games? While Christian computer games began as console games,
since the move to the personal computer the Christian developers have
not been able to break back into the console market. There have been a
couple of games developed for the Playstation and Xbox, but for the most
part Christian game developers do not have enough funds to produce con-
sole games. Developing and producing console games entails purchasing
a specific game engine, and this can cost between three hundred and fifty
thousand and five hundred thousand United States dollars (boyoftomor-
row 2006). Also, the console companies have a say in what is produced
for their console, just as Nintendo did in the days of Color Dreams. While
these major companies would possibly not dispute the production of
Christian games, Christian game developers do not have to worry about
them when producing personal computer games.
While the main dissemination issue faced by Christian game develop-
ers is their inability to produce console games, there are other potential
problems. Financial issues mean that of the number of companies devel-
oping Christian games, most only seem to be able to create a small num-
ber of games before they disappear. Virtue Games’ website has not been
updated since 2006 despite, supposedly, being close to another release
346 lauren bernauer
(Virtue Games 2006). This lack of funding and compromised longevity of

the companies is important in relation to the console market; if a game
company were able to buy the console game engine to create console
games, would that benefit the entire community of Christian game devel-
opers, or only the company that bought the engine? What would happen
to the engine if the company that purchased the equipment were to go
out of business? These issues, though warranting consideration, are not
discussed by the Christian Game Developers Foundation in their info-
mercial (boyoftomorrow 2006), requesting donations and support. Other
issues also stem from the short life of Christian computer game businesses
and their wish to break into the console market, such as aspirations to
move into the mainstream market and rivalry with mainstream games for
market share. While Christian games are clearly for Christians, there is the
potential that they might also be viewed as a means of converting those
who need to be ‘saved’:
[i]n addition, evangelicals sometimes argue that games can teach tribal
values and beliefs, even “enlighten believers and nonbelievers concerning
God’s truths by providing entertainment that is rich with Christian content.
These products must be highly entertaining and engaging in order to create
‘teachable moments’. ” (Schut 2008)
Unlike the Christian music industry, the Christian game industry has a
long way to go before it might see mainstream interest. It has taken many
years for evangelical music to go mainstream and appear on MTV, and
this eventual success has essentially been a result of lessening the religious
overtones of the music (Romanowski 2005; Halpern 2005). The progress
is slow, despite the hopes of the evangelical community that their music
would engage non-believing youth and bring them to the community and
God (Gormly 2003).
An infomercial, produced by the Christian Game Developers Foundation
for viewing on the Internet, appears on Youtube (boyoftomorrow 2006).
Uploaded by a (presumably) non-Christian who has labelled the video
“propaganda,” the infomercial displays a woman talking to children aged
between ten and twelve. She asks what games they play, and the chil-
dren list games that are clearly inappropriate for their age group: games
rated for those aged fifteen and above (boyoftomorrow 2006).4 The video’s
4
The issue of video game violence could be viewed as more likely linked to children
playing games that are not age-appropriate, rather than to the apparent violence in any
particular game.
main objective is to encourage people to donate to the Christian Games

Development Foundation, so that they might be able to produce more
wholesome Christ-centred games and potentially break into the con-
sole market, but the people likely to view this advert and give money to
the foundation are unlikely to be those parents who would allow their
children to play age-inappropriate games. This leads to the issue of the
Christians’ target audience with regard to age. While the majority of chil-
dren play some computer or video games (Pew Research Center n.d.), sev-
eral studies list the average age of gamers as around thirty-five (BBC 2009;
Hill 2008). Christian games are clearly predominantly aimed at children,
who already have a vast number of games catering to their age range,
created by mainstream developers; though Christ-focused Christians may
have other issues with those games, such as their promotion of evolution,
or the occult themes in the popular Pokémon franchise (Possamai 2005:
142–149). Christian music artists had to work with mainstream record
companies before seeing sales outside of church and Christian stores, and
Christian computer game companies have yet to take similar steps, so it
will be some time before they see sales outside of the devout Christian
community.
Christians Playing Mainstream Games
It is obvious that there are Christ-focused Christians who are interested

in the larger culture of games and gaming, given the ways that Christian
games have been deeply influenced by mainstream games, either by incor-
porating elements from them or by being explicitly Christian versions of
popular games. This appropriation of content indicates that Christian
game developers also play mainstream computer and video games, and
many Christ-focused Christian consumers still consume and play main-
stream, secular, often violent video and computer games.
By playing popular games, these Christians are not necessarily forgoing
their faith. Rather, a number of them review the games they play and detail
the appropriateness of the game regarding Christian morals and values, as
well as commenting on the common issue of the level of violence evident
during game play, since secular classifications do not necessarily address
their concerns. It is interesting to observe how two different websites go
about this review process. At the Christ Centered Gamer website, games
are given two scores out of one hundred; the first is based on five differ-
ent areas of appropriateness, such as violence, nudity and the occult. The
348 lauren bernauer
other score is an overall game score, which rates five aspects, such as the
game play, graphics and general stability of the game. These scores are
placed at the end of a long review of the game, but because appropri-
ateness is broken down into five different categories, a game that scores
badly in only one area can potentially receive a reasonably good score
out of one hundred. The following review of X-Men Origins: Wolverine is
an example.
Do me a favor and don’t buy this for your kids. And some of you may want
to think twice about buying it for yourself too. With that out of the way, let’s
get into why. Blood is heavily used during battle, which gushes and splashes
and the screen also gets a nice dose on it during messy kills. Gory dismem-
berment and decapitation is used a lot, the numerous finishers can and
will look downright savage, arms and legs are broken, and heads are blown
off using the enemies own weapons . . . There is some crude language and
profanity here and there (s--- and a-- mainly), but it isn’t used that much.
Some tight clothing is shown on female characters as well. Mystique and
some mutant female enemies don’t wear clothing, but look like they have a
skin-tight suit which, intentional or not, has at least some sex appeal, so it’s
worth watching out for (Keero 2009).
Despite the author saying that this game might not be worth purchasing
due to inappropriate content, the game receives a score of seventy-six in
the appropriateness category. For, while it gets zero out of ten for violence
and four out of ten for language, the game was given ten out of ten in the
areas of ‘Occult/Supernatural’ and ‘Cultural/Moral/Ethical’ (‘Nudity and
Sexual Reference’ received eight). Thus arrived at, the score of seventy-six
out of one hundred is quite misleading, as according to the reviewer, the
game is not at all appropriate for the audience reading this review. While
there is a brief outline of the game at the beginning of the review, it is
not visually prominent, and does not give a rating of the game or warning
about its content. Not all of the reviews have even this initial outline.
Another website, Guide 2 Games, begins its review with the level of
appropriateness, and rates games as either ‘Squeaky Clean’, ‘Some Issues’
or ‘Strong Caution’. Unreal Tournament 3, a similar game to Wolverine with
regard to violent content, receives, due to its violence, a ‘Strong Caution’
rating with a small explanation as to why:
[t]he heart of this game is violence, so be advised as to what you are getting
into. Also, there is a lot of swearing that stops short of f***. There is female
cleavage present in a few characters during the game (Summers 2009).
Under this rating system, it is easily identifiable that the game is consid-
ered inappropriate, and why. Though the ‘Strong Caution’ section of the
review might be small for this game, others receive long, detailed explana-
tions. Like Christ Centered Gamers, Guide 2 Games provides a substantial
review of a game overall, but they display clearly their rating of a game
regarding its levels of violence, sexual reference, the occult and other wor-
rying content. While not all its reviews have this clear rating, the older
ones include a numerical score for different categories at the beginning of
the review—one category being ‘Christian Rating’. On Guide 2 Games, the
game Okami, which is about the Japanese goddess Amaterasu, receives
“2 of 5 (poor)” for its Christian content (Josh 2008).5
These two websites review games and publish their results in differ-
ent formats, but they both show that there are Christ-focused Christians
playing violent, ‘morally dubious’, mainstream games. Left4Dead, an
online zombie apocalypse first-person shooter, receives ‘Strong Caution’
on Guide 2 Games. The concluding remarks of the review state:
Left4Dead is an extremely satisfying and fun game, especially if you get
together and play with friends. However, the violence is extreme, and you
very well could hear a lot of profanity if you play online. If you can handle
the above mentioned content, then you are in for the ride of your . . . un-life.
(Link 2009)
It is clear from this review that these Christians enjoy playing these types
of games and later discussion will show that they do not see the prac-
tice as interfering with their faith and relationship with Christ. The Christ
Centered Gamer website, while including reviews of numerous games,
also serves as a place for devout Christians6 to find people with whom
to play these cooperative multiplayer games. ChristianGameServers.com
hosts servers for these games to be played on, and they advertise hosting
both Team Fortress 2 and Unreal Tournament 3. Both of these are purely
Player versus Player FPS games, meaning that when you shoot an oppo-
nent you are shooting a character being played and controlled by another
human being, the main objective of these games being to shoot and kill
the opposition. While Team Fortress 2 is an entirely team-based game, and
While Okami received an M classification rating by the Office of Film and Literature
5
Classification, the only listed concerns are “Moderate Fantasy Violence and Moderate
Sexual References.” This listing clearly does not address Christian issues with the Shinto
and non-Christian spirituality evident in the game.
6
While the Internet is a place of anonymity and anyone might choose to play within
the community this website fosters regardless of their religion or level of devotion, the
website does pitch itself at devout Christians and bears the self-created label of “the ulti-
mate Christian gaming site.”
350 lauren bernauer
the Unreal Tournament 3 server that the Christian Game Servers website
runs is a team based map (and thus the team play and cooperation con-
cepts in both these games may be advanced as positives), the main objec-
tive is still to kill the ‘enemy’.
The use of the occult category also raises an interesting question as to
why engaging in those actions that are ‘un-Christian’ is so problematic. If
the game is purely fantasy and has no impact on the real world then there
should be no need for concern. But given the nature of hyper-reality within
the gaming genre, playing games that have strong occultic overtones is
considered dangerous because it is not truly a fantasy, non-real, world in
which the player’s actions are taking place. The players are engaging with
‘evil’ supernatural forces and in some games, actually performing sorcery
or devotion to Pagan deities. Doing this in a game is as real as actively
participating in rituals at a non-Christian religious festival—there is no
true distinction between the actions performed in the game and those
occurring in the physical world, this lack of distinction creating an hyper-
real religious phenomenon. The reason Christian-developed computer
games are perceived to be necessary, is that rather than having the players
absorbed into a new world and there performing occultic, satanic acts (as
in the Harry Potter franchise games), or engaging in violence and overtly
sexual behaviours (as in the Grand Theft Auto series), they can instead be
active in a hyper-real world where they perform Christian deeds, do God’s
work and save people’s souls—the concept being that performing these
these actions in the game is just as important as doing them in ‘real life’.
Aside from these purely Player versus Player games, Christ-focused
Christians also play other online games, like World of Warcraft and other
Massively Multiplayer Online role-playing games. Groups or ‘guilds’,
formed around their religious devotion, share ideals about players’ con-
duct. One such group is the Tribe of Judah who play numerous games,
and maintain World of Warcraft and Warhammer: Age of Reckoning guilds
for their members. As many of these online games have opposing factions,
Tribe of Judah hosts guilds on both sides. These guilds have guidelines
that all members need to respect and obey, such as not using profanity,
playing with a family member who is over eighteen (and also in the guild)
if underage, and playing well with those in other guilds. They also have a
propensity to proselytise:
Section 5: Witnessing & Encouragement
encourage v.t. to give courage or confident [sic] to; to raise the hopes of; to
help on by sympathetic advice and interest; to advise and make it easy for
(someone to do something); to promote, stimulate; to strengthen (a belief

or idea)
All members are encouraged to witness to non-Christians, whether
through open conversation or by the example of their conduct. All members
should also encourage and uplift their fellow members (ewoksrule 2009).
The guilds run Bible study, lead prayers and provide spaces where Christ-
focused Christians can be open about their beliefs without fear of recrimi-
nation from other players. The guilds have also received some publicity:
one of Tribe of Judah’s World of Warcraft guild leaders was interviewed
by James John Bell for an article about the game. He speaks of his time in
the game and the activities his guild participates in, and his reactions to
the content of the game:
[w]hile Heath doesn’t kill non-believers, he along with both factions van-
quishes a great number of demon NPCs like those found in Desolace. It was
during a quest through this dead zone that Heath realised that even in the
hi-rez land of Azeroth the Lord can speak through the virtual dead: “As I was
riding through the Kodo Graveyard in Desolace, the bones brought to mind
Ezekiel 37, which later resulted in a message I preached at a location and
used this reference to the valley of dry bones. I eventually used it as a Bible
Study one Friday night in the guild as well” (Bell 2006).
Tribe of Judah is just one group of Christ-focused Christians that play
MMOs. Schut (2008) talks of how numerous Christian guilds actively seek
converts and have statements regarding salvation plans. He also discusses
how these gaming guilds can act as religious communities for the players.
This idea of witnessing and out-reach programs is used by Christians to
give a more spiritual role to their game playing, transcending the act of
socialising online through game play with other like-minded Christians.
There has been some concern over Christians limiting themselves to
Christian guilds. As one commenter on a blog post states, limiting oneself
to Christian guilds does not allow a huge potential for out-reach and guid-
ing people to Jesus:
[i]t seems to me that it’s more effective to witness by joining a guild that
contains unsaved members and build[ing] relationships with them there.
We don’t need to create more seperate [sic] sub-groups of Christians—we
need to infiltrate the unsaved communities.
Being a youth pastor and sharing about my ‘career’ with other guildmates
has offered many great witnessing opportunities. I’ve earned their respect
over the past 10 months and now have opportunities where members just
want to sit in Teamspeak [voice chat] and talk privately about what they’re
going through in life. It appears to me that many people play games like this
as an escape from real-life struggles, so I agree that it is an exceptionally needy
352 lauren bernauer
mission field. Just please don’t create your own little groups of Christians in
these games—reach out! (Andy 2005, comment by Tim).
Other comments on this particular blog post also talk of using gaming
as a means of witnessing to non-Christians or lapsed Christians, and this
seems to be the main positive aspect that these devout Christians find
in playing large scale mainstream games. This aspect does not apply to
the games they can only play in small groups (such as Team Fortress 2
and Left4Dead), but in the MMOs, conversion, witnessing and mission are
raised as regular topics, because while Christ-focused Christians play they
come into contact with those who either do not share their faith, or do
not believe in it as passionately as they do.
In spite of the gamers’ claims of using this contemporary medium to
proselytise, there are those from within their faith who are critical of their
involvement with computer and video gaming. With the recent media dis-
cussions about addiction to games (specifically World of Warcraft) and
Internet and game addiction recovery programs (Associated Press 2009),
there are concerns in the Evangelical and Christ-centered communities
that involvement with gaming can interfere with a person’s faith and
devotion to Jesus and God (Jindra 2008: 207). There is apprehension that
the games are becoming an idol, and that Christian gamers are using the
idea of gaming being a mission and opportunity for witnessing to dismiss
that criticism.
We pour our money into new computers, new games, monthly subscrip-
tions, and hours and hours of time to feed our fleshly desires.
While I will admit that some may reach a lost soul here or there by play-
ing video games with them, I’d be FAR more worried that it’s just an excuse
we’re making so we can play our games for thousands of hours and not feel
guilty because we’re not out meeting real needs for real people in the real
world. Why do I say this? Because this is a beast inside me that I have to
beat down all the time. I know the excuse, I know the temptation, and it
scares me to death.
Seek first His Kingdom and His righteousness! All these other things will
be given to you. Don’t be caught up in a world which isn’t even a world.
(Andy 2005, comment by jwise).
This comment represents those Christ-focused Christians who have
embraced gaming but realise that there can be harmful side-effects not
only in the content of the games (which Christian critics mostly focus on),
but in spending too much time engaging with them, something numerous
critics of gaming discuss. While there are religious and spiritual overtones
to the above comment, it could also be viewed as representing people
who are not devoutly Christian or religious, but can relate their own expe-
riences of spending too much time playing computer games rather than
living life. While there are those who can see the detrimental effects of
spending too much time with computer and video games, there are many
in the gaming community who do not. While Christian gamers face the
same involvement issues as non-religious gamers, they must also address
a spiritual side to their potential ‘addiction’. Instead of evaluating just the
real world physical and social aspects of their lives being impacted by their
gaming—as would be the primary concern of non-religious gamers—
the Christian gamers also need to evaluate the impact their time gaming
is having on their own spiritual welfare, not just on that of those they are
trying to reach.
Jwise’s comment also connects with hyper-reality, even though he obvi-
ously rejects the notion of these virtual worlds having potentially great
importance to certain people and their faith. Heath, in his adventures in
World of Warcraft, demonstrates how the seemingly non-real world can
impact faith. Heath’s experience and sermon within the game world shows
that it has a real importance to him and his faith. By witnessing to other
gamers in the virtual reality of their chosen game, they are doing their
work as Christians, and getting the Word out to non-believers. That mis-
sionising is as real to them as if it were occurring in the physical world.
Conclusion
Video and computer games have been part of Western society for many
years now, and their popularity is growing. Yet there remain numerous
concerns about the content of the games. Primarily these focus on the vio-
lence, sexually explicit clothing, and the un-Christian behaviour of some
of the characters in the games. Realising that they cannot simply ban
children from playing computer and video games, Christian groups have
been creating Christ-centered games, encountering, however, numerous
problems.
The primary issue is that these Christians view games as something for
children (despite numerous studies suggesting the average age of gam-
ers is well into adulthood), and this essentially limits the kind of games
Christian companies produce. Christian computer games are aimed at chil-
dren in an attempt to encourage children to play these games rather than
mainstream ones. Yet they cannot really compete with the numerous chil-
dren’s games available in the mainstream market, as Christian companies
354 lauren bernauer
do not have the same level of financial backing as the mainstream game
companies have and the Christian games are bound by their religious and
moral messages. Christian game developers state that there needs to be a
non-violent moral alternative to mainstream games, but they do not take
into account that age recommendations and classifications are not being
adhered to when children are given games to play (boyoftomorrow 2006).
While Christ-centered Christians may also have concerns about non-
violent aspects of mainstream children’s games (such as the Darwinian
evolutionary nature of the creatures in Pokémon) this is not spoken about
in public messages (such as the video from the Christian Game Developers
Foundation). Rather it is mainstream games’ violent and sometimes sexu-
ally explicit nature that is discussed, in order to recruit non-Christians to
play Christian-developed computer games.
Christian games also fail to include co-operative play, a core compo-
nent of numerous popular mainstream titles. Computer and video gaming
is becoming a group activity both through consoles and online play, but
Christian computer games are yet to incorporate this aspect. Christian
music gives Evangelical teenagers the means to listen to contemporary
styles of music and thereby engage, in a sanctioned way, with normal
teenage behaviour and customs (Schofield Clark 2003: 44). Christian com-
puter games do not. They are aimed at children, and (aside from Guitar
Praise and Dance Praise) have no co-operative or versus play, so children
are not able to involve their friends. Since the Christian market does not
supply their demand, some devout Christians turn to mainstream video
and computer games.
The numerous issues that Christian computer game companies face are
inherently financial. They do not have the money to produce many games,
and as these games are aimed at a young audience they do not see sales
across the entire age range of gamers. Also, the games cater to a specific
group of people. Lack of funds stops companies from branching into the
console market, thus limiting the growth of Christ-focused games, and also
affects their multiplayer ability. Console games are potentially able to sup-
port two to four players at once, while multiplayer computer games require
multiple computers or connection to an online server—a venture which
requires adequate financial support. The overt Christian sentiment in the
games produced by these Christian companies makes non-Christ-focused
Christians and the non-religious less inclined to play them and thus makes
mainstream success more difficult.
When playing mainstream games, Christ-centered Christians still incor-
porate their faith: informing others of what games are like with regard to
Christian ideas of appropriateness; playing with a group of like-minded

people according to a code of conduct; and/or using their involvement
with gaming to spread the Word. While these Christian gamers may have
good intentions, there is criticism of their actions from the Evangelical
and Christ-focused communities. Given that ‘game addiction’ has been a
recent concern in the media, there are those who feel that playing main-
stream games inherently leads the players away from Christ and the core
beliefs of the Christian faith.
In spite of the detractors, it is quite clear that Christ-focused Christians
are engaging with the medium of computer and video games. While some
engage in an attempt to provide a Christian alternative to mainstream
games, others use the social interaction that computer and video games
can provide to find a new religious community. However there are still
steps that need to be taken by both players and developers. Christian game
developers need to learn from their Evangelical music counterparts that
unless they are willing to tone down their religious message and content,
their audience is always going to be devout Christians. They also need to
move away from single-player children’s games and adapt to the mature
age of the average gamer and produce the engaging games that teenagers
wish to play. As for any other gamer, for the Christ-centered Christians
playing mainstream games there is the potential to become too involved
with their hobby, and they need to realise that (even though they might
play inside a religious community, or use gaming as a potential vehicle
for witnessing to and for the conversion of non-believers) it can become
an overwhelming part of their lives. Devout Christians engaging in large
scale games like MMOs face the same issues as do non-religious gamers
regarding time spent playing and time taken away from real world inter-
action and living life in general. Because of this there will always be crit-
ics of their hobby, and Christ-focused computer gamers, no matter what
their religious and witnessing intentions might be, will need to negotiate
how their beliefs and hobby interact, and reflect on which of the two is
receiving more attention.
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Some Angel Some Devil: Harry Potter vs. The Roman
Catholic Church in Poland
Krzysztof Olechnicki
Introduction
Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should
that mean that it is not real? (Rowling 2007: 579).
Pottermania in Poland is not different from Pottermania in many other
countries, but because of the relatively high level of religious homogene-
ity in Polish society and the very special position of the Roman Catholic
Church, J. K. Rowling’s books have triggered a far-reaching discussion
within the Catholic community.1 The variety of the reactions is somehow
paradoxical: all debaters are deeply concerned about their belief system
(i.e. Roman Catholicism) and also claim that they have analysed the Harry
Potter series from the Catholic (or just Christian) point of view. But some
of them warn against the diabolical and occultist roots of the series of
books, while others recognise the Christ-like traits in the young wizard
from Hogwarts. It seems that either the books are complex and unclear or,
a more reasonable argument, that Roman Catholic belief is very diverse
concerning what is good or bad for the faithful. Why do some Catholics,
even priests, defend and promote Harry Potter, while others think that
even reading these books is a sin? I suggest that this may be because the
concern is not about Harry Potter being good or bad, but about the fact
that Harry Potter is part of consumer culture and the hyper-real religious
spectacle. The debate is clearly fuelled by the enormous popularity of
these books and the assumption that Harry Potter is seen by the Church
as becoming a real religious/spiritual competitor in the case of some peo-
ple. While there are groups (and individuals) who are directly inspired by
Harry Potter in their quest for religiosity/spirituality (Cusack 2010), they
have not led to any type of group formalization such as Jediism. There is
1
This is not the only discourse on Harry Potter in Poland. There are also more con-
ventional literary and readers’ discourses which have produced quite a fierce discussion
on whether Harry Potter is good or bad literature (or is literature at all) but as these dis-
courses have no special Polish characteristic I will not consider them in my chapter.
360 krzysztof olechnicki
no church of Potter but there are nevertheless people who are inspired
by these stories spiritually and religiously, such as some neo-pagan
groups and networks. However, this is not the focus of this Chapter. The
stronger social impact of the hyper-real religiosity of Harry Potter might
instead be based on the vigorous resistance of conservative and evangeli-
cal Christians who perceive Harry Potter in religious terms, and recognise
that people can be attracted by a ‘false’ belief. As such, this Chapter does
not deal with the religious consumption of popular culture but rather on
the counter-consuming processes by a mainstream religious institution.
In Poland, this opposition is represented in the first place by the Roman
Catholic Church. Because the Church has defined the situation in such a
way (akin to a self-fulfilling prophecy), Harry Potter has actually become
a serious religious challenge due to its negative hyper-real attraction to
spiritual consumers.
It is noticeable that the arguments of the Harry Potter opponents
seem to have very little (if any) impact on consumers of popular cul-
ture. Regardless of severe criticism and warnings issued by some Catholic
authorities, Harry Potter books and films sell extremely well among the
mostly Catholic Polish population. I argue that mixing elements of reli-
gious traditions with a popular culture (as is the case in Harry Potter)
makes this blend very resistant to any institutional pressure. The negative
reactions to the stories of Harry Potter especially concern young people
going astray with their belief system. However, as this Chapter will explore,
the hyper-reality of Rowling’s kingdom, on one hand, and the polarisation
of opinions within the Church itself, on the other, make the institution’s
voice, a voice (crying) in the wilderness. I also think that while the situ-
ation in Poland is very specific, it is possible to generalise the findings
about this phenomenon’s dynamics to other countries, because the logic
behind the consumers’ choices is likely to be the same everywhere.
Fundamental to understanding the phenomenon of Harry Potter is the
concept of the sacred, or, more precisely, the return of the sacred. In my
chapter I would like to present some reflections on hyper-real religions in
the context of reactions to Harry Potter in Poland, and in connection with
two concepts which are fifty years apart, but are nevertheless connected.
The first is Max Weber’s concept of the disenchantment of the modern
world, which was created within the context of the sociology of religion.
The other is Leszek Kołakowski’s concept of the revenge of the sacred on
secular culture (and on petrified institutionalised religion), which was cre-
ated within the framework of the philosophy of religion.
harry potter vs. the roman catholic church in poland 361
My study is based on extensive empirical research, including analysis of

various Catholic publications from Poland between 2000 and 2009. (The
first volume of Harry Potter was published in Poland in 2000.) These are
articles from several Catholic press titles (Rodzina Radia Maryja, Przegląd
Powszechny, Nasz Dziennik, Rycerz Niepokalanej, Przewodnik Katolicki,
Posłaniec Serca Jezusowego, OAZA, Miłujcie Się!, List do Pani, Któż Jak Bóg,
Źródło, Gość Niedzielny, Wzrastanie, Wieczernik, Tygodnik Powszechny),
popular Catholic books and Catholic web pages. Between 2000 and 2009
I have also surveyed the content of the most popular Catholic-oriented
sites (including some anti-cult sites). While reviewing the most popular
and widespread titles and sites, I was looking for the most representative
voices in the discourse on Harry Potter. In my analysis I do not mention
any one-time, single comment or statement, but concentrate on those
with the highest frequency of repetition. Undoubtedly, this is a kind of
reduction, but it allows the most important actors and threads in the dis-
cussion to be distinguished.
Let me start with some historical background. For more than twenty
years Poland has been the scene of strenuous efforts towards political and
economic transformation. Undoubtedly, this is the most crucial process in
the country; the process which determines others. However, we should not
disregard additional processes that started in Eastern and Central Europe
in 1989, particularly, changes connected with religious secularisation and
religious pluralisation resulting in open access to Western ideas. In com-
parison with Western countries these processes were slow to start, but they
are nevertheless vigorous.
In Poland the influence of the new religious ideas has become wide-
spread since 1989, when the fall of Communist rule caused the collapse of
the ‘iron curtain’. Depending on the political situation, the ‘iron curtain’
had, to a varying extent, isolated Poles from ideas competing with Marxism.
The fall of the Communist system produced a kind of ideological vacuum,
which was filled by the ideology of consumption and, for those wanting
‘something more’ than luxury goods, the colorful array of the religious/spir-
itual proposals, whose full range we are now experiencing. Among them
are various sorts of religious groups: Oriental religious movements (such
as International Society for Krishna Consciousness, Brahma Kumaris Raja
Yoga, Karma Kagyu, Bahai), quasi-religious movements (Transcendental
Meditation, Rebirthing, Theosophy) and quasi-scientific movements (New
Science, radionics, electro-crystal therapy, and so on). Bookshop shelves in
Poland are full of books devoted to religions, the occult, astrology, black
magic, the UFO, macrobiotics, prophecies, occultism, chiromancy, and so
on. Now, we can observe a slow but constant shift from identification with
an organised religion to privatised religiosity, a more individual approach
which is sometimes mixed with popular culture and its themes. Many of
these ideas—which deal with New Age religion, religiosity and spirituality—
have already gained significant support and popularity in Poland (Hall 2007;
Olechnicki 2008; Załęcki 2001b). However, their success has put these new
proposals into conflict with the Roman Catholic Church, which has almost
a monopoly on religious activity in Poland and is afraid of weakening its
position.
The majority of Poles declare their affiliation with the Roman Catholic
Church. Some research puts the majority as high as 90–94%—in the
period 1989–2010 the numbers did not fall below 90% in any poll—but
this does not mean Poles are active Church participants. The most wide-
spread group among Polish Catholics are so-called passive churchgoers
(about 75%), whose participation is limited to traditional rituals. There
is also a group of ‘marginal members’ (13%). Only about 11% of Polish
Catholics belong to a group of hard-core believers and supporters—the
concept of ‘Pole-Catholic’ is not obvious (Marody 1994). Much research
has been carried out since 1989 on the institution of the Church and on
changes in religiosity within Polish society. All researchers agree that reli-
giosity is undergoing a change but they also agree that trends are unclear
and obscured. One constant is that the Church is no longer a monolithic
institution: both the priesthood and the faithful are divided into many
categories. Władysław Piwowarski (1996) thinks that the most general
distinction that can be made is with the categories of ‘the Church of the
People’ versus ‘the Church of Choice’.
Polish religiosity is full of paradoxes. The results of the RAMP (Religious
and Moral Pluralism) research project show that the general affiliation with
Catholicism and the keeping of rituals is interlaced with ideological pluralism
and criticism of the Church (Borowik and Doktór 2001). Polish sociologists
of religion point out that Polish religiosity was and is very selective, incoher-
ent and contradictory when it comes to teachings and the doctrine of the
Church (Piwowarski 1984). Poles in general and also part of the church’s
hierarchy do not accept the church’s interference in political affairs; many
interpret it as compromising the state’s nonreligious character. According
to this view, Catholic priests spend too much time debating ideological
issues, such as abortion, contraception, religious education and the pres-
ence of Christian values in the media.
However, the most distinctive characteristic of Polish religiosity is the ritu-

alisation of religious practices—Poles are very active churchgoers, but this
is not connected with deeper or richer faith. It is a unique combination if
we compare it with other European countries. Irena Borowik has coined a
very accurate name for Polish religiosity. Borowik refers to Grace Davie’s
phrase which Davie used to describe the situation in Great Britain, where
believing in God is far more popular than affiliating with religious institu-
tions. Davie has called it ‘believing without belonging.’ On the contrary, the
situation in Poland can be called ‘belonging without believing’ (Borowik and
Doktór 2001: 151).
It is worth mentioning that during the Communist regime, between
1945 and 1989, the Church in Poland suffered many wrongdoings from
the Communists, who wanted to limit its power and disseminate athe-
ism among the faithful. For example, the Church was accused of being
influenced by the Vatican and Western governments, and having a hos-
tile policy toward the legal government. Nevertheless, the state-inspired
actions against the Church were unsuccessful and actually made it even
stronger. The Church reinforced rather than weakened its structures and it
had a significant role in overcoming Communism (Borowik 2002). Besides,
during that period it always acted in somehow convenient circumstances,
i.e. the lack of serious ideological competition (except for the self-compro-
mising Communism). Moreover, it opposed unpopular governments, and as
a political asylum, the Church had many adherents even among unbeliev-
ers. After 1989, because of democratic changes, this role has ended. Now, in
Poland there is a rich market of ideas, and the Church has to take care of its
believers—for many people (especially the young) tradition is no longer the
sole and sufficient reason to be a Roman Catholic. How does the Catholic
Church, which is the largest religious organisation in Poland and which
has been closely connected to the state and culture for more than a thou-
sand years, cope with this challenge? The existence of numerous religious
ideas differing from Catholicism and Christianity has changed the reli-
gious landscape in Poland. The Church has lost its religious domination.
The new social and cultural environment forces the Church to adapt and
actively strive for new believers and, what is more important, watch over
the faithful so that they are not seduced by other ‘shepherds’.
Also important is the fact that during the Communist period the Church
was sheltered from real (by which I mean cultural and spontaneous) secu-
larisation. Only since 1989 has real secularisation begun and it has so far
been more successful than forty-five years of Communism. All these pro-
cesses make the Church’s position very difficult: the Church has prevailed
over Communism so it should be triumphant but, on the other hand, it feels

insecure and under attack by ‘anti-Christian’ Western culture (see Załęcki
2001a).
According to Peter L. Berger (1969: 150–153), in such a situation reli-
gious institutions have two options; either they can adjust to the new
conditions, admit the equality of rights of other institutions, and take
part in the game of free religious enterprises, or they can reject the pos-
sibility of adjustment, announce ‘a state of siege’, and fight to retain the
old structures. In Poland we see both types of reaction but, in my opin-
ion, the latter is decidedly more widespread and stronger. The reaction to
Harry Potter reflects this alternative, which is even more pronounced in
the reality of consumer culture, where the right to choice—including the
consumption of ideas—is fundamental.
Since the first book of the series was published in Polish, Harry Potter
has become one of the most popular subjects of discussion in Poland,
and usually this discussion contains references to the New Age, new reli-
giosity and, consequently, hyper-real religions. Harry Potter has divided
its Christian readers into two camps. Opponents accuse the author, J. K.
Rowling, of, among other things, promoting dangerous New Age ideas.
But strangely enough, both her supporters and defenders share anti-New
Age sentiments, and their arguments try to prove that Harry Potter has
nothing in common with the New Age Movement. Let me analyse some
emblematic and representative examples of these arguments.
Sister Joanna AVD2 considers yoga, astrology, martial arts or predictions
to be transmitters of the New Age, but in her opinion mass media are of
the most crucial importance. Most stories shown in the cinema or on tele-
vision tend to model a new mentality in which God means cosmic power
or energy, and humans are able to possess unnatural powers. The most
prominent examples are cartoons such as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
He-Man, Batman, Pokémon and, certainly, the Harry Potter movies. Robert
Tekieli (2005, 2006), a Catholic journalist, argues that such techniques as
Tai Chi or the Silva Mind Control share some characteristics with Harry
Potter: they are not at all innocent and they pretend to be something other
than what they really are. Their second common attribute is promoting
toxic spirituality and occultism.
2
Sister Joanna AVD, “New Age modnym złudzeniem.” At http://www.effatha.org.pl/
zagrozenia/newage2.htm. Accessed 5/05/2006.
Aleksander Posacki (popular Polish demonologist and Catholic priest),

in his book Harry Potter i okultyzm (Harry Potter and Occultism), concen-
trates on the deep analysis of magic and occultism omnipresent in culture
and, particularly, in literature (Posacki 2006). The main part of the book
is devoted to Harry Potter and J. K. Rowling, but he also deals with other
examples of the relationship—both manifested and hidden—between
fantasy and occultism or Satanism. Posacki argues that Harry Potter is
not an example of innocent imagination and entertainment because it
contains elements typical of occultism, esoteric knowledge and even
Satanic cults. According to Posacki, the Harry Potter books and films put
under children’s noses artifacts and signs associated not only with a magi-
cal kingdom of imagination but also with the realistic realm of practical
magic. These two worlds are confused and the border between them is,
in fact, very unclear. The problem is that the realistic realm of magic is
connected with the occultist reality of evil, sin and Satan, which tends to
enslave human beings. For example, such magical artifacts as the wands
of Harry Potter and his friends are known to be used for conjuring ghosts
and evil spirits.3 Posacki thinks there is no difference between good/white
magic and evil/black magic, because they both evoke evil spirits, and actu-
ally Harry Potter sometimes uses black magic while defending himself.
Within this view, the industry produces gadgets marked with occult sym-
bols, accustoming people to the realistic world of magic.
Posacki believes that there are numerous hidden ideological and world-
view oriented assumptions in Harry Potter, both philosophical and theo-
logical. If one wants to discuss them one needs to be able to recognise in
this book, signs and symbols connected with Western occult and Satanist
tradition, which is not an easy task. Posacki writes that, for example, while
writing the book and assisting a film production, Rowling showed deep
knowledge of occultism by choosing proper colors for the kingdom of
magic. Children do not understand the ideology coded in their minds, but
codes, signs and details hidden within it will, sooner or later, be apparent
through their attitude and behavior. The border between imagination and
ideology is very cloudy. For example,
Harry Potter discovers his magical ability to communicate with animals in
the zoo where he speaks to a snake which—besides references to Satan (who
according to Bible seduced the man with the illusion of magical divinity)—
3
It must be noted that a well known photograph of the famous twentieth century magi-
cian, Aleister Crowley with a wand in his right hand, exists.
as a symbol is of a special importance to occultism (e.g. R. Steiner’s anthro-

posophy) that treats it as a symbol of wisdom or vitality . . . The criteria of
Christian spirituality (valid for ages) are inverted in Harry Potter: everything
which was universally rejected from now on becomes accepted, which sug-
gests that this is a kind of anti-Christian initiative (Posacki 2002).
Posacki argues that the problem is that Harry Potter is treated as an idol
by more and more young people who can start to follow him, also in
experimenting with black magic (Posacki 2002).
Stanisław Krajski4 refers to Posacki’s opinion and asks why some
Catholics, even priests, defend and promote Harry Potter in spite of the
proven harmfulness of this story? Is it stupidity, thoughtlessness, lack of
responsibility or maybe Paganism? Does it mean that the way of think-
ing introduced by the New Age Movement is becoming more and more
popular among some Catholics and prevails over less attractive Catholic
proposals? Krajski also refers to Gabriel Amorth, an Italian exorcist of
the Diocese of Rome and the initiator of the International Association
of Exorcists, who thinks that behind Pottermania we should notice the
signature of the dark lord or devil. Amorth warns parents against Harry
Potter books because they are full of positive remarks on magic and
falsely distinguish between white and black magic while, in fact, magic is
always a trick of Satan, and even white magic may result in a diabolical
possession.
Gabriele Kuby (2006), a popular German author who is very frequently
quoted in Poland, argues that the Harry Potter series of books is a long-
term and worldwide project aimed at the basic human ability to distin-
guish between good and evil. Rowling shows misrepresented evil which
leads individuals and the whole of society to the acceptance of magic
and other occultist practices. Kuby’s book is often advertised by quoting
Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger’s (now Pope Benedict XVI) letter to the author,
in which he thanks her: “[i]t is good that you enlighten people about
Harry Potter, because these are subtle seductions, which act unnoticed
and thereby deeply distort Christianity in the soul, before it can grow
properly.”5 Gabriele Kuby is the author of the quite famous Ten Arguments
4
Apologetika Katolik. “Stanisław Krajski, Opinie ks. Gabriela Amortha i o. Alesandra
Posackiego SJ o Harrym Potterze.” At http://apologetyka.katolik.net.pl/content/view/393/89/.
5
Lifesite. “Pope Opposes Harry Potter Novels—Signed Letters from Cardinal Ratzinger
Now Online.” At http://www.lifesite.net/ldn/2005/jul/05071301.html. Posted 13 July, 2005,
accessed 25/05/2009.
Against Harry Potter,6 which is a good summary of the anti-Harry Potter

agenda.
1) Harry Potter is a long-term project to change our culture. Young

people’s inhibitions against involvement in magic are destroyed. As
a result, these forces reoccupy the culture which Christianity had
overcome.
2) Hogwarts, the school for magic and witchcraft, is a closed off world of
violence and cruelty, of curses and spells, of racial ideology and blood
sacrifice, of disgust and possession. A sense of constant threat hangs
over the heads of the book’s young readers.
3) Harry Potter doesn’t fight against evil. From one novel to the next
his affinity with Voldemort, who is totally evil, becomes clearer and
clearer. In the fifth volume, he is possessed by Voldemort, which leads
to the total destruction of his personality.
4) The world of humanity is debased; the world of witches and magi-
cians is glorified.
5) There is no positive transcendental dimension. Everything which is
supernatural is demonic. Divine symbols are perverted.
6) Harry Potter is no modern fairy tale. In fairy tales, magicians and
witches are clearly figures of evil, from whose evil influence the hero
is delivered by acts of virtue. In Harry Potter, no one wants to do
good.
7) The ability of the reader to distinguish between good and evil is
deliberately lamed through emotional manipulation and intellectual
confusion.
8) It is no favor to the younger generation to seduce them playfully with
magic and to fill their heads with images of a world in which evil rules,
a world that is not only inescapable but desirable as well.
9) Everyone who is interested in diversity of opinion should be on guard
against the mass blinding and thought control that is imposed on
them by the gigantic multi-media concerns.
10) Since the Harry Potter books engage in the systematic destruction
of belief in a loving God, the use of Harry Potter books in schools is
intolerable and contradicts the spirit of our constitution. Refusal to
take part in Potter-related activities in school should be guaranteed
on grounds of both religion and conscience. (Kuby 2006)
6
Internet site, Current concerns. “Harry Potter: A Global, Long-term Project?” At http://
www.currentconcerns.ch/archive/2004/05/20040513.php. Accessed 24/06/2009.
In the statements of Harry Potter’s antagonists, an emphasis is put on

alleged immoral and anti-Christian characteristics of the main character.
The readers are warned that any contact with the ideas expressed in the
series of books or movies is dangerous. Sometimes, in some conspiracy
theories, it is even suggested that these books were created as a secret
tool aimed against Christians. The authors often use overgeneralisation,
hyperbolic metaphors (‘war’, ‘fight’) and such labels as ‘plot’, ‘conspiracy’,
‘occultism’, ‘Satanism’, ‘black magic’, ‘evil force’, and so on. These words
appeal to emotions, and facilitate fear of otherness and of alleged secret
connections between Harry Potter and anti-Christian conspiracy. They
are a call to arms, to close Christian ranks and defend real faith against
ideological enemies. This discourse rejects any possibility of dialogue and
mutual understanding with advocates of Harry Potter. In this prevailing
discourse even titles of articles and books are judgmental and defini-
tive. Some examples are Wronka’s Od magii do opętania (From Magic to
Possession) (2003), Posacki’s Egzorcyzmy, opętanie, demony (Exorcisms,
Possession, Demons) (2005) and Harry Potter i okultyzm (Harry Potter
and Occultism) (2006). Other noteworthy titles in this context are Magia,
New Age i Harry Potter (Magic, New Age and Harry Potter) (Jarzębińska-
Szczebiot and Szczebiot 2005), Zmagania z duchem nieczystym (Fighting
the Unclean Spirit) (Szaniawski 2006) and Szatan istnieje—widziałem go
(Satan Exists—I Have Seen Him).7
There are as many Catholic defenders of Harry Potter as there are
enemies, although their voices are less audible and less publicised. Sister
Edyta Pielas CSC expresses the most frequently used arguments. She
rejects the demonising of Harry Potter, and is scared by the call to forbid
reading Rowling. She thinks that such words as ‘occultism’ or ‘Satanism’
do not fit these books, just as they do not fit Andersen’s or the Brothers
Grimm’s fairytales. Pielas notices that children who read Harry Potter do
not treat magic as something real and do not even concentrate on magic
in the way adult readers sometimes do. For them it is just an adventure
story about friendship, about the struggle against evil, in which readers
identify themselves with the forces of good. Pielas also criticises the selec-
tive citations which are characteristic of Harry Potter’s foes, and accuses
them of manipulation.8
7
MP. “Szatan istnieje widziałem go.” At http://www.egzorcyzmy.katolik.pl/index
.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=503&Itemid=0. Accessed 4/09/2009.
8
E. Pielas SM CSC. “Prawa Harry’ego.” At http://apologetyka.katolik.net.pl/content/
view/809/89/. Accessed 1/05/2006.
Harry Potter’s supporters give a considerable amount of thought to the

Christian dimension of this book. For example, Aleksandra Kowal9 writes:
“[i]n the kingdom of magicians friendship, loyalty, honesty and courage
count the most. The death of Harry’s mother, Lily, who saves her little
baby’s life but, in return, sacrifices her own, is rightly recognised by many
readers as a Christ-like type of sacrifice.” In Kowal’s opinion, Harry Potter
has nothing in common with occultism, magic and black sorcery in the
form of the New Age.
Jacek Dunin-Borkowski, a Catholic priest, supports the Christian inter-
pretation of Harry Potter, placing him in line with Tolkien’s Frodo and,
consequently, with Jesus Christ. He agrees that Rowling’s books may affect
some people in a negative way, but also writes that no good book is pro-
tected from stupid readers; some criminal sects are based on the Bible,
but it does not mean that the Bible is a dangerous book. Dunin-Borkowski
also denies any connection between Harry Potter and the New Age, which
he judges as spiritual rubbish.10 Dunin-Borkowski criticises popular and
mass culture as mainly anti-Christian and contrary to the teachings of the
Church. For this reason Christians should look for and promote products
that are not harmful and are close to the Gospel, such as Harry Potter. Is
it really anti-Christian, dangerous, close to the New Age, even satanic?
According to Dunin-Borkowski11 it is just the opposite:
[i]n Harry Potter stories, just as in saga novels by Tolkien and Lewis, a man
has to fight to the death with evil. Evil is not a convention which depends on
a value system one chooses—it is real and, what is even worse, it is personal.
The man has to fight with sin and with the evil one, who exploits sin and
weakness. The description of evil is the very best part of Harry Potter’s plot
which is, on the whole, quite trivial. Voldemort, though mortal, is close to
the Christian meaning of the devil—a creature who fully chooses evil and is
an enemy of all that is good and beautiful. He is also, as Satan, consistent in
choosing evil. Evil cannot be tamed, enlisted or turned into goodness. This
is the other side of a dream which can be found in many fairytales. Evil and
the evil one should be defeated in order to get to Arcadia. A road to paradise
always goes through a fight with Satan.
9
A. Kowal. “Harry Potter—dzieło szatana?” At http://apologetyka.katolik.net.pl/
content/view/805/89. Accessed 15/04/2008.
10
“Odczarować Pottera.” At http://apologetyka.katolik.net.pl/content/view/806/89/.
11
“Harry, Frodo i Jezus Chrystus.” Trans. K. Olechnicki. At http://apologetyka.katolik.net
.pl/content/view/808/89/. Accessed 15/05/2007.
Let us now come back to the sacred, because I would like to suggest that
hyper-real religions are one of numerous attempts to re-enchant the
world, alongside such phenomena as the New Age, new religious move-
ments and new religiosity or new spirituality. However, this process takes
the shape of the revenge of the sacred on the secular culture.
According to Max Weber, the disenchantment of the world (Entzauberung
der Welt) is a historical process which took Western civilisation from the
period of absolutism to capitalism. During this process, the old culture
is untied (becomes disenchanted) from the prevailing impact and rule
of irrational, supernatural and unexplainable phenomena, and enters the
era of reason, which spreads to all dimensions of social reality—econ-
omy, politics, science, everyday life and religion. The consequence is the
desacralisation and demytholisation of culture, and all the sacred, mystery
and magic disappear. Weber thought that modernity was the highest form
of human thinking, but that the return to previous phases is possible. This
re-enchantment of the world, the revival of an irrational religion, is pos-
sible, but the price is loss of individual autonomy and independent judg-
ment (see Krasnodębski 1999). The re-enchantment of the world is the
key success factor for hyper-real religions, and for all new religious move-
ments. The people who are joining these groups are those disappointed with
the effects of scientific (technological) progress, discouraged by the petrified
structures of organised religion and established churches, and looking for
their own path leading to the sacred.
The process of re-enchanting the world, including the onset of the
hyper-real religions, has many causes, but I think that the most important
one is the decreasing impact of the process of secularisation, by which soci-
ety and culture are set free from the domination of religious institutions
and symbols, thus making human life de-sacred. It is connected with ideo-
logical pluralism, rationalisation, industrialisation and urbanisation. Lothar
Roos (1990) writes that in the heyday of secularisation, around the 1970s, it
was widely accepted among people that society can work smoothly without
religious ideas. However, nowadays the opposite opinion is gaining more
and more credibility. It seems that society without religion is an illusion, and
that religiosity is an immanent characteristic of the human condition. The
success of hyper-real religions and other forms of alternative and innova-
tive religiosity proves that after a relatively short period without religion or
after replacing it with secular myths and religions like scientism or Marxism,
people are again looking for a religious, meaningful life (Roos 1990). A simi-
lar thesis on the return of the sacred was formulated, for example, by Daniel
Bell (1980) and also by Thomas Luckmann (1967) in his concept of invis-
ible religion, in which religion is defined as a symbolic universe of meaning

founding the whole of human life upon the sense of transcendental aim.
Even if we agree that hyper-real religions respond to the need for reli-
gious values and ideas, which is probably in humanity’s ‘nature’, we still
should ask why young Americans or Europeans recognise these ideals in
Harry Potter’s adventures but not in the teaching of Jesus Christ. (In this
case the Polish youth are no different from other young people around
the world). I think it is because the liturgy and teachings of the Christian
churches lack the elements of mysticism, mystery and transcendence, which
have been rationalised. Besides restrained secularisation, this is the second
most important reason for the success of hyper-real religions. The churches
are on one hand not conservative enough, in that they give in to the temp-
tation to adjust to modernity, but on the other hand are too conservative
in their clericalism and authoritarianism. Rowling’s kingdom appears to
be more real than reality itself in the sense that people would prefer to
live in this imagined world rather than in their own world. I think that a
common feature of all hyper-real religions is that they are very successful
in fantasy-like world-building. In this sense, the boundaries around the
world of imagination from popular culture become blurred with reality,
and this process provides an avenue for a re-enchantment process. Even
if this hyper-real phenomenon does not lead to a hyper-real religion per
se, or even if it does not necessarily tempt young minds to look into the
‘dark side’ of occultism, it does provide a sense of re-enchantment to read-
ers and/or viewers who are ready to be inspired by a sense of mystery;
without necessarily becoming more or less spiritual and/or religious. The
hyper-real religious phenomenon can thus reach various types of people
with various levels of religious commitments, but also non-religious peo-
ple ready to look into the sacred in popular culture.
Leszek Kołakowski (1990), one of the most original philosophers of reli-
gion, considers that the transition from the pan-religion era—in which
religious terms conferred additional significance to almost every form of
culture—to the era of secularised culture, remains uncompleted because
of the immanent religious ‘drive’ in humankind. In societies which are
industrially the most advanced we can observe a religious renaissance:
Oriental cults, the occult, hermetic arts, magic.
Secularisation means not only the negation of the sacred but, most
of all, the universalisation of the sacred, which results in overreaching
the border between the sacred and the profane. “Note, first of all, that
there is yet another sense—a third—in which the term secularisation is
used. In this sense, secularisation does not imply the decline of organised
religion, and it may be seen in churches as well as in religious doctrines.

It takes the form of a blurring of the differences between the sacred and
the secular and a denial of their separation” (Kołakowski 1990: 68). Such a
corruption of the sacred means the corruption of the whole culture, shat-
tering the forms, annihilating the borders, conceptual chaos, lack of sense,
anomy. This is the most important effect of the revenge of the sacred on
the secular culture, but there is one more result—the sacred itself dete-
riorates, and consequently the place of ideal spirituality is occupied by
instrumental spirituality (Kołakowski 1990).
The most dangerous forms of this revenge are distortions generated by
the commercialisation of the sacred. Religious ideas are very often absorbed
by commercial capitalist enterprises, which homogenise them and convert
them into mass-products, completely contrary to their nature. The introduc-
tion to pop-culture of new religious ideas made them widely known, but at
the same time it generated a kind of ‘pop-religion’ (called ‘karma cola’ by
Gita Mehta)12 which has not much in common with ‘real’ religion. Good
examples of this universalisation (or actually, ‘washing out’) of the sacred
are the various guides in spiritual life (easy to find in supermarkets), and
correspondence courses in spirituality, in which, for instance, rich teachings
of Hinduism are reduced to instructions in healthy life (hatha yoga) and
successful work (Transcendental Meditation). The revenge of the sacred on
the secular culture means vulgarisation of the sacred. The sacred is back
but it has dwindled. The culture becomes re-enchanted but superficially
and trivially. Using Ritzer’s famous phrase we can say this is an example
of a pure McReligion.
The re-enchantment of the world cannot represent the literal return
to the Age of Myth because the Age of Reason cannot be dissolved. The
re-enchantment may take place only within the limits of new conditions
that are defined by the logic of consumer culture, which inescapably leads
towards the revenge of the sacred. This vicious circle cannot be broken
but it can be said that hyper-real religions, which are usually based on a
wide range of cultural traditions, give Westerners the chance to embrace
other cultures. Maybe the stronghold of ethnocentrism and the myth of the
moral and cultural superiority of the West—called ‘20th century provincial-
ism’ by Mircea Eliade—will, thanks to the New Age and hyper-real reli-
gions, be somehow undermined.
12
Internet site http://www.amazon.com/Karma-Cola-Marketing-Mystic-East/dp/ 0679754334.
Finally, what are the chances for hyper-real religions, or, at least, hyper-
real religious inspirations? Will they be successful or will they remain a
colorful but marginal phenomenon? Western civilisation has passed the
‘magical’ year of 2000, but people are no more rational or indifferent to
supernatural phenomena. Even if one thousand years ago, in medieval
Europe, people expected the Day of God’s Anger and the end of the world,
people still expect today the end of the world as we know it. Now, that the
Millennium Year has passed, many other people, in contrast, still await the
advent of the New Age, the Golden Age of humanity.
While discussing Harry Potter in the context of hyper-real religions one
cannot escape Jean Baudrillard and his notion of hyper-reality. It would
be easy to point out that hyper-real religions co-constitute the hyper-real-
ity, a reality without reference, in which signs of consumer culture (‘sim-
ulacra’) are so ‘real’ that people have problems distinguishing between
hyper-reality and reality. However, I think that what we observe is more
complicated. Let me recall what Dumbledore says to Harry in one of the
final chapters of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: “Of course it is hap-
pening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that
it is not real?” (Rowling 2007: 579). Precisely. Why on earth should one
treat hyper-real religions as less authentic, inferior, worse? Is it because
most people believe in the historical reality of certain religions? Is there a
rational reason to take Jediists with a pinch of salt? If so, we should treat
Catholics, Mormons or Buddhists in the very same way and acknowledge
that all religions are hyper-real.
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Contemporary Atheism as Hyper-real Irreligion:
The Enchantment of Science and Atheism in This Cosmos
Alan Nixon
Introduction
A religion old or new, that stressed the magnificence of the universe as

revealed by modern science, might be able to draw forth reserves of rever-
ence and awe hardly tapped by the conventional faiths. Sooner or later, such
a religion will emerge (Sagan 1994: 52).
Beginning in 2004 a spate of books appeared containing polemical dis-
cussion of the pathological acts of ‘Religion’ and an admiration for an
Atheistic/scientific worldview. These books achieved large sales and indi-
cate a receptive public concerned about the perceived public resurgence of
religion and the erosion of scientific authority. In this chapter Possamai’s
(2007) hyper-real religions concept will be employed to gain an under-
standing of contemporary Atheism and its emergence in late modernity.
Viewed through the lens of hyper-reality, Atheist materials and culture
will be argued to support the individual ontological security of contem-
porary Atheists via an enchanted public image of scientific understand-
ing and progress. These enchanted versions of science will be viewed as
hyper-real in nature and as providing inspiration for the creation of mean-
ings and identity, supported by a naturalistic scientific cosmology.
Atheism: A Historical Sketch
In the Greco-Roman world ‘Atheist’ could refer to monotheists, notably

Christians and Jews, and so would merely signify disbelief in the
particular polytheist deities of the Romans (Bremmer 2007). Extending
this usage, ‘Atheist’ has often been used as a judgmental term denoting
those who do not believe in the same God as the user. As a term of self-
definition it is not really found until the mid-eighteenth century where
it appears among French intellectuals (Hyman 2007). Its use as a term
of self-definition was slow to spread and the pejorative use continued
into the nineteenth century, with Atheist identity remaining within the
domain of the intellectual elites. Michael J. Buckley (1968, cited in Hyman
376 alan nixon
2007) has described the period preceding contemporary Atheism, which

broadly comprises the last forty years of the twentieth century, as the
“high noon” of Atheism. He suggests that in this period the extent and
cultural establishment of Atheism was unique compared to previous eras.
It is worth noting that this is the period in which three of the four main
new atheist writers (Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens and Daniel
Dennett) came of age and received their education. From the perspective
of a self-identified Atheist in this period s/he is simply a person that does
not believe in any gods, and to whom ‘God’ is just a concept (Eller 2010).
Hyman (2007) argues that Atheism is tied to modernity with its narratives
of universal knowledge and human progress. He goes on to suggest that
if we have indeed entered postmodernity, as many theorists argue, then
Atheism cannot remain undisturbed. At this point we are largely unaware
of who contemporary Atheists are, what they believe, and what affect
these beliefs are having on their lives and society. In illustration of this
lack of knowledge, it is interesting to note that since Colin Campbell’s
(1971) seminal Toward a Sociology of Irreligion, less than sixteen studies
were undertaken on irreligious people up until 2002 (Zuckerman 2010).
In 2010, thirty-eight years later, Pasquale still suggests that the entire
phenomenon of irreligion has been largely ignored by social scientists.
The subject of non-religion/Atheism is beginning to be addressed how-
ever, with two edited volumes (Amarasingam 2010; Zuckerman 2010) and
a number of articles produced in the last few years. With the addition
of these much needed articles we have begun to explore the sociological
issues surrounding ‘Contemporary Atheism’.
Atheism and the Culture of Late Modernity/Postmodernity:

The Secular ‘Blind Spot’
Sundry authors have noted that Atheism often reacts to the particular
theism of its time, and that this will shape its form within an era (Martin
2007). In the case of the late modern/postmodern West, it has been
argued that there is an emergent culture in which science’s authority to
legislate truth has evaporated and in which the Christian churches have
lost much of their former credibility. This kind of world cannot leave
forms of meaning creation unchanged (Cusack 2010; Possamai 2005).
Possamai describes the contemporary West as a world largely influenced
by consumption, popular culture and new forms of media. In these cul-
tures there has been a communal move away from strict rationalisation
the new atheism as hyper-real irreligion 377
to spaces that re-enchant public and personal issues via popular culture
(Possamai 2005). Contemporary Atheism can be understood as one of the
results of this move. As it will be argued, works of contemporary Atheism
have enchanted science and secularisation through popular culture.
Religion has not so much disappeared in late modernity, but has
been transformed, continuing to evolve into a number of forms in the
West after the 1960s. On one end of a spectrum, there is a proliferation
of spiritual actors that create subjectively authored bricolages of various
religions that may include elements of popular culture. On the other end
of the spectrum, there is an increasing public presence of monotheistic
fundamentalisms that resist these cultural changes or harness them to
promote their own agendas (Possamai 2005). Thus Possamai (2005) argues
that the secularisation thesis, or the assumption that religion would simply
die out as modernity progressed, had become a ‘blind spot’ for secular
sociology and secular culture in general.
The rise of fundamentalisms (connected to right-wing politics) in the
1980s and 1990s, and the events of 11 September 2001, arguably made
religion more salient to these religion-blind secular actors. Despite being
the most commonly cited influence for the books comprising the New
Atheism, to claim that 9/11 is the sole cause is a simplification. Figures such
as Richard Dawkins held these views well before this time. Furthermore,
the events of 9/11 do not explain the continued propagation of the New
Atheist movement (Geertz and Markússon 2010). The large sales of books
concerned with Atheism and ‘religion as the root of all evil’ clearly indi-
cate a Western vein of public discontent with religious fundamentalisms
(Dawkins and Clements 2006; Hay 2007).
Atheistic thinkers have a stake in the shape of the religious landscape, as
this landscape restricts or enables the possibility of openly holding Atheist
or non-religious views, and is composed of religious systems impacting
on an Atheists’ right to be religion free. From this perspective, the recent
uprising of popular, science based Atheism could also be seen as a defence
against the perception that religion is encroaching on secular society and
the ‘domain of science’; the very factors that had previously been discounted
by the popularity of the secularisation thesis (Borer 2010; Locke 2011).
A Media Savvy Competitor
Religion in the late modern era is also providing a much higher level of
enchantment due to marketing, theological and methodological shifts,
378 alan nixon
something it has been suggested late modern individuals are crav-

ing. Possamai (2007) discusses the re-appropriation of popular culture
by Christians to achieve their evangelical goals. While acknowledging
that other forms of culture have been utilised, his examples include
Christianised comics and games. Pradip Thomas takes this further sug-
gesting that:
. . . Christian fundamentalists rank among the most creative, effective users
of network technologies—telecommunications, computing, mobile tele-
phony and the internet. These groups have invested in substantive eco-
nomic, symbolic and social capital leading to the creation of environments
in which Christian fundamentalists in the USA have the option to live lives
ensconced in life-worlds framed and affirmed within an exclusive Christian
milieu (Thomas 2009: 59).
One example is the commercial success of the Left Behind series which
consists of “12 books (50 million unit sales), a 22-volume series for children
(10 million unit sales), audio books on CDs, graphic novels, videos, music,
apparel, collectibles and a video game” (Thomas 2009: 71). Drawing on
these various media the series markets a narrative based on the ‘rapture’
or ‘end times’, featuring “battles between the true believers who are rap-
tured into heaven at the Second Coming and those who follow the Anti-
Christ” (Thomas 2009: 71). This is an example of the current scope and
power of the Christian marketing industry. The ‘opposition’ Atheists now
face is media-savvy and competing at a much louder level (Dawkins 2006;
Harris 2004; Laats 2010; Stenger 2009).
Contemporary Atheism
Although Alister McGrath hinted at the emergence of a new Atheism in

2004 (McGrath 2005: 174), the ‘New Atheism’ is generally recognised as
starting with (or being) a collection of popular texts that were published
from 2004 to 2007 (Amarasingam 2010; Geertz and Markússon 2010; Hay
2007; Zuckerman 2010). These books contain material that focuses heavily
on the destructive and violent tendencies of religion, while extolling the
benefits of Atheism. The books most commonly cited are Sam Harris’ The
End of Faith (2004), Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion (2006), Daniel
Dennett’s Breaking the Spell (2006), and Christopher Hitchens’ God is
Not Great (2007). It has become an established convention to refer to
these authors as ‘The Four Horsemen’, indicating their importance to the
movement (Cotter 2011). Offering a public voice for Atheism and secularity
they have become the figureheads of a popular movement that has often
been termed the ‘New Atheism’.
It is significant that these books promoting Atheism and arguing against
religion have made bestseller lists, and their popularity should pique the
curiosity of researchers in the history and social dynamics of science and
religion (Amarasingam 2010; Geertz and Markússon 2010; Zuckerman
2010). From a sociological point of view the importance lies not in the
ideas but the reception and social effect of those ideas. The large sales of
the New Atheist literature indicates a receptive section of the public, who
are cynical about organised religion and institutions in general, and happy
to be entertained and informed by their decline (Bullivant 2010). Love it
or loathe it, public Atheism is a newly visible player in the marketplace of
popular worldviews (Eller 2010; Pasquale 2010).
The term ‘New Atheism’ was initially a media phenomenon used to
describe the works of the Four Horsemen. It was first used in a Wired
magazine article entitled “The Church of the Non-believers” (Wolf 2006).
Since then, New Atheism has become an umbrella term to describe the
more vocal forms of Atheism and has increasingly been used as a form of
Atheist self-identification. However, this term raises definitional problems
as authors refer to a ‘New Atheism movement’ (Wolf 2006) and enumer-
ate characteristics of the ‘New Atheist’ worldview (Stenger 2009), yet it
is unclear that any ‘New Atheist’ organisations exist (Cotter 2011). Until
the term receives wider acceptance it would be inappropriate to use it
uncritically (Cotter 2011). Many Atheists dispute the ‘new’ part of the label,
suggesting that there is in fact nothing new within the movement (Eller
2010). Due to this, some Atheists use the humorous term ‘Gnu Atheism’
to suggest this redundancy. There are also those who disagree with the
more aggressive tactics employed by this movement and therefore refuse
to be a part of it or to label themselves this way (Koch 2008). My own
experience of using the term ‘New Atheism’ on an Australian Atheist
forum reinforces this impression. I was quickly asked “What is this ‘New
Atheism’?”, with many people giving their own (often comical) definitions
of the ‘New Atheism’ in relation to the ‘old’ version. Due to these issues,
the term ‘New Atheism’ will not be used as an umbrella term in this
chapter, but will only refer to the literary works of the Four Horsemen.
For the purposes of distinguishing the vocal and public movement from
previous eras of Atheism I will follow Christopher R. Cotter (2011) in using
the term ‘Contemporary Atheism’.
380 alan nixon
Atheist Individualism: Like Herding Cats
Possamai (2005: 83) argues that hyper-real religion, with its affinity to
postmodernism, “wants to stay away from any structure and is a form
of escapism and contestation, but also an affirmation of life in this risk
society.” In light of these three criteria we can begin to evaluate the con-
nections between the contemporary Atheism and hyper-real religions.
Employing the works of a range late modern/postmodern social
theorists, Possamai (2005) argues that the changes occurring in Western
society since the 1960s have opened up a range of religious/spiritual
options for post-World War II generations. Consumerism, information
access and social mobility have all added to this increase in freedom.
One consequence of this is a proliferation of personal spiritualities where
the individual is the authority, creating their own subjective myths and
meanings about life. Through this individualisation of worldview, hyper-
real religion can be seen as a form of escapism that allows consumers to
move away from the perceived violence of ‘real’ institutionalised religions
(Possamai 2005: 82).
Many have noted the Atheist urge to stay away from institutions,
organisations, and structure (Manning 2010). As Dawkins (2006) himself
famously stated in The God Delusion, organising Atheists is “like herding
cats” due to their independent nature. Agreeing, Bullivant (2008: 364) argues
that Atheists do not “tend . . . to join specifically Atheistic organisations.”
He creatively spins Grace Davie’s “believing without belonging” thesis, to
introduce a norm of “disbelieving without belonging” within the Atheist
‘community’ (Bullivant 2008: 365). Representing this view, Dawkins derides
the need for an outside authority to give one’s life meaning.
There is something infantile in the presumption that somebody else (par-
ents in the case of children, God in the case of adults) has a responsibility
to give your life meaning and point (Dawkins 2006: 360).
This preference for distributed and networked structures of information
and authority is reminiscent of Possamai’s (2007) description of the struc-
ture of New Age networks. Cotter (2011) also notes this connection to
the New Age movement through Contemporary Atheism’s focus on the
individual, and the diffuse societal popularity of the ideas within both
movements. These similarities include a democratic attitude towards
knowledge, a focus on the individual and a holistic concern with the envi-
ronment (Cotter 2011: 96). He argues that this may be the reason that the
movement has failed to articulate plans for group action; the focus has so
far been on herding the cats so that they might have sufficient numbers to
“make a lot of noise” (Dawkins 2006: 5). Cotter (2011) also goes on to sug-
gest that the different focus audiences for the various New Atheist books
would make the articulation of a single agenda difficult. Whether such a
unified agenda will be articulated remains to be seen.
Thus the impulse to escape institutionalised religion is clear in the
Contemporary Atheist movement, where a narrative of violent and indeed
evil institutionalised religion is well established (Borer 2010; Stahl 2010;
Cotter 2011), and a narrative of the individual/group shy atheist is often
rehearsed (Bullivant 2008; Cotter 2011).
A Form of Protest
Hyper-real religion may be a form of protest against mainstream cul-

tural ideas, “allowing expression by the marginalised, the demonised and
the dominated” (Possamai 2005: 82). A case can be made showing that
this protest facet of hyper-real religions is applicable to Contemporary
Atheism. For example, Aronson (2007) argues that in the United States
context, a discourse is promoted in which the majority of American citi-
zens believe in God, and Atheists are an insignificant minority. From this
perspective the desire of New Atheists such as American Daniel Dennett
to introduce a new term (‘Bright’) that does not hold the same negative
associations as ‘Atheist’ is understandable. It would also suggest at least
one reason that some would reject the term ‘Atheist’ in favour of the less
socially stigmatising ‘Agnostic’ or ‘Humanist’ (Eller 2010). Projects such as
the ‘out’ campaign can be seen as attempts to reclaim the term ‘Atheist’ in
a model similar to that used by the Gay Rights movement (Pasquale 2010).
The New Atheist literature suggests that like this movement Atheists
should be ‘loud and proud’ in asserting their identity and equal rights
(Pasquale 2010).
However as Borer (2010) notes, these claims of minority underprivileged
status are paradoxically presented alongside claims of a secular and sci-
entific triumphalism. Eller (2010) gives one solution to this paradox, sug-
gesting that these definitional issues arise for Atheists because the ‘debate’
in Western societies has historically been conducted from a position of
‘default’ theism. Atheism has been viewed as ‘unnatural’ and has often
been restricted to apologetics. What is clear is that Atheists are feeling
under threat and that there is a need to speak up and protest their current
position in society, challenge myths and reclaim identity terms.
382 alan nixon
Atheistic and free thought organisations have become active in promot-

ing non-religion to achieve these goals. Organisations like the Council for
Secular Humanism (2011), the Sceptics Society (2011), American Atheists
(2011), and the Brights’ Net (2011), have emerged primarily in response to
conservative Christian organisations. One example is the United States
based Freedom From Religion Foundation (2011). The co-presidents are
founder Annie Laurie Gaylor and her husband Dan Barker, a former
Pentecostal Christian minister (Barker was also a major speaker at the
“Rise of Atheism” conference in March 2010; Gaylor and Barker are sched-
uled for the 2012 event). They have twelve thousand members, and have
instigated court cases against State and Federal use of religious symbols
in the name of separation of church and state. They produce a newspa-
per, Freethought Today, and podcasts such as the Freethought Radio Show.
Adding to this support network, the new Atheist Alliance International
was launched on 8 June, 2011. This organisation was set up to facilitate
cooperation between these various Atheist and free thought organisations
around the world (Atheist Alliance International 2011). The emergence of
such organisations in response to the public resurgence of religion can be
seen as a major indicator of the threat perceived by non-religious/secular
individuals. Despite the general individual nature of Atheists, groups are
being organised to aid Atheists in collective protest actions.
Ontological Security
With the shift towards postmodernity, “human knowledge and beliefs

are . . . lacking foundations and might create uncertainty and a desire for
stability, certainty and predictability” (Possamai 2005: 80). Giddens (1991)
describes this uncertainty as resulting from feelings of ontological security/
insecurity. He defines ontological insecurity as the “obsessive exaggeration
of risks to personal existence, extreme introspection and moral vacuity”
while its opposite, ontological security, is a sense of reliability of (trust
in) persons and things, aided and abetted by the predictability of the
(apparent) minor routines of day-to-day life (Giddens 1991).
Possamai (2005: 82) suggests that “hyper-real religion and its subjective
myths could provide a sense of ontological security to its consumer”
in a world that is lacking foundations. This idea is supported by some
particularly poignant psychological research by Tracy, Hart and Martens
(2011) who found that when confronted with existential anxiety (particularly
that around death) people respond by searching for a sense of meaning
and purpose in life. In this study, after being asked to contemplate either
their death or dental pain (control), subjects were asked to evaluate two
similar passages from an Intelligent Design advocate (Michael Behe) and
an advocate of evolution by natural selection (Richard Dawkins). Those
who had contemplated their death were inclined to evaluate Intelligent
Design in a more positive light compared to controls.
The choice of a disenchanted interpretation of science via Dawkins
(excerpted from his 1976 scientific text The Selfish Gene, not his New
Atheist or other popular science texts) was shown to be important later
in the study when a third text was introduced to subjects. The third text
consisted of excerpts from Carl Sagan’s Cosmos (1980) (cited in Tracy, Hart
and Martens 2011), a text argued by Locke (2011) to be a form of enchanted
science. When this text was introduced as an option, subjects were more
inclined to support science and not Intelligent Design, even when faced
with their own mortality. In a later study it was found that biology students
were also inclined to support evolutionary and naturalistic worldviews
when faced with mortality. The authors argue that this is because biology
students are already trained in naturalistic meaning-making (Tracy, Hart
and Martens 2011). Thus the authors suggest that people can learn to find
meaning through naturalistic interpretations of the cosmos and that these
meanings can help ease feelings of ontological insecurity.
In resonance with this insight, Stahl (2010) compares fundamentalism
and the New Atheism and argues that they “are attempts to recreate
authority in the face of a crisis of meaning in late modernity” (Stahl 2010:
98). Both groups are searching for certainty. He goes on to say that the
failure of this quest generates a crisis in authority, which involves both
social and political arenas; “for both the fate of western civilisation is
at stake” (Stahl 2010: 106). For Stahl, Atheism and fundamentalism are
attempts to impose belief as an external authority. Thus both groups are
an “expression of a larger crisis of meaning in late modernity and a protest
against it” (Stahl 2010: 107). They can be viewed as an attempt to recreate
meaning in a world perceived as having lost its way (Stahl 2010). As will
be discussed later, charismatic figures such as the Four Horsemen can tap
into enchanted images of science to support scientific authority in the
face of this late modern crisis.
In example, marketing activities supporting Contemporary Atheist
ideas and worldview have become increasingly common in recent years.
These campaigns are intended to let the non-religious individual know
that they are not alone in their ideas and thus support the ontological
384 alan nixon
security of the audience they are aimed at. For example, in 2008–2009
the British Humanist Association supported the Atheist Bus Campaign,
which utilised advertisements on the sides of hundreds of London buses
(Jon 2009), which stated, “There’s probably no god. Now stop worrying
and enjoy your life.” In a recent turn of events the advertising company
responsible for the buses has rejected the slogan, “If you’re not religious,
for God’s sake say so,” intended for the 2011 census campaign (Hasteley
2011). It was apparently the inclusion of the phrase “for God’s sake” which
was deemed offensive. The bus campaign has been recreated worldwide in
Germany, the United States, the Netherlands, Finland, Canada, Italy, Spain
and Australia with phrases such as “Don’t Believe in God? Join the Club” and
“Are you good without God? Millions are” (Jon 2009). A similar campaign
began in New York on 26 October 2009, utilising the subway system and its
five-million-people-a-day potential audience (Buxbaum 2009).
These campaigns were augmented by the Global Atheist Convention
held in Melbourne, from 12 to 14 March 2010 (Nicholls 2009a). The theme
of the conference was “The Rise of Atheism” and the conference organisers
claim that it was the largest gathering of Atheists in Australia’s history. The
timing of this conference was significant in that it was approximately three
months after the Parliament of the World’s Religions (2009) in Melbourne
from 3 to 9 December 2009. This view is supported by the Atheists’ call
to receive the same funding from the government as was being received
by the Parliament of the World’s Religions (Nicholls 2009b). Another
convention, the World Atheist Convention (2011), was held in Dublin,
Ireland in June 2011 and the next Global Atheist Convention has just been
announced for Melbourne, Australia in 2012, with the ‘Four Horsemen’
as the main speakers. This time the convention has been granted state
funding, due to its possible economic and tourism value for Melbourne
(Global Atheist Convention 2011).
Other supporting organisations and individuals include: a growing
number of blogs (i.e. Pharyngula [P.Z. Meyers]),1 Friendly Atheist,2
Unreasonable Faith,3 Common Sense Atheism,4 Debunking Christianity,5
and Atheist Revolution.6), university and college campus groups of secular
1
Internet site. At http://scienceblogs.com/pharyngula. Accessed 20/10/2010.
2
Internet site. At http://www.patheos.com/blogs/friendlyatheist/. Accessed 20/10/2010.
3
Internet site. At http://unreasonablefaith.com/. Accessed 20/10/2010.
4
Internet site. At http://commonsenseatheism.com/. Accessed 20/10/2010.
5
Internet site. At http://debunkingchristianity.blogspot.com/. Accessed 20/10/2010.
6
Internet site. At http://www.atheistrev.com/. Accessed 20/10/2010.
Humanists/Atheists (Abbamonte 2009); Darwin Day celebrations (since

1995; International Darwin Day Foundation n.d.); A Week on Facebook
(Anon 2010; Anon 2011); student essay contests (Freedom from Religion
Foundation 2010); summer camps for children, such as Camp Quest (2011);
and scholarships for Atheists and freethinkers (College Scholarships 2010).
There are also symbols being employed such as the Invisible Pink Unicorn
(n.d.), the Flying Spaghetti Monster (Church of the Flying Spaghetti
Monster 2010), and Russell’s Teapot (Russell 1952; Dawkins 2006). These
symbols, along with other ideas and phrases, are being used on T-shirts,
stickers, posters, in films (both feature length and short), and in music,
further augmenting the popular cultural disposition of Contemporary
Atheists. All of these activities support the Atheistic worldview and help
the consumer to realise this identity. In this way Atheists are attempting
to provide community support structures, outreach, and to be a true and
popular alternative/competitor to religious views. As has been shown,
many organisations and structures are emerging to support the worldview
and thus ontological security of Contemporary Atheists. By making this
part of their identity public, Atheists have begun to realise their Atheistic
identity through individual and structural changes (Smith 2010). As will
be suggested in the next section, an enchanted view of science could be
present in Contemporary Atheism and help to facilitate this process for
consumers. This enchanted view is employed to police disputes at the
hegemonic boundaries of science and to facilitate meaning-making.
Controlling Public Meanings of Science
Contemporary Atheist presentations of science also lend credibility to

the idea that this movement can be described as a hyper-real irreligion.
In order to further grasp this idea, it is necessary to examine the ways
in which science can be presented to provide meaning. Simon Locke’s
(2011) ideas are instructive in this regard. In his view, enchanted images
of science are used for purposes of the control and popularisation of
public understandings and meanings of science. This is because the
general public both understands science and does not understand it at
the same time (Locke 2011). He suggests that because of this, scientists
often refer to knowledge that many people may never attain but which is
presented to them as foundational. They create a meaningful and stable
veneer over the diverse chaos of competing and complex scientific views.
386 alan nixon
In this regard it seems of no small relevance that Richard Dawkins was

the Charles Simonyi Professor in the Public Understanding of Science at
Oxford University during the beginnings of the Contemporary Atheist
movement (retired September 2008) (Amarasingam 2010).
As Possamai (in this volume) points out, the ‘definition of religion’ is a
site of power negotiations and with more insights from Locke (2011) the
same can be argued of science Locke (2011) discusses the idea that higher
levels of exposure to scientists’ rhetoric have provided space for articulat-
ing forms of critique employing the terms of science itself. By employ-
ing similar rhetorical techniques and using scientific discourse, groups
can combat science at the borderlines of hegemonic theory. This can be
viewed as self-reinforcing, as the more critique of science in its own lan-
guage appears, the more exposure people have to the ‘rules of the game’
and the more the presence of internal expert disagreement among sci-
entists becomes apparent. Teaching people science also means teaching
them, if only implicitly, the rhetoric of science (Locke 2011).
For elite groups, maintaining control over their specialised discourse
is a constant battle, especially given its wider social function. It has to be
made publicly available to enable the elites’ preferred definition of reality
to prevail and the legitimacy of their authority to be maintained (Locke
2011). In addition, there is the need to recruit new adherents from the
social world and for this the specialised discourse has to be translated
into the vernacular, but this means it may come to be considered a public
resource available to all. There is a continuous need for boundary-work,
including various forms of ‘debunking’, for which science has its formal
rhetorical techniques derived from reason and instrumental empiricism
(Locke 2011). Locke (2004) discusses Scientology in this regard as a religion
that uses scientific language in its propagation and legitimation. However,
for the purposes of this chapter the ‘Intelligent Design’ (ID) movement
provides a convenient and relevant case to illustrate the point in relation
to Contemporary Atheism.
According to the Intelligent Design Network website (2008), the theory
of ID holds that certain features of the universe and of living things are
best explained by an intelligent cause (i.e. God) rather than an ‘undirected’
process such as natural selection. ID is a relatively recent formulation of
Creationism that deliberately avoids naming the creator (Hasker 2009).
Based on the teleological arguments (argument from design) presented
by theologians such as William Paley (1743–1805), ID proponents claim
that the world is too complex to be explained without the presence of
an intelligent designer. Since science cannot disprove the existence of an
intelligent designer, it must be accepted that the intercession of such a

designer throughout history is a valid alternative to unguided Darwinian
evolution. In this way ID claims a scientific disagreement with one of the
core claims of evolutionary theory: that the design of living systems is an
illusion (Cusack 2010; Hasker 2009).
ID activists propose that it be taught in science classrooms alongside
Darwinian evolution. The campaigns being run by ID proponents include
“teach the controversy,” court cases, the Discovery Institute, Creationist
museums, and attempts to install the Ten Commandments in govern-
ment spaces (Laats 2010). These tactics are still being used in 2011 with the
favoured strategy currently appearing to be “teach the controversy” (Diep
2011). This campaign attempts to expose alleged disagreements among sci-
entists (with regard to evolution, climate science and the origins of life).
In response to this campaign in a presentation at University of California
Berkeley in 2008, Richard Dawkins stated “well, why not teach the contro-
versy?” as he displayed a picture of a stork carrying a baby on the screen
for his now giggling audience with the words “‘Stork theory’ to be taught
alongside pregnancy theory in Kansas schools.” He went on to say,
[t]here are real controversies in science, they’re interesting and we should
certainly teach them, it is a very important part of science education to
understand that science isn’t a done deal, that scientists are constantly
changing their minds as new evidence comes in, that’s important, so let’s
by all means teach controversies that are proper scientific controversies, but
the controversy over so-called Intelligent design vs. evolution is just not a
real controversy at all (Dawkins 2008).
By suggesting that the ‘controversy’ that the Intelligent Design advocates
are supporting is not genuine, Dawkins excludes it from the realm of
valid scientific argument. In another article with professor of biology Jerry
Coyne, entitled “One side can be wrong,” the two list recognised contro-
versies within the biological sciences. Their next sentence is clear and to
the point, “Intelligent Design is not an argument of the same character as
these controversies. It is not a scientific argument at all, but a religious
one” (Dawkins and Coyne 2005).
Dawkins rejects the “teach the controversy” campaign by pointing
to what has become known as the ‘God of the gaps’ argument, which
suggests that if science doesn’t know the answer then God (or another
supernatural explanation) must be responsible for the unknown process.
In all cases there is a hidden (actually they scarcely even bother to hide
it) ‘default’ assumption that if Theory A has some difficulty in explaining
Phenomenon X, we must automatically prefer Theory B without even asking
388 alan nixon
whether Theory B (creationism in this case) is any better at explaining it.

Note how unbalanced this is, and how it gives the lie to the apparent rea-
sonableness of “let’s teach both sides.” One side is required to produce evi-
dence, every step of the way. The other side is never required to produce
one iota of evidence, but is deemed to have won automatically, the moment
the first side encounters a difficulty—the sort of difficulty that all sciences
encounter every day, and go to work to solve, with relish (Dawkins and
Coyne 2005).
Dawkins employs the ontology and language of ID against its own argu-
ments, pointing out the fallacy in the tactic being used. The curiosity to
continue looking past the “difficulties” encountered by science every day
is put forward as a noble pursuit that a scientist would “relish.” Dawkins
uses language that bolsters the authority of the scientist. He contrasts the
scientist to the ID proponent who is not involved in the scientific voca-
tion, has never produced “one iota of evidence,” but has come to a definite
conclusion against the bulk of those who are.
These types of arguments come down to the permeability of the hege-
monic borders of public understandings and meanings of science. ID uses
the language of science in order to legitimate itself and due to this appro-
priation scientists must compete at the level of popular culture in order
to maintain public meanings/understandings of science that more closely
adhere to the current consensus of ‘Science’.
Creating Public Meanings of Science: The Priestly Voice, and Charismatic

Enchantment of ‘Science’
The word ‘mundane’ has come to mean boring and dull, and it really
shouldn’t. It should mean the opposite because it comes from the Latin
‘mundus’, meaning the world, and the world is anything but dull; the world
is wonderful. There’s real poetry in the real world. Science is the poetry of
reality (Dawkins 2007).
Locke (2011) suggests that this public veneer of ‘Science’ is presented
discursively through the ‘priestly voice’. Lessl (1989, cited in Locke 2011)
states that the priestly voice expresses the charismatic within science by
articulating it as a total cosmological vision that enchants science. This
presentation is at once both near and remote and offers a sense of iden-
tity “with respect to the wholly other, the gods or the cosmos at large”
(Locke 2011: 62). It defines the cosmological order and situates humanity
within it. Thus Locke suggests, in the popularisation of science, scientists
often use partial representations of the universe to forge cosmic connec-
tions between the human and the universal order. To Locke this enables
both a discourse of instrumentalised disenchantment, the traditional

view of rationalism (Possamai 2005), and a discourse of enchantment, the
injection of cosmological meaning into science via charisma (Whitehead
1987; cited in Locke 2011). The standard view of rationalisation considers
it as disenchanting; the world becomes a series of ‘mundane’ processes.
However, for Locke (2011) Science is also enchanting and he suggests that
this is overlooked in the standard view.
This notion is illustrated in the early 1980s television series, Cosmos,
where Carl Sagan used the image of ‘star stuff ’:
[t]he surface of the earth is the shore of the cosmic ocean. From it we have
learned most of what we know. Recently, we have waded a little way out,
maybe ankle deep, and the water seems inviting. Some part of our being
knows this is where we came from. We long to return, and we can, because
the cosmos is also within us. We are made of star stuff. We are a way for the
cosmos to know itself (Sagan 1980; cited in Locke 2011: 64)
Locke suggests that ‘star stuff ’ creates identification with everyday dis-
course, humanising science with the priestly voice even as it scientises
humanity. He goes on to suggest that the stars in ordinary discourse can
signify ‘magic’, a dimension of enchanted experience. It is the magical
nature of the stars that imbues the possible journey with a sense of awe
and cosmic wonderment. For Locke the ‘extraordinary’ is not necessar-
ily removed by disenchantment but translated into the remote distance.
Rather than being seen as necessarily disenchanting, science can be seen,
like religions, to be informed by the charismatic. Describing us as ‘star
stuff’ allows Sagan, as the charismatic user of the priestly voice, to harness
this enchanted vision, imparting meaning through scientific cosmology.
In support of Locke’s ideas, Tracy, Hart and Martens (2011), in recent
research discussed earlier in this chapter, suggest that individuals can
come to see evolution as a meaningful solution to existential concerns,
but may need to be explicitly taught how to take this naturalistic approach
to meaning making. Coincidently, the enchanted scientific text that was
used by Tracy, Hart and Martens (2011) was Carl Sagan’s Cosmos. This
charismatic articulation of the ‘extraordinary’ is also present in writings
and presentations by Contemporary Atheists. In the following case from
Unweaving the Rainbow Dawkins muses on the very improbability of each
of us being alive and how this should inspire us to live our lives fully.
We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are
never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential
people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see
the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Arabia. Certainly those unborn
390 alan nixon
ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We
know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so mas-
sively exceeds the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds
it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here . . . After sleeping through a
hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous
planet, sparkling with colour, bountiful with life. Within decades we must
close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our
brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we
have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I
am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings. To put it
the other way round, isn’t it sad to go to your grave without ever wonder-
ing why you were born? Who, with such a thought, would not spring from
bed, eager to resume discovering the world and rejoicing to be a part of it?
(Dawkins 1998: 1).
Dawkins draws on poetic imagery to express our connection to the
universe and the ‘magic’ (expressed via probabilities) of simply having
the chance to be alive and ‘a part of it’. He scientises by suggesting that
scientific understanding is a ‘noble’ and ‘enlightened’ use of life, it would
be ‘sad’ to miss such an opportunity. He humanises via the use of poetic
and descriptive language that makes our connection to the universe
feel “sumptuous . . . sparkling with colour, bountiful with life.” This is the
meaning of existence, this is the reason “to get up in the mornings.” We
have the power to investigate the universe and it is a noble cause that
will endow humanity with a better future. As Dawkins himself says in an
interview with Beliefnet:
[m]y book, Unweaving the Rainbow, is an attempt to elevate science to the
level of poetry and to show how one can be—in a funny sort of way—rather
spiritual about science. (Dawkins 2005)
Grand Meta-narratives: Science and the Future of Humanity
As mentioned earlier, Hyman (2007) argues that Atheism is tied to moder-

nity with its narratives of universal knowledge and human progress. Locke
(2011) argues that the manifestations of enchanted science are equivalent
to the same ‘grand meta-narratives’: practical empowerment (at least
partly through technology), and universal knowledge. These narratives
also entail hope for what we may become, in the sense of a projected
future for humanity as a whole. By highlighting those aspects of the
human mind that are already in resonance with the scientific character,
such as rationality, inquisitiveness and scepticism, these aspects are made
to be the defining features of all humans and the best path towards our
collective future (Locke 2011).
The optimism about Atheism/science is found in all Contemporary
Atheist books, which contain a lot of constructive, life-affirming mate-
rial (Bullivant 2010). They tell readers that one can “be an Atheist who
is happy, balanced, moral and intellectually fulfilled” (Dawkins 2006: 1)
and that science, rationality, open intellectual enquiry and an inquisitive
respect for nature (see Cotter 2011 for a discussion of Romantic Naturalism
and Contemporary Atheism) are the paths to achieve this. Thus providing
the consumer of Contemporary Atheism with a positive subjective myth
on which to hang their views.
Possamai (2005: 104) argues that “Super Hero comics may also contrib-
ute to re-enchantment narratives by posing the superhero as an archetypal
expression of greater human potential.” Combining this with the insights
from Locke (2011), for Contemporary Atheists, science as an idea could
act as the superhero/archetypal expression of greater human potential,
an idea colourfully expressed by Borer (2010: 137) as “Science is the New
Atheists’ new God, and Charles Darwin is their Patron saint.”
The Majesty of Nature and the Naturalistic Enchantment of This World
In contrast to Borer’s (2010) statement, science and evolution are not the
only things that give meaning to the lives of Atheists, even if a big part.
Many Atheists have their own (non-religious) ideas on what makes life
worth living, often interpreted via the worldviews of science, arts, and
popular culture (Manning 2010). Pasquale (2010) found that the values of
atheist group affiliates were similar to those of religious ‘moderates’ and
that they found meaning through friends, family, experiences, productive
work and positive contributions. Pasquale’s (2010) research gathered data
on secular group affiliates to identify the shared and distinctive charac-
teristics of people involved in such groups. There is evidence of increas-
ing diversity in secular existential and metaphysical worldviews (Pasquale
2010). The majority of the secular individuals interviewed rejected the
ideas of a transcendent God and spirituality, though a significant minority
(38%) were willing to see spirituality in a psychological and ‘this worldly’
way. This spirituality can be described as a naturalistic enchantment of
this world. Many Western Atheists take issue with the term ‘spirituality’
due to the supernatural loading that it often entails (Comte-Sponville
2008; Hay 2007). It is avoided by some altogether, but others show signs
of a softening in this regard (Comte-Sponville 2008; Dawkins 2006; Harris
392 alan nixon
2004; Hay 2007) with some, such as Harris (2004), even suggesting that
forms of Eastern religious ideas are compatible with Atheism.
The idea that the natural world should be enough for any human is
repeated throughout the writings of the New Atheists (Cotter 2011). This
is reflected in the type of spirituality that Atheists are interested in; if any.
It appears to be a spirituality devoid of supernatural forces and in some
ways ironically deserving of the term ‘hyper-reality’. The above points
are illustrated in the following interview with actor, comedian and open
Atheist Ricky Gervais (2011):
Interviewer: What do you think will happen to you when you die?
Gervais: People that liked me will remember me . . . Some people say you
can’t believe in love if you’re an Atheist. Of course I believe in love; of course
I believe in the beauty of nature, I just believe that the Earth was made over
four and a half billion years and not by design in six days. I’m not being
disrespectful but I believe I have the right to say I’m not a believer in God
just like everybody has the right to believe in God, and spirituality is very
different to religion let’s not forget that . . .
Interviewer: Are you a spiritual person would you say?
Gervais: Well not in that sense, but I get a funny feeling when I see a friend
or a mountain or an animal, it fills me with joy. My first love is science and
nature. (Gervais 2011)
In this interview Gervais represents the feelings of many Atheists. They
do not feel that their world is disenchanted by science (Pasquale 2010); in
fact many, such as Gervais (2011) and Dawkins (2011), express a profound
feeling of awe and joy at the beauty of the world that they believe science
makes visible to them. However, many people insist that this awe and joy
should not and does not need to be expressed in supernatural terms. As
Gervais (2011) continues in this interview, “I don’t believe there is a spirit.
I think the spirit is an upshot of all your inputs, your beliefs.”
Cotter (2011) suggests that this quality of the Contemporary Atheism is
related to the Romantic reaction to Enlightenment ideals that appeared
in the nineteenth century which was characteristically expressed as an
‘idealisation of nature’. This form of ‘naturalistic’ spirituality has been
spoken about in a number of blogs. The following is a representative
example.
Practically, we might see a spiritual Atheist as highly empathic, aware of his
or her connection to others, concerned with equality and social justice, reg-
ularly awed by the beauty of nature, etc. Such descriptors apply in varying
degrees to all persons, theist and Atheist alike (Atheist Revolution 2008).
These ‘spiritual’ activities are generally expressed in this-worldly experi-

ential terms such as ‘beauty’ and ‘love’, or even in scientific terms such as
brain chemistry or evolutionary history. As Boeree (2001) puts it:
I see Atheism as a sort of minimalist spiritual perspective, one that has
stripped away so much of what we usually think of as spiritual—the super-
natural—that the essence of spirituality can be seen more clearly.
This type of knowledge search is discussed on a number of the blogs
as being a part of Atheist spirituality and the spiritual quest in general.
The notion of humility and awe in the pondering and experiencing of a
complex and practically infinite universe is evident in many accounts. In
this sense, many people state that their Atheism makes them feel liberated
to see the world as it is, and to live and investigate the real world, in an
example from Common Sense Atheism (Muehlhauser 2009):
I do think lack of belief in a deity has made me more intellectually curious
to learn about this place and given me more drive to understand just what
exactly all this is. On Atheism, one can approach the universe with [a] much
more open mind than is possible on theism, and that does feel good.
Therefore the idea that science is absolutely disenchanting can be con-
vincingly critiqued. This cosmos is given meaningful significance via the
priestly voice as a place worth investigating, a mysterious and awe inspir-
ing universe. Science and nature inspire an enchanted cosmological vision
via a naturalistic cosmology. This cosmology gives inspiration for Atheists
at a metaphorical level, giving them a positive subjective myth on which
to hang their Atheism.
Although never explicitly voiced in Possamai’s work, there appears
to be an inherited view of rationalism from Weber that sees science as
involved only in disenchantment processes. Even the Human Potential
Movement Possamai discusses as partly responsible for the re-enchant-
ment in new religious movements is closely linked to supernatural inter-
pretations of reality. Due to this lack of supernatural orientation and the
explicit anti-religious stance of much Contemporary Atheism, this group
cannot be rightfully described as a religion. Via Locke, it has been shown
that the inspirational qualities of the movement, which have largely been
driven by marketing and methodological changes, are used to provide
ontological security in a foundationless postmodern world. In this way
it can be argued that Contemporary Atheism contains a hyper-real ver-
sion of Atheistic science, that may be used as a cultural reservoir by those
involved in identity formation, meaning making and contestations.
394 alan nixon
Conclusion: A Hyper-Real Irreligion?
As Baudrillard states, hyper-reality “is a question of substituting the signs

of the real for the real” (Baudrillard 1994: 2). In this way Contemporary
Atheism presents a hyper-real version of ‘Science.’ Public re-presentations
of science are hyper-real in nature in that they are enchanted partial images
of complex cultural phenomena, more easily grasped and understood and
yet lacking in detail. Charismatic figures such as Sagan and Dawkins are
able to engage such images of science through the priestly voice, allow-
ing consumption which imparts cosmological meaning. Thus it has been
suggested that the subjective myths of Contemporary Atheists are drawn
from these hyper-real representations and provide ontological security via
contestation and protest for those who invest meaning in science.
In light of the separate criticisms of Davidsen, Aupers and Scheifinger,
Possamai (in this volume) refines his 2005 definition of hyper-real religions
to “a simulacrum of a religion created out of, or in symbiosis with, com-
modified popular culture which provides inspiration at a metaphorical
level and/or a source of beliefs for everyday life.” Contemporary Atheism,
through its placement in late modernity and connections to popular
culture and religion, has come to compete with other popular spiritual/
religious discourses. Drawing on Possamai’s (2005) definition of hyper-
real religions, Contemporary Atheism is a popular cultural phenomenon
that has become one of the reservoirs from which some individuals draw
their ideas and meanings (subjective myths) about the world. It can be
described as a form of hyper-real irreligion.
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CONCLUSION
ANOMIE, ALIENATION AND THE FUTURE OF

HYPER-REAL RELIGIONS
Fantasy, Conspiracy and the Romantic Legacy:
Max Weber and the Spirit of Contemporary
Popular Culture
Johan Roeland, Stef Aupers & Dick Houtman
Introduction
God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with
white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we
hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history,
man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression.
Our Great War’s a spiritual war . . . our Great Depression is our lives. We’ve
all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires,
and movie gods, and rock stars. But we don’t. And we’re slowly learning that
fact. And we’re very, very pissed off (Fight Club, Fincher 1999).
These are the words of Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt), the hero in the movie
Fight Club. These words summarise his discontents with modern society:
the alienation experienced by people in factories and offices, the never-
ending consumption of superfluous goods, and the unrealisable desire,
nourished by advertising and media, for fame, status and success. The
movie thus discusses typical modern problems of meaning: the characters
in this story have lost any sense of the meaning and purpose of life. They
do not know why they live and who they are. Driven by his dissatisfaction
with modern life, Tyler Burden started Fight Club, a weekly gathering of
men who beat each other up, so as to feel something that is ‘real’: some-
thing beyond the rationalised and routinised modern order.
Fight Club’s critical message resonates in many other cultural products
of our times, among which are a number of well-known films that were
released in the very same year, 1999—American Beauty (Sam Mendes),
The Matrix (Andy and Larry Wachowski) and Magnolia (Paul Thomas
Anderson)—all films that explicitly discuss problems of meaning related
to modern, (sub)urban life. These films thus deal with a notion that has
been central to the sociological tradition from its very beginnings: that
modernisation brings with it cultural problems of meaning. Modern indi-
viduals, it is often held, experience their lives less and less as solidly rooted
in ‘natural’ or ‘firmly grounded’ social worlds and meaning is therefore no
longer ‘self-evident’ or a ‘given’. This is what Jean Baudrillard writes about
402 johan roeland, stef aupers & dick houtman
when he describes and laments the insidiously spreading simulations that

increasingly mask and replace ‘real’ and ‘authentic’ reality (Baudrillard
2000); this is the experience of inhabiting worlds in which ‘depth’ has
given way to ‘surface’ (Jameson 1991); this is an emergent culture in which
science’s authority to legislate truth has evaporated (Bauman 1987; Beck
1992; Giddens 1991; Inglehart 1997; Rorty 2009) and in which Christianity
has lost much of its former credibility (Brown 2001; Heelas and Woodhead
2005; Norris and Inglehart 2004). Tradition and science have lost much of
their authority and capacity to provide late-modern selves with convinc-
ing explanations of what the world’s processes ‘really’ mean and what the
meaning of life actually is. As a consequence, Berger, Berger and Kellner
(1973: 82) commented as early as forty years ago, “[m]odern man has suf-
fered from a deepening condition of ‘homelessness’ . . . a metaphysical loss
of ‘home’ ” (see also Gehlen 1980; Zijderveld 1970).
These problems of meaning, discussed and lamented in today’s social
sciences, were already at the heart of Max Weber’s classical analysis of
modernity, according to which modern science with its uncompromising
anti-metaphysical ethos and relentless quest for truth inevitably erodes
belief in a transcendent ‘other world’ that gives meaning to ‘this world’.
These developments, Weber famously claimed, constitute a progressive
“disenchantment of the world,” a process in which traditional religious
systems of meaning become less plausible and lose much of their for-
mer capacity to provide modern selves with the aforesaid convincing
explanations. Science itself, by its very nature, can adequately describe
the world as it is but remains silent about its inherent goal or mean-
ing. Simultaneously, Weber underscored, processes of rationalisation
and bureaucratisation result in stifling ‘iron cages’ that are imposed on
individual lives, thus threatening personal freedom, creativity and mean-
ing. Weber’s tragic “disenchantment of the world” therefore increasingly
leads to a world deprived of meaning—a world in which “the world’s pro-
cesses . . . simply ‘are’ and ‘happen’ but no longer signify anything” (Weber
1978: 506). Moreover, this process evokes some existential uncertainties
with respect to selfhood.
Two other classical sociologists, Emile Durkheim and Karl Marx, dis-
cussed these problems of meaning more specifically under the head-
ings of ‘anomie’ and ‘alienation’, respectively, and sociologists have ever
since considered these two problems as “the twin maladies of modernity”
(Zijderveld 2000: 198–201). While the concepts of anomie and alienation
have often been used interchangeably, they do in fact refer to quite
fantasy, conspiracy and the romantic legacy 403
different phenomena. On the one hand, anomie, exemplified by Durkheim’s

analysis of the social decomposition and cultural disintegration of modern
societies (Durkheim 1997, 2006), refers to “the absence of a meaningful,
institutional nomos” (Zijderveld 2000: 198; italics in original). On the other
hand, alienation, exemplified by Marx’s analysis of the reduction of work-
ers to commodities and cogs in the machinery of capitalism (Marx 1988),
refers to “the presence of an overbearing institutional system” (Zijderveld
2000: 198). To put it simply, one may say that “anomie is caused by too
little institutional control (and) alienation is caused by too much institu-
tional control” (Zijderveld 2000: 198–199). Yet under modern conditions,
the two are likely to occur simultaneously, because of modernity’s ten-
dency to erode the meaningful nomos of the past (anomie) and replace it
with overbearing and therefore alienating institutional systems.
In this chapter, we argue that such analyses of modern life are no lon-
ger confined to the works of sociologists. Ever since the romantic coun-
terculture of the 1960s and 1970s, these analyses have been adopted by
the cultural industry and expanded to commercially successful, wide-
spread cultural narratives about life in contemporary Western societies.
We argue that these narratives are especially present in today’s popular
culture, in particular in the genres of fantasy and conspiracy theories. We
conclude with a discussion on the theoretical implications of this observa-
tion, in particular for Max Weber’s classical analysis of the discontents of
modern culture. Moreover, we explore the possibility that fantasy culture
and conspiracy culture may serve as repertoires by means of which hyper-
real spiritualities are constructed that offer solace for modern problems
of meaning.
Cultural Discontents and the Romantic Counterculture
Cultural resistance against the modern rationalised order is as old as

modernity itself, yet a prominent manifestation of this resistance was the
eighteenth and nineteenth century artistic and intellectual movement of
Romanticism. The Romanticists of that time turned against industrialisa-
tion, against the smoking and noisy factories that destroyed the beauty of
the natural landscape (William Blake’s “dark satanic mills”), against the
mass production that threatened handcraft and humanity, and against
science that was believed to threaten the human faculties of feeling, intu-
ition and personal experience.
The counterculture of the 1960s and the 1970s was in many respects
akin to Romanticism, since it shared its critical stance against the dis-
ruptive aspects of modernisation, as well as its nostalgic longing for an
idealised past and its utopian dreams of a better future (Campbell 2007;
Doorman 2004). There were, however, many differences as well. The
counterculture, in the first place, was not the product of a relatively
small elite of artists, intellectuals and philosophers, as was the case with
Romanticism, but a cultural movement that had broad public support
among educated middle-class young people. The counterculture was, in
other words, a mass manifestation of Romanticism, as Daniel Bell rightly
observed (1996). Secondly, the counterculture of the 1960s and the 1970s
contained, much more evidently than eighteenth and nineteenth century
Romanticism, an explicit, theoretical-sociological articulated criticism
with respect to modern society. This criticism, which echoed Weber’s,
Marx’ and Durkheim’s classical analyses of modern cultural discontents,
was loudly propagated by the social sciences of that time, in particular by
the neo-Marxist Frankfurt School (Horkheimer, Adorno, Fromm, Marcuse
and Benjamin).
Theodor Roszak’s The Making of a Counterculture (1995), as much
a countercultural pamphlet as a social scientific analysis, is one of the
most influential examples of this “double hermeneutics” (Giddens 1984).
Roszak argued that the old Enlightenment dream of progress, rationality
and freedom was degenerated into a society that he characterised as ‘tech-
nocratic’; a society that is defined by scientific-technological ideals such as
efficiency, productivity, control and progress, which are reached by tech-
nological and scientific means and systematically deployed by the power-
ful agents of this system: the science-trained experts (see Roszak 1995).
As Roszak argued, the technocratic society is supported and legitimated
by a tremendous trust in science and technology and the efforts to imple-
ment the knowledge and products of both in all domains of society—even
the most personal, subjective and intimate domains. The consequence of
this, according to Roszak, was the disruption of ‘real’ community, ‘natural’
social bonds and ‘spontaneous’ solidarity.
Roszak gave voice to a deeply-felt dissatisfaction with modernity that
was shared by those who identified with the counterculture. Participants
of the counterculture believed that something had been lost in the mech-
anistic and instrumental worldview of rationalism. From this stance, they
expressed the anomic complaint that technocratic society undermines
man’s union with nature, real forms of sociality and authentic identities.
There was, all in all, a widely shared conviction that modern, rationalised
society no longer provided a genuine ‘home’ for the individual—a cultural

analysis that in turn inspired a collective search for the authentic, a search
for a “salvaging of enchantment from the very dross of daily life” (Roszak
1995: 130). As against the centrality of reason and technocratic mentality,
the counterculture called for imagination, feeling and fantasy as the royal
road to the real.
The search for ‘re-enchantment’ and a genuine ‘home’ led those who
identified with the counterculture to a varied palette of practices, rites
and beliefs. Many observers have paid attention to the countercultural
penchant for Eastern religions, magic, shamanism, theosophy and the
occult (Campbell 2007; Roszak 1995), all forms of religiosity with which
the counterculture aimed to find spiritual meaning and break with the
prime vehicle of modern enlightenment; secularism. Besides these spiri-
tual strategies, more secular ones were embraced, among which were the
romanticisation of nature and attention to the inner life of passions and
emotions (e.g. Bell 1996; Taylor 1989). Furthermore, there was a nostalgic
longing for pre-industrial communities and a search for tribalised com-
munities, in order to overcome the mechanical and associational relation-
ships that were ascribed to modern social life. Guided by the famous adage
of LSD guru Timothy Leary, “turn on, tune in, drop out,” such alternative,
tribal communities were sometimes actually built. Examples are Arcosanti
in the United States (founded in 1970) and Findhorn in Scotland (founded
in 1972), but one can also think of Woodstock (1969) and other temporary
social gatherings clustered around alternative music, ideologies and life-
styles. The call for genuine communities also boosted an interest in ‘imag-
ined communities’ in the most literal sense of the word. Romantic fiction,
fairy tales and fantasy novels thematising better civilisations in imaginary
pre-modern pasts, were collectively embraced by countercultural hippies.
The immense popularity of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings is illustrative of
this. The Lord of the Rings is mainly based on Scandinavian mythology and
its world, Middle-earth—inhabited by hobbits, elves and wizards—was
immediately embraced by the counterculture when the book was pub-
lished as a paperback in 1965. It was, as Hinckle (quoted in Ellwood 1994:
201) states, “absolutely the favorite book of every hippie” since they “[felt]
immediately familiar, upon first reading, with an apparently imaginary
place and/or time” (Curry 2004: 118). A genuine home, beyond the anomie
created by the ‘technocratic society’, was thus sought in real life and in the
imaginary realm of fantasy fiction.
Not only the lack of guidance, morality and community was criticised,
but also the oppressive and dehumanising efficacies of ‘the system’—one
of the most characteristic concepts of the counterculture. This notion of

‘the system’ expressed the deeply felt alienation of many youngsters in
these days, the experience that technocracy functions as an imperialistic
system that reduces individual people to insignificant cogs in a soulless
machine. In such discourses, the contours of conspiracy culture emerged
in that the hippies ascribed agency and intentionality to this “imperialistic
system,” this “gigantic technological mechanism” (Roszak 1995: 54). The
countercultural revolt was, so to say, quite ‘paranoid’. Roszak’s The Making
of a Counter Culture is again illustrative of this, since it breathes a jargon
full of conspiracy-like terms. To quote some passages of this book: the tech-
nocratic society is seen as “the regime of experts” (Roszak 1995: 7)—those
trained people “on the official payroll of the state and/or corporate struc-
ture” (Roszak 1995: 11)—who are involved in a “social engineering” proj-
ect (Roszak 1995: 6) that has an almost totalitarian hold on individuals.
In such a society, all products of human action become “the subjects of
purely technical scrutiny and of purely technical manipulation” (Roszak
1995: 6). The technocratic society uses techniques of “coercion” (Roszak
1995: 9) and domination, which work on the level of social organisation
as well as on the “subliminal” level, since the regime “prefers to charm
conformity from us by exploiting our deep-seated commitment” (Roszak
1995: 9) to technocratic ideals and the ideal technocratic society.
Roszak’s portrayal of ‘the system’ as a brutal, dehumanising agent did
not stand alone. There is a strong hostility to modern society in many of
the works of sociology, philosophy and art of his time that in turn strongly
influenced the ethics of the counterculture. The neo-Marxists of the
Frankfurt School, for instance, formulated well-known critiques, of which
the work of Marcuse is worth mentioning here in particular. His One-
dimensional Man (2002) breathes a similar spirit as Roszak’s The Making
of a Counter Culture, especially in those passages in which Marcuse calls
for “the great refusal” of those societal forces that act upon the individual
to create “false needs,” in order to integrate individuals into the capitalist
system (Marcuse 2002; cf. Campbell 2007: 288ff). A similar critical tone
is heard in Vance Packard’s The Hidden Persuaders (1991), in which he
discusses the manipulative forces of the media, depicted by Packard as
working upon the inner drives and desires of individuals in order to cre-
ate the demand for the products of industry (Packard 1991). Existentialists
such as Jean-Paul Sartre railed against the alienation that stems from the
Verdinglichung (chosification) of human beings by technology and sci-
ence: the efforts to make human beings objects of research, policy, labor,
etc., which, according to Sartre, is a threat to human freedom. And, as a
final example, poets (such as Alan Watts and Allen Ginsberg) and musi-
cians alike composed litanies of complaints about the estrangements of
modern life.
In all these cases, modern society and its overly rationalised institu-
tions were depicted as powerful, alienating agencies, held to repress peo-
ple and to integrate them in the broader project of modernity. Moreover,
the countercultural discourse highlighted concepts like ‘false conscious-
ness’, ‘brainwashing’ and ‘subliminal seduction’, concepts that indicate a
paranoid conspiracy culture imagining the social system as a powerful
and malicious agent that threatens the free individual.
The 1960s counterculture has had a lasting impact on Western cul-
ture (Aupers, Houtman and Roeland 2010; Houtman 2008; Houtman,
Aupers and Hüzeir 2010), even though the revolutionary vigor and the
fierceness of the countercultural criticism have subsided in the course
of time. As Marwick (1998: 13–15) points out, the counterculture was not
so much an “attempt at political revolution that eventually failed” and
that is meanwhile “over and done with,” but rather an acceleration in an
ongoing process of cultural transformation. The criticism of the counter-
culture has transformed many societal domains, such as religion (Aupers
and Houtman 2010; Campbell 2007), the social sciences (Gouldner 1970;
Lemert 2004; Seidman 2008), and politics (Inglehart 1977; Weakliem 1991).
Several studies point out that, ironically, even modern domains that in
the 1960s and 1970s were criticised as being exponents of the ‘technocratic
system’, such as corporate life, have appropriated the countercultural dis-
course (Houtman 2008). Thomas Frank (1998: 32), for instance, argues that
since the 1960s, companies and advertisers have created a consumer cul-
ture that “promises to deliver the consumer from the dreary nightmare of
square consumerism.” Joseph Heath and Andrew Potter (2004: 98) even
claim that “the critique of mass society has been one of the most powerful
forces driving consumerism for the past forty years.”
As we will explain in more detail below, a similar conclusion can be
drawn with respect to the cultural industry, which has adopted the cul-
tural discontents that were loudly articulated by the counterculture half a
century ago. At that time, the counterculture was extremely suspicious of
the cultural industry, which was seen as the ultimate source of alienation
and false consciousness. As Horkheimer and Adorno (2002: 115) argue,
“the culture industry . . . can do as it chooses with the needs of consum-
ers—producing, controlling, disciplining them.” The same cultural indus-
try, however, has made the cultural discontents that were vented by the
counterculture into a commercially successful source of entertainment
and amusement. Nowadays, media products articulate a cultural dissat-

isfaction with media, technology and the state—often accompanied by
romantic strategies to cope with or escape these feelings of estrangement.
We discuss these developments with respect to two cultural genres which
have become prominent in today’s cultural industry: fantasy culture and
conspiracy culture.
Anomie and Fantasy Culture
Whereas fantasy culture was already embraced by participants of the

counterculture, it has entered the mainstream since the 1990s through a
whole gamut of cultural products (e.g. Partridge 2005a, 2005b). The fan-
tasy genre manifests itself nowadays in countless novels, movies, games,
music styles, and festivals. Its underlying worldview has influenced the
tastes and lifestyles of many individuals and groups (De Kloet and Kuipers
2007; Partridge 2005a, 2005b; Schofield Clark 2003). The screen versions of
The Lord of the Rings and the Harry Potter series are among the most
visited films of all time. Millions of people watched the television series
Charmed and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Science fiction films and series
featuring all sorts of fantastic elements, among which is George Lucas’
well-known Star Wars, may count on millions of devoted fans all over
the world. Colin Campbell (2007: 329) even argues that “fantasy literature
has now become a dominant force in modern fiction . . . but also in film,
television, and computer games, such that a virtual tidal wave of stories
embodying myths or set in mythic worlds has swept through the modern
culture of the West. One can conclude from this that we now live in a
mythopoeic culture, one in which stories about supernatural beings and
events are continually being created . . . and eagerly consumed.”
One of the most characteristic elements of fantasy culture is its creation
of a mirror image of the modern, rationalised world. Despite the immense
variety, a common feature of many products of fantasy culture is, after all,
that it offers another world that reflects an imaginary past which, unlike
modern society, boasts a coherent social structure, harmonious com-
munities and a clear-cut morality—phenomena that, according to the
sociological tradition, would erode under the influence of processes of
modernisation. In addition, fantasy culture offers an enchanted, magical
world populated by other-than-human beings and all sorts of mythical
creatures (wizards, witches, demons, elves, angels, spirits, gods) which, if
their historical equivalents had ever constituted the pantheons of older
religions, have vanished from planet Earth in the course of modernisation.
The core example is undoubtedly Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Not
only has it attracted a vast population of fans since its appropriation by
the participants of the counterculture; it can easily be understood as the
archetype and blueprint of the entire genre. In this work, Tolkien cre-
ated a detailed, medieval-like ‘secondary world’ called Middle-earth, pop-
ulated by hobbits, orcs, elves and wizards. This world is worked out in
great detail and by a lively imagination. Tolkien elaborated extensively
on the landscapes and geographical characteristics of this world, the aes-
thetic qualities of the products made by the populations inhabiting this
world (clothing, architecture, things, etc.), the languages spoken by those
populations, their typical customs and behaviors, and so on and so forth.
The main story line of the book deals with a young hobbit named Frodo
who, together with a couple of friends (the “Fellowship of the Ring,” which
includes hobbits, men, elves and the white wizard Gandalf), goes on a
long and hard journey from the safe, warm community of the Shire to
the dangerous barren lands where the dark lord Sauron reigns, in order
to destroy an extremely powerful magical ring in the fire of the mount
Doom. During this journey, Frodo is confronted with powers that are far
beyond his own capacities, yet a strong drive to succeed and the help and
bravery of Gandalf and the great warriors of his fellowship help him fulfill
his mission.
Striking about Tolkien’s world is the combination of realism and the dis-
play of moral values and worldviews that break with the modern anomic
world. Clear-cut moral dichotomies embodied by a juxtaposition of good
characters (e.g. Frodo, Gandalf) versus bad characters (e.g. Sauron); good
places (the Shire) versus bad places (Mordor) and good virtues versus
bad morals, are contextualised in a pre-modern world brimming with
meaning, mystery and enchantment. The display of such values, allegedly
eroded in the modern anomic world, is arguably part of the attraction of
Tolkien’s world. His own hermeneutic key to reading his work confirms
this. In an essay entitled On Fairy Stories (1939), he admitted that his own
work is driven by a “desire to escape” from “self-made misery”—a misery
he relates to the modernisation he saw reflected in worlds produced by
industrialisation: the factories and the products developed in factories.
More generally, he argued that good fantasy functions like religion since
it offers existential answers, hope and consolation in times of suffering.
Describing The Lord of the Rings as an “implicit diagnosis of modernity”
that compensates experiences of “homesickness,” Patrick Curry (2004: 15)
furthermore argues that it bestows on the reader “empowering nostalgia.”
Visiting Middle-earth, from these perspectives, is like visiting a genuine
‘home’.
A similar point can be made about another popular, yet fundamentally

different exponent of fantasy culture: Rowling’s best selling Harry Potter
series. In this series Rowling created an antiquated, gloomy-Dickensian
world full of magic, in which features the young wizard Harry Potter, a
student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He and his friends
are confronted with a couple of scary and threatening developments and
happenings, which all have to do with the attempts by the evil wizard
Lord Voldemort to gain supremacy over the wizarding and the non-
wizarding world. Together with his best friends Ron Weasley and Hermione
Granger and with the help of the masters of the Hogwarts School, Harry
Potter foils Voldemort’s efforts to become the most powerful wizard in
the world. In a final battle between Voldemort and Harry Potter, Harry, a
skillful wizard by that time, defeats Voldemort. The Lord of the Rings and
Harry Potter differ, of course, in many respects: The Lord of the Rings is
located in an imagined pre-modern or medieval society whereas the set-
ting of the Harry Potter novels resembles traditional England of the nine-
teenth century. Both examples, however, testify to a nostalgia for times
where community, morality and identity were still quite stable and firmly
inscribed in the social structures, and meaning was a ‘given’.
If we look at the impressive sales successes of fantasy books such as
Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and Rowling’s Harry Potter series, we see
that the once exclusive and underground fantasy literature has become
mainstream. Moreover, fantasy fiction spills over to other media, such as
film and television series. And although such media still assume a quite pas-
sive audience consuming fantasy worlds, fantasy culture becomes aligned
with interactive media assuming a more ‘participatory audience’ as well
(Jenkins 2006). Fantasy board games, card games and role-playing games
such as Dungeons and Dragons and Magic: The Gathering, for instance,
have a loyal host of players and provide the opportunity to interactively
engage oneself with the fantasy world through role-playing. Furthermore,
there are people identifying themselves with elves, wizards, witches, dru-
ids, trolls and hobbits in our contemporary world, meeting each other in
real life, at fantasy fairs, fantasy festivals, pagan ritual meetings, Internet
communities and fantasy hot spots such as the film locations of The
Lord of the Rings in New Zealand. By playing Live Action Role-playing
Games, these fantasy fans can act out their fantasy roles in real life set-
tings with other people, thereby turning the fantasy of meaningful other
worlds into ‘real’ happenings. An extremely popular example of such
interactive immersions in fantasy environments is the booming genre of
online computer games. No less than ninety five per cent of a particular
popular genre in this field—the so-called “Massively Multiplayer Online

Role Playing Game” (MMORPG)—is based on the Tolkienesque fantasy
genre (Woodcock 2008). Examples are Everquest, Dark Age of Camelot,
Ultima Online and, currently the most popular one, World of Warcraft.
What distinguishes these and other online games from the older console
games is that they offer shared worlds (the game worlds are ‘inhabited’
by many players at the same time), they are persistent (the three-dimen-
sional environment is online twenty four hours a day and continues to
exist even when players are not interacting with it) and they generate a
unique culture, social structure, economy and ecology that changes over
time. These environments are therefore no longer simple games but emer-
gent ‘virtual worlds’ (Bartle 2004). Characteristic of these worlds is the
enchanting experiences that are offered. The cover of World of Warcraft,
for instance, attracts the consumer to enter the exciting world of the game
by saying that “[a] world awaits . . . Descend into the World of Warcraft
and join thousands of mighty heroes in an online world of myth, magic
and limitless adventure . . . An infinity of experiences await.”
Of course, the question remains how audiences participate in these fan-
tasy worlds, and which meanings they attach to them. The small but grow-
ing body of studies on online gamers, however, indicates that for them,
gaming is a serious practice that transcends the mere ‘just for fun’. As
Norberg and Lundblad (2001: 3) argue, “[gamers look for] a parallel mode
of existence, an illusion of meaning, that becomes increasingly real, an
enchantment within or beside a disenchanted world” (see also Aupers,
2011a, 2011b; Harambam, Aupers and Houtman 2011). In addition, these
online fantasy worlds provide a sense of ‘home’ and feeling of belonging
because they provide the opportunity to build small tribal communities.
In World of Warcraft, players form vital groups, tribes and guilds with
friends and strangers, online and offline, virtual and real (e.g. Williams
et al. 2006). Online fantasy games feel, as one of the respondents in Aupers’
research on gaming summarises, “like a second home.” No wonder, from
this perspective, that the average playing time of such games is twenty-
three hours a week (Yee 2006) and that one fifth of the players of Everquest
“treat the game world as their life world” (Castronova 2005: 59).
Middle-earth, Norrath, Derreth, Kalimdor, Lordaeron, Khaz Modan,
Azeroth, Albion, Hilbernia and Midgard—these are all imaginary places
constructed in fantasy culture, that seem to derive their attractive-
ness from the way in which they contrast with the modern rationalised
world. As such, the contemporary cultural industry has incorporated the
countercultural uneasiness about modern society and capitalises on the
experiences of anomie and ‘homelessness’ (Berger, Berger and Kellner

1974), that—according to the sociological tradition—characterise the
modern consciousness.
Alienation and Conspiracy Culture
Conspiracy culture is another dominant genre in contemporary popular

culture. While paranoid thinking has long been characterised as irratio-
nal, pathological or weird, the counterculture turned this habitus into a
constructive way of looking at the ‘system’—a higher form of rationality
even, since “no matter how paranoid you are, you can never be paranoid
enough.” Be that as it may, nowadays conspiracy culture has entered the
mainstream of popular culture. Many of its products—books, films and
television series—describe hidden complots and secret conspiracies that
make the modern world a somewhat precarious and opaque place, in
which individual agency is besieged. Paranoid fears about ‘the system’,
once considered something for deluded crackpots and stoned hippies,
are now institutionalised in the narratives of contemporary bestsellers
and blockbusters. Popular books and television series like 24, Profiler and
The X-Files freely play with the paranoid assumption that social reality
as we experience it is an illusion, a hall of mirrors and smokescreens
constructed to conceal the secret powers that de facto determine history
(Kellner 2002). While this cultural analysis may be frightening, conspiracy
culture offers hope and solace at the same time through the formulation
of alternative narratives and explanations: the ‘real truth’, as The X-Files
typically propose, is ‘out there’.
In short, the paranoid logic has evolved in the last decades from a
deviant, exotic phenomenon to a commercialised and institutionalised
mainstream narrative that spreads through popular culture (Arnold 2008;
Birchall 2002; Goldberg 2001). As Timothy Melley (2000, 2002) argues, the
appeal of conspiracy culture is related to the feelings of alienation that
people may experience in today’s complex society, in particular the feel-
ing that is associated with the institutional pressure on individual lives.
It is this pressure that results in—in the words of Melley—‘agency panic’
and a discourse of paranoid suspicions about modern society, its institu-
tions and the social control they exert on the individual.
If we look at such a discourse in popular culture, we can distinguish
many varieties. Technology, to begin with, plays an important role and is
often portrayed as an alienating, overpowering force used to control the
bodies, minds and spirits of individuals. A particularly good example of

this is the famous Wachowksi brothers’ trilogy The Matrix (1999–2003)
that features technology getting out of control and transforming into a
powerful, malicious agent. The Matrix tells the story of the computer
hacker Neo, who finds out that the world he is living in is not what it
seems. The ordinary world he is familiar with turns out to be a simulated
reality, a virtual realm and a dream world made by intelligent machines.
Somewhere in the course of history, these man-made machines overpow-
ered their creators and locked them up in big, grimy fields. Their only
function was to provide the intelligent machines the energy to stay alive.
Humans were, in other words, reduced to batteries. To keep them under
control and undermine resistance, the machines plugged humans into a
computer system that projected the illusion of a real world in the minds
of people.
The Matrix exemplifies conspiracy culture. It is first and foremost a
movie about a powerful hidden agent, a social system that acts upon the
individual to the extent that he or she is completely deprived of agency.
The suspect in this particular trilogy is technology. Technology not only
imprisons people, but even ‘infiltrate’ the minds of people, so that they
are unaware of the fact that they are captured or brainwashed by the sys-
tem. The following quote, where Morpheus explains the Matrix to Neo
illustrates this.
Morpheus: Do you want to know what the Matrix is? The Matrix is every-
where, it’s all around us, here even in this room. You can see it out your
window or on your television. You feel it when you go to work, or go to
church or pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes
to blind you from the truth.
Neo: What truth?
Morpheus: That you are a slave, Neo. Like everyone else, you were born
into bondage, kept inside a prison that you cannot smell, taste or touch. A
prison for mind.
In its imaginary future scenario of technological development, The Matrix
obviously builds on an anxiety that has been central to the modern con-
sciousness, and to the countercultural consciousness in particular—the
anxiety about technology and technological progress. It takes this anxi-
ety a step further by representing the ultimate realisation of technologi-
cal domination: a world in which human beings have literally become
replaceable cogs in a soulless machine, a world in which people are suc-
cessfully alienated from their true essence: freedom.
The Matrix can not only be simply read as “technoparanoia” (Jameson

1991), since it may as well be understood as a broad metaphor for other
powerful modern institutions that exert social control. As in The Matrix,
technology has frequently been featured as a symbol mirroring a wider
suspicion of technological progress and the use of high-tech by the State,
malicious governments and corporate businesses. In Kubrick’s 2001: A
Space Odyssey (1968) for instance, the supercomputer named HAL (often
assumed to be referring to IBM, since alphabetically, each character of this
name is neighboring the characters of IBM’s name) has been designed as a
powerful and intelligent machine that at a given moment no longer serves
the human crew of the spacecraft, but becomes a powerful agent control-
ling and eventually turning against the members of the crew (cf. Arnold
2008). In Spielberg’s Minority Report (2002), to give another example, it
is the inventive security technology that, once it turns against human
beings, is hard to beat. Peter Weir’s The Truman Show (1998), finally, tells
the dramatic story of a man who suddenly finds out that he has lived in
a giant studio since the day that he was born—that his life, including his
work, wife and children, is a set-up, staged and broadcasted as a ‘real life
soap’ for millions of viewers worldwide. As in The Matrix, it is the media
and technology that fully controls the life of the individual.
Such paranoid discourses about media and technology often touch
upon a wide complex of institutional forces that allegedly conspire against
individual freedom. But many conspiracy theories about media, science,
technology, bureaucracy and other modern institutions point their arrows,
in the end, to the power of the State. This is, for instance, the case in
The X-Files, an incredibly popular American television series that aired
from 1993 to 2002. The series follows two FBI agents, Fox Mulder (David
Duchovny) and Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson), who are investigating
a bunch of mysterious ‘unsolved’ cases. They came to investigate these
files after Fox Mulder began to question the mysterious disappearance,
years earlier, of his younger sister. Digging into this case, the two agents
slowly get lost in a widening, never closing network of conspiring parties.
Every link leads to another link and every clue to another clue and, as
conspiracy logic demands, in the end ‘everything is connected’. Mulder’s
sister was abducted by aliens; these invaders had made a treaty with a
syndicate, a group of powerful ‘men in black’, which turns out to be part
and parcel of the United States government, which has its own hidden
agenda: to prevent the human race from total alien domination. In order
to achieve this, the syndicate uses any means at hand. It thus functions
as an unscrupulous group able to murder and sacrifice human beings, to

infiltrate and mould governments and other institutions, and to use all
available means to keep mankind in ignorance of its vulnerable fate.
Central to the narrative of The X-Files is a firm distrust in the State and
governmental institutions, which are portrayed as powerful agencies with
bad intentions and secret agendas. This is a staple feature in conspiracy
movies. In Roman Polanski’s Chinatown (1974), for instance, the govern-
ment is involved in a dirty business around water resources. In Tony Scott’s
Enemy of the State (1998), a lawyer becomes the target of a group of NSA
(National Security Agency) agents, after he unwittingly comes into posses-
sion of a disc containing crucial evidence in a political murder case. Peter
Hyams’ Capricorn One (1977) tells the story of a huge conspiracy, set up
by a small elite within NASA, to stage a landing on Mars that in fact never
took place but was broadcast on the screens of the NASA control room
(in order to mislead the NASA personnel) and on television (in order to
mislead the bigger audience). Examples like these indicate that there is a
relentless feedback between real political events, non-fictional conspiracy
theories and conspiracy in fiction. The Watergate scandal, the assassina-
tion of John F. Kennedy, the moon landing hoax, and the alleged role
of the United States government in the 9/11 attacks—all are events and
theories that have in turn inspired movies such as All the President’s Men
(1976, directed by Alan J. Pakula) which features the Watergate scandal,
and Executive Action (1973, directed by David Miller), JFK (1991, directed
by Oliver Stone) and Interview with the Assassasin (2002, directed by Neil
Burger), all of which feature the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Even
in the seemingly conventional Rambo movies “the idea that the govern-
ment . . . had schemed to suppress and victimise brave members of the
American military” is at the heart of the narrative (Arnold 2008: 199). In
addition to the state, industries and companies may also serve as suspects,
as in Mike Nichols’ Silkwood (1983), in which a woman got on the wrong
side of the nuclear power company and eventually died in a strange car
accident, after she had publicly denounced the miserable safety proce-
dures in a nuclear power company. In some cases, a complex of agencies
are involved in huge conspiracies, as for example in Syriana (2005). This
movie, directed by Stephen Gahan, shows a hornet’s nest of a worldwide
operating oil industry, governments and the CIA, which are all connected
and completely corrupt.
These examples suggest that conspiracy thinking about state, media
and technology, once countercultural and deviant, now reigns in popular
culture. Conspiracy thinking bestows meanings upon things, social struc-

tures, organisations and agents, that may not contain or warrant these
meanings. It constructs causality were randomness prevails; intention
where coincidences thrive; meaning where meaninglessness comes to
the surface. Moreover, it makes metaphysical claims about mysterious,
unseen powers that are operative beyond the surface of everyday life. As
such, conspiracy culture offers, as Melley (2000: 8) argues, comfort for
feelings of alienation:
[t]he idea of conspiracy offers an odd sort of comfort in an uncertain age: it
makes sense of the inexplicable, accounting for complex events in a clear, if
frightening way. To put it another way, by offering a highly adaptable vision
of causality, conspiracy theory acts as a ‘master narrative’, a grand scheme
capable of explaining numerous complex events.
Whether or not the embracing of conspiracy theories by the cultural
industry and the wider public indeed contains more than just an expres-
sion of modern feelings of discontent—namely a way to cope with these
feelings—remains an open question that cannot be answered on the basis
of our analysis. Perhaps conspiracy culture may not only depict the indi-
vidual as besieged by external agencies, but also offer notions of human
redemption and empowerment, whether by offering ‘true’ insight into how
things ‘really’ are, or by keeping up the hope for true freedom and agency
by featuring heroes and redeemers who dismantle the corrupt elements in
the government (as in Enemy of the State) or bring people to freedom (as
in The Matrix). Narratives about conspiracies may, in other words, para-
doxically feed faith in human agency. The Matrix is again an outstanding
example. Neo, the protagonist of the story, can choose between taking a
blue pill and a red pill and chooses the latter in order to escape virtual
alienation and learn to know the ‘truth’. The reason he gives is: “[b]ecause
I don’t like the idea that I am not in control of my life.” Conspiracy culture
thus not only expresses the precarious condition of modern life, but also,
for those who feel alienated, it keeps alive the modern humanist dream
of personal agency.
Conclusion: Max Weber and the Spirit of Contemporary Popular Culture
The relation between modernity and the cultural discontents of anomie

and alienation is a central element in the works of Weber, Durkheim,
Marx and their successors. In addition, cultural discontents have often
inspired an upsurge of romantic stories about a better, meaningful world:
in eighteenth and nineteenth century Romanticism, in the counterculture

of the 1960s and the 1970s, and in the many products that the cultural
industry has released in the last decades.
At the turn of the twentieth century, Max Weber was well aware of
the upsurge of such stories, as well as the many initiatives in his own
intellectual circles in the German city of Heidelberg to find meaning
in—according to Weber—a “disenchanted” and essentially meaningless
world. Many a philosopher, psychologist, and artist took refuge in utopian
experiments, alternative experiential religions, and esoteric movements
like the new theosophy of Helena Petrovna Blavatsky (who founded the
Theosophical Society in 1875), Rudolf Steiner’s anthroposophy, spiritism,
pantheistic perspectives on nature derived from Romanticism, and the
philosophy of life of Henri Bergson. During the 1913 and 1914, Weber him-
self paid visits to Monte Verita in Ascona in the Alps, where his contem-
poraries indulged in spirituality and free sexuality (Radkau 2009).
While acutely aware of these attempts by many of his fellow-intellec-
tuals to re-enchant a progressively disenchanted world, Weber himself
emphasised the need to ‘heroically’ face the essential meaninglessness
of a disenchanted world without taking refuge in ‘surrogate’ experiential
religions. “The ubiquitous chase for ‘experience’ stems from . . . weakness:
for it is this weakness not to be able to countenance the stern seriousness
of our fateful times” (Weber 1948: 149). And more bluntly: “this is plain
humbug or self-deception” and one should “bear the fate of the times like
a man” (Weber 1948: 154–155). Although Weber’s rationalist aversion to
what he saw in his own days and in his own intellectual circles may per-
haps be understandable, it is quite unfortunate that he neither embarked
on a more systematic study of these attempts at re-enchanting the modern
world, nor developed a more sociological perspective on the significance
of cultural discontents for the development of romantic cultural initia-
tives. This is especially so, because the Romantic resistance against the
modern society, a relatively marginal and elitist phenomenon until the
sixties, has become a mass phenomenon in the post-sixties era and, as we
have shown, part of the cultural mainstream of today’s popular culture.
The fact that Weber did not study and theorise such developments is
remarkable, because his cultural sociology constitutes a most promising
point of departure for such an analysis. In fact, Weber understood cultural
change as the outcome of problems of meaning that inevitably emerge
when belief systems become implausible. Cultural discontents do not sim-
ply lead to the abandonment of traditions, cultural ideals and systems of
belief, Weber’s cultural sociology maintains, but rather stimulate processes
of cultural reconstruction (‘cultural rationalisation’) so as to make them

less vulnerable to loss of plausibility. Campbell (2007) has recently applied
this Weberian notion to processes of cultural change in the West from the
1960s onwards, ranging from the shift from Christian religion to New Age
spirituality, the emergence of a new ecological consciousness and the rise
of quantum physics. What underlies these various cultural changes, he
points out, is a marked shift away from the religious and scientific rendi-
tions of the Western dualistic worldview, towards an Eastern monistic or
holistic one. This “Easternisation of the West” Campbell (2007: 41) main-
tains, entails “a fundamental revolution in Western civilisation, one that
can be compared in significance to the Renaissance, the Reformation, or
the Enlightenment.”
The remarkable thing about Campbell’s wide-ranging theory of cultural
change is that it logically results from a systematic application of some of
Max Weber’s own most fundamental theoretical notions: the assumption
of a universal human need to give meaning to an essentially meaning-
less world, the conception of culture as “the endowment of a finite seg-
ment of the meaningless infinity of events in the world with meaning and
significance from the standpoint of human beings” (Schroeder cited in
Campbell 2007: 11), and the notion that problems of meaning spark pro-
cesses of cultural rationalisation that lead to a reconstruction and even-
tual replacement of worldviews that have lost their plausibility. According
to Campbell, the problems of meaning that sparked these processes of
cultural reconstruction were precisely those that were voiced by the coun-
terculture in the heydays of the 1960s and 1970s, that is, the same prob-
lems of anomie and alienation that are massively culturally articulated in
contemporary popular culture, as we have seen.
Now that doctrinal and theistic Christianity has fallen victim to the
disenchantment of the world, and is therefore increasingly understood
as implausible, unconvincing and unsatisfactory, and while science by its
very nature can only further the disenchantment of the world and hence
only increase problems of meaning, the cultural hunt for new cultural
articulations of meaning is clearly on. This is a hunt for articulations of
meaning that no longer necessitate ‘belief ’ or ‘doctrinal conformity’, yet
nonetheless endow reality with meaning, and may thus offer relief and
comfort from modernity’s maladies. Although in this chapter we have
not studied whether and if so, how, audiences of fantasy and conspiracy
culture use these cultural articulations to reflect on, appease, and even
cope with anomie and alienation as the principal maladies of modernity

(see Aupers, this volume), we suggest that their immense contemporary
popularity may stem precisely from their role in offering consolation from
these modern experiences.
It is quite clear that fictional narratives, informed by fantasy and con-
spiracy culture, are much more ‘disenchantment-proof ’ than doctrinal
and theistic Christianity, which after all requires ‘belief’ (in the sense of
‘placement beyond doubt and scrutiny’) and hence conformity to religious
doctrines and authorities. Precisely because of their explicitly fictional
status, the popular fictions of fantasy culture and conspiracy culture do
not demand belief and conformity to doctrine. Fantasy culture and con-
spiracy culture are in this respect similar to contemporary spiritualities of
life (‘New Age’), that also go beyond the need to ‘believe’ or ‘have faith’,
in the latter case by emphasising personal experience rather than con-
formity to doctrines and propositional truths. Unlike traditional theistic
types of religion, these spiritualities of life construct personal experiences
as spiritual lessons about the self and the sacred that may further guide
one on one’s ‘personal path’. Although this of course precludes the solid
and taken-for-granted answers to problems of meaning that characterise
traditional types of Christian religion, it is quite doubtful whether this
means that these spiritualities—and, by implication, fantasy culture and
conspiracy culture, too—can play no role at all in providing solace from
modernity’s cultural maladies. Fantasy culture and conspiracy culture
may well provide the repertoires people draw from in practicing ‘hyper-
real spirituality’: a spirituality based on fictional worlds which, despite
their fictional nature, may inspire a spiritual search for meaning against
the background of cultural discontents.
A promising avenue for further research, then, is the systematic uncov-
ering of the role of fantasy culture and conspiracy culture in dealing with
modern problems of meaning, alienation and anomie in particular. The
guiding hypothesis in such research, the foregoing suggests, should be
that popular culture neither feeds an unfathomable nihilism and mean-
inglessness of the type that Weber holds to be the logical outcome of the
disenchantment of the world, nor the deep-rooted and unassailable exis-
tential certainty that traditional Christian religiosity aimed to provide. In
an increasingly disenchanted world, it is likely instead that meaning will
assume dramatically new shapes and that popular culture will play a vital
role in its articulation, so as to enable its appropriation by its audiences.
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Conclusion: The Future of Hyper-real Religions?
Adam Possamai
Introduction
In 2004, Oberon Zell-Ravenheart, a key leader of the Church of All Worlds,

founded the Grey School of Wizardry, in which the education system
draws from the Harry Potter fictions (Cusack 2010). This school is virtual
and welcomes students from eleven to eighteen years old, and adults who
want to go back to ‘high school’ for a different type of education. It is a site
created to help adult Neo-Pagans, and children of Neo-Pagans, to access a
more Pagan-focused teaching. The school’s website claims:
[b]esides its academic focus, the Grey School students and faculty provide
a thriving interactive magickal community. Youth students (ages 11–17)
are sorted into Elemental ‘Houses’ (Salamanders, Gnomes, Undines, and
Sylphs) based on their astrological Sun sign, while adult students (age 18
and older) are likewise directed into Elemental ‘Lodges’ (Flames, Stones,
Waters, and Winds). These compete via academic credits and merit points
for the ‘House Hat’ and the ‘Lodge Cup’, which are awarded semi-annually
at the Equinoxes.
Each House and Lodge has a faculty Head to moderate discussions, intro-
duce activities, etc. Each House and Lodge also has a student Prefect, a posi-
tion awarded to students who exemplify academics, attitude, and enthusiasm.
The student body is further led by House and Lodge Captains; selected from
the pool of experienced Prefects, the Captains are an esteemed combination
of student body president and ‘Head Boy/Girl’. The Administrative Dean of
Students oversees all student activities.
The Grey School works via a series of interactive school pages and forums.
Clubs are available to students who wish to delve deeper into specific focus
areas. A library-in-progress includes reading lists, archived materials, and
links to on-line articles and encyclopedias. Special forums provide everything
from an online Bardic Circle, to All-School Challenges, to the latest edition
of the student-produced school newspaper, Whispering Grey Matters.1
Another inscription of the Harry Potter fiction in reality is found in the
non-profit Harry Potter Alliance. Started in 2005 by Slack, a self-declared
1
Internet site, “Grey School of Wizardry.” At http://registered.greyschool.com/index.php?
module=About&func=view&name=school. Accessed 25/01/2011.
424 adam possamai
‘Harry Potter rabbi’, this is an organisation devoted to social activism.

By drawing parallels with the Harry Potter books, and especially with
the dialogue of Harry’s mentor, Albus Dumbledore, as a source of moral
inspiration, the alliance attempts to educate and mobilise fans of the
Harry Potter character around issues such as workers’ rights and combat-
ing genocide. For example, it managed to raise funds for the Genocide
Intervention Network’s civilian protection program for displaced Darfuris
and Burmese (Netburn 2009).
In connection with the Star Wars narrative, we find further interest-
ing anecdotes illustrating how this hyper-real phenomenon is moving
into everyday life. In 2008 a drunken man, wearing a plastic garbage bag
for a cape and attempting to parody Darth Vader, attacked a Jedi church
founder (Master Jonba Hehol) and his cousin (Master Mromi Hehol)
with a metal crutch (Associated Press 2008). In 2009, the founder of the
International Church of Jediism was asked to remove his hood in a super-
market in northern Wales. The Jedi, Morda Hehol, made a claim against
the company for religious discrimination (Carter 2009; Cusack 2010).
McCormick (this volume) also makes reference to some of these groups
seeking legal recognition as religions or, at least, as non-profit groups. On
25 December 2005, The Temple of the Jedi Order became incorporated
by the Secretary of State of Texas as a non-profit church, religious, educa-
tional and charitable corporation, and in 2009, the Canadian The Order of
the Jedi also became thus incorporated.
Although many cases explored in this volume are centered on activi-
ties on the Internet, the above anecdotes show some intrusions from the
online into the offline world. These cases are sparsely distributed and at
the moment very limited. However, as any social scientist who has dabbled
with the theories of moral panic would attest, if a specific social-cultural
context is in place, incidents, if sparking the interest of a large number of
people, can have impacts disproportional to their actual size or weight
and lead to various calls for social awareness, or even to sanctions.
While promoting the research results from my book (Possamai 2005),
a few of the journalists who interviewed me for their newspaper or radio
programme asked me about accurate data on the extent of this phenom-
enon, and whether this new style of mixing popular culture with religion
was a dangerous practice. I was asked to comment on whether adherents
of hyper-real religions were unable to separate fantasy from reality. As a
Weberian studying late modernity, and thus focusing on the meanings
that social actors give to their actions, I had never really considered any
possible danger. I was aware of the mass suicide of the Heaven’s Gate
conclusion: the future of hyper-real religions? 425
group in March 1997, and that believers from this new religious move-
ment had envisioned death as the ultimate Trekkie (from the Star Trek
franchise) trip to the final frontier, and also religiously watched The
X-Files and Star Wars (Robinson 1997; Zeller, this volume). Also around
this time period, two Goths who were deeply interested in horror fictions
and Gothic spirituality committed suicide after meeting via the Internet
(Lamont 2005). However, these events on the fringe of the phenomenon
are far from representative of all hyper-real religions.
Newspaper articles mentioning my work attracted the attention of
some Christians who commented on this phenomenon (hyper-real reli-
giosity) in their cyber-sermon and expressed concerns. Following a dis-
cussion of my work on a Christian forum,2 a cyber-user wrote about the
“enemy trying to win his converts through these movies and music,” and
another claimed that
[p]eople are hungry for spirituality, period. Problem is they are seeking in
paths of deception and untruths. This is a time where us Christians need
to make a great mark on society. Show God’s light to the world. We want
the lost to go to the light of life, rather than the light of Luke Skywalker’s
sword.
The opposite reaction has also occurred; some secular fans of Buffy the
Vampire Slayer found it incomprehensible that their television programme
could be used for a spiritual purpose.3 Although this volume has argued
that hyper-real religions have been in existence in the Western world
since at least the 1950s and 1960s, the Internet has given the phenomenon
a cultural boost. Via cyberspace, more people can find out about these
marginal groups, be inspired by and even join them, for however long it
suits them. If our world is fluid (Bauman 2000), these groups epitomise a
state of flux, as members play with their identities in forums/chat rooms
and are able to express themselves more openly than in the offline world.
This consumerist approach of mixing and matching religion and popu-
lar culture is a clear example of cultural fluidity; consumers (in this case,
spiritual consumers) set their own goals and design their own lives guided
principally by values of the self. Contemporary consumers eschew avail-
able macro-identities. They are mobile and their taste fluctuates. They are
2
Internet site, http://scotwise.blogspot.com/2005/05/emergent-church.html. Accessed
14/11/2005.
3
Internet site, http://forums.bducommunity.com/archive/index.php/t-2063.html. Accessed
14/11/2005.
426 adam possamai
part of a world in which the individual is autonomous, seeks his or her

potential, constructs whom he or she is, and is part of the great adventure
of the self. An example of this fluctuation of taste can be seen in rela-
tion to the Jediists: according to insiders, the cinematic release (after the
2001 Australian census) of Star Wars: Attack of the Clones appears to have
created a processus of exit from Jediism. This film introduced concepts,
previously non-existent in the Star Wars franchise, that took some believ-
ers by surprise, such as renouncement of social attachment, maintenance
of chastity and pursuit of neo-Franciscan poverty. These ideas conflicted
with the lifestyle of most would-be adherents, and created a drop-out in
the participation of Star Wars Internet rituals (Anon 2002).
People in the pre-Internet age would have been more reluctant or per-
haps afraid to deal with such a religion as Jediism. They can now find vari-
ous Internet sites with rites for self-initiation and chat rooms in which to
discuss their passions for spirituality and popular culture. In these forums
and chat rooms, people do not have to show their face and can use a
pseudonym. They can even pretend they are of another gender and age.
Some might have more than one cyber-name. Hyper-real religions have
been able to develop due to the fact that people can play with their iden-
tities and not suffer from the stigma attached to following a ‘nerdy’ or
‘wacky’ religion. People can participate in these groups without fear of
offline discrimination or harassment and do not even have to be in the
same geographical place as other adherents.
As this phenomenon is likely to grow, thanks to the world of possi-
bilities offered by the Internet, we will probably also see a growth of con-
cerns from non-adherent citizens. There are groups actively attempting
to prevent this phenomenon, especially those who believe that the minds
of young people might be perturbed by surfing the ‘wrong’ Internet sites
and be influenced to join the ‘dark forces’ in a religious sense. There are
also social commentators who, for various reasons, will question this pro-
gressive alliance between religion and popular culture in our consumerist
world.
Evidence suggests that fear, anger and concern about these practices
exist, often among the religious establishment. Furthering our empirical
knowledge of these practices, as this book has aimed to do, could allevi-
ate some of these fears and provide knowledge upon which to base future
discussion and research. Understanding the nature of people’s fears and
concerns may enable us to understand more about the anxieties of late-
modern life.
conclusion: the future of hyper-real religions? 427
This handbook of hyper-real religions has been conceptualised as pro-

viding an academic account of the phenomenon. As we move toward a
more de-secularised world, this phenomenon is likely to grow even stron-
ger within the wider process of de-secularisation. In this hypothetical sce-
nario, we would see an increase not only in hyper-real religionists, but also
in mainstream religious moderates and fundamentalists and atheists, who
will make progressively intensified stands against these changes. Among
all these post-secular changes in the religious landscape of our societies
(Habermas 2006), this book provides testimony to a specific sub-group of
a religious population on the move, that is not afraid to include popular
culture in an active way (rather than an illustrative one) in its religious
approach to life.
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1–25.
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Morning Herald. 28 July.
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Berlin, Frankfurt am Main, New York, Oxford, Vienna: P.I.E.-Peter Lang.
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Communication. 3:3. At http://jcmc.indiana.edu/vol3/issue3/robinson.html. Accessed
25/08/2004.
Contributors’ Biographies
Stef Aupers is Associate Professor of Sociology at Erasmus University

Rotterdam, The Netherlands. Much of his research deals with tendencies
of ‘re-enchantment’ in the modern world. He has published in Dutch and
international journals on themes such as New Age spirituality, conspiracy
culture and cyber culture. He is currently working on a monograph on
online computer gaming and on a translation of his dissertation, titled
Under the Spell of Modernity: Sacralizing the Self and Computer Technology
(forthcoming with Ashgate).
Eileen Barker, PhD, PhD h.c., OBE, FBA, is Professor Emeritus of Sociology
with Special Reference to the Study of Religion at the London School of
Economics. Her main research interest is ‘cults’, ‘sects’ and new religious
movements, and the social reactions to which they give rise. Since 1989
she has also been investigating religious changes in post-communist
countries. Her 275 publications (translated into 27 languages), include the
award-winning The Making of a Moonie: Brainwashing or Choice? and New
Religious Movements: A Practical Introduction. In 1988, with the support of
the British Government and mainstream Churches, she founded INFORM
(www.Inform.ac).
Lauren Bernauer is a PhD candidate in the Studies in Religion department

at the University of Sydney. She completed her MPhil in 2007, writing on
the computer game Age of Mythology and its portrayal of pre-Christian
religion and deities. Her PhD is continuing this topic, though expand-
ing it to include the computer game Okami, the young teen novel series,
Percy Jackson and the Olympians, the computer game World of Warcraft
and revisiting Age of Mythology, though this time examining the campaign
storyline.
Douglas E. Cowan is Professor of Religious Studies at Renison University

College, University of Waterloo, in Waterloo, Canada. In addition to dozens
of articles and book chapters, he is the author or editor of ten books,
including “Sacred Terror: Religion and Horror on the Silver Screen” and
“Sacred Space: The Quest for Transcendence in Science Fiction Film and
Television” (both from Baylor University Press). He also chairs the New
Religious Movements Group of the American Academy of Religion.
430 contributors’ biographies
Carole M. Cusack is Associate Professor and Departmental Chair of

Studies in Religion at the University of Sydney. Her research interests
include theories of religious conversion, northern European mythology
and religion, medieval Christianity, secularisation and contemporary
Western religious trends, and medievalism. She is the author of Conversion
Among the Germanic Peoples (Cassell, 1998) and The Essence of Buddhism
(Lansdowne, 2001). With Christopher Hartney she is Editor of the Journal
of Religious History.
Markus A. Davidsen holds a MA in the Study of Religion and is currently

a PhD candidate at the University of Leiden, The Netherlands, and the
University of Aarhus, Denmark. His project on ’fiction based religions’ con-
tains an empirical investigation of Jediism and Tolkien-based spirituality
as well as a religionswissenschaftlich and sociological discussion of these
phenomena in the broader context of alternative religiosity in late mod-
ern society. In general he is interested in the interaction between religion
on the one hand and literature, popular culture and media on the other.
He has taught a course on online religion and has recently submitted an
article on Jediism (in Danish) for publication in Religionsvidenskabeligt
Tidsskrift (Journal for the Academic Study of Religion).
Martin Geoffroy is Assistant Professor in sociology at the Université de

Moncton in Canada. He has a PhD and MSc in sociology from the Université
de Montréal and a BA in communication studies from the Université
du Québec à Montréal. He is the author of more than twenty academic
articles and has co-edited two books and five special issues of academic
journals, notably the International Journal of Politics, Culture and Society
and Australian Religion Studies Review. His work revolves mainly around
comparative studies of religion in Canada, the United States and France.
He was also a Post-Doctoral Research Fellow at Fordham University in
New York in 2003–2004. He is presently working on a series of articles on
fundamentalism, globalization and the question of violence, and on the
question of religion and identity in minority groups.
Dick Houtman is Professor of Sociology of Culture at Erasmus University

Rotterdam, The Netherlands, and a member of the editorial boards
of Politics and Religion and Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion.
‘Culturalization of politics’ and ‘spiritualization of religion’ are his princi-
pal research interests. His most recent articles have appeared in Journal
for the Scientific Study of Religion; Journal of Contemporary Religion; Social
contributors’ biographies 431
Forces; British Journal of Criminology; World Political Science Review; Politics

and Society; and European Journal of Political Research. A volume titled
Religions of Modernity: Relocating the Sacred to the Self and the Digital, co-
edited with Stef Aupers, has recently been submitted for publication.
Massimo Introvigne was born in Rome, Italy, in 1955. A law and philosophy
graduate, and a member of the Italian Association of Sociologists (AIS),
he has been a part-time lecturer in several Italian universities, including
the European University of Rome. He is the author of some forty books in
Italian (some of them translated into English, German, French, Spanish
and Czech) and more than one hundred articles in peer-reviewed inter-
national journals in the field of the sociology of religions.
Danielle Kirby is a Lecturer in Communication at RMIT University in

Melbourne, Australia. She researches in the fields of religion, popular
culture, and media with particular focus upon contemporary manifesta-
tions of alternative religion. Her forthcoming book, Fantasy and Belief:
Alternative Religions, Popular Narratives, and Digital Cultures, is an explo-
ration of these themes within the context of late modernity.
Joseph Laycock is a doctoral candidate at Boston University with a focus

on religion and society. His work focuses on American religious history
and the dialectic between ecclesiastical and popular forms of religion. He
is also the author of Vampires Today: The Truth About Modern Vampirism
(Praeger, 2009).
Carly Machado (PhD, 2006, Universidade Federal Rural do Rio de Janeiro,

Brazil) conducts research in the field of religion and media, with a par-
ticular focus on new technologies, cyberculture, and the contemporary
religious imaginary, both in Brazil and in transnational contexts. Her
doctoral dissertation ‘Imagine if it all were true: the Raelian movement
among truths, fictions and resligions of modernity’ dealt with the Raelian
Movement, a controversial new religious movement concerned with ques-
tions about human cloning, bioethics, and the existence of extraterrestri-
als. Dr. Machado teaches at two universities in Rio de Janeiro: Estacio de
Sá University and Candido Mendes University, and has published in the
journal Religião e Sociedade [Religion and Society]. For 2007, she was a
visiting postdoctoral research fellow at the Institute on Globalization and
the Human Condition, McMaster University.
Debbie McCormick commenced her academic journey as a mature age

student at Monash University in 2000, seeking new challenges after a suc-
cessful management career in IT sales and marketing. She is currently
undertaking a PhD at Monash University. Debbie’s major research focus is
an exploration of the concept of emotional connection to avatars (visual
representations of the ‘self ’) in virtual environments. Other research inter-
ests include technology and religion, comparative religion and personality
theory.
John W. Morehead is the Director of the Western Institute for Intercultural

Studies. He has an MA in intercultural Studies from Salt Lake Theological
Seminary where he wrote his thesis on the annual alternative cultural event
in the United States called Burning Man Festival. He is scheduled to begin
research for a PhD dissertation through University Durham in January
2010 that will focus on sacred narrative in Mormonism. John’s research
interests include Mormonism, Neo-Paganism, Western Esotericism, and
spirituality in popular culture, particularly as it is expressed through sci-
ence fiction, fantasy, and horror.
Kamaludeen Mohamed Nasir received his PhD from the University of

Western Sydney. He currently teaches at the Nanyang Technological
University, Singapore. His recent books include Muslims as Minorities:
History and Social Realities of Muslims in Singapore (with Syed Muhd
Khairudin Aljunied), 2009, National University of Malaysia Press and
Muslims in Singapore: Piety, Politics and Policies (with Alexius Pereira and
Bryan Turner), 2009, London: Routledge. His research interests are social
theory, the sociology of youth and the sociology of religion.
Alan Nixon is a PhD candidate in the Centre for the Study of Contemporary
Muslim Societies at the University of Western Sydney. His thesis is investi-
gating the societal impacts of the new atheism. His research interests are
Sociology of Religion/Irreligion, complexity theory, popular culture and
online research methods.
Krzysztof Olechnicki’s major research areas include sociology of religion,

visual sociology, and new social movements. He works as an Associate
Professor in the Institute of Sociology at the Nicolas Copernicus University
in Toruń. He has published Słownik socjologiczny [Dictionary of Sociology]
contributors’ biographies 433
(1997, co-authored by Paweł Załęcki); New Age. Kościół wobec wyzwania

Wodnika [New Age: The Church versus the Challenge of Aquarius] (1998);
Antropologia obrazu. Fotografia jako metoda, przedmiot i medium nauk
społecznych [The Visual Anthropology: Photography as a Method, Subject
and Medium of Social Sciences] (2003); Obrazy w działaniu. Studia z soc-
jologii i antropologii obrazu [Working Images. Studies in the Visual Sociology
and Visual Anthropology] (2003, editor); Obrazy w Sieci. Studia z socjologii
i antropologii ikonosfery Internetu [Images on the Web. Studies in Sociology
and Anthropology of the Iconic Sphere of the Internet] (2009, co-edited by
Tomasz Ferenc).
Johan Roeland is a research fellow at the department of Sociology at

Erasmus University, Rotterdam. He recently completed his PhD study
on evangelical youngsters in the Netherlands. He is currently preparing
research on forms of sociality in popular culture contexts, in particular in
electronic dance music. His most recent publications include Acceptation
religieuse du moi: l’identité chez les jeunes néo-évangélistes (published in
Social Compass 55, 2008, no. 1) and Selfation: Dutch evangelical youth
between subjectivization and subjection (forthcoming). Contact: roeland@
fsw.eur.nl.
Heinz Scheifinger received his PhD in Sociology from the University of

Warwick in 2006. Formerly a Postdoctoral Fellow (funded by the UK’s
Economic and Social Research Council) at the University of Aberdeen,
Scotland (2007–2008), he is currently a Postdoctoral Fellow at the Asia
Research Institute, National University of Singapore. Broadly, his research
interests are concerned with globalisation and religion. More specifically,
the bulk of his prior research has centered upon the relationship between
religion (especially Hinduism) and the Internet. Recent publications
include (2008) ‘Hinduism and Cyberspace’ in Religion 38(3): 233–249 and
(forthcoming) ‘The Jagannath Temple and Online Darshan’ in the Journal
of Contemporary Religion. Contact: heinz.scheifinger@yahoo.co.uk.
John Walliss is senior lecturer in the Sociology of Religion, and Director

of the Centre for Millennialism Studies in the Department of Theology,
Religious Studies and Philosophy, Liverpool Hope University.
Benjamin E. Zeller is a researcher and teacher of religion in America. He

focuses on religious currents that are new or alternative, including new
religions, the religious engagement with science, and the quasi-religious
relationship people have with food. Zeller serves as Assistant Professor of
Religious Studies at Brevard College, a private liberal arts college in North
Carolina’s Appalachian mountains.
INDEX
Aden, Roger, 115, 121, 123–124 Black culture, 321, 324; American, 334–334;
Advaita Vedanta, 303–305, 314–315 American ghetto gang, 335; street, 335
alien, 49–50, 64, 67–72, 80–81, 99, 105–106, black man, 325, 326, 331–332, 334–335
119, 121–122, 196, 208, 261, 414 body, 71, 78, 93, 96–98, 100–104, 130, 135,
alienation, 401, 407, 412; and anomie, 9, 236, 250, 259, 275–277, 284, 325, 331; of
402, 403; and Baudrillard, 25, 78, 281; knowledge, 131; of data, 146–147, 151, 411;
and hip-hop, 329, 336; and technology, new body, 313; Muslim body, 322
406 Bothered about Dungeons and Dragons
android, 72, 87, 91, 97–98, 104, 107 (BADD), 210
anomie, 9, 402–403, 405, 412 boundary-work, 386
Apolito, Paolo, 307–309 Bourdieu, Pierre, 123, 321, 333–334, 336
ARPANET, 168 Brahman, 304–305, 313–314
Asimov, Isaac, 63–65, 100–102, 104 brain, 54, 74, 85–86, 90–107, 236, 327, 393;
Atheism, 91, 214, 375–376, 378, 382, 384, brainwash, 93, 407, 413
390, 392; Common Sense Atheism, 385, bricolage, 39, 44, 50–51, 238, 281, 376
393; contemporary Atheism, 375–376, Brown, Dan, 9, 12, 267–268, 270, 281, 326,
378, 380–381, 385–386, 391–392, 394; 402
New Atheism, 9, 378–379, 383 Buddhism, 45, 112, 167, 173, 177–178, 238,
authentic, 78, 239, 242, 269–270, 277, 293, 276–277
332, 373, 402, 404–405; —ity, 51, 133, 179, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 5, 225, 229, 408
229, 237, 242, 256, 337
authority, 17, 46, 131, 147, 159, 181, 192–194, canon, 173, 177; —ical, 173, 294
212, 216, 288, 375, 380, 383, 386, 388 Carter, Nick, 273, 275–277
automaton, 97 Castells, Manuel, 310–311
autonomous, 97, 98, 281 Catholicism, 8, 165, 255, 307, 309, 359,
avatar, 31, 233, 235, 239–240, 243, 275, 362–363
279–280, 283, 285, 287 Census, Australian National, 14, 180–182;
Ayodhya, 279–280, 283–284, 287, 290–291 U.S. Bureau, 179; British campaign, 384
Azathoth, 5, 258 cerebral, 85, 94–95, 98, 100
charisma, 17, 33, 248, 389; —tic, 17, 154,
Babri Masjid 279, 290–291, 293 383, 388–390, 394
Bahá’í faith, 113 Chikhalia, Deepika, 280, 285, 293
Baudrillard, Jean, 23, 32, 34; theory of Christian, 3, 6, 8, 10, 17–18, 27, 50, 59–60,
commodity culture, 1; hyper-reality, 19, 64, 79, 81, 92, 112, 116, 119, 126, 147, 154,
23–28, 33; integral reality theory, 2–29, 169, 179, 185, 194–195, 197–198, 211,
31, 33; Marcuse, Herbert, 30, 33 220–222, 233, 238, 241, 249, 276–277,
believing without belonging, 363, 380 281, 288, 292, 335, 342, 350, 352–355,
Bellaluna, Linda, 247–248, 251 357–360, 362, 364, 366, 368–369,
Berger, Peter L., 364, 402, 412 377, 382; —ity, 2, 6, 17–18, 61, 113,
Bhakti, 282, 287–289, 292, 303 116, 154, 192, 195–196, 220, 225, 228,
Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), 280, 290, 293 236, 238, 277, 281, 292, 339, 362,
Bible, 27, 62, 67–69, 89, 112, 168, 179, 214, 366–367; anti-Christian, 364, 366, 369;
221, 225, 236, 326, 342–345, 365, 369; Anti-Christian conspiracy, 368; belief,
belt, 148; Champions, 344–345; study, 61, 342; churches, 371, 375; computer
185, 351; Thee Psychick Bible, 52; The games, 342–347, 355; gamers, 208,
Vampire Bible, 154 213–222, 352–353, 355; game developers,
biological robots, 96–99 341, 343, 346, 354–355; Game Developers
biology, 63, 85, 95–97, 99, 106, 235, 383, 387 Foundation, 339, 346; Gamers Guild, 7,
436 index
213–16, 219; Goths, 6; groups, 9, 267–288, discontent, 401, 403–404, 407

340; guilds, 351; millennialism, 59, Discordians, 18, 39, 42–43, 45–49, 55–56
67; movements, 62, 68; music, 7, 339, disenchantment, 230, 389, 393; of the
346–347; non-Christian, 4, 7, 9, 221, 340, world, 235, 360, 370, 402
351–352; post-Christian, 11, 20 divination, 249–251, 257–258; culture,
Church of All Worlds, 3, 42, 185, 200, 203, 248–249; practices, 247, 250; tool,
261 251–252
Church of Satan, 4, 6, 200 doctrine, 32, 72, 112, 154, 260, 281, 362, 372
Church of the Subgenius, 6, 18, 39–40, Doordarshan, 279, 283, 291, 293
42–45, 48–51, 55–56 double hyper-realisation, 331, 337
civil rights, African American, 323, 331, 334; Dungeons & Dragons (D&D), 170, 209–213,
of vampires, 142 410
communism, 363–364
communitas, 125 Elf Queen’s Daughters, 191
conspiracy, anti-Christian 368; culture, Egbert III, James Dallas, 209
403, 406–408, 412–413; movies, 415; Elohim, 87, 89, 92, 96, 105–106; —isation,
theme, 272, 274; theories, 8, 44, 46, 92–93, 98
48, 50, 75, 268, 271, 273, 277, 368, 403, Elven, Movement, 137, 189, 191, 230; Path,
414–415 193
consumer culture, 1, 48, 51, 241, 295, 359, emotional, 30, 95, 101, 212, 284–285,
364, 372–373, 407 287–288, 367
consumerism, 51, 335, 380, 407 enchantment, 227, 233, 237, 239, 377, 389,
consumption, 4, 8, 24, 27–29, 40–42, 48, 52, 392, 405, 409, 411; re—, 130, 229, 185,
55–56, 61, 141, 232, 236, 281, 289, 331, 334, 370–372, 391, 405; dis—, 230, 235, 360,
336, 340, 360–361, 364, 376, 394, 401 370, 389, 393, 402
contemporary Paganism, 130, 185–186, 229; escapism, 380
Neo-Pagan Movement, 238 estrangement, 63–64, 66–73, 80–81,
contestation, 322, 380, 394 407–408
cosmology, natural scientific, 375, 385, 393; ethics, bio—, 102; Christian, 154; of the
Otakukin, 133; Raelian, 92, 97; Tolkien, counterculture, 406
188, 198–199, 229 evangelical, 67, 142, 207, 214, 222, 352, 377;
counterculture, 45, 47, 63, 229, 404–409, Christian gamers, 208; critics, 209–213,
411–413 216–217; journal, 61; music, 345–346,
creationism, 387–388 354–355
Cthulhu, 4, 185, 217, 256–259, 262 evolution, 80, 92, 99–100, 117, 119–120, 236,
cult, 146, 190, 213, 226, 228, 239, 365, 371; 323–324, 332, 347, 354, 383, 387, 389,
anti-, 361; religious, 59, science fiction, 391, 393
59, 61, 68; —ic milieu, esoteric, 187 extraterrestrial, 4, 61–62, 64–73, 80–81,
cultural industry, 403, 407–408, 411 92–93, 106, 130
cyberspace, 2, 8, 25, 29, 79, 125, 129, 174,
230, 309–312 faith, 16, 65, 165, 167, 179, 213, 216, 219–220,
236, 248, 290, 344, 353, 368, 378, 385;
Da Vinci Code, The, 7, 9, 11–12, 14, 16, 79, —ful, 67, 126, 253, 344, 359, 362–363;
225, 267–268, 273, 277, 281 —s, 78, 119, 167, 173, 178–179, 248, 292,
Dao, —ism, 173; —ist, 178 375; Christian, 7, 18, 345, 347, 349, 352,
Dark Dungeons, 210, 212–213 354–355; Discordian, 45; Jedi, 2
Darśan, 280, 282, 287–289, 292, 294 fantasy, 4, 61, 64, 79, 136, 152, 170, 211,
Darwin, Charles, 391 216–217, 232, 237, 240–241, 350, 365,
Darwinian, 354, 387; Day, 385 410; culture, 403, 408, 410–411; fiction,
Dawkins, Richard, 225, 376, 378, 383, 225, 228–229, 405, 410; and gaming,
386–387, 394 212, 411; genre, 117, 133, 217, 227, 231, 411;
deprogramming, 963, 96 literature and film, 5, 7–8, 166, 186, 189,
digital culture, 49, 51 349, 408, 460; and realism, 178, 201; and
dime novels, 272–275 science fiction, 60, 120; worlds, 214, 230,
disbelieving without belonging, 380 235, 371, 410–411
index 437
fanzines, 171 Harry Potter, 8–9, 11, 79, 161, 225, 350, 359,
fiction, 2, 4, 8, 75 81, 90, 98, 100, 102–103, 360–361, 364–369, 371
113, 129, 131, 133–135, 137, 141, 143, 161, 171, hegemony, 294
177, 187–188, 238, 256–257, 261, 327, 415; Heinlein, Robert, 3, 42, 185, 229, 261
based-religion, 19, 185, 202, 226, 241; and hermeneutic, 62, 404, 409
Da Vinci Code, The, 12, 14–16; Dungeons Hexham, Irving, 115–119
& Dragons, 209; fantasy, 225, 228–229, Hinduism, 8, 173, 177–178, 282, 292,
405; popular, 49, 185, 199–201, 225–226, 300–309, 312, 314–316, 372
232, 241; pulp, 258; and reality, 5, 78, 242, hip-hop, 9, 321–325, 327–337; activism,
268; science, 3–4, 6–7, 46, 59–72, 77–80, 328–329, 331, 336
86, 89–91, 98–101, 104–107, 111, 115, 117–119, homology, 333
120–121, 124–126, 178, 229, 289, 325, 408, horoscope, 250
410; Tolkien, 185, 187–189, 191, 194, human being, 4, 66, 68–70, 80, 85, 92,
228–230; Valar, 192; vampire, 142, 153, 156 101–105, 111, 114, 118–119, 187, 189, 236, 282,
Five Percenters, 323–325, 327–328, 331–332, 288, 349, 365, 406, 408, 413–415
334, 337 hyper-real religion, 8, 19, 23–26, 28, 33,
Force, The, 166, 169, 173, 176–178, 185 40, 119, 201, 336, 370–372, 394; irreligion,
Freemasonry, 268–271 385
fundamentalism, ontological, 242; hyper-reality, 19–20, 23–26, 28, 33, 79,
religious, 23, 29, 31–33, 279, 286, 376, 383 91, 112, 114, 227, 281–282, 288, 300–302,
future, 3, 62, 66, 85, 89–92, 98–99, 102, 106, 306–307, 309, 311, 315–317, 336, 341–342,
126, 180, 283, 311, 321, 390–391, 404, 413 350, 353, 360, 373, 375, 392, 394
hypo-consumption, 32–33
Gandhi, Mahatma, 283, 288
global, —isation, 328, 336; Atheist I Ching, 250–251
convention, 384; communication, 171, identity, Christian gamer, 221–222;
181; community, 173; culture, 9, 168, contemporary Atheist, 375, 378, 381–382,
321; economy, 321; message, 329, 333; 385, 394; Hindu, 292–293; hip-hop, 321,
Muslim hip-hop groups, 330–332, 324, 328; national, 280, 329; Pagan, 161,
334–335 238; personal, 29, 53, 61, 78, 131, 410; Real
God, 3, 5–7, 24, 26, 29, 65, 68, 132, 167, Vampires Group, 141, 144–148, 151, 155,
178, 188, 190, 195, 218–221, 225, 228, 158–159, 160–161; spiritual/religious, 2, 13,
236, 238, 247, 255, 258, 261, 324, 327, 61, 152, 154, 162, 170, 240, 248, 252, 271;
363–364, 367, 373, 377–378, 380–381, virtual, 239–240, 341
384, 387–388, 391–392; —dess, 195, 228, IDIC ethic, 3, 122, 124
238–239, 247, 249, 251, 259, 314–315, 349; Illuminati, The, 45–46, 268–270
—s 132, 178, 185, 232–233, 256, 258, 261, Ilsaluntë Valion (The Silvership of the
280, 282, 408; Apollo, 64; artificial, 105; Valar), 193–194, 196
elder, 49; extraterrestrial, 64, 69, 71; and immortality, 72, 98, 102–103, 107
gaming, 339, 343, 346, 350–352; Hindu integral reality, 23–25, 28–29, 31–34
gods, 19, 279, 283, 284–285, 288–289, integral religion, 23, 31, 33
294, 300–301, 303–306, 313, 315–316, 389; integrism, 32
Judaeo-Christian, 50, 195; Kingdom of, intelligent design, 383, 386–387
75; —like, 3, 262; messengers from, Internet, 2, 6, 8–9, 17–18, 20, 29–30, 39, 41,
113; Muslim, 325–326, 328; Pantheon of 44, 47, 59–60, 76, 78, 86, 112, 118, 129, 131,
Gods, 4–5; and Raelian movement, 92; 136, 138, 145, 148, 151, 159–161, 166, 168,
and Satan, 4, 25, 214, 221 171–172, 181, 187, 194, 199–201, 226, 231,
gospel, 60, 177, 225, 267, 344–345, 369 235, 252, 281, 302, 307, 309–312, 316–317,
Govil, Arun, 280, 285, 293 346, 349, 352, 377, 410
Great White Lodge, 268, 275, 277 invented religion, 19, 185
irony, 28, 43, 80, 295
habitus, 115, 121, 123–125, 230, 321, 333, irreligion, 378, 385, 394
335–336, 412 Islam, 61, 113, 146, 236, 270, 292; hip-hop,
Hanuman, 250, 283, 293 321–336
haptic, 247 Islamophobia, 329–330
438 index
Jagannath, 313–324 Malcolm X, 327, 331, 334–335

Jedi, 8, 126, 169, 171, 174–176, 178, 216, 373; Manara, Milo, 255
—ism, 1, 3, 6, 17, 25, 31, 40, 42, 79, Mandi House, 283
167–168, 170, 172–173, 179–181, 201, 267, Marcuse, Herbert, 29–31, 33, 404, 406
359; code, 177; first international church market, ing/ed, 9, 48, 142, 165, 232–233,
of Jediism, 178; Jedi Resource Center 247, 253, 257–258, 272, 342–343, 377,
(JRC), 175–176; Order of the Jedi, 384, 394; games, 170, 217, 345–347, 354;
175–179; Temple of the Jedi Order, hyper—, 27; place, 17, 181, 379; religious,
177–179 29, 30; the, 30, 34, 79, 172, 231, 252, 353,
Jesus Christ, 7, 12, 27, 113, 119, 218, 220, 267, 363
282, 288, 323, 351–352, 369, 371 Marxism, 1, 9, 19, 24, 64, 226, 281, 361, 370,
Jorgenson, Danny, 250 402–404, 406
justice, 329, 333, 337; criminal, 328, 336; mass media, 24, 54, 60, 85–86, 91, 207, 364
in—, 328; social, 322, 393 Massively Multiplayer Online Role Playing
Game (MMORPG), 226, 231–232, 411
Kedarnath temple, 307–308 material culture, 59, 247–252, 258, 260
Kołakowski, Leszek, 360, 371–372 Matrix, The, 1, 13–15, 79, 111–114, 117–119, 125,
Kopyleft, 46–48 185, 225, 401, 413–414
Matrixism, 1, 3, 6, 40, 79, 112–115, 117, 119,
Laderman, Gary, 112, 125–126 121, 124–126, 185, 267
language, 17, 79, 98, 138, 166, 249, 273, 283, Mayan, 233, 239
348; elvish, 197; Heaven’s Gate, 71–76, Mediakin, 133, 137
80; hip-hop, 329, 331–332, 334–335, mega-churches, 27–28
scientific, 386, 388, 390; science fiction, meta-conspiracies, 268
66, 68–69, 73–76; Tolkien, 409 micro-conspiracies, 268
lexicon, 145; Islamic hip-hop, 321–322, 325, Middle-earth Christians, 194–195, 197–198
331, 337; vampire, 153 Middle-earth Pagans, 193–195, 197–198
liminal states, 122 millennialism, 59, 67
Locke, Simon, 376, 383, 385–386, 388–391, modernity, 19, 24, 79, 86, 91, 120, 123, 229,
394 231, 307, 370–371, 375–376, 378, 383, 394,
Lord of the Rings, The (film adaptation by 402–404, 407, 409
Peter Jackson), 79, 186–187, 193, 225, monomyth, 167
229–230, 408, 410 moral, 31, 92–93, 107, 154, 167, 173, 210, 226,
Lourdes, 307–308 242, 248, 277, 284, 286, 293, 321–322,
Lovecraft, Howard Phillips, 4–6, 49, 185, 326, 336, 348, 354, 362, 372, 382, 391, 409;
255–262 —ity, 50, 76, 94, 98, 102, 177, 279, 292,
Lucas, George, 63, 117, 166–167, 170, 405, 408, 410; Christian, 342, 347; im—,
177–178, 185, 408 219, 221, 368; imperative, 76; issues, 97,
Luke Skywalker, 169 341; panic, 9, 142–143, 211, 335
more-than-natural, 91, 99, 105
Madame Blavatsky, 268, 276 murti, 304, 306, 312–316
Mahabharata, 280, 282, 287, 292 Muslim youth, 322–323, 328–336
magic, 52, 64, 86, 130–132, 211, 214, 217–218, myth, 33, 64, 66, 115–121, 130, 133, 167, 196,
221, 227, 232–235, 237–238, 241, 252, 207, 226–228, 231–233, 235, 237, 239,
257, 259, 276, 323, 365–366, 368–369, 242, 257–258, 260–261, 270, 291, 308, 325,
389–390, 276, 361, 365–366, 368–369; 370, 372, 380, 382, 391, 393–394, 408,
ceremonial, 192, 253; fantasy, 214; and 411; —ic, 64, 71, 112, 115, 118–122, 408;
Freud, Sigmund, 241; Lovecraftian, —ical, 8, 117, 158, 186, 191–192, 229, 232,
256–257; magical selves, 238–240; 268–270, 277, 308, 408; making, 66, 119;
natural, 229; ritual, 260–261; sex, 52, —ological, 25, 80, 196–197, 282–283,
254; sleep related, 52; vampiric, 153, 292–293, 309; —ology, 4, 44, 46, 111,
white, 365 120, 133, 177, 186, 189, 192, 194–196, 198,
magician, 229, 255, 258, 260, 275, 367; 200–201, 228–229, 232–233, 251, 253, 261,
black, 257 269, 291, 405; —os, 3, 185, 256–257, 262
index 439
mytho-cosmological belief, 198 242, 262, 280, 294, 299, 302, 317, 375–377,
mytho-historical belief, 198 380, 382, 386, 391, 393–394
mytho-poeic, 190, 229–231, 408 post-modernity, 378, 382
Pottermania, 359, 366
narrative frame approach, 195–196 praxeum, 173–174
nasheed, 330, 332, 337 Priestley Voice, The, 388–389, 393–394
Nation of Islam (NOI), 61, 323, 326 Priory of Sion, The, 268, 270
naturalism, 391 problems of meaning, 401–403
Natyaśastra, 285, 288, 289 prophecy, 86, 89–90, 95, 97, 106, 113, 248,
Necronomicon, The, 4, 255–262 360
neurobiology, 85, 95, 107 protest, 323–324, 381–383, 394
neuroscience, 85–86, 94, 106–107 Protocols of the Elder of Zion, 271
New Age, 28, 30, 44, 59, 61–62, 67, 76, 197, Pulling II, Irving ‘Bink’, 209
217, 250–252, 254–255, 281, 362, 364, 366, Pulling, Pat, 209–213, 216, 223
368–370, 372–373, 380
New Religious Movement (NRM), 32, 34, Qur’an, 168, 323
61–62, 86, 112, 115, 118, 137–138, 144, 154,
165, 167–168, 181, 393 Raël, 86–90, 92–93, 95–96, 105–106
Nyarlathotep, 4, 258 Raelian, 61, 87, 89, 90–96, 98–99, 105–106;
—ism, 86, 93; message, 87, 89–90, 92,
occult, 9, 52, 117, 142, 148, 153, 157–158, 208, 96–99, 105; movement, 6, 86–88, 90–92,
210–211, 217; —ic, 8, 350; —ism, 48, 130, 95, 97, 105–107
153–154, 211–212, 214, 252, 361, 364–366, Rakshas, 291; —as, 292
368–369, 371; —ist, 44, 46, 157–158, 256, Ram, 280, 283–286, 288, 290–293
261, 359, 366; —ural, 39, 44–46, 49–50, Ram Janmabhumi, 290–291, 293
52; —ure, 44, 49 Ram Rajya, 283
Ogham, 251 Ramayan, 279–280, 282, 284–286, 288–295
ontological, security, 375, 382–385, 394; Ramayana, 279–280, 282–285, 289, 295,
insecurity, 382–383 300–301, 306, 316
Opus Dei, 268 Ramcharitmanas, 283
Order of the Red Grail, 192, 198 Ramlila, 285, 287
Order of the Rosy Cross, 274, 276–277 Rasa, 288–289, 292
Otakukin, 133, 137, 161 Ravan, 286, 291–292, 294
Otherkin, 6, 42, 129, 130–138, 158, 161–162, re-adaptation, 23, 25–26
185, 189, 191 reality, 1, 5, 19, 24–26, 28–29, 31, 34, 53–54,
63–64, 69, 73, 77–80, 89–90, 98, 111–114,
Padawan, 173, 179 118–119, 124–125, 133, 135–136, 142, 149,
performance, 28, 30–31, 33, 52, 54, 94, 252, 152, 156–157, 194–195, 198–200, 202, 209,
287, 292, 322–323 212, 217, 221, 227, 230, 235, 241–243, 251,
pilgrimage, 115, 121–126, 287, 289–290, 307, 257, 260–262, 268, 281, 288, 294–295,
313 299, 310, 331, 364–365, 371, 373, 386, 388,
poetic jihadis, 321–323, 330–331, 336 393, 402, 413; social, 201, 330, 334, 370,
Poewe, Karla, 115–117 412; virtual, 4, 29, 311, 342, 353
Poland, 359–363, 366–367 re-enchanting the world, 370
popular culture, 1–3, 5–9, 11–13, 15, 17–20, re-enchantment, 130, 185, 229, 370–372,
25, 28, 39–44, 46–56, 60, 67, 71, 78–81, 391, 405
94, 116, 118, 120, 124–125, 129–130, 141–143, re-interpretation, 23, 25–26, 28, 33
166, 168, 170, 200, 207–208, 222, 249, 256, reconstructionism, 194, 196–198
260, 262, 267–268, 271, 281–282, 294, religious affordances, 188
299, 302, 328, 329, 339, 341, 360, 362, 371, religious practice, 7, 9–10, 47, 55–56, 66,
376–377, 388, 391, 394, 403, 412 68, 72, 74–75, 79, 81, 129, 187, 194, 248,
popular science, 85–86, 90, 100, 106, 383 251, 255, 260–261, 281, 293, 303, 363
Possamai, Adam, 6, 15, 23–26, 28–30, remix, 42, 48–52, 55
32–34, 40, 79–80, 91, 187, 200–201, 226, Renfrew, Colin, 249
440 index
Return of the Jedi, The, 169–170 soulbonding, 132, 134–137

Revenge of the Sacred, 360, 370, 372 spectacle, 1–2, 288, 296, 359
rhetoric, 72, 74, 386; —al, 75, 123, 324, 334, spirituality, 6–8, 11–16, 24–25, 29, 39–43,
386 60, 79, 91, 112–115, 120, 125, 130, 138, 167,
rituals, 54, 74, 249; game, 350, Hindu, 179, 185–188, 190–202, 225–226, 228, 233,
279, 282, 292, 306, 315; magical, 211, 214, 237, 241–242, 247, 253, 255, 294, 349, 359,
228, 233–234, 238; neo-pagan, 29, 362; 362, 364, 366, 377, 372, 392–393
religious, 29, 362; satanic, 4, Tolkien, Star Trek, 3–4, 60–62, 69, 72, 74–77, 81, 115,
187, 192, 3–6, 8, 207; vampire, 160 117, 121–122, 124, 225
Role-Playing Games (RPGs), 170–172, Star Wars, 1–2, 4, 6, 8, 13–15, 42, 63, 79, 117,
208–222  166–171, 173, 177–178, 185, 201, 408
Roman Catholic Church, 32–33, 359–360, Stargate, 69, 79, 80–81
362–363 structure, 27, 41, 47, 93, 95, 101, 120, 131–132,
romanticism, 403–404 136, 159, 173–174, 227, 230, 294, 232, 334,
Rosicrucians, 270, 274 336, 363, 364, 370, 380, 385, 408, 410–411
Rowling, J. K., 161, 359, 364–365 subjective myth, 226, 380, 382, 391,
393–394
sacred space, 73–74, 249 suicide, Dungeons & Dragons, 209–211,
sacred, the, 39, 78, 115, 126, 228, 238, 243, 273, 275; Heaven’s Gate, 59, 68, 70, 77,
307, 360, 370–372 281
Sagan, Carl, 383, 389, 394 Sunni, 325, 328, 332, 334
Sagar, Ramanand, 279–280, 282–286, 289, symbolic pilgrimage, 115, 121, 123–125
291, 293
salvation, 9, 65, 71–72, 80, 103, 154, 220, 351 Taoism, 167, 177–178
Sampoorna Ramayana, 283 tarot, 8, 187, 250–255, 257–259, 261
Satanism, 210–212, 365, 368 techno-religious imaginaries, 86, 105
science, 66, 86, 90–91, 93–94, 99, 105–106, technocracy, 46, 406
118–119, 148, 157, 175, 218, 227–229, technology, 2, 30, 61, 63, 66, 72, 79, 95, 102,
235–236, 284, 291, 370, 375–376, 379, 383, 106, 118–119, 165–166, 169, 171–172, 175,
385–394, 402–404, 414; popular, 85–86, 179, 228–229, 235–237, 281, 294–295,
100; public meaning of, 385–386, 388, 340, 343, 391, 404, 406, 408, 412–415;
394; public understanding of, 386, 388 communication, 165, 168, 172, 309
Scientology, 60–61, 119, 146, 200, 386 technological utopia, 123, 125, 326
secular culture, 360, 370–372, 376 temple, 133, 254, 274, 287, 289, 292, 327;
secularisation, 226, 361, 363, 370–371, 376 Hindu, 290–291, 300–301, 305, 307–309,
seduction, 26, 34, 364, 407; of simulation, 312–314
23, 26 Temple of Psychick Youth (TOPY), 6,
self-transformation, 59, 76 39–40, 42, 44–45, 52–56
sensuality, 93, 95–96, 98 Temple of the Jedi Force/Order, 168,
September 11, 268, 322, 332, 376 177–179
sexuality, 61, 93, 95–99, 254–255 Temple of the Vampire, 141, 153–154
Shub-Niggurath, 258 Theosophical Society, 268, 276
Silver Elves, 191 Tibetan, Ascended Master, 275; Buddhism,
Silmarillion, The, 186, 188–189, 196, 204 276–277
simulacra, 1, 241, 281, 288, 299–306, 310, Tolkien, J. R. R., 5, 7, 42, 185, 216, 228–229
312, 316 Tolkien’s Legendarium, 186–187, 194–195,
simulacrum, 1, 19–20, 25–27, 29, 40, 79–80, 197, 202
200, 282, 294, 299–303, 307, 309, 312, Tolkien spirituality, 186–188, 190, 192–202
331, 394 Torah, 168
simulation, 1, 26–29, 78–79, 93–94, 111–114, transcendence, 72, 100, 104, 371
118, 227, 241–242, 281, 299–302, 331, 402 Tribunal of the Sidhe, The, 191–192,
Sita, 279–280, 283–284, 286–288, 293, 308 198–199
Smith, David, 300–302, 316 Trivedi, Arvind, 292
social software, 172, 181 Tulsidas, 283
index 441
Turner, Victor, 121, 124, 249, 334 Vedic hymns, 301–302, 316
Tyson, Donald, 257–262 Vishwanath, 309; temple, 308–309, 314
UFO, 50, 59, 61, 67–69, 72, 75, 187, 195, 326; Weber, Max, 3, 9, 17, 23, 34, 154, 235–236,
religion, 87, 90, 92, 281 360, 370, 393, 402–404
Ufology, 48, 59, 62, 67, 72, 76 World Wide Web, 129, 138
Valmiki, 283, 295 X-Files, The, 4, 60–61, 67–68, 81, 124, 225,
vampires, 6, 130, 141–161, 185, 195, 199, 254, 237, 412, 414–415
255, 276
Varanasi, 307–308, 314 Zell, Tim, 3, 261
Vedanta, 284, 303–305, 313–315 zines, 47, 8, 145, 169, 171

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What is the focus of the book?

What is the focus of the book?

What topics are covered in the book?

What topics are covered in the book?

Handbook of Hyper-real Religions

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.nl/bhcr

Handbook of hyper-real religions / edited by Adam Possamai.

Copyright 2012 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Yoda Goes to Glastonbury: An Introduction to Hyper-real

Hyper-real Religion Performing in Baudrillard’s Integral Reality ..... 23

Occultural Bricolage and Popular Culture: Remix and Art in

Heaven’s Gate, Science Fiction Religions, and Popular American

Brain, Biological Robots and Androids: Prophecies in the Realm

“A World Without Rules and Controls, Without Borders or

Alternative Worlds: Metaphysical Questing and Virtual

Real Vampires as an Identity Group: Analyzing Causes and

The Sanctification of Star Wars: From Fans to Followers ................... 165

The Spiritual Milieu Based on J. R. R. Tolkien’s Literary

The Road to Hell is Paved with D20s: Evangelical Christianity and

“An Infinity of Experiences.” Hyper-real Paganism and Real

Dealing a New Religion: Material Culture, Divination, and

Who Is Irma Plavatsky? Theosophy, Rosicrucianism, and the

The Gods on Television: Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayan, Politics and

Hinduism and Hyper-reality ......................................................................... 299

Poetic Jihadis: Muslim Youth, Hip-hop and the Homological

Playing for Christ: Christians and Computer Games ............................ 339

Contemporary Atheism as Hyper-real Irreligion: The Enchantment

Fantasy, Conspiracy and the Romantic Legacy: Max Weber and

Conclusion: The Future of Hyper-real Religions? .................................. 423

Contributors’ Biographies ............................................................................. 429

In olden days (or at least in much of mid-twentieth century Western sociol-

make no distinction between an object and its representation but which

It would seem that there is no limit to the range of contemporary

Yang, C. K. 1991. Religion in Chinese Society: A Study of Contemporary Social Functions of

RELIGION, POPULAR CULTURE AND BAUDRILLARD

Hyper-real religion refers to a simulacrum of a religion, created out of, or

This vision portrays contemporary Western society in which people seem

by claiming, for example, that it needs to be abolished. To distinguish

Sub-Types of Hyper-Real Religions

Three ideal-types of hyper-real religious actors could be argued to exist.

1. Active consumers of popular culture leading to the practice of hyper-real

As part of the consumption of science-fiction narratives by specific groups,

N’kgnath ki’q Az-Athoth r’jyarh wh’fagh zhasa phr-tga nyena phragn’glu.

2. Casual consumers of popular culture leading to a sharing of characteris-

Internet site, http://www.fehq.org/public/gothchrist.htm. Accessed 23/08/2004.

Internet site, http://www.demonhunter/net. Accessed 23/08/2004.

For example, one Generation X respondent mentioned that he had

3. Religious and secular actors opposed to the consumption of popular

Internet site, http://forums.christianity.com/html/p681045. Acccssed 23/08/2004.

Internet site, http:///www.chick.com/catalog/videos/0127.asp. Accessed 04/08/2004.

Results From A Survey

I was commissioned by an academic unit of my university to design a sur-

Table 1. Religious diversity of the sample

Overall, it can be stated that this sample is a reflection of the increasing

Table 2. Sources of Inspiration

Table 3 focuses on people’s opinions about the use of a recent piece of

Table 3. The Da Vinci Code

Table 4. Star Wars and The Matrix